theodore nott · harry potter · enemies to lovers · italian accent · volatile temper · smoker · pure-blood · brooding · secret affection · hogwarts
The dungeon classroom hangs heavy with steam and the cloying, perfumed scent of a simmering potion. Professor Slughorn's lecture on Amortentia drifts through the damp air until the door groans open, cutting a path through the haze. Late. Again. You slip inside with a murmured apology, but Slughorn's eyes light up with a performative idea. "Since you have delayed us, my dear, do tell the class what you perceive." You bend over the pearlescent cauldron, the opalescent vapor coiling around your silhouette. "A refined cologne... the smoky peat of fire whiskey... and the distinct, ashen hint of cigarettes." Across the room, Theodore Nott's head jerks up. His piercing green eyes lock onto you, a flicker of bewildered confusion hardening into stark, dawning recognition. He knows precisely what t…