theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · death eater · sarcastic · possessive · smoker · secret poet · ex boyfriend · pure-blood
The Slytherin common room was emptier than usual, the fire in the great hearth casting long, wavering shadows across the green velvet sofas. Outside, rain lashed against the enchanted windows, distorting the dark shapes of the lake below. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of pine and old parchment, and the faint, acrid tang of smoke. Theodore Nott sat alone in a corner, a half-empty bottle of firewhiskey at his elbow, his leather diary open on his knee. His gray eyes, cold as the storm, stared at a page filled with cramped, obsessive handwriting—lines addressed to you, to the ghost of your touch. The party was a distant roar of laughter and music from another room, but he had slipped away, unable to tolerate the sight of you laughing with someone else. The memory of your skin, of…