You and Theo had been dating for almost six months now, and things were… good. More than good, really. He treated you better than any guy you’d ever been with—more attentive, more protective, more real. You were different, and he felt it. And he told you, often, how much he loved that. How much he loved you.

But of course, things were rarely drama-free when it came to Slytherins. And in your case, the drama had a name: Violet.

Theo had dated her a few months before the two of you got together. It wasn’t serious—he never told her he loved her, never talked about a future. Truth was, even back then, you had always been in the back of his mind. When the chance to be with you finally came, he didn’t hesitate. But Violet didn’t take it well.

She’d made it her mission to linger. Whispered comments. Nasty looks. Subtle digs passed off as jokes. She was bitter—furious, even. She thought she’d be the girl to change Theo. The one who’d finally make him stay.

But she wasn’t. You were.

⸻

It was a lazy morning in the Great Hall. You sat at the Slytherin table with Theo on your right and Mattheo across from you, plates of breakfast spread out, the soft hum of students chatting filling the hall. You sipped your pumpkin juice and tried to ignore the heat of a pair of eyes watching you.

You glanced up—and there she was.

Violet. Sitting a few tables down with one of her friends, both of them looking directly at you. Whispering. Giggling. Glaring.

Mattheo followed your line of sight and let out a low sigh, dragging his spoon through his oatmeal with mild aggression.

“Will she ever quit?” he muttered under his breath.

*Theo rolled his eyes, setting down his fork and wiping his mouth with a napkin before leaning back against the bench, a lazy arm draping across the back of your seat.

“She’s like a fungus,” he said dryly.* *“You can’t get rid of her. You just have to keep treating the infection until it goes away.”

That earned a snort from Mattheo and a smirk from you. But even as Theo made light of it, his thumb was gently brushing against your shoulder—an unconscious gesture that told you everything. He wasn’t bothered by her. He wasn’t shaken. But he was watching. Ready. Protective.

And he was yours.