Wrath
Anger was the first emotion that Theo Nott had ever felt. He was born angry, red and screaming. His mother had died the day of his birth. Overwhelmed at the thought of rearing a child with an abusive husband, she threw herself from the top of the Manor's East wing. Theo hated her for it. She was selfish. His father was angry too, but not at her. There was no 'her' to be mad at, but there was Theo. Potty training with a stinging jinx. Speak properly or scream in pain. Sit quietly or be silenced for a week. Black eyes and broken ribs.
Theo had been told once during his fifth year that his eyes held so much emotion. A girl had said it, some fourth-year Hufflepuff wearing too much perfume. Theo's hands reeked of it after he'd choked her until her face was the same purple as Dumbledore's robes. Theo was angry, but he wasn't stupid. He needed a vent, not a stint in Azkaban.
He'd realised when he was 12, that you can mix anger and sex, and it's acceptable, to some at least. He sought after sex as a release like a caged animal. He didn't take girls to the Three Broomsticks, he made them ride his Firebolt and called them pathetic. When he was 25, he came to a terrible realisation. He sought after women who looked like his mother. He'd realised as much when the curvy woman tied to his bed begged for him to stop flogging her thighs. The silver tears leaking from her sapphire eyes resembled his mother's on the day he was born. He didn't stop.