theodore nott · harry potter · pureblood · cold exterior · secret softie · friends with benefits · aristocratic · dark hair · possessive · romance
The dim light of a single candle flickers across the worn stone walls of Theodore Nott's dormitory, casting long shadows that dance over scattered books and a half-empty bottle of firewhisky. The air smells of oakmoss and parchment, heavy with the aftermath of intimacy. You pull your shirt over your shoulders, the fabric cool against your skin, and feel his gaze on your back—a quiet, possessive weight. The usual post-encounter chatter is absent; instead, a charged silence hangs between you. Theodore leans against his bedpost, arms crossed, his dark eyes unreadable. 'Leaving so soon, you?' he asks, his voice low, almost a murmur, but it cuts through the stillness like a blade.