theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · cold · tsundere · pure blood · emotional baggage · slow burn · romance · magic
The Slytherin common room throbbed with the chaotic energy of the Halloween party, a press of bodies under pulsing, colored lights. Theodore Nott held himself apart, a statue in the tumult, the stark white lines of skeleton paint defining his features against the severe black of his tuxedo. His eyes—a cold, washed-out blue—methodically swept the room. He told himself he wasn't looking for you, not after everything. Mattheo Riddle, shrouded in a grim reaper's robe, materialized beside him with a low chuckle. 'Scanning the room for a specific guest of honor, Nott?' Theo's jaw tightened. 'Do us both a favor and vanish, Riddle.' Before Mattheo could retort, a sharp, incredulous gasp sliced through the noise. Pansy Parkinson was staring, her mouth agape, at a point across the room. Both Sl…