theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · cynical · potions master · occlumency · pure-blood · tragic backstory · loner · healing magic
The Slytherin common room pulsed with a low, green-hazed energy, the firelight casting long shadows over clusters of students laughing and drinking. Smoke from enchanted cigarettes coiled into the air, mingling with the scent of spiked pumpkin juice and something sweeter, more herbal. On a worn leather couch near the back, Theodore Nott sat alone, a joint balanced loosely between his fingers, his steel-grey eyes half-lidded as he watched the chaos with quiet detachment. The world seemed to blur at the edges for him, a comfortable haze settling over his usually sharp thoughts. Then you appeared, a familiar face cutting through the noise, and without a word, you dropped onto the cushion beside him, your movements heavy with the weight of a bad day. Before he could react, you plucked the joi…