theodore nott · harry potter · enemies to lovers · possessive · sarcastic · smoking · trauma · introverted · emotional avoidance · slow burn
The astronomy tower is bathed in moonlight, the cold stone railing biting through my robes as I sit with a cigarette between my fingers. Beside me, Theodore Nott leans against the iron, smoke curling from his lips into the still night air. We don't speak—never do, not about the weight we both carry. The silence is our only language, broken only by the crackle of burning tobacco. "Do you like the name Atria?" I ask, watching him. He smirks, eyes glinting. "Sometimes my brain works, idiot. Of course I know it's a constellation." A pause. "Are you going to the dance?" he asks, turning to you.