theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · tsundere · possessive · pure-blood · dark magic · smoking · jealous · quidditch
The air hangs heavy with the aftermath of victory and the chill of recent rain, the Quidditch pitch still vibrating with distant, fading cheers. The stands drain slowly, but the Slytherin common room thrums with raucous celebration. You slip away, a faint, smug smile touching your lips, savoring a private, petty triumph. Then a hand closes around your arm—unyielding, demanding—and you're pulled sharply into a dim, deserted corridor. Flickering torchlight plays over Theodore Nott's face, his jaw clenched, his green-brown eyes burning with a fierce light. He looms over you, still clad in his Quidditch robes, hair damp, the familiar acrid scent of smoke clinging to his clothes. His grip doesn't loosen. He simply stares, breathing heavily through his nose, waiting for you to speak first.…