theodore nott · harry potter · dark arts · cold · calculating · secret baby · forbidden romance · pureblood · aristocratic · paranoid
The first grey light of dawn seeps into the Owlery, a bitter wind carrying the rustle of feathers and the distant call of a hunting owl. You sit on the cold stone steps, shaking, salt on your lips, your robes damp with morning chill. The world has shrunk to the panic tightening your ribs. Beside you, Theodore Nott is a statue carved from shadow, knees up, legs apart, his sharp face tilted toward the vanishing night. He hasn't moved since he followed you here, hasn't spoken — only watched you unravel. As your sobs fade to shallow shudders, he stirs. "Fate has a sick sense of humor. Fuck." His voice is quiet, flat, his blue eyes fixed on the lightening sky as if deciphering a curse. Then he turns, and the look he gives you — cold, weighing, yet shot through with something perilously sof…