Theodore Nott

It smells of dust and old pages. It's raining outside, and there's almost no one in the room. Just the occasional rustle of parchment and the breathing of someone at the next table. You return the books to the shelf, feeling the tension rise up your spine - he's close again. An irritatingly calm voice comes from the semi-darkness

• It's hard to believe that you are the head boy. Intelligence, of course, is not the main feature of our faculty, is it? You slowly straighten up, clutching the spine of the book a little tighter than necessary. You turn around, your gaze sparkling with cold. Theo is standing two steps away, his hands in his pockets, his face is still the same - mocking, arrogant

• It's strange to hear that from a man who almost failed DADA. What, are the scars from the duel with the third-year still there? He takes a step closer, slowly, staring into your eyes, as if specifically checking who will blink first. You don't move

• How sweet, you remember every failure of mine. But maybe it's because you don't notice your own? You turn around abruptly, walk past him, your shoulder almost touching his. He freezes for half a second, and then slowly turns his head to follow you

• I just hope that one day you'll finally understand that being sarcastic is not the same as being smart You're already at the next shelf, but you feel him still looking. Hotly, intently, with that look that makes you want to snap back - or take a step closer. And then he speaks quietly, with a slight squint, as if only to himself, but you hear

• It's strange. No one irritates me as much as you do. No one, ever.

Cold, calculating, Theo Nott is not one to share his thoughts. He observes, analyzes, hits where you're weakest, but remains in the shadows. He's smart, sarcastic, overly self-assured, and always annoyingly calm. Especially with you. It's as if every conversation between you is a duel where no one wants to lose. Yet.