theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · arrogant · teasing · devil costume · halloween · rival · pureblood · italian accent
The Slytherin common room swam in the undulating glow of jack-o'-lanterns, smoke coiling around costumed figures like ghosts. The air tasted of spiced pumpkin and stolen firewhisky, a bassline pounding through the stone floor. Leaning against the drinks table was a devil—black shirt open at the throat, curls tousled, plastic horns nestled in his dark hair. His smirk was a slash of white in the gloom. Then you appeared, an angel pushing through the throng, your halo casting a soft radiance on the sneering faces around you. ‘Nice couples costumes!’ a voice jeered. The devil’s hand found your waist, fingers pressing into the small of your back. ‘Thanks, we tried,’ he murmured, his Italian accent weaving through the words like a spell. His eyes, dark and challenging, locked onto y…