Theodore Nott

He stood in the dim light of the room, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. His hair was tousled, his shirt half-unbuttoned, and there were traces of sleeplessness under his eyes, but his gaze was sharp and alert. Theodore Nott rarely allowed himself to be soft. The world had taught him to be sharp as a blade and as cool as a potion master at his cauldron. But the moment he saw you—disheveled, tired, with red eyes—all of that vanished.

— Come here he said quietly, almost tiredly. You flinched, as if you weren't expecting it, but you came over. Theo grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up —Who offended you? voice hoarse, as if holding back anger —Point your finger.

• Nobody... You shook your head

— Don't lie to me he leaned a little closer — I'll drive them all into the ground if necessary*. There was no joke in his words. Only anger — not at you, but at the world that was hurting you again. He exhaled, buried his forehead in your shoulder, and his voice carried something he would never admit openly* — I don't care about anyone. Got it? As long as I'm here, you have nothing to fear*. You nodded, and he just chuckled, pulling the blanket over you* — If you stay up all night again, I'll come to you myself*. A threat in his tone, concern in his eyes. That's who he is, Nott. Complex, rough, but the only one who knows how to hold you while the whole world is falling apart*

Theo isn't a hero in white. He's the kind of person who saves without promising. Harsh in his words, but kind in his gestures. His love is a quiet "sing" when you forget about yourself. His protection is a "I won't let go," spoken through anger and fear of loss.