Commitment Issues and Other Bedtime Stories
Theo Nott was always a flight risk — allergic to wedding dance floors, fluent in excuses, and the sort of boy who thought “space” was romantic. But somewhere between garden confessions and late-night drinks in Diagon Alley, he finally learned how to stay. And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to let him prove that this time, it’s forever.
The flat is quiet when the tapping begins. At first, you think it’s just the pipes knocking again; this old building always groans when it rains, but then it comes sharper, insistent, against the glass. You roll over, groggy, hair still damp from the shower you’d forced yourself into after a twelve-hour shift at St. Mungo’s.
Through the dark, you see the silhouette. Broad wings beating the night air, sharp eyes catching the reflection of the city lights. Theo’s eagle owl.
Your stomach drops. He never sends letters when he’s working late at the Ministry. That’s what you’d loved most: the way he’d come home smelling of smoke and magic, shoulders taut with the weight of his Auror badge, and collapse against you like the only thing holding him together was your arms.
But tonight, it’s parchment.
The handwriting is neat, restrained. Too careful, like every letter was chosen twice before it touched the page.
Hi. I hope you’re great. I think it’s time we took a break. I just need space to grow emotionally.
That’s all. No explanation, no stumble of words you could pretend to misinterpret. Just this emotionally detached note.
You sink down onto the edge of the bed, hair still damp and smelling faintly of antiseptic, parchment trembling in your hands. Your tears fall fast, hot, spotting the ink until it runs in black rivulets. A healer’s hands are meant to be steady, but yours shake like you’re holding something poisonous.
He couldn’t even say it to your face. Couldn’t look you in the eye.
You crawl back beneath the covers, the letter crumpled in your fist, heart pounding like it’s trying to outrun the words. The flat is silent but for your uneven breath. And still, in your mind, the sentence repeats, over and over, louder with each echo: I need space to grow emotionally.
The morning drags you up like a tide, though it feels like you never truly slept. Your eyes are raw, burning, your head aching with the throb that follows too many tears. The kettle whistles, shrill against the quiet, and you shuffle to the table with a mug clasped tight in both hands.
Theo’s old sweatshirt hangs from your shoulders, worn soft, sleeves falling past your wrists. It still smells faintly like him—oakwood soap, a trace of smoke—and the familiarity stabs harder than the letter folded and abandoned on the counter.
You stir your tea until it’s gone cold, staring at the surface until your reflection blurs. The numbness is worse than the crying. At least crying had felt like something.
Your mind drifts, unbidden, to last month. Draco’s engagement dinner, Astoria glowing in green silk, Draco’s hand warm over hers, their whispered laughter soft enough to make you ache. You’d caught Theo watching, jaw set, sipping his wine too quickly. His hand had tightened on yours under the table when Astoria lifted her hand to show the ring, emerald and diamond catching the candlelight.
And then Harry’s wedding at the Burrow. Golden sunlight spilling over the grass, music soaring above the chatter of old friends. Ginny had been radiant in lace, Harry’s grin so wide you’d thought his face might split. Even Draco had danced, awkward but earnest, letting Astoria drag him across the floor until he softened.
You’d been waiting, barefoot too, heels dangling from your hand, heart buzzing with the hope Theo might finally tug you in. Instead, Ginny, cheeks flushed and veil loosened from dancing, had looped an arm around your shoulder and grinned at Theo across the table.
“You’re next, Nott. Don’t think you can hide forever, she’s already got the perfect healer hands for wrangling stubborn Aurors.”
Laughter had rippled through the table. Your cheeks had warmed, though you’d secretly liked the sound of it. But Theo’s face had shuttered in an instant, his smirk forced, wine glass raised like a shield.
“I’m not like them,” he’d muttered, so low you almost missed it.
And that had been the end of it. No dance. No promise. Just that look on his face, already pulling away.
Now you sit in the quiet, tea gone bitter, staring at the crumpled letter like it’s cursed. All your friends are moving forward—building lives, families, futures. And Theo? Theo sends an owl at ten o’clock at night. Dismissing you like a fleeting romance, something not worth any more effort.
You keep catching yourself staring at the letter on the counter, like it might change if you look long enough. Instead, your mind betrays you, tugging you backward into every moment that made his words impossible to believe.
Theo Nott had always been dazzling in a quiet way. Not loud like Draco, not reckless like Blaise, just smooth, impossibly smooth. He’d wait for you outside St. Mungo’s after a punishing shift, all lean lines and dark wool, leaning against the doorway like he’d been painted there. His tie undone, his grin lazy. “My girl saves lives all day, and still manages to look like sin.” The way he’d say it left you blushing like a schoolgirl again, rolling your eyes even as your chest soared.
He had a way of making the world pause. Long fingers brushing your cheek as if your skin was fragile porcelain. Kissing you slow in the corridor outside your office, like he didn’t care who saw. Stealing you away on late-night walks through Diagon Alley, tugging you close when lantern light spilled golden on the cobblestones.
He made you feel chosen. Special. Like you were the exception.
Even the little flaws had been easy to excuse. The way he’d stiffen when someone toasted to “the next happy couple” at a party. How his smile would slip at wedding receptions, how he’d brush off talk of holidays or leases with a shrug. You told yourself it was just nerves, the shadow of everything he’d lived through. You swore you could be patient. You loved him enough to wait.
And when he did let the mask drop, when he held you in the quiet of your flat and whispered, “You’re the only thing I can’t lose,” you’d believed it with your whole soul. Because how could you not?
You sip the dregs of cold tea now, heart aching with the cruel irony of it. He made you feel like forever, only to unravel with a single line of ink: I think it’s time we took a break.
The day drags, grey and shapeless, pressing down on you like a weight. You don’t even bother to Floo into St. Mungo’s, sending word instead that you’re ill. It’s not a lie, not really. Your body feels wrung out, chest hollow, stomach too tight for food.
The flat smells like him. His cologne clings to the jacket he left slung over the arm of the sofa. His Auror boots are still by the door, scuffed from patrol, and the sight of them makes your throat close. You tell yourself you should box it all up, shove it out of sight, but your limbs are heavy, like moving might shatter you completely.
You drift from room to room like a ghost, letter always in hand. The words are seared into you now, but still you read them again and again, as if they might rearrange themselves into something softer. Something salvageable. They never do.
In the bathroom, his toothbrush leans against yours in the cup by the sink. You brush your teeth and stare at it until your vision blurs, until you slam the cup down harder than you mean to. In the bedroom, his shirt hangs on the back of the chair, collar folded with that careless charm he carried everywhere. You bury your face in it, breathing in oakwood and smoke, and sob until your ribs ache.
Everywhere you turn, he’s there. In the mug you’re holding, stolen from his flat years ago. In the dent on the sofa cushion where he always sat, legs stretched too far, smirk tugging at his lips when you told him to move. In the mirror, where you still see yourself in his sweatshirt, sleeves falling past your fingertips.
By nightfall, you’re back in bed, the letter flattened beneath your pillow like some twisted talisman. The tears come in waves, sometimes loud, gut-wrenching sobs, sometimes just silent, steady drops that soak the pillowcase. Every time you close your eyes, his face is there: too fine, too flawless, too deceiving.
And the cruelest part? Even now, even with the ink on that parchment cutting you open, you still love him.
By the next evening, the grief has worn itself out. You sit at the table with the letter spread flat before you, but there are no tears left to give. Just a hollow ache that sharpens the longer you stare at his careful handwriting.
You think of Ginny’s voice at the wedding: light, teasing, certain. You’re next, Nott. And the way Theo had shut down in an instant, retreating behind his glass of wine. You should have known. Of course, you should have known.
A harsh laugh rips out of you. He was never different. Just another boy who knew how to look dazzling while holding himself back. Fine on the outside, empty underneath.
The anger rises fast, hot and choking. “That boy is corrupt,” you mutter into the silence, shoving back from the table hard enough to rattle the chair. You stalk through the flat, each trace of him a reminder—his jacket, his boots, the shirt draped carelessly on the chair.
You want to burn it all. To scream until the walls echo with it. Instead, you collapse onto the bed, fists clenched, chest tight. The fury hums in your veins, steadier than heartbreak, almost like strength.
Two days later, you force yourself out into Diagon Alley. The sunlight feels too bright, too loud, but the walls of your flat have started to close in, thick with his scent, his things. You tell yourself you just need a few potions ingredients, a walk among strangers, anything to break the silence.
You don’t expect to hear your name.
You turn, and there she is—Narcissa Malfoy, flawless as ever in dove-grey robes, her pale hair swept into a sleep bun. For a moment, you almost falter, caught between shame and longing. Of course, she would know. Of course, the woman Theo views as a mother would sense it in an instant, the hollowness where you’d once been certain.
Her smile is soft, almost maternal. “You look pale. Come, have lunch with me. My treat.”
You should decline. You should invent some excuse, retreat back to the quiet of your flat. But the words slip past your lips before you can stop them. “All right.”
She steers you toward a café tucked neatly off the main street. People glance up as she passes, eyes wide at the sight of Narcissa Malfoy herself sweeping through the door, but she ignores them, settling you into a private corner.
The tea arrives, fragrant and steaming. She watches you stir yours with steady grace, her own cup untouched. “He was raised,” she says carefully, “with every advantage. But never with the example of what love truly is. I fear… I fear that shows.”
Your throat tightens. She doesn’t have to say his name.
Narcissa reaches across the table, fingertips brushing yours in the smallest gesture of comfort. “It is no reflection on you, my dear. You gave him what he could not give back.” Her gaze sharpens, proud and protective. “That is his failure, not yours.”
You nod, swallowing hard. “I know it isn’t me. Not really. But I wish—” Your voice catches, then steadies. “I wish he could let himself love me the way Draco learned to love Astoria. Even after everything the war took from him.”
Narcissa’s expression softens, pride flickering at her son’s name. “Draco had to choose it,” she murmurs. “Day after day, in the small ways that matter most. That is what love is, not some grand gesture. A choice.” Her eyes linger on you, almost sad. “And Theo… he has not yet found the courage to choose.”
The truth of it presses heavy against your ribs. You take a sip of tea to keep from crying, the porcelain clinking faintly against the saucer as you set it back down.
For the first time since the owl arrived, you feel steadier. Not healed, not whole—but steadier. Because she’s right. You did everything you could. The rest was always his to give.
The ballroom glitters in gold and green, chandeliers spilling light across silk-draped tables and polished marble floors. The Malfoy name still commands awe, and Draco has spared nothing for this night—Astoria radiant on his arm, her smile so genuine it could outshine the candles.
You keep to the edges, lingering near Harry and Ginny, grateful for Ginny’s easy chatter and Harry’s steady presence at your side. They don’t let you drift too far, as if they know you need the tether. Blaise, improbably, has Luna on his arm, the two of them looking like a secret joke the rest of the world hasn’t yet been let in on. Even Astoria insists you accompany her during the dressing and photographs, fussing with her veil until you laugh and promise it looks perfect.
Everywhere, there is love. Draco’s hand covering Astoria’s, Ginny tugging Harry out to dance before the first toast, Luna brushing glitter from Blaise’s collar with a smile that’s both amused and fond. You try to breathe it in, hold it close, pretend it doesn’t sting.
He’s impossible to miss at Draco’s side, tall and devastating in tailored black robes, best man to his best friend. The toast cards are clutched carelessly in his hand, his smirk perfectly in place, but you see the stiffness in his shoulders. The way his eyes skate over the couples in the crowd. And—Merlin help you—the way they catch on you.
For one suspended moment, the noise of the ballroom dulls. His gaze lingers, unreadable. Your chest twists, your fingers tightening on the stem of your champagne glass. You want to look away, but you can’t.
Astoria squeezes your hand then, her voice soft with gratitude. “I don’t know how I’d have gotten through today without you.”
You force a smile for her, clinging to the words. Because that’s why you’re here. For your friends. For Draco and Astoria, for Harry and Ginny, for the ones who chose each other without hesitation. Not for him. Never again for him.
And yet, when the music swells and couples spill onto the dance floor, you feel the ache rise like a tide. You’re still in love with him. Still hurting. Still wishing he had chosen you the way Draco chose Astoria.
The hall glitters under crystal chandeliers, laughter softening into silence as silver spoons tap against crystal. Theo rises slowly, the scrape of his chair echoing, the attention of hundreds pulling toward him in an instant.
He looks different up there. Not the boy who once dodged commitment with a smirk, not the man who sent an owl at ten o’clock at night because he couldn’t face you. Standing at Draco’s side in tailored black robes, shoulders square, he looks like someone who has finally stepped into his own skin.
He doesn’t start with a joke. Doesn’t hide behind bravado. His voice is steady, low, and it carries.
“I have known Draco Malfoy longer than I care to admit,” Theo says, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We grew up together in gilded halls and shadowed times. We were taught to value pride, reputation, survival. But we weren’t taught how to love.”
A ripple of laughter, polite but knowing, moves through the guests. Theo’s gaze flicks to Astoria, and something in his expression softens.
“And then came Astoria. Patient, stubborn, and strong enough to peel back every wall he built. She didn’t let him settle for endurance when he deserved joy. She didn’t let him mistake control for companionship. She chose him every day, and because of her, Draco learned to choose too.”
Draco, flushed but grinning, tightens his grip on Astoria’s hand. She beams up at him, eyes wet.
Theo exhales, his voice dipping lower. “I’ve come to believe that love isn’t about passion that burns fast and fades. It’s not about grand gestures in fleeting moments. It’s about the small, relentless choice to stand beside someone even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient.”
Your chest tightens. You grip your champagne glass harder, fighting the sting in your eyes.
“Love is what makes us human,” Theo says. “Without it, we exist. We endure. But we don’t live. And tonight, Draco and Astoria remind us that even the most unlikely of us can find redemption in it. That we can survive war, survive loss, and still choose to build something beautiful.”
Silence follows. Not the awkward kind, but the thick, reverent pause that means people are holding their breath. Then applause breaks, warm and thunderous, glasses raised high.
You lift yours too, though your hand trembles. He’s right there, a few feet away, bathed in light and certainty. He is everything you always hoped he could become—eloquent, vulnerable, brave enough to name the things that once terrified him.
And you’re proud. Merlin, you’re so proud. The kind of pride that aches in your bones, that makes you want to weep with relief that he’s grown into this man.
But the pride curdles almost instantly, because it came too late. You had begged for this honesty. You had dreamed of these words. You had bled for the version of him who could stand here and say them. And now he’s done it, and it has broken you in a way you can’t recover from.
Astoria leans against Draco, her veil catching the light. Ginny squeezes your arm with a knowing smile, Harry steady on your other side. You let them anchor you, because if you look at Theo a moment longer, you’ll shatter.
For the first time, you don’t feel angry. You don’t even feel betrayed. You just feel the bone-deep sorrow of knowing that the man you loved finally learned how to love—he just didn’t learn it in time for you.
The night air is cool, heavy with the scent of roses. Music drifts faintly from the ballroom, muffled by distance, the laughter and clink of glasses like an echo from another world. You lean against the balustrade, eyes tilted toward the stars, trying to steady your breathing after the speech that cracked you wide open.
Footsteps crunch softly on gravel. You don’t turn.
His voice is lower than you remember, quieter. Not tentative, exactly—Theo Nott had never been tentative—but careful.
You shrug, still staring at the garden. “It’s Draco’s wedding. Not my garden to guard.”
He steps closer. You can feel it, the shift in the air. He doesn’t come too near, leaving a respectful gap between you. When he speaks again, it’s steady, deliberate.
“I’ve been rehearsing words like these for months. And then tonight, when I stood there looking at them, they just… came. Because they’re true. Every one of them.”
You let the silence linger. It’s his turn, after all.
Theo exhales, dragging a hand over his jaw. “When we were together, I told myself I wasn’t ready. That if I kept you at arm’s length, if I refused to call it what it was, I couldn’t lose you. It was twisted logic, I know that now. But I thought… if I never admitted how much I needed you, then I couldn’t be left gutted when it went wrong.”
Your grip on the stone railing tightens, but you don’t interrupt.
“I told myself I was protecting both of us,” he goes on, shaking his head. “But all I was doing was starving us. Starving you. And when you asked for more—more time, more future, more honesty—I panicked. Merlin, I panicked. I thought space would give me control back. I didn’t realize until too late that control doesn’t matter if it costs you the only person who ever made you feel like living was more than just… enduring.”
His voice breaks slightly on that word, but he steadies it again.
“I’m not here to ask for you back. I don’t have the right. I know that. But I couldn’t let this night pass without telling you that you weren’t wrong for wanting those things. You weren’t too much. You weren’t unreasonable. You were exactly what I should have chosen. And I didn’t.”
The words sink deep. He isn’t smirking, isn’t hiding. The rawness in his face is something you’ve never seen from him, not even in the darkest nights after the war.
You swallow hard, your voice soft. “You broke me, Theo. You don’t get to pretend you didn’t.”
His eyes close briefly, like the words physically strike him. “I know. And I’ll carry that. Every day.” He opens them again, fixing you with that piercing, steady gaze. “But I also need you to know that you healed me, too. More than I ever admitted. You showed me what it meant to be seen, and I was too much a coward to face it. That’s on me, not you.”
Your throat tightens. The ache is still there, but beneath it—pride. Sadness, yes, but pride too.
He takes a step closer, not too close, but enough that you can see the sheen in his eyes under the moonlight. “I’m not asking for anything tonight. I wouldn’t insult you like that. But I want you to know this: I’m not running anymore. Not from love. Not from you. If there ever comes a day you look at me and believe I’ve earned the right to stand beside you again… I’ll be here. And if not—then I’ll still be grateful that I ever had you at all.”
For a moment, all you can hear is the rustle of roses in the breeze, the faint hum of music. Your chest feels hollow and full all at once.
You don’t give him promises. You don’t give him absolution. But you let your eyes meet his, steady and unflinching, and you let the quiet hang between you. A space open enough for him to see that you haven’t closed the door completely.
At last, you whisper, “Thank you. For saying it.”
Theo inclines his head, not pressing further, not reaching for you. Just accepting, with a gravity that feels new. And then, with one last lingering look, he turns back toward the lights and the laughter, leaving you with the roses and the stars and the quiet possibility that maybe, someday, he could be the man who deserves you.
The flat is full of warmth, wine, and noise. Ginny’s perched on your sofa with her feet kicked up, already a little flushed, while Astoria sits cross-legged on the rug, honeymoon stories in high demand. Hermione is commandeering the kitchen counter with a platter of cheese and fruit, and Pansy is draped like a queen across an armchair, tossing wicked comments that make the whole room howl.
You laugh along, the sound surprising even yourself with how unforced it feels. But when the laughter dies down, and the conversation drifts into softer territory, babies, careers, marriage plans, you feel it bubbling up inside you, too heavy to keep quiet anymore.
You set your glass down. “Can I tell you all something?”
Four sets of eyes turn toward you.
“It’s about Theo.” The name alone makes your stomach twist, but you force yourself to go on. “At Draco’s wedding… after his speech, I went out to the gardens. He found me there.”
Pansy’s brows shoot up, sharp and assessing. Ginny leans in immediately, and Astoria’s lips part in worry. Hermione, steady as always, waits.
You take a breath. “He didn’t beg. He didn’t ask for anything. He just… told me the truth. That he was afraid. That he thought keeping me at arm’s length would make it hurt less if we fell apart. And that in the process, he hurt me worse than anything else ever could.”
The words stick in your throat, but you push them out. “He told me he knows he doesn’t deserve me back. That he wouldn’t even ask. But he wanted me to hear him say it — that I wasn’t wrong for wanting more. That I wasn’t too much.”
Silence settles over the room. Not judgmental, not pitying. Just soft, heavy silence.
“I still love him,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “Merlin help me, I do. But I don’t know where to go from here. Because he hasn’t earned me back. And I can’t… I can’t be the one to hold the door open for him this time. If he wants it, he has to do the work. And until then—” You trail off, shaking your head. “Until then, I can’t give him that power again.”
Ginny reaches across the cushions and squeezes your knee, eyes bright. “That’s not weakness, still loving him, I mean. That’s strength.”
Astoria, quieter, whispers, “He’s changed. I saw it too. But you’re right — change isn’t words. It’s what he does next.”
Pansy clinks her glass against yours with mock solemnity. “Well, darling, if nothing else, this will give us years of gossip fodder. And you look devastating when you’re tragic.”
The room laughs, even you. But when Hermione leans close, her voice is gentle. “You’ve already done your part. Now let him prove if he can do his.”
You nod, blinking fast, the lump in your throat loosening. You’re still hurting, still uncertain, but for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel alone in it.
The pub is loud, alive with candlelight and chatter spilling out into the Alley. The long oak table is packed with familiar faces — Ginny, already tipsy and bright with laughter; Astoria leaning against Draco, glowing even when she rolls her eyes at his smirk; Hermione deep in a debate with Luna that Blaise keeps interrupting with wry commentary; Pansy draped over her chair like royalty, glass in hand.
You’d almost said no when Ginny pressed you to come, but now, surrounded by warmth and noise, you’re glad you didn’t. It feels like home, or something close.
He doesn’t sweep in with the old, lazy confidence. He greets everyone in turn, voice low and genuine, before slipping into the chair across from you. His eyes meet yours for a beat — steady, searching — but he doesn’t force it. He simply joins the flow of conversation, letting others lead, offering thoughtful asides, listening in a way you don’t remember him ever doing before.
Hours pass in a blur of food and wine. You find yourself laughing more than you expected, relaxing into the rhythm of friends. When you excuse yourself to fetch another round, Theo is on his feet before you can argue. “Let me help,” he says simply, and for once it doesn’t feel like an act.
The two of you weave through the crowded bar, shoulders brushing as you balance the tray between you. The air smells of firewhisky and roasting meat, warm and close.
He waits until you’ve both got your hands free again, then leans close enough that you can hear him over the din. “I meant what I told you in the gardens. I don’t expect you to believe it yet. But I’m here. I’m not running anymore.”
Something in his tone stops you. It’s not a plea. Not a performance. Just the truth, laid bare.
You set the empty tray down and meet his eyes. For a moment, you’re silent, your heart thudding too loudly in your chest. Then, softly: “I still love you.”
His breath catches, though he doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t press.
“But love isn’t enough, Theo,” you continue, your voice steadier now. “Not without real commitment. Not without proof you’re ready to choose me every day, not just when it’s convenient. You broke me once. I won’t let you do it again.”
He nods, the weight of your words settling in. “Then let me prove it,” he says quietly. “Not tonight, not with promises. But with time. With everything I should have given you the first time.”
The noise of the pub roars around you — laughter, music, glasses clinking — but in that moment, it feels like the two of you stand apart from it all, suspended in something fragile and new.
For the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he means it.
It’s late autumn by the time you realize the ache in your chest has dulled from a wound into a scar. The leaves along Diagon Alley have turned copper and gold, the air crisp with the smell of roasted chestnuts from street vendors. Months have passed since that dinner at the pub — months of watching, waiting, and silently daring Theo to show you if he meant what he said.
He never made a speech about it. He didn’t shower you with flowers or apologies. He just started showing up. Quiet, consistent, steady.
When your shift at St. Mungo’s ran over and you emerged glassy-eyed and exhausted, he was leaning against the wall across the street, two steaming takeaway cups in hand, ready to walk you home. He didn’t touch you, didn’t try to slip an arm around you. He just walked at your pace, listened when you needed to vent, let you go when you needed space.
When Ginny hosted another dinner, he asked Harry if he could help with the setup, arriving early to carry chairs, hang string lights, and fetch drinks. You watched him joke easily with Blaise, listen to Luna, and even tolerate Pansy’s jabs with a grin. He seemed calmer, less restless, and more like a man who had finally made peace with himself.
Sometimes you caught him looking at you across a crowded room, but he didn’t avert his eyes, and he didn’t push. It was just a steady gaze, patient and respectful, waiting for you to decide.
And, slowly, you began to soften. You started answering his owls with more than one-line replies. You let him walk you home after nights out with friends. You stopped feeling like you had to brace yourself for a new wound every time he was near.
Then came the night he came to St. Mungo’s not for you, but for a child he’d pulled out of cursed wreckage on an Auror raid. You saw him standing there in the emergency wing — dirty, bloodied, face pale but calm — as you worked on the small girl he’d carried in. He didn’t tell you about it later, didn’t try to use it as evidence of his growth. He just… waited. And you realized that the man who had once been terrified of love had begun to act out of it, without even noticing.
One evening, near the end of your shift, you stepped outside into the alleyway to breathe. The sky was bruised purple, streetlamps flickering. He was there, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. Not waiting to intercept you. Just… there.
You hesitated, watching him. Then you crossed the space between you.
He straightened but didn’t reach for you. “How was your day?” he asked quietly.
You looked at him, at the tired lines at the corners of his eyes, the steadiness in his posture. Months of patience. Months of consistency. Months of him doing exactly what he’d promised: showing up, not running.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself exhale all the way down to your bones.
“My day was long,” you said softly. “But you’re here.”
He nodded. “I’ll keep being here. As long as you’ll have me. And even if you won’t. I just… want you to know that.”
You stepped closer then, so close you could smell the familiar oakwood and smoke. He still didn’t touch you. He just waited.
“I still love you,” you murmured. “I never stopped. But I couldn’t come back to what we had before.”
“I know,” he said. His voice was steady, low. “And I don’t want what we had before either.”
The words settled between you, simple and heavy as stones. You searched his face, and for the first time you didn’t see the boy who ran. You saw a man. Someone who had learned to choose.
Slowly, you reached out and took his hand. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move, didn’t squeeze back until you gave the faintest nod.
“I think,” you whispered, “I’m ready to try again. For real this time. But it has to be real, Theo. No half-measures.”
His fingers tightened gently around yours — no desperation, just certainty. “It’s real,” he said. “Whatever pace you need. Whatever it takes. I’m here.”
You stood there for a long moment under the alleyway’s dim light, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. The sounds of Diagon Alley drifted around you, shop shutters closing, the clink of glasses from the pub, a busker’s soft violin. And for the first time in a year, the future didn’t feel like something you had to brace for. It felt like something you could choose.
You leaned your forehead against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent that had once only brought pain. This time it felt like something steadier. Something earned.
And as he wrapped an arm around you — slow, careful, waiting until you melted into it — you knew you weren’t stepping back into the old story. You were stepping into something new.
The restaurant glows like a lantern in the heart of Diagon Alley. Candlelight glints off crystal, and every table is filled with faces you love — Ginny and Harry laughing at some old story, Hermione and Pansy sparring over wine, Blaise and Luna sharing some private joke, Draco and Astoria radiant at the head of the table.
Theo has barely left your side all night. His arm rests around your shoulders, thumb drawing circles against your collarbone whenever he thinks no one’s looking. Every so often he tilts your chin up and kisses you, slow and certain, and the room bursts into teasing cheers. He only grins, utterly unbothered.
When the music starts, he doesn’t hesitate. He takes your hand, leads you to the center of the floor. The others cheer, but his focus stays locked on you. His palm cradles your waist, his other hand lacing with yours as he sways you under the chandeliers.
“Do you know,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone, “I used to think I wasn’t allowed to have this. You. A future. It scared me to death.” His forehead rests against yours. “But you… you taught me how to stop running. How to be someone who deserves it.”
Your heart catches. “Theo—”
He kisses you before you can say more, slow and deep, until the noise of the room fades. When he pulls back, his voice is a whisper only you can hear. “I’m never hiding again. Not from you. Not from anyone. I want everyone to know I’m yours, and I’m proud of it.”
He spins you once, making you laugh, and the room erupts into applause. And for the first time in your life, you don’t just feel loved, you feel chosen.
Your flat is dark when you arrive, lit only by the city glow through the curtains. Theo sets down the flowers and gifts from the dinner and immediately draws you into his arms, his lips trailing soft kisses along your hairline, your jaw, the curve of your neck. No audience now. No teasing friends. Just him, loving you quietly.
“You were perfect tonight,” you whisper, tracing the line of his collar with your fingers.
“You were perfect,” he murmurs back, his breath warm against your skin. “I still can’t believe you said yes.”
You laugh softly, tilting your face up. “You’ve been proving it for two years. I didn’t just say yes. I chose you. I choose you.”
His eyes go bright at that, his thumb brushing your bottom lip before kissing you again, slow and reverent. “And I’ll keep earning it,” he says. “Every day. For the rest of my life.”
Your heart swells. “Have you started writing your vows yet?” you ask, teasing but curious.
He grins against your lips. “Every time I hold you, every time I wake up next to you, every time you look at me like this… it feels like I’m already saying them.”
You press your forehead to his, fingers sliding up into his hair. “I can’t wait to stand there with you. Not because I have to. Because we both chose it. Because it’s real.”
Theo kisses you once more, his hands framing your face as though you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. “It’s real,” he whispers. “Loud or soft, in public or here, it’s always real.”
You curl into him, bare feet brushing the carpet, and he wraps you close, holding you with the steadiness you once only dreamed of. And in that quiet moment, his lips at your temple, the promise of vows ahead, the hum of the city outside, you know the boy who once sent an owl at ten o’clock at night is gone.
This is the man who chose you. The man who loves you out loud. The man you’re about to marry.
And tonight, in the soft hush of your home, you love him just as loudly back.
