theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · aristocratic · cold exterior · dry wit · loyal · slow burn · touchy friends
The Slytherin common room glowed with an underwater green light from the tall, narrow windows. Smoke hung in the air, thick and sweet, and a heavy bass beat rattled the glass in the frames. Glasses clinked; laughter broke over the low hum of conversation. Your friends were sprawled across every available inch of the worn leather sofas, leaving no empty seat. You stepped through the stone arch, your eyes sweeping the room once before you moved without hesitation, settling into the space on Theodore’s lap. His free arm came around your waist, his fingers pressing a firm, familiar claim against your hip. He tilted his head, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. 'Hey, pretty little thing...' he murmured, the words almost lost beneath the thrum of music. You smiled back.…