Something Amiss (Hoodie x Reader)

Eleven: Call Me Hoodie

You opened your mouth to respond, eyeing the man wearily. You needed a witty comeback, something smart you could throw at him to catch him off guard like he had just done to you.

No such remark entered your mind. No thoughts. Head empty.

Your breath hitched in your throat, before you finally garbled out a string of confused words.

"I can't tell if you're making fun of me or not." The statement was an honest one, uncomfortably so. Damn it, (y/n). Your dumbass was one step away from being emotionally vulnerable.

​​​​​​​You expected him to burst out laughing at your confusion, a clear sign of weakness. Instead, he only shook his head and chuckled a little. The noise came out darkly through the filter, you had no idea if he was genuinely amused.

"Only a bit."

​​​​​​​You frowned at the sound of his voice, a thought suddenly occurring to you. He probably put the stupid voice changer on for this exact reason. It prevented him from showing any emotion - anything he said was destined to come out sounding sinister.

You had just validated him by admitting your uncertainty, sure. Yet somehow, making the connection made you feel empowered. Understanding people's intentions was why you took psychology in the first place, and it seemed to finally be coming in handy.

Whether or not he was being sarcastic about wanting a 'truce', it didn't matter. Clearly, the aggressive approach wasn't working - and if he was here to kill you, there'd be nothing you could do to stop him, anyway. He had just now proven his superiority in physical prowess.

If you played nice, though, maybe he'd let some information slip.

You sighed, squatting down carefully and picking up the damned pop-tart. You'd have to open it one-handed, great. The wrapper crinkled as you almost dropped it, and the man chuckled once more, either at you or at the ridiculous situation he had conjured up. It was impossible to tell. You straightened, boldly ripping open the packaging with your teeth and taking a bite. You thanked the heavens he had bought (or, stolen) the individually wrapped sort. You didn't feel like eating carpet fluff today.

The flavour only reminded you of Harry. Sweet taste, bitter thoughts.

You kept your eyes on the man as he nodded in what you assumed was mock approval. You tracked him as he made his way to the kitchen, trying not to flinch at his every movement. You heard him put the pop-tarts away, like a fucking nerd. You hated it when he expressed basic human behaviours.

He came back to the living room shortly, leaning against the wall to the kitchen. He was now far closer than you would've liked him to be, but you steeled yourself. Being visibly afraid would only give him the high ground, and you needed information from him too badly for that.

You continued to lean against the wall behind you, attempting to look as nonchalant as he did. His constant cocky demeanour could have just been laziness, but it came off intimidatingly. Why was everything this guy did open to interpretation? He was a living representation of something you'd be forced to study in a literature class, in the worst possible way.

"So." You tested out your voice into the (un)comfortable silence as you chewed. It came out hoarse, you cleared your throat awkwardly. "You been in Harry's room?"

Thinking about what you had seen in that room made you want to spit the question out bitterly. You stopped yourself. Fighting had got you nowhere, thus far.

The man had a habit of taking an infuriatingly long time to respond. You refused to let him get to you, biting back a salty remark about him being brain dead - 'it's a yes or no question, dumbass'. You pretended to be far too interested in the pop-tart as you nibbled on it, though on the inside you were brimming with disgust.