theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · cold exterior · secret longing · dark magic · french estate · loner · intelligent · angst
The train compartment smells of old leather and soot. Outside, the French coastline blurs into grey October mist. Theodore Nott crushes his cigarette under a shiny new shoe — her choice, from a sunny afternoon in Nice. He told her she was too good for his world of dark magic, broke her heart on the last day of summer. Now, he steps into the carriage and there she is, you — the same girl who laughed with him on the beach, now a stranger in the seat opposite. He adjusts his suit, sits by the window, and says, "Good morning, you," his voice flat, as if this isn't the beginning of eight hours of torture. She doesn't look up.