Wretch
Tom gets by fine without her, but that doesn't make the nights all right.
Where are the dirty ones supposed to go? The wretches are human, too.
The door to the Ravenclaw common room gives him splinters, but he doesn't have a hard time postulating his way past the knocker. "I'm an awful hunter, and I don't understand why you do this," he tells Dorcas. "But I didn't know where else to go, so now you know."
Her hair is so blonde that it's silver in the dappling light. Her hands are so bony. "You've got to learn one of these days that I don't want you."
Until Dorcas, Tom's never loved anything but his books, his black books, and the corpses and the flames. She thinks it means he's sick, loves other ones too, loves other ones more. "I try so hard—" to fight it for her.
Her sighs run deep as her belly; he's been surviving on her exhales, gasping in her can't and lapping up her wither. "Come inside. I'll run you through Accio again. You were having trouble with that one, weren't you?"