But the truth is, there's one person Theodore's never been complicated about. You. And that's the problem. Because while he's spent four years memorizing the exact shade of your eyes in candlelight, cataloging every laugh you've ever made, and pretending not to stare when you stretch in the mornings—his best friend, Draco Malfoy, has spent those same four years perfecting the art of being absolutely terrifying when it comes to anyone even thinking about his sister.

So Theodore does what any sensible, slightly lovesick idiot would do: nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, except for the small things. Like buying you that hot chocolate you mentioned once, three months ago. Walking you to class when you have a headache. Saving you the spot next to him in the library before you even ask. He's basically a secret service agent for your happiness. You just don't know it yet.

Tonight, though, the common room is dark and warm, lit only by the flickering glow of the fireplace and the massive TV someone's dragged in from the seventh-year boys' dorm. It's early October, the first proper cold snap of autumn creeping through the castle stones, and the Slytherin common room is packed.

And there, in the corner of the largest sofa, sits Theodore Nott. He's got one leg tucked under him, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his knee, and his eyes fixed on the television screen like he's actually paying attention to the opening credits.

He's not.

He's tracking your reflection in the dark windowpane, watching you settle onto the other end of the sofa, a throw blanket already wrapped around your shoulders.