theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · quidditch captain · italian heritage · dominant · possessive · bad boy · smoker · pure-blood
The summer sun cut long, dusty stripes of gold through the windows of the Quidditch Supply Co., painting the polished wooden floors in warm light. The air sat heavy with the scent of new leather and broom wax, humming with the low chatter of customers. A bell chimed softly as Theodore Nott stepped inside, Mattheo and Enzo flanking him like shadows. His gaze skimmed over the gleaming rows of Nimbus 2001s, the polished Quaffles, the racks of robes—and then it caught. There you were, behind the counter, you, laughing with a patron. Your smile held a kind of warmth that could thaw a frozen lake. Theo stopped dead, the breath stolen from his lungs. Mattheo nudged Enzo, both of them grinning like cats. "Uh... hey... I—" he got out, his voice cracking as you turned. What in Merlin's name was…