so i was wondering if you could write about a yan surgeon...like, he's quite young and has been in love with you since he saw you at a coffee shop while he was studying for his med exam and has been working himself to the bone to become your dream man.
maybe even a little timeskip that shows how he acts while he is a surgeon (cold, distant, and sometimes even a little snippy towards people who try to kiss up to him) or what he's like in a relationship with you idk
He wasn’t the man you deserved when he first saw you. He wasn’t ready. Not that he wasn’t ready to love you(by all means he would have given you all of him from the get go) but he didn’t have the resources he felt necessary to offer you.
He wanted to be the man of your dreams. The epitome of success and dignity. Someone you would be proud of claiming, someone you would make game out of capturing.
The moment he saw you he felt something he didn’t know he would ever feel for another body, having seen the insides of cadavers and specimens all alike he had thought maybe it had done something to his brain inhibiting him from emotionally connecting. But you? You have triggered some biochemical reaction in his brain that has triggered obsession.
It was a Thursday afternoon. 3:27 pm to be exact, the heat outside was temperate but it was rainy and it seemed like anyone with no intention of staying in their dorm was finding solace in a coffee shop on the eastern outskirts of the college town.
One of those people happened to be you.
You were in a different major so of course he hadn’t seen you before, because if he had he would have been gone for far longer than he is about to be. The only things he has seen as of late are the fatty tissues and sinews of the recently deceased. The smell of sulfur suffocating his sense of smell in a way he had become accustomed to.
He was perched in the corner drinking a hot latte of some sort and when I say latte I mean some espresso on espresso make it strong type of concoction. Cramming in god knows what information for his next test. MED school isn't for the weak.
You were sitting across the way, legs crossed, bag sitting beside you- slighting tilting from the weight of all your baggage. You had your laptop open on the table and some hot latte steaming in its cup. You looked beautiful.
Beautiful in a way that was beyond what his Brian could comprehend. He has been primed for mechanical thinking. Equations, biology, chemicals, anatomy, genes. But you were something his brain simply couldn’t understand existing. And you were here, in front of him.
He was born with surgical precision and pursuit, now it seems you’re on the other end of the needle.
From that day, he knew he would do whatever was needed, give whatever it would cost, to be the man for you.
.
.
.
It’s been years...
Long, glorious, and arduous years.
He has finished his schooling and residency. Already making a name and way for himself and the future of biomedical engineering and healthcare as a whole. He’s a genius. Surely he will win an award for something. His tactility and ability to find such obscurely life saving actions is never improved by the field.
He’s wanted to be this his whole life. But when he met you all those years ago he finally understood why. He was born to be something great in order to serve something even greater.
And all of his glory and gifts he funnels and preserves for you exclusively.
He doesn’t do well with others. It’s not his job to be. It’s his job to make sure the patient makes it home alive and that all those zeroes make it into his bank account and home to you.
He doesn’t sit around and chit chat. This isn’t general hospital and he doesn’t have any general interest in people outside of his profession of saving them. Most people would think he got into the field to save people’s lives and be a servant of the people. But in reality he has always just been good at being technical to a T. That came in especially handy when he needed to pursue you.
He can’t however stand everyone’s constant pursuit of his attention and approval. This isn’t the operating room- why do people want to talk to him so bad. He is quite curt and contained in any interaction. The board of the hospital, the staff, anyone. Not exactly rude but that, “I’m your boss I don’t need to tell you anything” energy to where anyone who has been around long enough knows his life is a boundary.
When heading out of a surgery he tells everyone to keep up the good work and that he’ll see them tomorrow. He thanks his nurse and heads to sanitation and then he’s racing back home to you.
For such a renowned surgeon he sure treats the gig like a 9-5.
It’s 7:35 when he walks through the doors. He’s walking towards the kitchen although he doesn’t know where in the house you are but he decides to call out just in case. “Baby? I’m home where are you?”
You catch wind of his voice and call back, “Hi honey I’m in the kitchen. Lucy made stew!” (Lucy is the chef. He would never have you cooking and potentially suffering from a major burn.)
When he walks in you have a ladle to your lips blowing and sipping, when you see him you smile and blow on it once more lifting it towards his incoming body.
“Hey baby.” He says as his hand takes purchase back in your hip after a long day, he kisses you before he even thinks of trying the stew.
You smile into the kiss, he can taste the salt on you.
“Here try this. She did her big one with this.”
He takes it into his mouth tasting the now room temp stew that still taste like something you would get at a Michelin.
“It’s delicious right? You got the lukewarm bite but here.”
Before he can say anything you’re blowing on another spoon and bringing it to his lips.
He can only swoon.
“So what are we up to this weekend? I was thinking we try that new trail? What was it called…. Cicada Creek Valley. You know the one Calvin and Viola told us about?”
It was established a long time ago that he didn’t want to talk about work when he got home. Not because he didn’t want to talk to you- god he wanted to talk to you forever. That’s all he ever wanted to do(Who cares that he spent 15+ years to become a world’s best surgeon). But because work seemed like such an unnecessary variable when it actually came to the way you spent your shared lives. If something actually did happen that moved him at work he would say it or you would read it on him. But besides the miraculous one off- It’s the same thing different day. If you’ve saved a life once, you’ve done it a thousand times.
He only ever wants to talk about you, your work, what you want, what you will do together. He forgets work is even a thing when he gets home. Too bad he has to be up at 4:30 am in the morning to go dissect people :/
He nods. Imagining you in your hiking gear and boots, skin glistening with the light sheen of sweat the dew of morning gives you.
“Sounds good to me baby.”
He will do whatever you want whenever you want, so long as it’s with you. If it weren’t for you who knows what he would’ve gotten himself into. He’s a menace. Or at least he became one after you turned him on.
Being a surgeon has more perks than all the obvious ones. If ever need be he would be able to get rid of any… problems- with precision and practice on his side. If you know what I mean.
HEADCANONS ⦮ ⦯ ⟆:
He knows so much about the body that he can always find the spot. Whether it’s a knot in a muscle or that sweet spot in your pussy. He’s been working on finding new ways to make to cum for years.
His favorite things in the world are your heart beat, your veins and arteries, and your brain.
He loves hearing your heart beat. He tells himself it’s for him and if he’s been an especially good boy lately you will voice his inner desires out loud.
He loves your veins and arteries because he loves knowing your body is carrying you another day into your shared future.
He loves your brain because 1. You’re so brilliant and it turns him on so badly he could cum in his rags thinking about it. 2. He can’t himself imagine a world without you so he likes to think that you think the same. Great minds think alike.
He is such a provider. The life you share, he told you years ago that he was going to be the man that could afford you anything you wanted regardless of you working or not.
If you ever get sick he calls off from work to take care of you. Getting you whatever you need, and massaging your feet with tiger balm or vapor.
He tickles your back before bed and kisses your nape where your bonnet meets your neckline.
He makes questionable comments about his skills sometimes because he wants you to know he is capable of doing anything to make sure your love prevails. Anything.
♡ TW: noncon, toxic relationship, misogyny, chauvinism, possessiveness, controlling behaviour, other toxic traits, sorta spineless reader, but not really
♡ FEM reader
♡ PS: sorry to anyone named Franny or Carrie. The story required a couple of girl names.
You're on your way home in the dark.
It rained while you were at the club, having power-washed the asphalt now glittering under the moonlight. It's pretty when it's like this, but as a woman you can't help but feel a little on edge.
Your heart isn't entirely in your throat, but it’s definitely somewhere up there. Heels moving hurriedly, unbothered about splashing in shallow puddles as you stomp decidedly in a pathway straight home.
Drunken groups loiter around as the clubs all close up for the night, some hollering about grabbing a bite, others about grabbing some ass, and all you can think is hopefully, not your ass.
You could have gone home with a friend instead—it would have been smarter maybe, and by smarter you mean safer—but you’re getting older and the older you get the more the urge to sleep in your own bed at night becomes a necessity more than a preference.
Footsteps are all over the place, walking in different directions. Pat, pat, pat, pittering just like the rain. Aside from a few icky stares thrown your way and a handful of catcalls you’re not sure were for you or for some other poor girl, you’re starting to rest easy, knowing you’re nearly there.
But then you single out a pair. Pat, pat, pat, just behind you.
You cast a glance over your shoulder. Heart, now definitively, in your throat, with shudders running through you at the sight of the hooded figure at your back.
You walk a little faster. Eyes skittering around to see if there are any others around to witness the worst of your fears. Seeing you’re alone, you pick up the pace even more. Any faster now and you’d be jogging. Yet, you don’t want to be too presumptuous. After all, you don’t know if the guy’s even following you. It would be rude to treat him like he’s already committed a crime, when he isn’t guilty of anything other than walking home. And so, out of courtesy, you give him the benefit of the doubt and stick to power-walking.
Gratefully, you make it to your outergate. Keys already in your hands. You're happy to find the keyhole on your first try. Even so, with thoughts regarding the worst still unpleasantly lingering in the back of your head, when you pull the door to yourself, you make sure to crack it open just wide enough for only you to slip through. Wanting it to close behind you quickly, so that the automatic lock could do its job and shut out whoever it was that might be following you.
You skip along, through the passage leading to the inner-yard, paranoid with a simultaneous feeling of being silly for feeling paranoid, side-eying the gate again before you turn the corner—utterly horrified upon what you catch in your peripheral.
Shit, fuck-fuck-fuck, he made it inside. It's official then, he’s definitely fucking following you.
This time you skip jogging and go straight to running to reach the door to your block. Hands shaking a little too much to make it on the first try this time, but somehow you manage in your scramble, making sure to pull the door closed behind you, hearing it click in place, signalling that it’s been locked tight. Despite it, just in case you still straight jump up the stairs, two at a time to reach your flat.
You can’t see it, but you hear it—how he makes it through the second door.
Feeling a mix of terror and confusion all at once. You don’t understand, you’re certain you heard the door lock, but somehow now it’s open again. Your keys jingle as you steady them to open your door in a panic. Listening to the stranger climb the stairs. Once it’s open you nearly tumble inside your apartment, all but slamming it shut to lock it—only… along with your keys, there’s another pair jingling in the staircase.
That's when you realize. He’s not following you. He lives here. He’s your fucking neighbour.
He lives in the apartment under you. He lives in the apartment under you and you’d clearly just treated him like some sort of a criminal. He’s your neighbor and you’d all but slammed two doors in his face and sprinted away from him.
Embarrassment takes the place of your fear, filling it with regret and guilt. “Shit.”
But can he blame you though? Dressed like that? Dark hood hiding his face, like some sort of thief in the night. What were you supposed to do? Hold the door open for him and say “Heya there, mysterious stranger, you wanna come join me for a nightcap?”
“Shit,” you repeat to no one but yourself. Now you’re just being sarcastic because you feel bad.
You sigh, then decide you’ll apologize next time you see him. A most dreaded and most-certainly awkward event which turns out to be as soon as the next day.
“Oh! Hey!” Newly awoken from your drunken slumber, you’d just stepped out after a failed mission to find some breakfast in your fridge—having found it completely empty except for a couple of expired tubes of condiments. “Hey, you!”
You rush down the steps, seeing the guy from last night lurking outside his apartment door, keys in hand like he’s just locking up to go as well. He pulls out his earphones once he sees you, a little taken aback by the sight of you panting, all out of breath in front of him.
Jeez, you need to start taking the gym more seriously, you think to yourself as you catch your breath. “Hey, listen, I’m real’ sorry ‘bout the other night. That was so rude and uncalled for,” you apologize. Face all riddled with embarrassment and guilt, smiling at him in the awkward hope of his understanding forgiveness.
The only problem is, he’s got no idea who you are or “What’re you on about?”
Oh, you pause, maybe he hadn’t noticed you? Still, you start explaining, “Last night, or well, this morning I guess, we came home at the same time. I was sorta… nearly, kinda running away from you? I was drunk and paranoid—I didn’t know you live here—I should have held the door open. Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry.”
His chin tilts up in recognition after that, “Ah, right, yeah,” then waves his hand, saying, “No worries. I know how it is. Dressed the way you were, I'd have been scared too. Hardly recognized you without that little dress you had on.”
You look down at yourself, all covered up in baggy sweatpants and a hoodie—a far cry from yesterday’s get-up—now make-up free, not to mention your hair in a messy updo. No wonder he didn’t put two and two together.
“Right,” you giggle then, suddenly feeling embarrassed for a whole other reason. You were just going to pop in and out to the store—you hadn’t exactly accounted for anyone to see you. “Yeah, I was just gonna grab some breakfast. Mornin’ after and all that—need something fatty, you know?”
He returns your smile, way cooler than you, eyeing you like he’s amused before offering, only with a small pause, “How ‘bout we go to the bakery around the corner? I'll forgive you for yesterday if you pay.”
It stuns you. Thinking, that’s brazen—a little impressed by his forwardness. Your smile gets brighter with another laugh. This was not the morning you were expecting. But heck, why not?
“A’right, sure,” you agree, before putting up your pointer, jokingly stating, “But then we better be square.”
He whistles, “Sounds good to me.”
And that’s how you end up having breakfast with your downstairs neighbour.
And as you sit there, opposite each other, you let your eyes wander because holy cow, he’s absolutely massive. You’d noticed when you were standing inside as well, but you’d been too busy making your awkward apology to really have taken him in.
No wonder your female heart was cowering in your chest last night, it must have sensed the size of the guy from the sound of his footsteps. You're completely flabbergasted how you’ve never seen him before. Two meters easily, big broad shoulders with a back you could build a house on and two gigantic arms that could easily lift it straight above his head and toss it across a football field if he wanted to.
He's a cop, you learn over breakfast. He hits the gym early and comes home during the day or works the late shift and comes home in the morning, which explains why you’ve never run into him except last night. He’s a bit of a routine junkie, he admits.
And, well, though he doesn’t come clean about it, it’s not hard to tell how he’s also a bit of a flirt.
“I gotta be honest, I thought you’d lost your pants or something,” he chuckles, smirking at you playfully from atop his coffee cup, forcing a permanent heat in your cheeks as well as a cramp from the bashful smile you’re unable to make settle through all his teasing.
“Quit bullying my dress!” you nearly whine. “It’s cute. You can’t deny it’s cute.”
He gives a can’t-argue-with-that type of shrug. “I mean, yeah, I've just never seen such a thing besides on film,” he says, then inquires, “What were you up to anyway?”
“Oh, you know…” You pluck the last blueberry off your plate, wondering if you should order more pancakes. “Just’ at the club with some friends. Dancin’.”
Popping the berry in your mouth, you decide against another round as you suck the cream off your digits—thinking you should show some restraint in front of the gym-freak across from you. You wouldn't want to come across as a complete glutton either.
Besides, just looking at him is a meal enough on its own, and you can tell he’s enjoying you the same way. And so, you lay it on extra thick for him. “It gets hot in there, so the less you wear the better.”
He scoffs, “Oh, really?” brows raised, grinning at your display. “You sure it ain’t got nothin’ to do with makin’ people look?”
You make a show out of getting offended with a fake gasp, before bringing forth your wrists. Your voice thick with sardonic theatrics, speaking your words through a pout, “Well, arrest me, officer. I didn’t know that was a crime.”
Shaking his head, he chuckles some more at you. “Nah, you’re good. But maybe I should come along to chaperone you next time—you know, make sure you get home all safe and sound.”
He takes another sip of coffee while watching his words and how they affect you. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing, the scoundrel—you know he knows, shamelessly making you gush like this.
You bite your lip—it’s all you can do to keep yourself from kicking your feet. A man hasn’t flirted with you in broad daylight like this in some time, you don’t even know how long, and you’re not going to lie, it’s making you weak.
“You don’t have work?” you ask—perhaps a little too eager.
But he doesn’t seem to think so, answering with charm, “I get time off just like everyone else.”
You bite your lip, trying to force yourself into acting casual even though you’re squealing on the inside, “Okay, sure, why not? But you gotta promise you won’t be all police-like and stuff though.”
He chuckles again. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave my gun at home.”
Yeah… You end up dating.
In fact, you make pasta together and fuck that very same night. Multiple times, multiple positions, multiple rooms, and, most important of all, multiple orgasms.
You’ve never been with a guy like him, outside of your fantasies. A monster truck of a man, he’s practically herculean—he could literally carry you on his back up a mountain if he wanted to. So of course the sex is amazing. He puts you in all kinds of crazy states you’ve never been in before—full-nelson, pile-driver, standing missionary—he fucking rails you like a jack hammer until your positively destroyed.
Honestly you weren’t too sure you liked muscle freaks who could manhandle you any way they want, but now you can say you’ve been fully baptised into the church of size difference and you’re afraid there will be no going back.
Not only is he built for it, but he’s good at it too. He knows how to foreplay, how to get you going, how to tease and make you all hot and bothered and desperate for it. Not just sexy, but playful. Always joking when knocking on your door—saying FBI open up while posted there in his uniform—roleplaying with it, frisking you after putting you under arrest with real handcuffs, even using his gun sometimes—unloaded, of course.
Outside of sex, he’s a real gentleman too. Takes you out for dates—dinners, parks, movies. Tells you that you look good and wraps you in his jacket when you’re looking chilly—or when he spots other guys leering.
He’s just a really good guy overall. You actually really like him. And that’s saying a lot, given how many shitty dating situationships you’ve had over the past years. This might be something real.
Is what you thought until, well…
After a few weeks, it's revealed he doesn't like it when you go out by yourself.
It’s nothing, at first—not something you pay much mind to. He’s just a bit protective, is all—any decent man who cares for his girlfriend will show some instinct regarding her safety when he’s not around. It’s normal.
Still though, you can’t help that it rubs you the wrong way just a bit.
It’s dangerous, he’ll argue, and you can’t really disagree when you've already admitted to being scared going home alone. But even though you know it comes from a good place—that he’s just looking out for you—it’s still a little… you don’t know. Patronizing?
At least, that’s what it feels like…
Then again, he doesn’t strike you as very traditional. He’s supportive of your studies, comfortable watching chick flicks with you, doesn’t care when you dress like a slob, joins you shopping, cooks for you, he even goes down on you. Like you said, he’s a good guy. And you really like him.
But shit… this increasing need of his to chaperone your every move? You’re not going to lie, it’s getting a little annoying.
“Going somewhere?” he stops you on your way out.
You’d given one another the keys to each other’s apartment some time ago now, and he’d taken it as an invitation to come by anytime he wanted. You thought it was sweet at first, and you still do—your schedules don’t always line up, so it’s nice to keep it easy-access. It’s just, you already told him you’d be busy today.
“Yeah, just out with some girlfriends,” you repeat, sitting down to put on the pair of strappy black heels you’d just bought, excited to hear what the girls will say—already hearing them go silly with cat-calls, howling compliments at you.
“Like that?” he questions, standing with his shoulder leaning against the wall and arms crossed over his chest.
You get up and do a spin, wearing a tight but classy black cocktail dress. “What’s wrong with this?”
He throws his brows up, scratching the back of his neck while stepping closer. “Nothin’.” He releases a sigh, dwarfing your waist in his hands, pulling you flush against him. “You don’t think it's a little dressy for a girl’s night?”
You pout, placing your chin on his chest, batting your lashes with puppy-dog eyes looking up at him. “I like looking nice, is that so bad?”
His hands travel, over the small of your back, down the dome of your ass, swaying with you in his arms. “No. Of course not.” He sighs again, squeezing you tight. “I'm just jealous of whoever’s gonna get to look at you all night.”
You smile, thinking, despite how it gets on your nerves just a bit, it’s still kind of cute how needy he is.
“Where’ you going?” he asks, chin atop your crown, still keeping you close, as though charging himself up, knowing he’s going to be without you for the evening.
“Just the lounge down by the pier.”
He groans then, hauling you off by your forearms to give you a stern look. “You know I don't like when you drink when I'm not around.”
You tilt your head and return his look with a softly patronizing one of your own, silently trying to tell him he’s being childish again like the two of you’d spoken about. Because you had told him—how unreasonable it was. And as mentioned, you were beginning to get a little sick of having to tell him off about it.
When he doesn’t say anything, you roll your eyes and show him enough sympathy to reassure him of how “It’s just gonna be a glass of wine.”
“Mh…” he hums, looking at you, not fully convinced. “Give me five minutes and I'll join you.”
“No.” It slips before you give it much thought. And yet, even after having said it, despite it having been a bit rude, you still don’t regret it or make any proceedings to take it back.
“No?” he echoes. A little affronted—to be expected.
Still, you don’t let it deter you. “Well, it’s a girl’s night. You know…” you explain, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason. “It would be rude if I brought you when the rest of the girls have left their man at home.”
It doesn't seem to persuade him. His face just scrunches, as though the entire idea of a girl’s night is absurd in and of itself, arguing, “Tell ‘em to invite them then. Problem solved. None of you should be out on your own anyway.”
And it’s comments like that that really upset you. You bite your lip, trying to think of the most disarming response—not wanting to fight it out right now, thinking you could bring it up later at a better time.
“I'll be home before ten. I'll only have one glass of wine. I'll take a taxi home. And…” You give him a playful smile as you wrap your arms around his neck and give the locks on his nape a light tug. “I'll make it up to you all night long.”
You feel his frame tense up at the offer, enticed by your words until he, at long last, finally grumbles out a defeated, “Fine.”
He releases you then, but doesn’t leave you alone for too long before grabbing your chin.
“No need for a Taxi, I'll come pick you up,” he says firmly, laying it forth like a condition to his allowing you to go. “Stand ready outside at ten o’clock sharp.”
Giving you a small kiss, he continues before you can voice any complaint.
“Or else I really will have to spend all night long punishing you.”
It gives you goosebumps. And yet, because you don’t entirely hate the sound of it, you decide to treat it like a joke, and against reading all that deep into it—even though you’re aware there might be some small truth behind the warning.
You know if your friends were to have heard it, they’d probably disapprove, but come on… Being threatened with sex is harmless enough.
And so, you brush it off and play along, answering him with a bright and bushy-tailed, “Yes’sir.”
To which he proudly smiles, “Atta’ girl.”
Despite promises made, that first glass of wine disappears quickly.
You never were much of a slow drinker. Not that you’re an alcoholic either, of course, it’s just… it’s hard pacing yourself when you’re in good company. And your girls? Well… let’s just say they know how to bring the party.
“Another round of wine?” Franny declares more than asks.
You shrink back a little in your chair. Not only not wanting to be a bummer, but also fearing how they’d most likely see right through it not being your decision, then actively begin to judge you for letting yourself be governed by your boyfriend.
Still, you shake your head and hope they might not catch on. “I shouldn't—”
“What? Why?” Franny immediately boos, all but gawking at you from across the table like you’d just declared you were becoming a nun or something else equally baffling.
Carrie, on the other hand, doesn't seem surprised at all, throwing the rest of her wine back before mumbling, “Or else Mr. Officer will put her under arrest.”
Franny’s head snaps to her at that, again, gasping, “What? Really?”
Carrie throws up a brow, cool like a mean-girl about it, “Oh, you haven’t heard?” before cocking her head back at you, putting you on the spot, “Tell her then. Go on.”
You pout at her judgementalness, knowing you won’t be able to hide it either if she decides to push—which she most certainly will. “Come on, he’s not that bad...”
That’s when her cool demeanor takes a twist, all but banging her glass on the table with her outburst, “Girl, be so real! Man’s a total chauvinist, you gotta break up with him.”
You weren’t in the dark about her attitude regarding your relationship, so it doesn’t exactly come as a big shock to hear her criticize it to your face. It wouldn't kill her to learn some tact though. Even so, you’re willing to forgive her, given you know her tolerance to be rather low and her need to be candid evidently very high.
“I like him,” you defend under her disapproving glare and Franny’s wide-eyed stare, the both of them awaiting something more persuasive.
“Besides…” you drift, feeling the wine in your system forcing you to be a little more honest with both them and yourself. “He’s my neighbour, you know… If I break up with him I'll still have to run into him.”
Carrie deadpans at that. Looking at your square in the eye with dull ones of her own, her mouth catching flies, back to being as suave as always while stating in a more-than-obvious manner, “Start looking for places to move.”
You sigh, pouting even more while you whine, “But I like my apartment.”
There’s a moment of silence, as though in solidarity of your situation, letting you come to terms with what you have to do.
Franny lifts her glass after a moment. A sympathetic quirk on her lips, repeating, now suggestively in comfort, “Another round of wine?”
You look at her, then at Carrie, who just shrugs, also with her glass in hand—tone equally suggestive, “We won’t snitch.”
You bite your lip, letting their mischief rub off on you like you do so well. Smiling. “Oh, fine. You win.”
The three of you chat more about each other’s hopeless love pursuits, how no men are perfect, how friendship is so much more reliable, and how being alone might just be the only reasonable thing for any one of you.
You like him, but you can see Carrie’s point. You’ve had the same concerns yourself, despite not wording them as harshly as her. Of course you don’t enjoy having to argue about going out with your friends or dressing the way you want.
Having to ask permission for such things doesn’t make sense to you, and it never will. You’re a grown woman who pays her own bills. You don’t have to run your decisions by anyone. And even if you did feel the need, it would be out of pure consideration—simply to keep the other person in the loop, and not something to be discussed—at the very least not something to be prohibited. You’re not a prisoner, and you’re certainly no child either.
Shit, you don’t know… maybe dating the guy in your building wasn’t the brightest decision after all.
“I said ten,” he admonishes as you step towards the parking lot.
It’s just gotten dark. You’d hadn’t seen him yet and so the sudden sound of his voice spooks you, making you slap a hand over your pulse with a gasp.
If he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. Not offering you an apology. Rather the opposite. Standing there, posted against his squad car with his arms folded upon his chest—staring at you like some criminal, awaiting your confession.
“Sorry, it took some time figuring out the bill–”
“You're drunk,” he cuts you off, shaking his head in disapproval as he goes to grab your purse in one hand and your upper arm in the other.
“No,” you argue sharply, saying “I'm not drunk.” because you most certainly are not. In fact, between two glasses of wine and a whole meal, you wouldn't even describe it as being tipsy.
He ignores you while opening the door to the passenger seat, ushering you inside with a strict, “Get in the car.”
You have to roll your eyes. Sarcastically thanking him for not going so far as to place you in the back like an actual arrestee, muttering, “Yes, sir.” under your breath.
He then even leans across you to put on your seatbelt, prompting you to almost push him off. Saying, “Dude, chill. I had two glasses of wine. Like, how—”
“We agreed on one,” he cuts you off again, making it very clear how little interest he had in hearing any of it.
Again, like his previous comments, it upsets you. In fact, it’s the last straw. “Yeah? Well, you’re not the boss of me. If I want another glass of wine, it’s in my rights to fucking have one.”
You don’t scream it, and yet, he acts like you do. Scolding you like you’re some child throwing a tantrum, nearly growling at you in return, “Lower your voice. I'm not having this discussion with you if you’re going to be yelling.”
You can only scoff, completely flabbergasted by him and his behaviour. “Ugh, you’re so infuriating sometimes,” you nearly shriek, though he shuts the door in your face before hearing it.
He gets in the driver’s seat, snaps his belt in place, and veers out of the lot in one swift movement. In any other circumstance, you’d find his capabilities assuring—maybe even a little arousing. But, right now it only serves to piss you off.
The rest of the drive is silent. You keep your gaze fixed out of the window, not even acknowledging the way his wrist go white wringing the wheel—probably sitting there waiting for you to beg his forgiveness or something stupid.
You don’t know what to say. All you know is that you’re going home by yourself.
“Give me my purse,” you demand once you’re outside his apartment. Your hand stretched out, waiting for him to hand it to you. You’d abandon it if it weren't for the unfortunate fact that your keys and your phone were both confiscated within it.
“You’ll get it once we’re inside,” he sighs, his entire back bulking with the action, standing with it facing you as he unlocks the door. Again, flat-out ignoring you as if you had no say in the matter.
“No,” you protest, insisting, “I'm going to my own apartment, so give me my purse.”
With his hand once again around your upper arm, he tugs on you despite you planting your feet and pulling back. “Don’t be difficult.”
You grab his wrist, trying to twist it off, but failing. “I don’t need you to baby me—I’m not a fucking child.”
“Oh yeah? You could have fooled me, standing here throwing a fit for everyone to hear.” He only tightens his grip, tugging you harder—so hard you’re forced off balance and nearly fall straight into him. “Now get your butt inside before I throw you over my shoulder.”
He doesn’t give you any time or room to refuse, all but dragging you inside and placing you on the couch with a mean and very nearly brutal shove. “Sit down.”
He then gets down on one knee in front of you. Hands lifting your foot onto his thigh as he begins undoing the straps to your heels.
“I can do that myself—” you try to pry it away from him, but he only pulls it back into place.
“Just sit.”
You don’t know what to do at that point. Eyeing him and the way he was positively radiating annoyance. You’re equally frustrated, and still, you can’t help but be struck with this sensation that it doesn’t matter much when he’s more equipped in enacting his will.
In the end, you just sit there like he’d commanded, at a loss for what you could do or say—and only getting more frustrated by it.
“Now this,” he declares once done, gesturing to your dress as he gets up, fingers clawing under the hem, beginning to pull it up.
“Stop it already. I said I can do it myself!” Your hands are on his chest then, having had enough—this time officially. “Ugh, just get off, I’m going home!”
You don’t know what happened, but something instinctual must have kicked in once it was clear he wouldn’t listen, because suddenly, without warning, you kicked him in the shin in order to get him off.
But little good it does you...
In fact, it only makes the following events that much worse.
“What's gotten into you, huh? Acting so fuckin’ bratty—”
His hand is atop your mouth like a piece of duct tape, trapping all unwanted noise beneath it. He’s got you lying on your back now, himself on top of you. Your dress balled up in his other fist, this time opting to rip it off rather than tug you out of it.
“I swear, nothing good ever comes from letting you women yap amongst yourselves—you always come back with so much attitude and dumb ideas I gott’a straighten out.”
Your struggles seem to mean nothing to him—all efforts to thwart him, easily ignored.
“You can bet your ass this is the last time I let you go anywhere with those sluts. I mean, just look at you—dressed like a fucking whore. A shitty fucking influence the lot of ‘em.”
He succeeds in tearing the dress, throwing it across the floor like trash—passing little consideration to the way it has you squirming beneath him with fat tears now streaming down your cheeks, soaking his fingers in a way that should have been enough to reconsider.
And yet, his eyes seem more concerned with your other articles.
“You even wear pretty underwear for ‘em—fuck’s that about, huh?” Clicking his tongue, the frown on his face is enough to make your stomach churn—fully terrified of what he meant to do next.
“What’s left for me?” His eyes meet yours, demanding an answer from you even though your lips were sealed under his grip. “If you go parading around for the entire fucking world to see, what’s left?”
His other hand balls up into a fist, then bangs against the back cushion to the side of your face, hard enough to make the entire couch skirt just a bit, making you let out a muffled scream, followed by a whimper as you shut your eyes hard and start praying.
“I’m the only one who’s supposed to see you like this. It’s supposed to be my fucking privilege. Something special for me to cherish.”
You feel his touch return to you, and you tremble receiving it, despite it only softly stroking your skin in ticklish touches, down your chest and belly until stopping at the lace of your panties.
There’s a heavy sigh, loud enough for the pursuing silence to feel deafening.
“But I guess… if you’re gonna act like a cheap whore, I might as well treat you like one.”
The quickening beat of your heart makes it hard to breathe while your eyes blow open wide at the feel of him tearing at the lace. Your sobbing turns more violent, while your hands fly to keep the flimsy garment in place.
“No? You don’t want that?” he mocks without humor, and you try your best to shake your head under his hold, every thought begging him to stop.
Teeth grit, he continues, “Then quit being difficult and start doing what I say. Can you do that?”
You peel your eyes open, now nearly choking on the tears clogging your nose. Sniveling as you give him pitiful nods, hoping it will suffice.
“Good,” he affirms.
His hold relents after that, just enough for you to be able to suck in a breath. Sill though, calming down takes you a moment, and even then you never fully manage completely—just enough to turn your sobbing into softer bleating.
He allows you the time to recover, before getting up and demanding the same of you.
“Come on. Bathroom.”
His hand’s on your nape, guiding you like a leash and collar. You keep your head bowed, feeling exposed as you shuffle along just in front of him. Regarding him like a beast on your heels.
You enter the bathroom, where he positions you in front of the sink.
“Let’s get all this clown shit off.”
His actions are gentler now, but they still feel anything but. Still making you sniffle as you stand there, knees wobbly, stuck in shock as he proceeds to find your makeup remover.
Your breaths are wintry as you stand there, both hands shaking, holding onto the white marble, staring into the drain, terrified to meet his reflection in the mirror above as he starts to drag a wet wipe over your cheeks and lips, rubbing your no-doubt ruined make-up off.
You watch as each cotton-cloth is discarded one after the other in the basin below, flecked with black mascara streaks and pink rouge, the latest one cleaner than the first few.
“There she is—that’s better,” he coos once done. Caressing your face in his hand as he lifts it up to look straight ahead.
You don’t want to, but the way his fingers all rub against your jugular, is enough for you to take as a warning. Seeing yourself—your eyes puffy, lashes gathered in wet wisps, bottom lip trembling.
“My pretty girl.”
He sags forward, lowering his mouth to your neck, kissing you there in slow but heavy mouthfuls. His other hand, the one not holding you by the throat, is snaked around your midriff with his arm across your body, pushing you against him and the way he angles his hips against your ass and grinds into you from the back.
“I’m sorry for getting upset,” he murmurs with a groan then, but it’s not an effective apology. “It’s just so frustrating, you know? To be here, worrying about you out there—epsecially when you don’t take any safety precautions. You just…” His mouth reaches your ear, nuzzling the shell, his breath making it burn. “You drive me fucking nuts.”
You don’t dare reply. You don’t dare do anything. You just keep clutching onto the sink, as though letting go would result in him pulling you away somewhere more dangerous.
“You’re so cruel—always leaving me with my dick in my hand.” His hands fall to your hips, his grip bruising as he kneads you against him and the hard thing jabbing itself against your ass.
“I’m sorry–” comes out of your mouth before you can think.
To which he releases a pent-up chuckle. “That’s okay…”
He rests his chin on his shoulder, mouth perfectly level with your ear with words holding onto something utterly horrid, saying, “It’s like you said—you can make it up to me.”
Valko and Zayne glance at each other, then back at you. The waiter is gone before they can interject, which is almost the (non existent) cherry on top.
"You don't want dessert?" Valko pouts, and you have to resist the urge to call the waiter back immediately at the sight of his sad puppy dog eyes.
"We don't always need dessert, right?" You grin, meeting Zayne's gaze with probably too much mirth in your eyes. He raises a brow at your antics, but shrugs as he concedes.
"I agree. We can always eat dessert at home."
In hindsight, you should have just let them have that damn chocolate cake.
"Please! I can't-can't cum again!" You nearly scream as you fall apart on Zayne's tongue, hips jerking against his mouth as he works you through the aftershocks.
"Come on, one more? It's only fair I get a taste too." Valko grins, canines flashing as he nudges Zayne over. They're both situated between your legs, happily sharing for once.
"You-you already had your turn" You whine, feeling his tongue drag over your inner thigh.
"Mhm but Zayne got to go twice. I want another turn too." He knows exactly what he's doing, hot breath making you squirm under him.
"O-okay okay you can go a-again." He dives in the moment the words leave your lips, making you cry out immediately. You're still so sensitive, but it's hard to complain when it feels this good.
"Having fun?" Zayne murmurs, leaning in to kiss you. You didn't notice him move to your side, though the distraction is welcome.
"It-fuck-it's too much V-Valko!"
"Don't worry, you can take it. Besides...it's almost time for your dessert."
"Is that...new?" Zayne ask while staring at you. Well, in particular, he's staring at your legs. You glance down and the reasoning dawns on you.
"What, the skirt? Yeah! Do you like it?" You do a spin for him, smoothing down the fabric. He still hasn't looked up to your face.
"...I do. It's very pretty." He swallows thickly, adjusting his tie slightly. You've seen that look before, which is exactly why you step closer with a grin.
"It's a really soft fabric. Do you wanna feel?" You stop beside his chair, leaning against the desk. His gaze drops once more, trailing from your knee high socks to the mini skirt brushing your mid thigh.
Hesitantly, his hand comes up, the backs of his fingers skimming your leg before taking the edge of the fabric between his thumb and pointer finger.
"Soft." He notes, not letting go. Your smile grows as you move closer, taking his wrist and guiding it closer.
"I have another...surprise for you." You murmur as his fingers skim the inside of your thigh before eventually reaching their destination. His brows raise, looking at you in surprise.
"No underwear?"
"Mhm. You're more predictable than you think, Dr. Zayne." You tease, though it drops when the pads of his fingers brush your clit. He pulls you into his lap in one swift motion, movements never wavering.
"Z-Zayne..." You murmur, grinding against his hand as two lithe fingers slip inside you slowly. His hand grips your hip, aiding in the motion as you rock against him.
"Keep going for me, love." He murmurs against the skin of your neck, sucking a small mark there. Your hips move on their own, chasing your high as his palm grinds into your clit and makes you gasp.
You cum hard, nearly collapsing into him. He eases his fingers out of you, and you watch through half lidded eyes as he cleans them off with his tongue, humming in satisfaction as if tasting a dessert.
Hello!😁 May I request for joui-4 having an argument with their s/o who has an anger issue, suddenly lash out to them (screaming and start throwing things), then she apologize to the boys for overreacting? if its to much Gin and Takasugi will do. ^^
This took me a while to get to but I wanna be ambitious and do all four!! I'm writing this under the assumption that anger issues have been established
Joi 4 Arguing with S/O
Gintoki
He could already see the direction the conversation was headed the second you lowered your head, but it was too late. The onslaught of the stuff on his desk pelting him had already begun.
Tactless as ever, he dug himself an inescapable hole. He knew better than to provoke you; this was truly avoidable.
"I'M SORRY!! I SHOULD'VE THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT I SAID!" Something about that response made it all worse. He could see the guilt and regret set in in real-time. Tears started to well up.
"Gintoki. I'm sorry I'm always like this. I know better than not to take everything you say seriously." Stifling sobs brought him to his knees in front of his s/o
"Y/N, I appreciate that, but you shouldn't apologize. I shouldn't have pushed your buttons. I knew what I was doing and did it anyway; you don't deserve that." He couldn't stand to see you cry
You open your arms wordlessly and he holds you close, comforting you.
Katsura
I imagine him and Sakamoto being more oblivious
It was long since he stepped on a metaphorical mine. You stopped dead in the trail during your walk together. He finally stopped talking to notice you weren't by his side anymore
You grabbed anything you could and started hurling away. He cluelessly called out to you: "WHAT'S WRONG, Y/N?" The nail in the coffin was a rock that hit him square in the face.
"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" You ran to him, now holding his cheek.
"I'm fine, but what about you? Are you not feeling well? You stopped walking just now." You couldn't help but feel so bad for unleashing havoc, he couldn't even comprehend the reason for it. You simply nodded with tears streaming down your face.
"Actually, I'm really sorry... That was really unprecedented of me, you aren't even aware of what you did." He moved his hand from his face your yours, making quick work to wipe away your sadness.
"You never do anything without a reason, dear. You have all the patience in the world to understand me and my cause; it's only fair if I extend the same kindness to you. Let's talk about this so you won't have to worry anymore."
That infj empathy plays no games.
Sakamoto
This guy is the butt monkey to many people in his life. You don’t always knock the sense into him, however. Sometimes it was never-ending stupidity, you honestly thought it was to provoke you. Today was the final straw
It was that damn laugh. He just had to lay it on thick today of all days. “I wish you knew when to quit.” You got up and left the room, making your way to the deck of the ship.
He followed after you calling out to you; you simply hastened your pace. He grabbed your wrist before you disappeared. “Please, wait! Can you tell me what’s wrong?” You swiped your arm free, “I seriously can’t tell if you take me seriously! I’m sick of it!”
In the heat of the moment you shoved him onto the floor, he broke his fall with his bad hand, a notable wince escaped gritted teeth. The damage had been done, the reality of what happened sank in and in its wake came the shame from your outburst. You fell to the floor next to him
“Sakamoto! I’m sorry for being so careless, look what I did to you. I was overreacting, I can’t believe I hurt you.” You held him close and wept. He grabbed ahold of your shoulder and pushed you away, a familiar smile on his face
“You and everyone really know how to make a man reflect on his actions. That hurt like hell! It’s gonna be okay. Please just tell me what’s on your mind!” He sat you next to him, you both now leaning against the wall and on each other. It’s gonna be okay!
Takasugi
I feel like, realistically, getting into arguments with Takasugi on the wrong day is the perfect recipe for trauma bonding. This is under the assumption he’s got a little empathy to spare for the day
The distance Takasugi leaves between you two really gets under your skin. Emotional availability is a bit dubious at times, but he committed to be with you; if only it felt like he was.
The two of you were alone in his quarters. The tension in the air was palpable. He kept pulling away on his kiseru. You couldn’t even be bothered to look at him. An exhale pierced the silence, “There’s something on your mind.” following shortly after.
“You’re only observant when it’s convenient to you. You said you’d be here for me, but you’ve been blowing me off.” You grabbed the bag of tobacco he left off to the side and threw it at him, leaves scattering everywhere. He glared right at you, eyes dancing around the mess everywhere.
Once he put away his kiseru you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed with your outburst. You swallowed the shame welling up in your throat, trying to control your emotions while you still can. “I-I’m sorry. That was a dumb way to go about how I was feeling. I’m just so frustrated.” He made his way towards you.
“I’m sorry too. I failed to keep my promise to you by agreeing to be your partner. I’m here for you now though if that helps.” He brushed a lock of hair behind your ear, getting a better look at your face. “You do mean a lot to me, I just get caught up in my own world sometimes. I hope you can forgive me.” You just surrendered yourself to your emotions, seeking comfort in his waiting embrace.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. when gintama characters being clingy to you!
𝐂𝐖. fluff, suggestive theme.
𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄. gintoki, takasugi, abuto.
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. bulleted points, grammatical errors, not proofread.
𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐀 𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐈
↷ gintoki is a shameless man. but he kept his love life private between you and him only. he never do something more than a simple hug when everybody is around.
↷ but when the both of you isolated from anyone, he would totally a different person, still goofy but more clingy. sulking and complaining when he lost skin contact with you.
↷ yorozuya's day off is his favorite day. shinpachi wasn't around, and kagura probably hanging out with some punk in the park along with sadaharu. gintoki can finally lazying around on the sofa while reading jump.
↷ the thing is, he read it while he's on top of you. his body lay between your legs, he put the jump on your chest as he demand you to play with his hair, his feet swinging on the air, humming happily.
↷ sooner or later, you notice his half-lidded eyes getting heavy, he enjoyed your massage on his scalp he's now on the way to his nap time. his face, god dammit, his sleepy face is just fucking so cute.
↷ gintoki put his jump away, his arms holding you tightly as he mumbled, “c'mere, i need to recharge myself.”
𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐈 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐄
↷ this mysterious man, it's hard to guess what's happening in his head. his exterior be hard as fuck he barely let his guard down, even when with you, especially.
↷ but there's that one night when he felt tired of this world, when it's colder than any other nights. he'd put down his shamisen, looking out for your presence.
↷ takasugi would brought you to his room, he sat down with his legs crossed, putting you on his lap as he wrap his arms around you waist, leaning his side head to your neck, nuzzling his nose to your neck, savoring your sweet scent.
↷ you'd plants a few peck on his ear and shoulder, leaning your cheek on his head, your hands caress his back, his haori smooth against your palms. he wouldn't want to let you go any time soon.
↷ there's no need for words. a comfortable silence is more than enough for you two, considering a lot of bickering between matako and the lolicon ossan never missed a day.
↷ but you eventually break the silence when it's almost midnight already, “are you not going to bed, shinsuke?”
↷ “no. i'm bedding you down tonight.” takasugi replied, his rough hands caress your back under your clothes.
𝐀𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐎
↷ abuto is a busy man. he didn't have a lot of time with you because babysitting his own commander is one hell of a job. he lost an arm while at it.
↷ however, when he's about to reach his limit, he'd come to find you and bring you to his place just so he can spent his day off with you.
↷ abuto would just throw himself down to the bed. his legs wide open before pulling you to lay on top of his body. his hands immediately find your back and rest them on it.
↷ you'd just chuckled when he let out a rough sigh as you start caressing his cheeks and kissing him all over his face. he'd pat your lower back repeatedly, leaning into your soft touch.
↷ his tired face staring back at you, his chest rise and fall against your chest. ooh, what a sight. and when your cheeks burst out red, abuto smirked.
↷ “watch it, doll. don't give me that face if you don't wanna get fucked.” he warned.
When you and Draco get into some small argument, Narcissa decides to knock some sense into her son. What? Did you really think she'd take anyone's side but yours?
CW! small couple fight, coarse language, Draco overcomes ego. Let me know if I missed anything!
This is a short one, but I love any fics with great Narcissa-reader relationships.
Masterlist
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
Narcissa Malfoy loves routines.
She loves pre-set tea-times and punctual gatherings. She loves the certainty it brings to such an uncertain existence. And she simply does not care if the snobbish pureblood ladies call her a rigid scheming bitch for it.
It’s just who she is.
So forgive her for the overwhelming concern that collects in her neck when you don’t show up that weekend. It’s practically a ritual–ever since you started dating Draco. Saturdays mean a day full of shopping and a luxurious evening dinner. Over the years, as you developed from the nervous girl Draco brought home, to his confident fiancée, she’d grown attached to it. In her mind so had you.
It must be serious if you missed it.
So, she storms into her son’s study, voice low as she says, “What did you do?”
“Mother,” Draco startles. But Narcissa is unfazed, her arms crossing over her chest.
“Why isn’t she here yet?”
He remains silent for a long moment. Then he sighs, long and full of suffering. Sounds like an argument. Narcissa is unsure whether to feel bad for her poor son, or hex him for fighting with you.
“We got into a small…disagreement,” Draco says finally. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes averting to his desk.
“A disagreement about what?”
“It’s very petty. I don’t know why she’s gotten into such a toss about it.”
“Now, Draco.” Narcissa loves her son very much. She would die for him, it’s common knowledge. But there are some things she considers unacceptable. Which is disrespecting women, you especially.
“Have I taught you nothing?”
Draco sighs again. Narcissa softens a little. She gently rubs his shoulder, “What happened?”
“I forgot to say ‘I love you’ before leaving the apartment last Friday.”
Narcissa barely stifles a gasp. Draco casts her a look, before sinking into a wing chair.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy.”
“Mother.”
“You better go apologize to the girl right now.”
“What? It wasn’t that ser-”
“I don’t want any of that ego, Draco.” Her tone rarely hardens around him. He scowls, but it falls flat immediately. Narcissa knows this must be hard on him. For all that pride he’s inherited, there’s only so long he can stay away from you. Only so long until his steel and porcelain crack.
She sighs this time, settling beside him.
“Verbal acknowledgements of love are very gratifying, Draco.”
“I know.”
“It doesn’t take long to say three words.”
“I know.”
“And it’s obvious to anyone with…any senses, truly, that you love her.”
“I-I do.”
“And I want my best friend back.”
Draco finally meets his mother’s gaze. She sees the baffling combination of emotions ravaging through his head. She reaches over to smooth the hair on his forehead. He leans into the age-old comfort, nodding slowly.
“I’ll go talk to her.”
A beat of silence.
Then he jumps up to his feet, pulling his coat off his hanger, “I’ll go right now.”
Narcissa can’t help but smile. He can’t stay away from you for long, but sometimes, everyone needs a little guiding nudge.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The last thing you expected to see when you opened the door was a very rain soaked Draco Malfoy.
His platinum hair drips all over the fancy wooden floors of the building. His coat is sopping, and despite the very recent argument, you are terrified your Victorian child of a fiancé will catch a cold. You tug him into the warmth of your apartment.
But you are mad at him.
So no welcome. And certainly no kiss.
“Darling.”
You don’t respond, disappearing within the depths of the house to fetch warm clothes. You hear his footsteps behind you.
What does he think? He can show up drenched in rain and just expect you to talk to him. You take your goodbyes very seriously.
You don’t know why he didn’t apparate into the building straightaway. There’s no protective spells about it. Or why he didn’t just use your fireplace. He has done so multiple times before, of course. But then again, he’s always been dramatic.
“Y/N.” He catches hold of your wrist. The cold makes you shudder.
“Look at me.”
You turn slowly. You’re surprised he’s overcome his pride at all.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, are you?”
You free yourself from his grasp. He doesn’t resist. He runs a hand through his hair. A trait you’re so familiar with. He’s frustrated, maybe tired. You huff, annoyed.
“I didn’t think I’d have to force you to say ‘I love you’.”
“I do say it!”
“Yeah,” you scoff, “Not everytime.”
“Merlin’s sake,” He curses, and you roll your eyes, “You and my mother have dangerously similar ideals.”
“Oh, so she put you up to this? That makes sense.”
“No, wait. Please let me-”
“Get changed, Draco.” You all but toss the clothes at him. A shirt that you had stolen from him a few weeks ago. He catches it, tossing it to the side.
Before you can react, he grabs hold of your waist, spinning you around. You let out a small yelp, but he’s down on his knees, his wet hair pressing against your abdomen. His thumbs rub slow circles over your hips. A shaky breath escapes his lips.
“I love you, Y/N.” His voice makes a shiver run down your spine. It’s soft and low, like the sound of rustling velvet. You love it so, so much. But you force your hands to stay stiff by your side.
“I love you every moment of the day, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you last week. It is utterly my fault, and it is again my fault that it took my mother for me to realise that." His head lifts to meet your gaze, “Do you understand?”
You think you might cry. Your voice trembles when you say, “Yeah. Yeah, I love you too.”
He takes your hand to press a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist, “Good. Because I do think my mother would kill me if I let you miss another weekend with her.”
You laugh at that, finally ruffling his hair like you’ve been dying to do. He scowls, but it’s playful.
“I don’t think I could live without another weekend with her,” You answer.
He lets out some sound of relief, and you giggle again, “Let’s go then.”
You grin, wild and unrestricted.
Narcissa might just be the bestest friend a girl could ask for.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ boyfriend!mattheo who loves you sooooo much that he’s actually willing to change his ways and become a better boyfriend person for you.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ boyfriend!mattheo who has a soft spot for you and only you. you see a side of him no one else does. not just the soft side, but also the goofy and silly side, the one who smiles and laughs at tiny first years falling over the weight of their bags
⊹ ࣪ ˖ boyfriend!mattheo who always complains about how he hates things that taste too sweet (basically any little snack you keep in your room) but nevertheless without fail they will all end up missing by the end of the week..
⊹ ࣪ ˖ boyfriend!mattheo who doesn’t like going to sleep early but he will, because you do, just so he can fall asleep next to you. and if he doesn’t fall asleep he’ll watch you laying next to him, memorising every little detail of your face (in the most non-creepy way😁)
⊹ ࣪ ˖ boyfriend!mattheo who acts like he doesn’t care if he sees you talking to any guy, even if it’s literally in class, but when he goes back to his shared dorm his friends will literally never hear the end of it.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ boyfriend!mattheo who will by any means kill for you, even if it’s the old lady who barkeeps at the Three Broomsticks who glares at you anytime you walk in.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ boyfriend!mattheo who pretends to hate your 2000s netflix tv shows, but every time georgina reappears every season he always has something to say about it..
⊹ ࣪ ˖ boyfriend!mattheo who loves to spoil you and let you have your way, even when you’re bitching and complaining his ear off, he will always do what you ask him to.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ boyfriend!mattheo who always steals your expensive shampoo and conditioner because he thinks his simply ‘doesn’t work on him anymore’
⊹ ࣪ ˖ boyfriend!mattheo who’s basically redecorated his entire dorm and bathroom so that you’ll like it more and feel more inclined to stay the night at his
#am i back? yes #will i reclaim this corner of the internet permanently? probably not😬 #completely random and off the top of my head so yeah enjoy x
Yandere Qifrey x non witch! Experimented brimmed hat reader x Yandere Olruggio
Warning: physical abuse, sexual abuse, mental torture, bad parenting, human experiments, non con, suicidal thoughts, attempt to self harm, locking up, rape, Dead dove don't eat
Author's note: This is my first time I'm writing for this maga or characters of this anime!! Hope you guys like it.. and sorry for the gore. People who are sensitive don't reader the story after reading the warning. Don't come complaining to me later.
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Your life was never better.... You parents hated that you were born.... They didn't wanted to be parents... They already had joined brimmed hats and now another trouble to take care off.... So you became the guinea pig for the experiments of brimmed hats...
You didn't know what happiness was until you meet coco.. you and the other four witches talked and played ... You were older than them and they loved your company... You felt like big sister.. to them.. but that happiness was short lived.. Qifrey and Olruggio found out you were under brimmed hats... The forbidden sigil on your skin was enough ... And after that nothing mattered.
It didn't mattered that you don't know how to make sigils.. or use magic.. it didn't mattered when you begged that you never meant to hurt the girls... You just wanted friends....
One thing led to other you were given to Qifrey and Olruggio as a prisoner... After Beldaruit reluctantly agreed. And after that started real torture... You never got to ask why Qifrey hated you so much... You were his stress relief... Both sexually and physically... Olruggio never liked the way Qifrey treated you or used you but neither did he ever tried to stop.
One thing that you learnt was that the basement had no seasons. Only the scrape of the lock, the sound of footsteps, and the ache that never quite faded. You no longer counted the days.
The witch they had captured...... the brimmed hat they had feared and hated.....had become little more than a shadow wrapped in bruises.
Your wrists, legs , and body bore old scars layered over new ones. Hunger had become so familiar that your stomach had stopped complaining altogether.
In one terrible moment, after another beating had left your thoughts scattered, your mind reached for something it barely remembered.
Comfort.
You had leaned toward Qifrey as he was fucking you with trembling arms, seeking nothing more than the warmth another human being might offer. Unfortunately you had hugged him... Trying to find the pleasure... That he was feeling cause all you ever felt was pain.
His response came as a sharp slap.
"Don't touch me."
The words hurt more than the sting.
Whatever fragile hope remained...... that somewhere beneath the hatred he still saw a person...... shattered with that single sentence.
After that, you stopped trying.
It was a week after you had been given to them, Olruggio stood outside the basement door.
"...She isn't eating."
Qifrey didn't look up from the papers spread across the table.
"She chose that."
"The bread is stale enough to break teeth. At least give her butter."
Silence.
"It changes nothing," Qifrey finally replied.
"It changes whether she survives."
Another silence.
Neither of them noticed that survival had already ceased to matter to the prisoner below. The fork lay on the floor where it had fallen. A shallow line marked your throat. You hadn't even had the strength to finish what you'd started.
You curled tighter against the cold stones instead, clutching the only thing you had refused to let anyone take.... a ragged, oversized tunic. It smelled faintly of smoke and old fabric softener, its owner long forgotten by your exhausted mind.
Maybe it had once belonged to Olruggio. Maybe someone else. It didn't matter. You folded it carefully every morning, before Qifrey would come to take you on the ground.... You kept thatbone thing safe despite everything else around you rotting. You held it against your bare skin like a child hugging a blanket, protecting it from the damp floor more carefully than you protected yourself.
Food waited untouched in the corner.
The butter Olruggio had argued for arrived eventually. You stared at it without recognition.
People who intended to keep living needed food, not the dead. You only needed the tunic. Something clean. Something that had once belonged to someone who walked freely beneath the sky.
Above the basement, the atelier carried on with lessons, laughter, and the scratching of pens across parchment. Below it, a "brimmed witch" quietly forgot what it felt like to be human. Olruggio nearly missed it. The bowl from that morning still sat untouched. The butter had softened. You hadn't moved.
"...Hey."
No answer. The silence felt wrong. He unlocked the basement door, and the iron hinges groaned open.You were slumped against the wall, one hand pressed loosely against your neck. Blood had seeped between your fingers, trailing over your collarbone and staining the oversized tunic you still clutched close.
Your eyes were half closed Not frightened. Not angry. Just...waiting... For death. Olruggio froze.
"...Qifrey!"
His voice echoed through the atelier. He was beside you in an instant, dropping to his knees. "No, no..."
When he pulled your hand away, the wound wasn't deep enough to have killed you quickly, but it was enough. Left alone, it could still take your life.
"Stay with me."
You looked at him without recognition.
"I'll carry you."
Your lips barely moved.
"...It's okay."
Your voice was little more than a whisper.
"I'm...tired.... Don't bother saving me."
There was no accusation. No hatred. No curse.
Only exhaustion. Olruggio lifted you into his arms, shocked by how little you weighed. Your body felt frighteningly light, as though months of neglect had hollowed you out from the inside.
Qifrey met them halfway up the stairs. For a heartbeat, he simply stared.
"...What happened?"
Olruggio's usual calm was gone.
"We're wasting time. Call for the wagon... we need healers...."
The healer worked in silence, closing the wound and stopping the bleeding. Hours passed. Finally, they stepped outside.
"Will she live?"
Olruggio asked immediately. The healer looked between the two witches.
"The injury itself is survivable."
Relief flickered across Olruggio's face. It vanished when the healer continued.
"But injury isn't the main problem."
Qifrey frowned.
"What do you mean?"
The healer folded their hands.
"Her body responded to treatment."
A pause.
"Her spirit did not."
Neither man spoke.
"I've treated people after cave-ins, curses, and wars. I've seen grievous injuries."
The healer's voice remained calm.
"But your prisoner..."
They looked back toward the room where you lay.
"She did not cried to be saved.."
"She did not ask whether she would recover."
"She did not ask where she was."
"When I told her the bleeding had stopped..."
Another pause.
"She apologized."
Olruggio's expression faltered.
"Apologized?"
The healer nodded.
"She said, 'I'm sorry I caused trouble.'"
Silence settled over the room.
"As if she hates herself more than the person who made her do that. "
For some reason, those words felt heavier than any accusation.
"She hates herself."
The healer sighed quietly.
"And that frightens me more."
Qifrey's jaw tightened.
"Can you heal her?"
The healer answered without hesitation.
"We healers can stitch flesh. Can mend broken bones."
"But someone who has lost the will to live..."
They looked directly at him.
"...cannot be healed even by magic alone."
For the first time since the basement door had opened, neither Qifrey nor Olruggio had an answer. The only sound was the quiet breathing from the room beyond, where you laid there with beating heart .... but with almost nothing left to hold on to.
Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.
A/N: I actually hate this😭
Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs
@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3
bonus scene pt 2
The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.
"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."
His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.
"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."
Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."
"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."
Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.
"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."
***
Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.
You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.
The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.
“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”
Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.
“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.
Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”
But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.
Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.
You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.
And then —
everything went wrong.
The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light.
A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.
Every cauldron detonated at once.
Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.
You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.
Everyone in the classroom froze.
Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide.
Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes.
Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.
“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.
“Did you see that light?”
“She cursed him—”
“No, he cursed her—!”
“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.
But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.
“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”
Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.
Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.
You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.
You had no idea what had just happened.
But it had changed something.
And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.
***
The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.
Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.
But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.
"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."
You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:
“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”
You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.
You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.
“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”
“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.
“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”
Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.
“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”
Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”
“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”
Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”
Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”
“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”
McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave,
“A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”
The word hit the room like a curse.
“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”
You stared at him.
“No. That’s — that’s insane.”
“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.
Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”
“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.
“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”
Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”
You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.
Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”
He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”
Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”
You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”
Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.
“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”
Your breath caught.
No. No, no, no—
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.
Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”
And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.
You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.
“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”
McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.
Your first day as an adult.
And already… you’d been sentenced to death.
***
The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.
“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”
Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”
Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”
A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.
“I bumped into her. That’s all.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”
Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”
But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.
He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.
“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.
A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.
Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”
Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”
He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.
“Accio.”
A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.
Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.
He was staring at his hand.
It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.
“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”
Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Something was wrong.
It was the way his magic felt.
Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore.
Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.
He stood abruptly.
“I’m going to bed.”
And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.
***
The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.
“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”
But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.
You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.
Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.
***
The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”
There was no response.
He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”
Still nothing.
Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”
Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.
They both froze.
Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.
But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.
Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”
They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.
Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.
“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.
Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.
***
You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.
Your pace slowed as you spotted them.
McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.
All gathered around a single hospital bed.
The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.
It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.
Mattheo.
Your breath caught.
He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.
You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.
“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”
No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.
You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”
McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.
Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What?”
“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.
You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”
Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”
“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”
No one spoke at first.
Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”
You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.
But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.
Your hands curled into fists.
“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”
Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.
“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”
No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.
But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.
“…his breath is getting fainter.”
“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”
Your steps faltered.
And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.
Like guilt.
Like dread.
But you walked away anyway.
***
The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.
You couldn’t sleep.
Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.
You told yourself he deserved it.
You told yourself you were right.
But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.
And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.
It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.
You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.
You just… had to see him.
The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.
Mattheo.
“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.
He hadn’t moved.
His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.
You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.
“I’ll do it.”
The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.
Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”
You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.
“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”
Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”
You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.
“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”
“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.
You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.
You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.
It was cold.
But you held it anyway.
The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.
Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.
You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.
But now…
You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.
“What do I say?” You whispered.
Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”
You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.
Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”
You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”
“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”
Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”
“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”
You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”
Your wand pulsed with heat.
The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.
You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.
A soft gasp escaped his lips.
You froze.
Mattheo’s hand twitched.
Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.
“…You?”
His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it.
And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.
It was done.
The pact was sealed.
You were married.
You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”
McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.
“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”
You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.
You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.
Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.
And then a voice — hoarse, furious:
“What the fuck did you do?”
You froze.
Mattheo.
You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.
He was staring straight at you.
“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.
“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.
He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.
“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”
“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”
Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.
“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”
You flinched like he’d struck you.
The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.
And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.
“You’re right.”
Mattheo blinked.
Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.
“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”
McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.
“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”
Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.
But you weren’t finished.
“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”
You paused — your voice cold as ice.
“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”
The room went deathly still.
You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.
And behind you, no one said a word.
***
The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.
Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:
The marriage bond was to remain a secret.
Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.
But silence didn’t mean peace.
In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.
You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.
Your professors were at their absolute limit.
McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.
The problem was: detention didn’t help.
You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?
Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.
Because the truth was simple:
You two weren’t combustible.
You were already on fire.
And the next explosion was only a matter of time.
It was supposed to be a simple lesson.
“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”
You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.
A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.
Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.
And Mattheo’s?
Two rows behind and off to the right.
Far enough to ignore.
Close enough to still feel him.
You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.
The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.
Right off your desk.
The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—
It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.
His reaction was instant.
Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”
You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”
“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”
The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.
Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.
Your throat tightened like a vice.
“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”
“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”
“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”
His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”
“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”
Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.
“I swear to Merlin—”
Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”
“ENOUGH!”
McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.
With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.
She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.
Neither of you said a word.
“Outside. Now.”
You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.
And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.
But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.
Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.
And it wouldn’t be the bond.
It would be you.
***
Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.
Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.
“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.
The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.
For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?
Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.
Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.
You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”
You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.
Mattheo’s confusion deepened.
He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.
The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?
A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.
He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”
***
The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.
It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.
Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.
You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.
But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.
Your husband.
Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?
Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?
Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.
Not really.
Not freely.
You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.
You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price.
And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.
***
Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."
He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.
No.
He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.
It wasn’t fair.
You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.
He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.
He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.
And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.
Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.
This was just magic.
He didn’t believe in fate.
***
The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.
It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.
Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”
You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.
You didn’t look.
You didn’t need to.
Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him.
Feel his magic.
And it was driving you insane.
Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—
“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.
The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.
You flinched back—
But not fast enough.
A hand caught your wrist and yanked.
Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.
The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.
You froze.
Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.
“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”
Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”
But your voice faltered.
Because your skin was touching.
And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.
Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.
Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”
Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.
“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.
The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.
And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.
He didn’t let go.
He pulled you closer.
One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.
You couldn’t breathe.
For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.
But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.
Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.
You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.
The distance snapped back into place.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.
But something had.
You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.
Then you looked away.
Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else.
But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:
Husband. Wife.
And the magic remembered.
***
The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.
“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”
Mattheo barely heard him.
They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.
“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.
Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.
A voice floated down the stairs.
Yours.
The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.
You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.
He spat the offending thing over the ledge.
“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”
“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”
You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.
He shouldn’t care.
Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”
You tilted your head.
He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”
You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”
He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”
“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”
You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”
He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”
Mattheo’s lungs went tight.
“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”
“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”
You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”
Harry didn’t argue.
“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”
Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?
But his heart was pounding.
Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”
“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”
“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”
You laughed softly.
“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”
Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.
“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”
From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.
“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.
Mattheo didn’t respond.
He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”
***
The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.
“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”
Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”
“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”
Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.
“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”
Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”
“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”
They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.
Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”
Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”
“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”
“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.
“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.
Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.
“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.
“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.
“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.
Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”
“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m leaving.”
Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.
***
Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.
The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.
'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.
It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.
The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.
Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.
As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.
Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.
He was alone. Relaxed.
This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?
Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.
So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.
He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.
Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.
Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?
That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.
You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.
A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.
His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.
He didn’t move at first, just stared.
You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.
Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.
It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.
You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.
Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.
“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”
His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”
You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.
***
The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.
Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.
Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.
“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”
“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.
You rounded a corner—and froze.
Footsteps.
You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.
You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—
You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”
His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”
“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”
His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.
“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.
You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.
When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.
As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.
You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.
“Goodnight, Mattheo.”
A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”
“Get back safe, yeah?”
He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”
You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.
The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”
He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”
“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”
It was only then he realised he was smiling.
And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.
Fuck.
***
The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.
You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.
“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”
You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.
“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.
“I asked first.”
“And I’m ignoring you first.”
He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”
You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”
You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.
He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”
He blinked, “What? Why?”
You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”
Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”
You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.
He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”
You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”
He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”
Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”
He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”
“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”
“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”
You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”
Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”
You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”
You turned to look at him.
The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.
"Maybe I will."
***
The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.
You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.
Until you saw him.
Mattheo.
He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.
You were looking in his direction.
At least that's what you told yourself.
You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.
And that was when Mattheo noticed you.
It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.
Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.
Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.
And you?
You didn’t look at him once.
At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.
Mattheo was gone.
Underwater.
Fully disappeared.
He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.
You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.
He watched the whole time.
*
You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.
“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”
Your eyes widened, “Wait—”
And then you were airborne.
You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.
Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.
And then—
Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.
Mattheo.
You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.
You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.
Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.
But there were no butterflies.
No sparks.
No golden shimmer between you.
Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.
Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.
Mattheo saw red.
He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”
The guy froze mid-step.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.
“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”
“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”
Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.
Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.
You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.
“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”
His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.
He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”
You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”
He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.
“I’ve got you.” He whispered.
And that’s when it hit you.
There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow.
No reminder of your bond.
Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.
Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.
Now?
You already knew.
You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.
Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”
***
You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”
You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”
“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.
Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”
You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”
“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”
Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”
You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”
Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”
You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”
“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”
“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.
“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.
***
Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.
“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”
Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”
“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”
Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”
Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”
“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”
“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.
“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”
“I don’t.”
All four blinked at him.
Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”
Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”
Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”
Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”
“I wasn’t in the mood.”
Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”
But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.
He stared at his hand.
No magic.
But definitely a spark.
***
Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.
A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.
“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”
You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”
That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.
Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?” You pressed.
He hesitated. A beat passed.
Then another.
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”
His throat bobbed, “Does it?”
Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.
“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”
Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.
“Forget it.”
Your chest sank.
“Right.”
You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”
Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.
***
You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.
“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.
You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.
“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”
McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”
You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”
I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.
Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.
“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”
McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”
Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”
McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”
You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.
Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”
Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.
He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.
Other partners?
When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.
But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.
Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.
No. You didn’t want that.
Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”
You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.
Even if you were never truly his.
***
You left the office in silence.
Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.
Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.
Other partners.
The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.
Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.
“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”
You blinked, “Think about what?”
He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”
Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”
He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.
You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”
A pause. Longer than it needed to be.
His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”
You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”
“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”
You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.
Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.
You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?
“But,” You said loudly.
He stopped. Turned.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”
Silence.
It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.
Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.
He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.
“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
You shook your head, “I mean it.”
He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.
His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”
A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.
“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”
Your heart stuttered.
He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”
The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”
He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.
“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”
Neither of you moved.
And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
You didn’t speak.
You didn’t need to.
His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.
You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.
When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.
He didn’t let go.
Neither did you.
And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.
Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.
I literally squealed when he saved reader from drowning and called her MY WIFE and when they FINALLY KISSED!?!?!? I was really kicking my feet with every scene (except at the beginning when Mattheo was being an asshole)
Summary: Fed up with the long list of "lovers" constantly vying for your attention, you decide to propose a little challenge. The first person to present you with the ribbon that was tied around your cat’s neck would win your company at Hogsmeade.
The sound of another low whistle echoing out from across the library catches your attention as you drag your eyes upward just in time to watch the exaggerated wink and grin of yet another wizard trying desperately to win your affection. You feel yourself cringe at the display, making a face as you turn away.
“You know if you just went out with one of them, even just once, they’d all probably leave you alone?” Cho says offhandedly, not even bothering to look up from the essay she was scratching away at.
You lean back with a groan.
“No. No, I’m not giving in to them. It’s about the principle of it all now. These boar headed pricks are not going to bully me into going out with one of them, just to get the whole lot of ‘em to leave me alone. It’s ridiculous! I should report them all for harassment!” You huff, arms crossed as you glare at your companion with agitation.
But Cho just hums in response, still scribbling words on her parchment.
“Mmm. You definitely could do that,” she replies. “Or you could handle it yourself gracefully.”
You feel your eyes roll at the jab. As if you hadn’t thought of that already. You’d tried everything. Letting them down gently. Letting them down not so gently. Threatening to send one boy to St. Mungos. Actually sending a boy to St. Mungos. (On accident of course. No one could prove anything.) Nothing worked.
It was clear that the boys chasing after you only wanted what they couldn’t have. But the more of them that were rejected, the more of them that joined in. Each wanting to be the one that finally broke you down. Pathetic.
It was disgusting. Like you were nothing more than a game to them.
“Look, are you a Ravenclaw or not? All you have to do is out think them. And really how hard could that be? Just set an impossible standard. It’ll divert their attention away from you, you’ll be able to say you’re technically willing to give them a stipulated chance, and they’ll all get bored eventually.”
You feel your head tilt as you consider Cho’s words carefully, letting an idea begin to form as you lean forward, elbows resting on the table. It wasn't a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. If they wanted to play games, you’d give them a game.
Theodore was in paradise. Or as close as he could get to paradise while at this wretched school with its crowded corridors and boisterous common rooms. It wasn’t like Theodore disliked people, quite the opposite really, he just had a deep appreciation for a little bit of peace and quiet every once in a while.
He liked to think he deserved it, what with being friends with the likes of Mattheo Riddle and Lorenzo Berkshire. Theodore thought he was probably single handedly preventing the entire school from being burned down most days. How either of them had made it all the way to sixth year without earning themselves a one way ticket to Azkaban was beyond him. Sometimes amidst all the chaos those two brought with them, Theodore just needed to breathe.
They’d never find him out here. In fact, Theodore had never seen another student out in the field beyond the green house. It was a bit of a jaunt, but the first time Theo had wandered out past the herbology classroom he knew he had struck gold. See what most students didn’t know was that patches of wild catnip were allowed to grow freely here, making it a little slice of heaven for the Hogwarts cat population.
And Theo reveled in it, admiring the furry creatures from a far, letting them approach on their own terms. Mutual respect Theo found, could get you a long way with cats. Theo had most of the four legged beasts wrapped around his finger at this point. Especially since he’d begun sneaking bits of tuna and salmon out from the Great Hall.
Theo couldn’t help but smile as one of the regulars, a sweet orange and black tabby wound its way through his propped up legs, tail flicking happily as it let out a soft purr.
“Hey there little one,” he murmured as the cat pushed its head up against the palm of his hand.
He’d always wanted a cat. His mother had had one when she was in school, but his father had insisted on an owl. More manly he’d said. Whatever that meant.
As Theo continued to play with the little tabby, teasing it with a bit of catnip, the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. It was the familiar feeling he got when he was being watched. A gut feeling he’d found more often than not to be quite reliable.
His eyes shoot up, glancing around at his current company of around ten or so felines meandering about. Except for one. As Theo takes note of each of his furry companions, his eyes fall on one in particular. The culprit. A small black thing with bright, glowing eyes that looked like they knew something he didn’t. It sat perfectly rigid, just staring at him a good distance away. A black silky ribbon was tied neatly around its neck in place of a collar.
Theo stared at the cat for a moment, the cat staring right back ready to bolt at any moment. Theo had seen this before. Some cats just needed time. Giving the cat what he thought was a rather respectable nod, Theo went back to pampering the little tabby in his lap, content with allowing the newcomer to approach when it was ready.
You were stumped. A feeling that greatly agitated your inner Ravenclaw, but that you just couldn’t shake. You didn’t get it. It had been almost two months since you’d taken Cho’s advice. Set an impossible task.
She’d thought you were crazy at first. It seemed much too simple, but she didn’t have the faith you did. Get the ribbon. That’s all the boys had to do. Get the ribbon that was tied around your cat’s neck and you would accompany them to Hogsmeade.
Cho thought you were positively done for. The idea wasn’t exactly what the witch had had in mind, but then she had watched as the little black cat outran each wizard, avoided every one of their carefully plotted traps, and turned its head up at generous bribes. It was a sight to see and you should’ve been proud. Except he hadn’t taken it. And that was what was driving you up a wall. Why hadn’t he? He’d had every opportunity.
There had been so many moments when you’d been sure he’d do it. So many times when his hand would glide over smooth, soft fur right over the silk ribbon. And yet you’d watched every time as, instead of untying the ribbon from your cat’s neck, Theo would give the cat a soft pat on the head and send it on its way like any of the others that seemed to magnetize to him. It was strange.
“What do either of you know about Theodore Nott?” You ask, collapsing with an air of annoyance onto one of the many sofas that were tucked about Ravenclaw Tower.
Cho and her boyfriend Michael Corner glance up, surprised by your sudden appearance, eyebrows furrowing at your strange inquiry.
“Why do you want to know about him?” Michael asks, leaning back with curiosity.
You shrug your shoulders, trying your best to seem nonchalant.
“Just wondering is all.”
Cho raises an unimpressed brow at this, the two of your friends sharing a knowing look.
“He’s a Slytherin. Our year. Pretty quiet for the most part, but he’s best mates with Riddle and Berkshire. Plays chaser for the Slytherin quidditch team. Has some of the best marks in our year,” Michael trails off. “Pretty much sums him up.”
“Except that you forgot to mention he’s a total heart throb. All dark and mysterious. Lots of witches are after him. Probably helps that his Gringotts account holds a sizable fortune,” Cho adds.
“Sorry I didn’t think to mention all that. I just assumed y/n was into actual substance,” Michael mutters.
Cho chooses to ignore the not-so-subtle jab sent her way, instead turning her attention back to you.
“So why do you really want to know about him? He catch your eye?” Cho gasps. “Did he beat your little game?”
You let out a groan.
“No. But he could have. He’s had multiple chances.”
“You sound— disappointed,” Cho observes, watching carefully for your reaction.
You groan again, this time more frustrated.
“I’m not disappointed. I just want to know why!” You sigh, defeated.
“Well I don’t see why it matters. I thought the whole point was that you didn’t want anyone to win,” Michael states.
Cho rolls her eyes at the boy.
“Of course it matters. Don’t be daft.”
“I’m not being daft, I’m making a valid point.”
You watch half amused as your two friends continue to bicker back and forth before realizing that they’d veered so far off track that there was no hope in righting the train wreck. They don’t even notice when you rise from your spot on the sofa, slipping quietly back down the stairs of the tower.
You’d simply have to find the answers to your questions yourself.
Theodore is surprised when he looks up to see a pretty Ravenclaw standing over him in the library, a stack of books in hand and a nervous expression plastered across their face. He’d been expecting Blaise, but his fellow Slytherin was nowhere to be seen.
“You don’t mind do you?” They ask, hand hovering over the chair across from him. “I’d sit alone, but they’ve been following me through the shelves for the last twenty minutes and I don’t feel like being accosted at the moment.”
The Ravenclaw tilts their head, subtly gesturing to a pair of Gryffindors who were whispering loudly at the other end of the aisle.
Theo blinks. He wasn't naive. He'd had a classmate or ten throw themselves at him. Heck he'd been in this Ravenclaw's exact shoes a week ago being followed through the stacks of books in the library. But he'd never seen it happen to someone else. Huh.
“What makes you think I won’t accost you?” Theo asks, eyebrow raised as he leans back to get a better look at his classmate.
It took a moment, but he recognized them as being one of the more— sought after— students in his year, though notorious for repeatedly turning others away. He could see what all the fuss was about. They certainly were a looker.
“Call it a gut feeling,” the Ravenclaw replies, taking a seat. “I’m y/n.”
The first hour is silent bar the occasional rustle of pages being turned as Theo tries and fails to ignore the presence of the attractive student sat across from him. This sort of thing usually didn’t have any sort of effect on him as he was generally rather aloof, but something about them just felt so familiar.
“Is that the charms assignment for next week?” He asks, finally breaking the silence as he recognizes the open textbook strewn haphazardly on the table.
"Hmm? Yeah it is. I keep getting sidetracked so I actually have to get it done today," y/n responds without looking up.
Theo clears his throat nervously. He had no idea why he was doing what he was about to do.
"Would you like me to look it over when you're done? I finished that one up a few days ago," he offers, heart stopping in his chest as the Ravenclaw's eyes shoot up to meet his.
He can see them considering for a moment before giving a small nod.
"That'd be great. Thanks."
A mere ten minutes later the Ravenclaw wordlessly slides a roll of parchment over to Theo, watching intently, nervously as he takes it. His eyes scan over the parchment once, then again as he carefully combs over its contents.
"It looks perfect," he says finally, handing the parchment back over.
The Ravenclaw lets out a shaky breath.
"Thank Rowena. I swear Flitwick puts more pressure on us to have flawless assignments than any other house."
Theo makes a face.
"Didn't know I should be grateful that Snape doesn't have the same expectation for us. Though I suppose any hope for us he might’ve had was probably crushed as soon as Riddle and Berkshire walked through the door."
There's a brief pause before the Ravenclaw lets out a shocked laugh. It's clear and bright and after hearing it once, Theo decides he never wants the sound to stop.
It’s easier after that, like the icy wall between them had melted, letting them talk freely. You’d never know just walking past that the two of them had just met. In fact, Theo was so caught up in it all that he didn’t realize the time until the large clock on the library wall rang out, signaling just how late it was.
“Oh shit, sorry, I’m actually running late,” he curses, trailing off a bit.
How does one explain to someone they just met that about twenty or so very hungry cats were probably waiting in the kitchens right now for him to give them a bowl of cream?
Much to Theo’s relief however, the Ravenclaw gives him a knowing smile and a nod before packing up themselves and disappearing behind a row of books.
As soon as they’re out of sight, Theo is up and rushing to the familiar portrait of a fruit bowl where he quickly tickles the pears causing the entrance to the kitchens to swing open. As soon as he enters, glowing eyes turn to stare up at him, a whole gaggle of tails flickering impatiently.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Theo mutters, softness creeping into his voice as he accios several large dining bowls onto the ground beside him.
The bowls slowly fill with cream as Theo watches the felines flock their late night treat with care. A quiet meow breaks Theo’s gaze as a soft head butts up against his leg, glowing eyes staring up at him with curiosity. The small black cat had become Theo’s favorite over the past month or so. It had been abundantly cautious at first. Skittish even. But it had warmed up to him ever so slowly as he worked to gain its trust.
The real turning point had been one afternoon in the library when he’d seen a group of his classmates chasing the poor thing through the stacks. With one fell swoop he’d snatched the small cat up, hiding it from its tormentors. Ever since that day the cat had seemingly decided that Theo was alright, often joining him on the library sofa or for a stroll around the Black Lake. It had even sought him out one late night when he’d been out past curfew holed up in the astronomy tower. How the cat had any idea where to find him Theo had no idea, but he wasn’t complaining.
Theo could feel its whole body purring as he scratched behind its ears, tail winding around his leg in pure bliss. The silk bow that always sat prettily around its neck was skewed and as Theo bent down to straighten it, he could visibly see the cat stiffen. It stared at him, eyes unwavering as he adjusted the ribbon carefully before giving the small creature another pat on the head.
“That’s much better,” he tells the cat.
It’s strange the way the cat looks at Theo, almost confused.
“Well I better get going or Snape’ll have my head for being out past curfew again. See you later,” he says finally, giving the cat one last pet before disappearing back through the portrait entrance and leaving the little black cat to blink in wonder at the space he’d previously filled.
"You're late," you quip, feeling a presence behind you but still not bothering to look up from the book that had your attention captivated.
"Mattheo decided to let a bludger loose in the Slytherin common room. Broke a window. There was a flood," Theo's reply was short and succinct as he took a seat beside you, back leaning against the giant oak you'd found shade under.
“Mmm. And did this flood conveniently wipe out your entire novel collection? Or do you intend to read over my shoulder all afternoon?” You ask, feeling his presence still hovering over you.
When you look over your shoulder this time you see Theo’s sheepish grin as he pulls his own book out of his bag. You wouldn’t say you had befriended Theodore by accident per se. You had sought him out intentionally after all. You just hadn’t anticipated the two of you getting on so well. Hadn’t anticipated the way he’d make your cheeks heat up under his gaze, or the way he’d make you laugh with dry comments made under his breath.
You hadn’t been prepared when the two of you began wordlessly seeking each other out, spending afternoons in comfortable silence buried deep in your books. Hadn’t been prepared for the way your heart would beat out of your chest whenever his finger tips would brush up against yours.
You’d only ever intended to learn a bit more about the mysterious Slytherin who was seemingly unaffected by the boarish, competitive nature of your other classmates. You hated to admit it, but you had to give him a begrudging amount of respect for it. And now he’d somehow managed to become a constant in your everyday life.
“Oi! Y/l/n! Forget to tell us the game was won? Or were you just going to make us figure it out on our own?” The voice of Cormac McLaggen, a rather rowdy Gryffindor you never really cared much for, rang out from across the lawn, demanding your attention.
Looking up from your book with an air of annoyance, your brows furrow in confusion.
"What are you on about?" you ask with a scoff, barely able to stop your eyes from rolling at the disturbance.
You knew for a fact that no one had claimed the ribbon around your cat's neck. And lucky for you, the excitement of it all had died down significantly in the last month. You'd even allowed yourself to hope that most had forgotten about your challenge.
"Your silly little cat of course! If I'd known a damn snake was after the prize I'd've put in some real effort. Save you from a fate worse than death!"
You can't help the look of pure disgust and disdain that washes over your face as Cormac and his cronies laugh as if he'd actually said something clever. Even Theodore was looking at the group with some mix of annoyance and utter bewilderment. You couldn't even begin to pick apart every obnoxious piece of his sanctimonious remark, but something in you drew the line at badmouthing Theodore.
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'll have you know that I spend my time with Theodore because he's actually tolerable to be around. Not just because of some silly game," you huff.
Cormac ignores your slight against him. Or perhaps he's just too daft to understand it.
"Ah, so what I'm hearing is the competition is still open. Don't you worry y/n, you'll get the pleasure of my company at Hogsmeade yet!"
"That sounds like a threat," you grumble as the group turns away, yelling and whooping their way back to the castle, clearly ignoring your contempt.
Theo clears his throat.
"Actually tolerable? I'm flattered. A stunning review. Can I add that to my resume?" he teases, clearly trying to lighten your mood as you continue to glare at the other group of boys until they finally disappear into the castle.
"I suppose. Don't know what you'd need a resume for though, what with daddy's money and all that," you tease back, able to relax once more.
Theo just scoffs, gently shoving your shoulder with his.
"So. What exactly is this game that McLaggen is so determined to win? And what does it got to do with your cat?" Theo asks, book now long forgotten on the grass.
You feel your whole body stiffen as you turn to look at Theo, head tilted inquisitively.
"Have you not heard?"
Theo just shakes his head, matching your curious gaze.
"I- I set up a challenge. A game of sorts a couple months back. Tied a ribbon around my cat's neck, said whoever could bring it to me could accompany me to Hogsmeade," you reply, trying to sound nonchalant.
This certainly explained why Theodore had never tried to take the ribbon from your cat. But now that he knew— would he?
Theo raises a brow at you, still leaning against the tree.
"Do you think you're important enough to warrant such a competition?"
Your mouth drops open as heat rises to your cheeks.
"Don't be thick you tosser!" you exclaim, indignation clear in your voice. "I wouldn't have to stage such a ridiculous competition if people would just simply leave me alone. Besides, the task is impossible anyway, they'll never catch them, and soon enough they'll grow bored of the whole idea. I'll be able to say I gave everyone a fair chance and I'll finally have some damn peace."
You're so worked up over the whole situation that you don't even notice that Theo had cracked a smile somewhere amidst your rant.
"That's actually brilliant," he admits with a chuckle, his head shaking making his soft brown curls bounce in a way that had you mesmerized. "But how exactly is the plan impossible? It is relying on a cat after all. Surely it isn't completely foolproof?"
You open your mouth to respond, stumbling a bit over your words before you recover.
"I- It just is alright? Why? You trying to get insider tips and tricks?" you ask, teasing once more as you smoothly change the subject.
But Theo just hums in response, book already back in hand.
Theodore was torn. Or maybe that wasn't exactly the best way to put it. He knew what he wanted and what he had to do to make it happen, he just didn't know how to do it right. It was driving him mad.
All he could think about was their hair, their eyes, the way the edges of their lips would quirk upwards right before they were about to laugh, or how their fingers would drum on the back of a book when they were anticipating the turn of a page. He couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like to be able to pull them into his arms, to feel their soft lips on his, to wake up next to them every morning. He was in deep. They were consuming his every thought, waking or otherwise, and their damn cat was just sitting in front of him, ignorant to it all.
Theo extends his hand, allowing the cat to press its head to his palm before slowly stroking its soft fur. It would be so easy to do it right now. To gently pull the ribbon from this cat's neck and present it to you, but he knew he couldn't. Then he'd be no better than the others who treated you like a game.
From the moment he'd met you, that day in the library, he'd thought he understood you. At least to an extent. He knew what it felt like to have people want to form superficial relationships, and what it felt like to just want to be left alone. Hell, that's how he'd managed to gain the trust of your cat in the first place, by hiding out trying to get a moment of peace and quiet.
He didn't realize that while he'd been so caught up in his own mind rambles his fingers had slowly found their way down to the black silk ribbon tied in a neat bow. And yet the cat didn't so much as flinch as he stroked the soft fabric wistfully.
That was another thing that weighed on Theo's mind. The way you had so confidently stated that the game was impossible to win. That no one would be able to touch a hair on your beloved companion's head, and yet here he was. He couldn't deny that you were brilliant, you probably could have easily cursed the ribbon or something, but that didn't really seem like your style. So what was it that seemed off?
"What do you think mio amore? Would they be upset if I took it? What do you know? Tell me all your secrets eh?" Theo asks the cat who just blinks lazily back up at him.
Who knew if you would even want him to take the ribbon? The two of you had spent so much time together these past weeks, Theo knew there was something there. But what if there wasn't? And he just threw your friendship, and worse- your trust, out the window.
A soft meow breaks Theo from his thoughts once more as he looks down at the small cat before him who was clearly trying to tell him something as it sat in front of him now, paw batting in the air at him. With Theo's attention now focused on it, the furry creature began intently rubbing its neck against Theo's hand, almost coaxing him towards the ribbon.
Theo couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was as if the cat could read his mind. He considers it for a moment, then, before he can talk himself out of it, he gives the end of the ribbon a soft pull. It comes undone with one swift motion and Theo just stares at it for a moment before glancing back at the cat. What had he just done? He could put it back surely? And no one would have to know about his brief moment of weakness.
Before he can however, the cat begins to shift before his eyes until suddenly you're sitting there next to him, pretty as ever under the soft moonlight that was streaming into the astronomy tower.
He had to be hallucinating. Surely. Or dreaming maybe. But your voice sounds real as ever as it rings out into the night.
“Took you long enough. I was beginning to think you'd never take the blasted ribbon. You know you talk out loud when you get lost in your thoughts?" you say, a sheepish grin forming on your face as you watch Theo go through a range of emotions spanning from disbelief and confusion to the horrific realization that you’d apparently heard his entire inner monologue from the past hour.
“You’ve been a cat this entire time?” He finally sputters out, the pieces visibly clicking together in his head.
Theo suddenly feels the need to replay every interaction he’d ever had with what he’d thought was your feline companion.
You shrug.
“I told you the game was impossible. No one was going to catch me unless I wanted to be caught.” You pause for a moment as Theo continues to process for what feels like an eternity. “Are you mad?”
It takes a moment before Theo shakes his head and a wave of relief washes over you as a smug grin forms on Theo’s face and he leans in, nose almost brushing up against yours.
“Are you saying you like me too then, amore?” He asks, his breath warm against your reddening cheeks.
“I’m saying that your companionship at Hogsmeade this weekend wouldn’t be completely excruciating,” you reply, matching his widening grin.
“Provides not completely excruciating companionship. Nice. I’ll add it to my resume,” he teases gently before his lips connect with yours.
Summary: Theodore never wanted children. The day his mother died was the day he had sworn off any semblance of a family. That was until a child appears before him, claiming to be his daughter.
A/N: this is NOT a pregnancy fic you guys i promise also i didn't want to split this into two parts but tumblr deemed it too long so um two parts ig
credits to @dividers-are-us for the divider
Part 2
Theodore Nott had read enough books to know that the day his entire life changed was supposed to feel different.
The air would be heavier. The world sharper. Something—anything—would be off. A subtle wrongness, a warning. Foreshadowing of the wrench about to be thrown into his carefully ordered life.
He had felt it once before, when his mother died and left a hollow space behind that never quite filled.
But that was the thing.
Nothing felt wrong about today.
Had everything gone as it usually did, it would have been completely mundane—monotonous, even. Theodore woke up, ate breakfast, slipped outside for a smoke. Double Potions. Another smoke. Transfiguration. Lunch. Arithmancy.
And now he was stuck in Charms.
Professor Flitwick had been lecturing about advanced spell interactions—something about like and unlike spells, wand movements and intent—when the first spell fizzled.
Then another.
Then three more went wildly off course, sparks ricocheting off desks and dissolving into the air like fireflies gone wrong.
Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, unimpressed.
“Focus,” Flitwick snapped, wand raised, “Clearly someone here has—”
The room cracked.
Not shattered. Not exploded.
Cracked—like reality itself had split open for half a second.
There was a blinding flash of gold light, a rush of displaced air, and then—
Silence.
Sitting in the middle of the classroom floor was a little girl.
She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. Dark curls fell into her face, dressed in pajamas, and her small hands were clenched into fists as she looked around, eyes wide and terrified.
For exactly two seconds, she was quiet.
Then her lip trembled.
“—Papà?”
Her voice broke.
And then she started crying.
Not soft sniffles. Full-on, panicked sobs—the kind that came from being suddenly, completely lost.
“Voglio il mio papà!” She cried, scrambling to her feet, “Voglio andare a casa!” (I want my daddy! I want to go home!)
The classroom froze.
“…Did she just Apparate?” Someone whispered.
Another voice, baffled, “She’s a child.”
A Ravenclaw girl cautiously stepped forward, “Hey, it’s okay—”
The girl recoiled instantly, backing away as if burned, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“No! No, no, no!” She sobbed, shaking her head violently, “Non ti conosco! Voglio il mio papà! Voglio papà!” (I don't know you! I want my daddy! I want daddy!)
She spun in a slow, desperate circle, looking at all of them with pure, unfiltered fear.
“Papà! Dove sei?!” (Dad! Where are you?!)
Theo stared at her from his seat.
He wasn’t heartless—of course he wasn’t. There was something about the way she wailed, the sheer terror in her voice, that made his chest tighten painfully. And yet, he stayed where he was.
Blaise nudged his arm, “Oi, Nott. You speak Italian, don’t you?”
He didn’t bother answering. Everyone already knew—thanks to the absolute slew of Italian curses he’d hurled at Weasley during the last Quidditch match.
“Great,” Blaise said immediately, “Do something.”
Theo’s eyes flicked back to the girl.
She had dropped to her knees now, small hands pressed to her face as she cried, her breathing beginning to hitch dangerously. A Hufflepuff girl hovered nearby, concern written all over her face, but every step closer only made the child cry harder.
“Voglio il mio papà… per favore…” She sobbed between gasps. (I want my daddy… please…)
Something twisted uncomfortably in Theo’s chest.
“I’m not exactly a baby person.” He muttered.
“Nott,” the Ravenclaw girl hissed, “She’s a toddler. She’s about to have a panic attack, and she can’t understand a word we’re saying.”
The girl let out a sharp, breathless sob, her chest stuttering as she tried—and failed—to calm herself.
“Papà…” She whimpered.
Theo closed his eyes for a brief second and exhaled.
“Cazzo.” (fuck)
He pushed his chair back and stood.
The entire classroom fell silent as he took a step toward her.
Theo approached slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture despite himself.
“Ehi,” He said gently, crouching a few feet away from her. His voice was low, careful, “Va tutto bene. Respira, sì? Piano, piano.” (It’s okay. Breathe, yeah? Slowly, slowly.)
The girl barely registered him.
She was still crying hard, hiccupping sobs shaking her tiny frame as she shook her head over and over, “No, no, no… voglio papà… voglio papà adesso…” (No, no, no… I want daddy… I want daddy now)
“Io so,” Theo murmured, trying to keep his tone steady, “Ma sei al sicuro. Nessuno ti farà male. Guarda me, piccola.” (I know, but you're safe. No one's going to hurt you. Look at me, little one.)
He reached out slightly—then stopped, unsure.
“Come ti chiami?” He asked softly. (What's your name?)
She sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve, eyes squeezed shut as if refusing to look at the world around her. “Voglio papà,” She repeated stubbornly, voice breaking again, “Ho paura…” (I want dad, I'm scared)
Theo swallowed.
“Papà non è lontano,” He said, choosing his words carefully, “Va bene? Respira con me.” (Dad’s not far away, Okay? Breathe with me.)
That was when she opened her eyes.
Really looked at him.
Her crying hitched mid-sob.
For half a second, her face went utterly still—eyes widening, breath catching like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
Then—
“Papà!”
She surged forward.
Theo barely had time to react before a small body collided with his chest, tiny arms wrapping around his neck with desperate force. She buried her face into his robes, clutching him like he might disappear if she let go.
“Papà, papà, papà,” She cried, the word tumbling out between sobs, “Ti ho trovato… non andare via… per favore…” (I found you… don't go away… please…)
Theo froze.
Completely. Utterly.
His arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do as the child clung to him, shaking with leftover fear. Her tears soaked straight through his uniform as she pressed closer, like she was trying to crawl into him.
The room was dead silent.
Theo’s eyes flicked up.
Every single person was staring.
Flitwick looked like he might faint. The Ravenclaw girl’s mouth hung open. Blaise had gone eerily still, eyebrows raised so high they were nearly in his hairline.
Theo slowly mouthed, Get this child off me.
No one moved.
The girl sniffed loudly and tightened her grip, small hands fisting in the fabric of his robes. “Papà.” She whimpered again, quieter now, exhausted.
Theo looked down at her—at the way she fit far too easily against him, at how natural it felt for her to be there—and felt his brain short-circuit.
“I—” He cleared his throat, voice coming out rough, “Io… eh…”
She tilted her head just enough for him to feel the movement, her grip loosening slightly as the tension finally drained from her small body. Her breathing stuttered once more, then evened out, warm against his chest.
Theo looked down just in time to see her eyelids flutter.
Once.
Twice.
And then she was gone.
Fast asleep.
Her forehead rested against his collarbone, tiny fingers still curled tightly in his robes like she was afraid to let go even in sleep. A quiet, shaky sigh left her, the last echo of fear finally spent.
Theo swallowed hard.
The hospital wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, but it did nothing to calm the chaos of the little girl in Theo Nott’s arms. Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and Snape hovered nearby, wands and parchment at the ready, while a few house-elves scurried nervously at the edges of the room.
Theo wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here—one hand on her back, the other awkwardly supporting her legs—and frankly, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to set her down in a cot and get the hell out of there.
“She appears… well, as far as magical diagnostics go." Pomfrey said uncertainly, trailing off.
Flitwick rubbed at the crease between his brows and sighed, “I’m not even sure what spells were cast. Perhaps someone transfigured an object into a child… though it seems highly unlikely. I did a head count, but maybe a student from another class managed to get de-aged? It will take me some time to get to the bottom of this.”
“During which,” McGonagall added crisply, “We need to figure out where exactly she is going to reside.”
All eyes turned to Theo, still awkwardly seated on the bed. The green tie in her grubby hands was clutched tightly, her shirt streaked with snot from her tears. He stared at the ceiling, silently praying to whatever deity listened that this problem would disappear.
“All right,” Flitwick muttered, “We need… more concrete information. Perhaps a simple veritas test to confirm basic biological markers…”
He waved his wand carefully over a tiny strand of her hair, muttering under his breath. The result came up empty. Flitwick let out a frustrated sigh, before his gaze fell on the way her small body curled naturally against Theo. Her fear of strangers was… painfully clear.
He waved his wand again, more deliberately this time.
“It would seem, Mr. Nott,” He began cautiously, “that you are biologically related to her.”
Theo blinked in shock, his grip faltering. The little girl nearly toppled in his arms.
“Excuse me?” He managed, voice tight, heart racing, utterly refusing to acknowledge what Flitwick had just said.
Flitwick adjusted his glasses nervously, “I—I understand this is… unusual. But the magical markers are clear. There is no doubt: you are biologically related to her.”
McGonagall stepped forward, arms crossed, her voice calm but firm, “Mr. Nott, we must consider all possibilities. Clearly, she has appeared here through some magical anomaly."
Snape, leaning against the wall with an unimpressed frown, muttered, “Magical anomaly is one way to put it. Unprecedented, more like.”
Flitwick cleared his throat, “We may need to consider the… temporal aspect. Combined with the accelerated spellwork and residual transfiguration energy from earlier… it is conceivable that she has been displaced here from another point in time.”
Theo blinked, “…You’re saying… she’s from the future?”
“Yes,” McGonagall said carefully, though her eyes softened as she looked at the child curled against him, “And until we can stabilize whatever magical interference brought her here, we will need to come up with a plan to care for her."
Theo exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between frustration and disbelief, "Alright then, take her."
Flitwick hesitated, frowning. The professors exchanged glances.
Theo’s heart thumped in a way that was decidedly unhelpful. The child pressed closer, nuzzling her face into his chest, hiccupping softly.
"Perhaps, it would be best for the child to stay with her fa—"
“I’m not her father,” He said firmly, “…And she is not my responsibility.”
“If you truly refuse,” McGonagall said quietly, “then the staff will care for her until we can determine a safe way to return her to her own time.”
McGonagall nodded once and gestured toward Madam Pomfrey, “Very well.”
Pomfrey stepped forward gently, arms outstretched, “Come now, dear. Let’s get you settled—”
The moment she felt herself being pulled away from the warm chest she’d been clinging to, the effect was immediate.
The little girl stiffened in Theo’s arms, eyes flying open as she registered that the hands lifting her did not belong to him. Her face crumpled, breath hitching once before she broke into loud, panicked sobs.
“No—no, no!” She cried, voice high and shaking, “Papà! Papà, portami!” (Dad! Dad, carry me!)
She twisted against him, burying her face into his chest as if trying to disappear. Tiny arms wrapped around his neck with desperate strength, her small body trembling violently.
“Papà, per favore,” She sobbed, words tumbling over one another, “Ho paura… non voglio… non voglio…” (Daddy, please. I'm scared… I don't want… I don't want…)
Theo’s jaw tightened. He stared straight ahead, pulse pounding, every instinct screaming at him to hand her over and walk away. But her grip only tightened, her cries growing sharp and breathless.
She was shaking.
“Alright,” Theo snapped suddenly, sharper than he meant to, “Stop—just—don’t—”
Everyone froze.
Theo swallowed and glanced down at her. Her face was blotchy and red, lashes clumped with tears, chest hitching unevenly as she struggled to breathe. She looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes, like she was bracing for him to vanish.
Something twisted painfully in his chest.
“…Va bene,” He muttered, the Italian rough but instinctive, “Va bene. Basta piangere.” (All right. No more crying.)
Her sobs stuttered—not stopping, but slowing.
Awkwardly, he adjusted his hold, one arm settling more securely around her back while the other patted her shoulder once—too stiff, too careful. He cleared his throat.
“Shh.” He said quietly, glancing around like he’d been caught doing something illegal, rocking her back and forth like a rusty robot that hadn’t been oiled in years.
She sniffed hard, still clutching him, but the panic ebbed enough for her breathing to even out. Her head tucked beneath his chin, warm and damp against his collar.
McGonagall studied the child for a long moment, then Theo. Her expression softened—just a fraction.
“It seems,” She said evenly, “that she has made her preference quite clear.”
Flitwick nodded, rubbing his hands together nervously, “Yes… yes, I’m afraid forcing the issue would only distress her further.”
Theo exhaled sharply through his nose, “…Unbelievable.”
The girl whimpered once more, fingers tightening in his shirt as if reminding him she was still there.
Theo stiffened, then sighed.
“…Fine,” He said quietly, “Okay. She can—she can stay. For now. Until you figure this out.”
The walk back to the Slytherin dorms was… an experience.
Theo kept his pace measured, one arm secured firmly around the sleeping weight against his chest. She’d fallen back asleep somewhere between the hospital wing and the dungeon corridor, her curls tickling his jaw every time she shifted, breath warm against his collarbone.
He ignored the stares.
The whispers.
The way a passing Hufflepuff nearly walked into a wall trying to figure out why Theodore Nott was carrying a child through the corridors like this was a perfectly normal occurrence.
The Slytherin common room fell silent the moment he stepped inside.
Lorenzo blinked once. Then twice.
“…Is this some sort of social experiment?”
Mattheo’s grin spread slowly, wicked and delighted, “Papa's home.”
Theo shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Say another word,” he warned quietly, “and I’ll hex you.”
Blaise tilted his head, eyes flicking between Theo and the small, curled form in his arms. “Congratulations,” He said lightly, “When were you planning on telling us you’d been leading a double life?”
Theo didn’t dignify that with a response. He adjusted his grip slightly when the girl shifted, instinctively tightening his hold, and turned toward the stairs.
Behind him came a chorus of barely-suppressed laughter and stage-whispered “Night, daddy!” that followed him all the way up.
He noticed the change in his dorm the second he stepped inside.
Not because it was loud.
But because it was wrong.
Sitting neatly on his bed were things that had absolutely not been there that morning.
Tiny clothes, folded with precise magical care. Soft socks. A small blanket charmed with a low, steady warmth. Even a stuffed creature—some sort of dragon, judging by the horns—rested near the pillow, its stitched eyes cheerfully oblivious.
Theo just stood there.
Staring.
This was real. This was happening.
He looked down at the small, sleeping child in his arms, her face slack with sleep, lashes dark against her cheeks. A living, breathing human being. And somehow—somehow—he was now responsible for her.
His stomach twisted.
This hardly seemed responsible.
Did the staff really just let him walk out with an entire child and no follow-up instructions? No pamphlet? No checklist? How was he meant to keep one of these things alive? What if she woke up hungry? Or scared? Or—Merlin forbid—started crying? Again.
Theo swallowed hard, dread creeping in like a cold chill down his spine.
He crossed the room slowly and carefully, as if any wrong step might shatter the fragile reality holding this together, and lowered her onto the bed. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake, curling instinctively toward the lingering warmth of his body.
He hesitated.
Then, with movements stiff and unsure, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and tucked it in the way he vaguely remembered adults doing when he was small—firm but gentle, like it mattered.
He stepped back.
She looked… peaceful.
Completely unaware that she had just detonated his entire existence.
Theo dragged a hand down his face and turned toward the door.
He needed a cigarette. Immediately.
Just as his fingers brushed the handle, a small sound stopped him.
“Papà…”
It was barely audible—a sleepy mumble, her brow knitting faintly as one small hand twitched against the sheets.
Theo froze.
“…Papà.” She murmured again, softer this time, like she was reaching for him even in her dreams.
He closed his eyes and let out a slow, resigned breath.
“Merda.” He muttered.
If he left and she woke up—
He glanced at the chair beside the bed.
Then back at her.
“…Unbelievable.” He whispered.
Theo pulled the chair closer and sat down, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving her face. He flinched every time she so much as twitched, every uneven breath sending his pulse spiking.
Just for tonight.
That’s what he told himself as exhaustion settled heavy in his bones.
Just until she woke up.
Theo woke to pins and needles.
A sharp, unpleasant numbness shot up his legs, like they’d ceased to exist sometime during the night and were only now remembering their purpose. He sucked in a quiet breath and shifted—immediately regretted it.
There was weight on him.
Warm. Solid.
Theo froze.
Slowly, carefully, he looked down.
She was asleep in his lap.
At some point during the night—at some point he did not remember authorizing—the little girl had migrated from the bed, curled herself into the space between his arms and legs, and settled there like she belonged. Her head rested against his bicep, curls splayed messily over his chest, one small hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.
Theo stared.
His mind helpfully offered no explanation.
He vaguely recalled her stirring sometime in the early hours. A soft whimper. A half-formed Papà breathed into the dark. He must have reached out—must have pulled her close without fully waking, murmuring something useless and soothing under his breath.
Apparently, his subconscious had decided this was his life now.
He didn’t move.
Couldn’t, really—his legs were numb to the point of concern, and any shift risked waking her. Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fluttering faintly as she slept, utterly unbothered by the fact that she was using him as a mattress.
Theo let his head fall back against the chair with a silent groan.
“This is a disaster.” He whispered.
She stirred at the sound, nose scrunching slightly, fingers tightening in his sleeve as if anchoring herself. Theo went completely still, heart hammering like he’d been caught committing a crime.
He tensed, eyes snapping down just as she stirred properly, lifting her head and blinking blearily up at him.
For a long second, they just looked at each other.
Then her face brightened.
“Buongiorno,” She said, voice thick with sleep. A pause, “…Papà.” (Good morning.)
After getting her dressed for the day using the clothes the professors had provided, Theo could only thank Salazar that whoever—or whatever—had sent her back in time had at least had the decency to send an older child.
Because Merlin help him, she was competent.
She managed socks on her own. Shoes, too—wrong feet at first, but she fixed it herself with a sharp little huff of frustration. He didn’t even have to supervise. He just stood there, half-awake, watching in stunned silence.
The only time he stepped in was when the shirt became her enemy.
She wrestled with it valiantly, tugging it halfway over her head before getting stuck, arms flailing wildly as she wobbled on the mattress like a headless chicken. For one terrifying second, Theo was certain she was going to pitch forward and crack her skull open on the floor.
Just as he reached her, hands already out, she stamped one socked foot and protested indignantly.
“Papà! Sono una bambina grande—faccio da sola!” (Dad! I'm a big girl, I can do it on my own!)
He waited—hands hovering uselessly in the air—until she finally relented with an irritated sigh and allowed him to tug the shirt the rest of the way down. She immediately smoothed it herself afterward, chin lifted proudly.
Theo pinched the bridge of his nose.
This was going to be a long day.
By the time they stumbled downstairs, the Slytherin dorm was already awake and in motion. Mattheo, Draco, Lorenzo, and Blaise were halfway through getting ready, bags slung over shoulders as they headed out for breakfast.
Theo was still in his pajamas.
He didn’t care.
The professors had given him permission to skip class until further notice—something he had accepted with a detached nod, too tired to even question how serious this apparently was.
He was already mentally charting a course to the kitchens. Quiet. Private. No gawking students. No questions.
He turned toward the common room—
And she bolted.
“—Oi, wait—!”
Too late.
She launched herself down the stairs at an alarming speed, feet barely touching the steps. Theo’s heart stopped dead in his chest.
“Slow down!” He snapped, already moving after her, “You’re going to—”
She did not fall.
Instead, she hit the common room floor at a full sprint and beelined straight for Mattheo, slamming into his pant leg with the force and commitment of a homing missile.
Mattheo yelped, stumbling half a step, “What the—”
“Zio Mattheo!” She chirped joyfully, arms wrapping around his leg like she’d just found a long-lost treasure.
The room went dead silent.
Draco stared.
Lorenzo choked.
Blaise pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking.
Mattheo looked down slowly. Very slowly.
“…Little girl,” He said carefully, “how do you know my name?”
Theo stopped behind her and closed his eyes.
“She can’t speak any English, you idiot.”
Mattheo glanced up at him, affronted, “I see recognition in those beady eyes—”
He looked back down at her just in time to see her grin widen, all teeth and delight.
“Buongiorno!” She announced brightly.
Mattheo snorted despite himself.
Then she lifted her arms toward him, wobbling slightly on her feet, “Portami! Portami, zio Mattheo!”
Mattheo blinked. Once.
Then he looked up at Theo, eyebrow raised.
Theo sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, the tips of his ears burning.
“She’s asking her uncle to carry her.”
Mattheo’s grin turned downright smug as he crouched and scooped her up like she weighed nothing—slung against his arm with all the care of someone carrying a sack of potatoes. She giggled, utterly delighted, legs kicking happily.
Theo moved instantly.
“Oi—if you drop her, I swear to Merlin—!”
Mattheo adjusted his grip lazily, unfazed, “Relax. I’ve got her.”
Blaise smirked, “Wow. Someone’s being all fatherly for a bloke who isn’t a baby person.”
Draco leaned against the stair rail, grinning, “Yeah, daddy. Love this look on you."
“…I hate all of you,” Theo muttered darkly.
The girl twisted in Mattheo’s arms, peering over his shoulder. “Papà!” she called brightly. “Voglio fare colazione con zio Mattheo!” (Daddy! I want to have breakfast with Uncle Mattheo!)
Theo opened his mouth on instinct.
“Non puoi chie—” (You can't ask)
He stopped.
Because she wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t reaching for him.
She wasn’t clinging to his sleeve like the world might end if he stepped two feet away.
She was perfectly content. Happy, even. Nestled comfortably in someone else’s arms.
Theo’s brain stalled.
Then—click.
The realization hit him like divine intervention.
An hour.
A whole, uninterrupted hour without tiny hands grabbing his clothes. Without panicked crying. Without being someone’s emotional anchor.
The synapses in his brain fired one by one like fireworks. Sweet, blessed relief bloomed so fast he was pretty sure he could feel tears—possibly drool—gathering.
He lifted his gaze slowly and locked eyes with Mattheo.
“You,” He said calmly, decisively, “are on babysitting duty.”
“What?” Mattheo barked, “Oi—wait—!”
Theo was already turning away.
“Feed her,” He called over his shoulder, “Don’t drop her."
Out of the common room. Down the corridor. Gone like a wanted man escaping Azkaban.
“HEY!” Mattheo shouted after him, “That’s not how this works!”
The girl waved cheerfully from his arms, “Ciao, papà!”
Mattheo looked down at her.
Then back at the hallway Theo had vanished down.
"Well, I hope you enjoy being an orphan. Take it from me it's better than having a shit dad." He said absently, carrying her toward the door.
Theo didn’t even remember reaching the usual alcove.
He only knew his hands were shaking by the time he lit the cigarette, breath dragging deep and slow as the smoke filled his lungs. The burn grounded him. Anchored him. For five blessed minutes, he was just Theo again—no professors, no timelines, no small human being calling him papà.
He shouldn’t feel guilty for this.
Dammit.
It wasn’t like he was some kind of deadbeat. He wasn’t even her actual father. Her actual father existed a decade in the future and had—presumably—actively chosen to have this suctioning little tentacle of a child.
He exhaled, staring at the stone wall.
And yet.
She adored him. Wanted him. Chose him over everyone else without hesitation. Which meant—somewhere in the future—he must be doing something right.
Sometime in the future… I’m a good father.
The thought unsettled him more than the panic ever had.
He had never imagined children in his life. Never thought himself capable of it—not after losing his mother so young. How would future him handle this? How would he guide her, discipline her, protect her from the quiet, unrelenting cruelties of the world?
How would he keep her safe?
Theo exhaled again, watching the smoke curl upward and vanish.
Merlin, he needed that.
When he finally returned to the common room, the laughter hit him first.
She was being levitated up and down—up and down—by Mattheo, shrieking with unrestrained delight. Chocolate smeared her cheeks, and it was painfully obvious Mattheo had absolutely no sense when it came to not jostling a child who had just eaten her body weight in breakfast.
Theo stepped closer.
Her face lit up the moment she saw him.
“Papà!”
Something eased in his chest.
At least future me doesn’t screw this up, he thought faintly.
Mattheo gently lowered her into Theo’s arms.
And immediately—
“—achoo!”
She blinked. Sniffed.
Then again.
“Ach—ah—choo!”
Theo froze.
Her nose scrunched as she rubbed at it clumsily, eyes beginning to water, cheeks flushing, “Papà…?”
Theo’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.
Was she sick? Had he missed something? She’d been fine an hour ago—
Mattheo’s gaze flicked from her red nose to Theo’s ash-stained fingers. He sighed, already reaching for her and lifting her back into his arms.
“…Go shower,” He said calmly, “I’ll skip first class.”
Theo blinked, “I—I didn’t know—”
“I know,” Mattheo cut in easily, “It’s all good. Go.”
Theo swallowed.
“…Right.” He muttered.
He hesitated only a moment before turning toward the stairs. As he passed, she reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve.
“Papà?” She asked softly.
Theo stopped.
“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly—then corrected himself, Italian rough but sincere, “Tornerò subito. Promesso.” (I'll be right back. Promise)
Her shoulders relaxed instantly.
Mattheo watched him go, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
When Theo returned—hair damp, robes changed, skin scrubbed raw of smoke and ash—the little girl didn’t sneeze once.
Instead, she wriggled free of Mattheo’s arms and launched herself at him with a delighted squeak, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’d been waiting.
Theo caught her automatically.
She settled against him, warm and content.
And for the first time, the weight that settled in his chest had nothing to do with panic.
It felt a lot like guilt.
And something dangerously close to resolve.
Theo was collapsed across his bed, utterly defeated. The day had been… long. He hadn’t even gone to class, but that was before the small human currently treating him like a jungle gym had decided it was time for her daily inspection.
He didn’t even have the energy to move her. She clambered over him, tugging at his robes and sniffing at his hair, and he let her—somehow, it was easier than trying to resist. Five minutes of relative respite came only when she discovered something else interesting: the top of his dresser, the ceiling, the corner of the bedpost.
Every so often, one of her “uncles” captured her attention—Blaise, Draco, and Enzo—each appearing just long enough to be ignored by the child, much to Theo’s surprise. Somehow she recognized them, somehow she liked them, and somehow they had managed to reconcile the fact that she adored Mattheo more than all of them combined faster than Theo had reconciled her existence at all. He watched them all patiently endure, his mind boggling at how quickly they’d adjusted.
Currently, she had his hair in a death grip, determined to tug out every last strand with her clammy little hands. Theo winced as she yanked again, a protest lodged somewhere deep in his chest. She scrambled backward across his chest—kicking him squarely in the face in the process—then crawled toward the edge of the bed and started opening the drawer of his bedside table.
“Oi. Cosa fai?” He asked, tone half-scolding, half-exasperated. (What are you doing)
“Voglio un elastico per capelli! Mamma sempre ne tiene qui.” She declared, fumbling through the drawer. (I want a hair tie! Mom always keeps some here.)
Theo froze.
Mom? She has a mom?
The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. All this time, he had assumed—stupidly—that she had appeared out of thin air, some magical anomaly he had to manage. Now the idea that she had a mother… a real, actual human mother… knocked the air out of his lungs. He felt absurdly unprepared.
She pulled something plastic-sounding from the drawer and held it up.
“Papà… cos’è questo?” (Papa... what is this?)
Theo’s heart skipped. He blinked, eyes widening. And then the aneurysm in his brain fully bloomed: a condom wrapper. In his daughter’s hand.
“Oi! Restituiscilo!” He shouted, leaping upright just in time for her to bolt, giggling, around the room. (Give that back!)
“Get that out of her hand!” He yelled again, spinning to intercept her, but it was too late. She dashed past Blaise, who was already doubled over laughing, and then past Draco, who had his hands pressed over his mouth to keep from cackling. Even Lorenzo had tears in his eyes from the absurdity.
“Little girl,” Lorenzo called, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably as he wiped tears from his face, “wait a second—what is her actual name?”
Theo froze mid-chase, mind scrambling.
“You… you don’t know her name?”
The little girl shrieked with laughter from the foot of the bed, completely oblivious to the chaos she had caused, while Theo felt like the universe was quietly reminding him that, yes he was an utter fool.
The little girl zig-zagged across the room, still clutching the condom wrapper like it was some kind of treasure. Theo lunged, arms flailing, but she ducked under his reach and squealed with pure delight.
“Papà! Prendimi!” She shouted, her voice ringing with mischief. (Papa! Catch me)
“Merlin’s beard, why am I even doing this?!” Theo groaned, diving forward again, only to collide gently with Blaise, who had fallen onto the floor laughing.
“Oi! Watch it, Nott!” Blaise gasped between giggles, brushing off his robes, “Maybe if you had been as enthusiastic about birth control as your little girl there, you wouldn't be having this problem."
Theo didn’t even glance at them. His focus was entirely on the girl, who had somehow vaulted onto the armrest of the sofa and was teetering dangerously.
“Oi! Scendi di lì, immediatamente!” He barked. (Hey! Get down from there, right now!)
“Papà!” She chirped again, holding the wrapper above her head like a flag, “Guarda! Guarda!” (Papa! Look! Look!)
Before he could reach her, Mattheo appeared like a hero in the last second, levitating gently above the floor with his wand, and swooped in. “I got her!” He said triumphantly.
He glanced down at the pile of humans scattered around the room—Blaise doubled over, Draco snickering, Enzo leaning helplessly against the wall—and grinned, “You really gave them a run for their money, huh, Bianca?”
Theo froze mid-lunge.
“You… you know her name?” He asked, voice tight with disbelief.
Mattheo raised an eyebrow, utterly flabbergasted, “You didn’t?”
Raising children, Theo decided, was an absurd amount of work.
He handed Bianca over to Madam Pomfrey the second she woke up.
He had tried—really tried—to delay it, holding out hope that the professors would have some sort of solution by now. But it had been three days. Three days of dungeon air, sleep-mussed curls, and the unmistakable stickiness that came with being a toddler. She desperately needed a shower.
And while Theo was getting increasingly comfortable handling her—some might even say paternal—he was still very much not prepared to be the one responsible for that particular task.
Pomfrey had taken one look at the state of Bianca’s curls, the faint smudges on her cheeks, and Theo’s exhausted expression and immediately agreed.
Theo sighed in relief, already imagining a shower of his own. Or maybe collapsing onto a bed and stealing an extra hour of sleep. He didn’t understand why he was so tired—he was sleeping the same amount he always did.
Still. He felt wrecked.
He promised he’d come back.
Repeated it, even.
Swore on—well. Something. He wasn’t sure what, but it sounded convincing enough.
It didn’t help.
She cried anyway.
Clutched his robes with tiny hands, face crumpling as she begged him not to leave, words tumbling out too fast and too panicked for him to catch more than Papà and non andare. Theo pried her fingers loose with a wince, murmuring reassurances the entire time—but he couldn’t will himself to walk away while she was screaming like that.
Especially now that he knew the difference between her cries.
So, one of the girls’ bathrooms had been cleared out for the morning.
Pomfrey, Bianca, and Theo occupied it alone, the echoes far too loud for his liking. He stood just outside the stall while Pomfrey bathed her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture stiff—like a chastened criminal awaiting judgment.
The child sang.
Loudly.
Badly.
And every time Theo stopped responding—
“Papà?”
—her voice wobbled, threatening to tip into tears.
“Sono qui,” He called back immediately, instinctive, “Brava.” (I'm here. Good job)
She giggled and continued singing something that sounded vaguely like a nursery rhyme and vaguely like a direct threat to musical theory.
Theo leaned his head back against the tiled wall and exhaled.
My God, was she clingy.
Then again… he supposed he couldn’t fault her for it.
If Flitwick was right—if she truly had come from the future—then she’d been ripped away from her home. Likely somewhere warm and familiar in Italy. Dropped into damp, grey Scotland. Surrounded by strangers. Spoken to in a language she didn’t understand.
Clinging to the only constant she recognized.
Him.
The thought settled heavy in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. Theo swallowed, fingers twitching as the familiar urge for a cigarette crept in—persistent, comforting.
He resisted.
Inside the stall, the singing faltered.
“Papà!” She called, sharper now.
“I’m here,” Theo answered immediately, softer this time, “Sono qui. Non vado da nessuna parte.” (I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.)
The singing resumed—quieter. Sleepier.
Theo closed his eyes.
Unbelievable.
Bianca emerged from the bath wrapped in a towel with a warming charm woven into the fabric, her pajamas peeking out beneath it. Her curls were still damp, springing in every direction, cheeks flushed pink and clean, eyes already heavy with sleep. Madam Pomfrey handed her over with a satisfied nod and a stern warning about drafts, and Theo took her automatically, settling her against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He was now only dimly aware of how absurd this entire situation was.
They stepped out into the corridor together, the stone cool and quiet at this hour—
—and promptly ran straight into you.
You froze.
You’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. Whispers carried between classes, exaggerated retellings murmured in the Slytherin common room. Nott has a kid. From the future. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. There were more reasonable theories floating around—some magical accident that accidentally teleported a child here from outside Hogwarts walls. Others were more creative, claiming Theo had a secret child hidden away in Italy and the time-travel nonsense was just a cover story.
You firmly belonged to the former camp.
This—whatever this was—had to be some sort of misunderstanding.
You opened your mouth, ready to apologize for bumping into him—
“Mama!”
The word rang out, bright and clear, echoing far too loudly down the stone corridor.
Bianca lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all day. She wriggled out of Theo’s already-loose hold with surprising strength, arms stretching toward you, the towel slipping dangerously as she leaned forward.
“Mama! Mama!” She chirped, utterly delighted, fingers grasping at empty air, “Sei tornata! Mi sei mancato!” (You’re back! I missed you!)
You stared at her.
Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.
Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
You stared at her.
Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.
Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
You forced a smile, gentle and careful, lowering yourself slightly so you weren’t towering over her.
“I’m not your mama, little one.” You said softly.
You spared Theo a glance, silently pleading for him to say something—anything—but he looked like a statue carved from pure shock, arms still locked around Bianca as though letting go might shatter reality itself.
Bianca frowned.
Just a little.
Her brows knit together as she studied you, head tilting to one side in confusion. Then she turned in Theo’s arms, small hand gripping the front of his robes like an anchor.
You spared Theo a glance.
He hadn’t moved.
Not an inch.
He looked like a statue carved in shock, Bianca still tucked securely in his arms, as though letting go might shatter something irreparable.
Bianca’s smile faltered.
Just a little.
Her brows knit together as she studied your face, head tilting in quiet confusion. Then she turned slowly toward Theo, curls brushing his collar.
“Papà?” She asked, uncertain now.
Theo swallowed.
She pressed her cheek against his chest and spoke again, voice small but earnest—
“Papà… ora che la mamma è tornata, possiamo andare a casa? Ho sonno.” (Papa… now that mama is back, can we go home? I'm sleepy)
“There is absolutely no way I’m her mother.”
Your voice echoed far louder than you intended in the hospital wing, ricocheting off white curtains and cold stone with humiliating clarity.
Madam Pomfrey paused mid-sentence.
Flitwick blinked.
McGonagall’s lips thinned—just slightly.
Theo, seated stiffly on the edge of the bed with a sleeping Bianca curled against his chest, did not move. He looked like someone who had accepted his fate three hours ago and was now simply watching the universe pile on for sport.
It was hard to believe he’d been standing in this exact position less than a week ago, being told the very same thing.
Honestly, he wasn’t even sure the news had fully settled yet. He hadn’t had time to properly panic—not just about Bianca having a mother, but about who that mother apparently was. A girl he’d never given a second glance to. Someone who, in some unfathomable future, he had fallen in love with. Married. Chosen to have a family with.
Theo Nott. Married. A father by choice.
The thought felt so foreign he thought he might throw up.
“For one,” You continued, gesturing vaguely at yourself like the evidence should be self-explanatory, “I would remember giving birth. I am quite certain of that.”
Pomfrey cleared her throat delicately.
“And second,” You added, beginning to pace, panic sharpening every word, “there are processes involved in creating children. Processes which I have never done—” You pointed sharply at Theo, “—with him.”
Theo didn’t react. Didn’t even flinch. He just adjusted his grip slightly when Bianca shifted, instinctively tucking her closer as she sighed in her sleep.
Flitwick glanced down at his parchment, “…The magical diagnostics are, I’m afraid, quite clear.”
You stopped short. “So you’re actually telling me,” You said slowly, incredulously, “that this child is from the future? A future where I have a baby with Nott of all people?”
McGonagall folded her hands calmly, “Miss (Y/N)—”
“You’re joking, right?” You cut in, letting out a hollow laugh, “I mean, everyone here can see that there isn’t even a modicum of possibility that the two of us would date—let alone get married, let alone have a child.”
Theo’s jaw tightened.
He wanted to argue—wanted to back you up, to scoff and insist this was ridiculous, that there had to be some enormous mistake, some elaborate cosmic joke with particularly poor timing. A week ago, he would have done exactly that.
But he’d been standing in this same position barely days earlier.
He knew now that arguing would get him nowhere.
Soon enough, Bianca would wake up. She always did. And when she did, she would cry—sharp, panicked, desperate cries that cut straight through stone and reason alike. She would call for you the same way she had called for him, voice cracking, hands reaching for something familiar in a world that made no sense.
And if you were even remotely a decent person, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, uncomfortable and inescapable.
But Bianca only shifted in his arms, letting out a small, congested sniff as she rubbed at her itchy nose against his robes. Theo adjusted his hold without thinking, brushing his thumb gently along her back until her body went slack again, weight settling against him.
Theodore Nott was not a single father.
Absolutely not.
He wasn’t even a father if one wanted to argue technicalities—and frankly, he did. Loudly. Frequently. If he wasn’t considered a father, then you certainly couldn’t be considered a mother. It was only fair. Balanced. Logical.
And yet.
If he was being forced to look after a suction cup turned human child—day in and day out—then he didn’t see why you got to take the easy way out and keep avoiding her. Avoiding them.
It felt less like co-parenting and more like he was chasing you down for childcare payments.
So he handed Bianca off to Mattheo—who was, once again, skipping class and therefore had no grounds to complain—and went looking for you.
He caught you just as Potions let out, students flooding into the corridor in clusters of laughter and complaints. Theo slipped through them with singular purpose and grabbed your elbow just outside the classroom doors.
You startled, turning sharply, “Nott? What do you need?”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what this is about,” He hissed, releasing you only to cross his arms over his chest, “Go see your child.”
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, “She’s not my kid.”
“She’s as much yours as she is mine,” Theo shot back, frustration flaring hot in his chest, “and it’s not fair that I’m the one looking after her all day.”
“We can’t even speak the same language.”
“She’s three,” He snapped, “All you need to do is watch her while she plays with toys or draws or—Merlin—something.”
“She doesn’t even want to come with me.”
The words hit harder than he expected.
“Maybe she would,” Theo said, quieter but still sharp, “if you spent more time with her.”
The conversation had officially crossed into absurd territory. Theo felt like every dramatic woman in those ridiculous telenovelas his mother used to watch—hands flying, emotions everywhere, dignity nowhere to be found.
You scoffed, “Oh, come off it, Nott. Don’t you find it strange that she can only speak Italian? Nothing else? Not even my first language?”
Theo frowned, but you weren’t finished.
“She never comes to me first,” You continued, voice tightening, “Never asks me for help when she’s eating. Never reaches for me when she wants something. You’re always her first choice. Have you noticed that?”
His mouth opened—closed again.
“And,” You went on, softer now, more brittle, “you know she never lets me carry her? Not even once. And believe me, I’ve tried. She squirms out of my arms every time.”
The anger he’d carried with him faltered.
He could see it then—the hurt etched into your expression, raw and unguarded. Theo shifted, frowning, “She’s just… not used to—”
“I don’t think that’s it.” You interrupted quietly.
You hesitated. Took a breath.
“What if,” You said, voice barely above a whisper now, “what if in the future… I’m not there?”
Theo’s chest went cold.
“No,” Theo said quickly, the word cutting through the silence like he could sever the thought itself, “No. That’s—there are other explanations.”
You looked at him, eyes searching his face.
“Like what?” You asked.
He exhaled sharply, already reaching, “Maybe we just—split up. In the future. People do that. All the time.”
Your mouth twisted, humorless, “Right. So either I’m dead, or I’m a deadbeat.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said,” You shot back, “Because if I’m alive and well and present, Theo, then why doesn’t she know my language? Why doesn’t she come to me? Why doesn’t she trust me?”
His jaw clenched, “You don’t know that she doesn’t—”
“She doesn’t,” You said quietly, firmly, “And you know it.”
He felt like he couldn't breathe. His hand twitched at his side.
Theo shook his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “You’re making assumptions."
"I don't want to confuse her," You snapped, "What if I spend time with her now and she goes back to a future where she's confused that future me doesn't? Don't you think it's better for her to not be left with any painful memories?"
"Fuck this." He said harshly.
You stared at him, stunned, “Theodo—”
He turned away before you could finish.
He needed a fucking cigarette.
Theo didn’t look at you when you spoke.
“I thought I might find you here.” You sighed, stepping into the Astronomy Tower. The night air was sharp, the stars cruelly clear.
He only glanced at you once before turning back to the edge, exhaling smoke into the dark. The orange tip of his cigarette flared, then dimmed.
He hadn’t gone back before bedtime like he’d promised Bianca.
The thought twisted in his chest—but he shoved it down. Mattheo would handle it. He told himself Mattheo would’ve worn her out enough that she’d gone down on her own. That she’d fallen asleep surrounded by noise and laughter and familiar faces. That she wouldn’t notice.
But he couldn’t go back now. Not like this. Not smelling like smoke and guilt and the kind of fear that hollowed you out from the inside.
You shifted, eyes flicking to the small graveyard of cigarette stubs at his feet, and visibly bit back a comment.
“You can’t seriously be that upset at the thought of me dying, are you, Nott?” You said lightly, like it was a joke you didn’t quite believe in, “After all, we aren’t anything to each other.”
Theo’s fingers stilled.
Truthfully, he wasn’t.
Not in the way you meant.
It wasn’t you he was grieving.
It was the future he thought he was building.
He had thought—Merlin help him—that he was doing something right.
Thought that maybe—maybe—this was him breaking the cycle. Overcoming his own childhood, his own grief, his own scars. The way she clung to him, trusted him, sought him out—he’d taken that as proof. Proof that he was doing something right. That he was raising her in a house full of warmth. Of love.
A home that wasn’t cold.
A father who didn’t disappear into silence.
A childhood that didn’t feel like walking on broken glass.
He had thought he was undoing the damage his own father had carved into him.
Breaking the curse.
And now it felt like he was watching history fold back in on itself.
Bianca would lose her mother. Just like he had.
She’d be left in a cold home, one that hollowed out instead of held you together. She’d grow into something sharp and distant and unfeeling—just like him. Just like his father.
Would he turn into him?
Would he still be able to love Bianca if every time he looked at her, all he saw was you? Would he sit across from her in silence at meals, watching her struggle to eat in the tension, only to hear her throwing up later—alone on the bathroom floor, crying for a mother who wasn’t there?
Would he say the same vile things? Lock her in the same closet?
Would his hands—
Theo’s breath hitched.
He’d never imagined hitting a child. Never.
But perhaps his father hadn’t imagined it either. Not at first.
Perhaps he was driven to it.
He took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it away, crushing the ember beneath his heel before reaching for another with trembling fingers.
He never got the chance to light it.
Your hand closed around his wrist.
Firm. Steady.
He stilled.
Slowly, his focus shifted—really shifted—to you.
For the first time since Bianca had seen you, since the world had tilted on its axis, he truly looked at your face.
And there it was.
Your eyes.
Or rather—
Bianca’s.
His throat closed, eyes flickering over your face as he began to compare the two of you when your nose began to twitch, the smell of the smoke finally getting to you.
"Achoo!"
Theo couldn't help but let out a dry breath of laughter.
“You should spend time with her,” He said finally, voice rough—scraped raw by smoke and something dangerously close to tears, “I wanted nothing more than to remember my mother when she died.”
The words hung between you, fragile and devastating.
Theo swallowed.
“She deserves that,” He added quietly, “And so do you.”
Morning came quietly in the Slytherin dorms. The others had already left the dorm to get breakfast and begin classes.
Theo had been awake long before it—again. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the small lump buried beneath his blankets. Bianca had twisted herself sideways sometime in the night, curls exploding in every direction, one chubby foot sticking out from under the covers like a silent rebellion.
“Bianca,” He murmured gently, nudging the lump, “È mattina.” (It's morning.)
She made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine and promptly rolled onto her stomach, hugging the pillow tighter.
“No,” She mumbled sleepily, “Ho sonno…” (I'm sleepy)
Theo blinked, staring at the blanket-wrapped lump that was technically his responsibility. For a fleeting moment, he considered letting her sleep—just fifteen more minutes, surely that wouldn’t hurt.
But experience had already taught him better.
If she slept in, she’d be feral by noon. No nap. No quiet. No sleep later. Which meant another night of pacing the dorm with a squirming toddler while his own body begged for rest.
He sighed. The deep, tired, fatherly kind—the one he was rapidly perfecting.
Just as he leaned forward to try again, there was a knock at the door.
Theo froze.
His mind leapt immediately to the all possibilities.
Professor McGonagall, stern and efficient, here to inform him they’d finally found a way to send Bianca back to her own time.
Or worse—here to say they couldn’t.
Another knock followed. Softer. Hesitant.
Theo stood slowly, smoothing a hand through his already-mussed hair, heart doing something distinctly unhelpful in his chest. When he opened the door, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting.
But it was you.
You stood there awkwardly, hands clasped in front of you like you might bolt at any second. You weren’t in your uniform—dressed casually instead—and floating just behind you was a small enchanted tray, stacked with breakfast.
Theo’s brows lifted despite himself.
“Oh,” He said. Guarded. Careful. “…Morning.”
You hesitated, then offered a small, tentative smile.
“I brought breakfast.”
Behind him, there was sudden movement.
Bianca’s head popped up from the blankets, curls crushed on one side of her face, eyes still hazy with sleep.
She stared at you for half a second before her entire expression lit up.
“Mama!”
Theo barely had time to react before she scrambled upright, tangling herself in the covers.
“Buongiorno?” You said, tilting your head as you stepped inside, “I—uh. I’m hoping I'm pronouncing that right.”
Theo stepped aside as you entered, watching carefully as Bianca scooted closer, clutching her blanket around her shoulders like a cape. You set the tray down on the bedside table and sat beside her without hesitation.
Breakfast became a quiet, shared thing.
Bianca sat between the two of you on the bed, half-awake but cooperative, munching on cut fruit and toast while you worked patiently through the knots in her hair. She winced once, then relaxed when your touch stayed gentle.
“I used to have curls like this too.” You said softly, lifting a section of her hair.
Theo glanced over, wondering why you were saying this. Perhaps you were just getting sick of being out of the loop while Theo constantly reminded Bianca not to chew with her mouth open, “Really?”
You hummed, “Yeah. Until I spent one entire summer swimming. Completely ruined them.”
"Oh." He muttered.
“And then,” You continued, amused, “I discovered Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and never really went back.”
You began sectioning her hair, fingers moving more confidently now, twisting it into neat little ponies.
Theo slid the tray closer to you, “You sure you don’t want some?”
You shook your head lightly, “I already ate.”
Bianca paused mid-bite, brows knitting together. She looked up at you, then spoke quietly.
“Mamma… stai male di nuovo?” (Are you sick again?)
Theo stiffened slightly, “…Cosa intendi?” (What do you mean?)
Bianca shrugged, matter-of-fact in the way only children could be, “A volte la mamma sta male e non riesce a mangiare.” (Sometimes mommy gets sick and can’t eat.)
Theo looked at you slowly, something uneasy settling in his chest.
You tilted your head, confused, "Am I missing something?"
The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet.
Theo had never realized just how quiet it could get when everyone was actually in class. On the rare occasions he skipped, he was usually surrounded by his noisy gaggle of friends—laughter, insults, the scrape of chairs. Now, with most of the students gone, the space felt cavernous, almost reverent.
Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, casting lazy rectangles of gold across the stone floor. The lake beyond the glass shimmered faintly, shadows drifting slowly along the walls.
Theo sat at one of the long tables, a textbook open in front of him. Beside him, Bianca occupied her own chair, perched atop a cushion to give her some height. Even then, she barely reached the tabletop—her upper body completely propped up on her elbows as she strained forward, tongue poking out in concentration.
A piece of parchment lay in front of her, covered in colorful scribbles, and a box of crayons sat nearby—formerly one of Theo’s cigarette packs, now successfully transfigured.
You sat on his other side.
Your space had slowly expanded until it spilled over into his—parchment and quills scattered between you, a textbook here, a notebook there. You leaned in to show him a particularly complicated potion formula, pointing at your notes with the tip of your wand.
“So yesterday, we covered the difference between tinctures and infusions,” You explained, flipping through your notebook until you found the relevant lecture, “I wrote the key points here—see? You mostly just need to memorize the ratios.”
Theo scanned your notes, brow furrowing as he compared them to the questions listed beneath. He tapped one section with his finger.
“What about this one?” He asked, “It doesn’t match the ratio.”
You leaned closer to see what he was pointing at, scooting nearer without thinking, “Oh—okay, this one’s an exception. It’s considered an infusion because of the brewing process, not the base ingredients.”
You were just about to continue when Bianca suddenly sat upright, eyes wide, like she’d uncovered a great secret.
“Papà! Mamma! Guarda!” She chirped, spinning the parchment toward you with pride.
You leaned in immediately, your expression softening.
It was a drawing—very clearly the three of you. Stick figures, yes, but unmistakable. One tall with dark hair. One beside him with longer hair. And a much smaller one in the middle, curls drawn in chaotic loops. Behind you stood a crooked little house, flowers floating inexplicably in midair, and a tiny sun tucked into the corner of the page.
You laughed quietly, “This is adorable.”
Bianca smiled, satisfied, but said nothing—already basking in the praise.
You turned to Theo, “What’s wow in Italian?”
He shifted his gaze from the drawing to you, and it was only then you realized just how close you’d gotten—practically halfway into his seat. At this distance, you could see every individual lash, the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
You froze.
Theo leaned in, lowering his head toward your ear. When he spoke, his voice was low and lazy, far too close.
“Wow." He said simply.
You pulled back just enough to glare at him, “You’re unbearable.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, “You asked.”
Theo hadn’t planned on going to the Hufflepuff house party.
Not really.
But you’d insisted—gentle, firm in that way that made it hard to argue without sounding like an idiot.
“Go,” You’d said, already kneeling to help Bianca with her pajamas, “You haven’t been out in days. You deserve a night that doesn’t involve a sticky toddler."
Bianca had protested briefly, arms looping around his neck like a vise, but you’d distracted her with some Jaffa cakes. That seemed to do it.
So he went.
There was music. Laughter. Too many people packed into a common room that smelled faintly of firewhisky and bad decisions. Mattheo handed him a drink almost immediately.
Theo stared at it.
Then thought of Bianca—overtired, unfamiliar bed, the very real possibility that she’d decide midnight was an appropriate time to throw a tantrum and demand to be taken back to Theo's dorm only to be greeted by his drunk self.
He handed it back.
“No?” Mattheo blinked.
“No.” Theo said flatly.
He stayed long enough to prove he’d tried. Not to himself but to you. Who he knew would give him a teasing scold when he'd come back early, tail tucked between his legs.
And then—quietly, without much fanfare—he left.
The Slytherin dorms were dim when he returned, the corridors hushed and cool. He moved carefully, like any loud noise might break something fragile.
When he opened his door, the first thing he noticed was the lamp.
Low. Warm. Soft golden light spilling across the room.
The second thing—
You were there, curled on your side beneath his blankets, Bianca tucked against your chest like she belonged there. One of your arms was draped protectively around her small body, fingers curled instinctively at her back. Bianca’s face was pressed into your collarbone, curls splayed wildly across the pillow.
Fast asleep.
Theo stopped just inside the doorway.
Something tight in his chest loosened. Something else replaced it—heavier, warmer, far more dangerous.
You’d kicked off your shoes, throwing off your jacket as well in favour of casting a warming charm over the two of you right as you had fallen asleep. Bianca’s tiny hand was fisted in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring herself.
Theo approached slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He studied your face.
A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek, brushing your lips. In your sleep, your brow pinched faintly, nose scrunching in the exact same way Bianca’s did.
He let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle before he could stop himself.
Carefully—so carefully—he reached out and brushed the strand of hair away from your face with two fingers.
You stirred.
Not fully awake—just enough to shift closer to Bianca, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Your hand tightened reflexively around her back.
Theo froze.
Bianca was going to lose this one day.
She was going to lose this—the warmth, the safety, the arms of her mother.
He was going to lose this someday.
He didn't want to lose you.
He wanted you for the rest of his life.
The thought hit hard and fast, knocking the breath out of his chest.
He swallowed, jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of Bianca’s back. On the way your fingers curved protectively at her spine even in sleep, like your body knew the job before your mind ever caught up.
Then you shifted again.
This time more sharply.
Your eyes blinked open, unfocused and glassy with sleep, lashes fluttering as you took in the dim room. For half a second, you looked confused—then awareness snapped in all at once.
You stiffened.
“Oh—Merlin—” You whispered hoarsely, lifting your head an inch before immediately freezing again when Bianca huffed and burrowed closer.
You blinked.
You slowly sank back down, mortified.
Theo watched as realization dawned on your face.
Then, horrified, you wiped at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand.
“I—” You croaked, then cleared your throat quietly, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t actually asleep.”
Theo raised a brow.
You winced, “Okay. That’s a lie. I was trying not to fall asleep.”
He stayed silent, letting you dig.
“I was pretending,” You continued in a rushed whisper, cheeks warming, “I thought if I stayed really still she’d think it was bedtime and settle down and—well—apparently I fell asleep first.”
Theo huffed out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh.
You shot him a look, “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
You sighed, rubbing your face with one hand, careful not to jostle Bianca, “This is so embarrassing.”
Theo didn’t respond right away.
Instead, he stood, crossed the room quietly, and took the blanket draped over the chair. His movements were careful—deliberate—as he unfolded it and drew it up over you and Bianca, tucking it in around her small shoulders before letting it settle across your waist.
“You can sleep here tonight,” He said finally, voice low. Then, after a beat, softer, “If you want.”
You blinked up at him, the last of sleep still clinging to you.
“Here?” You asked, whispering like the room might object.
He shrugged one shoulder, “She’s already settled. No point moving her.”
You hesitated.
Then nodded, “Okay.”
Theo’s jaw loosened, just a little.
A few days later, Theo was running on fumes.
The bone-deep exhaustion that settled behind his eyes and refused to leave. The kind that made time blur and thoughts lag half a second behind reality. Between the staggered schedules, half-missed classes, and nights that never quite counted as sleep, he felt like he was permanently five minutes behind himself.
You weren’t doing much better.
The professors still hadn’t found a way to send Bianca back, which meant the two of you had fallen into a strange, grinding rhythm: one of you attending class while the other watched her, trading off half-written notes—if by some miracle you hadn’t fallen asleep mid-lecture. You were grateful the professors were granting you at least that much grace.
The rest of the time was spent cramming together right before bedtime while Bianca threw a tantrum of truly mythological proportions.
It turned out she’d woken up once to find the two of you studying together and had somehow come to the conclusion that whenever she went to sleep, you and Theo threw secret parties without her.
So now—despite being exhausted—she refused to sleep.
You hadn’t known children could get overtired before.
Apparently, it was a thing.
A loud, shrill, nails-on-a-chalkboard thing.
Bianca was a small whirlwind. All limbs and laughter and boundless, feral energy that refused to burn out indoors.
So when you suggested a picnic by the Black Lake, Theo thought you’d finally lost your mind.
“You want to let her run free,” He said flatly, “near a giant squid.”
“She just needs to run,” You insisted, rubbing your temples, “Like—really run. Until her lungs give out.”
Theo stared at you, hollow-eyed.
“…You’re a genius.”
So there you were.
The grass near the lake was warm beneath the afternoon sun, the water dark and glassy, the mountains reflected on its surface like a painting. A blanket was spread out behind you with food you’d asked the house-elves to make—and while it looked incredible, you were deeply offended by the lack of sweets.
Apparently the elves had decided Bianca didn’t need sugar.
Who cared about Bianca?
You wanted a chocolate lava cake, damn it.
Bianca, meanwhile, had already abandoned the blanket entirely.
She shrieked with laughter as Theo lifted her into the air, spinning once before tossing her just high enough to make her squeal—then catching her easily.
“Ancora!” She demanded, breathless. (Again.)
Theo obliged.
He laughed—really laughed. Not the tired, guarded version you’d grown used to, but something lighter, freer. He threw her again, caught her, bounced her once on his hip before setting her down just long enough for her to sprint off in a wild, crooked circle.
You watched from the blanket.
At first, it was just fondness. Relief. Gratitude that she was finally burning off that impossible energy. You couldn’t deny it—the sound of a child laughing so freely tugged a smile from you before you could stop it.
Then your gaze shifted.
Theo crouched when she spoke, his attention completely zeroed in on her. When she stumbled, he steadied her without thinking. When she reached for him, he went instantly—lifting her with an ease that felt instinctive, like muscle memory he’d never known he had.
And something in your chest shifted.
Warm.
Tight.
Soft in a way you hadn’t expected.
He stole your breath.
You stared at him.
At the boy you’d never really noticed. The boy you’d fully expected to graduate without so much as a conversation between you. Someone who, before all of this, would’ve been nothing more than a footnote—if that—in the story of your life.
Not your ending.
And yet the realization hit you so suddenly you almost laughed.
Somewhere—somewhen—years from now, a version of you would love him enough to choose to have a child with this man.
And now?
You got it.
You got the vision your future self must have seen when she decided to lock him down.
You supposed it made sense that you’d never seen Theo like this before. He was just a boy—how could you possibly know whether a teenage boy would grow into someone steady? Someone safe. Someone capable of love that endured, of support that didn’t waver.
A man you could build a life with.
But watching him now—watching him lift Bianca again as she squealed, watching the way his hand stayed firm at her back—your stomach flipped.
Your brain short-circuited.
Your ovaries, traitors that they were, staged a full rebellion.
And for the first time, the future didn’t feel impossible.
It felt inevitable.
You stood abruptly and joined them, brushing grass from your skirt. “Alright,” You said, “My turn.”
You bent to lift Bianca—
“No!” She protested instantly.
She wriggled out of your arms with shocking strength for someone so small and darted straight back to Theo, wrapping herself around his leg like an anchor.
Your smile slipped. Just for a heartbeat.
“Oh—okay,” You said quickly, forcing it back into place, “That’s fine. Totally fine.”
You took a step back, suddenly unsure of where to put your hands, your weight, yourself. The breeze off the Black Lake felt colder now. You stared out at the water instead of them, swallowing the strange tightness in your chest.
Theo noticed.
He frowned, glancing between you and Bianca, then crouched so he was level with her. Gently, carefully, he loosened her grip just enough to look at her face.
“Perché non vuoi che mamma ti prenda?” He asked softly. (Why don’t you want mamma to pick you up?)
The word mamma hit you even before you processed it.
You turned away a little more, heart stuttering. You didn’t understand the rest of what he said, not really. You suddenly felt like you were standing on the edge of something sacred and private, like you’d wandered into a family photograph you didn’t belong in.
Bianca’s face scrunched up, serious in that way only children could be when they believed they were being very reasonable.
“Mamma è troppo malata per portarmi, papà,” She said firmly, “Lo sai.” (Mamma's too sick to take me, papa. You know that.)
Theo froze.
The world seemed to tilt, just slightly.
Theo’s eyes flicked to you slowly.
You tilted your head, not knowing how spines began to claw up his hands and feet, making him feel cold, "What's wrong?"
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Losing virginities with you’re pathetic little Yandere
He’s been texting you nonstop for days, heart emojis and “I can’t stop thinking about you” messages. When you finally tell him you want this, his voice cracks over the phone. He shows up at your place with flushed cheeks, hands slightly shaking as he holds a small bag of snacks and drinks “just in case you get hungry after.” The second the door closes he pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in your neck and whispering “I’ve wanted this for so long… I still can’t believe you chose me.”
You’re both on the bed, fully clothed at first. He keeps staring at you like you’re unreal, hands hesitant to touch anywhere too intimate. Every time you guide his hand under your shirt he lets out a shaky breath and mutters “You’re so beautiful… thank you (y/n).” His crush is so obvious he’s almost trembling with reverence.
When you finally take his shirt off he’s blushing hard, but the moment his hands slide up your thighs he looks drunk on you. He kisses every inch he exposes like he’s worshiping slow, open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, whispering “I love you” between each one. When he reaches your panties he hesitates, not because he doesn’t want to but because he wants to make sure he’s being a good boy and not crossing a line, eyes flicking up for permission, and once you nod he presses his face against you like he’s been starving for your scent.
You explore each other clumsily but eagerly. You get to be the predator, he is gladly the pray. He gets overwhelmed when you touch him, so excited and anxious that you’re finally claiming him, hoping he’s good enough for your taste. hips jerking, soft desperate sounds spilling out. “Wait- ughn slow, please… I’m gonna-” He has to stop you a couple times because he’s too worked up. Every moan you make makes him more obsessed; he keeps saying “That sound… fuck, do it again.”
Missionary so you can see each other. He’s propped on his elbows, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. When he first pushes in he freezes, eyes wide, letting out a broken “Oh my god…” because it feels better than he ever imagined. He keeps stopping to kiss you deeply, whispering “You’re mine now… right? Tell me you’re mine” in that needy, lovesick voice.
His pace is messy and uneven, he thrusts too fast at first from pure excitement, hips rutting against you, you can feel his tip catching on your entrance every time he pulls out. then slows when you gasp, apologizing and nuzzling your neck. You wrap your legs around him and he loses it, burying himself deeper and groaning your name like a prayer. His hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
When he’s close he gets even more intense: “I love you, I love you so much- I-i can’t hold it—” He comes hard, shaking, pressing as deep as he can while repeating your name. The look on his face is pure bliss mixed with overwhelming emotion.
If you’re on top He’s lying back looking up at you like you’re a goddess. His hands roam everywhere, squeezing your hips, cupping your breasts, eyes locked on your face the whole time. Every time you sink down he whimpers and tells you how perfect you feel, how he’s never going to want anyone else. He comes while staring straight into your eyes, completely undone.
Dim lights, lots of eye contact. He takes forever with foreplay, learning exactly what makes you moan. Learning what makes him moan. When penetration happens it’s gradual lots of “Is this okay?” and “You feel incredible.” “I love you so much- oH my god, mmmhp.” He lasts longer than expected because he keeps pausing to kiss you and ground himself.
He’s even more obsessed after the first time. This round is needier. he’s less nervous, more possessive, sucking marks into your neck while muttering “No one else gets to have you like this.”
He doesn’t pull out immediately. Just stays inside you, arms wrapped tight, face hidden in your neck while he catches his breath and whispers “I’m never letting you go now… you’re stuck with me.” His hands keep stroking your skin like he can’t stop touching you.
Post-sex cuddling is intense. He pulls you against his chest, legs tangled, playing with your hair. “That was the best moment of my life. I love you even more now… does that scare you?” He’s soft and vulnerable but the clinginess is already ramping up, he will probably burst open and spew things you probably should tell someone, offering to get you water, food, anything so you don’t leave the bed. Or him.
Next morning he wakes up first pressing his body against you, trying not to get worked up all over again and just watches you sleep with the biggest heart-eyes. He hopes this means you actually want him. When you wake up he’s already kissing your shoulder, ready for more, whispering how he’s been in love with you for ages and this just proved you two are meant to be.
He thinks this is the beginning of all his fantasies.
He’s going to be even more glued to you afterward, constant texts, wanting to spend every night together, calling you his girlfriend in his head whether you’ve said it or not. If you thought he was bad enough before imagine how a dog is once you throw him a bone.
"Seriously? You're gonna put me on a sex ban? Please Zayne, we both know you won't last a week."
Oh how wrong you'd been.
"Zayne this-this isn't fair!" Your protests are accompanied with the sounds of you straining against the handcuffs. Your face is pressed against the pillow, hands behind your back. You'd thought he was finally giving in when he'd pulled your clothes off and bent you over.
You should have known he had something up his sleeve.
"You need to relax. I don't want to hurt you." He murmurs, popping the lid of the lube open and pouring some onto your tight entrance. Your pussy is throbbing, but of course it goes ignored.
"Z-Zayne please t-touch me..." You whimper, biting your lip as he slowly eases a finger in. Sure, it feels good, but you can't cum like this, and he knows it.
"I am touching you. If I recall, there used to be a time you begged for this, yes?" He's right of course. You had begged to try this, and normally you were a fan. But as a punishment? It's torture.
Before you can protest again, he adds a second finger, making you nearly choke on your saliva. Zayne pauses, free hand rubbing your lower back before it slides up to interlock with yours.
"Tell me if it's too much. If you behave..." Hope shoots through you at his words, getting wetter by the second. You focus on your breathing as he pulls his fingers out, his tip replacing them.
Zayne squeezes your hand as he slides in. It doesn't hurt, in fact, it feels good enough that you moan once he bottoms out, so delighted by the fullness of him. You wait patiently for him to start moving, but nothing happens.
"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"
dilf!sae who hired you as a babysitter to take care of his eight-year-old daughter on the nights he’s working late or tied up with meetings. he’s still in his late thirties – aging in a way that felt more polished than worn, as if time had only refined his features even more. and those teal eyes… they had a way of making just about anyone swoon.
dilf!sae who doesn’t immediately go to his room when he gets home. instead, he stands near the doorway and watches the way you spend time with his daughter, playing along with her drawings while letting her excited ramblings fill the room as she eagerly talks you through every little detail. the sight alone was enough to stir something in him he hadn’t felt in a long time.
dilf!sae who starts crossing lines he pretends not to notice. he offers to help with things you can clearly handle on your own, like reaching for something on the shelf when you’re already stretching for it or deliberately brushing past you when there’s more than enough space. he doesn’t comment on it and neither do you, but theres this unspoken tension every single time.
dilf!sae who becomes more aware of your presence than your role. it’s been nearly four months since he hired you, and he no longer sees you as just his ‘daughter’s babysitter’ anymore. he also finds himself asking unnecessary questions just to keep a conversation going with you.
“you ate?”
“need a ride home?”
“you’ve got somewhere else to be?”
none of it is strictly professional.
dilf!sae who realizes you’ve been looking at him the same way all along. four months worth of tension finally snapping past the line he’d been holding – and that’s when his last bit of restraint was gone. he steps in, closing the distance between you as his hand slides up to your jaw, tilting your face towards him. “… you’ve been doing this on purpose, haven’t you?” he murmurs low, thumb pressing just slightly against your bottom lip before finally giving in and capturing your lips in a heated kiss.
dilf!sae who carries you into his bedroom and presses you flat against his mattress. his hands make a quick work of your clothes, stripping you and then himself before pushing his swollen tip into your needy cunt, watching your face twist as you struggle to take his girth. a faint smirk tugs at his lips as he listens to the breathy moan spilling from your lips, knowing damn well he’s the one making you sound like this.
dilf!sae who initially sets a slow, steady pace, dragging his hips back only to push deeper each time, making sure you feel every inch of his throbbing length until your breath turns uneven and your body starts to give in beneath him. “ngghh… y-you’re too deep—!” you mewl, your fingers clutching at the sheets as your back arches helplessly beneath him.
dilf!sae who instantly finds your sweet spot, adjusting your hips just right before gradually driving into you with deep, measured thrusts. his free hand slides up to your chest, thumb brushing over your pert nipple and then rolling it between his fingers, drawing another broken moan from you. “mmnghh—!” his stamina never falters as he takes his time with you, working you through one orgasm after another before letting himself finish, leaving you overstimulated and spent.
dilf!sae who coaxes two more orgasms out of you before rolling you onto your stomach, his grip firm as he keeps you exactly where he wants you. his tone leaves no room for argument, calmly telling you that you can take more in which you do. “come on, you can take it...” he glances down to where you’re connected, watching the way your slick gathers at the base of his cock, slowly dripping all the way down to his balls.
dilf!sae who leaves you breathless and shaking beneath him when it’s all over – only to lean down and press a lingering kiss on your lips. until suddenly… a knock at the door cuts through the moment.
“… d-dad? can you come read me a bedtime story?” his daughter’s voice, soft and unsuspecting, echoes from the other side.
sae stills for a brief second, his hand pausing where it rests against you before he exhales quietly. “… go back to bed. i’ll be there in a minute.” he calls back, voice calm – in-fact too calm for the current predicament you both were in.
after hearing the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hallway, his gaze drops back to you.
“stay here… we’re not done yet.”
⨳ 𝓷𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i remember how overly freaked out everyone was when this specific manga panel of sae came out last year 💀
