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[dreamcubed]

♫cd baby, wish that you would date me♫

welcome to the kitchen!

wips;

✍︎i can do it with a broken heart (george weasley) | ᥕrі𝗍іᥒg

latest oneshots;

✔︎thank you aimee (regulus black) | 𝖿ᥱᑲrᥙᥲrᥡ 14𝗍һ

✔︎i can fix him (no really i can) (regulus black) | ​ძᥱᥴᥱmᑲᥱr 27𝗍һ

✔︎fortnight (lorenzo berkshire) | ᥆ᥴ𝗍᥆ᑲᥱr 29𝗍һ

✔︎loml (blaise zabini) | sᥱ⍴𝗍ᥱmᑲᥱr 16𝗍һ

✔︎the tortured poets department (mattheo riddle) | sᥱ⍴𝗍ᥱmᑲᥱr 7𝗍һ

[dreamcubed]

sorry for being awol, i promise im working as hard as i can on getting the next oneshot out, ive just got a lot on my plate. (job market is so so rough and i need a job for summer and idk how im gonna pay rent so lol) anyways, just wanted to make it clear i haven’t disappeared, im still writing… just very slowly

lots of love!! <3

[dreamcubed]

thank you aimee | regulus black x reader

song; thank you aimee [taylor swift] pairing; autistic-coded!regulus black x fem!autistic-coded!ravenclaw!reader genre; s2l, slow burn(ish), light angst, fluff word count; 11,4k timeline; marauders era, no voldemort au warnings; bullying, discrimination (implied to be autism based), implied depression, regulus' family issues, blood status talks, alcohol consumption, swearing summary; aimee arachwood was out for blood when it came to you, unnerved by your unusual presence and unreactive nature. as her bullying tactics become more extreme, she inadvertently pushes the cold and arrogant regulus black in your direction

unedited as hell but happy valentines!

masterlist

"there wouldn't be this if there hadn't been you."

———————————————

Melancholia had always echoed in your footsteps, hanging over you in a cloud of dampness and grey that lingered no matter the weather. Your drawn and quiet face, reserved in its rarest smiles and yet absence of tears, unnerved many. Perhaps it was the heaviness that glossed over your eyes, or maybe it was the silence in which you moved — either way, people did not like the presence you brought, the energy you lived in. You felt it in the way they stared as you passed, in the way they avoided conversation with you, in the way no one ever sat next to you in class.

Raindrops fascinated you, always had, ever since you were a small child sat by the window during rainfall, watching the droplets cascade down the glass in an unpredictable and mesmerising manner. Little pieces of nature that you could see through, but only in distortion. Raindrops represented sadness, but also new beginnings, when every inch of land is rinsed clean to start fresh. Farmers favoured some amount of rainfall, but most people complained when the heavens opened, complaining of their recently washed hair or perfectly applied makeup.

You never complained — not about rain, not about anything. Your parents continually remarked that you were an easy child, never crying, never running off, never waking up in the night. They were blinded by parental love to how others perceived you, a fragment of blue in a sea of yellow.

Studies were what you focused on, in your lack of friendships and hobbies, grateful that Hogwarts was in Scotland as it meant you would frequently be graced with the view of precipitation as you worked. You poured over your books, learning and practicing magic as if it were a religion. After performing so well in your OWLs that you did not drop a single mark, your professors asked if you wished to take your NEWTs a year early, as your knowledge and ability already extended far beyond that.

You accepted, moving into the classes of the year above with the ease in which a storm shifts to its next town, but there was no thunder. Only cautious curiosity as you slipped into your first class of the school year, a sixth year masquerading as a seventh. You sat down at an empty desk, noticing but not acknowledging the unspoken questions. The seat beside you was vacant, and you expected it to stay that way — the seventh years would not be any different than your old classmates. They would view you in the same distorted way, as if gazing through a raindrop.

Then Regulus Black walked in.

He was a man of darkness and grace, of pristine manners yet abrasive seclusion. The way he held himself spoke of confidence and privilege, but there had always been an awkwardness to him. He was a contradiction of a man, and unlike anyone else you had seen around Hogwarts — not even his own brother, Sirius Black.

Still, you had never paid much mind to him, not until now, when he scanned the room of free seats, but decided to sit next to you. For the first time, you felt unnerved, understanding in the flash of a second how people felt when they saw you. Regulus Black had unnerved you, deciding you were the most adequate seating partner in a room full of people he had known for years. In a room full of his fellow Slytherins.

He did not greet you, did not even look your way once he was settled, and that was somehow more unnerving than a polite "hello".

"Good morning, class," Professor McGonagall called to attention, "Your last year at Hogwarts is upon you, and I trust you are all well-prepared to study tirelessly for your NEWTs."

Groans littered the room, but not from your shared desk. No sound came from you or Black.

"As you can see, we have a new addition," she continued, "Miss L/N will be taking her NEWTs a year early, and I think you should all aspire to have as rigorous a study schedule as her."

"Freak," a girl said through a badly forged cough. She was in your house, and knew your nature. Giggles and chuckles emerged across the room, implying your character was more well-known than you had originally thought. Or maybe they just thought you were a nerd.

Regardless, you were unreactive. Their words did not hurt you, their distaste was of no relevance.

***

The girl who had mocked you in class, Aimee Arachwood, had largely left you to yourself before you joined her year. Perhaps she had whispered as you walked past, perhaps she had muttered callous and overused insults about you when your presence was in lack, but she had never gone out of her way to target you. Now, though, your poised fellow Ravenclaw — pure-blood, from a family littered with Slytherins — had dubbed you an enemy of sorts, if that. You were probably more adjacent to the mud smudged on the soles of her designer shoes.

It was obvious that she was becoming increasingly irritated at the fact she could not get to you. After realising words would not cut through the thick barrier of your skin, she had attempted more physical forms of abuse. Only, you would have not been allowed to skip a year had your duelling skills not been excellent: she quickly realised that she could not beat you magically. And, in a last resort effort, after weeks of your indifference, she staged an elaborate plan of humiliation.

Because there was one person that Arachwood feared, one person she would not dare touch, along with every other member of the school. Regulus Black was regarded as a dangerous individual, one that should be approached with caution.

Meaning he was the perfect person to finally get under your skin.

So, when he faced you with a glare sharp as knives in his eyes, and scowled eyebrows, you instantly had a feeling that Arachwood was involved. Because Regulus Black was not an aggressor— he never went out of his way to bother anyone, in fact he, by all accounts, preferred to keep entirely to himself. He then presented you with a notebook, a seemingly personal one not for lessons, that had been burned and blackened in such a manner that it was rendered entirely illegible.

You glanced at it, then him, and tilted your head.

He then held up a necklace, one that had gone missing from your jewellery box a mere two days prior, and the pieces clicked together in your head.

"How fucking dare you?"

Adjusting the bag strap on your shoulder, you shrugged, "I would not, nor did I."

He stared at you, questioning your audacity to deny the crime when he had evidence clutched in his fist. "This is your necklace."

You nodded, "It is."

"It has your initials engraved into it."

"It does."

"And it was right next to my burnt notebook."

"Damning, for sure."

Your blunt responses appeared to take him by surprise, but he continued, "You think it's a coincidence?"

"A coincidence? No," you shook your head, "I'm sure the placement of my necklace— specifically the one bearing my initials— at the scene of the crime was more than intentional."

Black paused for a few moments, considering what you were saying, before replying, "You are suggesting that someone framed you?"

"I never wear that necklace," you said simply, "I'm afraid I cannot prove that fact, but it is the truth. Nor do I have any means of entering the Slytherin dungeons."

"And who would have access to both Ravenclaw and Slytherin?"

You shrugged, "Probably a Ravenclaw from a pure-blood noble house."

Then, Regulus Black unnerved you again: he thought about the situation in the flash of a few seconds (something he apparently had not yet done), and frowned at the necklace clutched in his fist. "Aimee Arachwood."

Your mouth settled into a grim line.

"She has targeted you recently."

It really unnerved you that he had noticed that.

"But she has yet to affect you. She thought that I would."

"Well, yes," you spoke, clipped and oddly unsure. It killed you to admit it, but Arachwood was on the right track: Black did affect you.

And just like that, the man's cold fury swept away with him as he stormed off, throwing your necklace back to you in the process. You watched as the metal skidded across the flagstone floors, reaching a stop near your feet, the only proof you had that Black had spared you his anger. With a sigh, you picked it up, wondering what about you pissed Arachwood off to such an alarming extent.

***

You had anticipated that Arachwood's eyes would be pinned on to your silhouette the second that you entered the Great Hall for dinner, yet you were unsure as to whether Black had confronted her regarding his damaged property. After a quick scan of the Slytherin table, you noted his absence, before sitting down as far away from Arachwood as you could at the end of the Ravenclaw table. The bubbling pots of curry quickly became the new focus of your attentions, and you began scooping rice on to your plate, almost missing the approaching shadow that placed herself directly opposite you.

"Good day?" she asked, her head tilted to the side.

Gracing her with an incredulous look, you replied, "Decidedly average."

She pursed her lips ever so slightly, before continuing, "Really? Haven't had any trouble? Any unsavoury interactions?"

"Not until now."

Arachwood soured at that response. "Well, I'm sure that will change."

And then her eyes flitted to somewhere behind you, her sourness instantly evaporating as she fought to hide a smile. You wondered what could have cheered her up, until Regulus Black stood at the head of the table — his arms crossed and his eyes cold.

You said nothing, moving to add some curry on top of the rice on your plate.

"Is there a problem, Black?" Arachwood smiled sweetly, glancing at you.

"I think you know very well there is," he answered bluntly, also sparing you a glance.

She seemed to hesitate at those words, trying to piece together the unexpected fallout.

"I don't much appreciate my belongings being destroyed," he said, an unnervingly calm essence lacing his tone as he reached into his satchel, pulling out the evidence, "Care to explain this?"

"It— it wasn't me!" she quickly rebutted, turning her panicked yet menacing eyes to you, "It was L/N!"

You quirked an eyebrow at her, trying to understand her thought process.

"And what reason would she have to do this?"

"I don't know," she tried to regather her composure, "What reason would I have?"

"To frame me," you finally spoke, "So that I face Black's wrath and finally feel some semblance of the hurt that you so desperately want me to feel."

Arachwood looked to Black, as if she was trying to wordlessly say, "Can you believe this girl?" but she realised fast that his cold gaze was still trained on to her. She eventually said, "You can't seriously think it was me based off a theory. It could just as easily have been L/N."

"The fact you cannot see the flaws in your own plan is deeply concerning," Black said, resting his hands on the table as he leaned down, "But let me just say this." He then whispered something in Arachwood's ear so quietly that you could not decipher it, but you noticed the way her face paled and her body froze. The second he pulled away, she excused herself to return to her friends further down the table.

You glanced at Black, who was watching her leave with an intriguing but faint mix of amusement and anger, until he switched to look at you. That was when you felt unnerved again, being the object of his scrutinous gaze and near unreadable thoughts.

Then he left, leaving behind remnants of his greyed aura.

***

Never before had you pondered about someone once they were outside your peripheral, but ever since Black had looked at you in such an analytical way, he had plagued your thoughts. He scared you. Terrified you, even. Because he looked at you like he saw you, not through a raindrop, not through a distorted lens, but in crystal clear image. You weren't sure what to do with it, if anything at all.

Arachwood, on the other hand, retreated almost entirely whenever Black was around: she still graced you with dirty looks whenever you walked by, but her eyes would then always fearfully glance away to him across the room. As usual, you paid her no mind, taking your seat in class without any qualms— except for the fact your seat was next to the terrifying Slytherin. Not that you exchanged any words with him, though his presence alone affected you in such a way that you found yourself habitually bouncing your leg.

"Stop that," he muttered, after a good few lessons of your ministrations.

"Hm?"

"Stop bouncing your leg," he clarified, "It's irritating."

You glanced at him, but he wasn't looking at you. "Sorry," you sighed, forcibly stilling.

He continued taking notes as McGonagall spoke, but you found yourself unable to focus, which was alarmingly out of character for you. This did not go unnoticed by Black.

"This is important," he said almost coldly, "I would recommend writing it down."

Tentatively, you went to pick up your quill, but every word spoken by McGonagall was blurring into an unintelligible sequence of sounds, and instead you found yourself staring at where you had left off before Black spoke to you. You heard him sigh next to you, but he did not speak again for the rest of the lesson, nor did you learn anything more.

That evening, at dinner, you sat idly chewing on your steak, your mind still out of sorts and decidedly uncooperative.

You sensed him before you saw him.

Something about the way he moved carried across the energy flow of the room, tickling the hairs on your arms and making you pause in something adjacent to anticipation. You expected his presence to disappear again, as he was likely walking past towards the Slytherin table, but it only got stronger until he entered your peripheral. He stood before you, on the other side of the table.

"Hello?" you spoke, for the first time in your life, with uncertainty.

He did not respond, instead reaching inside his satchel and pulling out a scroll, holding it out to you with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

You glanced at the parchment, "What is it?"

"A copy of my notes," he drawled, "Since you were incapable of taking them today."

"Oh, uh, thank you," you took them cautiously.

He turned to leave, but a question itched on your tongue.

"Wait," you said, and he paused, looking back at you. You asked, "Why?"

"Because you weren't taking any."

"Yes," you said, "But that did not obligate you to do this. It is uncharacteristically kind of you."

At that, you noted, he appeared speechless, though not in the way one feels when they have been caught in action, in the way where one genuinely has not an inkling of what to say. "You were a tolerable deskmate," he eventually said, "Until late. I am doing this for you in the hopes you will return to being so."

You mulled over his words for a few moments, before saying, "I'm not sure I have ever been described as tolerable."

"Everyone else in this school is an idiot."

And that felt like an actual compliment: was he acknowledging your intelligence and accomplishments? Did he see you on the same level as him despite his arrogance? "I see," you murmured, "I apologise for my recent intolerable behaviour. I can assure you that it is frustrating me far more than you."

His following assessment of you did not help the peculiar way he made you feel. You had always had a distaste for the fact people saw you through a raindrop, but now you were being looked at clearly, you felt small in the bask of the gaze. Unfortunately, you had been wrong to secretly wish for being seen as you were— it was an uncomfortable feeling.

***

It was far too idealistic to hope that Black's interaction with Arachwood would cause her to back off from you entirely, as was soon proved by her sudden appearance by the table in the library that you were dutifully studying at. As much as her words could not affect you, she was being incredibly annoying.

"What the fuck did you say to him?" she seethed, "How did you prove it was me?"

"I believe 'obvious' is the word you're looking for," you drawled, not looking up from your scroll.

There was something comical in the way she bristled. "You're so fucking entitled."

"Indulge me as to why."

"You act so calm and collected, like you don't care what people think of you," she said, crossing her arms, "You should care. If no one likes you, maybe you should reflect on why."

At that, you sat back in your chair, finally looking at her, "What is it you dislike about me?"

"You're weird," she said, exasperated, "No one skips a year here. You don't talk to anyone, you never smile, in fact, you never show any emotion. There's a gloomy aura always surrounding you."

"Forgive me, but I do not believe those are justifiable reasons to dislike someone."

You could have sworn her eye twitched.

"I have not been rude, I have not inconvenienced you, and I have not committed a crime," you continued, "You dislike me simply because I do not fit your expectation of what a person should be."

As you tied up the end of your sentence, a shiver ran up your spine: not because of Arachwood, Rowena, no, but because a certain Slytherin had arrived in the vicinity. Silently, like a thief in the night, he slipped into the chair opposing you, not even acknowledging the girl stood by your table.

"Good afternoon, L/N," he spoke smoothly, almost clipped.

"Afternoon, Black," you replied, fighting down the quiver in your voice.

Arachwood rushed to speak, "Black, about the other day, I'm so sorry, I—"

"Do you hear something?" he cut through her words sharply, speaking to you.

"Nothing worthwhile."

He hummed, and it was a matter of moments before Arachwood scuttled or stormed off: it seemed to be a strange amalgamation of the two.

"I did not think you would be so petty," you could not help but say.

"The high road is for fools."

At that, something close to a chuckle escaped your throat— an unrehearsed, scratchy sound that your voice box was unaccustomed to. Black quirked a singular eyebrow at that.

"Sorry," you felt yourself saying, another unfamiliar uttering leaving your mouth. You never apologised for your manner or way of behaving, even when you probably should have. Then again, this behaviour was not your common kind, and Black seemed to be acutely aware of that fact.

"What are you apologising for?" he asked, as calm and poised as ever.

You paused. "I don't... I don't know." It was a horrific sensation, you realised, not having an answer to a provided question. Something that had not occurred to you since you were a lot smaller. Regulus Black apparently knew how to push buttons you did not even know you possessed, he was inadvertently rewriting your body's code.

"Then don't," he said curtly.

Torturously, you almost apologised a second time, but stopped yourself, staring pointedly at the parchment paper before you, fingers fidgeting underneath the oak wood table.

"Have you begun studying for the charms exam next week?" he started to say, clearly placing no significance on your reactions, "Flitwick implied the focus would be on concealment charms, but I don't think we should overlook the possibility of..."

And as he droned on, you lifted your eyes cautiously to take in his appearance. His focus was on his notebooks as he flicked through them, and you felt the fear growing in you that Regulus Black might actually be your first friend. Why were you scared? Did you not want someone who understood you? Did you not want to be respected by the calculated, terrifying, attractive Slytherin?

You gulped, the most peculiar sensation adjacent to that of nausea and excitement swirling in a tornado settling in your stomach.

"L/N? L/N?"

You snapped out of your thoughts, feeling like a spider faced with a cup. Black's grey eyes were glued on to you, needles piercing through your skull. "Yes?" you spoke.

He sat back in his chair, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek: his relaxed posture contrasting your stiff and pin-straight stature. "I cannot understand you," he said eventually, a statement you found yourself starkly disagreeing with. "You have bypassed a year to take your NEWTs early, and while you initially were focused and academically driven in a way that far exceeded everyone else I have met, you are now distracted and have been for some time."

You nodded, unsure of what else to do.

"Are you unwell?" he asked, "Is Arachwood still bothering you? I can deal with her."

His offer of protection stunned you. In his own clipped and rigid way, he was showing genuine concern for you, and it only worsened the feeling in your stomach.

"She has never bothered me, as much as she has tried," you eventually spoke.

"Then you are unwell?"

"I..." you contemplated honesty, something you had always gone for without hesitation, "You unnerve me."

He frowned, "How come? You did not react in such a way until recently."

Pursing your lips, you said, "You are the first person to look at me like you see me."

Black did not reply— not right away— which spiked your nerves more. You could almost hear the cogs turning in his mind, processing every detail from your abnormally timid movements to the vague words you had just told him. He was so much like you in the way he assessed the world, in the way he expressed himself.

"Why would I not see you?" he finally questioned.

"Everyone else dismisses me as weird and depressed," you explained, "They push me into an outcast category. You do not dismiss or bully me. You say you do not understand me, but you unnerve me because I feel as though you are the first who could."

He tilted his head, emotions concealed. "I see."

You wished he would show his hand after laying all your own cards on the table, but maybe he did not even know which cards he had.

"Why does it scare you to be understood? Is it not what we crave?"

"I do crave it," you clarified, followed by an uncharacteristic ramble, "But I am unused to the feeling. And you are of a noble house and the purest of blood and while that is not something I typically care about, you have such a presence of authority, and I cannot help but think... why me? Why am I the person you seek to study with?"

"I have told you. You are intelligent and usually tolerable."

You sighed deeply, "And yet you seem like the type who would still rather proceed alone."

He pondered your words, "I suppose that is true," he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, "You intrigue me. Though I probably would not have realised that had Arachwood not pushed me in your direction."

"She has indeed been a catalyst in all this," you agreed.

"There is only one thing for it."

You were confused, "One thing for what?"

"To calm your nerves around me," he supplied, "We must spend time together until you are comfortable."

"And you... wish to put in this effort?"

He nodded ever so slightly, "Shockingly, yes. As you have pointed out, it is rare to meet someone like us. It seems remiss to pass on such an opportunity."

You swallowed his explanation hesitantly.

"I cannot express how direly I have needed stimulating conversation, and I suspect you can provide it."

"I..." you weighed the possibilities, "I suppose I can try."

Your confidence was nowhere to be found.

***

Part of you had feared that Black's plan was to then overwhelm you with his presence, not leaving you alone to the point you felt suffocated. The other part of you was not surprised that part was wrong. He would not seek you out in the morning, or between lessons, but he had moved to sit next to you in every class you shared. He would also join you in the library in the evenings, and occasionally join you down by the lake for some quiet reading.

At first, you were falling behind in all your classes, but you soon became accustomed to his presence, progressing to only appreciating someone like-minded. He was a calming presence, even when you were overstimulated by your surroundings and felt the itch to run away.

"Where are you off to?" Arachwood scoffed, appearing before you in the corridor as you were headed up the stairs to the Ravenclaw Tower.

"Is this a rhetorical question?" you asked, since it was glaringly obvious.

Behind her stood a Ravenclaw boy in your year, glancing awkwardly between the two of you.

"Don't be a smart-arse," she said, "Have you tried being normal?"

"Have you tried being a decent person?"

As she went to retort, the boy behind her nudged her and muttered something that sounded a lot like, "Be careful, Aimee, you know she's Black's girl."

"No, she isn't," she snapped back, turning to you, "You're not dating Black, are you?"

You did not know what to say. Not because you did not know what the relationship between you and him was, but because the question was so out of left field that you were taken aback.

"I'm sure he just pities her," she said with a laugh at your lack of response, "Anyone would. Friendless freak."

"Are you quite finished?" you cut through her ego sharply.

"For now," she shrugged, shoving into you as she walked past, the boy following her with the briefest of looks in your direction.

You were left to ponder the fact that people potentially perceived you and Black as a couple.

***

By the time the Christmas holidays rolled around, you had returned to your usual self no matter if you were around Regulus or not— he had insisted that you were now on a first-name basis. For the first time, you had someone to sit with on the train journey, and someone to say goodbye to at the end.

"I just do not think McGonagall would devise the exam on animagi," you spoke calmly, sat on the floor of the train compartment with open books surrounding you. Regulus was sat on one of the seats with his legs up, a much more laid-back position than the picture-perfect pure-blood tended to assume. To be fair, the two of you had already been studying for the many hours of the journey, and the compartments were far from comfortable.

"Why ever not?" he enquired.

"I have looked over every exam she has given over the last two years. She has devised the exam on animagi for the last two years, I think it is highly unlikely that she will attempt a third."

"Perhaps that assumption is what makes it likely."

"And you may be right," you ceded, "But we should not dedicate ourselves to it. The best move has, and always will be, thoroughly revising every topic that we have learned."

"Of course, I was not implying otherwise. Still, it is nice to have some idea of what to expect."

You hummed, "Therefore, since our journey is nearly finished, I think we should progress to Gamp's Law." 

"I see your point."

"Thank you," you said resolutely, moving on to all fours to reach a book further away, "Where shall we begin?"

"The date it was instated, no?"

You chuckled, glancing up at him to see the smallest of smiles creep on to his face, "And what of the events leading up to its introduction?"

He smirked, "We can work back to that. Chronological does not mean most logical."

"I think in the case of lawmaking it does, but there is no need to act as if you do not already know the date Gamp's Law was introduced."

"Touché," he murmured, "Fine, let us ponder the reason it was created, and then move on to the five Principal Exceptions?"

You nodded, "And then all the amendments made since." It was silly, but such engaging conversation and study made you happier than you had ever felt, and your hands shook around out of excitement. The sadness that had always followed you was falling behind, unable to match your newfound pace.

Regulus never paid your peculiar movements any mind.

***

When it came time to say your goodbyes, you were entirely unsure of how to act. With your parents, you generally hugged them and told them you loved them— as uncharacteristic as it may appear— but you had never once hugged Regulus.

So, when he stood before you at the train station, your mother hovering nearby, you were at a loss for words.

He seemed just as uncertain.

"Well, goodbye, then," you said eventually, breaking the silence, "And merry Christmas."

"Yes, farewell," he replied, "Merry Christmas."

You smiled at him, something that your facial muscles now eased into with grace, before turning to your mother.

"Was that Regulus Black?" she whispered excitedly as the two of you walked away, "Are you dating?"

"Mother," you sighed, knowing the torrent of questions that was incoming.

***

When you were little, and your parents had given you the opportunity to give your bedroom a makeover, you had chosen a dusty navy blue for your walls. Not bright pink, not blinding turquoise, not a prettily patterned wallpaper, but something dark and plain. Your parents had dubbed it eccentricity, but you knew it was deeper than that, darker than that. It was loneliness, and the painful comfort it had always provided you, that drew you to a gloomy colour palette.

Now, though, as you sat in your childhood bedroom, the familiar walls surrounding you, the reminder of loneliness no longer felt like a warm embrace, but rather ice seeping into your veins and organs. It was not that you could no longer be alone, no, but that the room no longer reflected what you sought solace in.

That feeling was odd.

So, quill to paper, you began writing a letter: the first you would send to someone other than your parents. The first that you would ever write in your home, and not Hogwarts.

Dear Regulus.

The words on the parchment formed an invitation to meet in Diagon Alley to study together, but for once, studying was not your only purpose. Neither you nor Regulus had discussed whether you would be in correspondence during the holidays, but you could not find a reason not to be.

His reply arrived a swift two days later, featuring agreement to meet at your suggested date and time, and little else.

Still, you felt a tinge of excitement.

***

You spotted Regulus before he spotted you, stood outside Gringotts with his hands in the pockets of his long black coat. Smiling, you approached him, the cold nipping at your nose but not your heart.

"Hello," you greeted, and he nodded.

"Where shall we study?" he asked immediately, something that hurt you slightly, and why you did not know. You adored studying.

"Perhaps a café?" you replied, looking down the street, "Or we could pay a visit to Flourish and Blotts first."

"That could be beneficial," he agreed, following your lead to the quaint but popular book shop.

As you walked down the pavement, you scanned the happy faces around you: families and couples all laughing and basking in the gentle flurry of snow falling. It was nice, you thought, to be with people who understood you.

"How has your holiday been thus far?" you queried, wishing to engage with the person you were closest to.

"As expected," he answered shortly.

You knew that his home life was not ideal— not from his words, but from general rumours— so you did not pry further.

"How has yours been?"

"As expected, and yet entirely different."

"Do explain," he said, opening the door to Flourish and Blotts, and allowing you to enter first. He had a habit of doing that.

You shrugged, "Well, everything at home is the same. I think I am the one who is different."

Before he could ask why, resounding sounds of laughter hit your ears, making the two of you turn your attention to the source. There, in the middle of an aisle, stood James Potter and Sirius Black shoving each other and poking fun, while Lily Evans— now Potter, as you had heard— stood gazing at the book selection, evidently annoyed at her boisterous company.

Regulus froze beside you, and you looked up at him to see his jaw was clenched. Everyone knew that Sirius and Regulus did not get along, not in the way brothers usually did.

Without thinking, you hooked your arm around Regulus' and gave his bicep a gentle squeeze, making him move his attention to you. "We can leave, if you would prefer," you said calmly.

But by then, it was too late, as the sudden silence of the men not too far away signified that they had noticed your presence. Regulus sighed, accepting the unavoidable interaction.

"Brother," Sirius said formally as he approached, Potter not too far behind him.

"Brother," Regulus repeated with a sharp nod of his head.

The elder Black's eyes settled on you, no recognition in them, but a delicate curiosity danced in his irises. His focus flitted to your hand on Regulus' bicep, an action you had nearly forgotten about. "And who's this?" he asked, skeptically.

"Y/N L/N," you replied, although you could tell he had directed the question at his brother.

He seemed to contemplate your name for a few moments, before saying, "You're not from a noble house."

"So?" you quirked an eyebrow, attempting to understand his reaction. Had he not left the House of Black because he despised their traditional, offensive ways? And, now that you thought about it, you had really ought to interrogate Regulus on his beliefs.

Sirius shrugged, "Doesn't matter to me, but I'm not sure I can say the same about my brother. The perfect heir."

To your surprise, Regulus stepped forward, his jaw set and eyes cold. Your hand slipped from his arm as a result, and you glanced between the brothers as they both tensed and stood straight. Regulus was taller, but Sirius had more brawn. Potter quickly stepped between the two of them, "Alright, lads, let's not have a scuffle in public, eh?"

That was when Evans approached, a bag of newly bought books in her clutch. "What's going on here?" she seemed more intrigued by you rather than the stand off.

"Nothing, we were just leaving," Regulus drawled, but his lack of movement was contradictory.

"Well, there's no need for that," the redhead smiled, mostly at you, and her kindness was unexpected, "We were just headed to Lumos Café, why don't you join?"

Both her husband and Sirius snapped their heads in her direction, clearly displeased at her offer. "Why in Godric's name would we want that?" Sirius snapped.

"Padfoot, my sister won't even talk to me," she said calmly, "Cutting off your parents is entirely deserved, but have the two of you ever had a chance to talk? Properly, that is."

"We don't need to talk. He hates muggle-borns."

At that comment, you looked up at Regulus, trying to gage his reaction to being accused of such a thing. He noticed the way you were analysing him, as he always did, and perhaps part of him realised that you would not stay in his life if he did not rebuke the statement. "No. I do not," he said stiffly, and while you were not fully sure on whether to believe him, you decided that would be a matter to discuss later. Right now was about potentially mending his relationship with his brother.

"Really?" Sirius tilted his head, "So, you don't have a problem that pure-blood Prongs here married Lily, a muggle-born?"

The man beside you sighed, "No, I do not."

"Well, then, I think the two of you have much to speak about. Come along!" she led the way out of Flourish and Blotts and to the café not far away. Regulus stayed glued to your side, a thick tension resting in the air, so you once again hooked your arm around his and squeezed as a gesture of support. He placed a hand over yours for the briefest of seconds.

Everyone soon began taking a seat at a little booth table, the smell of coffee beans filling the air and warming your insides. You had never exactly... hung out... with a group of people before, and were nervous as to how they would react once they realised you were weird. Not because you cared if they disliked you, but because you did not want to be the reason Regulus could not fix things with his brother.

"Lily-flower, what would you like?" Potter beamed at his wife as she sat down, and she chuckled fondly.

"I'll have a latte, thank you, my love," she answered easily.

The interaction was heart-warming, but as you instinctively turned to where Regulus was still stood, you felt the oddest sense of embarrassment. His head was turned away, appearing to be reading the chalkboard menu above the counter from a distance; he then looked at you, apparently unaware of the exchange that had just occurred, and asked, "What do you want?" His tone was far more emotionless and curt than Potter's had been, but you had never cared about details like that. The fact he had even thought to ask you meant the world to you for some reason.

"Hot chocolate, please," you replied, and he nodded, leaving for the counter.

With all three men queueing to order drinks, Evans turned to you with a glint in her eye, "What's your name?"

"Y/N L/N," you said simply, your monotonality ever present.

She seemed a bit taken aback by your response.

"Why does that surprise you?"

She also seemed taken aback at your bluntness, but explained anyway, "I would have thought that you were one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

"How come?"

"Because you are dating Regulus."

You opened your mouth to rebut, but Potter returned and sat himself down next to the redhead. "The drinks are on their way," he grinned, before saying to you, "Regulus is just ordering yours now."

Said man then arrived, sitting next to you on your side of the booth. When Sirius came, he pulled up a chair to the exposed end of the table.

Silence engulfed the group, and you knew that you could not be the one to break it.

"How's Mother and Father?" Sirius eventually asked, and you could have sworn everyone at the table let out a deep breath.

"Father has fallen ill," Regulus said, "The doctors suspect he will pass soon."

"Oh," his brother was clearly shocked, "I had no idea."

A long pause ensued, before Regulus said, "I did think about telling you."

"But you didn't."

"I was under the impression you never wanted to hear from me again."

You watched cautiously as Sirius sighed and sat back in his chair, "It's not that—"

"Latte?" the waitress interrupted, the gleaming smile on her face suggesting she had not read the room.

"That's me," Evans awkwardly piped up.

"Two Americanos, with milk?"

Potter and Sirius both claimed them.

"And a double espresso and a hot chocolate?"

As you and Regulus accepted your drinks, the table muttered their thanks.

"Enjoy!" she said cheerily, finally leaving.

Quiet resumed for painstaking moments, the evidence of family fallouts and tragic childhoods spilled across an empty script. Despite it not exactly being Regulus' decision, you were honoured to be there for him in such a vulnerable moment.

"It wasn't you I wanted distance from," Sirius spoke again, his voice low, "Not really."

"That's not how you made it seem," Regulus replied, clipped.

"I was young," he sighed, "I still am. But I am sorry for placing some blame on you. I felt insignificant in our parents' eyes next to you, the perfect heir."

You glanced over to the married couple opposite you, to see them solemnly taking in the words exchanged. Evans flicked her gaze to you briefly, and offered you a small smile.

"I never wanted to be the perfect heir," Regulus spoke monotonously, like he usually did, but you could feel the truth radiating off of him, "I am studious because I enjoy it. Composed and poised because it is what feels natural to me. Not because I am trying to impress Mother and Father."

"And of muggle-borns?" Sirius asked, mindful of Evans' presence.

Said woman piped up, "He clearly doesn't care about blood status. His girlfriend isn't part of that Sacred Twenty-Eight bullshit."

"She could still be pure-blood," Potter reminded, likely referring to his own blood status.

"That's not the point, James, you know how the noble houses are."

Honesty had always been your policy, what you built your social interactions on alongside logic and principle. However, in that moment, you found the truth catching at the back of your throat: maybe you were waiting for Regulus to say something, or maybe... you wanted what they said to be the truth.

When it became clear he was not going to speak, you finally said, "He may be arrogant, but it is due to the fact he believes he is more intelligent than everyone else, not because of blood status." You were dodging honesty: you did not even know if he cared about blood status. You had assumed he did not, simply because you were not noble, but maybe that had been callous of you.

He turned to face you, grey eyes displaying the slightest hints of shock at what you said.

That was when Potter started laughing, quickly followed by Evans, and then Sirius. Your instincts told you they were laughing at you, poking fun, but then Sirius said, "Even your own girlfriend thinks you're arrogant," through joyful tears, and you realised.

They thought you were funny. They thought you were making a joke.

You could not help but smile, which Regulus assessed with a chilling calmness.

"Tell me, how did you two meet?" Evans asked once the laughter died down.

"Probably at Hogwarts, babe," Potter said, making her lightly slap his arm.

All eyes were on you, as it seemed as though Regulus had opted to be temporarily mute.

"Well, yes, we met at Hogwarts," you said factually, "Although, we only met this year. I have bypassed sixth year, joining the seventh years."

"Ah, I see," Sirius smirked, settling into the presence of his previously estranged brother, "So, he finally met someone smart enough for him? Hm, Reggie?"

The nickname made Regulus' hand twitch slightly, but he did not address it, finally speaking with the delivery of a curt, "Yes."

You were not sure that you had ever beamed before, your blueness sliding into yellow as he publicly acknowledged your intelligence. And maybe that is all you had ever wanted: acknowledgement and acceptance for who you were. Maybe that was why melancholia had followed you, despite your parents' love, because while they never turned you away, they had never understood you. Regulus understood you, he saw you with twenty-twenty vision, even in the darkest of nights, even when it was pouring with rain.

Some smiles were contagious, and everyone noticed that he was fighting against the tugging of the corner of his mouth.

"You two should come to our dinner party this weekend."

***

"Regulus, may I ask you something?" you said as the two of you walked alone later, studying long forgotten.

"Hm?" you had pulled him from his thoughts.

"Why did you not correct them?"

"In terms of what?"

"My being your girlfriend."

He pondered your question for some moments, before answering, "I apologise. I believe that part of me needed to have one thing going for me in the face of my elder brother who was brave enough to leave it all."

While you understood, you felt the strangest sense of sadness at his response, but you did not voice it. "Do you actually hate muggle-borns?" you changed the subject.

"No," his voice was tired, "But I cannot deny that I have prejudices ingrained into me."

"Why do you not run away?" perhaps it was too personal of a question. Your conversations never went beyond studies.

"I have nowhere to go."

"That is untrue."

***

"I cannot understand why or how you have convinced me to attend this event," Regulus clipped, having apparated outside your house a matter of minutes ago.

You tilted your head, taking in his frustration, "I think it would be good for you to spend time with your brother."

"My family is none of your business."

His words stung slightly, but you did not show it, instead stepping out your front door with light footsteps, "Then how come I succeeded in convincing you?"

"A mystery to the both of us, I assure you."

You pursed your lips, carefully taking hold of Regulus' arm. You had not yet earned your apparition license, exclusively due to your age, thus you had to depend on his ability.

"I cannot fathom why you wish to attend."

"They did not make fun of me," you said without thinking, "They may not understand me like you do, but still they were kind. I cannot overlook that."

Instead of replying, he apparated the two of you without warning, to arrive outside a quaint cottage cosily named Godric's Hollow. You were displeased at his abrupt action, but did not acknowledge it, instead tugging him towards the door when you realised he was not going to move.

"If it becomes too much, we can leave," you said simply.

"My parents have no idea that I am here," he sighed, more to himself than to you, and moved forward to knock on the door.

It was flung open by a joyous James Potter, who was notably already under the influence with a firewhiskey in his hand. "You made it!" he smiled, "Come in, come in!"

You nodded politely, stepping over the threshold into the warm, glowing home. It felt as though you had dove head first into the sea of yellow that you had always steered clear of, but it did not feel as scary with Regulus by your side.

"They're here!" Potter called into the house, leading the two of you into the living room, where a whole group of chatting and laughing people were assembled.

You soon learned the unfamiliar faces to be Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, Marlene McKinnon and Mary MacDonald. They all seemed somewhat wary of your presence— or rather Regulus', as was more likely.

"What would you like to drink?" Evans, although she had insisted you call her Lily, asked. Her warmth and positivity softened the wariness of the atmosphere.

Pausing, you contemplated the unknown menu.

"We have wine, firewhiskey, beer, or soft drinks, if you would prefer?"

"I'll take a firewhiskey, neat, thank you," Regulus spoke, snapping you into action.

"Wine, please," you decided.

"Red or white?"

"White."

She disappeared to obtain your drinks, and you took in the sight of everyone, who had resumed their conversations with enviable ease. Glancing up at Regulus, you noted that his eyes were pinned on to his brother, and as much as you wished to keep him by your side, you knew that you had to nudge him. "Talk to him."

"Must I?" he drawled.

"Well, you do not have to, but I think it is recommended."

His tongue pressed into his cheek, but he obliged nonetheless and approached his brother. Meanwhile, you were unsure of where to go. Thankfully, Lily returned, and after delivering Regulus' firewhiskey, came to you with your glass of wine.

"Don't be shy," she assured, "Everyone here's friendly."

"Even the friendliest of people seem to have a distaste for me," you said without a second thought.

"I don't," she shrugged, "And Regulus doesn't either."

"Regulus is not friendly," you reminded.

She laughed at that, "Don't overthink it. Come, I'll introduce you to Marlene and Mary."

The evening progressed, with everyone migrating to the dining room for the lovingly prepared meal. As it turned out, alcohol was an excellent means of socialising, and as you drank more and more glasses, you found yourself turning into a new person entirely. You laughed easily, enjoyed conversation that was not intellectual, and basked in the presence of normal, sociable people. It was an electric feeling, you noted, but it did not stop you from subconsciously checking that Regulus was still near. The alcohol also looked like it was helping him, breaking the ice with his brother as they talked on and on.

When you stood up at the end of dinner, everyone intending to transition back to the living room, you faced the consequences of the quantity of glasses you had drunk— especially considering that you had never had more than one glass at family functions prior. You were unsteady on your feet, but found your swaying quite amusing, as did Mary, of whom you had been conversing eagerly with for the last half hour.

"Careful, there," she giggled, helping support you on the journey to the lounge.

"I really like alcohol, I think," you slurred.

"You won't think that tomorrow," she said with a glint in her eyes, "But I'm sure Regulus will take care of you."

She was likely referring to the fact that the Black family were notorious for their alcohol tolerance, so were unlikely to be feeling that bad the next day. Regulus, for one, was still composed and in his right mind despite consuming multiple firewhiskeys, albeit that he was more relaxed if his loosened tie was anything to go by.

"How did you manage that, by the way?" Mary asked as she sat you down on one of the sofas.

"Manage what?"

"To break through his icy exterior," she elaborated, "I mean, Merlin knows everyone thought it was impossible."

"I was icy too," you spoke simply, "Though I may not seem it now."

"A match made in heaven, then?"

You giggled, holding on to the knowledge that Regulus was not actually your boyfriend.

***

Evening slid into night, but the party was still going strong. Mary had insisted you take a break from drinking for a while, but she had finally let you have another glass of wine before leaving you to thank Lily for a wonderful night thus far. You drunkenly pondered your next move, when you caught sight of Regulus, stood talking with Remus Lupin. Your feet moved before your mind could process.

Regulus had noticed your state a long time ago, but you had appeared to be in good hands with Mary, so he had left it. Still, his eyebrows furrowed when you stumbled up to him with a big smile stretching your cheeks. He was not used to you being so expressive.

"Someone's had a lot to drink, eh?" Lupin teased, and your glossy eyes briefly focused on him before turning back to Regulus.

"Regulus, can I tell you a secret?" you slurred, feeling giddy and care-free.

"And what would that be?" the Slytherin asked sceptically.

You stood on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear, but he was still forced to lean down slightly to accommodate your height.

"You're my favourite," you tried to whisper, but you did not quite succeed in lowering your volume.

Regulus froze, but his stature was unnoticeable to you through your blurred vision. You leaned into his side happily, wrapping an arm around him.

"She is not normally like this," you heard him saying to Lupin, who only laughed in response, before leaving the two of you. "Y/N, your behaviour is most illogical right now."

"How so?"

"You are being oddly... affectionate."

"I think it is logical," you giggled.

"Why?"

"Because you are my favourite."

He froze again at your repeated statement.

Suddenly, your expression switched to almost melancholic, as you asked, "Am I your favourite?"

"I..." Regulus did not know how to deal with your new range of emotion, but finally he spoke a clipped, "You are the only person who does not exhaust me."

"Is that a yes?" your face was full of hope.

He avoided eye contact as he said, "...Yes."

You beamed so brightly that you almost blinded him, wrapping your other arm around him haphazardly, and almost tripping as you did so. His arms instinctively steadied you, but he did not move them once you were stable.

"I think..." he spoke slowly, "That it is time for you to go home."

Quickly, you learned that it was not a negotiation, and you soon were saying your goodbyes to everyone and laughing as Regulus guided you out the door.

"I had so much fun," you gushed as the cool night air hit your face, "Did you?"

"I had a tolerable time," he replied, rushing to support you as you nearly fell forward, "You are being most troublesome."

"But still I am your favourite."

He could not argue.

***

Mortified did not even begin to encapsulate the extent of your feelings the next day, waking up in your childhood room with a pounding head and overwhelming urge to throw up. As you hurriedly dragged yourself to the toilet, all that flashed through your mind was your confession of favouritism towards Regulus, and how alarmingly expressive you were being.

At least he returned your favouritism.

Once the toilet was flushed, and you had downed a hangover potion, you deliberated sending a letter of apology to Regulus, but you did not have a genuine excuse for your actions. You meant everything you said and did, and while you were embarrassed, you did not regret it.

Instead, you made no effort to correspond, and left everything up to the fateful moment of stepping foot on the Hogwarts Express after New Year's.

And, you really did try to enter the compartment that he was sat in with your usual logic and calmness, but the shaking of your hands was damn near impossible to suppress. Regulus looked up from his book, his grey eyes assessing your composure before he closed the book and put it the side.

"How have you been?" he asked cordially.

You sat down nervously, "I have been adequate."

He raised an eyebrow, "You do not seem it."

You wished that he could not read you so well in that moment, "I have been feeling embarrassed about my behaviour at the dinner party," you admitted.

"It was uncharacteristic."

You winced at his words.

"But as you dutifully pointed out, you are still my favourite."

His bluntness shocked you, and butterflies erupted in your stomach at his words. You were smiling before you could stop yourself.

"Now, we must resume our flow of study," he efficiently changed the subject, "Our NEWTs are itching ever closer."

"Right," you nodded, pulling yourself together after his reassurance, "I have been particularly focused on potions recently, as I fear Slughorn may..."

***

Regulus and you efficiently fell back into your pre-Christmas rhythm, studying together, engaging in intense intellectual debates, and overall feeling a little less lonely in your shared understanding. You had assumed that day to be a day like any other, consisting of your usual schedule in the library after dining separately in the Great Hall. It was as you overheard members of the Ravenclaw quidditch team sat near to you discuss that evening's match between Slytherin and Gryffindor that you realised the schedule was not going to go to plan. You would have to consult him on the matter once you finished your meal.

The flow of students was busy and rushed as everyone was hurrying down to the quidditch pitch to secure an ideal viewing spot, leaving you in a difficult position in regards to speaking to Regulus. You pushed through the current of students, annoyed at the amount of physical touch required, and finally caught sight of his black hair amidst the other members of the Slytherin quidditch team. Other students laughed and chattered around you as you forced your way to where he was, grabbing his wrist so as to ascertain his attention.

He jerked away at the action, head swivelling around to catch sight of you with your eyebrows furrowed. When he realised it was you, his harsh gaze softened, and he asked, "Is something amiss?"

"Quite," you said shortly, before getting shoved into a rowdy third year Gryffindor who was amped up for the game. You scowled at the action, until you felt an arm wrap around you protectively, pulling you into warmth.

"Imbecile," you heard Regulus mutter, his hand gripping your shoulder tightly, "Are you injured?"

You shook your heard, ignoring the racing of your heart, "Regulus, you did not inform of me of today's quidditch game. I was under the impression our usual study schedule would be in place."

You felt his breath hitch, "I presumed you were aware."

"Why?"

"You know that I am on my house's quidditch team, and every student knows when there is a quidditch match."

"I do not."

When you glanced up at him, you noted he was quirking an eyebrow, "Evidently. My apologies, I will make sure to tell you in the future. Feel free to study without me."

"But if I study without you we will fall out of synchronisation in topics." You felt the frustration bubbling in you at the disruption of your plans, but unlike usual, you could not bring yourself to be annoyed with the perpetrator. A deep sigh rippled within you, "I suppose I will attend the game."

"Do not feel obliged."

"I have nothing else to do."

***

Truth was, you had never before attended a quidditch game, and as you settled into a place in the Ravenclaw section of the stands, you became acutely aware of why you had not. The noise booming from the thick crowds of people was overstimulating, and you found yourself fidgeting with your fingers. That was, until, the Slytherin team came out on to the pitch, and you caught sight of Regulus. His very presence, no matter how distant, had a calming effect on you— it was an interesting contrast from the tornado you had felt in your stomach a couple months prior. You had become accustomed to him in such a natural way.

The game soon commenced, the buzz of the crowd only amplifying as the teams took to their brooms and launched into the air. Of course, you had a basic understanding of quidditch and its rules, but truly you had never witnessed it in action: there was no academic benefit to attending the matches. Maybe it was Regulus' presence in the air, or maybe it was the three visible balls flowing in a messy pattern, but you were mesmerised by the sight.

Your keen eyes could not help but search for the snitch, but you were not attuned to it, you possessed no trained instinct for catching sight of the fleeting ball of gold. However, you immediately noticed when Regulus had. The way his broom took a sharp turn upwards, his pace increasing as the Gryffindor seeker attempted to keep up with his movements.

In the flash of second, the snitch had been caught, held up proudly in the air by the abrasive Slytherin seeker, causing a smile to creep on to your face before your mind could even acknowledge your happiness. However, all the Ravenclaws surrounding you were booing, roars of disappointment filling your senses. Only the portion of the sea cloaked in green were cheering, but you did not care that you were an outcast amongst your peers. You never had. Ironically, though, Arachwood would probably also be pleased with the match result.

As people began to leave the stands, you were forced to move with them to avoid being pushed and shoved, descending the stairs with the loudness coming back in full force to bother you now that Regulus was out of your sight. Should you wait for him once you reached the bottom? Was that too much?

You shook your head. Overthinking was not who you were, and the tingling nervous excitement inside of you was irrelevant. You took pause near the Slytherin changing rooms, noticing two other students also waiting, likely significant others of team members. Ignoring the out of place feeling, you kept your gaze pinned on to the door of the boys' changing room. Regulus, ever efficient, was the first one to leave, presumably wishing to shower back in the dorms rather than the likely filthy ones dedicated to quidditch players.

He caught sight of you immediately, and walked over to you: his usual grace mixing with adrenaline from the match.

"Congratulations," you said, and he nodded.

"An expected win," he shrugged, "Since Potter is no longer here."

"Are you acknowledging his talent?" you quipped.

"I cannot deny facts."

You hummed, the two of you naturally beginning to walk back to the castle.

"I have a love-hate relationship with wins."

"How come?"

"I abhor losing, but if we win, the common room is obnoxiously loud until the early hours of the morning."

"I see."

He sighed, "It will be a restless night."

"My dorm will be quiet," your mouth moved before your brain could stop it, and you held your breath as Regulus glanced at you.

"Are you making an offer?"

"Well," you rushed to say, "I do not mean sleep there, but we could study until late, if you are to be kept awake anyway."

He appeared to mull over your words for a few moments, until he asked, "You would ruin your sleep schedule for me?"

"I paused my study schedule for you," you reminded.

"Of which I did not make you."

"Nor are you making me offer this."

"Touché," he murmured, "Very well. I will first head to the dungeons, shower, and collect my study books."

You nodded, "I have no doubt you will be able to get past the Ravenclaw statue."

"And if I cannot?"

"Then you do not deserve to enter," a small smile tugged at your lips.

***

Approximately an hour later, you were sat in the middle of your floor, books spread around you and cheek resting on your knee. You had not yet begun to study, but you had outlined the step-by-step process ready for when Regulus began. A knock echoed through your door, and you jumped up at the sound, almost shocked at how rushed you were to open it.

Behind it stood Regulus Black, hair damp and tousled, and a much more casual get-up of a black knitted jumper, a stark contrast from his usual crisply ironed dress shirt. His satchel was slung over his shoulder, his knuckles gripping the strap.

"I was nervous that I misremembered the room number," he said.

You shook your head, "You, nervous? You have an astute memory." You stepped aside to let him in.

"I correct myself," he stepped in, "I was nervous that I misheard you amongst the noise of students."

He looked around your dorm room, cold stone walls providing a home to windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, providing a dazzling view of the rare starry night.

"The view here is much better," he commented, scanning your meticulously organised and tidy room, "If you are lucky, your window has a glimpse of the lake down in the dungeons."

You hummed, "When I was still in the shared dormitories last year, I had a view of the rest of the castle."

"I certainly do not miss sharing a room. I was at my breaking point by the end of fifth year."

Resuming your position at the centre of your notebook layout, you gestured for Regulus to take a seat. After taking off his shoes by the door, he descended to the floor not far from you.

"Do you usually work on the floor? It cannot be good for your back."

You shrugged, "I find it most comfortable."

Efficiently, as always, the two of you settled into studying, the conversation flowing easily as you discussed facts, dates, methods, and anything relevant. Soon, you began writing separate practice essays in silence, the only sounds being the crackling of your fire and the scratching of quills against parchment. Every now and then, a yawn would escape you, but you did not slow. Sleep would come later.

Regulus yawned here and there as well, but he also did not falter in his work, not even looking up when you shifted to lie on your front, propped up on your elbows.

No words were spoken for a good while, not until he cut through the silence with a tired, "Darling, can you pass that ink pot?"

Your unbroken slew of words on a scroll halted, fingertips clutching the quill so tight it was close to snapping. Cautiously, you looked up at him, to see his eyebrows furrowed as he focused on his work, evidently unaware of what he had just said. When he finally noticed that you were not passing the ink pot to him, he glanced up and met your frozen gaze.

"Is everything alright?" he asked.

"Regulus," you spoke stiffly, "What did you just call me?"

"What do you mean? I—" he cut himself off as the internal reply caught up to him. In that moment, he could easily have been put in place of the Ravenclaw statue. "My apologies," he hurried out, "I do not know... why I said that."

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your stomach was an electric, twisting mess. "I..." you spoke slowly, "I did not mind it, but if it was unintentional, I will overlook it."

The confession made you feel vulnerable, so you distracted yourself by picking up the ink pot and moving it over to him. He observed your every move, tongue poking into his inner cheek. "Thank you," he said curtly, "...Darling."

You froze again, refusing to look up, "You never make the same mistake twice," you murmured.

"No, I don't," he replied.

Letting the silence linger for painful, long ticks of the clock sat on your bedside table, you contemplated what he was saying. Keeping your eyes glued on to the floor, you pushed yourself up on to your knees, acutely aware of how shaky your hands were. You dropped your quill, taking a deep breath.

You moved closer to Regulus, finally gracing him with your gaze to realise he had been staring at you that entire time. What you wanted to do, you did not know, you lacked social experience in every aspect, and there was certainly no manual on this situation. Words, for once, failed you, so with a lack of an idea of what else to do, you shifted even closer, dropping your head on to his shoulder ever so tentatively.

He stiffened beneath you, but then relaxed, bringing up a cautious arm to rest it around your shoulder. "Perhaps we have done enough studying for tonight," he said, voice low and uncharacteristically gentle.

"Perhaps," you murmured, feeling every degree of his warmth beside you.

———————————————————

masterlist

written; 27/12/2025 —> 14/02/2026 published; 14/02/2026 edited; —/—/——

[dreamcubed]

i can fix him (no really i can) | regulus black x reader

song; i can fix him (no really i can) [taylor swift] pairing; regulus black x fem!healer!half-blood!non-slytherin!reader genre; s2l, angst, hurt comfort word count; 6,7k timeline; post-marauders at hogwarts warnings; swearing, referenced dark magic, regulus is in a coma for like half of this, implied depression summary; as a healer-in-training at st mungo's, you saw all sorts of peculiar cases. but a boy from your year who had to be publicly declared dead for his own safety was by far the strangest

unedited as hell... merry christmas and a happy new year!!

masterlist

"trust me, i can handle me a dangerous man."

————————————————

Being a healer-in-training was far from the easiest job, with the sheer amount of gore and mental warfare you were forced to witness, but you found it immensely rewarding. Seeing the joy on relatives' faces when their loved one woke up, or the sense of accomplishment when a patient walked on their own again, all made every second of pain and anguish worth it. You had seen death, yes, but you had also seen life in all of its rawest and most celebratory forms. As it went, you could not picture yourself working another job anytime soon. You simply couldn't wait to complete your training and progress from being the one to change potion IVs and administer ointments, to being the one who made the diagnosis and performed the complicated healing magic. For now, though, you had to settle for the rookie work, silently observing the qualified professionals and practicing on fake conjured patients.

Everyone had to start somewhere.

Thus, your evening shift was plotting on like any other, going in between your assigned patients to check they had taken their potions and eaten, performing a simple wound healing spell here and there. Your next evaluation was not for another three weeks, so you were not yet stressed. But it did make you confused when the director of the hospital pulled you aside as you exited a patient's room. Chief Healer Owlforth had never personally spoken to you before: all your evaluations were performed by the senior healers, excluding the one currently training you.

"Healer L/N," he spoke calmly, half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. His silky white wizard robes billowed around him. "May you come with me to my office?"

Your breath hitched, trying to scan your brain for any major fuck-up you had recently committed.

"You're not in trouble," he reassured, sensing your worry.

The tension in your muscles dissipated, and you asked, "What's going on, sir?"

"I'm afraid you will have to wait until we are there. This is an especially private matter," he said, beginning to move in the direction of his office. You followed suit, confusion tickling in your mind.

"I'm really not in trouble?"

"Helga, no," he chuckled, but you noted his dry and discerning energy, "What we are about to discuss loosely pertains to your excellent performance, in fact."

"Oh, I see," you mumbled, unsure what to make of the situation, "Thank you."

After what felt like an eternity, he opened the door to his office, where two of the senior healers were sat talking to three aurors. What in Azkaban were aurors doing at St Mungo's? Their presence at the hospital usually only meant one thing: damn near irreversible curses and injuries having befallen some unlucky people. One of the present senior healers was your mentor, Healer Thompson, a stern but well-meaning woman in her forties. The other was a younger man that you had only crossed paths with once or twice (he worked in the dark magic department, which you were yet to train in), but you knew his name to be Healer Moonstone.

"Healer L/N, please take a seat," Chief Healer Owlforth said calmly, moving to sit at his desk. You did as requested, occupying the empty space next to Thompson. "We have just admitted a particularly severe and sensitive case, one that requires the utmost confidentiality, and you were suggested as the most trustworthy healer-in-training to handle the patient from day to day."

You glanced around the room to see that everyone had fallen silent and had their eyes pinned on you.

"Naturally, Healers Thompson, Moonstone and myself will perform the majority of the healing, but we do not have the time to handle the smaller tasks, hence why we needed a reliable apprentice such as yourself on board as well."

One of the aurors piped up, an unnerving man with a fake eye that appeared to move of its own accord, "This is top secret, you understand? Don't go home chattin' about this with your family and friends."

"Yes, as Auror Moody has emphasised, no one can know," Owlforth continued, "You will be required to sign an NDA, as this patient is under witness protection. And we also need you to be aware that taking on this patient has the potential of putting you in danger, as well."

Your brain struggled to process the onload of information, but as it slowly pieced the puzzle together, you felt the strangest feeling of excitement: you had been the one selected for this case; not Ophelia, not Hamish - you. Danger be damned. That was when you realised everyone was waiting for you to say something, and you rushed to clear your throat. "Yes— yes, of course."

"So, you're on board?" Owlforth asked.

You nodded firmly, "Yes, sir." You had become a healer precisely because you were willing to sacrifice so much for the lives of other people.

Documents were soon brought out, and you quickly read through them before picking up the provided quill, only to realise there was no ink pot.

"Blood signature," Auror Moody grunted, "Start writing. It might sting a bit."

This was an extremely serious case, you noted, but you were already determined and committed, so did as instructed and felt a burning sensation on the back of your left hand as you signed your name. You handed the NDA over, wondering if you were allowed to heal the small wound or not.

"Go ahead and heal it," Owlforth said quickly, "This is not torture."

Relieved, you pulled out your wand as one of the other aurors began speaking. "The patient's name is Regulus Black, an eighteen-year-old male. You may know him from school."

You did indeed, he had been in your year, in fact. You had never spoken to him, and hardly had any classes together, but everyone knew of the noble Black house. The last you heard of Regulus, he was a death eater, so why was he under witness protection?

"Mr Black, while formerly serving He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, recently risked his life to aid our side in the brewing war. While he has not been conscious to tell us so, we have substantial reason to believe he has been using his proximity to You-Know-Who to aid in his destruction for some time now. Therefore, the Ministry has granted him amnesty. While we will not divulge exactly what he has done, we will tell you that it is imperative that the wizarding public believes him to be dead, as You-Know-Who will absolutely try to kill him if he believes him to be alive."

"I see," you replied quietly.

"As it stands, we do not know if he will wake up," your mentor, Healer Thompson, spoke up for the first time, "But given the vital knowledge he likely has, we must do everything in our power to give him the best possible chance of recovery."

"Yes, ma'am," you said, mustering every ounce of confidence and courage within you, "I will do my very best."

***

The hospital room you were led to thereafter lay behind a concealed door in a lesser used wing. Inside, however, was a set-up you were used to seeing: clean white bedsheets, pouches of sustaining potions, and a shimmering golden thread blooming from his body that thrummed with each and every heartbeat. You easily ignored the scenery of the room in favour of the intriguing patient: Regulus looked a lot different from the last time you saw him. His cheeks were more sallowed, and there were dark bags under his eyes. From the looks of it, he hadn't had a haircut in a while, either.

Your gaze trailed along the healed scars on his body, knowing all too well that while he may look fine on the outside now, the story within him would be vastly different.

"What injuries and curses are we dealing with?"

"Inferni attack," Healer Moonstone replied, "Plus some other minor issues. But the dark magic that inferni exude has taken a toll on his body."

You hummed. You had never treated an inferni victim before: it was the kind of magic most healers only ever read about. "What's the usual survival rate of inferni attacks?"

"We have... little to no data on it," he said slowly, "Most people who die of inferni attacks don't have someone to seek help immediately."

"And Mr Black did?"

Moonstone nodded, "His house elf."

You were more than curious as towards why Regulus was attacked by inferni, but you knew that information would not be divulged: Moonstone likely didn't know it either. The aurors would only have shared information necessary for treatment, so you were left with no choice but to swallow your questions.

"Your task will be simple," the senior healer began, "Make sure his potion IV is never empty, and regularly check his vitals."

"Yes, sir."

"As this is our first time dealing with an inferni attack, we aren't sure what kind of symptoms he will exhibit," he continued, "Keep an eye out for anything alarming."

And you did over the course of the next few days. A large portion of your previous patients had been reassigned to other training healers, as they wanted your primary focus to be Regulus. He was an unpredictable case lapsing uncharted territory— as far as anyone knew, his condition could drastically change in a matter of seconds. As a result, you were given a charm that would summon Owlforth, Moonstone and Thompson specifically immediately if anything happened.

But nothing noteworthy did for a few days. Regulus appeared to be peacefully in a coma, doing nothing more than occasionally twitching. You were grateful for the opportunity to prove yourself as a healer, you just hadn't expected such a serious case to be so... boring. He was like any of your other patients in comas, only you didn't have to linger in their rooms so much. With your already lacking social life, you had become quite lonely in the absence of human interaction, which caused you to start talking to either yourself or Regulus— you weren't sure which. And you couldn't remember when it started either, but by now it was a habit for you to enter his room and begin chatting.

"Good morning, Mr Black," you greeted the unconscious male, making a beeline to change his potion pouch, "Did you sleep okay?" You chuckled at your own joke— a depressing fact you did not wish to acknowledge. "I didn't. Neighbour's toddler won't stop screaming bloody murder at two in the morning."

Regulus remained unresponsive.

"Terrible twos, as they say," you continued, "At least, my mum always says that. I should probably pay her a visit soon."

You secured the new batch of potion in place, and began checking the important things like his temperature.

"I hope you know I won't get a day off for the foreseeable future because of you," you said, pretending to be irritated, "At the very least, I'm getting compensated generously. Otherwise I wouldn't even consider it." A lie, but it didn't matter.

A sigh escaped you.

"You better wake up soon. You're very important, apparently. Does that make me important by association? Ah, not that it matters. I need to change your bedsheets later, which will be a bit of a task. Gonna have to levitate you and shit."

Merlin, you were going crazy.

***

"Do you remember me from school?" you asked another day, studying the unchanging man, "We never spoke to each other, but I'm not sure you ever spoke to anyone, really. I didn't either, to be fair."

As usual, no response.

"We had transfiguration together in fourth and fifth, I think, and DADA in first, but other than that, I think our timetables were pretty dissimilar," you rambled on, "That, and you were a Slytherin. Your house never really mixed with the rest of us."

You paused for a moment, weighing the silence in the air.

"I just wonder if you ever even noticed me. I wouldn't be offended if you didn't— I made every effort to be as invisible as possible. But, you never know. I always noticed you, I think maybe loners tend to notice each other. Or maybe that was just me. Of course, your brother forced you to be at least known by association."

***

Another week passed.

"Have the Ministry not told your family you're alive?" you pondered aloud, "I mean, for all I know, your parents maybe dead... but Sirius is alive, isn't he? Shouldn't he know? What about your house elf? Surely you must have cousins."

You analysed his resting figure, a scrutinising but considerate haze coating your irises.

"I guess it's safer for them if they don't know. And maybe you're not close with any of them. It's not any of my business, regardless."

The thrumming of his heartbeat throughout the shimmering golden thread always mesmerised you, and today was no different.

"I finally get time off in a couple days," you said calmly, "Your condition appears to be stable, so they've deemed it okay to lessen the supervision. Don't worry, Senior Healers Thompson and Moonstone will regularly check on you."

You continued to gaze at his features, wondering if he had always been so handsome, or if you had just never noticed.

"I'm gonna visit my mum while I'm gone."

***

When you returned from your three days off, you felt rejuvenated and eager to see Regulus again, even if he was merely an unresponsive vessel. You wanted to share with him everything you had gotten up to in your time gone, though it was remarkably depressing that you had no one else to tell.

What you did not expect was this.

Regulus Black was convulsing on his bed in a seizure-like manner, surrounded by Owlforth, Thompson and Moonstone who hurriedly uttered charms. The air in the room was full of anxiety and panic, and your body sprang to life as you moved to join them.

"What's going on?" you asked.

"He started having these seizures a day after you left," Moonstone answered, sweat beads formed on his brow, "They're getting harder and harder to control."

"We don't know why they're only starting now," Owlforth said.

"Shit," you murmured, too inexperienced to aid with their enchantments, but compassionate enough to grab Regulus' hand and speak softly, "Come on, Regulus, you can see this through. You have to. I haven't even told you about my time off yet."

And just like that, he stopped convulsing, calming to the usual resting position you were accustomed to seeing.

At first, you worried that his body had given up altogether, but a simple glance at his heartbeat told you that wasn't the case.

"Curious," Owlforth muttered, "The stopping of the seizures is usually much more gradual."

It was strange, you thought, but you were grateful Regulus was okay.

***

You had been back for five days, and you were yet to see another seizure from Regulus, making you wonder what on Earth had transpired while you were away. Had they not been diligent with his upkeep? That didn't make sense: his survival was far too important.

Your usual schedule of five days on, two days off in the span of a week had resumed, and you were finishing the last of your tasks before you said farewell to Regulus. Whatever caused his seizures, you hoped sincerely would not return.

But then Healer Thompson was stood at your door on your second day off with furrowed brows and pursed lips. "He's started having seizures again," she said, "They only seem to happen when you're not there."

Your mouth parted, but no words came out.

"We need to test if it's you that prevents them."

Bringing yourself together, you nodded firmly, and grabbed your jacket.

The second you arrived at Regulus' bedside, the other healers stepped back and stopped performing their charms, observing you silently to see what would happen. You gulped, feeling the pressure put on your shoulders, but didn't let it show. You took the patient's hand in yours, and began speaking softly.

"It's okay, Regulus, I'm here," you said, "You're gonna get through this, and I'll tell you all about what I've been doing."

And sure enough, his body calmed almost instantly.

***

"We suspect that your energy is direct competition for the dark magic residing in him," Moonstone explained as you sat in Owlforth's office, "Your magic is so pure and powerful that it fights the darkness just by your presence alone."

"And for that reason, we believe that if you perform the dark magic removal spell, it will work," Owlforth continued, "The rest of us have remained unsuccessful, but we think that you might have differing results."

"But, that's—"

"An incredibly complicated charm, I know," the chief healer sighed, "But if anyone can do it, it's you."

Silence befell the room: a lingering, heavy kind that pressed on your chest and tickled your nerves. Nothing would ever be soothing about the clean white walls throughout the hospital, but usually it was scenery that drove you forward and pushed you to succeed. Now, it felt like they were inching closer to you, daring you to breathe shallow and let fear consume you. Your fist clenched into a tight ball, the walls scaring away with it, and you looked Owlforth dead in the eye. "I can do it."

A glint flickered in his spectacles.

***

You wasted no time in practicing the spell, muttering it until your vocal cords hurt and the Latin felt meaningless to you. Waving your wand until your hand cramped up and you had to switch to the other one, channelling every ounce of magic that thrummed through your veins. It was not until Owlforth and Moonstone had declared your performance as perfect as possible on a conjured patient did you let your arms drop, eyes glancing towards Thompson who gazed at you with quiet approval.

"Better not waste any time," you said, your voice distorted by your sore throat.

And so there you were, stood beside Regulus Black with your mentors nearby, letting the cool breeze from the cracked window flutter on to your cheeks. It did little to calm your nerves, but your nerves were no match for your sheer determination. You had grown to care for the man in the time you had been taking care of him, and you desperately wanted him to wake up.

Inhaling deeply through your nose, you steadied yourself, holding your wand in position as you closed your eyes. Only warmth and compassion filled you as you began murmuring in Latin, the words fused to your memory in a way that had them rolling off your tongue like you were born to say them. At first, the room remained unchanged, a stillness shadowing the anxious breaths of the healers. A pang of disappointment at failure struck you, sticking to the hairs on your skin and making it crawl with shame.

Then, shimmering blue light cascaded from your palms, creeping towards Regulus, opulent in its approach. Mesmerised, you observed as the glitter hovered above his body in swirls and spirals. Black specks started to escape Regulus, soon becoming full swarms of magic that brought with them an unsettling and uneasy presence. You stood your ground firmly, allowing more of your own power to flow from your hands, glueing itself to the dark magic. The quantity of specks leaving Regulus became more sparse, and you watched in amazement as your blue light absorbed them, before disappearing into thin air, as if nothing happened.

Nobody said a thing, eyes pinned to the patient, wondering what would happen next.

"I think you did i-" Owlforth began to say, but he was cut off by coughing.

A soft gasp left your worn throat as Regulus' eyes shot open, grey and calculating irises orienting themselves so they could analyse the situation. He was awake, he was alive, he was— you had done it.

"Mr Black," the chief healer said calmly, clearing his throat and acting the epitome of composure and professionalism. But through that façade, you could see the tremble of his wrinkled hands, and that was when you confirmed what you had suspected.

No one had thought Regulus would make it.

"Where am I?" the hoarse, parched voice replied. Whether it sounded similar to his voice in school, you did not know: you had never so much as exchanged words with him.

"St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries," Owlforth replied smoothly, "You have been in a coma for a few weeks."

A groan rumbled from Regulus' chest as he closed his eyes again, lifting a weak hand to rest on his forehead. "Fuck," he said finally, "Where's Krea— my house elf?"

"After reporting your activities and injuries, he disappeared. We haven't seen him since."

Regulus appeared relieved at that answer, but then stilled, "Am I being arrested?"

Owlforth shook his head, looking around as if to signal that everyone else should leave. That was when Regulus' eyes landed on you, and his brow creased in vague recognition.

"We went to Hogwarts together," he noted, voice hoarse, making you pause in your departure.

You nodded, glancing at Owlforth one last time before leaving along with Moonstone and Thompson.

***

The next hour or so passed slowly, tending to other patients while pretending like you were not overjoyed at your accomplishment — after all, you could not tell anyone. Not even your family could know what a huge step you had made in your healing career.

But you were also anxious as to how Regulus was doing now. While you still hardly knew the man, you had naturally grown to care for him, even if he would never return that care. You could barely focus on the potion IV replacements you were performing, running on autopilot as your mind ticked away. The relief— like taking off high heels at the end of the night— trickled through you when you sensed the call to Regulus' room.

In a flash, you were there, grateful that Regulus seemed to still be perfectly alive.

"You can take it from here, Healer L/N," Owlforth spoke calmly, before making a swift departure.

Routine was something you came to cherish as a healer: your trained response to every situation vital towards no hesitation and efficient yet high quality care. Typically you would spring into action, knowing exactly what to do and what to say.

But you had not been trained for this situation. Your actions and words fell short as Regulus' cold grey eyes scanned you meticulously, likely noting your partly opened mouth. Thankfully, he broke the silence.

"What was your name?" he asked.

It was no shock he did not recall you: your family were insignificant halfbloods, and you never made an effort to stand out in school. Regulus had moved differently, not in that he put any effort into being noticed, but rather the opposite— trying desperately to escape the constant gaze that came with his noble house. Not out of lack of pride, but as if he was always up to something and did not wish to be caught. You now realised that was indeed true.

"L/N," you spoke, voice coming out strangled, "Y/N L/N."

He hummed, "I don't think I ever knew that."

You said nothing.

"But I remember your face. Vaguely."

You nodded, scouring your brain for a task that you should be completing as a healer, but kept shooting blanks until your eyes landed on his potion IV. With quick but shaky moves, you began replacing it, eyes pinned on to the transparent pouch.

Regulus watched you. "You seem to be quite important here."

"Um..." you faltered, "Not really, well, maybe now, I guess..."

"You were the only one able to save me."

You paused. It had not occurred to you that Owlforth would divulge that information.

"Thank you," his words were calm, calculated, but still with a hint of sincerity that he had never been known to muster.

"Of course," you pulled yourself together, "It's my job."

Silence sat for a couple beats.

"You must be hungry," you said, rushed, as it was a thought that was occurring to you much later than was professional.

He nodded, "Famished, actually."

"What would you like? I'm afraid we've no Michelin star restaurant but some of the meals really hit the spot on an empty stomach."

Ever so slightly, the corners of his lips tugged upwards, and your heart flipped. "What's a Michelin star?"

"Oh," you realised, "The best muggle restaurants get Michelin stars."

He tilted his head, "You muggle-born?"

You noticed how he didn't say mudblood. "Uh, no, but my mum is."

He hummed, again, "Do they by any chance serve a roast dinner?"

"Not today, I'm afraid," you sighed, "But we do have grilled chicken with sauté potatoes and vegetables."

With a returned sigh, he said, "That'll do, then. Thank you."

"No worries. I'll be back as quick as I can."

***

"You must be curious," Regulus spoke a few days later, sat up in his bed as you checked his vitals.

"Hm?" you replied absently.

"As to why I'm declared dead."

"Oh," you paused, "I suppose I am. Thought it would be insensitive to ask."

He shrugged, "You're the only person I see."

Stepping back, you pondered his situation. It was true that you were the only person he ever saw, as your superiors had not been back since he woke up. That being said, the aurors were due to arrive today and question him, and you could tell that the prospect of it was weighing down on him: the sullen, black eyebags you had known him to have had returned, and whenever you glanced away you would catch a scowl on his face.

"Well, why are you declared dead?"

"I know He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's secret," he said solemnly.

You said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

"He cannot be killed," he continued, "At least not as things currently are."

Grimacing, you muttered, "That doesn't surprise me."

A soft, empty chuckle emerged from Regulus. "Indeed. It will also be of no surprise that he used one of the darkest forms of magic to achieve immortality."

"I'm afraid I'm not that well-versed on dark magic yet."

"Horcruxes," he said simply, "Almost no witch or wizard knows about them. It took me a while to figure it out."

"Shit," you murmured, "What are they?"

"He splits his soul and places part of it in an object. It's an evil act that necessitates murder."

"Oh. Did you find one?"

He nodded, "Although I am unsure as to how many more there are, let alone their whereabouts."

"I see," you shifted on your feet, "And You-Know-Who knows you know?"

"He thinks I knew before I died."

"Are we sure he believes you dead?"

"That's the one thing we can be sure of. He is far too egotistical to believe his defences would not have killed me."

Your hand moved before your mind could compute, reaching for Regulus' hand to take it in a warm hold, squeezing ever so gently, as if he were so frail he would shattered like a china doll. When you realised your actions, you froze, quickly choosing to pull away and apologise. But, before you could, he was returning the grasp, gracing you with the tiniest smile that had you feeling a melodious swirl of nerves and euphoria.

It was hard not to like having him all to yourself.

***

While you had expected that the aurors would arrange going into hiding for Regulus, you could not deny the hurt it caused you. Not even you would be allowed to contact him once he was cleared to leave the hospital, as nothing could put his safety in jeopardy - and for how long, no one knew. It could be years before you would see his face again.

Maybe it was your lack of friendships, or lack of previous romantic experience, or both that had you reeling at the thought of losing someone you hardly knew, but it did not matter. Regulus would heal and leave, and probably forget about you altogether. Even though, as the next week passed, you grew closer.

"You got an O in herbology?" he scoffed, "No one gets an O in herbology."

You rolled your eyes, "Well, I did, along with Gertrude Newteye, and a couple others, I think."

"Yes, you were friends with Newteye, weren't you?"

You shrugged, "We were friendly. Anyway, I thought you were a straight O student?"

"In everything but herbology."

"Failed?"

Regulus deadpanned you, "An E, but thanks."

A smile crept on to your face, as it often did around him, "That's still a lot better than most."

"Indeed, but my parents remained to be livid."

"Mhm, how dare you only exceed expectations in herbology?"

Then he laughed. It sounded scratchy, like he had not used that part of his voice box in a long time, and he probably hadn't. Your eyes lit up at the sound, watching the curve of his lips as he felt at least some ounce of happiness.

"I didn't know you could laugh," you said, not as a light-hearted jab, but softly, delicately, like you were scared he would never laugh again.

His laughter ceased, and his grey eyes locked on to yours, "Neither did I."

***

"I cannot believe we never spoke in school," Regulus remarked a few days later.

"Probably for the best. You would have hated me."

"I find that hard to believe."

You raised an eyebrow at him, "Your delusion fascinates me. I have always been decidedly against muggle-born discrimination. That, and I'm not noble house pure-blood royalty."

His lips pursed, "Yes. I was quite the conceited prick, wasn't I?"

"Was?" you teased, relishing in the way his expression morphed into shock.

"You wound me."

"No, I heal you."

"Touché," he murmured, "I'm almost back to full health."

At those words, the atmosphere in the room shifted some place gloomier, a density lingering in the air that you were both yet to voice, but you wondered if he even felt it. Regardless, he noticed the manner in which you withdrew, eyeing you curiously.

"Why, don't you want me healthy?" he tried to joke, an already foreign concept to him.

"Of course I want you healthy."

He sighed, "If it makes you feel any better, I don't wish to go into hiding."

"Does anyone?"

"Fair point," he glanced around the room, as if checking there was no one else there, not that there ever was, "I... you're the first real friend I've ever had. I'm going to miss you." There was a discomfort in his tone, reflecting the habits of a man who had been raised to suppress emotion and hide vulnerability.

"I'm going to miss you too," you replied, trying to fight off the tears pricking at your eyes, when you had no right to be upset.

But Regulus was nothing if not observant: he noticed every single one of your mood shifts. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm not," you said quickly, clearing your throat and standing up straight, not wanting him to see how easily you had become attached to him.

He did not push further, but part of you wished he would.

***

It was the last time you would enter that secret hospital room, one miserable Monday, and a gloominess had hung over you throughout the morning. You had been faking smiles at patients for hours, bracing yourself for the final steps towards Regulus. Now, the moment was upon you, and your heart sank at the sight of the man dressed up for the first time in weeks. It did not shock you that he had a dress shirt on, sleek and peeking out from under his black knitted jumper. He was achingly handsome, and you found yourself basking in the way his grey eyes glinted at the sight of you.

But this was not an intimate moment, for aurors were present in the room.

"We're about ready to set off," Auror Moody grunted, his rolling eye stilling to focus on you, "This should go without saying, but you can't make any contact with anyone until we give you the all-clear."

Regulus nodded, his gaze set on you, "May I have a moment alone with her?"

Moody looked between the two of you, before nodding, and leading the other auror out the room. Beats of silence ticked by, words unspoken lingering in the air like a crushing weight.

"Be safe, yeah?" you murmured, but your words did little to lift the atmosphere.

"Of course," he answered.

"I... I got you something," you said, reaching into the pocket of your robes, "Just to... I don't know... remember me by."

You presented him with the silver and green cufflinks, delicate and small, yet every bit representative of the man before you. He picked them up carefully, a small smile creeping on to his face, "I could never forget you."

Your eyes met the floor, embarrassment washing over you.

"I'll see you soon, yeah?" he said gently, and after your nod, he left the room, leaving behind more questions than answers.

"I love you," you murmured, too late for him to hear.

***

The remainder of the Summer was long, repetitive, and draining— you barely noticed when the leaves turned to brown and the temperature dropped. Day by day, you worked on autopilot, giving smiles that never met your eyes, and providing care that was a matter of routine and muscle memory. Your next assessment had gone very well, but not even that could lighten your mood, as you transferred to the next department to further your healing training. It would not be long before you picked the branch of magic you would specialise in: you already knew what it would be. In fact, it was the department you were now training in.

Healer Moonstone had given you a warm welcome when you transferred, saying he expected great things from you. Hamish had overheard this statement, and seemed quite bereaved, but not even his grumbling as he left for Accident & Emergency could improve your mood. Soon, your new routine became just as monotone and dull as the last, as much as your new colleague tried to make you smile.

"There's my favourite coworker!" he beamed as you arrived for the day, tugging off your coat. "How have you been?"

"Fine," you sighed, "You?"

"Amazing now that you're here."

He made no effort to hide his interest in you, and you made no effort to hide your lack of interest in him. Whether he had picked up on your blatant hints, you were unsure, because he never stopped.

Daniel was a twenty-year-old Ilvermorny graduate of whom was working in the United Kingdom for a year to expand his specialisation in dark magic healing. He was, to put it simply, everything Regulus was not. He was loud, enthusiastic, open, and emotional. None were bad traits, but none were traits that you desired in romance, as it turned out. Maybe you would have given him a chance had you never met Regulus.

"Halloween's soon," he began talking as you made your way out the staff room, "You got any plans?"

"'M working," you replied. With no social life to speak of, you had not hesitated to offer for the holiday's night shift, which was always difficult to staff. Especially as there were always unique injuries and charm errors on the spooky night. You would likely be asked to help over in Accident & Emergency during the course of the evening.

"That's a shame, I was gonna ask if you wanted to go out with me."

You paused. While Daniel had made his affections for you clear as day, he had never actually asked you out, and though you knew the day was coming, you were still shocked. "Oh," you replied, unsure of what to say.

"When are you next free? This evening?"

"Thanks, Daniel, but I'm not interested," you said calmly, delicately.

Despite you never once returning his flirtations, the look on his face told you he was blindsided by your rejection.

"I see," he said awkwardly, eyes glancing around.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. I'll work harder."

You were not sure what he meant by that.

***

You cried before you left for your Halloween night shift: not because you were dreading the shift, not because something had happened, but because you missed Regulus with every fibre of your being. Every day you woke up with the deep regret that you had not told him your feelings— naïvely, you had thought you would get over them. If anything, they were getting more intense.

At work, your emotions pushed to the bottom, you were confused to see Daniel there pulling on his robes. He beamed when he saw you.

"I thought you weren't working."

"I'd rather be here with you than anywhere else."

"Daniel, I told you, I'm not interested."

"I know," he said, "So, if I can't make you interested in the next month, I'll back off."

You rolled your eyes, "It won't work."

Thunder cracked outside, the deep rumbling of a storm across the land. You were not someone to be scared of bad weather, but that night you felt a shiver run down your spine. Brushing it off, you proceeded with your usual tasks.

***

It was not long before you were called over to Accident & Emergency, as predicted. All sorts of mayhem was taking place in the waiting room: jumpscares gone wrong and costumes malfunctioning. You could only sigh as you sent off your patient, her eyeballs now firmly back in her sockets where they belonged. Before you fetched the next mishap, you ambled your way to the toilets, desperate for a moment of peace alongside a piss.

But when you turned the corner, you stopped dead in your tracks.

"Y/N, we need you, a whole new wave has just come in!" Daniel called from behind you, but you could not answer.

Before you stood the man you had longed to see in months, the reason you had been stuck in autopilot, the reason you could not return Daniel's interest.

You were crying before you could say anything, shocked to the core by the presence of Regulus Black, dressed in a black trench-coat.

"I missed you," he said quietly, and those words broke you. You hurtled towards him with such speed you nearly knocked him over when you wrapped your arms around him. He was quick to reciprocate your embrace, although his movements were awkward and ill-rehearsed.

"I've been so depressed without you," you said through sobs.

"Y/N? I said we need you!" came Daniel's voice as he rounded the corner, "I— oh..."

You could only guess that Regulus had graced your coworker with a stern glare, because a pattering of footsteps accompanied a nervous statement.

"I'll give you guys a moment."

The second he was gone, you asked, "Isn't it dangerous for you to be out of hiding?"

"Haven't you read the news?"

You shook your head, "I've been working."

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone."

"He's dead?"

He shook his head, "I doubt that. But he's at least in a very weak and incapable state and will be for the foreseeable future."

"So you can come out of hiding?"

He nodded.

"Oh, thank Merlin!" you sobbed, hugging him tighter, "I thought I'd never get to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"That I love you," you spoke without hesitation, gazing at him, your eyes blurred with tears.

A kiss landed on your forehead, accompanied with his hands holding your head, as gentle as if you were a porcelain doll. "I love you, too."

Your hand lifted to touch his wrist, feeling the cold silver of his cufflinks. "You're wearing them," you choked.

"Every day," he said, "Every damned day."

—————————————————

masterlist

written; 30/10/2025 —> 27/12/2025 published; 27/12/2025 edited; —/—/——

[dreamcubed]

3,5k words into this fic and regulus and reader still haven’t shared a conversation 😭

this is so rare for me most my fics average 3–4k words TOTAL. it’s taking me long to do this (uni work as well yada yada) but i’m so proud of it so far. i hope you all love healer!reader x patient!regulus as much as i do 🫶🫶

[aetherraeys]

evil twin !

regulus black x twinpotter!reader ⊹ 10.2k

(part ii)

cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus!!, slytherin!reader, fluff, friends to lovers

summary: the potter twins, a marvelous duo split by the sorting hat. just like your brother you presence was addictive, drawing in the attentions of a particularly brooding black brother.

a/n: THIS IS THE FIRST OF HOPEFULLY MANY PARTS HEHEHE I HOPE YOU ENJOY MWAH!!! not proofread x

Dumbledore was convinced that both Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had carried out a divide and conquer tactic apon your arrival in the castle.

Individually, you and James were a force to be reckoned with—both incredibly charismatic, intelligent and hard-headed, with a knack for mischief. So together, Dumbledore’s head only spun at the thought of the havoc the pair of you would cause.

Luckily, on the fateful day of your arrival, you were placed in Slytherin and your beloved twin brother was placed in Gryffindor—separated for the first time ever. The moment still vivid in your mind, the second the sorting hat was on you, the way you flinched when it hummed, pondering—voice ringing loud in your ears as it announced—Slytherin.

James had frozen at the Gryffindor table, half out of his seat, hand still twitching against the bench where he’d been saving your spot—watching as your lip trembled, walking glossy-eyed to the Slytherin table.

That first night, the castle felt too big, dungeon walls suffocating, too many corridors between you and your brother.

Of course it was hard, for the both of you.

James had always been protective over you—infuriatingly so. Always reinforcing the fact that he needs to take care of his little sister. Like those three minutes made any difference at all.

It had been a slow shift—painful, even. You and James had always been a unit, bound by childhood games, matching jumpers, and the unspoken certainty that wherever one of you went, the other wasn’t far behind. But Hogwarts had changed that. The Sorting Hat had done more than divide you; it had distilled you. Pulled apart the blended pieces of your personalities and exposed them for what they truly were.

It gave you both room to grow.

Individually. Distinctively.

Earning names for yourselves outside of ‘the Potter twins’.

You’d both carved your names into the stone walls of Hogwarts in your own distinct ways—loud and clear, unmistakable.

James Potter was sunlight. A walking, talking explosion of brightness. He lit up corridors with that crooked grin and wind-mussed hair, bounding through the castle like he owned every inch of it. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, chaotic and loud and brilliant in all the ways that made people want to follow him into a duel or disaster.

He was the kind of boy who laughed with his whole chest, who spoke like everything he said mattered, arms slung around friends like they were lifelines. Always in motion. Always burning. A golden retriever in human form, all reckless energy and genuine joy.

And then there was you.

Cool where James was burning. Still water to his wildfire. But no less dangerous.

No less alluring.

They called you the evil twin—never to your face, and never with confidence. Not seriously. Not really. But the name clung to you like smoke. It suited you in the way all the best lies do: close enough to truth to be dangerous.

There was a calm to you, deliberate and composed, but it was the kind of calm that made people lean in too close, not noticing that they were slipping under the surface until it was far too late. You moved with the kind of grace that made people watch without realising they were watching, your smile soft, voice smoother still, and eyes always gleaming with something slightly wild.

They whispered about you long after you left a room.

Head Girl before your quill ever touched the application parchment. A perfect record—at least on paper.

Your charm was quieter than James’, more calculated, more disarming. Beautiful, brilliant, and just a little terrifying. You made people nervous, even when you were smiling. Especially when you were smiling.

There was a glint in your eyes that made hearts skip and stomachs drop, that whispered of games and secrets and consequences. A wicked sort of glimmer, like you knew every thought in their head and were already deciding what to do with it. Like the sea right before a storm.

Yin and yang, Dumbledore had once said, half in jest. Opposing forces in perfect balance.

You enter the Great Hall like a secret unfurling—quiet and unannounced, not so much walking as gliding between tables, untouched by the noise that fills the air.

Steps silent across the stone floor, a slip of motion through the chaos of breakfast—chatter and cutlery and laughter clanging off the walls. You pass the Gryffindor table without so much as a murmur trailing behind you, and still, not one person notices.

Not until your hand touches James’ shoulder.

He jerks so violently he nearly knocks his goblet over, a string of startled swears tumbling from his mouth as his fork clatters against the plate. Pumpkin mash splatters. Someone at the table yelped. Sirius choked on his toast, and Remus actually gasped as if someone’s just hexed him.

Every head turned.

And James was clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him.

“Bloody—! Merlin’s sake, you can’t just—!”

You tilt your head at him, ever so slightly, a small smirk twitching at the corners of your lips—eyes glinting with amusement. “Jamie,” you say in a sing-song lilt, sweet and syrupy, “You wouldn’t happen to still have the History of Magic textbook you borrowed from me, would you?”

A hush falls over the table—just long enough to make you notice.

“Er. About that,” he says, eyes darting like he’s working out whether to lie or apologise. “I might still have it. Might. Can’t say what condition it’s in, though.”

Your smile fades instantly, its replacing expressing shockly serious.

“James,” you say flatly, eyes narrowing. “Did you ruin my book?”

He winces. “Define ruin—”

“James.”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” he insists quickly, shoulders raising like you’re about to hex him in the middle of the Great Hall. “There was this—uh—Sirius spilled ink on the table and then Remus knocked it over and there was just a lot going on.”

You stayed silent, blinking at him, unimpressed.

“I’ll get you a new copy,” he says, guilt creeping into his voice. “Later today. You’ll have to stop by the common room, though.”

You sigh like it physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll try to come by around seven.”

He grins, pleased with himself. “Sorry, Poppet*.*”

You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches. Straightening, with a roll of your shoulders as you draw your hand away from him, letting it fall to your side. And when you glace up again, the stares hadn’t stopped.

Like they’d forgotten to look away, the silence hung in the air for barely a second, scanning the table momentarily—before offering a small smile—slow, sweet, almost smug.

The kind of smile that ruins people.

“M’kay, see you later, Jamie,” you murmur, then turn and slip back into motion.

Eyes follow you as you go—every turn of your heel, every soft shift of fabric, every second you exist within their line of sight. James barely registers it at first—too busy spearing his toast again, already halfway back into conversation. But then he pauses.

His eyes flick to Sirius. Then to Remus. Then to Marlene.

All three of them are still staring across the hall. Still tracking your path back to your table.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” James groans loudly, glaring. “Stop gawking at my sister.”

Marlene blinks, caught. “She’s terrifying,” she mutters, almost to herself.

“In a really…good way,” Remus adds, dazed.

Sirius only grins.

James lets out a strangled sound and buries his face in his hands.

The portrait swings open without hesitation, at exactly seven o’clock sharp, you’d been there enough times that even the Fat Lady doesn’t bother asking questions anymore.

James is already waiting on one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire, textbook in hand. You barely slowed as you approached. He tossed it up with a practiced flick of the wrist, and you caught it one-handed.

“New copy,” he says proudly. “Didn’t even steal it. Aren’t you proud?”

You hum in approval, flipping it open to scan the pages. “No ink stains. No food crumbs. No smell of dungbombs.” You close it with a satisfied snap. “Miracles do happen.”

Before he can retort, you’ve already turned toward the couch, where Lily is perched cross-legged with a steaming mug of something floral and her usual tower of parchment. She smiles when she sees you, shifting over to make space without being asked.

Tucking the textbook under your arm as you lower yourself beside her.

James raises a suspicious brow, but you and Lily are already whispering to each other, heads tilted close and expressions conspiratorial. It’s nothing terribly sinister—something to do with Hogsmeade, and getting Slughorn to move a test back a week—but it’s enough to draw curious glances from the far side of the room.

You feel them. The eyes.

But you don’t look. Don’t need to.

Sirius was pretending not to stare. Which is laughable, really, because his entire body was angled toward you, elbow propped on the back of the couch, fingers tangled in his hair in that careless way he probably thinks is charming.

And Remus was worse. He’s trying to read, bless him, book in his lap and everything—but his eyes haven’t moved from you since you sat down. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable, chewing the inside of his cheek. You think you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

You say nothing. Keep your voice low as you murmur something into Lily’s ear that makes her snort softly behind her hand.

After ten minutes of easy conversation, you rise without ceremony, slipping the textbook fully under your arm and smoothing your skirt.

“Well,” you say lightly, brushing a hand over your robes. “This was fun.”

Lily smirks. “We’ll finalise tomorrow?”

“Perfect” You glance to James. “Thanks for the book, Jamie.”

“No problem, Pop.”

You turn, finally acknowledging the two boys across the room with a glint of something wicked in your eye.

“Goodnight, boys,” you said sweetly—voice soft as silk, almost melodic. The slightest edge of a smile curves your lips as you roll your eyes, and then you’re already walking toward the exit, the hem of your robes trailing behind you like smoke.

You don’t look back.

But if you had, you would’ve seen Sirius run a hand through his hair and lean back with a low whistle.

“Merlin,” he mutters. “I’d swear she’s half siren if it weren’t for you, Prongs”

James, who’s still watching the portrait door swing shut, scoffs. “Oh, come off it.”

“What?” Sirius grins, unashamed. “It’s not my fault your sister is—” he gestures vaguely toward the door, “—whatever that is.”

Remus doesn’t say a word. His book is still open in his lap—he’s not reading it.

“I’m just saying,” Sirius continues, “if she weren’t your sister…”

“But she is my sister.” James rebutted, slouching back in his seat—swiftly ending the conversation.

The corridor curved with quiet shadows, lit only by the flicker of distant torches. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone, a soft rhythm in the stillness of the dungeons. It was late, you’d spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than you’d realised—most of the castle already asleep, save for the odd prefect or wandering ghost.

You turned a corner near the potions classroom and nearly walked straight into Regulus Black.

He stopped short, posture already impeccable, as if even in surprise he couldn't be caught off guard. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, hesitation—and then he stepped slightly aside, giving you room without a word.

“Burning the midnight oil, Black?” you asked, voice soft with the sort of casual familiarity that made his name sound like something you owned.

He glanced at you, dark eyes catching in the torchlight. “Prefect rounds. Took longer than expected.”

You fell into step beside him as naturally as breathing, and he adjusted his pace to match yours without needing to be asked.

“What was it this time?” you mused. “More Gryffindors smuggling sweets from the kitchens?”

“Fourth-years,” he said with a small exhale—amusement undercutting his otherwise smooth tone. “Said they were practicing for a future in espionage.”

“Ambitious,” you said, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Almost enough to make me proud.”

Regulus didn’t respond, but you felt the brief flick of his eyes on your profile, like he was trying not to look too long. Like he was trying not to seem too interested.

You didn’t comment, but you noticed.

By the time you reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, barely mumbling the password before the metal hinges whined, door opening slowly. Inside, the green-glass lamps glowed low, casting dreamy reflections against the water-like ceiling. The fire in the hearth crackled lazily, golden against the dark velvet furniture.

Dorcas sat half-curled on the rug, absently flipping through a magazine; Evan was draped across a couch like he owned it, cards floating above his face; Pandora leaned near him, humming as she threaded a strand of starlight-colored ribbon through her hair. It was a tableau of sleepy elegance.

Without hesitation, you crossed the room and lowered yourself to the center rug near the fire. Your hand stretched toward the flames without thought. A spark rose up, obedient and curious, dancing into your open palm.

Twirling it between your fingers like silk, the heat never burning you, the flame curling comfortably around your touch. Pandora’s fingers stilled in her braid, watching.

Wandless magic.

Dorcas tilted her head, eyes bright. “You really have to teach me how to do that one day.”

You didn’t look away from the fire. “Of course,” you said lightly. “But there’s a bit of a learning curve.”

“Like what kind of curve?” Evan asked, not looking up. “Burn-your-dormitory-down levels?”

“More like third-degree-if-you’re-clumsy,” you replied with a grin.

“I could do it,” a voice said behind you, full of loud confidence.

Barty stepped forward from where he’d been balanced on the arm of the sofa, his hair tousled, shirt rumpled, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.

You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “Could you now?”

“First try,” he goaded, brows arched in light challenge. “Swear on my father's boring haircut.”

Regulus snorted, not even looking up from his book. “You’ll burn yourself stupid.”

“I’ll be fine,” Barty said, already striding forward. “How hard can it be?”

He reached toward the fire, trying to mimic the smooth gesture you’d used, fingers tense with focus and impatience.

A small spark leapt up—and immediately sputtered, flaring far too quickly. The flame caught his skin with a sharp sizzle before he could react, and he yelped, flinging his hand back with a curse.

“Bloody hell!”

The room erupted with laughter.

Pandora’s hand clamped over her mouth as if to shove the laugh back in, both Evan and Dorcas threw their heads back in sync, barking out a laugh—sound mixing with yours, loud and delighted, as Barty glared at the fire like it had personally betrayed him.

“Under control, was it?” you teased.

He cradled his palm like it was a war wound. “Minor setback. I didn’t even flinch.”

“You flinched so hard you almost somersaulted.”

“Semantics,” Barty grumbled.

“Let me see,” you said, standing and stepping closer.

He hesitated only a beat before holding out his hand, palm-up. A faint red welt bloomed across his skin, angry and hot. Your fingers brushed against his as you took it, and you felt the brief hitch in his breath. You didn’t comment.

A whisper of magic curled from your palm, cool and quiet, threading over the burn like mist. The redness faded almost instantly, leaving only smooth skin and the faintest echo of heat.

Barty stared down at your work like it was a trick he couldn’t quite understand.

From the couch, Evan leaned forward, smirking. “You just wanted an excuse to hold her hand.”

“Shove off,” Barty muttered, pulling his hand back quickly, though not too quickly.

You shook your head, half-exasperated half-amused, and turned toward the hall. “I’m going to wash up.”

As you stepped away from the firelight, you caught movement in the corner of your eye. Regulus was still in his usual spot—half reclined in the reading chair by the window, a book open but forgotten on his lap.

His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.

You held it for just a moment, a soft smirk just barely twitching at the corners of your lips, before disappearing down the hall.

Unsurpisingly, both you and Regulus had more in common than you’d care to admit.

Both the less outlandish sibling, the ‘quieter’ ones—not necessarily in sound, but in presence. While James and Sirius blazed like bonfires, reckless and radiant, you and Regulus were something else entirely.

Subtle, magnetic.

You didn’t need to shout to be heard. You’d both entered a room and the air seemed to still slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do.

Both of you understood what it meant to watch. To study a room before deciding what piece you wanted to play in it. You weren’t loud, nor silent just quietly unnerving. Regal, even.

There was a stillness about Regulus, an almost surgical precision to his movements and his clipped tone, like everything he did was measured twice before execution. He was painfully composed, almost uptight, his dry wit tucked behind an unimpressed brow and unimpeachable posture.

And where you differed—you were made of wild starlight and strange tides, chaos in your blood even if it rarely cracked your veneer, eventhough you rarely indulged. And where Regulus pulled inward, you leaned out. You loved a little disorder, havoc—a challenge; your eyes shining when something didn’t go to plan, smirking like you were always in on a secret.

There was a certain wickedness in your stillness—one that made Regulus look twice. Then three times. Then constantly.

Each thing he learned about you surprised him more than the last.

So he decided, quietly and with a calm sort of resolve, that he’d had enough of watching you from afar. He wanted a closer look.

The first time was in the library.

You were tucked into the corner of a row, arms full of books, hair falling across your face as you read the spine of a heavy tome. You didn’t notice him at first—or maybe that’s just what he told himself, though he should’ve known better. Regulus moved with the silence of a shadow, but when he was only inches away and just about to speak, your voice floated out, lightly entertained:

“Planning to sneak up on me, Black?”

He blinked, lips parting in the barest hint of surprise. “I wasn’t—”

Without sparing him a glance you handed him the book at the top, and he took it instinctively—letting his fingers linger on yours just that bit longer than necessary. And you held in a quirk of your brows, the squint of your eyes—making a mental note.

Because Regulus was nothing if not purposeful.

He didn’t say anything else at first, only helped, taking the weight from you and beginning to shelve them wordlessly. There was a moment—just before he reached for the last one—where his fingers paused. The cover was worn, clearly read many times.

Icarus.

A Muggle myth. One of his favourites, though no one knew that.

His hand hovered just a little too long, thumb brushing over the faded title.

“What did you think of the ending?” you asked suddenly, your tone soft but cutting through the quiet like a quill to parchment.

He almost stammered, nearly asking how did you know? But caught himself, clearing his throat before replying. “Tragic. I liked it.”

You tilted your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip—scanning his face—something glinting behind your eyes that he couldn’t quiet put his finger on.

The way the corners of your lips threatening to curve into a smile, had him struggling to swallow, voice honeyed in his ears—“Of course you did.”

And you were gone, just like that, leaving him standing—ears hot, brain playing your voice, your smile on loop.

Regulus prided himself in his ability to read a person, and yet with you—every interaction left him more confused, more intrigued, more captivated. There was some sort of riddle about you, something flickering in the depths of your eyes that made him want to unravel it—you.

The next time he saw you, you’d agreed to meet after his Quidditch practice to finish a joint assignment for Potions. Waiting just outside the changing rooms, arms crossed loosely over your chest, leaning against the cool stone wall with your bag slung over one shoulder.

The first person out wasn’t Regulus, but Barty—lips splitting into a wide smirk like he’d been expecting to see you there.

“Well, well,” he drawled, striding over with no shame, his hair a windswept mess and his jersey clinging to his frame. Immediately he closed in on you, arm slinging lazily over your shoulders, a light scent of cigarettes and oak filling your nose.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, pretty?”

Groaning, your nose crinkling at the contact, you didn’t push him off though—”You’re sweaty, Junior,”

He only leaned in closer, grin laced with mischief, letting his breath fan over your jaw. “You love it.”

“I love showers, actually. You should try one.”

Tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes flickered across you face, the corners of your lips fighting to stay down—eyes glimmering with that twinge of defiance that had him only smirk even wider—“Only if you come with.”

Your brow cocked up slightly, narrowing your eyes as your plucked his arm off of you, placing gently back by his side—palms still wrapped around his wrist. He watched your movement eagerly, the smirk that was already etched onto his lips, adopting a positively wolfish quality when you leaned up into him—lips almost brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered.

“You wouldn’t last five minutes, Junior,”

Pulling away just as quickly as you came in, leaning back against the wall leisurely, rolling your eyes at the way Barty scanned your figure—adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

Then the door opened again, still not Regulus.

“Evan,” you called sweetly, “come collect your lost dog before he starts shedding on me.”

“C’mon, Crouch” Evan replied with a snort, catching him by the collar and dragging him off. “Leave her alone before you melt her into the floor.”

Barty turned just before they were out of sight, voice loud despite the distance—playful, “Miss you already, Treasure!”

For a few more minutes you waited, the corridor quiet now except for the flickering of enchanted sconces and the distant echo of voices. When Regulus finally emerged, his tie half-undone and hair damp around the edges, cheeks still reddened from the bite of the air—adjusting his uniform.

“Did you wait long?”

He’d already began the walk out, following after him, you hummed a small no—slipping through the hallways in the East Wing to find an empty classroom. It wasn’t hard task at all, settling in with the low scrap of the stool against the stone floor and opening your textbooks.

As he flicked through the pages of the book, your gaze dropped instinctively to his hands—his knuckles bruised and bloodied, red blooming like petals across pale skin.

Without hesitation, you scooted forward in your seat and took his hand in yours.

“We could’ve stopped by Pomfrey,” you said, brows knitting slightly as you examined the scrapes.

He didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze fixed on your hand, the way you held his delicately, and your fingers, the way they moved so gently across his skin.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll heal.”

A frown had etched itself onto your lips as you continued to inspect his hand, if you weren’t so engrossed in your assessment, you would have noticed the faint flush of his ears, or how his eyes flickered back and forth between your face and your hand.

Your motions were slow and attentive, pressing your palm along the bumps of his knuckles—the heat of your skin ghosting over his—the simmer of magic was so soft he almost didn’t notice it.

There was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as the wounds healed, but he didn’t flinch away.

And as your palm crossed over the edge of his hand, the final gash closed before his eyes, the skin was almost perfectly anew, as if nothing had happened—the only indication being a fading pink hue.

You continued to trace over the now-faint marks, fingertips ghosting along the healed bone, the tenderness of your touch leaving him slightly breathless.

“Better,” you whispered, half to yourself.

Regulus just stared at his hand when you let go, still feeling the echo of your touch, the whisps of your warmth. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual, lips still parted—stretching and rolling his fingers, watching the bones move comfortably under the skin, free of the light burning sensation.

When he looked up, you were already watching him—head tilted, expression cool—neutral.

Sighing out a breath his lips were moving before he could stop them, “I—how?”

A quiet hum escaped your lips, hands crossing over your lap as you leaned into the wood of your chair, “Well, James and I were really clumsy—more James than me, obviously,”

Recollecting, your lips curled into a smile, shrugging slightly as you continued, “Our mum got tired of us walking around bruised and battered when she was busy, so she taught me how to heal without a wand,”

The ghost of a smile almost twitched at the corners of his lips. Almost.

A short silence veiled the room as you fell into a working rhythm, mindlessly highlighting and note taking before the clattering of Regulus’ quill against the table broke your concentration. Eyes immediately shifting up to him—his lips pursed into a tightline but the words were already out. Blurted abruptly, cracking the silence just as his quill did.

“Teach me,”

Your brows raised into a suprised arch, confusion flickering across your face for brief moment, lips parting to respond. When he shrunk into himself slightly, shocked by his own outburst, muttering a small, “…please?” under his breath.

The response fell heavy on your tongue, lips stretching into an amused smirk and huffed chuckle bubbled low in your chest.

The wood of the chair scrapped and screeched loud against the stone as you stood, wordlessly making your way around the table. His eyes tracked your movements, just barely becoming frantic in their flickering when you sat beside him—knees brushing, so close.

Regulus breath caught when your gazes met, heat prickling at the base of his neck, hands curling into half-fists on the table, and you kept your eyes on him. Even as you leaned over closing his books, making space on the desk—warmth of your body vaguely gracing him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look away, tear his gaze from yours—as much as it made his stomach flip from its quiet intensity—the confidence that swam in your eyes. It sucked him in, making his adam’s apple bob in his throat.

All-consuming.

At the sound of a single galleon, lazily spinning on the table, you broke your stare—letting your sights fall onto the coin as it clattered to a halt. “Have you done wandless magic before?”

He sucked in a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill completely—using that time to regulate his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest—before pushing all the air back out, forcibly rubbing his palms into the fabric of his robes.

“Once—accidentally,”

With a nod, you hummed at his words, waiting for him to continue, eyes back on him—boring into the side of his head. “I—uh, got the lights to turn on when i couldn’t find my wand,”

His eyes shift between you and the coin as you picked it up, rolling it between your fingers as your spoke, “Okay, lets start with something simple, shall we?” The way you watched him made his mouth painfully dry, he couldn’t even trust his voice to answer, silently nodding at you words.

“Try move the coin.”

When he whipped his head towards to, lips parted in slight disbelief, protests creeping up his throat—Regulus clamped his mouth shut at the smile on your face, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners swimming with mischief as you leaned in. Placing the coin back onto the table with a soft clink, instinctively he held his breath, short-circuiting at the sudden proximity—so close he could smell you, a light vanilla scent with a twinge of maple and freshly burnt fire-wood.

You made him so nervous, he found himself a bit pathetic.

And the honeyed cadance of your voice did nothing but make his heart race faster than it already was, “Just breathe, Regulus. Focus on the coin and where you want it to move—relax,”

Easier said than done.

Gods, even the way you said his name—he almost lost the rest of your sentence, letting it echo in his mind over and over again.

When you reclined, leaning back into your chair, he felt the urge to mourn the loss of warmth—rolling his shoulders back, focusing his gaze. Or at least, he tried to.

The coin sat quietly on the table, unmoved, unbothered by the sheer force of his will alone. His jaw tensed, brows pinched together, fingers twitching slightly as if the movement alone might spark the magic into life.

Nothing.

With a breath that was equal parts frustration and surrender, Regulus leaned back and exhaled sharply.

“Can you—” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, —can you not watch me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Then a quiet chuckle slipped from your lips as you raised your hands in surrender, the teasing edge of your smile tugging at the corners. “Alright, alright,” you murmured, “Sorry.” Voice light and easy, but your eyes still sparkled with that same mischief that made his stomach clench. “Didn’t realise I was that distracting.”

“You are,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear.

Still, you didn’t comment on it. Instead, leaning in again—slowly, gently—and placed your hand on his shoulder, the heat of you palm instantly radiating through his robes, hairs raising down his spine. His eyes flicked to the contact, then to your face again. You were closer than before.

“You’re thinking too hard,” you murmured, your thumb brushing once over the fabric of his robes. “And you’re not breathing.”

“I am breathing,” he argued weakly.

“Barely.”

You didn’t move your hand as you spoke again, your voice quieter now, velvet-soft and steady. “Close your eyes. Envision it. Just you and the coin. No pressure.” Regulus hesitated for a beat, then followed your instruction, lids fluttering shut.

A few moments pass before your voice reaches his ears again, “Can you see it?” and he nodded slowly, jaw tightening in focus.

“Alright,” you continued, tone low almost hypnotic now, “imagine it moving. Just a bit. Like there’s an invisible string tugging it toward you.”

He sucked in another deep breath, picturing it. The cool glint of the galleon. The subtle shine under the tinted light of the classroom. The gentle tug, like a current.

And then—scrape.

The softest sound of metal shifting against wood reached both your ears. His eyes shot open. It had moved—just barely a few centimeters, but undeniably there. His breath caught, disbelief flashing across his face.

When he turned to you, a bright beam had already split across your face, the sort of proud, delighted smile that hit him harder than the adrenaline from the magic—your hand finally slipped from his shoulder, leaving a coldness in its wake—fingers grazing the fabric of his robes. “You did it!” you said, eyes bright. “See? Easy.”

He let out a stunned breath, caught between awe and the bloom of success, heartbeat still rapid beneath his ribs. The warmth of accomplishment mingling with the quiet thrum of your presence, you. He was still processing when you reset the coin with a smooth sweep of your hand.

“Again,” you urged, nudging it into place. “Try further this time.”

He nodded, more focused now—confident. When he closed his eyes again, he could still hear the echo of your voice in his head. Could still imagine your hand on his shoulder, steading—warm.

And this time, it slid farther—too far.

The coin zipped forward, clattered off the edge, and hit the floor with a metallic clink that echoed around the empty classroom. You let out a short burst of laughter, delighted, as his head dropped, a sheepish huff escaping him. But the tension had melted from his shoulders, replaced with slow blossoming of something lighter. Pride.

He bent down to retrieve it, fingers brushing the cool metal before placing it back on the table. You were already settling beside him again, the warmth of your presence sparking something just under his skin. “This is the next step,” you said, tapping the surface of the table.

Regulus was still watching you.

Then you extended your hand, with a single finger, you hovered just above the coin—twirling it in a slow, controlled motion—and like it had a will of its own, the coin lifted.

Spinning, following the gentle twirl of your finger. A slow spiral, then faster, gathering speed until it hovered in the air, dancing in place.

He was entranced, gaze stuck on the coin even as it settled down, coming to a graceful halt—landing perfectly in the center of the table. He’d known magic, of course he did—but it felt different, raw and effortless. The same way the flame had danced between your fingers in the common room the other night—mindlessly intuitive, captivating. The coin spun like it wanted to please you. Everything did, it seemed.

He was still staring at the coin, hesitating—doubt creeping in through the back of his mind, like an unwanted invasive parasite—it barely flickered across his face. An almost imperceivable break in his expression, but you saw it.

Taking the coin again, you reached for his hand—laying your palm flat under his, eyes flickering to his face for permission before continuing. When he didn’t pull away, you placed the coin in the center of his hand, the warmth of your skin on his made the sharp bite of the metal feel that bit colder against his hand.

It lifted and spun confidently against his skin, puppeteered by the twist of your finger.

“Feel that?” Voice just above a whisper.

And he could feel it, a steady thrumming faintly circling in his palm, the buzzing with your magic. Swallowing before he spoke, a small “Yeah,” passing into the air between you.

“Now,” you spoke quietly, catching his other hand and bringing it to hover above the coin. “Picture that same feeling at your fingertips. Like it’s moving from your hand into the air—let it flow through you.”

He concentrated. You stayed close. Hand still gently cradling his from below, a silent encouragement, he started mimicking the slow twirling motion in the space above the coin.

For a few long moment—nothing.

Then, it happened. The coin jerked, slightly. Then again, shakily dragging to a stand. A tremble, stuttering before a spin. Jerky at first, but then it righted itself—smoothly gaining speed, falling into step with the command of his finger.

And your laughter, it rung through the room—soft, radiant—spilling from your chest with that same pride from before. He was too stunned to say anything. Blinking down at the coin with wide eyes, then looking to you, breathless, like he wasn’t quite sure it had actually happened. A smile—an actual, full smile—slowly curved onto his lips.

Rare and quiet, it lingered like a secret only the two of you shared.

The low buzz still resonating in his palm, the echo of your magic mingled with his own. The feeling of your hands—warm, steady, coaxing power out of him with nothing more than your voice and a bit of stubborn charm.

And even as the coin fell suddenly into his hand, all he could do was look at you.

Relish in the way your eyes shone with a glimmer of excitement, how your hands curved around his, jogging them slightly in enthusiastic joy of his accomplishment.

The coin was stagnant in his palm, Regulus flipped your hands, surrendering the cold metal into yours—and yet his hands lingering in your hold. He knew he probably should have moved his hands, the second he resigned the coin back into your possession; that was his cue. But he felt stuck, frozen under your sights.

Bewitched.

Even as your lips moved before him, the words almost fell deaf on his ears—taking a few seconds to let them echo in his mind, how did it feel? He responded with a sighing breath, as if relinquishing all remaining tension in his body, “…Good,” nodding his head as his continued, “really good actually,”

His small confession has your lips stretching even further along your face, and acknowledging hum rumbling in your throat as your touch slowly slipped away from his. Quietly tucking the coin into your bag before you started to pack up.

Just when you closed your notebook Regulus’ voice glided across the air, just above a faint murmur—if the room had any other sounds than the quiet rustling of papers, you wouldn’t have heard it.

“You’re a really good teacher,”

A small huff of laugh passed through your nose, tucking your notebook under your arm as you stood and offered a small, warm smile. “It’s easy,” you said lightly, “when you have a good student.”

Regulus shook his head faintly, a huff of something like disbelief leaving his lips—but the curve of pride hadn’t quite left his mouth.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence through the halls, your steps in sync. His hands tucked in his pockets, your bag slung over your shoulder. The dungeons were dim, washed in the dull blue of lantern light, shadows stretching along the stone. He kept glancing sideways at you, like there was something still lingering on his tongue he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to say.

Just as you reached the bottom of the girls’ dorm staircase, your hand curling loosely around the bannister, Regulus spoke.

“Wait—” His voice was low, tentative. Pausing, you turned slightly. “Hm?”

He stood a few steps back, one hand curled around the strap of his satchel, the other still shoved in his pocket. “Would you…” he paused, gaze dipping before finding yours again, more certain now. “Will you show me more?”

There was a beat of silence.

You tilted your head, watching him closely, fingers curled loosely around the railing. Blinking once, twice, reading the sincerity in his face, the open want—not desperation, harmless interest. He could see the cogs turning in your head just for a moment, before you murmured with a shrug, “Yeah.”

Descending the stairs again, you fell into step beside him as he led the way up the other staircase. The boys’ dorm was quiet when you reached it, the door creaking softly open under his hand. The warm scent of parchment, cologne, and something distinctly him met you in the space.

You paused at the threshold.

It wasn’t unfamiliar—you’d lounged across Barty’s bed enough times, lazily flipping through books while he tore the room apart looking for a missing assignment. You’d perched at Evan’s desk, rifled through his scribbled notes, borrowed a quill Barty’s nightstand. But never while Regulus was there. You’d never stepped into his space, not when he was in it.

He didn’t seem to notice your stillness. He moved through the room with ease, like you weren’t watching—dropping his books in a stack by the desk, slipping his robe off one shoulder, then tugging his jumper over his head. His shirt was rumpled beneath, sleeves already rolled up, collar slightly askew. You caught yourself staring.

He looked over his shoulder.

“You coming in?” he asked, voice a little lower now, pitched in that way it sometimes got when it was just you.

Without a word, you stepped in, toeing the door shut behind you and dropping your bag just beside the frame. You mimicked his motions easily, slipping off your jumper and draping it over the back of a nearby chair, fingers brushing absently along the edge of his desk as you walked further in.

It was a clean room. Structured, but not stiff. His bed was neat, the desk organised, quills and books perfectly aligned. But there were touches—human ones. A framed photo of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, a green ribbon pinned to the wall—a burnished Slytherin scarf neatly folded at the end of his bed, and a single piece of parchment stuck to the wall above his workspace.

With a soft exhale, you flopped onto his bed, letting your arms stretch out as you gazed up at the canopy. The hangings were dark, almost velvet black, and they made the whole space feel smaller, quieter. Private.

Regulus glanced over, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He returned to his desk, potion book in hand, eyebrows arched in mild disbelief.

“You make yourself comfortable wherever you go, don’t you?” he said dryly, a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.

You didn’t reply—just smirked smugly, twisting your head into the sheets below, stretching your limbs out, still gazing up at the dark, heavy curtains draped above the bed. The movement made your shirt shift, riding up slightly—just a touch above your waistband, exposing a sliver of skin, soft and warm under the low lamplight—the stretch of your abdomen and the small indent of your navel.

He was staring.

He didn’t realise how long until you sat up, balancing your weight on one arm, eyes still wandering lazily over the ceiling.

“You’d think your parents taught you it’s rude to stare,” you said lightly. “But you and your brother are just the same.”

Regulus cleared his throat, heat blooming high on his cheekbones, but he said nothing.

Your attention drifted to the stack of books on his desk—and the singular piece of parchment, handwritten in a precise script, pinned above it.

“What’s that?” you asked, nodding toward it.

He followed your gaze. “A line from a poem.”

You hummed, intrigued. “What’s it say?”

He crossed the room, settling a book on his night stand before he sat on the bed beside you.

You didn’t meet his gaze right away—still reclined, your hair spilling over the edge of the bed like ink, one hand absentmindedly twirling the galleon between your fingers.

Stretching out onto his stomach, bringing his chin on his forearm to look at you properly. He watched you for a moment. The way the gold shimmered in your grip, the way your mouth twitched with unspoken thought. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t mention it.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft—gentle and low as he recited the line, something breathy and melodic in French. His accent was quiet but careful.

The coin fell still in your lap as you turned your head toward him.

“It sounds pretty,” you murmured. Your eyes traced his face, steady and curious. “What does it mean?” His gaze didn’t leave yours, sucking in a breath through his nose, the mattress beside you dipped as he promped himself up onto his elbows, words slow and hypnotising in your ears.

“Let night come on bells end the day, the days go by me still I stay”

You blinked at him, for a long moment, just letting the words rest heavy in the air between you, and his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you spoke, voice barely above a whisper, more breath than words—as if anything louder would crack the air as it stilled around you.

“It sounds extra pretty in your voice.”

Regulus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. You were too close. Not close enough. The lamp behind you casted golden shadows across your face and your lips were slightly parted, just barely.

Before he could stop himself, the words were already tumbling out.

“I think you’re pretty.”

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him—blinks slowly as you took in each feature.

And then he was leaning in. Slowly, but not hesitantly—fingertips skimming along your jaw, guiding your face toward his with reverence more than boldness. He tilted your face toward him like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, and as he got closer, you hummed, tone somewhere between amusement and a quiet gentleness, “Such high praise,” Gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips one last time before his mouth was on yours.

Regulus’ lips brushed yours with a delicate sort of caution, like he was afraid to startle the moment. His hand stayed warm at your jaw, thumb ghosting along the edge of your cheekbone, grounding himself in the quiet thrill of the contact.

When you kissed him back, slowly, deliberately, and it was like you lit a fuse under his skin. He moved closer, shoulders angling toward you, the hand on your jaw trailing down—fingers curling gently around your neck, not possessive, but fervored.

There was nothing rushed about it. Only the press of mouths and the occasional, breathless hitch of air as your noses brushed and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss slightly—still cautious, still a little hesitant.

But then then he heard it—just barely there, a small breath of contentment through your nose as your fingers slid up the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric.

That did it.

His lips moved with more intent now, more certainty, like he’d been holding back and couldn’t anymore. He tasted like peppermint and something you couldn’t quite place, and every time he pulled away even a fraction, he came right back—drawn to you like the pull of gravity.

Somewhere in the flurry of warmth and movement, the air around you shifted.

The curtains.

The ones above his bed rustled faintly, and then, slowly, they began to close—not all the way, but just enough to wrap the two of you in the hush of privacy. The dark velvet swept inward in a lazy draw, like someone had tugged gently at invisible strings. The air around you seemed to slow, thick with suspended magic and the soft scent of something like cedar and parchment.

Pulling back from the kiss, just barely, your lips brushing his as a breath of laughter escaped you. The kind of soft, genuine giggle that bloomed right in your chest and spilled out in surprise. Your forehead dropped back lightly against the pillow as you whispered, voice honeyed with delight, “Did you just—?”

He didn’t say anything at first. But there was the faintest flush at the tips of his ears, even as the corners of his lips twitched in a sheepish smile. You cupped his jaw gently, brushing your thumb along the edge of his cheek as you teased with a squint of your eye, voice low and fond, “Already showing off.”

He just huffed a laugh, dipping his head slightly—forehead pressing to yours, breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His hand found your waist again, sliding over your hip to pull you closer, until your bodies were all but tangled together in the middle of his bed.

Then he paused.

Looked at you.

Really looked at you—eyes searching your face, the softness of your features in the low dorm light, the flush on your cheeks, the swollen curve of your lips, still flushed lightly from his kiss. His thumb brushed your waist absently, reverently, like he was trying to memorise the moment through touch alone.

You blinked up at him, slightly breathless, lips curving into that small smile—that quiet, knowing one—that had his pulse quickening.

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Voice just above a whisper.

A beat.

His answer was just as quiet.

“…Too long.”

You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to.

Because then his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time—hungry but still careful, still delicate. Like he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth with his own. His hand slid to the small of your back, curling to bring you even closer, your chest brushing his with every inhale.

Dinner came and went. Neither of you moved.

Body sprawled across the bed, head in Regulus’ lap, legs stretched out and one arm flopped over your middle lazily. His hand drifted idly through your hair, almost absentminded in its rhythm, as he spoke—quiet and thoughtful, voice lilting into stories you never expected him to share.

He told you about how he hated summer, because his skin burned too easily—how the Black family manor always smelled like dust and old magic. How he and Barty used to sneak wine from the cellar and sit on the roof, trying to name constellations. How his favourite book growing up wasn’t even magical—it was a Muggle text he smuggled in and read by candlelight.

You blinked up at him with a soft smile, utterly content, not interrupting—just listening.

For a man you’d once believed was of few words, he sure had a lot to say.

Not that you weren’t complaining.

There was something soft about him now—looser. Less controlled. Like the tightly wound strings he kept knotted around himself had started to loosen just enough to let you in, like he’d been waiting for the the chance to bare himself. And Merlin, he was affectionate. Not in the loud, boisterous way others might’ve been. But with soft hands and stolen glances. A touch at your hip, the gentle brush of knuckles down your arm. Aching for contact in any form, so careful about how he was gave and received it, like it could be torn away at any given moement—still so foreign, even in his own mind.

Your thumb traced slow circles into his knee as you murmured, “Can you read the line again? From the poem?”

Regulus looked down at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He nodded, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead before turning toward the parchment pinned above his desk. He recited it again in that soft voice—low and smooth, almost like a lullaby.

You closed your eyes, humming in contentment.

When he finished, you whispered, “Lemme show you something.”

And before he could ask, your hand curled into a fist. You held it up between you both. His brows furrowed slightly, watching with interest.

Then, you slowly unfurled your fingers—and from the centre of your palm, a small bluebell flower sprouted, delicate and glowing faintly with the magic that coaxed it into being.

“This,” you whispered, eyes flickering with warmth and voice like a secret, “is what I think of when I hear your voice.”

For a long moment, Regulus didn’t speak.

Just stared.

The shock in his eyes wasn’t loud. It was quiet and still, like everything else about him. But it was there. Etched into the way he looked at you—not just at the flower, but at your face. Your expression, the tenderness written across it with no ulterior motive, no mischief behind your eyes. No teasing lilt in your tone.

Just you.

And he didn’t know what to do with it.

His fingers reached out gently, brushing the fragile petals like they might dissolve under his touch. And when he looked back at you, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“You really are something,” he said, with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Covering the sudden flutter of your chest with a scoff and biteless roll of your eyes. You didn’t give him the chance to say anything more, before you sat up abruptly, hair whipping slightly at your speed—movements fluid and unbothered as the mattress dipped under the concentrated weight of your knees.

Regulus frozen against the headboard, wide-eyed when your leg swung over his middle—settling on his lap in a straddle that was far too flippant. His hands hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to settle—eventually, they found your hips, fingers curling there hesitantly.

The small smirk on lips only widened—at his obvious flush, relishing in the way the blush crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks.

“Relax,” you teased, brushing your fingers through his dark curls, tucking and retucking the strands behind his ear like you were sculpting something. And then, you nestled the bluebell flower in the space you’d created—right behind his ear.

“There,” you said with a proud grin, leaning back slightly to admire your work. Your hands slid down his neck, wrists resting lazily on his shoulders as you laced your fingers behind him, just barely hovering over his surely goosebump ridden skin. Tilting you head, you let your gaze rake over him like you were evaluating an art piece.

“I think blue might be your colour, Reg.”

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you subtly shifted in his lap—closer, pressing into him with purpose. Regulus huffed a small scoff, finally finding a bit of his footing again, though his voice was still slightly strained. “Must you always be this brazen?”

You shrugged innocently. “It’s fun having people on edge.”

He hummed lowly, eyes flickering with something darker now—his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “Really?”

You leaned forward with a smirk, lips brushing his as you replied in a hushed, mocking whisper, “Reaaaally.”

That was all the prompting he needed.

His mouth met yours with vigor, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been waiting to. Desperate, yet controlled. His hands squeezing at the flesh of your waist as he pulled you closer, chest pressing flush to his, heat blooming between you, smiling into the kiss.

Pulled back slightly, lips still grazing his, and whispered against his mouth, “You must like brazen then.”

And that made him grin.

Actually grin. Wide and rare and perfect.

His hands gripped your waist more firmly as he kissed you again, feverish now, all slow control forgotten in favour of something more frantic and yearning. The kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and made time slip sideways.

So engrossed in each other, you didn’t hear the door creak open.

Didn’t notice the soft shuffle of footsteps.

But the moment the familiar sound of Barty’s voice filled the room, everything stopped.

“I brought teacakes,” he called out lazily from the other side of the dorm, “because you missed supper. I figured you were sulking or something—”

You and Regulus froze mid-kiss.

Legs still straddled across his lap. His hands halfway up your back. The flower still behind his ear.

Regulus’ eyes flew open. Your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle a curse.

“I left extra lemon ones, since—wait.”

Barty’s voice was closer now. Suspicious—”…Why are your curtains closed?”

Regulus was already looking at you, panicked. You swatted his arm sharply when he didn’t say anything, eyes wide and insistent. “Was Potter here?” Barty asked, a little louder this time.

“She—uh—” Regulus stammered. “She was here. Earlier.”

Stammered.

You physically winced.

He never stammered. And now Barty definitely knew something was off. There was the unmistakable sound of someone standing up. Then footsteps. Getting closer.

Barty’s voice was cool and skeptical. “So…she was here earlier…”

He paused just outside the curtain.

“…and just left her bag behind?”

Your eyes widened in horror. Your bag. You could envision where you’d left it—sitting in plain view.

A pained expression split across your face as Regulus turned to you with a look that screamed, what do we do??

But there was no time.

Because the curtain was already being drawn back.

Regulus didn't move. Neither did you.

Time seemed to stall between one breath and the next, and there was Barty—standing there with a half-eaten lemon teacake in one hand, his brows slowly climbing higher and higher as he took in the sight before him.

You, still straddling Regulus.

Regulus, pink-faced and looking about two seconds from imploding.

And the flower, still tucked delicately behind his ear.

A beat of silence.

He gasped—actually, audibly gasped, clutching his chest as if you'd physically wounded him. “Treasure,” he breathed, eyes wide and betrayed, “I cannot believe you traded me in for Black.”

You groaned. “Junior.”

“No—don’t you Junior me,” he said, stepping back like your words had scorched him, pressing a hand against the curtains pillar for support.

You slid off Regulus’ lap in a single, painful motion, trying to maintain any shred of dignity, which was difficult with your hair mussed and your shirt slightly rumpled from where Regulus had been clutching at the back of it.

Regulus didn’t even try to salvage anything. He just stared at the ceiling like he was mentally calculating how fast he could die and be buried—red down to the collar of his shirt.

“I thought we had something, Treasure,” Barty continued with a theatrical sniff, flopping onto his bed. “A shared love of mild chaos, midnight escapades, and morally ambiguous hexes.”

You just rolled your eyes. “Oh, please.”

He stared at the ceiling, hand still on his chest. “I’m heartbroken.”

“You’re eating a teacake.”

“I’m grieving, let me be.”

And then, his voice softened a little, still dramatic but now with an edge of sincerity. “I mean… obviously everyone’s had a crush on you, but I didn’t think he’d be the one to do something about it.”

You blinked, head whipping to Regulus, eyes narrowing. “You’re not denying it.”

He just shrugged lightly, like he didn’t see the point.

Barty’s laughter was smug as hell. “See?” he said, sitting up.

Regulus groaned softly beside you. “Is this going to end soon?”

Barty glanced between you both, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So tell me,” he said, casually now, propping himself up on one elbow, “is this a new study method? Because I must’ve missed this chapter in Advanced Charms.”

“Jun—”

“No, no—really, I’m curious,” he said, waving his teacake for emphasis. “Do you rate each other’s technique? Is snogging now a core requirement for N.E.W.T. preparation?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying very hard not to laugh. It didn’t help that Regulus looked like he was actively contemplating vanishing spells, dropping his head into his hands.

Then he softened again, leaning his chin into his palm as he watched the two of you. “For what it’s worth, Reg… you look good like this. Like an actual person instead of a walking anxiety spell.”

“I hate you,” he muttered, hands slipping from his face to reveal a withering look.

Barty beamed. “That’s more like it.”

With a smug little wave, Barty finally stood, sauntering backwards toward the door with his usual flair.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which, to be fair, is a very short list. Night, lovebirds.”

[dreamcubed]

fortnight | lorenzo berkshire x reader

song; fortnight [taylor swift, post malone] pairing; lorenzo berkshire x fem!academic!ravenclaw!reader genre; academic rivals to lovers, light angst, hurt comfort word count; 4,1k timeline; no voldemort au, christmas after 7th year warnings; swearing, referenced childhood abuse, referenced childhood trauma, referenced teasing/bullying summary; all of your friends had coupled up, leaving only you and your old academic rival single during your cabin retreat. but that definitely didn't mean that anything would happen between you two

part 5 (and finale) of my isolated series, which also includes look what you made me do, dancing with our hands tied, the tortured poets department, and loml this series does not need to be read in a particular order but i would recommend reading this part last!

sorry this took so long!!

masterlist

"and for a fortnight there, we were together."

————————————————

A cabin retreat with your friends was supposed to be an escape from the real world and other people, a place where you could all celebrate finishing Hogwarts and starting your new careers. You had been simply ecstatic to spend time with them, learn how to magic ski, and pass every evening in the hot tub with some drinks. What you had not accounted for was the five extra people that would be present for the holiday by some universe-curated coincidence.

Because they were not just any people: they were the Slytherin boys. A group of five from your year who had been known for causing chaos and all in all not being the most moral. One in particular had been your sworn nemesis for years— Lorenzo Berkshire. Despite being a Slytherin, he had been frustratingly good in every single subject, and you had battled him for the top spot in class for the entirety of Hogwarts. It pissed you off endlessly: you were a Ravenclaw from a family of Ravenclaws, and had a reputation and expectations to uphold. Berkshire, though? He did it for fun. He gained nothing by being the best student, and lost nothing by being the worst.

It had felt like he was tormenting you whenever he took the top spot, that glint in his eye that told you he knew that you would receive a bollocking from your parents for a measly second place. The only reason he tried as hard as he did was because he knew how important it was to you, and wanted to take it away.

Since leaving Hogwarts, you realised that it likely was not as deep as that. Sure, he might liked to have teased the tryhard daughter of two scholars, but he probably did not know just how severe the consequences were for you. And, at the very least, the threat of his performance had made you study even harder, scoring Os across the board upon graduation. Even in herbology, which had been your weak spot.

And, now, over the course of a few days, all of your friends had coupled up with a Slytherin boy— except for you and Berkshire. But just because you were willing to let past grievances to rest, did not mean you were remotely interested in dating him. He still irked you, and you were not about to let the apparent love magic looming over the holiday win, as jealous and sickened as you were at the sight of your friends being absolutely infatuated.

The latest coupling was, in fact, a recoupling. You were completely blindsided: you had not been aware that your friend had previously dated Blaise Zabini, and now they were back together? To be frank, you were overwhelmed with the events of the last few days and the multitude of secrets that had been revealed.

As everyone had settled down after your friend and Zabini shared the news, Berkshire had sidled up to you and chuckled, "Does this mean we're meant to get together now?"

You had scoffed, replying, "In your wildest dreams, Berkshire."

He had smirked.

***

Now, the first week had officially come to a close, and as you creeped into the eighth day of the trip, you allowed yourself some self-praise for how well you had ignored Berkshire since that day. And, for the record, he had been attempting to glue himself to you relentlessly. Whether it was because he felt left out being the only single one of his friends, or whether it was only natural that you two would hang out with everyone else occupied, or whether he genuinely had an interest in you— you had no idea. You also had no intention of finding out.

Lorenzo Berkshire was a man you wanted to leave in your past, as he was a painful reminder of your parents' extreme pressure. Your contact with them now lingered in unopened letters and unanswered knocks on your door, but that didn't mean you had healed.

"Y/N, we're all about to eat breakfast!" one of your friends called from outside your door, a signifier that the newfound routine of eating meals with the boys was continuing. Each cabin had been taking turns hosting, like you were all one big family, or a strong longstanding group of friends.

That feeling you didn't mind so much. A warm home was a pleasant and welcome experience.

Pushing yourself out of bed, you pulled on some joggers and padded out into the kitchen, running your hand through your messied hair. Everyone was already buzzing, plating themselves with bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast the like. As you poured yourself a fresh cup of coffee, like clockwork, Berkshire appeared at your side with a wide smile.

"Good morning, trouble."

"Morning," you replied shortly, adding milk to your mug.

He followed you as you walked to the table of food, grabbing a plate before you could, "What can I get you?"

"Nothing I can't get myself."

He stared at you expectantly, and you rolled your eyes.

"Waffles and maple syrup."

"Coming right up," he beamed, plating your food for you.

"This won't work," you reminded.

He ignored you, instead presenting your breakfast with a palpable level of pride.

"Thanks," you said shortly, taking the plate with your free hand and moving to sit down. After getting his own food, he sat down next to you, like usual.

You scanned the room, met with the now usual sight of couples giggling and cosying up as they ate their food— some even feeding each other, to your disgust. Nausea swirled in your stomach, and suddenly the sight of your waffles was not so appealing, so you put the plate down with a sigh.

"What's wrong?" Berkshire was quick to ask.

"Nothing," you shrugged, "Just realised I'm not hungry."

He frowned, but pushed no further.

***

Hours had passed since you locked yourself in your room, unwilling to face the bubbled world outside of those four walls. Reading had done little to distract you, especially as you slowly became aware of the fact not a single one of your friends had come to check on you. Typically, one of them would have come by within less than an hour, but they were each so wrapped up in their pink hazes that little else was crossing their mind. You decided you couldn't be mad unless this behaviour lasted more than a few weeks, but you were still slightly hurt. Had nobody noticed the fact you disappeared?

But they were probably all off magic skiing.

A knock sounded on your door, shocking your system. Which of your friends was it?

"Yes?" you called out.

"Y/N, you okay?" Lorenzo fucking Berkshire. Of course he was the first to notice your absence.

"'M fine," you replied, hopes once again shattered.

He remained silent for a few beats, before saying, "Can I come in?"

"If you must," you responded dejectedly. Any company would do in that moment.

He entered the room, looking around at the mess that had rapidly accumulated. "Are you sure you're okay? You've been in here for hours."

"How was skiing?" you changed the subject.

He paused, assessing you carefully before answering, "I didn't go."

"Why not?"

"Didn't feel like... ninth wheeling."

You hummed in agreement.

"None of my mates seem particularly interested in being mates right now, so, you know."

"Believe me, I know," you chuckled, grateful that Berkshire had halted with the flirting, and was acting like a normal person. You had sorely craved friendly conversation.

He smiled, "Yeah, of course you do."

"It's like they've forgotten I exist," you said with a sigh, placing your book on your bedside table.

"Honestly!" he agreed, moving to sit down at the end of your bed, "It's so annoying."

"Like— I get it— they're in the honeymoon phase and whatnot, but this was supposed to be a girls' holiday!"

"I doubt they've even noticed we're not skiing."

You hummed, "What have you been up to?"

"Fuck all," he shrugged, "Cleaned up the cabins, since everyone else has neglected those duties."

"You cleaned up ours?"

Lorenzo nodded, "I was bored out my mind."

"Thanks," you spoke softly, "That's nice of you."

"You sound so shocked. I'm not a horrible person, you know?"

A lightning bolt of pain shot through you at the reminder of the anguish he unknowingly put you through during Hogwarts, and he must have noticed you wince.

"You know I was never being serious when I teased you in school, right?"

You said nothing.

"Like, it was just a friendly competition for the top marks."

Finally, you exhaled, and muttered, "It wasn't friendly to me."

He frowned, eyes scanning you curiously, "I—"

"Can you leave?" you interjected, your briefly lightened mood once again sour.

Lorenzo opened his mouth as if to object, but upon seeing your troubled expression, seemed to decide against it. He finally said, "If that's what you want," and cautiously departed the room, not failing to cast a few glances back at you before he shut the door.

You did not cry, but you did find yourself curling into a ball and staring at the wall as burdensome thoughts clouded your mind. When would you learn to let the past go?

***

Lorenzo returned to the boys' cabin hurt and confused: never before had it occurred to him that you did not view your shared academic rivalry as a bit of fun. Your smirks whenever you beat him had indicated you loved the thrill of it as much as he did, and he had so adored watching you run out of the room whenever he pushed through to first. Had it been more complicated than frustration? More complex than hating losing? If he was honest, the only reason he had done so well in his OWLs and NEWTs was because of you, and how your every reaction fuelled his desire to extract another one out of you.

In hindsight, he had fancied you throughout the entirety of Hogwarts, but he was only now realising it. Perhaps it was the barrier of him being a pure-blooded Slytherin, and you not being so, that made him never even consider that possibility. And, when Hogwarts had ended, he had felt a certain emptiness in his life that he could not figure out the cause of— until he saw you again on this trip. Lorenzo was not an anxious man, but he had been scared to approach you for a while, unsure of what to say to you when all prior conversations had been on the basis of grades. He finally saw his window when the last of your friends coupled up, but you had shut him down instantly.

Initially, he took your dismissal in a playful manner, considering it to be a continuation of school rivalry, and the fact it was how you used to talk to each other. Now, after the conversation in your room, he could only think otherwise.

Had he genuinely hurt you?

Had his torment been more adjacent to bullying than banter?

Did you genuinely dislike him?

He could not rest until he had answers.

***

Later that day, when the happy couples had finally returned from the slopes, Lorenzo took the opportunity to approach one of your friends. Given the circumstances, one of his friends was a package deal as well, but in that moment he couldn't bring himself to care. So, he found himself stood outside Theo's room, where he knew that your werewolf friend also was, and tentatively knocked.

"Come in," his friend replied, and Lorenzo opened the door.

He greeted the pair, sitting down at the desk with a sigh.

"What's up, mate?" Theo asked, tugging on a jumper. His girlfriend, meanwhile, was sat on the bed.

"I actually came to talk to her," he said carefully.

Theo scowled, hints of possessiveness— that was likely in his animalistic nature— surfacing. "What for?"

"About Y/N," Lorenzo quickly clarified, a statement which instantly relaxed Theo.

"Fire away," your friend said, rolling her eyes at her boyfriend's behaviour.

"Well, um, you know how we were always fighting for the top spot in school...?"

She nodded, "I do, indeed."

"Did it... hurt her?" Lorenzo asked as Theo sat down on the bed, "Because, well, I thought it was all light-hearted and fun... but she kind of mentioned today that she viewed it differently."

The female werewolf took a deep sigh, appearing to contemplate her words before proceeding. "Look, it's not really my place to tell you, but... you know how her parents are, like, really successful scholars and shit?"

He nodded, "Yes, I teased her about that a lot."

She grimaced, a slight confirmation that Lorenzo's fears were correct. "Well, if she didn't get the top marks in class— matter of fact, if she didn't get every single mark possible— they weren't particularly nice to her."

Lorenzo felt a lump form in his throat.

"I don't know, I think they thought it was embarrassing for two scholars' daughter to not be the best academically. Whenever you got first place instead of her, she was in for it when she went home."

"Oh my Salazar," he muttered, glancing at Theo who was listening just as intently.

"So, yeah, it was all fun and games to you, but to her it was the difference between being safe at home and not."

"I had no idea."

She shrugged, "She doesn't speak to her parents anymore, but that doesn't mean she's over it."

"Oh, Merlin, I've fucked up bad," Lorenzo cursed.

"You didn't know, mate," Theo consoled, and his girlfriend agreed.

"Still, I need to apologise," he said, standing up, "Regardless of whether or not she'll go out with me."

His friend cocked an eyebrow at that statement, "You fancy her? Since when?"

Lorenzo paused, his hand on the doorknob, before he said quietly, "Since always."

***

Nervous was an understatement for how Lorenzo was feeling, a newly regular emotion for him that only you had the power to create. He had never felt so much remorse and guilt in his life, and as much as he wanted to tell himself that he would have handled things differently had he known— would he have? For most of his time at Hogwarts, he had been nothing short of a prick, on purpose. Him and the other Slytherin boys had revelled in rebellion and chaos, always aching to irritate and poke fun at their peers. While the current him was amply more mature and would never intentionally hurt someone in your situation, he wasn't sure if the past him had the same morals.

And that was why he felt like he couldn't plead, "I didn't know," because would it have made a difference if he did? But, truly, he hadn't had the foggiest, and he couldn't change the past.

He paced around his room for hours, desperate to concoct the perfect apology plan, pining for your forgiveness. Finally, he settled on writing a letter, after coming to the conclusion that you probably didn't want to talk to him. However many drafts it took, however many crumpled up pieces of parchment he threw away, he had to make it his best work yet.

***

Dearest Y/N,

It never occurred to me that every teasing word I spoke had such negative implications towards your wellbeing. I had no clue that academic achievement was the only way you could ensure your safety at home. Your friend told me about it, not in much detail, but I heard enough to know that I have foiled incredibly and irreversibly. The worst part is, I cannot even tell you that knowing these things back then would have stopped me. I was, by all means, a prick of the highest degree. My immaturity ruled me with an iron fist, and I only have myself to blame for that.

Alas, I cannot alter the past, nor can I defend my younger self. But what I can do is speak for me now, and how I feel about you and towards the situation presently. I offer you my deepest and utmost apologies for competing so vehemently with you when there was nothing in it for me— no danger, no reward. It pains me greatly that I caused you such anguish and suffering. The truth is, while I did not realise it at the time, I fancied you, and I still do. When I left Hogwarts, I couldn't figure out why my life felt so empty and void of sparks. It was only when we ran into each other on this trip that I discovered it was you who had been missing from me.

I unknowingly looked forward to our "banter" every day, so it kills me that it was never really banter, and simply me rubbing salt into your wounds. If you will allow me, I would like to experience real banter with you, where you are having fun. I want to make you laugh, and make you feel safe.

Of course, I understand completely if you do not feel the same. I wouldn't if I was in your shoes. Still, I hope that you will at the very least let me earn your forgiveness.

And, if it makes you feel any better (which it probably doesn't), I would not be able to write such a coherent letter if it wasn't for how much you drove me to work hard in school. I wouldn't have Os across the board if it wasn't for you. But I would give all of my NEWTs up if it meant you accepting my apology.

Yours truly and always, Lorenzo Berkshire

***

While you were surprised at the letter that was slid under your door, you had been anticipating some sort of gesture. Not too long ago, your werewolf friend had come by and checked on you, informing you that Lorenzo had asked about your wellbeing and if you were upset with him. She had told him the truth, saying that the man clearly regretted his past, and wanted to apologise to you.

You were grateful one of your friends had finally acted like a friend, even if it was as a result of Lorenzo's meddling.

What you had been expecting was a knock on the door, not a neatly folded piece of parchment with your name emblazoned across the front in sloped handwriting. For a minute, you stood and stared at it, unsure if you were ready to let go of a small detail of your history. Unsure if his apology would even be heartfelt and sincere.

But you knew it wasn't fair to deny him the chance to say sorry when he hadn't even known he had been hurting you. So, you pulled yourself out of your daze and picked up the letter, sitting down on your bed before you dared to open it. Your movements were slow and shaky, mirroring your feelings, but the worst of your life experiences were long over. If anything, this was an omen of better times ahead.

You read it.

Then you read it again.

And once you had read it a third time, you let it float to the floor, falling back on your mattress with a heavy heart weighing inside you.

It was exactly what you had feared: something that gave you no reason not to forgive him. Something so full of honesty and emotion that your lingering distaste for the man slipped away like a penny in a wishing well. What should have been a pleasant feeling, wasn't. You were so accustomed to resenting Lorenzo that you didn't know how to feel about him otherwise. You didn't know what to make of his confession. Whether you returned his feelings or not, you couldn't tell.

You needed time to think.

***

Dinner was served quite late that night, and as much as you wanted to continue hiding in your room, you decided you should face the music. Shakily, you emerged from your chambers, scanning the crowd of people sat in the living room. Lorenzo was not among them, and although you thought you would feel relief, you instead found a lingering sense of melancholy. It was strange: a few hours ago the sweet feeling of avoidance would have washed over you, but now he had apologised. He had apologised for something he didn't even really need to say sorry for.

"It's ready," his voice suddenly spoke, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen.

Seconds slowed down to minutes as you saw his face, his warm eyes immediately locking into yours. Had he always been so handsome? Had he always lit up every room he walked into?

Everyone began getting up, but you remained locked into place, unable to peel your gaze away from Lorenzo. Was this what the others were feeling when they looked at the other Slytherin boys? Did their hearts feel like they were dancing around in their chests? Soon, it was just the two of you left in the living room, but words to fill the silence died at the back of your throat.

"How are you?" he spoke— gently, softly.

And then tears were pouring down your cheeks, your lip quivering as your legs snapped into action, closing the distance between you and him. You pummelled into his arms, wrapping yourself around him and burying your face into his chest. Delicately, he returned your embrace, the puzzle pieces refusing to fit together in his head.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, barely audible, "It wasn't fair. It wasn't your fault."

"It's okay," he said, hesitantly stroking your back, "How you reacted was completely normal."

You pulled back, a wave of embarrassment at your sudden hug washing over you, "I accept your apology," you spoke quietly.

A tiny smile tugged on Lorenzo's lips, and soon his thumb was smoothing over the droplets on your complexion. "Thank you."

Rumbling from your stomach cut through the air, a reminder of your day-long self-isolation. He chuckled softly at the sound, "Let's go eat, hm?"

He hadn't always been so gentle and warm, you noted. While he had never been as boisterous and aggressive as some of the other Slytherins (i.e. Mattheo Riddle), he had still carried himself with a fiery dominance that silenced a room. Now, however, he had a softer tone to him— still dominant, but in more of a guiding light kind of way as opposed to a forceful dictatorship. You liked it, you liked the calmness he had matured to bring. The way a room shimmered with sunshine when he entered instead of flickering with fear.

"Yeah, let's eat," you smiled.

***

A film was suggested not long after dinner had been cleaned up, and after a vote, everyone decided to watch the muggle film The Breakfast Club. The odd bonds formed in the movie as a consequence of forced proximity seemed appropriately comparable to the trip. At least, according to your friends who had watched it before. You finished drying the last dish, using your wand to transport it to the cupboard, before being the last to enter the lounge.

The couples were already cuddled up under blankets in various locations, and, for once, you didn't feel a twang of jealousy bubble within you. Instead, a smile of endearment formed, and you moved your gaze to the armchair Lorenzo was sat on. Immediately, he returned your grin, an expression that had your legs once again acting without your permission. Soon you were stood before him, relishing in the butterflies dancing in your gut as you grabbed a blanket. His shift to one side served as a silent invitation that you could share the armchair if you wished to— and you did.

You climbed into the small gap remaining, letting your legs curl over his, and sprawling the blanket over you in the process. His warmth— physical and spiritual— was more of a quilt than any object could be, your very soul basking in the rare sensation of peace.

As one of your friends started the film, you found yourself whispering, "I fancy you, too."

————————————————

isolated series masterlist

main masterlist

written; 26/09/2025 —> 29/10/2025 published; 29/10/2025 edited; —/—/——

[dreamcubed]

yeah i could spend some time writing

or i could redo the entire aesthetic of my page idk

[dreamcubed]

please write more for regulus🤭🤭 there is a severe shortage of good regulus fics🤕

yesss i want to!!! the one fic i wrote for him is one of my favs tbh, gonna be hard to top it 🤔

[dreamcubed]

sorry for not yet posting lorenzo’s part of the isolated series!! i’ve been through the trenches these last few weeks and all my assignments are due soon (back at uni now lol)

i’ll be honest, still got a lot of it to write, and not yet found the motivation, but it will come eventually!! pls be patient 🥹🥹

[dreamcubed]

loml | blaise zabini x reader

song; loml [taylor swift] pairing; blaise zabini x fem!non-slytherin!reader genre; exes to lovers, reconciliation, light angst, hurt comfort word count; 4k timeline; no voldemort au, christmas after 7th year warnings; swearing, past bad break-up, referenced shame, old wounds summary; it was just your luck that your ex happened to be holidaying at the same place and time as you, and since none of your friends knew you had ever dated, avoiding him was near impossible

part 4 of my isolated series, which also includes look what you made me do, dancing with our hands tied, the tortured poets department, and fortnight this series does not need to be read in a particular order but i would recommend reading fortnight last!

masterlist

"i wish i could un-recall how we almost had it all."

—————————————————

You had never been one to think that the universe had something against you, that bad luck followed you everywhere you went. While you had indeed had your share of misfortune, it had only seemed like a fair amount— you win some, you lose some.

Now you were beginning to think otherwise.

Everything had started pleasantly on your friend group's trip to a cosy cabin tucked away on a mountain, a place exclusively available to wizards and witches for the ever popular sport of magic skiing. You had unpacked your belongings and changed into a bikini, excited to climb into the hot tub with snow falling gracefully around you. Heaven could not be much better than that.

You had been so excited about it that, on your way out, you shouted to the one friend yet to leave her room, "Bitch, come on! We're gonna get in the hot tub!"

She did not reply— well, you did not wait for her to— quickly stepping foot on to the decking and consequently entering the jacuzzi.

"Merlin, this is amazing," you sighed, indulging in the luxurious feeling.

Your one Slytherin friend replied, "Mm, that girl better hurry up. She's missing out."

The cabin door slid open again, revealing the only remaining party, dressed in a bikini that made you realise that she always dressed conservatively. Otherwise, you would have noticed the sheer quantity of scars she had sooner.

"What took you so long?"

She shrugged, "Couldn't decide on a bikini."

All of you sensed that she did not want to talk about her marks, so the conversation was strategically pushed to another topic. Nothing of substance, but chatter that was easy enough to follow without paying too much attention. You remained only half-listening, until your interest was piqued when one of your friends said, "I wonder if anyone's staying there."

She was referring to the second cabin sat across from yours, the decking of which almost touched your own. It was the only other sign of civilisation for miles, and was also available for rent.

"The lights are on, so surely," your Slytherin friend reasoned.

And this was the exact moment where your view on the universe being against you changed dramatically.

Because the second that Mattheo Riddle burst through the other cabin's door, was the second that you knew Blaise Zabini wouldn't be too far behind. And, as much as you loved being right, you would have sold your soul to be wrong.

"No fucking way," your author friend, who was using the trip to find inspiration for her next book, scoffed.

If only she knew how deeply you felt that statement.

But she did not— nor did any of your friends. None of them were privy to the knowledge that you and Blaise dated for almost two years during Hogwarts. His friends hadn't known either, and based on the fact they never once looked your way for the remainder of school after the break-up, you had assumed it continued to be a secret.

***

Realistically, you should be indifferent to him now. Although this was only the first Christmas after completing seventh year, it had been approximately a year since you broke up. You hadn't thought about him since you stopped seeing him around.

That was a lie. Sometimes the memories of the scorching fallout kept you up at night, replaying in your mind like a curse wrapped around your heart. For the most part, though, you had been living contentedly without him.

Still, you were grateful that the first full day of the cabin had been progressing without the presence of the Slytherin boys, with you learning how to magic ski. It was a stunning distraction, especially as you discovered that you had a knack for it. Nothing was more thrilling than being good at something on your first try, almost catching up with your Slytherin friend who had done this her whole life.

Your euphoric bubble was shattered when your author friend did not hesitate to accept the offer of dinner and drinks with the boys that night. While you did not want to argue on a girls' holiday, you were certainly tempted by her lack of consideration for everyone else in the group. Then again, you were likely the only one to have a problem with it, and she didn't know that, so you were forced to cede and join.

Of course, Blaise's eyes were on you the moment you stepped through the door: you could feel it. However, you were determined to ignore his presence, and refused to so much as grace him with a glance, choosing instead to chatter with Nott— although, he seemed much more interested in a particular one of your friends. When he followed her outside, you turned your attentions to Berkshire instead, hyperaware of the looming presence nearby.

He would not ruin your holiday.

***

Apparently, that shared evening had been the catalyst for the coinciding holidays to become a fused one, made clear by the Slytherins showing up in their ski gear the next morning. One of your friends had fallen ill, but she had been insistent on the fact that the rest of you went out regardless. That insistence, oddly, seemed to have no effect on Nott, who pledged to stay behind with her in an uncharacteristically kind gesture. Then again, you remembered the attention he gave her just the day before, and decided the action was not as selfless as it appeared on the surface.

At least he wasn't ashamed of his attraction.

Pushing your scornful thoughts out of your head, you left for the ski slopes with what was left of the group, eager to test out your newfound skills again.

"What the fuck is going on between them?" Berkshire scoffed.

"They were out on the decking alone last night," Malfoy replied, "I don't know, maybe something happened."

One of your friends chuckled, "And maybe she's not actually sick."

"She sounded sick," your Slytherin friend noted, "And she really did look feverish last night."

"Yeah, feverish for Theo," Riddle joked, and as your author friend laughed way too hard at that, you found yourself grateful that Blaise's quiet nature meant you rarely had to hear him speak.

But his composed and peaceful manner had been one of the things you loved most about him.

***

Everything went smoothly for the first couple hours— you glided down the slopes, increasing your speed and effortlessly dodging the actively changing obstacles with glimmering pride. You felt like you were born to magic ski, and that it was a crime you had not done it sooner (something that you would, in fact, be taking up with your family).

Either you got too cocky, or you caught a glimpse of Blaise not far from you— likely both— but you let yourself move faster than you could handle, flying straight into a newly appeared snow pile. A resounding crack and the consequent flurry of agonising pain told you that you had sustained some type of injury. "Fuck," you groaned, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

The snow pile disappeared again, and you fell forward on to the main slope, furthering your suffering. Powerlessly, you lay on your front for a few moments, until it occurred to you that if you did not at least sit up, it would be a much more terrifying sight for whoever was following behind you. And, just as you managed to get up on to your ass, you heard someone skid to a halt behind you.

That was when you remembered that the reason you had sped up was because Blaise was the one behind you.

"Are you okay?" he asked, pulling off his mask in the process.

Grumbling, you pulled your own off, "Grand, actually."

Blaise could read your sarcasm, "What did you hurt?"

"What's it to you?"

He scowled, crouching beside you, "No need to be so hateful, I'm not asking as your ex."

You chuckled bitterly, "Who are you asking as then?"

"A member of our ski group."

He didn't fail to notice your wince as you shifted your leg.

"You broke it?"

"I'd say so."

Without so much as a warning, Blaise scooped you up into his arms, and apparated with you to the top of the magic ski slopes. A couple of your group were there, about to set off again, but paused when they saw your leg dangling limply as you were held bridal style.

"Shit, are you okay?" one of your friends asked.

"Never better," you deadpanned.

Much to your protest, a decision was quickly made to call it a day— as if a little magic wouldn't fix your broken leg.

"I know we're trying not to rely on apparition for this holiday, but I think these are exempt circumstances," your Slytherin friend commented as you all prepared to leave.

"No need," Blaise interjected, "I can carry her."

"Are you sure?"

Attempting to cage your inner fury, you said as politely as you could muster, "I couldn't possibly ask you to do that."

"Really, it's no trouble."

And when no one was looking, you gave Blaise the filthiest glare in your arsenal.

Only for him to have the audacity of whispering, "Be civil, darling."

You damn near hit him.

***

Blaise carried you all the way back to the girls' cabin, where you continued to exercise your right to remain silent. Everyone seemed to forget about your injury when faced with a shirtless Nott, which was admittedly frustrating as you were in a lot of pain— who cared that two grown adults had clearly been fucking? Certainly not you. All you wanted to do was get out of your ex-boyfriend's arms, which was thankfully possible when he finally put you down on the sofa as your author friend asked, "Where is she?"

Not in reference to you, as you had been forgotten.

"She's sleeping," Nott replied, not even reacting to your handicapped state.

"I'll go check on her," your Slytherin friend said.

"That's probably not a good idea," Nott rushed to say.

And as your friend questioned, "Why?", you wondered when someone would check up on you.

Before you could speak up, your 'sick' friend entered the kitchen wearing Nott's jumper, freezing when she saw that everyone had returned.

"Did you pretend to be sick just to fuck all day?" Riddle asked.

She said nothing, also oblivious to your injury.

"She's like me," Nott spoke gently.

What he was talking about, you had no idea, but you heard Blaise softly gasp near you.

"Oh, is she, like, in—?" Berkshire asked.

"Yes."

Finally, you said something, "What the fuck is going on?"

"I'm... a werewolf," your friend answered slowly, making you think that today was shaping up to be the most eventful day you had in a long time.

"Okay... but... it's not a full moon, so, like...?"

You glanced at the friend who said that.

"She's in heat," Riddle laughed, "Guess Theo here has been providing some... assistance..."

"Fuck off," Nott grumbled.

"You're also a werewolf?" your Slytherin friend asked him.

He nodded.

And after sitting patiently through an antagonisingly long explanation of Nott and your friend being mated for life, and the implications of such, you were just about ready to snap and scream that you needed immediate medical attention. Only, you never got to, because as the werewolves ran off to the bedroom, Blaise appeared at your side with his wand in tow.

You groaned, "Anyone but you."

"You know I have a knack for healing magic," he said calmly.

With a frustrated sigh, you ceded, muttering, "Fine. It's the least you could for me."

He did not reply, but you could have sworn his eyes winced ever so slightly at your words.

***

The following day, you braved the slopes again. You went more cautiously than you did the day prior, but still made an effort to avoid Blaise by ensuring that a couple of your friends were between you in turns. He did not make an effort to go near you throughout the skiing, probably more out of being scared to cause you another injury than respect for your space. Either way, it was a blessed win, and you made the most of not having to hear his honeyed voice.

Unfortunately, your victory was short-lived, as your author friend invited the boys over to watch a film that evening. Part of you wanted to curse her, but she was entirely oblivious to your troubles, having gone completely heart-eyed for Riddle. All you could do was smile through your teeth and pretend to be excited to spend more time with the unexpected new friends— something your Slytherin friend had mysteriously avoided. She had disappeared after magic skiing, the same way Malfoy had disappeared that morning.

You were in the kitchen when the remaining troops arrived, cleaning up after your author friend as she had made popcorn and drinks— an unnecessary amount of effort for a group of stuck-up pricks. You informed them to head straight through to the lounge, and Blaise took the opportunity to linger behind and ask, "How's your leg?"

"Never better," you beamed, a thin veil over your churning frustration. Why would he not leave you alone?

"I'm glad," he smiled politely. Too politely. You would kill to know what was going on in his mind.

You did not respond, hoping he would take the hint.

He did not, lowering his voice so he could speak softly, "I miss you."

You stared at him in disbelief. "This is your fault," you reminded.

He pursed his lips, eyes flicking around to confirm that the others were indeed gone. "I regret it every single day."

"Oh, it feels so good to say I told you so," you chuckled bitterly.

"I know you miss me too."

"And what gives you that impression?"

"If you were over me, you wouldn't get so worked up by my very presence," he said matter-of-factly, stepping ever so slightly closer.

You side-stepped away from him, a scowl etched on to your brows. "Forgive me for not being welcoming to the guy who broke my heart," you snapped, storming out and into the living room.

The werewolves had finally parted from their chambers to join the group, cuddling up together under blankets with sickeningly smitten expressions. No one seemed to notice as you angrily sat down, glaring ferociously at Blaise when he entered and took a seat— thankfully not next to you.

Your friend started the film, and though you tried hard to focus on it, you were annoyingly aware of Blaise's presence in the room, which caused his words to ring around in your ears. Just because he pissed you off, did not mean you weren't over him, never mind the fact you hadn't been able to bring yourself to date anyone else in the last year. You simply hadn't meant anyone worth your time, anyone who was your type, anyone who was also Blaise—

Fuck.

You cast a glance in his direction, your annoyance increasing at the sight of his perfect face. If only he wasn't so pretentious and proud.

His eyes locked on to yours, and you froze, unsure how to play it off. Thankfully, your werewolf friend commented on the weirdness of the film, which you had not paid even a slither of attention to.

"I mean, yeah, but it's good," your author friend replied.

"Merlin, I'm worried to think about the kind of books you'll write in future," your werewolf friend chuckled in response, making the author throw a cushion at her, resulting in hot chocolate being spilled all over Riddle.

As she hurried through apologies and ran off to get a towel, your eyes flicked over the laughing lovesick werewolves, as well as Riddle and his half-hearted annoyance at them. Then you looked at Berkshire, who was sat next to you, clearly bemused at the mishap but also invested in the film. Your final present friend was sat by Blaise, having a similar experience to Berkshire. Blaise himself, however, had his eyes pinned on you. When you finally looked at him, he quirked an eyebrow, just as Riddle muttered, "The fuck is taking her so long?" and left to go investigate.

The room quietened down as the film continued, with you forcibly breaking eye contact with your ex-boyfriend to finally try and focus on the television. Your efforts showed little success, but you persevered with not looking his way until the film ended without the return of Riddle and your friend.

"Good film?" said man asked with a smirk when they finally emerged during the end credits, and all you could do was give them a knowing look, trying not to feel hurt at the way he shamelessly had his arm around her. But before you could reply, the cabin door slid open.

In came the missing parties: Malfoy and your Slytherin friend. Their hands were interlocked, and it was damn near impossible to miss the large diamond sparkling on her hand.

"What the actual fuck?" Riddle said after a few beats of silence.

You shared a similar sentiment, feeling dumbfounded— and even more hurt— at the sight of the newly engaged pair.

"There's something we need to tell you," your Slytherin friend began.

"I'll say," Berkshire commented.

Your friend gave him a bewildered look, "I know this is a shock to all of you, but it's kind of... always been a thing."

"We were arranged to be married by our parents," Malfoy explained, "Since we were born."

Three couples were now stood in the same room as you. Three couples which had the same differences that caused your break-up. Three couples that were not ashamed to be with each other.

The thought alone made tears prick at your eyes. Unable to keep them in, you stood up and ran off to your room, praying that your engaged friend didn't take it as you disapproving.

"Y/N?" she called after you, but you couldn't reply. Tears were flooding out your eyes.

You vaguely heard Blaise say, "It's not because of you," before footsteps followed you to your room.

You slammed the door behind you before they could enter.

Body shaking, you fell on to your bed and pulled a pillow over your head, trying desperately to block the world out from your senses— unfortunately, it did little to muffle the knocking on your door, to which you could only reply, "Go away."

"Y/N," the one voice you did not want to hear answered, before you heard the door handle turn. Why couldn't there be door locks?

"I told you to go away," you sobbed, refusing to remove the pillow, wanting to pretend he wasn't there.

You felt the mattress shift and a hand rub your ankle softly, delicately. The action made you cry harder.

"What's wrong?"

His words made you freeze, your sadness seeping into ice cold fury that had you sitting up to face the man before you. "How fucking dare you ask me that?"

Blaise paused, retracting his hand and appearing to swallow hard. "I see."

You scoffed.

"You're jealous."

Part of you wanted to laugh, part of you wanted to punch him. Regardless, all you did was say, "Jealous of what? An arranged marriage?"

He sighed, "You're jealous of the publicity."

You turned your head away from him, annoyed that he guessed correctly but also strangely relieved that he could still read your emotions.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

One long, deep breath later and you mellowed enough to calmly say, "You don't need me to answer that."

"I'm sorry."

"What good does sorry do?" you asked, this time not being bitter, but sincere, gazing at him hollowly.

"I can't change the past," he amended, "But I spend every day wishing I could."

You pursed your lips, "Me too."

"I don't know what I was scared of— I was stupid, paranoid," he continued, "Too stupid and paranoid to realise you were worth it."

You said nothing, feeling the weight of his words on your heart.

"And to now realise that I was scared for no fucking reason... it's fucking killing me."

"I can't believe you thought your friends would disown you," you eventually spoke, memories washing over you more clearly than they had for a while.

"I know," he sighed again, "Now here they are, pouncing on your friends like feral beasts."

A faint chuckle emerged from you, the worst of your emotions fading into mist— but the melancholia remained. "It feels so good to see you be wrong."

Among your similarities, the burning drive to be right and be the best at something was one of them. Academic rivalry had been a forefront of your relationship, often the instigator of your passioned frenzy into hidden corners of the castle. At first, the secrecy had been thrilling, electric, but when your relationship progressed from a fling to serious commitment, it began to cause strain. You had kept quiet at first, making it clear you were fine with going public, but never pushing him to do so— you had foolishly hoped he would announce it of his own accord.

When it became clear he intended to maintain complete privacy, you dropped hints, more and more hints until it evolved into a rage-induced ultimatum. One which he evidently had not understood the gravity of.

Because you couldn't be with someone who was ashamed of you.

"You always loved to be right," Blaise smiled fondly.

"As did you."

He hummed, "Not this time."

You eyed him curiously, "If you regretted it, why didn't you reach out?"

He broke eye contact, fiddling with his signet ring— an old habit of his, something he only did when he was nervous, which was incredibly rare. "I was scared," he finally said, "Scared of facing you."

"Why?"

"Because you're it for me. I orbit around you— and, well, it's difficult to look the sun in the eye."

You scrunched your nose, "Don't be cheesy. You know I hate that."

"I know," he met your gaze again, "But it's the truth, and I have everything at stake."

"Everything?"

"Everything that matters."

It was your turn to sigh, "Is this you asking to get back together?"

"It's me asking to have a chance to prove myself to you."

"You never needed to do that," you shook your head, "I just didn't want you to be ashamed of me."

"I'm not," he said, "Not now I know the truth."

"Which is?"

"You should have been the one ashamed of me."

"Clearly."

He grimaced, and you laughed. A sparkle flickered in his eyes at the sight of your happiness, unable to stop the smile forming on his own face. Fragile silence ensued, delicate to the touch but beautiful in its own peculiar way: the feud was over, it seemed.

"So, what now?" you shattered the quiet.

Blaise's hand found yours, warm to the touch and just as silky smooth as you remembered. You had missed the way he felt, and the way he comforted you.

"Now," he began slowly, "Now... it's time to come clean to everyone. No more secrets."

You smiled, "This doesn't mean I've forgiven you."

"I know."

"But it does mean I still love you."

Blaise squeezed your palm softly, "I know."

A few beats of silence.

"I still love you too."

—————————————————

part 5 (finale): fortnight (lorenzo berkshire)

isolated series masterlist

main masterlist

written; 09/09/2025 —> 16/09/2025 published; 16/09/2025 edited; —/—/——

[dreamcubed]

the tortured poets department | mattheo riddle x reader

song; the tortured poets department [taylor swift] pairing; mattheo riddle x fem!non-slytherin!writer!reader genre; s2l, humour, smut word count; 4,1k timeline; no voldemort au, christmas after 7th year warnings; swearing, piv sex, unprotected sex, choking, slapping, degradation summary; you had been utilising your friend group's cabin retreat as a place to find inspiration for your next book, only you didn't expect to find a muse

part 3 of my isolated series, which also includes look what you made me do, dancing with our hands tied, loml, and fortnight this series does not need to be read in a particular order but i would recommend reading fortnight last!

masterlist

MINORS DNI! [18+]

"who's gonna know you if not me?"

——————————————————

Writer's block was, in your chosen career, the worst thing possible. What were you supposed to do when your passion and reason for life betrayed you so cruelly? Why was your own mind handicapping you from your most enjoyable pastime?

After the success of your debut novel, you had obtained a contract with a reputable publishing company, which had you giddy with excitement at the time— now, however, you were wondering if it was that pressure that hindered you. The agreed upon deadline for your next manuscript was looming, and all you had to show for it was a small collection of torturous poetry: nothing close to a first draft of a story. But what could you do? You had promised a romance novel, when you lacked romantic experience.

Your one prior relationship had been the basis for your first book, and you could not very well beat a dead horse. You needed something new— something fresh. And maybe you would find it during a magical cabin retreat with your four closest friends.

Well, the first half an hour at the place was yet to inspire you, but the hot tub sure seemed tempting. You were not surprised to see your friends had the same idea as you exited your room with a towel wrapped around you.

"Bitch, come on! We're gonna get in the hot tub!" you watched one of your friends shout outside a bedroom door, amusing you.

You followed the others out on to the decking, and relished in the warmth of the water as you submerged.

"Merlin, this is amazing," your friend said, and you were inclined to agree.

"Mm, that girl better hurry up," your Slytherin friend replied, referring to the one party yet to make an appearance, "She's missing out."

As if she had been conjured into existence, the cabin door slid open. You turned your attention towards her, noticing curiously how her body was littered with scars: you cautiously exchanged glances with your other friends.

"What took you so long?"

She shrugged, "Couldn't decide on a bikini."

The topic of conversation quickly shifted, and began flowing through light-hearted subjects.

"I wonder if anyone's staying there," one of your friends pondered aloud, making you turn your attentions to the other cabin. This was the first time you were properly acknowledging its presence.

"The lights are on, so surely," the Slytherin replied.

And then, on cue, the door to the other cabin dramatically opened, and out came none other than Mattheo Riddle— an infamous character in your school year, known for his fights, detentions, and conquests.

You scoffed, "No fucking way."

What were the chances? Sure, these two cabins were only available to wizards and witches, but seriously? People like Mattheo Riddle and his friends— who soon followed behind him— could not be more different from you, and they just had to be there at the same time.

You did not hate them, but you had certainly been annoyed whenever they would interrupt your writing in the library with their antics. Riddle, especially, had been guilty of this. He was the opposite of a quiet individual, and thus the opposite of you.

But, he was attractive, and unexpectedly the reason a lightbulb finally appeared above your head.

Because what if...?

***

The next day, after a long day of learning how to ski (disappointingly with none of the boys present), the boys invited you all over for dinner and drinks. You were on such a high from finally having inspiration that you did not even stop to think whether your friends wanted to go. All you knew was that you had to interact with Riddle, that he had to be the basis of the male lead in your story. And, well, you had already developed somewhat of an outline the night prior.

So, as you poured yourself a drink, you carefully scrutinised the man as he chatted with Berkshire. Admittedly, you were not so subtle, so you should not have been surprised when he began taking strides in your direction.

"Like what you see?" he smirked, a tantalising glint in his irises.

"Dream on," you muttered, but you did— you really did.

"L/N, was it?" he asked, and you nodded. You were a little surprised that he remembered. "I hear you're a successful author now."

For some reason, that statement made you freeze. Gathering the pieces of your confidence, you straightened your back and said, "Why? You read my book?"

He scoffed, "Do I look like I read?"

You smiled, "I'm hardly in the business of judging books by their cover."

Riddle chuckled slightly, "Touché."

Oh, yes, he was the perfect muse.

***

Unfortunately, one of your friends had fallen ill, and was unable to go skiing the next day. In an unexpected turn of events, Nott insisted on staying back with her, which you would have speculated about on a normal basis— only, this was not a normal basis. You had been up late manically typing away on your typewriter, fuelled by ideas and inspiration. Now, you were exhausted, but still hyperfocused on the enthralment of Mattheo Riddle. You were practically tuned to only hear the words that left his mouth.

"Yeah, feverish for Theo," Riddle joked, and while you had not been paying attention to the context (although you could figure it out), laughter burst forth from your body and had you losing your breath.

Said man looked at you with an amused haze in his eyes, one that had your stomach somersaulting. You could not even bring yourself to be embarrassed about the grin plastered on to your face the entire rest of the walk.

Much to your disappointment, Riddle shot off the ski decking the second the group arrived there, along with most of the boys. You remained back with the girls— and Malfoy, for some reason.

Having got the hang of magic skiing the day prior, thanks to your Slytherin friend, you decided that you did not want to be too far behind Riddle. So, you approached the edge, and became the first of your friends to launch off, prompting the rest of them to do so.

As you slid down the slopes, avoiding the ever-appearing obstacles in a haphazardly manner, you quickly realised that you would not be able to catch up to Riddle. He had likely grown up going magic skiing, as while he was orphaned, he had been raised by the Malfoys of whom definitely took expensive holidays on an annual basis.

Some while later, you neared the bottom, and clumsily skidded to a halt where the boys were waiting.

"Where's Draco?" Riddle asked.

You lifted up your mask and shrugged, "He was the last to go, I think." You were pretty sure he had been talking to your Slytherin friend, anyway.

***

The eight of you returned sooner than expected, after one of your friends sustained an injury. It was nothing magic couldn't quickly fix, but everyone agreed that it was best to head back for the day. Zabini helped support her on the walk back, which she seemed very annoyed about, but you were still absorbed in your personal antics, i.e. hanging off Riddle's every word.

You entered the dubbed "girls' cabin" to find Nott in the kitchen— shirtless. It would be a shock to everyone, but you found yourself only caring about Riddle's reaction when he entered.

Then you remembered that your friend was sick, and snapped out of your daze.

"Where is she?" you asked Nott.

"She's sleeping," he answered, seemingly trying to sound nonchalant.

As more of the group entered the kitchen, including Riddle, they all appeared to share your shock at Nott's shirtless situation.

"I'll go check on her," your Slytherin friend said.

Nott's eyes widened, "That's probably not a good idea."

"Why?" she eyed him curiously.

For some totally not suspicious reason, he was struggling to answer.

Then, a door creaked open in the distance, and your friend pattered into the kitchen wearing nothing but knee socks and Nott's jumper, stunning everyone.

She paused when she saw all of you.

You looked at Riddle to gage his reaction.

"Did you pretend to be sick just to fuck all day?" he asked, the kind of blunt question only a Slytherin boy would ask. Merlin, was such a manner of being always so attractive?

"She's like me," Nott spoke gently, a vague sentence that stole you from your thoughts, but you kept your eyes on Riddle.

His eyes widened at Nott's words.

"Oh, is she, like, in—?" Berkshire piped up.

"Yes."

"What the fuck is going on?" another of your friends asked.

Your "sick" friend hesitated for a moment, avoiding eye contact as she seemed to contemplate something. Eventually, she spoke, "I'm... a werewolf."

That made you peel your eyes away from Riddle, staring at her in shock. But then you remembered the scars all over her body, and things started to make sense.

"Okay... but... it's not a full moon, so, like...?"

You glanced at the friend who said that.

"She's in heat," Riddle laughed, "Guess Theo here has been providing some... assistance..." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Fuck off," Nott grumbled.

"You're also a werewolf?" your Slytherin friend questioned.

He nodded.

And after a long, awkward conversation of explaining why she did not tell you all sooner, how heats and ruts worked, and also the fact that her and Nott were now mated for life... she suddenly looked as if she were about to faint. You were bewildered as they both excused themselves, but also happy to return your attentions to Riddle.

"You've known Nott was a werewolf this whole time?"

"Since, like, third year," he replied, ruffling the snow out of his hair, "I can't believe you didn't know your friend was."

You shrugged, "I mean, in hindsight it's obvious, we just never really asked."

"Girls are strange."

That made a scowl form on your brow, "Boys are stranger."

He chuckled: a warm sound which started a fire in your heart. Fuck— you didn't just see him as character inspiration, did you?

***

After more magic skiing the following day, once again without the werewolves and for some reason without Malfoy, you were back at the cabins. Your Slytherin friend had disappeared not too long ago, and while your other friends pondered where she was, you asked the rest of the boys if they wanted to come over and watch a film. You prepared hot chocolates and popcorn, and set up the muggle piece of technology sat in the lounge area.

Then, cosied up in your jumper and flannel pyjamas, you watched as the girls sat down around you and the boys entered. Even the werewolves decided to join, settling themselves down on the sofa, cuddling up with rosy cheeks. It had you feeling jealous, that they could feel a lifelong bond, that they were now destined to be each other's person. Why couldn't you have that?

Riddle sat down next to you, having picked up one of the hot chocolates, and smiled in your direction. That single act had your pain washing away— forgotten history. You smiled back at him.

"What film are we watching?" he asked, leaning back.

"Buffalo '66," you replied, "It just came out a few months ago."

"What's it about?"

You faltered, "It'll sound too dark if I explain it. But it's a romance. Just watch."

"Okay, secretive," he said, chuckling before taking a sip of the drink. He flinched and pulled away, "Shit, that's hot."

"I made them fresh."

You looked around at everyone to see if they were ready for the film to begin, and noted how one of your friends was glaring daggers at Zabini. Choosing to ask her about it later, you pressed play on the remote.

At some point— you could not pinpoint exactly when— Riddle had rested his arm behind you on the sofa. You hadn't noticed at first, as it hadn't been touching you, but gradually it had shifted closer until the brush of his skin against yours left a tingling sensation. You almost jumped, but kept calm and tried not to freak out at the prospect Mattheo Riddle might fancy you.

Merlin, you would be putting a shift in on your book later. And, with that thought, you gathered your courage to rest your head on his shoulder, and his arm dropped lower until his hand was gently caressing your arm.

***

"Y/N, this is a weird film," your werewolf friend noted.

You shrugged, Riddle leaning forward to grab his hot chocolate, unfortunately disconnecting from you in the process. "I mean, yeah, but it's good."

"Merlin, I'm worried to think about the kind of books you'll write in future," she chuckled in response, making you throw a cushion at her. Only, you went to throw it just as Riddle leant back again, accidentally knocking his shoulder and making him spill his hot chocolate all over himself.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" you gasped, as he just stared down at the mess on him, "Fuck, I'll get a towel."

You hurried to your feet, dashing to your room to begin tearing it apart to find something— anything to clean him up with. After a couple minutes, he came in, "Not to complain, but what's taking so long?"

"I can't find one," you huffed, "I'll try the bathroom. Wait here."

And when you returned, finally in possession of a towel, you saw Riddle stood by the desk, where your typewriter sat, holding a piece of parchment. Your eyes widened in horror.

"What are you doing?"

"Reading."

"You don't read," you replied hollowly.

He must have noticed your tone, because he put the paper back down, and turned to you, "Sorry, I should have asked."

It seemed that he had not figured out it was about him, so you let yourself relax. "It's okay. It's just nowhere near ready."

"Have you had sex before?" he asked, making you nearly choke.

"What?" you forced out.

"I'm sorry, this sex scene just doesn't feel natural."

"Oh," you short-circuited. You knew that it didn't feel natural when you wrote it, but it was a challenge for you to write rougher sex when the only sex you had experienced— with your only ex— had been the most vanilla love-making you could possibly imagine. Not that you hadn't liked it, but beginning to write this new book had made you realise you craved more.

"So, have you?"

You nodded feebly, unsure whether to be embarrassed, "Not like that, though."

He hummed, and then he smirked, "Want me to show you?"

If you had been shocked before, you might as well be dead now: his casual offer hit you like a truck, freezing you in place and causing words to fail you.

"Hey, we don't have to, I just thought it would... help," he said quickly, clearly not used to such a reaction.

Finally, you managed to say, "I want to."

"Are you sure?"

You snapped out of your stupor, and vehemently nodded. This was just what you needed to write the perfect sex scene— and also to finally satisfy your newfound desire.

But, where do you begin after accepting his offer? All you could do was stare at him expectantly, hoping that he would take the initiative. He wouldn't. Why wouldn't he? What the fuck was he waiting for?

Your frustration boiled to the surface and you darted forward, slamming your lips on to his and tangling your hands in his hair. You kissed with a passion and fervour that you didn't know you possessed, screaming from within each and every one of your veins. Only when he kissed you back with as much hunger did you realise that he had also been waiting for you to make the first move. Not because he was scared too— Merlin, no. But because he wanted to watch you snap.

And snap you did, feeling blazing hot fire coursing through your bloodstream as you pushed him back towards the bed, aching to feel every inch of his sinful body. You climbed on top of him, only parting from his mouth to tug off your shirt, urging him to do the same. A smirk crept on to his face, and he flipped you over in the flash of a second.

"You want me to take my shirt off?" he teased.

You scowled at him, "Fuckin' obviously."

"Beg me."

A whirlwind combination of annoyance and shame swirled inside your brain, your brows furrowing as you decided a route to take. Eventually, sarcastically, you said, "Please take off your shirt."

To your frustration, he shook his head, "Less sass."

Your resolve crumbled into unadulterated desperation, and much to your chagrin, you found yourself snapping, "Take off your shirt, Riddle."

And he still had the nerve to do it at the pace of a snail.

"The first thing you got wrong," he chuckled, "Is that you rushed everything."

You rolled your eyes, praying that his hand, which was creeping along the hemline of your joggers, would finally take action.

"I mean, where's the fun without a little teasing?"

"A little, not a lot," you clapped back.

Finally, he unclothed your lower half, leaving you bare before him in a manner that should have left you feeling ashamed, but instead had the peculiar effect of making you feel alive. You reached your hands up to clasp on to his broad shoulders, enjoying the heat radiating from his skin. And then he kissed you again, catching you so off guard that you gasped, distracting you from the fact his hand had placed itself on your waist. He caressed your tits, your abdomen, your thighs— until he finally shifted to your core, where you were sure that you were positively dripping with anticipation.

You broke the kiss to mutter, "Stop fuckin' torturin' me."

He smirked. The bastard smirked. "How could I when it wields such entertaining results?"

His finger brushed your clit with the delicacy of a butterfly, and while you craved more, such a tiny action from Riddle had a jolt of electricity shooting up your spine. Involuntarily, your hips bucked up, powered by instinct and lust. So, when he finally began applying pressure rubbing circles, your vision went white.

"Holy shit," you gasped, moments before slamming your lips on to his again. Each and every intricate movement of his fingers reeked of experience, propelling you to reconsider your disbelief of all the rumours that had spread about him during school. You had scoffed when Maisie Pavalti told you that Riddle was a God in bed, and rolled your eyes when Glynda Bluefire compared him to a puppet master the way he knew how to use his fingers.

You understood now that Maisie and Glynda knew exactly what they were talking about.

"More," you moaned into his mouth, feeling your release creeping up behind you, not even remotely dependent on your focus.

But then he pulled away.

You whined, too spent to even form a scowl. "Why?"

He chuckled again, flipping you over without warning and landing a smack to your ass in a manner that had you arching your back and groaning. "Such a desperate slut."

He smacked your ass again, and you peeked behind you to witness him unbuckling his belt and finally releasing the dick that had been praised by many. Fuck, since when were rumours accurate?

Your mouth damn near watered at the sight of it, which was especially strange considering you had only ever begrudgingly given your ex head. For Mattheo, however? You were pretty sure you would beg him for the privilege of sucking his cock. But at that very second, you wanted it inside you more.

His hand gripped your ass, so tightly it began to hurt in the most delicious way. Your excitement built as his tip prodded gently against your cunt, not slipping in, but making sinful contact.

"How bad do you want this?" he asked, a dark undertone lacing his voice.

"So bad," you replied breathlessly, straining your neck to look at his face.

He arched an eyebrow.

"More than anything," you amended your answer.

His nod of approval had you brimming with pride, and with another slap of your reddened cheeks, he entered in one fell swoop. The burn mixed with the pleasure, making your arms give way and your face fall against the bedding. All you could do was moan as he began moving, appreciating every nook and cranny he touched within in you.

"Feel so fuckin' good," he grunted, and you were grateful to receive indication he was just as needy as you were.

Then his hand found your clit again, and you were pushed over the edge before he even had the chance to deny you another orgasm.

"Did you just—?" he trailed off, apparently just as surprised as you were.

You moaned in affirmation, "Don't fuckin' stop."

He slapped your ass again, increasing his pace to a relentless speed, surely bruising your cervix more with every stroke— not that you could bring yourself to care. In fact, when he reached a hand forward and wrapped it around your neck, using it to pull you up, you found yourself engulfed in more pleasure. You relished in the amount of control he had over you, basked in the way he made you feel.

"Oh my Merlin," you said through restricted breath, your head going dizzy as his movements became sloppy.

"Gonna— come—" he said through gritted teeth.

You were going to as well, and made no effort to stop him as he released his load inside of you, moments before you came again. Your liquids fused to one inside of you as he came to a stop, your collective mess of moans and grunts ceasing to just laboured breath. Riddle finally let go of your throat, and you collapsed forward.

"Oh, fuck," you gasped when he pulled out of you, rolling over to lie on your back, "Mother of shit."

Riddle fell next you, the ghost of a smirk still lingering on his exhausted face. "Good?"

"The best," you sighed.

"Now you can make your book about me more accurate."

You stilled. You had not used Riddle's name in the book— how the fuck did he know it was about him?

"Ah, so it is about me."

"You knew?" you panicked.

He shrugged lazily, "I suspected. Your reaction confirms it."

Only now did embarrassment flood your nervous system.

"It's cute," he chuckled, "I'm honoured to be your muse."

"Fuck off."

"I can show you a lot more than what sex with me is like," his eyes glinted at you, "Y'know, for the sake of accuracy."

"Like what?"

"I don't know... dates, cuddling... pet names..." he faked a gagging motion at the last item.

"Oh, for accuracy's sake, of course," you teased, finally catching on to his implications.

"Naturally, no other reason," he blatantly lied.

You rolled your eyes, but could not get the grin from off your face.

"Of course, I want fifty percent of the profits."

"Fat fuckin' chance."

***

Eventually, the two of you cleaned and dressed up again, emerging from your bedroom to find that your friends had finished watching the film. Their eyes immediately shot in your direction, knowing looks plastered on each and every one of their faces.

It was clear that Riddle— Mattheo— knew no shame, because he proudly wrapped his hand around your waist, his infamous smirk gracing his lips. "Good film?" he asked with a cheeky tilt of his head.

But before anyone could reply, the door to the cabin slid open, and in came Malfoy and your Slytherin friend, of whom both had not been seen for a while. You immediately took note of their interlocked hands, and the shiny diamond that was balanced on your friend's finger.

A few beats of silent passed, until Mattheo said, "What the actual fuck?"

——————————————————

part 4: loml (blaise zabini)

isolated series masterlist

main masterlist

written; 25/08/2025 —> 07/09/2025 published;07/09/2025 edited; —/—/——

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

the nott-so-fake relationship (t.n.)

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader

Word Count: 10.1k

Summary: After your boyfriend cheats with your best friend, you enlist Theodore Nott in a fake relationship to get revenge

A/N: I fear this was better in my head

credits to @cafekitsune for the divider!

There comes a moment in every girl’s life that cements itself into her mind. It takes up a corner of her brain and becomes the foundation for every action she takes thereafter. It rewires her chemistry, ensuring that, years later, it will resurface unbidden, vivid and relentless.

She remembers it as though it’s happening right then. Every detail is etched onto the canvas of her mind with the precision of a master painter. She recalls every word, every inflection, every syllable. She feels again the rush of emotions, as if the pit of her stomach were reliving the moment in real time.

That was how it felt when your eyes landed on your boyfriend making out with your best friend, the girl who had been by your side since first year, the one you trusted implicitly. You stepped into the Hog’s Head that night, and your vision tunneled the second you saw them in the booth, lips locked.

The clinking of glasses around the pub sparkled mockingly in the dim light, a cruel contrast to the way your heart sank, your body shutting down as ice ran through your veins.

First came confusion. Perhaps you’d seen wrong, perhaps your mind was playing tricks. But as the seconds passed, certainty settled in, burning the image into your brain.

What do I do?

In any instance where you had been betrayed like this, your first instinct would have been to go to your best friend—the girl who had stuck with you since your first year when you were placed as dormmates.

Stuck in your place, your brain was short-circuiting, trying to, but in the end unable to do anything else but stare at them.

For fuck’s sake—are they scuba divers? Are they ever going to come up for air?

It seemed like they heard you, finally parting, and it seemed that your boyfriend—or rather, ex-boyfriend, and if he’s so lucky, not late-boyfriend—spotted you first, his face going pale the second he saw you.

You scoffed.

They were doing this in a public place, and he had the gall to look surprised when you managed to spot them?

And then you felt it—the emotion that managed to crush through all of the others like a tidal wave, filling your body and clouding your thoughts. Rage. Fury.

You spun on your heel, barreling through the crowd toward the door.

“(Y/N)!” Your boyfriend called behind you, but you ignored him, sidestepping another patron as you charged and left him in your dust. It seemed like your anger had managed to blur the edges of your vision, and you collided with another student.

“Watch it—!”

Theodore Nott stood at six feet tall, towering over you more than your boyfriend ever had, jawline so sharp it could cut you—if not for that, his words certainly would. He glared down at you with stormy eyes that you couldn’t quite call blue but couldn’t call green.

You heard your boyfriend call your name once more as he approached you, and it seemed the desperation on your face was apparent to someone as apathetic as Theodore, who only raised a brow at you.

And in that instant, you made one of the most reckless decisions of your life.

Your hands curled around the lapels of his jacket before you could even command your body to do otherwise, yanking Theodore toward you and leaning up on your tiptoes to close the gap, pressing your lips to his.

A split second passed, and your head was spinning, body coming back to life.

Have I lost my mind? I’ve just been utterly humiliated by my boyfriend and my best friend. Now I’ve kissed one of the notorious snakes—without consent, no less—which makes me literal scum. He’s going to push me away any second, probably hex me, and make this humiliation ten times worse.

All those self-deprecating thoughts came to a silent standstill the second his arm looped around your waist, another hand cupping your cheek as you tilted his head to deepen the kiss.

The moment stretched, every second dragging out as if the world itself had decided to pause and watch. His lips moved against yours with a deliberate, almost teasing patience that sent a shiver down your spine, making your knees threaten to buckle. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle press of his chest against yours, grounding you even as your mind screamed in disbelief.

Your hands tightened on his jacket, nails digging in slightly as if anchoring yourself to reality. Your mind screamed in protest, reminding you of every reason this was reckless—this was Theodore Nott, the last person you should be doing this with, and yet… you couldn’t stop.

The kiss was urgent, hungry, but also careful, as though he could sense the storm raging inside you and wanted to meet it without drowning you completely.

Finally, reality slammed back into you. You broke the kiss with a gasp, eyes still closed, trying to catch your breath after being so violently knocked out of orbit by a kiss you could only describe as divine.

When your eyes met his again, you were rendered speechless.

Oh, you better admit yourself into St. Mungo's tonight, you imbecile.

“Oh my—uh… I—I shouldn’t have—I'm sorry—” You stammered, tearing your hands from his jacket and stepping back. Embarrassment burned hotter than your anger had moments ago.

You swallowed, shamefully looking down as you moved toward the exit once again, "I'm gonna go—"

Your voice trailed off, choked by a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. You wanted to disappear, to vanish from the pub before anyone could process what had just happened. Before he could.

You pivoted toward the door, picturing yourself in the cool night air where your face might finally stop burning.

But before you could take another step, a firm hand caught your wrist. You froze, the warmth of his grip rooting you in place.

“If you leave first,” He said, his voice low and smooth, carrying that unmistakable edge of challenge, “you lose."

You didn't even know if your ex-boyfriend was still there, you had lost any awareness of your surroundings the second your lips met his.

Your eyes widened, and you stammered, “I… I’m not… I don’t—”

The corner of his lips twitched as though he was fighting a smile at your pathetic state, a teasing glint in those stormy eyes that made your knees threaten to give out again. “Why don’t you… join me and my friends?”

You swallowed, heart hammering, and glanced back at your ex. He was still standing there, awkward, flustered, clearly humiliated. It was… satisfying, in a small, dark way.

If you left now, before they did, it would look like you had something to be ashamed of. You didn’t deserve that.

They didn’t deserve to enjoy the rest of their night undisturbed. They deserved to squirm in their seats, to feel the weight of your stare drilling holes into them. They deserved their night ruined. Their lives ruined.

“…Fine,” you whispered, almost against your will. Your voice trembled with a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to thrill. “But only for a little while.”

Theo’s grin widened, that teasing glint in his eyes sharpening. “Oh… I don’t know,” he said, placing his hand on the curve of your waist, leading you to the table that had been taken by the other Slytherins, "We can be quite a fun bunch."

Theodore guided you through the Hog’s Head, arm casually looped through yours, like you’d belonged there all along. You couldn’t help but notice the way the pub-goers glanced at you, whispers flickering through the crowd. Your stomach fluttered with a mix of nerves, shame, and something you didn’t dare name.

When you reached the table, his friend's eyes immediately lit up. They were lounging casually, drinks in hand, and the smirk on Blaise’s face made it clear that they had clearly witnessed your make out session.

"Well, well, well, looks like someone’s been busy." Mattheo drawled, his wicked grin hidden half behind his glass as Theodore pulled out a chair for you and then slid his own closer.

It took everything in you to not look so startled when he wrapped his hand around your shoulder, trying to hide your incredulousness at how seamless this act managed to come to Theo.

You lowered your gaze from Mattheo's who was set on staring at you with an ear-to-ear grin like an imp, only to catch Theo’s eye—he seemed to read your thoughts instantly and, without missing a beat, chucked a fry at his best mate, "Stop ogling my girl, you prat."

“Ohhh,” Mattheo drawled, leaning back in his chair, "She's your girl now? That's the first I've heard of this."

Draco snorted, smirking at Theo, “Yeah, Theo, since when? You never mentioned a girlfriend before.”

Before you could even sputter, Theo’s calm, controlled voice cut through the teasing. “Yeah,” He said effortlessly, as if stating the weather, “We’re dating.”

You froze. What?! You were still reeling from the kiss, and now he was lying with such ease that it made your brain stutter. You were so caught off-guard, so out of your comfort zone that you couldn't even say anything.

He didn’t even flinch, "And we're not first-year girls that I should tell you everything."

Enzo let out a low whistle. “Wow… Theo, good for you, man."

You felt like your chest had been sucker-punched. How could he lie so effortlessly? So convincingly? You were still fumbling over your own thoughts, heart racing from the kiss, and he was… untouchable.

Theodore leaned slightly closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Relax. Just play along. Trust me.”

Trust him? You barely knew him. And the two people you’d trusted most in the world had just ripped you to shreds.

This was a bad idea.

But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because Theodore was right—if you left, your ex would see it, and you’d lose.

So you stayed. You plastered a grin on your face and let Theodore enjoy himself with his friends. You tried your best not to glance at the betrayers—refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing they occupied even a single neuron in your brain.

When tears threatened to prick your eyes, you bit the inside of your cheek hard and reached for Theo’s drink, taking a slow sip to ease the tightness in your throat.

Thankfully, it seemed they weren’t as shameless as you’d feared. They looked too uncomfortable to enjoy themselves, shifting in their seats, eyes flicking toward you before darting away. The sight of them leaving some time later brought you a sliver of satisfaction. However, that was made very bitter at the realization that they were leaving together.

You held out for another twenty minutes before finally turning to Theodore with a tired smile. “Walk me back?”

He didn’t hesitate. He stood immediately, earning a chorus of jeers from his friends about being a “simp” who couldn’t let his girl walk alone. Theodore just flipped them off before guiding you out with a warm hand at the small of your back.

The walk was quiet. Snowflakes gathered in your hair and clung to your coat, the world muted by the thick white dusting over Hogsmeade. Then, halfway down the path, you stopped abruptly.

Theodore turned to you, “What’s wrong?”

You stared down at the snow-covered road, tears burning at the edges of your vision, “She’s back at my dorm.”

You pressed the heel of your gloved palms into your eyes, your chest trembling with the sobs you’d been holding in all night, “And if she’s not… then I’ll be left wondering if she's with him for the rest of the night.”

Theodore sighed, steering you toward a small alcove behind the pub. It overlooked the rest of Hogsmeade, quiet and dim under the glow of lanterns. You sank down against the fence, not caring about the wet snow soaking through your clothes, hiding your face in your knees as the dam finally broke.

The image of them at the pub replayed relentlessly behind your closed eyelids, no matter how much you willed it away.

They’d done it so unabashedly, so arrogantly—her practically in his lap. Comfortable enough to humiliate you like that in public meant it couldn’t have been the first time.

Your mind reeled back to every time they’d both been absent, every “we just ran into each other in the hallway” excuse, every occasion they’d been “too busy” to join you in Hogsmeade.

They’d done this where other students could see. Had no one thought to tell you? Did your other friends just… choose to stay silent? Were they ever really your friends at all?

Theodore didn’t say a word. He just stood beside you in silence—until the soft clink of his lighter broke through your thoughts. You looked up, face blotchy and eyes raw, just in time to see him take a long drag from a cigarette, the smoke stark against the winter air.

“Can I have one?” You asked.

"No," He glanced down at you, “Take it from me, sweetheart—once you start, it’s very hard to stop.”

You exhaled sharply, lowering your forehead back to your knees. You tried to breathe deep, to steady yourself, to make sense of any of it, “What good even are you?”

There was another beat of silence.

“I’m sorry,” He said, and you looked up again, “I sprang that whole thing on you. If you don’t want to, I’ll take it back. Make it seem like I was the one mistaken. You don’t need to worry.”

“Why did you do it?” You asked quietly, “You could’ve easily pushed me away. I mean, I was the one at fault there.”

“Because,” He said, taking another slow drag, “you looked desperate.”

You huffed a humorless laugh, “I’m swooning.”

Theo’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “Besides,” He added, tilting his head so the dim light from the pub hit the sharp cut of his jaw, “I wasn’t about to let them see you run off like you’d done something wrong.”

You blinked at him, caught between wanting to roll your eyes and wanting to thank him, “So you just… decided to announce to half the school that we’re dating?”

“It’s better this way,” He said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Rumors spread fast. By Monday, everyone will think you’ve moved on—and not just moved on, but traded up.” His gaze flicked to you, calm but deliberate, “Let them choke on it.”

Your throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t from wanting to cry.

"And what do you get out of this arrangement?"

Theodore glanced at you through the thin curl of smoke leaving his lips. His expression didn’t flicker, but there was a spark of something behind his eyes—mischief, maybe, or calculation.

“Let’s just say…” He exhaled slowly, the smoke catching in the cold air like ghostly ribbons, “…I have my reasons.”

You swallowed and then sighed, watching as your breath became visible in the cold air, tears now dry on your cheeks, “I want them to pay for it.”

Theodore smirked, the corner of his mouth curling like he’d just been waiting to hear those words, "And so they shall."

You pushed open the door to your dorm, ready to collapse onto your bed and pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened. After talking with Theodore for a while, you’d waited until well past curfew to sneak back into Hogwarts, hoping your ex-boyfriend and ex–best friend had either gone to sleep separately or she was holed up in his dorm.

Honestly, at this point, you didn’t care where they were or what they were doing. They’d been dead to you long before you saw them at the pub tonight.

All you wanted was a bed. Sleep. Silence.

Theodore had still given you the option to change your mind about him — told you he’d take the blame if you wanted to pretend you didn’t know each other. But you were too wrung out from crying, too hollow to think. Your body was ready to collapse the second your face hit the pillow.

Except the moment you stepped inside, sleep vanished.

She was there.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, biting her thumbnail — that nervous habit of hers you hated that you knew.

Your mind started firing questions faster than you could breathe. Was she nervous? Guilty? Regretful? Did she feel anything at all?

Her head snapped up.

“Hey,” She said softly, eyes wide with something dangerously close to guilt, “Can we talk?”

You froze. Part of you wanted to say yes. She’d been your best friend, the person you’d cared about more than anything. You didn’t want to lose her.

Your heart almost opened the door. Your mind slammed it shut.

“No.”

She blinked, flinching like you’d slapped her, “Please, just—”

“I said no.” You moved past her toward your bed, shrugging off your coat, “Whatever you think you need to say, save it. I don’t care.”

“(Y/N), please! I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

You laughed—sharp, humorless, “You didn’t mean to kiss my boyfriend? How exactly does that work? You trip and fall face-first onto his mouth?”

Her jaw twitched. Then she scoffed, “Fine. If you’re gonna act like you’re so perfect, maybe remember you’re not exactly a saint either.”

Your head snapped up, “Excuse me?”

She crossed her arms, chin tilting higher, “We all saw your little show with Nott earlier. Don’t think you can sit there acting holier-than-thou when you cheated too.”

Heat surged under your skin.

“What I was doing with Nott is none of your business. But don’t you dare pretend that makes you right. You are the lowest, ugliest, skankiest slag I’ve ever met in my life.”

“That’s rich,” She spat, “Coming from the slag who spread her legs for the first guy she saw. Nott probably thought you were easy, didn’t he?”

You took a step forward. Then another. She backed up.

“Theodore has nothing to do with this, and neither does anyone else. The person I’m pissed at is you.” Your voice shook now, not from fear, but fury, “You were supposed to be my best friend! How could you betray me like this? Humiliate me in front of everybody? Go behind my back? I would never have done this to you. I wouldn’t have even thought about it!”

With each sentence, you jabbed a finger into her chest, until you finally shoved her, the force surprising even you.

She didn’t back down.

“You deserved it, didn’t you? Acting all high and mighty — then turning around and doing the same thing.”

Something in your chest cracked. You looked at her, really looked, and realized you didn’t recognize her anymore.

You laughed, breathless and disbelieving, “The only difference between us is I didn’t throw away seven years of friendship for some asshole who can only think with his dick. You think he won’t turn around and do the same thing to you that he did to me? You’re deluded.”

One more shove.

Then you straightened, voice quiet but lethal.

“If you ever approach me again, I’ll kill you. Until then?” You took a step back, smirking like she was something you’d scrape off your shoe, “Have fun with my sloppy seconds, slut.”

The next morning, the corridors were alive with the usual rush of students heading to the Great Hall, but your thoughts were still tangled in last night’s chaos. You tightened your coat around you, trying to focus on anything but the memory of their faces, when a familiar voice cut through the din.

“(Y/N)!” Your ex-boyfriend called, catching up just as you reached the entrance to the Great Hall. His face was flushed, a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and confusion, “What the hell was that yesterday?”

You froze for a heartbeat, then let a sardonic smile creep across your face, “Oh, that? I thought your tongue down my best friend’s throat was a pretty clear indication that we were both seeing other people.”

His face burned red, guilt and humiliation flickering across his features. You barely felt any satisfaction—what you felt yesterday had been raw, scorching, and unshakable. This was just a pale echo.

“Look, I—” He began, his voice tight, “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Didn’t mean to cheat on me with my best friend? Or didn’t mean for me to find out?” You let each word land like a slap.

His jaw clenched, his gaze hard, “You’re one to talk, acting like you didn’t leave with Theodore Nott of all people yesterday.”

You tilted your head, cool and deliberate, “I did. So? That doesn’t give you the moral high ground to lecture me. If you think you’re the victim here… think again.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous murmur, “Wait—are you serious? Are you actually—”

And then you saw him. Theodore Nott, leaning against the wall with that impossibly calm expression, arms crossed, watching like the world had paused for his amusement.

Your chest tightened, but you squared your shoulders. “Yes,” You said clearly, deliberately loud enough for both of them to hear, “I am dating Theodore Nott.”

The color drained from his face, the clever retorts dying on his tongue. You didn’t give him a chance to recover.

Theo’s smirk sharpened, eyes flicking between you and him, silently daring him to challenge your words, to give him a reason to rearrange his sorry mug this fine morning.

You started walking, leaving your ex behind, and Theodore fell naturally into step beside you. His presence was calm, confident, infuriatingly infuriating—and comforting at the same time.

“You promised, Nott,” You murmured, your voice low and dangerous, “We’re going to make them pay.”

Theo’s grin widened, the corner of his mouth lifting into that familiar, teasing arc. “Oh, don’t worry, mia cara,” He said smoothly, eyes glinting with mischief and you felt your ears get hot, “We're gonna make them regret ever messing with you.”

Side by side, you stepped into the Great Hall. Whispers began immediately, flickering through the crowd like wildfire. And as the students’ eyes turned toward you, you realized—the game had officially begun.

The chatter of students filled the Charms classroom as you stepped inside, your nerves buzzing the way they always did when eyes might follow you. You hesitated in the doorway for a fraction too long, scanning the rows of desks. Usually, your spot was second row, left side—the place you always shared with your best friend. But now? The thought of sitting there made your stomach twist. Should you take it anyway, claim your ground, and glare if she had the audacity to join you?

Before you could decide, a warm hand brushed against the small of your back.

“Over here.” Theodore murmured, voice low but commanding. He didn’t give you room to argue, guiding you through the rows with a confidence that ignored every curious glance that followed. You ended up in the second-to-last row, his chosen territory.

You dropped your bag to the floor and slid into the seat he indicated, shooting him a quick, reluctant smile. Almost instantly, you became acutely aware of the heat of his knee brushing yours beneath the desk.

Theodore leaned back in his chair with practiced ease, stretching his arm just far enough to rest casually along the back of yours. “That’s better,” He said, deliberately louder now, his voice carrying through the classroom. His smirk deepened, “Need my girl next to me.”

The effect was immediate. The two Hufflepuff girls in front of you whipped their heads around under the pretense of adjusting their books. They tried to be subtle, glancing sideways from the corners of their eyes, but the way their shoulders pressed together and their whispers turned sharp made it obvious who they were talking about.

Theo noticed too. His smirk widened, one eyebrow arching as if to say exactly as planned.

You resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs, ducking your head instead as heat crept up your neck. Subtle was not in Theodore Nott’s vocabulary, apparently.

Your heart jumped when the door opened again and she walked in—your ex–best friend, sliding into the classroom like nothing had happened. She looked tired, as she always did on mornings like this; Charms was the earliest class on your schedule, and she never managed breakfast before dragging herself out of bed. No, instead she always smuggled in a handful of Honeydukes’ cockroach clusters, nibbling on them through class.

And sure enough, there they were, sitting in a paper bag on her desk.

Your lips curled into a knowing smirk.

How could she be so careless? She knew you better than anyone—had known every one of your tricks, your habits, your moods. She should have known you wouldn’t leave her unpunished.

You waited until Professor Flitwick had begun explaining wand movement on the board, until the room was full of the faint swish of quills and the scratching of parchment. Then, when her hand dipped into the bag, you flicked your wand under the table. A silent transfiguration. Smooth, clean, precise.

She popped the cluster into her mouth. Chewed once.

And then froze.

Her eyes widened just a fraction, and then she gagged, clapping a hand over her lips. You bit down on your own smile as, with a sharp cough, she spat onto her desk—not a melted chocolate, but a fat, wriggling cockroach that skittered across the wood.

The room erupted.

Screams, laughter, the scrape of chairs as people leapt away. Someone shouted, “Bloody hell, they’re moving!” as two more clusters in the bag twitched and burst into chittering, crawling life. Your ex-best friend shoved her desk back in panic, her face pale as the cockroaches spilled out in a wave across the floor.

You didn’t react like the rest of them, watching as chaos struck and she turned green in the face, barely able to breathe. You lifted your feet and bag from the ground, careful to avoid all the cockroaches that seemed to multiply from her bag—the replenishing charm you cast on the bag doing wonders.

Theodore didn’t even glance at the teacher; instead, his attention was entirely on you, on the way your chest rose and fell, eyes still sharp, just barely contained.

With a single fluid motion, he pulled your chair a little closer, resting your legs in his lap. You froze, breath hitching, heat crawling up your spine—but there was no time for that. The room still hummed with whispers and laughter, and you could feel every pair of eyes glancing back at the scene.

“Elegant work, sweetheart.” He murmured low, the words meant only for you. His fingers brushed lightly along your ankle, light enough to be intimate, heavy enough to claim attention.

You suddenly understood why in the olden days showing ankle was considered scandalous, judging by the set of shivers Theodore's thumb against your ankle had sent up your spine.

“Detention! For eating in class and causing this disruption! Minus ten points!” Professor Flitwick’s squeaky voice rang across the room.

You fought the grin tugging at your lips, eyes sliding back to your former best friend, who sat frozen, cheeks burning with humiliation.

Oh, poor girl.

That pitiful, shocked face only made you hate her more.

The library was quiet, the soft rustle of pages and the occasional scratch of quills filling the otherwise hushed room. You were bent over a stack of textbooks, notes scattered across the polished wooden table, eyes straining to keep focus as the afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows.

You were so absorbed in your work that you didn’t notice the shadow falling across your page. A soft, familiar warmth pressed against the back of your chair, and a low chuckle reached your ears.

“Can’t study forever, you know.” A deep voice murmured.

Before you could turn around, a pair of lips pressed gently against the top of your head. A small, contented sigh followed as Theodore rested his chin lightly on your shoulder.

“Missed you, sweetheart.” He said softly, his words meant only for you, though the air between you carried them enough for nearby students to murmur.

You froze for a heartbeat, pencil hovering mid-note, then tilted your head slightly, allowing him the small indulgence. His hand slid to rest on yours, fingers brushing against your notes, grounding you in the moment.

A few whispers floated through the library, subtle but unmistakable: “Is that…?” “Theodore Nott and—” “Wow.”

The heat rose in your cheeks, but it wasn’t embarrassment—it was the thrill of being seen with him, the quiet intimacy, the silent power you both held over anyone watching.

Especially the power it held over you.

You didn't know how he was able to touch you so intimately, pretend like you had a long history, hold you close and fake that look in his eye that made you feel like you were the center of his universe.

It was baffling.

Theodore rested his head for a moment longer before leaning back just enough to peer at your notes, “Though… you’re really focused, aren’t you? I’d almost feel guilty interrupting.”

You gave a small smile, eyes still on your parchment, “You could say that, yeah.”

He chuckled, nudging your shoulder gently with his own, “Then I’ll just keep you company… silently.”

And with that, he settled next to you, close enough that his warmth was constant, silent enough that you could still work—but every so often, he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple or brushing a strand of hair from your face.

Then you sensed movement behind you. Glancing up, you caught sight of your ex and your former best friend sneaking into the room, eyes immediately locking on you and Theodore.

They didn’t just glance—they stiffened, shoulders squared, and suddenly it was like a performance. She leaned close to him, laughing a little too loudly, brushing against him in a way that screamed look at us, we’re happy, look at what you’re missing. Your ex mirrored her, puffing out his chest and whispering something that made her giggle.

It was painfully obvious—they wanted you to see them, to feel jealous, to react.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached up, grabbed Theodore by the collar, and pulled him down into a deliberate, teasing kiss, letting them watch the undeniable spark between you. He responded immediately, moving his hand to your waist, deepening the kiss and cupping your cheek.

But of course, they weren’t going to give up that easily. Determined to “out-do” you, they moved to the far side of the library, your ex hugging her from behind and peppering kisses to her neck as she giggled. They ducked into the alcove at the back that was notorious for students fooling around.

Theodore raised a brow, lips curling into that maddeningly flirtatious smirk, leaning to press his lips to your ear, “What do you say, love? Feel like beating them at their own game? I’m sure we’d have a better time anyway.”

You chuckled, shaking your head, trying to ignore the heat crawling up your neck.

With a subtle glance toward the librarian’s desk, you caught Madam Pince’s attention. Quietly, you waved her over, corners of your mouth tugging into a grin.

Theodore’s eyebrows shot up, “Oh? You’re evil, bellissima.”

“Oh, you love it.” You murmured, still holding his hand. You pointed to the bookshelf where they were hiding, leaning back with a sly grin.

What happened next was beautiful chaos.

A shriek echoed through the library—sharp, furious, unmistakably theirs. Madam Pince’s voice rang out, shrill and indignant: “What on earth are you two doing in here?!”

You and Theodore exchanged a glance and stifled laughter as you heard her yelling, her wand flashing to confiscate their belongings, and chasing them down the aisles, half-dressed and completely humiliated.

The whispers and stares of the other students only added to the spectacle. You suppressed another laugh as you watched points being deducted from their house records, their humiliation complete.

For now.

The stands were packed, the cold wind whipping your hair around your face as you and Theo leaned against the railing, watching the match unfold below. You watched as your ex’s team began collecting points, you and Mattheo booing their every move at the top of your lungs.

“YOU CALL THAT FLYING?!” Mattheo yelled, and you cupped your hands around your mouth, “MY GRANDMA CAN FLY BETTER THAN THAT!”

You coughed—cold air and screaming taking their toll—before a scarf was gently draped around your neck. You turned in surprise to see Theodore, not even looking at you, more intent on wrapping it carefully so it covered your ears and nose without smothering your mouth. When it proved impossible, he conceded and settled for placing a warming charm on you.

You smiled bashfully, hiding your pink cheeks in the scarf, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, bella.”

“Disgusting behavior in public.” Mattheo muttered under his breath, earning a soft chuckle from you.

Everything seemed normal—until the golden blur began acting strangely.

Even for a snitch, its movements were erratic. But this was worse than usual. It seemed to purposefully avoid the opposing team, darting exclusively toward your ex’s side. The match ground to a halt as the players floated to a stop, confusion spreading across the pitch. Madam Hooch called everyone together, frowning as she tried to assess the situation.

When the groundskeepers and referees inspected the field, the truth became clear: the snitch in play wasn’t real. Someone had swapped it.

Confusion rippled through the stands as whispers grew louder.

“Where’s the real Snitch?” The head referee demanded, scanning the players.

A quick locating spell revealed it immediately—tucked neatly in your ex’s bag, as if he had accidentally carried it with him. The real snitch sat there, innocently gleaming in the sunlight, waiting to be discovered.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Every eye in the stadium turned to him.

Your ex’s face drained of color, hands fumbling over the bag in shock. “I—I didn’t—!” He stammered.

But the damage was already done. The spectators murmured furiously, teammates muttering accusations, and whispers of “he cheated” began circulating instantly.

Theo leaned back against the railing, smirk spreading across his face, and whispered in your ear, “Are you enjoying the show, my love?”

You bit your lip and nodded, trying not to laugh aloud, and reached for his hand under the railing, giving it a subtle squeeze. No words were needed—the humiliation was working exactly as planned.

“Due to tampering with the snitch, it’s an automatic loss for Ravenclaw—Hufflepuff wins!” Madam Hooch announced, confirming the disaster.

“Another impeccable plan. I’m impressed,” Theo murmured in your ear, voice teasing, “You make it look easy.”

The crisp Hogsmeade air nipped at your cheeks as you stepped off the train, Theodore’s hand sliding easily into yours. The village was bustling with students, their laughter echoing over the cobblestone streets, but all you could feel was the warmth of his grip and the soft pull of his presence beside you.

Theodore was actually the one to suggest that you guys spend the day together. At first, you were going to opt out, feeling bad that the last couple weeks had been revolving around you and wanting him to get some time with his friends but he insisted, saying that you couldn't spend your Hogsmeade apart or people would talk.

You couldn't argue with that.

But even then you found yourself looking forward to it.

Despite this being only a temporary arrangement with no feelings behind it, Theodore was actually great company. He was thoughtful and considerate, he liked hearing you talk and a quality people didn't really appreciate a lot was that he was hilarious.

You couldn't go five minutes without him prompting a belly laugh from you.

You paused in front of a small shop, your eyes catching a delicate necklace in the display window. A thin chain with a tiny, intricate charm glinting in the sunlight—it was beautiful. Your breath caught.

“Oh… that’s gorgeous.” You murmured, pressing your palm lightly against the glass.

Theodore leaned over, following your gaze. His eyes softened when he saw the necklace, “You like it?”

“I do… but…” Your voice trailed off as you peeked at the price tag. Your eyes widened, “but I do not love the price tag.”

The bell above the shop door jingled as you both entered. You wandered near the counter, trying to convince yourself it was just a dream. Theodore approached the shopkeeper, exchanged a few words, and before you could even process what was happening, the necklace was being handed to you in a small, neatly wrapped box.

You stared at it, then at him, “No… no, you can’t. This is way too expensive. I can’t—”

“It’s only ten Galleons.” He said, clearly perplexed by your reaction.

“Only… ten Galleons?” You repeated, your voice rising slightly in surprise, “That’s… that’s like… my entire pocket money for the next two months!”

Theodore smirked, as if your shock were the most amusing thing he’d seen all day, “Yes, and? You’re my girl. You like it, you get it. What’s the problem?”

The problem was you weren't really his girl.

So, why was he going out of his way to behave like you were? This was a question that had stayed in your head since that first night in Hogsmeade. What was he getting out of this? Why would he be so readily enthusiastic in your plan when it was clear you were the only one truly benefitting from this?

When you met his eyes again, stormy blue that looked green in some lights, the questioned died on your tongue.

Because whatever the reason, you weren't sure you wanted him to stop.

You stared at him, half in disbelief, half in awe, “You—really? You’re just… giving it to me?”

You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief as you let him fasten the necklace around your neck. The charm glinted against your chest, and the warmth of the gesture left you grinning.

When you turned to meet his eyes again, you smiled bashfully up at him before leaning in to press a soft kiss against his cheek.

Theo froze in surprise the second your lips touched his cold skin, and the sight of his startled expression made something warm bloom in your stomach.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t done more than that—in fact, in your persistence to prove to your exes that you were well past moved on, you’d taken to making out with Theo in nearly every public space Hogwarts had to offer. And if it wasn’t that, it was the way he always had an arm around you, casual and possessive, no matter where you went.

So the fact that something as small as a cheek kiss could knock him off guard made you smile. Made you feel like all the intimacy you shared wasn’t just a front. Wasn’t all fake.

“Thank you.” You whispered.

You settled cross-legged on the soft carpet of the Slytherin common room, leaning back against Theodore’s legs as he sat comfortably on the couch. His hands were busy in your hair, while his scarf lay draped across your lap. Carefully, you threaded the fringe at the end of the scarf, showing him how to braid it so he could mimic the motion on your hair.

“So then you take this left strand and bring it over—it becomes the new center strand—and then you bring the new right strand and bring it over.” You explained, feeling the occasional tug on your hair. You immediately noticed the braid slipping.

“It keeps slipping… your hair is too greasy.” He muttered, brow furrowed.

You scoffed, feigning offense, “I think you mean… smooth and silky.”

“This isn’t working.” He grumbled, letting go of your hair and starting over, separating it into three neat parts.

“Baby, this is the easiest braid ever. You’re going to faint when I teach you about a Dutch braid.” You teased, tugging gently on a strand to demonstrate.

Before he could respond, the door creaked open and Mattheo sauntered in, smirk plastered across his face. “Ohhh, what do we have here?” He drawled, “(Y/N) (L/N), Hogwarts’ first houseless student considering we never see her in her own common room, and Theodore Nott, her loyal… dog.”

He then grimaced at the sight of the two of you, “Can y’all not do this in a public space? Some of us think the sight of happy couples is enough to induce projectile vomiting.”

Theo didn’t flinch, though the corner of his mouth tugged into a small smirk. You felt a small thrill as his thumb grazed the space under your ear, leading to your neck, grounding you in the moment.

You raised a brow, voice dripping with mock menace, “You really wanna piss me off when I’m at prime height to punch you in the balls?”

Mattheo rolled his eyes and collapsed onto the couch, still grinning, “You’re coming to Theo’s birthday next Friday, right? Considering you practically live here.”

You hesitated, unsure, “I… I don’t know. I mean—”

Theo leaned over you, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “You'll be there right?” He murmured, voice low and coaxing, the simple gesture making your chest tighten, "Please?"

You bit back a smile, looking up at him, and realized there was no way you could say no—not when he asked like that.

You stepped into the Slytherin common room, barely able to hear your own thoughts over the bass that rattled the walls. It thudded deep in your chest, vibrating through your bones as you descended the staircase to the dungeons.

The room was packed, bodies moving together in a blur beneath the strobing lights, faces indistinguishable in the chaos. But your eyes found Theo instantly. He was surrounded by his friends, laughing at something Mattheo said, until his gaze landed on you.

His entire expression shifted—lit up like you were the only thing in the room. Without a second thought, he left them behind and crossed the room to meet you at the base of the stairs.

His eyes swept over your little black dress, the necklace he gifted you resting prettily on your collarbones, and his hands found their way to your waist—low, possessive, warm against the thin fabric, "Che bella, carissima."

"Happy birthday, Theo." You murmured, your palms resting lightly against his chest.

"Grazie, dolcezza." He replied, voice low and smooth as he leaned in. His mouth met yours without hesitation, your fingers sliding into his hair. Lip gloss smudged against his skin, and the artificial taste of lollipop lippie flooded both your mouths.

If you hadn’t been so caught up in the kiss, maybe you would’ve questioned it. Why you were kissing Theo when neither your boyfriend nor your best friend was anywhere in sight. Why you were feeding into the rumor mill in the shadowy corner of the common room instead of center stage where everyone could see.

Maybe you would’ve wondered why you shaved your legs, wore the dress that made your breasts look perfect, took extra time curling your hair, and reached for the expensive perfume you saved for special occasions.

But with Theo’s fingers brushing bare skin along your spine—thanks to the low back of your dress—those thoughts didn’t stand a chance.

You pulled away, laughing softly at the sight of glittery gloss smeared across his lips. You tried to wipe it away with your thumbs, but that proved nearly impossible when he kept catching your fingers in quick kisses.

"I have a present for you." You whispered, revealing the small gift bag you’d kept tucked behind your back. Theo pressed a kiss to your temple before taking it, digging through the tissue paper until he pulled out a steel flask—cool, heavy, and etched with intricate designs like something stolen from an ancient temple.

When he felt the liquid slosh inside, he unscrewed the cap and took a sip, brows lifting in surprise when the familiar taste hit his tongue.

"I cast a replenishing spell on it," You explained, "When it runs out, it’ll refill on its own."

His lips curved in a slow smile, still holding your gaze.

"I was just thinking about that day you said you’d miss my cocoa," You added, "So…I thought you’d appreciate it."

Theo chuckled quietly, looking down at the flask with an expression you couldn’t quite read—something deeper than amusement.

"Do you…not like it?" You asked after a beat.

He shook his head immediately, "I adore it, pretty girl."

Before you could respond, Mattheo’s voice cut through the music. "If you guys are done ASSAULTING OUR EYEBALLS—" You both rolled your eyes in perfect unison, "—IT’S TIME FOR CAKE!"

You followed the crowd toward the long table where the cake waited, candles flickering under the dim lights. You expected to melt into the group somewhere between Enzo and Blaise, but before you could even drift in that direction, Theo’s hand shot out, curling firmly around your wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going, Dolcezza?” He murmured, tugging you to stand at his side—his spot—right in front of the cake.

“Theo,” You hissed under your breath, “it’s your birthday, I should be—”

“You're exactly where you should be.” He cut you off smoothly, eyes glinting in the candlelight. His hand didn't lift from your waist, keeping you pinned to his side, the faint smell of smoke and cocoa clinging to him like a second skin.

You didn’t have time to argue before Blaise slid over, holding out a small slip of parchment and a quill, “Here you go, mate."

Your brows furrowed, “What’s this?”

Theo took the quill without hesitation, his head bending low as he scribbled something on the paper in quick, sure strokes.

“It’s an old Nott thing,” Mattheo explained, “Birthday boy writes down a wish, folds it, and keeps it with him until it comes true. You’re not supposed to tell anyone what it is.”

Theo didn’t even glance up, just folded the parchment neatly, tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket with deliberate care.

“And you keep it on you?” You asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

“Always,” Theo said simply. His gaze met yours, sharp enough to make your stomach twist, “A wish doesn’t work if you let it out too soon.”

You should’ve looked away, but there was something about the weight of his stare—like whatever he’d written down was more dangerous than anyone else in the room realized.

“Now,” Mattheo groaned, breaking the tension, “can we please sing so I can eat some damn cake?"

You laughed, but your mind was already racing, replaying the way Theo’s lips had curved just slightly when he’d sealed the parchment away.

And for the first time, you wondered if that wish had anything to do with you.

The common room was a haze of dancing bodies, flashing lights, and the faint tang of cider and punch. You’d just come back from the corridor with Theo, the warmth of his hand still lingering on your waist, when Mattheo leaned over with a mischievous grin.

“You need to try this,” He said, holding out a tall glass filled with a neon-colored drink. At the bottom, a small, bright candy rested like a hidden treasure, “It’s our latest cocktail—sweet and sour. The sweetness of the drink with the sour candy at the bottom is fucking good.”

You raised an eyebrow, examining the glass that looked radioactive, "This looks cursed."

"It's good, baby," Theo said smoothly, eyes sparkling as he handed you the glass, “You should give it a try.”

With a shrug and a laugh, you took a sip. At first, it was sweet, almost pleasant. Then your tongue hit the candy, and your eyes widened in shock. Your face scrunched up immediately.

“Oh—oh my god,” You choked out, spitting it back a little, "This is awful! I feel like I'm sucking on a lemon!"

Theo chuckled low, leaning closer, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for the glass. “Give it here.” He murmured, voice teasing.

You held the candy between your teeth, letting him tilt your head and take it into his mouth. The kiss that followed was slow, teasing, and intimate, the world around you fading as he skillfully removed the candy without breaking the connection between your lips. Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling naturally like it does whenever you kiss.

When he finally pulled back slightly, forehead resting against yours, his eyes shone with playful delight, "You're crazy," He said, swishing the candy around in his mouth, "This is delicious."

"You two are disgusting." Mattheo muttered again, shaking his head.

You’d slipped out into the quieter corridor for a moment’s reprieve. The cool dungeon air was a relief after the heat of the crowd.

You were seated on one of the stairs, catching your breath, when footsteps echoed down the hall. You didn’t turn, but the scent of Theo hit your senses the moment he draped his jacket around your shoulders and settled beside you.

“Hi.” You murmured, leaning your head down to rest on your knees, offering a small, tired smile.

“Hi. You alright?”

You nodded, “Just a little tipsy. I needed some air.”

“Oh, I know just what to do about that.” He teased, reaching into his jacket and pulling out the flask you had gifted him. You chuckled as he opened it, handing it to you, steam curling into the cold air. You took a few sips, letting the warmth spread through you.

“When I said I was going to miss your cocoa,” He began, a hint of mischief in his voice, “I didn’t mean you should give me a lifetime supply.”

Your brows furrowed, a pang of worry settling in your chest. Did he not like the present?

"I don’t want the flask if it means you won’t be around to share it with me,” He said softly, leaning closer so only you could hear, “I’ve always just wanted you."

You took a sharp inhale, your heart beginning to pound against your ribcage.

"Are—Are you being serious?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his pocket and held something out between two fingers—a folded slip of parchment, worn at the edges, looking as though it might crumble if handled too roughly.

You frowned, “What’s this?”

“My birthday wish from last year.” He said simply.

You blinked, “Won’t giving it to me mean it won’t come true?”

His lips curved into that maddening, calm smile, “Take a look.”

You hesitated, then unfolded the paper. The ink was slightly smudged, but the words were unmistakable:

I wish for (Y/N) to notice me.

Your stomach flipped in disbelief, “Theo…”

“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”

The air seemed to thin around you, your pulse loud in your ears, “You… you’re serious?”

He nodded, “I’ve felt this way for a long time. I thought last year would finally be the year I made my move, but then you started dating him, and I thought I lost my chance.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You whispered.

“I was ecstatic when you finally turned your attention to me that night. Not the way I wanted at first, maybe, but I was never going to let that chance get away from me.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, your chest tightening with a mix of disbelief and relief. Theo’s eyes were locked on yours, calm and steady, but filled with something so raw it made your heart thrum.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from his face, fingers lingering at his jaw. “So… all of this—” you gestured between the two of you, “—the fake dating, the kissing, the… everything… it wasn’t just to get back at them?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head, “No. That part was fun, I’ll admit. But it wasn’t the real reason I wanted to be close to you.” His hand slid over yours, palm warm against yours, grounding you, “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for longer than you can imagine.”

Your heart lurched, a mixture of relief and longing flooding through you, “Theo…”

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, voice just above a whisper, “So, what do you say? No more pretending. No more games. Just… us.”

Something inside you broke—years of tension, uncertainty, and longing unraveling in a single heartbeat. You cupped his face in your hands, leaning into him fully, “Okay,” You breathed, “Just us.”

His grin widened, a triumphant glint in his stormy eyes, and he kissed you—slow, deep, and deliberate, every touch and press of his lips sealing the promise between you. No pretense, no lies. Just the two of you, finally, fully together.

The two of you stayed there for a while, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the distant thrum of the party fading into nothing. The world had narrowed to just you, just him, and the long-awaited start of something neither of you wanted to hide ever again.

Bonus:

Breakfast in the Great Hall felt different that morning.

You’d think that after months of this routine with Theo, another morning spent at his side wouldn’t feel so significant. But it did. Everything felt sharper, warmer. You didn’t feel like you had to prove anything anymore. You didn’t feel like you had to put on a show. The hand holding yours was hidden beneath the table, but you didn’t care if anyone saw—or if they didn’t. It didn’t matter anymore.

And yet, despite everything shifting, you and Theo were still the same—falling into that easy rhythm, voices low as you traded quiet jokes. Only now, you noticed the way it felt different. How intimate it was when Theo’s gaze lingered not just on your eyes but flickered, unconsciously, down to your lips. How he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, even in the middle of the bustling Hall.

How had you missed all the signs before?

Theo was brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb when the bliss cracked.

“Everyone!”

The word boomed too loud, slicing through the clatter of cutlery and low chatter. Your entire body stiffened before you even turned around. Of course. Him.

Your ex stood in the aisle, puffed up with self-importance, chest thrown back like he’d just mounted a stage. He had that smug gleam in his eyes, the kind that screamed he’d practiced this speech in the mirror ten times over.

“I think it’s time you all knew the truth about Theodore Nott and (Y/N) (L/N).” He announced, every syllable dripping with fake triumph. He cut a sharp look at you, then Theo, then back to the sea of students now staring.

The Hall quieted, curiosity winning out. Even the Gryffindors craned their necks, waiting for drama.

“They’ve only been pretending to date,” He declared, letting the word hang in the air, “To make me jealous.”

His voice swelled with self-satisfaction, like he’d just solved some grand mystery.

Your hand tightened around Theo's.

“You don’t have to keep pretending just to get back at me. I get it. I was angry too when we ended, but—” He paused, putting on his most magnanimous smile, “I’ll forgive you. I’ll take you back.”

The silence that followed was… brutal. Half a beat too long.

Slowly, you let your gaze drift—not at him, but across the Hall, to where his so-called new love sat, her expression crumbling as her boyfriend publicly begged for you.

A smirk ghosted across your lips, satisfaction unfurling in your chest. I warned her, you thought. You told her he’d betray her the same way he’d betrayed you. You’d just assumed he’d run to someone new. But no—he’d come crawling right back. Pathetic. Maybe you really were just too good to forget.

A ripple of laughter broke out along the Gryffindor table. Somewhere down the line, a Ravenclaw girl snorted so hard pumpkin juice sprayed out of her nose. Even some of the Slytherins traded incredulous looks, smirks curling as if to say, is he serious?

"He has officially lost the plot." Someone muttered loud enough for half the Hall to hear. Someone else chortled in response.

Your ex’s confident smile faltered.

Blaise Zabini leaned lazily on his elbows, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the hush. “Pretending?” He gestured toward you and Theo with a casual flick of his hand. “Mate, the whole castle’s been gagging on their PDA for months.”

Someone else piped up, "Yeah. If that’s pretend, then they deserve Oscars. The way he looks at her—like she’s the only thing in the world—you’d have to be blind to miss it.”

You chuckled, dropping your gaze from the pathetic sight in front of you and turned back to your current boyfriend, who only smirked at you, though you could see the tenderness that lay underneath, "See? Everyone else could see I was gone for you before you did."

Bonus bonus: (Ten years later)

The day you first kissed Theodore Nott was arguably one of the worst days of your life, despite all the good that eventually came from it. The betrayal of seeing the person you loved cheat on you with your best friend was a wound so deep it had reshaped you.

Theo had always claimed he was glad he’d never experienced anything like it. Until the same thing happened to him.

“This is killing me,” He muttered, pacing the length of your shared bedroom like a man awaiting his execution. His hands dragged through his hair, his voice raw, “I hope you know that.”

Your throat tightened, but you forced an eyeroll, masking your sympathy with irritation, “Theo, it’s not that big of a deal. Will you stop getting your knickers twisted?”

He whirled on you, eyes blazing. “Not a big deal? Not a big—” He broke off, laughing bitterly, “You were so betrayed when this happened to you that you practically tore their lives apart. And now you expect me to just—what? Pretend I’m fine?”

You scoffed, folding your arms, “We are not comparing the biggest betrayal of my life with your daughter having a crush on Mattheo.”

The air went still.

Theo staggered back a step, like you’d struck him. His face twisted in horror as his hand clutched his chest. “Don’t say it out loud.” He croaked, his voice breaking.

He looked genuinely wounded, muttering under his breath as though mourning a death, “I raised her better than this…She used to want to marry me!”

Before you could roll your eyes again, the shrill ding-dong of the doorbell cut through the tension.

Theo froze mid-step, every muscle in his body going taut. Slowly, his head turned toward the door like a man staring down a firing squad.

And then—

“HE’S HERE!”

Your three-year-old's shriek echoed down the hall, followed by the thunder of little feet pounding against the floorboards. She practically skidded into the foyer, hair wild, socks sliding on the wood as she lunged for the door.

“Bianca, you know you're not allowed to open the door without us!” Theo barked, but it was too late.

The door swung wide.

Mattheo Riddle stood there, casual, self-assured, hands shoved in his pockets. A faint, rakish smirk tugged at his lips. With the leather jacket and helmet under his arm, it was easy to see why your daughter was utterly smitten. Had you not known the fool he was during school, you might have been just as captivated.

“Hi.” He drawled, eyes immediately landing on his god-daughter.

“UNCLE MATTHEO!” Bianca squealed, launching herself into his arms without hesitation. He caught her with practiced ease, lifting and spinning her once before settling her on his hip.

Mattheo shifted her higher onto his hip, grinning like he owned the place, “And who’s my favorite girl?”

“Me!” She squealed, giggling as she buried her face into his shoulder.

Theo’s jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard it crack. His knuckles whitened at his sides, and he took one menacing step forward like he was about to snatch his daughter back by force.

Mattheo, utterly unbothered, tilted his head, smirk widening. “I see someone’s cranky.” He teased lightly, holding Bianca closer with a teasing flourish.

"(Y/N) did not go through 14 hours of aggravating labour for this horrendous display."

“Now you know how I felt all those years back at Hogwarts, watching you two glued to each other’s lips like a bad romance novel.”

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@workof-a-rr-t

@insideoutjulie

@tikitsune

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

@goldfishinpainttubes

@psh-pjh

@honethatty12

@imkindofanaudiogeeksorry

@lilians17

@its-jennarose

@h1mawarii

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@ivygreenonbricks

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Theodore Nott Taglist:

@blonde-bansheee

Slytherin Boys Taglist:

@laufeysvalentine

@theodoresvalentine

@nottinmyheart

@caffeine-addict-slug

[dreamcubed]

holy shit?? 1000000/10

[dreamcubed]

dancing with our hands tied | draco malfoy x reader

song; dancing with our hands tied [taylor swift] pairing; draco malfoy x pure-blood!fem!slytherin!reader genre; arranged marriage, light angst, humour, fluff word count; 3,6k timeline; no voldemort au, christmas after 7th year warnings; swearing, family pressure, referenced sex summary; a secret that you had long kept from your friends was that you and draco were betrothed, but when avoiding him becomes impossible, will the cat be let out the bag? and will you and draco begin to like the arrangement?

part 2 of my isolated series, which also includes look what you made me do, the tortured poets department, loml, and fortnight this series does not need to be read in a particular order but i would recommend reading fortnight last!

and this marks the close of my reputation anthology!

masterlist

"baby, can we dance through an avalanche?"

————————————————

There was little more exciting than going on holiday, and you were absolutely buzzing at the prospect of two weeks away with your closest friends. They had been there for you through thick and thin, never pushing or prying when you clearly did not want to talk about something. And, now you all had completed Hogwarts, it was time for a cosy getaway in the mountains, in a cabin that was only accessible by magic— meaning it was wizard-exclusive.

You gazed out your window, which overlooked the decking of the cabin, and your eyes glinted curiously at the sight of the second cabin across. There were only two of them on the mountain, and you could not help but wonder if anyone was residing in the other one.

But as exciting as those curiosities were, the hot tub was ten times as enticing, and you hurried to pull on a bikini.  Emerging from your room, you saw that most of your group had the exact same idea, all making their way for the door.

"Bitch, come on! We're gonna get in the hot tub!"

You laughed at the order given to the only friend yet to make an appearance, sliding open the door to the decking. Submerging in the hot bubbling water felt like heaven, and you couldn't help but release a relaxed sigh.

"Merlin, this is amazing," your friend said, mimicking your exact thoughts.

"Mm, that girl better hurry up," you replied, "She's missing out."

As if you had spoken of the devil, said girl emerged from the cabin, and only now did you realise that you had never seen her wear immodest clothing before. Her body was littered with scars, and you could only exchange glances with your other friends.

"What took you so long?"

She shrugged, "Couldn't decide on a bikini."

Deciding to move on, you began engaging in casual chatter, relishing in the perfect first night to a holiday. Could things get any better?

"I wonder if anyone's staying there," one of your friends pondered aloud, making you turn your attentions to the other cabin. Apparently, the other cabin's residents had been a common thought.

"The lights are on, so surely," you replied.

And then, on cue, the door to the other cabin dramatically opened, and out came none other than Mattheo Riddle— an infamous character in your school year, known for his fights, detentions, and conquests.

You heard a scoff from your group, "No fucking way."

You could not help but agree with that comment. What were the chances?

And, unfortunately, where one Slytherin boy went, the rest followed. It was a piece of knowledge you had quickly learned during your years as a Slytherin, despite how little time you had actually spent there. None of your friends had ever questioned why you avoided your own house so much, and only one person other than you was privy to the answer.

Draco Malfoy, your betrothed.

He was the reason you sought friends in other places, because from the second you were born, he was marked to be yours. Which was unfortunate, given the fact that he was a stuck-up snob that paid no attention to anything that didn't concern him. Did you hate each other? No, saying as such would be an exaggeration. But there was definitely a mutual agreement that just because you would be married, did not mean you had to be friends— and certainly nothing more.

Your friends had no idea about this, so you were forced to smile and wave as the boys noticed the five of you.

***

Coming from a wealthy pure-blooded family, you had been privileged to go on many holidays in your lifetime, and magic ski trips were a common theme. Therefore, you found yourself assuming the role of teacher to your four friends the next day when you all hit the slopes. Thankfully, they were fast learners, and got the hang of it in short time. As you proudly watched them floating in the air and landing on piles of snow that appeared as quickly as they disappeared, you found yourself wondering how muggles could ever enjoy skiing without that level of unpredictability.

You also found yourself wondering if Malfoy was good at magic skiing.

As much as you didn't want to think about him, you knew that it wouldn't be long before your parents started planning the wedding. After all, Hogwarts was now over, and you were both adults. Soon, you wouldn't be able to avoid and push aside your pre-planned fate, and you would have to come clean to your friends.

One of said friends, who was using this cabin retreat as an opportunity to write for her next book release, had not hesitated to accept when the boys asked you all to come over for dinner and drinks that evening. You were a little annoyed that she had not considered asking anyone else their opinion, but you supposed that you couldn't ignore Malfoy forever. Maybe you should finally bite the bullet and attempt to build a solid foundation for your marriage.

So you sat there in their kitchen, nursing a firewhiskey and coke, contemplating how best to start a conversation with Malfoy without arising suspicion from your friends. Perhaps your hesitation was the suspicious part, but you didn't have to think about it much longer when the man himself sat next to you.

"My mother has been bringing it up more and more frequently," he said quietly, not that he needed to. The music was so loud that you had to be right next to someone to hear them without shouting.

You hummed, "I suppose it's time to face the inevitable."

"Indeed. Do your friends know?"

You shook your head, "Do yours?"

He also shook his head.

"Well, we need to tell them at some point."

There was a silence— presumably one of reluctant agreement— and then Malfoy let out a long sigh, "We hardly know each other."

"I guess that's our fault."

"Yours," he corrected, "You were the one that abandoned Slytherin the second you were sorted into it."

"I didn't abandon Slytherin, I abandoned you," you paused for a moment, "So I guess you're right. It is my fault."

"Why in Salazar's name did you avoid me?"

You shrugged, a sly smile creeping on to your face, "Because you're a stuck-up snob."

He scoffed, his eyes tracking as Nott followed one of your friends out on to the decking.

"Do you deny it?"

He appeared to think for a moment, before saying, "No."

"Well, I suppose I can work with honesty," you said, "Salazar knows we don't have to be in love or any of that shit, but we should at least get along."

Malfoy snorted, taking you by surprise.

"What?"

"I don't know. I guess I never expected you to say Salazar."

You frowned, "I was never ashamed of being a Slytherin."

"Regardless, you're right," he then added, "As much as it pains me to admit it."

A scowl formed on your brow.

"We should try to be friends."

You weren't sure what to make of the way he said the last word, but you were soon distracted by Nott and your friend returning, the latter announcing that she did not feel too well and was going to retire for the night.

***

"Girl, are you ready yet? We're about to leave," you knocked on her door the next day, dressed up in your ski gear.

Her reply was meek, "I'm sorry, I've gotten worse. Go have fun without me."

"Are you sure? You don't need anything?" you asked worriedly.

"I'm sure. Don't let me ruin the holiday, please."

Apprehensively, you left her alone, just as Riddle said, "Theo, you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm— I'll stay back and look after her," he replied stiffly.

And even though she had specifically requested that she not ruin the holiday for anyone else, you knew that Slytherin boys were stubborn dickheads whose minds could rarely be changed on a matter, so you made no protest. His friends did, but even they knew it was to no avail, so you soon left the cabin two members down.

"What the fuck is going on between them?" Berkshire scoffed as you walked.

"They were out on the decking alone last night," Malfoy said, "I don't know, maybe something happened."

One of your friends chuckled, "And maybe she's not actually sick."

"She sounded sick," you noted, "And she really did look feverish last night."

"Yeah, feverish for Theo," Riddle joked.

Not to name any names, but a certain friend of yours laughed a little too hard at that.

Upon arrival at the ski decking, most of the boys almost instantly shot off the edge, clearly equipping years of experience. After all, they were all from wealthy families. Your own friends, more confident than they had been yesterday, looked to you for a nod of encouragement, before following. It felt natural for you to go behind them, so you could assist if anything went awry.

Only, you hesitated, as you had been left alone with your betrothed.

"You or me first, Malfoy?"

"Ladies first," he said dryly, "And you should probably start calling me Draco."

"Wow, first name basis? What's next, walking down the aisle?"

You were surprised that he actually laughed at your joke, and a tiny part of you suddenly registered Malfoy— Draco— as an attractive man. He had been for years, you realised, you had just refused to pay attention.

Pulling yourself back together, you said, "Well, if you insist, Draco," and launched yourself off from the decking.

He followed suit.

***

The eight of you returned sooner than expected, after one of your friends sustained an injury. It was nothing magic couldn't quickly fix, but everyone agreed that it was best to head back for the day. Zabini helped support her on the walk back, which she seemed very annoyed about, but you brushed it off as a typical distaste for the Slytherin boys.

You entered the dubbed "girls' cabin" to find Nott in the kitchen— shirtless. Recalling Riddle's joke from earlier, you found yourself wondering if the cocky prick had been correct.

"Where is she?" your author friend asked Nott.

"She's sleeping," he answered, seemingly trying to sound nonchalant.

As more of the group entered the kitchen, they all appeared to share your lingering suspicions as to why Nott was shirtless.

"I'll go check on her," you said.

Nott's eyes widened, "That's probably not a good idea."

"Why?" you eyed him curiously.

For some totally not suspicious reason, he was struggling to answer.

Then, a door creaked open in the distance, and your friend pattered into the kitchen wearing nothing but knee socks and Nott's jumper, stunning everyone.

She paused when she saw all of you.

You looked between the two of them.

"Did you pretend to be sick just to fuck all day?" Riddle asked, the exact same question you had been thinking.

She said nothing.

"She's like me," Nott spoke gently, a vague sentence that meant absolutely nothing to you.

You turned to gage the guys' reactions, and saw that their eyes had all widened. "Oh, is she, like, in—?" Berkshire piped up.

"Yes."

"What the fuck is going on?" one of your friends asked.

Your "sick" friend hesitated for a moment, avoiding eye contact as she seemed to contemplate something. Eventually, she spoke, "I'm... a werewolf."

You stared at her, shocked. But then you remembered the scars all over her body, and things started to make sense.

"Okay... but... it's not a full moon, so, like...?"

You glanced at the friend who said that.

"She's in heat," Riddle laughed, "Guess Theo here has been providing some... assistance..." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Fuck off," Nott grumbled.

"You're also a werewolf?" you questioned.

He nodded.

And after a long, awkward conversation of explaining why she did not tell you all sooner, how heats and ruts worked, and also the fact that her and Nott were now mated for life... she suddenly looked as if she were about to faint. You were left speechless as the two of them excused themselves and rushed off to her bedroom.

Well, at least you weren't the only one who had been keeping a secret.

And that was why you couldn't reasonably be upset with her for hiding it.

"Fuckin' plot twist," you mumbled, only loud enough for Draco, who had been stood near you, to hear.

He chuckled, "What's with your friend group and keeping secrets?"

"That only makes two of us," you replied harshly, but still quietly.

"That you know of."

Well, he had a point there, but as you looked at your three other friends, you couldn't imagine what kind of secret any of them could keep.

***

Having the bedroom right next door to a newly mated werewolf couple was not for the weak, as you came to learn. You understood that they did not particularly have a choice when it came to heats and ruts, but you did not understand why a silencing charm was out of the question. The moans and creaks were becoming unbearable, especially as you were really tired and in dire need of some sleep.

Was there a spell to temporarily make yourself deaf?

Not one that you knew of.

So, you crawled out of bed and grumpily left your bedroom, heading to the kitchen to hopefully get some peace and quiet. Thankfully, the sound of the roughest sex you had ever heard was less audible there, and you started considering the possibility of sleeping on the sofa.

That was when you saw the light from the other cabin's kitchen was on, and you curiously approached the window to get a better look at the figure moving around. A glance at the clock told you it was nearly 4am, so you half-expected to see Riddle, since he had always had a fucked up sleeping schedule as a result of his love for partying. The streak of blond that flashed in the distance told you that it was not.

What was Draco doing up?

When he moved closer to the window, he seemed to notice the light on in your cabin, and consequently you. He didn't wave, or smile, or anything to the effect of politeness— instead, he disappeared, which made you frown. Had you not both agreed that you should try to be friends?

Shaking your head in disbelief, you turned around to begin assessing the sofa's suitability for a night of sleep: it was leather, which was unfortunate, but maybe with enough blankets you could make it work. Just as you were about to go to your room to retrieve your bedding, the cabin door slid open, making you jump. Spinning around, you were faced with the man you had just seen through the window.

"Can't sleep?" he asked.

"Not with those rabid dogs going at it next door."

He snorted.

"Why can't you sleep?"

Draco shrugged, "Can't stop thinking."

"About...?" you sat down on the settee, and he took that as a hint to sit down as well.

"Us. Marriage," he sighed, "Family."

"Oh, you mean the fact we'll have to produce an heir at some point?" you chuckled.

He rolled his eyes, "I mean in general."

You thought for a moment, trying to scrape together an idea of what life together would look like, what it would mean when your families became one. Living in the same home, attending events as a couple, eating dinner together every night. You took the time to look at Draco, and attempted to assess how he thought things would pan out, but instead found yourself enjoying how messy his hair looked in that moment, and how nice it was to see him in casual clothing as opposed to an ironed suit.

"You're better like this," you said without thinking.

"What?"

"Well, not to say you're bad other times," you clarified, "But it's nice to see you more relaxed, and less worried about your reputation."

"Our whole engagement is built on the premise of reputation," he reminded, "And that's exactly what I'm worrying about right now."

You sighed, knowing that he had a point, "What if we built it on something else?"

He arched an eyebrow, "What do you mean?"

With a non-committal shrug, you explained, "I don't know, maybe we could just— pretend it was never planned for us, and act like it was our choice."

"Why?"

"Isn't part of you upset that you'll never experience organic love?"

"My parents love each other," he said quietly, "And they were arranged."

"I didn't mean there'd be no love— I just mean, falling in love as two strangers who happened to meet."

Draco's eyes scanned you curiously, "We happened to meet here."

"Then maybe this is our chance."

His expression was sceptical, if nothing else, and it saddened you slightly.

"Well, it's not that important, I guess," you shook your head, "I'm just being fanciful."

***

The next day, Draco was nowhere to be found. You went on the slopes with everyone else— still excluding the werewolves— but nearly crashed due to your distracted thoughts. The boys were of no assistance, only being able to inform you that he had left a note saying that he would be gone for the day.

So, when you returned to the cabins, oblivious to the way your friends were interacting with the boys, you were surprised to see that Draco was still absent. As you pondered the possibilities, you entered your bedroom to change for dinner, only to find a brand new designer dress laid out on your bed, accompanied by an envelope. Upon closer inspection, you recognised the Malfoy wax seal, which made you rush to open it.

"Meet me at the lookout point. Wear this.

D.M."

What was this feeling of giddy excitement coursing through you? Were those butterflies?

You changed hurriedly, applying some makeup before tugging on a coat and boots. While you did not like to rely on apparition, you also did not want your friends to ask questions, so braced yourself for the relocation to the scenic viewpoint that was separated from the skiing slopes. It featured a built up shelter with a blazing fire pit, along with a picnic bench which was laden with steaming food.

And there was Draco, dressed in a smart ironed suit, and holding a bouquet of roses.

A smile lit up your face, and you pulled your coat off to reveal the dress he had picked out for you, that admittedly flattered your figure. "What's the meaning of this?" you asked bashfully.

"To use our chance," he said simply, presenting the flowers to you. You accepted them, beaming at the arrangement.

"Thank you."

He nodded, gesturing for you to sit down as he took your coat.

"How did you do all of this?"

"Telling you would ruin the charm," he smirked, popping open a bottle of wine. After pouring you both a glass, he said, "Let's propose a toast."

"To what?"

"Our future."

Once the meal was completed, and you had learned all sorts of things about your fiancé, he stood up suddenly.

"You wished for organic love, so this is my attempt to build the foundations for it," he spoke calmly, his hand reaching into his pocket. Your jaw dropped when he dropped to one knee and presented you with a velvet green box. "My mother gave me this ring not too long ago, and told me it was time to formally give it to you," he took a deep breath, "Admittedly, I had not intended to be romantic about it."

Your open mouth morphed into a small smile.

"But, in the interest of your— and my— happiness, here I am, down on one knee— which I will never be doing again, by the way— asking you if you will be my wife of your own volition and desire."

Your smile widened, and your jaw was beginning to ache.

"So, Miss Y/N L/N, will you do me the honour of marrying me and blessing me with an intelligent and gorgeous wife?"

And, even though he was arranged to be your husband, and you hardly knew him, your body and mind alike was screaming for you to say yes, as if it were your own choice. As if this was not predestined, and you instead had written it in the stars with your own quill.

"Yes, Draco, I will marry you," you hurriedly stood up, crushing him with a hug.

He was taken by surprise, but awkwardly returned the embrace.

Then, he placed the ring on your finger, and with tears streaming down your face, you mumbled, "Thank you."

***

The two of you walked through the boys' cabin door not long later, attached at the hip— the glint of your large engagement ring catching everyone's attention.

There was stunned silence for a few paces, until Riddle made the move to break it.

"What the actual fuck?"

————————————————

part 3: the tortured poets department (mattheo riddle)

isolated series masterlist

main masterlist

written; 01/08/2025 —> 25/08/2025 published;28/08/2025 edited; —/—/——

[dreamcubed]

look what you made me do | theodore nott x reader

song; look what you made me do [taylor swift] pairing; werewolf!theodore nott x fem!non-slytherin!werewolf!reader genre; s2l, smut, mating word count; 3,4k timeline; no voldemort au, christmas after 7th year warnings; swearing, referenced masturbation, heats, ruts, piv sex, oral f!receiving, unprotected sex, knotting summary; your first heat could come at anytime now, but surely it would be kind to you and not come during your cabin retreat? because, if it did, who was there to help you?

part 1 of my isolated series, which also includes dancing with our hands tied, the tortured poets department, loml, and fortnight this series does not need to be read in a particular order but i would recommend reading fortnight last!

masterlist

MINORS DNI [18+].

"i don't like your little games."

—————————————

There were two rustic old cabins atop the mountain you would be staying in, so far up that they were only accessible through magical means. Your friend group of five were staying in one of them up until Christmas Eve— a much anticipated holiday retreat where you all could relax. Every face in your horde was plastered with a smile as you unpacked your suitcases and settled into the snowy scene, ready to embrace the tranquility of such a tucked away location.

Still, a thought had been itching at the back of your mind since the day you turned eighteen, creeping and gnawing at your sanity and impatience: werewolves would experience their first heat or rut anywhere in the time period of eighteen to twenty-one. Considering you were still only eighteen, it was unlikely that you would experience it yet with over two more years of the waiting game, but it certainly was not impossible. Maybe, just maybe, lady luck would be on your side, as she had been with the fact that no full moon was to occur for the duration of this trip.

Muttering a quiet prayer to Merlin, you hung your clothes in the wardrobe of your small room, grateful that you did not have to share.

"Bitch, come on! We're gonna get in the hot tub!" one of your friends called.

None of them knew what you were, but you would be shocked if they didn't have suspicions, considering the new scars that littered your body every month. Then again, you were often dressed modestly, so hopefully they would not be too shocked when you walked out in a bikini.

***

While they did not comment, you noticed them scan your markings as you emerged into the cold evening air, itching to submerge in the bubbling water.

"What took you so long?"

You shrugged, "Couldn't decide on a bikini."

They all quickly moved on as you joined them in the hot tub, feeling the cosiness wrap around you like a blanket. As your friends chatted, you surveyed the surroundings, taking in the large cabin decking and the second cabin's decking that was only a short few feet away. If anyone was staying there and elected to come outside, you would easily be able to see and even talk to them.

As if reading your mind, the friend next to you said, "I wonder if anyone's staying there."

"The lights are on, so surely," another replied.

And then, on cue, the door to the other cabin dramatically opened, and out came none other than Mattheo Riddle— an infamous character in your school year, known for his fights, detentions, and conquests.

You heard a scoff from your group, "No fucking way."

You could not help but agree with that comment. What were the chances?

Shortly following Riddle was the entire posse of Slytherin boys: Blaise Zabini, Lorenzo Berkshire, Draco Malfoy, and Theodore Nott. As the boys noticed your own cohort, you could not help but think to yourself that this was a sign that luck was against you. Slytherins did not get along with non-Slytherins, and only one of your group had resided in that house (still, she had always been a bit of an outcast), meaning this had to be a bad omen.

But you couldn't let these fears ruin your holiday, so you smiled and waved at the boys as they mimicked your shock. Maybe their presence would be fun, after all.

***

The next day, after many hours of magic skiing— which was much more entertaining than muggle skiing— you had successfully let your worries disappear, and found yourself invited to the Slytherin boys' cabin for dinner and drinks. While most of your friends had been apprehensive, you had been forced to come to the conclusion that there was potential for a much more exciting holiday— after your author of a friend practically jumped at the offer.

Only, you were overheating, so stepped out on to their deck for a few moments to absorb the cold air, using the façade of a much-needed cigarette. If they had been paying more attention to you, they would have noticed that you were comfortably wearing a tank top in below freezing temperatures.

Worries of your heat being at play plagued you once more, but at least nothing was out of your control— yet.

The door slid open behind you as you took a drag from your cigarette, and you looked around to see Nott with his own hanging between his lips. A warm and enticing scent wafted up your nostrils that definitely did not smell like any of the food being cooked indoors, so strong it was overpowering the stench of burning tobacco. Your heightened senses quickly deducted that the source was the man stood nearby.

"You feelin' okay?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, the slits of his nostrils flaring ever so slightly.

You nodded, clearing your throat, "'M fine."

He shrugged, and you moved your gaze towards the expanse of snowy darkness. Why was all of the body heat rushing towards your core?

And why did Nott seem to be fuelling your bodily issues?

The silence was tense, way too tense for two acquaintances. You felt like you had to break it somehow, asking, "Why d'you ask?"

"You're wearing a tank top outside on a mountain in the middle of Winter."

"I'm too hot."

"You sick?"

Well, you weren't sick in the traditional sense, but your being a werewolf had always been considered a type of disease in wizarding society. It was why you kept it a secret. "Maybe," you finally answered.

He hummed, "You should go to bed, then. Get some rest."

You did not need rest: you felt restless.

He inhaled deeply, and you could have sworn his breath hitched.

Deciding you needed to get away from this man and his intoxicatingly attractive scent, you said, "Yeah, that's probably a good idea," and stumped out your cigarette before rushing inside to give your apologies to everyone.

Once you were safely in your own room, you collapsed on your bed, wasting no time in stripping your clothes and moving your hand towards your most sensitive— and completely soaked— place.

***

If you said that you got rest that night, you would be lying through your teeth. Tossing and turning, mixed with unsatisfying masturbation, had led you to a mental warfare of hysteria and frustration. Every cell in your body was on fire, and every instinct inside of you screamed to be impregnated when your mind knew that you did not want kids, at least not yet.

How could you face your friends when you were like this? You were a flushed and feral mess of hormones and animalistic urges that even a human could recognise from your dishevelled state. No— you would have to tell them you were too sick to leave bed, and not to bother you so that they did not catch it as well.

Your sharpened hearing informed you that the boys had entered the cabin, and by the sound of ruffling coats and snow boots, they were ready to go skiing along with your friends.

"Girl, are you ready yet? We're about to leave," your Slytherin friend called from outside your door.

Putting on your best sick voice, you said, "I'm sorry, I've gotten worse. Go have fun without me."

"Are you sure? You don't need anything?" she replied worriedly.

"I'm sure. Don't let me ruin the holiday, please."

Apprehensively, she finally left you alone, just as Riddle said, "Theo, you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm— I'll stay back and look after her," he replied stiffly.

Fuck, that was the worst case scenario: Nott made every sensation you were experiencing ten times worse from his scent alone. But you couldn't call out and tell him not to, as no human would have heard that conversation from so far away.

So, unfortunately, as you could not think of a preventative measure soon enough, everyone had exchanged final words and left. Everyone except Theodore fucking Nott. And his footsteps were headed your way.

"Are you crazy?" he seethed, pulling open your door. You scrambled to pull the duvet over you.

"You can't just walk in here!" you snapped.

"And you can't be so careless during your fucking heat!" he shouted back.

That comment made you go silent. You knew that Nott was smart, but how in Merlin's name had he figured out the true reason behind your symptoms?

"I could smell you all fucking night. Your smell keeps getting stronger."

"You could..." you trailed off, piecing together the puzzle.

"You're so fucking stupid," he groaned, "You should've stayed home."

You scowled, "I didn't know this would happen, okay? It's my first one!"

He seemed to pause and contemplate that, taking in your messy appearance.

"Don't act so shocked, it could've happened anytime in the next two years."

Nott scoffed, "Mine happened a week after I turned eighteen."

"Oh, lucky you," you spat, "Fuckin' early bloomer."

"Lucky is not how I would describe it, and you're relatively early too, may I remind."

You sighed, "How do you deal with your ruts? What do you do?"

"Take the fuckin' potion made specifically for this."

"Well, that's not an option right now," you said, anger dissipating into panic, "We don't have any potion ingredients."

"I'm aware of that," he replied, "But surely, knowing it would happen sooner or later, you would keep a vial on you?"

You blanked at that. Shit, were you an idiot? "I didn't know the potion existed, okay?"

"Seriously? Did you do any research?"

"I... I— no."

He stared at you incredulously, "Did your parents not teach you anything?"

"I wasn't born this way," you grumbled, feeling a wave of desire gushing through you, "Assuming you were."

Nott could clearly sense the increase in desire, and pinched his nose.

"Do you have a vial on you?"

"No, because my next rut isn't due for months."

"Fuck!" you cursed loudly, writhing under your quilt, "I can't— it hurts!"

Nott appeared to wince at the sight of you, perhaps finally becoming aware that you were naked underneath the sheets.

"Please— do something!" you begged, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

"Like what?"

"I don't know! Anything! Just make it stop, please!"

After a few beats of silence, he exhaled slowly through his mouth and released the hold of his fingers from his nose. "Fine," he grumbled, stepping closer towards you.

Even though you begged for his assistance, you only now realised there was only one way that he could provide it. But, you were well past the point of shame and embarrassment, as your urges clouded your logical mind and left you reeling with only one feeling: pure unadulterated lust.

He climbed over you, gazing down with a sharpness in his eyes that would have terrified a nation— but not you. Out of desperation, you clawed your hands on to his shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss, which almost took him by surprise. Theo complied with your actions, kissing you back, and being the one to glide his tongue across your lips and ask for— no, demand— entry. You gave it, and the kiss evolved from awkward and sudden, to sloppy and intense. Your hands moved up and down his body, which was ever so unfortunately clothed.

You tugged at his jumper, wanting— needing— to feel his skin against yours.

"So fuckin' needy," he said, momentarily pulling away from your mouth to remove his jumper and shirt in one fell swoop. You whined at the loss of contact, making him chuckle.

Pushing the duvet off you, due to your fever only elevating with his presence, he was forced to look at your naked form. He trailed his eyes along your scarred curves, making you take a brief moment to acknowledge his own scars. For once, there was no shame or fear balanced in the air regarding your nature, as Theo understood. He was the same, and on him you thought the pattern of markings were downright stunning.

"Fuck," he mumbled, diving down to indulge himself on your tits— licking, sucking, biting. As his teeth grazed your skin, the fire within you burned brighter, and you bucked up into him. You could feel a certain hardness pressed against your leg, delighting you in the fact he felt at least some semblance of what you were feeling.

"Please, more!" you cried, hands tangled in his soft locks.

"Impatient bitch," he growled— growled?

Still, he continued his ministrations, this time gradually moving lower and lower and lower, until your inner thighs were under attack. If only he would just move over to where the epicentre of your problems were, dripping and enticing.

"The smell is even stronger here," he damn near choked, finally burying his mouth and nose into your folds, just the slightest bit of his touch down there creating ten times the effect of all your masturbating. His nose bumped against your clit, sending jolts of electric pleasure up your spine, and making him secure his hands on your thighs, gripping deliciously firmly.

His tongue poked out, licking up— once, twice, three times. Then, as if tasting you had altered his brain chemistry, he went almost as feral as you, attacking your cunt in a manner that had you screaming and writhing in bliss. Every lick, every suck, every poke had you pleading for more of this, more of him.

"I'm gonna—" you failed to finish your sentence when your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, spasming through your body and starring your vision.

But Theo didn't stop, continuing like reason was lost on him and all that existed was you and your cunt.

"Theo, please," you begged once more, "I need your dick. Please."

Those words seemed to get through to him, and he pulled away with a snarl, wordlessly unbuckling his belt to release the biggest dick that you had ever witnessed. Pearlescent drops of pre-cum littered the angry red tip, connecting to the thick veiny shaft sat above a heavy ballsack. You had always found dicks to be rather gross, so why was his so achingly beautiful?

You hadn't realised that your mouth was watering at the sight of him, but he did, and it made a devilish smirk creep on to his face. "Like what you see, hm?"

Instead of a verbal response, you bucked your hips up, splaying your legs even further as an open invitation for him to wreck you. It was an invitation that he gladly accepted, but not without flipping you over first.

Peeking over your shoulder, you gently shook your ass at him, hoping he would fill you up in a way that satisfied your burning desire.

"You play a dangerous game," he muttered, slapping your ass. You moaned at the feeling, but you craved more.

"You love it," you boldly stated, earning a tantalising glare from him.

Theo pushed into you without any warning, burrowing deep and marking his territory with the very first thrust. Your cacophony of moans was messy and erotic, exactly how he liked it, shown through his own groan and quick increase in pace. It wasn't long before he was slamming into you, bruising your cervix while hitting every sensitive spot. You were so caught up in your own euphoria, you failed to notice how Theo became more and more undone, losing all sense of humanity as the beast within took over.

"Shit," he cursed.

A weird feeling grew inside you as your orgasm built up— it was an animalistic instinct, and it demanded attention. "Bite me," you moaned, "Bite me."

Theo's pace faltered for a second, a slither of his human mind pushed through the haze, "I can't just—"

"Please," you once again begged, "I need it— I need you."

And he leaned down, teeth sinking into your neck and drawing blood, heightening your ecstasy and allowing the best orgasm you ever experienced to hurtle into every inch of your body. Now, you were the one growling, and this was Theo's undoing. He spluttered and came inside you, shooting ropes of cum as the base of his dick swelled, locking him inside of you.

"You've triggered my rut," he groaned, rocking into you but never out.

You moaned helplessly in response, exhausted and satiated for now.

Eventually, his knot deflated, and he was able to pull out, collapsing next to you immediately afterwards. You mustered every remaining ounce of energy you had to curl into his side, relishing in his warmth and scent.

His fingers moved to grace the edges of his mark on you, crimson droplets gathering atop the wound. "Look what you made me do," he sighed.

Because a mark like that meant only one thing in werewolf society: you were mated, marked as Theo's partner for the rest of his life.

***

"Where is she?" your author friend asked Theo when the group returned. He was in the kitchen, preparing some soup, and was taken quite by surprise.

Evidently so, as he was shirtless, and if he turned around and let them see his back— well, they would certainly be alarmed by the scratch marks you had left. It had been a long day of intermittent sex and naps.

"She's sleeping," he answered.

As more of the group entered the kitchen, they all seemed to have lingering suspicions as to why Theo was shirtless.

"I'll go check on her," your Slytherin friend said.

Theo's eyes widened, "That's probably not a good idea."

"Why?"

He couldn't find a reason that wouldn't prompt further questioning.

Then, a door creaked open in the distance, and you soon pattered into the kitchen wearing nothing but knee socks and his jumper, your bite mark just about covered. Your werewolf hearing really should have notified you that others had arrived, but you were still out of it.

You paused when you saw everyone.

They looked between the two of you.

"Did you pretend to be sick just to fuck all day?" Riddle asked, likely the same question everyone had been thinking.

You said nothing.

"She's like me," Theo spoke gently, fully implying that his friends were aware of his condition, something yours were not.

The guys' eyes all widened. "Oh, is she, like, in—?" Lorenzo piped up.

"Yes."

"What the fuck is going on?" one of your friends asked.

You took a deep breath, realising that you should probably be honest with them. If the rowdy and obnoxious Slytherin boys were accepting of such a condition, then surely your loving and kind friends would be? Maybe you should have told them sooner.

"I'm... a werewolf."

They stared at you, stunned.

"Okay..." one of them finally spoke, "But... it's not a full moon, so, like...?"

Merlin, you did not want to have a conversation about heats and ruts with them.

"She's in heat," Riddle laughed, "Guess Theo here has been providing some... assistance..." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Fuck off," Theo grumbled.

"You're also a werewolf?" your Slytherin friend questioned.

He nodded.

And after a long, awkward conversation of explaining why you did not tell them sooner, how heats and ruts worked, and also the fact that you and Theo were now mates for life... you felt another wave coming on. So, much to your chagrin, you had to excuse yourselves with everyone knowing exactly what you were going to do.

It was shameful, to be honest.

But also, it was nice not to be keeping anymore secrets, especially as you had somehow scored the sexiest mate on the planet.

———————————————————

masterlist

written; 29/07/2025 —> 31/07/2025 published; 25/08/2025 edited; —/—/——

[dreamcubed]

look what you made me do | theodore nott x reader

song; look what you made me do [taylor swift] pairing; werewolf!theodore nott x fem!non-slytherin!werewolf!reader genre; s2l, smut, mating word count; 3,4k timeline; no voldemort au, christmas after 7th year warnings; swearing, referenced masturbation, heats, ruts, piv sex, oral f!receiving, unprotected sex, knotting summary; your first heat could come at anytime now, but surely it would be kind to you and not come during your cabin retreat? because, if it did, who was there to help you?

part 1 of my isolated series, which also includes dancing with our hands tied, the tortured poets department, loml, and fortnight this series does not need to be read in a particular order but i would recommend reading fortnight last!

masterlist

MINORS DNI [18+].

"i don't like your little games."

—————————————

There were two rustic old cabins atop the mountain you would be staying in, so far up that they were only accessible through magical means. Your friend group of five were staying in one of them up until Christmas Eve— a much anticipated holiday retreat where you all could relax. Every face in your horde was plastered with a smile as you unpacked your suitcases and settled into the snowy scene, ready to embrace the tranquility of such a tucked away location.

Still, a thought had been itching at the back of your mind since the day you turned eighteen, creeping and gnawing at your sanity and impatience: werewolves would experience their first heat or rut anywhere in the time period of eighteen to twenty-one. Considering you were still only eighteen, it was unlikely that you would experience it yet with over two more years of the waiting game, but it certainly was not impossible. Maybe, just maybe, lady luck would be on your side, as she had been with the fact that no full moon was to occur for the duration of this trip.

Muttering a quiet prayer to Merlin, you hung your clothes in the wardrobe of your small room, grateful that you did not have to share.

"Bitch, come on! We're gonna get in the hot tub!" one of your friends called.

None of them knew what you were, but you would be shocked if they didn't have suspicions, considering the new scars that littered your body every month. Then again, you were often dressed modestly, so hopefully they would not be too shocked when you walked out in a bikini.

***

While they did not comment, you noticed them scan your markings as you emerged into the cold evening air, itching to submerge in the bubbling water.

"What took you so long?"

You shrugged, "Couldn't decide on a bikini."

They all quickly moved on as you joined them in the hot tub, feeling the cosiness wrap around you like a blanket. As your friends chatted, you surveyed the surroundings, taking in the large cabin decking and the second cabin's decking that was only a short few feet away. If anyone was staying there and elected to come outside, you would easily be able to see and even talk to them.

As if reading your mind, the friend next to you said, "I wonder if anyone's staying there."

"The lights are on, so surely," another replied.

And then, on cue, the door to the other cabin dramatically opened, and out came none other than Mattheo Riddle— an infamous character in your school year, known for his fights, detentions, and conquests.

You heard a scoff from your group, "No fucking way."

You could not help but agree with that comment. What were the chances?

Shortly following Riddle was the entire posse of Slytherin boys: Blaise Zabini, Lorenzo Berkshire, Draco Malfoy, and Theodore Nott. As the boys noticed your own cohort, you could not help but think to yourself that this was a sign that luck was against you. Slytherins did not get along with non-Slytherins, and only one of your group had resided in that house (still, she had always been a bit of an outcast), meaning this had to be a bad omen.

But you couldn't let these fears ruin your holiday, so you smiled and waved at the boys as they mimicked your shock. Maybe their presence would be fun, after all.

***

The next day, after many hours of magic skiing— which was much more entertaining than muggle skiing— you had successfully let your worries disappear, and found yourself invited to the Slytherin boys' cabin for dinner and drinks. While most of your friends had been apprehensive, you had been forced to come to the conclusion that there was potential for a much more exciting holiday— after your author of a friend practically jumped at the offer.

Only, you were overheating, so stepped out on to their deck for a few moments to absorb the cold air, using the façade of a much-needed cigarette. If they had been paying more attention to you, they would have noticed that you were comfortably wearing a tank top in below freezing temperatures.

Worries of your heat being at play plagued you once more, but at least nothing was out of your control— yet.

The door slid open behind you as you took a drag from your cigarette, and you looked around to see Nott with his own hanging between his lips. A warm and enticing scent wafted up your nostrils that definitely did not smell like any of the food being cooked indoors, so strong it was overpowering the stench of burning tobacco. Your heightened senses quickly deducted that the source was the man stood nearby.

"You feelin' okay?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, the slits of his nostrils flaring ever so slightly.

You nodded, clearing your throat, "'M fine."

He shrugged, and you moved your gaze towards the expanse of snowy darkness. Why was all of the body heat rushing towards your core?

And why did Nott seem to be fuelling your bodily issues?

The silence was tense, way too tense for two acquaintances. You felt like you had to break it somehow, asking, "Why d'you ask?"

"You're wearing a tank top outside on a mountain in the middle of Winter."

"I'm too hot."

"You sick?"

Well, you weren't sick in the traditional sense, but your being a werewolf had always been considered a type of disease in wizarding society. It was why you kept it a secret. "Maybe," you finally answered.

He hummed, "You should go to bed, then. Get some rest."

You did not need rest: you felt restless.

He inhaled deeply, and you could have sworn his breath hitched.

Deciding you needed to get away from this man and his intoxicatingly attractive scent, you said, "Yeah, that's probably a good idea," and stumped out your cigarette before rushing inside to give your apologies to everyone.

Once you were safely in your own room, you collapsed on your bed, wasting no time in stripping your clothes and moving your hand towards your most sensitive— and completely soaked— place.

***

If you said that you got rest that night, you would be lying through your teeth. Tossing and turning, mixed with unsatisfying masturbation, had led you to a mental warfare of hysteria and frustration. Every cell in your body was on fire, and every instinct inside of you screamed to be impregnated when your mind knew that you did not want kids, at least not yet.

How could you face your friends when you were like this? You were a flushed and feral mess of hormones and animalistic urges that even a human could recognise from your dishevelled state. No— you would have to tell them you were too sick to leave bed, and not to bother you so that they did not catch it as well.

Your sharpened hearing informed you that the boys had entered the cabin, and by the sound of ruffling coats and snow boots, they were ready to go skiing along with your friends.

"Girl, are you ready yet? We're about to leave," your Slytherin friend called from outside your door.

Putting on your best sick voice, you said, "I'm sorry, I've gotten worse. Go have fun without me."

"Are you sure? You don't need anything?" she replied worriedly.

"I'm sure. Don't let me ruin the holiday, please."

Apprehensively, she finally left you alone, just as Riddle said, "Theo, you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm— I'll stay back and look after her," he replied stiffly.

Fuck, that was the worst case scenario: Nott made every sensation you were experiencing ten times worse from his scent alone. But you couldn't call out and tell him not to, as no human would have heard that conversation from so far away.

So, unfortunately, as you could not think of a preventative measure soon enough, everyone had exchanged final words and left. Everyone except Theodore fucking Nott. And his footsteps were headed your way.

"Are you crazy?" he seethed, pulling open your door. You scrambled to pull the duvet over you.

"You can't just walk in here!" you snapped.

"And you can't be so careless during your fucking heat!" he shouted back.

That comment made you go silent. You knew that Nott was smart, but how in Merlin's name had he figured out the true reason behind your symptoms?

"I could smell you all fucking night. Your smell keeps getting stronger."

"You could..." you trailed off, piecing together the puzzle.

"You're so fucking stupid," he groaned, "You should've stayed home."

You scowled, "I didn't know this would happen, okay? It's my first one!"

He seemed to pause and contemplate that, taking in your messy appearance.

"Don't act so shocked, it could've happened anytime in the next two years."

Nott scoffed, "Mine happened a week after I turned eighteen."

"Oh, lucky you," you spat, "Fuckin' early bloomer."

"Lucky is not how I would describe it, and you're relatively early too, may I remind."

You sighed, "How do you deal with your ruts? What do you do?"

"Take the fuckin' potion made specifically for this."

"Well, that's not an option right now," you said, anger dissipating into panic, "We don't have any potion ingredients."

"I'm aware of that," he replied, "But surely, knowing it would happen sooner or later, you would keep a vial on you?"

You blanked at that. Shit, were you an idiot? "I didn't know the potion existed, okay?"

"Seriously? Did you do any research?"

"I... I— no."

He stared at you incredulously, "Did your parents not teach you anything?"

"I wasn't born this way," you grumbled, feeling a wave of desire gushing through you, "Assuming you were."

Nott could clearly sense the increase in desire, and pinched his nose.

"Do you have a vial on you?"

"No, because my next rut isn't due for months."

"Fuck!" you cursed loudly, writhing under your quilt, "I can't— it hurts!"

Nott appeared to wince at the sight of you, perhaps finally becoming aware that you were naked underneath the sheets.

"Please— do something!" you begged, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

"Like what?"

"I don't know! Anything! Just make it stop, please!"

After a few beats of silence, he exhaled slowly through his mouth and released the hold of his fingers from his nose. "Fine," he grumbled, stepping closer towards you.

Even though you begged for his assistance, you only now realised there was only one way that he could provide it. But, you were well past the point of shame and embarrassment, as your urges clouded your logical mind and left you reeling with only one feeling: pure unadulterated lust.

He climbed over you, gazing down with a sharpness in his eyes that would have terrified a nation— but not you. Out of desperation, you clawed your hands on to his shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss, which almost took him by surprise. Theo complied with your actions, kissing you back, and being the one to glide his tongue across your lips and ask for— no, demand— entry. You gave it, and the kiss evolved from awkward and sudden, to sloppy and intense. Your hands moved up and down his body, which was ever so unfortunately clothed.

You tugged at his jumper, wanting— needing— to feel his skin against yours.

"So fuckin' needy," he said, momentarily pulling away from your mouth to remove his jumper and shirt in one fell swoop. You whined at the loss of contact, making him chuckle.

Pushing the duvet off you, due to your fever only elevating with his presence, he was forced to look at your naked form. He trailed his eyes along your scarred curves, making you take a brief moment to acknowledge his own scars. For once, there was no shame or fear balanced in the air regarding your nature, as Theo understood. He was the same, and on him you thought the pattern of markings were downright stunning.

"Fuck," he mumbled, diving down to indulge himself on your tits— licking, sucking, biting. As his teeth grazed your skin, the fire within you burned brighter, and you bucked up into him. You could feel a certain hardness pressed against your leg, delighting you in the fact he felt at least some semblance of what you were feeling.

"Please, more!" you cried, hands tangled in his soft locks.

"Impatient bitch," he growled— growled?

Still, he continued his ministrations, this time gradually moving lower and lower and lower, until your inner thighs were under attack. If only he would just move over to where the epicentre of your problems were, dripping and enticing.

"The smell is even stronger here," he damn near choked, finally burying his mouth and nose into your folds, just the slightest bit of his touch down there creating ten times the effect of all your masturbating. His nose bumped against your clit, sending jolts of electric pleasure up your spine, and making him secure his hands on your thighs, gripping deliciously firmly.

His tongue poked out, licking up— once, twice, three times. Then, as if tasting you had altered his brain chemistry, he went almost as feral as you, attacking your cunt in a manner that had you screaming and writhing in bliss. Every lick, every suck, every poke had you pleading for more of this, more of him.

"I'm gonna—" you failed to finish your sentence when your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, spasming through your body and starring your vision.

But Theo didn't stop, continuing like reason was lost on him and all that existed was you and your cunt.

"Theo, please," you begged once more, "I need your dick. Please."

Those words seemed to get through to him, and he pulled away with a snarl, wordlessly unbuckling his belt to release the biggest dick that you had ever witnessed. Pearlescent drops of pre-cum littered the angry red tip, connecting to the thick veiny shaft sat above a heavy ballsack. You had always found dicks to be rather gross, so why was his so achingly beautiful?

You hadn't realised that your mouth was watering at the sight of him, but he did, and it made a devilish smirk creep on to his face. "Like what you see, hm?"

Instead of a verbal response, you bucked your hips up, splaying your legs even further as an open invitation for him to wreck you. It was an invitation that he gladly accepted, but not without flipping you over first.

Peeking over your shoulder, you gently shook your ass at him, hoping he would fill you up in a way that satisfied your burning desire.

"You play a dangerous game," he muttered, slapping your ass. You moaned at the feeling, but you craved more.

"You love it," you boldly stated, earning a tantalising glare from him.

Theo pushed into you without any warning, burrowing deep and marking his territory with the very first thrust. Your cacophony of moans was messy and erotic, exactly how he liked it, shown through his own groan and quick increase in pace. It wasn't long before he was slamming into you, bruising your cervix while hitting every sensitive spot. You were so caught up in your own euphoria, you failed to notice how Theo became more and more undone, losing all sense of humanity as the beast within took over.

"Shit," he cursed.

A weird feeling grew inside you as your orgasm built up— it was an animalistic instinct, and it demanded attention. "Bite me," you moaned, "Bite me."

Theo's pace faltered for a second, a slither of his human mind pushed through the haze, "I can't just—"

"Please," you once again begged, "I need it— I need you."

And he leaned down, teeth sinking into your neck and drawing blood, heightening your ecstasy and allowing the best orgasm you ever experienced to hurtle into every inch of your body. Now, you were the one growling, and this was Theo's undoing. He spluttered and came inside you, shooting ropes of cum as the base of his dick swelled, locking him inside of you.

"You've triggered my rut," he groaned, rocking into you but never out.

You moaned helplessly in response, exhausted and satiated for now.

Eventually, his knot deflated, and he was able to pull out, collapsing next to you immediately afterwards. You mustered every remaining ounce of energy you had to curl into his side, relishing in his warmth and scent.

His fingers moved to grace the edges of his mark on you, crimson droplets gathering atop the wound. "Look what you made me do," he sighed.

Because a mark like that meant only one thing in werewolf society: you were mated, marked as Theo's partner for the rest of his life.

***

"Where is she?" your author friend asked Theo when the group returned. He was in the kitchen, preparing some soup, and was taken quite by surprise.

Evidently so, as he was shirtless, and if he turned around and let them see his back— well, they would certainly be alarmed by the scratch marks you had left. It had been a long day of intermittent sex and naps.

"She's sleeping," he answered.

As more of the group entered the kitchen, they all seemed to have lingering suspicions as to why Theo was shirtless.

"I'll go check on her," your Slytherin friend said.

Theo's eyes widened, "That's probably not a good idea."

"Why?"

He couldn't find a reason that wouldn't prompt further questioning.

Then, a door creaked open in the distance, and you soon pattered into the kitchen wearing nothing but knee socks and his jumper, your bite mark just about covered. Your werewolf hearing really should have notified you that others had arrived, but you were still out of it.

You paused when you saw everyone.

They looked between the two of you.

"Did you pretend to be sick just to fuck all day?" Riddle asked, likely the same question everyone had been thinking.

You said nothing.

"She's like me," Theo spoke gently, fully implying that his friends were aware of his condition, something yours were not.

The guys' eyes all widened. "Oh, is she, like, in—?" Lorenzo piped up.

"Yes."

"What the fuck is going on?" one of your friends asked.

You took a deep breath, realising that you should probably be honest with them. If the rowdy and obnoxious Slytherin boys were accepting of such a condition, then surely your loving and kind friends would be? Maybe you should have told them sooner.

"I'm... a werewolf."

They stared at you, stunned.

"Okay..." one of them finally spoke, "But... it's not a full moon, so, like...?"

Merlin, you did not want to have a conversation about heats and ruts with them.

"She's in heat," Riddle laughed, "Guess Theo here has been providing some... assistance..." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Fuck off," Theo grumbled.

"You're also a werewolf?" your Slytherin friend questioned.

He nodded.

And after a long, awkward conversation of explaining why you did not tell them sooner, how heats and ruts worked, and also the fact that you and Theo were now mates for life... you felt another wave coming on. So, much to your chagrin, you had to excuse yourselves with everyone knowing exactly what you were going to do.

It was shameful, to be honest.

But also, it was nice not to be keeping anymore secrets, especially as you had somehow scored the sexiest mate on the planet.

———————————————————

part 2: dancing with our hands tied (draco malfoy)

isolated series masterlist

main masterlist

written; 29/07/2025 —> 31/07/2025 published; 25/08/2025 edited; —/—/——

[dreamcubed]

here is my cabin retreat series involving intertwined character x reader fics about each slytherin boy!

this series does not need to be read in a particular order but i would recommend reading fortnight last!

PART 1

look what you made me do [18+]

character; theodore nott ||| genre; s2l ||| summary; your first heat could come at anytime now, but surely it would be kind to you and not come during your cabin retreat? because, if it did, who was there to help you?

PART 2

dancing with our hands tied

character; draco malfoy ||| genre; arranged marriage ||| summary; a secret that you had long kept from your friends was that you and draco were betrothed, but when avoiding him becomes impossible, will the cat be let out the bag? and will you and draco begin to like the arrangement?

PART 3

the tortured poets department [18+]

character; mattheo riddle ||| genre; s2l ||| summary; you had been utilising your friend group's cabin retreat as a place to find inspiration for your next book, only you didn't expect to find a muse

PART 4

loml

character; blaise zabini ||| genre; ex2l ||| summary; it was just your luck that your ex happened to be holidaying at the same place and time as you, and since none of your friends knew you had ever dated, avoiding him was near impossible

PART 5 (FINALE)

fortnight

character; lorenzo berkshire ||| genre; r2l ||| summary; all of your friends had coupled up, leaving only you and your old academic rival single during your cabin retreat. but that definitely didn't mean that anything would happen between you two