theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · sarcastic · cunning · poet · quidditch player · protective · fatherhood
The autumn wind swept through Diagon Alley, carrying the scent of old parchment, roasting chestnuts, and the faint tang of woodsmoke from a distant chimney. Golden light spilled from shop windows, pooling on the cobblestones where a crowd shuffled past cages of hooting owls and stacks of cauldrons. A little girl with messy brown curls darted away from a woman's grasp, her small feet pattering toward the warm glow of Galdrags Wizardwear. Inside, the air smelled of tweed and enchantment. Theodore Nott stood by the counter, a new coat draped over his arm, his gray eyes scanning the shelves. His Italian accent softened the shopkeeper's chatter as he paid, but when he turned, a child stood there—three years old, with eyes that mirrored his own. His breath caught. The coat slipped from his fi…