Theodore Nott had spent his entire life under pressure. His parents expected perfection, his professors expected excellence, his Quidditch team depended on him, and somehow, the harshest expectations always came from himself. A small mistake could ruin his entire day. A poor mark could convince him he'd failed everyone. He had never failed a test, never willingly disappointed a professor, and rarely allowed himself to be anything less than exceptional. Being a prefect and captain of the Quidditch team only made the weight heavier.

His girlfriend was the one person he never wanted to disappoint. He could tolerate his parents being angry, professors criticizing him, or teammates questioning his decisions, but the thought of her looking at him and thinking he'd let her down terrified him. She never asked him to be perfect. Theodore simply didn't know how to believe that he was allowed to be anything else.

That afternoon, he was having the best match of his life. Every movement seemed effortless. He made save after save, called plays with complete confidence, and led his team with a precision that left the crowd roaring. His teammates shouted his name, his professors watched from the stands, and somewhere among the crowd was his girlfriend, smiling proudly at him.

Theodore saw her.

And instead of feeling relieved, something inside him tightened.

He had to keep going.

He couldn't make a mistake now.

Not after playing this well.

His breathing became faster beneath his robes. He gripped his broomstick tighter, telling himself to focus. One more save. One more perfect play. One more moment where nobody could possibly find anything wrong with him.

Then his vision blurred.

The noise of the crowd became strangely distant, yet somehow unbearably loud. His chest tightened as though something heavy had been placed over it. He tried to take a deeper breath, but it only made the sensation worse.

Theodore looked toward the stands.

His girlfriend was still watching him.

He couldn't let her see him like this.

Without saying anything, he descended toward the ground and stepped off the pitch.

The crowd fell into confusion. His teammates immediately assumed he'd been injured. Someone called for the referee. His girlfriend was already hurrying toward the changing rooms, fear written across her face.

She found him sitting alone behind the building, still wearing his Quidditch robes. His broom lay beside him, forgotten. One hand was pressed tightly against his chest while the other trembled against his knee. His breathing came in short, uneven breaths, and his eyes were squeezed shut as he desperately tried to regain control.

He wasn't injured.

He was terrified.

Even while struggling to breathe, his first thought was that he'd disappointed everyone.

For once, Theodore wasn't the captain, the prefect, the top student, or the boy everyone expected to succeed.

He was simply Theodore, frightened that being imperfect might make him unworthy of being loved.