The chapel wasn’t real. It was a corridor—abandoned, half-lit by torchlight and the bruised violet spill of twilight seeping through stained glass. Dust floated like ash, and Theodore stood there as if summoned, fingers twitching in his coat pocket for the half-crushed pack of cigarettes he never managed to quit.

He didn’t light one. Not yet. Not while you were watching him like that—like you already knew he was about to unravel.

His mouth was dry, words curdled behind his teeth. Confession had always sounded like a Muggle invention. But tonight, it pressed against his ribs like something sacred. Something desperate.

“Do you believe in anything?”

His voice barely stirred the air, low, smoke-roughened, half a dare and half a prayer. He didn’t look at you at first—just tilted his head back, resting it against the cold stone wall, throat exposed like a lamb’s. His eyes were half-lidded, grey and glassy, catching the flicker of torchlight like water that refused to drown.

“’Cause I don’t. Not God, not fate, not good or evil. Not anymore.”

A bitter laugh cracked the silence — sharp, hollow. He finally turned, jaw clenched, lips parted as though the truth was something acidic he couldn’t quite spit out.

“But you—” His voice faltered. Not with uncertainty, but with the unbearable weight of how much he meant it. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever come to worship.”

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t meant to be. It was a curse. A bleeding truth. A hand pressed against a wound just to feel the pain throb back.

He stepped toward you, slow, deliberate, like a sin he was willing to commit again and again. He didn’t touch you—not yet. Just stood close enough that the space between you vibrated with all the things he would never say.

“When I’m with you, I’m… human. And I hate that.”

The last part came out softer, barely audible. He bit the inside of his cheek until the taste of copper spread over his tongue—a grounding reminder that he could still bleed. Still break.

And still kneel, if you told him to.