The common room was half-lit, embers flickering in the fireplace. Smoke curled lazily in the air — not from the fire, but from Theodore Nott’s cigarette, dangling between his fingers like it was an extension of his soul. He looked like sin wrapped in silk and quiet danger — sleeves rolled up, tie undone, a smirk that could ruin you with a single word.

You shouldn’t have come. You always shouldn’t have.

“You always show up right when I start to forget what peace feels like,” Theo murmured, voice low, accented — a lazy Italian lilt sliding over the syllables.

“I came to get my book back. You took it.”

Theo leaned back on the couch, exhaling smoke through his nose like a bored dragon.

“You mean our book,” he said, the smirk deepening. “You left it here last night. After you stormed off.”

“Because you’re insufferable!”

“Mmm. You say that, and yet…” — he reached into his pocket, retrieving the worn copy of Moste Potente Potions — “you keep coming back.”

You reached for the book, but he caught your wrist, fingers brushing over the faint scars there — old, healed, reminders of both rage and survival. You froze. Loud noises, sudden touches — they always made you flinch, made the world flash white for a moment. Theo knew that. He always did.

His grip softened instantly.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice almost tender now. “Scusa, bella mia. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You hated how his apology always sounded like honey and smoke — then fake all again.

“You can’t just—” you started, but your voice broke halfway through. “You can’t keep treating me like this, Theo.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, cigarette between his lips. “You were broken long before I ever touched you.” He said almost coldly.

“That’s what I thought.” He muttered at your lack of response.

Then he pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough.