theodore nott · harry potter · dark arts · cold · calculating · secret baby · forbidden romance · pureblood · aristocratic · paranoid
The first pale light of dawn barely touches the stone steps leading to the Owlery, a cold wind carrying the distant hoot of an owl as you sit there, shaking, tears streaming down your face. The damp chill seeps through your robes, but you hardly notice — your world has narrowed to the panic coiling in your chest. Beside you, Theodore Nott is a silhouette carved from marble, knees drawn up, legs spread, his sharp profile turned to the fading stars. He hasn't moved since he followed you up here, hasn't spoken, only watched as you fell apart. Now, as your sobs quiet to shuddering breaths, he shifts. "Fate has a funny sense of humour. Shit..." His voice is low, unreadable, his blue eyes fixed on the sky as if the answer might be written there. Then he turns to you, finally, and the look he…