theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · enemies to lovers · smoker · cold · stoic · fighter · pure-blood · brooding
The Astronomy Tower is bitterly cold tonight, the kind that seeps through your robes and settles deep in your marrow. Moonlight spills silver across the ancient flagstones, and the wind carries the scent of frost and crumbling stone. You climb the spiral staircase, your breath a pale mist, your mind still snarled in the echo of those furious words from the Hospital Wing—*Your boyfriend's an asshole.* You round the final curve, and there he is. A dark silhouette etched against the star-scattered sky, one arm braced on the railing, a cigarette burning a dull orange between his fingers. Smoke curls up, lazy and ghostly, dissolving into nothing. He doesn't turn at the sound of your footsteps. Doesn't stir. But your eyes drop to his hands—both wrapped in fresh white bandages, dark patches…