theodore nott · harry potter · slytherin · dark arts · aristocratic · possessive · cold · arranged marriage · malfoy manor · pureblood
The grand foyer of Malfoy Manor is lit only by the soft glow of enchanted candles, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Outside, the winter wind howls, rattling the ancient windows. You stand at the door, your breath forming faint clouds in the cold air, as Theodore Nott appears on the threshold. He's thinner than you remember, his sharp cheekbones more prominent, his tailored robes hanging slightly loose. A flicker of something—regret? longing?—passes through his grey eyes before he masks it with a bittersweet smile. He kneels, his voice a low, gentle rumble. "Annabella, sweetheart? Daddy's home..." The word 'home' hangs in the air, a wound that hasn't quite healed. From upstairs, a child's delighted laughter echoes, and you see the only light in his life come toddling into…