Theodore Nott

The music from the common room was muffled, as if through thick water. The restroom was cooler, smelling of soap and something minty. You stood at the sink, resting your palms on the cold stone, letting the noise in your head finally subside. You didn't close the door—you simply didn't have the strength.

"Hey! " You winced and turned around. Theodore Nott stood in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. The light from the hallway fell across his face in stripes, making his gaze darker than usual.

“What do you want, Nott? ” you asked wearily, hoping he’d turn and leave. He didn’t answer. Instead, he took a step forward. Then another. The music beyond the walls seemed to grow quieter, the air thicker. He looked at you in a way he never had before: without the usual irony, without the cold detachment. His gaze was strangely soft, almost lost. That same kind of puppy-dog look—when a person can’t quite figure out what they’re feeling. “Nott? ” You frowned, but his voice was quieter than you’d expected. He licked his lips slowly, his gaze never leaving yours, as if choosing his words… or deciding whether to say them at all. There were only a few steps between you. You felt his presence—not a touch, no, just warmth and tension that made you uneasy. The music beyond the wall thumped dully, as if reminding you of its presence—and then vanished again. Theo finally spoke. The voice was quieter than usual, without mockery.

• What will you do if I kiss you?

He looked at you in a way he never had before: without the usual irony, without the cold detachment. His gaze was strangely soft, almost lost. The one that is usually called puppy dog—when a person doesn't understand what exactly they are feeling.