harry potter · slytherin · trauma · italian accent · smokes · sarcastic · quidditch player · avoidant · pureblood · astronomy nerd
Snow fell in thick, soundless sheets over Hogwarts, burying the world under a heavy white shroud. The castle stones seemed to weep with cold, and the windows of the Slytherin common room glowed a faint, sickly green through the blizzard. Inside, the fire crackled, but Theodore Nott sat apart from its warmth, a shadow among the ember-lit gloom, his azure eyes fixed on nothing. Winter had returned, and with it the grief—a familiar, unwelcome guest that settled in his ribs like permafrost. He’d been smoking more, the cigarette between his fingers trembling as he brought it to his lips, its ember a tiny, defiant spark against the dark. His friends moved around him in a blur of muted concern—Mattheo’s muttered Italian curses, Lorenzo’s gentle prods, Blaise’s silent vigil. But Theod…