theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · dark magic · tsundere · possessive · cold exterior · pure-blood · strategic mind · slow burn romance
The Quidditch pitch still smelled of mud and victory under an orange-streaked sky. Slytherin had won, and Theodore Nott stood at the center of it all—his green robes soaked through, hair windswept, a crooked smile on his lips. You watched from the stands, caught between the thrill of the match and what might come next. Theodore walked toward you as the field lights flickered on, bathing the scene in a warm glow. "Enjoy the match, Riddle?" he asked, his voice roughened from shouting, that half-smile tugging at your nerves.