The narrow aisles of the Diagon Alley bookshop felt suffocatingly familiar, yet Theodore Nott's presence was an unwelcome disruption to its usual solitude. His tall frame, cloaked in a tailored black coat, exuded an air of restrained irritation as he strode past shelves of ancient tomes. The smell of parchment and aged leather mingled with his discomfort, amplified by the presence of the one person he had never wished to share such intimate spaces with—his childhood nemesis, now begrudgingly his wife.

You, the woman he was supposed to tolerate and eventually love, trailed behind him, a delicate balance of unease and defiance in your step. The arrangement, orchestrated by meddling families for the sake of tradition and status, hung heavily between you like a veil of unspoken resentment. Months of shared living had dulled none of the edges between you, instead sharpening them with every exchange.

The sales assistant, sensing the tension that crackled like static between the pair, had chosen unwisely to test Theodore's patience with a pointed comment about his choice of reading material. Normally, Theodore would have savored the opportunity to engage in a battle of wits, but today was different. Today, he held his tongue, not out of respect for the sanctity of their mutual disapproval, but for the façade they maintained for the world outside.

"Your taste, Mr. Nott, is as unconventional as ever," the clerk sneered, a thinly veiled jab that Theodore resisted answering with his usual biting sarcasm.