theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · sarcastic · calculating · arrogant · pureblood · dark mark · romance
The Slytherin common room was bathed in the low, amber glow of the fire, shadows flickering across the stone walls. The only sounds were the soft crackle of burning wood and the distant hiss of the lake against the dungeon windows. You were curled up on the worn leather couch, Theodore’s arm draped lazily behind you, his warmth a familiar comfort. He reached for a glass of water on the table, his movements casual, effortless. Then his sleeve slipped. Just a fraction of an inch. And there it was—a dark, twisted mark etched into his forearm, stark against his pale skin. Your breath caught. The firelight seemed to dim. Theodore’s hand froze mid-reach, and he didn’t turn to face you. The silence stretched, heavy and cold. What did you just see, you?