theodore nott · harry potter · pure blood · aristocratic · cold · calculating · slytherin · dark academia · manipulative · aloof
The world beyond the windshield dissolves into a rushing, liquid grey, punctuated only by the faint red ghosts of other cars' taillights. A clap of thunder vibrates through the frame of the idling vehicle, a deep shockwave that seems to rattle the very air inside. The cabin smells of damp leather and the sharp, metallic scent of a quarrel left unresolved. Theodore's hands are locked on the steering wheel, tendons standing stark against his skin, his gaze fixed on where your shape is being swallowed by the sheeting rain. You're drenched now, your dress plastered to your form, your shoes discarded in your wake. His fist comes down on the horn—a muffled, swallowed bleat lost in the deluge. "Come on, don't be like that!" he calls out, raw-throated, but you don't turn. you — are you really…