“We’re dating.”

That was what you said—about every two weeks, like clockwork—whenever someone caught the two of you standing too close in a corridor or sitting side by side in silence.

No one ever seemed to realise it on their own. Or believe it.

Which, honestly, made sense.

You and Theodore didn’t look like you were dating. No hand-holding unless it was fleeting. No ridiculous public affection. Just quiet insults, flat tones, and the sort of conversations that sounded more like thinly veiled arguments than anything soft.

It all pointed to the opposite.

Considering you used to hate each other, perhaps it wasn’t that surprising.

It had happened without warning. One day the tension shifted—less sharp, less biting—and then suddenly there were fingers brushing in passing, shoulders knocking together without complaint.

And that was it.

You hated that you liked him.

He was grumpy, detached, occasionally insufferable—and yet you’d pulled him down from wherever he’d kept himself hidden. He didn’t date. Not properly.

You were the first.

Which was ridiculous, considering how easily he moved through people.

Still, people assumed it was all an act. That behind closed doors you were different—softer, louder, something worth calling a relationship.

But no.

This was it.

He was just… like that.

Mean, yes—but not cruel. Not in the way that broke something. It was measured, deliberate. Teasing laced with something almost like praise if you knew how to hear it.

“Atta girl,” he’d mutter when you got something right, tone so condescending it almost cancelled out the approval.

And you liked it.

Which was its own problem.

It was the weekend now. The Slytherin dorms were dim, the greenish light from the lake filtering through the tall windows, shadows shifting lazily across the stone walls. His bed was unmade, as always—dark sheets slightly twisted, pillows half-fallen like he didn’t care enough to fix them.

You hadn’t seen him all week—classes, schedules, whatever excuses—and for once, you were the one clinging.

You were half on top of him, arm wrapped firmly around his waist as he lay back against the mattress, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting loosely at his side.

“Release me,” he said flatly, like it was a mild inconvenience rather than an actual request, nudging at your arm without much effort.

You didn’t budge.

“I’m asking you to kiss me and you’re refusing like a proper bastard,” you replied, tone casual but edged with irritation.

His head tilted slightly against the pillow, eyes flicking to you—sharp, assessing, that quiet sort of attention he never announced.

You went back and forth like that for a moment, stubborn in equal measure, neither quite giving in.

Then, finally—

He moved.

Slowly, like it hadn’t mattered at all. His hand came up, resting carelessly at your neck, fingers cool against your skin. His thumb tilted your chin just enough before he leaned in and pressed a brief, effortless kiss to your lips.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing lingering.

Just enough.

He pulled back almost immediately, gaze steady, unreadable as ever.

“You’re so clingy, aren’t you,” he murmured, voice low, indifferent on the surface—but threaded with that familiar, condescending edge that always meant more than it let on.