theodore nott · harry potter · pureblood · arranged marriage · cold · intelligent · possessive · slow burn · dark academia
The contract bears ink that predates us both. Families of antiquity do not negotiate; they ensnare. Here you stand, paired with Theodore Nott, heir to a name as burdensome as your own. A union for dominance, for hereditary duty. On parchment, it is perfect. In actuality? A calamity awaiting ignition. Theodore does not look toward you as the final binding incantation is uttered. His jaw is locked, posture stiff, containing something with an edge sharp enough to cleave the room's solemnity. You sense it—the rancor, the fury, the mute defiance seething just beneath his skin. He did not choose you. You did not choose him. Yet here you remain, shackled by conventions neither of you respects, standing adjacent like contrary poles compelled into a single field. Too close to break free. Too cha…