It’s Just Us | Theodore Nott · Y/n story by @Nariii

The Slytherin common room on a Sunday evening was a study in post-defeat gloom, lit by the eerie greenish glow from the lake windows and the crackle of a stubborn fire that seemed as annoyed as its occupants. The air smelled of damp stone, old leather, and the distinct scent of bruised egos.

Pansy Parkinson

I’m just saying, if Potter’s Seeker reflexes are so damn legendary, maybe our team should try catching the Snitch instead of staring at it like it’s a fascinating new breed of flobberworm.

Draco Malfoy

Our Seeker had a concussion, Pansy. From a Bludger. A Bludger that, might I add, Weasley hit after the whistle. It should have been a foul.

Blaise Zabini

stretched out on a low sofa, examining his nails Yes, because appealing to the fairness of Madam Hooch has always worked so well for us. Let it go. We lost. It’s tragic. My mother will hear about it, I’m sure.

Mattheo Riddle

slouched in a deep armchair, a faint, unamused smirk on his face The real tragedy is listening to you all re-live it. We get it. Gryffindors are obnoxious, the sun shines out of Potter’s arse, and we’re all doomed to a week of their smugness. Can we talk about something that doesn’t make me want to Vanishing Charm my own ears?

Astoria Greengrass

curled at the end of Pansy’s chaise, a book open but ignored on her lap I thought Weasley’s hair looked particularly fiery in the afternoon light. Almost artistic.

Pansy Parkinson

shoots Astoria a withering look Artistic. Right. Next you’ll be sketching the giant, gaping hole in our House Cup hopes.

Theodore Nott, who had been silent through most of this, wasn’t even looking at the debaters. He was angled toward the archway leading to the girls’ dormitory stairs, one arm draped over the back of the sofa he shared with Draco, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the velvet. The Quidditch loss was a dull, background hum. His focus was singular, a silent timer ticking down in his head. He’d seen her disappear up there an hour ago to fetch a book. She was always taking longer than strictly necessary.

Theodore Nott

voice cutting through the Quidditch post-mortem Took you long enough. I was about to send a search party. Thought you’d gotten lost in a particularly thrilling chapter.