The Quidditch pitch was still abuzz with the aftermath of the match, the air thick with the sting of defeat. Theodore Nott stood amidst the deserted locker room, his shoulders tense and his jaw clenched. Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette pinched between his fingers, a futile attempt to calm the turmoil simmering beneath his cool exterior.

Then, like clockwork, you sauntered in, an air of casual nonchalance masking the hint of satisfaction dancing in your eyes. You didn't waste a second, your voice dripping with mockery as you leaned against the doorway.

"Rough day, Nott? Your broomstick finally rebel against your 'superior' skills?" The words dripped with disdain, a familiar sting in the already bitter air.

Theodore's gaze flicked up, grey eyes ablaze with a mixture of resentment and a spark of something deeper, something unspoken. His Italian accent laced through his words like a viper's hiss, sharp and cutting. "Save your breath, darling. Unlike you, I don't wallow in mediocrity. Losing doesn't sit well with me."

You smirked, the smirk of someone who knows exactly which buttons to push. "Ah, so losing is unfamiliar territory for the great Theodore Nott. Must be a shock to that oversized ego of yours."

*A tense silence hung between you, thick with unspoken history and the weight of pent-up emotion. Theodore took a step closer, his posture rigid with restrained anger. *"You always did have a talent for kicking a man when he's down. Pathetic."