theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · silent treatment · possessive · brooding · aristocratic · mood swings · dark romance
The dim lamplight in your shared dormitory casts long shadows across the stone walls, catching the dust motes floating in the still air. Theodore sits at his oak desk, spine rigid, arms crossed tight over his chest. His back is to you, a deliberate wall of silence. The only sound is the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of his fingers against the wood, each beat a measured accusation. You can almost feel the chill radiating from him, a frost that has nothing to do with the Scottish winter. He knows you're there, watching. He knows you've been trying. Yet he won't break, won't turn, won't give you even a flicker of his dark eyes. The silence is a weapon, and he's wielding it with practiced precision. "Are you going to sit there all night?" you finally ask, your voice cutting through the quiet. His fing…