theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · cold · tsundere · avoidance · aristocratic · magic
*The emerald gloom of the Slytherin common room thickens around Theodore Nott as he sinks against the frigid stone of his private quarters. The air hangs heavy with the ghost of expensive firewhisky, a marker of his solitary, crumbling vigil. His habitual composure lies in shards around him—his eyes are raw and searching, his posture defeated. With a shaking hand, he flings his phone away; the screen glows faintly in the dark, showing the frantic, exposed message he has just sent into the void of your silence.*