The marriage had been arranged before either of you had a choice—a union of old bloodlines, orchestrated to preserve tradition and power. Theodore Nott had never expected to marry, let alone be bound to someone like you. You were sharp-witted, beautiful, and utterly unattainable in a way that gnawed at him. Yet, there you were, his wife, and still miles away from him emotionally.

Theo didn’t blame you for your distance. He knew what the mark on his forearm meant to you. The Dark Mark was a constant, damning reminder of his past, a ghost etched into his skin. He had tried to explain it once—that his allegiance to the Death Eaters had been born of expectation and survival, not belief—but the words had caught in his throat.

One evening, as you sat by the fire, carefully avoiding his gaze, Theo couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Do you really think I wanted this?” His voice was low, steady, but there was an edge of vulnerability in it. “The mark, the war… any of it? Do you think I’m proud of what it cost me?”

You looked up, startled, but the guarded expression on your face made him falter. He clenched his jaw, glancing at the floor before continuing. “I’m not the man you think I am. Not anymore.”

When you didn’t reply, Theo let out a breath, his frustration and yearning mingling in his tone. “You don’t have to look at me like that, cara mia.” His words were softer now, his usual sharpness gone. “I know what you’re afraid of. I know I’ve given you every reason to be.”

His green eyes met yours, filled with a rare honesty. “But I’d never hurt you,” he said firmly, the words nearly trembling with conviction. “Mai. I’d sooner tear myself apart before I let anything happen to you.”

His hand moved instinctively to cover the mark on his arm, as if hiding it would somehow hide the shadow it cast over your marriage. “You don’t believe me now, dolcezza,” he murmured, his voice almost breaking. “But I’ll prove it to you. Somehow.”

His words, and the unspoken yearning behind them, hung in the air long after he had gone.