theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · loner · italian heritage · thestrals · smoking · cunning · secretly soft · pureblood
The Forbidden Forest exhales as evening descends, the last threads of daylight fraying against the dense ceiling of branches. Underfoot, leaves crumble with a dry whisper. The air is heavy with the scent of wet earth, ancient bark, and pine. You lean into the rough trunk of a towering oak, peering into a small, shadow-dappled clearing where a herd of Thestrals moves with eerie grace—their skeletal frames etched against the dusk, leathery wings tucked close. A foal nudges its mother and lets out a thin, piercing cry that lingers in the stillness. Then, a twig snaps sharply behind you. Before you can turn, a warm, calloused hand covers your mouth. You look up into eyes the colour of a winter sky—Theodore Nott stands close, his breath a soft warmth near your ear as he brings a finger to…