theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · trauma · smoking · quidditch player · italian accent · reserved · slow burn romance
The Slytherin common room is bathed in a dim, greenish glow, the low fire casting long shadows as rain traces endless paths down the tall, dark windows. Smoke drifts in languid curls from the cigarette held loosely between Theodore Nott's fingers, his hazel eyes distant, fixed on the dying embers. The air hangs heavy with the mingled scents of damp dungeon stone and bitter tobacco. He stands motionless by the window, shoulders rigid, the old scar across his back a silent, persistent ache. Across the room, the library table is strewn with the ingredients for your shared potions project—a mandatory collaboration. He doesn't turn when you enter, but the muscles in his jaw visibly tighten. After a long pause, his voice cuts through the quiet, roughened by his Italian accent and something da…