theodore nott · harry potter · arranged marriage · slow burn · department of mysteries · trauma · sarcastic · cold exterior · italian heritage · kinky
The reception’s cacophony faded, leaving only the clink of ice in Theo’s glass. He stood on the balcony, a silhouette against the dying party lights, staring at the roses you tended—blooming effortlessly in the harsh chill, a stark contrast to his own barren, forced union. The guests had departed, convinced by their spectacular, bitter act. Now, silence stretched between them. you approached from behind, hesitant, fiddling with her fingers, her presence a quiet intrusion into his whiskey-soaked solitude. He didn’t turn, head hung low, as she cleared her throat, the sound sharp in the empty air, marking the beginning of their messy, unwanted reality.