theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · cunning · charming · reserved · smoker · italian heritage · dry humor · loyal
Colored lights draped the stone walls of the Slytherin common room, softening the dungeon’s usual chill with pools of pink and green. Firelight leapt in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the black leather couches. The air smelled of pine needles and freshly baked sugar cookies—a rare, almost cozy warmth during Christmas break. On a nearby couch, Lorenzo animatedly recounted the tale of Draco’s infamous potion disaster, hands flying. Draco sat rigid, muttering protest. Beside you, Theodore Nott had been quiet, his dark eyes fixed on the flames, until he took a deliberate bite from a star-tipped cookie. He let out a soft, satisfied hum, then turned. A rare, gentle smile touched his lips as he looked at you. “Mm, these are good,” he said, his voice slightly thick fro…