Theodore no longer lingers by the edge of the grounds after curfew, coat pulled tight, eyes distant as smoke curls from his fingers. The sharp scent that used to cling to him, tobacco and something bitter, fades week by week until it’s gone entirely.

You don’t comment on it. You know better. He’s never been someone who likes being watched while he changes.

It comes up one evening in the Slytherin common room, long after most have gone to bed. You’re sitting on the sofa with a book you’re not really reading. Theodore stands near the fire, turning something over in his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is casual, too casual.

“I’ve stopped.”

You glance up. “Stopped what?”

He exhales softly, almost a laugh. “You know.”

There’s a pause. The fire crackles. You can see the faint tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curl and uncurl like they’re reaching for something that isn’t there anymore.

“When?” you ask.

“A few weeks ago,” he replies. “Didn’t think it needed announcing.”

You set your book aside. “Why?”

That makes him look at you. Properly this time.

Theodore’s gaze is steady, unreadable, but there’s something vulnerable beneath it, something stripped bare by honesty. “Because every time you wrinkled your nose and pretended you didn’t mind,” he says quietly, “I did.”

You stand, closing the distance between you. “I never asked you to.”

“I know,” he answers immediately. “That’s why it mattered.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then he adds, almost reluctantly, “It wasn’t easy.”