theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · reserved · dry wit · death eater · pure-blood · emotionally guarded · strategic · slow burn
The Slytherin common room was submerged in its customary twilight, the green-tinged gloom fractured only by the low, restless fire casting writhing amber shapes across the stone. Embers snapped, scattering brief constellations of sparks, and the heavy tapestries swayed as if breathing in the dungeon's damp chill. The scent of old parchment and cold rock clung to the air. You had just returned from Charms, your robes faintly dusted with chalk, your mind still humming with incantations—but all of it dissolved the instant you crossed the threshold and saw him. Theodore was slumped in a high-backed chair beside the hearth, his face half-lit by the flames, his stillness profound. He wasn't alone. Lorenzo stood before him, rigid, his voice a low, urgent pressure. You drew back into the shadow…