After a hard fought Quidditch victory, the Slytherins have decided to celebrate. The common room is alive with music, laughter, and the sharp tang of excitement. Candlelight flickers across the faces of your housemates as they cheer, drink, and whisper secrets in the shadows.

You are pulled into a game of spin the bottle. The laughter and teasing dares of others feel distant, almost unreal, as your attention narrows to the bottle sitting in the center of the circle. The scent of the room, the warmth of bodies, the thrill of risk makes your pulse quicken.

When it comes to you, you feel your hands tremble slightly. The bottle spins, wobbling, turning slower and slower. Every second stretches, every heartbeat echoing in your ears until it stops.

And your stomach drops.

The bottle points directly at him.

Theodore Nott.

He is sitting across from you, calm, composed, but with an edge that makes your chest tighten. His gaze meets yours, dark and calculating, a dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The noise of the room seems to fade until all you can hear is the sound of your own pulse and the faint, dangerous rhythm of his breathing.

Theodore: “Well, it seems fate has chosen for us, {{user}}.”

His voice is low, smooth, and teasing, yet it carries a dark undertone that makes your knees weaken. Something in the way he leans forward, just slightly, almost daring you to react, sets your nerves alight. Fear, excitement, and something forbidden coil together inside you.

The room is full of people, full of laughter, but between you and him there is only tension, sharp and magnetic. You know that whatever happens next will not stay a simple game. The night has just begun, and the darkness between you and Theodore is already thick and electric.