Theodore Nott X Italian Hufflepuff reader
Morning in Rome began with shouting.
Vendors arguing over tomatoes in crowded piazzas, witches leaning out of apartment windows to gossip three floors down, enchanted laundry dancing between buildings while church bells rang loud enough to shake birds from rooftops.
You woke up to all of it every morning.
“Tesoro!” your mother shouted from the kitchen. “You are late again!”
“I am always late!” you yelled back while pulling on your shoes.
“It is a little charming!”
Your father snorted into his espresso as you rushed into the kitchen and stole a piece of focaccia directly off the cutting board.
“You say this every morning.”
“And every morning I am correct.”
Your mother kissed your forehead despite herself. “Vai. Your professor already threatened expulsion twice.”
“Only twice? He’s getting soft.”
Then you were out the door.
Accademia delle Stelle wasn’t hidden behind walls or tucked away in some isolated castle.
Italy itself was the campus.
Lessons changed locations constantly depending on the subject, the weather, or whatever dramatic idea professors had that week.
History of Magic inside ancient ruins while illusionary battles replayed around students.
Astronomy on enchanted rooftops in Venice.
Herbology in magical vineyard terraces outside Florence.
Students traveled in groups through Floo stations disguised as cafés and bookstores, laughing loudly while juggling books and pastries at the same time.
Potions classes smelled like herbs and citrus instead of damp stone. Windows stayed open. Students argued over techniques while professors shouted back across classrooms.
At lunch breaks, everybody gathered in crowded magical courtyards.
Wands flipped vegetables in pans.
One boy from Napoli used his wand as a whisk while passionately insulting another student’s risotto.
“You murdered the garlic!”
Students burst into laughter around them.
You leaned against a fountain eating warm pizza while debating defensive spells with your professor loud enough for three nearby tables to join in.
“No, because fear-based magic collapses too quickly under pressure,” you argued, waving your hands dramatically.
“Incorrect,” your professor countered immediately.
“It literally happened during the Venetian dueling riots of 1892.”
“That source is me getting full marks on my essay.”
The professor pointed at you accusingly. “Arrogant.”
The entire courtyard erupted.
And at the end of the day, everyone simply went home.
You returned to your family apartment every evening where your mother cooked while singing softly and your father pretended not to steal ingredients before dinner.
So when your parents sat you down one evening and carefully explained your mother had accepted a Ministry position in England, panic didn’t hit immediately.
Your mother nodded cautiously.
You thought about it seriously.
Then “What’s the food like?”
Both your parents stared at you.
“That,” your father said slowly, “is your first concern?”
“Well I assume school is still school.”
Your parents exchanged a look filled with such deep pity it should’ve warned you.
The apartment in London was quieter than any place you had ever lived.
People didn’t yell through windows.
Even magical London felt strangely rushed and restrained.
You tried not to think too hard about it.
Instead you unpacked spices into the kitchen while your parents used magic to hang paintings and accidentally argued over furniture placement for forty minutes.
The first night, you cooked.
The smell of garlic and basil filled the apartment instantly, rich and warm and alive enough that your mother nearly sagged against the counter in relief.
“There,” you declared proudly while stirring sauce with your wand. “England improves already.”
Your father tasted it and looked emotional.
“You saved this country.”
Hogwarts looked like a fairytale.
You smiled immediately when you saw it across the lake.
Huge towers disappearing into clouds, floating candles, endless staircases.
You noticed it first in the silence.
Nobody interrupted each other.
Nobody argued across boats.
Everything felt oddly careful.
Still, you smiled brightly when the Sorting Hat shouted “HUFFLEPUFF!”
The table erupted into applause as you sat down enthusiastically beside a few nervous-looking students.
“Hi!” you greeted immediately. “I’m from Rome. Is the pudding supposed to look this yellow?”
Several students blinked at you.
Across the hall, at the Slytherin table, a dark-haired boy looked up briefly from his goblet.
Theo Nott noticed you immediately.
Mostly because you sounded like somebody had dropped sunlight into the Great Hall.
Your first class the next morning was Potions.
That should’ve been comforting.
Potions classrooms smelled the same everywhere:
Professor Snape turned slowly from the front of the classroom.
You knew this type perfectly.
The severe academic who secretly enjoyed clever students but needed conversational effort first.
“My name is Y/N,” you continued brightly while sitting down. “I transferred from Italy and honestly your dungeon is very dramatic, I like it.”
Several students looked horrified.
From the back corner, Theo looked up from his book.
Snape looked unimpressed.
“Take your seat, Miss Y/N.”
“Okay, so you are the strict kind. Understood.”
A faint noise escaped someone nearby that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh.
Theo quickly hid it with a cough.
Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“We will begin brewing the Cure for Boils potion. If anyone feels inclined to chatter instead of listening, they may leave.”
You lasted eleven minutes.
“In my old school,” you interrupted automatically, “we lowered the flame before adding horned slugs because the consistency becomes smoother.”
Silence crashed into the room.
Snape stared at you like he regretted the invention of speech.
“You will follow instructions exactly as given.”
“Oh,” you said, blinking. “I thought maybe discussion was encouraged.”
Like stepping down and missing a stair.
Theo watched the confusion flicker across your face before you looked back down at your potion.
And for some reason, he remembered it.
After that, he started noticing you everywhere.
At first because it was impossible not to.
You talked with your hands so aggressively you nearly smacked a Ravenclaw with your wand in Charms.
You enchanted extra garlic into your dinner because “this soup tastes emotionally unavailable.”
You kissed a Hufflepuff girl hello on the cheek and nearly gave her heart failure.
You interrupted teachers constantly because you genuinely believed discussion meant engagement.
And every single time, the room reacted like you’d broken some invisible rule.
Theo noticed the exact moment you started understanding that.
You began apologizing before speaking.
Started raising your hand less.
Started laughing quieter.
And Hogwarts liked you better that way.
That was the part Theo hated.
Because he remembered the girl from the Great Hall.
The one who walked in talking like she belonged everywhere.
Then one evening he found you alone in the kitchens.
House-elves bustled around while you stood stirring sauce absentmindedly, quieter than usual.
“You cut basil incorrectly,” you muttered to yourself tiredly.
Theo leaned against the doorway.
“You insult vegetables often?”
You jumped slightly, then relaxed.
“Oh. You are the quiet Slytherin.”
“You’re making sauce at midnight,” he observed.
“You’re lurking in kitchens at midnight.”
Theo watched you stir the sauce for another moment.
You immediately shook your head.
“You argued with a carrot five seconds ago.”
“It proves emotional instability.”
You laughed quietly despite yourself.
And Theo realized, very suddenly, that he liked making you laugh.
After that, he kept showing up.
Sitting beside you in the library.
Watching you cook in the kitchens.
Listening while you complained about British tomatoes like they’d personally offended your bloodline.
And slowly he noticed something else.
One evening in the library he finally said it aloud.
“You stopped arguing with professors.”
You looked down at your parchment.
“…People here don’t really like it.”
You looked genuinely surprised.
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Your expression softened painfully.
“In Italy everybody talks,” you admitted quietly. “Teachers argue back. Students interrupt. Nobody cares if you are loud.”
Theo looked at you carefully.
“Here I think maybe I am too much.”
Theo’s jaw tightened instantly.
“No,” he said quietly. “I think everyone here is too little.”
Cold crept into everything.
You missed home so badly some nights it physically hurt.
Which was how you ended up walking into an empty classroom one snowy evening only to find absolute disaster spread across a table.
Sauce that looked medically concerning.
And Theo standing beside it covered in flour.
“I followed instructions exactly.”
“Well there is your problem.”
Theo rolled his eyes slightly. “You mentioned missing Italian food.”
You tasted the sauce carefully.
Then immediately coughed.
“In Rome this gets you arrested.”
Warm and low and unexpectedly pretty.
And suddenly you were laughing too, harder and harder until your stomach hurt and tears blurred your vision.
Theo watched you the entire time.
Like hearing you loud again fixed something inside him too.
“There you are,” he murmured quietly. Theo watched in deep suspicion as you rolled up your sleeves.
“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not. You are not allowed to insult it further.”
You dipped the spoon into the sauce again, visibly fighting laughter.
“Theo, amore, this is not sauce. This is a hostage situation.”
Theo folded his arms while you reached for the scattered ingredients around the table.
You stirred gently with your wand, the sauce immediately softening into something warmer, smoother, richer.
You looked genuinely confused.
“No, you performed ancient magic.”
You grinned and tore off a piece of bread, dipping it into the fixed sauce before holding it out toward him.
Theo hesitated before taking the bite.
“That’s…” He looked offended. “That’s actually good.”
“You changed three things.”
“It makes perfect sense. You cooked with instructions.” You tapped his chest lightly with the spoon. “You must cook with feeling.”
Theo snorted softly. “You sound insane.”
The kitchen suddenly felt very small.
Theo was still looking at you strangely.
Like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with how much he liked you.
Your chest squeezed a little at the sight.
So before you could overthink it, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
You pulled back innocently, reaching for the bread again.
Then “…Does that mean thank you,” Theo asked carefully, “or does that mean you’re mine now?”
You nearly choked laughing.
“I’m serious,” he said, still staring at you. “You’re very affectionate. I need cultural clarification.”
You laughed harder, covering your face.
“In Italy cheek kisses are normal!”
Theo touched the spot on his cheek slowly, eyes still fixed on you.
“Right,” he murmured faintly. “Normal.”
