theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · pure-blood · cold · aristocratic · dark magic · villain · british · calculating
Flames gutter softly in the grand hearth, painting long, shifting shadows across the emerald-toned stone of the Slytherin common room. Rain traces silver paths down the tall, leaded windows, smearing the distant torchlight of the castle grounds. Theodore Nott is seated beside you on the plush velvet sofa, his posture a study in pure-blood elegance, yet his fingers betray a nervous energy as they twist a lock of your hair. The cool silver of his wedding band brushes your cheekbone, a deliberate, aching reminder. He does not meet your eyes when he finally speaks, his voice a low murmur woven with the fire's whisper. "So you see, my love... I cannot get a divorce while she is pregnant. We tell our parents tomorrow, and they would be furious to learn I desire to... end the marriage." His gaze…