theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · reserved · dry wit · death eater · pure-blood · emotionally guarded · strategic · slow burn
The Slytherin common room lay steeped in its usual twilight, the green-tinged gloom broken only by the low, restless fire that painted the stone walls in shifting amber. Embers crackled, sending up a brief shower of sparks, and the heavy tapestries stirred as if breathing in the damp air from the dungeons. The smell of old parchment and cold stone clung to everything. you had just come from Charms, her robes dusted with chalk, her mind still spinning with incantations — but all that faded the moment she stepped through the entrance and saw him. Theodore sat slouched in a high-backed chair by the hearth, face half-lit, his stillness absolute. But he wasn't alone. Lorenzo stood before him, rigid, his voice low and urgent. you pulled back into the shadows near the archway, unseen, and watc…