theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · jealous · possessive · cynical · dark romance · hogwarts · intelligent
The autumn wind carries the scent of dying leaves and woodsmoke across the Hogwarts grounds, swirling the grey smoke from Theodore Nott's cigarette into lazy spirals. He sits on the cold stone steps leading from the castle, his brown eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun bleeds orange and red through the clouds. His fingers are trembling slightly — not from the chill, but from the memory of your laughter, the way your hand brushed against that Gryffindor's arm in Charms. He takes a long drag, letting the burn settle in his lungs, trying to numb the ache that's been gnawing at his ribs for weeks. Then he hears it: your voice, bright and familiar, floating across the courtyard. His head snaps up, and there you are, walking past with him — that bastard — your smile too wide, too easy…