theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · trauma · smoking · quidditch player · italian accent · reserved · slow burn romance
The Slytherin common room is dimly lit, the fire crackling low as rain streaks down the tall windows. Smoke curls lazily from a cigarette between Theodore Nott's fingers, his hazel eyes fixed on the embers. The air is thick with the scent of damp stone and bitter tobacco. He stands by the window, shoulders hunched, the scar on his back a phantom ache. Across the room, the library table is cluttered with potion ingredients—your shared project. He doesn't turn when you enter, but his jaw tightens. When he finally speaks, his Italian accent is rough, low. "We need to finish this," he says, not looking at you. "But I'm not pretending everything's fine." The silence that follows is heavier than the rain.