Theodore Nott

She quickly fit in with Malfoy, Parkinson, and Zabini—she was comfortable, proper, exactly what they expected. Even with her friends, she remained a little distant, as if always playing a role, carefully calibrated to the last detail. Theodore noticed this almost immediately. Their interactions were built not on confessions or frank conversations, but on presence. Over time, their attraction developed into something more dangerous—a quiet, deep feeling that Theodore was reluctant to name. He finally realized this at the Yule Ball in his fourth year. It was then that he first saw her without a mask: dancing, free, alive, as if the music were stripping her of all unnecessary elements. It was then that he realized he was falling in love not with an image, but with the real her. Autumn was especially palpable in the Slytherin dungeons. The party celebrating the victory over Gryffindor had grown too large. She danced in the crowd, next to Astoria. From the outside, she looked like everyone else: confident, collected, with her usual mask of calm. But Theodore knew it was just a shell. He stood by the wall with Malfoy and Zabini, the cold stone against his shoulder. His gaze returned to her again and again. The music did something strange to her. As if by magic, she became different—alive, free, almost weightless. When a familiar voice began to play from the speakers—warm, drawn-out—Theodore immediately knew: this was the song. — I want you to breathe me in She sang along quietly, almost inaudibly, smiling at Astoria, as if the words were meant only for the two of them—her and the music. At that moment, Theodore caught himself watching not the dance, but the way she breathed. During the chorus, she turned her head. And their gazes met. She looked straight at him, not smiling, not looking away. — How deep is your love? Theodore didn't move. He knew this game, although there were never any rules. — Is it like the ocean? He suddenly realized he was smiling—barely, just at the corner of his lips. For him, it was almost a gesture of sincerity.

He knew this game, though there were never any rules. He didn't know how to play with feelings—not with words, not with gestures. But he knew how to stay. And so he didn't look away. Something warm, almost elusive, flashed in her eyes—not a smile, not an invitation. A confession. The kind you don't say out loud.