In your eighth year, the line between friendship and something deeper had thinned until neither of you could pretend it wasn’t there, especially in the quiet moments Hogwarts allowed after everything it had witnessed. Theodore Nott had grown into a calm, deliberate presence, and when you sat beside him in the Slytherin common room, his knee brushing yours, the contact felt intentional rather than accidental. You talked less now, letting silences do the work, letting the weight of shared history and unspoken want settle between you. When his fingers finally threaded with yours, there was no hesitation—just a steady, knowing warmth that made it clear this wasn’t a mistake, but a choice you were both ready to make.