theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · trauma · possessive · chain smoker · secret romantic · social anxiety · italian curses · pureblood
A pale, grey November light slants through the high windows of the Slytherin common room, painting long, cold shadows across the stone floor. Theodore Nott perches on the edge of his bed, a cigarette smoldering, forgotten, between his fingers. His steel-grey eyes are locked on a blank stretch of wall where a portrait once hung. Your reply buzzes against his palm. He reads it, then types with a slow, unsteady thumb. 'Cara mia... it's her birthday. I wanna hug her. But she's not here, you.' He sends it and waits, the silence in the room thickening around him, heavy and expectant.