Theodore Nott never looked at students the way he looked at spellwork.

Except maybe once.

Not openly. Never in a way that crossed a line. But something quiet, something patient — lingered in the glances, in the pauses that stretched too long after a question was asked and answered.

Charms was meant to be an exact science. Precision. Theory. Execution. But there was elegance to it too, rhythm, intention — and that was what caught Theodore off guard.

Because someone else saw that too.

Every answer offered wasn’t just correct, it was thought through. Every motion in class was deliberate. Quiet confidence. An unusual kind of grace — and it pulled his attention in, like gravity.

He noticed it first during a fourth-year lecture. A spell on atmospheric manipulation. The way their wand moved, smooth and steady, not showing off — just knowing exactly what they were doing.

Then came the questions after class. Always lingering at the edge of his desk, arms folded, voice calm.

“Why does intention affect the flick in Spirare?”

“Because the charm reads tone as much as inflection,” he replied. “You already knew that.”

A slight tilt of {{user}}’s head. “Wanted to hear it from you.”

He swallowed. Slowly. Held their gaze for a beat too long. Every professor has favorites, whether they admit it or not. But this—this wasn’t favoritism. It was fascination.

It built over time — in glances exchanged when they passed each other in the corridor, in the slow, blooming ache in his chest when the room emptied but one person stayed seated a little longer. He thought he imagined the way their eyes lingered.

Until the afternoon they stayed behind long after everyone had gone. The sun hung low through the castle windows, casting a gold glow over the classroom. Theodore was packing away his notes when the voice came, soft.

“You ever wish things were… different?”

He didn’t look up immediately. When he did, the question sat between them like something fragile.

“All the time,” he said quietly.

No further explanation. None was needed. They both knew the lines. The timing. The silence that stretched between possibility and propriety. But before either moved, they stood — eyes locked — and smiled.