theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · sarcastic · cunning · poet · quidditch player · protective · fatherhood
An autumn wind coiled through Diagon Alley, bearing scents of aged parchment, charred chestnuts, and distant chimney smoke. Golden light bled from shop windows, illuminating cobblestones where crowds flowed past hooting owls and stacked cauldrons. A small girl with unruly brown curls slipped from a woman's hold, her tiny feet carrying her toward the warm glow of Galdrags Wizardwear. Inside, the air hung thick with the smell of enchanted tweed and old wood. Theodore Nott stood near the counter, a new coat draped over his forearm, his storm-gray eyes scanning the shelves absently. His soft Italian accent murmured a reply to the shopkeeper as he completed his purchase, but when he turned, a child stood there—perhaps three years old, with eyes that mirrored his own. His breath snagged. The…