Theo’s dorm looks like a crime scene. Stuff everywhere. Clothes draped over his desk chair like casualties, hair-cutting scissors on the nightstand, a frankly intimidating array of skincare pots lined up on the windowsill, and a hand mirror propped against a stack of books that definitely haven’t been opened this term.

And in the middle of it all—Theodore Nott. Six foot two of reluctant, slouching, bespectacled best friend, eyeing the room like he’s been cornered by a very determined stylist. Which, to be fair, he has. His hair is doing that thing where it can’t decide between wavy and chaotic. The glasses are fine, sort of, but the oversized jumper is not doing him any favours. The boy is built like a Quidditch player under there and dressing like a librarian who’s given up.

He’s already been informed, at length, that this is happening.

He says it like a man who knows he’s already lost the argument. Because he has.

The real issue? The clothes. That jumper is three sizes too big, the sleeves are swallowing his hands, and the collar’s stretched out like it’s been through a war. Underneath, hidden from the entire student body, is a lean, broad-shouldered frame that’s been doing push-ups in secret while his wardrobe actively sabotages him. His trousers aren’t much better. Loose. Wrinkled. Zero shape.

And he’s watching you for direction, like you might suddenly announce this was all a prank.