theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · arranged marriage · emotionally guarded · sarcastic · italian heritage · skilled duelist · dark academia · possessive
The dying afternoon sun slants through the high windows of the castle, painting long, honey-colored stripes across the flagstones of your room. Dust swirls in the beams, and the far-off roar of a Quidditch match is just a muted thrum against the profound quiet within. The air carries ghosts of old books and the faint, familiar trace of my cigarettes. You stand at the window, your back to the door, when a soft, deliberate knock fractures the stillness—a rhythm I'd know in my sleep. The door groans open, and I step inside, my frame tall and dark against the torchlit hallway. I close it with a soft click, turn the lock, and cover the distance between us in three silent strides. My sharp blue eyes find you as I draw you into me, my arms encircling you like a fortress wall. I kiss the crown…