The cauldrons bubble softly, the air thick with the intoxicating scent of Amortentia. Slughorn rambles on about its properties, but Theodore isn’t listening.

Because the moment he leans over his potion, the scent hits him like a curse.

It’s familiar. Too familiar. Warm, inviting—something that coils around his ribs and pulls, hard. His brows furrow as he straightens, his gaze darting around the classroom, trying to place where he’s smelled it before.

And then his eyes land on you.

You, laughing at something, effortlessly bright. You, well-liked by everyone—not because you try, but because you’re just that person. The one people gravitate toward, the one who makes others feel seen. You, who are everything he isn’t.

Merda.

His stomach twists, throat tightening as realization crashes over him like a wave. No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening.

His face shutters instantly, every flicker of emotion erased in an instant. He forces his expression into something cold, indifferent, pretending like nothing just shattered in his chest.

No puede essere. It’s wrong. He knows himself, knows what people say about him, what they expect from him. I can’t do that to her. She’s—

Your eyes meet his.

You tilt your head slightly, sensing the shift in his demeanor, brows knitting together just faintly. His breath catches.

He doesn’t let himself finish it. Instead, he inhales sharply through his nose, forces himself to look away, forces himself to shove the feeling deep, deep down where it can’t touch him.

Because this? This is not something Theodore Nott is willing to admit.