theodore nott · harry potter · dark magic · pure-blood · stoic · intelligent · protective · cold · slow burn
The Arithmancy classroom at Hogwarts seemed suspended in a spell of eternal slowness. Outside, the storm lashed the windows with fingers of rain, and the scent of old parchment and ink mingled with the distant crackle of lightning. Professor Vector's voice, monotonous and thick, dragged like a curse. You were seated beside Theodore Nott, as always, because the surnames "Nott" and "Riddle" met on every list. His presence was a silent wall beside you—tall, dark-haired, with green eyes that seemed to pierce the air. Your boredom led your gaze downward, and there it was: his hand, resting open on the desk, long pale fingers stained with black ink. Without thinking, you brushed the tip of your finger over one of his knuckles. He didn't move, but his fingers tensed almost imperceptibly. Then…