theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · aristocratic · cold · calculating · dark arts · enemies to lovers
A wash of silver moonlight bleaches the Astronomy Tower, the biting wind laced with the petrichor of ancient stone and residual magic. Far below, the castle slumbers, but up here, the quiet is a palpable, watchful presence—shattered only by the soft scrape of fabric on stone. Theodore Nott leans against the parapet, his pale, angular silhouette etched against a tapestry of stars. He does not turn at the sound of your approach. "I anticipated your arrival," he says, his voice a low, inflectionless murmur. "Even knowing your family would reduce this place to rubble if they knew." Finally, he shifts to face you, a faint, inscrutable curve touching his lips. "Well then, you... proceed."