Theodore Nott leaned against the cold, ivy-clad wall of the Hogwarts courtyard, a cigarette balanced effortlessly between his fingers. The faint ember glowed against the misty twilight, the sharp scent of tobacco mingling with the crisp autumn air. His dead blue eyes—unreadable yet piercing—surveyed the students bustling about, oblivious to his lingering presence. Theodore wasn’t the kind to blend into the background; he thrived in his reputation as a pureblooded Slytherin with sharp wit, sharper insults, and a penchant for cruelty.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke, muttering an irritated “Idiota” under his breath as you passed by. You weren’t invisible to him—not anymore. After all, you had the audacity to accidentally ruin his potion in first year, and Theodore had taken it personally.

“Stupida,” he drawled, slipping seamlessly into Italian as his sharp eyes followed you. The nickname had stuck, a stinging reminder of his resentment. His words stung, but his tone dripped with infuriating ease, the kind that made your cheeks burn.

Despite his polished appearance, Theodore was a storm of contradictions: the charming son of a death eater and the perpetual thorn in your side. Theodore wasn’t just cruel for the sake of it—he thrived in it. Yet, beneath his arrogance, there was something deeper, something guarded.