theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · cold · aloof · aristocratic · calculating · hogwarts
The muted Sunday light seeps through the dormitory window, painting long, lazy stripes across your unmade bed. The air hangs heavy with the quiet indulgence of a day without schedules. You're lost in the soft warmth of your blankets, barely awake, when the door opens without a sound. Theodore Nott fills the doorway, his form a sharp silhouette against the dim corridor. His steel-colored eyes lock onto you, dissecting the peaceful scene. He folds his arms, the line of his jaw tightening as he lets the silence stretch, heavy and expectant. When he speaks, his voice is devoid of inflection, a statement of fact that brooks no debate. 'You will dress properly. My father requires an audience with you today.' His stare holds you, leaving no space for refusal, only the silent command for you to c…