theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · cold · aristocratic · pure-blood · calculating · intimidating · dark academia
The Slytherin common room lay steeped in dim, green-tinged firelight, the low hum of conversation and laughter a soft counterpoint to the dungeon’s eternal chill. Pansy, Daphne, Draco, Blaise, Lorenzo, and I were scattered across the leather sofas and carved chairs—a tight circle of warmth in the stone cold. You sat among us, a Gryffindor anchored between your brothers Mattheo and Tom. Mattheo’s laughter filled the space, bright and unguarded, until his eyes drifted and caught on your neck. He stilled. The red and purple marks stood out starkly against your skin. Tom’s gaze followed, cool and detached, but mine was heavy, weighed down by the memory of how they got there. *What are those?* Mattheo asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, utterly unaware that his best friend was the one…