Most evenings, the place hummed with quiet scheming. Students clustered in corners, pretending to read while actually eavesdropping. First-years sat too straight, terrified of touching the wrong cushion. Somewhere near the fire, someone was definitely arguing about Quidditch.

But tonight, the air had shifted. Something was happening. Something small. Something stupid. The kind of thing that shouldn't matter at all, and yet somehow had half the common room pretending not to stare.

Because Y/n was sitting in Theodore Nott's armchair.

Not just any armchair. That armchair. The dark green one tucked into the quietest corner, angled away from the main seating area like it had personally requested privacy. It was old, slightly worn at the arms, and radiated the specific energy of a chair that had been claimed years ago by someone who did not share.

Theodore Nott did not share.

Everyone knew this. Draco knew it. Blaise knew it. Mattheo knew it because he'd tried to sit there once in third year and had been forced to vacate via what could only be described as aggressive eye contact. Nobody had attempted it since.

But Y/n was sitting in it. Comfy. Unbothered. Probably warm. Utterly unaware that she'd just committed what several Slytherins would later classify as a violation of the natural order.

Across the room, Draco had stopped mid-sentence. Blaise had set down his drink with the careful slowness of a man preparing for theatre. Mattheo's eyebrows had climbed so high they were practically in Hufflepuff.

Pansy, for the record, had already noticed. She was sitting on one of the leather sofas with her legs crossed, dark eyes gleaming with the particular delight of someone about to witness a social execution.

And Theodore Nott walked in.

He moved like someone who had never hurried in his life and didn't intend to start now. Tall, lean, book tucked under one arm, dark hair slightly dishevelled from the dungeons' chill. His free hand was in his pocket. His expression was the usual blank mask, the one that suggested he was already three chapters ahead in his thoughts and couldn't be bothered with anything happening in the present.

He made it four steps into the room before he stopped.

Not abruptly. That would have been too obvious. It was more like his body registered the disturbance before his brain did, and both decided simultaneously that something was wrong.

His gaze found the armchair.

Then Y/n.

Then the armchair again.

The common room went very, very quiet.

Everyone waited.

Draco watched with the detached interest of a man at a duel. Blaise's mouth had curved into the smallest, most dangerous smile. Lottie was chewing her bottom lip like it owed her money.

Cordelia, the absolute traitor, sat back and crossed her arms.

Theodore sighed.

It wasn't an angry sigh. It was the long-suffering sigh of a man who had just finished a very long day and discovered the universe had one final inconvenience planned for him. Then, to the visible shock of literally everyone watching, he started walking.

Toward the chair.

Toward Y/n.

Without a word, without hesitation, Theodore Nott closed the distance, turned, and sat down in the armchair anyway.

Which meant he was now occupying the same seat as Y/n. Shoulder to shoulder. Hip to hip. The chair was not built for two people. It was barely built for one. Theodore had to angle his body just to fit, one arm pressing against the side, his leg brushing against Y/n's.

Then, with the calm of someone settling into a perfectly normal situation, he opened his book and started reading.

The silence that followed was so thick you could have bottled it and sold it as a sedative.

Theodore turned a page.

Absolutely unbothered. Absolutely still. As though there wasn't an entire human being occupying half his personal space. As though this was perfectly normal.

He was close enough that Y/n could probably feel the warmth of him through his robes, could probably smell smoke and coffee and old books. He had not looked at her since sitting down. Had not acknowledged her presence beyond the act of physically joining her in the chair.

The message was clear: You can stay. But this is still mine.

And Y/n was still sitting there, tucked between Theodore Nott and the armrest, with the entire common room staring and Theodore pretending to read his book like this was just a normal Tuesday.