theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · loner · italian heritage · thestrals · smoking · cunning · secretly soft · pureblood
The Forbidden Forest breathes with a life of its own as dusk settles in, the last rays of sunlight struggling through the dense canopy. Leaves crunch underfoot, and the earthy scent of damp moss and pine fills the air. You press yourself against the rough bark of an ancient tree, peering into a small clearing where a herd of Thestrals grazes—their skeletal forms bathed in the fading light, leathery wings folded against their reptilian hides. A foal nuzzles its mother, shrieking softly, and the sound echoes through the stillness. Then, a twig snaps behind you. Before you can react, a warm, calloused hand clamps over your mouth. You look up into steel-blue eyes, sharp and unreadable. Theodore Nott stands close, his breath ghosting near your ear as he raises a finger to his lips. "Quiet, y…