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𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐲 — 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐭 Part two: 𝒧𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝓘𝓷 𝒯𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃

SUMMARY: Theo Nott was never meant to be understood—least of all in front of an audience. But once you become part of the Slytherin circle, his sharp little habit of hiding behind Italian starts causing problems neither of you seem eager to solve. Please read part 1 before this!

It didn’t take long for the Slytherin friend group to absorb you completely. Sharing a dorm with Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass had its perks—and its chaos. Pansy had declared you “one of us” after you helped her fix a disastrous hair potion gone wrong, and Daphne, despite her occasional clinginess toward Theo, seemed genuinely thrilled to have another girl around who could keep up with their sharp tongues.

That was how you ended up on the couches near the roaring green-flamed fireplace one rainy evening, squeezed between Enzo and Pansy while Mattheo sprawled across the opposite armchair, Blaise and Draco occupied the loveseat, and Theo sat in his usual spot—right across from you, Daphne next to him.

The conversation flowed easily, jumping from Quidditch gossip to complaints about Snape’s latest essay. You listened more than you spoke, content to observe the dynamic.

Until Daphne leaned toward Theo, twirling a strand of her hair with practiced ease. “I’d say you look distracted, Theo,” she purred, voice saccharine, “but I’m hoping it’s just me.”

Theo didn’t even look up from the fire at first. He exhaled slowly, then muttered in Italian, low and dry: Non sei tu. È la situazione. (It’s not you. It’s the situation.)

The words slipped out automatically, the same defensive shield he’d been using for weeks. You couldn’t help yourself. Without missing a beat, you translated it out loud in perfect, clear English.

“He said, ‘It’s not you. It’s the situation.’”

The entire group went dead silent.

Theo froze completely. His hand, which had been loosely holding a glass of Firewhiskey, stilled mid-air. A faint red tint crept up from his neck to the tips of his ears. His eyes snapped to you—wide, incredulous, and more than a little betrayed.

You weren’t supposed to do that.

Daphne blinked once, twice, then burst into bright laughter. “Salazar!”

Pansy joined in immediately, clapping her hands. “She speaks Italian? Since when?” Enzo grinned like Christmas had come early. “This is brilliant.”

Mattheo let out a low whistle, leaning forward with interest. “Nott’s been cursing us all in Italian for years and we’ve finally got ourselves a translator?”

Draco’s smirk was pure Malfoy. “Well, this explains a lot.”

Theo still hadn’t moved. The red tint on his ears deepened as the group dissolved into laughter around him. He looked like he was calculating exactly how fast he could apparate out of the common room if he tried hard enough.

You met his gaze across the fire, fighting back your own smile.

The others slowly drifted back into conversation—Pansy teasing Daphne about her failed flirtation, Blaise and Mattheo arguing over the Cannons’ latest match—but the air between you and Theo crackled with something sharper.

He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into Italian, quiet enough that only you could hear: Sei una piccola traditrice, lo sai? (You’re a little traitor, you know that?)

You tilted your head, answering in the same language, soft and teasing: Solo quando ti meriti di essere messo in imbarazzo. (Only when you deserve to be embarrassed.)

Theo’s jaw tightened, but there was a dangerous spark in his eyes now. He continued in Italian, the words coming faster: Attenta. Continua così e potrei decidere di farti pentire. (Careful. Keep this up and I might make you regret it.)

A thrill ran down your spine. You leaned in just enough to match his volume, replying smoothly: Promesse, promesse, Nott. Ma dubito che tu abbia il coraggio. (Promises, promises, Nott. But I doubt you have the courage.)

For a moment the firelight danced in his eyes as he stared at you, the rest of the group’s chatter fading into background noise. The tension felt electric—playful, but edged with something hotter.

Theo opened his mouth to respond when Pansy suddenly turned back toward you two. “Wait, what are you two whispering about over there?” You switched to English effortlessly. “Nothing important.”

Theo cleared his throat, the red still faintly visible on his ears as he forced a casual shrug. “Discussing the weather.” Draco snorted. “Right. The weather.”

The conversation picked up again, but Theo’s gaze stayed locked on you. After a beat, he asked in a quieter, more thoughtful tone—this time in English:

“How did you even learn Italian? Most transfers don’t come with that kind of fluency.”

You hesitated for only a second, then answered honestly, your voice soft. “My mother’s from Rome. She made sure I grew up speaking it at home. It was… our thing.”

Theo’s expression shifted—something gentler flickering behind the usual sharp sarcasm. He studied you for a long moment, the fire casting warm shadows across his face.

Before he could say anything else, Mattheo tossed a crumpled piece of parchment at him. “Oi, lover boy! Stop staring and pass the Firewhiskey.”

Theo caught the parchment one-handed, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like Vaffanculo. (Fuck off.)

But his eyes flicked back to you with a small, private smile. You smiled back, the silver chain of your necklace catching the firelight as you settled deeper into the couch.

The group kept talking, loud and chaotic as ever. But across the flames, the conversation between you and Theo continued—half in English, half in whispered Italian—growing more charged with every exchanged glance.