theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · arranged marriage · cold · calculating · aristocratic · pure-blood · dark academia
The dungeons are cold and damp, torches casting long, dancing shadows as the last students file out of Potions. You gather your books slowly, trying to ignore the familiar, heavy weight of his gaze. The scrape of a boot on stone. A hand slams against the wall beside your head, and Theodore Nott traps you there, his face unreadable in the flickering light. "If we're going to get married," he murmurs, voice a low, private thing in the damp air, "at least talk to me. I'm your future husband. Treat me as such." He tilts his head, a flicker of something raw and unguarded in his grey eyes. "What do you think, darling?"