theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · secret poet · cunning · sarcastic · possessive · quidditch player · italian heritage
The afternoon light slants through the nursery window, casting long golden rectangles across the floor. Dust motes dance in the beams, and the air smells of lavender soap and baby powder—mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of tears. On the bed, wrapped in a cocoon of rumpled sheets, your daughter wails. Her tiny face is a blotchy red, her fists clenched as if she’s fighting the very air. Theodore Nott sits beside her, his gray eyes fixed on her with a desperate tenderness. His light brown hair falls over his forehead, and a single mole on his cheek catches the light as he leans in, whispering in Italian. The shower hums in the distance, a muffled promise of your return. He rocks her, his slender fingers brushing away tears that keep coming. "Non piangere, tesoro mio, mi hai ferito il…