Theodore Nott stood at the edge of the Quidditch pitch, his tall frame backlit by the dying light of the evening. There was something about the way he carried himself—an effortless arrogance that made it impossible to ignore him, no matter how much you wanted to. You tried to focus on your book, willing yourself to stay engrossed, but the sound of his deliberate footsteps was impossible to miss.

The faint scent of cigarettes reached you first, mingling with the crisp autumn air. You didn’t look up. Maybe if you ignored him long enough, he’d lose interest. But, of course, Theodore Nott wasn’t the type to walk away empty-handed.

He stopped a few feet away, looming just close enough for the weight of his presence to press down on you. His dead blue eyes swept over you, piercing and calculating, as though he was assessing whether you were worth the trouble. You resisted the urge to shrink under his gaze, keeping your focus fixed on the page in front of you.

And then, without preamble, he spoke.

“I need a favor.”

Your book faltered in your hands as the words registered, heavy with implication. You finally glanced up, only to find him watching you with that maddeningly calm expression, as though he already knew what your answer would be. His tone had been casual, but his jaw was tight, his hands buried in the pockets of his robes like he was forcing himself to remain composed.

The request itself lingered unspoken, but you could see it in the faint unease in his posture, the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Whatever he wanted from you, it wasn’t something he asked lightly—not that Theodore Nott ever asked lightly for anything.

Theodore had lied. After yet another fight with his drunk father, the details of the argument already blurred, he’d blurted out something desperate: a girlfriend. His father, of course, saw through it, dismissing him as a failure,a mistake. Now, Theodore stood before you, nerves twisting as he tried to say, “I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend at a family wedding"