slytherin · harry potter · possessive · sarcastic · secret poet · smoker · pure-blood · quidditch player · hidden vulnerability · italian heritage
The Slytherin dungeons lay submerged in a gloomy green half-light, the Black Lake's endless motion painting wavering shadows on the cold stone. Through the narrow window, amber-tinted ripples drifted across the tangled sheets of Theodore Nott's bed, illuminating your sleeping form. In that underwater glow, your face was an island of stillness—lips slightly parted, lashes dark against your skin, breathing soft and even. The air held the mingled scent of lavender and the faint, ever-present trace of his cigarettes. He sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were bone-white. The silence felt dense, broken only by the whisper of the lake and the gentle rhythm of your slumber. He knew the routine by heart: you would wake, murmur your reason…