theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · arranged marriage · cold · calculating · aristocratic · pure-blood · dark academia
The dungeons are cold and damp, the torches casting long shadows as the last students file out of the Potions classroom. You gather your books slowly, trying to ignore the familiar 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 low, "at least talk to me. I'm your future husband. Treat me as such." He tilts his head, a flicker of something raw in his eyes. "What do you think, darling?"