Hiiii!! I’ve been reading a lot of your work and I love all of it😩😩 the writing is just so immaculate! I know you’re planning to start writing again I wanted to ask hopefully in the future you could write one abt any of the slytherin boys (your choice) and the little things that they try to do to get reader into saying yes to be their Yule ball date! And maybe becoming even more after🤭 I hope that you’re doing great and I can’t wait to see the future works that you create!!
Took You Long Enough.
Pairings ; Theodore Nott x GN!Reader
Summary ; Theodore Nott is determined to ask you to the Yule Ball—but subtle hints, awkward near-confessions, and endless sabotage from his chaotic Slytherin friends turn it into a full-blown disaster. You, curled up in his stolen sweater and completely oblivious, might just be the one thing holding him together… or pushing him over the edge.
A/N ; TYTYTY FOR REQUESTING THIS CUTE LIL IDEA! <3 i really appreciate it. Pleaseee enjoy!
Warnings ; nothing, just PUREEEE fluff and sillyness, and a lil bit of drarry
Word count ; 4.3k
Theodore Nott doesn’t ask people to the Yule Ball.
He doesn’t do asking, in general. He glowers, he broods, he appears silently beside you like a gothic cat in the night and makes dry remarks about the state of your homework or the Gryffindor table’s poor taste in jam.
He doesn’t pursue people.
He prefers if people come to him—quietly, hopefully, and preferably while he’s pretending not to notice them. That’s the arrangement. That’s what he’s used to. It works.
Until you, of course.
You, who somehow slip through the cracks of his calm. Who can talk to portraits like they’re old friends. Who keep forgetting your tie, and lose your quills, and always have ink on your fingers. You who are bright, too bright, and never quite where he expects you to be, and always where he doesn’t realize he’s hoping you are.
He’s ruined.
But even then—especially then—Theodore Nott does not ask people to the Yule Ball.
Which is why he’s sitting across from you in the library, glaring at the blank roll of parchment in front of him like it murdered his ancestors. His jaw is tight, quill clenched in his fist, and his eyes flick up to you every twenty seconds like clockwork.
You, completely oblivious, are humming under your breath as you scribble something in the margin of your Transfiguration book. Your hair keeps falling into your eyes. He wants to tuck it behind your ear and then maybe die from the shame of doing something so cliché.
He’s thinking about that—very inappropriately and not at all helpfully—when Draco Malfoy flops gracelessly into the seat beside him.
Theodore jerks slightly and hunches over his parchment like he’s hiding state secrets.
Draco snorts. “You are so obvious.”
“Am not,” Theodore mutters.
“You’ve written ‘ask them’ and then scribbled it out five times.”
Theodore grits his teeth. “That’s not what I was writing.”
Draco leans in. “It looked like ‘ask them to the—’”
“I said shut up.”
Across the table, you look up from your book, blinking innocently. “Are you two whispering about me again?”
Draco smiles, unbothered. “Absolutely.”
Theodore stiffens.
You squint. “You’re both terrible at whispering.”
“Noted,” Theodore says, voice tighter than his collar.
Draco, far too amused, props his chin in his hand and watches the two of you like it’s theatre. “You’re really not going to ask them?”
“I’m getting there,” Theodore hisses under his breath.
Draco raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “You’ve got, what, three days left? They’re going to get snatched up by some Hufflepuff with emotional availability.”
“Six days, actually.”
“Just ask them, Nott. You’re brooding. They like brooding. You’re weird. They like weird. This isn’t complex.”
Theodore stares hard at a nearby bookshelf. “You ask them, then.”
“I would, but Harry might finally strangle me in my sleep.”
“You’d like that.”
“I would.”
You, somehow still not looking up, flip a page and mutter, “You two do realize I’m right here, yes?”
Draco doesn’t blink. “Of course.”
Theodore considers disappearing under the table. Instead, he mutters something about needing to study and tries to focus on the ink bleeding across his notes.
You glance at him, eyes flicking over his hunched shoulders and clenched jaw. “You okay?”
He doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.”
You lean a little closer. “You sure? You’re gripping your quill like it owes you money.”
Theodore, mortified, releases it instantly and clears his throat.
“Studying,” he says shortly.
You hold his gaze for a second longer than comfortable. “All right then.”
And you go back to your book, your foot swinging idly under the table, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just knocked the breath out of him with a single look.
Draco kicks him under the table.
Later that night in the Slytherin Common Room . .
Mattheo Riddle is sprawled across the emerald green Slytherin common room sofa like he’s auditioning for the cover of Tragic Witches Weekly, one arm draped over his eyes dramatically, the other lazily twirling a Sugar Quill between his fingers. His boots are muddy and kicked off at odd angles, and his half-finished Transfiguration essay flutters sadly beside him as if it too has given up on life.
The fire crackles in the hearth. The lamps are dimmed to a moody golden hue. The vibe is somewhere between a séance and a group therapy session with no actual healing involved.
Mattheo removes the quill from his mouth and props himself up with the enthusiasm of a dying man. “So,” he drawls, eyes glinting with unholy delight. “How’s the ‘Operation Ball Date’ going?”
Theodore slumps into the armchair across from him, every inch of his posture screaming defeat. He looks like he’s aged ten years in three days.
“Don’t start,” Theodore mutters, rubbing his temples like it might erase the memory of every failed attempt.
Pansy, perched like a cat on the armrest beside Mattheo, raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You opened your mouth, forgot how to function, and they walked away wondering if you were cursed.”
“I was close this morning,” Theodore hisses, glaring at the rug like it’s at fault. “I was right there. I was mid-sentence—mid-sentence, Pansy—when the Gryffindor table exploded. Literally. Exploded.”
────────────────
Flashback – That Morning, Great Hall
Theodore had rehearsed it.
Twelve times in his dorm. Five times in the mirror. Once in the corridor—where a first-year saw him muttering to himself and ran.
He spotted you at the far end of the table, hunched over a plate of toast with your head in your hand, eyes still bleary from sleep. You looked vaguely annoyed at the jam as though it had committed a personal offense. Your hair was slightly out of place. Your jumper sleeves were too long.
You looked perfect.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, striding toward you with all the confidence of a man walking to his own execution. “You just say it. Just say it. ‘Do you want to go to the ball with me?’ That’s all. That’s—”
You looked up.
Theodore froze. Then sat beside you and cleared his throat. “Hi.”
You blinked. “You look… tense.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re holding your goblet like it’s trying to escape.”
He placed the goblet down. Too hard. It clinked against the table. “Do you want—”
BOOM.
An eruption of red and gold sparks blasted from the Gryffindor table like a cannon. Plates flipped. Porridge flew. A stack of toast caught fire. A Slytherin screamed.
“MERLIN’S—”
“FRED!”
“GEORGE!”
“I SWEAR TO GODRIC—”
Professor McGonagall sprang to her feet, wand drawn, steam practically pouring from her ears as she bolted toward the cackling twins already making a run for the exit.
Chaos.
Absolute.
FUCKING.
Chaos.
You turned to Theodore, wide-eyed. “What were you saying?”
He stared at the smoking wreckage of the Gryffindor table.
“…Never mind.”
────────────────
Present Time . . .
Mattheo snorts. “Fred and George?”
“Who else?” Theodore grinds out.
Draco glides in like a malicious breeze, robes swishing, hair perfect, expression entirely unimpressed. “You know what your problem is?”
“Do enlighten me,” Theodore snaps.
“You’re passive. Hesitant. A snail on a cold morning.”
Theodore squints. “That’s not a real saying.”
“It is now,” Draco replies, flopping onto the opposite chaise. “You can’t just wait for the perfect moment. You have to make the moment. Force fate’s hand. Seduce destiny.”
“I’m going to hex you,” Theodore mumbles.
Mattheo waves a hand. “No hexing until we brainstorm. It’s time for a new strategy.”
“A new strategy?” Theodore asks, exhausted.
“A bolder one,” Pansy adds, twirling her wand.
Mattheo sits up straighter, enthusiasm building like a firework about to blow. “You want theatrics. Drama. They don’t know you’re into them because you’re too busy staring at them like a lovesick ghost. We need impact.”
“I’m not going to throw myself out a window to get their attention.”
“Shame,” Mattheo says without missing a beat. “But fine. Not that. Yet.”
Draco leans forward. “Just ask them. Tomorrow. Before breakfast. While they’re too tired to register what’s happening.”
Pansy nods in agreement. “Sleep-deprived, low blood sugar, emotional vulnerability—it’s the golden window.”
“They’d punch me in the face,” Theodore mutters.
Mattheo claps with genuine excitement. “That’s romance!”
Over the Next Week, The Descent into Chaos
Attempt #1: Help with Potions
The Potions dungeon is dim, as always, filled with the smell of boiling chamomile and something faintly metallic. Professor Slughorn hums happily at the front of the room while everyone else slouches over their cauldrons, silently begging the clock to move faster.
You’re working alone today—not by choice. Your partner caught Spattergroit and is banned from classes until further notice, which left you with a bubbling potion and a half-written instruction sheet. You’re squinting down at your notes, stirring clockwise, trying to remember when to add the powdered fluxweed.
“Clockwise,” comes a soft voice beside you, “but only for six more turns.”
You look up—and there’s Theodore, standing just beside your workstation. He’s watching your cauldron with an unreadable expression, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe like he’s trying to hide them.
“I knew that,” you say, a little defensive.
He shrugs, eyes flicking toward you and then away. “Didn’t say you didn’t.”
You glance at your notebook and then back at him. “Are you… offering to help me?”
He looks like he regrets everything immediately. “If you don’t want me to—”
“I didn’t say that,” you interrupt quickly. “Just… surprised.”
Theodore slowly slides onto the stool beside you. He’s already got his gloves on, and his sleeves are neatly rolled up to his forearms. You can’t help noticing his fingers—long, steady, careful—as he picks up your spoon and stirs the potion with practiced ease.
“You forgot to sprinkle the asphodel before the fluxweed,” he murmurs. “Otherwise the potion thickens too quickly and burns.”
You blink at him. “Since when do you know this much about Polyjuice Potion?”
“I read ahead,” he says, not looking at you. “And I… practiced.”
“You practiced Polyjuice? For what? Planning to sneak into the Gryffindor common room?”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “Maybe I just wanted to be good at something.”
You go quiet for a moment. The bubbling of the potion fills the space between you.
“That’s kind of sad,” you say gently.
He finally looks at you—and his eyes soften. “It’s kind of true.”
You don’t say anything, just reach out and offer him the jar of powdered fluxweed. He takes it without brushing your fingers, but just barely.
“You’re good at this,” you say after a beat.
“Only because I wanted to impress you.”
You freeze.
He doesn’t look up, just sprinkles the ingredient into the cauldron.
Silence. Then you ask, half-teasing, half-breathless, “What?”
He stirs once, then twice, then says softly, “Nothing.”
You lean in, lips curling upward. “Are you trying to impress me, Nott?”
He still doesn’t meet your eyes. “Maybe.”
“Because it’s working.”
That gets him. He goes stiff for half a second, then glances at you—just a flicker of a look—and it’s the most flustered you’ve ever seen him. A faint pink colors his ears.
You smile into your notes and pretend not to notice.
And for the next half hour, you work side by side, your hands occasionally brushing, his voice low as he guides you through every step like he’s been memorizing it just for this.
Slughorn walks by at one point and raises an eyebrow. “Mr. Nott! Lending a hand, are we?”
Theodore clears his throat. “Just helping.”
Slughorn smiles. “Teamwork makes the potion work!”
You snort, and Theodore mutters, “That was terrible.”
But he doesn’t move away from you. Not even once.
Attempt #2: Study Session Sabotage
The Slytherin common room is quiet, bathed in the soft flicker of emerald-tinted flames and the dim glow of enchanted lanterns floating above. The underwater windows ripple gently with lake shadows, casting moving patterns on the stone walls. It’s peaceful, unusually so—until the subtle sound of slippers on stone breaks the silence.
You’re curled up in your favorite armchair near the fire, oversized jumper hugging your body like a blanket, and a half-done Herbology essay balanced on your lap. Your hair’s a little messy, your notes slightly smudged, and your brow is furrowed in focus.
Across the room, Theodore watches.
He’s holding two steaming mugs—both of which he enchanted himself. His hand tightens around the ceramic as he takes a deep breath, then makes his way across the room before he can lose his nerve.
You look up just as he approaches, blinking slowly.
“Theodore?”
He clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. “You looked… cold.”
Your gaze flicks to the mugs. “What’s this?”
He hesitates. “Hot chocolate. One’s for you.”
You raise a brow. “Really?”
He nods, avoiding your eyes. “I charmed it the way you like. Cinnamon, no whipped cream.”
You blink.
He still doesn’t look at you.
You smile softly, reaching out to accept the mug. Your fingers brush his—warm against warm—and he stiffens like it startled him.
“You remembered that?” you ask.
“I remember a lot of things about you,” Theodore says, almost too quietly.
Your heart skips, but you pretend not to notice. Instead, you gesture to the empty space beside you. “Sit?”
He hesitates.
Then—slowly—he lowers himself beside you, settling into the corner of the sofa, leaving a careful gap between your knees. He holds his mug like it’s an anchor. You catch a quick glance at him, his sharp profile, the way his hair curls a little at the edges when it’s this humid near the fire.
He leans in slightly. “Are you working on Sprout’s quiz?”
You sigh and nod. “I’ve read this same sentence six times.”
He glances at your parchment. “It’s because you wrote it wrong.”
You make a face. “What?”
He scoots just an inch closer, tilting your paper so he can read it better. “Spore release in puffshrooms is triggered by humidity, not heat. That’s why they’re so common in greenhouses.”
“Oh.”
His fingers are still ghosting over your notes.
“You’re really good at this,” you murmur.
He shrugs. “I just pay attention. When you’re talking about it.”
You freeze for a second, then glance sideways. “You listen to me?”
“I always listen to you.”
Your chest tightens in the quietest, warmest way. “Even when I ramble about magical gardening for twenty minutes?”
“Especially then,” he says, and you look at him like you’ve never quite seen him before.
There’s a pause, and then you laugh, soft and a little shy. “You’re surprisingly gentle when you want to be.”
Theodore’s jaw tenses, like he doesn’t know what to do with that compliment. Then he mutters, “You should see me with kneazles.”
You nearly snort your cocoa.
“Alright then, kneazle whisperer,” you say, tucking your legs closer to him. “You’re stuck with me now. We’re study partners tonight.”
“I could be stuck with worse,” he replies before he can stop himself.
You don’t answer. But you don’t look away, either.
You just smile—and go back to your notes, heart thudding.
And next to you, Theodore sits quietly, his shoulder now almost against yours, pretending to read while he memorizes the shape of your handwriting and wonders if this—this soft, shared quiet—counts as a small kind of magic.
Attempt #3: “Accidental” Hogsmeade Run-In
The sky is pale grey, snow falling in lazy spirals like the world’s slowed down for a moment. You tug your scarf higher and step around a patch of ice on the cobblestone street, your boots crunching with each careful step. You hadn’t told anyone you were heading to Hogsmeade—not even your closest friends. You just… wanted a bit of space.
And maybe some peppermint bark.
Honeydukes glows warmly up ahead, windows fogged from the inside and little charms floating above the display case. You're just about to walk in when—
“Y/N?”
You stop mid-step, looking up.
And there he is.
Theodore Nott, standing beneath a snow-dusted awning like he was planted there by the universe itself. His hair is windswept, a few snowflakes catching in the strands. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and in his gloved hands, he’s holding a small, neatly wrapped package.
He freezes for a heartbeat, like he’s not sure he’s real. Or that you’re real.
You blink. “Teds?”
He clears his throat. “Oh. Um. Hi.”
Your eyes flick down to the package. “What’s that?”
His fingers twitch slightly. “It’s—uh—peppermint bark. I remembered you said once that Honeydukes only sells the really good kind in December. I was going to get you some.”
Your chest warms, a slow flood of soft affection breaking through the chill. “You remembered that?”
He shrugs one shoulder, looking away. “It’s not a big deal.”
You smile, stepping closer. “It is to me.”
Silence settles between you as the snow continues falling, lightly dusting his coat, your shoulders. You take the package gently from his hands and hold it between both of yours.
“It’s warm,” you say quietly. “Did you just buy this?”
He hesitates. “…I’ve been holding it for a while. Just in case I saw you.”
Your heart flips.
“You were hoping to run into me?”
He finally meets your eyes, and his voice is soft. “Yeah.”
You stare at him for a moment, the tension building gently in the air. Then you open the door to Honeydukes and tilt your head.
“Walk with me, Teds?”
He follows without hesitation.
The inside of the shop is glowing, every shelf crammed with sweet chaos. Colorful wrappers shimmer under the floating lights, and enchanted candy hops around in its jars. You make your way through the aisles, glancing at different sweets while Theodore trails beside you, hands in his pockets, glancing more at you than the shelves.
You hold up a box of Fizzing Whizbees. “Remember when Mattheo dared Draco to eat five of these at once and he threw up in Professor Binns’ ghost?”
Theodore chuckles. “I still have the photo.”
You giggle and grab a few chocolate frogs before pausing at a shelf lined with delicate, pastel-pink candied roses. You hold one out.
“Try it.”
He eyes it warily but accepts, biting off a petal. The moment it hits his tongue, his nose scrunches.
“It’s… floral.”
You burst out laughing, your hand grabbing his sleeve as you double over slightly. “Teds, your face—”
“I’m being poisoned by a bouquet.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“Says the person laughing like a maniac in a candy shop.”
You shoot him a grin. “You love it.”
He huffs, but the corners of his mouth curve upward.
You finally step back out into the snow, both of you carrying small bags. It’s a little quieter now, the sky darkening with the promise of evening. The wind is gentle, and your footsteps echo softly.
A flake lands in his hair, and you reach out without thinking—brushing it off.
He stills under your touch.
“I didn’t expect to see you today,” you say, quieter now.
“I didn’t expect to actually find you,” he says, not quite meeting your gaze.
You turn slightly to face him, snow swirling around both of you.
“You’re kind of sweet, you know.”
He swallows. “Don’t tell anyone.”
You grin. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Theodore looks at you like he’s on the verge of saying something else, something big.
But instead, he says your name—softly—and nods toward the castle. “I’ll walk you back.”
You don’t let him walk behind you. Instead, you link your arm through his.
And he doesn’t say a word about it—just holds on like maybe, for the first time, he's exactly where he wants to be.
Three Days Before the Ball. .
You’re curled up in the Slytherin common room with a book, wearing Theodore’s sweater.
You hadn’t exactly planned to keep it.
One chilly evening in the library, you’d complained about the cold, and Theodore—without saying a word—had peeled it off and gently tugged it over your head, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You’d meant to return it the next day, truly. But then… it smelled like him. Like citrus, clove, and ink. It was warm. It was soft. It was safe.
And Theodore never asked for it back.
So now it’s yours.
The sleeves droop adorably past your fingertips, and the hem hangs lower on you than it ever did on him. You’ve rolled up the cuffs three times, but they still fall when you don’t pay attention. Every time you move, it carries that faint familiar scent, and you feel—just slightly—like you’re wrapped in him.
Across the room, Theodore is watching you.
Or, more accurately, he’s watching you while trying not to watch you. He’s pretending to read, legs crossed tightly, sitting far too stiffly on a velvet chair by the fire. The book in his hands is upside down. He doesn’t notice.
Mattheo notices, though. Of course he does.
“You’re being disgusting,” Mattheo mumbles, lounging beside him.
Theodore doesn’t respond.
“I’m serious. It’s pathetic in a cute way. Like a puppy following someone home from the train.”
From the floor near the hearth, Astoria flips a page of Witch Weekly and hums. “It’s almost romantic.”
Blaise sighs without looking up from his chess game. “It would be, if he’d just ask them already.”
“Maybe he’s waiting for the sweater to propose on his behalf,” Lorenzo adds, rolling a knight across the board. “It’s halfway there.”
Draco, half-draped across an armchair like he owns the castle, lets out a dramatic sigh. “You are actively letting this moment slip away. Look at them. Look.” He points. “They’re curled up in your sweater like they’ve always belonged there. You’re losing your window.”
Theodore bites the inside of his cheek.
He looks over.
You’re nestled on the couch with your legs tucked under you, knees brushing the edge of a plush emerald cushion. Your face is half-lit by the firelight, a book resting gently in your hands. The cocoa beside you has gone lukewarm, untouched for ten minutes. The only thing you’ve moved is your thumb, slowly turning pages—and occasionally tucking the sweater sleeve back up your wrist.
It’s unfair how good you look like that. Effortless. Completely at home.
He swallows.
“Now,” Mattheo whispers.
Theodore stands.
Astoria gasps softly. “Oh, he’s doing it.”
“I’m proud of him,” Pansy murmurs, hand on her chest.
“I’m terrified for him,” Blaise mutters.
“Don’t trip,” Lorenzo calls under his breath.
Theodore doesn’t hear them. Or if he does, he ignores it all, like the world has narrowed to just the space between the fire and the couch.
You notice his approach before he says a word.
Your eyes lift to meet his, brows raised ever so slightly. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“I might.”
You smile a little. “Should I get Madam Pomfrey?”
“No.”
You sit up straighter, closing your book around a finger to keep your place.
Theodore stands there like he’s forgotten how to be a person. Then, after a silent internal argument, he lowers himself gently onto the arm of the couch beside you. He doesn’t speak yet. Just watches you for a second, almost like he’s trying to memorize you.
You stare back, curious, the firelight dancing in your eyes.
“Are you okay?” you ask softly, concern flickering in your voice.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His fingers clench slightly on his knees.
Then: “Yes. I mean—no. Wait. Kind of.”
You blink.
Theodore clears his throat. His voice comes out quieter this time, almost shy. “There’s something I’ve been trying to do. And I’ve been putting it off. Because things keep… getting in the way. And I didn’t want to make it weird. But I’m pretty sure I already have.”
You tilt your head, lips twitching.
He’s blushing now, pink blooming just under his cheekbones. “You’re wearing my sweater,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to the sleeves.
You look down. “I am.”
“It looks… really good on you.”
There’s a pause. Then you smile, warm and full.
“You’re rambling,” you tease.
“I know.” He exhales, standing up again just to walk in a nervous half-circle in front of you, running a hand through his hair before finally turning around and blurting:
“Do you want to go to the Yule Ball with me?”
It comes out fast. But there’s more behind it—he’s been carrying it for days.
“I mean—if you’re not going with anyone. I don’t know if you are. I didn’t ask, obviously, because I’m not creepy, I’m just… I thought maybe—because you’re great, and I’m…” He gestures vaguely to himself. “…me.”
He takes a breath.
“Well, I mean, I’m not terrible—okay, maybe I am—but I’ve been trying to do this for days and everything keeps exploding or catching fire or turning into a social disaster and I know this isn’t how normal people ask people out but I’m not normal, clearly, and you’re in my sweater, and that has to mean something—”
His voice pitches higher, rushing now like he’s lost all control:
“—So I’m standing here, asking, loudly, if you—would—please—possibly—want to go to the Yule Ball with me, unless you hate me, which is valid, in which case I’ll just go die now, if you don’t, that’s amazing. I just—thought maybe, you might—because we’re already sort of… close? I mean—if you don’t see it that way, I get it. I do. But I’d really like to go with you. Properly. Like a date. If you want.”
The room falls quiet.
From behind, you hear a hushed, hopeful, “Don’t blow this,” from Mattheo.
Theodore is standing there like he’s balancing on the edge of a rooftop.
Your heart beats a little faster.
You set your book down slowly. Your fingers brush over the hem of the sweater.
And then you look up at him—soft, teasing, but unmistakably moved.
“Well,” you say gently, leaning back into the cushions, “took you long enough.”
