hello, welcome to my blog! it’s messy and a total work in progress but i’m getting there? i’d like to say that i’m a consistent person/writer however i am not, so enjoy the little bits of writing i have managed to complete in rare moments of motivation :)
Decided to rewrite one of my Gilbert Blythe imagines from like 5 years ago bc it was shit. I totally got carried away here but this follows the same story as the original, it’s just better written and more detailed.
Gilbert Blythe x reader
masterlist
Falling in love with Gilbert Blythe was not something you had planned.
Gilbert was your best friend. He had been from the moment you collided directly into him after fleeing from your frightening aunt when you were both merely children. Gilbert was waiting outside the post office for his father when you ran into him, smacking your head off his with such force that you both ended up with bleeding noses. Your aunt caught up with you and tugged you away, tutting at your clumsy and disobedient behaviour and muttering that you had ruined your dress. Gilbert had watched you leave in disbelief, clutching his nose and smiling slightly to himself. You later turned up at his house with a bunch of crumpled daisies in your small fist and an apology on your lips, and from that day a friendship blossomed.
Gilbert was kind, gentle, and charming in ways the other boys at school were not. He was thoughtful in his subtle and quiet actions that typically went unnoticed by everyone but you. He would accompany you on your journey to school. He would defend your honour when Billy Andrew’s decided to pick on you and your friends. He gave you space when your mother passed away and comfort when you were finally ready for it. He helped your father on the farm during harsh and unforgivable winters. He taught your younger sister to read and your younger brother to fish.
You hadn’t meant to fall for Gilbert, but as the years passed and you both started to flourish from sweet children into headstrong young adults, you found your feelings of friendship blossoming into something deeper and more tender. You kept your feelings to yourself though, in fear that it would cause you great embarrassment and ruin your friendship if he did not feel the same way.
When Gilbert’s father passed away, everything changed. He became quiet and reserved - a shell of his former self. You would often find him staring blankly in silence and picking at his nails. You tried to comfort him; you sat with him, in his now empty house, holding him in your arms as he cried until his voice was hoarse and his eyes were swollen. You brought him bread and cakes that you had carefully crafted and soup that you had spent hours preparing. You told him of the rumours at school about Mr Philips and Prissy Andrews, you had hoped it would make him curious to hear more. It didn’t. Nothing you said or did could fix the emptiness inside him.
He came to you one evening, his face twisted with despair and tiredness; he told you he was leaving. You knew of course, you had heard through Mrs Lynde that Gilbert was seen buying a train ticket to Charlottetown. You listened anyway whilst he told you of his plans to find work upon a steamship. You cried when he told you he would miss you, you smiled when he said he would write often.
When the time came for him to leave, you accompanied him to the train station, clutching his arm whilst holding back delicate tears. You said your goodbyes and gave him a gentle kiss to his cheek and in return he smiled softly at you and squeezed your hand. When he turned to board the train, a selfish and reckless part of you wanted to beg him to stay, to tell him that you loved him and needed him with you. You kept your composure though and watched him leave with a sad smile and a small wave.
The months that followed Gilbert’s departure were long and empty, you had lost your best friend after all. When spring arrived in Avonlea, you distracted yourself by throwing yourself into schoolwork, helping your father tend to the farm and helping to raise your siblings. Spring slowly bled into summer and you became closer with Anne, Diana and Ruby and gradually became accustomed to life without Gilbert by your side. He kept his word and wrote often to you about his adventures and the different parts of the world he had visited. You wrote back eagerly, informing him of your friends, town gossip, and your recent interest in painting. He asked that you send him some of your paintings and so you picked two of your very best pieces and posted them to him, thrilled that he still cared for you. As summer faded into autumn, Gilbert’s letters became less frequent until you stopped receiving them completely, you assumed he was very busy with his work and so you still wrote to him, telling him you missed him dearly and asking when he would return.
A new school year began and you slowly came to accept that Gilbert may never return, it hurt you deeply to have lost someone you loved and cherished but you understood his reasons for staying away from Avonlea; it reminded him too much of what he had lost. Still, you did not understand why he had stopped replying to your letters, you wondered if perhaps they had been lost in transport or perhaps he had simply gotten bored with you and your silly paintings.
You were sitting outside of school one afternoon with Anne and Diana, all of you enjoying your lunch in the warm September sun, when you hear a commotion from inside the classroom. Suddenly, Ruby bursts out of the school and sprints towards you, an uneaten apple clutched in her hand, “Gilbert has returned!” She states breathlessly before running back into the school.
You stand slowly and make your way towards the school entrance, you peek your head inside and just like Ruby had said, Gilbert was there surrounded by your classmates. He looks older than the last time you saw him, his boyish features have faded away and his face has become sharper. He looks taller, more tanned and his hands look rough and worn from work. Your stomach clenches, Gilbert had returned and not informed you. He was supposed to be your best friend and he had not written a letter to tell you he was returning nor had he paid your house a visit after he had arrived home.
Diana and Anne come to stand by you, Diana takes one look at your confused expression and asks, “Did he not inform you he was returning?”
You shake your head softly, “He hasn’t sent me a letter in weeks.”
You swallow thickly and enter the school carefully with Anne and Diana following closely behind you. Your movements catch the attention of your classmates and they all cease questioning Gilbert upon sight of you. Gilbert turns towards you and his eyes find yours. You smile gently, pleased to see him although confused as to why he did not tell you he was returning. Perhaps he meant to surprise you? His eyes leave yours and instead they find Anne who stands rigidly beside you. A grin spreads across his face and you frown in bewilderment. Why was he looking at Anne like that?
The bell rings to signal the end of lunch and Mr Philips enters the classroom sternly causing everyone to scramble to their seats. You stand rooted to the spot, still watching Gilbert stare at Anne. Diana gently grabs the sleeve of your dress and tugs you to your seat next to hers. Once you both sit down, Diana leans towards you and whispers, “Anne told me they had been writing to eachother over the past few weeks, she said they had become pen pals.”
“Pen pals?” You echo.
Diana nods, “Yes, she told me not to tell you.”
So that’s why Gilbert had stopped responding to your letters. He had found someone smarter and wittier to write to. You look over at Gilbert who was talking animatedly to Mr Philips at his desk and then you look at Anne who was avoiding your gaze. You could not believe she would keep something like that from you, she was supposed to be your friend. And Gilbert, you could not believe him either, he had stopped responding to your letters, he had found someone else to write to and then when you finally see him again, he stares and smiles at somebody else!
You sit stiffly in your chair for the remainder of the day, not caring to listen to Mr Phillips and ignoring the worried glances Diana throws at you. When the bell rings to signal the end of the school day, you shoot up from you chair, gather your things and rush out of the classroom. A shout of your name stops you in your tracks. Gilbert walks towards you slowly and stops in front of you. You think he is coming to explain himself, however you are wrong. “Moody and Charlie are throwing me a welcome home party.” He states casually. “You should come.”
You gape at him, had he truly no idea he had hurt your feelings? Before you can answer him, Diana sidles up to you and smiles at Gilbert. “We’ll definitely be there. Both of us.” She confirms.
Gilbert throws you a grin, “Great, see you both there!” He is gone before you can blink.
“Why would you do that!” You ask Diana incredulously. You did not want to attend Gilbert’s welcome home party. Especially since he had barely acknowledged you since his return.
Diana links your arm with hers and begins to lead you away from the school, “The party will give you the perfect opportunity to talk to Gilbert properly. You’ll be able to get an explanation from him.”
You scoff, “I don’t want an explanation from him, he has hurt me. We’re supposed to be best friends and yet he’s treated me as if I mean nothing to him.”
Diana became one of your closest friends after Gilbert left town. She would invite you to her house for tea and cake and you began walking to school together. You told her of your feelings for Gilbert one drizzly afternoon in February as she sat on your bedroom floor whilst you braided her hair. She listened while you spoke and promised not to tell anyone, not even Anne or Ruby who you were both friends with.
“I’m not going to the party Diana.” You say with finality.
Somehow, you end up at the party.
Diana had enlisted Ruby to help convince you to attend. It took a huge amount of persuading from them both, but you finally gave in to keep them both happy. It will be fun, they had both said.
The party was being held at Moody Spurgeon’s house as his mother and father were out of town for the evening. When you arrive with your friends, you immediately notice that everyone from your class was there. Josie Pye had created a small circle with some of your classmates and was orchestrating a game of spin the bottle. Billy Andrews was telling crude jokes to anyone who would listen. Charlie Sloan was parading around the room with a large bottle of sherry in his hands. You scrunch your nose up distastefully and turn to your friends, “Who’s great idea was this?”
Diana laughs and drags both you and Ruby to a large chair in the corner of the room. Charlie approaches you all with the sherry and three glasses, “Care for a drink ladies?”
You all nod cautiously and accept the drinks from him. You take a tentative sip of your sherry; it was sweet and syrupy and reminded you of the medicine your mother gave you when you were little.
You observe the room and your eyes catch Gilbert sat on a bench with Anne by his side. You watch as he whispers something in Anne's ear, something that causes a light flush to spread across her face. You grit your teeth and pull your gaze away from them.
Diana gasps quietly beside you and your eyes find Gilbert and Anne again. Your heart clenches painfully when you see the sight in front of you. Gilbert has his lips pressed to Anne's, his hand cups her cheek, whilst hers rests gently on his chest.
You think you may be sick.
You stand abruptly and mumble a quick goodbye to Ruby and Diana and rush out of Moody’s house.
You run home, leaving behind your friends, your classmates and Gilbert Blythe, the boy you had once called your best friend and the boy you loved dearly.
Pairing: Prince Valarr x Lannister!Reader (She/Her, "You" and "Y/N" referred )
Summary:
Everyone thinks she has the perfect life: the face, the jewels, the husband, the sons, the kind of future that kingdoms are built on. Married to the second in line to the Iron Throne, she is meant to one day stand as queen consort of the Seven Kingdoms.
So why does it still feel like she is standing at the edge of her own marriage?
What no one sees is the loneliness beneath it, or how a man can be faithful, trying, and still leave the woman beside him starving for something gentler, warmer, and finally spoken aloud.
Warnings:
“good husband, terrible at being loved correctly” marital grief, soft devastation, emotional neglect, arranged marriage, pain, old feelings that never died properly, domestic loneliness, beautiful wife, dumb man, devastating yearning, Valarr fumbling the woman of all time, Valarr being foolishness (unfortunately), Kiera bashing? (kind of), angst to the max
You had not been born cold.
That was the thing no one at court ever understood, though courts were forever mistaking silence for pride and reserve for disdain. You had been raised amongst lions, and lions were loud creatures even when finely dressed. Casterly Rock had rung with bright laughter through gilded halls, with splendid tempers, sharp tongues, and easy boasts, with uncles and cousins who embraced noisily, quarrelled noisily, and made peace just as noisily over wine. The Lannisters were beautiful in the way songs preferred—fair and golden, bright as hammered coin in sunlight, with green eyes clear as sea glass and crimson cloaks spilling from their shoulders in rich folds. Their guards were red cloaks, their banners red and gold, and their pride was as old as the Rock itself.
You were all of those things too. You had the pale gold hair, the emerald eyes, the fine bones, and the lion’s pride.
You simply had not inherited your kin’s ease with noise.
As a girl, you had often stood just behind the others, smiling softly while the room filled around you. You felt things too deeply and spoke too little. In the west, that had been understood for what it was: shyness, reserve, gentleness turned inward. Your mother would smooth your hair and call you tender-hearted. Your cousins would talk enough for three people and pull you laughing into their games regardless. At Casterly Rock, no one mistook your quiet for frost.
At King’s Landing, they did.
By the time you came east, the match had already been measured in ledgers and whispered over at council tables. Prince Valarr had thought, in the vague, careless way young men often thought of futures not yet nailed down by older hands, that he might one day marry Keira of Tyrosh. Not for love, perhaps not at first, but because she had been there, and because she had been easy in his company in a way few women were. Keira was clever and handsome, and quick enough to laugh at him without making him feel small for it. He knew the tilt of her chin when annoyed, the cadence of her voice in gardens and hawking fields, and the little courtesies that had begun, over time, to feel like the first stones laid in the road of something more.
Then Prince Daeron was offered Keira instead.
It was called a finer match. A wiser one. A more useful one. Men with rings on every finger said so in grave tones, and women in jeweled sleeves nodded as though marriages were bolts of silk to be weighed and priced. For Valarr, as though some god in a bitter mood had chosen to salt the wound, there came a bride from the westerlands with Casterly Rock at her back and Lannister gold in her veins.
“Lannister coin will strengthen the crown,” Prince Baelor had said.
What Valarr heard was simpler and crueler: Keira is gone, and you are to be paid for in gold.
He said nothing, because princes were not reared to complain prettily when duty was laid upon them. He bowed his head, accepted the terms, and stood in the hall like something carved while men older than he was decided the shape of the rest of his life.
You arrived a moon’s turn later beneath banners stirring in a dry black wind off Blackwater Bay. The day was bright and pitiless, all hard light on pale stone and brazen helms. You descended from your litter in crimson velvet lined with lion fur, gold thread at the hems, your hair partly hidden beneath a jeweled net. You came with a small train of handmaidens chosen by the royal household to ease your settling into court—though in time they would become far more than attendants.
You curtsied before the royal family with perfect grace.
Your hands did not tremble.
Your face was composed so beautifully that one might have mistaken calm for indifference.
Valarr looked at you as one might look upon a polished shield: fine enough, but cold to the touch.
You saw the look and hated him a little for it. You were already frightened, already trying not to show it, and the thought that the man you were to wed believed you proud and unyielding felt like one more weight laid on your shoulders before the marriage had even begun.
Their wedding, your wedding, was a splendid misery.
The sept was full. Candles burned in long pale ranks beneath crystal stars. Silk rustled. Swords whispered against scabbards. Lords in dark velvets and ladies crusted in gems watched with the bright, hungry stillness courts reserved for unions that mattered. The singers sang. The bells rang. The court smiled as though it had not just watched one bride exchanged for another like a treaty clause amended after midnight. Valarr did all that was expected. He cloaked you. He kissed you when the septon bade it. He danced. He drank. He smiled until his jaw ached.
Across the hall, Keira sat beside Prince Daeron in Tyroshi silk and pearls, graceful as enamel on ivory. Daeron leaned to murmur something in her ear. She laughed softly. Valarr saw it. He hated that he saw it. He hated even more that the sight of her followed him into the bedding chamber that night.
You sat on the edge of the bed in crimson silk, your back very straight, your hair half-unbound and spilling over one shoulder in pale waves that caught the candlelight. The chamber smelled of wax and spiced wine and crushed rose petals underfoot, with smoke from the brazier lingering faintly in the rafters. Outside, the distant noise of revelry rolled through the stone like surf.
“You may look at me as though I am a sentence passed upon you,” you said at last, “but it will not make the door open again.”
Valarr, half-undressed, turned toward you.
There was no tremor in your voice. No plea. No tears.
He ought to have admired that. Instead he said, sharper than he meant, “Did they teach you to say that in the west?”
“No,” you answered. “In the west they taught me not to beg where I am not wanted.”
For one ugly moment, he almost laughed.
That should have warned him. That should have told him there was wit in you, and hurt pride, and some slender hidden softness held upright by sheer will. That should have been the beginning of something honest between you.
Instead, it became the shape of what followed.
And yet it was Valarr, strangely, who first saw the truth of you. Not in any song-worthy fashion, not by moonlight in a garden or with vows half-spoken into a kiss, but in the common, unbeautiful places where the heart sometimes showed itself despite all effort.
At your first feast in the capital, the great hall had been a roar of voices. Targaryens at one end, mighty lords at the other, silver dishes flashing beneath torchlight, musicians sawing at strings, courtiers pressing too near with curiosity dressed as courtesy. You bore it beautifully, because Lannisters did not tremble where anyone could see. You answered what was asked. You smiled when proper. You lowered your head when expected. But beneath the table your hands were clenched so tightly your nails bit crescents into your palms.
Valarr, seated beside you, went still after some time.
Then, without announcement and without looking at you, he said quietly, “You need not stay until the final course. I can say you are tired from the journey.”
You turned, startled.
He only reached for his cup as if nothing of consequence had passed between you.
But when the roasted swan came out and every eye in that end of the hall was drawn toward some drunk Reach lord making too much of himself, Valarr rose and offered you his arm with princely ease.
“My lady wife has had a long day,” he said to those nearest. “I’ll see her to her chambers.”
There was no mockery in it. No impatience. Only simple understanding.
It should have meant nothing.
It meant everything.
Later, in the corridor beyond the hall, where the noise fell away behind thick stone and a pair of servants hurried past carrying trenchers slick with grease, you let out one long breath you had not known you were holding. Torches hissed in their brackets. A draft from some stairwell touched your cheeks coolly through the heat left by the feast.
Valarr glanced at you. “You looked as though you were about to bolt like a frightened doe.”
To his surprise, you laughed.
Not the little polished court laugh women learned young, the one meant to smooth over a man’s vanity. This laugh was warmer, younger, unguarded. It eased something in his face in answer.
“I may yet,” you said.
“That would be difficult in those skirts.”
You looked down at the heavy fall of crimson silk and, for the first time since coming to court, smiled with your whole mouth.
That was how it began.
Not with passion. Not even with hope at first. Only with the dangerous tenderness of being seen.
He did other things too, all of them small enough that another woman might have called them nothing at all. You, being made as you were, made a home of them. He noticed you ate little at feasts and had simpler food sent up afterward—warm bread, honeyed apples, broth with herbs—saying only that royal cooks ruined everything by over-seasoning it. In crowded corridors, he shifted so careless young knights and swaggering men-at-arms had to go around you rather than brush too close. Once, when you woke from a bad dream in the Red Keep—strange stone, stranger bed, no sound of the sea, only the vast uneasy silence of a place full of watchers—you found a lamp had been left burning low. He had noticed, on the second night of your marriage, that you slept poorly in darkness. He never mentioned it.
You loved him for that most of all.
You were not a woman who fell quickly, but you fell completely.
Quiet women often did. They loved in hidden, stubborn ways. They built whole cathedrals inside themselves and let no one hear the labour of the stone. By the time you were carrying your first son, you were already his in every way that mattered, not merely by law, nor by bed, nor by duty, but in that soft and terrible place where a wife begins to turn toward her husband before anyone else in the room, where she saves thoughts for him, where evening feels unfinished until his step sounds in the corridor.
The handmaidens chosen for you by the royal household saw it before anyone. Ellyn saw how you brightened when Valarr came unexpectedly to break his fast with you. Myria saw how you kept the books he favored nearest the chair by the window. Ysilla saw how you wore more black and red than crimson and gold after marriage, not because anyone asked it of you, but because you wanted to please him. They saw, too, how frightened you were of wanting too much.
And perhaps you had reason.
Because you were everything a prince ought to have wanted. Beautiful, dutiful, gentle, highborn, fertile. The court said so often enough. They praised your grace, your modesty, the calm way you carried yourself through the dragon-haunted strangeness of King’s Landing. They said you were a good wife to the second heir to the Iron Throne. They said you would be a good mother to princes. In time, they would say you might even be a good queen.
You were lovely enough to be admired. Soft enough to be praised. Obedient enough to make old men nod in approval.
And still, in your husband’s eyes, you lived beneath another woman’s shadow.
Keira.
Not because he was dishonorable. That was the misery of it. Valarr was married to you now. Keira was wed to Daeron. He did not touch her. He did not shame you with open disloyalty. He was too decent, and too proud, for that. He respected the life that had been laid before him. He came to your bed. He gave you sons. He stood where a husband ought to stand.
But sometimes respect was not the same thing as surrender.
Because Keira had not been some passing fancy. She had not been a pretty stranger glimpsed across a feast hall. She and Valarr had spoken first. Walked first. Laughed first. They had become close in the quiet, unguarded way two young people sometimes did before anyone named it aloud. There had been gardens, and hawking fields, and those long, easy conversations that taught one person the shape of another. By the time the court began speaking of them as a likely match, the ground had already been laid.
Then the plans changed.
Daeron was offered Keira.
Valarr was promised you.
No vows were broken, because none had been spoken. No betrayal had happened, because the world had cut them off before either could claim such a word. That only made it worse. Their story had not ended in scandal or sin. It had ended in silence, in duty, in a future folded away before it had fully begun.
And so it lingered.
Not in any way the realm could condemn. Only in the small, unbearable ways a wife noticed and no one else did.
In the way his face would still alter, faintly, when Keira laughed from across a room. In the way he never overstepped, never lingered too openly, and yet seemed to go still for half a breath whenever she entered his notice. In the way older courtiers still smiled sometimes when their names rose together in talk, as though remembering some gentler version of the future before politics had done what politics always did and laid human hearts out like pieces on a board.
And Keira herself was not innocent in it.
Not cruel, perhaps. Never openly. Never enough to disgrace herself. But darker than simple kindness allowed.
She moved through the Red Keep as though she belonged there, and that belonging itself felt like a quiet triumph. She spoke to Prince Baelor without seeming foolish. She laughed with Daeron’s kin and was laughed with in return. At feasts, no one mistook her pauses for uncertainty. At hunts, she rode with the men, speaking over hoofbeats as though she had been born to it.
And when she looked at Valarr, sometimes there was still something there.
Not enough for anyone to name.
Only enough for you to feel.
Enough to make your stomach turn cold.
Enough to make you understand that though she had married Daeron, some corner of her still kept the memory of what might have been. Not because she wanted to take him from you now. Not because she meant to start some vulgar little war between women. But because certain feelings, once grown properly, did not die only because wiser people arranged otherwise.
That was the cruelty of all of it.
He did not cheat on you.
She did not tempt him.
No one crossed the line.
And still you knew, with the miserable certainty of a wife who loved too deeply, that you did not have him whole.
Once, after a feast where Keira had moved through the room with her usual easy grace, you found yourself alone with her by a bank of candles guttering low beneath painted saints.
“You are well loved here,” you said before you meant to.
Keira looked at you then, really looked, and some brightness went out of her face.
“No,” she said softly. “Only well worn-in.”
You blinked, startled.
She traced one finger along the stem of her wine cup. “Do not mistake fitting into a room for belonging to it.”
Then, after the smallest pause, she said, “Men are not the only ones who learn to live with what they were given.”
That was when you understood.
Keira had wanted him too.
Not foolishly. Not all at once. But slowly, in the dangerous way friendship became fondness and fondness became something neither of them had been allowed to finish.
You had married him.
She had not.
And still, some part of her looked at you and saw the woman who had been given the life she once thought might be hers.
That was the first time you hated her a little.
Not because she was cruel.
Because she was honest.
Because in that one quiet sentence, she told you she knew exactly what sat between the three of you, and had chosen to carry it so gracefully that no one would ever dare call it grief.
Then someone called her name, and she turned away before you could answer.
You thought of that moment more often than you wanted.
Because in the end, it seemed true of all three of you.
Keira had lost the life she might once have had.
Valarr was trying.
That was the worst part.
If he had been cruel, perhaps you could have hated him. But he was only blind, and there was no easy way to stop loving a man who kept reaching for the life before him and still failed to see it.
At first, you told yourself it did not matter.
Valarr had married you. He had come to your bed. He had touched your belly when your first son moved and smiled in wonder. He had stood over you after the birth, smelling of leather and wind and cold air from the yard, and bent to the babe with a softness you had never seen him turn on anyone.
“A son,” he said.
You, white with exhaustion, damp-haired, aching from two days’ labor, looked up at him with something terribly hopeful still alive in your eyes. “Yes,” you whispered. “A son.”
He touched the child’s cheek. His face changed then, softened by wonder in a way that made you love him a little more, poor thing. You thought perhaps this was how doors opened. Through children. Through patience. Through quiet trying.
“What shall we name him?” you asked.
Valarr did not answer at once. His fingers were still on the babe’s face. “Aelor,” he said finally.
It was a prince’s name. A good name.
You smiled, tired and radiant. “Aelor, then.”
Valarr kissed the child’s brow. He kissed your forehead too, but only briefly, and perhaps only because the midwife stood watching.
You told yourself it was enough.
Women had made whole lives from less.
You learned his habits with the devotion of someone trying to solve a riddle no one else believed existed. You learned how he liked what wine he preferred during evening meals in the winter, what books he reached for when angered, how he hated too much noise at supper after council, and how he softened at the sound of a child laughing nearby. You kept his household well. You bore yourself with dignity among dragonlords and vipers. You learned High Valyrian lullabies, though the words felt awkward in your lion’s mouth.
You wrote letters home and waited for letters back. At first, you wrote carefully bright things: the weather, the beauty of the royal gardens in spring, the little kindnesses of court, the way Prince Valarr had once noticed when you were overwhelmed at a feast and brought you away without embarrassing you, the way he warmed your side of the bed in winter, the way he smiled, once, when the babe first closed a hand around his finger.
The replies came late, smelling of cedar and sealing wax and distance.
Your mother wrote of her health, of which cousins were soon to wed, of a septon newly come to the Rock.
Your father wrote less.
When Aelor was born, the letter from the west was rich parchment and fine words. You have done your house honour. A son strengthens your place. The realm sees your worth now.
You read it twice.
Then a third time, more slowly, searching for something else between the lines. Are you well? Are you happy? Does he cherish you? Are you lonely?
There was none of that.
After Baelon, the message was colder still in its own polished way. A second son brings further pride to your name and secures your position admirably. You have done all that was asked of you.
All that was asked of you.
You folded the letter carefully, set it aside, and cried so quietly that Myria, seated only a few feet away with embroidery in her lap, did not at first understand what she was hearing.
There were moments, too, when you tried very hard to belong not only to Valarr, but to his world. You tried to sit with him when his kin were present, but Targaryen talk moved strangely around you—old names, old grievances, dragon memories you had no part in, glances that carried the weight of shared blood. You would add a word here or there, smile where you ought, ask a question politely, and feel at once the slight pause that came after, the subtle shifting of a conversation that had not truly expected your shape within it.
No one was unkind.
That was the misery of it.
Prince Baelor, your father-in-law, grave and measured in all things, would always speak to you with perfect princely respect. He was never unkind. That was part of the hurt. But when you tried, once, to ask his thoughts on some hawk from the Reach that Valarr had mentioned admiring, Baelor answered kindly enough and then turned almost at once to one of his brothers over some question of levies and patrol roads. You stood there smiling with your hands folded while their voices moved on around you like water over stone.
It was not that he disliked you.
It was worse.
You were dutiful. Quiet. Manageable. In a household crowded with louder tempers and more difficult kin, you were never thought likely to cause scandal, discord, or trouble. Others drew the eye because they were troublesome, glittering, or politically useful.
You were simply the one no one worried about.
And in a court like that, a woman who brought no trouble was too easily mistaken for a woman who needed nothing at all.
You felt foolish afterward for minding.
Foolish for wanting more than courtesy.
Foolish for thinking that becoming a wife ought to have made you less of an outcast in your own husband’s family than you had been on the day you arrived.
At first, Valarr noticed some of these things.
He simply did not understand what noticing required of him.
Then your second son was born.
By then, the court called yours a strong marriage. Fruitful. Fortunate. A prince with two healthy heirs and a lady wife who comported herself flawlessly—what more could a man ask? Men toasted him for his good fortune. Women praised your grace, your gowns, your modesty, your sons. Singers called you the Golden Princess. Only those who watched closely saw that you smiled less.
Valarr still came to your chambers, though less often after the second child. At first, you thought it was weariness. Court had grown heavier around him. His father pressed more upon him. The realm always wanted something from men born too near crowns. Then one evening, while he fastened the clasp of his mantle before the fire and the nursery beyond the inner door murmured with soft child-sounds, you asked very gently, “Will you come to me later?”
He did not even turn.
“I have heirs enough,” he said.
The silence after was so complete that you could hear a torch sputtering in the corridor beyond and the faint scrape of a maid’s slipper over the rushes outside the door.
You sat at your dressing table with your hair half-braided, staring at his reflection in the polished silver mirror. He had not meant, perhaps, for the words to sound as they did. Valarr had a rare gift for the wound he did not intend.
Still, he had said them.
Not, I am tired. Not forgive me. Only that.
As if you had been something to pass through, and now pass beyond.
He must have felt something of the change afterward, because he began bringing you gifts: a hawking glove from Myr, a comb of worked ivory, a length of sea-green silk, a carved cradle-piece for little Baelon, a silver mirror backed with lions and dragons twined together.
They were all costly. They were all beautifully made.
Not one of them was right.
The glove was stitched in the Tyroshi style Keira had once worn. The silk was a shade you despised against your skin. The comb was too delicate for the braids you favored. The mirror was a princely apology offered by a man too cowardly to speak plain words.
You thanked him for each one with perfect courtesy.
Then came the morning that killed something in you.
It was early, scarcely light. The room still held that bluish hush before dawn when everything seemed suspended between worlds. Your younger son had cried in the night and been carried off again by his nurse only a little while before. You had not gone back to sleep properly after. You lay awake beside Valarr, one hand resting over the ache in your side, watching the first pale seam of day beneath the curtains and listening to his breathing in the dark.
He stirred beside you then, not fully waking, his face still turned into the pillow. For one small foolish moment, you thought he was troubled. His brow had drawn faintly, and there was something strained in the way he breathed, as though some dream had hold of him. Without thinking, with the softness that had always been your ruin, you reached for him. Your hand came to rest on his bare shoulder, gentle, instinctive, almost tender enough to be a prayer.
And then, rough with sleep, still half-lost to whatever place he had wandered in dreams, he murmured one name.
“Keira.”
The world did not shatter loudly.
That would have been kinder.
It only went very still.
Your fingers slipped from his shoulder as though you had touched iron in a flame. At first you thought you must have imagined it. You had to have imagined it. But the cold came at once, thin and sharp and absolute, running through you from the inside out like sea-wind in winter. Valarr breathed once more, deeper now, and opened his eyes a little. He saw you sitting upright. He saw your face.
And in that instant, he knew.
“[Y/N]—”
You had already risen.
He pushed himself up, all sleep gone, horror rushing in where drowsiness had been. “[Y/N], wait.”
You crossed the chamber barefoot, one hand hard against your mouth as if to hold something inside yourself—not anger, not words, but some smaller, uglier, more humiliating sound. That was the cruelty of it. You had reached for him to soothe him, thinking he was uneasy, thinking perhaps he needed comfort, and instead he had opened his sleep-ravaged mouth and given you another woman’s name as though it lived somewhere truer in him than you ever had.
“Listen to me,” Valarr said, rising after you. “I did not mean—”
You turned then.
He had seen you grave, shy, dutiful, pale with childbirth, smiling with your sons, overwhelmed in crowded halls, but never like that. Never stripped so bare of composure. You looked as though he had struck you.
Not only hurt. Shamed.
Keira. Another woman’s name, from your own husband’s mouth, spoken in your bed while dawn still lay over the marriage like a blessing not yet spent.
Your lips trembled once. “I know,” you whispered.
That was what undid him. Not accusation. Not fury. Only that soft, awful answer.
I know. I know you did not mean it, which means it was true enough to live beneath thought. I know there is still a place in you where I am not the woman you wake beside. I know I reached for you in kindness, and you answered me with the shape of someone else.
Tears rose despite your pride. They came too quickly, too hot, too helpless. You turned away sharply, but not before he saw them. And once he saw them, you hated it all the more, because now even this grief—which felt private, humiliating, too raw to survive daylight—had become something witnessed.
Valarr took a step toward you and stopped, because he did not know how to cross the distance he had made with one word.
“[Y/N]—please.”
You laughed then, and it was a dreadful little sound, broken straight through. “Do not,” you said, your voice shaking so badly you scarcely knew it for your own. “Do not beg me not to feel it. You have already said it.”
He reached for you then, not boldly and not even with certainty, but like a man who had finally understood that you had not been made of stone, only taught to stand still while he hurt you.
You flinched from him.
That seemed to wound him too, but not enough. Never enough.
Your breath broke on the next inhale. You covered your mouth harder with your hand, but it was no use. The sound came anyway, small and torn and mortifyingly real. Not graceful tears. Not silent suffering. A wounded sound, the sound of a woman who had held herself together for too long and discovered too late that the thing splitting her open would not even have the decency to do it in private.
Then you fled into your dressing room and shut the door between you.
He heard you crying.
That was the worst memory of his life afterward. Not the name itself, though that would have been wound enough. It was the sound of you weeping on the other side of a door, where you thought he could not reach you, and his own uselessness before it. Prince of the realm, husband in name, and still unable to mend what he had broken because he had never learned how to kneel before grief he himself had caused.
Inside, Ellyn found you first. You had sunk onto the stool before the mirror, one hand pressed to your chest as though you might still your own heart by force. Your hair had fallen loose over one shoulder. Tears slid down your face helplessly, no longer quiet, no longer controlled. You had cried silently before. This was worse. This was breath catching and shoulders shaking and the miserable humiliation of being unable to stop.
Ellyn dropped to her knees at once. “Oh, my sweet lady,” she murmured.
That broke what little composure remained.
You bent forward and covered your face, and then you were sobbing in earnest, your whole body shaking with it. Myria came running at the sound. Ysilla shut the outer door and drew the curtains before any passing servant or curious groom in the corridor could glimpse you undone. No one asked you anything at first. They simply gathered around you. Myria held your hands. Ysilla fetched cool water no one drank. Ellyn pressed your head against her breast as if you were no princess at all, only a girl far from home who had loved unwisely and been made to know it.
When you finally managed to speak, it came out raw and small and ruined.
“I thought—” You had to stop. Your breath caught again. “I thought he was having a nightmare.”
Ellyn made a sound then, one of those quiet wounded noises women make for one another when words are not enough.
“I touched him because I thought—” Your voice broke completely. “I thought he was troubled.”
That was somehow worse than the name itself. Worse because it laid your tenderness bare. Worse because it meant you had gone to comfort him and been answered with another woman’s ghost.
Then came the truth that had been choking you from the moment it happened, and once it was out you could not stop it.
“I tried so hard,” you whispered. “I tried so hard to be enough.”
Ellyn’s eyes filled. “You were never meant to earn what should have been given freely.”
After that, you changed.
Not at once. Not sharply enough that a man like Valarr—emotionally armored, proud, slow in all matters of the heart—could point to the very day and say, there, there is where I lost her. But the change came all the same.
You remained perfectly dutiful.
That was part of the tragedy. Had you screamed, or raged, or publicly shamed him, the court would have named it a quarrel and expected its end. You did none of that. If anything, you became more flawless.
You dressed with exquisite care. You stood beside him in public without misstep. You managed the household superbly. You gave him no scandal. You continued to be gentle with your sons, and soon the court began to praise you not merely as a great lady, but as the very model of what a prince’s wife should be. Shy, they called you now. Reserved. Pious. A little sad, perhaps, but sweet with your children. And oh, how devoted you were as a mother.
That part was true.
People saw you in the gardens with Aelor and Baelon, your golden head bent while they chattered over pebbles and petals and insects caught in childish hands. They saw you kneel without complaint to tie a little shoe, to wipe a mouth, to kiss a scraped palm. They saw how your face softened for your sons in a way it never did for anyone else. Women at court began speaking of you tenderly. Poor shy Lady [Y/N]. So pretty. So well-mannered. Such a good wife. Such a good mother.
And because the world was cruel in ordinary ways, they praised you most just as you became loneliest.
After the second boy was born,
Valarr did not become cruel in any way that court singers would have understood. He did not raise his hand to you. He did not shame you before the realm. He did not bring whores beneath your roof or make a spectacle of betrayal. In some ways, that made it worse. He became, instead, the sort of man whose neglect could be mistaken for virtue.
He loved his sons.
Gods, how he loved them.
He would return from the yard smelling of horse and leather and cold air, and the moment he crossed the threshold of your chambers, his face would change for the boys in a way it no longer changed for you. Aelor would cry out and Baelon would reach with both arms, and Valarr would go to them at once, smiling with that unguarded tenderness you had once thought, in the first sweetness of marriage, might one day be yours too. He would lift one child high and settle the other against his hip, laughing when little hands caught in his hair or tugged at the chain about his throat.
You would rise when he entered, because wives did, because princesses did, because some part of you still did it in hope rather than habit.
Often, he would not even see that you had risen until after the boys had been kissed, admired, and praised.
“Look at you,” he would say to them, warm as summer. “Have you tormented your lady mother all day? Have you eaten well? Has Baelon’s cough eased? Has Aelor been brave?”
Only then, sometimes, would his eyes flick to you.
“You ought not keep them up too late.”
“They should have thicker cloaks in this wind.”
Always through the children.
Always around you, rather than to you.
You learned there were griefs so small and daily that no one named them. To stand in your own chamber, hands folded in silk, and watch your husband smile as though the room had become blessed simply because his sons were in it, while the woman who had borne them stood only a few feet away and might as well have been another carved chair. To know he was not a bad man, not truly, only a man who had somehow placed all his softness in one part of his life and left the rest to starve. To be unable even to resent him properly, because the sight of him loving your children was beautiful, and you had prayed for that beauty before either boy had drawn breath.
That was the shameful part.
You were glad he loved them.
You only wished he did not seem to love them in place of you.
Once, in early autumn, you gathered your courage and asked if you might all go hawking together—only the four of you. Your voice was careful when you said it, as if softness itself might save the request from being damaged.
“The weather is fair,” you told him. “Aelor has been begging to see the birds flown, and Baelon loves the horses. Might we go, just us?”
Valarr looked almost surprised, then agreeable enough. “If you like.”
For a day and a half, you were absurdly happy.
You chose warm wool for the boys yourself. You had little gloves lined in fur brought out for Aelor. You made certain Baelon’s hood was mended where the stitch had loosened. You packed honey cakes and apples sliced small, a flask of watered wine for Valarr, and sweet milk for the children. You dressed not as a princess at court, but as a wife hoping to be a wife, in a dark green riding gown that would not startle the hawks. Even Ellyn smiled to see the color in your face.
When the morning came, the yard was crisp with cold and the sky pale as hammered steel. The horses were saddled. The boys were bundled and shining with excitement. You had Baelon in your arms and Aelor tugging at your sleeve when Valarr came down the steps.
He was not alone.
Prince Baelor was with him. So were two uncles, three cousins, and a knot of sworn men behind them. One of the hawk-masters came too, along with a pair of young pages, and by the time the little party moved out through the gate, it had become not a family day at all but something half progress, half princely outing, full of male voices and easy familiarity and the old blood-kinship from which you always stood a little apart.
Valarr seemed not to notice.
Or worse, perhaps he did notice and thought nothing was amiss.
“Aelor, ride with your grandsire” Baelor said, and Aelor went delightedly, because he was a child and proud of such things.
One cousin took up a conversation with Valarr about hounds and a boar seen three days earlier in the kingswood. An uncle laughed over some old hunting memory. The hawks shifted and rustled. Leather creaked. Hooves struck the frosted ground.
You rode at the edge with Baelon before you and your little basket strapped behind the saddle.
Every now and then, Aelor would twist around in his seat to look for you, waving when he found you and shouting, “Mother, look!” each time a hawk lifted, or a dog barked, or a horse stamped. Baelon kept patting your gloved hand and leaning back against your breast as if, by childish instinct, he knew you needed the closeness more than he did. When the company halted near a thin stand of leaf-bare trees, you dismounted and laid out the food you had packed for the four of you.
The pages and grooms ate it too.
Valarr praised the cakes without realizing what he was saying. “These were well thought of.”
When you finally went to your chamber, Ellyn helped unpin your hair and found dried salt at your temples where the wind had touched tears you had never wiped away.
There was another time.
Months later, when you asked again—not for hawking this time, but for something simpler.
The market.
Nothing grand. Nothing intimate enough to frighten him, you thought. The city was lively that morning, the weather fair, and the boys were old enough now to be delighted by cluttered stalls and sugared almonds and toy sellers and little carved beasts. You thought perhaps that was safe enough. A family thing. A public thing. A modest thing. By then, you had learned not to ask for too much.
So you waited until Valarr had broken his fast and the boys were still talking eagerly over some little painted cart Aelor had seen from a window the day before.
“There is a market near the Street of Flour,” you said, keeping your tone light. “The children would enjoy it, I think. We might all go together. Just for an hour.”
Valarr was reading some note from council. He looked up only after a moment.
“The market?”
“Yes.” You smiled, because smiling made requests sound smaller. Safer. “Aelor would like the toy stalls. Baelon loves anything with wheels. And there is a woman who sells sugared apples in the autumn. I thought—”
“It is a good idea, wife,” he said.
Your heart rose too quickly.
Then he added, in the same practical tone one might use when discussing cloaks or horses, “But I think I should take only the boys.”
You went still.
Valarr folded the note once. “The streets will be crowded. It would slow things if all of us went.”
The room remained warm. Somewhere behind you, Baelon was humming to himself over a crust of bread. Aelor had started talking about apples without understanding any of it.
You heard your own voice come out very small. “Slow things.”
“I only mean,” Valarr said, not quite looking at you fully, “with guards and nursemaids and the children and you besides, it becomes more of an event than an outing. They will enjoy it better if it is simple.”
If you are not there, the words seemed to finish.
You stood very still. “I see.”
He must have heard something in your voice then, because he frowned faintly. “It was not meant unkindly.”
That almost made it worse.
“Of course not,” you said.
Aelor looked up from the table. “Mother, are you coming?”
You smiled at him. You had become so very good at smiling. “No, sweetling. Today you shall have your father to yourself.”
Baelon, hearing only the uncertainty in your tone, stretched his arms toward you at once, and you took him up because otherwise you might have begun to cry before everyone.
Valarr rose. “Have them dressed warmly.”
You nearly laughed again at that. Warmly. As if you had not already thought of their cloaks, their mittens, the scarf Aelor complained of but always needed. As if mothers did not live inside such details by reflex.
When he had gone, taking with him the sound and certainty of the outing, you stood in the middle of the chamber with Baelon on your hip and felt, for one humiliating instant, as though someone had slapped you.
Ellyn found you a little later in the dressing room, not yet changed, still with Baelon’s little shoe in your hand because you had been the one lacing it when Valarr told you that you would not be coming.
“My lady?” she said carefully.
You did not turn. “He said it would be slowed down if all of us went.”
Ellyn closed her eyes.
You gave a thin, breathless laugh. “All of us. I am all of us.”
Then, because the boys were already laughing in the courtyard below and you could hear Aelor calling excitedly about horses and sweets and carts, you pressed the shoe to your mouth and cried without making a sound.
When they returned, Aelor came bursting in with stories about ribbons and nuts and a painted spinning top. Baelon had sugar on one cheek and a little wooden cart tucked in both hands. They were delighted. They loved you. They climbed into your lap at once and tried to tell you everything all at once, as if by saying it to you they could somehow include you after the fact.
You kissed them and listened and smiled in all the right places.
Then later, after they slept, you broke over the sight of the little market basket still sitting unused by the door.
These were the griefs no one wrote songs for.
The market basket untouched.
The riding cakes eaten by pages.
The waiting lamp gone dark.
The seat beside him filled by sons and cousins and fathers and not by you.
The way he would say good idea, wife and make you feel, for one heartbeat, chosen, only to brush you aside with perfect reasonableness the next.
You stopped trying to fill every silence after that.
At supper, you no longer told little stories from the west that no one in King’s Landing understood. You no longer placed the choicest pieces on Valarr’s plate before he could reach for them. You no longer reminded Aelor to tell his father what he had learned that morning. You ate what was before you and let the clicking of utensils fill the long spaces where a wife’s warmth had once been.
The boys noticed, though children never knew how to name what they noticed.
Once, Aelor climbed onto the bench beside you and asked, puzzled, “Mother, why do you not give Father the honey anymore?”
You nearly dropped your spoon.
“I think,” you said after a long pause, “your father can reach it himself.”
The child considered that with solemn seriousness and then pushed the honey dish toward Valarr anyway, because children hated imbalance instinctively.
Valarr thanked him.
He did not understand why you looked away.
So the days went on.
The court went on mistaking your ruin for grace.
And still, you loved him.
That was the true humiliation of it.
That night, after the boys had finally been coaxed to sleep, you remained in the nursery long after there was any need for it.
Aelor had one hand curled into his blanket. Baelon had turned onto his side, cheek soft against the pillow, breathing in the deep, even rhythm of the truly sleeping. The brazier had burned low. Candlelight trembled against the walls and turned the carved beasts upon the bedposts into long, wavering shadows. You sat upon the floor between them, your back resting against the settle, one hand still lying loose upon Baelon’s coverlet as though, if either child stirred, you meant to soothe him before he woke.
You did not hear Valarr come in at first.
It was only when he spoke that you looked up.
“You will wake stiff there,” he said quietly.
His voice was low enough not to wake the children.
You looked at him, then back at your sons. “I had not meant to stay.”
But that was not true, and both of you knew it.
For a moment he said nothing. He stood in the doorway with one hand braced lightly against the frame, still in his shirt and half-undone doublet, as though he had come looking for you and had not expected to find you here like this, hidden amongst the little quiet breaths of your children.
Then he stepped inside.
The floor gave a faint creak beneath his weight. He stopped first at Baelon’s bedside and drew the blanket a little higher over the child’s shoulder. It was such a small gesture that it ought not to have mattered. But you watched his hands do it, careful and gentle, and felt that old ache move through you again.
When he turned back to you, he did not speak at once.
Instead, to your surprise, he lowered himself down before you.
Not onto the settle. Not into one of the carved chairs.
Down.
Kneeling.
That alone was enough to make your breath catch.
He did not reach for you. Perhaps he knew you might pull away. Perhaps he feared you would.
The nursery was very still. Beyond the shuttered window, somewhere in the yard below, a guard’s step passed and faded. Aelor sighed once in his sleep and settled again.
Valarr looked at the rushes, then at his own hands, and only after that at you.
“I do not know how to mend this,” he said.
You went so still it almost hurt.
His mouth tightened, as though even that much truth sat badly on his pride.
“But I know,” he said, more roughly now, “that I have done you wrong in ways I was too blind to see while they were still small.”
You stared at him.
He let out one slow breath. “I thought being dutiful to you was enough.”
The words seemed to fall between you and stay there.
You looked away first.
The candle near Baelon’s bed had bent low enough that wax had begun to spill crookedly down one side. You fixed your gaze on that instead, because looking at Valarr while he said such things felt more dangerous than you knew how to bear.
He spoke again, quieter now.
“I think perhaps I have hidden inside duty,” he said, “because it was easier than admitting I did not know how to be better than dutiful.”
Something in your chest tightened so sharply you had to press your hand against your skirt.
“You do not need to say this now,” you whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
That silenced you.
He swallowed once. In the low light, he looked younger somehow. Not softer, not quite, but less armoured. Less princely. Only a man at last standing before the hurt he had made and finding no clean way around it.
“You have given me more grace than I earned,” he said. “You have given me sons. You have kept my house. You have borne…” He stopped, and for the first time his voice faltered. “You have borne me at my worst, and I let you do it alone.”
Your eyes burned at once.
You hated that they did.
You hated more that some part of you, bruised and foolish and still too full of love, wanted so badly to believe him that it felt like another humiliation all its own.
Valarr looked at you then in a way he had not in a very long time. Not glancing. Not passing over. Looking.
“You deserved more than courtesy from me,” he said. “You deserved to be cherished.”
Your breath shook on the way out.
That was the word, then.
Not duty. Not kindness. Not patience.
Cherished.
You had not known until that moment how badly you needed to hear it spoken aloud, or how cruel it was that it should come now, when you were already too wounded to receive it cleanly.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Then, very carefully, as though approaching a frightened creature that might still startle and run, he lifted one hand and laid it over yours where it rested clenched in your lap.
His palm was warm.
You did not pull away.
That was the mercy you gave him.
Only that.
His thumb moved once, a small, unthinking stroke across your knuckles, and you nearly broke at the tenderness of it because it came so late, so simply, and from the same man who had taught you to live on so little.
“I cannot unsay what I said,” he murmured.
No. He could not.
The wound of it still lived between you.
But he was here now, kneeling on the nursery floor while your sons slept only feet away, speaking as though duty had finally failed him and left him no shield but honesty.
You looked at your joined hands and said nothing.
After a long while, Valarr bowed his head over them.
Not a prince’s bow. Not something formal. Only a tired, aching lowering of himself, as though shame had at last found the proper posture for his body.
When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“But if you will let me,” he said, “I would learn.”
That was all.
Not a vow.
Not a promise grand enough to heal you.
Only a beginning so small it might have been mistaken for nothing.
And perhaps that was why it hurt so much.
Because even then, with his hand over yours and your children sleeping near enough to hear if either of you wept, hope still came like pain in another dress.
So when the red-cloak guard came,
it felt less like temptation than like grief taking on another shape.
His name was Ser Lucan Hill, though once, long ago in the warm sunlit yards beneath Casterly Rock, he had only been Lucan. A boy with wind-burnt cheeks and scraped knees and a wooden sword forever tucked beneath one arm. His mother had served a lesser household branch tied to the Rock, and Lucan had grown beneath lion banners all his life. As children, he had played with you in those half-wild, half-guarded ways children of unequal station sometimes did before adults remembered themselves. Once, when you were very small, you had given him one of your toys to share—an old carved lion with one ear slightly blunted where you had dropped it on stone. He had treasured it absurdly. Beneath a stair-arch one hot summer afternoon, you had both made a childish promise over it, solemn as septons, that one day you would be husband and wife, because children thought love meant only I like you best, so you shall stay.
Then you had grown.
And he had not stayed.
He rose instead. Not high enough to dream madly, never that, but high enough for a crimson cloak and a sword at his hip and the grave reserve of a man who had learned the line between wanting and speaking.
You spoke to Lucan only once alone.
Not truly alone, of course. Nothing in King’s Landing is ever truly alone. There are always footsteps somewhere beyond the turn of a passage, always servants with lowered eyes, always guards at a distance pretending not to listen. But for a little while, there are only the two of you beneath a narrow stone gallery where the late light slants red through the arrow-slits and paints bars across the floor.
He stands in his crimson cloak with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he is afraid to let them hang loose lest they betray him. He is broader now than the boy you once knew, quieter too, but some things have not changed. He still tips his head a little when he is nervous. He still looks at you as though your silences mean something and are not merely empty spaces for other people to fill.
“My lady,” he says.
You almost laugh at that, though there is nothing funny in it. Once, he called you [Y/N] with scraped knees and dirt on his cheek and a wooden lion clutched in his fist. Once you had both been small and foolish enough to think that liking someone best was the same thing as being allowed to keep them.
Now he calls you my lady.
Now you are a prince’s wife.
Now he stands with the care of a man who knows exactly how dangerous tenderness can be when spoken aloud.
“You need not be so formal with me,” you say, though your voice comes out softer than you meant it to.
“Yes,” he says after a pause. “I do.”
That hurts more than it ought.
For a little while neither of you speaks. Somewhere below in the yard a horse stamps. Farther off, a child laughs—one of yours, perhaps, though you cannot tell which. The sound rises bright and then is gone.
Lucan’s eyes flick to you and then away again. “You look tired.”
It is such a small sentence.
No prince has asked you that in earnest in a very long time.
You lower your gaze to your hands. “I am well.”
He does not insult either of you by pretending to believe it.
The light has shifted enough now to catch on the red of his cloak. It reminds you absurdly of summer at the Rock, of banners snapping over stone, of childish games in the yard. The memory comes so swiftly it almost steals your breath. You remember pressing the little carved lion into his hands because he had no toys of his own. You remember him looking at it as though you had given him the crown itself. You remember the two of you swearing beneath the stair-arch, with all the solemn stupidity of children, that one day he would be your husband and you would be his wife and the lion would sit between you so neither of you forgot.
You should not think of such things now.
You think of them anyway.
“Lucan,” you say, and the name feels dangerous in your mouth after all these years.
He goes very still.
You do not know why you ask it. Perhaps because you are lonelier than pride can survive. Perhaps because he is the only person in this place who ever looks at you and sees the girl you were before you became useful. Perhaps because some part of you wants to know whether you imagined that old childish tenderness, or whether it had lived somewhere real once.
“If things had been different,” you say quietly, “if we had found one another again when we were older—”
Your throat tightens.
You almost stop.
But you have already come this far, and pain has made you reckless in small quiet ways.
“If that had happened,” you finish, looking not at him but at the bars of red light on the floor, “do you think you might have been happy with me?”
The silence after is terrible.
Not empty. Full.
When you finally force yourself to look up, Lucan’s face has changed. There is grief in it now, plain and unhidden, the sort of grief only a man of low enough station and old enough love would ever dare carry before you without dressing it up as politeness.
He swallows once.
Then he says, very softly, “I liked you then more than I had any right to.”
Your breath catches.
He gives a short breath that is almost a laugh and not a laugh at all. “Gods, I was a fool for you.”
You stare at him.
No one has ever said anything so simple to you in a way that felt so devastating.
Lucan’s voice drops lower. “If the fates had been kinder in this life, I think I would have loved you a very long time.” He looks away then, jaw tightening once before he masters it. “And I think I would have spent that life trying to make you happy.”
You shut your eyes.
For one hideous, suspended moment, it feels as though your heart is being torn cleanly in two—the life you have, and the life no one ever meant you to have, laid side by side at last.
When you open your eyes again, he is still standing where he was, but there is distance in him now. Restraint. The old hard wall of understanding built back up brick by brick.
“But the fates were not so kind in this one,” he says.
Then he bowed, and when he straightened, he was a red-cloak guard again, and nothing more.
Later, much later, after your family has gone and the castle has swallowed the day whole, Ysilla comes to your chamber with a little parcel in her hands.
You know at once it must be from him.
Your heart begins to pound.
“Does Valarr know?” you ask, too quickly.
“No, my lady,” Ysilla says.
Ellyn is already crying. Myria will not meet your eyes.
You tell them you ought not take it. You say it because it is what ought to be said. Because you are a prince’s wife. Because you are a mother. Because somewhere beneath your ribs there is a small new heaviness you have not yet named aloud, though your body has already begun to know it in the queasy mornings, the strange weariness, and the way your gowns have started to sit differently across your middle.
Perhaps it is nothing.
Perhaps it is not.
You do not say a word of that either.
Myria kneels before you and whispers, “My lady, please.”
So you take the parcel.
Your fingers are trembling badly by the time you peel the wrapping back.
Inside is a small carved lion.
Plain wood. Smooth with age and handling. One ear blunted.
For a moment, the chamber disappears.
You are seven again in the Rock’s summer heat, pressing your favorite toy into a boy’s hands because he has none, because you like him best, because children think love means here, take what I treasure; I trust you with it. You hear your own little voice swearing that one day you will be husband and wife. You hear his answering promise, so earnest it had made you laugh.
He kept it.
All this time, he kept it.
Your hand closes around the lion, and the other goes, without thinking, to the slight tender secret low in your belly.
Then you begin to cry.
Not prettily. Not quietly, at first. It comes up through you like something breaking at last, and you bend over the little lion with your shoulders shaking while Ellyn catches you, Myria presses one hand to your back, and Ysilla turns toward the door to guard what little remains of your dignity.
Because he remembered.
Because he remembered the child you were.
Because somewhere beyond these walls there might have been a life in which that remembrance became a home instead of a wound.
And because, even now, with another child perhaps beginning its silent life beneath your heart, you know exactly where you will sleep tonight.
In the prince’s chambers.
In the great cold marriage.
In the life the fates chose.
You cry until there is no breath left in you, the little wooden lion clutched so tightly in your hand that the carved ear bites into your palm. Ellyn says your name once, very softly, as if she fears you might shatter completely if spoken to any louder. Myria is crying too. Ysilla has turned her face toward the door, guarding your grief the way other women guard jewels.
But none of them can help you.
Because the worst part is not the lion.
Not the memory.
Not even Lucan’s quiet voice in that red-lit passage, telling you that in a kinder life he thought he might have loved you a very long time.
The worst part is the hand that drifts, helpless and unthinking, to your belly.
The worst part is knowing that by this time next year, they will call you blessed again.
They would praise your beauty, your sweetness, your grace, your fertility.
No one would know that on the night you first held your third child beneath your heart, you were on the floor weeping over a little wooden lion and mourning the life you had never been allowed to live.
And that, perhaps, was the cruellest thing of all:
The realm would call her blessed for the very life she was mourning.
Warnings: characters are 18+, wizarding war, substances, smut
Summary: Fluff | Smut | Angst | Two survivors, one fateful summer, and a silence heavy with everything left unspoken.
Word count: 17 525
author's note: This is looong. I kept writing a bit every night when I felt like it and had time. This is a product of months and its my favourite thing I have written ever. I really really hope you like it.
Theodore Nott and you had always been just friends.
It began in the late bloom of summer, in a garden lined with white roses and wilting lavender, the air thick with the kind of heat that clung to the skin and made time slow. You were only three when your mother’s hand found yours, soft and firm as she guided you across the gravel path of the Nott family’s estate, your new neighbours. Her voice was light, pleasant, perfumed with diplomacy as she greeted the Notts, who stood beneath the ivy-covered trellis like they belonged there.
But you hadn’t cared about greetings or titles or the sharp way Mr. Nott looked at your father. No — your eyes had found him. A little boy with grass-stained trousers, wild hair that refused to be tamed, and pale eyes the color of steel before a storm. He was squatting in the sandpit the groundskeeper had barely finished raking, dragging a stick through the dirt with the focused intensity of a philosopher.
He looked up, squinting.
You stared back.
And without a word, you wobbled off the path, let your polished shoes sink into the sand, and dropped beside him like you were meant to be there all along.
You didn’t speak much at all at the time. Not in full sentences, anyway. There were giggles and grunts, soft babble and bright laughter as you fought over a chipped blue bucket and declared war with tiny shovels. He handed you a broken seashell, claiming it was enchanted. You gave him a clump of damp earth, insisting it was a gift. You left with sand in your shoes and a sunburn on your nose, and he left with a bruised shoulder because you’d shoved him for smashing your castle.
From that day forward, he was your best friend — and you were his.
At six, he caught a wasp in a jar and left it on your windowsill “as a pet.” It was a particularly sweltering July afternoon, the kind where the air shimmered above the cobblestones and even the house-elves seemed too hot to scold you for tracking dirt inside. You’d been sulking on the floor of your bedroom, limbs sprawled dramatically across the cool marble tiles, bemoaning the injustice of being forbidden from visiting the lake because “pureblood children do not splash about like Muggles.” You had just begun a truly Oscar-worthy sigh when you heard the soft clink of glass outside your window. Curious, you padded over and peeked out, nose nearly pressed to the pane. There, sitting in the sunbeam on your windowsill, was a glass jam jar—still sticky with remnants of plum preserve. The lid had been punctured with haphazard holes, and inside it buzzed a single, very angry wasp.
Pinned to the jar with a scrap of parchment and a glob of melted wax was a note. The handwriting was wobbly, but unmistakably his:
“I got you a pet. His name is Stingy. Don’t let him out. He’s got issues. —Theo”
You shrieked.
Your mother came running, wand drawn, thinking you'd been hexed or worse. But all she found was you, standing at the window with a jar in your trembling hands, eyes wide and mouth agape.
“Theodore left what on your windowsill?”
“A wasp,” you squeaked, still unsure whether to be touched or horrified.
A moment later, you saw him down in his estate’s garden — shirt untucked,shorts ripped, dirt smeared across one cheek — grinning up at you like he’d just delivered a bouquet of roses. He waved. The grin widened. You didn’t wave back.
Instead, you brought the jar to dinner with you the next time the Notts visited. You set it in front of his place setting with all the dignity a six-year-old could muster and whispered, “He’s your problem now.” The wasp was long dead, of course. Theo looked at it solemnly for a moment, then leaned toward you and whispered, “You didn’t feed him.” You almost shoved your mashed potatoes in his face.
Just friends.
At nine, he dared you to climb the sycamore tree at the far end of your garden — and then pushed you off the lowest branch to see if you’d bounce. You didn’t. You landed on your left wrist with a sickening crunch that made your vision swim. He stared down at you, pale-faced and trembling, his earlier laughter dying on his lips.
“I didn’t think you’d actually fall,” he muttered, then knelt beside you, arms shaking as he helped you up. He didn’t call for the house-elf. He didn’t yell for help. He carried you the whole way back himself, his breath ragged in your ear, whispering apologies so frantic you couldn’t tell if he was more afraid of your pain than the inevitable scolding from his father that was about to come.
Just friends.
When your Hogwarts letters came, you were ten and inseparable — always found pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on your estate’s library floor, or curled up in window sills arguing about which constellation was the prettiest. You read potion books together, the same moment, eyes wide and breath caught. When September arrived, you sat side by side on the train, legs swinging and nerves burning, watching the countryside blur into dusk.You were sorted into Slytherin together. He smirked at you as you passed through the Sorting Hat, his eyes alight with mischief and something warmer, softer — something unspoken. You sat beside him at the long emerald-draped table that night, heart pounding, and when the noise of the Great Hall swelled too loud and the silverware felt too heavy in your hand, he nudged your knee with his and leaned in with a half-smile. “Don’t pass out. I’ll have to carry you again.” You rolled your eyes. But your fingers twitched beneath the tablecloth, brushing his.
Just friends.
As the years passed, your friendship grew in quiet ways.It no longer lived in muddy knees and fake wars in the garden. No, it began to settle into something quieter. Something warmer. It was in the way he handed you a quill when yours broke during Transfiguration without needing to be asked. In the way you always remembered how he liked his tea — two sugars, no milk, even though he always insisted he hated sugar.You grew up together, side by side, inch by inch. Until one day, you stopped — stuck at a measly five-foot-two — while he just kept going, shooting past you. Shared detentions became less about mischief and more about the thrill of rebellion — the two of you sneaking out past curfew not to set traps or prank Gryffindors anymore, but to watch the stars from the Astronomy Tower, shoulders brushing, words soft and slow like the night itself. You'd lie on the cold stone floor with your robes draped like blankets and talk about things you were slowly beginning to understand — fear, pressure, family legacies, and what love might look like if it ever found you.
By third year, Theo had learned how to charm chocolate frogs to sing opera in the library. You nearly choked laughing.
By fourth year, he’d started noticing girls. You noticed, too.
There was a shift in him — subtle, quiet, but impossible to miss when you knew him as well as you did. His eyes lingered a bit longer in the corridors, tracking the swish of skirts, the curve of a smile. Not brash like the other boys. No, Theo’s gaze was different — quiet, calculating, laced with curiosity and something almost wary, like he wasn’t sure what he was meant to be looking for. You tried not to pay attention. But you did. Of course you did. You watched him as he watched them. And you tried not to wonder if he’d ever look at you like that — with interest. With purpose. With anything other than the familiar softness of childhood comfort. You caught him once, staring at a girl from Beauxbatons during the Triwizard Tournament festivities. She had long, shimmering hair and laughter like bells. Theo’s expression had been unreadable, eyes half-lidded and lips pressed together in quiet observation. You didn’t know why it stung. That night, you tossed in your bed long after lights-out, staring at the emerald canopy above you like it might give you answers. It didn’t.
And then there was that Hogsmeade trip.
You remember the chill in the air that morning — how the wind bit at your cheeks as you tugged your scarf tighter, your gloved hand brushing his as you walked side by side down the sloped cobblestone road into the village. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t say anything either. You spent the afternoon as you always did — sharing a butterbeer, elbowing each other in Honeydukes over who got the last Acid Pop, squabbling over which quill looked the most pretentious in Scrivenshaft’s.
And then it happened. A boy from Ravenclaw — tall, with a sharp jaw and easy charm — stepped forward just as you were shifting your books in your arms. You recognized him from Arithmancy, always smiling, always one too-smooth compliment away from detention.
“Need a hand?” he asked, already reaching.
You hesitated for half a heartbeat, then handed over the topmost book with a quiet “Thanks.” He grinned. Theo stood to your left, silent.As the boy led the way toward the carriages, chatting easily, your eyes flicked back to Theo, who was walking silently by your side.
He wasn’t looking at the boy. He was looking at you. Expression unreadable. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his long black coat, shoulders drawn slightly in. His jaw was tense — not obviously, but enough that you noticed. Enough that it made your heart stutter.
But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t joke. Didn’t tease. Just walked next to you, watching you as someone else was at your other side. You waited for him to say something on the way back. A comment. A smirk. A jab at Ravenclaws and their “hero complexes.” Anything. But the silence stretched. So you said nothing, either. You didn’t talk about it. You never did.
By fifth year, games turned into dares. Not childish ones like “steal Filch’s keys” or “hex someone’s quill.” These were quieter, more dangerous. “Say nothing if you’re jealous.”
“Don’t flinch when I touch you.”
Gentle teasing turned into long, lingering eye contact that made your stomach twist and your cheeks flush for reasons you didn’t care to name. The space between you thinned, became charged, electric — like something unspoken was constantly brushing against your skin.
You stayed up later than you should have.In the common room, on slow-burning nights when the fire had turned to embers and the world outside was dead quiet, you’d sprawl across the green velvet couch with your legs draped over Theo’s lap as you read. Sometimes, he’d pretend to be annoyed. Other times, he’d trace absentminded shapes onto your calf while studying. When he was tired, he’d tilt his head back against the cushions, long lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, and your foot would press lightly against his — not quite fully touching, but never far.
Your friend group had solidified by then. Blaise, ever the flirt, always had some girl wrapped around his finger — though he swore he was far too handsome to settle for just one. Pansy bounced between gossip and heartbreak, her eyes always darting to Draco even when her lips swore she was “over him.” Daphne played it cool — indifferent and unimpressed, until someone with strong cheekbones and terrible intentions caught her eye. And Draco... well, Draco had begun entertaining the idea of courtships, pureblood expectations trailing behind every glance he offered. They all noticed something between you and Theo.
Blaise would smirk at the way Theo’s hand rested casually on your knee, always just a little too long. Pansy would make snide remarks like, “God, just kiss already,” and then roll her eyes when you both scoffed. Daphne said it once at breakfast, loud and plain as day: “They act like they’re married and don’t even realize it.” Draco, for the most part, didn’t say anything — just observed, cool and composed, his gaze flickering between the two of you like he was calculating something. Like he knew.
But you didn’t. Or maybe you pretended not to.That was easier, safer. Familiar.
“Are you two—?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?” “No.” “Come on, you practically finish each other’s—” “We’re just friends.”
You both laughed. Every time. Like it was absurd. Like the very idea was hilarious. Like the thought had never once kept you awake at night. But it had.
Especially when Theo let his hand rest against the back of your neck during study group, warm and idle, like he didn’t realize what he was doing. Especially when you leaned over to show him a passage in your book and felt his breath on your collarbone. Especially when you saw him flirting — real, obvious flirting — with a girl from Ravenclaw at a party, all charm and smirking eyes, and you laughed too loudly at someone else’s joke just to pretend you didn’t notice.The truth lingered there, always — just beneath the surface of your ribcage, waiting to break free. But neither of you spoke it.
Just friends.
By sixth year, things weren’t so funny anymore.
Not when he was now a whole head taller and he never let you forget it, either. At the school library he’d smirk and lean against the nearest shelf while you dragged a ladder over just to reach a book he could easily pluck with one hand.
“Need help, you grumpy gnome?” he’d ask, eyebrow raised, full of mockery and affection.
You’d roll your eyes and scoff. But still, you let him get the book for you every time.
Not when your breath caught in your throat every time his fingers brushed your lower back in a crowded corridor and stayed there for one heartbeat too long.Not when his gaze lingered on your mouth during stupid, pointless arguments — eyes dark, unreadable, like he was daring you to say something. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d lose his restraint if you said the right word. But you never did. Neither of you did. Instead, he dated girls who weren’t you. Pretty ones, loud ones, polished ones with glossy hair and practiced smiles. You watched them cling to his arm in the hallways, batting their lashes and whispering into his ear. He let them. He even smiled sometimes, soft and small. But the smiles never quite reached his eyes.You told yourself it didn’t bother you. That this was how things were meant to go. That it was normal. Expected from hormonal teens exploring love. So you let yourself fall, too — into half-hearted flings with boys who smelled like cologne and praise. Boys who told you you looked beautiful when you hadn’t tried. Boys who kissed you behind the tapestry near the Prefect’s Bathroom and pressed you up against cold stone walls with eager hands and promises you didn’t believe.
Your first kiss was with a boy named Callum. Warm lips. Too wet. Too fast. You didn’t feel a thing. You remember telling Theo about it — late one night, legs curled beneath you on the common room floor, the fireplace throwing gold across his cheekbones. He didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked slowly, nodded once, and reached over to pluck a Chocolate Frog from your stash like it was any other night.
“Did you like it?” he asked after a long pause, voice low and unreadable.
You shrugged, eyes fixed on the flames.
“It was... fine.”
When you asked him about his first kiss, he told you it was with a Hufflepuff named Eevee in a broom closet during a game of Truth or Dare. You’d laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you needed to. Because something in your chest twisted too tight at the image of it. She wasn’t the last. He had girlfriends. Some of them stuck around longer than others. You had boyfriends. Or flings. Or long, drawn-out mistakes. But the pattern was always the same.The stupid teenage love fights. The fading affection. The silence that followed.
And then — always — the comfort.
It was Theo who found you on the Astronomy Tower the night Callum told you that you were “a bit too cold for his taste.” You’d gone there to scream. Or cry. Or disappear. Instead, you found him leaning against the railing like he already knew you’d come. He didn’t ask questions. Just handed you a flask of pumpkin cider and stared up at the stars with you until the burn in your chest eased. It was you who knocked on his door the night Eevee dumped him for a Quidditch captain, claiming Theo was “too emotionally unavailable.” You sat beside him in silence while he drank hot chocolate out of a chipped mug and muttered about how feelings were overrated anyway. You wiped his tears when he didn’t realize he was crying. You held his hand under the table during breakfast the next day, hidden by the edge of the bench. None of your friends ever commented on it anymore. They just knew. That no matter who either of you kissed —No matter whose hand you held, No matter whose name you would mention — It was always Theo who walked you back to the dormitory when your head hurt and your patience wore thin. Always Theo who sat beside you in Potions and handed you your knife before you could even ask. Always Theo who noticed when your laugh wasn’t quite real, and who said nothing — just slid a chocolate bar onto your desk before class and looked the other way. It was him. Always him.
Just friends.
Toward the end of sixth year, things began to shift again — subtly at first, then all at once.
The pressure outside the castle walls was building. Whispers of war and disappearances. You all felt it. The tension in the air. The silence between classes. The way the professors began watching too closely and speaking too softly. The letters from home didn’t help — cryptic, urgent things from your families, warning you of family histories you were still too young to fully understand, but old enough to know you couldn’t ignore. So naturally, your friend group did what young, privileged, reckless and extremely sheltered Slytherin teenagers do when the world starts to feel like it’s cracking at the edges: You partied.
Not the kind of parties that ended with polite kisses and quiet laughter. No — these were wild, clandestine things hidden deep in the castle, behind abandoned classrooms and in forgotten corridors that smelled like dust and danger. The Slytherin common room became a haven after curfew, drenched in contraband Firewhisky, stolen weed, and various shrooms someone always managed to sneak out of Herbology under their robes. You’d sit on the velvet couches with a half-empty bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other, your legs swung over Theo’s lap like always — both of you high enough to forget the ache, drunk enough to laugh at things that weren’t funny. It was a new kind of thrill. A way to feel something. Or nothing.
You all craved distraction. And you found it — in drinks that burned too quickly, in spells cast sloppily, in the shadows of darkened rooms and the heat of someone else's hands. You were seventeen. The first time it happened — with someone who wasn’t Theo — it had been at one of those parties. A boy with a charming smile and a crooked jaw, whose name you barely remembered and whose touch never quite settled into your skin the way you thought it would. It was rushed. Clumsy. Forgettable. Afterwards, you sat on the edge of the bed and pulled your skirt back into place while he slept, your head foggy and your heart hollow. You never told Theo. Not really. But he must have known. He always knew.
And him? He had his own moments. A new girl in Ravenclaw. Then a Hufflepuff with a thing for older boys. He’d return to the common room with his collar wrinkled and his smile sharp — like he was trying to prove something. To himself. To the other boys. To you. Blaise and Draco boasted the loudest, of course. Like it was a competition. Like sex was a rite of passage rather than a sacred, complicated, awkward thing. Theo joined in just enough to keep pace, tossing out smirks and one-liners that didn’t quite sit right in his mouth. You always rolled your eyes at him, your expression unreadable. And when the others talked openly — about who had done what with whom, about what they liked or didn’t — you always brushed it off with a dry smile and a shrug.
“Overrated,” you’d say.
It made them laugh. But not Theo. Theo would watch you quietly when you said things like that. Like he was trying to read between the words. Like he wanted to ask if it had meant anything. He never did. And you never told him how it really felt. How you laid in bed that night, staring at the canopy above you, feeling… nothing. Not dirty. Not broken. Not sad. Just… empty. Because you’d always imagined that moment differently — softer, quieter. With someone who made you laugh until your ribs ached. With someone who knew your favorite constellation and the exact way you took your tea. With someone who handed you chocolate on bad days and never let your silence go unnoticed. With Theo. But it wasn’t him. So you drank. You danced. You smoked. You played your part in the grand distraction of teenage rebellion while the world outside grew darker. The laughter became louder. The nights longer. The dares more dangerous.
But even in the chaos — in the smoke and the spells and the forbidden kisses — it was always Theo who found you when the party quieted and the ache returned. Theo, who tucked your hair behind your ear when your mascara smudged and pretended not to notice. Theo, who held your hair back when you threw up behind the Quidditch stands after too many drinks and handed you a stolen bottle of water with a quiet, “Idiot.” Theo, who helped you sneak back to your dorm and whispered, “You good?” in that low, rasped voice that always meant more than it sounded like.
Just friends.
Late Summer before year Seven. Your house. Empty. Quiet. Haunted.
Your parents were gone — flown off in the dead of night like shadows dissolving into deeper shadow — and so were Theo’s. Both families off to do the things Death Eaters did when they thought their children were old enough to be left behind. Old enough to fend for themselves. Old enough to understand what silence meant. Except you didn’t understand. Neither of you did. No one cared to explain, and no one dared. There were no long goodbyes, no answers — only the tremor in your father’s voice when he kissed your forehead too fast, the way Theo’s mother clutched his hand like she might not get to again. You could hear the fear in them, feel it coiled tight beneath their words, and it left you both too paralyzed not to listen. They gave no return date. Just a hushed goodbye, a stack of protective wards, and an order not to leave the manor grounds. So you didn’t. Neither of you did. For two weeks, it was just you and Theo. Two dark manors. Various dark rooms. Two cigarette boxes steadily emptied under skies that never felt light again.
You never asked why he came over that night. You didn’t have to. He showed up at your gates with a backpack slung over his shoulder and an unlit cigarette between his lips. You let him in without a word, just stepped aside, heart heavy and hands cold. And when night came, and the house began to feel too vast, too hollow, too still — you didn't even consider sleeping in your own bed. The shadows were too deep in your parents' absence. The corners too loud. Even the house-elves had begun moving differently, quieter, with soft, sad eyes that followed you down the halls. You found him on the balcony of the guest room, where the view stretched over moon-drenched gardens and frost-glittered stone. You didn’t speak at first. Just passed him a new cigarette, your fingers brushing his as he took it from your hand and lit it with a flick of his wand. It was your worst habit — something your other friends still did for fun, to look cool. But for you and Theo, it was different. It had become a ritual. A comfort. A shared vice in a world that kept demanding too much.
The smoke curled between your faces, silver ribbons twisting into the thick August night air. You leaned against the railing, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on your shoulders — school, war, the mark on your forearm that had yet to be carved, but already burned in your blood. Neither of you laughed anymore. Not tonight. The conversation was slow. Muted. War. Obligation. Death. You spoke about the things you didn’t say to anyone else — the shadows you carried, the things that kept you up at night. What you were afraid of. What you couldn’t stop dreaming about. The moment you saw your father with blood on his sleeves and realized it hadn’t come from him. The way he looked at you like he wished you hadn’t seen. The moment Theo overheard something he wasn’t supposed to — whispered names, punishments, plans — and couldn’t forget the sound of someone screaming for mercy, the way it echoed in his ears for days. It wasn’t light conversation. It wasn’t gossip. It was real. Ugly. Twisted. You couldn’t fully grasp what was happening — how could you? Your families did their best to shelter you both from knowing too much. But you weren’t stupid. You weren’t children anymore. You could read between the lines. You could see the cracks in your parents’ facades, the fear beneath the orders. You didn’t know everything, but you knew enough. You knew it was bad.
When the cigarette burned low between his fingers, he flicked it off the balcony, watching as the ember spun through the dark like a dying star before vanishing into the garden below. His hand lingered in the air for a moment… then twitched. Just once. Like it wanted to do something — reach, touch, say what he couldn’t — but didn’t yet dare. And then… he said your name. Soft. Frayed. Like a warning. Or a question. You turned to him slowly. His eyes were tired. Bloodshot. Smoke-kissed. There was something fragile in them — something raw and unspeakable. His hand reached out, tentative, resting at the curve of your hip like it had every right to be there. Like it had always belonged there.
And then he kissed you. No hesitation. No smirk. No snide remark to follow. It was slow — achingly slow. A drag, not a spark. Warm and smoky and quiet. His lips tasted like tobacco and the kind of grief you didn’t talk about in daylight. His hand cupped the side of your jaw, gentle, reverent, like he wasn’t sure you were real. You didn’t pull away. You leaned in. Because this wasn’t like the others. This wasn’t messy or desperate. It wasn’t clumsy or rushed. It was honest. The air around you was thick with everything unspoken — years of glances, brushes, laughter turned hollow. All of it igniting between your mouths, breath and fire and need. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. He said nothing. Neither did you. You never spoke of it again.Not the kiss.Not the touch.Not the way your heart had stuttered in your chest like it wanted to break free from your ribs and press itself into his hands.
You stayed friends. Just friends. Because it was easier to stay quiet than to risk the ruin of what little comfort you still had.
Seventh year began.
A painful, unnatural thing — a year painted in false smiles and tight dresses, wild parties and louder laughter, all masking the dread clawing up your throat. You danced like everything was fine. You drank like the world wasn’t ending. You smoked more. Slept less. Your body began showing the signs. By winter, your reflection had thinned. Your long hair was gone, shorn to your shoulders on a whim you couldn’t explain. Something about feeling too heavy. Too soft. You’d watched the strands fall in the bathroom mirror with numb eyes and a blade in your hand. Theo said nothing about it. Not really. Just passed you a cigarette and lit it for you.His eyes lingered, though. Longer than they used to.
Christmas that year was a cold affair. Not in weather — the manor was spell-warmed, the fireplaces roaring, golden flames licking at logs stacked too perfectly. But in every other way, it was frigid. A small gathering — just your family and his. All stiff robes and colder smiles, Death Eaters trying to mimic holiday cheer like they hadn’t spent the past year cloaked in blood and secrets. Laughter sounded wrong. The wine was too red. You sat at the end of the table beside Theo, both of you silent, staring into the candlelight like maybe — just maybe — you could burn away the guilt growing beneath your skin. Your mother had overbaked the dessert. A blackened crust. Filling hardened into something between toffee and tar. She served it anyway, and nobody commented. Not even Theo. No one had the heart to point out the obvious flaw, too busy picking at their plates with quiet detachment, eyes flickering with things they couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t. The air was suffocating — names not mentioned, events not acknowledged. You were both dressed in your finest, but your eyes were tired, your posture slumped. The candlelight only deepened the shadows under your eyes. It felt colder than it should’ve. You felt duller. Like something inside you had hollowed out to make room for fear. For the weight of everything unspoken. You hadn’t heard from some of your cousins in weeks. Your uncle’s name had been whispered in one of those horrible letters that arrived in the dead of night — the kind your parents never read aloud, only burned. Next to you, Theo didn’t touch his food. Just held his glass loosely in one hand, his jaw tight, his eyes even tighter. His thigh pressed lightly against yours under the table, an anchor in a sea of ice. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You were both waiting for the storm to break — and trying, in the quiet between bites, not to shatter first. After dinner, presents were exchanged in a strained attempt to soften the air. Brightly wrapped boxes appeared under the flickering lights of the drawing room — gold foil, emerald ribbons, all perfectly tied.You watched as your mother handed Theo a silver pocket watch engraved with runes, her smile too wide, her hands too pale.His father gifted you a jeweled hairpin, something old and ornate, set with a blood-red stone in darkened silver. Delicate. Sharp. Useless. The gifts were expensive. Carefully selected. Nothing was done halfway in your world — not even in times of looming dread. But they were unnecessary, irrelevant things. Symbols of a normalcy that no longer existed. Still, you and Theo were polite. Practiced. You murmured soft “thank you”s and offered faint smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. He rested his hand on your lower back as you said your thanks and you mirrored the gesture later as he nodded his way through a compliment about the watch’s engraving. It was theater. Every movement rehearsed. Every breath strained. Your families tried. You could give them that. They did their best to pretend, to shield you both with tradition and false warmth, with gifts and crackers and familiar carols playing quietly from the phonograph in the corner. But the cracks were showing. You could feel it — the unraveling. The way your parents glanced toward the windows too often. The way Theo’s mother fidgeted with her rings. The way none of them mentioned what was happening just beyond the wards. As if silence could keep it all at bay. But you and Theo knew better. You accepted the gifts. You smiled, you played along, because it was easier than breaking. Because it was Christmas. And because pretending — even for one night — was all anyone had left.
Later that night, in a house too dark and too quiet, you found yourself in your room. Again. But this time, there was silence. You sat across from each other on the edge of his mattress, shoulders barely touching, shadows flickering from the hearth across his jaw.
“I have something for you,” you said softly, reaching into the folds of your robe and pulling out a small velvet pouch.
Theo raised an eyebrow, but took it without question. When he tipped the contents into his palm, a ring rolled into his fingers — smooth, darkened silver, cool to the touch. His initials were engraved on the outside, delicate and precise.
He turned it slowly between his fingers. “You got me a ring,” he said, voice unreadable.
You shrugged. “I know you always lose things…don’t you dare lose this too.”
He huffed a laugh, but it was warm. He slid it onto his finger without hesitation. “Fits perfectly.”
Your throat tightened. “I measured your finger while you were asleep last month.”
Theo’s smile faltered — just a little. But something gentler took its place in his eyes. “You’re insane.”
You smiled. “You’re welcome.”
A beat of silence. A shift in the air.
Then he stood up, walked across the room, and pulled something from his own discarded robe. A small black box, no ribbon, no card. Just a quiet offering. He held it out to you.
Inside was a silver necklace — a fine chain and a charm shaped like a safety pin. But wrapped tightly around it was a delicate serpent, fangs bared, emerald eyes glinting like secrets.
“It reminded me of you,” he murmured, voice low. “Sharp. Clever. Dangerous when necessary.”
You said nothing — just turned, lifted your hair, and let him clasp it around your neck. His fingers lingered, not just to fasten it, but to feel you. The slope of your neck. The warmth of your skin. The quiet, steady beat of your pulse beneath his touch. His lips hovered there for a second. Then touched. A soft, slow kiss at the base of your throat — not rushed, not greedy, but full of something tender and dangerous and unspoken. You turned to face him and he looked at you like he didn’t know where to begin. Or maybe like he already had. You reached for him, pulling him in by the hem of his shirt. He didn’t speak. Just leaned down, laying you gently across the mattress, pressing his lips to yours again — slow, deep, meaningful. The kind of kiss that trembled with everything you were both too afraid to say. Your fingers slid over the warm skin of his back as his shirt hit the floor. Yours was halfway undone, the clasp of your bra slack, the necklace still gleaming between your collarbones. His hands traced your waist. Yours tangled in his hair. Breathing unsteady. Kisses turning more urgent. But you didn’t go further. Not yet. Maybe not ever — not because you didn’t want to, but because the moment never gave you a chance.
Because just then, voices rose from the corridor beyond the bedroom door. Muffled at first. Then clearer. Sharper. Urgent. Your name. His. Whispers of the unthinkable. Turning you into Death Eaters. Marrying you off to each other. Hiding you away — to protect you, to save face, to give you a chance of survival. They spoke of it like strategy, not lives. Like your bodies were pieces on a board. Two heirs. Two bloodlines. Two names too valuable to risk.
The proposal wasn’t romantic. It was cold. Practical. Transactional. There was too much to lose — the shared business, the old money, the ancient reputations so carefully kept intact. If the world crumbled, you had to be kept safe. Together. Away. Somewhere nobody could touch you. Behind the thick oak doors, your mothers argued with your fathers — voices rising, brittle and desperate.
“They deserve to know!” his mother snapped, sharp with grief already blooming beneath her stern voice.
“They’re not ready,” your father bit back, voice low, tight with the kind of fear he never let you see.
“Then make them ready!” your mother had hissed — and it stopped you cold. She never argued with him. Never raised her voice. Not like that.Her words trembled on the edge of panic. “Or do you want the shock to kill them if we don’t make it back?”
A sharp bang followed — Theodore’s father slamming his glass down, his voice rising over all of them.
“Nobody is dying.”
Silence.Sudden. Staggering. As if, all at once, they realized you and Theo could hear everything. As if your names had been spoken too loudly. As if the truth had bled too far.The silence that followed was louder than the shouting had been. A silence that said what none of them would admit out loud: They didn’t expect to survive.
Your body went cold beneath him, every nerve taut. Your fingernails dug into his bare chest as he sat frozen above you, his jaw clenched, his muscular arms flexing with either fury, fear — or both.
You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.
The rest of the night was silent. The air too still. The fire burned low in the hearth, the shadows long and unforgiving. You curled into his side, shivering despite the heat of his skin. He held you. Kept his arms wrapped tightly around you as you cried into his chest — quietly, steadily, until sleep took you both like a mercy. From that night on, you never spoke of it. But he always wore the ring you gave him, like it anchored him to something. And you — you never took off that necklace. Like it might protect you from a world that had stopped making sense. Like it might remind you that for one moment… you were his.
Just friends.
March. Your eighteenth birthday.
A blur of green lighting, music thumping through the common room walls, and Firewhisky burning a path down your throat like it was trying to cauterize the ache in your chest. Everyone was there — Blaise with some girl on his lap, Pansy dancing barefoot on a table, Draco brooding with a drink in one hand and a sharp grin on his face. Theo didn’t leave your side all night. He watched you with unreadable eyes as you laughed too loud, danced too close, leaned into someone else's touch just long enough to make him angry. When the party finally thinned, and the halls emptied of smoke and song, you pulled him into your room without a word. And this time— This time you didn’t stop.
You kissed him hard, your hands yanking him toward you like you were starved. His shirt was gone in seconds. Yours followed. Your back hit the mattress with a thud, and the rest was heat and teeth and whispered curses. Raw. Lust-filled. Unapologetic.His name fell from your lips like a sin. Yours left his like a promise he never got to keep. It was the kind of night that could've changed everything. But it didn’t.Because the next morning, you woke up tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, and he was already pulling his shirt back over his head. Already avoiding your eyes. Already retreating behind that same careful silence.
Your friends teased, of course.
“Oh, they’re at it again.” “Just make it official already.”
You laughed it off. He smirked like he wasn’t dying. You rolled your eyes like you didn’t care.
Just friends.
But by the time the final term rolled around, everyone knew what you were. A twisted kind of constant. A pattern. A secret with no secrecy left.
Oh, they just fuck.
That’s what they said now. Not with venom. Not with judgment. Just... with a shrug. As if that explained all the nights you spent in his bed, half-clothed and quiet. As if that explained the way his hands found your hips like they belonged there. As if that explained why neither of you could look at each other for too long in the daylight. Just sex. Just lust fueled from fear and frustration. Just friends. And yet, sometimes — when your lips met his in the dark, and your hands clutched the back of his neck like it was the only thing keeping you grounded — it felt like something more. Something that could wreck you. But you never said it. Neither did he. As if speaking it would make it too real. As if the fragile, unspoken thing between you would shatter under the weight of honesty. Because that was the one rule you never broke. Don’t call it love. Don’t make it love. As if you were afraid — terrified — of ruining what had always kept you tethered. The friendship. The shared childhood. The years of unfiltered existence. The quiet comfort of someone who knew you before the world got to you.
By the end of that final year, the world got to you both. Your sheltered upbringings cracked like porcelain dropped on stone. No amount of wealth, no inherited status, no pureblood pride could shield you from the way war hollowed people out and left nothing but ruin behind.
Theo’s mother — Gone. Just… gone. No body. No explanation. One day there, the next, a missing name whispered behind locked doors. The Nott estate hung a black veil over its gates, and no funeral was ever held. There was no point. Grief like that was wordless — just cold halls and untouched teacups and a father who stopped speaking altogether. Lord Nott, once sharp and cruel with his lectures, had gone fully nonverbal. Not by curse — but by choice. As if silence was the only form of control he had left.
Your father — alive, yes. Barely. He came back from the mission, but not the same man who had tucked you into bed with stories about ancient magic and told you to always think three steps ahead. His body was broken beyond recognition. The medics didn’t let you see him at first. They said it would be “too distressing.” Eventually, you did. And they were right. He was unrecognizable. Wheelchair-bound. Spine bent at an unnatural angle. One leg gone from the knee down. His wand hand — once so steady, so sure — was now a twisted, useless claw curled permanently against his chest. His face was gaunt and pale, skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones. Scars like lightning bolts slashed down his neck. His eyes were sunken and wild. You remembered staring at him in silence, unable to move. Because he terrified you. Not in the way your enemies did. But in the way a nightmare does when it looks like someone you love wearing the wrong skin. A ghost in a body that wasn’t built to hold him anymore. He couldn’t speak at first — not from any injury to his throat, but from shock. From trauma that settled into his bones and refused to leave. And when he finally did speak again, his voice was rough. Short. Cold. Barked orders and fragmented thoughts. No longer your clever, strategic father — the man who once gently corrected your spellwork and taught you how to read people like books — but something else entirely. A man stitched together from grief and pain. A shadow with too many memories and too little future. Your mother — still healing from her own wounds — became his nurse. She rose with the sun and fell asleep in chairs beside his bed, hands blistered from potion bottles and bandages. She stopped wearing jewelry. Stopped painting her nails. Her posture slumped. Her laugh disappeared. She aged years in mere months — not from time, but from the weight of it all.
You heard her crying once, through the door. Quiet. Shaking. Then silence. Then the kettle boiling like nothing had happened. You stayed away from that room as much as you could. And hated yourself for it. But every time you looked at him… you didn’t see your father. You saw what war did.
Your mothers had been right that Christmas. The fear in their voices, the tension in the way their hands had trembled as they poured wine and tried to smile — it had all been true. They had known what was coming. And still, no one prepared you. There were no instructions. No easing in. You and Theo were thrown into it — contracts, vaults, magical properties, shared estates, heirlooms, taxes, infernal negotiations with families older than stone. The joint businesses, the web of wealth spun between your last names, all fell into your hands. You were expected to just know — to manage, to lead, to represent, to preserve legacies that were already falling apart. You had to learn everything in a matter of days. Not weeks. Not months. And you did. So did he. Because what other choice was there? You were no longer just students. You were heirs to something crumbling. You were survivors of something that never truly ended.
Theo, who once smirked during Potions and drew obscene doodles in the margins of your notes, now wore tailored suits and pinched the bridge of his nose over budget ledgers.
You, who used to skip class to nap in the sun, now read estate law by candlelight and signed contracts that made your stomach turn. Shared business. Shared history. Shared ruin. And yet, in the quiet, in the moments between meetings and estate visits and painfully public galas, you still found each other.
At night, when the help was asleep and the world had gone quiet, you’d meet in the corners of your decaying privilege. His study. Your greenhouse. The stables at the Greengrass estate during a black-tie engagement party neither of you wanted to be at. You’d find each other in the dark. A familiar rhythm. The same kiss.The same desperate hands. The same way your body knew his, like you’d been made for this, even if you never got to claim it. It wasn’t passion anymore — not really.It was survival. Because without it — without him — you weren’t sure you’d still be standing. School officially ended. Graduation came and went without you. While your classmates celebrated the start of a new life, you were already buried in the old one.
As the months rolled on, it began to change you. Not just inside — not just the fatigue, the sleeplessness, the weight of responsibility. But outside too. Theo grew leaner, his sharpness no longer boyish but sculpted by loss. His stubble always present now — not because he was trying to impress anyone, but because he didn’t have the energy to care. And you —You’d grown colder. Still beautiful, but distant. Your fingers slender and always stained with ink, your voice quieter, but never unsure.You moved like a woman who knew how to survive. Together, you navigated endless meetings; estate conflicts and public appearances — always seated side by side, always quietly aligned. Like a married couple. Like a power duo. Like something real, even if it wasn’t.
You’d been in the Nott estate office for hours.Stacks of parchment, ink-smudged records, bloodline documentation, contracts, estate transfers — all tangled up in the web of shared legacy that neither of you had asked for, but now had to untangle. The windows were drawn. A single lamp flickered, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. Above you, the yelling started again. Theodore’s father — a once dignified, articulate man — now reduced to ghostlike fury, roared behind closed doors. You could hear him stumbling, the scrape of wood against stone, a loud crash as something shattered. And then again — cries. Muffled, broken. You couldn’t tell if they were from pain, grief, or madness anymore. You and Theo had long stopped reacting to it. You sat across from each other, bent over opposite ends of the desk, searching desperately for one specific scroll that had vanished in the chaos of war. Your hands trembled. Theo’s jaw was tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek. The silence was heavy. Suffocating.
“You filed it wrong,” he snapped finally, voice low but sharp.
You looked up, exhaustion fraying your edges. “I didn’t. I double-checked. It’s not here.”
“It has to be,” he growled, standing abruptly. “We can’t afford to lose this one. Not this one.”
You stood too. “Don’t raise your voice at me, Theodore. I’m trying just as hard as you.”
His hand slammed against the desk, papers jumping in every direction. “It’s not enough!”
Something cracked. Not the desk. Not the lamp. You. He moved opposite you, towering over your frame, the air between you tense and buzzing. His shoulders squared, jaw clenched, anger etched into every sharp angle of his face — but it wasn’t just anger. It was everything. Grief. Pressure. The unbearable weight of inheritance and expectation pressing down on both of you.
“You think I don’t know that?” you hissed. “You think I’m not drowning too?”
The silence that followed was dangerous. Alive. Then, in one breathless movement, Theo swept the remaining papers off the desk with a furious snarl, grabbed your waist, and shoved you back against the polished wood. His mouth was on yours before you could protest — hard, hungry, desperate. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. But it was real. Raw. You kissed him back with equal force, hands fisting in his shirt, tugging him closer as his hips pressed into yours. A clash of teeth and tongues, of fury and grief and longing. Hushed gasps. Scraped sighs. You clawed at his back like it might anchor you to the moment, to something that still made sense. His hand slid under your blouse. Yours slipped into his hair. You didn’t care about the desk. The office. The yelling upstairs. For a few stolen minutes, there was nothing but heat — the ache of needing to forget, the need to feel alive, if only briefly. And when it ended — when your breaths slowed and your heads rested together — you didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Didn’t explain. You simply slid off the desk, tugging your oversized shirt back over your shoulder, smoothing the hem of your loose shorts with shaky hands. Then, wordlessly, you began collecting the papers scattered across the floor. Theo helped, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his jaw tight. Neither of you looked at each other. You smoothed out a torn contract. He re-inked the title line. And you went back to work.
People whispered. They always do.
“They’re perfect together.” “They run their families like they were born for it.” “They have to be together, right?”
But they didn’t know. They didn’t know how you’d sign the last page of a treaty with your hand trembling and Theo would place his fingers over yours — just for a second — to steady you. How you’d brush against each other on the gala stairs and both flinch, as if the touch was too much. They didn’t know about the arguments behind closed doors, the way grief twisted everything tight. Didn’t see you both unravel — trying to keep up with legacies you were never meant to carry alone.Didn’t see the way your fathers now sat silently in the shared manor farm’s garden, side by side — your father’s hands gnarled and motionless in his lap, Theo’s father pushing the wheelchair in slow, stiff silence during their mandatory daily walks. Didn’t see your mother smoking alone at dusk beside the grave of Theo’s mother — a grave with no body. Just a stone. Just a name.
You were still just friends. Still clinging to the label like it might save you. Not because you didn’t want to call it love anymore — but because now, you couldn’t. There was no time. No energy. No room left for soft words and safe confessions. Not with everything else you were carrying.
The peace after the storm came three years later.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Not all at once. It came slowly, like the way bruises fade — inch by inch, color by color, until one day you looked in the mirror and realized the ache was gone, but you still remembered exactly how it felt. You and Theo had learned to breathe again. Not deeply. Not freely. But enough. Enough to survive the meetings. Enough to sleep for more than four hours. Enough to stop jumping when owls arrived unexpectedly. Enough to function in the daylight, to keep your voices steady, to hold a quill without shaking. You were still sleeping in your own homes with your parents, still tethered to the ruins of what had been. But more often than not, you found each other in Theo’s bed — not for passion, not for pleasure, but for stillness. For warmth. For something close to peace. Just holding each other in silence, hearts beating like stubborn clocks in the dark. One morning, you had walked alongside your fathers in the garden. Slowly. Carefully. You had finally gathered the courage — or maybe just the numbness — to stomach the way they looked now. His father guiding your father’s wheelchair, both silent as ghosts, eyes cast low like men already half-buried. It was there that his father first pitched the idea of marriage. Not as a romantic gesture. Not even as protection anymore. But as necessity. Politics. Legacy. A tie to keep everything standing. Theo hadn’t said you were just friends. He hadn’t said no. He had only said, flatly, “There’s no time.”
And your father — your once-sharp, untouchable father — had started crying. Not loud. Just quietly. Shamefully. Because he couldn’t walk you down the aisle without assistance. Because he couldn’t hold a wand. Because he was no longer the man you had looked up to with such blinding pride. You had clutched Theo’s hand so tightly his fingers had gone pale. He hadn’t let go. That same night, you had sat outside in the old tree — the one he’d pushed you from years ago. The bark still scraped. The branches still high. The memory still vivid. You didn’t speak. You just sat in the crook of the trunk, a cigarette burning slow between your fingers, staring out into the dark, and wishing everything would stop spinning — just for a while. Theo had climbed up beside you like he always did, the wood creaking under his weight. And without a word, he’d pulled you gently against his side, his arm wrapping around your back with the kind of ease only years could grant. His lips found your temple — soft, grounding — and he whispered something quiet into your ear. You didn’t catch all of it. You didn’t need to. It was the tone that mattered — low, steady, like an anchor dropped into stormy water. You leaned into him, resting your head beneath his chin, letting the smoke curl upward as his fingers traced lazy patterns on your spine. For a moment, nothing hurt. For a moment, the world stood still.
One summer afternoon, an owl arrived. You were in Theo’s study, both of you hunched over estate plans in silence, the kind of quiet that had become second nature — not hostile, just heavy. The open window let in the distant hum of cicadas and the faint scent of warm stone. The owl cut through it all with a sharp flap of wings, landing on the back of Theo’s chair with practiced ease. You blinked, reaching for the parchment tied to its leg. Pansy’s handwriting. Flowing. Delicate. Dramatic. A vacation. Her beach villa. Two weeks. Sun, sand, alcohol, “and absolutely no business, darling.”
Around you, life had kept moving — faster than either of you could follow. The Malfoys had escaped the war with little more than scratches and enough gold to polish their name clean. Draco had met Daphne’s sister Astoria, fallen in love, and now they were expecting their first child — a picture-perfect future handed to them on a silver spoon. Pansy had found love in Blaise, of all people, and last you heard, they’d gotten engaged. Daphne had vanished off to some far land, buried in magical research and ancient libraries, sending the occasional vague postcard with too much sun and too few words. Everyone had moved on.Except for you two. You’d declined nearly every group invitation over the years. Some never even reached you anymore. The others came wrapped in awkward politeness — sympathy laced into the phrasing, like everyone knew but no one wanted to say it aloud. Everyone knew your situation. They whispered it behind their hands at galas and in footnotes of society columns: the heirs who stayed behind. The children who became the legacy. Only Pansy had stayed in contact properly. Owls passed between you — sometimes short and sweet, sometimes long and rambling. She never pushed, just reminded you that she was still there. Still waiting. But you’d never gone. Never had the time. Never had the energy to pretend you were whole enough to relax. Until now.
“Is this… a joke?” Theo asked eventually, voice low and flat.
You didn’t answer. Just folded the parchment once more and placed it on the desk between you like it might detonate. A vacation. A real vacation. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had one. No duties. No legacy. No headlines. No contracts. No whispered condolences. No tense galas. No black robes or bloodied rings. Just… escape. It felt foreign.Unreal. Irresponsible. And still —Still, a part of you ached for it. Not the beach. Not the cocktails. Not the idea of rest. But the idea of being you again. Not your name. Not your family’s. Just you. Theo leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, and exhaled slowly. You watched the way his jaw flexed, the way his shirt clung to his collarbones, the way exhaustion lived in his body like a second soul. The silence stretched, heavy and careful, like all things between you. You reached for the letter again, scanning it once more.
“Two weeks,” you said quietly, setting it back down. “We’d be off the grid. No meetings. No correspondence. No expectations.”
Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.
“It’s impractical,” he muttered. “We have three estate reports due. I still need to finalize the imports for—”
“We can delegate,” you interrupted, calm. “Take the work with us if we must. But I think—” You exhaled slowly. “I think we need the distance. From all of this.”
You gestured vaguely to the desk, the stacks of parchment, the endless flow of sealed envelopes. Theo didn’t respond immediately. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on a dark spot in the wooden grain of the desk. Then, finally, his gaze met yours.
“We go,” he said. “Just a few days. Nothing excessive.”
“Fine,” you agreed with a slight nod. “I’ll write back.”
No smiles. No jokes. No laughter. Just two people who had grown used to survival. Two people who made decisions like allies, like business partners. Because that's what you did. You endured. Together.
The vacation came. And for the first two days, neither of you knew what to do with it. You arrived late in the afternoon — salt in the air, the light golden and low, the villa glowing with warm sandstone and the sound of distant waves crashing against the cliffs. It was almost too beautiful. Artificial. Like stepping into a memory you didn’t belong in. Pansy greeted you at the door barefoot, her hair twisted into a silk scarf, her grin wide and bright, a new engagement ring on her finger gleaming like a spotlight. Blaise was behind her, hand resting lazily on her waist. He smirked and said something about you two looking “as thrilled as a pair of accountants at a rave.” You didn’t laugh. Theo didn’t either.
Inside, the villa pulsed with sun and music — warm and alive in a way that felt almost foreign. Draco was already lounging shirtless by the pool, sunglasses perched on his nose, one hand lazily stroking the curve of Astoria’s very obviously pregnant belly. She looked radiant. Barefoot and glowing, her skin kissed golden by the sun, her laughter ringing out as she tipped her head back at something he whispered. Around them, their friends glowed with the same ease — pleasant tans, light clothes, relaxed smiles. Like the war had never touched them. You and Theo looked like ghosts. Pale. Drawn. Unseasoned by joy. You'd packed three swimsuits, but couldn’t bring yourself to put any of them the first day. You’d grown so slender in recent months that your reflection no longer felt like your own. Your body — once yours, once familiar — now felt like something borrowed and worn thin. You stood in front of the mirror too long. Silent. Theo noticed. He always did.
“It was your idea,” he muttered later, tension clipped into his voice as he stood in the shared bedroom of the villa. “You’re the one who said we needed this.”
“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you replied, equally quiet. Defensive. “Like we don’t belong here anymore.”
The silence that followed was thick. Neither of you moved. It wasn’t really about swimsuits. Or sunlight. Or laughter. It was about what you’d become — and how far you’d drifted from your friends.
That same night, after a dinner that felt more like a performance than a meal, you sat curled up with a book in your lap — not reading, not even pretending to. Your fingers gripped the spine too tightly, knuckles white. The pages didn’t turn. Theo was nearby, sprawled on the adjacent chair, one arm draped lazily along the back. His eyes weren’t on you. They were locked on the horizon, sharp and quiet, like he was daring it to say something. Dinner had started innocently enough. Pansy had tried — really tried — to keep things light, even as she sipped from her wine glass with the telltale smirk of someone trying to pull threads back together.
“So,” she began, eyes flicking between you and Theo across the candlelit table, “What finally dragged you two out of your cave? Don’t tell me it was the promise of tan lines and mocktails.”
Theo didn’t smile. Neither did you. It was Blaise who chuckled into his drink.
Pansy tried again. “Still just messing around like you were at Hogwarts? Or did one of you finally grow up and confess something real?”
You had managed a dry, noncommittal smile. Theo stabbed his food with a bit more force than necessary.
Then Draco — in a tone too casual to be careless — leaned forward slightly and asked, “How are your families?”
The question hit like a slap. Sharp. Unwelcome. Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers clenched tighter around your fork. Heat flared in your chest — not anger, but something more bitter, more helpless. Like a scream trapped behind your ribs. Your hand slid under the table, gripping Theo’s thigh through his shorts. Your long nails dug in, leaving harsh, red crescents in his skin. A warning. A plea.He didn’t flinch.His hand covered yours — warm, relaxing. He gave it the faintest squeeze, thumb brushing your knuckles once, then said quietly, with no elaboration: “Better.”
That one word hung in the air. Final. Clipped. Uninviting. The conversation moved on, awkwardly, stumbling into safer territory. Someone laughed a little too loudly. The subject shifted to the weather today being unbearably hot, then to Astoria’s pregnancy, and then — mercifully — to dessert. You didn’t mind Draco. You liked him, even. He’d been a close friend for years. But the question — innocent or not — had sliced right through what little armor you still had left. If Theo hadn’t spoken first, you weren’t sure what might’ve come out of your mouth.
And so later, when the moon was high and most of the others had wandered off to their rooms or the beach, you sat outside together in a comfortable silence that wasn’t really comfortable at all. Just familiar. The book lay unopened in your lap. Theo’s jaw was tight as he stared at the sea. No one joined you. No one interrupted. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t judgment. It was just... distance. The kind you grow used to when you’ve lived too long behind walls no one else knows how to climb.
Day two bled into heat and salt and sun. The others were scattered — Blaise and Pansy off snorkeling somewhere beyond the rocks, their laughter occasionally echoing over the waves. Draco was seated under a shaded umbrella, massaging Astoria’s swollen ankles with surprising tenderness, the two of them tucked into their own quiet world. Theo had gone for a run. His body moved like he was chasing something — or maybe trying to outrun it. Every flex of his shoulders caught the light like marble. He’d shaved that morning — the first time in what felt like months — and the sharpness of his jaw, no longer hidden beneath stubble, made something unfamiliar twist in your stomach. His hair, damp from an earlier swim, was slicked back, a few strands falling forward as he ran. You sat on a sun-warmed rock a few meters away, hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, Theo’s shirt draped over your swimsuit. You’d burned yesterday — badly — and now his button-down protected your flushed skin. You weren’t reading. You weren’t doing anything, really. Just staring. Watching him like it was the first time you’d allowed yourself to see him. Something in your chest thudded — quiet but impossible to ignore. He caught your gaze mid-stride, his expression softening in the way it always did when it was just you. And then he waved, slowing as he jogged toward you, his breath steady, lips slightly parted. You didn’t wave back. Not yet. You just kept watching him come closer. ou didn’t wave back. Not yet. You just kept watching him come closer, wondering, without meaning to, what it could have been — what you both could have been — if the timing had been right for once.
By day three, something shifted.
It was small. Barely there. You were eating breakfast outside on the patio, legs pulled beneath you, a cup of bitter espresso growing cold beside your plate. Theo sat across from you, hair damp from a morning swim, shirt wrinkled from a night spent tossing.
He looked up from his plate, brow raised at your silence, and muttered, “If you frown at that book any harder, you’re going to scare the author out of retirement.”
You blinked. Then laughed — surprised by the sound of it, startled by the sudden lightness.
The rest of the group went quiet. Pansy’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Draco raised an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. Blaise shot Theo a look and smirked. It was subtle, but the reaction was there — like they’d just seen a ghost exhale. No one said anything. Not out loud. Theo didn’t smile exactly, but his eyes softened as he looked at you.
That same night, the two of you went for a walk on the beach. It was quiet. A silence neither heavy nor awkward — just there, between footsteps on wet sand and the sound of distant waves. His hand found yours as naturally as breathing. Your summer dress swayed softly with the breeze, the silver serpent necklace still resting cool against your collarbone. He was still wearing the ring. The one you’d given him. It was duller now, a few new scratches cutting through the initials — but he wore it. Always. After a while, Theo glanced at you and muttered,
“This whole thing’s... not too bad.”
You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting.
“No,” you murmured. “It’s not.”
You both stopped near the dunes, where the sand was still warm underfoot. The moon cast a pale glow across the waves.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter.
You didn’t reply — not in words. Instead, you stepped closer, let your head rest lightly against his shoulder as you both sat down. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. You just let his arm wrap around you while you stared out at the sea.
By day four, he threw you into the pool.
You were in the middle of drying your legs in the sun, sunglasses perched on your nose, a rare moment of ease softening your expression. He walked past casually.Paused. Looked down at you. And without warning, without ceremony, scooped you up and launched you into the water. You came up gasping, hair stuck to your cheeks, laughing through a stream of curses. He dove in after you. You splashed him. He dunked you. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. It was familiar — messy, chaotic, joyful. Like a version of yourselves you’d buried beneath duty and grief. A life before the war, before bloodlines and business, before everything became sharp-edged and quiet.
Blaise had laughed from a deck chair, calling the others out to watch the chaos unfold. “Merlin, they’re alive!” he shouted, grinning like it was the most surprising thing he’d seen all summer.
You managed to climb on Theo's shoulders with pure, stubborn determination, shrieking as you tried to dunk him beneath the water. He grabbed your waist and threw you off again, the splash echoing through the courtyard. But you didn’t go down quietly. You surfaced with a wicked grin, swam up behind him, and yanked his shorts down under the water with a triumphant snort. His bark of laughter turned into a string of curses muffled by your laughter. You gave him the finger, tongue stuck out like a smug child, and climbed out of the pool victorious — dripping wet and absolutely unbothered.
The deadline you gave yourselves — “just a few days” — blurred. Stretched. By the end of the week, you weren’t keeping track of time anymore. Theo spent less time staring into the distance, more time beside you. You weren’t clinging to your book anymore — sometimes it sat forgotten beside a half-drunk glass of wine, your head tipped toward the sun. There were moments now. Small ones. Soft ones. Moments where he laughed without bitterness. Where you smiled without flinching. Where the two of you shared silence without the weight of the past pressing on your chests. You still didn’t talk about what you were. But for once, you weren’t pretending. Not lovers. Not friends. Just two people breathing for the first time in years. Most nights, you’d lay in bed beside each other in your shared bed, sharing lazy, hushed conversations. About everything and nothing. Estate renovations you’d never actually start. Which room had the best light for tea in the morning. The dumb things Blaise said. The even dumber things you two had done as teens. You’d fall asleep mid-sentence sometimes, smiles lingering. After the others went to bed, you always slipped away together for a walk. It became a habit neither of you named — just something that felt necessary. You’d walk along the quiet shore, or wander through the villa grounds barefoot, whispering under the stars. One evening, after Theo joked about throwing you into the sea if you had kept teasing him, you playfully elbowed him and muttered that you’d haunt him in his bath forever if he did. He had chuckled, said “worth it,” and then, with a strange kind of quiet certainty, leaned in and kissed you — soft, slow, nothing like the other times. Theo started waking you early, just after sunrise. He’d tug you from bed with a grumble of “come on, lazybones” and force you to join him for morning workouts. You hated them. You were horrible at most of the exercises he showed you — uncoordinated, sleepy, constantly complaining. But you always outran him. Every time. Barefoot, laughing, hair tangled in the wind, leaving him behind on the sand while he cursed after you with a grin. One morning over breakfast, you found yourself in an unusually animated conversation with the girls. Astoria, glowing and barefoot, talked about the baby’s nursery while Pansy passed around wedding brochures and complained about choosing a flower color. You made a particularly crude joke about what labor sounded like, mimicking a hippogriff in heat. Everyone laughed — even Astoria, who nearly choked on her juice. Theo, from across the table, had turned slowly to stare at you, utterly scandalized. You just sipped your coffee with a smirk while Pansy wheezed beside you, clutching her stomach.
Week two had settled into your bones like sunlight. You hadn’t planned to stay this long. Neither of you had. But time moved differently here — slower, softer, like the universe had finally stopped asking you to fight. The morning began the way many had: with Theo doing pushups in the sand. This time, though, you didn’t join. You sprawled on his back as he worked through the set, pretending to be a drill sergeant barking orders. He grumbled, muttering something about poor form and insubordination, but didn’t try to shake you off. The laughter that followed felt foreign. But not unwelcome. You returned to the villa a bit earlier, digging through an old handwritten recipe book you’d packed — one of the few things his mother had left behind. You found the worn page with her pancake recipe, smudged with flour and time. You made them exactly as written. No substitutions. No modern twists. Theo returned not long after, fresh from his workout, shirtless and sun-warm. He walked straight to you, arms slipping around your waist as you flipped a pancake. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck, murmuring something about how it felt like home. His hands gently rubbed along your stomach, a motion so instinctive, so familiar, it sent a shiver through your spine.
“I forgot how good this smells,” he whispered, nuzzling your hair. “It’s like she’s here.”
You set the table quietly, the others still asleep, the sun casting lazy beams across the kitchen floor. Theo wasn’t there. You opened the bathroom door just in time to hear the hitch in his breath — the sharp, silent kind of sobbing that shook his shoulders even under the hot stream of water. His body curled in on itself, hands braced against the tiled wall like he was holding himself upright on memory alone. You stepped in fully clothed, your short summer dress getting soaked. No hesitation. You didn’t speak. Just wrapped your arms around his back, let the water soak through you fully. He didn’t pull away. He sagged against you like it was the only place he knew how to fall. You kissed his shoulder as best as you could reach. His spine. His jaw. Whispered that it was okay. That he didn’t have to carry it all alone. That you were still here. Still breathing. Still with him. And in that moment, soaked and trembling and tangled in grief, it wasn’t about surviving anymore. It was about healing. Bit by bit. Together.
The afternoon was golden. A slow breeze rustled through the tall palms as sunlight shimmered across the surface of the pool. Everything smelled like salt and suncream and fresh lime. Pansy floated lazily in the pool, humming under her breath, sunglasses perched crooked on her nose. Blaise and Draco sat under the pergola in deep conversation, voices low as they argued — again — about Quidditch teams and playoff brackets like they hadn’t aged a day since sixth year. Astoria was curled up nearby on a chaise lounge, one hand resting gently on her stomach, her book half-forgotten in her lap. Too many cocktails had been sipped — fizzy, colorful things with ridiculous garnishes — and the laughter that floated across the patio was light, untethered. Astoria's glass, of course, was alcohol-free, her drink bright pink and sparkling with some enchanted citrus blend. She looked radiant, even without the buzz. You, on the other hand, were tipsy for the first time in years. Giddy in a way that made your limbs loose and your words just a little slurred. Theo was too, stretched beside you on the lounge chair, one arm slung lazily over the side. His cheeks were flushed, his grin unguarded. He muttered something under his breath — probably a complaint about the ridiculous paper umbrella in his drink — and you burst into laughter that wouldn’t stop. You couldn’t remember the last time your bodies weren’t tight with tension. The alcohol loosened something deeper — not just in your limbs, but in your hearts. For once, you were just two people melting into a sun-drenched afternoon, not heirs, not soldiers, not survivors.
You returned to the oversized sunbed tucked beneath the shade of the canopy, balancing two fresh cocktails in your hands. The heat clung to your skin, the salt from earlier still drying on your legs. Theo lay sprawled across the lounger, eyes closed, one arm resting behind his head, his chest slowly rising and falling. You sat beside him, careful not to spill the drinks, and leaned over to place his on the small side table. His eyes blinked open lazily, taking you in — bikini, sun-flushed skin, and all.
“Merlin,” he muttered, voice thick and low. “You look too damn good in that.”
Before you could respond, he tugged at your wrist, pulling you down so that your upper body settled across his chest. You giggled, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, and he smirked against your hair. His arms curled loosely around you, one hand idly tracing the curve of your spine, the cocktail forgotten for the moment. He was in nothing but his swim trunks, his skin sun-kissed and damp from the earlier dip in the pool. As you finally settled against him, he reached up with one hand, running it through his messy, wind-tossed hair. The other hand fumbled lazily for the cigarette box on the table. He pulled one out, lit it with a flick of his wand, and took a slow drag, the smoke curling between you. You watched as he exhaled toward the open sky, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, lingering. He turned his head slightly, meeting your lips properly this time, a slow, familiar exchange. When he pulled back, he passed you the cigarette without needing to ask, his fingers brushing yours. You took it, took a drag, and let the smoke drift into the breeze. Your cheek against his sternum, your eyes half-lidded, your body draped over his like he was home as you continued your previous drink infused, lazy argument.
"I am not letting this one go, Theodore. You are the one who insisted we plant that stupid frostleaf in zone five," you murmured, voice slow, lips brushing his collarbone as you spoke.
Theo scoffed, head tipped back against the cushion, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. "You said it needed partial shade."
"And you said you'd reinforce the dome charms. Which you didn't."
"Because someone forgot to order the runestone stabilizers," he said, turning his head slightly, his voice rough and lazy. "We lost four moonfruit pods because of that."
You hummed, tapping your finger against his chest. "Mm. Still think it’s your fault."
He reached for the cigarette again, took a drag, and handed it back — but this time, his fingers paused around yours. His eyes flicked to your lips. He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t need to.He leaned in slowly, brushing your nose with his before pressing his mouth against yours. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission. It simply belonged. Slow. Warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss that started with a sigh and ended in silence. His lips moved with yours like he already knew how — like he always had. You kissed him back just as slowly, shifting your body slightly over his, your hand curling around the side of his neck. His fingers found the small of your back again, grounding you. Not pulling. Just holding.
You pulled back a little, your nose brushing his again. "We're supposed to be relaxing."
He smirked lazily, not opening his eyes. "I am relaxed. You’re the one who keeps bringing up the bloody farm."
You kissed him again. Just a soft press. No tongue, no urgency. Just lips grazing. Lingering. Then again, deeper this time — not heated, not rough. Just there. Steady. Familiar. Like you could spend a lifetime kissing him like this and never get tired.
His mouth parted slightly, and your teeth scraped gently against his lower lip before you pulled away, just enough to whisper, “We should probably hire someone to manage it.”
“Mm.” His eyes opened halfway, gaze heavy-lidded and unreadable. “We could. But then we wouldn’t have anything to argue about while making out in the sun.”
You smiled against his jaw. “So this is your strategy. Pick fights with me to justify the kissing.”
“You caught me.” He kissed your temple. “Shameful, really.”
You passed the cigarette back to him, your fingers running lazily along the side of his ribs. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re still lying on top of me,” he said, taking another drag. “So I win.”
You laughed, low and warm. His thumb rubbed circles into your back. You rested your cheek against his chest again, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
Another kiss.Soft, aimless.The kind of kiss that wasn’t about sex or tension or release. Just presence. And for the first time in years, there was no edge in it. No hiding. No pretending. You didn’t need to name it. Didn’t need to explain.There was no future tense hanging over your heads. No next move to calculate. Just this.Just now.
Your friends glanced over every now and then — not with curiosity, not even with surprise, but with quiet relief. As if they were all silently thinking the same thing: finally.
Pansy made some offhand comment — something about you two being “The best cupid ever.” and “Honestly, I should start charging for my matchmaking services.” — which drew a few soft laughs and a dramatic eye-roll from Blaise. You didn’t react, just gave a lazy middle finger in her general direction without lifting your head.
Theo smirked. “Charming as ever.”
You hummed. “Mhm. Remind me to hex her drink later.”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
He kissed your temple again, slower this time, lingering. You could feel his smile against your skin.
The warmth wrapped around you like a blanket — the lapping of the pool water, the scent of sea salt and citrus, the weight of Theo’s arm around your waist, firm and sure. You could stay here forever.
But some part of you — the part still wired for responsibility — stirred.
“We still have that event when we get back,” you murmured eventually, words barely above a whisper, your lips brushing the space between his collarbone and throat. “The Rosiers’ fundraiser thing. And the estate check-in the day after.”
Theo groaned softly, eyes still closed. “Don’t.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Don’t say anything,” he mumbled, cutting you off mid-sentence. He turned his head toward yours and kissed you again — slow, drawn out, silencing. His fingers slid gently up your spine, grounding you once more in the moment. “We’ll think about it when the time comes.”
You sighed into the kiss, nodding slightly, even as your thoughts tried to drag you back. But he kissed you again. And again. Until you forgot what you were trying to remember. Until there was nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Until the only thing that mattered was the way his hand rested over your heart, as if to remind you: Not yet.
Dinner that night had started with Theo at the grill, shirt half-buttoned, wand tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. Most of the others had wandered off toward the beach, drawn by the promise of a warm twilight swim and a final dip before the sun disappeared. But you and Theo had stayed behind — still very much buzzed from cocktails and sun, swaying more than walking, laughter catching in your throats like bubbles. He was flipping skewers with practiced ease, the flames casting golden light across his cheekbones.
“You know,” he began, eyes narrowed at the meat as if it had personally offended him, “your dad once smacked me in the back of the head with a spatula for salting too early.”
You snorted. “Fifth year, right? He said you were ruining centuries of culinary magic with your ‘lazy seasoning.’”
Theo grinned. “Swore if I ever married into the family, he’d disown me if I served undercooked lamb.”
You leaned on the counter beside him, eyes playful. “Well, lucky for you, your meat’s never undercooked.”
He glanced sideways. “Are we still talking about lamb?”
You grinned, leaning in close, your voice a sultry murmur. “Depends. You planning to show me how well-seasoned it is, Nott?”
That earned you a kiss — rough, sudden, his hand finding your waist and pulling you flush against him. You kissed him back eagerly, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. The heat wasn’t just from the grill anymore. At some point, the tongs clattered to the ground. A skewer nearly rolled off the edge. You both stumbled into the counter, knocking the entire barbecue over.
“Shit—”
“Fix it!” you laughed, breathless, smacking his chest as he scrambled for his wand.
A quick Reparo saved the dinner. Mostly. You were still breathless with laughter as you floated the slightly-singed peaches back onto the platter.
“Perfect,” Theo declared proudly. “Just how your dad didn’t teach me.”
You winked. “We’ll say it’s rustic. He’ll cry tears of joy.”
Draco, already halfway through his second helping, wiped his mouth with a napkin and said casually, “I’ll give it to you, Nott — your meat’s surprisingly well-seasoned.”
You choked mid-bite, coughing as a piece nearly went down the wrong pipe. Theo patted your back with all the faux innocence of someone definitely not responsible.
Pansy didn’t miss a beat. “Well, she’s had plenty of practice enjoying Theo’s meat in her mouth.”
You groaned, still recovering from the coughing fit, while Theo muttered under his breath, “Can we please stop with the bloody meat jokes?”
Astoria, giggling behind her glass of lemonade, gasped, “Stop, stop — I swear, the baby’s pressing on my bladder, I’m going to pee myself.”
Laughter erupted around the table, soft and honest, the kind that curled around your ribs and loosened something tight inside. Even Theo was smiling, his hand brushing your thigh under the table in a quiet kind of affection.
As the night wore on, the music had slowly faded. The clinking of silverware had long since stopped. The scent of grilled skewes and roasted peaches still lingered faintly in the breeze, but the world had gone soft — wrapped in a silk silence that only came with places far from the real world. You were lying on the same sunbed as earlier, only now a light blanket was thrown over your legs, and the air was cooler, salted with wind from the sea. The pool water shimmered in lazy ripples nearby, catching the moonlight in fractured reflections. Theo was stretched beside you, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped across your waist. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the occasional red glow brightening the line of his jaw. The two of you were quiet, like the night — like the stars themselves had hushed to listen in. You tilted your head back, staring up. The sky was vast. Deep and dark and impossibly full.
“Remember when we used to sneak out just to do this?” you murmured, your voice lazy, full of sun and wine and salt.
“Mm,” Theo hummed in response. “Back when we thought stargazing made us poetic.”
You grinned. “Back when we thought anything made us poetic.”
A pause.
Then you added, voice faintly amused, “Hard to believe everyone’s already asleep. Pansy, especially. She used to threaten to hex anyone who even mentioned bed before 2 a.m.”
Theo chuckled, low in his chest. “Years of partying caught up with them. We’re surrounded by old souls now.”
You turned your head against the curve of his shoulder, looking up at him. “You’re one to talk. You haven’t gone dancing shirtless on a table in at least... three years.”
He exhaled smoke and smirked. “True. But at least I haven’t gone full Draco.”
“Oh Merlin,” you groaned, laughing into your hand. “That man went from brooding teen heartthrob to doting husband and father in record time.”
“And yet somehow, that unborn child is not the product of anything prim or proper,” Theo said with mock seriousness, eyes still on the stars.
You snorted. “Right? There’s a reason Pansy said she heard things through the walls during that holiday they took months ago.”
Theo looked at you then, his grin lazy, eyes shining in the low light. “Poor Pansy.”
“She’s scarred.”
“She deserves it.”
You both fell into another comfortable silence, eyes drifting back up to the stars. The sky stretched endlessly above you — scattered with constellations you used to memorize.
You squinted. “That one’s... the hunter. Right?”
Theo glanced up, unimpressed. “No. That’s clearly the swan.”
You lifted your head, offended. “That’s not even close to a swan.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “You forgot everything, didn’t you?”
You jabbed him in the side with your elbow. “I did not. That one—there—is definitely the hunter.”
“That’s the dipper,” he said flatly.
You stared.
“…Is it?”
Theo smirked. “No idea.”
You blinked at him.
He grinned wider. “I just wanted to win.”
You let your head fall back with a laugh, resting against his chest. “You’re the worst.”
He kissed the top of your head. “And yet, here you are. Laying on top of me. Again.”
You smiled into his shirt, your hand finding his under the blanket. Fingers interlaced. No words.The stars stretched on above you. The stars above were achingly bright. Far too distant to touch, yet somehow closer than they’d ever felt before. The warmth of Theo’s body beside you, the quiet hush of waves brushing the shore just beyond the villa walls, the low hum of cicadas in the distance — it all wrapped around you like a second blanket, thicker than air, softer than memory. You let your eyes trace the patterns in the sky. Not that you remembered what they were. Not anymore. There had been a time when you and Theo would stay up late, sprawled in the tall grass behind your estate, naming constellations like you owned them. Now, you could barely tell Orion from a smudge on glass.
“I thought I’d have a child by now,” you said, your voice so soft it barely stirred the air.
Theo stilled. Not completely — his chest still rose and fell beneath your cheek — but you felt the way his breath caught, how his thumb paused its motion against the back of your hand.
You didn’t look at him. “Not because of pressure, or expectation. Just…” A faint, wistful smile tugged at your lips. “I always imagined holding someone small. Someone new. Teaching them how to swim. How to breathe through a nightmare. Loving them in all the ways I wished I’d been loved.”
He was quiet for a beat too long. And then—
“That sounds terrifying.”
You laughed once, dry and amused. “It is. But it’s beautiful, too. You get to start over. To raise someone from scratch. Make sure they know how wanted they are.”
Theo’s voice came slower this time, a little unsure. “Are you—thinking about it? Seriously?”
You turned your face into his chest, letting his heartbeat soothe the strange ache blooming in your ribs. “Not right now. I mean, look at us. We can barely remember to eat when we’re knee-deep in family estate paperwork.”
He gave a quiet huff — not quite a laugh, but close. “So you’re saying you haven’t secured a secret baby deal with some charming wizard behind my back?”
You nudged him playfully with your elbow. “No, but now I’m considering it. Just to spite you.”
“Charming,” he muttered. “Truly maternal energy.”
You smiled. It lingered this time. As the stars wheeled above and the warm night pressed in around you, something shifted. Like a current turning under still water. You felt it in the way Theo’s fingers tightened around yours, the way his breath changed — deeper now, steadier. And quieter.
He spoke again, barely more than a murmur. “What are we?”
The question should have startled you. It didn’t. It just settled, gently — like it had always been there. Waiting.
You shifted slightly to look at him. His profile was half-shadowed, all soft angles and stubble, moonlight catching in his lashes. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first — they stayed fixed on the stars, like he couldn’t bear to look at you if this moment turned fragile.
“I mean…” He swallowed. “We’ve been everything, haven’t we? Friends. Enemies, kind of. Coworkers. Fuckbuddies. Family, almost.” A dry laugh escaped him. “Not in order.”
You said nothing, just watched him quietly.
“I think I’ve always wanted to ask,” he continued, voice even softer now. “What this is. What you are to me.”
“Then why didn’t you?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
His eyes finally met yours. And there it was — that expression you’d seen a thousand times but never understood until now. Something raw. Something bare.
“Because if I asked, and you said the wrong thing… I wouldn’t survive it.”
Your breath caught.
“Because if I gave this a name,” he went on, “it might crack. And I’d lose the only real and constant thing I’ve ever had.”
You stared at him, helpless against the emotion building in your throat. The weight of years between you. Of missed moments. Of long nights and longer silences. You sat up slightly, your blanket falling just low enough for the night air to kiss your bare shoulder.
“The world never gave us a chance,” you whispered. “Not really. There was always something. A war. A legacy. A fire to put out.”
“And we let it,” he said, quietly. “We let it take what could’ve been ours.”
A long pause. His eyes searched yours.
“I don’t want to let it anymore.”
You reached for his hand again, held it tightly between both of yours. Your voice trembled, but your words didn’t.
“I don’t need a name for this,” you said. “I just want something real. Something that’s ours. Not inherited. Not strategic. Not survival.”
His hand rose slowly, brushing your cheek with reverence.
“You’ve always been real to me,” he whispered. “Even when I was too much of a coward to say it.”
He looked at you — really looked at you — like he was seeing the past, present, and future all at once. Like every version of you he'd ever known had folded into the woman before him now, and he didn’t want to blink in case she vanished.His gaze dropped to your lips. Slowly — as if pulled by something older than reason, older than time — he leaned in. Not in a rush, not with intent to conquer or claim, but with the reverence of someone approaching a sacred thing. As if kissing you might unmake him, and he wanted to savor every second before the unraveling began. His breath brushed yours first — soft, uncertain. Then his lips touched yours. And this time — this time, it wasn’t stolen or frantic or desperate. It wasn’t about lust or tension or pretending not to care. This kiss was slow. Reverent. The kind of kiss that settled instead of sparked. That said more than words ever could. Your lips moved against his in the kind of rhythm only years could create — familiar, but new. His thumb brushed your jaw as his other hand curled around your hip beneath the blanket, pulling you in gently, like you were something sacred. When he pulled back, your breath mingled. Neither of you moved far.
“So we stop pretending?” he asked, voice husky, heart in his throat.
You nodded. “Even if we’re bad at this.”
His lips brushed yours again — once. “Even if we’re terrified.”
“Yes,” you whispered.
Another kiss followed, this one lingering like a promise. Your hands found the edge of his shirt, fingers sliding beneath, palms against warm skin. His touch mirrored yours — careful, reverent. Not in a hurry. Not this time. He shifted over you slowly, weight balanced between his arms as the blanket slipped slightly, forgotten in the hush of the night. The stars blinked quietly above, casting their silver light across your bare shoulders, tangled legs, the slow press of mouths and hearts finally moving in sync. Your breath caught as his lips traced your neck — not rushed or claiming, but memorizing. Like he'd kissed you a hundred times before but only now understood what it meant. Clothes became memories. Fingers traced old scars and familiar curves as though seeing them for the first time. There was no rush, no rougness, no anger— only the soft sound of skin meeting skin and the way you whispered each other's names like confessions. He murmured things against your collarbone. You responded in sighs, in gasps, in the arch of your body meeting his. Moans swallowed by kisses, hands in his hair, his stubble against your cheek.
Then — quiet, nearly lost in the moment — came the words:
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, as if he’d been holding them back for years and they finally broke free.
You didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch. You just kissed him deeper, slower, your mouth shaping the same words into his.
“I love you too,” between kisses to his jaw, his temple, his mouth again.
Another kiss.Not a hungry one, not rushed or desperate — but the kind that settled instead of sparked. The kind of kiss that said stay. That asked, without words, are you sure? You answered with your hands, grasping the sides of his bare toned torso, pulling him closer, grounding him with the silent truth that had always lived between you. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. And then, slowly — like time itself had stretched open just for you — he became one with you, his touch reverent, steady. Everything about it felt intentional. There were no boundaries now. No pretense. No performance. Just you, him, and the soft rustle of linen as the blanket fell away fully.
Neither of you said anything about protection. The thought drifted by, then vanished, drowned in the slow rise of heat between your bodies — in the way your skin fit his like a memory long buried and finally remembered. You weren’t reckless. Just… undone. Quietly, completely.
When he finally fully sank into you, it was with the gentleness of someone who knew every piece of you — and wanted to love them all. You gasped softly, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers tightened in his hair. He didn’t rush. He wasn’t angry or frustrated. Each movement was slow, deep, deliberate. Like you were writing something onto each other, something lasting. A rhythm born not of lust, but of meaning. Of knowing. Of years of holding back finally melting into touch. Your mouths met again and again — between sighs, between whispered names, between soft moans and gentle gasps. You held his face like he might vanish, and he touched your waist like he’d been dreaming of it. And then, breathlessly, his forehead against yours, voice fraying at the edges — “I love you so much.”
You kissed the words into his mouth before saying them back. “I love you more.” Again. Slower this time. Surer.
You made love under the stars that night, the sleepy villa hushed around you. Tangled in the warm summer night and years of unspoken truth. Touches that felt like questions. Kisses that felt like answers.Hands tracing paths long memorized but never truly explored — until now. The tension unraveled slowly, achingly. Like the final page of a long story you’d both been too afraid to read. Quiet whimpers slipped from parted lips as you reached your peak — together, finally. A soft gasp, a stuttered breath, a whispered name like a prayer. It wasn’t loud.It didn’t need to be. It was the kind of undoing that settled in your bones and stayed there. When the world stilled, when the echoes faded and the waves whispered just beyond the terrace walls, you stayed wrapped around each other — skin to skin, soul to soul. His body pressed to yours, protective and warm, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. You shifted gently, your lips ghosting across the line of his jaw, down the curve of his throat, pressing soft kisses there — lazy, loving, lingering. He hummed low in his chest, fingers threading through your hair, anchoring you to him like he never wanted to let go.
“I think,” he murmured, voice sleep-soft and rough from use, “this is what peace feels like.”
You smiled against his skin. “Then let’s not lose it this time.”
There was no answer at first — just the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and the soft hush of breath against your temple.
“We won’t.”
The next day arrived too soon.
Suitcases thudded closed. Sunglasses were pushed up into hair. The sun hadn’t even reached its peak, but the sleepy villa already felt quieter, heavier — like it knew you were leaving. You stood near the gate with Theo, both of you still in flip flops, skin warm from the last morning rays, the scent of sea salt lingering on your clothes. There was something different in your posture now — not just exhaustion soothed by vacation, but a softness neither of you had worn in years. A calmness that had finally settled beneath the surface. Pansy noticed it first. She looped her arm through Astoria’s as the two of them watched you from the porch, their silhouettes framed by climbing bougainvillea and the gold-pink of early noon. Astoria, glowing and content, sipped from her glass of water with a knowing smirk. But it was Pansy who spoke, loud enough for all of you to hear.
“Told you this trip would finally get those two to stop acting like sexually repressed soulmates,” she muttered with a smug smile.
Astoria laughed, turning slightly toward her. “You did say that. And you were absolutely right.”
You caught the tail end of it and rolled your eyes with a half-smile. Theo just smirked, wrapping an arm lazily around your shoulder like it was second nature now — as easy as breathing.
“Ignore her,” he said, brushing his lips against your hair in a quick, almost casual gesture. “She just never left her matchmaker phase.”
Pansy raised her glass in mock salute. “I'm just thrilled I don’t have to listen to the will-they-won’t-they saga anymore.And I still hold the title of best matchmaker, thank you very much.”
“Cheers to that,” Blaise added as he joined Pansy and Astoria on the front porch, coffee in hand.
You turned to Theo, your hand slipping into his — warm, steady, real. There was no panic in it this time. No flinching. Just a quiet confidence built on years of falling and finding each other again.
“Ready to get back to work?” you asked.
He squeezed your fingers gently. “As I’ll ever be.”
You both looked back at the villa one last time — at the floatie still drifting in the pool, at the sand clinging to the edges of your towels, at the place where things finally changed. Slowly, you stepped into the waiting car — no longer pretending, no longer hiding.
Just you and him. Finally. But something lingered. Stayed. Buried deep within you, like a secret whispered by the stars. Unseen. Unfelt. But there. A spark. A beginning. The softest trace of life, already blooming in silence.
A promise made not with words, but with touch. With love. A wish breathed into the night sky — “I want a child someday” — caught by a falling star, and answered in the heat of that kiss, in the slow, sacred rhythm of that night.
As the sun kissed the horizon and the car carried you both away, a tiny heartbeat — still weeks from its first beat —had already begun to make a home within you. The product of tenderness. Of love. Of everything you'd both been too afraid to say — finally spoken, finally heard. Neither of you knew yet. But the stars did. And they were smiling.
Likes, reblogs and comments are always very much appreciated! ♡
Warnings: Unrequited love, jealousy from many ends, the reader is shorter than Theo, and wears a bikini. Theo calls reader fiore. Discomfort/sadness. Reader doesn’t really know how to swim. Brief mentions of blood. There’s for sure more but I’m gonna have to go back and add them!
A/N: Omg hi! This has been a long time coming, and not much has been added, just a couple new scenes and some more details added. Most of the rewrite will be in the second part, but it feels too much to have a 30k+ fic posted in one go. So I’m dividing it up! Since it’s been so long I figured I’d post this to hold you guys over, thank you for being so patient! It’s much appreciated! <3
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
Against your better judgment, you’d fallen hard for Mattheo Riddle. And yet, you were fully aware that nothing would ever come of it.
You’d grown up in the same circles, your families often crossing paths at dinners and parties, but you were never particularly close, barely acknowledging each other in those polished, formal settings. It wasn’t until you both started at Hogwarts that any real friendship formed. Being eleven and navigating the overwhelming experience of a new school was daunting for anyone. When you were both sorted into Slytherin, you naturally gravitated toward each other, being the most familiar thing the other could find.
Over time, you’d been there for him more times than you could count. You were the one cleaning his cuts after a fight, always telling him it was the last time because you couldn’t bear to see him get hurt. Yet, each time he showed up, you let him in with an exasperated huff, carefully tending to his wounds. When he’d appear at your door late at night, eyes dark with whatever was haunting him, you’d silently walk with him, sitting together in the quiet of the common room until the tension in his shoulders finally eased. You’d pretend to be annoyed when he asked to copy your coursework, but in truth, you savored every moment he sat close to you—the way his arm would brush against yours as he scribbled down your notes, the warmth of him, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air. It left you longing for him to stay close just a little longer, even though you knew he never would.
He moved from one fling to the next, a string of one-night stands that never seemed to reach his heart. While you’d never been one of them, you couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if you were. A stubborn, hopeless part of you clung to the fantasy that maybe, just maybe, he’d one day let you be the one he trusted with more than just a night tangled in the sheets.
Your friends always joked that if Mattheo ever got serious about a girl, it would be you—but you knew the chances of that were painfully slim.
So you were caught off guard when you walked into the common room and saw a girl you barely recognized sitting with your friends. Cozied up in the same armchair as Mattheo. Your steps faltered as you approached, trying to piece together who she was and why she was sitting with your friends and more specifically, Mattheo. It wasn’t that you were opposed to meeting new people, but your group had never once welcomed anyone new. You’d tried, it didn’t go as well as you’d hoped.
“Hey, love.” Enzo murmurs, patting the cushion beside him on the couch. He’s the only one who’s noticed you so far; the rest are absorbed in their heated discussion about the latest Quidditch match. You were never particularly interested in discussing Quidditch—what interested you was watching Mattheo talk about it. There was just something undeniably attractive about listening to his voice when he talked about something that interested him.
You slide onto the couch next to Enzo, your gaze briefly flicking to the girl sitting directly across from you, trying to place her without being too obvious about your stare.
“Hey, Enz.” You say with a soft smile, setting your bag down as you settle onto the couch.
“What’s going on?” You tilt your head toward the girl, and Enzo glances in her direction. She’s not paying attention, her gaze fixed on Mattheo with a lovesick expression, hanging onto his every word.
“I’m not sure,” Enzo replies quietly, ensuring his voice doesn’t carry. “Mattheo just introduced us, and we’re all a bit confused about it, too I think.”
“Oh.” You murmur, and Enzo watches you carefully. He knows about your feelings for Mattheo; he’d have to be blind not to notice.
Enzo leans in closer, and you shift your gaze to him. “Listen, love—”
Enzo doesn’t get to finish before a soft gasp of your name catches your attention. You look over, surprised to see the girl leaning forward with her hand extended. You briefly wonder how she knows your name and if you should know hers too.
You notice that her other hand still has a tight grip on Mattheo.
“I’m Veronica,” she says warmly, her smile never wavering. “Mattheo’s girlfriend.” The way she emphasizes the word girlfriend startles you—it takes a second to register, and then it hits you like a punch to the gut.
Girlfriend. When did Mattheo Riddle start dating?
And why wasn’t he introducing her himself?
You’re at a loss for words, a nauseous feeling curling around you, tightening its grip until you’re not sure you could speak even if you tried. You know you should smile, should tell her how happy you are to meet her. But you can’t find it in you to do so, not when you’d rather be anywhere but here.
You swallow the urge to ask if she’s joking, if she’s hit her head, because Mattheo Riddle isn’t a relationship guy. No one knows that better than you.
Yet, you’re rooted to the spot in stunned silence, your gaze flitting between her hand, now entwined with Mattheo’s, and the soft, content smile playing on her lips.
Your mind races, struggling to process the situation that’s just blindsided you. You always knew he’d never be yours—not in the way you wanted—but hearing it, seeing it laid out so plainly before you, feels like your heart has been ripped from your chest.
You force a smile, so strained it makes your head spin, and you finally take her hand, the gesture automatic and devoid of real warmth. “Nice to meet you.” You manage to say, though the words feel foreign on your tongue.
Her smile widens, and she shifts closer to Mattheo as if silently asserting her place by his side. Your eyes flicker to Mattheo, whose attention is pulled to Veronica as she presses closer into him. You’re not surprised he’s been oblivious to the conversation, or lack thereof, happening next to him. Talk of Quidditch had a tendency to do that to him.
You study his face intently, searching for any hint of his feelings toward her, hoping to find anything that might betray his feelings.
But when you see the way he looks at her—eyes soft, filled with a tenderness you’ve never seen from him before—your stomach churns with a sickening mix of jealousy and heartache.
His eyes meet yours, and he smiles, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I didn’t even see you come in. Glad you’ve met my girl,”he says, the warmth in his voice making your chest tighten.
I didn’t see you. Your stomach lurches at his words.
Clearly not—if you had, you wouldn’t be flaunting another girl right in front of me, you think bitterly.
You glance at Veronica as she nods enthusiastically. “Me too, Matty,” she says, her voice dripping with sweetness. “I’m already so excited for the girls’ nights we’re going to have.”
You can’t tell if she’s genuinely that nice or just putting on a show for Mattheo. “Oh yeah. That would be fun,” you say, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. Neither of them notices the unease behind it—they’re too wrapped up in each other, their attention locked in a gaze that makes you feel invisible.
The last thing you want is a girls’ night. Pass the popcorn—oh, and by the way? I want your boyfriend.
No. Absolutely not.
You tear your gaze away, the sight of them together too painful to endure, and instead turn to Enzo. “What the hell?” You mutter, barely managing to keep your voice steady.
“I’m sorry, love, I wanted to tell you before they did.” Enzo whispers, wincing as he gives your hand a quick squeeze. You murmur a soft “It’s okay,” but inside, you’re far from feeling that way.
Desperately, you try to compose yourself, but the effort feels pointless. As your eyes wander, they lock with Theo’s. He’s watching you, his expression unreadable. You muster a soft smile, hoping to mask the heartbreak inside, but he doesn’t return it; he just keeps watching, his gaze heavy with something you can’t quite place.
You manage to stay for half an hour, offering the occasional nod and murmured agreement to feign interest in the conversation. But your mind is elsewhere, detached from the words being exchanged. No one seems to notice your distraction; they’re all too absorbed in their own conversations to catch the distant look in your eyes.
Without realizing it, your gaze keeps drifting back to the couple. Veronica rests her head on Mattheo’s shoulder, and his hand is gently resting on her knee, his thumb brushing softly against her skin. You can’t help but notice how at ease he seems with this physical intimacy—something you’re surprised he’d be so comfortable with.
It took Mattheo ages to grow comfortable with your touch. The first time he came over after a particularly brutal nightmare about his father, he sat hunched over on your bed, eyes hollow as he confessed he kept reliving Christmas break—how his dad had slapped him for something he couldn’t even remember. Something so insignificant. When your hand barely grazed his back, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
It was months before your touch started to soothe him instead of making him flinch.
When Pansy casually asked how Mattheo and Veronica had met, you felt a surge of restless energy. You couldn’t bear to hear that they’d been together for months, falling in love while you remained oblivious, never realizing you never stood a chance. Without thinking, you abruptly stood up, the couch creaking loudly at the force. The sudden noise drew theattention of everyone in the room. All eyes shifted to you, their expressions a mix of surprise and curiosity as they awaited your next move.
“Um,” you winced as the room’s gaze fixed on you, feeling the heat of their attention. “I’m coming down with a migraine. I’m going to bed early tonight.”
Your friends’ voices fade into the background as they shout their goodnights, the words scarcely reaching your ears. You speed through the common room and down the cold, empty hallway, desperate for the seclusion of your dorm. Just as you’ve made it halfway to your room, a firm grip catches your hand. Startled, you spin around to find Theo standing there, his eyes searching yours with a mix of concern and hesitation.
“Fiore,” he says softly, his voice a gentle caress in the quiet hallway. His eyes follow the tears streaming down your cheeks, and you watch through blurry vision as he takes a tentative step closer. “What’s going on?”
You open your mouth to respond but find yourself unable to form the words. The lump in your throat feels insurmountable. Instead, you just shake your head slightly, your tears continuing to fall one after another.
He releases a quiet sigh and says, “Come here.” Without a second thought, you step closer, encircling his waist with your arms while resting your head against his chest. His arms come up to settle around your shoulders, and he gently rests his head against yours. As you press your face into his chest, sniffling softly, he whispers soothing words in Italian, his voice a comforting murmur.
You must have been standing in the cold corridor for fifteen minutes before the distant murmur of approaching students prompts Theo to gently pull himself from you. He takes your hand, his touch warm against the chill, guiding you away from the freezing corridor.
“It’s just you and Pansy, right?” He asks, using his hand to guide you in front of him to let you go ahead and enter your room first.
“Yeah, but she’ll probably stay with Blaise.” You say softly, the strain in your voice revealing that you’ve been crying. Theo doesn’t say anything; he’s long since lost count of the times he’s told them off for leaving the curtains open or forgetting to cast a silencing spell. Instead, he follows you into your dorm, the door clicking softly behind him.
The walls are lined with polaroids of the group, and Theo’s gaze lingers on the numerous pictures of you and Mattheo. Your dark wood desk is topped with a silver lamp and a few textbooks, its surface cluttered with quills and scattered notes. Mattheo’s jersey is draped over the back of your chair, and Theo recalls all the times seeing you wear it at each game. Your teddy, a well-worn bear that Theo recognizes as the same one you bring every year, sits at the top of your desk.
The room feels markedly warmer than the corridor outside, though it might just be because it’s your room.
“You can sit.” You offer. Theo’s eyes move to where you’re perched on the edge of your bed watching him.
You’ve kicked off your shoes and tossed your robes over your trunk. He swallows, his gaze lingering on you. Despite the tear stains on your cheeks, he finds it hard to look away—you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. He’s always thought so.
It’s rare for him to spend time with you alone. Usually, when you’re together, it’s with the rest of your friends. Over the years, you’ve been paired up in classes a few times, but neither of you has ever gone out of your way to be alone together.
He sits down next to you on the bed, deliberately leaving some space between you. For a while, neither of you speaks. When Theo finally glances at you out of the corner of his eye, he notices you staring at a polaroid of you and Mattheo. It was taken at a party celebrating Slytherin’s win. In the photo, you’re perched on his lap, one arm casually draped around his shoulder, the other holding up a cup of whatever you were drinking. Your smile is bright, full of life, while Mattheo’s is more subdued, but there’s no mistaking the way he’s looking at you—content, almost in awe, as you laugh above him.
He was sure you two were going to get together that night—and he nearly drank himself blackout drunk at the thought.
“Hey,” He murmurs. You hum to show you’re listening, but don’t look away from the picture. “You know I’m here for you. In any way you need me.”
You can’t tear your eyes away from the picture at first, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you stare at it. Finally, you let out a sigh and turn to him, “I appreciate that. But how fair would it be for me to vent about your best friend to you?”
It’s the first time he’s ever heard you say anything that hints at your feelings for Mattheo.
“I don’t care about him right now. I care about you.” He says, and you look a tad surprised at his words.
There’s a moment of quiet as you process Theo’s words. He’s always been Mattheo’s best friend, so hearing him dismiss Mattheo like that catches you off guard. You hesitate, not wanting to unload all your feelings onto him, especially since the mere thought of talking about Mattheo and Veronica makes your stomach turn.
“Theo,” you sigh, your voice tinged with vulnerability, on the verge of breaking. He can hear how close you are to tears. “Will you lie with me? If that’s weird, I understand—”
But before you can finish, Theo gently takes your hand, his grip warm and reassuring, leaving no room for doubt. He gives a small nod, silently gesturing for you to lie down, and you follow his lead.
“Where do you want me, fiore?” He asks, his voice soft. You feel a momentary hesitation, your heart stuttering at the tenderness in his tone.
“Um,” you murmur, turning onto your side, feeling the unease settling in your stomach. Not because you feel uncomfortable around Theo, but because this is wildly different for the both of you. “Will you face me?”
Theo doesn’t hesitate. He moves effortlessly, sliding into place beside you. You watch as he slips off his shoes and sets them aside, then settles himself on the bed, positioning his body so he’s facing you. You find yourself holding your breath, acutely aware of how close he is—how you’re sharing the same pillow and could study every detail of his face if you wanted to.
“Why did you follow me?” You ask, and his eyes flicker up to meet yours.
“I got the impression you needed someone.” You don’t say anything to that, just take in his words. It startles you that Theo—someone you’re hardly close with—noticed, instead of Mattheo, who’s seen you at your worst more times than you can count.
“Thank you.” You say, and you cringe inwardly at the way your voice wavers. There’s nothing hiding the sadness in your voice, it’s impossible to mask.
His eyes gently trace your features, a soft concern evident in his expression as he takes in the sight of you, “For?”
“Laying with me. Coming to check on me,” Your voice drops to a whisper and your eyes well up in tears when you think about why you were upset in the first place. “It means a lot.”
Theo lets out a soft hum, his gaze soft as he lifts his hand to gently brush away a tear that slips from your eye. The gentleness of his fingers against your face feels soothing; you’ve never had anyone touch you like this before.
You shift closer to Theo, and for a moment, he tenses, as if unsure of your proximity. The hesitation makes you wonder if this closeness is too much, but then he wraps his arm around you and draws you in, holding you firmly against him. You wonder if it should feel awkward, letting Theo hold you this close when the two of you have never been this close before, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You let your eyes flutter shut, inhaling his cologne—surprisingly more comforting to you than Mattheo’s—and feeling the warmth of his body through his shirt.
As his fingers move gently over your hair, a calming touch, you rest your head against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat becomes a soothing reminder that you aren’t alone, and soon you find yourself drifting off, wrapped in the quiet of your dorm.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
When you wake up, Theo is gone, and you’re not sure if you’re more disappointed or relieved. Given how you feel, you’re leaning toward the latter. Your head throbs with a sharp, relentless ache, and your puffy eyes serve as a reminder of the tears you shed last night.
You’re nearly done getting ready when Pansy slips into the dorm, her brows knitting in surprise as she takes in the sight of you.
Her gaze lingers on the dark circles under your eyes and the slight tremor in your hands as you fix your tie, “I didn’t think you’d be leaving the dorm today.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” You snap, and Pansy raises an amused brow at the agitation in your voice.
“I didn’t think you’d be in the mood to see them.” She heads to her trunk, her current clothes rumpled and clearly in need of a fresh uniform. You don’t need her to spell it out—you know exactly who she’s talking about.
“I left because I had a migraine.” You grit out and she glances over her shoulder, obviously amused and doubtful at your answer.
“Really? A migraine after seeing those two?” Pansy hums, rummaging through her trunk with deliberate slowness, her eyes flicking to you as if gauging your reaction. “They were all over each other last night. Who’s to say they won’t be again today?”
You stiffen at the mention of Mattheo and his girlfriend, your fingers pausing on your tie. The events of last night rushback—Veronica’s hand on Mattheo, the way he looked at her. You feel a fresh wave of nausea but push it down, not wanting to give Pansy the satisfaction of knowing she was right.
“It doesn’t bother me.” You mutter, trying to sound indifferent, though your voice wavers slightly. You force your hands to finish with your tie, pulling it tighter than necessary.
Pansy glances over at you, a flicker of something like sympathy in her eyes, as she drops the amused smirk, “You know you can tell me, right? About how you feel about him.”
You study Pansy, debating whether to finally say what you’ve kept to yourself for so long. It’s only been hours since you basically admitted it to Theo, and now telling Pansy feels like too much—though you’re sure they’d suspected for a while. But voicing it out loud feels like stepping into territory you’re not ready to face.
“What difference does it make, Pans? He’s got a girlfriend now.” You sigh, the sadness from last night seeping into your words. She abandons her trunk, standing up to fully face you, her expression unreadable.
“If it helps, we were all surprised.” She says, her voice unexpectedly gentle. That’s not normally a word you’d use in the same sentence as her name. “None of us had a clue he was sleeping with anyone more than once.”
Your stomach churns further, “I don’t think that really helps, Pans.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes scanning your face for any sign of comfort. “I could make her life a nightmare if you want. Maybe then she’d decide it’s not worth it.”
“No,” you say, wincing as you stare at the wall, feeling the heaviness of the room. “I want him to be happy, and if shemakes him happy, then I need to accept it. Even if it hurts.”
Pansy narrows her eyes, disbelief crossing her face. “Are you joking? You’d make him happy—”
“Pansy,” you cut her off, frustration making your voice sharper. “I don’t need you to fix this. I just need to figure out how to deal with it myself.”
Pansy falls silent, her gaze shifting as she takes in the raw pain on your face, a flicker of guilt passing over her expression. She heads off to change, leaving you on your bed, the weight of her offer hanging in the air. You sit there, lost in thought, waiting for her to finish getting ready. Despite her nights spent with Blaise, you both always made a point to walk to breakfast together.
When Pansy finally emerges, you both make your way to the Great Hall in quiet unison. The hum of conversation and the steady flow of students around you create a backdrop of normalcy.
“What did you do after you left last night?” Pansy asks, her gaze shifting from the bustling corridor to you.
“Had a good cry.” You reply, trying to keep your tone light despite the heaviness you feel.
Pansy’s brow furrows. “Babes, you shouldn’t have been alone.”
“I wasn’t.” You say, almost reluctantly.
“What do you mean?”
“Theo came back to the dorm with me,” you explain, your voice softer now. “He stayed with me, just… holding me, until I fell asleep.”
Pansy’s eyes widen slightly, and she falls quiet for a moment, “He did?”
You let out a soft hum, and Pansy grips at your hand, her touch both firm and reassuring. Her eyes reflect a mix of concern and guilt as she looks at you.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice softening with sincerity. “I should’ve come to check on you instead of leaving it to Theo. I didn’t realize your feelings for Mattheo were this strong. I thought it was a harmless crush, I really didn’t know.”
You shake your head slightly, your gaze dropping to where her fingers clasp yours. “It’s okay,” you murmur, trying to steady your voice. “Theo being there helped more than I thought it would. I’m glad I wasn’t alone.”
Pansy nods, her expression softening. “I wish I’d known,” she says quietly. “I would’ve gone with you immediately. I just thought you needed some space.”
You offer a small, appreciative smile, grateful for her concern. “Thanks, Pansy. It means a lot.”
Pansy pulls you into a warm hug, and despite the heaviness in your chest, you can’t help but chuckle at the unexpected show of affection. When she finally lets go, she takes your hand and leads you toward the Great Hall.
As you make your way to the Slytherin table, your spirits, momentarily lifted by Pansy’s support, are quickly deflated when you see who’s occupying your usual spot.
A heavy weight settles in your stomach as you spot Veronica nestled against Mattheo’s side, her head tilted as she whispers something into his ear. His laughter, genuine and warm, makes your appetite vanish. You decide that you’re not very hungry anymore.
You swallow hard, struggling to keep your emotions in check. Pansy gives your hand a comforting squeeze and tilts her head toward an empty seat beside Theo. Usually, Theo would be next to his best friend with you on the other side sandwiching Mattheo, but today he’s positioned next to Draco across from where he normally would be. You hesitate, not wanting to assume he saved the spot for you, but then Theo turns and offers you a gentle smile—a smile you’ve never seen him give anyone else. As you stand there, he reaches out with that soft smile, his hand extended to gently guide you into the seat beside him.
You settle into the seat beside Theo, and with a resigned sigh, you reach for some food to add to your plate. Even though your appetite is all but gone, you know it’s important to eat. That and you know Pansy would shove it down your throat if you didn’t.
Theo leans in slightly, his voice a low murmur as he meets your gaze. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up,” he says quietly. “I had something I needed to take care of.”
“That’s alright,” You murmur, sending him a quick, soft smile. “Were you able to get any sleep last night?”
Theo hesitates, unsure whether to tell you that it was the best sleep he’s had in a while or simply agree. He settles for a nod, “Uh yeah. I slept pretty well. Did you?”
“As well as I could,” You shrug, “But it was nice having you there.” You send him a shy smile, your gaze dipping back down to the tea you’re stirring, and he struggles to resist the urge to offer to stay the night with you again.
“I meant what I said. I’m here for you in any way that you need me.” You turn towards him, your expression softening as you take in the genuine look on his face. Your lips part, but you can’t manage to get anything past them. The way he’s looking at you makes you nervous.
“Oi! What are you two whispering about?” Theo’s head snaps toward Draco, who is watching you both with a look of clear distaste at the way you were leaning into each other, gazing at one another so intently.
“Nothing.” Theo snaps out, and Draco raises an eyebrow at the sharpness in his tone. A sly grin begins to form on Draco’s face as he opens his mouth to speak, but Theo interrupts with a low murmur that you can’t quite make out. Draco doesn’t say anything, but faces his breakfast with a disgruntled look on his face.
Theo engages in a lively conversation with Enzo and Draco, leaving you content to eat in quiet. However, it’s not long before Veronica’s giggles start to cut through the silence, growing louder with each passing moment. When you finally look up, your heart sinks. Mattheo’s arm is wrapped around her waist, pulling her close as he murmurs something into her ear. She glances up at him, still laughing, and Mattheo leans in, pressing a kiss to her lips.
Overwhelmed, you instinctively reach for Theo’s thigh, your hand gripping it tightly as you try to steady yourself. Theo looks at you, startled by your sudden reaction, but you’re not meeting his gaze. Instead, he follows your line of sight to where Mattheo and Veronica are entwined, lost in their own world.
He drops his fork with a sigh, his hand immediately reaching out to grasp yours with a firm, reassuring grip. His touch is warm as he gently pulls your focus from the scene before you. Theo’s gaze lingers on the tear-brimmed edges of your eyes, his expression concerned. He glances at your friends, still lost in their animated conversation, and feels a pang of relief that they’re oblivious to the devastation written across your face.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, rising from his seat while maintaining a firm hold on your hand. With a quick, reassuring glance, he leans down to grab your bag. “I’ll walk you to class a bit early.”
Without a word, you follow him, casting a glance back at Pansy. You silently mouth ‘class’ to her as she watches you with curiosity from over your shoulder. If your friends notice the way Theo’s hand is intertwined with yours, they make no mention of it.
The moment you’re out in the hall, it feels like you can finally breathe again. A few tears slip down your cheeks, and you cling tightly to Theo’s hand as you walk, finding some comfort in the feel of him. You appreciate how he doesn’t push you to talk or ask any questions, just quietly staying by your side. There’s a relief in knowing he’s there if you need him, without the pressure to say anything.
After a couple of minutes of walking, you squeeze his hand and Theo glances over at you, “I’m not sure how I’m going to do this.”
He squeezes your hand back, “What do you mean?”
“Seeing them together,” You mumble. “It fucking sucks.”
“I’m sorry, fiore.” He speaks softly, wishing he had the right words to offer, some way to tell you how to get over someone. But the truth is, he’s still trying to figure it out himself.
“Will you help me get over him?” Theo’s steps falter slightly at your question, his heart aching at the helplessness in your voice. He swallows, the meaning of your words sinking in. You don’t seem to realize what it sounds like you’re asking him for.
He glances at you, unease settling in his stomach, “How exactly?” He briefly considers the fact that whatever you ask of him could make him fall for you more. But as long as it meant you were happy.
You hesitate, your gaze dropping to the floor as you search for the right words. “I don’t know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Just… be there, I guess. Help me forget about him. Distract me.”
Theo nods slowly, his mind racing. He wants to say something, to offer more than just his presence, but he knows that pushing too hard might make things worse. Instead, he gently squeezes your hand again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a comforting rhythm.
“I can do that,” he murmurs, his voice steady despite the nerves inside him. “I’m here for whatever you need.”
You offer him a small, grateful smile, and he can see the hint of sadness still lingering in your eyes. It breaks his heart, but he pushes those feelings aside. Right now, what matters is helping you heal, even if it means hiding his own growing feelings for you.
As you continue walking, Theo keeps you close, his hand never leaving yours. And though he doesn’t say it out loud, he silently vows to do whatever it takes to make you smile again, even if it means keeping his own heartache hidden in the process.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
By the time you reach your dorm, exhaustion weighs heavily on you. You’ve spent the entire day with your head down, avoiding any sight of Mattheo and Veronica. The silence between you and Mattheo feels foreign; it’s the first time you’ve gone a whole day without speaking to him, and you’re unsure if he even noticed your absence.
Unfortunately, you share several classes with both Mattheo and, evidently, Veronica. The sound of her laugh has become something you never want to hear again.
You kick off your shoes, fatigue weighing heavily on your limbs as you move towards your bed. As you pass your desk, something catches your eye—a bundle of red flowers sitting on top of your books. You pause, your curiosity piqued, and approach the desk. With a gentle touch, you lift the bundle, revealing vibrant red peonies. Their rich color stands out against the soft light filtering through the window, and their subtle, sweet fragrance fills the air.
Your eyes catch a note nestled among the flowers. You bite your lip to hide a smile as you read his messy handwriting: your name followed by a simple heart.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
Last night had been brutal. Sleep barely touched you; your mind was flooded with images of Mattheo and Veronica, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. The thought of them together was unbearable—it made your head throb and your stomach churn. You hated it. Hated how it made you feel. But no matter how tightly you shut your eyes, your thoughts wouldn’t quiet. So you gave up on rest entirely, dragging yourself out of bed before the sun had even risen, hoping that a book might be enough to distract you from the images popping up in your head.
It was quiet in the common room—so quiet, you weren’t sure it would be enough to drown out the rancid thoughts circling your head. But you sat down anyway, curled up beside the fire with a blanket draped around your shoulders.
Reading ended up helping, so much so that you didn’t even hear anyone come in. You nearly jumped out of your skin when, out of the corner of your eye, you caught someone sitting in the chair beside you.
“You scared me.” You mutter, shooting him a look as he keeps his eyes fixed on the fire in front of him.
“Didn’t mean to,” Mattheo mumbles, finally glancing over at you. “What are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” you say with a shrug, praying he won’t ask why. “I’m guessing it’s the same for you?”
He sighs, and you know the answer right away, “The usual.”
The words rise in your throat, begging to ask why he didn’t come to you—but you swallow them down, because deep down, you already know the answer. That was someone else’s job now.
So instead, you stay quiet—he’s never been one to talk after a nightmare. He prefers silence, sitting with it, letting it settle while he works through whatever’s clawing at him.
“I haven’t seen much of you.” You murmur after a good ten minutes of silence. It’s not easy to focus on reading when the person you’ve missed so achingly is sitting right in front of you. It was hard not to say anything—you’d barely made it through a page of your book, too distracted by stealing glances at him. You always thought he looked his most beautiful like this—hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep. It was a kind of vulnerability only you were ever allowed to see.
He sighs, leaning back in the chair as his hand threads through his hair. “Been busy. You know how it is.” The smirk that tugs at his lips makes your stomach twist. You don’t know how it is—not really. You’ve been too busy waiting around for him to find out.
“Oh,” you choke out. “Well, maybe this weekend we could do something? It feels like it’s been ages since we’ve done anything.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, and your spirits lift for a second. “I’ll have to check in with Veronica first, though.”
“Check in?” You repeat, a frown tugging at your brow.
“I don’t want her thinking I’m neglecting our relationship, you know?” He explains, and you swallow down the scoff that threatens to leave your lips. Like you’re doing with ours?
“Sure, I understand.” You say, but you really don’t. But you have no right to voice that. He’s in a relationship now, and you have to learn to respect that.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
It’s well past midnight when a knock echoes at your door. You sigh, adjusting your shorts as you reluctantly crawl off your bed, leaving your notes sprawled across the covers. As you swing the door open, you find Theo standing there, his gaze lifting from the floor to meet yours. A hesitant smile plays on his lips, as if he’s unsure whether he’s welcome at this late hour.
“Hi.” You greet him with a mix of confusion and warmth, offering a sweet smile. You pull the door open wider, and Theo’s gaze briefly flickers over your tiny sleep shorts and oversized shirt before he meets your eyes again.
“Pansy’s at our dorm.” He says, his voice soft.
You let out a quiet laugh, “I know that.”
He hesitates, searching for the right words. “I just thought... maybe you wouldn’t want to be alone tonight.”
“Oh,” you say, surprised, your lips parting as you glance over your shoulder into your room. Theo’s heart races, a wave of panic surging through him as he mentally scolds himself for not holding back. Offering to stay the night with you felt impulsive, but the moment he saw Pansy enter his dorm, his thoughts had gone straight to you.
“Shit,” Theo shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “I just—when I saw Pansy, I couldn’t help but think you might need someone tonight. But if you’d rather be alone, I can go.”
After you asked Theo to help you get over Mattheo, you wondered if it had been too much to ask of him. But to your surprise, you’ve spent nearly every day of the past three weeks with Theo. You knew he had his own worries—between school, Quidditch, and the pressure from his father. But the morning after you asked for his help, he was there.
You never expected him to put so much effort into helping you move on from Mattheo, but you couldn’t be more grateful.
You hadn’t seen much of Mattheo since that early morning you’d run into him in the common room a couple of weeks ago. He’d been wrapped up with Veronica—you’d really only caught glimpses of them around the castle now and then, and the boys hadn’t stopped grumbling about their mate being stolen. It bothered you more than you cared to admit. You missed your best friend, even when you were agitated with him. Still, you were doing your best to respect his relationship, which meant spending more time with the group—minus the new couple. As it turned out, the distraction was a welcome one.
“No,” you quickly respond, a smile spreading across your face as you reach out and grasp his hand, gently tugging him inside. “I’m glad you came.”
Theo visibly relaxes at your touch, allowing you to gently pull him into the room. As the door clicks shut behind him, sealing out the quiet corridor, his initial hesitation melts away. He takes in the familiar surroundings of your room, which, despite being a bit messier than usual, feels even more comforting in the warm, dim light with you.
He swallows his disappointment as you release his hand to clear your bed of scattered notes. Standing there awkwardly, he tries to keep his gaze focused, making an effort not to let his eyes drift down your legs as you lean over to pick up the last piece of parchment.
After you place everything neatly on your desk, you turn to face him, leaning casually against the edge with a soft smile. “Are you okay with sharing my bed again?” you ask, your voice light but sincere. “Or if you’d prefer, I can sleep in Pansy’s bed so you’ll have more room.”
Theo bites his tongue, fighting to keep his voice steady and avoid sounding overeager. He doesn’t want more room; what he wants is to wake up with you pressed close against him, just as he did weeks ago. This time, though, he’s determined to stay and enjoy the feeling of you in his arms.
He clears his throat, “Your bed is fine.”
“I was actually about to head to bed before you knocked, but I can stay up if you wanted to do something.” You offer, your voice gentle and inviting.
Theo shakes his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “Thanks, but I’m pretty wiped out from practice today.” He admits, and you can hear the exhaustion seeping through his words.
“You should’ve gone to bed at your dorm, you would’ve been asleep sooner.” You say with a slight frown as you notice just how tired he looks from the day.
“No,” He shrugs. “I wouldn’t have been able to sleep knowing you were here alone.”
If your heart could have melted, it would have done so right then.
Theo’s eyes hold yours for a moment longer before he glances away, almost as if he’s embarrassed by his own admission. You press your lips together, trying to hide the giddy smile threatening to break through. The idea that he cared that much for you made your insides flutter, warmth spreading through your chest.
Pushing away from the desk, you walk over to your bed and pull back the covers. Theo watches as you crawl in, adjusting the pillows before looking back at him. The unspoken question hangs in the air—are you going to join me?
He hesitates, slowly dropping his bag at the foot of your bed before moving closer to the edge. He’s slept in a bed with a girl before, but this feels wildly different. You make him nervous, and he has no idea how to hide it when he’s this close to you.
You settle into the covers, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight as you shift, and watch as Theo does the same, kicking off his shoes and slipping under the covers beside you.
Once the lights are off, silence settles between you, not at all uncomfortable. The only sound in the room is the soft rustling of sheets as Theo shifts beside you. You lie on your side, trying to make out his form in the darkness as your eyes slowly adjust. You can tell he’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me over the past couple of weeks.” You say softly, and Theo turns his head to look at you.
“Yeah?”
You hum, reaching out your fingers to brush against his hand, and he takes it without hesitation, his grip warm and reassuring, “Yeah.”
It’s become a habit in the last couple of weeks—intertwining his fingers with yours. He would grab your hand every time he noticed your discomfort around Mattheo and Veronica. And at some point, you just started reaching for his hand yourself. You liked the warmth of his palm against yours and the way he’d brush his thumb over the back of your hand.
“You know I don’t mind, right? Spending all this time with you has been nice. We never really hung out much, just us two.” He says softly.
You nod, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “Yeah, I know. It’s been nice for me too,” you admit, your eyes meeting his in the dark. You both fall into silence, and it doesn’t take long before you drift off to sleep, your hand still clasped in his.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
Panic hits as you suddenly realize the time—you’re running late. By now, you should already be at breakfast.
“Theo,” you whisper urgently, trying to shift out of his hold. The sheets are tangled around your legs, your back pressed firmly against his chest. His arms are locked around your waist, holding you close, and he’s not loosening his grip. His body is warm against yours, and even as you try to move, his grip tightens slightly, like he’s not ready to let go just yet. “Theo.”
“Fiore,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, and you freeze at the sound of that deeper, morning rasp. “Quit moving.”His grip tightens just enough to keep you still, his breath warm against the back of your neck.
“We have to get up,” you huff, trying to slip out of his arms, but Theo just pulls you back against him, his hold firm. “We’re late.”
“We’ll just skip.” He mutters, his voice still low and groggy. The idea is tempting—staying wrapped in his warmth instead of braving the cold corridors—but you sigh inwardly, knowing better.
You’d grown used to Theo’s small gestures of affection over the past few weeks, and you’d been just as affectionate in return. But waking up tangled in his arms like this felt different, more intimate. You were certain that once Theo fully woke up, he’d be a little sheepish about how closely he was holding you now.
“We really can’t,” you sigh, trying once more. “We need to get going—” Theo grumbles in response, finally loosening his grip and releasing you. A triumphant smile tugs at your lips as you slip out of bed, quickly heading to get ready. You racethrough brushing your teeth and pull on your uniform, skipping any attempt at fixing your hair in the rush. By the time you step out of the bathroom, Theo is standing by the bed, just finishing the last button on his shirt, looking just as disheveled as you feel.
You hurry Theo out of your room as he finishes brushing his teeth, and he complies, adjusting his tie as you both sprint toward the Great Hall. Just before joining the bustling breakfast crowd, you grab Theo by the arm, pausing to smooth down his disheveled hair.
“Is it a mess?” He asks, watching you closely as you stand on your toes to thread your fingers through his hair in an attempt to fix it.
“Just a bit,” you smile, stepping back on your heels and giving his hair a final nod of approval. “How’s mine?”
“Pretty,” Theo responds immediately, his gaze lingering. “I’ve never seen your hair like this before.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to stifle your smile at his compliment. You had let your hair fall naturally, and his reaction makes you feel unexpectedly warm.
You mumble a shy “thank you” before leading the way into the Great Hall, Theo trailing close behind. His cheeks are still tinged pink from the way your fingers had grazed through his hair, and he’s quietly grateful you haven’t seemed to notice. However, his relief is short-lived when he catches Draco’s eye, who immediately notices the pink tint and raises an eyebrow in amused surprise.
As you make your way to the table, Draco leans back in his seat with a smirk, raising an eyebrow. “Well, well, if it isn’t the lovebirds gracing us with their presence.”
“Fuck off.” Theo grumbles under his breath as he lets you slide into your new seat before settling in beside you. Ever since your usual spot had been taken, you’d claimed the one next to Theo, and not just in the Great Hall. You found yourself gravitating toward him in class, the common room—anywhere you could. It had become a newly formed habit, one that neither of you seemed keen on breaking.
“I should’ve figured that’s where you disappeared to last night,” Enzo says with a knowing smirk. “You two have been spending an awful lot of time together lately, haven’t you?”
You really had. Theo had taken to meeting you outside your last class of the day, content to walk around the castle or by the lake, just so you could avoid witnessing Mattheo and Veronica together. You had learned he was the perfect study partner—far more patient than Mattheo, who would get restless after twenty minutes and start pleading for a break. He seemed to remember every little detail you shared, from how you took your tea to the smallest quirks about yourself.
He’d been so attentive to you that you overheard some girls in the year below talking about how Theo Nott was no longer single.
Theo gives him a flat, unimpressed glare, clearly not in the mood for Enzo’s comments, “Yet again, fuck off.”
“Well, have you two got anything to tell us?” Blaise prodded, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was teasing, sure—but there was a hint of hope beneath it, a quiet wish that the two of you would finally admit to being together. Theo was the happiest Blaise had ever seen him, and he knew it had everything to do with you. It always did.
Theo looks up from serving himself breakfast, shooting Blaise a sharp, warning glance. He could handle the teasing from the boys himself, but he didn’t want you to be caught in the crossfire, especially if it made you uncomfortable.
“No.” Theo replies flatly, his gaze flicking to you. You return it with an amused, yet sympathetic smile. Unconsciously, a soft, faint smile tugs at his lips, a detail the boys are quick to notice.
“Are you sure? Because—” Blaise starts but is quickly interrupted.
“I think you two would be perfect together,” Veronica cuts in, her voice dripping with an overly sweet tone as she flashes a saccharine smile. “Don’t you think so, Matty?” she adds, glancing over at Mattheo with a raised eyebrow.
Your eyes meet Mattheo’s for a fleeting moment, and he holds your gaze. You barely registered them, so absorbed in the boys’ teasing of you and Theo. And honestly, you’re still unsettled by what he said the other day—his comment about not wanting to neglect his relationship with Veronica. What about your friendship? Was that something that was okay to neglect?
Clearly, as much as you tried to shake it, there was still some bitterness there.
For just a moment, there’s something unreadable in his gaze—something that makes your heart falter—but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his gaze shifting between you and Theo while Veronica cozies up to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “You two would be.”
A knot tightens in your stomach, and your appetite evaporates. The lightness you’d felt just moments before vanishes, replaced by a heavy weight. Even though you knew Mattheo didn’t have feelings for you, hearing him so openly agree with the idea of you with Theo stings more than you expected.
As long as you’d known him, Mattheo had never been in a serious relationship, let alone had a girlfriend. Now that he was with Veronica, it was painfully clear that you were never truly an option for him. If you had been, he would have made a move. You had dropped hints for years, and his playful flirting had always kept your hopes alive.
But maybe that’s all your relationship was ever meant to be—a friendship with a hint of flirtation. If that’s the case, you needed to move on. Fixating on a guy who now had a girlfriend was a losing battle. If you weren’t careful, you might risk losing the friendship you valued so much.
You’re so caught up in your thoughts, pushing the food around on your plate, that you don’t even hear the chatter of your friends going on around you. It isn’t until Enzo tosses a grape at you that you glance up, “Are you coming tomorrow?”
You immediately know he’s referring to the Quidditch match. You’d missed the last game, which had surprised everyone, but you weren’t in the right head space to watch Veronica cheer for Mattheo.
You nod. “I planned on it.”
“Good,” Pansy interjects matter-of-factly. “I missed having you there.” You offer her a smile, but it falters when you see Veronica nudge Mattheo. He clears his throat and turns to you, his expression unreadable.
“Speaking of the game,” Mattheo starts, his voice slicing through the breakfast chatter. “I need my jersey back.”
Your brows knit together in confusion, and it takes you a moment to find your voice, “I don’t understand—”
“My jersey,” Mattheo repeats, his gaze steady as he watches you. “I need it for tomorrow.”
“Did something happen to yours?” You ask, caught off guard. You’d always kept one of his jerseys while he kept the other. It had become a sort of tradition between you.
Mattheo hesitates momentarily, a flicker of something like regret crossing his features. “No, it’s just... I need it back now.”
“Oh.” You say softly, your voice barely more than a whisper. Veronica’s eyes dart between the two of you, her brow knitting in irritation as she takes in the way Mattheo’s gaze lingers on you.
Theo’s eyes watch you with careful intensity. And when he catches the flash of hurt in your expression, he reaches out and intertwines his fingers with yours beneath the table, his touch reminding you that he’s there if you need him. You squeeze his hand back immediately.
“I’m wearing it,” Veronica interjects, her tone bordering on something nasty. “I’m his girlfriend. It would be a bit strange if you kept wearing it.”
Your gaze flickers to hers, and a familiar twist of dislike coils in your stomach. You hadn’t been her biggest fan when you first met, but you’d tried to make an effort. That morning, after seeing Mattheo in the common room, you’d even asked Veronica if she wanted to hang out. You told yourself it was a healthy step—getting to know her might help you understand what Mattheo saw in her. Maybe if you saw why he’d fallen for her, it would be easier to let go. The feelings you had for Mattheo? Those were going to be long gone soon.
But she’d barely spared you a glance, tossing a dismissive look over her shoulder before slamming her book shut and rising to face you, “When I said we’d have a girls’ night, I didn’t actually mean it.”
Your lips parted, confusion knitting your brows. “It doesn’t have to be a girls’ night,” you offered, trying to keep your tone light. “I just thought maybe we could grab lunch—just the two of us, or even with Mattheo, if that’s more comfort—”
“I don’t have time,” she cut in sharply, lifting her books in emphasis. “Besides, tonight’s date night for Matty and me. It’d be weird if you tagged along.”
You bit back the retort—“I didn’t say tonight”—deciding her tone said enough. You’d tried, but her attitude had made things crystal clear. You didn’t like her—and nothing was changing that.
Your friends exchange glances, their confusion palpable as they watch Mattheo allow Veronica to speak to you with such disdain. They’ve seen him start fights over someone supposedly speaking badly of you, so this new passivity is surprising. Enzo’s eyes widen in disbelief, and he mouths a quick ‘what the hell’ to Draco, whose puzzled expression mirrors his own.
Everyone, except Mattheo it seems, has noticed that Veronica has gone from bright and friendly to curt and possessive over the past few weeks. At first, everyone agreed she seemed sweet—confused about how she ended up with Mattheo, but sweet nonetheless. But the longer the relationship went on, the more Veronica’s personality seemed to shift. It became clear she wasn’t a fan of them, especially not you.
When you remain silent, Veronica sighs impatiently, “Did you hear me—”
“Yeah, I get it,” you snap, your frustration evident. You turn your gaze back to Mattheo. “I’ll give it to you later.”
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
You spent all your classes obsessing over returning Mattheo’s jersey, and no matter how hard you tried, it was getting under your skin. It wasn’t just any jersey—it was the one Mattheo had given you, the one you’d worn countless times. His new relationship with Veronica had stung, but this felt even worse. Maybe it was because taking back the jersey felt like a tangible sign that Mattheo was serious about Veronica, and it drove home the reality of how much things had changed.
Logically, you understood why it was reasonable. Having another girl wear your boyfriend’s jersey would be uncomfortable, and if the roles were reversed, you’d feel the same way. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier. You found Veronica irritating, and the thought of giving up something that meant so much to you—both the jersey and Mattheo—was unbearable.
By the time you made it to your dorm, you were in a foul mood. The plan had been simple: stay holed up all day and hope that, by tomorrow, you’d be completely over Mattheo Riddle.
You’d barely been lounging on your bed for ten minutes when the door burst open. “Get ready, we’re heading down to the Black Lake,” Pansy announced the moment she stepped inside. You glanced up to see her toss her bag onto the bed before rifling through her clothes like she hadn’t just disrupted your entire plan for the day.
“Sorry, this is what I’m doing for the rest of the day.” Pansy looks up and quirks an eyebrow at you—an unmistakable This? Really? written all over her face
“It’s not. I told the boys you were coming.”
“Why?” You ask, annoyance flickering through your veins.
“Because you’ve been in a mood since breakfast and you need a distraction,” she says, tossing a black bikini onto her bed before heading over to your side of the room to dig through your wardrobe. “Besides, it’s nice out, and I need a tan.”
“A mood? Did you not hear him? He wants his jersey back!” You snap, sitting up in bed and flinging your arm toward the garment draped over the back of your chair.
“I know, babe,” Pansy says with a sigh. “But what’s the point in arguing? It’s not going to change anything. His girlfriend already doesn’t like you, and if you push it, you’ll end up seeing him even less.”
She barely spares you a glance as she goes through your clothes, and your stomach sinks. You’ve hardly seen Mattheo as it is—but the thought of not speaking him at all? That’s the last thing you want.
It’s not long before you’re spreading out your towel and sinking down beside Pansy. She’s already reclined, sunglasses balanced on the bridge of her nose, a satisfied sigh slipping past her lips as the sun warms her skin.
“I needed this.” Pansy hums, and you glance over at her.
“I think it’d be a lot more relaxing if they weren’t here.” You mutter, your gaze flicking to where Mattheo sits behind Veronica, obediently rubbing sunscreen on her back as she directs him like a puppet.
Pansy cracks one eye open, follows your line of sight, and groans. “They weren’t supposed to be. Mattheo must’ve overheard the guys talking about it.”
Your jaw tightens as you watch him finish with her shoulders, leaning forward to press a kiss to her neck. She lets out a high-pitched squeal of his name, and suddenly, you regret not fighting harder to stay curled up in your dorm.
“Would you just relax?” Pansy murmurs, sliding her sunglasses down to eye you properly. She gives your t-shirt a light tug, then pinches at the hem of your shorts. “Take these off—you look like you’re melting.”
Something sharp about how it must be your anger, is on the tip of your tongue. But Pansy adjusts her sunglasses and rolls onto her stomach, clearly signaling the conversation is over.
You sigh, glancing over at the boys seated a little ways from Mattheo and Veronica. It’s obvious from their expressions that they’re talking about them. A part of you bristles instinctively, ready to defend Mattheo—but you shove it down before it can surface.
Theo’s eyes are locked on Mattheo, anger simmering just beneath the surface as he watches him drape himself over Veronica—right in front of you. It’s all Theo’s been able to think about these past few weeks: keeping you distracted, keeping your eyes on him. Because if you’re looking at him, maybe you won’t notice just how completely enamored Mattheo is with a girl that isn’t you.
He doesn’t get it—how Mattheo could have you as an option and yet choose someone else. It drives him mad, keeps him up at night. Because if he were in Mattheo’s position, there wouldn’t be a choice to make. It would be you. Always.
He’s so focused on his thoughts that he barely registers Enzo nudging him.
“Huh?” He mutters, distracted, but his words catch in his throat the moment he follows Enzo’s subtle nod toward you. Wrapped in a cherry-red bikini, shoving your denim shorts down your thighs, completely unaware of the way the sight knocks the breath out of him.
His irritation simmers into something else entirely—something heavier, something that sparks low in his stomach.
A low whistle sounds beside him, and Theo’s head snaps toward Draco, who’s shamelessly smirking in your direction. “Salazar, I love the view on days like this,” he drawls.
Irritation flares hot in his chest, and without thinking, Theo snaps, “Shut the fuck up,” before pushing to his feet and heading straight for you.
He doesn’t have much of a plan when he gets to you—just knows he’d rather not sit there while the guys keep eyeing you like that.
“Fiore.” He greets, and you blink up at him through your sunglasses, taking a second to admire him. Exposed skin and defined biceps completely short-circuit your brain, and it takes a moment to catch up. Pansy shoots you a look at how long it takes you to answer him.
“Theo,” you hum, and his lips twitch into a smile. Pansy’s eyes flick between the two of you before she pushes herself up, calling over her shoulder that she’s going to say hi to Blaise. You watch as she saunters over, drops to her knees beside him, and leans down to press a kiss to his lips. Blaise, lying back without a care in the world, welcomes it, while Draco and Enzo groan dramatically, muttering that the two of them need a room.
You giggle quietly to yourself, amused by your friends, as Theo settles onto the towel Pansy abandoned. For a moment, the two of you sit in silence, gazes cast toward the Black Lake, letting the sun warm your skin while birdsong fills the space between you. With Theo beside you, the tension in your chest begins to ease. You’re just about to sink back into the towel when another one of Veronica’s shrill calls of Mattheo’s name cuts through the peace, grating in your ears.
You let out a soft sigh, drawing Theo’s attention. He glances over at you, then follows your gaze to where Mattheo sits behind Veronica, still murmuring something in her ear as she leans back against him.
“Do you want to swim?” Theo asks, then immediately winces at how blunt it sounds. He wishes his brain didn’t short-circuit every time you were near—that he could string together a sentence without sounding like he’s forgotten how to speak. Around you, he feels like a third year all over again. There’s a flash of relief when your eyes finally shift to him.
You glance toward the lake, hesitation written all over your face. “It looks freezing,” you say, trying to keep your tone casual. You’re not about to admit you suck at swimming—it’s easier to pretend that it’s just too cold.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “It won’t be that bad.”
Still unsure, you give him a shrug, and Theo pushes himself up, holding out a hand for you to take.
“That water’s gonna be freezing!” Blaise calls after you, and you shoot Theo a look that clearly says told you so.
Threading your fingers through Theo’s feels almost jarring—jolting in a way that catches you off guard. It’s a little unnerving, knowing all your friends are watching as you walk hand in hand, though it’s not like they haven’t already noticed how inseparable you and Theo have become. Still, there’s a flicker of satisfaction when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch Mattheo turning to watch the two of you walk toward the water. For once, his eyes aren’t on Veronica—they’re on you.
You stop a few feet from the edge, eyeing the water warily before taking a slow step back, a sweet smile tugging at your lips as you glance up at him.
“You know what, I’ll gladly watch you swim by yourself.”
Theo casts a look of disbelief your way, “You walked all the way down here with me just to turn me down?”
You shrug, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “I think you’ll survive on your own.”
“No, I really don’t think I will.” His voice is playful, but there’s a glint in his eye as he steps into the water, holding out a hand to you.
You wrinkle your nose and shake your head. “Get Enzo to come out there with you.” You turn, ready to call for Enzo, but you don’t get the chance.
Theo wraps an arm around your waist, the other slipping behind your knees as he effortlessly lifts you off the ground.
You let out a startled shriek, arms instinctively flying around his shoulders. “Theo!” you gasp, breathless with surprise and laughter.
If your friends hadn’t been paying attention before, they definitely were now. A few whistles and teasing cheers ring out from the group, but you can’t tell who they’re from. You’re too focused on Theo, clinging to him with a mix of panic and laughter.
“If you drop me…” You warn, tightening your grip around his shoulders as he wades deeper into the water.
“I’m not going to drop you.” He says with a low chuckle—and just as the words leave his mouth, the cool water brushes your back, pulling a startled squeak from your lips.
“I’m serious! I barely know how to swim. No one ever taught me, and I cried so much every time my parents dropped me off at swim lessons that they just gave up.” You confess quietly, eyes flicking nervously to the water lapping around Theo’s knees before finally meeting his gaze.
To your surprise, he doesn’t tease. Instead, he chuckles softly, shaking his head as he adjusts his grip, gently shifting you until you can wrap your legs around his waist. Your arms loop securely around his neck, and he gives you that soft, familiar smile. The one he saves only for you. It was quickly becoming one of your favorite things.
“I’ll just keep holding you then. How’s that sound?” You nod, eyes drifting over his sun-kissed skin and tousled waves. He looked beautiful like this, devastatingly so.
“As long as you don’t drop me, I’m okay with that.” You murmur softly, and Theo’s smile shifts—gentler now, quieter. His eyes flick down to your lips, so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it.
Because there’s no way Theo Nott would be thinking about kissing you.
That just wasn’t possible.
You watch him closely, heart ticking faster as his eyes slowly trace your face. Goosebumps rise along your skin when his hand glides down your side, over your hip, then settles firmly on your thigh.
“Theo.”
“Hm?”
“What are you doing?”
He glances at you, eyes glinting with something unreadable.
“Adjusting my grip,” he says casually. “Wouldn’t want to drop you.”
It’s a bullshit excuse. He didn’t need to adjust his grip—he was holding you just fine. And maybe it was wrong, but he wanted a reason to let his hand skim over your skin, to feel what it would be like to touch you the way he would if you were his.
You don’t seem to care though.
You hum in understanding, and without thinking, your fingers drift up to toy with the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck. Theo watches you closely, eyes tracing every detail of your face—committing it to memory, unsure when he’ll get to have you this close again.
“I was wondering—”
“Mattheo!” The shout cuts through the air, and Theo flinches at the sound of Veronica’s voice, wincing as a splash of cold water hits his back. Instinctively, he pulls you closer, turning his body to shield you from the spray.
“Fuck, Mattheo,” you grumble, shooting an irritated look his way. “That’s freezing.” It’s not that cold, but you’re annoyed. He’s your best friend, he knows all about your failed attempts at learning to swim and how much you really, really hate having water splashed on you.
“Sorry,” he says with a shrug, though he doesn’t look the least bit apologetic. His eyes flick briefly to Theo, then drop, as if he can see right through the murky water to where Theo’s hand is gripping your thigh.
“You’ve got Theo to keep you warm,” he says, nodding toward him. But his eyes stay locked on yours. There’s a sharp edge to his voice, one Theo doesn’t miss. It’s subtle, but it’s there, like the sight of you in Theo’s arms is bothering him more than he wants to admit.
Theo feels the subtle shift in your body—the way you tense slightly in his arms.
Veronica calls his name, and after a brief hesitation, Mattheo finally tears his gaze away from you and swims toward her. But your mood has already soured, and all you want now is to retreat to your towel and dry off.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
You barely slept, spending most of the night replaying every possible scenario of how returning Mattheo’s jersey might go. Your mind wouldn’t settle, not after watching him and Veronica at the lake, circling each other in the water, sharing quiet conversations. Every so often, if you were lucky, you caught a glimpse of Mattheo pressing his lips to hers.
You were grateful for your sunglasses, hiding the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. You weren’t sure if it was jealousy or frustration—or a painful mix of both.
Whatever it was, it sucked.
By the time you got back to your dorm after a day full of classes, you were wound so tight you feared you might snap.
You dreaded going to the game. The thought of returning the jersey was uncomfortable, and the idea of seeing Mattheo with Veronica made it even harder to face.
What you hoped for most was a moment alone with him, to talk without Veronica hovering nearby. But after yesterday, you knew the odds of that were slim. Watching her draped all over Mattheo at the lake had been enough proof. If today was anything like that, you wouldn’t get a second alone with him.
You considered skipping the match entirely. However, you and Pansy had made plans to sit together, and you’d also promised Mattheo you’d return his jersey. As much as you wanted to avoid the situation, you knew you had to go.
You were so irritated as you snatched Mattheo’s jersey off the back of your chair that you hadn’t even noticed the red peonies and green jersey sitting on your bed at first. It wasn’t until you tossed your bag aside and went to fix your hair that the unexpected sight caught your eye.
Your eyes landed on the familiar green jersey, the back facing up so you could clearly see ‘Nott’ stitched in bold, unmistakable letters. A smile tugged at your lips, your earlier frustration fading as you reached for the flowers, their soft petals brushing against your fingers. Carefully, you lifted them, already picturing them in a vase on your desk.
There’s a card tucked between the blooms, and you smile at Theo’s handwriting: Fiore—wear this for me tonight?
Suddenly, the idea of going to the match didn’t seem so miserable anymore.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
“Finally!” Veronica calls out the moment she spots you, her voice laced with impatience. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show up in time.” She stands outside the boys’ locker room, arms crossed like she’s been waiting for ages.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes, “I told Mattheo I would be here.”
“I know,” She says, her tone short, before sticking out her hand expectantly. “I can take that.”
You hesitate, wanting to wait and give it to Mattheo yourself, but you know she’ll be the one wearing the jersey tonight. It feels pointless to hold onto it any longer. With a reluctant sigh, you hand it over, and Veronica’s lips curl into a triumphant smile as she takes it from you.
“Thanks.” She chirps, instantly brighter now that she’s got what she wanted. You watch as she slips the jersey on, and a slight bitterness creeps into your chest at the sight of it on her. She finishes adjusting the jersey and looks up, sending you a smug smirk that makes your stomach twist.
It’s incredibly frustrating to watch her once-sweet attitude crack and crumble right in front of you—while Mattheo remains completely oblivious. You don’t understand it. Besides being his friend, which lately hasn’t meant much, there’s no reason for her to dislike you. Yet she does, and you can’t figure out why.
Sure, you were close with Mattheo, but if the jersey was any indication, she had no real reason to worry.
You were nothing but a friend to Mattheo, even though you desperately wished that wasn’t the case.
She eyes the jersey you’re wearing, quirking an eyebrow as if she’s about to say something snide. You brace yourself, waiting for the comment, but then her face lights up as her attention shifts to something—or someone—behind you.
You turn just as she brushes past you, wrapping her arms around Mattheo’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss. The sight makes your stomach roll, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to bear watching them. Her giggles fill the air, loud and lovesick, a blatant declaration that he’s hers now.
“Whose jersey are you wearing?” Your eyes snap over to Mattheo, who has one arm around Veronica’s waist as he looks at you curiously. Her arms are tightly wrapped around his neck, and she looks frustrated that his attention is on you.
“Mine.” You glance over and see Theo approaching, a flicker of relief washing over you. A genuine smile spreads across your face, and before you think it through, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. He looks momentarily surprised but quickly gathers himself, encircling your waist and holding you firmly.
You lean back slightly to meet his gaze, your voice softening. “Thank you for the flowers. Again.”
A warm, gentle smile blooms on his lips, the kind he reserves just for you. “Anytime, fiore.”
A moment lingers between you, where your eyes lock and soft smiles play on your lips. But the spell shatters at Veronica’s excited squeal of Mattheo’s name. You clear your throat, gently pulling away and offering Theo a fleeting smile, even though you sense his disappointment at the loss of your warmth.
Your gaze drifts toward Mattheo, who leans in to press a kiss against Veronica’s lips, a pang of longing twisting in your chest. You exhale slowly, then look back at Theo. “Are you nervous?”
“Not really,” he replies with a casual shrug, though you catch a flicker of something beneath his calm exterior. “But if I do get nervous, I’ll just search for the pretty girl wearing my name.”
Your lips part in surprise at Theo’s bold flirting, a playful spark igniting in your chest. You try to mask your smile, but it’s no use—Theo sees right through you, a knowing grin spreading across his face as he revels in your reaction.
“Good luck. I’ll wait for you after.” You lean in, nearly whispering as you press a kiss against Theo’s cheek, but in your nervousness, your lips brush against the corner of his mouth instead. The contact sends a spark of warmth through you, but before he can react, you pull away, leaving him to watch you walk off, the letters of his last name boldly displayed on your back.
He stands there for a second, staring after you, but as he turns to leave, he catches sight of Mattheo, who is watching you with an intensity that makes his heart sink.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
You’re exhausted. Keeping track of both Mattheo and Theo is proving to be more tiring than you anticipated. You’re used to focusing solely on Mattheo during the game, but tonight, your attention keeps shifting to Theo.
“Are you even listening to her?” Pansy scoffs, jabbing you in the ribs.
The unexpected nudge jolts you from your thoughts, and you turn to her, puzzled. “What?”
“Veronica. Are you paying attention?” Pansy glances over, raising an eyebrow.
You shake your head, “No. I didn’t even realize she was sitting nearby.”
“Listen to her. She’s been bragging about Mattheo.” That catches your attention. You follow Pansy’s finger as she points, and your gaze lands on Veronica a few rows ahead. As you focus, her voice cuts through the noise of the crowd, loud and unmistakable, carrying clearly despite the distance.
“Do you even know how long I waited to get him?” Veronica’s voice rises above the noise, smug and self-satisfied. You glance over just in time to see her gather her hair into a high ponytail, making sure the name on her back is fully visible. “Honestly, the effort was exhausting,” she adds with a dramatic sigh, as if she’s endured a great hardship.
The girls around her practically explode with excitement, bombarding her with questions—how did she do it? How long did it take? What’s he like? Their voices blend into a high-pitched buzz, and you roll your eyes, feeling the irritation build as you turn your attention back to the match, hoping to tune them out.
Pansy nudges you again, her voice low and insistent. “Keep listening.”
“No.” You grit out.
Pansy sighs, “Why not?”
You exhale sharply. “Because I really don’t want to hear her go on and on about him anymore.” The bitterness in your voice is hard to hide, but you don’t care. You’re too tired of hearing his name on her lips.
“You’ve barely listened!”
“It was enough for me.”
“There’s something off about the way she talks about him,” Pansy pushes, leaning in to try and catch your eye, but you continue looking forward and watching Theo. “I don’t like it.”
“I mean, I don’t either. But I’m not going to keep listening in.”
“Why?” Pansy cries out incredulously, gaining the attention of some people around you.
“Because I’m supposed to be getting over him, and I don’t think listening in as his girlfriend talks about him will do that.”
“But what if something’s off? What if she’s blackmailing him or something?” Pansy asks, before she gasps and turns to face you fully. “What if he’s dating her to make you jealous?”
“Do you really think Mattheo Riddle would allow someone to blackmail him? And secondly, I don’t think that’s the case.”
“You never know. I always thought he had feelings for you.”
“Pansy. This is what I’m talking about,” You snap, sending a warning look to your best friend. “Mattheo can take care of himself, you and I both know that. There’s no way I’ll ever get over him if I start making up theories about why he’s with his girlfriend. Veronica’s…. something else, we know that, but that doesn’t mean she’s not with him for a genuine reason.”
Pansy exhales in frustration, adjusting in her seat as she finally turns her attention to the match. “Alright, I get it. I’ll just share my theories with Blaise from now on.”
A smirk tugs at your lips as you imagine Blaise enduring the same conversation, likely rolling his eyes in exasperation, “Fine by me.”
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
Thanks to Theo’s swift catch of the Snitch, Slytherin secured the win, and the stands erupted in cheers. You’d screamed so loudly in celebration that you’re certain he heard you, even from across the pitch. The thrill of the moment filled you with energy, and you felt a surge of pride as he glanced your way after the catch.
You were eager to congratulate him, but held back, letting the others swarm him first. Instead, you were leaned against the wall outside the locker room, waiting for a moment alone with him. As you stood there, it wasn’t long before your mind wandered. You found yourself watching him from afar—his chest still heaving from the intensity of the match, hair tousled and damp with sweat. There was something about the way he looked after a game that had your thoughts trailing off in a completely different direction.
It brought you back to yesterday—the way he looked, water glistening on his skin, fingers running through his damp waves, and eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. The memory sent a rush of heat straight through you.
Had Theo Nott always been this gorgeous?
When he turns and catches your eye, you fully expect him to give the usual ‘wait a minute’ gesture, like Mattheo always does. But instead, to your surprise, Theo pushes straight through the crowd. In an instant, he’s in front of you, pulling you up into his arms. You let out a shriek of his name through laughter, completely caught off guard by the sudden hug, his embrace warm and tight as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.
“You did so good!” You cry out as he sets you down. When he grins at you, it’s almost enough to make you swoon; the sight of post-match Theo is something you hadn’t realized you’d been missing. The blend of adrenaline and joy radiating from him leaves you momentarily breathless.
“It’s because you wore my jersey,” he shrugs, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I didn’t get to say it earlier, but you look really good in it.”
You nearly melt, “Does that mean I get to wear it at the next game?”
“Please do, love,” he says, his tone suddenly softer, the endearment dripping with warmth like honey. There’s a sincerity in his gaze that sends a flutter through your chest. “You make it look far better than I ever could.”
You don’t get the chance to respond as Enzo suddenly appears by his side, rambling on about something animatedly. With a quick tug, Enzo pulls Theo away, but not before he glances back, shouting over his shoulder about how he’ll see you later.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
“Y’good?” Theo looks up from the fire, his gaze shifting to Blaise, who’s now standing beside the couch. The flames had been the only company he’d had for hours. It was late—he couldn’t say exactly how late—just that the common room had emptied long ago, and he’d been sitting there long after everyone else had gone to bed after celebrating their win.
“Yeah,” Theo sighs, his eyes drifting back to the flickering flames. “I’m good.” His words are hollow, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself. Blaise watches him for a moment, studying the tension in his posture, before quietly sitting down in the empty space beside him. Neither of them speaks, both of them watching as the flames dance.
Blaise leans back, glancing at Theo before breaking the silence. “You don’t look it,” he says, his voice calm but direct.
“Just thinking.” Theo just shrugs, his shoulders barely lifting, the gesture heavy with indifference. Blaise watches him for a moment, waiting, giving him the space to say something more—but the silence stretches.
“About her?”
Theo’s reaction is answer enough. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair with a tired frustration. For a brief moment, he pauses, elbows resting on his knees, his head cradled in his hands.
He drops his hands slowly, lifting his head to glance over at Blaise, his eyes tired, “When am I not?”
Blaise smiles slightly at his words. He’s known for years that Theo liked you—it was impossible to miss. From the moment Mattheo introduced you, Blaise vividly remembers the way Theo looked at you, as if his breath had been knocked from his lungs.
He was completely undone by one glimpse of you.
And if that hadn’t been enough of a giveaway, the little things Theo did for you over the years certainly were—grabbing your favorite sweets from Hogsmeade when you couldn’t make the trip, offering help before you even had to ask, his gaze always seeking you out no matter how crowded the room. It was undeniable, even if Theo never spoke it aloud.
“Listen, mate,” Blaise begins, casting a quick glance at Theo, gauging his expression before continuing. “Do you think this is a good idea?”
“What?”
“Helping her get over Mattheo while you’re in love with her yourself.” Blaise’s words hang in the air, and Theo’s jaw tightens instinctively, a storm of emotions flickering across his face.
He wants to deny that he’s in love with you, but deep down, he knows it’s pointless. The truth is unquestionable; he’s been drawn to you for years, but these last few months have sent him falling even deeper.
How was he ever supposed to get over you when every moment only pulled him deeper? The way your fingers slipped so easily into his, like they belonged there, the soft curve of your lips as his thumb traced gentle circles over your skin. How sleeping over in your dorm had somehow become routine—he was sure Pansy was staying with Blaise on purpose to give him space with you.
It’s why he hasn’t left this couch in hours, struggling with the weight of his feelings. The realization hits him hard: he’s completely fallen for you, and he’s trapped. Because in your eyes, he’s just a friend, and that thought feels like a punch to the gut.
“She asked me to, and I can’t say no to her,” Theo replies, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and resignation. “I’ve never been able to.”
“You’re going to get yourself hurt if you’re not careful.” Blaise warns, his tone serious.
“We’ve long passed that point.” Theo sighs.
.·。.·゜✭·.·✫·゜·。.
The knock at your door isn’t much of a surprise—you figured that as soon as Pansy left to meet Blaise, Theo would come knocking. It had become part of your routine over the past month. In fact, he had become the person you saw the most.
Walk to the Great Hall? Sit by Theo. Evenings in the common room? Always with your friends, sat beside Theo. As soon as Pansy disappeared to the boys’ dorm, that was Theo’s cue to show up at your door.
He was so deeply ingrained into your life that it was almost hard to remember what things were like before him.
“I think this is a record—” You begin with a grin, flinging open the door—only for your smile to falter.
It’s not Theo.
Mattheo stands there instead, a split lip and a bruise blooming across his cheekbone in deep shades of purple and red. It looks painful, and you wince at the sight of him.
A disbelieving scoff escapes him. “You were waiting for him?”
One hand braces against the doorframe as he glances over his shoulder, like he’s expecting Theo to come around the corner. “Can you two do nothing without each other?”
“Do you need something, Mattheo?”
He turns back to you, the bitterness in his expression fading as he lifts his fingers to wipe at the blood on his lip. It smears more than it cleans, and you scrunch your nose slightly in distaste. A month ago, you would’ve pulled him into your dorm without hesitation—but now, you’re angry with him.
It’s on the tip of your tongue to tell him to fuck off, that it’s no longer his business who you’re waiting for. Not when you’ve barely seen him, and every attempt to talk has been ignored. Ever since that day at the lake, he’s been even more distant than before. And if he so much as looks like he might breathe in your direction, Veronica is there, tugging him away. It’s mind-boggling. Up until now, you hadn’t let yourself believe it, but maybe this really is how your school year ends—with you and Mattheo no longer friends.
“I got into a fight—” You cross your arms over your chest, giving him a deadpan look.
“—and I just couldn’t bring myself to go to the infirmary. Not when this has always been your job.”
There’s a part of you that bristles at him calling it your job to take care of him, but you know he’s right. After every fight, he’d show up at your door, and you’d patch him up as best you could. But things are different now, and it doesn’t feel right to take care of him when he’s all but disappeared from your life.
“It’s not my job anymore. Not when you have a girlfriend.” You move to shut the door, but Mattheo shoots his hand out, stopping it before it can close.
“Love, please.” Your stomach lurches at the way the nickname rolls off his tongue—directed at you this time. “I need your help.”
You hesitate, staring at him for a long moment, weighing just how stupid of an idea this might be. But Mattheo’s pull on you—his presence, his voice, the familiarity—is still too strong. With a sigh, you step aside and swing the door open before gesturing to your bed.
There’s not a whole lot you can do besides blot his lip with a clean cloth and apply some cream to the bruise on his cheek, but it’s always seemed to work for him. By the time you’ve dampened the cloth with warm water and gathered what you need, Mattheo is already settled on your bed, staring at the wall of polaroids.
It’s different now. And something bitter churns in Mattheo’s stomach as he takes in the changes to your photo wall. Some of the pictures of the two of you have been replaced, now filled with snapshots of you and Theo. One shows you curled into Theo’s side, grinning widely at the camera as you squish his cheeks together with your hand. Another captures you sandwiched between Theo and Enzo, all three of you wearing sunglasses and flipping off the camera.
But it’s the photo of you and Theo at the lake that makes his chest tighten. Your legs are wrapped around Theo as he holds you up in the water, he’s smiling at the camera, and you’re pressing a kiss against his cheek. You’re wearing that red bikini—the one that had knocked the air from his lungs the moment he saw you in it. He remembers how stunned he was, how he’d nearly forgotten Veronica was beside him until she slapped his arm and muttered something sharp.
“She needs a bigger size,” she’d said. “It’s too tight on her hips. I should give her one of my old ones.”
He hadn’t said a word, but the way his eyes stayed locked on you had said enough. He didn’t agree—he thought you were perfect.
“What’d you get in a fight over?” Mattheo’s eye shift over to you, settling down onto the bed next to him and showing him the cloth, a warning you were going to touch him before bringing the damp, white cotton to his lip. Mattheo sucks in a breath and watches as you focus on cleaning the cut.
“Nothing important.” He mumbles, careful not to move too much for you.
“Clearly, it felt important to you.” You hold up the blotchy, red-stained cloth as proof.
He sighs, “It wasn’t.”
You glance up at him, but he’s staring off to the side, jaw tight, and you decide to let it go. You know him—if he got worked up enough to start a fight, then it meant something to him.
The room falls quiet as you work, the silence stretching between you. Still, your mind spins, trying to piece together what could’ve pushed Mattheo far enough to throw punches.
“Why didn’t you go to her?” You ask softly.
Mattheo’s face stays blank, and for a moment, you wonder if he even heard you.
“It’s just—” he starts, then pauses. His gaze finally lifts to meet yours, and something shifts in the air. The way he’s looking at you now—it’s different. Intense. It sends your pulse into a quiet frenzy. “It wouldn’t be the same.”
“It shouldn’t be the same,” You murmur, correcting him. “We’re just friends, but it’s different with you and her.”
“I know, I know.” He mumbles, drawing in a deep breath.
You set the cloth aside, watching him carefully as you reach for the cream. It’ll only take a couple dabs on his cheek andhe’ll be good to go—but still, you move slowly. Selfishly, you want to stretch the moment. He hasn’t been this close in weeks. You haven’t really heard his voice in what feels like forever.
Not when he’s talking to the boys. Not in passing in the corridors. That doesn’t count. Not like this.
“Do you like her for me?” He asks, and you inwardly sigh.
“I haven’t given it much thought.” You reply, dabbing the cream gently onto the bruise as he watches you.
You keep your focus fixed on the task—too careful, too precise—because meeting his eyes feels too intimate. Too dangerous.
“The boys always said it would be you.” He says quietly.
Your hand stills for a moment, eyes flicking up to meet his, uncertain.
“About what?” You’re stalling, hoping to have more time to process.
“Who I’d end up with.”
“Oh,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
How are you supposed to respond to that? Tell him you’d hoped for the same? That you’d heard the boys say it, more times than you could count—and every time, you let yourself believe it a little more.
Hoped that maybe, if they said it enough, he’d start to believe it too.
“Did they ever tell you that? That they thought you’d end up with me?”
Your voice falters, your hand falling to your lap as you stare at him. You’re too close—far too close. You need him out. Away from you. He has a girlfriend.
But then he says your name, soft and low, and you freeze.
Your mind is screaming at you to move, to stand up, to tell him it’s time to go.
But you don’t get the chance—because there’s a knock at your door and just like that, the moment is gone.
Please, please, please consider reblogging and/or commenting. It keeps me motivated to continue writing and reblogging spreads my work! 🤍
Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.
A/N: I actually hate this😭
Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs
@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3
The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.
"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."
His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.
"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."
Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."
"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."
Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.
"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."
***
Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.
You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.
The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.
“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”
Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.
“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.
Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”
But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.
Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.
You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.
And then —
everything went wrong.
The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light.
A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.
Every cauldron detonated at once.
Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.
You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.
Everyone in the classroom froze.
Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide.
Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes.
Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.
“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.
“Did you see that light?”
“She cursed him—”
“No, he cursed her—!”
“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.
But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.
“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”
Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.
Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.
You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.
You had no idea what had just happened.
But it had changed something.
And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.
***
The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.
Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.
But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.
"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."
You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:
“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”
You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.
You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.
“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”
“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.
“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”
Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.
“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”
Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”
“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”
Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”
Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”
“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”
McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave,
“A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”
The word hit the room like a curse.
“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”
You stared at him.
“No. That’s — that’s insane.”
“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.
Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”
“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.
“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”
Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”
You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.
Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”
He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”
Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”
You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”
Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.
“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”
Your breath caught.
No. No, no, no—
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.
Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”
And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.
You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.
“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”
McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.
Your first day as an adult.
And already… you’d been sentenced to death.
***
The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.
“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”
Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”
Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”
A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.
“I bumped into her. That’s all.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”
Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”
But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.
He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.
“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.
A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.
Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”
Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”
He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.
“Accio.”
A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.
Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.
He was staring at his hand.
It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.
“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”
Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Something was wrong.
It was the way his magic felt.
Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore.
Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.
He stood abruptly.
“I’m going to bed.”
And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.
***
The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.
“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”
But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.
You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.
Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.
***
The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”
There was no response.
He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”
Still nothing.
Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”
Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.
They both froze.
Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.
But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.
Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”
They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.
Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.
“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.
Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.
***
You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.
Your pace slowed as you spotted them.
McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.
All gathered around a single hospital bed.
The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.
It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.
Mattheo.
Your breath caught.
He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.
You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.
“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”
No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.
You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”
McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.
Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What?”
“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.
You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”
Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”
“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”
No one spoke at first.
Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”
You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.
But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.
Your hands curled into fists.
“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”
Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.
“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”
No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.
But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.
“…his breath is getting fainter.”
“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”
Your steps faltered.
And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.
Like guilt.
Like dread.
But you walked away anyway.
***
The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.
You couldn’t sleep.
Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.
You told yourself he deserved it.
You told yourself you were right.
But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.
And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.
It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.
You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.
You just… had to see him.
The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.
Mattheo.
“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.
He hadn’t moved.
His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.
You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.
“I’ll do it.”
The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.
Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”
You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.
“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”
Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”
You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.
“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”
“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.
You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.
You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.
It was cold.
But you held it anyway.
The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.
Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.
You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.
But now…
You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.
“What do I say?” You whispered.
Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”
You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.
Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”
You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”
“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”
Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”
“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”
You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”
Your wand pulsed with heat.
The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.
You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.
A soft gasp escaped his lips.
You froze.
Mattheo’s hand twitched.
Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.
“…You?”
His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it.
And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.
It was done.
The pact was sealed.
You were married.
You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”
McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.
“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”
You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.
You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.
Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.
And then a voice — hoarse, furious:
“What the fuck did you do?”
You froze.
Mattheo.
You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.
He was staring straight at you.
“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.
“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.
He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.
“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”
“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”
Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.
“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”
You flinched like he’d struck you.
The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.
And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.
“You’re right.”
Mattheo blinked.
Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.
“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”
McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.
“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”
Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.
But you weren’t finished.
“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”
You paused — your voice cold as ice.
“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”
The room went deathly still.
You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.
And behind you, no one said a word.
***
The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.
Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:
The marriage bond was to remain a secret.
Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.
But silence didn’t mean peace.
In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.
You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.
Your professors were at their absolute limit.
McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.
The problem was: detention didn’t help.
You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?
Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.
Because the truth was simple:
You two weren’t combustible.
You were already on fire.
And the next explosion was only a matter of time.
It was supposed to be a simple lesson.
“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”
You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.
A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.
Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.
And Mattheo’s?
Two rows behind and off to the right.
Far enough to ignore.
Close enough to still feel him.
You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.
The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.
Right off your desk.
The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—
It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.
His reaction was instant.
Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”
You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”
“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”
The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.
Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.
Your throat tightened like a vice.
“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”
“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”
“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”
His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”
“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”
Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.
“I swear to Merlin—”
Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”
“ENOUGH!”
McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.
With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.
She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.
Neither of you said a word.
“Outside. Now.”
You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.
And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.
But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.
Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.
And it wouldn’t be the bond.
It would be you.
***
Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.
Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.
“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.
The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.
For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?
Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.
Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.
You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”
You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.
Mattheo’s confusion deepened.
He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.
The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?
A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.
He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”
***
The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.
It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.
Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.
You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.
But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.
Your husband.
Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?
Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?
Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.
Not really.
Not freely.
You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.
You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price.
And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.
***
Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."
He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.
No.
He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.
It wasn’t fair.
You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.
He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.
He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.
And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.
Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.
This was just magic.
He didn’t believe in fate.
***
The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.
It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.
Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”
You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.
You didn’t look.
You didn’t need to.
Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him.
Feel his magic.
And it was driving you insane.
Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—
“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.
The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.
You flinched back—
But not fast enough.
A hand caught your wrist and yanked.
Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.
The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.
You froze.
Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.
“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”
Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”
But your voice faltered.
Because your skin was touching.
And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.
Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.
Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”
Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.
“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.
The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.
And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.
He didn’t let go.
He pulled you closer.
One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.
You couldn’t breathe.
For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.
But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.
Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.
You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.
The distance snapped back into place.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.
But something had.
You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.
Then you looked away.
Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else.
But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:
Husband. Wife.
And the magic remembered.
***
The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.
“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”
Mattheo barely heard him.
They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.
“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.
Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.
A voice floated down the stairs.
Yours.
The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.
You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.
He spat the offending thing over the ledge.
“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”
“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”
You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.
He shouldn’t care.
Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”
You tilted your head.
He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”
You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”
He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”
“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”
You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”
He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”
Mattheo’s lungs went tight.
“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”
“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”
You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”
Harry didn’t argue.
“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”
Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?
But his heart was pounding.
Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”
“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”
“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”
You laughed softly.
“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”
Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.
“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”
From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.
“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.
Mattheo didn’t respond.
He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”
***
The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.
“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”
Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”
“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”
Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.
“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”
Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”
“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”
They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.
Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”
Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”
“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”
“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.
“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.
Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.
“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.
“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.
“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.
Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”
“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m leaving.”
Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.
***
Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.
The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.
'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.
It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.
The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.
Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.
As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.
Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.
He was alone. Relaxed.
This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?
Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.
So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.
He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.
Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.
Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?
That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.
You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.
A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.
His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.
He didn’t move at first, just stared.
You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.
Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.
It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.
You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.
Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.
“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”
His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”
You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.
***
The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.
Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.
Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.
“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”
“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.
You rounded a corner—and froze.
Footsteps.
You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.
You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—
You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”
His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”
“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”
His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.
“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.
You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.
When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.
As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.
You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.
“Goodnight, Mattheo.”
A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”
“Get back safe, yeah?”
He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”
You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.
The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”
He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”
“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”
It was only then he realised he was smiling.
And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.
Fuck.
***
The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.
You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.
“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”
You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.
“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.
“I asked first.”
“And I’m ignoring you first.”
He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”
You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”
You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.
He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”
He blinked, “What? Why?”
You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”
Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”
You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.
He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”
You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”
He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”
Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”
He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”
“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”
“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”
You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”
Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”
You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”
You turned to look at him.
The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.
"Maybe I will."
***
The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.
You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.
Until you saw him.
Mattheo.
He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.
You were looking in his direction.
At least that's what you told yourself.
You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.
And that was when Mattheo noticed you.
It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.
Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.
Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.
And you?
You didn’t look at him once.
At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.
Mattheo was gone.
Underwater.
Fully disappeared.
He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.
You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.
He watched the whole time.
*
You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.
“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”
Your eyes widened, “Wait—”
And then you were airborne.
You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.
Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.
And then—
Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.
Mattheo.
You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.
You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.
Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.
But there were no butterflies.
No sparks.
No golden shimmer between you.
Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.
Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.
Mattheo saw red.
He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”
The guy froze mid-step.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.
“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”
“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”
Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.
Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.
You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.
“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”
His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.
He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”
You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”
He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.
“I’ve got you.” He whispered.
And that’s when it hit you.
There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow.
No reminder of your bond.
Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.
Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.
Now?
You already knew.
You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.
Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”
***
You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”
You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”
“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.
Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”
You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”
“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”
Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”
You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”
Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”
You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”
“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”
“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.
“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.
***
Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.
“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”
Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”
“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”
Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”
Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”
“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”
“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.
“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”
“I don’t.”
All four blinked at him.
Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”
Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”
Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”
Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”
“I wasn’t in the mood.”
Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”
But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.
He stared at his hand.
No magic.
But definitely a spark.
***
Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.
A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.
“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”
You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”
That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.
Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?” You pressed.
He hesitated. A beat passed.
Then another.
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”
His throat bobbed, “Does it?”
Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.
“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”
Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.
“Forget it.”
Your chest sank.
“Right.”
You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”
Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.
***
You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.
“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.
You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.
“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”
McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”
You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”
I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.
Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.
“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”
McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”
Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”
McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”
You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.
Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”
Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.
He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.
Other partners?
When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.
But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.
Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.
No. You didn’t want that.
Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”
You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.
Even if you were never truly his.
***
You left the office in silence.
Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.
Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.
Other partners.
The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.
Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.
“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”
You blinked, “Think about what?”
He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”
Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”
He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.
You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”
A pause. Longer than it needed to be.
His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”
You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”
“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”
You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.
Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.
You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?
“But,” You said loudly.
He stopped. Turned.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”
Silence.
It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.
Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.
He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.
“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
You shook your head, “I mean it.”
He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.
His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”
A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.
“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”
Your heart stuttered.
He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”
The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”
He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.
“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”
Neither of you moved.
And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
You didn’t speak.
You didn’t need to.
His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.
You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.
When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.
He didn’t let go.
Neither did you.
And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.
Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.
It started with an ice cream and a smirk. Now, Theo is on the verge of autocombustion. Who knew dessert would come with a side of thirst ?
theo nott x fem!reader
warnings: smut
Ice cream is cold.
He knows it is. Everyone knows it.
It’s a fact. A universal knowledge. An undeniable truth.
It’s fucking science, or whatever.
He doesn’t care. He can’t think straight right now. Can’t form a singular thought that would make sense.
Because the way you’re eating that sweet, freezing, and addictive treat, sure does the opposite of cooling him down.
It burns him alive.
Theo sits across from you, one arm draped over the back of the booth, a lazy picture of nonchalance.
But he is anything but relaxed.
His fingers flex against the worn leather of the seat, nails pressing crescent moons into the fabric.
He is supposed to be listening to Mattheo, nodding along to whatever inane thing he is ranting about, but Theo can barely hear him.
He can hardly think past the way your tongue flicks against the ice cream cone in your hand, slow and unhurried, gathering the melting sweetness with a deliberate sort of attention that makes his breath catch.
“Mate, are you even listening ?” Mattheo waves a hand in front of his face, scowling.
Theo blinks, tearing his gaze away from your lips for half a second.
“Yeah” he lies, voice rough “Something about… a bet ?”
Mattheo snorts. “Right. You’re useless”
Lorenzo, sitting beside him, chuckles under his breath.
“More like distracted” his gaze flickers between Theo and you, suspicion glinting in his eyes “What’s got you so out of it, Nott ?”
Theo clenches his jaw. “Nothing”
But it’s not nothing.
It’s you.
You, who take another lick of your ice cream, lips wrapping around the tip of the cone with obscene slowness.
It’s purposeful now.
He knows it is.
Because your eyes flick to his through the dark fringe of your lashes, gleaming with something wicked.
Your tongue darts out again, a teasing little flick, and then you hum. Just a soft sound, barely a murmur of pleasure, but it makes heat slam into his gut like a punch.
Theo grips his knee so tightly he might bruise himself.
His cock twitches in his jeans, stiffening as filthy thoughts barrel into his mind.
He tries –Merlin, he really fucking tries– to focus on something else. Anything else. The chatter around him, the clinking of glasses, the buzz of conversation.
But all he can think about is your mouth. That pretty, sinful mouth and all the things it could be doing to him instead.
“Something wrong, Theo ?” your lips curl, like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.
Of course you do.
You’re a menace. A goddamn siren sent to drive him mad.
He grits his teeth. “No”
You tilt your head, eyes sparkling.
“You sure ?” another slow lick, the tip of your tongue flicking against the melting ice cream “You seem… distracted”
Enzo raises a brow. “That’s what I said”
Theo exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.
“I’m fine” he mutters, his voice tight, strained.
But you aren’t done yet.
No, because now you’re letting the ice cream melt, a single drop slipping past your lips, trailing down your wrist.
You sigh as you lick it up, slow and languid, the pink of your tongue gliding against your skin in a way that is absolutely fucking indecent.
Theo swears under his breath. His jaw clenches so hard it aches.
He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this. Not here. Not in public. Not when he’s surrounded by your friends, his friends, who are all oblivious to the absolute torment he is in.
He wants to grab you. Drag you out of this booth, press you up against the nearest wall, and shove his fingers into that sinful mouth of yours just to see how far you’ll take this little game. Just to see if you’ll still have that smug look when he’s ruining you.
Your eyes sparkle, like you can read his mind. Like you know exactly what he’s thinking.
And then –oh, you absolute devil– you moan.
Softly. Barely more than a whisper.
But it’s enough. Enough to make his cock throb against his zipper. Enough to have his hands curling into fists, digging his nails into his palms as he fights for control.
Mattheo and Lorenzo keep talking, oblivious, something about Pansy and Blaise owing them ten Galleons over a Quidditch match. But Theo doesn’t hear a word of it.
He grits his teeth, trying to school his features into something remotely neutral, but it’s useless.
When he dares look back at you, you’re still at it, your lips now wrapped around the tip of the cone, tongue flicking out to lap at the edges.
Your cheeks hollow ever so slightly as you suck, and Theo’s vision goes white for a second.
He is going to fucking die.
You pull away, just a little, tongue running along your bottom lip, tasting the sweetness there.
Your gaze flicks to his, and you tilt your head, all wide-eyed innocence.
“Are you sure you're ok ?” you press, eyes locked onto his “Because you seem a little hot”
Lorenzo snickers. “Yeah, mate. You’re flushed”
Theo clenches his jaw, reaching for his drink just to have something to do with his hands. He takes a long sip, the cold liquid doing nothing to quell the heat burning through him. “It’s warm in here. That's all”
You hum, unconvinced. “Right”
Then you take another long, languid lick of the ice cream, and fuck, he’s going to lose his mind.
Mattheo rolls his eyes. “I swear, you two are weird”
He turns back to Lorenzo, shaking his head.
Theo exhales slowly, trying to compose himself. But you don’t let him.
Of course you don’t.
You lean in just a fraction, lowering your voice. “You look like you’re about to break”
Theo gives you a sharp, warning look.
“Keep pushing” he murmurs, voice low, dark “See what happens”
Your lips curl. “Is that a promise ?”
Oh, you little–
He swallows hard, dragging a hand over his mouth.
He is going to ruin you.
But not here. Not now. Not when he’s one breath away from losing all self-restraint in front of his friends.
You take one final, exaggerated lick of your ice cream before giving him a look so sweet, so utterly full of feigned innocence, that it takes everything in him not to wipe that smirk off your face in the most sinful way possible right then and there.
Instead, he just smiles –sharp, dangerous, a silent promise.
You want to play, little vixen ? Fine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You hadn’t planned on teasing him.
Really, you hadn’t.
At first, you were just enjoying your ice cream, sitting comfortably in your seat, not thinking much of anything if not the heavenly sweetness coating your tastebuds.
But then you felt it. It was impossible not to.
That look.
The one that scorches, that lingers, that says a million filthy things without a single word being spoken. The one that makes your skin tingle, your stomach twist, your breath hitch ever so slightly.
Theo’s always looked at you like that –like he’s starving– but tonight ? Tonight, there’s something different about it.
Something darker.
Hungrier.
And maybe that’s what does it.
Maybe that’s why, when you catch him watching you, his fingers flexing like he’s physically restraining himself, you decide –on a whim, really– to be a menace.
You can tell he’s suffering.
It’s in the way his jaw keeps clenching, the way his fingers twitch against his thigh like he’s refraining from doing something reckless.
Like grabbing you.
Like dragging you away from the table and pressing you up against the nearest wall.
Like claiming you right here, right now, in front of everyone.
And honestly ? The thought is thrilling.
Because Theo isn’t patient. Not really.
Oh, he can pretend to be. Can put on that mask of cool, effortless indifference like it’s second nature.
But beneath it ? Beneath all that carefully controlled composure ? He’s pure fire.
And right now, that fire is smoldering.
You can see it in his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded as they track every move you make. In the way he watches the slow, deliberate drag of your tongue over the ice cream, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. In the way his hands clench into fists every time you shift just a little closer, teasing the space between you, making it smaller and smaller.
God, he’s trying. He really is.
But you can tell.
You can feel it.
He’s going to break.
The ice cream is almost gone now, but you’re still teasing him, still testing the limits of his patience.
Theo drums his fingers against his leg, watching you with the kind of intensity that should set you on fire.
Maybe it does. Maybe that’s why your smirk has turned into something softer, something more dangerous.
You’re playing a game.
But you don’t realize that Theo never plays to lose.
“Alright, that’s it” he mutters under his breath, voice just low enough for only you to hear.
You raise a brow. “What’s it ?”
His tongue flicks over his bottom lip as he leans in slightly, close enough that his breath fans against your cheek. “You keep this up, and I’m going to have to do something about it, bambolina”
Your stomach flips.
You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about”
Theo chuckles darkly, shaking his head. “Oh, you’re such a liar”
Mattheo, who has been watching the two of you with barely concealed amusement and a slight hint of disgust, suddenly claps a hand on Theo’s shoulder. “Alright, mate, I can’t take it anymore. Either you stop, or get up and leave so you can finally, royally fuck each other's brains out, ok ? Or I swear to Merlin, I’m going to throw something at you”
Theo glares at him. “Fuck off”
Lorenzo frowns, glancing between the two of you. “Wait, what’s going on ?”
Mattheo smirks. “You didn't notice ? Our boy here has been eye-fucking Y/n for the past ten minutes and doing a shit job at pretending otherwise”
You stifle a laugh, biting your lip as Theo scowls and hisses a “Shut the fuck up, Riddle”
Enzo blinks, then groans loudly. “For fuck’s sake, just shag already. The tension is suffocating”
You grin, swirling the last remnants of your ice cream with your tongue before pressing your lips together thoughtfully. “That’s a tempting suggestion”
Theo clenches his jaw.
He is two seconds away from losing his mind.
Lorenzo emits another dramatic sigh. “Merlin, just put him out of his misery”
You glance at Theo, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Should I ?”
His fingers flex. His patience is gone, shattered by your relentless teasing and the way his friends are making it worse.
His lips curl into a slow, wicked smirk.
Your breath catches, your thighs clenching together unconsciously, as if proving to him that you were indeed in a misery of your own.
“No,” he murmurs “I think I should put you out of yours”
His gaze trails on your figure, slow, burning with its intensity, until it stops at your crossed legs.
Mattheo groans, shoving his drink away. “Okay, I’m leaving. I refuse to witness whatever the fuck is about to happen”
Lorenzo just laughs, shaking his head as he follows Mattheo toward the bar. “Try not to get arrested, yeah ?”
Theo waits until they’re gone before leaning in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You think you’re cute, don’t you ?”
You grin. A little mischievous, a little wicked. “I know I am”
His hand slides under the table, brushing against your thigh. It’s barely a touch, but it sends a shiver up your spine.
“You’ve been playing all night,” his fingers dance on your denim clad skin, light, almost innocent “time to find out if you can handle losing”
Your pulse spikes, heat curling in your stomach. “Seems to me, I’m winning instead”
Theo’s smirk deepens, his fingers squeezing your thigh just enough to send a rivulet of heat down your spine. “We’ll see about that”
You exhale sharply, and he leans in, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear.
“Let’s go”
It’s not a request.
Your breath hitches.
Theo’s fingers are still on your thigh, warm and firm, a silent promise of everything that’s coming.
You should make him work for it. You should smirk, tease him just a little more.
But the look in his eyes ? Dark, hungry, impatient ?
It makes you want to follow him without a second thought.
“Where ?” you murmur, voice softer now.
His thumb strokes your leg, slow, deliberate. “Somewhere I can shut you up properly, and make good use of that teasing little mouth of yours”
Heat pools in your stomach. Your tongue flicks over your bottom lip, and Theo’s gaze drops to your mouth, his pupils blown wide.
“Tempting” you hum, letting the word drip from your lips like honey.
His jaw tightens. “Get up, sweetheart”
Oh. That was definitely not a request.
You’re about to stand when–
“You cannot be serious”
Mattheo’s voice cuts through the moment like a blade.
Theo exhales sharply, turning to face him with a glare. “What ? Didn’t you say you were leaving ?”
Mattheo throws his hands up. “I left for five minutes to go pay for your horny ass, you wanker. And you’re already about to drag her off to Merlin knows where ? Fucking hell, are you an animal or a man ?”
Lorenzo, standing beside him with a drink in hand, smirks. “Told you he wouldn’t last”
You fight the urge to laugh, but Theo is not amused. His hand leaves your thigh, and you instantly miss the warmth.
“Are you done ?” he deadpans.
Mattheo scoffs.
“No, actually. Because this-” he gestures between the two of you, his expression a grimace that makes it almost impossible for you to hold the laugh threatening to slip out “-is disgusting to witness. And I would really like to keep my appetite”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re the one interrupting us”
Lorenzo takes a sip from his glass, his mouth curling against the rim as he watches the exchange like it’s the best entertainment he’s had in weeks. “She’s got a point”
Mattheo groans. “Fine, whatever. Go. Be gross. Anything but witnessing live porn”
Theo doesn’t even acknowledge him. His hand is already back on your leg, his fingers gripping just a little tighter.
You let that tension stretch between you, let it build, let him wait–
Then, without a word, you stand.
Theo follows immediately, his hand finding the small of your back as he steers you away from the booth, away from your smirking friends, away from everything that isn’t him.
You hear a distinct “Worse that fucking rabbits, man. I swear” coming from Mattheo, and the heartfelt laugh Enzo lets out right after.
But you don’t focus on it. You can’t.
Your heart is pounding. The air between you is thick with anticipation.
The second you step outside, Theo is on you.
His hand grips your waist, pulling you flush against him, his other hand tilting your chin up as his lips crash into yours.
It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s desperate, full of all the tension that’s been brewing all night.
You moan against his mouth, and that’s all it takes for him to lose the last shred of restraint he had left.
He presses you back against the nearest wall, his body a solid, burning heat against yours.
His lips move against yours like he’s been starving for this, like he’s making up for every second he had to sit there and watch you tease him.
You tug at his hair, and he groans, the sound vibrating through you. His hands are everywhere –your waist, your hips, sliding under your shirt just to feel your skin.
“Theo” you gasp between kisses.
His lips trail down your jaw, his teeth grazing your neck.
“This is your fault” he murmurs, his voice rough.
You shiver. “Oh ?”
He nips at your pulse point, soothing the sting with his tongue. “You started this. Now you’re going to deal with the consequences”
Your breath stutters. “And what are these consequences ?”
Theo pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with something dangerous.
“You’ll find out,” he whispers “when we get back to my place”
Your stomach flips. Your hands grip his shirt, your pulse hammering in anticipation.
“Then what are we waiting for ?”
Theo grins –sharp, wicked, possessive.
“Good girl”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The night air is cool against your skin, but it does nothing to calm the heat curling low in your stomach. Not when Theo’s hand is gripping yours, his pace unrelenting as he guides you through the dimly lit streets.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.
His grip is firm, like he’s afraid if he lets go, you might disappear. Like he’s afraid he might wake up and realize this was all just another torturous fantasy.
You squeeze his hand, just to remind him that you’re real. That this is real.
By the time you reach his place, he barely gets the door open before he’s on you again.
You both may treat it like a game, a reckless race at who will fold first. But you know better than to think it meaningless.
You and Theo might be stubborn, but you aren't stupid.
This is more than what it seems.
Theo’s pace quickens. The fire in his eyes grows.
The second you step inside, your back is against the door, his mouth slanting over yours in a kiss that steals the breath from your lungs.
You whimper as his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans, can feel the heat of him pressing against you, and it sends a wave of arousal through you.
“You think it’s funny ?” Theo mutters against your lips, his hands sliding up your waist, pushing under your shirt “Teasing me all night like that ?”
Your head spins. “A little”
His fingers tighten, digging into your skin.
“Well, in that case” his voice is pure sin, his teeth grazing at your bottom lip “You’re going to regret it”
You shiver as a small, mischievous grin blooming on your lips. “I think I'll enjoy it, actually”
Theo’s eyes flash with something hot. Something scorching. Then he’s lifting you –effortlessly, like you weigh nothing– and you barely have time to gasp before your back hits the wall.
Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, and fuck- the feeling of him pressed between your thighs has your head falling back with a moan.
Theo takes full advantage, his lips trailing down your throat, teeth scraping, biting, soothing with his tongue. His hands slide up, kneading the plump flesh of your ass, elicitng a quiet hiss that gets promptly swallowed by his mouth on yours.
“You drive me fucking insane” he murmurs, his voice rough with need “You know that ?”
You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. “Really ? I hadn't noticed”
Theo growls. Actually growls.
And then he’s moving, carrying you through the darkened apartment with ease, his grip never faltering. You barely register when he kicks open a door before you’re being thrown onto his bed.
You have little time to catch your breath before he’s on you again, hovering over you, his body a mess of heat and tension and barely restrained control.
But not for long.
Not anymore.
He presses a knee between your legs, pushing them apart, and damn, the exquisite and very much needed pressure makes you gasp.
Theo smirks. “Look at you”
Your breath comes in short, ragged pants. “What about me ?”
His fingers trace up your thigh, featherlight, teasing.
“You’re shaking” his lips brush against your ear, his voice barely above a whisper “What happened to all that confidence, sweetheart ?”
You swallow hard. “There's still too much fucking fabric between us, Nott”
Theo chuckles, dark and low. “Not for long”
And then he kisses you again. Deeper, hungrier, filled with every ounce of frustration, every bit of restraint he’s about to shatter.
Maybe that’s why it’s always felt like this –like every lingering glance, every near-touch, every sharp-tongued argument was leading to something neither of you could name, something dangerous and undeniable. Like that unspoken something between you two had never been a coincidence but a carefully woven thread binding you together, tightening with every stolen moment, every unspoken want.
Because it was.
It would explain the years of –poorly covered– tension.
The way his eyes had always lingered a second too long. The way his voice had always dipped when he said your name. The way he’d pressed too close in crowded hallways, in dimly lit rooms, in the spaces where no one was watching, his fingers brushing over the small of your back when he passed by, fleeting and deliberate.
And you ?
You had played with fire just as much as he had.
The way you’d nursed a drink at a party and let your tongue dart out just so to catch a stray drop, knowing damn well his eyes were on your mouth. The way you’d stretch in front of him, arms overhead, back arching just enough to draw his attention, just enough to make his jaw go tight. The way you’d let your fingers ghost over his wrist when handing him something, pretending not to notice the way his breath hitched.
It had always been obvious to anyone around you. This unnamed thing between you and Theo.
It wasn’t just stolen glances or accidental touches –it was blatant, undeniable, loud. It was the kind of tension that filled entire rooms, made people shift uncomfortably or roll their eyes because they knew. They all knew. And you didn’t care.
Because this wasn’t for them. It was never for them.
It was for him.
It was for you.
People commented. Of course, they did.
But you never cared. Not even a little.
Because it was never about making them see. It was about making him see. About testing him, pushing him, seeing how far you could take it –how much he could take– before he finally snapped.
You weren’t playing for an audience.
You were playing for him.
And Theo had played right back.
Your hands drag over the muscles of his back, tracing the shape of him, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. Your nails dig in just enough to make him feel you, to make him know that you are just as much a part of this as he is.
Your mouth finds the column of his throat, lips trailing lower, your tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin, to mark the path down, down, down.
Theo groans, low and wrecked, his head tipping back, his grip tightening around your waist.
His hands are everywhere –trailing up your sides, slipping under your shirt, mapping the curves of your body like he’s trying to memorize them.
He’s not rushing. No, he’s taking his time, savoring every second, making sure you feel everything.
Your breath stutters as his fingers toy with the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath it, palms warm and firm against your bare, heated skin. His touch is electrifying, sending shivers up your spine.
“You’re so soft” he murmurs almost reverent, dragging his lips down your jaw, across the column of your throat.
You arch into him, your body betraying you, begging for more.
His lips curl against your skin. “So needy already ?”
You glare at him, but it’s useless when you’re gasping under his touch, when you’re gripping his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
“You’re talking too much” you manage to breathe out.
Theo chuckles, his teeth scraping over your pulse point before he bites.
You gasp, your nails digging into his arms. “Theo-”
His tongue flicks over the mark, soothing the light sting before he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils so blown wide with hunger the blue of irises succumbs to the blackness.
“I’ll stop talking” he murmurs, smirking “But only if you beg me”
Your lips curl into a defiant half-smirk, yet your stomach flips. “You wish”
His fingers trail lower, teasing the waistband of your jeans, but never dipping beneath. His touch is maddening, just light enough to leave you desperate.
Theo tilts his head, watching you with a knowing, taunting smirk. “I can do this all night, sweetheart”
You bite your lip, fighting the urge to give in. But he sees it. He knows he’s winning.
His fingers dip just slightly beneath the fabric, and your hips buck on instinct.
Theo groans.
“Fuck-” his voice is ragged now, the teasing edge slipping “-look at you”
You try to glare again, unsurprisingly failing.
“Admit it-” he breathes, pressing his forehead against yours “-you love this little game, don’t you ?”
Your pride wars with your need. But then his fingers slip just a little lower, and all rational thought disappears.
You grip his shirt, pulling him closer, your lips barely brushing his.
“Please” you whisper.
Theo stills.
Then, ever so slowly, he grins.
“There’s my good girl”
No words should have that kind of power.
And yet, somehow, when they come from him –from that smug, devastating mouth– they do. They slip under your skin, wrap around your ribs, settle low and insistent in your stomach like they belong there. Like he belongs there.
Which is mildly annoying.
Because you’d like to think you have a little more self-control than this. That you’re not the type to get all breathless over two little words and a wicked smirk. That a simple ‘good girl’ shouldn’t make your spine melt like sugar in tea.
And yet, here you are.
Theo’s lips crash back onto yours, and this time, there’s no teasing. No control. Just raw, desperate need.
His hands move with purpose, tugging your shirt off, discarding it carelessly onto the floor, revealing your bare skin to him.
He doesn’t waste a second, his lips trailing down your neck, over your collarbone, his tongue flicking against your sensitive skin, making you gasp and arch into him.
You’re already on fire, every inch of your body begging for more, your hands roaming to his chest, tugging at his shirt, wanting him as much as he wants you.
Theo watches you with a dark gleam in his eyes as you pull his shirt over his head, throwing it aside and letting your fingers run over his chest.
His skin is warm under your touch, muscles tense as you feel him quiver just slightly under your hands.
“You have no idea how much I want you” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear.
He chuckles huskily, his lips brushing against your neck as his hands slide to your jeans, swiftly unbuttoning them before pulling them down your legs. You lift your hips to help him, but the moment the fabric is gone, he pauses, his gaze locking onto your body with such intensity that it makes you dizzy.
You shiver. “I think I have a pretty good idea”
And you really do. Because you want him just as much.
Your breath catches, your body craving more, but you know he’s savoring this. Every single second of it.
“You’re so fucking beautiful” he breathes, raugh and low —like the words slipped out before he could stop them.
His eyes dragged over you slowly, taking everything in like he was trying to memorize it, burn it into his mind so he’d never forget.
He looked at you like you were art. Real, breathing art.
His gaze followed the slope of your collarbone, the way your chest rose and fell with every shaky breath. And when it dropped lower, he didn’t even try to hide it.
He stared—shameless and hungry—at the way your nipples hardened under his gaze, the way goosebumps rippled over your skin like his eyes alone had touched you.
His fingers traced the outline of your bare thigh, just teasing the edges of your skin before moving closer.
“I’m not the only one” you exhale, your hand slipping down to unbuckle his belt. His body shudders as you slide it free, then undo his pants and pull them down along with his underwear with practiced ease.
Theo groans as you finally free him, his breath catching in his throat as you wrap your hand around him. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as if your touch alone is too much. “Fuck- just like that”
You lean up and kiss him deeply, your hand still moving slowly, torturously, up and down his length. He’s throbbing in your grip, hot and hard, his hips jerking slightly as you tease him with just enough pressure to make him desperate.
Theo’s hands grip your hips, pulling you toward him until there’s barely any space between you.
“Making me lose my damn mind” he groans.
You smile, a little wicked, and stop.
He opens his eyes, his gaze burning. “Don’t you dare-”
You lean in and whisper against his lips, “Or ?”
He groans in frustration, grabbing you by the wrists and pinning them above your head, his body pressing harder against yours as the soft matress kisses your back once again.
“This kind of attitude will get you in trouble, you know ?” he warns, his voice hoarse, his breath warm against your cheeks.
“Oh my, I’m shivering” you reply, defiant and eager for what comes next.
Without warning, he shifts. Your heart races as he moves over you, straddling your hips with his knees. His eyes never leave yours as he slowly, deliberately, pulls down your panties, exposing you completely.
You’re aching for him. For the feel of him, of his body against yours, filling you.
He leans down, his lips brushing yours in a slow, teasing kiss before they move lower, trailing across your jaw, down your neck, over your collarbone.
His breath is warm, his touch even warmer as he moves lower, trailing kisses along the curve of your breasts before his mouth closes around one nipple, his tongue flicking teasingly.
You moan, your back arching involuntarily, chasing his mouth, and Theo groans in approval, his hand moving to your other breast, massaging it gently as his mouth graces you with the sweetest of suctions.
You tug at his hair, urging him to keep going, but he pulls back, his lips just inches from yours.
“Want me to make you feel good, baby ?” he breathes, his voice rough with need.
You nod, your heart pounding in anticipation. “Yes. Please”
Theo’s grin is dark and satisfied, and without another word, he moves lower, his lips trailing down your stomach, his hands parting your thighs.
“All mine” he murmurs, his voice low and possessive “Sei tutta per me” (You're all mine)
Your body shudders with the intensity of his words, the promise of what’s to come making your chest tighten with desire.
Theo doesn’t waste any more time. His tongue flicks out, teasing you with the slightest brush against your skin. Your hands dig into the sheets as he dips lower, his movements calculated and slow.
He’s dragging this out –making you feel every second of it.
You can barely catch your breath as he continues, every touch, every kiss, driving you further into madness.
You’ve never been more desperate for someone in your life.
Theo’s touch is slow, deliberate. Every movement, every brush of his lips against your skin is meant to drive you mad, to pull you deeper into the haze he’s weaving around you.
His hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as he continues his slow descent, his mouth following the path of his fingers.
Your breath stutters when his lips press to the sensitive skin just above your hip bone, lingering there, teasing. He’s savoring this –savoring you– as if he has all the time in the world, as if he isn’t already unraveling you with every passing second.
“You’re so beautiful like this” he whispers, his voice hushed, reverent “Falling apart for me”
His fingers tighten, a silent reminder of just how much control he has, just how much he’s enjoying this. And you–
You can barely think.
Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging, trying to pull him closer, urging him on.
He groans softly, the sound vibrating against your skin, sending another shiver down your spine.
“You’re impatient” he muses, lips curving into a smirk, brushing against the sensitive skin of your thigh “Too bad I like taking my time”
You whimper, the fire inside you growing unbearable, and he knows. He can see it, feel it. How wet you are, how you are literally dripping with need.
And yet, he doesn’t rush.
Instead, he presses another lingering kiss to your thigh, his hands flexing against your skin, his tongue flicking out in a slow, lazy stroke that makes you shudder. He’s taking you apart methodically, savoring every reaction, every tiny gasp and twitch of your body.
Then, finally, his lips move lower.
Without hesitation, without another second of restraint– he leans in.
You barely have time to react before his mouth is on you.
Hot. Wet. Heavenly.
A sharp gasp is snatched from your lips as Theo groans against your skin, the sound low, wrecked, vibrating through you like a live wire. It sends a slow shiver rolling through your entire body, stealing the breath from your lungs.
But he doesn't rush.
No, as he said, Theo takes his sweet fucking time.
His tongue flicks out, teasing, tasting, barely there –just enough to make you ache, to make you squirm. His breath ghosts over your skin, hot and heavy, sending goosebumps skittering up your spine.
Your hands clench in the sheets, fingers grasping at nothing as he presses a slow, lingering kiss on your most sensitive spot.
Soft. Gentle. Torturous.
Your hips jerk instinctively, desperate for more, but Theo just chuckles against you, his lips curving into a knowing smirk.
“What's the rush, bambolina ?” he whispers, his voice a deep, velvety tease “Relax. Let me enjoy you” (babydoll)
A frustrated whimper leaves your throat, your head tipping back against the pillows.
Then, with a calculated slowness, he moves. His hands slide down your thighs, caressing the soft flesh, warm and steady before he effortlessly lifts your legs, draping them over his broad shoulders.
The movement is seamless, effortless, like this is second nature to him, like you fit here, in his hands, against his mouth, around him. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty –only the quiet confidence of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly where he wants you.
The shift in position steals the air from your lungs, a soft gasp slipping from your parted lips as the new angle makes you feel open, vulnerable, his.
Theo settles between your thighs like it’s the only place he’s ever meant to be, like there is nowhere else in the world he wants to be. And the way he looks at you –like he’s on his knees before something divine, like he’s about to worship you in ways you’ve never known– sends a delicious shiver down your spine.
A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his hands tighten, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you steady. The heat in his gaze burns into you, heavy and full of intent.
You think he’s going to dive in right away. You need him to do something, anything, right away.
But he doesn’t.
He chuckles against your skin, low and knowing.
Instead, he leans in slowly, torturously, his breath skimming over your skin, teasing without ever touching. And when his lips finally brush against the inside of your thigh –just the lightest kiss, barely there– it’s enough to make your entire body jolt with anticipation.
He kisses his way up, each one hotter, more deliberate than the last, and you swear each soft press of his lips brands you, leaving his mark on your skin.
He likes this. Loves it.
Loves the way you react to him, loves the way your breath catches and your fingers twitch like you don’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.
He presses another kiss, lingering this time, warm and deliberate. Then another. And another. Higher.
“Comfortable ?” he hums on your skin, his voice a dark velvety tease.
The question is laced with something dangerous, something that sends a shiver up your spine. Because you know him. You know that smirk, that low, taunting lilt to his voice. You know he’s enjoying this –enjoying the way your breath stutters, the way your body responds to him.
You don’t answer. You can’t.
You don’t even have time to think of a reply, because he leans in, giving you the barest, laziest drag of his tongue, lapping at your folds languidly.
And, just like that, your brain loses all its proper functions.
You suck in a sharp breath, your fingers flying to his hair, grasping at the thick strands, tugging slightly.
Theo groans at the feeling, his hands tightening on your thighs, holding you in place as he does it again –slow, warm, excruciatingly unhurried.
He isn’t giving you what you want.
He is giving you what he wants.
And, apparently, what he wants is to savour you like you are the last meal he’ll ever have the pleasure to taste.
His tongue moves with maddening patience, stroking, tasting.
He isn’t in a hurry. No, he is languid, thorough, tracing every inch of you like he has all the time in the world.
Like he wants to memorize you.
The sounds falling from your lips only seem to encourage him. He hums in satisfaction, the vibration sending another sharp jolt of pleasure through your body.
Your muscles tense around his shoulders, your breath hitching as he closes his lips around you and gives you a gentle suck.
A strangled moan rips from your throat.
Theo groans, low and satisfied, his grip tightening like he can feel the way you're falling apart under him. His hands slide up your thighs, fingers pressing in just enough to ground you, to hold you right where he wants you as he worships you with his tongue, his whole mouth.
You choke on his name, unable to stop the sounds that slip from your lips, to stop the way your body trembles beneath his touch.
“That’s it” he pants, his voice thick with desire, muffled against your drenched heat “Let me hear you”
A wrecked sound tears from your throat as he licks into you, deeper, slower, his tongue moving with excruciating precision—circling, stroking, dipping into you, dragging arousal from your body like a secret he’s coaxing out one breathless moan at a time.
Your hips jolt against him, seeking the friction, the pleasure, but he holds you down with ease, his fingers flexing against your skin in a silent warning.
“Easy, baby” he murmurs, lips dragging against you, his voice dark and dripping with amusement “I’m not going anywhere”
And then –God– he moans.
Low, deep, ruined.
Like he is the one unraveling. Like the taste of you is doing things to him, making him lose himself.
His fingers hold you tighter, his mouth pressing into you deeper, his tongue slow and sinful as he licks into you, savoring the taste, the heat, the way you tremble under him, around him.
“So sweet-” he rasps, the words slurred, heavy with hunger “-so fucking perfect”
Your breath hitches, your fingers tightening in his brown locks as he gives you another slow, deliberate stroke of his tongue.
Your body arches, your thighs trembling, but Theo doesn’t let up. If anything, he goes slower, letting you sink into the unbearable, maddening pleasure of it.
Your vision blurs, the coil in your stomach twisting, winding tighter, and tighter–
And Theo knows.
He can feel it, hear it in the way your breath turns ragged, in the way your body starts to tense.
“Come on, bambolina” he whispers against your soaked heat, tongue flicking once—twice—right where you need it, his voice nothing but smoke and heat “Give it to me”
He groans again, this one deep and satisfied, his fingers tightening, his tongue moving just a little firmer, a little more focused.
Until you shatter.
The pleasure crashes over you in slow, rolling waves, your body shaking, your breath stolen, your fingers fisting in his hair as your thighs clamp around his head.
Theo moans, low and approving, holding you through it, letting you ride it out as he licks you through every aftershock, every little shiver that rocks through you, soothing you with slow, lazy kisses against your skin, his hands tracing gentle patterns over your trembling thighs.
When he finally pulls away, his gaze meets yours, dark and full of pride. His lips are swollen, slick with the essence of your arousal, his breathing just as ragged as yours.
“Fuck- Y/n” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over your cheek, his expression softening “You’re breathtaking”
You barely have time to catch your breath before he shifts, hovering over you once more, his body pressing into yours.
His tongue flicks out slowly, deliberately, dragging across his bottom lip like he is savoring your taste.
You can taste yourself on him, and the thought alone sends another wave of heat through you.
Theo doesn’t give you a chance to recover. His lips are on yours before you can even steady your breathing, stealing what little composure you have left.
His kiss is slow, deep, possessive –like he wants to remind you exactly who just unraveled you, who’s about to do it again.
He must notice the way your breath hitches, because he smirks against your mouth.
“You like that, don’t you ?” his voice is low, teasing, dripping with satisfaction.
You glare at him –what little glare you can manage while still gasping for breath. “Cocky”
He chuckles, dragging his lips along your jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below your ear.
“Confident” he corrects, nipping at your skin “And I have every reason to be”
You hate that he’s right.
Your fingers trail down his back, nails scratching lightly as you press your body against his. He’s so warm, his skin hot beneath your touch, his muscles flexing under your fingertips.
Theo groans, his head dropping to your shoulder as you shift beneath him, pressing right where he’s aching for you most. His hands grip your hips, steadying you, holding you in place.
“Don’t start something you’re not ready to finish” he warns, his breath uneven.
You tilt your head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who says I’m not ready ?”
His gaze darkens, but before he can make a move, you act first. With a swift motion, you push against his chest, catching him off guard as you flip him onto his back, pinning him beneath you as you straddle him.
Theo blinks, surprised for half a second, before his lips curl into a slow, wicked smirk. His hands instinctively find your waist, gripping you tightly as you settle over him, your weight pressing into him in a way that makes his breath hitch.
“Careful, tesoro” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement, his hold tightening on your hips “You’re playing a dangerous game”
Your lips curve. “Maybe I like danger”
Theo exhales sharply, his grip flexing as he looks up at you, his blue eyes burning with something dark and unrestrained.
Then you kiss him. Hard.
Not hesitation, not teasing. This kiss is desperate, hungry, relentless. Your hands tangle in his hair, nails dragging along his scalp as you move against him, pressing closer, feeling the sharp inhale he takes beneath you.
Theo groans, his fingers digging into your skin, grounding himself as you take control, as you match his intensity, touch for touch, breath for breath.
“You’re going to be the death of me” he mutters against your lips, his voice rough, strained.
"So dramatic" you grin, brushing your mouth over his again, teasing him "Don't worry, pretty boy. I'm not letting you die”
He huffs a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, you really think you’re in charge now ?”
His hands slide up your thighs, deliberate and possessive, a silent challenge in his touch. But you don’t back down.
Instead, you lean in, lips ghosting over his ear as you whisper “I know I am”
Theo swears under his breath, his head falling back against the pillow.
But you can feel the battle of control crackling between you like a live wire, a push and pull that neither of you wants to lose. Theo watches you from beneath heavy lashes, his smirk lazy, but his hands gripping you tightly betray just how much you’re affecting him.
His chest rises and falls in uneven breaths as your fingertips trail down his torso, slow, teasing, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. His muscles flex under your hands, inches and inches of sculpted perfection, every sharp inhale making it clear that you’re driving him absolutely mad.
But the best part ? He’s letting you.
“You look good like this” you murmur, tilting your head as you study him beneath you, his dark curls splayed against the pillow, his lips kiss-bruised and swollen “At my mercy”
Theo lets out a sharp breath, a half-chuckle of sorts.
“Y/n” he warns, voice rough, strained but still carrying his own personal brand of dark amusement “you really shouldn’t push me”
You grin, leaning down, lips ghosting over his jaw. “And if I do ?”
His breath hitches. Then, without warning, his hands shift. One gripping your hip, the other pressing into the small of your back as he suddenly rocks up into you, his cock –hard and aching, and waiting– sliding against your sensitive heat.
A startled gasp escapes you as fire coils deep in your stomach, the pressure of his body against yours sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you, his weeping tip brushing your hyper-sensitive clit almost making you hiss as the line between pain and pleasure starts to blurry dangerously.
Theo grins. “Then I remind you who you’re playing with”
Your hands brace against his chest, your pulse pounding, but you refuse to let him win that easily.
You shift your weight with intention, a subtle, sinuous motion that starts at your core and ripples through your hips, drawing slow, deliberate circles. Every roll is unhurried, indulgent --crafted to tease. You move over him with featherlight contact, letting your slick heat trace the full length of his shaft, your folds parting with a silken glide that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Each pass sends a subtle shiver through your body, your breath catching as the friction builds in tantalizing waves. The smooth ridge of him slides perfectly between your lips, slick and hot, your body cradling him without yet taking him in —just enough to promise everything, while still holding back.
You linger there, gliding with aching slowness, letting him feel every pulse, every subtle flex of your hips. His head catches slightly at your entrance with each pass, coaxing a flutter deep inside you, making you ache to sink down —but you hold back, savoring the build-up. Your thighs tighten around him, your breath coming a little faster now as the friction grows. You shift just enough to press closer, your body hugging his, dragging over him in a slick, tempting glide that leaves no doubt about what you’re ready for—still, you stay just out of reach, keeping him right on the edge.
His fingers flex, his jaw clenching as he swears under his breath.
“Looks like I’m winning” you murmur, brushing your lips over his again –just barely. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to torment. Teasing. Taunting.
Slowly, calculatedly, you drag your lips down his jaw, your breath warm against his skin. He hums, the sound low and approving, like he’s enjoying this far too much. His Adam’s apple bobs when you press an open-mouthed kiss just below his ear, lingering there for a moment before moving lower.
Theo’s grip on your thighs is firm but relaxed, like he’s settled in, completely content to let you play your little game. His smirk lingers, lazy and confident, but there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he’s fighting the urge to bite down on it. His stormy blue eyes flickering with amusement rather than frustration.
But the fire in them ? It could burn the world to ashes.
His chest rises with a slow, deep breath when your lips brush along the column of his throat, your tongue flicking out just slightly, barely a touch. You hum, pleased at the way his body reacts instantly.
"Impatient ?” you smirk against his skin, echoing his words from earlier, feeling the way his body responds to your touch, how he twitches in interest against you.
Theo chuckles, low and knowing, his fingers stroking idly along your thighs.
“Take all the time you want, baby” he purrs, voice smooth, teasing “I’m enjoying the show”
Your mouth continues its descent, down the center of his chest, over the ridges of muscle that flex under your touch. Your fingers follow the path of your mouth, trailing featherlight touches, and instead of tensing, he relaxes into it, exhaling a slow, satisfied breath.
Your lips part, your tongue flicking out in a deliberate stroke against his skin, tracing the sculpted lines of his torso, of his defined abs.
“Mmh” he lets out a pleased hum, voice thick with satisfaction as his fingers tighten ever so slightly on your legs “Teasing, huh ?”
You do it again. Slower. Lazier. Letting your tongue trace over his stomach before your lips follow, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses that leave heat blooming across his skin.
Theo groans softly, watching you through hooded eyes.
His hand slides up your arm, fingers tracing the curve of your shoulder before trailing down your spine. “That’s cute”
You pause, lips just above his hip, glaring up at him. His smirk deepens, his fingers threading into your hair –not to push, not to guide, just to touch.
You press another lingering kiss to his skin, your tongue flicking out just enough to make him exhale a sharp breath through his nose.
“Still feeling cocky ?” you murmur, lips ghosting over his skin.
Theo laughs. Slow, and rich.
“Oh, absolutely” he says, letting out a pleased sound. His thumb strokes over your cheek, his voice dropping lower, warmer “You look so pretty like this, baby. All eager. All mine”
Your stomach tightens at the way he says it –possessive, pleased.
“Go on” he murmurs, his other hand cradling your face, fingers dancing on your cheeks, your jaw, until they land on the plump and kissed-bruised flesh of your lips, the pad of his thumb caressing it reverently “Show me how good you are”
His body is relaxed, completely at ease beneath you, but his eyes. His eyes burn with satisfaction, dark and full of promise.
Your fingers trace slow, lazy patterns over his skin, your lips pressing teasing kisses along the sharp lines of his hip bones. Theo watches you, his head tilted back against the pillow in a picture of utter relaxation.
He hums, breath a little ragged, a slow smirk tugging at his lips “Taking your sweet time too, huh ?”
You don’t answer. You just glance up at him through your lashes, smirking, as your tongue darts out to taste the warmth of his skin, leaving a wet trail on one side of the sinful V his muscles form, the one that makes your head spin every time you get a slight glimpse of it.
His grin widens, content, pleased.
You bite back a smile of your own, choosing instead to press a slower, wetter kiss lower, your mouth lingering. The muscles beneath your hands tense slightly –just for a second– but Theo’s expression barely shifts. If anything, he looks pleased.
Until your hand wraps around him, fingers working slowly, teasing, torturing on his length, warm and rock-hard in your palm.
The groan he lets out comes straight from his chest, reverberating in the room, low and almost primal.
Your lips drift lower, tiny, barely-there kisses build a path of fire as you get closer and closer to where he is visibly aching, thick and full, a bead of pre-cum making his head glistening under the moonlight as you brush at the base of his cock.
Your mouth waters, eager. So fucking eager to feel him. To taste him.
Your breath ghosts over him, warm and teasing, and you hear the sharp inhale he takes, see the way his fingers tighten in the sheets. But his eyes stay locked on you, hooded and molten, a smirk tugging at his lips even through the tension in his jaw.
Your grip tightens slightly around him, just enough to feel the weight, the heat of him around your fingers. You give him a slow, deliberate stroke, your thumb dragging over the slickness at his tip, spreading it with a teasing press.
Theo’s breath shudders. “Fuck-”
You glance up through your lashes, your lips curving just slightly. “Good ?”
His laugh is low, wrecked. “Asking like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing, you little vixen”
You smile in satisfaction, pressing your lips just above where he wants them, letting him feel the heat of your breath, the anticipation, the unbearable tease.
Then you give in, your mouth parting as your tongue flicks out, barely tasting him.
Theo’s groan is instant, his head tilting back against the pillow. His fingers twitch like he wants to grip your hair tighter, firmer, pushing you down so he can fill your teasing mouth to the brim, but he doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he exhales through his nose, controlled, measured, watching you with dark, hungry eyes.
“Come on, baby” he coaxes, voice velvety and rough “I wanna feel you properly”
You don’t make him wait any longer.
Your lips wrap around him, soft, warm, taking him in at an unhurried pace, your tongue pressing just enough to make his abs tighten beneath your hands. His thighs tense, his breath catching in his throat, but it’s the deep, satisfied groan that makes heat bloom through you.
His fingers finally sink into your hair, firm but not forceful, guiding just a little.
“That’s it” he praises, voice strained but steady “Just like that. So good for me”
Your body hums at the praise, and you sink deeper, slow and controlled, letting him feel every second of it.
Theo hisses, his head pushing further in the pillow, but his eyes snap back to you almost immediately. He’s watching you, his gaze heavy, hooded, completely captivated.
“There you go” he coos, voice gravelly, his fingers stroking over your jaw, slow, reverent “That’s my girl”
Your stomach tightens at the heat in his tone, at the way he’s utterly mesmerized by you.
He wants you to enjoy this. Wants to watch you take your time, revel in the effect you have on him.
You hollow your cheeks slightly, taking him just a little deeper, your fingers gripping his thighs as you feel him tense beneath you.
Theo’s groan is deep, guttural, his restraint slipping. His hand in your hair tightens. Not guiding, not pushing, just holding. As if he needs something to keep himself grounded.
“Shit- Y/n” he rasps, his free hand running down his face before settling back into the sheets. His hips twitch, just barely, and you feel the weight of his control pressing down on you “You have no idea what you’re doing to me”
Oh, but you do.
You can feel it right against your tongue.
You can feel it in the way he throbs surrounded by the wet heat of your mouth.
In the way his head brushes the back of your throat deliciously with every bob of your head.
In the way his hips thrust up just the slightest bit, chasing that exquisit friction you’re providing him.
“Jesus-” he groans, breath shuddering “Just like that. Nice and deep”
You hum in content, the vibration making him curse under his breath, and when you do it again –slowly, calculatedly– his abs clench, his entire body taut beneath you.
His fingers stroke through your hair again, his grip tightening just a fraction.
“Eyes on me, baby” he pants through broken breaths, voice soft and a little wrecked, yet firm “Let me see that gorgeous face”
Your stomach clenches, heat licking up your spine at the way he says it, at the awe in his tone. You meet his gaze, holding it as you drag your tongue over him again, slow, savoring, tasting the little veins scattered on smooth skin.
His expression shifts, something darker flickering in his eyes, something that tells you his patience is wearing thin.
“You’re too good at this” he groans, his head pressing into the pillow for a second before he forces his gaze back on you. He smirks, tilting his head slightly “Been practicing for me ?”
You pull back just enough to grin, mischievous and a little twisted. “Wouldn’t you like to know ?”
Theo lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head.
“Brat” his fingers tighten in your hair just slightly, not in warning but in promise “I will get you back for that”
But, for now, he lets you keep going.
You swallow around him this time, slow and deliberate, your throat contracting around the thick weight of him, molding to him, memorizing his shape, his taste, the way he fills you –hot and heavy on your tongue, stretching you perfectly, and drawing a choked sound from his throat and yours.
“Holy fuck-” he grits out, his voice wrecked, raw with need.
His abs clench beneath your hands, his thighs tense, his entire body taut, wired, locked down with restraint –but his grip in your hair tells you just how close he is to losing it.
You do it again.
Your lashes flutter, your vision blurring slightly, the sheer size of him making your throat burn, making your eyes water –but you don’t stop. You take it, every inch, letting him push just a little deeper, letting him feel just how perfectly you can handle him.
His breath shudders, his jaw tight, clenched like he’s barely holding on, like he's fighting that little voice in his head telling him to let go, and fuck your mouth the way he needs it.
Likes the way your lips stretch around him, how soft they are when they slide down over him again, slow and wet and sinful, like your mouth was made for this—for him, how you take him deep like you crave the weight of him on your tongue. Likes the wet, obscene sounds filling the space between you, proof of just how messy and unbothered you are about it. Likes the way your eyes flick up to meet his, all heat and mischief, like you know exactly what you’re doing to him.
But he doesn't. Because he likes this. He likes this way too much to make it end so soon.
Likes the way you're worshipping his cock, the way your tongue swirls around him like he's the best thing you've ever tasted.
He likes the way your fingers curl around the base of him, working in sync with your mouth, slow and steady. Likes the way your tongue flattens, then flicks, then swirls, like you’re trying to pull every sound out of him one by one. Likes the way you hum when he throbs on your tongue, like you’re pleased with yourself, with him, with this.
He likes the control you have —how he’s letting you take the lead, letting you draw it out, even when his whole body is coiled tight with the need to move. Likes the way you worship him without a single word, like you're showing him exactly how much you want him without ever saying a thing.
And fuck, he likes how hard it is not to come already.
“Christ, fuck-” he groans, his hand flexing in your hair before his other palm drags down his face, like he can’t believe how fucking good you feel.
You moan around him in response, and the vibration rips another harsh curse from his throat. His hips twitch –just barely– but it’s enough to make your breath stutter, enough to send a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach.
Then, just to tease him, just to watch that last shred of composure fray even further, you slow down.
You flick your tongue over him in deliberate, teasing strokes, savoring, dragging it along his length before circling back, letting your lips follow the path, sucking just slightly before pulling off with a soft, wet pop.
Theo lets out a rough, unsteady breath. His head tilts up just enough for his dark, stormy eyes to lock onto yours, the smirk on his lips unmistakable despite the wrecked look in his gaze.
“Oh, you little tease” his voice is thick, strained, but dripping with amusement “You think I don’t see what you’re doing ?”
You hum, your tongue flicking out again, tracing a lazy, torturous path over him before you take him back in, slow, savoring.
Because you know he knows. The way you flick your tongue, the way you lick and lap at his shaft. You're working him the same way you had that ice cream earlier –slow, messy, indulgent, like you have all the time in the world.
“Shit- look at you” his voice is low, reverent, almost in awe. His thumb strokes along your cheek, slow and possessive, his scalding gaze locked on yours, unwavering “So pretty- so fucking pretty taking my cock so well”
Your insides flip at the way he says it, at the wrecked pleasure in his voice, the pure satisfaction in the way he watches you, entranced, completely absorbed in the way you take him.
His control is slipping, you can feel it in the way his breathing turns shallow, in the way his thighs tense beneath you.
And then –just to test him– you moan again, slow, dragging your tongue over him as you take him all the way in, hollowing your cheeks, tightening your grip on his thighs as you hold him there for just a second before pulling back, slow, so slow, until your lips just barely brush over him again.
Theo shudders.
His hand flies to his face, covering his eyes for a moment before dragging down his jaw, exhaling hard.
“You’re killing me” he mutters, voice strained, hoarse.
You smirk against his skin, pleased, humming a shattered “And you love it” before diving in once again.
Theo huffs a breathless laugh, his hand moving back into your hair, cradling the back of your head.
“Can't argue with that” he murmurs, his fingers stroking over your scalp before tightening just slightly.
And then, as if testing you, as if daring you–
Theo presses in just a little deeper.
A slow, measured push, not rough, not forceful, just enough to make your throat stretch, to make your lashes flutter as another tear slips free, your eyes burning with the effort to take all of him.
Your hands claw his thighs, nails digging in, and he feels it. He feels every reaction, every little tremor, every way your body is responding to him.
His jaw clenches, his breath uneven.
“That’s it, baby” his voice is pure sin, husky, dripping with approval as his hips keep giving small, measured thrusts “Take it. Just like that”
Your chest heaves, your lungs burning, your entire body flushed with warmth, with heat, with the satisfaction of knowing just how much you’re undoing him.
Theo exhales hard, another groan tearing from his throat. His hand in your hair shifts, fingers stroking over your scalp in quiet praise.
“So fucking perfect for me” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked, filled with something almost possessive. His thumb moves gently over your cheek, cantching the wet trail of a tear and brushing it away, his breath shuddering “Look at you. Goddamn masterpiece”
Your stomach tightens, something deep and molten curling through you, your own arousal thrumming through your veins at the raw desire in his tone, the way he watches you with a gaze so intense it makes your head spin.
And when you swallow again, just a little deeper–
Theo swears, his head tipping back, his hand fisting the sheets as his control starts to crack.
And you love it.
You love every second of watching him unravel.
He is close. You can feel it.
And you wait for it.
You work your mouth around him, lips stretching, tongue teasing, hollowing your cheeks as you take him deeper, eager for the moment when his control finally shatters. You can already imagine it –the way he’ll curse, how his hips will thrust almost involuntarily, his cock hitting the back of your throat as you take everything he gives you, how he’ll give in completely, no longer able to hold back.
You want it. Want his pleasure to take over you, to invade your senses, to coat your throat and replace the lingering sweet tinge the ice-cream left on your tongue.
But it doesn’t arrive.
Instead, his fingers twitch against your skin, a sharp, shuddering breath tearing from his throat.
Then, his touch shifts, trailing up, brushing over your cheek with a tenderness that is completely at odds with the way his body trembles.
And before you can even react –before you can take what you know is right there– his grip tightens just enough to lift your head, to slip from your mouth with a soft, wet pop.
Your lips part in protest, in frustration, your eyes flashing up to meet his.
Theo’s chest rises and falls unevenly, his jaw tight, his pupils blown wide with lust. But there’s something else there, too. Something almost wicked curling at the edges of his smirk as he rasps, voice wrecked yet teasing,
“Come on, baby” a breath, a pause, his thumb dragging over your swollen lips “I think you’ve had your fun”
Before your brain can catch up, Theo moves.
And suddenly, you’re the one beneath him once again.
His weight pins you to the mattress, his body pressing against yours, scorching heat sinking into your skin.
He’s still grinning –smug, knowing, as if he has all the time in the world to unravel you piece by piece. And in this moment, in this drak room filled with soft breaths and pleading moans, you feel like he does.
You swallow hard, still catching your breath, but the way he’s looking at you makes something sharp and defiant flicker through the haze of pleasure.
Your lips curve, just a little, just enough.
“What’s the matter ?” your voice is hoarse, but you make sure there’s a teasing lilt to it “Needed a break ?”
Theo stills. Then he laughs.
Low, quiet, dangerous.
His fingers skim down your waist, a slow drag that makes your stomach tighten.
“A break ?” he echoes, voice thick with amusement. His hand lingers at your hip, fingers pressing in just enough to make you aware of every point of contact “No, baby. It just wouldn’t have been very gentlemanly of me to fuck your mouth like a savage and choke you with my cock as I painted that pretty tight throat of yours all white, would it ?”
Bloody fucking hell.
That mouth of his is your very personal damnation –or the unholiest of blessings.
Heat slams into you, white-hot and unforgiving, your entire body tensing like it’s just been set on fire from the inside out. Your breath catches, thighs clenching uselessly, because fuck, Theo–
Theo just says these things, just drops them into the space between you like they’re nothing. Like he doesn’t even have to try to unravel you.
And the worst part ?
He knows.
He sees the way you freeze, the way your lashes flutter as your mind blanks, as your body reacts before you can even process what the hell he just said.
His grip on your hip tightens –just a little, just enough to remind you he’s right there, pressed against you, soaking up every tiny movement, every twitch, every shaky breath.
“Oh” His smirk is slow, lazy. Devastating “Oh. You’d like that, wouldn’t you ?”
Your pride claws at you, telling you to deny, to roll your eyes, to say something, but the words die in your throat. Because you’re stuck there, lingering in the wreckage of his voice, in the filthy, perfect picture he just painted in your head.
A soft, satisfied chuckle rumbles from his chest.
“Yeah” Theo murmurs, dragging the pad of his thumb over your lower lip, eyes dark and knowing “You definitely would”
The ache between your thighs sharpens, unbearable, and you hate him for it. Hate him for knowing exactly what he’s doing. Hate that he’s right.
So, you do the only thing you can do.
You bite.
Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to shock him, enough to wipe that smug little smirk off his face as your teeth graze his thumb, as your lips close around the tip in a teasing, deliberate motion.
Theo swears under his breath. His fingers flex against your skin, and his composure –so damn steady, so infuriatingly controlled– fractures just a little.
Good.
You pull back just enough to grind up at him, eyes gleaming with something sharp, something defiant.
“What’s wrong ?” you purr, voice syrupy-sweet, pretending like your pulse isn’t going haywire, like the fire in your veins isn’t threatening to consume you “You look a little-” your tongue drats out to wet your lips, brushing the pad of his thumb once again with a featherlight touch “-shaken”
His gaze darkens instantly.
Theo stills.
It’s a split second –just the barest flicker of tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes– but you see it. Feel it. The shift in the air, the way something sharp and dangerous curls around the edges of his composure, threatening to snap.
And fuck, it thrills you.
For all his smug little comments, for all his teasing and slow, deliberate torment, you got to him. You cracked that perfect, infuriating control of his, even if just for a moment.
But then–
Then he moves.
It’s sudden, seamless. One second you’re grinning up at him, victorious, the next your wrists are pinned above your head, his grip unyielding as he presses you further into the mattress. His body slots against yours, heat sinking into every inch of your skin, his thigh sliding between yours, pressing –fuck.
Your breath shudders, your smirk faltering for just a moment. Just long enough for his lips to brush against your ear, for his breath to ghost over the sensitive skin.
"Shaken ?” he murmurs, voice a low, dark rasp “Sweetheart, I’m ruined for you”
A shiver bolts through you, a full-body tremor that you know he feels.
He laughs, soft and knowing, pleased in a way that has heat licking up your spine like a slow, devastating burn.
“But don’t get ahead of yourself” he continues, his mouth trailing down, lips grazing your jaw, then lower, lower “Because you just made a mistake”
Your pulse stutters. “Did I ?”
Theo hums, his grip tightening around your wrists, his knee pressing just a fraction harder between your thighs.
“Oh yeah” his teeth catch the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sharp enough to make your breath hitch “You bit me”
You suck in a sharp breath.
His tongue flicks over the spot he just nipped, a slow, deliberate tease before he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes heavy with intent.
His mouth crashes against yours, no pretense, no warning. Just raw, dizzying intensity. A slow, deep claim that steals the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping against him, body arching instinctively as heat floods through you.
His hands –God, his hands– are everywhere. One stays firm around your wrists, keeping you exactly where he wants you, while the other ghosts down your side, over your waist, fingers dragging in a way that makes your skin burn.
You whimper against his lips –fuck, you hate that you do, that he can pull sounds from you so effortlessly– but Theo just grins on your mouth.
His breath is ragged as he looks down at you, the smugness from before replaced by something deeper. Something darker. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. He looks wrecked, ruined, like he’s barely holding himself together.
And you did that.
Something about it sends a fresh wave of heat surging through you, your skin prickling under the intensity of his stare.
“You good, bambolina ?” His voice is rough, edged with something thick and heavy.
You could nod. Could murmur something soft, something sweet.
Instead, you arch up, just enough for your lips to graze his. “Shut up and fuck me, Theo”
The sound he makes –somewhere between a moan and a groan– sends a full-body shiver down your spine.
His lips ghost over your ear, his voice dropping into something dark and utterly devastating.
“You want me to fuck you, baby ?” his tone is slow, deliberate, dark “Want me to stretch this pretty little cunt out until you can't even fucking think ?”
A sharp, burning heat surges through you, your body betraying you with the way you arch up against him, the way your thighs clench instinctively around his waist.
Theo chuckles, low and pleased.
“God, you’re so damn cute” he murmurs, dragging his lips down your throat, nipping just hard enough to make you shudder “Just a few filthy words in your ear and you’re already soaking for me, aren’t you ?”
You hate how true it is. Hate how your body reacts instantly, how every word that leaves his mouth turns you into a fucking mess beneath him.
But Theo knows.
He feels it.
His fingers trail down, slow and teasing, his touch just light enough to drive you crazy.
“Bet if I slipped my fingers inside you right now, you’d be dripping all over them” his teeth graze your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin “Bet I wouldn’t even have to work for it. You’d just let me ruin you, wouldn’t you, bambolina ?”
Your breath stutters, a whimper catching in your throat.
Theo groans.
“Fuck, you love this, don’t you ?” he murmurs, his tone filled with dark amusement “Love being talked to like this. Love knowing how desperate you are for my cock”
You want to fight it. Want to argue. But the way he’s talking, the slow, teasing rock of his hips against yours –it’s too much.
Your body is screaming for it, every nerve on fire, every muscle tightening as you ache for him.
Theo leans in, lips barely brushing against yours, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.
“Tell me how bad you want it”
You suck in a sharp breath, fingers twitching against the hold he still has on your wrists.
“Fuck you” you manage, though it’s breathless, wrecked, your body betraying the bite behind your words, the defiance you liked to put on just for show.
Theo laughs.
“Oh, baby. I will, trust me” his hand slides lower, fingertips ghosting over your inner thigh, so close, but still refusing to give you what you need “But you’re gonna have to beg better than that”
You swallow hard, pulse pounding in your throat. You hate how much you want it. Hate how easily he has you right where he wants you.
But right now, pride is a distant thing compared to the heat pooling low in your stomach, compared to the ache that’s turning sharp, unbearable.
So, you break.
“Please” you whisper, voice shaky, breathless.
Theo hums, pleased, but he doesn’t give in yet. He waits.
“Come on, sweetheart” he murmurs, his fingers finally, finally dragging through your slick folds, just enough to make you jerk beneath him “Use your words”
A frustrated, wrecked little noise leaves your throat. “Please, Theo- I need you”
“Need me to what ?”
“Fuck me-” you practically plead, your head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut as he teases you with just the tip, pressing against you but not giving it to you yet “Fuck me, Theo, please-”
That’s all it takes.
Theo snaps.
His grip tightens, his restraint shatters, and then–
He drives into you.
All at once. All the way. Burying himself inside of you to the hilt.
He swears, low and guttural, his forehead dropping against yours. His breath is hot, uneven, and fucking hell, you love it. Love the way he sounds when he loses control, the way his body trembles just slightly as he forces himself to stay still for a second, to let you adjust.
A strangled, desperate moan rips from your throat, your body arching up into his as the air punches out of your lungs.
The world fades around you, outside this room.
It’s just you.
Just him. Hot and solid and everywhere, his body pressing into yours, his weight pinning you down in a way that leaves no room for anything but this. But the sharp, searing pleasure that rips through you the second he finally gives in, the way every thought leaves your body as he stretches you open, as he sinks into you deep.
You whimper, clawing at his back, nails digging over his skin, desperate to anchor yourself against the sheer force of it. Of him.
Theo groans, gravelly and filthy as he finally starts moving, thrusting.
“Fuck-” his hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you still as he presses even deeper “You feel so fucking good, baby- so tight for me, so wet”
And Theo knows.
He feels every reaction, hears every little sound you make, and he loves it. Loves how wrecked you already are, how your body takes him so perfectly, how you’re completely at his mercy.
“'This what you wanted ?” his voice is hoarse, dark, his hips thrusting relentlessly, unforgiving “'This what you’ve been aching for all night ?”
You nod frantically, barely able to breathe. “Yes- fuck, yes-”
Theo moans, his rhythm quickening, every snap of his hips sending a new shockwave of pleasure through you.
“Look at you” he rasps, his hand holding your jaw gently, tilting your chin up enough to meet his gaze “So fucking pretty like this. All spread out for me, taking my cock like you were made for it-”
A shudder wracks through you.
Theo’s grip tightens. “Bet you’re close already”
You are.
It’s too much, his words, the way he’s fucking into you like he owns you, like you belong to him.
“I can feel it” Theo growls, his lips brushing against yours “This tight little cunt squeezing me, fuck- you wanna come for me, baby ?”
“Yes” you gasp, nails raking down his back, digging in his skin, leaving your mark just like he's leaving his.
Theo hisses, a sound that turns into a sinful moan as your walls flutter around him.
“Then do it-” his hand drops between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing, pressing just right while lodging into yourself so impossibly deep you feel his head kiss your cervix “-come for me, bambolina”
The world shatters.
Pleasure slams into you, overwhelming and all-consuming, pulling you under so violently that you scream his name.
Theo groans as you clench around him, his rhythm stuttering, his body tensing.
He follows right after, burying himself deep as he breaks, swearing under his breath as he spills into you, his grip on you bruising, desperate.
For a long moment, neither of you move, your chests heaving, your bodies tangled together, sweat-slick and spent.
Then–
Theo lets out a slow, breathless laugh, his chest still rising and falling with the force of his release. It’s hoarse, wrecked, full of something darkly satisfied, and it sends another weak shiver through your spent body.
“Jesus Christ” he exhales, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. He sounds absolutely fucking ruined, and the knowledge that you did that to him sends a lazy ripple of pleasure through you.
You groan softly, head lolling to the side, still floating, still lost in the lingering aftershocks. Your limbs feel boneless, your body pliant and wrecked, every nerve ending still humming with the echoes of what he just did to you.
Theo watches you, something warm flickering in his heavy-lidded gaze, something almost dangerous in the way his lips curl into that slow, satisfied smirk.
“Told you I’d get you back, you feisty brat” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement.
You barely manage a breathless huff of laughter before his lips find your jaw, pressing a slow, lazy kiss there –then another, softer this time, a contrast to the utter destruction he just left in his wake.
And fuck, you hate how much you love it.
Hate the way your chest flutters when his nose brushes against your skin, when his fingers trace light, absentminded patterns along your thigh as if he can’t help himself.
The thing is, you don’t hate it at all.
Theo shifts onto his back, exhaling deeply, his body still loose from the intensity of his reliese. But the second his back fully meets the mattress–
“Shit”
He hisses, his muscles tensing, and for a second, his face scrunches up in surprise. Then, just as quickly, it smooths into something else. Something amused, something fond. His head turns toward you, and when he grins, it’s that lazy, post-bliss kind of grin that makes your stomach flutter.
“Damn” he murmurs, voice still thick with satisfaction “A biter and a scratcher ?”
You stretch beside him, completely unapologetic, lips curling into a satisfied smirk. “Not my fault you deserved it”
Theo laughs, the sound warm and real, shaking his head as he shifts again, testing the soreness along his back. “Yeah ? That good, huh ?”
You roll onto your side, propping your head up on your hand, fully enjoying the sight of him –flushed, still catching his breath, the marks you left on him making his skin look even more golden in the dim light.
“You knew exactly what you were doing” you point out, arching a brow “I just reacted accordingly”
Theo hums, twisting slightly to glance over his shoulder, and when he catches sight of the angry red lines, his grin widens. He drags a hand over them, wincing playfully, though the pleased glint in his eyes betrays him.
“Holy shit” he mutters, clearly impressed “You really did a number on me”
You shrug, barely restraining your grin. “Maybe if you hadn't rammed into me with the force of a bloody tank, I wouldn’t have to hold on for dear life”
Theo huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, then shifts onto his side to face you. There’s something softer in his gaze now, something warm and unbearably fond. His fingers trail lazily along your arm, his touch light, absentminded, like he needs to be touching you.
“You okay ?” he murmurs after a beat, his voice lower, gentler.
And just like that –your teasing bravado falters just a little.
Because fuck, the way he’s looking at you now –the warmth in his voice, the careful touch against your skin– it melts you.
Your smirk softens, your fingers brushing against his chest as you sigh. “Yeah. More than okay”
Theo’s lips twitch, eyes flickering over your face, searching, reading you like he always does. He must find whatever he’s looking for, because his smirk turns into something even softer, something that makes your heart ache.
Still, you huff dramatically, your fingers trailing over his shoulder before tapping lightly against his chest.
“Alright, fine” you concede, rolling your eyes “Sorry for the scratches”
Theo grins. “Liar”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Half-sorry, then”
His fingers find your chin, tilting your face up just enough so your eyes meet his.
“I liked it” he murmurs, voice quieter, his thumb brushing over your jaw “I like everything you do to me”
And fuck, you’re a goner.
Your throat tightens, your fingers gripping at his skin on instinct. But before you can say anything –before you can find a way to respond without completely melting, and tell him that you love everything he does to you, too–
Theo’s smirk returns, a teasing lilt creeping back into his tone. “But you will be making it up to me”
You snort, rolling your eyes again, but your stomach flips when he leans in, lips brushing over yours, teasing, promising.
“Mmh. And how will you have me do that ?” you murmur against his mouth.
His grin widens. “I might have some…sweet suggestions”
Well.
Holy shit.
Hello beautiful people 💕
This was for all my Theo enthusiasts whom I have been left starving for months (I'm sorry, please forgive me 🙏🏻). I hope it quenched your thirst, and I hope you liked it 😚.
Thank you for reading, and I'll catch you in the next one <3
⟡ ݁₊ .Boyfriend’s Enemy!Theo taking an interest in you
warnings: flirting, reader in a establish relationship, no smut (yet)
a/n: i just need to write something about him, he lives in my head rent free. also feel free to send thoughts about him <3
Navigation; m.list; r.r; bf's enemy!theo au
The corridors were mostly empty this late in the evening, the distant hum of students in their common rooms fading into silence. You had just finished helping Professor Sprout with some extra Herbology work—something Cedric usually did with you, but tonight, he had Quidditch practice.
You didn’t mind walking alone. At least, you didn’t until you heard the footsteps behind you.
Slow. Measured. Unrushed.
You didn’t turn around immediately, but you felt it—the way someone was watching you. Following you.
Then came the voice. Smooth, smug, and entirely too amused.
"You shouldn’t walk alone at night, tesoro. Dangerous things lurk in the shadows."
You sighed before turning. "Nott," you said flatly, crossing your arms. "Shouldn’t you be off somewhere making Cedric’s life miserable?"
Theodore leaned against the wall a few paces behind you, hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, looking entirely at ease. He was always like this—calm, confident, like he had already won whatever game he was playing before anyone else even realized they were part of it.
"Now, now," he tsked, pushing off the wall and closing the distance between you. "You wound me. Maybe I’m here for you”
You rolled your eyes. "I highly doubt that."
"Really?" He tilted his head, considering you with that sharp gaze of his. "You’re Diggory’s little prize, aren’t you? Always holding his hand, sitting pretty in the stands during his matches. A perfect little girlfriend."
Something in his tone made your skin prickle—not exactly mocking, but curious, like he was picking you apart, trying to figure something out.
You lifted your chin. "Is there a point to this, Nott?"
He stepped closer. Not enough to be threatening, but just enough that you could smell the faint trace of cologne on him, something dark and expensive.
"You’re feisty," Theo murmured, his lips twitching. "I like that."
Your stomach did something annoying, and you hated that you even had a reaction at all.
Unfortunately, Theo noticed.
His smirk widened just slightly. "Oh," he drawled, eyes flicking over your face like he was committing this moment to memory. "I think I’m going to have fun with you."
You huffed, shaking your head. "If this is your idea of fun, you need a new hobby."
Theo chuckled, low and deep. "Oh, tesoro" he murmured, leaning in just enough that his breath brushed your cheek, "I think you’re my new hobby."
You froze.
And then, just as quickly as he’d appeared, Theo took a step back, his smirk firmly in place.
"See you around," he murmured before turning on his heel, walking away like nothing had happened.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
so sorry to be that gal, but are your requests open? specifically for awae if that matters!
hi! i don’t usually get requests bc i’m so inconsistent with my writing (adhd things lol), but if you send in your request i’d be happy to try and do it justice!!
summary: your last night in italy, your last chance to remember this vacation forever
pairing: theo x fem!reader
warning: 18+ smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), spanking, choking, dirty talk, degradation/praise, mentions of alcohol, tipsy sex, smoking, broken Italian, modern!au, muggle!au
wc: 3.9k
a/n: it’s been a long time coming!! finally officially writing for theo. inspired by honey (are u coming?) by måneskin <3
: ̗̀➛ navigation ; masterlist ; theo m-list ; how to request
The air of the summer night was almost chilly, but only almost – the temperatures in the south of Italy are usually high at this time of year. However, it didn’t stop you from shivering as a light breeze of wind brushed against your skin, flushed from all the alcohol you had consumed in the last couple of hours. It wasn’t even that much in quantity – it was more so the mixture between the different kinds of it creating a heady haze in your direct and peripheral vision. And now, you were standing behind the club, having come out for a breather and a brief clearance of your mind. Your friends were still inside, lost somewhere between the dancing bodies, and you didn’t care enough to let them know you were heading out.
“Scusa, signorina, ha un accendino?”
You were shaken out of the blankness of your thoughts by a deep voice coming from somewhere behind you. You didn’t know what it said, since you weren’t the assigned interpreter of the group and knew jack shit about Italian. Slowly and cautiously, you turned your head to look at the source of that profoundly attractive voice. The man was standing a bit further away, still hidden by the shadows, so you couldn’t see his face clearly.
“Ciao?”
In your dumbfounded state, it was the only thing your brain could conjure up. The sole Italian word you knew for sure and could safely produce, besides the pizza names, of course. But if you started spurring them out – that would be deathly embarrassing.
The silhouette let out a low chuckle. He took a step further, and the light of a street lamp finally let you see the face of the mysterious voice. Your mouth was slightly agape as you studied his features: cheekbones that looked sharper than they probably were, emphasized by the shadows of the night; a cap of dark curly hair, messed up by hours of dancing in the club and the breeze that was currently ruffling it; his lips, rather… full and strangely inviting.
“Shit, I thought this line would work.”
Once again, his voice pulled you right out of your reverie. You realized that he was speaking English now, and his accent made the language sound tenfold more charming than it needed to be.
“What?” you asked, immediately feeling sheepish as you said it. It wasn’t hard to notice that you’d been standing there shamelessly ogling him while he tried to converse.
The previous chuckle of his turned into a laugh. The stranger stepped even closer, so close that you could distinguish a couple moles on his face, and his eyes… they were something else entirely. You tried your best to blink away the incoming clouding of the mind – it was simply dangerous to stare into them too much.
“I asked if you had a lighter,” he explained, taking a pack of cigarettes and his own lighter out of his pocket. “This line usually works.”
He lit up the cigarette, taking quick inhales until the tip started burning orange. Then, he took a deep drag, hollowing out his cheeks and making his cheekbones appear even more prominent. You watched in awe as he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, deliberately blowing it out in the opposite direction.
“But you-” you tried to say, your voice embarrasingly cracking and making you clear your throat. “You have a lighter,” you finally uttered, rubbing your throat with your fingers and swallowing a lump slowly starting to form there.
“Yeah, I know. It’s just a conversation starter,” he explained with another low chuckle. You felt like you were five and he was you kindergarten teacher, explaining the reason the sky was blue. “And it did start the conversation, no?”
You smiled nervously, fumbling with your necklace. The stranger noticed your tensed up state and his expression softened from playful to friendly and approachable.
“Theo,” he said, holding out his hand. “Well, Theodore, actually, but only my mother calls me that when she’s angry,” he joked, his lips spreading in a wide smile.
You introduced yourself as well, feeling much more comfortable with his gaze warmly resting on your eyes. His hand was bigger than yours, softer than you expected and felt like a pillow. Once your palms connected, he wrapped his fingers around yours and instead of a handshake, lifted your hand to his lips to plant a kiss on its back.
Your cheeks flushed instantly at the feeling of his lips on your skin. They were so soft that a need to feel them on your mouth made itself known in the depths of your stomach. You cursed yourself for being so sensitive, but didn’t pull your hand away when his lips lingered there for a few seconds longer than necessary.
“So, bella,” he started, letting go of your hand, “what are you doing alone outside of a club at…” He glanced at his wristwatch. “…at five in the morning?”
“My friends are still inside,” you explained the ‘alone’ part, “and I just came out for a breather. Our flight is in six hours and we’re probably not going to sleep,” you added with a scoff. At that point, a sleepless night didn’t sound as enticing as it did just a day before.
“A flight?”
Theo tilted his head, taking another drag of the cigarette. You swore you were hallucinating, but you could hear a slight hint of disappointment in his voice.
“Yeah, we’re flying back home,” you replied with a sigh, also feeling disappointed for some reason. It was rather unfair, you thought, that as soon as you met a perfect picture of a man, you had to leave him behind, in a country so foreign to you.
“Damn…”
Theo let out a humorless chuckle, exhaling a plume of smoke and running his hand through his hair, letting the curls gracefully fall on his forehead afterwards. He noticed the curious glance you gave him and shook his head.
“It’s nothing, I just-”
He interrupted himself by taking a long drag of the cigarette and shoving his hand in his pocket, as if to stop it from clenching into a fist.
“I just thought I had a chance,” he finished with a white cloud billowing out of his mouth. “You know, to have your number, to take you out and all that…”
You sighed, lowering your gaze to the ground. You actually really wanted to go on a date with this handsome stranger, and life felt even more unfair than just seconds ago, now that you knew that your sudden desire was reciprocated.
“Life’s a bitch, I guess,” you breathed out, biting the inside of your cheek to stop your voice from shaking. You never knew that a simple one-minute encounter outside of a club could affect you that profoundly, yet there you were, wishing you could stay in Italy for at least a day longer.
Theo watched you intently as he kept on smoking, and silence fell between the two of you for a few minutes.
"Can we…?" his voice sounded in the silence of the night.
"Yeah," you breathed out before he could even finish the sentence. You knew exactly what he was implying, and you would probably die before you missed the chance to skip all the unnecessary steps and just outright go for it.
You could see Theo grinning and tilting his head back a little as another cloud of thick white smoke wafted above him. He threw the cigarette to the ground, crushing it with the tip of his shoe, all while his shining eyes were fixed on you, and you realized that your own lips perfectly mirrored his wide smile. Theo took a couple of steps towards you, the proximity between your bodies’ letting his warmth envelop your front. His hand hovered next to your waist while his eyes searched yours, silently asking for permission. Your nod was more than enough; you barely had time to breathe in before Theo’s lips were on yours, his hand firmly gripping your waist and pulling you impossibly closer. On instinct, your own hands ended up on his shoulders, stabilizing yourself, as your knees seemed to have a mind of their own and suddenly wanted to buckle.
Naturally, Theo tasted like cigarettes and a hint of alcohol; his scent invaded your senses with male cologne and something citrusy on top of that. His hands held you up, one of them leaving wrinkles on the thin fabric of your tank top, and the other one – caressing you flushed cheek with his thumb. You let out a soft, shaky moan when you felt his tongue gliding against yours and got a response in the form of another moan, but lower – from him. It sounded heavenly, and you found yourself wanting to pull more of this out of him.
Both of you were breathless when you mouths finally separated, a thin strip of saliva stretching out between your shiny, sloppy lips. A second later, it was cold and dripping down your chin, and Theo laughed, pressing his thumb to your skin to wipe off the mess.
"There’s a place, not far from here," he whispered, leaning in so that his lips would lightly brush against your ear.
"Whatever you say," you answered, closing your eyes and trying to gather the last bits of self-control not to jump on him right then and there. Maybe it was the previously consumed alcohol, maybe it was just him.
The corner of Theo’s mouth turned up at the sound of your voice, still a bit breathless and, undoubtedly, needy. He placed a teasing, promising kiss under your ear, eliciting a quiet but sharp breath from you, and pulled away, sliding his hand down your body, from your waist to your hand. Your fingers intertwined, and before you knew it, you were getting all but dragged along the cobbled street.
"Theo," you whined, tugging at his arm to at least slow him down a notch. "My heels!" you said, raising your voice a bit when the guy didn’t stop at all, as if he hadn’t heard you.
Theo turned his head, following your downturned finger and noticing your high-heeled sandals.
"Ah, piccola mia," he cooed, shaking his head in mock disappointment. You didn’t know what he said, but in your mind, his amused smile couldn’t have meant anything bad. In a split of a second, you were picked up, bridal style, your body pressed to Theo’s chest, your legs helplessly dangling in the air. You let out a short, surprised squeal, which made Theo bite the inside of his cheek in order to suppress a loud, hearty laugh.
"That’s much better, hm?" he murmured, observing your widened eyes with a small but cheeky smile on his face and a quirked eyebrow.
You didn’t really have any time to answer – the question was rhetorical, anyway – as he started to walk down the street, his pace a bit faster now that you weren’t slowing him down. You decided not to question and instead, wrapped your arms around his neck. Although, as you had come to notice, his arms provided just enough of a safety net.
The lobby of the hotel had high ceilings, leather couches and air conditioning, which was a nice contrast against you flushed cheeks. Theo didn’t bother lowering you to the ground when you entered, so now you were hiding your embarrassed face in the crook of his neck while the receptionist was checking you in. His cologne was filling your lungs more and more with each passing second, so at some point you couldn’t hold back anymore and started placing soft kisses on Theo’s neck and jaw. You heard the incessant tapping of his fingers against the countertop increasing in frequency and grinned into his skin, realizing that your efforts weren’t in vain at all. His relieved exhale rang out along with the clink of the keys to your room for the night.
As soon as you stepped into the elevator, Theo pressed you against the wall, swiftly grabbing the backs of your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist. His lips stole a sloppy kiss from yours before latching onto your neck and leaving a trail of saliva down to your collarbone. One of your hands ended up on his shoulder while the other one was eagerly pulling his head into your neck, craving for more of the pleasure his lips were giving you.
The high-pitched sound of the elevator arriving at your floor cut through your lust-filled haze, but Theo was far from willing to let you go even for a minute. He carried you into the corridor and looked around to spot the right number on the door. Thankfully, it wasn’t far. Theo’s pace was hurried, and his lips were stuck to your shoulder all the way, until you heard the key turning and the door opening, at last.
A sharp breath was knocked out of your lungs when Theo pressed you against the other side of door, hungrily swallowing the air coming out of you. His hands immediately went to your ass, firmly gripping the flesh over your skirt. You moaned into his mouth, already feeling the dampness between your legs starting to grow pretty rapidly. Theo smirked against your lips and sneaked a hand up your body, under your tank top. His palm pressed into your breast, his fingers closing around it and giving it a solid squeeze. His lips parted, and you whined in protest when instead of his tongue you suddenly felt just his hot, alcohol-induced breath. You desperately licked into his mouth while he panted, lost in the feeling of your tits and ass sitting so nicely in his hands.
"Cazzo, you feel so good," he whispered, his voice low and hoarse.
At the feeling of Theo’s strong hands kneading your ass and tits simultaneously you started whimpering, wrapping your arms around his neck and trying to move your hips against his, tightening your legs’ embrace around his waist.
"You’re a needy girl, huh?"
Theo pulled away ever so slightly, just enough to have a good look at his face. He chuckled, trapping his tongue between his teeth while his eyes flicked from yours down to your now swollen lips and back.
"Such a desperate, needy slut," he murmured, his hand leaving your breast and cupping your jaw, his fingertips pressing into your cheeks and making your lips form a pout. As a confirmation of his words, a whimper left your throat, and your pussy started pulsating against the front of his jeans. Your hips started grinding again, and you could barely hold in another round of pathetic sounds when you felt a hard bulge between your bodies.
"Fuck," Theo groaned, for a second feeling nothing but the delicious friction your rapid movements provided. He lowered you to the ground, pressing a quick, firm kiss against your lips before guiding you to the huge, king-sized bed. You didn’t protest; you didn’t want to, and your mind was too far gone at this point. As soon as your legs hit the edge of the bed, Theo didn’t let you fall onto it. Instead, he pressed his palms against your lower back and your stomach at the same time, bending you over in one swift movement – you barely had time to stretch out your arms to support yourself.
Theo took a step back, biting his lips as he took in the sight of you, bent over, a tight denim skirt hugging your curves, your ass high up in the air due to the high heels on your feet. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he came closer again, lifting up your skirt to pool around your waist. You breathing grew more erratic as you felt his hands on your ass, grabbing the cheeks and spreading them open. A sharp slap landing on your right asscheek was a surprise, eliciting half a squeal, half a moan from you; your arousal trickled out of your panties in one wet line, which made Theo almost ecstatic. He gave your ass another slap, relishing your moan as he kneeled behind you, your thighs receiving a smack each as a signal to spread further apart.
If he wasn’t gripping your hips at that moment, your legs would’ve given out right when his mouth was pressed against your soaked panties. A shaky whimper escaped your wide-open mouth, making Theo’s cock throb in the confines of his jeans. In other cases, he would’ve taken his time teasing you, getting his fix of your needy moans and the sweetness between your legs. However, right then he was still somewhat tipsy and painfully hard, which is why your panties were quickly moved aside and his tongue dived straight into your dripping folds. A groan made your skin pleasantly vibrate, and your moans never stopped since, only growing louder and more frequent.
Theo’s tongue lapped up the juices from your cunt, his hands firmly gripping the underside of your ass, his thumbs spreading your inner thighs by pressing into them hard enough to leave bruises. You couldn’t help it - you bent your arms and lowered yourself down to your elbows, because you felt like you’d start shaking at any given moment. And you did, as soon as Theo’s skillful lips wrapped around your clit, sucking and making each and every single nerve shoot lightning strikes of pleasure through your whole body. Your moans and whimpers grew into sobs as Theo continued greedily devouring your aching cunt. The moment he gave your ass another slap, you were done for. Without any type of warning, you came, your hands gripping the sheets so hard they could probably rip.
When Theo heard you getting lost in your orgasm, he closed his eyes and groaned, feeling his own need painfully pulsating between his legs. He stood up, towering over your bent over and already spent form. You couldn’t even turn your head to see what he was doing, but you definitely heard the sound of a zipper being undone. You didn’t have time to dwell on that, as two of Theo’s fingers ended up inside your cunt almost immediately. Your whole body jerked forward, the pain of overstimulation mixing with the pleasure of his fingers stretching out your walls. The next sound was that of a wrapper being opened, and for a quick but very empty moment Theo’s digits left your hole. You whimpered in protest, pushing your ass back in search of friction, and you found it: the tip of Theo’s cock, wrapped up in a condom, slid along your folds up to your clenching and unclenching entrance.
"Cazzo," Theo breathed out, momentarily mesmerized by the sight in front of him. "Such a good girl f’me…" he continued murmuring as he rubbed his tip in circles against your entrance, making you squirm. His hand stopped your erratic movements, grabbing your hip to keep you in place. Once he was sure you weren’t moving anymore, that same hand landed on your asscheek, causing your body to jerk forward once again. "Such a dirty slut."
With one thrust he pushed into you, his hips slamming against yours with bruising force. You let out a sharp, high-pitched scream, immediately flowing into a stuttering moan as you felt the tip of Theo’s cock hitting a sweet spot. He moaned along with you, his head thrown back as he savored the feeling of your warmth and heat squeezing his aching dick. Shameless groans left his mouth with each movement he started moving inside of you, his initially slow pace growing into deep, hard thrusts. You buried your face in the sheets, tugging at them with your hands, desperate for some kind of grounding in reality. Theo’s cock kept hitting different spots inside you that you didn’t even know you had, making your pussy drip even more and causing squelching sounds to waft through the room, along with skin loudly connecting with skin. Theo’s hands landed slaps on your ass from time to time, each squeal of yours following it causing him to groan louder.
Your second orgasm wasn’t far off from the first one – with an especially deep thrust, Theo’s cock hit something entirely uncharted inside of you, making your thighs shake and your cunt clench around him. He fucked you through your climax, barely holding on, until you finally stopped squirming so much. His hand was on the back of your neck in a second, lifting your upper body from the bed and pressing it against his firm chest.
"Feel so good, bella," he breathed into your ear, causing your completely overstimulated body to shiver. This reaction brought Theo closer to his own orgasm, and his thrusts became messier with each passing second. "Gonna come soon," he whispered, lightly squeezing your throat and circling the shell of your ear with the tip of his tongue. You whined pathetically, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as your walls clenched around Theo once again.
That did it for him. With a low, raspy moan into your ear, he came, his grip on your hip and throat tightening. His twitching cock made your thighs purse together involuntarily, and your body finally went limp against his chest. Both of you stayed like that for another minute or so, stabilizing your staggered breathing. As soon as Theo felt you calming down, he carefully spun you around and lowered you onto the bed on your back.
"That was…" you breathed out, sinking into the softness of the mattress underneath you.
"Yeah," Theo followed, a satisfied smile playing on his lips when he heard you struggling for words.
You let out a breathless chuckle, propping yourself up on one arm and following Theo’s padding to the bathroom with your gaze. Once he disappeared inside for a moment, you threw yourself back onto the sheets, covering your eyes with your hands and shaking your head in disbelief.
"Me… A one-night stand in Italy…" you murmured under your breath, rubbing your temples with your fingers, as if trying to get a grasp of the situation.
"A one-night stand?"
Theo quirked an eyebrow, heading from the bathroom towards the bed, his jeans all done and zipped again. You gave him a questioning look of your own, wondering what that sly smile of his meant. He sat down on the edge of the bed next to you and, in response, turned the screen of his phone to you. You squinted, trying to see what he was trying to show you, and gave him a skeptical look when you did. He seemed puzzled for a moment before understanding washed over him – of course, how would you understand a text in Italian. He physically facepalmed and pulled the phone away, looking at the screen himself.
"It says that ‘due to inadequate weather conditions, all international flights have been postponed indefinitely," he read nonchalantly, the only thing betraying his inner workings being that same smile you saw earlier. He glanced at you, trying to gauge your reaction to the news and see if you were getting the hint.
You bit your bottom lip, furrowing your brows as you were processing the information. Then, your eyebrows went up, and you lifted your head, meeting his playful eyes with those of your own. As Theo crawled up your body, your fingers were already mindlessly tapping a message to your group chat with your friends.
- seeing as i did a rant over cobra kai season 5 on here, it’s only fitting that i do the same for part one of season 6!
🐍- as only one half of the season has been released, it wouldn’t really be fair to form a stalemate opinion on what i’ve seen so far. i didn’t hate it, i didn’t dislike it, i didn’t love it - it was just fine. in my opinion, it didn’t have the same exciting vibe as the previous seasons, not sure what it was but it just felt like something was missing. i’m hoping part 2 will feel different.
pregnancy storyline - my opinion on this storyline has and will not change. i still find it unnecessary, i still find it predictable and i still believe the trope ruins any book or movie that it’s worked into. however, that being said, it’s been interesting to see johnny’s character development this season. he’s fully embracing the whole pregnancy and baby vibe and it is pretty sweet to see.
johnny - like i said, it’s been interesting to see johnny’s characters development this season. i really liked the version of johnny we got to see. he got a job!!, he and daniel worked well together (in brief moments), he was supportive of both robby and miguel and he encouraged and supported devon. it was nice to see him getting his life together.
kreese - he’s a wanted man. how did he manage to travel to two different countries? UNDETECTED????
mr miyagi - i was a little baffled by the mr miyagi storyline. it’s so great that they still include him and talk about him because he was such a vital character in the karate kid movies, but i’m not exactly sure where they plan on taking this storyline?? i wonder if maybe mr miyagi used to train/work with sensei kim’s grandfather? we obviously saw that he entered the Sekai Taikai tournament so maybe they entered together?
daniel - ugh he was low-key irritating. miyagi do is supposed to be a partnership between eagle fang and miyagi do, however it just seems like it’s purely miyagi do. i feel they could’ve merged the names and become miyagi fang? i get he wants peace but he was basically causing rifts with johnny for the most stupidest of things. hoping he does better in part 2.
tory - the way no one ran after her when she walked out of miyagi do?? not even robby, her boyfriend?? everyone knew her mum was the only family she had (besides her brother) so i cant believe they just left her to fend for herself and grieve alone. honestly i don’t blame her for joining cobra kai again. it’s hard to say whether she would’ve won the female captaincy if she stayed at miyagi do but she definitely would’ve ended up hurting sam during the fight. i loved the friendship she and sam were forming so hopefully she comes back to miyagi do and they become friends again.
hawk - no WAY did the former all valley male champion not get into the final six for the Sekai Taikai on default. i was so shocked when hawk didn’t get into the group automatically with tory, sam, miguel and robby. and then he only got a place because tory quit like whatttttt! he’s one of the strongest fighters in my opinion, miles better than devon and demetri.
demetri - irritating. never stopped yapping about MIT. thinks he’s the shit. i usually like him but not this season.
kyler- nice to see character development from kyler because he was an absolute prick in the other seasons. he’s still cringe but was cool to see him getting along with miguel and the others.
devon/kenny - devon was annoying, i get the Sekai Taikai is a once in a lifetime opportunity but practically begging for a spot isn’t a good look. she needs to believe in herself and needs to stop worrying about how good others are around her. and the cheating to get into the tournament! like if she can’t win fairly at the challenge to get into tournament, how is she gonna be decent at the tournament at all. kenny deserved that chance to go to the Sekai Taikai, he’s a much stronger and aggressive fighter and it would’ve been perfect for him to show his real potential. i can’t believe the writers made him shit himself and look like an idiot.
so overall, i liked the season so far but i wasn’t overly amazed with it. as always the karate fight scenes were amazing! and this is not hating on the show or the actors this is just me giving my opinion.
Billy was a bully and low-key irritating but he’s so easy to write for.
Billy Andrews x reader
masterlist
Christmas had finally arrived in Avonlea. The whole town was buzzing with excitement and christmas spirit. A blanket of snow covered the usually crop filled fields and the lake was frozen over with glittery ice. Residents of the town were baking cookies, making pies, decorating their homes, buying presents and your school was even putting on its own play.
As you didn't want to participate in the school production (much to the dismay of Rachel Lynde), you had been set the task of decorating the tree that would sit snuggled in the corner of the stage - a job you were more than satisfied with. However, your momentary joy was cut short when you realised Billy Andrews was to be helping you.
"Why do we even need two people decorating one small christmas tree?" You muttered to yourself as you collected a box of decorations from the floor and moved towards the tree. “I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.”
"What was that Y/N?" A voice called. You groaned quietly to yourself as Billy strode up to you, "Need help with that box? It looks rather heavy." He said, trying to grab the box of decorations from your hands.
You pulled the box away from his grip and scowled at him, "I'm quite alright. If I was in need of your assistance, I would've asked for it."
He held up his hands in mock surrender, "Right, right." Anne and Diana, who were practicing their lines a few feet away, giggled at your encounter.
Your relationship with Billy (if you could even call it that) was rather complicated. He adored you and you couldn’t stand him. Now, you probably wouldn't dislike him so much if he wasn't so irritating. He persisted in trailing around you like a lost puppy, delivering 'anonymous' love poems to your desk every morning and offering help wherever you didn't need it. Your friends (especially Ruby) thought it was sweet, you, on the other hand, found it both annoying and flustering.
And so it was just your luck that Miss Stacey had put you two together. Although, you were starting to wonder if maybe Billy had asked her to - oh you hoped not.
You settled on the floor next to the tree with the box of decorations and started to rifle through the box. Billy plonked himself down next to you and began to do the same. You had managed to sit in silence for at least five minutes and were just beginning to hang decorations on the tree when Billy pulled something out of the box and dangled it in front of your face. "Why look Y/N, mistletoe."
You swatted the mistletoe out of your face and frowned at the cheeky grin on Billy's face, "I'm not giving you a kiss."
"Why not?" He said with a smirk, holding the mistletoe above your head.
You furrowed your brows and shuffled backwards away from him, "Because it's you."
Billy held his hand mockingly to his heart and lowered the mistletoe, "I'm wounded."
He fake pouted at you and you rolled your eyes and shook your head, "You're quite impossible, you know that?"
Billy shrugged his shoulders lazily, "So i've been told, many a time, by you."
"If you weren't so intolerable I wouldn't have to tell you every time I saw you." You stated pointedly, pulling out some old candles from the box.
"You have a way with words Y/N." Billy chuckled lightly and smirked at you. He held the mistletoe up again and moved towards you, “Now, what about this kiss?"
