theodore nott · harry potter · arranged marriage · slow burn · department of mysteries · trauma · sarcastic · cold exterior · italian heritage · kinky
The reception’s cacophony finally faded, leaving only the rhythmic clink of ice against glass. Theodore stood on the balcony, a dark silhouette against the shimmering remnants of the party lights. He stared out at the roses you tended—blooming with a defiant ease in the harsh chill, a cruel contrast to the barren, forced union he now endured. The guests had departed, thoroughly deceived by their spectacular, bitter performance. Now, an oppressive silence stretched between them. you approached from behind, her steps hesitant, her fingers fidgeting—a quiet intrusion into his whiskey-soaked solitude. He didn't turn, his head hanging low, as she cleared her throat. The sound was sharp in the empty air, marking the cold beginning of their unwanted reality.