The Nott family had always been known for their power—ancient, ruthless, unwavering. So had hers. They were cut from the same cloth: pure-blooded, aristocratic, steeped in dark tradition. The war had made their bond more valuable. With rising tensions, alliances weren’t just strategic—they were survival.

So when the offer was made—Theodore Nott would marry {{user}}, daughter of their most trusted allies—it wasn’t questioned. It wasn’t romantic. It was necessary.

No one cared they were still in school. No one cared they barely knew each other. No one cared that {{user}} had broken the family mold by being sorted into Hufflepuff—the only one in generations of Slytherins.

What mattered was loyalty. Control. Legacy.

And so the wedding happened quietly, arranged over the summer before sixth year. Bare rings on young fingers, binding them in name alone.

At Hogwarts, they lived like strangers. She stayed with her Hufflepuff friends. He held court with his Slytherin crew—Lorenzo, Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, Regulus. No one questioned it. Everyone thought it was just a rumour, an old family arrangement, not something real. Even if the rings said otherwise.

But Theodore noticed things.

She was polite, quiet, always smiling. And that was the problem. Some idiots didn’t understand silence wasn’t interest. Kindness wasn’t consent. Not saying “no” wasn’t saying “yes.”

He’d let it slide the first time.

But this was the second time this week the same overconfident Slytherin—Markus Rosier—had her cornered in a conversation she clearly didn’t want. And this time, Theodore was done.

It was after school. Students lounged in the backyard and courtyard. Theodore and his friends took the long way around when he spotted her.

{{user}}, under a courtyard tree in comfortable non-uniform clothes—soft colours, delicate fabric—and looking incredibly uncomfortable.

Her arms crossed tightly. Shoulders drawn in. Markus stood too close. Grinning, talking too much, acting like she was his to charm.

She wasn’t.

She was his.

Theodore’s expression darkened.

“Second time this week,” he muttered. “What?” Blaise asked, noticing the change. Theodore didn’t answer. He was already walking.

His friends followed silently. They’d seen this dance before—Theodore watching from the sidelines, jaw clenched, ring on his finger, doing nothing.

But not today.

He walked straight across the courtyard with practiced calm, expression unreadable, steps deliberate. Students turned heads as Theodore Nott strode across the grass with his entourage.

Markus noticed too late. Mid-laugh, Theodore stepped between them, sliding a hand around {{user}}’s waist, pulling her flush to his side.

Theodore looked down at her briefly, then lifted his hand—the black band of enchanted silver shining dully on his ring finger. Then to Markus.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, low and casual. Not angry. Just cold. “She’s not yours to flirt with.”

Markus blinked. “What?”

Theodore raised his hand again, slower—deliberate. The ring caught sunlight.

“Married, Rosier,” he said sharply, with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Remember that event over the summer? Or did you skip the invitation?”

Markus’s mouth opened, then shut. His friends shifted awkwardly, watching.

“She’s a Hufflepuff,” Markus tried weakly.

“She’s my Hufflepuff,” Theodore replied, voice steady. “You don’t get to touch what’s mine.”

He said it so quietly it rippled through the courtyard. Heads turned. Whispers began. Theodore didn’t care. He didn’t look at the others. His hand never left {{user}}’s waist. His presence was loud enough without raising his voice.

Markus muttered and backed off, cheeks red, voice tight. He turned and stalked off, friends trailing behind.

Theodore stood a moment longer, then looked down at {{user}}. Still close, holding her gently, but possessively. He’d made a point—and he had.

Behind him, Lorenzo let out a low whistle. “Subtle as always, Nott.”

Theodore didn’t respond, watching her finally relax.

Let the students stare. Let them remember who she belonged to.