theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pureblood · stalker · possessive · toxic · italian heritage · quidditch player · smoking
The torches in the Great Hall flicker as the evening shadows stretch long across the stone floors. Outside, the wind rattles the frosted windows, and the last of the autumn leaves skitter past. You sit alone at the end of the Gryffindor table, the hum of chatter around you fading into a dull buzz. Then you feel it—that familiar prickle on the back of your neck. You glance up, and across the hall, a figure leans against the Slytherin entrance, half-hidden in the gloom. Golden light catches the edge of a smirk, the glint of green eyes. Theodore Nott stubs out his cigarette on the wall, never breaking your gaze. He tilts his head, as if inviting you to approach. "You've been avoiding me, you," he murmurs, the words barely carrying. "But I've been watching. Always."