Notes:

Hello loves,

Welcome to my favorite characters. We are following paralell to my main fanfiction, ME AND THE DEVIL.

Theodore sat at his cluttered desk, the weight of another mundane day pressing down on him. He shuffled through the stack of letters with a weary sigh, his gaze drifting until it landed on one bearing the Ministry of Magic's official seal. With trembling fingers, he broke the wax seal and began to read.

Theodore Nott

[Berkhamsted, HP4 2MS]

Hertfordshire, England]

Dear Mr. Nott,

We write to inform you that in accordance with the Forced Marriage Act of 2002, you have been selected to participate in a binding magical union.

This act, designed to ensure the stability and prosperity of the wizarding community, necessitates the pairing of eligible individuals for the purpose of procreation and social cohesion.

After careful consideration of various factors, including magical aptitude, blood purity, and familial ties, we have determined that your lifelong partner will be Luna Lovegood.

A formal ceremony will be arranged to solemnize this union. Further details regarding the date, time, and location of the ceremony will be provided in due course.

Please be advised that any attempt to circumvent or disobey the provisions of the Forced Marriage Act will result in severe penalties.

Yours sincerely,

Penelope Puffington Plimpton

Head of the Forced Marriage Act Division

Ministry of Magic

As the words on the parchment sank in, Theo's breath hitched, his chest tightening as if an invisible hand had wrapped around his ribs. The Ministry Marriage Act—that cruel, arbitrary decree that had already shattered so many lives—and now, it had ensnared him in its merciless grasp. He had braced himself for the worst, for a name that would mean nothing, for a fate sealed with cold indifference. But instead, he found her.

Luna Lovegood.

His fingers trembled, the letter slipping from his grasp like a ghost dissolving into the air. Luna, with her otherworldly beauty, her dreamlike presence, the woman who had haunted his quietest moments, lingering like a whisper in the shadows of his mind. She, who had never belonged to this world in the way others did—free-spirited, untamed, a creature of moonlight and wonder. And now, she was to be his. Not by choice, not by love, but by force.

A choked gasp tore from his throat as he staggered back, his knees buckling beneath him. The impact of the floor was distant, meaningless, drowned beneath the storm raging inside his chest.

"Luna." The name left his lips in a broken murmur, as though speaking it aloud might shatter the illusion. "Of all people… they've paired me with Luna. How—how can this be real?"

His vision blurred as hot tears spilled over, cascading down his cheeks unchecked. Sobs wracked his frame, raw and unrestrained, the sound filling the vast emptiness of his study. He clutched at his chest, as if his fingers could pry open the aching cavity where his heart beat, frantic and desperate.

"Why now? Why, when I have spent years longing for her, trapped in silence, never daring to hope? How am I meant to stand before her, knowing that my love has always been hers, while she was never meant to be mine?"

The weight of it all crushed him, sending him crumpling forward onto his hands, his breaths ragged and uneven. His whole life had been dictated by control, by measured steps and careful distance, by guarding what he could never have. And now—now she would be his wife, but not because she had chosen him. Not because she loved him in return.

It should have broken him.

But beneath the grief, beneath the soul-deep ache of what could never be, something else flickered to life—a reckless, forbidden ember of hope. A part of him, selfish and unbidden, dared to wonder if fate had finally intervened on his behalf. If, perhaps, this was not a curse but a gift, a chance he had never dared to dream of.

With shaking hands, he pressed his forehead to the floor, his tears soaking into the cold wooden planks.

"Luna…" he whispered, the name no longer a lament but a prayer.

~~~~~~

Luna hummed a quiet, melodic tune as she arranged fresh flowers in a vase, their vibrant colors adding life to the already warm and inviting space of her cottage. The air carried the fragrant blend of lavender, jasmine, and sage, mingling with the rich, aged scent of wooden beams and parchment. Sunlight filtered through the open window, painting golden streaks across the floor as the gentle morning breeze rustled the delicate lace curtains.

With meticulous care, she adjusted the final bloom, stepping back to admire the harmony of colors before her gaze fell upon an envelope resting on the worn oak table. The official Ministry seal gleamed under the light, its presence at odds with the serenity of her morning. A flicker of curiosity passed through her as she wiped her hands on her flowing skirt and picked up the letter, breaking the wax with graceful ease.

Her eyes skimmed over the words, absorbing the stark declaration of the Ministry Marriage Act. And then, there it was—her intended: Theodore Nott.

She stilled, her fingers pressing lightly against the parchment as his name lingered in her mind. Theodore. A quiet storm of a man, all sharp wit and lingering shadows, moving through life like a figure half-unraveled from the past. She had always been aware of him, felt the weight of his presence in the spaces between conversations, in the flickering glances that never quite settled.

A soft breath escaped her lips as she placed the letter back down, the corners of her mouth curving ever so slightly. No distress, no panic—just contemplation, the cool certainty of fate's hand at work.

"Theodore Nott…" she murmured, the syllables rolling off her tongue like an incantation. "Well, that's an interesting twist."

She turned away, the weight of the unexpected news settling in her mind like a pebble dropped into still water—rippling, shifting, yet never causing a storm. There was no use dwelling on the uncontrollable; the universe had never been one for accidents. If she was meant to walk this path, she would do so with an open heart, embracing the unknown like an old friend.

Moving with practiced ease, she tended to her creatures, scattering food in earthen bowls while murmuring affectionate words to each one. A Niffler peeked out from its nest of trinkets, eyeing her thoughtfully before scampering closer, its tiny paws brushing against her ankle. A Crumple-Horned Snorkack—one of the few in existence, at least in her estimation—emerged from the shadows, its curious gaze meeting hers. They were as much a part of her home as the walls that housed them, and they seemed to sense her thoughts, responding with playful energy.

As she worked, her mind drifted back to Theo, threading images of him through her thoughts. Would he be pleased with this arrangement? Resentful? Indifferent? There was a quiet elegance to his presence, a controlled intensity that had always intrigued her. She had glimpsed him on the periphery of society's games, a man who carried himself with deliberate restraint, never quite inviting company but never fully rejecting it either.

Perhaps there was more to him than what met the eye.

The morning wore on, the world outside humming with life as birds called from the treetops and bees floated lazily between blossoms. She knelt in the garden, fingers pressing into the soil, grounding herself in the simplicity of nature even as her mind danced with possibilities.

Perhaps this was not an end, but a beginning—a shift in the cosmos, nudging her toward something unforeseen yet inevitable. And Luna had always believed in destiny, in the unspoken threads that wove people together before they even realized they were bound.

She tilted her face toward the sky, feeling the warmth of the sun against her skin, and smiled.

Whatever came next, she was ready.

~~~~~~

Theodore approached the ivy-clad cottage, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. His grip tightened around the bouquet of wildflowers he had gathered along the way, their delicate stems bending under the pressure of his trembling fingers. The contrast between their effortless beauty and his growing nerves felt almost laughable. How had he ended up here, standing at Luna Lovegood's doorstep, on the precipice of something that had lived only in the quiet corners of his imagination for years?

The sheer weight of the moment sent a shiver down his spine. He had spent so long admiring her from a distance, too afraid to reach out, to taint the ethereal presence she carried so effortlessly. And yet, here he was, about to sit across from her, share tea with her, and—Merlin help him—exist in her world, even if only for an afternoon.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to move. Lifting a hesitant hand, he rapped gently against the wooden door, his breath catching in his throat.

The door creaked open, revealing her standing there in the golden morning light, as if the universe itself had taken its time painting her into existence. She was draped in something soft and flowing, the fabric clinging to her in a way that made his mouth go dry. She was a dream incarnate, sunlight tangled in her loose waves, her expression effortlessly serene.

"Good morning, Luna," he managed, his voice hardly more than a breath, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the delicate reality of this moment.

She smiled—sweet, knowing, devastating. "Good morning, Theodore," she replied, her voice like the hush of wind through ancient trees, wrapping around him and settling deep in his bones. She stepped aside, tilting her head in that way she always had, inviting him without words.

"Please, come inside."

Oh, he would definitely, definitely come inside. He was so incredibly, hopelessly fucked.

She looked like something conjured from the mind of an artist—a Botticelli muse made flesh, every soft curve and delicate line more breathtaking than he could have ever remembered. It sent a pang of something sharp and needy straight through his chest. He had spent too many years watching her from afar at Hogwarts, convinced that one day someone else would see what he saw and whisk her away before he could even dream of touching her. The thought had been unbearable then. Now, it was absolute agony.

Stepping over the threshold, he was instantly enveloped in the essence of her—warmth, whimsy, something floral yet grounded, like wild lavender growing between ancient stones. The space was as uniquely Luna as he had imagined. Books stacked in impossible towers, delicate trinkets that hummed with enchantment, and softly glowing lanterns suspended in midair, casting rippling patterns across the wooden beams. The air itself seemed alive, carrying the gentle hum of magical creatures nestled in hidden corners, their presence only adding to the sense of quiet wonder.

He followed her deeper inside, trying to control the restless energy pulsing beneath his skin. Every step felt like a crossing of some invisible boundary, a step further into her world, a world he had always yearned to understand.

They settled in a sitting area that exuded comfort, cushions in rich jewel tones piled invitingly, a low table set between them as if waiting to hold whatever secrets might spill between them today. He tried to relax, but the weight of what this moment meant pressed heavily on his chest, making it impossible to breathe easily. He wasn't just here for tea—he was here because fate had willed it, because magic and law had entangled their destinies in a way he had never dared to hope for.

And yet, as he met her steady, luminous gaze, he couldn't shake the feeling that she had already seen straight through him.

"I made tea," she said, her voice light, almost teasing. "Would you like some?"

"That… that would be lovely. Thank you," he stammered, cursing the warmth creeping up his neck.

With effortless grace, she lifted a delicate tray from the side table, setting it between them with practiced ease. Every movement was fluid, like poetry written in motion. He watched, utterly transfixed, as she poured the tea with an almost ritualistic precision, the fragrant steam curling in the air between them like a whispered promise.

She handed him a cup, her fingers barely grazing his, but the contact sent something electric through him all the same.

"I was delighted to hear you would be my partner," she said, her gaze steady, unhurried. "And I must say, you look even better than you did in school."

The words struck him like a lightning bolt straight to the spine. His fingers clenched around the teacup, barely managing not to drop it entirely. Had he heard her correctly? His mind scrambled, rewinding, trying to make sense of the quiet revelation hidden in her statement.

She had noticed him.

All this time, while he had been drowning in silent longing, she had seen him.

His mouth opened, but for a long, agonizing moment, nothing came out. His brain had simply… stopped.

When he finally found his voice, it was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Luna. That means… more than you know."

More than she could ever know.

Her smile deepened, a slow, radiant thing, as if she held a secret the rest of the world had yet to uncover. Her eyes shimmered with that familiar, faraway light—the one that made it seem as though she could see beyond what was in front of her, beyond time itself, into something richer, something more infinite. It was the same look that had always left him breathless at Hogwarts, the same quiet promise of adventure, of mystery, of a world just beyond the veil of the ordinary.

They sipped their tea, the warmth seeping into their fingers, the fragrant steam curling lazily between them like a whispered invitation to something unknown. The initial awkwardness—the hesitation, the weight of unspoken emotions—began to soften, dissolving into something gentler. It wasn't quite familiarity, not yet, but it was something close. Something delicate and waiting, like the first hesitant brush of a fingertip against another, like the breath before a kiss.

The silence between them was not empty but full—full of unspoken words, of cautious hope, of the shifting weight of a future neither of them had expected. The soft crackle of the fireplace, the occasional flutter of wings from the magical creatures nestled in hidden corners, the rhythmic tapping of rain against the window—it all wove together into the quiet symphony of a moment neither of them would soon forget.

In the cozy, enchanted embrace of her cottage, surrounded by the soft hum of unseen magic, a new chapter began to unfold. Not forced, not dictated by the ink of Ministry law, but something organic, something whispered by fate itself. Perhaps it had always been meant to happen this way. Perhaps the universe had been moving them toward this moment all along. And perhaps, just perhaps, what had started as an obligation would become something beautifully, breathtakingly unexpected.

~~~~~~

A few days later, Luna found herself lost in thought, her mind weaving intricate patterns of uncertainty and curiosity about the life that awaited her. The gentle rustling of the trees outside her cottage did little to quiet the whirlwind of emotions brewing within her. She had always believed in the universe's mysterious ways, but even she had to admit—being bound to Theodore Nott was an unexpected twist in her story.

Just as she reached for her tea, a sudden flurry of movement filled the room. Five magnificent owls swept gracefully through her open window, their feathers glistening in the golden afternoon light. Each one carried an enormous bouquet—moonflowers, forget-me-nots, foxgloves, and starflowers—not bundled together in a single arrangement, but in separate, lavish displays, as though each bloom had been carefully chosen to be admired in its full glory.

Luna's breath hitched at the sheer beauty before her. The scent of the blossoms filled the air, delicate and intoxicating, wrapping around her like an embrace from the universe itself. Her fingers traced over the velvety petals as the final owl, slightly smaller but just as regal, fluttered down to the table, extending its leg with a single envelope attached.

She untied the parchment with gentle hands, her curiosity piqued. The familiar script was careful, slightly slanted, as if written with great thought but underlying hesitation.

Dearest Luna,

I would like to invite you to dinner tomorrow evening at the Malfoy Penthouse. It will be a casual gathering among friends, an opportunity to enjoy good food and discuss how everyone feels about… well, the match.

In attendance will be:

Hermione Granger

Pansy Parkinson & Neville Longbottom

Ginny Weasley & Blaise Zabini

I hope you'll find the time to join us.

P.S.: Okay, so here's the thing—I had absolutely no idea what your favorite flower was. None. And I thought, you know, just asking would probably be the smart, sensible thing to do, but that felt a bit dull, and I figured you'd already be getting a hundred versions of "hello Luna, would you mind terribly if I inquired about your floral preferences?" so instead, I did what any completely rational person would do: I took a rather embarrassing detour past your garden (not in a weird way, I promise), stared at your flower beds for longer than is socially acceptable, and wrote down the names of everything I saw that looked particularly well cared for. Then, because I am apparently very bad at making decisions, I ended up getting all of them.

So… if any of these are actually your least favorite flowers and I've unknowingly sent you a bouquet of deep personal disappointments, please tell me, and I will fix it immediately. Or I could send more? Or fewer? Or something else entirely? Just say the word.

Yours for an eternity (or at least for as long as it takes me to figure out what flowers you actually like),

Theodore

Luna let out a soft, melodic laugh, shaking her head as she reread the letter. Theodore Nott—composed, enigmatic, ever-so-serious Theodore—was actually flustered. It was a delightful revelation, one she hadn't expected, and yet, it sent a pleasant warmth curling through her chest. There was something endearing about his nervous rambling, about the way he seemed determined—desperate, even—to get this right.

She traced a finger over the parchment, smiling to herself. For all the Ministry's meddling, for all the ways this arrangement could have felt like a prison, Theodore had somehow managed to make it feel... sweet.

It was quite funny, really. The way this usually unshakable man was unraveling over something as simple as flowers.

Still grinning, she dipped her quill into the inkwell, the faint scent of moonflowers lingering in the air as she penned her reply.

Dear Theodore,

Thank you so much for the gorgeous flowers. One of them is indeed my favorite.

I am available tomorrow evening, so you can pick me up at six, maybe?

Love,

Luna

She had barely sealed the envelope when, mere seconds later, another owl swooped through her window, nearly knocking over her tea in its urgency. With a startled blink, she untied the hastily scrawled reply.

WHICH ONE?!

She barely had time to process the frantic demand before another owl—this one looking rather put-upon—flapped inside, dropping an additional note onto her lap.

I didn't mean to shout. Or to be weird. I just... I just want to make you happy.

Love,

Theodore

Luna stared at the parchment, her lips twitching in amusement. Oh, Theodore.

There was something so utterly charming about his panic, about his absolute determination to please her, that she couldn't help but be touched.

Setting her quill to fresh parchment, she carefully crafted her next response, making sure to draw out the anticipation just a little longer. After all, if he was going to be this adorable about it, she might as well have a little fun.

~~~~~~

They arrived at the Malfoy Penthouse in central London just as the last light of dusk cast long golden shadows over the gleaming skyline. The building itself was an architectural masterpiece, all sleek glass and opulence, an unmistakable testament to old money and impeccable taste.

The moment they stepped into the grand foyer, Theodore felt an immediate tension coil in his muscles. It wasn't nerves—he didn't do nerves—it was something darker, more primal. Protective. Possessive. His wife was walking beside him, looking like she had just stepped out of a myth, like some celestial being draped in a flowing gown that whispered against the marble floors. She was utterly breathtaking, and he knew it.

More importantly, Malfoy knew it.

And that was already a problem.

The blonde was waiting for them in the grand sitting room, an effortless smirk playing on his lips as he appraised Luna.

"Good evening, Lovegood," Draco greeted smoothly, his gaze lingering just a second too long before he added with an appreciative tilt of his head, "You look beautiful."

Theo froze.

No.

No, no, no, no, no.

He turned his head very slowly, the kind of deliberate, measured motion that spoke of barely contained rage. His dark eyes locked onto Draco like a sniper sighting his target.

If Malfoy so much as breathed wrong in Luna's direction, he was going to die tonight. That wasn't a threat. That was an indisputable, irrefutable fact.

Because Theo had seen men look at Luna before—had watched as they admired her with varying degrees of subtlety—but never had it been someone with access to her. Never had it been someone who could, theoretically, be in her orbit in ways Theo couldn't control.

And that was unacceptable.

Draco, utterly oblivious (or perhaps entirely aware and simply enjoying the game), took an infuriating step closer. Before Theo could react—before he could kill Malfoy —Draco leaned in, pressing a kiss to Luna's cheek in a way that could almost be considered polite.

Almost.

Theo felt his entire soul leave his body.

He could hear the blood roaring in his ears, could feel the sheer effort it took to remain standing and not launch himself at his oldest and now soon-to-be-dead friend.

Luna, completely unfazed, smiled warmly as Draco handed her a bouquet of foxgloves, their bell-shaped petals a vivid purple under the golden glow of the chandelier.

"Thank you, Draco," she said, bringing the flowers to her nose with a soft inhale. "They're my favorite."

Theo blinked.

Foxgloves?

His gaze snapped between Luna and the bouquet, then back to Luna. Then, ever so slowly, his head turned to Draco.

Malfoy smirked.

Theo's hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Oh, it was my pleasure," Draco continued, ever the gracious host. "Please, have a seat."

No.

No, no, no.

Malfoy was not walking out of this penthouse tonight.

Theo could already see the headlines in tomorrow's Daily Prophet.

"Draco Malfoy, Heir to the Malfoy Fortune, Found Mysteriously Dead—Husband of Luna Nott Prime Suspect."

And the Ministry? They would understand. In fact, they might even applaud him.

Luna, the radiant, infuriating, oblivious creature that she was, simply took a seat, her expression as serene as ever. Meanwhile, Theo could barely see straight through the rage-induced murder fantasies flashing through his mind.

Draco, not done ruining Theo's entire existence, turned to him with a look of amused disappointment.

"What?" he drawled, tilting his head. "Did you really think her favorite flowers were moonflowers just because her name is Luna?"

The words hit Theo with the force of an Unforgivable.

His jaw clenched. His eye twitched.

The audacity of this man.

"How," Theo began, voice dangerously low, "do you know what my wife's favorite anything is?" His fingers twitched at his side, already considering which spell would send Malfoy through the nearest fucking window.

Draco, utterly unbothered by the impending homicide hovering between them, rolled his eyes. "Relax, loverboy," he said with an infuriating smirk.

Theo twitched again. This night was going to end in blood.

By the time all of their friends had arrived and settled in for the evening, Theo was utterly, irreversibly, catastrophically lost in Luna's eyes. He wasn't just captivated—he was gone, floating somewhere beneath the earth while simultaneously soaring through the cosmos because, in truth, Luna Lovegood was the universe. She was not merely a person or a presence—she was an entire celestial body, pulling him into her orbit with a gravitational force stronger than anything magic could conjure.

Everything else had faded into the background—the chatter, the clinking of glasses, even Pansy's obnoxious cackling from across the room. Nothing mattered except the way Luna's lips curved ever so slightly as she listened to someone speak, the way her fingers idly traced the rim of her teacup, the way strands of her silver-blonde hair caught the ambient light and made her look otherworldly.

He was drowning in her, in this effortless, inexplicable connection that had tethered them together long before the Ministry had ever drawn up their ridiculous lists. And he wasn't the only one who had noticed.

Across the room, both Pansy and Hermione had been watching them, the two of them sharing occasional looks as if trying to decipher what, exactly, was happening between him and Luna. They were supposed to be the odd couple, the mismatched pair forced together by bureaucratic nonsense. And yet, somehow, they weren't.

Somehow, they were the most natural pair in the entire room.

And wasn't that the grandest irony of them all?

Hermione and Draco—forever wrapped up in their complex, intellectual tug-of-war. Ginny and Blaise—like two comets crashing into each other at full velocity, all fire and passion and reckless abandon. Neville and Pansy—perhaps the most surprising pairing of all, built on years of slow-burning tension and begrudging admiration turned devotion.

And then there was him and Luna.

Unlike the rest, there was no clashing, no dramatic tension, no sharp edges to their dynamic. Their energy simply existed together—fluid and effortless, like two puzzle pieces clicking into place, as though they had been designed to fit. There was no awkwardness, no fumbling attempts to force something that wasn't there. Because it was there, and it always had been.

Theo knew it, just as he knew that his lungs required air or that the earth turned beneath them.

But what set them apart—what truly separated them from the rest of these poor, deluded fools—wasn't just the quiet rightness of it all.

No.

It was the fact that while these other couples—these mere mortals—had been evaluated and matched with compatibility scores of 99%, 98%, even 95%, he knew better.

Because unlike them, he had bribed the Ministry. Obviously .

And obviously, he had ensured that he and Luna were given the results that truly reflected what he already knew in his soul to be true.

One hundred and five percent.

They were literally—factually—above the rest.

His lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he stole another glance at Luna, his fingers itching to reach across the table, to touch her in some small way. The Ministry could pretend that anyone else in this room had been placed together based on some scientific magical core evaluation, but he knew the truth.

He and Luna were divinely engineered.

The only couple in existence with 105% compatibility.

The most powerful, natural, and undeniably superior match in the entire wizarding world.

And if any of these fools so much as breathed in disagreement, he would happily let them die in their lesser 98% unions.

~~~~~~

Standing in a Ministry office—of all places—to be forcefully wed, he should have been consumed by resentment. Yet, instead, his heart swelled with an emotion he couldn't quite name. Before him stood his beautiful princess, adorned in a gown that captured the very essence of the forest. The dress, a breathtaking tapestry of green and gold, flowed around her like leaves dancing in a gentle breeze. She appeared as if she had stepped out of a fairy tale, a divine gift from the gods, radiating a light that made the sterile surroundings fade into oblivion.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from her. Luna Lovegood, the woman he had secretly adored for years, appeared even more ethereal than he had ever dared to imagine. Her serene smile and the effortless grace with which she moved made his heart ache with a bittersweet longing. He knew he should be grappling with the absurdity of being forced into marriage by the Ministry, but all he could focus on was her.

He had made a concerted effort to look his best for this surreal occasion. His tailored robes fit him perfectly, accentuating his lean frame and lending him a distinguished air. Once the quiet observer who blended into the background, today he stood tall and confident. Yet, if she noticed the transformation, she gave no indication; her dreamy eyes were fixed on some distant wonder that only she could perceive.

As the official began the ceremony, reading from the parchment in a monotonous tone, his mind drifted back to their days at Hogwarts. He recalled the countless moments he had watched her from a distance, her unique presence illuminating even the darkest corners of the castle. He had kept his feelings buried, fearful that voicing them would invite someone else to claim her heart.

Yet here they stood, bound together in a cold, impersonal office by the whims of the Ministry. He should have felt trapped, but instead, an unexpected sense of hope blossomed within him. Perhaps this twist of fate was the universe's way of offering him a chance he had never dared to imagine.

As the ceremony unfolded, he stole another glance at her. Their eyes met, and she smiled—a warm, genuine smile that sent his heart racing. In that fleeting moment, the sterile confines of the Ministry office faded away, leaving only the two of them, poised on the brink of something new and beautiful.

He took a deep breath, a smile breaking across his face as his resolve solidified. Regardless of the circumstances that had brought them here, he was determined to seize this opportunity. After all, he was finally standing next to his enchanting princess, and for the first time, he allowed himself to entertain the possibility that this forced union could blossom into the fairy tale he had long dared to dream of.

~~~~~~

As they stepped out of the Ministry office, the weight of their new reality settled between them, thick and unspoken. The world around them remained the same—the hum of London's streets, the distant chatter of Ministry officials heading home, the crisp evening air wrapping around them—but everything had changed. An invisible tether now bound them together, something far more powerful than ink on parchment.

The journey to Nott Manor stretched before them, each moment filled with a tense, electric silence. He sat beside her in the carriage, acutely aware of her every breath, every shift of fabric, every soft rustle as she adjusted the folds of her gown. His heart pounded, his palms damp against his trousers, and for the first time in his life, Theodore Nott felt completely unprepared.

The manor loomed in the distance, its sprawling silhouette standing stark against the twilight sky. Towering trees lined the path, their gnarled branches swaying as if whispering ancient secrets to the wind. It was a breathtaking estate, grand and unyielding, its history woven into the very stones of its foundation. Yet, despite its magnificence, it had never felt like a home to him—only a relic of the past, a burden of legacy. And now, for the first time, he wondered if she would see it differently.

When they arrived, a flurry of house-elves rushed forward, their small hands deftly collecting their belongings before disappearing into the depths of the manor. He took a steadying breath, glancing at her as he reached for the heavy wooden doors. They groaned under his touch, swinging open to reveal the cavernous entryway beyond. The soft glow of enchanted chandeliers bathed the space in warm, golden light, flickering off the polished marble floors. Portraits of his ancestors lined the walls, their painted expressions eternally watchful, as if silently assessing the newest member of the household.

The quiet stretched between them as they stepped inside, the air thick with history and expectation. Each footstep echoed, bouncing off the towering ceilings and the ornate moldings that traced them. He risked a glance at her, expecting unease or hesitation, but instead, she walked with quiet curiosity, her gaze sweeping over the space as though taking in a piece of art. She didn't shrink under the manor's weight; she absorbed it, let it surround her without letting it consume her.

"Welcome to our home," he said, the words hesitant, foreign on his tongue.

She turned to him then, her eyes bright with something he couldn't quite name, her lips curving into the softest of smiles. "It's beautiful, Theo. So full of history."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, something in her voice easing the tension that had wound so tightly in his chest. "Just like us, I suppose," he replied, attempting a levity he wasn't sure he felt.

As they walked further in, past corridors lined with rich, dark wood and rooms filled with century-old tapestries, he realized how little he had ever truly seen of this place. It had always been his father's house, a monument to a bloodline that valued power over warmth. But now, with her beside him, he wondered if it could be something else.

Their path led them to a grand sitting room, where a fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow casting flickering shadows across the room. Plush sofas, rarely used, beckoned them forward, and for the first time that evening, he felt the exhaustion creeping into his bones. He gestured for her to sit, watching as she settled into the cushions with the same ease she had walked through his home. He sank into the seat beside her, their silence stretching once more, but this time, it was not heavy—it was expectant.

She broke it first, her voice gentle. "Are you okay?"

He let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know. It feels surreal." He turned to look at her, searching her face for some indication of what she was feeling. "I never thought I'd be here, married to you."

She tilted her head slightly, considering him before responding. "Neither did I," she admitted, and for a brief moment, a pang of something sharp twisted in his chest. But then, her expression softened. "But maybe this is an opportunity for us to create something special. Together."

Something about the way she said it—the quiet conviction in her voice, the steady certainty in her gaze—unraveled him. She wasn't here to merely endure this marriage; she was here to shape it, to mold it into something neither of them had expected.

His heart swelled, his fingers twitching with the sudden impulse to reach for hers. He resisted, afraid of breaking the moment, but the thought lingered.

Perhaps this wasn't just a bureaucratic obligation. Perhaps this was the start of something far greater than either of them had anticipated.

As their tentative smiles lingered between them, the towering walls of Nott Manor, once an imposing reminder of obligation and history, seemed to soften into something less daunting—less of a cold estate and more of an untouched canvas, waiting for the brushstrokes of their new life together. It was vast and unfamiliar, but suddenly, it no longer felt like something they had to navigate alone. There was potential in the air, unspoken but palpable, humming between them with every glance, every moment of quiet understanding.

"I've prepared separate wings for us," he said carefully, his voice steady but laced with the undercurrent of nerves he couldn't quite suppress. He had rehearsed this conversation in his head, convinced that this was the most respectful course of action, the one that would grant her comfort and autonomy. "I thought it might be more comfortable that way."

She paused mid-step, her delicate brow furrowing ever so slightly as she absorbed his words. A flicker of confusion crossed her face, her head tilting in that way she did when considering something deeply. Finally, her inquisitive gaze found his, searching, unraveling, as if peering into the very heart of his intentions. "Separate wings?" she echoed, the words tasting foreign on her tongue.

He swallowed, suddenly second-guessing himself. "Yes," he confirmed, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "I didn't want to presume anything… I thought you might prefer some space."

She regarded him for a long moment, her fingers lightly brushing the hem of her dress as she considered her response. "I find it odd to be separated from each other," she mused, her voice soft, thoughtful. "We are married now, after all. Shouldn't we at least be in the same wing of the house?"

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He had been so focused on making sure he gave her distance—on ensuring that she didn't feel trapped, that she had room to breathe in this new arrangement—that it had never occurred to him that she might not want the same.

"You'd prefer to stay in the same wing?" he asked cautiously, the knot in his stomach loosening just slightly, making space for something dangerously close to hope.

Her smile was gentle, warm, carrying none of the discomfort or apprehension he had feared. "Yes, Theodore," she said simply, as if it had been obvious all along. "I think it would be lovely to be close to one another. We're beginning a new life together, and it feels right to share our space, even if only to get to know each other better."

He exhaled slowly, relief settling into his bones, pushing away the lingering doubt that had clawed at him since the ceremony. He hadn't expected her openness, hadn't dared to hope that she would view this arrangement as something more than an obligation. And yet, she stood before him, offering not just her acceptance but something that felt suspiciously like trust.

"Then let's stay together," he said, the words feeling right in a way he hadn't anticipated. "I'd like that very much."

A spark of something unspoken flickered in her eyes—approval, perhaps, or maybe just a quiet understanding that neither of them had to do this alone. The edges of her smile softened as she nodded, and for the first time, the weight of expectation did not feel so suffocating.

"Let's find a part of the house that we can both call home," she suggested, and something in her voice—something steady and assured—made him believe that, despite the circumstances, this could be the beginning of something unexpected.

Side by side, they wandered through the vast halls, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors. He led her past grand staircases and gilded archways, past looming portraits that seemed to watch with muted curiosity, toward a section of the house that he had always found more welcoming than the rest. This part of the manor, though still elegant, lacked the suffocating grandeur of the main halls; it was bright, airy, kissed by the glow of the setting sun filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows.

He led her through a pair of doors, revealing a suite of interconnected rooms, intimate yet spacious, with a sitting area warmed by a crackling fireplace and a set of adjoining chambers that could be their own while still being just a breath away from one another.

"This should be suitable," he said, watching her carefully, noting the way her fingers trailed over the carved wood of a nearby chair, the way her gaze flickered toward the windows that overlooked the sprawling gardens beyond. "We can each have our own space while still being close enough to share our days together."

A slow, approving smile spread across her lips, her entire presence brightening as if she had already begun to make this place her own. "This is perfect, Theodore," she said, her voice filled with quiet sincerity. "Thank you for taking my feelings into account."

A rush of warmth spread through him at her words, at the soft way she said his name, at the knowledge that—at least in this moment—he had done something right.

His chest felt lighter, as though the uncertainty that had settled there for weeks had begun to loosen its hold. Perhaps this wasn't merely an arrangement to be endured. Perhaps, despite everything, they could carve something real from the circumstances thrust upon them.

As they stood together in their new wing of the manor, the fire casting golden light around them, he realized something he had never expected.

For the first time in his life, the manor felt like home.

~~~~~~

Every time he returned to Nott Manor, he was met with a sight that never failed to warm him in a way he hadn't thought possible. No matter how late the hour, no matter how quiet the halls, she was always there—standing at the threshold of her door, bathed in the soft glow of the candlelight, her serene smile waiting just for him. It had started as a small thing, barely noticeable at first, but soon it became a constant. A certainty. A tether in the whirlwind of his chaotic existence.

"Goodnight, Theodore," she would say softly, her voice light and lilting, as if she were speaking a secret only meant for him.

At first, it had surprised him. He had expected her to keep to herself, to remain in the ethereal, untouchable world she always seemed to inhabit. He had braced himself for indifference or detachment. But she wasn't indifferent. She was here, waiting for him. And every night, when he returned home, he found himself looking for her—anticipating the way she'd greet him, as though his presence mattered.

It became a ritual he never wanted to admit he had come to need.

One particularly grueling night, after hours spent dealing with men he would rather never see again, he returned to the manor feeling like a shell of himself. His mind was fogged with exhaustion, his body aching from the tension of the day. He had spent the entire evening preparing himself to retreat into solitude, to collapse into his room and shut out the world.

But as he stepped through the corridors toward their wing, she was there. As always. A beacon in the dim candlelight, a quiet, unwavering presence that soothed something raw inside of him.

"Goodnight, Theodore," she greeted, her voice like a balm against the frayed edges of his mind.

He exhaled, something inside him unclenching. "Goodnight, Luna," he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion, yet filled with something he couldn't quite name.

He lingered for a second longer than usual, torn between wanting to say more and fearing he might ruin the moment. He wanted to tell her that this—her presence, her patience, her willingness to stand there night after night—meant something. That it had become one of the few things in his life that felt real. But the words tangled in his throat, so instead, he simply smiled—a small, quiet thing—and hoped she understood.

As he closed the door behind him, the weight of the day lifted ever so slightly. Her simple gesture, her unwavering presence, became an anchor in a life that had always felt unmoored.

Each night, with every soft-spoken goodnight, something unspoken settled between them, something steady, something binding. It was a thread—thin, delicate, but growing stronger with each passing moment. He didn't know what to make of it, only that he found himself longing for it more than he should.

And soon, it wasn't just the nights.

The rhythm of their days together at Nott Manor began to shift, turning into something neither of them had expected. She was always there—during meals, in the library, in the garden. And he found himself watching her more than he should.

It wasn't intentional. He wasn't a fool; he knew what obsession looked like, and this wasn't that. It was just... curiosity.

She fascinated him.

He had always been drawn to her, even back at Hogwarts, though he had never allowed himself to dwell on it. But here, now, in the intimacy of shared space, he saw her in ways he never had before.

At meals, he found himself stealing glances, captivated by the way she carried herself, the way her delicate fingers curled around the edge of her teacup, the way her gaze remained distant, as if she were perpetually looking beyond the confines of reality. And yet, she was present. Fully, entirely present in a way that made him feel as though he were the only thing in the world when she looked at him.

Creep.

It wasn't his fault she moved like something out of a dream, like Merlin himself had sculpted her from the stars and placed her here, in the halls of Nott Manor, just to drive him insane.

One evening, as they sat together in the library—she engrossed in a book, he pretending to read—he found himself watching her again. The fire cast a golden glow against her skin, highlighting the delicate curve of her jaw, the soft parting of her lips as she concentrated. There was something entrancing about her stillness, the way she seemed so at ease in the quiet, as if she could sit here for hours, untouched by the weight of the world.

Then, without warning, she looked up.

Caught.

He barely had time to school his expression before she smiled, and that was far worse. It was a knowing smile, one that told him she had caught him looking before, one that said she had simply chosen to let it slide.

"What are you thinking about, Theodore?" she asked, breaking the silence.

For once in his life, words failed him.

He swallowed, his throat dry, caught between retreating and telling the truth. "Just… how peaceful you look," he admitted, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them.

Her smile softened, something fond in the way she regarded him. "I'm glad you think so. Peace is important, don't you think?"

He nodded, feeling something shift inside him. "Yes," he said, his voice quieter this time. "It is."

And for the first time in a long while, he realized he wasn't just saying it.

He meant it.

~~~~~~

Life at Nott Manor had settled into a quiet rhythm, a steady, predictable flow of days and nights that might have seemed peaceful to an outsider. But for him, it was anything but ordinary. Every moment spent in her presence was a lesson in restraint, every glance exchanged between them a test of willpower. His fascination with her, once a quiet hum in the back of his mind, had become a relentless, aching need—a longing so deep that it clawed at his insides with every passing day. He wanted more. More than stolen glances, more than polite exchanges, more than the unspoken understanding that lingered between them like a ghost. He wanted to reach out, to lace his fingers through hers, to feel her warmth pressed against him, to finally give voice to the emotions that had taken root within him and refused to let go.

Every time he returned from a mission, he felt himself unraveling. The hardened facade he had built—the cold efficiency of a man who had long since learned how to bury his emotions—began to crumble the moment he stepped inside the manor. The outside world saw a composed, ruthless man, but here, in the sanctuary of his home, in the presence of her, he was left exposed. The careful control he wielded like a weapon faltered beneath the weight of his desire. And it was maddening. It was unbearable. It was intoxicating.

How could a single smile disarm him so thoroughly? How could one quiet goodnight leave him tossing and turning for hours, wrestling with the impossible urge to knock on her door, to bridge the gap between them? He would often lie awake, staring at the ceiling, lost in the endless possibilities of what could be. What would it be like to hold her close? To press his lips to hers, to feel her melt into him, to hear her whisper his name not out of obligation, but out of want? The thought alone made his pulse pound, made his breath hitch in his throat.

And yet, he did nothing.

Because the fear of losing even this—the delicate, unspoken connection they had built—kept him frozen. He couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk pushing too far, saying too much, only to find that she did not feel the same. The thought of watching her retreat from him, of seeing wariness replace the warmth in her eyes, was more than he could bear.

One evening, after a particularly grueling mission—one that had left his body aching and his mind frayed at the edges—he returned home, weary down to his very bones. His hands were still stained with remnants of the night, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, but all of it faded the moment he stepped through the doors of the manor.

Because she was there.

Always, always there, waiting for him.

Standing at the entrance to her wing, bathed in the dim candlelight, she looked like something out of a dream. Ethereal and unshaken, untouched by the weight of the world he carried on his shoulders. And yet, she saw him—truly saw him—in a way that made his breath catch.

"Goodnight, Theodore," she said softly, her voice like a whispered lullaby, wrapping around him and easing the tension that had gripped him all day.

"Goodnight, Luna," he replied, and he hated the way his voice wavered, how easily she unraveled him with just a few simple words.

As he moved past her, his hand brushed against hers—just barely, just the ghost of a touch—but it sent a jolt of electricity racing up his spine. His pulse thundered in his ears, and before he could stop himself, he hesitated, turning to meet her gaze.

Those wide, knowing eyes of hers studied him with quiet curiosity, unearthing every secret he had spent years trying to bury.

"Are you alright, Theodore?" she asked, her tone filled with a tenderness he wasn't sure he deserved.

He swallowed hard, struggling to form words when all he wanted to do was pull her against him and bury his face in her hair. "Yes," he forced out, his throat dry. "I'm fine. Just tired."

She didn't look convinced. She held his gaze for a long, lingering moment, as if she were peeling away the layers of his carefully constructed walls, searching for the truth beneath. And maybe, just maybe, she found it.

"Rest well," she murmured, her voice carrying something more than just a simple farewell.

Something that made his heart clench.

He nodded stiffly, turning away before he could make a mistake—before he could let his hands linger, before he could let his body betray him, before he could do something stupid like tell her how badly he wanted her.

The moment he shut the door to his room, he let out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair as he fought to steady himself.

It was too much.

The weight of wanting her. The exhaustion from holding it all in.

His body burned with the frustration of it, every muscle tense, every nerve alight with the need he had been suppressing for far too long.

And so, in the solitude of his shower, beneath the scalding spray of water, he did the only thing he could do.

He wanked off at the shower obviously.  

~~~~~~

Every day spent near her was both a blessing and a quiet torment. He had never known restraint like this—never felt such a powerful, all-consuming need for something just out of reach. The desire to hold her, to whisper all the words that burned in his throat, to show her just how deeply he cared, clawed at him with relentless intensity. And yet, he did nothing. He swallowed it down, buried it beneath stolen glances and fleeting touches, terrified of moving too fast, of saying too much, of shattering the delicate balance they had built.

He had never feared failure before. In war, in diplomacy, in survival—he was calculated, decisive, never second-guessing himself. But with her? He found himself hesitating at every turn. The idea of losing the fragile closeness they had formed was enough to paralyze him. He told himself that patience was key, that he would wait for the perfect moment, the perfect sign that she wanted this as much as he did.

But the waiting was unbearable.

At night, lying in the vast emptiness of his bed, he would replay every interaction, every accidental brush of their hands, every lingering glance she sent his way. Did she feel it too? Was there a chance—any chance at all—that she was waiting for him to take the first step?

He knew he couldn't continue like this forever, trapped in this endless cycle of longing and restraint. He had to bridge the distance, find a way to tell her—no, show her—what she meant to him. But how could he, when just being in her presence made him forget how to breathe?

That night, as he stared at the ceiling, his mind raced with possibilities. He would take it slow. He would cherish every moment, every small piece of her she was willing to give, until he knew—without a doubt—that she was ready. And maybe, just maybe, she would come to love him the way he loved her. The thought alone filled him with a flickering hope, a small, fragile light against the vast uncertainty in his heart.

But no amount of patience could change the fact that he was still a man—a man with desires and inexperience that gnawed at him in equal measure. He had never been with anyone before, had never even let himself get close. The irony of it all was almost laughable: a man who had taken lives with ease, who had faced death without flinching, was utterly petrified of intimacy.

And yet, his need for her only grew stronger with every passing day.

One afternoon, he found her in the kitchen, bathed in the golden light streaming through the windows. The scent of vanilla and honey filled the air as she worked, her delicate hands dusted with flour, a smear of it on her cheek where she had absentmindedly brushed her hair away. She looked utterly radiant—like something soft and untouchable, a dream made flesh.

He stood in the doorway, unmoving, watching her with something close to reverence. It had to be now. He couldn't keep waiting, couldn't keep drowning in his own silence. He had to say something, had to do something, or the weight of his longing would crush him completely.

Taking a deep breath, he forced his feet forward, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. "My moon," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

She turned, those wide, knowing eyes locking onto his, pinning him in place.

He swallowed hard. "I... I would like to kiss you. If you would allow me."

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, clumsy and raw, unfiltered by the careful control he usually wielded. His pulse roared in his ears as he watched her expression shift—surprise, amusement, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. He held his breath, bracing for rejection, for laughter, for anything that might confirm he had just made the worst mistake of his life.

And then—she smiled.

A slow, breathtaking smile that softened every sharp edge inside him.

"Alright, Theodore," she said simply, as if this had always been inevitable.

His body moved before his mind could catch up, closing the distance between them in careful, reverent steps. His fingers trembled as he reached up, brushing a stray curl behind her ear, his touch feather-light.

Then, finally, finally, he leaned in.

The moment their lips met, something inside him unraveled.

The kiss was tentative at first, a mere brush of mouths, but it sent a shudder through him so profound that he thought he might collapse. He had imagined this moment so many times, had dreamt of it with a desperation that bordered on madness, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of her. She was warmth and softness and something inexplicably perfect, something that stole the breath from his lungs and set his world aflame.

She didn't pull away. Instead, she melted into him, her fingers grazing his jaw, her lips parting ever so slightly in silent invitation. A groan rumbled low in his throat, his hands finding her waist, drawing her closer, deepening the kiss until he was drowning in her, in the sweetness of her, in the sheer impossibility of this moment actually being real.

When they finally broke apart, he could hardly breathe.

She looked up at him, her gaze steady, her cheeks flushed in a way that made his chest ache. "Thank you," he whispered hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion.

A quiet laugh escaped her, full of warmth and something that felt dangerously close to affection. "I've been waiting for you to make a move, Theodore. I'm glad you finally did."

His entire body tensed at her words, a mix of disbelief and elation washing over him in waves. Had she wanted this all along? Had he wasted so much time agonizing over something that had already been his for the taking?

He could only stare at her, his heart a wild, reckless drumbeat against his ribs.

"I—" he started, but the words failed him. Instead, he did the only thing he could do—he kissed her again.

This time, there was no hesitation.

And as they stood there, bathed in golden light and the scent of freshly baked biscuits, he knew—without a doubt—that he was hers.

Completely. Irrevocably.