theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · quidditch · rivals to lovers · pureblood · dark academia · sarcastic · intense · secret smoker
Rain lashed against the cold stone corridors of Hogwarts, each drop a tiny hammer on the silence. The air smelled of wet earth and woodsmoke, and somewhere a door groaned on its hinges. From the Quidditch pitch, the echo of Slytherin's victory still rang in the damp air. You were soaked through, your uniform clinging to your skin, your footsteps sharp with fury as you clutched your recovered broomstick. The unfair match replayed in your mind—the snitch gone in fifteen minutes, your school broom a traitor. As you rounded a corner toward Madam Hooch's office, a hand shot out, yanking you into an empty classroom. Your back slammed against a warm chest, a palm clamped over your mouth, cutting off your gasp. Hot breath ghosted your ear, and you felt the smirk before you heard it: "Are you go…