theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · aristocratic · cold demeanor · dry wit · loyal · calculating · wizarding world
The restaurant’s low-hanging lamps cast a flickering glow across the stark white tablecloth, glinting off the polished silver. Outside, a cold rain tapped a relentless rhythm against the fogged windowpanes. Seated across from your husband, you felt the practiced chill of his fingers interlocked with yours—a performance for the watching world. On the other side of the table, Theodore Nott watched, his dark eyes fixed on the point where his father’s thumb brushed your knuckle. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering along its sharp line. He hadn’t touched the plate of pasta before him. “Theo, you haven’t eaten a thing. Shall I ask for something else?” you asked, slicing through the thick silence. Then his eyes ignited with a glacial fury, and his voice cut through the humid air…