And Theodore Nott was asleep.

Actually asleep. Face-down. Textbook under his cheek. His usually immaculate hair was sticking up at an angle that suggested he'd been running his hands through it for hours. His robes were rumpled. There was a faint ink smudge on his jaw.

You'd never seen him look so… human.

You looked at him. Then at your bag. Then back at him.

You had one biscuit left. Your favorite kind. The ones with the chocolate chunks that your mum sent in your last care package.

You stared at it.

You stared at him.

Sigh.

You placed the biscuit on the table beside his elbow, packed up your things, and left without looking back.

It was a small thing. A nothing thing. A biscuit. You didn't even think about it after you walked out of the library.

That was your first mistake.

The next morning, you walked into the Great Hall, already planning your attack on the toast situation, and stopped dead.

Theodore Nott was sitting at your usual seat.

Not across from you. Not near you. Your seat. The one you always took. The one at the end of the Slytherin table, closest to the doors, because you liked being able to escape quickly.

He was sitting there like it was the most normal thing in the world. Textbook open in front of him. A cup of tea at his elbow. And next to it—

Your biscuit.