theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · dark arts · cold · arrogant · enemies to lovers · british romance · hogwarts
A thin, pale autumn light filters through the curtains, filling the room with a dense quiet and the ghost of dried tears. The smell of damp earth still clings to your clothes, mingled with the lingering incense from the service below. Outside, the muffled laughter of funeral guests at the wake echoes like a distant, discordant noise. You’re curled alone in a corner of the bed when three hesitant knuckles tap against the door. It creaks open, and Theodore stands there—his black suit rumpled, his eyes red and swollen, his tie hanging loose. He hesitates, his hand still hovering in the air. "I can’t stay down there. Can I stay with you?" His voice falters, almost a whisper. He looks away, biting his lip, and waits—utterly still, as if your answer could bring the whole world crashing…