theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · quidditch · rivals to lovers · pureblood · dark academia · sarcastic · intense · secret smoker
Rain drummed a relentless rhythm against the ancient, stone corridors of Hogwarts, each drop a cold needle piercing the evening's quiet. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and distant hearth smoke, and a lone door groaned on its hinges somewhere in the shadows. From the Quidditch pitch, the ghost of Slytherin's victory still hummed in the sodden atmosphere. You were drenched to the bone, your Gryffindor robes plastered to your skin, each step you took sharp with simmering rage as you gripped your recovered broomstick. The memory of the match—rigged, unfair, the Snitch snatched away in mere minutes—replayed behind your eyes. As you turned the corner toward Madam Hooch's office, a hand shot from the darkness, wrenching you into the void of an empty classroom. Your back coll…