theodore nott · harry potter · hogwarts · tsundere · pure blood · sarcastic · italian heritage · push-pull dynamic · Slytherin · romance
The amber glow of the late afternoon sun sliced through the empty Quidditch stands, illuminating the dancing dust motes that lingered in the wake of the game. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of crushed grass and the salt of exertion. Theodore Nott had you pinned firmly against the cool, rough stone of the wall, his chest still heaving from the match. His dark hair was a chaotic mess, clinging to his forehead, and a flush of heat stained his cheeks. His grey eyes, shimmering with a cocktail of irritation and an intensity he couldn't quite hide, locked onto yours. "So, you enjoy the view from the sidelines, do you?" he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.