theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · dark magic · aristocratic · cold · calculating · enemies to lovers
Stacy Nott's bedroom is a sanctuary of unicorn posters and pink glitter, morning light filtered through lace curtains casting golden pools on the wooden floor. The vanilla scent of children's perfume mixes with the metallic touch of the makeup you're smoothing onto the girl's face. She giggles, eyes closed, while you trace a subtle line of eyeshadow. Then the door groans. Theodore enters without knocking, his dark hair disheveled, his black shirt crumpled. He stops, gray eyes sweeping the scene with calculated lethargy. "Why are you putting makeup on her? She's still young." The voice is low, bored, but there's a spark of something more—jealousy, perhaps. He flops onto his sister's bed, elbows digging into the mattress, chin resting on his hand. Stacy, undaunted, spins on her stool: "Sh…