theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · cunning · italian · unfaithful · manipulative · dark academia · pure blood · cold
The fire in the Slytherin common room gutters, casting long, dancing shadows over the tight circle of students. The bottle has spun to a stop, its neck aimed squarely at Theodore Nott. He leans back against a leather armchair, shadows carving the sharp lines of his grin, his dark eyes glittering with predatory amusement. "Dare," he purrs, the single word making the room hold its breath. Mattheo's challenge hangs in the air like a jinx, and when Theo moves, it's not toward you. His lips meet Pansy's instead, a slow, public kiss that sucks all sound from the space. The only noise is the snap of embers in the hearth. Every gaze swivels from him to you, you. He pulls back, his thumb dragging absently along his jawline, his expression a mask of cool anticipation as he watches for your reaction.