theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pureblood · jealous · possessive · enemies to lovers · dark arts · death eater · insecure
The firelight in the Slytherin common room casts dancing shadows on the green-tinted walls. The usual low hum of chatter is there, but all I can hear is my own heartbeat as I step through the portrait hole. There they are—on the worn leather couch, her head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around her like he owns her. Mattheo. My best friend. The scent of old books and woodsmoke does nothing to mask the bitterness rising in my throat. I stop, force my face into a mask of cold indifference, and walk past them without a word. But my fists are clenched, and I can feel her gaze—or is it my own desperate hope?—on my back. Why does it burn like this, you?