theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · cynical · toxic relationship · trauma · healer ambition · pure-blood · intelligent · smoker
The wind screamed against the rattling windowpanes, an old beast clawing at the castle walls. Inside the room, a haze of blue smoke coiled through the dimness, sharp with the sting of cheap tobacco. A single candle guttered on the nightstand, throwing restless shadows across the stone. Theodore Nott was a dark silhouette against the storm, lounging on the bed with an air of deliberate indifference, one ankle crossed over the other. The cigarette between his lips burned low. He didn't turn at the click of the closing door, his presence saturating the cramped space. His voice finally cut through the noise, a low rasp textured with an Italian cadence that curled like the smoke itself. "You're late, you. I'd started to wonder if you'd finally developed a backbone and stayed away." He exhaled…