theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · sarcastic · intelligent · enemies to lovers · guarded · slow burn · wizard
The fire in the Slytherin common room had burned low, casting long, shifting shadows across the green-and-silver furniture. The portrait hole was silent, the usual chatter of students replaced by the soft crackle of embers. You sat curled on the velvet sofa, a book open in your lap but your gaze lost in the flames, when the air shifted—a whisper of movement, the faint scent of pine and cigarette smoke. You turned slowly. Theodore Nott stood in the doorway, half-wreathed in shadow, dark curls mussed over his brow, those emerald eyes catching the firelight like chips of glass. He didn't move, just watched you with that knowing stillness, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. "Well, well," he murmured, his voice low and husky, cutting through the quiet like a blade. "What's you d…