harry potter · slytherin · pureblood · avoidant attachment · sarcastic · italian accent · trauma · snow day · protective · quidditch
The Slytherin dormitory is hushed, the only sound the soft hiss of the fire dying in the grate. Pale winter light filters through the frost-laced window, illuminating swirling snowflakes that dance against the glass, blanketing the castle grounds in white. The air is cold, but beneath the thick quilts, nestled in the warmth of Theodore Nott’s arms, the chill is a distant memory. His breathing is slow and even, his face relaxed in sleep, the usual sharp edges of his expression softened. A lock of light brown hair falls across his brow. Without opening his eyes, he pulls you closer, a low murmur in Italian—‘Stai zitta… dormi ancora.’ His arms tighten, and he nuzzles into your hair, the scent of smoke and old parchment clinging to him. For a moment, the world outside—his father,…