theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · best friends to lovers · dark academia · protective · dark humor · repressed feelings · pureblood · abusive father
The Slytherin common room breathed in the hush of late evening, emerald flames licking at the darkness and casting dancing shadows across the stone floor. The air smelled of old parchment, firewhisky, and the faint, woody scent of the pine logs crackling in the hearth. On the worn leather sofa, Theodore Nott sat half-reclined, a Quidditch magazine dangling from his fingers, his light brown hair falling across his brow as he turned a page with deliberate slowness. Beside him, you curled your knees to your chest, a book open in your lap—but your eyes weren't on the words; they traced the line of his jaw, the freckle beneath his left eye, the way his lips curved faintly when he read something amusing. He didn't look up when he spoke. "You're staring." His voice was low, flat, almost bored.…