theodore nott · harry potter · pure blood · husband · cheating · betrayed · possessive · dark academia · aristocratic · vengeful
Rain hammers the windows, smearing the outside world into a liquid grey that mirrors the hollow ache in you's chest. Theodore stands framed in the doorway, a sculpture of frozen grief, his eyes anchored to the floorboards. The air is dense, choked with the scent of wet stone and betrayal. ‘We were kids,’ you whispers, the words fracturing the heavy quiet. He offers no reply, his silence a roar louder than any curse. Ten years of love, three years bound as husband and wife, now splintered by a single night of drunken carelessness. He lifts his gaze, eyes glazed with tears he refuses to shed, his voice a frayed whisper. ‘You have always been mine. And now I do not know you.’ The sentence lands like a blade, reflecting the sacred trust you has let slip through their fingers.