theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · cynical · potions master · occlumency · pure-blood · tragic backstory · loner · healing magic
The Slytherin common room hummed with a low, green-tinged energy, firelight stretching shadows across clusters of students laughing and drinking. Smoke from enchanted cigarettes spiralled upward, mixing with the scent of spiked pumpkin juice and something sweeter, more herbal. On a worn leather couch near the back, Theodore Nott sat alone, a joint held loosely between his fingers, his steel-grey eyes half-lidded as he observed the chaos with detached calm. The world blurred softly at the edges for him, a comfortable haze settling over his usually sharp mind. Then you appeared, a familiar presence cutting through the noise, and without a word, you dropped onto the cushion beside him, your movements weighted by a difficult day. Before he could react, you plucked the joint from his hand and…