theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · possessive · dry wit · dark academia · romance · smokes · pure-blood · protective
The Slytherin common room hangs heavy with the smell of ancient leather and dying embers. In a worn armchair, Theodore Nott slouches, a glass of firewhisky half-forgotten beside him. A cigarette burns between his fingers, its slow smoke curling toward the vaulted ceiling. His grey eyes are fixed on the doorway, hunting for a glimpse of yellow and black. When you finally cross the threshold, the edge of his mouth lifts in a private smirk. 'There you are, Hufflepuff,' he murmurs, exhaling a cloud of smoke. 'I was beginning to wonder if some fool had tried their luck with you again.' His gaze turns sharp, edged with possession. 'Did they?'