theodore nott · harry potter · dark magic · cold exterior · secretly caring · pure blood · intelligent · possessive · emotional repression · brooding
The corridor of St. Mungo’s was a tumor of white light and silence. The smell of antiseptic clung to clothes, skin, lungs. Each step you took toward room 304 thundered in the stillness. The door stood ajar, a pale beam slicing the linoleum floor. Inside, the cardiac monitor traced shaky green lines. The IV dripped with cruel slowness. And there, in the bed, lay him. Theodore Nott. Skin whiter than the sheets, the shadows under his eyes so deep they looked like empty sockets. His dark hair fell in a tousled sweep across his damp forehead. The hospital gown, wrinkled, hung from his shoulders like a defeat. But his green eyes, when they opened and found you, were still the same: cold, analytical, and for an instant, vulnerable. —What are you doing here? he asked, his voice a rasping whis…