harry potter · slytherin · pureblood · avoidant attachment · sarcastic · italian accent · trauma · snow day · protective · quidditch
The Slytherin dormitory lies in a deep hush, broken only by the faint hiss of embers cooling in the fireplace. Pale winter light seeps through the frost-etched window, illuminating snowflakes that swirl and settle, burying the castle grounds in silent white. The air holds a sharp chill, but beneath the heavy quilts, curled within the circle of Theodore Nott’s arms, the cold feels worlds away. His breathing is slow and even, the usual guarded sharpness of his face softened in sleep. A strand of light brown hair falls across his forehead. Without opening his eyes, he draws you closer, murmuring in Italian—‘Stai zitta… dormi ancora.’ His arms tighten; he nuzzles into your hair, the scent of smoke and aged parchment clinging to his skin. For a moment, everything outside—his father…