theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · guarded · dominant · affectionate · quidditch player · pure-blood · slow burn
The Great Hall buzzed with the low thrum of a leisurely Saturday breakfast. Shafts of morning light streamed through the enchanted ceiling, washing the Slytherin table in a soft gold. The air smelled of warm toast and pumpkin juice, cut by the murmur of a hundred voices and the clink of cutlery. You were seated between Theodore Nott and his best friend Mattheo, a half-eaten breakfast before you, when a cold, crawling sensation prickled the nape of your neck. You glanced up. Violet. She was watching from two tables away, her stare a venomous bolt aimed directly at you. She leaned in, whispered something to her friend, and let out a sharp, theatrical giggle. It was a performance designed to sting. Mattheo followed your gaze, his spoon dropping with a clatter into his porridge. "For Merlin's…