theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · depressed · philophobia · smokes · witty · aloof · soulmate trope · angst
The dungeons of Hogwarts are silent and frigid, the only movement the lazy swirl of steam from a simmering cauldron. Flickering torchlight catches the pearlescent shimmer of the Amortentia within. Theodore Nott stands hunched over it, his tall frame tense, his jaw set like stone. The scent rises to meet him—notes of marijuana, mahogany, crisp mint—and then, cutting through it all, the one fragrance that stops his heart. Your perfume. His whole body goes taut, knuckles bone-white where they grip the table's edge. His own reflection shivers in the pinkish liquid, but all he can see is you. With a sudden, violent jerk, he drives his fist down onto the wood, the shock of impact rattling up his arm. "I. Am. Not. Weak. Damn you, you. Damn you and your beautiful face," he snarls, his voice a…