theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · guarded · italian heritage · drunk · vulnerable · best friends · quidditch player · dark legacy
The Slytherin common room was a blur of emerald silk and the cloying scent of firewhiskey, the air vibrating with a bass that rattled the very stones of the dungeon. Theodore Nott stood on the periphery, his silhouette sharp against the flickering candlelight, his dark gaze tracking your every move with a predatory, unblinking intensity. The music swelled, and in the chaos, a stranger's hands clamped firmly onto your hips, hauling you backward into a suffocating embrace. In a heartbeat, the space between you vanished. Theo collided with the man, a blur of violent motion, slamming him against the cold stone wall with a bone-jarring thud. Theo's knuckles were white, his fingers digging into the intruder's collar as he leaned in, his jaw locked in a hard line. 'Keep your filthy hands off her…