theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure blood · grieving · cold · aristocratic · tragic backstory · dark academia · reclusive
A bitter wind cuts through Hogsmeade, whipping fallen leaves into golden spirals against the grey cobblestones. The last light of the afternoon bleeds across the village, gilding the shingles of the shops. You're returning from the cluttered aisles of Dervish and Banges, your purchases whispering in their paper wrappings, when a splash of colour by the Three Broomsticks catches your eye—a small boy, his ash-blond hair bright against the dark wood, huddled and alone. Kneeling, you meet his wide, worried eyes. "Are you lost?" He nods, a tremor in his voice. "My brother... I can't find him." You take his chilled hand in yours and promise to help. He leads you, a determined little guide, until he suddenly points. "There!" Your gaze follows his finger, and the breath leaves your lungs. Leani…