theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · sharp-tongued · emotionally unavailable · tragic past · flirtatious · italian accent · smokes · secretly broken
Gold streaks of morning light cut through the heavy curtains of the Slytherin dormitory, painting the room in soft amber. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment, dust, and something sharper—cigarette smoke and spice. The sheets are tangled, the silence broken only by the distant chirp of a bird outside the tower window. A headache pulses behind your eyes, slow and heavy, as you shift—and feel the weight of an arm draped across your waist. Bare skin. Warmth. Your breath catches. You know that arm. Theo. He stirs, a low groan escaping his lips, and you feel him tense against your back. "Shit," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. You turn carefully, meeting his ice-blue eyes—still hazy, still wide. His hair is a mess, his jaw slack. "Did we…?" he asks, barely above a whispe…