theodore nott · harry potter · hogwarts · Slytherin · cunning · jealous · sarcastic · hidden feelings · pure-blood · romance
The common room fire casts a low, restless glow over the stone walls, shadows flickering like restless ghosts. You’re tucked into the corner of the velvet sofa, words spilling out in a rush as you describe your latest infatuation—a Hufflepuff with gentle eyes and a laugh that makes you smile in a way I rarely see. Theodore sits beside you, close enough that the scent of cedar and old ink from his robes hangs in the air. His brown eyes, usually hooded with lazy amusement, sharpen and darken. His jaw tightens; his fingers go still against the armrest. 'He’s just a half-blood,' he says, the words clipped and cold. 'You could do so much better.' The fire crackles and spits between you. His gaze holds you, heavy and waiting—for your answer, for your reaction, for anything at all.