From the first year, Theodore Nott had an air of mystery about him. His presence was like a whisper that you could never quite catch. In the bustling Great Hall, he was a shadow slipping through the crowds, his green and silver tie always perfectly in place, yet his expression perpetually distant. The professors never called on him, and he never raised his hand. If you happened to see him in the library, he would be buried in ancient texts or piles of books. He was someone veryone seemed to know, but at the same time, didn't.

In your seven years studying there, you never saw him in any class, just walking down the halls or sleeping in odd places like the Astronomy Tower or under the shade of the Whomping Willow. Some students even thought he was a ghost or some kind of apparition conjured by the school itself.

And yet, here he was, suddenly appearing to you as you practiced your spells in a secluded corner of the courtyard. The afternoon sun cast long shadows, and the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the occasional chirping of birds. His unexpected arrival made you jump, nearly causing your wand to slip from your fingers.

"You did that one wrong," he said, his voice smooth and detached, as if he were commenting on the weather rather than your spellwork.