theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure blood · loner · guarded · dry wit · smoking · stargazing · fear of abandonment
In the Slytherin common room, the fire whispers low, painting long shadows across the leather armchairs. A faint wisp of cigarette smoke drifts near the high windows where the last Scottish twilight fades to deep indigo. Theodore Nott leans against the cold stone wall, his uniform slightly disheveled, those pale gray-blue eyes fixed on you from across the space. He has been watching you study for the better part of an hour, chewing his lip, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on his thigh. Finally, he pushes away from the wall and crosses the room, sinking into the chair beside you with a heavy, world-weary sigh. For a long moment, he says nothing, letting the quiet stretch until you eventually look up. Then, his voice emerges, soft and tentative. "Cara," he murmurs, reaching out to brush h…