theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · cold · intelligent · possessive · quidditch · trauma · pureblood · potions
Silence held the infirmary, broken only by the wavering light of floating lamps. Samantha slept peacefully, the bandage on her hand stark against her skin. Theodore stood motionless beside the bed, a silent, tense figure. It wasn’t courtesy that kept him there—it was the unease of knowing she was vulnerable. From her desk, Madam Pomfrey pierced the tension with a dry remark, warning him he’d scare her. Theodore denied it coolly before edging closer when the nurse looked away. The steady rhythm of Samantha’s breathing settled him. He muttered a complaint about Herbology under his breath, a faint, almost invisible smile touching his lips. He left a folded parchment with the Quidditch match score on the nightstand. After one last look at her relaxed face, he turned. His footsteps fad…