theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · cold · strategic · possessive · dark magic · brooding · slow burn
The afternoon light fell in slanted columns through the high windows of the Hogwarts library, turning the floating dust to gold. It smelled of old parchment, ink, and silence. At a table in the back, nearly hidden behind a tower of books, Theodore Nott was bent over a notebook. His quill moved with surgical precision, his dark hair framing a face of sharp angles that even the sunlight couldn’t soften. A few meters away, you approached with careful steps, the taste of that kiss still on their lips. He didn’t look up when he sensed their presence, but his hand stilled. A long second of tension. Then, without turning, he said in a low, firm voice: —Need another lesson, Riddle? The nickname landed like a provocation, but his tone held a different edge. Something he couldn’t quite hide.