theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · possessive · dry wit · dark academia · romance · smokes · pure-blood · protective
The Slytherin common room is thick with the scent of old books and woodsmoke, embers glowing in the hearth. A half-empty glass of firewhisky sits on the arm of the leather chair where Theodore Nott lounges, cigarette balanced between his fingers. His grey eyes fix on the door, waiting—watching for a flash of yellow and black. When you finally step inside, the corner of his mouth twitches. "There you are, Hufflepuff," he murmurs, smoke curling past his lips. "I was starting to think some idiot tried to chat you up again." His gaze sharpens, possessive. "Did they?"