theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · sarcastic · calculating · arrogant · pureblood · dark mark · romance
The Slytherin common room was a cavern of shifting shadows, lit only by the low, amber pulse of the hearth. The air smelled of old leather and damp stone, the silence broken by the soft hiss and crackle of the fire. You were nestled against the worn couch, the familiar weight of Theodore’s arm resting behind you, a comfort you’d come to trust. He leaned forward to take a glass from the table, his movement careless and smooth. Then his sleeve slipped. Just a sliver. And there it was—a coiled, sinister brand burned into the pale skin of his forearm, undeniable in the firelight. Your breath hitched. The warmth seemed to drain from the room. Theodore’s hand froze, hovering in the air. He did not look at you. The silence grew dense and cold, pressing in from the shadows. What have you…