Ink, Charcoal, and Amortentia- Theodore Nott
Summary: Theo and Y/N find each other again in the most ordinary moment, yet it becomes the beginning of something extraordinary.
Warnings: None just insane fluff?? - Ravenclaw! Reader
Word Count: 13.9k
. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.
Theodore Nott had never truly understood what love felt like.
Affection was a foreign language in the Nott estate; his father’s coldness seeped into every corridor like a permanent draft. His mother had been gone for as long as he could remember, leaving behind nothing but the faintest echo of warmth. The only creature who had ever shown him anything close to tenderness was Tilly, the house-elf who had raised him with trembling hands and quiet devotion. Tilly’s gentle fussing, soft scolding, and the way she brushed his hair back when he cried as a child were the closest he had ever come to being adored.
Until fifth year, when he was paired by Snape’s cruel sense of humor or divine intervention, he wasn't sure with a Ravenclaw girl who challenged him in ways he wasn’t prepared for.
Y/N wasn’t a “know-it-all,” not really. She was something much more dangerous.
She was witty, sharp enough to slice through his excuses, yet creative, her mind always spinning with ideas he never saw coming. She worked like a storm, organized chaos, with quills everywhere and parchment covered in brilliant sketches and theories. And she was never afraid to call him out when he was being lazy or aloof.
At first, she’d been a nightmare to work with. Not because she was bossy—though she absolutely was—but because she refused to shrink in front of him the way everyone else did. She didn’t care that he was a Nott. She didn’t care about his last name, his reputation, or the rumors. She cared that he did his part, and she wasn’t shy about telling him when he wasn’t.
She wasn’t a control freak; she was simply a girl who refused to let her intelligence go unnoticed. A girl who demanded excellence because she gave it herself.
And for Theo, whose whole life had been defined by silence and shadows, she was utterly, terrifyingly fascinating.
Theo realized he was in trouble on a Tuesday.
Not because Y/N did anything dramatic, in fact, it was the opposite. She simply walked into their Potions partnership like she always did: hair slightly messy from the wind, an ink smudge on her thumb, and a stack of parchment under her arm that looked far too heavy for a fifth-year.
“Good, you’re early,” she said, sliding into the seat beside him. “We need to fix the third step in our outline. Your handwriting looks like a boggart trying to escape a quill.”
He opened his mouth to snap back, but she’d already pulled the parchment closer and started rewriting his notes in neat, looping script. Theo didn’t know why he stared. Maybe it was the way her brow furrowed in concentration. Maybe it was the faint smile she wore whenever she proved him wrong. Or maybe it was the fact that she didn’t treat him like a glass statue about to shatter.
“Merlin, Nott,” she sighed without looking up, “you’re doing that brooding thing again.”
“You absolutely brood. It’s one of your main personality traits.” She tapped her quill against her lips thoughtfully. “Right behind ‘never admits he’s wrong.’”
Theo felt heat creep up his neck annoyance; he told himself. Definitely annoyance.
She nudged his arm with her elbow. “Come on. Help me rewrite this. Unless you want Snape to crucify us.”
He muttered something unintelligible and leaned over her shoulder to read her notes.
And that—that—was the moment everything changed.
Because he was suddenly too aware of how close she was. Too aware of the faint smell of lavender clinging to her robes. Too aware of the fact that when she pushed her hair behind her ear, she accidentally brushed his forearm, and he felt it all the way down to his fingertips.
He jerked back a little. “Watch it.”
She glanced at him with that sly, knowing look that always made him feel exposed. “Relax. I’m not hexing you.”
“You might,” he muttered.
But she smiled. “If I wanted to hex you, you’d know.”
And there it was again, that spark. The one that hit him square in the chest every time she smirked, argued with him, challenged him, or simply existed too close to him. It wasn’t a crush, he told himself. No, nothing that ridiculous.
He just… admired her. Or tolerated her. Or maybe she just got under his skin in a very specific, infuriating way.
But then she looked up at him—really looked—and Theo felt something shift.
“See?” she said softly. “We actually make a good team.”
For someone who had never been loved, never been shown softness beyond a house-elf’s trembling hands… Her warmth felt like a threat. Her laughter felt like a risk. And her presence felt like a promise he wasn’t sure he deserved.
This was the moment Theodore Nott realized he was falling—slowly, stupidly, helplessly.
And she had absolutely no idea.
By sixth year, Theodore Nott had perfected the art of pretending she didn’t exist. Or at least… that’s what everyone else believed.
In reality, he’d kept tabs on Y/N with the precision of a spy and the subtlety of a Slytherin who absolutely refused to admit he cared. He noticed everything without ever being caught.
How she cut her hair over the summer. How she switched from blue ink to black. How she started sitting closer to the windows in the library because she liked the natural light for sketching. How she stopped raising her hand as much in class, but her essays remained brilliant. How she laughed differently now—quieter, but real.
He never spoke to her after their fifth-year project ended. They had submitted it, received an Outstanding, and she had smiled at him this soft, warm little smile that nearly knocked the air out of him.
And he, being an idiot, just nodded and walked away like she was nothing.
He regretted it every day since.
So when Slughorn called out partners for their sixth-year potions assignment, Theo already knew. Of course he did. His luck was cursed.
“Miss Y/L/N… and Mr. Nott!” Slughorn boomed cheerfully. “I hear from dear Professor Snape that you two make quite the team! Very promising! Very compatible working styles!”
Theo nearly choked on his own breath. Snape said what? He wanted to hex himself for ever being competent in front of that man.
Y/N stiffened just a fraction before turning her head toward Theo. Sixteen now, she looked… different. Older. Sharper. More confident. But her eyes, the ones he’d memorized on accident, still sparkled with that quick intelligence that always made him feel like she could read his mind if she wanted to.
Her gaze met his for the first time in a year.
And Merlin, that was enough to undo him.
She gave him a polite nod. Civil. Distant. As if they’d never spent late afternoons arguing over cauldron temperatures and rewriting each other’s notes. As if she hadn’t once made him laugh so hard he spilled half a vial of dittany on himself. As if she meant nothing.
He hated how much it bothered him.
She sat down at their table and pulled her textbook closer. “Nott,” she greeted curtly.
“Y/L/N,” he replied, equally curt—though it came out rougher than he intended.
Slughorn clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Now! Each pair will be brewing a different advanced potion, selected specially for your skill levels!”
Theo’s pulse ticked faster. Different potions. Meaning no backup. No anonymity.
Slughorn beamed, and that was when Theo knew something awful was about to happen.
“Mr. Nott and Miss Y/L/N…” He paused dramatically, reading his list. “You two will be brewing Amortentia.”
Amortentia. The most powerful love potion in existence. The one that released the scent of whatever—or whoever you found most irresistible.
He had never hated Slughorn more.
Y/N blinked once, the only visible sign that she, too, was silently screaming. “Professor,” she said, composed as ever, “Amortentia is highly complex for sixth-year students.”
“Nonsense!” Slughorn declared. “You two worked beautifully together under Severus last year. He specifically recommended you as an exceptional pair to brew this potion.”
Theo was going to throw himself out the nearest window.
Y/N turned to him. “Shall we… get started?” she asked carefully.
Theo swallowed. Hard. “Yeah. Sure.”
They both started to grab the ingredients and began to organize them. Neither spoke. Neither breathed. Both pretended they weren’t aware of what they’d be smelling in less than an hour.
Finally, Y/N opened the textbook. “We’ll divide the instructions,” she said, almost too quietly.
He nodded. “Like last time.”
She paused. Not long—but long enough for him to notice.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Like last time.”
They began prepping ingredients, hands brushing occasionally, each touch sending a static shock up Theo’s spine. The tension between them was so thick it might as well have been another potion in the room.
Theo kept his eyes fixed on the powdered moonstone, refusing to let his thoughts wander to the moment the potion turned pearly white, when the steam would curl toward them, and he would smell— Merlin help him.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what he would smell. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she would. And he definitely wasn’t sure he could hide it once she found out.
The cauldron began to warm, the pearl shimmer forming just at the surface. Theo felt each second like a countdown to his own execution.
Y/N stirred clockwise, her wrist precise, elegant, infuriatingly calm. “Add the moonstone,” she murmured.
Theo did. His hand shook.
He braced himself. Any moment the steam would rise—the telltale spirals of Amortentia, silver and opalescent—
The potion glowed, brightened, and released the first curl of vapor.
Theo expected flowers. Or broom polish. Or something normal.
Instead, the scent hit him like a punch to the ribs.
And something soft—like the faint smell of the library.
His heart stopped. He actually stopped breathing. Merlin, no. Absolutely not. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
He snapped his head away from the cauldron before instinct could betray him and prayed Y/N hadn't seen the panic flash across his face.
But she wasn’t looking at him.
She was staring into the steam, just as entranced, just as startled.
Theo narrowed his eyes. “What do you smell?”
Y/N blinked once—too quickly. “Nothing important.”
“Right,” he said flatly, “because everyone smells nothing when they’re inhaling Amortentia.”
She shot him a look sharp enough to slice pewter. “I’m not discussing my private senses with you.”
“Private senses?” Theo echoed. “It’s a potion, not a diary.”
“It is literally a love potion,” she hissed.
He opened his mouth to argue, and that was when Slughorn popped up like a mole with bad timing. “Marvelous! Marvelous!” the professor boomed, clapping his hands. “Do breathe deeply, my dears! You’ll find the scents quite illuminating!”
Theo felt like jumping out the window once again.
Y/N straightened. “We’re progressing well, Professor.”
Slughorn nodded, beaming. “That’s what Severus said too—‘Those two understand each other better than they realize.’ Quite an endorsement, hm?”
Theo wanted to disintegrate.
Slughorn waddled off to terrorize another group.
They worked in tense silence until Y/N finally said, barely above a whisper, “Your scent must’ve been… interesting.”
Theo froze. “Why would you say that?”
“You looked like you wanted to crawl out of your skin.”
He glanced at her. “And you looked like you saw a bloody prophecy.”
“Then what did you smell?” he pressed.
She exhaled sharply. “Something familiar.”
He clenched his jaw. She wasn’t going to tell him—fine. But the steam was rising again, and this time the scent slapped him across the face.
He turned away fast, but not fast enough. Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hiding something.”
Theo cursed under his breath. He could feel heat crawling up his neck. He needed to say something—anything—that didn’t sound like “I’m secretly obsessed with you and this potion just exposed it.”
And something cracked behind them.
Draco Malfoy stood at the table behind theirs, pale as death, eyes wide, expression frozen like he’d just overheard the single most incriminating sentence in Hogwarts history.
Draco never said anything first when it mattered. He just watched. Watched the steam. Watched Theo’s face. Watched Y/N’s tension.
Then his gaze flicked to Theo’s grip on the stirring rod—a little too tight. His pulse in his neck—visible because Draco knew where to look. His stance—uneven, avoiding the cauldron like it was cursed.
And then Draco muttered, so low only Theo could hear: “…You’re an idiot.”
Theo stiffened. “Shut up.”
Draco didn’t smile. He didn’t tease. He didn’t gloat.
He simply raised a brow, the kind of brow that said I’ve known you since you were two, and you think you can hide this from me? They glared at each other. The steam rose again. Theo pretended not to breathe.
Y/N finally snapped her notebook shut. “I’m going to wash this off my hands,” she said, her voice steady but her steps quicker than usual. “Don’t touch anything stupid while I’m gone.”
She walked toward the basin by the windows far enough not to hear them, but close enough to be suspicious.
Draco set his own ingredients down quietly, eyes flicking from the steaming cauldron… to Theo… to the spot where Y/N had walked off.
“You’re in trouble,” Draco murmured.
Draco didn’t. Draco never did when it counted. “When did it start?” Draco’s voice was low, almost gentle, exactly the tone he used when he was being sincere rather than smug.
“Nothing started.” Theo’s lie was instant and awful.
Draco clicked his tongue softly. “Theo. I helped you steal biscuits from the manor kitchens when you were four. I know when you’re lying.”
Draco continued, calm and surgical, “You won’t even look at the steam. That’s not avoidance, that’s fear.”
Theo swallowed. Hard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do.” Draco’s eyes softened with understanding Theo absolutely did not want. “She’s your Amortentia scent.”
Theo felt his entire world stutter. He ran a hand through his hair. “Draco, don’t—”
“Relax.” Draco’s voice dropped even quieter. “I’m not going to embarrass you. And I’m not telling anyone. Not even the boys.”
Theo sagged with a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
But Draco wasn’t finished. He glanced toward the sinks, where Y/N now stood, drying her hands with careful movements, her head tilted slightly—subtly studying them from the corner of her eye.
“She’s clever,” Draco murmured. “If you don’t get yourself under control, she’ll figure it out before you’re ready.”
Theo’s stomach twisted. “You think she suspects something?”
Draco’s lips twitched. “She’s already analyzing you. Look at her posture.”
Theo did. Y/N was pretending to adjust her sleeves… but her eyes were flicking back and forth between him and the table. Observing. Calculating.
Draco nudged him. “If she catches you looking at her like that, you’re done.”
“I’m not looking at her like anything,” Theo snapped, but his blush betrayed him.
Draco smirked. “And now you’re blushing. Wonderful. Very subtle.”
Theo groaned into his hands. “Draco, I’m begging you—stop.”
Draco leaned in the slightest bit, his voice barely above a breath. “Start thinking, Theo. Because she’ll notice the signs long before you speak them.”
“And if she smells you in her Amortentia?” Draco added quietly, “you won’t get to hide behind silence anymore.”
Draco stepped back, perfectly composed. “Fix your face,” he muttered, “she’s coming back.”
Theo snapped upright just as Y/N approached, expression cool, observant, too sharp for his comfort. She placed her notebook back on the desk and said calmly, “What were you two whispering about?”
Draco cut in smoothly. “Quills,” he said. “Nott’s handwriting is atrocious.”
Y/N’s eyes flicked between them. She didn’t believe that for a second. Not one. But she only hummed and returned to the cauldron.
Theo tried to breathe normally. Draco shot him a warning look: Get it together.
Y/N stirred the potion… and the steam rose again.
Theo felt his pulse hammer.
Y/N inhaled—barely, unintentionally—and her breath stuttered for half a heartbeat.
She caught something. Something familiar. Something she wasn’t ready to admit either. Her eyes darted to Theo before she masked it.
Intelligent. Sharp. Dangerous.
And Theo knew, with terrible certainty, that it was only a matter of time.
Theo stepped into the sixth-year boys’ dorm expecting silence.
Instead, he found a tribunal.
Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo sat on his bed like a panel of dark-robed judges. Draco looked like the presiding magistrate. Blaise held a chocolate frog as if he were about to cross-examine someone. Mattheo wore the smug expression of a man about to deliver chaos. Enzo looked far too at peace for someone involved in an ambush.
Theo stopped in the doorway, expression flat. “No,” he said. “Whatever this is, absolutely not. I’m leaving.”
Draco patted the bed. “Come. Sit. Face your sins.”
“Nope.” Theo turned. “Absolutely not. I’m leaving.”
Blaise snapped his fingers, pointing. “Close the door, lover boy. You’re not escaping this intervention.”
Theo shut the door but refused to move. “Malfoy, you swore you wouldn’t say anything.”
Mattheo snorted so hard he choked on air. “Mate. He’s a Malfoy. Their whole personality is secrets and violating them.”
Draco looked offended. “I do not violate secrets. I simply… redistribute information.”
Blaise threw a chocolate frog into his mouth. “You didn’t need Draco anyway. We’ve been clocking your pathetic pining for a year.”
Theo blinked, "What pining?"
All four boys burst into laughter at once.
Mattheo wiped a tear. “Oh Merlin, he said it with his whole chest.”
Enzo leaned back on his hands. “We all knew, Theo. We didn’t need a confession. We have eyes.”
Theo threw his arms up. “You all have bad eyes.”
“Actually,” Draco said proudly, “my eyesight is exceptional.”
“Draco, I hope the giant squid eats you.”
“Make it quick,” Draco said, straightening his collar. “I have plans tomorrow.”
Theo’s jaw tightened, barely noticeable unless you’d known him since childhood. "Fine. Out with it, you tossers."
Draco’s lips twitched just slightly. “Very well. Zabini, you go first."
Blaise lifted a brow and looked at Theo. "Remember last year in the library when we were studying for our Defense OWL, and I asked you what chapter we were on?”
“You didn’t answer,” Blaise said. “You just stared across the room like you were solving a crime.”
Draco added, “He was staring at Y/N.”
Theo sputtered. “I wasn’t staring—!”
“You were,” Blaise said. “I called your name four times. You ignored me so completely, I checked to make sure you weren’t under a trance.” Theo buried his face in his hands.
Next came Enzo, who cracked his knuckles. “My turn. You remember that Ravenclaw boy who was trying to ask her to partner with him for a Charms project?”
Draco smirked. “He remembers.”
Enzo leaned back. “You glared at him so hard he backed out mid-sentence. Y/N didn’t even see it. But I did. You almost melted him.”
Mattheo chimed in, “And then Theo spent the next ten minutes pretending he wasn’t angry while sharpening his quill like it was a weapon.”
Theo groaned. “You’re all exaggerating.”
“No,” Enzo said. “We toned it down.” Theo wanted to evaporate.
Then Mattheo spoke; he wiggled his eyebrows like this was the highlight of his week. “My turn. Best moment of my life.” He dramatically clutched his pillow. “Quidditch match last year.”
Theo stiffened. “There was no moment.”
“Oh, there was a moment,” Mattheo said. “Ravenclaw scored, Y/N cheered, and your dumb ass nearly flew into a goalpost watching her.”
Blaise nodded vigorously. “You did a whole mid-air wiggle.”
Draco added, “You did smile like an idiot.”
Theo sputtered, “I DID NOT—”
Mattheo mimicked it. “You literally went—” He made a dreamy, stupid face. Theo lunged at him. Mattheo dodged, laughing.
Blaise clapped Theo on the back. “You floated down like a lovesick fairy.” Theo opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Finally, Draco stood. He looked almost sympathetic. Almost. “Theo,” he said with practiced Malfoy calm, “you keep tabs on her.”
Theo blinked. “I do not.”
“You absolutely do,” Draco replied. “You know her schedule better than she does. You notice when she gets a new quill. You know which Ravenclaw girls she studies with. You always place yourself at the table closest to hers in the library. You walk slower in the hallway if you hear her behind you.”
“That last one was an accident—”
“No, it wasn’t,” all four boys said in unison.
Draco continued mercilessly, “And the best part? Every time she enters a room, you do that thing with your shoulders.”
Theo glared. “What thing?”
Mattheo exaggeratedly lifted his shoulders, straightened them, and pretended to look disinterested while clearly staring. Blaise threw his head back laughing. “It’s the ‘oh Merlin play it cool she might see me’ posture.”
Theo considered setting them on fire.
Draco finished with a softer, pointed look. “We’ve known for a long time, Theo. You’re not subtle. You never were. And today’s Amortentia lesson just confirmed it.”
Theo sank onto his bed, face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”
Mattheo tossed him a pillow. “We love you too, Romeo.”
Enzo went over to his side of the room, took out a bottle of alcohol, and opened it in salute. “To Theodore Nott, finally realizing the entire dungeon knows he’s in love.”
Theo made a strangled noise.
Draco clapped his shoulder. “And don’t worry. We’ll help you.”
Theo stared up at them, horrified. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The library was nearly empty at this hour.
Candles flickered in long rows, casting honey-gold light across the ancient stone floors. Dust drifted in soft spirals. The air smelled faintly of old paper and lavender floor polish. A late-night hush settled over the shelves, as if the entire castle was holding its breath.
Y/N sat alone at her favorite table in the far corner, near the enchanted window that reflected the Black Lake’s currents. The glow from the underwater lights rippled across her open sketchbook, turning the parchment into shifting silver.
She wasn’t supposed to be drawing.
She had every intention of outlining her Arithmancy notes.
But the charcoal in her hand wasn’t behaving.
It drifted instead—idly, thoughtlessly—across the page, sketching curves and shadows she wasn’t consciously choosing. She hummed softly under her breath, brows lightly furrowed as she worked.
At first it looked like nothing.
A shape. A line. A faint shadow.
She rotated the page, squinting. The candlelight flickered over the parchment so the charcoal strokes darkened and blurred.
Her hand moved again. Another stroke. Another curve. A sharper angle—meant to represent frustration, she thought. Or restlessness. Or—
The drawing wasn’t random.
Not generic eyes. Not ones she’d invented. No, the shape was too familiar. The cut of the brow. The slight downward tilt at the end. The shadow on the lower lid she’d never noticed consciously but apparently had memorized.
The charcoal in her hand stilled.
Very faint. Half-formed. But him. So clearly him.
Y/N blinked—once, twice—her heart stuttering in a way she did not permit.
“What…” she whispered, frowning softly. “Why am I—?”
She reached for the eraser. Stopped halfway. Her fingers hovered.
Because the truth curled in her stomach with quiet precision. She hadn’t sketched just anyone's eyes. She’d sketched his eyes. Without thinking. Without trying. Without even realizing.
Her pulse ticked behind her ear.
She touched the edge of the page, tracing the faint charcoal lines, studying the slight intelligence in the gaze, the intensity that was always there even when Theo was pretending to be disinterested.
It wasn’t the first time her sketches had drifted toward something familiar. But this was the first time she noticed.
The memory from Potions drifted back, Amortentia steam swirling around her, coaxing forward scents that made no sense at the time.
A subtle hint of cedarwood.
Something familiar but unplaceable.
Something that had pulsed behind her ribs the moment she caught it. She exhaled shakily.
She frowned again, leaning back in her chair. Her heartbeat thudded softly through her fingertips, tapping against the spine of her sketchbook.
Theo’s face flickered across her thoughts.
The way he looked at her today. No, didn’t look at her. Purposely, carefully, deliberately avoiding her. The slight tension in his jaw. The way he stiffened when she came close. The quiet storm behind his eyes, he didn’t think she saw.
She replayed Potions class, searching for logical explanations. None presented themselves.
The charcoal drifted back to the parchment, sketching unbidden—this time a line of cheekbone, a faint tilt of eyebrow. The beginnings of a face she wasn’t supposed to know so well.
Her stomach tightened—not unpleasantly, but unfamiliar.
“No,” she murmured softly, shaking her head. “That’s not—He’s not—You’re not—”
But she couldn’t finish the sentence. Any part of it. The candles flickered. The library seemed to lean closer. Her pulse whispered answers she wasn’t ready to admit.
Fresh parchment. Clean. Safe.
But her hand betrayed her again.
Eyes she already knew the shape of.
She set the quill down. Closed her eyes. And finally, finally allowed the truth to flicker—soft, unwelcome, but terribly real: She wasn’t sketching “nothing.” She was sketching him. And something inside her—something sharp and intelligent and terrifying—knew precisely what that meant.
The castle felt different that morning. Not louder, not quieter, just charged. As if the stones themselves knew something had shifted in the night.
Y/N walked quickly through the corridor leading toward the Great Hall, the cold stones echoing under her shoes. Her sketchbook was tucked securely under her arm, pressed close to her ribs like she could smother whatever truth she’d discovered in it.
She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw charcoal lines turning into his eyes.
She pulled her robes tighter, as if warmth might slow her racing mind.
It was nothing, she tried telling herself.
Just a coincidence. Just a sketch.
A lie she didn’t believe.
She rounded the corner and collided with someone. Hard enough that her books flew straight out of her arms, hitting the floor with a slap loud enough to echo.
“Damn—sorry,” a familiar voice muttered.
He crouched at the same time she did, both reaching instinctively for the fallen mess. Their hands brushed—brief, warm, electric—and they both jerked back like they’d touched a curse.
“Sorry,” Theo said again, quieter now.
“It’s fine,” she murmured, not trusting her pulse.
They reached for separate towers of parchment, notebooks, and quills, papers scattered everywhere like spilled secrets.
Theo’s movements were precise, quick, and too controlled. Like he was trying very hard not to feel anything. He handed her a stack. “This is yours.”
She nodded and took it without looking, too afraid their eyes might meet and everything she had been trying to bury since last night would spill out.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
She didn’t hear her own voice; she heard her heart.
Theo stood up first, brushing dust from his sleeve, his posture too stiff for early morning. His eyes flicked over her quickly, discreetly, but not enough to truly hide it.
“You’re up early,” he said.
He exhaled, slow and shallow. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Me neither. She didn’t say it.
“Right,” he said awkwardly. “Well… good morning.”
Silence wrapped around them—strange, fragile, unbearably aware.
Theo stepped to the side. She stepped in the same direction.
She let out a small breath of a laugh, barely there, but real. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
Theo’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “You can go first.”
She walked past him, clutching the notebooks so tightly the edges dug into her palm.
But both of them felt the air shift between them—as if their bodies recognized something their minds were still trying to understand.
Y/N didn’t notice until she reached the end of the next hallway. She paused near a window, balancing her stack to pull out her schedule. A flash of untidy handwriting caught her eye.
This wasn’t her handwriting.
She pulled the book out fully. Not blue Ravenclaw leather. Dark green. The Nott family crest pressed into the corner.
She hadn’t grabbed her sketchbook. She had grabbed Theo’s notebook. Her throat tightened as she flipped open the cover. Neat, slanted script filled the margins—charms, notes, arithmancy formulas, half-sketched runes.
But between them, light, almost hidden, were short annotations.
A habit of hers. A detail he’d noticed. Something she’d done in class. A line: Why does she always look away when she’s thinking? She kept on reading... and reading until she couldn't anymore.
She closed the book quickly, hugging it to her chest.
The one filled with sketches she didn’t want anyone to see.
“Oh no,” she whispered, dread and something else flooding her chest.
Theo dropped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table end of the bench, back to the wall, the place where he could observe the entire hall without anyone sneaking up behind him.
Habit. Instinct. Strategy.
He always preferred control.
Which is why his hands were perfectly steady as he set down the book he assumed was his. He flipped it open casually, half expecting the neat rows of arithmancy equations he’d written last night.
Instead, the first thing he saw was charcoal.
And an unmistakable angle of a jaw.
Theo’s breath hitched so sharply he almost convinced himself he imagined it.
He blinked down at the page.
Drawn in soft, precise detail like the artist had taken their time, studying each line, each shadow, each part of him he had never once thought anyone bothered to look at.
He reached out and touched the edge of the sketch, fingers barely grazing the parchment. The charcoal had smudged slightly where the heel of someone’s hand must’ve rested—familiar. Human.
He turned the page slowly, afraid to look and more afraid not to.
Not a full portrait, just his mouth. Neutral, faintly tense, like he always was when he was concentrating. The detail of it made something heavy press against his ribs.
He turned the page again.
Messy, uneven, always falling into his eyes.
Who watches someone closely enough to draw them like this?
He swallowed, throat tight.
Sharp. Unforgiving. More angular than handsome, he’d always thought so. But drawn here… it looked softer.
The distinction mattered. Theo’s pulse thudded under his skin. He flipped more pages less carefully now, driven by something he couldn’t name.
Rendered in fine, delicate strokes. Focused. Reflective. Alive.
He stared at the sketch until his vision blurred around the edges.
“What…” his voice cracked quietly, a sound he didn’t recognize. “Why would she…”
He closed the book gently, but not before tracing the curve of the drawn pupil with the pad of his thumb. His pulse hammered in his throat.
Theo had never been… anyone’s subject. Not of interest. Not of affection. Not of attention.
His father looked through him. Professors saw potential, not a person. Classmates saw a name, a lineage, a quiet, cold exterior. No one had ever studied him long enough to memorize the exact way his lashes cast shadows when he looked down.
He sat back, stunned, feeling something he’d never felt this sharply before— Not fear. Not confusion. Not even embarrassment. Something far worse. Something far better.
She had been watching him. Noticing him. Understanding him in ways he had never allowed anyone to.
Theo’s fingers tightened around the sketchbook.
For someone who had grown up without affection, without warmth, without softness—he didn’t have the emotional vocabulary for what was happening in his chest. It felt like pressure. Like heat. Like someone had turned the world slightly off-axis.
He inhaled deeply, but it did nothing to steady him.
He reopened the sketchbook.
He looked again at the first drawing—his jaw, firm and unyielding. Her charcoal strokes followed the sharp edges of his bone structure with surprising reverence.
As if she saw something there he didn’t. Something worth capturing. He stared at the sketch for a long, long moment. Then another thought hit him—hard, unexpected, grounding: If she had his sketchbook… She had read his notes.
All the small, quiet things he’d documented about her without understanding why. A chill ran down his spine.
Theo closed the book gently, resting his hand on the cover, breath shallow. “…Merlin,” he whispered. Not fear this time.
Realization. Heavy. Inevitable. Almost terrifying. She didn’t draw people for no reason. He knew enough about her to know that. So what did it mean? Why him?
And why, out of every detail in this castle, out of every face she passed every day, had she been drawing his? Theo sat there, staring at the closed sketchbook, his entire world rearranging itself piece by piece. And for the first time in his life, the cold, quiet certainty hit him like a spell: She saw him. Not the Nott name. Not the mask he wore.
His fingers curled around the book. His chest tightened painfully. His next breath was shaky. And softly, barely audible, he admitted to the empty space around him— “…I think she feels it too.”
Y/N practically flew through the corridors, her shoes echoing sharply off stone. Students stepped aside as she rushed past, hair slightly wild, sketchbook-shaped panic in her eyes.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Theo had her sketchbook.
Theo has your sketchbook.
Theo has your drawings of HIS FACE.
“No, no, no, no—” she whispered under her breath, gripping her robes as she sprinted down a staircase two steps at a time.
A group of third-years scattered. She was halfway to the dungeons before she even knew where her feet were taking her.
Please let me find him before he opens it.
She didn’t believe in miracles, but she prayed for one anyway.
Theo didn’t remember leaving the Great Hall—only the echo of clinking plates, the low murmur of conversations fading behind him, and the weight of her sketchbook pressed to his palms like it might burn a hole straight through him.
He walked in a daze through Hogwarts’ lower corridor, the long stretch of stone lined with flickering lanterns that cast serpentine shadows across the damp walls. The air was cool here, touched with the faint mineral scent of the dungeons and the distant rumble of pipes beneath the floors.
His footsteps were quiet.
Everything inside him felt suspended, like the world had shifted an inch to the left and hadn’t settled yet. Like something irreversible had been set in motion the moment he’d opened her sketchbook and seen his own face staring back in charcoal.
Then he heard them. Footsteps. Fast. Uncontrolled. Running. Theo turned. And she came flying around the corner.
Y/N appeared with her bag slung over one shoulder, hair loose from rushing, breath uneven, eyes bright and wide—bright with panic, fear, realization.
She clutched his notebook like it held her entire heart inside it.
The air between them snapped tight like a drawn bowstring. She skidded to a halt, almost losing her footing, before she steadied herself and looked at him, really looked at him.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she whispered, “Theo. You have—”
“Your sketchbook,” he finished, voice lower than he intended. “I know.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. She stepped forward like she was being pulled by a force she didn’t recognize yet.
“You—you opened it, didn’t you?”
Theo didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look away. “Yes.”
Her breath left her body in a gasp so quiet it almost vanished. Her fingers tightened around his notebook, nails pressing into the leather cover.
She spoke again, voice frayed. “… I saw yours too.”
Everything inside him stilled. “You…” he said slowly, voice breaking around the edges, “you read my notes.”
She nodded, eyes glistening not with tears, but with the weight of truth settling over her.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “Yours was on top of my stack, and when I flipped it open—” She inhaled sharply. “Theo, you wrote about me.”
He felt heat flood his neck.
“I did,” he said simply, because denying it now was pointless. “A lot.”
“A lot,” she echoed, her voice trembling with disbelief.
They stood in the corridor like that, the space between them thick with everything they’d kept secret and everything they had accidentally revealed.
Finally, Y/N lifted the notebook she held.
She held it against her chest like a fragile thing.
“There were pages,” she said softly. “Pages of things you noticed about me.”
Theo’s breath shuddered out of him. He’d forgotten the extent of what he’d written. Or maybe he never realized how obvious it all looked to someone else.
“I wasn’t… planning for you to ever see that,” he said quietly. “Or anyone.”
Her eyes softened. “I know.”
Theo’s fingers curled around the edge of her sketchbook. “You weren’t planning for me to see this either.”
She shook her head quickly. “Never.”
He took a step closer, slow, careful, like approaching something sacred. Her breathing hitched, but she didn’t move back.
He lifted the sketchbook slightly. “You drew me,” he murmured, voice low, grounding.
She flushed deep. “I don’t know why I did. It wasn’t—I wasn’t thinking, Theo—”
“You were thinking,” he said, studying her expression. “You just didn’t realize what it meant yet.”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Because they both knew the truth now.
Theo looked down at the sketchbook, thumb brushing the smudged corner of a page that still held the imprint of her fingertips.
“You draw things you pay attention to,” he said softly. “Things that occupy your mind.”
Y/N inhaled sharply through her nose, shaking. “And you write things you’re trying to understand,” she whispered back. “Things you can’t ignore.”
This time, no one looked away.
Theo exhaled slowly. “Y/N… the things I wrote—”
“I read all of it,” she said before he could finish. “Every observation. Every note. Every line about me.”
He swallowed hard. “Then you know.”
She stepped even closer, close enough he felt the warmth of her breath on his collar.
“And you,” she whispered, “saw every sketch. Every version of you I put on paper.”
Theo’s grip tightened on the book. “I did.”
Silence fell over them— not empty, but full. So full it vibrated between their ribs.
Finally, she lifted her chin, eyes bright and terrified and brave. “So now what?” she breathed.
Theo looked at her like she was the only thing in the hall that mattered. He raised her sketchbook between them and said quietly, honestly, with no hesitation—“Now… we talk.”
And for the first time, she didn’t run.
And together, they stepped out of the corridor—side by side, holding each other’s truths in their hands.
They didn’t speak as they walked.
Their shoulders nearly brushed, and each time they drifted too close, one of them shifted—barely—like a reflex neither understood yet.
The dungeon corridor twisted, torches flickering low, shadows stretching long across the stones. Theo walked half a step ahead, like muscle memory—silent, steady, aware of every small sound she made behind him.
When he reached a narrow wooden door tucked between two stone archways, “This one,” he said quietly.
Y/N nodded, pulse hammering.
Theo pushed the door open.
The unused classroom beyond looked untouched by time. Desks stacked neatly in the corner, charms diagrams still pinned to the walls, dust floating lazily in the shafts of pale morning light.
It felt private. Protected. A room holding its breath for them. Theo stepped inside. Y/N followed, closing the door softly behind them.
It clicked shut like a secret.
The classroom felt untouched by time.
Dust drifted slowly through slanted beams of morning light. The old wooden desks stacked in the corner cast long shadows across the floor. Everything was quiet — too quiet — the kind of quiet that made every heartbeat echo.
Theo stood against the teacher’s desk, one hand resting on the wood for balance, the other gripping her sketchbook like it was something fragile and precious.
Y/N stood several feet away, clutching his notebook to her chest, fingers curled so tightly around it that the leather cover wrinkled beneath her grip.
For a moment, they didn’t speak.
They just looked at each other — two people standing still while the rest of the world felt like it was shifting beneath their feet.
At last, Y/N exhaled, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to read as much as I did.”
Theo didn’t look angry. He didn’t look embarrassed. He looked… exposed. “So you read a lot,” he said quietly.
Y/N nodded, eyes lowering. “A bit.” Then — a whisper — “A lot.”
Theo nodded once, small and resigned. “I went through yours a lot.”
The air changed. Heavy, but honest.
Outside the classroom door, four Slytherin boys hid behind a statue of a particularly chubby knight. Blaise held Wesley's Extendable Ear that was under the classroom door.
Mattheo whispered, “Are they confessing yet?”
Blaise smirked. “Theo is definitely going to confess with his whole soul right now.”
Enzo squinted. “Can you hear better if I—” He leaned too far. The statue wobbled.
Draco grabbed his hood, yanking him back. “Enzo, if you compromise this mission, so help me—”
Mattheo shushed them violently. “They’re talking about feelings. Feelings.”
Blaise grinned. “Should we knock? Or applaud?”
Draco glared. “We stay hidden. They need privacy. And if you idiots blow our cover, I’ll—”
Four heads snapped toward the door like starving kneazles hearing a can open.
Mattheo whispered, “I bet Theo’s holding her hand.”
Enzo slapped his chest. “Take me instead, Merlin.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “I’m surrounded by children.”
Y/N stepped forward once.
Theo mirrored her step unintentionally, like his body reacted before his mind did.
Her eyes lifted to his. “When you wrote about me,” she said softly, “What did you mean by ‘I didn’t understand then’?”
Theo inhaled sharply, as if the question had hit him physically. He lifted a hand slowly toward her face, but right before touching her, he stopped. His fingers hovered in the space near her cheek, shaking slightly.
“I didn’t understand,” he said, voice low, raw, “Why you were in my thoughts all the time. Why I noticed everything you did. Why I… watched you without meaning to.”
Y/N’s chest tightened. “And now?” she whispered.
Theo swallowed, eyes darkening. “Now I know it wasn’t nothing,” he said. “Not for me.”
Her lips parted — not in shock, but in relief. “I figured.”
Theo finally opened her sketchbook, turning it toward her. The charcoal portrait of his jawline looked back at them. “This,” he said softly, “is not nothing.”
Y/N flushed deeply, arms wrapping around her torso like she needed to hold herself together. “I wasn’t doing it on purpose,” she whispered. “Sometimes I draw without thinking. When I’m overwhelmed or… distracted.”
Theo’s gaze softened. “You draw the things that stay in your mind,” he said. “The things you can’t ignore.”
She looked startled — because it was true. Because it was exactly true. “How do you know that?” she asked quietly.
He lifted the notebook she was holding and tapped it. “I’ve been… observing you. For a long time.”
Her breath caught. She opened his notebook, slightly flipping to one of the pages she remembered. “The notes you took…” she said carefully. “Theo, some of them were so… specific.”
Theo’s jaw flexed. “They were things I didn’t realize I noticed,” he said. “I’d write them down so I could make sense of them. I thought I was just being… analytical.”
“And now?” she asked softly.
He held her gaze. “Now I know I was paying attention because I couldn’t help it.”
Y/N carefully opened the notebook again and stopped at a specific note. She taps her quill against the parchment three times before writing when she’s anxious.
She looked up at him, eyes softer now. “You noticed that?” she whispered.
Theo nodded once. “You do it every time,” he said. “Right before essays. Or when a professor asks you something difficult. Or when you’re irritated.” His voice lowered. “Or when you’re trying not to show you’re nervous.”
Another page: She reads faster when she’s upset. Slower when she’s comfortable.
“Did you really watch me this closely?” she asked in a small voice.
Theo didn’t flinch.“I didn’t mean to,” he confessed. “But yes.”
Y/N pressed her lips together, breath shaking. Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I wasn’t imagining it then.”
“Imagining what?” Theo asked.
“That you were… noticing me.”
Theo exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that truth inside him for months.
“I was,” he said. “I always was.”
The weight of their exchanged notebooks hung between them, heavy and fragile. Y/N looked down at his notes again — then back up at him. “Theo,” she said, almost afraid to ask, “Was this… why the Amortentia smell threw you off?”
His hand tightened around her sketchbook.
“…Yes,” he said softly. Then, with more difficulty: “I didn’t understand it then. I couldn’t admit it. But now I know. It was because of you.”
“What did it smell like?” she whispered.
Theo’s voice lowered, rough.
“And something… quiet. Like the library late at night.”
Her library scent. Her books. Her charcoal stains.
Y/N’s voice trembled. “Theo…” He stepped closer very slowly, as if each inch changed the gravity around them.
“And you?” he asked, eyes locked on hers. “What did you smell?”
She shut her eyes for a second, gathering courage.
“And something sharp — like cedarwood.”
Her voice shook. “And… you, Theo. I smelled you. I just didn’t know it yet.”
Theo inhaled short and sharp. His expression cracked wide open. Understanding. Fear. Relief. Want. All of it.
“You smelled me,” he repeated, stunned.
“Yes,” she said. “I did.”
Close enough that their shoes touched. Close enough, their breaths mingled. Close enough, no lies could exist between them. He lifted a hand, almost touching her cheek, but stopped one breath short again.
Everything in him trembled.
“Y/N,” he whispered, “I didn’t know how to name any of this.”
“I didn’t either,” she whispered back.
“I still don’t,” he admitted, voice raw. “But I know that when you drew me… and when I read your notes… and when you smelled me—”
He stopped, breath shuddering.
Y/N’s eyes glossed with emotion.
“You don’t need the perfect words,” she said softly. “Just honest ones.”
Theo leaned forward, not touching her, but so close her heartbeat tripped. Then, voice breaking in the quiet: “The honest truth is… It’s always been you.”
She felt herself tilting toward him, drawn in by gravity, by truth, by everything they had read in each other’s notebooks.
Their faces inched closer, lips a breath apart—
A loud clatter outside the door cut the moment clean in half.
Someone hissed from the outside, “Mattheo, you absolute troll—!”
Theo closed his eyes, jaw tightening in pure murderous rage. Y/N let out a weak, breathless laugh. But when she looked back at him. All the truth was still there.
The moment the door swung open, the four boys launched themselves away from the wall like startled pigeons.
Blaise, Draco, Mattheo, and Enzo stood in a very crooked line, dusting off nonexistent dirt, adjusting collars, fake-coughing, trying desperately to look like they hadn’t been using an Extendable Ear to eavesdrop for the past fifteen minutes.
Mattheo held a textbook upside down. Enzo stared intensely at the ceiling. Blaise pretended to inspect his own fingernails. Draco attempted casual elegance and failed miserably.
Theo stepped into the hallway with Y/N behind him, eyes flat, tone deadly calm. “Hello.”
All four boys flinched like he’d fired a spell at them.
Mattheo spoke first, way too fast: “Fancy seeing you here, Theodore! Wonderful morning, isn’t it? Crisp air, birds singing—”
“There are no birds in the dungeons,” Theo said.
Mattheo continued, “Yes, well, the metaphorical birds—”
Draco cleared his throat. “We weren’t spying.”
“Good,” Theo said, brushing past him, “that means you won’t mind me asking why you’re all sweating.”
Draco instantly wiped his forehead. “Dungeon humidity.”
“It’s December,” Theo muttered.
Blaise tried a different tactic, leaning against the wall and giving Y/N a lazy, overly casual smile.
Y/N blinked. “Is that why you were yelling a minute ago?”
Blaise froze. Draco smacked him on the back of the head.
Enzo beamed, too cheerful. “So! You two done talking?”
Y/N flushed crimson. Theo stiffened. All four boys’ eyes widened, waiting like hungry hyenas.
Theo inhaled sharply, trying to control the storm boiling under his skin. “We’re leaving,” he said flatly.
Mattheo pointed dramatically. “Together?”
Theo’s glare could have melted the stone walls.
Y/N fumbled, flustered, “We’re just— we need to— we were talking and—”
Mattheo gasped. “OH MERLIN, DID YOU—”
“No,” Theo snapped, grabbing Y/N’s elbow in a protective, grounding motion—gentle but sure. “We’re going.”
The boys scattered like rats.
They walked away from the chaos of the Slytherin boys yelling, their laughter echoing faintly behind them.
But Theo and Y/N barely heard it. Because somewhere in the middle of the hallway, without either of them noticing how it happened, their fingers found each other.
Softly. Accidentally. Naturally.
Y/N felt Theo’s hand brush hers for a moment, and instead of pulling away, her fingers curled on instinct.
Theo inhaled sharply. He looked down, startled… and then stunned. Her hand was still in his. Warm. Small. Steady. His fingers tightened around hers before he could stop himself.
Neither of them said a word. Neither mentioned it. Neither wanted to break the spell.
They just walked side by side, hands intertwined, hearts racing in quiet sync.
And Theo, without thinking, without planning, began guiding her somewhere he always went when he needed to breathe. Somewhere quiet. Hidden. Safe. Somewhere only he knew.
Theo turned a corner she’d never noticed before, leading her past a tapestry of a sleeping banshee and down a narrow stone passageway that felt untouched by students. The light dimmed, torches flickering low, making their shadows stretch across the floor.
Y/N looked around, breath soft. “Where are we going?”
Theo hesitated—just one second—then said, “Somewhere no one will bother us.”
She didn’t question it. Didn’t resist. She trusted him. More than she had trusted anyone in a long time.
Finally, they reached a small alcove at the end of the passage: a stone archway, half-lit by a single enchanted lantern that glowed blue and gold. Dust motes floated like stars suspended in water.
Theo stopped, still holding her hand.
Y/N stepped closer. “Why here?”
Theo’s chest rose and fell. “This is where I think best,” he said softly. “Where I go when I need to figure myself out.”
“And now?” she asked quietly.
Theo swallowed. “Now I’m here because of you.”
Her breath caught. They stood face-to-face in the quiet glow of her heartbeat, echoing against the stone, his breath brushing her lips when he spoke.
Theo’s hand, still entwined with hers, trembled. “Y/N,” he said softly, “I’ve been trying not to feel this for so long that I don’t… really know how to do this properly.”
She stepped closer until his chest was almost touching hers.
“You don’t have to know,” she whispered. “We can figure it out together.”
Theo’s eyes fluttered shut.
When he opened them again, the whole world had narrowed to just her.
Theo lifted his free hand slowly, gently, and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin as if he wasn’t sure she was real.
Y/N leaned into his touch safe, steady, warm. “Theo,” she breathed, “come here.”
Something inside him gave way. He leaned in, hesitant only for a moment, searching her eyes, asking without words:
Y/N nodded once, soft and certain.
Theo pulled her closer and kissed her. Softly at first, careful, cautious, like he was afraid she might break. Then deeper, warmer, as if every unspoken feeling they’d held for years finally found a place to go.
Her hand came up to his jaw, fingers brushing his cheek. Theo’s heart nearly stopped. She tasted like breathless hope. The kiss tasted like relief. And like the truth, they had finally let escape.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, Theo rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, trying to steady the way his chest was trembling.
“Y/N…” He whispered her name like it meant everything. “Please don’t let this be the only time.”
She smiled—barely, but enough to light him on fire.
Theo took both of her hands now, holding them between his palms, grounding himself in her warmth.
He breathed once, intensely and steadily, then lifted his gaze to hers. “I’m not good at this,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to say things the right way.”
“You’re doing fine,” she whispered.
Theo exhaled shakily. “Okay.” He held her hands tighter. “I want to be with you,” he said, voice low but certain. “Not just like this. Not just moments stolen in empty hallways.”
“I want all of it,” Theo continued. “You and me. Whatever this is becoming. Whatever this could be.” Then, softer: “Y/N… will you go out with me?”
Her breath caught her entire body warming, her heart swelling so fast she thought it might burst. She stepped closer, rising on her toes, and kissed him again, brief, soft, perfect.
When she pulled back, she whispered against his lips: “Yes.”
Theo closed his eyes, exhaling a shudder that sounded like years of walls finally cracking.
“Good,” he breathed. “Good.”
He pulled her into him, not a hug, not exactly, more like a promise.
They stayed there like that, hidden, quiet, holding onto each other
as if the castle had finally paused long enough for them to catch up to everything they had been denying.
And for the first time, the future didn’t terrify him.
Not when she was holding onto him.
That same afternoon, dinner was already loud and chaotic when Theo and Y/N walked hand-in-hand into the Great Hall.
Conversations dipped. Gasps fluttered through the tables. Even the candles seemed to flicker brighter as if they, too, were leaning closer. The Slytherin boys exploded into whispers and elbow jabs, each one trying (and failing) to act like they hadn’t been waiting for this for a year.
But at the staff table, only two professors truly watched: Slughorn. And Snape.
Horace Slughorn perked up immediately, hands trembling with excitement.
“Oh! Oh my!” he whispered breathlessly, nudging the air in front of him as if he were elbowing an invisible friend. “Would you look at that, Severus!”
Slughorn, however, leaned forward, beaming. “Finally! I knew they’d come around. Brilliant children, both of them. I could see it from the moment I paired them.”
Snape cut his meat slowly, silently.
Slughorn lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Isn’t it wonderful? Young love blooming in our very own halls!”
Snape’s eye twitched. Wonderful was not the word he’d use. Not for something like this. Not for something that felt like watching a ghost walk through a memory.
Finally, Snape allowed himself a glance.
Just a small one. Barely a tilt of his head. But enough.
Theo was guiding Y/N toward the Slytherin table with quiet confidence, thumb brushing the back of her hand like a promise. She looked up at him and smiled softly, shyly, blooming.
And something inside Severus Snape, something long buried under decades of bitterness and regret, tightened painfully.
Not because he disapproved.
But because he recognized the moment.
The fragile, unspoken hope of it.
He had felt something like that once.
Before mistakes. Before choices. Before everything hardened into walls he no longer knew how to take down. Snape’s expression did not change outwardly. But his eyes lingered just a second too long.
Long enough to betray that he understood far more than he wished he did.
Slughorn chuckled warmly. “Oh, Severus, don’t scowl. They’re sweet together! Quite charming, really.”
Snape’s voice was quiet, almost lost beneath the hum of the hall. “I’m not scowling.”
Slughorn blinked. Snape took a controlled sip of tea. Then added, almost under his breath, “Simply… observing.”
Slughorn grinned. “Observing what, exactly?”
Snape did not answer. Because the truth felt too familiar on his tongue. He observed the way Theo looked at the girl beside him not with ownership, not with hunger, but with reverence.
He observed how she leaned into Theo’s shoulder, trusting, open, warm.
He observed something he had once wanted more than anything in the world: To be seen. To be chosen. To be understood. And he observed something he had lost — or perhaps never truly had.
But he said none of this.
He simply folded his hands and stared down the hall, his gaze so controlled it bordered on cold.
Slughorn continued cheerfully spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Ah, to be young again. Don’t you agree?”
Snape’s jaw tightened. He did not agree. Not even remotely. But there was something quiet, small, buried beneath the surface of his voice when he responded: “It is… predictable.”
Slughorn laughed. “Romantic, you mean!”
Yet his eyes softened a microscopic shift as he watched Theo whisper something that made Y/N blush and duck her head.
Slughorn nudged him. “You knew, didn’t you? Before they did.”
Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line.
He remembered noticing the way Theo searched for Y/N in the corridors… the way she instinctively moved closer to him in class… the way their tension smoldered quietly, desperately, painfully.
Some things you only recognize if you’ve lived them.
He looked away first. “…It was obvious,” he said in a low voice.
Not cold. Not harsh. Just honest. What he didn’t add — what he would never say aloud — echoed silently under the surface:
I knew what it was because I once felt it too.
And I know how dangerous it is to realize it too late.
They had done what he never could.
And Snape, for all his bitterness, could not bring himself to resent it. He simply folded his arms and stared forward, face unreadable, heart unexpectedly heavy. Slughorn clapped him on the back, oblivious to the storm stirring beneath the surface.
“Well then! Cheers to young love!”
Snape’s reply was barely a whisper, almost drowned out by the clamor of students:
But for once, he meant it.
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