Against the Odds

Chapter 4

Theo exploded through the fireplace like an opera singer mid-final act, a storm of soot, flailing limbs, and raw emotional chaos, coughing dramatically as if the very Floo Network had betrayed him. A blackened shoe flew off in one direction, his scarf uncoiled like a distressed serpent, and by the time he landed on the rug in a heap of melodrama, his robes looked like they'd survived a war. Hermione, nestled into her armchair with a mug of tea and a copy of Witch Weekly's Magical Theory Digest, barely looked up. The only reaction she gave him was the long-suffering sigh of someone who had absolutely seen this before.

"Granger!" Theo cried, staggering upright like a sailor tossed ashore by a shipwreck, then throwing himself onto the nearest chaise lounge with the passion of a man who had known love, loss, and probably a minor wardrobe malfunction. "Granger, I have arrived bearing tragedy—a calamity, an emotional apocalypse! My life is in shambles, dust, ruin, like a broken Time-Turner abandoned in a puddle of despair! I am perishing, darling! My very soul is fraying like poorly-hemmed velvet!"

Hermione blinked slowly, setting her book aside with a thump, and lifted her tea for a long, steady sip before answering with perfect, surgical dryness. "Oh, Merlin. What now? Did you just find out Destiny's Child broke up?"

Theo froze mid-rant, a hand pressed to his chest as if she had physically stabbed him. "MY. GIRLS. BROKE. UP?!" His face contorted in a mixture of horror and heartbreak, his knees buckling as he flung himself dramatically onto the rug like a dying poet in the rain. "No. No. Granger. Granger. Say it isn't true! Say it's just one of your cruel Muggle rumors!"

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, already regretting the joke. "Theo. That happened years ago. Beyoncé's been solo for ages. She's practically a magical goddess. You literally went to a party themed after her last album."

Theo gasped, as if remembering something sacred. He clutched his heart, staggered upright with the grace of a tragic widow, and exhaled shakily. "Oh, thank Morgana. She's still ascending. The others? I mean—Michelle was... sweet. But Beyoncé?" He threw his head back. "She's a deity. She walked so veela could fly."

Hermione arched a brow, setting her mug aside with a soft clink. "Alright, drama king, now that you've mourned Destiny's Child—again—what brings you here this time? Is this another fashion emergency or are you being haunted by a ghost of your own indecision?"

Theo, eyes wide and voice suddenly grave, clutched the nearest throw pillow like a lifeline. "Granger... this is no laughing matter. I am—" he lowered his voice to a hush, as though confessing a dark curse to a priestess at a sacred temple, "—cursed."

Hermione blinked. "Cursed."

"Yes!" he leapt from the chaise, striding to the center of the room like an actor taking stage, one arm raised toward the heavens. "Afflicted with the most devastating, unrelenting, soul-destroying affliction known to wizardkind!"

She leaned forward just a touch, amusement blooming behind her eyes. "Dragon pox?"

"WORSE."

"A love potion accident?"

"WORSE."

She tilted her head, utterly deadpan. "You ran out of your stupidly expensive enchanted beard oil?"

Theo gasped. "Rude. No. Worse than all of that. I am suffering from the most ancient, most irreversible form of human torment: feelings!"

He turned away, one hand dramatically pressed to his temple, the other thrown out as if conducting a silent orchestra of his own suffering. "I have feelings, Granger. Emotions. The embarrassing kind! The messy kind! The kind that make you want to write sonnets and bathe in starlight and scream into your pillow like a fourth year!"