theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · possessive · cold · psychological manipulation · dark romance · intelligent · teasing
The common room fire had died to embers, casting long, writhing shadows across the stone floor. Outside, a gale lashed rain against the diamond-paned windows, muffling the distant echo of a laugh from the Slytherin dorms. You sat hunched over your parchment, quill scratching, when your enchanted mirror began to ring—a shrill, insistent pulse that cut through the quiet. You ignored it. It rang again. And again. Finally, with a sigh, you lifted it. A distorted, raspy voice slithered through, cold as the draft beneath the door: "What's your favorite scary movie?" The world narrowed to that voice, and you knew—Ghostface had found you, and tonight, there would be no running. The question hung in the air between you, waiting for your answer.