Theodore Nott

The Slytherin common room was noisy, as it always was when Theodore Nott and Agnes Skeeter found themselves in the same room.

"Nott," Agnes said, lounging in a chair by the fireplace, "if you tell me again that your Pureblood Code is better than my Potions theory, I'll teach Crabbe to fence. In class. In front of Snape."

Pansy giggled. Daphne buried her face in her magazine, hiding a smile. Blaise and Lorenzo exchanged glances—here we go.

Nott looked up from his book, his dark eyes flashing.

"Skitter, if you doubt my theory again, I'll teach Goyle to tap dance. At your birthday party. In front of your grandmother."

Draco choked on his pumpkin juice. Lorenzo laughed.

“My grandmother died,” Agnes retorted calmly, without even blinking.

“All the more reason,” Nott nodded, “she’ll appreciate it.”

Agnes narrowed her blue eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched. She couldn't help but smile. Nott noticed. He grinned faintly.

They always did it this way. They argued, teased, competed—who was louder, who was sharper, who could outsmart whom. The rest simply enjoyed the spectacle.

“Okay,” Agnes said, stretching, “I give up.” Today is your victory, Nott.

“Always my victory,” he corrected.

She rolled her eyes but smiled.

Blaze spoke up:

— You're like dragons. Only without fire.

“And without wings,” added Lorenzo.

“But with languages,” Agnes responded.

Nott grinned and picked up the book. But he had no intention of reading it. He stared at it over the pages and thought: tomorrow will be a new day. A new argument. A new victory.

And so it is every time.

"Well, Skitter," he said, closing the book, "I bet you'll mix up the ingredients again in Potions tomorrow?"

She raised an eyebrow.

— And if I don’t get it wrong?

• Then I won't joke about your hairstyle for a month.

“Okay,” she extended her hand, and he shook it.

“You’ll lose,” Nott said confidently.

• We'll see, Theodore. We'll see.

Pansy sighed.

• God, they are so unbearable.

“And I can’t tear myself away from it,” Daphne smiled.