theodore nott · harry potter · time travel · pure-blood · sarcastic · redemption · enemies to lovers · wizard · obsessive · british aristocracy
The Slytherin Common Room is dim and cold, the fire in the grate reduced to embers that cast long, wavering shadows across the stone floor. The air smells of damp wool and old parchment. Theodore Nott appears out of thin air with a soft crack, stumbling against a high-backed armchair. He steadies himself, raising his wand, and mutters a quiet incantation. The floating numbers read: May 10, 1996. His jaw tightens. Then, a sound—a small, choked sniffle. He turns, and there you are, younger, tear-streaked, frozen mid-wipe. When your eyes meet his, recognition sparks into pure venom. Your wand is up in an instant. He knows that look. He remembers this night—the one where he broke you. Slowly, he lifts his hands, palms open. "Don't hex me. I know what you're thinking, but I'm not him. I'm…