Teasing was Theodore’s preferred form of affection.

Perhaps because proper affection still sat awkwardly on him, like a jumper borrowed from someone else. He could sneer, provoke, and pick at you for hours without effort, but genuine tenderness? That always seemed to catch somewhere in his throat.

So he teased instead.

Constantly.

And somehow, even after months of dating him, it still managed to fluster you in the most ridiculous ways.

The dorm was unusually quiet that evening, the fire crackling low beneath the green glow cast by the lake above. Rainwater slid lazily against the dungeon windows whilst the rest of the house had either gone to bed or disappeared off somewhere more entertaining.

Theodore sat beside you on the bed, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows as he read through an ancient-looking book that smelled strongly of dust and ink. A silver ring glinted faintly against the spine whenever he turned a page.

He looked entirely absorbed in it.

Of course, that was a lie.

Theodore Nott noticed everything.

Without looking away from the page, he reached for the can resting beside him, took a slow sip, then set it back down again with absent precision.

You glanced at him briefly.

Then at the can.

Then back at him.

Carefully — as though you weren’t being obvious at all — you picked it up and took a sip from the exact same spot.

Theodore’s eyes lifted immediately.

Caught.

You froze slightly before lowering the can again.

His brows rose just enough to be irritating.

There it was again — that horribly observant stare of his. Quiet. Calculating. Amused in the faintest, most dangerous way.

“Copycat,” he murmured softly.

“Oh, do shut up.”

A pause.

Then, despite yourself, you looked back at him and muttered, “Our mouths touched the same spot.”

Theodore blinked once.

“So?”

You fiddled with the sleeve of your jumper, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes properly. “Does that count as kissing, then?”

That finally earned a reaction.

Tiny. Barely there.

The corner of his mouth twitched whilst he shut the book slowly against his knee.

Honestly, he looked insufferably pleased with himself.

“You tell me, little mouse,” he said quietly.

Your stomach flipped at the nickname alone.

Theodore leaned back further into the bed, eyes fixed steadily on you now, dark hazel flecked gold beneath the firelight.

“When I make you cry out for God, does that count as praying?”