The Slytherin common room was drowning in that particular brand of late-afternoon lethargy that only existed on Sundays—all green-tinted light filtering through the Black Lake, casting everything in a murky, underwater glow. The fire was too warm. The couches were too soft. Everyone who had survived the weekend was sprawled across the furniture like casualties of a very comfortable war.

And there, in his usual corner, sat Theodore Nott. Book in one hand. Cigarette unlit and forgotten between his fingers. His long legs stretched out in front of him, his expression the carefully curated mask of a man who had absolutely no tolerance for whatever this was.

He didn't even look up.

Across from him, the absolute bane of his existence—and, allegedly, the love of his life—was currently occupying approximately four inches of couch space. While glaring at him. In his jumper. The one he definitely had not offered. Because she'd stolen it hours ago and had been wearing it ever since like it was a statement rather than a theft.

This was their routine. Their ecosystem. Their perfectly balanced little disaster of a relationship.