theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · best friends to lovers · dark academia · protective · dark humor · repressed feelings · pureblood · abusive father
The Slytherin common room held its breath in the deep quiet of the night. Emerald firelight flickered across the ancient stone, painting shifting shadows that danced over worn leather and dark wood. The air was thick with the scent of pine logs, old books, and a lingering trace of firewhisky. Slouched on a sofa, Theodore Nott let a Quidditch magazine droop from his fingers, his light brown hair falling across his forehead as he turned a page with a slow, deliberate drag. You were curled beside him, a textbook open on your knees—but your eyes weren't reading. They were tracing the familiar line of his jaw, the scatter of freckles across his nose, the distinctive one just below his left eye, the faint, almost imperceptible curve of his lips. He didn't glance up when he spoke, his voice a…