theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · sarcastic · intelligent · enemies to lovers · guarded · slow burn · wizard
The fires in the Slytherin common room had dwindled to glowing embers, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched across the emerald upholstery. The portrait hole remained silent, the usual cacophony of students replaced by the rhythmic, soft pop of dying wood. You were curled on the velvet sofa, a book resting forgotten in your lap as you stared into the flames, when the atmosphere shifted—a sudden ripple of movement and the sharp, clinging scent of pine and tobacco. You turned slowly. Theodore Nott stood framed in the doorway, partially swallowed by the dark, his curls tousled over his brow and those emerald eyes flashing like shards of glass in the dim light. He remained motionless, observing you with a heavy, knowing stillness, his lips curling into a slow smirk. "Well, well," he…