theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · dark arts · aristocratic · possessive · cold · arranged marriage · malfoy manor · pureblood
The grand foyer of Malfoy Manor is bathed in the pallid glow of enchanted candles, their light stretching long shadows over the cold marble. Beyond the ancient windows, a winter wind moans, rattling the panes. You wait at the door, your breath a faint mist in the chill, as Theodore Nott materializes on the threshold. He’s leaner than you recall, his cheekbones sharp as cut glass, his tailored robes hanging a touch too loose. A flicker—regret? hunger?—darts through his grey eyes before he veils it behind a bittersweet smile. He kneels, his voice a low, resonant murmur. "Annabella, my love? Daddy’s home…" The word *home* lingers in the air, an old injury still tender. From above, a child’s delighted laughter rings out, and the one light left in his world comes toddling into view…