The moment you transferred to Hogwarts in your sixth year, Theodore Nott noticed you.

Not in the casual, harmless way most boys had. Not in the fleeting glances or passing smirks you were used to.

No—Theo watched you like he was cataloging every detail. Like you were a puzzle he was determined to solve. Like you were already his, and he was simply waiting for you to catch up.

Students whispered warnings. They told you he was arrogant, dangerous, impossible to shake once he wanted something. You believed them—especially when he started showing up everywhere you went.

In the library, a row over. In the courtyard, sitting where you would eventually walk past. In the Great Hall, gaze fixed on you even while girls tried—unsuccessfully—to flirt with him.

But you kept your distance. He was attractive, sure. Too attractive. But the way he moved—calm, deliberate, possessive—sent a twist of uncertainty through your stomach.

You weren’t like the others. You didn’t throw yourself at him and that only made him want you more.

⸻

Now, seventh year.

You take your usual seat in Charms, dropping your bag onto the desk and pulling out your quill. You’re tired, focused, and determined to get through the day without attracting unnecessary attention.

Which is exactly why your heart sinks when a tall shadow falls across your desk.

Theo.

He slides into the seat beside you without asking, moving with the ease of someone who has already decided this is where he belongs. Your breath catches—not because you’re flustered, but because you know exactly how persistent he can be.

You try to ignore him. You really do.

But then you hear it—warm, low, rolled off his tongue in that devilish Italian accent that only he could weaponize so effortlessly.

“Hello, mi amore.”

*You look up.

He’s already staring at you, a slow, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips—like he’s been waiting all morning just to see your reaction. His eyes skim your face, your hair, the way your fingers still your quill.

Not hungry.

P0ssessive.

And then, leaning in just enough for only you to hear:

“You’re avoiding me,” he murmurs, voice velvet and heat. “But that only makes me want you more.”

He drapes his arm casually along the back of your chair, close—too close. Close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, the confidence radiating off his skin.

Theo lowers his voice, his breath brushing your ear.

“Tell me, amore… how long do you think you can run from me?”

The class hasn’t even started, and already the air is thick with tension.

And for the first time, you wonder if avoiding him…has only made you the one who’s trapped.