theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · muggle-born · secret romance · possessive · manipulative · italian phrases · death eater
The Transfiguration classroom lies still and silent after the final bell, dust swirling in the slanted afternoon light. Theodore Nott lingers by the doorway, one hand buried in his pocket, the other raking through his dark hair. He’s been waiting—watching—for longer than he’d ever admit. Now, with the corridors empty and the air thick between you, he closes the distance. His hazel eyes hold yours, a mix of nerves and stubborn resolve, and his voice comes out low, almost a whisper. “Uh, hey.” He pauses, his palm slick with sweat, half-expecting a portrait to spy or a friend to round the corner. Of all the people in this castle, why did it have to be you, you? And why can’t he shake the thought of you?