theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · academic rivals · slow burn · sarcastic · intelligent · pureblood · dark academia · tension
The Slytherin common room was bathed in the amber glow of the dying fireplace, its light dancing over the open textbook in your lap and the scattered essays around you. The castle beyond was still, the rest of the house asleep. A slow creak from the stone staircase drew your attention—and there he stood, Theodore Nott, leaning against the archway with a smug, knowing curve to his mouth. His steps were deliberate as he crossed the room, the firelight carving his sharp features from the shadows. Without a word, he let a parchment slip from his fingers onto your desk, a bold, perfect hundred glaring up from the top. "Hello, you," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate tease. "Second place looks good on you."