A quiet place tucked away from all the noise, where words flutter like butterflies and stories thrive under sunlight. Here, every thought is a sprouting seed, and every feeling grows into something beautiful.
𝐀𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 Gardner<3
I’m Aria, ENFP, Gryffindor. I specialize in fluff with occasional weeds of angst. Smut? Still my nightmare. 🫶🏼 20<3
𝐌𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬:
✎ Asks – Petal Post, where you can send me your thoughts.
✉ Masterlist – The greenhouse, everything I've planted so far.
✂ My tags The labels, so you know where to find what.
Latest Bloom!
Camaraderie - (A Mattheo riddle x reader series) Summary - In a post apocalyptic world, a girl meets a group of survivors who don't usually let people in, but when Mattheo, the last person to offer help, extends an invitation, it's one you cannot refuse
𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫:
JJK, Harry Potter, Genshin Impact, Haikyuu, BNHA
♪ ⭒ 𝆬 ᮫ 𝑓𝗅𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗌 𔓐𑇓 ೃ𝆬 ࿔
Look the Gardners left a note! -
The blooms have been slow lately. This little grove is currently resting, so I’m not taking new requests right now. The soil’s a bit dry, and the inspiration bees are taking their time to return. English isn’t my first language, so thank you for your patience and kindness.
Thank you for wandering through the grove and reading all the way to the end your presence makes the flowers grow brighter.
"you were my crown, now I'm in exile seeing you out."
word count: 4,877.
summary: a once unbreakable bond shatters under the weight of a year of silence. the person you thought would always be in your life is now nothing but a name left unsaid, a wound that won't close, and heartbreak that won't heal.
author’s note: surprise, figured i’d post another chapter early since I have today off. honestly debating on posting twice a week since this fic is already fully finished. sorry for the very optimistic and misleading first chapter but this series is going to be full of angst, yearning, and longing. hope you enjoy x
♫ exile - taylor swift (feat. bon iver). nav. chapters. more theo.
Present
May 10, 2003
Theo’s Townhome — Rome, Italy
Dear Bella,
It’s been a year since we last spoke.
Twelve months, fifty-two weeks, three hundred sixty-five days, and eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours.
But who’s counting, right?
You once told me that grief was like a wound. Even after you stitch it closed and heal it, you’re forever marked by the scar it leaves behind.
I’ve spent the better part of this year deciding that your metaphor is utter rubbish.
My grief has no scar because the wound never stopped bleeding. I still hurt.
There is no neat silver line where you once were. Only absence, only ache, only the unbearable sensation of walking through life with my chest split open and my heart left somewhere behind.
Somewhere in London.
Somewhere with you.
Most days, I distract myself however I can—work, liquor, vices, anything capable of dulling the relentless throb of missing you.
It never works for long.
Because eventually, in the silence, there you are.
Do you ever feel like that?
Do you ever ache for me the same way I ache for you?
I know the answer is no.
Still, some selfish, deeply pathetic part of me hopes this loss bruised you too.
Not because I want you hurting—Salazar knows I never could—but because the thought of being this ruined alone is almost unbearable.
Draco tells me you’ve started your new job at St. Mungo’s.
I can picture it so vividly it nearly kills me. Your determined little frown, your endless compassion, the brilliance you never quite seem to recognize in yourself despite the fact that the rest of us have been in awe of it for years.
I heard Granger is there too.
You were insufferably smug when you predicted she and Draco would eventually end up together. I imagine you remain equally unbearable about being right.
Some things, thankfully, never change.
How is Diggory?
I read he accepted some prestigious position training the Chudley Cannons. A consolation prize, I suppose, given his failure to make the league.
Merlin, that was terribly catty of me, wasn’t it? I’m sorry. You know he remains a sore subject for me.
Still, I do hope he treats you well. I hope he makes you laugh. I hope he makes you feel safe. I hope he gives you everything I never had the courage to ask for.
And if one day I happen upon your engagement announcement in the Prophet, I hope I am strong enough to survive it. Strong enough, perhaps, to even congratulate you.
Though at present, I remain exactly what I have made myself.
A coward.
Self-exiled, self-destructive, and still hopelessly in love with his best friend.
I’m not ready to face you yet.
But please know this. No matter how far I run, no matter how badly it hurts—
I am still here.
Still yours. Still missing you. Still loving you. Still hoping that somewhere, impossibly, some part of you still belongs to me too.
I want you to be happy, bella.
Even if it destroys me.
For Always,
Teddy
After writing the last line, Theo didn’t move right away.
The parchment stayed open on his desk, ink still drying in uneven strokes, as though even the words refused to fully settle. He read it once, then again, like repetition might soften the edges of his admission.
It didn’t.
His writing had gone beyond communication and confession over the past year. It was merely a place to put everything that would otherwise rot inside him if left alone too long.
Therapy, in the only form he allowed himself.
He never sent them. He never reread them with the intention of revision or correction. He simply wrote until the pressure in his chest loosened enough for him to breathe again.
And then he folded the letter carefully, as if it might make up for everything else he failed to do.
Past
July 12, 2002
Sheldonian Theatre — Oxford, England
Theo had always known you were brilliant.
But watching you graduate at the top of your class, clad in Oxford blue and standing proudly beneath centuries-old archways, Theo was forced to confront a truth he had perhaps always understood but never fully appreciated.
You were extraordinary.
Your commencement speech was graceful, intelligent, and profoundly you—equal parts heartfelt and inspiring, laced with just enough humor to make the audience laugh through their tears. Theo sat forward the entire time, like if he blinked he might miss a detail of you becoming something even greater than he already knew you were.
Beside him, your friends had fully settled into watching you like it was a shared victory.
Pansy leaned back in her chair with her arms folded, expression smug in that way she reserved for people she approved of.
“She’s annoyingly good at everything,” she said simply.
Enzo hummed. “It’s a bit offensive, honestly.”
“Tragic, really,” Blaise added calmly.
Mattheo nodded once. “She puts all the other Puffs to shame.”
Draco scoffed softly. “It’s not exactly a hard task.”
Theo didn’t take his eyes off you.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured under his breath.
To his right, your mother dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief while simultaneously threatening anyone nearby who dared smudge her mascara.
“Don’t make me cry in public,” Estelle warned, though she sounded thoroughly delighted by it. “I will never forgive any of you.”
Theo leaned slightly toward her. “Estelle, I would never allow such a tragedy.”
Draco scoffed. “You are so full of shit.”
By the time the ceremony ended, the group had fully devolved into celebratory chaos.
Pansy linked her arm through yours immediately, dragging you into a tight hug that she pretended was not emotional.
“I suppose congratulations are in order,” she said coolly.
“You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Pansy said simply.
Mattheo clapped you on the shoulder. “Try not to get too successful. It makes the rest of us look bad.”
“I’ll do my best,” you said dryly.
Enzo offered you a grin and a mock bow. “Our resident healer.”
Blaise smirked. “Well done, Y/N.”
Draco held out a bouquet like the public display of sentimentality physically offended him. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“It already has,” you said, taking the flowers.
Theo watched all of it like he belonged nowhere else but exactly there. Like he’d been orbiting you long enough that standing still anywhere else felt wrong.
When dinner finally arrived, everything was loud, warm, and overflowing with too much love to be contained by a single table.
Theo sat beside you, stealing bites from your plate with no fear of consequence, dodging your half-hearted attempts to stop him with a cheeky grin.
Across from him, Pansy and Mattheo were arguing about something entirely unimportant. Blaise and Enzo had made it their mission to subtly annoy Draco without getting hexed. Draco looked seconds away from committing a crime.
Your mother, thriving in the chaos, sat glowing with pride.
“My beautiful girl,” Estelle said, squeezing your hands as dessert arrived. “A healer.”
Her voice wavered slightly, pride and grief intertwining in that uniquely maternal way that never truly separated love from loss.
“Your father would be so proud of you, sweetheart,” she said softly. “After everything…after how hard you fought to understand the curse that took him…”
Your breath caught.
For a brief moment, the table’s laughter softened around the edges.
Because they all knew.
Your father’s rare blood curse had not only shaped your grief. It had shaped your purpose.
It was why healing had never simply been ambition.
It was survival. Meaning. A promise.
Estelle brushed a tear from beneath her eyes with an affectionate smile.
“You were always determined to save people the way we couldn’t save him.”
Theo, seated beside you, felt something in his chest tighten painfully.
Because in that moment, watching you smile though the ache, he loved you more fiercely than ever.
Not just for your brilliance.
But for your heart.
“To the cleverest witch I know,” Theo said fondly, raising his glass.
“To Y/N,” your mum echoed warmly.
Glasses clinked. Someone cheered. Pansy smirked into her drink.
Theo’s fingers brushed the inside pocket of his coat no fewer than seven times throughout dinner, each touch serving as reassurance that the letter remained exactly where he had placed it.
His future.
His ruin.
Three little words had built his world once.
Tonight, three little words threatened to dismantle it entirely.
When the chocolate torte was brought out—declared by Estelle to be “necessary compensation for Oxford’s culinary failures”—she turned her attention sharply back to Theo.
“And you,” she said, pointing her fork at him. “I expect you back from Rome in time for your own graduation celebration.”
Theo grinned like he’d been waiting for that exact moment. “Wouldn’t dream of missing your cake.”
“See that you don’t,” she warned. “I’ve already decided to outdo myself. Your graduation cake will be far superior, and frankly, I refuse to let you forget it.”
Theo dramatically placed a hand over his heart. “Your faith in my academic abilities is deeply touching.”
From beside you, Pansy made a quiet sound of amusement.
“Cambridge would collapse without Theo’s relentless arrogance propping it up,” you teased.
“Arrogance?” he echoed, offended. “Bella, darling, it’s not arrogance if it’s fact.”
Across the table, Blaise took a slow sip of wine, looking profoundly unimpressed.
“Confidence is attractive,” he drawled. “Delusion less so.”
Mattheo immediately leaned back in his chair, grinning.
“No, no, let him cook.”
“You encourage him too much,” you muttered.
“I’m a supportive friend,” Mattheo replied smoothly. “Unlike some people.”
Pansy swirled her wine with practiced elegance, eyeing Theo over the rim. “He’s absolutely intolerable when he’s like this.”
“When I’m right?” Theo clarified.
“When you’re conscious,” Draco deadpanned, not even bothering to look up from his plate.
Enzo sighed, ever the diplomat. “Let’s all remember this is meant to be a celebratory dinner.”
“Exactly,” Theo agreed. “Which is why everyone should be celebrating me as well.”
Draco finally looked up, visibly exhausted. “I’d like it formally noted that I despise every person at this table.”
“However will we live,” Blaise replied sardonically.
Your mother laughed softly, clearly far too entertained by all of them.
“Honestly,” Estelle said, shaking her head, “how any of you survived to adulthood is beyond me.”
Theo placed his hand over his heart once more. “Estelle, your lack of faith wounds me.”
“Tragic,” Draco muttered.
Theo ignored him with expert precision.
“Besides,” he continued smoothly, “we all know I’m your favorite.”
Pansy barked out a laugh.
“Oh, that is embarrassing.”
“It’s simply true,” Theo said, completely unbothered. “I’m charming, intelligent, devastatingly handsome, and I appreciate her cooking with the reverence it deserves.”
Blaise gave him a long look. “How terribly humble of you.”
Mattheo, naturally, nodded along. “I see no flaws in his argument.”
“Of course you don’t,” you said dryly.
Enzo raised both hands slightly. “In fairness, Theo does compliment the food like his life depends on it.”
“Thank you,” Theo said, pointing at him. “Finally, someone reasonable.”
“I said in fairness,” Enzo corrected.
Your mother smiled into her wine. “You’re all impossible.”
“But adored,” Theo added quickly.
“Debatable,” Draco said.
Estelle only laughed.
“You are all my favorites.”
Theo gasped dramatically.
“Cowardice.”
Mattheo leaned in, grinning. “He wanted to win outright.”
“I always win,” Theo corrected, entirely shameless.
You shook your head, trying and failing not to laugh.
“Merlin, Rome truly cannot take you soon enough.”
Theo turned toward you instantly, his grin softening just slightly at the edges.
“Admit it, bella,” he said. “You’d miss me terribly.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
You always would.
For one perfect evening, surrounded by laughter, candlelight, and the family Theo had chosen from himself, everything felt beautifully unchanged.
Past
July 13, 2002
Platform 2 — Oxford, England
The next morning arrived in a haze of sunlight, mild hangovers, and bittersweet exhaustion.
Oxford Station bustled with life around you—graduates returning home, families saying their final farewells, trunks rattling over cobblestone, and the shrill whistle of departing trains cutting through the summer air.
After nearly a week of celebration, parties, and heartfelt goodbyes, it was finally time.
You were headed back to the city to scout for a flat while preparing for your apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s.
Theo was accompanying you as far as London before taking the Floo to Rome, where his nonna was undoubtedly already preparing to put him to work.
“Remind me again why we thought chugging firewhisky was a good idea?” you mumbled, rubbing your temple as the two of you boarded the train.
Theo, infuriatingly composed in a dark overcoat and expensive sunglasses, smirked as he hoisted your luggage effortlessly into the overhead compartment.
“Because, bella, we were celebrating your academic domination.”
You slumped dramatically into your seat. “I may never drink again.”
Theo sat across from you, looking far too pleased with himself. “Liar.”
You cracked a reluctant smile. “You know me so well.”
The compartment was blissfully private, the soft hum of the train lulling you both into familiar comfort.
For a little while, it felt like every other journey you’d shared over the years—stolen weekends between Oxford and Cambridge, holidays with friends, countless reunions after too much time apart.
Comfortable.
Easy.
Yours.
Theo watched as you rested your head against the window, sleepily smiling at him.
Salazar.
He was so hopelessly in love with you.
“So,” you murmured, voice still thick with exhaustion, “how long until Rome corrupts you entirely?”
Theo leaned back, feigning thoughtfulness. “I give it three days.”
“Generous.”
“Two, if my cousins are involved.”
You laughed softly, and Theo mentally committed the sound to memory.
Because if this all went according to plan…
Things were about to change.
His hand briefly brushed the inside pocket of his coat, where the carefully folded letter rested like a second heartbeat.
His confession. His truth. Every terrifying, vulnerable thing he’d never managed to say aloud.
Your brow furrowed suddenly. “Oh, bugger—I left my lipstick in the loo.”
Theo blinked.
“What?”
You were already standing. “Don’t steal my chocolate, Theodore.”
“Of course not, dear.”
You shot him a suspicious look before slipping from the compartment.
The moment the door clicked shut, Theo moved.
Quickly, before courage could fail him.
His fingers trembled slightly as he withdrew the envelope, his elegant handwriting scrawled across the front.
Bella.
Theo stared at it for one final second.
His future.
His ruin.
Then carefully tucked it into your satchel, right between your planner and favorite novel. Safe. Waiting.
His pulse thundered.
It was done.
There was no taking it back now.
Theo barely had time to compose himself before the compartment door slid open once more.
You weren’t alone.
“Look who I found,” you said brightly, stepping inside with Cedric Diggory at your side. “Ran into Cedric while grabbing my things. He’s heading back to London too.”
The moment Cedric Diggory stepped into that compartment, Theo felt something uncomfortable twist beneath his ribs.
It wasn’t hatred.
Not truly.
Cedric was kind. Charming. Familiar in the way Hufflepuffs often were.
But Theo disliked, almost instantly, how easily he fit beside you.
How naturally you smiled.
How effortlessly he occupied space Theo had always, perhaps foolishly, assumed belonged to him.
For the first time, doubt pressed sharp and unfamiliar against Theo’s carefully guarded hope.
Because suddenly, his confession no longer felt like certainty.
It felt like a risk.
And Theodore Nott, for all his arrogance, had very little experience with risking his heart.
Cedric offered his usual infuriatingly polite smile. “Nott.”
“Diggory,” Theo returned coolly.
Your obliviousness would’ve been comical if Theo wasn’t actively fighting for his life.
“Cedric was here celebrating a mate’s graduation.” you explained as Diggory settled beside you. “Small world, isn’t it?”
“Positively tiny,” Theo replied dryly.
The rest of the journey passed in a blur of restrained jealousy and emotional torture. Cedric was charming, attentive, and entirely too comfortable sitting before you. Naturally, you were your usual warm and lovely self.
Theo wanted to throw himself from the moving train.
By the time London came into view, he’d nearly convinced himself he was being dramatic.
Nearly.
At the platform, Theo helped unload your luggage while Cedric offered to escort you the rest of the way home.
How thoughtful.
How deeply unfortunate.
“Well,” you said softly, turning to Theo as the crowds shifted around you. “This is you.”
For a moment, the noise of the station seemed to disappear.
Theo looked down at you—at your bright eyes, your fond smile, the witch he loved more than life itself—and wondered if, by this time tomorrow, everything between you might finally be different.
Or ruined.
He pushed the thought away.
“Say hi to nonna for me,” you said, adjusting your bag. The bag with his letter inside of it.
“I will.”
“And behave.”
Theo grinned.
“No promises.”
You stepped forward then, wrapping your arms tightly around him. Theo exhaled softly, like holding you was both his greatest comfort and greatest undoing. Theo held you like it was instinct. Like breathing, like home. He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head, lingering perhaps a second longer than necessary.
“I’ll see you soon, cara mia.”
Not goodbye.
Never goodbye.
Your smile wobbled, but held.
“See you soon, Teddy.”
As you stepped back, Cedric moved to your side. Theo tried not to hate the sight on principle. You waved at him from beside another man.
But still, Theo smiled.
Because tucked safely inside your bag was every truth he’d been too afraid to say aloud.
His hand brushed absently against the pocket where the letter had rested for weeks.
Empty now.
It was done.
There was no retrieving it, no taking it back.
Only waiting.
Waiting for you to discover the truth.
Waiting for everything to change—
Or nothing at all.
And though fear gnawed mercilessly at the edges of his resolve, hope remained.
Fragile, terrifying, alive.
For the first time in nearly ten years, Theo had finally given his heart a voice.
Now, all that remained was whether or not you would answer.
Present
May 11, 2003
Your Flat — Primrose Hill, London
Morning arrived softly in Primrose Hill.
Golden sunlight filtered through linen curtains, spilling lazily across polished wooden floors and the carefully curated stillness of your flat. Outside, London stirred in muted greys and distant birdsong, but inside, your home was quiet.
Exactly how you liked it.
Which was why, the moment your sleepy mind registered the unfamiliar clatter of cookware from the kitchen, your brows furrowed before your eyes had even fully opened.
A pan scraped lightly against the hob. Cabinets opened. Something sizzled.
You remained motionless beneath the duvet for a brief moment, staring blankly at the ceiling as reality settled over you.
Cedric.
Of course.
The other side of the bed was already empty, his warmth long since faded from the sheets.
With a small exhale, you pushed yourself upright, smoothing a hand over your face as the scent of tea and breakfast drifted down the hallway.
It wasn’t unpleasant. Far from it, actually.
Cedric was thoughtful in ways that often made perfect sense on paper—kind, reliable, considerate. The sort of boyfriend mothers adored and friends approved of.
And in many ways, he fit seamlessly into your life.
Just not always into your mornings.
You had built your routine carefully over the years. Waking up alone. Steeping your tea for precisely the right amount of time. Savoring the forty-five interrupted minutes in the morning to mentally prepare yourself for a full day of healing at St. Mungo’s.
It was one of the many reasons you and Cedric, despite dating for nearly a year now, very much did not live together.
Personal space, you had learned, was not simply healthy for your relationship.
It was necessary.
Pulling your robe over your shoulders, you padded into the kitchen. Cedric stood at the stove in rolled-up sleeves, looking entirely too handsome for someone invading your sacred morning space.
“You’re awake,” he said, glancing back with an easy smile.
You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment before answering. “So it would seem.”
His grin widened slightly, entirely unfazed by your tone. “I made breakfast.”
You glanced at the spread before you. As always, Cedric prepared your favorites: blueberry pancakes, fresh fruit, and earl grey tea with just a splash of milk. There was an undeniable sweetness to it. Familiar. Stable. Safe.
And yet.
Your gaze lingered briefly on the mug he’d set out for you, noting absently that the tea had steeped a touch too long.
“Hungry?” Cedric asked.
You offered him a soft smile, softer than your thoughts perhaps warranted. “Starving.”
It was easier that way.
Cedric beamed, pleased, as he slid a plate onto the counter for you. “After your shift yesterday, I thought you might need something proper this morning.”
“Something proper,” you repeated, settling onto a stool. “Should I be concerned about what exactly you think I normally eat?”
He chuckled before leaning down to press a kiss to your temple.
“Tea, toast, and whatever questionable snack Hermione leaves in the healer’s lounge.”
You took a sip of tea, refusing to acknowledge how accurate he was.
“That is slander.”
“It’s observation.”
Despite yourself, your lips curved. This—Cedric bustling around in your kitchen, making breakfast, filling the space with easy affection—should’ve felt like enough. And maybe, in many ways, it was.
He was good. He was steady. He was here.
Cedric was safe.
And after Theo—
After silence, abandonment, and the unanswered ache he had left behind—
Safe had begun to feel awfully close to love.
But as you watched him move so comfortably through a space that was distinctly yours, a strange hollowness tugged quietly somewhere beneath your ribs.
It wasn’t painful enough to name or sharp enough to confront, but it was there nonetheless. Like muscle memory. Like reaching for something that was no longer yours to hold.
You pushed the feeling down as quickly as it surfaced.
“Try the pancakes before you judge me,” Cedric said, setting the plate before you with a flourish.
You blinked down at the perfectly golden stack, dotted generously with blueberries.
“Well,” you admitted carefully, “they do look promising.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Cedric laughed, pouring himself coffee before taking the seat beside you. For a while, the flat settled into something warm and familiar. The clink of silverware, quiet conversation, the occasional teasing remark.
Comfort.
And comfort, you reminded yourself, was not a bad thing.
Comfort was safe. Comfort was dependable. Comfort didn’t leave.
So when Cedric reached for your hand across the counter, giving it a gentle squeeze before heading off to work, you squeezed back just as easily.
Because this was good.
This was real.
And as you gathered your things for another long day at St. Mungo’s, you told yourself that the faint, unshakable sense that something was missing was simply exhaustion.
Nothing more.
Present
May 11, 2003
St. Mungo’s Hospital — London, England
By the time you arrived at St. Mungo’s, London had fully awakened.
The bustling streets gave way to the familiar organized chaos of the hospital, where healers, mediwitches, and patients moved in a constant whirlwind beneath enchanted ceilings and flickering lights.
For most, it would’ve been overwhelming.
For you, it was purpose.
The moment you stepped through the Floo entrance and tied your healer robes properly into place, something inside you settled.
This was where you belonged.
“Late by thirty-seven seconds,” Padma noted as you entered the healer’s lounge, not even glancing up from her tea.
You arched a brow. “Are you timing me now?”
Hermione, already halfway through reviewing patient charts, smiled knowingly from the seat beside her. “She absolutely is.”
You set your bag down with a huff. “I’m choosing to take that as affection.”
“It is,” Hermione assured you. “Padma simply expresses it like an emotionally stunted raven.”
Padma looked offended. “I’ll have you know, I’m a deeply warm witch.”
“You alphabetize your spice cabinet.”
“And?”
You laughed softly, the sound coming easier here than it had all morning.
There was comfort in this too—your work, your friendships, the steady rhythm of a life you had carefully built from the ashes of everything you once thought it would be.
Hermione didn’t look up from her charts, though there was the faintest hint of satisfaction in her expression as she slid a parchment forward on the table.
“Before I forget,” she said casually, “your blood curse research grant was officially approved this morning.”
You froze mid-motion.
For a moment, you didn’t speak. You just stared at the Ministry seal stamped across the parchment, your pulse suddenly loud enough to drown out the soft chaos of St. Mungo’s beyond the lounge.
Padma’s brows shot upward. “Wait. Fully funded?”
Hermione grinned. “Fully funded.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the parchment.
After years of research, late nights, clinical trials, and countless bureaucratic setbacks, it hardly felt real.
Rare blood curses remained one of magical medicine’s least understood and most devastating fields. Funding for specialized research was notoriously difficult to secure, often dismissed in favor of more immediate magical injuries.
But this…
This was everything.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Because this was never just research.
This was your father.
The curse that had stolen him from your life had shaped every step of your journey as a healer, every exhausting hour spent chasing answers most believed impossible.
“You did it,” Padma said, and though her tone remained characteristically measured, there was unmistakable pride beneath it.
Hermione’s smile softened. “We’re so happy for you.”
You blinked quickly, emotion catching you off guard.
“Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice steadier than you felt.
For once, the ache of grief felt less like an open wound and more like fuel.
Purpose.
And though you didn’t yet know why the impossible had suddenly become reality, something unseen had already begun working in your favor.
The morning passed in its usual blur of potion burns, accidental hex reversals, and one particularly unfortunate wizard who had somehow managed to transfigure his own eyebrows into caterpillars.
When lunch rolled around, you were only mildly exhausted, which by St. Mungo’s standards was practically nirvana.
Hermione slid into the seat across from you in the break room, looking unusually troubled. You immediately narrowed your eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
Harmione sighed dramatically. “Narcissa Malfoy.”
Padma snorted into her tea. “Ah. Terrifying.”
Hermione shot her a look. “You’re terribly unhelpful.”
You leaned back in your chair. “Draco’s gala?”
Hermione groaned. “Yes.”
Every year, Narcissa hosted an elaborate charity gala at Malfoy Manor in honor of Draco’s birthday. It was an event so lavish and socially significant that wizarding Britain practically treated it like a royal affair.
This year, however, would be Hermione’s first time attending not merely as a guest, but as Draco’s partner.
“Oh, don’t look so stricken, Mione,” you chided. “Narcissa adores competence, assertiveness, and intelligence. You’re essentially her dream witch.”
Hermione frowned. “That somehow doesn’t make me feel better.”
Padma smirked.
You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Wear gold.”
Hermione blinked. “...Gold?”
“Absolutely gold.”
“Malfoy events are always drowning in emerald and silver,” you explained. “Which is lovely, of course, but predictable. Gold is your color, Hermione. You’ll stand out.”
Padma tilted her head approvingly.
“She’s right. Gold is powerful. Regal.”
“And,” you added with a sly smile, “Draco will spend the entire evening looking at you like you’ve personally hung the moon.”
As if summoned by your words, the break room opened.
Draco Malfoy himself entered, immaculate as ever, holding an absurdly expensive bouquet of pink tulips.
Hermione froze.
Padma immediately looked delighted.
You bit your lip hard enough to stop your laughter. “Speaking of.”
Draco’s gaze softened the moment it landed on Hermione.
“For you, love,” he said simply, placing the bouquet into her arms.
Hermione, brilliant healer and former war heroine, visibly melted.
You fought the urge to grin. Everyone had called you mad for predicting their coupling back in third year yet here they were smitten as ever.
“Malfoy,” Padma drawled. “Do you practice your dramatic entrances?”
Draco didn’t even spare her a glance. “No. Excellence simply follows me naturally.”
You burst out laughing. “Merlin,” you said, shaking your head. “Theo truly was a bad influence on you all.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
A strange, almost imperceptible silence followed.
Theo’s name was a wound you had learned to dress neatly.
Sterile, managed, but never fully healed.
Draco’s expression shifted almost invisibly. Hermione’s softened. Padma suddenly became very interested in her tea.
And you…
You smiled anyway. Because that was what you did. You carried on.
“Well,” you said briskly, standing and gathering your charts, ”some of us have actual patients to save. Try not to emotionally combust before the gala, Mione.”
Hermione sighed. “I’ll do my best.”
As you disappeared back into the corridors of St. Mungo’s, you ignored the familiar ache curling quietly beneath your ribs.
Your life was good.
You were happy.
So why did certain names still feel like old wounds?
Present
May 11, 2003
Diagon Alley — London, England
When your shift finally ended, Diagon Alley buzzed with its usual late-afternoon energy.
Shopkeepers called from storefronts, enchanted signs flickered overhead, and witches hurried past with overflowing shopping bags and gossip moving quicker than the owl post.
You spotted Pansy immediately outside a charming cafe patio, looking effortlessly chic in tailored black robes and oversized sunglasses that probably cost more than your monthly rent.
Some things, thankfully, never changed.
“You’re late,” she said, by way of greeting.
You slid into your seat, unimpressed. “I save lives for a living.”
Pansy lifted a perfectly sculpted brow. “And yet somehow, punctuality continues to evade you.”
You stole one of her chips. “A pleasure to see you too.”
Dinner with Pansy had always been a unique exercise in affection disguised as verbal warfare.
“I’m drowning,” she announced dramatically after ordering.
“In work or theatrics?”
“Yes.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Pansy’s event planning business had become wildly successful over the years, particularly among Britain’s elite social circles. If there was an opulent gala, society wedding, or Ministry fundraiser worth attending, Pansy Parkinson was likely orchestrating it.
“Draco’s birthday gala may actually kill me,” she said, pressing manicured fingers to her temple. “Do you know how difficult it is to satisfy Narcissa Malfoy’s floral standards?”
“Practically impossible?”
“Correct.”
You laughed, swirling your wine. “At least you thrive under immense pressure.”
Pansy smirked. “I do.”
“And Neville?” you asked innocently.
Pansy nearly choked on her drink. “Oh, absolutely not.”
Your grin widened instantly. “That bad?”
“No,” she snapped, which of course told you everything. “Longbottom is simply…maddening.”
“Maddening how?”
Pansy’s glare sharpened. “Y/N.”
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t.”
“You fancy Neville Longbottom!”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
Pansy looked personally offended by your joy.
“His knowledge on flora would put my governess to shame,” she said stiffly. “He’s annoyingly competent and entirely too wholesome.”
You gasped dramatically. “Godric forbid a man be wholesome.”
“Stop enjoying this.”
“Never.”
For a little while, it was easy. You talked about work and friends. You teased each other with comfortable familiarity. You discussed anything and everything besides the one thing that you actually wanted to.
The subject you both carefully avoided remained untouched, lingering like a ghost neither one of you wanted to summon.
Theo.
Rome.
The year of silence that stretched carefully between you, unspoken and deliberate.
And perhaps that was why it felt all the more cruel when, on your walk back to your flat, fate decided to intervene anyway.
You nearly passed the newsstand without incident.
Nearly.
But then, a moving headline caught your eye.
THEODORE NOTT RETURNS TO LONDON AFTER YEAR-LONG ABSENCE
The Nott Heir Rejoins British Social Sphere
Your steps stopped entirely. The world around you seemed to blur into meaningless noise. Your breath caught somewhere painfully between your lungs and throat.
No.
No, no, no.
With trembling fingers, you reached for the paper.
There he was.
Theo.
Older. Sharper somehow. Beautiful in that devastating, unfair way he had always been. Dark curls slightly longer, expensive suit perfectly tailored, watercolour eyes still carrying that same infuriating intensity.
A year.
One entire year without so much as a word.
And now he was here.
Back in London.
Your vision blurred unexpectedly. Only when a tear slipped free did you realize you were crying. You wiped it away quickly, almost angrily.
“Idiot,” you whispered, though whether you meant him or yourself, you weren’t entirely sure.
Because despite everything—
Despite the silence. Despite the hurt. Despite the life you had painstakingly built in his absence—
Some part of your heart still recognized him instantly.
And perhaps, far more terrifyingly…
It always would.
A year of silence hadn’t erased him.
It had only sharpened the shape of his absence.
Because grief, you realized far too late, was not always born from death.
Sometimes—
Grief came from being left behind by someone still living.
"this could be the end of everything, so why don't we go somewhere only we know?"
word count: 3,447.
summary: third year is upon theodore nott and time has not been kind to him. reeling from the loss of his mum, he finds comfort in a kind stranger—a hufflepuff, of all things, but theo learns that sometimes the unexpected is exactly what he needs.
author’s note: hey hi hello welcome to yet another theo series. this one is very near and dear to my heart so please be kind as we journey along. as always, please let me know what you think ♡
♫ somewhere only we know - rhianne. nav. more theo.
Past
September 1, 1993
Hogsmeade Village — Scottish Highlands, Scotland
Three little words.
That’s how your story started.
“Are you okay?”
The question sounded warped in his ears as Theodore Nott collapsed against the rough trunk of a weeping willow, bark scraping against his arms and spine while he folded inward, head bowed between trembling knees.
Autumn had settled over Hogsmeade in crisp golds and biting winds, but Theo barely felt the chill. His lungs refused to cooperate, each breath shallow and splintered, as through grief itself had wrapped skeletal fingers around his ribcage and squeezed.
He was shaking.
Eyes bloodshot. Lips cracked. Hands unsteady.
Theo was decidedly not okay.
“I’m fine,” he croaked, though even he could hear how brittle the lie was—how the words cracked apart before they fully left his mouth.
“I see them too.”
Theo slowly lifted his head.
You sat beside him on one of the willow’s sprawling roots, your yellow-and-black Hufflepuff scarf wrapped snugly around your neck. He recognized you vaguely from shared classes—another third year, though he had never spoken more than a passing word to you before now.
Ordinarily, Theo would have dismissed the intrusion. He was a Slytherin, after all, and strangers were rarely worth the effort.
But then you spoke again.
“Is it your first time seeing one?”
Theo’s gaze drifted toward the skeletal creatures grazing at the edge of the village. Their leathery wings shifted against gaunt black bodies, pale eyes glowing eerily beneath hollow faces.
They were grotesque.
And strangely beautiful.
“What are they?” he whispered.
“Thestrals,” you explained softly. “They frightened me too, at first.”
Theo’s throat tightened.
“No one else can see them,” you continued. “Not unless they’ve witnessed death.”
His chest caved inward. “I just lost my mum.”
The confession slipped out before he could stop it, fragile and broken.
You didn’t pity him.
That was what startled him the most.
Instead, you offered him something far more foreign: understanding.
“I’m sorry,” you said gently. “I lost my dad a few years ago. A rare blood curse.”
Your voice softened, though Theo noticed the practiced steadiness in it, as though this was a grief you had learned to carry carefully rather than one that hurt any less.
“He was sick for a long time,” you continued gently. “The healers tried everything they could, but sometimes love doesn’t make you powerful enough to save someone.”
Theo’s brows pinched together. “Does it ever get better?”
Your gaze turned distant for a moment, thoughtful.
“Grief is like a wound,” you said. “Even after it heals, it leaves behind a scar.”
Your hand covered his, warm and steady.
“The stronger the love, the deeper the scar.”
Theo swallowed hard.
“It does get easier,” you promised. “And one day, you won’t resent the scar anymore. You’ll cherish it. Because it proves they were here. That they mattered.”
Such wisdom felt impossible coming from someone so young.
Theo wondered, not for the first time, if he would ever escape the bitterness currently hollowing him out from the inside. Whether he would ever be capable of seeing loss as something survivable instead of something final.
Right now, with his mother’s death still raw and festering inside him, it felt unimaginable.
There were days when getting out of bed seemed insurmountable. Days when joy felt like something meant for other people.
Then came the rustle of paper.
Theo blinked as you unwrapped a chocolate frog and broke off a piece for him.
“The dementors,” you explained, nodding toward the dark shapes patrolling the distant skies. “Chocolate helps.”
Theo accepted it carefully. “Thank you.”
The sweetness melted across his tongue, and though it did little to ease his grief, Theo found himself breathing easier.
Perhaps it wasn’t the chocolate.
Perhaps it was you.
For a while, the two of you sat in silence.
Theo’s eyes wandered once more to the thestrals.
Creatures only visible to those who had suffered unimaginable loss.
Unseen. Misunderstood. Feared.
Lonely.
“We don’t have to take the carriage,” you said after a while. “We can find another way to the castle.”
Theo looked at you in surprise.
“You’d stay?”
Your smile could have rivaled sunlight itself.
“Of course.”
You extended your hand toward him.
“We’re friends now, you and I. I’m Y/N, by the way.”
Theo hesitated only briefly before slipping his hand into yours.
Warmth spread through him like a balm.
“Theodore,” he replied softly. “But you can call me Theo.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Theo.”
The final call for carriages echoed through the clearing.
Fear coiled tight in Theo’s stomach once more.
But your fingers remained laced with his.
Steady. Certain.
Safe.
“I think I can do it,” Theo whispered. “But only if you come with me.”
You squeezed his hand without hesitation.
“I’m with you, Theo,” you said softly. “For always.”
And as he climbed into the carriage—heart pounding, grief aching, fingers clinging to yours like a lifeline—Theo realized something monumental.
For the first time since his mother died, he did not feel entirely alone.
Everything would be alright.
As long as you were with him.
Past
March 14, 2002
Oxford University — Oxford, England
As an only child, Theo had never quite mastered the art of sharing.
Especially not when it came to you.
Since that fateful day in third year, the two of you had become inseparable in every conceivable way. House divisions had proved meaningless in the grand scheme of things. It did not matter that you were a Hufflepuff and he was a Slytherin. Theo still found ways to weave himself into every facet of your life.
You were simply his person.
He walked you to class, studied beside you in the library, shared meals with you in the Great Hall, and found endless excuses to remain by your side.
Even after graduation when Oxford claimed you and Cambridge claimed him, distance had done little to diminish your bond.
You were still his constant.
His safest place.
His bella.
Which was precisely why Theo immediately decided Cedric Diggory’s existence was, at best, deeply inconvenient.
The moment Theo entered the courtyard, his easy grin faltered.
There you were, seated beneath a willow tree on a weathered wooden bench—the very bench Theo privately considered his whenever he visited.
Only today, someone else occupied his rightful place beside you.
Cedric Diggory.
“Teddy!”
Your delighted grin lit up the courtyard as you hurried into his arms, and for one glorious moment, Theo forgot why his blood had begun to simmer.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“Hi bella,” he murmured warmly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I thought I’d arrive early so we could pick out wine for dinner.”
Theo smirked.
“I’m thinking perhaps the cheapest bottle Aldi has to offer, mixed generously with Ribena. It might finally provoke Draco into a proper aristocratic meltdown.”
You laughed.
Cedric watched the exchange carefully.
Too carefully.
“You truly must stop antagonizing Draco,” you scolded half-heartedly. “One day, he’ll ban you from the manor entirely. Then where will you be without Tilly’s sticky toffee pudding?”
Theo gasped dramatically.
“A risk I’m willing to take,” he replied. “That’s what he gets for calling my Elven wine swill.”
A snort interrupted the moment.
Theo’s gaze slid, begrudgingly, toward Diggory.
Right.
Him.
“Forgive us,” you said politely. “Theo, you remember Cedric from school, don’t you?”
Theo offered the man a curt nod.
“Diggory.”
“Nott,” Cedric returned with maddening ease. “Y/N’s told me quite a lot about you.”
“Naturally,” Theo drawled, waving a dismissive hand. “We are best friends, after all. Bonded through trauma and emotional devastation. It’s all terribly profound.”
Theo draped an arm around your shoulders with practiced familiarity.
“There’s no getting rid of me now, is there, bella?”
Cedric’s smile remained easy, though something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
“He’s forever a pain in my arse,” you informed Cedric. “But occasionally charming when he’s not busy being an insufferable Cambridge snob.”
Cedric chuckled.
Theo did not care for how comfortable he seemed.
“You’re attending Cambridge?” Cedric asked.
Theo caught the note of surprise in his tone and immediately disliked it.
“What are you studying?”
“Economics,” Theo replied coolly. “Someone has to repair the catastrophic damage my father inflicted upon our family’s vaults and holdings.”
At the mention of his imprisoned Death Eater father, Cedric visibly stiffened.
“I see,” Cedric said carefully. “That’s…admirable.”
Theo resisted the urge to scoff.
You, sensing the tension, quickly intervened.
“Cedric is finishing his Mastery in Sports Medicine,” you explained. “He’s been helping me with my healing coursework.”
Theo’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.
How thoughtful.
“The immunology curriculum is brutal,” you continued. “Professor Fowler may very well be part troll.”
“The man hasn’t smiled in a century,” Cedric added with a grin. “Though I imagine I wouldn’t either with a stick that far up my arse.”
You laughed.
Theo, personally, found the joke painfully mediocre.
Still, he noted the ease with which Cedric inserted himself into your orbit.
A problem.
“One Hufflepuff helping another,” Cedric said lightly as he adjusted his bag. “We tend to look after our own.”
Theo disliked that far more than he probably should have.
Once Cedric finally excused himself, Theo exhaled sharply.
“Merlin,” he muttered. “I thought he’d never leave.”
You swatted his arm. “Be nice,” you chastised. “Cedric may be my only hope of surviving Immunology.”
Theo effortlessly intercepted your bag before you could protest, slinging it over his shoulder as though it belonged there.
“Fine,” he conceded dramatically. “I suppose Diggory has his uses.”
His arm settled around you once more. “Just don’t go replacing me with him.”
You blinked up at him, amused.
“At the very least,” Theo continued, “find someone equally rich, devastatingly handsome, and exceptionally witty.”
You giggled.
“Not to mention, extremely humble.”
Theo smirked
“I intentionally omitted that trait. I didn’t wish to sound arrogant.”
“Godric forbid,” you quipped, looping your arm through his.
And just like that, balance was restored.
This was how things were meant to be: you and Theo, arm in arm, trading barbs and banter, entirely in sync.
Theo glanced down as you tilted your face towards his, expression suddenly softening.
“You know I could never replace you, right?”
The sincerity in your voice struck him squarely in the chest.
Theo adored that look—that earnest, nose-scrunched seriousness that only ever seemed to emerge when it came to him.
“You’ll always be my person, Theo,” you said firmly. “Nothing is ever going to change that.”
Theo smiled then, truly smiled, and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of your head.
“I know, bella.”
His voice softened into something achingly sincere.
“You’re with me, and I’m with you.”
Theo squeezed your shoulder gently.
“For always.”
Past
March 14, 2002
Malfoy Manor — Wiltshire, England
“What in the bloody hell did you put in this, Nott?”
Theo feigned innocence with remarkable skill, though the mischievous glint in his watercolour eyes betrayed him entirely.
Across the grand dining table, Draco Malfoy glared with all the indignation of an affronted aristocrat while dabbing cheap wine and Ribena from his mouth with a linen napkin.
Beside Theo, you very nearly choked on your risotto trying—and failing—to suppress your laughter.
“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you mean, Draco,” Theo replied smoothly.
“Bullshit,” Draco snapped. “You tampered with my drink because you’re still bitter no one appreciated your precious wine selection at our last dinner.”
Theo set his fork down with exaggerated offense.
“First of all,” he began haughtily, “everyone appreciated the wine. A distinguished 16th century Elven wine, which required significant effort to acquire, I might add. It’s hardly my fault your palate is too tragically pedestrian to appreciate fine craftsmanship.”
Draco gaped. “So your solution was poisoning me?’
“It wasn’t poisoning,” Theo corrected. “It was a lesson. One does not insult my wine choices and walk away unscathed. Frankly, I’m beginning to think years of peroxide have finally seeped into your brain.”
Mattheo nearly inhaled his firewhisky trying not to laugh, while Blaise and Enzo observed the exchange with the sort of rapt fascination usually reserved for Quidditch matches.
“I do not dye my hair!” Draco hissed. “This is natural.”
“Boys,” Pansy interrupted dryly.
Her tone alone could silence armies.
Theo leaned back in his chair with all the elegance of a bored prince, his smirk remaining firmly intact.
“Could you both kindly save your childish bickering for later?” Pansy drawled. “There are more pressing matters at hand.”
A wicked smile curved her crimson lips.
“Such as when exactly Draco intends to ask Hermione Granger out on a proper date.”
Silence.
Utter, catastrophic silence.
Draco visibly paled.
“How do you know about Granger?”
Enzo grinned far too brightly. “Please, cousin. Everyone knows.”
Theo watched with growing amusement as Draco’s expression shifted from horror to betrayal.
“Y/N called it after Granger slapped you in third year,” Enzo added cheerfully.
Draco’s narrowed eyes immediately found you.
“You,” he accused, scandalized. “You were supposed to be above this lot of gossiping heathens, Y/N.”
You, entirely unrepentant, merely shrugged.
“What can I say, Dray? After years surrounded by snakes, corruption was inevitable.”
Theo couldn’t help but laugh softly at the conspiratorial wink you shot Pansy.
Merlin, he adored you.
“Besides,” you added sweetly, “I happen to think you’d make a lovely couple. I could always mention it to her—”
“Absolutely not,” Draco sputtered, cheeks burning a truly spectacular shade of red. “No one will be asking Granger out on my behalf. I’ll handle it myself.”
Theo smirked into his wine.
Dinner continued with laughter, insults, and far too much firewhisky until eventually the group migrated into the lavish sitting room for post-dinner drinks.
Theo settled into a velvet armchair near the roaring fireplace, one ankle crossed over his knee, while Mattheo occupied the chair opposite him.
Across the room, you stood animatedly chatting with Blaise and Enzo about your upcoming graduation.
Theo’s gaze softened instinctively.
You looked radiant.
Hopeful, passionate, alive with purpose.
And Merlin, he was so proud of you.
For years, Theo had witnessed firsthand your unwavering compassion, your fierce determination, and your relentless desire to help others. There was never any doubt in his mind that you would excel as a healer.
St. Mungo’s would be lucky to have you.
“Have you told her yet?”
Mattheo’s question shattered Theo’s reverie.
Theo sighed quietly.
A few weeks earlier, he had made the grave mistake of confessing to Mattheo that he planned to finally reveal his feelings for you. His friend had reacted with deeply unnecessary enthusiasm, claiming it was about bloody time Theo stopped "pining like a Victorian widow."
Rude.
Not inaccurate, unfortunately, but rude nonetheless.
“Not yet,” Theo admitted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I want her graduation to be about her. She’s worked too hard for me to overshadow it.”
Mattheo nodded thoughtfully.
“When do you leave for Rome?”
“The day after graduation.” Theo exhaled. “Nonna needs my help managing family affairs. I’ll tell Y/N when I return. We’ve planned dinner with her mum.”
Mattheo was quiet for a moment. “Do you really think waiting is wise?”
Theo’s gaze instinctively found you again.
You were laughing now—head tilted back slightly, moonlight from the tall windows catching your features just so.
Beautiful.
Always beautiful.
“I’ve already waited years,” Theo murmured softly, almost to himself.
Then, with the kind of devotion that rooted itself deep and permanent, he added:
“I’d wait a thousand more for her.”
Mattheo huffed a laugh. “That is, without question, the most revoltingly romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Theo rolled his eyes.
But Mattheo’s teasing quickly faded, replaced by something more serious.
“Take it from someone who knows,” he said quietly, rising from his seat and clasping Theo’s shoulder. “Sometimes waiting costs you more than you’re prepared to lose.”
Theo frowned slightly.
Mattheo rarely spoke with such gravity.
“Tell her,” his friend urged. “Tell her that you love her before it’s too late.”
The words struck Theo harder than expected.
Because deep down, he already knew Mattheo was right.
Still, as the evening wore on, Theo found himself stealing glances at you from across the room—memorizing your laughter, your smile, the way your eyes lit up when discussing your future.
And for the first time, Theodore Nott truly confronted the terrifying possibility that perhaps time was not as endless as he had always assumed.
Perhaps love, no matter how steadfast, was not something meant to remain unspoken forever.
Perhaps the greatest risk was not telling you at all.
Past
March 15, 2002
Cambridge University — Cambridge, England
Tell her that you love her before it’s too late.
Mattheo’s parting words proved far more persistent than Theo would have liked.
They haunted him.
Relentless. Jarring. And entirely too wise for Theo’s comfort.
Long after the evening at Malfoy Manor ended, after Cambridge’s cobbled streets had fallen silent beneath the veil of night, Theo laid wide awake in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling while his thoughts churned mercilessly.
Sleep, it seemed, had abandoned him entirely.
Outside his window, the quaint campus slumbered peacefully.
Inside, Theo’s mind was chaos.
With an aggravated sigh, he finally surrendered to his restlessness.
This was, unquestionably, Mattheo’s fault.
Careful not to disturb the elderly neighbors who already regarded him with enough suspicion, Theo slipped from bed and padded quietly across his flat.
His office awaited him just beyond the hall—a room lined with dark mahogany shelves, polished wood, and the familiar scent of parchment and candle wax.
Atop his desk sat a pristine stack of monogrammed stationery.
Waiting.
Theo stared as though it might somehow solve the impossible task before him.
With a flick of his wand, candles burst softly to life around the room, casting golden light across the desk’s surface.
The muggle fountain pen you had gifted him for his birthday hovered just above the blank parchment.
And yet—
Nothing.
Theo frowned.
For once in his life, Theodore Nott found himself at a complete loss for words.
Not because he didn’t know how he felt.
Merlin, he knew.
He had replayed his confession a thousand times over in the privacy of his own mind. He knew the depth of it. The ache of it. The terrifying certainty of it.
The problem was not emotion.
It was articulation.
How was he meant to explain something that had become so deeply ingrained within him it no longer felt separate from his own existence?
Theo did not know when exactly friendship had blurred into something deeper.
He only knew that somewhere along the way, loving you had become as natural to him as breathing.
There was no singular moment, no grand revelation, no distinct beginning.
He simply…was.
He loved you in the quiet certainty of shared library afternoons. In every walk to class. In every holiday spent at your family’s table. In every forehead kiss. Every laugh. Every for always.
Theo could scarcely remember who he had been before you.
And perhaps that was the most terrifying realization of all.
Because how could he possibly condense nearly a decade of unwavering devotion into mere words on a page?
How could language ever suffice when it came to you?
Theo exhaled slowly, gripping the pen more firmly.
Then, with trembling resolve, he began the only way that had ever felt right.
Dear Bella.
And just like that, the floodgates opened.
Ink flowed across parchment in elegant, practiced strokes.
Page after page. Confession after confession. Every buried feeling, every hidden longing, every unspoken truth poured from him with startling clarity.
Theo wrote of thestrals and grief, of friendship and survival, of laughter and devotion, of the way you had become his safest place in a world that so often demanded armor.
He wrote of loving you quietly. Completely. Endlessly.
By the time Theo reached the final page, dawn had begun to stretch pale gold fingers across Cambridge’s skyline.
Birdsong stirred faintly outside his window.
The night had slipped away entirely.
And there, at the bottom of the final page, Theo wrote the three words he had spent nearly ten years swallowing whole.
I love you.
Theo stared at them for a long while.
Three simple words.
So small, so fragile, so utterly catastrophic. And yet somehow, they carried the full weight of his heart.
With careful hands, Theo folded the letter.
He sealed nearly a decade of yearning behind emerald wax, pressing his monogrammed crest firmly into place.
Then he sat back, staring at the confession that had the power to alter everything.
His greatest hope.
His greatest fear.
Three little words.
The beginning.
The end.
And perhaps, if fate were kind, something in between.
"this could be the end of everything, so why don't we go somewhere only we know?"
word count: 3,447.
summary: third year is upon theodore nott and time has not been kind to him. reeling from the loss of his mum, he finds comfort in a kind stranger—a hufflepuff, of all things, but theo learns that sometimes the unexpected is exactly what he needs.
author’s note: hey hi hello welcome to yet another theo series. this one is very near and dear to my heart so please be kind as we journey along. as always, please let me know what you think ♡
♫ somewhere only we know - rhianne. nav. more theo.
Past
September 1, 1993
Hogsmeade Village — Scottish Highlands, Scotland
Three little words.
That’s how your story started.
“Are you okay?”
The question sounded warped in his ears as Theodore Nott collapsed against the rough trunk of a weeping willow, bark scraping against his arms and spine while he folded inward, head bowed between trembling knees.
Autumn had settled over Hogsmeade in crisp golds and biting winds, but Theo barely felt the chill. His lungs refused to cooperate, each breath shallow and splintered, as through grief itself had wrapped skeletal fingers around his ribcage and squeezed.
He was shaking.
Eyes bloodshot. Lips cracked. Hands unsteady.
Theo was decidedly not okay.
“I’m fine,” he croaked, though even he could hear how brittle the lie was—how the words cracked apart before they fully left his mouth.
“I see them too.”
Theo slowly lifted his head.
You sat beside him on one of the willow’s sprawling roots, your yellow-and-black Hufflepuff scarf wrapped snugly around your neck. He recognized you vaguely from shared classes—another third year, though he had never spoken more than a passing word to you before now.
Ordinarily, Theo would have dismissed the intrusion. He was a Slytherin, after all, and strangers were rarely worth the effort.
But then you spoke again.
“Is it your first time seeing one?”
Theo’s gaze drifted toward the skeletal creatures grazing at the edge of the village. Their leathery wings shifted against gaunt black bodies, pale eyes glowing eerily beneath hollow faces.
They were grotesque.
And strangely beautiful.
“What are they?” he whispered.
“Thestrals,” you explained softly. “They frightened me too, at first.”
Theo’s throat tightened.
“No one else can see them,” you continued. “Not unless they’ve witnessed death.”
His chest caved inward. “I just lost my mum.”
The confession slipped out before he could stop it, fragile and broken.
You didn’t pity him.
That was what startled him the most.
Instead, you offered him something far more foreign: understanding.
“I’m sorry,” you said gently. “I lost my dad a few years ago. A rare blood curse.”
Your voice softened, though Theo noticed the practiced steadiness in it, as though this was a grief you had learned to carry carefully rather than one that hurt any less.
“He was sick for a long time,” you continued gently. “The healers tried everything they could, but sometimes love doesn’t make you powerful enough to save someone.”
Theo’s brows pinched together. “Does it ever get better?”
Your gaze turned distant for a moment, thoughtful.
“Grief is like a wound,” you said. “Even after it heals, it leaves behind a scar.”
Your hand covered his, warm and steady.
“The stronger the love, the deeper the scar.”
Theo swallowed hard.
“It does get easier,” you promised. “And one day, you won’t resent the scar anymore. You’ll cherish it. Because it proves they were here. That they mattered.”
Such wisdom felt impossible coming from someone so young.
Theo wondered, not for the first time, if he would ever escape the bitterness currently hollowing him out from the inside. Whether he would ever be capable of seeing loss as something survivable instead of something final.
Right now, with his mother’s death still raw and festering inside him, it felt unimaginable.
There were days when getting out of bed seemed insurmountable. Days when joy felt like something meant for other people.
Then came the rustle of paper.
Theo blinked as you unwrapped a chocolate frog and broke off a piece for him.
“The dementors,” you explained, nodding toward the dark shapes patrolling the distant skies. “Chocolate helps.”
Theo accepted it carefully. “Thank you.”
The sweetness melted across his tongue, and though it did little to ease his grief, Theo found himself breathing easier.
Perhaps it wasn’t the chocolate.
Perhaps it was you.
For a while, the two of you sat in silence.
Theo’s eyes wandered once more to the thestrals.
Creatures only visible to those who had suffered unimaginable loss.
Unseen. Misunderstood. Feared.
Lonely.
“We don’t have to take the carriage,” you said after a while. “We can find another way to the castle.”
Theo looked at you in surprise.
“You’d stay?”
Your smile could have rivaled sunlight itself.
“Of course.”
You extended your hand toward him.
“We’re friends now, you and I. I’m Y/N, by the way.”
Theo hesitated only briefly before slipping his hand into yours.
Warmth spread through him like a balm.
“Theodore,” he replied softly. “But you can call me Theo.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Theo.”
The final call for carriages echoed through the clearing.
Fear coiled tight in Theo’s stomach once more.
But your fingers remained laced with his.
Steady. Certain.
Safe.
“I think I can do it,” Theo whispered. “But only if you come with me.”
You squeezed his hand without hesitation.
“I’m with you, Theo,” you said softly. “For always.”
And as he climbed into the carriage—heart pounding, grief aching, fingers clinging to yours like a lifeline—Theo realized something monumental.
For the first time since his mother died, he did not feel entirely alone.
Everything would be alright.
As long as you were with him.
Past
March 14, 2002
Oxford University — Oxford, England
As an only child, Theo had never quite mastered the art of sharing.
Especially not when it came to you.
Since that fateful day in third year, the two of you had become inseparable in every conceivable way. House divisions had proved meaningless in the grand scheme of things. It did not matter that you were a Hufflepuff and he was a Slytherin. Theo still found ways to weave himself into every facet of your life.
You were simply his person.
He walked you to class, studied beside you in the library, shared meals with you in the Great Hall, and found endless excuses to remain by your side.
Even after graduation when Oxford claimed you and Cambridge claimed him, distance had done little to diminish your bond.
You were still his constant.
His safest place.
His bella.
Which was precisely why Theo immediately decided Cedric Diggory’s existence was, at best, deeply inconvenient.
The moment Theo entered the courtyard, his easy grin faltered.
There you were, seated beneath a willow tree on a weathered wooden bench—the very bench Theo privately considered his whenever he visited.
Only today, someone else occupied his rightful place beside you.
Cedric Diggory.
“Teddy!”
Your delighted grin lit up the courtyard as you hurried into his arms, and for one glorious moment, Theo forgot why his blood had begun to simmer.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“Hi bella,” he murmured warmly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I thought I’d arrive early so we could pick out wine for dinner.”
Theo smirked.
“I’m thinking perhaps the cheapest bottle Aldi has to offer, mixed generously with Ribena. It might finally provoke Draco into a proper aristocratic meltdown.”
You laughed.
Cedric watched the exchange carefully.
Too carefully.
“You truly must stop antagonizing Draco,” you scolded half-heartedly. “One day, he’ll ban you from the manor entirely. Then where will you be without Tilly’s sticky toffee pudding?”
Theo gasped dramatically.
“A risk I’m willing to take,” he replied. “That’s what he gets for calling my Elven wine swill.”
A snort interrupted the moment.
Theo’s gaze slid, begrudgingly, toward Diggory.
Right.
Him.
“Forgive us,” you said politely. “Theo, you remember Cedric from school, don’t you?”
Theo offered the man a curt nod.
“Diggory.”
“Nott,” Cedric returned with maddening ease. “Y/N’s told me quite a lot about you.”
“Naturally,” Theo drawled, waving a dismissive hand. “We are best friends, after all. Bonded through trauma and emotional devastation. It’s all terribly profound.”
Theo draped an arm around your shoulders with practiced familiarity.
“There’s no getting rid of me now, is there, bella?”
Cedric’s smile remained easy, though something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
“He’s forever a pain in my arse,” you informed Cedric. “But occasionally charming when he’s not busy being an insufferable Cambridge snob.”
Cedric chuckled.
Theo did not care for how comfortable he seemed.
“You’re attending Cambridge?” Cedric asked.
Theo caught the note of surprise in his tone and immediately disliked it.
“What are you studying?”
“Economics,” Theo replied coolly. “Someone has to repair the catastrophic damage my father inflicted upon our family’s vaults and holdings.”
At the mention of his imprisoned Death Eater father, Cedric visibly stiffened.
“I see,” Cedric said carefully. “That’s…admirable.”
Theo resisted the urge to scoff.
You, sensing the tension, quickly intervened.
“Cedric is finishing his Mastery in Sports Medicine,” you explained. “He’s been helping me with my healing coursework.”
Theo’s jaw tightened imperceptibly.
How thoughtful.
“The immunology curriculum is brutal,” you continued. “Professor Fowler may very well be part troll.”
“The man hasn’t smiled in a century,” Cedric added with a grin. “Though I imagine I wouldn’t either with a stick that far up my arse.”
You laughed.
Theo, personally, found the joke painfully mediocre.
Still, he noted the ease with which Cedric inserted himself into your orbit.
A problem.
“One Hufflepuff helping another,” Cedric said lightly as he adjusted his bag. “We tend to look after our own.”
Theo disliked that far more than he probably should have.
Once Cedric finally excused himself, Theo exhaled sharply.
“Merlin,” he muttered. “I thought he’d never leave.”
You swatted his arm. “Be nice,” you chastised. “Cedric may be my only hope of surviving Immunology.”
Theo effortlessly intercepted your bag before you could protest, slinging it over his shoulder as though it belonged there.
“Fine,” he conceded dramatically. “I suppose Diggory has his uses.”
His arm settled around you once more. “Just don’t go replacing me with him.”
You blinked up at him, amused.
“At the very least,” Theo continued, “find someone equally rich, devastatingly handsome, and exceptionally witty.”
You giggled.
“Not to mention, extremely humble.”
Theo smirked
“I intentionally omitted that trait. I didn’t wish to sound arrogant.”
“Godric forbid,” you quipped, looping your arm through his.
And just like that, balance was restored.
This was how things were meant to be: you and Theo, arm in arm, trading barbs and banter, entirely in sync.
Theo glanced down as you tilted your face towards his, expression suddenly softening.
“You know I could never replace you, right?”
The sincerity in your voice struck him squarely in the chest.
Theo adored that look—that earnest, nose-scrunched seriousness that only ever seemed to emerge when it came to him.
“You’ll always be my person, Theo,” you said firmly. “Nothing is ever going to change that.”
Theo smiled then, truly smiled, and pressed a tender kiss to the crown of your head.
“I know, bella.”
His voice softened into something achingly sincere.
“You’re with me, and I’m with you.”
Theo squeezed your shoulder gently.
“For always.”
Past
March 14, 2002
Malfoy Manor — Wiltshire, England
“What in the bloody hell did you put in this, Nott?”
Theo feigned innocence with remarkable skill, though the mischievous glint in his watercolour eyes betrayed him entirely.
Across the grand dining table, Draco Malfoy glared with all the indignation of an affronted aristocrat while dabbing cheap wine and Ribena from his mouth with a linen napkin.
Beside Theo, you very nearly choked on your risotto trying—and failing—to suppress your laughter.
“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you mean, Draco,” Theo replied smoothly.
“Bullshit,” Draco snapped. “You tampered with my drink because you’re still bitter no one appreciated your precious wine selection at our last dinner.”
Theo set his fork down with exaggerated offense.
“First of all,” he began haughtily, “everyone appreciated the wine. A distinguished 16th century Elven wine, which required significant effort to acquire, I might add. It’s hardly my fault your palate is too tragically pedestrian to appreciate fine craftsmanship.”
Draco gaped. “So your solution was poisoning me?’
“It wasn’t poisoning,” Theo corrected. “It was a lesson. One does not insult my wine choices and walk away unscathed. Frankly, I’m beginning to think years of peroxide have finally seeped into your brain.”
Mattheo nearly inhaled his firewhisky trying not to laugh, while Blaise and Enzo observed the exchange with the sort of rapt fascination usually reserved for Quidditch matches.
“I do not dye my hair!” Draco hissed. “This is natural.”
“Boys,” Pansy interrupted dryly.
Her tone alone could silence armies.
Theo leaned back in his chair with all the elegance of a bored prince, his smirk remaining firmly intact.
“Could you both kindly save your childish bickering for later?” Pansy drawled. “There are more pressing matters at hand.”
A wicked smile curved her crimson lips.
“Such as when exactly Draco intends to ask Hermione Granger out on a proper date.”
Silence.
Utter, catastrophic silence.
Draco visibly paled.
“How do you know about Granger?”
Enzo grinned far too brightly. “Please, cousin. Everyone knows.”
Theo watched with growing amusement as Draco’s expression shifted from horror to betrayal.
“Y/N called it after Granger slapped you in third year,” Enzo added cheerfully.
Draco’s narrowed eyes immediately found you.
“You,” he accused, scandalized. “You were supposed to be above this lot of gossiping heathens, Y/N.”
You, entirely unrepentant, merely shrugged.
“What can I say, Dray? After years surrounded by snakes, corruption was inevitable.”
Theo couldn’t help but laugh softly at the conspiratorial wink you shot Pansy.
Merlin, he adored you.
“Besides,” you added sweetly, “I happen to think you’d make a lovely couple. I could always mention it to her—”
“Absolutely not,” Draco sputtered, cheeks burning a truly spectacular shade of red. “No one will be asking Granger out on my behalf. I’ll handle it myself.”
Theo smirked into his wine.
Dinner continued with laughter, insults, and far too much firewhisky until eventually the group migrated into the lavish sitting room for post-dinner drinks.
Theo settled into a velvet armchair near the roaring fireplace, one ankle crossed over his knee, while Mattheo occupied the chair opposite him.
Across the room, you stood animatedly chatting with Blaise and Enzo about your upcoming graduation.
Theo’s gaze softened instinctively.
You looked radiant.
Hopeful, passionate, alive with purpose.
And Merlin, he was so proud of you.
For years, Theo had witnessed firsthand your unwavering compassion, your fierce determination, and your relentless desire to help others. There was never any doubt in his mind that you would excel as a healer.
St. Mungo’s would be lucky to have you.
“Have you told her yet?”
Mattheo’s question shattered Theo’s reverie.
Theo sighed quietly.
A few weeks earlier, he had made the grave mistake of confessing to Mattheo that he planned to finally reveal his feelings for you. His friend had reacted with deeply unnecessary enthusiasm, claiming it was about bloody time Theo stopped "pining like a Victorian widow."
Rude.
Not inaccurate, unfortunately, but rude nonetheless.
“Not yet,” Theo admitted, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I want her graduation to be about her. She’s worked too hard for me to overshadow it.”
Mattheo nodded thoughtfully.
“When do you leave for Rome?”
“The day after graduation.” Theo exhaled. “Nonna needs my help managing family affairs. I’ll tell Y/N when I return. We’ve planned dinner with her mum.”
Mattheo was quiet for a moment. “Do you really think waiting is wise?”
Theo’s gaze instinctively found you again.
You were laughing now—head tilted back slightly, moonlight from the tall windows catching your features just so.
Beautiful.
Always beautiful.
“I’ve already waited years,” Theo murmured softly, almost to himself.
Then, with the kind of devotion that rooted itself deep and permanent, he added:
“I’d wait a thousand more for her.”
Mattheo huffed a laugh. “That is, without question, the most revoltingly romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
Theo rolled his eyes.
But Mattheo’s teasing quickly faded, replaced by something more serious.
“Take it from someone who knows,” he said quietly, rising from his seat and clasping Theo’s shoulder. “Sometimes waiting costs you more than you’re prepared to lose.”
Theo frowned slightly.
Mattheo rarely spoke with such gravity.
“Tell her,” his friend urged. “Tell her that you love her before it’s too late.”
The words struck Theo harder than expected.
Because deep down, he already knew Mattheo was right.
Still, as the evening wore on, Theo found himself stealing glances at you from across the room—memorizing your laughter, your smile, the way your eyes lit up when discussing your future.
And for the first time, Theodore Nott truly confronted the terrifying possibility that perhaps time was not as endless as he had always assumed.
Perhaps love, no matter how steadfast, was not something meant to remain unspoken forever.
Perhaps the greatest risk was not telling you at all.
Past
March 15, 2002
Cambridge University — Cambridge, England
Tell her that you love her before it’s too late.
Mattheo’s parting words proved far more persistent than Theo would have liked.
They haunted him.
Relentless. Jarring. And entirely too wise for Theo’s comfort.
Long after the evening at Malfoy Manor ended, after Cambridge’s cobbled streets had fallen silent beneath the veil of night, Theo laid wide awake in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling while his thoughts churned mercilessly.
Sleep, it seemed, had abandoned him entirely.
Outside his window, the quaint campus slumbered peacefully.
Inside, Theo’s mind was chaos.
With an aggravated sigh, he finally surrendered to his restlessness.
This was, unquestionably, Mattheo’s fault.
Careful not to disturb the elderly neighbors who already regarded him with enough suspicion, Theo slipped from bed and padded quietly across his flat.
His office awaited him just beyond the hall—a room lined with dark mahogany shelves, polished wood, and the familiar scent of parchment and candle wax.
Atop his desk sat a pristine stack of monogrammed stationery.
Waiting.
Theo stared as though it might somehow solve the impossible task before him.
With a flick of his wand, candles burst softly to life around the room, casting golden light across the desk’s surface.
The muggle fountain pen you had gifted him for his birthday hovered just above the blank parchment.
And yet—
Nothing.
Theo frowned.
For once in his life, Theodore Nott found himself at a complete loss for words.
Not because he didn’t know how he felt.
Merlin, he knew.
He had replayed his confession a thousand times over in the privacy of his own mind. He knew the depth of it. The ache of it. The terrifying certainty of it.
The problem was not emotion.
It was articulation.
How was he meant to explain something that had become so deeply ingrained within him it no longer felt separate from his own existence?
Theo did not know when exactly friendship had blurred into something deeper.
He only knew that somewhere along the way, loving you had become as natural to him as breathing.
There was no singular moment, no grand revelation, no distinct beginning.
He simply…was.
He loved you in the quiet certainty of shared library afternoons. In every walk to class. In every holiday spent at your family’s table. In every forehead kiss. Every laugh. Every for always.
Theo could scarcely remember who he had been before you.
And perhaps that was the most terrifying realization of all.
Because how could he possibly condense nearly a decade of unwavering devotion into mere words on a page?
How could language ever suffice when it came to you?
Theo exhaled slowly, gripping the pen more firmly.
Then, with trembling resolve, he began the only way that had ever felt right.
Dear Bella.
And just like that, the floodgates opened.
Ink flowed across parchment in elegant, practiced strokes.
Page after page. Confession after confession. Every buried feeling, every hidden longing, every unspoken truth poured from him with startling clarity.
Theo wrote of thestrals and grief, of friendship and survival, of laughter and devotion, of the way you had become his safest place in a world that so often demanded armor.
He wrote of loving you quietly. Completely. Endlessly.
By the time Theo reached the final page, dawn had begun to stretch pale gold fingers across Cambridge’s skyline.
Birdsong stirred faintly outside his window.
The night had slipped away entirely.
And there, at the bottom of the final page, Theo wrote the three words he had spent nearly ten years swallowing whole.
I love you.
Theo stared at them for a long while.
Three simple words.
So small, so fragile, so utterly catastrophic. And yet somehow, they carried the full weight of his heart.
With careful hands, Theo folded the letter.
He sealed nearly a decade of yearning behind emerald wax, pressing his monogrammed crest firmly into place.
Then he sat back, staring at the confession that had the power to alter everything.
His greatest hope.
His greatest fear.
Three little words.
The beginning.
The end.
And perhaps, if fate were kind, something in between.
Translated works without permission (mine and possibly other tumblr authors)
3 of my works have been translated without my permission and it is among the 373 translated tumblr fics on this Wattpad account @ Mel_Potter_Black. Based on my case with them, I have a feeling that they also have not approached and asked for permission from a lot of tumblr authors.
Their translated works include: 186 Theodore Nott fics, 40 Percy Jackson tumblr fics, 50 James Potter fics, 25 Luke Castellan fics, 49 Mattheo Riddle fics, 23 Draco Malfoy fics.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
First and foremost, I have explicitly stated on my pinned Tumblr post that I do not want my works translated or redistributed elsewhere.
Long story short, there were a lot of red flags that this account has displayed.
They blocked someone who had questioned them if they had my permission to translate my works.
They have never even reached out to me asking for permission.
They translated my works even though I have stated very clearly that I do not want my works translated.
They never replied to me and even deleted my comment politely asking them to remove my work because they never had my permission and that I don’t want my works translated (though, fortunately they did remove the translated works as asked, so at least that’s the plus side). This once again wiped clean evidence of permission issue on their account, very much continuing a “covering up their track” behavior.
They also translated one of the original author’s usernames into Portuguese too, which is strange and improper crediting because that defeats the whole point of crediting overall, as readers won't even be able to trace back to the original author at all (especially if you are not linking to the original work or the original author’s page, which they are not doing).
Given their highly questionable and suspicious behaviors to my case (did not ask for my permission, translated works from an author who does not want their works translated, attempted to hide the fact that they have never gotten permission from me (the original author), blocked those who question it, shows signs of improper crediting), I have reasons to suspect that many tumblr authors of the other 370 translated works on this Wattpad account also do not know that their works have been translated, and that this Wattpad account have translated without their permission and/or improperly credit them.
I did contemplate for a while whether to write and publish about this too. However, I feel like it’s all too suspicious for me to just ignore and 300+ fics is a lot. Also, the fact that they straight up blocked the person who questioned if they had my permission implied that they must feel like what they are doing is not right.
So…if you are a tumblr writer of any of the characters mentioned above (especially Theodore Nott because 186 is INSANE if most of them don't have the original author's permissions and/or authors don’t want their works translated), just be aware that your works may have been translated without permission. And if the issue of translation without permission is personally important to you, maybe check to see if your works are on their account.
PS. Though, please don’t send them death threats or something like that. They could be a child who doesn’t know any better for all we know.
Ik this is annoying asf but does anyone have a kuroo x reader fic which was inspired by when life gives you tangerines, I've been trying to find it for a week now and nothing 💔💔
summary: he has a reputation to uphold. he’s sarcastic, smug. definitely not the type to fumble over himself the moment you walk into the karasuno gym. right? [wc. 3k]
pairing: kei tsukishima x reader
note from sunnie: part 2 is here !!! i have some other stuff im working on but i do have plans for a part 3!
one
Kei Tsukishima is a coward, and he knows it.
He’s just banking on no one else on his team being able to pick up on the fact. But judging by the halfway smug look Kiyoko flashed at him when the Nekoma team filed out of the gym—taking you with them—he’s certain at least someone has figured him out.
At least it’s Kiyoko. She’s the least annoying of the bunch; the least likely to spill to the others.
So when you leave, it’s with no fanfare. No desperate confession on his part. Not even a conversation, or a wave. He does a pretty good job of pretending that he doesn’t really care, because that’s his whole thing. Forced apathy to stay a safe distance away from anything he might get too attached to. Anything that might make him actually feel something.
He puts you out of his mind, for the most part.
Sometimes, late at night when his brain just won’t shut off, the image of your lips curved into a perfect half smirk comes to life in his head. He hates it, hates the way it makes him feel, so much so that he almost snaps and talks to Tadashi about it by a month after the practice match. Almost.
He doesn’t get that far.
Yet.
When Nekoma invites Karasuno to Tokyo for an overnight training camp, he’s dreading seeing you. It’ll just make everything worse—having a fresh picture of you smirking, a new image of you smiling. Whatever effort he’s gone through to force his feelings to fade will be in vain if he shows up to the city and you… just exist.
He’s more disappointed than he’d ever admit, even at gunpoint, when he doesn’t see you at the camp.
There’s no chance he’d ask about you, but that doesn’t stop him from eavesdropping on a conversation between Nekoma’s bleached-mohawk-Tanaka and Karasuno’s baseline-bald-Tanaka about you.
They say something about how you’re not actually the team’s manager. Something about how sometimes, it’s better for you to be with the team than at home. Nekoma’s player doesn’t go into any further detail, and Tanaka proves that he has some grace by not pushing the matter. Kei doesn’t know what any of that means, exactly, but it doesn’t scare him off.
He likes you even more, he thinks. Knowing that you’re not this perfect, infallible person. That you probably don’t get along with your parents so much so that it’s better for you to just not be home when your brother isn’t there to run interference. It makes you more human, more approachable.
It doesn’t make you any less devastatingly beautiful to him, though.
Which sucks. Because he’s already finding it nearly impossible to focus, and he’d really like to find a way over this stupid crush.
He leaves Tokyo without even a glimpse of you. Which is fine. He prefers it this way, actually.
Totally.
But the real problem starts during the summer, when he finds himself back in the city for a whole week.
The first time you really see him is in the summer.
Of course, you remember him from the spring. But you spent nearly the entirety of the Karasuno trip in a borderline foul mood that kept you from interacting with the others as much as you probably would have.
On the ride home, Tetsuro had said you acted like extreme-Kenma, and when you (and Kenma) asked him what that even meant, he said you were next-level anti-social.
(You had thrown a water bottle at him, which Coach Nekomata saw and gave you his disappointed look that made you shrink into your train seat as far as you could.)
You ask Kenma about him—that smug blond with glasses on Karasuno’s bench—exactly once. You trust Kenma not to rat to Tetsuro about you asking about a boy because you’ve known him what feels like your entire life and that means you know he doesn’t care enough about why you’d want to know to mention it to your brother.
Kenma tells you his name is Tsukishima. He’s playing games while he talks, because of course, which is even better because that means he probably won’t actually remember this conversation. You don’t really ask for more details, not wanting to test your luck, but Kenma shares regardless.
“Shoyo says he’s kinda mean. And, like, did you see the way he frowned at literally everyone?”
You didn’t really need Kenma’s insider information from Shoyo—the loud ginger? with the freaky quick attack?—to know that Tsukishima is probably kind of mean and frowns a lot. But you don’t really know why you’re even bothering to ask anyways, so you leave it at that and pester Kenma with other questions.
Life moves on. You mostly forget about the tall blond who gave you an attitude you didn’t deserve but also didn’t entirely mind.
Summer break rolls around, and you find yourself tagging along with Tetsuro and the rest of the team to the training camp hosted yearly by Shinzen.
No one questions your presence. Your brother made it clear from the start that you were off limits—in more ways than one, according to Kenma—and the rest of the team simply followed his lead. You help out without being asked and give Tetsuro a run for his money, so the team doesn’t mind you joining.
And you’re glad you don’t have to fight to go with them.
Because taking on the role of Nekoma’s manager without the official title is way easier than fighting with your parents every day for a whole week.
The first day of summer training camp starts the same as every other training you’ve crashed. You’re in the gym, helping everyone prep for the long day of practice—read: wrangling Lev into his gear and shutting up his complaining about having had to wake up so early—when the final team arrives.
Of course, you had known Karasuno was invited. Tetsuro hadn’t stopped talking about finally showing up their captain, once and for all. But you didn’t think you’d care as much as you do when you catch the sea of black and orange wandering into the gym from the corner of your eye.
You pause in your attempts to straighten out the practice jersey Lev’s supposed to be wearing, letting your curious gaze wander over the final team. You hadn’t really gotten a good look at Karasuno’s players while in Miyagi, because as much as you were loath to admit, Tetsuro was right about how awful your mood had been.
Now, you’re seizing your chance to look your fill.
The tall blond—Tsukishima, if you’re remembering correctly—catches your attention, again. He doesn’t look exactly pleased to be here, much unlike his teammates. A few of which, you notice, are literally bouncing. But he still manages to keep your focus, if only long enough for you to figure out his deal.
He’s cute, you’ll admit to no one but yourself, and even that’s a stretch. You like that he’s clearly not tripping over himself to bend to anyone’s standards—but you wonder how deep that apathy really goes.
“Who’re you staring at?” Lev’s question, directed towards you, carries across the gym in a voice way louder than anything you could have expected. A handful of heads turn, you notice in the few scant seconds it takes you to process, and suddenly you have an audience—all trying to figure out who you were staring at.
All thanks to Haiba’s loud mouth.
“Lev, come here,” Your voice is deceptively calm, though no one can miss the lethal edge simmering underneath as heat rises to your cheeks. Embarrassed, the fabric of the practice jersey is pulled tight in your grip, and nothing about your current state says Lev would be safe coming close.
There’s a long pause, where he’s clearly thinking through the situation. A crowd gathers, mostly Nekoma players, but a good chunk of Karasuno is watching, too. Your brother and Bokuto are giggling together at the edge of the fray, and you know they’re betting on the odds of Lev making it out of this situation unharmed.
“... No.” Lev makes his first smart decision of the morning. So smart, actually, he takes a step away from you. In the crowd, you’re pretty certain you hear Yamamoto tell him to ‘man up and face the consequences’.
“Just come here.” You match his step backward with one forward of your own. Your lips are pulled down in a pout born of annoyance, and you’re sure your sour expression isn’t helping to convince Lev that you can be trusted. “I’m only going to strangle you with your own jersey.”
“I didn’t even do anything!” Lev argues, long arms thrown up in a defense no one actually believes, even if they didn’t hear his stupid, stupid comment about you staring. “You were watching—”
“I wasn’t!” You shout, interrupting before he can finish his thought. You’re just as unconvincing as him, sadly, because your face is burning so hot it’s practically impossible to deny the fact that you were most definitely staring at someone on one of the opposing teams. You can’t even get yourself to glance in Tsukishima’s direction, fearing that he’ll somehow know it was him you were looking at if you make any eye contact.
You’re only left with one choice, really.
“Yaku!” You call out, finding the libero at the edge of the crowd, talking in low voices with Kai not too far away. He perks up at the call of his name, and you think Lev shrinks in fear before you even do anything. “Lev says he’s probably better at receiving than you, ‘cause he’s so much taller.”
It’s a lie, but you know which buttons to push.
Lev pales. Yaku throws a water bottle. Lev screams. And you make your escape in the chaos.
You glance over your shoulder, only once, and find that Tsukishima is looking at you. He’s smirking, lips curved just sharp enough, as if he can read you and knows exactly why you panicked so hard you sent Yaku after poor Lev.
He’s smirking and you realize all at once that you’re screwed.
Night one is uneventful.
Unsurprisingly, your brother drags you off to a spare gym for extra practice. Really, it’s just an excuse to mess with Bokuto and try to block his spikes, but you go nonetheless because it’s what you’ve always done.
You’re able to think clearly, too. In this second gym with only guys from Nekoma and a handful of Fukurodani players.
Unlike when Karasuno was in sight.
You don’t make it obvious—at least, god you hope you don’t—but you’ve found yourself watching Tsukishima more often than not. So long as you thought you could get away with it, your gaze was drifting towards him throughout the day.
And on more than a few occasions, you tried to sneak a glance and met his eye already watching you instead.
So it’s almost like a reprieve, finally being in a room devoid of the blond that’s captured your attention despite your best efforts to maintain a distance.
“Bo, you’re crazy if you think I’m going to try and block your spikes.” You call out, not feeling the slightest bit guilty for making Bokuto’s expression fall. He managed to successfully rope you into tossing balls to Akaashi for him to set, with your brother on the other side of the net dutifully jumping to meet each spike.
You, on the other hand, do not possess the power to stop a hit from a top-five ace.
“But it’s not as fun with just one blocker!” Bokuto whines, arms moving exaggeratedly with his complaints. Your attention cuts sideways towards your brother, and you know what he’s going to say—and what the conversation is going to devolve into—before he actually speaks.
Might as well just wait it out.
“Are you saying I’m not enough of a challenge for you?” Testuro presses, getting as close to the net as he could without touching it, hands propped on his hips and chest puffed. You roll your eyes, wholly used to his posturing, especially when it comes to proving his skill against opponents he deems worthy.
Plus, it doesn’t hurt that Bokuto’s so easy to rile up.
“Is that why you’ve been stuffed the last three spikes? Kuroo’s too easy to play against?” Akaashi asks his own teammate, a flat insult and unexpected addition to the conversation that makes you stifle a laugh into your palm. Bokuto gasps, offended, and whirls around to glare at him.
“Shut up, Akaashi!”
If you were paying attention to your brother, you would’ve seen his attention catch on something behind you, something near the gym doors. You would’ve been able to intercept before he called out, and maybe you would’ve even prevented him from even noticing the new figure walking past outside.
But you’re not paying attention, and you’re taken by surprise when your brother shouts loud enough his voice carries through the open gym doors.
“Hey, Tsukishima! Come block a few for us.”
You almost jump at the name. It’s a tough fight against making the heat rising in your cheeks obvious. But you manage to stay neutral, if not a touch too forcibly-uninterested, and turn towards the gym doors. Casually.
He’s standing there, just outside the entrance, and you have to remind yourself that you don’t know him, no matter how much time you spent that day watching him. There’s absolutely no reason for the way your heart kicks up a beat when you meet his eyes, only for a split second, before he’s looking back to your brother.
No reason, and yet it does.
“Uh, no thanks.” Tsukishima says, voice so unyieldingly disinterested in the idea. That catches your attention, because you might not know him, but you have spent the better part of a day watching him play in match after match with his team.
And while he’s not the most flashy player, or filled with crazy skill and innate talent, you see what’s hiding underneath. You see the potential, and how if his current ability was just tested, pushed and polished, he had the ability to be something.
You’ve spent enough years watching Testuro and Kenma at practices. While you might not play volleyball yourself, you know the sport well. And Tsukishima? He has everything at his disposal to go to the next level, but you don’t think you’ve actually seen him try.
“What, are you just going to bed?” Bokuto asks, having forgotten his annoyance from Akaashi’s sleight. You cut a quick glance to the Fukurodani ace, and see he’s just as visibly confused as you are on the inside. “No extra practice?”
“We’ve been practicing all day.” Tsukishima defends. His voice sounds like a sigh, like he can’t fathom a reason why anyone would bother with refining skills after practice matches.
You can’t help it any longer.
“And you’ve been taking penalties all day.” You’re talking before you realize it, volleyball resting on one of your cocked hips as you meet his stare challengingly. You think you see something like surprise flash across his face at you directly addressing him, maybe even some color burning the highest points of his ears.
“What?” He asks, gaze cutting sideways to your brother for a split second. You know he’ll get no help from Testuro, so you continue with a shrug full of far more attitude than probably necessary.
“Nothing.” You check your nails just to spite him, like you don’t actually care as much as your interjection might prove otherwise. But, really, who is he to know exactly what you’re truly thinking? “Just, you must like running laps, s’all.”
It’s instinct, the way your eyes meet his and lips curve up into a smirk. Akaashi snorts, while Bokuto and your brother try to smother their laughter. You don’t take your attention away from Tsukishima, which is how you see his unimpressed expression melt into something almost amused.
“Well, there’s nothing like building stamina to help increase my performance.” He counters, voice flippant and light and a smug grin dancing on his lips. Oh, he’s challenging you, and you are absolutely going to take the bait. And what’s more—you’re going to win.
You can already tell he’s going to be fun to mess with.
“What’re you performing for?” You tilt your head to the side, face almost mockingly confused with knitted brows and a faux pout. “Stamina won’t matter if you don’t have the skill to make it to the next round.”
Tsukishima’s teasing grin is wiped away almost instantly. Instead, he’s clenching his jaw in annoyance at your sleight. Except, annoyance doesn’t seem like the right word. Not when you can see his blush spreading from the tips of his ears to the column of his neck.
Though you shouldn’t probably be looking so closely.
“Maybe… lay off the guy, yeah?” Testuro interrupts, no doubt sensing the building tension. You remember, then, that you’re not alone and you have to live with your brother, so if he notices the way you have some unreasonable interest in his Karasuno rival, he will be utterly impossible.
You have to back down—for now.
“He’ll survive.” You wave a hand through the air, glancing at Testuro for only a moment before fixing your attention back on the blond still lingering just outside the door. You watch for a moment as he shifts his weight on his feet, looking almost unsure of himself in a way you’re pretty certain he’s not used to. “Goodnight, Tsukishima.”
He hesitates, like he’s going to say something more. He must change his mind, you think, because he turns away and starts walking, only calling out over his shoulder.
“Night.” He says, and he doesn’t even look at you when he says it.
You don’t realize you’re smirking until Testuro fakes a gag.
“Gross.”
“Akaashi… was that flirting?”
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