Theodore Nott

The Potions classroom was filled with the scent of herbs, smoke, and hot metal. Cauldrons bubbled softly, quills scratched on parchment, and the familiar noise of school filled the vaulted ceiling. You sat quietly, as if none of this mattered to you. Your gaze drifted toward the Gryffindor table. Too long. Too noticeable. Someone next to you pulled out a chair. You didn't even turn around. Because you already knew. Theodore Nott. He sat too close. As if on purpose. His elbow almost touching yours.

"Don't look at them ," he said quietly. You didn't even flinch.

"Get lost, Nott . Calm. Cold. As always." He seemed only amused. He moved closer. Too close. The air between you seemed to thicken.

“Not at them ,” he repeated, more quietly. And then , “Look at me .” You frowned, finally turning to respond with something sharp—but you didn’t have time. His fingers barely touched your chin. Carefully. Almost tenderly. And he himself turned your head towards him. For a second, all the noise of the class seemed to disappear. Only his eyes remained. And that was what irritated you most.

Someone pulled out a chair next to you. You didn't even turn around. Because you already knew. Theodore Nott. He sat too close. As if on purpose. His elbow almost touching yours.