𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐘 . 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐓

𝐋𝐀 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐆É𝐃É 𝐃'𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄.

1995;

Theodore had little inclination towards eloquent orations. He had a penchant for solitude, valuing it over most other pursuits. Although bright and intelligent, he maintained a lackadaisical attitude, seldom exhibiting much enthusiasm for anything. His eyes bore the brunt of his restless nights, with dark circles etched beneath his hazel-colored irises. Despite his tall, lean frame, which was largely attributed to his obsession with the quidditch pitch, Theodore showed little inclination towards physical activity. He seemed content to exist in his own unique world, as if his mind were a warship navigating the murky waters of his inner thoughts.

He presented himself as detached, casual to the world. However, underneath his composed exterior, he seethed with unrestrained rage, often barely contained beneath a calm facade. His anger was not always apparent to those around him, but it was a constant presence, a storm rumbling just beneath the surface. He struggled to achieve a sense of equilibrium, to maintain a balance in his life. Living, for him, was not a passive existence, but a continuous, draining effort. He devoted maximum effort to every aspect of his existence, from his smoking habits to his passion for quidditch, but everything else required constant effort. He was not a man at peace, not even with himself.

Theodore, lost in his thoughts, watched the girl before him with a yearning so intense, it felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest, leaving only an aching void in its place. How he envied those who glided through life with grace and ease, as if they were born to it.

He ached to be one of those people, to have the charisma and charm that came so naturally to them. But he knew that such a thing was beyond him. And so, he watched her, feeling a sense of envy that was so powerful, it was almost intoxicating. She was perfect, he thought to himself, with her beauty that seemed to radiate from within. He longed to possess her, to consume her, to make her his own. Her words were like wine to him, he thought, rich,  intoxicating, like poetry, able to drown him in their aromatics.

To Theodore, she was like a drug. The more he was around her, the more he craved her. He was obsessed with her, her every move, her every word, her every breath. It was a feeling that was almost all-consuming, a feeling he couldn't quite place. It wasn't saccharine or sappy, it was something darker, something more intoxicating. He enjoyed seeing her anger, loved pushing her buttons and seeing her reactions. He was addicted to her displeasure, to her disdain, to her irritation. It was like a game to him, a game he couldn't quite win, but one that he kept playing anyway.

Suddenly, Theodore's train of thought was interrupted by a voice, and it was Daphne who spoke up. "So, what are you thinking about?" she asked, her voice cutting through the silence.

With a slight hint of bitterness, Theodore muttered under his breath, his words barely audible. "Not you," he whispered, his voice drowned out by the sound of his cup being emptied in a single down.

Daphne blinked, her confusion evident in her eyes. "Okay," she responded, her voice laced with uncertainty. She took a moment to observe Theodore's expression, then asking, "Are you alright?"

Theodore remained silent, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He had no interest in engaging in his usual mindless flirtations. His focus had shifted, consumed by a deeper purpose.

Daphne let out an exasperated sigh, her eyes rolling in response to his dismissive behavior. She shook her head, a hint of frustration evident in her voice. "Is it about her? Is that what's got you all... confused?"