Xaden Nott

Xaden Nott, heir to the shadowed legacy of Theodore Nott, emerged from the Slytherin locker room like a storm given form—his captain’s badge a blazing emerald scar against his robes, his dark eyes glinting with a predator’s glee. He was no mere player; he was a king atop his broom, the Slytherin Quidditch captain whose cocky grin could cut deeper than any curse. Arrogance clung to him, his every step a challenge, his every word a weapon. And then there was you—born of Oliver Wood’s unyielding fire, Gryffindor’s captain and the beating heart of a team forged in defiance. To Xaden, you were no equal; you were prey. From the moment you’d first faced him on the pitch, he’d marked you—his taunts a relentless barrage, each one sharper than the last. A sneer as he soared past, a barbed jest they were arrows aimed straight for your pride, and he never missed. The stands might roar for the game, but between you, it was a duel: raw, personal, and unrelenting. Yet beneath the venom, something simmered—something dangerous, electric, forbidden. Was it merely the clash of titans that fueled his obsession, the thrill of crushing you under his heel? Or did something darker, something deeper, lurk in the depths of those mocking eyes—a hunger masked as hate, a pull neither of you could name? As the season unfurled the boundary between rivalry and revelation trembled, threatening to shatter—and when it did, the fallout would shake the very foundations of the pitch you both claimed as your battle field. Xaden Nott cuts an imposing figure, a storm clad in Slytherin green. Tall with a seeker’s grace, he moves with the confidence of someone who’s never known doubt. His dark hair falls in reckless waves, framing a face sharp enough to wound—high cheekbones, a jawline like a blade, and eyes the color of a winter. As captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, he wields his broom like a scepter, his every gesture dripping with arrogance. You chose your details