Theodore Nott x gn!hufflepuff reader; fluff & angst
summary: soulmates. you don’t believe in them for a second. especially once you find out theodore nott of all people is supposed to be yours.
a/n: after an eternity, here it is. hope it was worth the wait. dedicated to @obsessedwithceleste (go read her interpretation here) and all 1k of you who continue to support my work. it means the world ♡
It was almost midnight and you definitely should not have still been in the library. However, there was a History of Magic essay due in a few days and your roommates were, for some reason, not cool with you studying in the dorm at this hour. So here you were.
You had been the only one in the library for the past few hours until one Theodore Nott strolls in like he owns the place and you can’t help but roll your eyes. You’re ready to ignore him, reshuffling your quills and books which causes your parchment to roll off the table with terrible timing. With a groan, you bend over in your seat to pick it up. He apparently had a similar idea and for the briefest of moments, your fingertips touch. Much to your shock and horror, the letters T.N. were now inscribed on your wrist in rather sloppy handwriting.
“Holy shit,” Theodore’s stunned whisper comes out before you properly get a chance to process what just happened. “You’re my soulmate?”
You catch a glimpse of your initials etched into his wrist. Your eyes travel up further to meet his shockingly blue ones and all you can think is you need to get out of there. Now.
In record time, you’ve packed your things and you’re slipping out of the library, leaving behind a stunned Theodore. The castle is empty as you hurry back to the Hufflepuff common room, wishing desperately that this could all just be some horrific nightmare.
As you leave the library in a hurry, Theo sets down his books and without thinking about it, runs after you.
You hear him shouting your name as he books it through the empty corridor. You ignore him. Just before he can reach you, you’re slipping through the common room door, letting it shut in his face. You don’t hear the thud of his forehead hitting the wood with a groan.
It hits you that it definitely wasn’t some horrific nightmare when you immediately notice Theodore leaning against a wall outside the common room the next morning. For a second you contemplate turning right back around and skipping classes for the day. You aren’t quite quick enough deciding, with Theodore’s predatory gaze falling on you where you stand in the doorway. He raises an eyebrow and damn it, you won’t be able to easily get past him. Nonetheless, you make an attempt.
As you try to casually slide past him, he steps in front of you, effectively blocking your path. Prick.
“What do you want, Nott?” Your arms come up to cross over your chest as you meet his eye with a glare. He’s a bit taller than you, so you have to look up. For some reason, it’s incredibly frustrating.
“I want to talk about last night.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you quickly respond, side stepping to get around him. He immediately blocks you again with an incredulous look.
“What do you mean nothing to talk about? We touched fingertips and now your initials are carved into my skin. We’re soulmates.” He seems genuinely a little shocked you’re putting up a fight with him.
“No, we’re not. Get out of my way.”
“Then explain this,” he holds up his wrist where, yes, your initials are written in black ink. He was being dramatic about it being carved. You scoff.
“I don’t care. Now move.” You manage to slip past him this time and continue down the corridor.
His eyebrows raise in surprise that quickly morphs into that signature smugness that nearly makes your eye twitch. “You’re actually going to class?” There’s an almost taunting tone to his voice and maybe your eye does twitch. Maybe.
“Must be surprising since your lot typically skips, but it is something that people do,” you give a nonchalant shrug.
Theo’s smirk drops off his face, “my lot?”
You bite your lip to hold off a smug grin, “yeah, that group of delinquents you skip class to smoke with all the time.”
“It’s not like we need to go to class anyway, we do just fine. It’s more productive to have a break.”
“More productive in what? Giving you lung cancer? Sure thing, Nott.” Without another word, you exit the corridor.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for him to catch up to you. He gets entirely too close for your liking, you can practically feel him behind you. “You know, out of all the people that could possibly have been my soulmate, I never expected a Hufflepuff.”
You don’t acknowledge the soulmates comment, instead asking, “What’s wrong with Hufflepuffs, Nott?”
“Just surprised is all, as they produce some of the dullest people I’ve ever met. You’re rather feisty though,” you can practically hear the smirk in his voice and the heat radiating off his skin—
You come to an abrupt halt, causing Theodore to slam into your back from walking too close. He makes a startled noise as he stumbles before covering it up with a scoff. Before he can regain his footing, you start walking again.
“What was the sudden stop for? Couldn’t handle the Slytherin heat?” He quickly regains his smirk and catches up, this time by your side, walking in time with your footsteps.
“Thought snakes were supposed to be cold-blooded.” You take a sharp corner on your way to the Charms classroom, yet you’re unable to shake him off. “Badgers would be the warm ones.”
Theodore seems to think over your words for a moment before letting out an almost inaudible chuckle, “alright, fine. You got me on that one.”
You walk together in a surprisingly comfortable silence the rest of the way to the classroom. As you make your way across the castle, you sneak a glance or two at the taller boy, trying in vain to figure out what the hell is making him do this. Theodore Nott has always been one of the biggest pains in the ass you’ve ever met, yet in this moment, his company was at the very least tolerable. Which is more than you could say for all the years you’d known him.
You enter the relatively empty classroom and find your usual spot. Theodore, not missing a beat, swoops into the chair beside yours. “I thought you had better things to do than class, Nott?”
“I can make exceptions. The guys will be fine without me for one morning.”
“You sure about that? You seem attached at the hip to—what’re their names? Riddle and Berkshire?”
Theo has a look of genuine surprise on his face that shifts into a subtle smile when you mention his friends’ names. “How did you know that?”
“It’s not like it’s some secret,” you deadpan.
Cold blue eyes study your face for a moment, seemingly scrutinizing every detail they run across, trying to figure you out. You don’t give him much of an opportunity, turning your head to slam your textbook onto the desk. You see Theodore jump at the thud out the corner of your eye.
Before either of you can say more, two of your housemates, Justin Finch-Fletchley and Hannah Abbott, are approaching. You can tell by the looks on their faces they’re intrigued to see you sitting with Theodore, and there’s no way they’re going to miss the opportunity to give you a bit of hell over it.
Your last name rings out in the slowly filling classroom and you have to suppress a long suffering sigh.
“Fancy seeing you sitting with a Slytherin,” Justin’s voice hits your ears with a sneer. “Figured you had better sense than to sit with one of those types, aren’t you worried what people might think?”
“Especially Nott. Hanging out with the son of a…Death Eater, not exactly a good look,” Hannah’s eyes flick between you two. “Only person worse would be Riddle.” You don’t miss the way Theodore’s eyes narrow at her jab at his friend.
Seemingly unable to hold himself back from mocking you further, Justin adds, “didn’t realize you were taking charity cases. Though, with how you are I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You look up at them with a borderline bored expression, hoping they’ll give up and leave you alone.
“Oh…nothing,” Hannah gives a faux innocent smile.
Before they can continue to berate either of you, you interject, “I don’t recall asking for input, anyway—” you tug Theo closer by his tie to make a point, “I’m fine where I am, so you can piss off with evil snake talk.”
With a huff, Hannah is grabbing Justin’s arm and pulling him away.
You release the hand on the green tie, barely noticing how Theo quickly attempts to fix it back into his jumper, cheeks slightly flushed. “I can see why you prefer to skip,” you grumble under your breath once they’re gone, eyes returning to your textbook and missing Theodore’s stunned expression beside you.
“Why did you—” he clears his throat in an attempt to regain his aloof demeanor, “why’d you do that?”
“Didn’t like the way they were talking about you,” you shrug, nonchalant like you were speaking about something mundane as the weather. Theo feels his brain malfunction for a moment, just staring at you like he can’t figure you out. Soon more students are filing in, then the lecture is starting, response dying on his tongue.
The moment Flitwick dismisses you, you’re shoving the textbook back in your bag and making your way to the door. Theo starts to complain about your habit of disappearing until his eyes trail up to you waiting at the door for him. He’s stunned for the second time that day.
He scrambles to grab his things and follow you. You walk together through the corridors in silence until you’re pushing open the door to the North Exit Courtyard. Theo’s brain finally catches up with them and he pulls his smirk back onto his face, following too close behind you yet again. He continues a half step behind you the entire way to the Cares of Magical Creatures classroom.
“You’ve got quite a bit of sass for a Hufflepuff.”
“And you’re quite clingy for a Slytherin. Do you have to stand so close?”
“Yes.” He somehow walks even closer, “still no clue why we’re coming over here when the lesson isn’t for another three hours.”
You drop your things onto one of the tables before picking up a small bag of treats. Theo continues to trail behind you like a lost puppy as you make your way to the pens behind the classroom. You stop at the second to last enclosure, where a group of kneazles are lounging in the sun. Carefully opening the gate, a couple of the cat-like beasts quickly pad over, clearly familiar with you. While one hand gently pets the head of one, you offer a treat to the other as Theo watches on in fascination from the other side of the fence.
“Wouldn’t have pegged you for an animal lover.” It draws your attention back over to the Italian boy, unimpressed look on your face, “yeah? Why's that?” He just shrugs, intense eyes staring you down.
“Thought Herbology was more of a Hufflepuff thing, I suppose.”
“Oh Merlin, no. Almost got attacked by a Venomous Tentacula last term, so no green thumb here,” you give a gentle scratch under the chin of the purring kneazle. “Funny enough it was that mate of yours, Berkshire, that yanked me out of the way before I could become plant food or something.”
Theo’s eyes narrow briefly as one of his eyebrows quirks up, “You’ve met Lorenzo? And he saved you from a plant?” He almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it.
“Well, it was really the only time we’ve spoken. I guess you snakes aren’t all bad,” there’s a teasing grin on your face as your fingers absentmindedly run through soft fur.
“You continue to surprise me, badger.” He’s staring you down again with those, slowly but surely less, intimidating blue eyes. “You didn’t seem friends with those other Hufflepuffs and here you are defending not one, but two Slytherins…why?”
You think it over for a moment before shrugging casually, “loyalty and respect are earned. Just because you ought to bond with certain people doesn’t mean you do. They think I’m quite odd, I’m pretty sure.”
“Then who has earned your loyalty, badger? Other than the school creatures,” he gestures to where the beasts are nuzzling against your robes and nearly purring.
You just shrug cryptically again, frustrating Theo more than he anticipated.
He groans as he leans his forearms on the gate. You were completely unlike any Hufflepuff he’d ever met, but it intrigued him. Maybe he’d spent the last few years being a dick to you, mostly on principle; his group of friends were very aware of how they were perceived and it was often wise to get ahead of the insults by spewing them at others first. But you’d stuck up for him. You had something nice to say about his friend without the expectation to get something out of it. At least as far as he knew you weren’t trying to hook up with any of them, which is why most people decided to play nice with them usually. So why were you letting him follow you around? Was it because of the soulmate connection? You seemed hellbent on denying even the idea of it. He feels like his head is spinning.
Then like a life raft in a maelstrom, he’s pulled out of his thoughts by your soft voice.
“C’mere,” you gesture for Theo to join you in the enclosure, expectant look on your face. He hesitates for a moment before obliging you. The gate creaks as he pushes it open and warily steps inside, eyeing the kneazles like they’re about to take his face off. You have to hold back a laugh at the normally stoic boy obviously scared of what might as well be oversized house cats.
Once he’s close enough you reach out for his hand. It takes a moment of him looking between you and the kneazles before he puts his palm in yours, his touch surprisingly gentle and warm. You carefully tug him closer, positioning his hand in front of the kneazle for it to take a sniff at him.
Whiskers tickle his palm as he curiously looks over to you for an explanation, but all he gets is you watching the interaction intently, like you’re waiting for something. The kneazle apparently deems him suitable for pets as the furry head bumps his hand in a silent request for attention. You nod before standing up and straightening out your robes.
Theo gently starts petting the beast’s fluffy head as he watches you. “I think it likes me.”
“Looks like it.”
“You knew it would,” his tone is teasingly accusatory, like he thinks you’re testing him.
“Oh. I had no idea. Could’ve bitten your fingers right off for all I knew,” you once again shrug nonchalantly, opening the gate to the kneazle pen and softly closing it behind you. Theodore looks at you in alarm, eyes wide as they flick down to the creature nuzzling at his palm like an overgrown kitten. He quickly pulls away from the beast. “You were going to just let it bite me?!”
“You’re much more talkative than you look, anyone ever told you that?”
“You’re dodging my question…again.”
“And you’re dodging mine!” There’s a new air of playfulness in your voice, gone is the irritation you had directed at him most of the day and the entire time you’ve known each other.
He rolls his eyes, almost affectionately as he follows your lead out of the enclosure and back toward the classroom. He shouldn’t have been so surprised when he rams straight into you for a second time today. This time there’s a lack of teasing on your face, instead replaced by surprise that mirrors his own.
“Oh! Almost forgot,” you redirect to one of the first enclosures in the lineup, where there’s a pile of gold and gems and various other shiny objects spilling out of a den. A little blue niffler, smaller than the other ones lounging on and around the pile, scampers up to the fence when you approach.
“Hello Trinket,” you dig in the pocket of your robes for a moment before producing a shiny galleon. Your voice is softer than Theo had ever heard from you as you speak to the little creature, your tone taking on what he can only describe as a parental adoration. You carefully hold out the coin for greedy little niffler hands to quickly snatch up and shove into the pocket on its tummy. It gives you a pleased noise and lets you gently scratch the top of its head.
“Don’t tell the others, but this one’s my favorite.”
Theo has a stupid, lovestruck grin on his face when he responds, “wouldn’t dream of it, vita mia.”
As you both walk back towards the castle, something compels Theodore to ask, “so…what do you like so much about Nifflers? And why the little runt in particular?” And by the way your entire being seems to perk up and you animatedly launch into a ramble about what’s obviously a passion for you, Theo’s heart thuds hard in his chest. Deep down he knows he’s already a goner for you.
You don’t share the next class, but he always seems to find his way back to you. Waiting by the door the moment you’re dismissed, and bewildered, you think he must have either left early from his class or booked it through the corridors (or both) to be there in time. But the little smile on his face is unwavering.
On the way to the Great Hall, he offers a seat with his friends over at the Slytherin table and for a moment you’re so shocked (and secretly touched) that he wants you to properly meet his friends, you’re tempted to say yes. It’d probably beat sitting mostly alone at your house table as usual, but one glance over to the group already looking at you from across the dining hall and you’re making a stupid joke about not wanting to venture into the snake pit and speed walking in the other direction. Not intimidated at all.
Theo seems once again undeterred by you making an escape, appearing by your side the moment the meal time is over. He follows you, too close as you’ve come to expect, all the way to the library; his snide comments all but gone from your interactions. The space is instead filled by what sounds like genuine questions about yourself and stupid stories of situations only a group of teenage boys could get themselves into. You find yourself smiling more than you ever have with him, even more than much of your time with your housemates.
The more he feels comfortable, the more you get to see a boy that loves summers by the sea and evenings cooking in the kitchen and who’s favorite instrument is the piano.
You two settle into this routine of him tagging along, right by your side for the next few days. Talking with him is easy and he seems content to just listen to you endlessly ramble about anything. He always has questions relevant to what you’re talking about, sometimes even bringing up things you had mentioned in passing, days prior.
He had even managed to drag you up to the Astronomy Tower late one night to properly meet his friends. Conversation with them even came easier than amongst your fellow Hufflepuffs. You could joke with them and they would have a witty, often snarky response in return.
Slowly you were finding yourself enjoying having a bit of company most hours of the day. Finding yourself leaving your common room in the mornings to fall in step with Theo, who was always there and waiting for you.
Eventually he had ended up sneaking you into his dorm one evening to study while his dorm mates were out doing Merlin knows what. After a couple of hours brainstorming over a Potions project, Theo’s eyes flicked up to meet yours.
“Are you still…vehemently against the whole…soulmate thing? It’s alright if you are and I don’t want to push, it’s just,” he sighs softly as he turns his quill over in his fingers, “it’s been on my mind a bit.”
The sudden topic change has you blinking in surprise, brain blanking as you struggle to even process your own thoughts.
“I just…don’t—I don’t know,” you stumble over your words a bit as you look away from him. You bite your lip for a moment, internally debating whether or not to lay bare this part of you, to let him past the carefully crafted walls that had been there so long you weren’t even sure what was left to guard anymore. But soft ocean eyes that always seem to linger too long, holding depths you could have never anticipated look back at you. And you feel safe.
So you continue, “my, uh parents were soulmates. In name only I suppose. As far as I know, they never loved each other, I don’t think they even liked each other.” You fiddle with the sleeves of your robes. “I didn’t want to let myself fall for you if you were just doing it because you thought we were destined to be together. I wanted you to like me, just…as me.”
“I never wanted a soulmate but here you are, ruining everything. With your stupid charming accent and the way you remember things about me and how you look at me with that stupid lovey look on your face—”
You’re cut off by gentle lips on yours. Expensive cologne and smoke fill your lungs in an intoxicating burn. It steals your breath, leaving only him.
“I understand the feeling, the doubt about leaving it up to the universe to decide on something so…important.” Theo’s voice is quiet, gentle, when he pulls back from your lips. “My parents weren’t soulmates. It’s archaic, but purebloods have certain expectations and practices, one of them being arranged marriages. That’s what mine were. Mia mamma, she ended up falling in love with my father but him, not so much. Wanted me for an heir.”
He looks over your face and for once it’s not a look of scrutiny, but something tender. Like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on.
“She never got to be with her soulmate so she wanted me to get the chance to be with mine. But it’s hard, you know? I don’t know what I’m doing with the whole destined relationship thing, but I want to. I wish you could have met her. She had an eye for good character, I think.”
“Theo…” You’re almost at a loss for words, but you push through. “I—with the kneazles…I didn’t actually think they were going to hurt you. It might sound stupid but they’re particularly good at sensing trustworthiness and I…”
“And you wanted their second opinion?” he cracks a smile.
“Perhaps.”
“Well, I’m glad they found me trustworthy.”
His thumb grazes over his initials on your wrist as you hesitantly speak. “Me too. I know it might not be instantaneous, but…I’m willing to—no—I want to give this soulmate thing a shot. I’m just…scared.”
The light graze against the soul mark shifts to gentle, reassuring circles on your skin. “Maybe soulmates are just the pieces of the stars finding each other over and over again after they separate. What makes us up, just returning home. I want to get to know you, over and over again, no matter how much you push me away. No matter how long it’s been since the pieces of us have reunited.”
The pull to be close to him is nearly overwhelming, but this time, you don’t fight it. Instead you throw yourself forward, into his arms, into his trust, into the rest of your lives. And he catches you, holding you tight with the promise of never letting go.
Summary: Next time your favorite author takes a little longer than usual to update, maybe trust your instincts. They might be stuck in a certain point of the story. And no, I don't mean writer's block.
Warning: This fic talks about suicide, if those themes trigger you please proceed with caution
A/N: OKAY SO this fic might be my fav fic idea I've EVER had. Execution was WAYYY worse than the plan but ukw the plot is so much fun I could not care less. I'll be really honestly tho I got really lazy towards the end so if it seems a bit rushed, that's because it was. But i hope you like it!! And i did see some posts of mattheo on tiktok that hc as kinda a loser which im not mad at? so he's definitely depicted here instead of his usual cocky personality
lowkey this is just a fic abt y/n not mattheo but its ok we ball
credits to @saradika-graphics for the dividers
When you were ten years old, your school library had started this new initiative to get kids reading. Every book you checked out and wrote a short essay on earned you points — points you could exchange for free snacks in the cafeteria. And as a voracious reader, there was no way you were going to let anyone else get that cookie.
That’s when you found it.
A slightly worn paperback with a lightning bolt on the spine: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.
You remember spending the next three nights hidden under your blanket fort, flashlight keychain in hand — a tiny prize you’d once won at an arcade — devouring every page until your eyes burned. The next week, you checked out Chamber of Secrets. Then Prisoner of Azkaban. When the library didn’t have the rest, you begged your father to buy them. And he did — the whole series, along with the movie box set.
That was it. You were hooked. A full-fledged Potterhead.
You memorized the lines, the spells, the house mottos. You cried when Sirius died, cheered when Voldemort fell. You knew it wasn’t real — but you wanted it to be.
When you turned eleven, you still stayed awake all night, eyes darting toward the mailbox outside your window. Just in case.
Of course, nothing came.
And so, when the books ended, you turned to something else — the internet. Fanfiction. Edits. You watched TikToks about shifting and Hogwarts AUs until the world of magic felt like a second home.
And one night, after scrolling through endless stories about people writing their way into the wizarding world… you decided to try it yourself.
You remember thinking you could do better — not better than Rowling, but better for yourself.
You didn’t want fame or adventure or even to be the Chosen One. You just wanted to belong.
To sit at the Gryffindor table.
To fly on a broom.
To have a family that was magic.
So, one summer night, half-joking and half-serious, you opened a blank document on your family laptop and titled it: “calculus 2 homework”
Obviously, you couldn’t risk your parents opening it.
You wrote yourself in as the daughter of Sirius Black and Remus Lupin — not quite understanding how babies were made at your young age.
You stayed up until three in the morning, lying in bed as you built that world line by line. Each sentence a doorway, each paragraph a promise. Until the words blurred together, your eyes heavy, your fingers hovering over the keyboard.
You didn’t know how long you had slept, but it felt like years. When the morning sunlight finally began to filter through your curtains, your body felt as if it were filled with lead, your eyelids weighed down by a hundred-pound weight. You decided to sleep in—after all, it was the weekend.
The shades were pulled open, and blinding light shot through your closed eyelids. A reflexive groan escaped your lips as you squeezed them shut.
“(Y/N)! Wake up!” A preppy little voice called, “You’re going to be late for Transfiguration again! If you lose any more points, the rest of the house is going to use you as the goalpost for Quidditch practice.”
While the thought of being maimed by the Quidditch team made your stomach twist, it was the sound of the completely unfamiliar voice in your room that jolted you awake. You shot up like an arrow, clutching the bedsheet to your chest. Your mind scrambled, trying to reconcile the heaviness in your limbs with the brightness in the room.
Slowly, realization began to sink in, clinging to the edges of your foggy mind like a stubborn spell: this wasn’t your room. This wasn’t your house.
“H-Hello?” You stammered.
The girl’s face twisted, like she had just sucked on something sour, “Good morning. Now, if you wouldn’t mind getting up and getting ready.”
You looked around in shock, “Are… are you talking to me?”
She frowned, “Is there another (Y/N) Lupin here?”
You froze, eyes darting around the room, searching for the other (Y/N) because clearly she wasn’t talking to you. But all you saw were five other four-poster beds, each surrounded by red drapes. Brick walls and crimson décor stretched across the room. Another girl was getting ready, adjusting her tie in the mirror, her hair neatly pinned back.
Your gaze returned to the girl in front of you. She stood fully dressed in a uniform, her wrist brushing against a simple clock. When you squinted, you noticed the red crest on her chest — a lion, embroidered with the word Gryffindor beneath it.
The world tilted slightly. The walls, the beds, the girl, the crest… it all clicked in a way that made your stomach lurch.
You recoiled, voice barely above a whisper, “E-Emma… I mean… Hermione?”
Her brows furrowed again, this time in concern rather than irritation. She moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you, her hands folded neatly in her lap, “Are you all right? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”
Your mind raced. You had never been a vivid dreamer, but this dream felt like it had eight dimensions. You could see Hermione — every strand of her frizzy, untamable hair, the faint freckles on her nose, the way her bunny teeth caught the light when she frowned. You could feel the warmth of the morning sun spilling through the tall windows, painting golden streaks across your skin. You could smell the faint floral perfume your roommate had just spritzed onto herself, hear the muffled chatter and footsteps echoing from the corridor outside as students hurried to breakfast.
It was too much. Too real.
Hermione’s concerned eyes held you in place, expecting an answer. But all you could do was blink once, twice—before a grin spread across your face, wide and wild.
“I’m bloody brilliant!” You blurted out.
Hermione startled, clearly taken aback by your sudden enthusiasm, but you barely noticed.
You were in Hogwarts.
After years of wishing, writing, dreaming—you were here.
So what if it was a dream? You weren’t about to waste it worrying.
If this was all your mind’s doing, you had one night — one glorious, impossible night — to live the dream.
And you were going to enjoy every second of it.
You got dressed faster than you ever had in your life, tugging on the crimson tie with shaking fingers and fumbling through drawers until you found what you assumed was your wand. It fit perfectly in your hand—warm, balanced, alive. The touch of it sent a shiver down your spine.
Hermione muttered something about you being late (again) and disappeared down the staircase before you could ask what day it was. You barely heard her; your heart was pounding in your ears.
When you stepped into the Gryffindor common room, your breath caught in your throat.
The fireplace crackled cheerfully, portraits murmured among themselves, and the entire room glowed with that rich, golden light that looked exactly—exactly—like the movies. A group of students brushed past you, laughing as they headed toward the portrait hole. One of them—Seamus, you realized in shock—gave you a grin and said, “Morning, Lupin!” before vanishing down the hall.
You just stood there for a moment, gripping your wand like a lifeline. This is happening. This is real.
You followed them out, trying not to trip over your robes as you navigated the twisting staircases. Every turn revealed something familiar and impossibly new—the floating candles, the armor that turned its head to watch you, the scent of toasted bread drifting from the Great Hall.
By the time you reached the enormous oak doors, your chest felt too tight to hold it all.
And then you saw it.
The Great Hall stretched before you—ceiling enchanted to mirror the morning sky, sunlight streaming through, hundreds of students chatting beneath banners of red, yellow, blue, and green. The clatter of plates, the flutter of owls, the smell of pumpkin pasties and jam-filled toast.
Your throat tightened. You’d dreamed of this place for years. And now it was here—so vivid, so real—that tears stung your eyes.
You slipped onto the Gryffindor bench beside Ron Weasley, who gave you a friendly smile. “Rough morning?” he asked.
You could barely manage a laugh, “You have no idea.”
For the next hour, you lived your fantasy. Eating breakfast with Harry Potter. Listening to Hermione and Ron bicker in real time. Watching Fred and George pull a prank on some poor first-year. Every second felt like pure magic—too perfect to question.
You suppose you should’ve been a little suspicious when, on the third morning, you woke up in the same cozy Gryffindor bed—sunlight filtering through the crimson curtains, Hermione rousing you with the same exasperated tone.
You should’ve realized something was off.
Because even after three days, you hadn’t woken up from this “dream.”
But you didn’t question it. Not yet. You told yourself it was a long lucid dream, or maybe you’d passed out mid-writing session and your brain was just having the time of its life. Besides, everything still felt perfect—the castle, your friends, the classes. Too perfect.
It wasn’t until later that afternoon, after Transfiguration, that you saw him.
Scabbers.
Perched on Ron’s shoulder, twitching his whiskers innocently as the boy chatted away with Harry. Your blood ran cold.
You knew exactly who — what — that rat really was.
And for the first time since arriving, a spark of something sharper than wonder ignited inside you—a strange cocktail of rage and a fierce sense of justice.
You could fix this.
That night, you waited until the castle had fallen silent. The common room, normally warm and cozy, felt like a shadowed cavern as you slipped through it, wand tucked carefully in your sleeve. Your heart pounded in your ribs with every step, echoing through the empty hallways.
It wasn’t hard to lure him away. A scrap of cheese, a whispered word of coaxing—and Scabbers scurried into your waiting hands. You immobilized him with a firm Immobulus, your breath coming fast.
“I know what you’ve done, Peter,” You whispered, your voice barely audible over the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. You shoved the syringe you’d transfigured from a quill into his mouth and squeezed out the rat poison, “I hope you die a death as painful as James and Lily did.”
You stood there, staring down at the still little body. Guilt and triumph tangled in your chest, a rush of adrenaline burning through your veins. For the first time since arriving, you had done something the books never allowed. Something that mattered. Without this rat, Voldemort would never return, and the war would never come to pass.
You went to bed that night smiling.
James and Lily were avenged.
Tomorrow, things would finally be different.
But when you woke up the next morning—
“(Y/N)! Wake up!”
Your eyes snapped open. Sunlight poured through the curtains. Hermione hovered over your bed, hair a little mussed, expression the same mix of concern and impatience as ever.
You groaned, burying your face in the pillow, “Hermione… must we do this every day?”
“We wouldn’t have to if you woke up when I first called you.” She replied, a faint edge of exasperation in her tone.
Heart hammering, stomach twisting, you dragged yourself down to breakfast. And there he was again.
Scabbers. Alive. Twitching. Nibbling at a crumb of toast beside Ron.
Your chest tightened, panic blooming. You froze in place, eyes locked on the little rat. Every step toward the table felt like wading through lead.
What was going on?
You replayed the night a hundred times in your head while pretending to concentrate in Charms. The image of Scabbers—still, small, his whiskers limp—wouldn’t leave you. The triumph that had come after you’d squeezed the transfigured syringe sat like a stone in your stomach now.
Peter hadn’t reacted that morning. Not a twitch, not a squeak, not a hint of pain. Clearly, it wasn’t that he had respawned into life—he was alive—but it was as if your actions had never happened at all. You hadn’t killed Peter.
And then you began to wonder why.
If Scabbers was really Peter Pettigrew, then killing him might stop Voldemort’s return… but it would also erase the only living proof that Sirius was innocent. No one would have seen anything. No one would know Pettigrew had ever been human again. Sirius would rot in Azkaban forever, the books’ script would stay intact, and everything you’d wanted to fix would be replaced by a different, cruel wrong.
The idea sat on your chest like a fist, heavy and unyielding.
You had done the wrong thing for the right reasons.
So you changed your plan.
That afternoon, you vanished into the library and did what you did best: research. The Hogwarts stacks felt different now—less like a set you once adored, more like a place with teeth. You pulled down books about Animagi, searching for the spell to reverse transformations, the tiniest hint, the faintest clue. No matter how long you practiced, no light sparked from your wand. You wondered briefly if it was because the spell had never been mentioned by name—or whether you were simply too inexperienced.
You spent the next days observing Scabbers. You made sure he didn’t run at the first chance, noting the intelligence in his small movements, but he was none the wiser. And no matter how closely you watched, you were no closer to revealing his identity than when you started.
Then came your next idea.
Dear Dad,
I’m doing well. Classes are a little hard, but nothing I can’t handle. Ron’s stupid rat almost bit me the other day, though. I hate that scrawny little thing. He doesn’t even have all his fingers—Ron says he was found like that eleven years ago and has been in his family since. Peculiar, isn’t it? Honestly, that thing is so intelligent sometimes I wonder if it was human in a past life.
I miss you, Daddy.
Best love,
Your daughter
You hoped the letter would be enough to set your father’s suspicions off, maybe even make him come to the school and reveal Peter.
A couple of days passed. No response.
You sent another letter: a short note, polite, careful. Asking if everything was okay, why he hadn’t responded to your first letter.
Within a day, a reply came.
“I didn’t receive any other letter.”
Your stomach sank. Something was clearly wrong.
You held the letter in your hand, staring at the handwriting, and felt the first real, icy tendrils of fear creep through your chest.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. Something is broken.
The day you decided to go to him, the castle felt as if it were holding its breath.
You left the common room, trying to appear composed though every nerve in your body was buzzing. You took the portrait hole, threaded through corridors you now knew better than the back of your hand, and climbed the spiral staircase that led to the Headmaster’s tower. Portraits murmured and glanced at you as you passed, some warning you it would do you good to return to the common room lest you get caught by a prefect—or worse, Filch. The closer you got, the quieter the castle became, as if you were moving toward the eye of a storm.
The gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s door demanded the password; your throat went dry, even though you had read it countless times in the first book.
“Lemon drops.” You whispered.
The gargoyle twisted, revealing the path to the office. You climbed the last few steps, each one echoing through your bones, and finally reached the door to Dumbledore’s office—a huge semicircle of dark wood inlaid with silver runes. The handle turned under your fingers, and the door swung inward.
Candles lit themselves at your entrance, and a warm, peculiar smell—leather and lemon sherbet—rolled toward you. The office was almost exactly as you had imagined: stacks of books, a desk scattered with parchment, and a tiny mechanical device that flapped its wings and tinkled as it hovered. Everything felt impossibly familiar, yet unbearably consequential.
You took a deep breath and knocked lightly.
A soft, distant voice—older than the portraits, patient as stone—called, “Enter.”
Dumbledore didn’t seem surprised to see you, though he should have been. There was no way a student should know the password or sneak up here so late, yet here you were. Perhaps it was also unnatural for a man of his age to be up at such an hour.
The closer you looked at him, the more you realized just how old he truly was—his hands gnarled, his beard long and silvery—but his eyes held a mischievous sparkle that made him seem almost as young as you felt inside.
“Ah, Miss Lupin,” He said softly, gesturing to a chair, “Please, have a seat.”
You obeyed, legs trembling as you perched across from his desk.
“And what brings you to my office past curfew?” he asked, voice calm, measured but slightly amused.
You swallowed hard, staring down at your hands. This was it. Once Dumbledore knew, he could help.
“Sirius Black is innocent.” You said, your voice quivering at first, then growing steadier.
His expression remained carefully neutral, the same detached interest and understanding a therapist might have, “You know about your father? And the crimes he’s accused of?”
“He didn’t commit any crimes,” You said firmly, “He didn’t kill any Muggles, and he didn’t kill Peter Pettigrew.”
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow, “And would you please share what led you to this conclusion?”
You swallowed again, your hands trembling slightly, “Because… Peter Pettigrew is still alive. And he’s in this castle.”
Cedric Diggory was dead.
You watched Harry and him disappear into the maze, praying — begging — that this time it would work. You had tried everything. You’d planted false evidence in Snape’s ingredient cupboard, hoping someone would connect the dots to Barty Crouch Jr. You’d begged Cedric not to enter the Tournament in the first place. You’d sabotaged their chances during the challenges, hoping that they'd fail and be pulled from the contest.
Each time you failed and they came out successful.
Each time, the outcome was the same. Cedric smiled that perfect Hufflepuff smile and told you not to worry, brushing you off like Harry's friend, like a cute little sister.
You had screamed yourself hoarse trying to warn anyone who would listen. You told Dumbledore. McGonagall. Even Moody himself — which, in hindsight, was idiotic — that the Cup was a Portkey. You told Cedric, again and again, don’t touch it, no matter what happens.
But now, as you stood at the edge of the Astronomy Tower, tears blurring your vision, all you could see was the same scene replaying behind your eyelids — Harry reappearing on the grass, Cedric’s lifeless body beside him, and that unholy wail echoing through the crowd.
Your hands gripped the cold stone railing so tightly your knuckles had turned white. Below, the castle sprawled like a sleeping giant, indifferent to your suffering. You were so, so tired.
Was this all you were meant to do — to watch? To scream warnings that fell on deaf ears? To watch your fathers die, to watch the boy you loved be murdered again and again? After four years trapped in this purgatory, you couldn’t take it anymore.
You let out a strangled sob, one hand leaving the railing to wipe your face. The night air stung your skin. The stars above were mercilessly still. You leaned forward slightly, feeling the wind tug at your robes, whispering freedom.
And then—
“Salazar’s ghost—Lupin? Is that you?”
You froze. The voice cut through your despair like a blade. You turned your head slowly to see Mattheo Riddle standing several feet away, his face caught halfway between confusion and horror.
Of all people.
Mattheo Riddle was an anomaly — a paradox that shouldn’t exist. Nowhere in the books, nowhere in the films, yet here he was, as real as the stone beneath your feet. For a reality that was so obsessed with maintaining canon events, you were surprised someone like him even existed.
He took a cautious step forward, “Are you trying to get yourself killed, Lupin? Get down from there!”
You gave a broken laugh, turning further toward him, back still pressed to the night air, “It’s pretty obvious I’m trying, isn’t it, Riddle?”
“You don’t have to do this,” He said quickly, voice rising, “Whatever’s going on, whatever’s eating at you, it’s going to be okay.”
More tears dripped onto your cheeks, hot and relentless, “It’s never going to be okay again, Riddle. Cedric is dead. Voldemort killed him.”
Mattheo flinched at the name like it had burned him, “Don’t say his name.”
“Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself.” You replied coolly, your voice eerily steady for someone standing on the edge of the world.
He frowned, studying you like he could read the truth in your face, “And you’re not afraid of him?”
You shook your head, “I’m not.”
“Then why,” He said, voice low and dangerous, “are you on the ledge?”
You laughed—a dry, broken sound that didn’t reach your eyes. “Because nothing I do can help. I’ve tried, Riddle. Every day, for the last four years, I’ve tried to change things. I’ve tried to stop it all from happening—the deaths, the war, the pain. But no matter how hard I try, it never works.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop, “I lie awake every night thinking about what I could’ve done differently, but it never matters. The universe doesn’t care. I can’t save anyone. Not Cedric, not my fathers. No one.”
“Lupin—” He started, taking a careful step closer.
“It’s okay,” You cut him off, a hollow smile twitching at your lips, “You don’t have to pretend to understand. You can’t.”
“It’s okay, Lupin,” He tried again, voice softening, “We can figure something out, just please get off that—”
“No, we can’t!” You snapped, the words spilling out like poison, “I know what’s going to happen! He’s recruiting Death Eaters again—giants, dementors, werewolves. He’s planning to break Bellatrix Lestrange and the rest of his fanatics out of Azkaban! He’s looking for the prophecy!”
Mattheo froze, eyes darkening, all trace of concern bleeding into suspicion, “How do you know all that?”
“The same way I know everything else.”
His jaw tightened, “You don’t expect me to actually take that for an answer, do you?”
You gave a soft, humorless laugh, the kind that made his skin crawl. “It’s okay, Riddle,” You murmured, “You won’t remember any of this tomorrow anyway.”
And with that, you let go.
But the plunge never came. Instead of the rush of cold air through your hair and that fleeting grip of panic before surrendering to the fall, you felt a sudden, brutal tug on your collar—jerking you backward, ribs colliding with the balcony railing, an arm locking tight around your waist.
“ARE YOU MAD?!” Mattheo’s voice thundered against your ear, furious and terrified all at once.
You thrashed in his hold, shoving against his arm, but his grip only tightened, “Let go of me!”
“I’m not letting you kill yourself, Lupin!”
“Why not?!” You screamed, voice raw, “This isn’t my first time, and it certainly won’t be my last! Ugh—why can’t you be more like Malfoy? The night he caught me out here, he told me to do a backflip on my way down! Can you believe that? What a prat—oh for the love of Merlin, just let me go!”
“Not a chance.” He hissed, dragging you fully off the edge and spinning you around to face him.
You turned your gaze away, the stars reflected in your tear-streaked eyes like a thousand tiny taunts. “Why do you care?” You murmured, “You’re not even going to remember it tomorrow.”
He blinked, taken aback, “What are you talking about?”
“You’ll wake up and it’ll be like none of this ever happened,” You said flatly, “You’ll go to breakfast, sit with your friends, like you didn’t almost watch someone throw themselves off a tower. You’ll forget. Everyone always forgets.”
Mattheo stared at you like you’d just started speaking Parseltongue, “You’ve completely lost it.”
“Probably,” You said with a hollow shrug, “Now, can I go back to my dorm?”
He barked a disbelieving laugh, “You’d have to be mental if you think I’m just going to let you walk away after that. You’re coming with me—to Madam Pomfrey, or McGonagall, or someone.”
You scoffed, the corner of your mouth twitching into a humorless smile, “Yeah, like that’s going to help. Others have tried that before. Guess what? Didn’t change anything. Didn’t stop me from standing here again.”
“What do you mean, ‘others’? Who the hell else has caught you—”
You cut him off with a dismissive wave, “Doesn’t matter, Riddle. You’ll forget too.”
He glared at you, jaw tight, “You’re not going anywhere alone.”
You frowned, exhausted, “And what? You’re going to babysit me?”
“If I have to.” He said, voice low and unwavering.
Something in his tone told you he meant it.
Before you could protest, he stepped forward and gently but firmly grabbed your arm. “Come on,” He said, voice quieter now, almost resigned, “I’m taking you back to somewhere safe. Somewhere you’ll stop thinking about… jumping off ledges.”
You wanted to argue, but the stubborn fire in you had nowhere to go, smothered under the exhaustion clawing at your chest. So you let him guide you through the castle’s winding corridors, past the portraits that whispered behind their frames and the flicker of torchlight stretching your shadows long against the stone walls.
By the time you reached the Slytherin dorms, the air felt heavier, colder. Mattheo murmured the password, and the wall split open to reveal the dim, green-lit common room. He led you down a narrow hall to the boys’ dormitory and eased the door open.
Inside, it was quiet—too quiet. Only the soft sound of steady breathing filled the space. Draco, Theo, and Blaise were each draped across their beds, utterly dead to the world. The faint glow of a single lantern painted the silver hangings in pale green light, making the room look almost underwater.
Mattheo glanced at you, his hand still on the door handle. “You can take the chair.” He whispered, nodding toward a battered-looking armchair in the corner.
You just stared at it for a beat, then at him, and without saying a word, walked past him and climbed right into his bed.
Mattheo froze, “What are you—”
You pulled the blanket over yourself, curling onto your side and closing your eyes. “If you plan on staying awake the entire night watching me breathe, be my guest.” You mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion, “Otherwise, lie down. You’re making me anxious standing there.”
He blinked, clearly thrown off, “You’re… fine with me being in the same bed as you?”
You cracked one eye open to look at him. “Not like it’s going to matter,” You said softly, “You’re not going to remember this anyway.”
That made him pause. He frowned, stepping closer to the bed. “You keep saying that,” He said, quieter this time, his voice losing its edge, “Why?”
You sighed, turning your back to him, your voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll explain it to you if you remember.”
There was a long silence after that. You could feel him standing there, the weight of his gaze on your back, torn between disbelief and something that almost felt like concern. Finally, with a low exhale, the mattress dipped behind you.
He didn’t try to touch you or speak again—just lay there, careful and tense, the air between you heavy with things neither of you could name.
You stared into the dark, listening to his breathing slow as the lantern guttered out, and for the first time in a long while, you let your own eyes close, knowing that when you opened your eyes again you'd be in your own bed.
Sunlight didn’t streak through the windows like it usually did. You had kind of expected that—the weather was bound to be gloomy after Cedric’s death—but it was the silence that felt wrong. You couldn’t hear your dormmates getting ready around you. No whispered conversations. No shuffling robes. No clinking buckles or zippers.
Almost like someone had cast a Muffliato charm around your bed.
That odd, thick quiet was what roused you first. Then the wrong color hit you.
Green sheets.
You blinked, frowning, pressing your cheek harder into the silk pillowcase. That… wasn’t right. Gryffindor’s dorms didn’t have emerald bedding. Your eyes tracked up to see the heavy, dark canopy above—definitely not yours.
Before panic could set in, a familiar drawl drifted from somewhere above you.
“Morning, sunshine. Ready to have a… stable conversation?”
You blinked again, slowly lifting your head to see him—Mattheo Riddle—lounging against the headboard with a book in his hands. A Muggle book, of all things. Tom Sawyer. You’d written a report on it back in fifth grade.
Your fingers curled around something warm. His leg. Your cheek had been resting on his thigh.
Merlin’s bloody beard.
You blinked up at him, still half-asleep, words tumbling out before your brain caught up, “Is this a dream?”
Mattheo didn’t even look up from the page. “If it is,” He said, lips twitching, “then it’s certainly one of the weirder ones I’ve had in a while.”
You groaned softly, dragging a hand down your face, “It’s too early for your sarcasm.”
He glanced down at you, dark eyes amused, “Ready to tell me what last night was about yet?”
Your mind scrambled, gears clicking into place one by one.
Okay. Okay, this had to be because you hadn’t slept in your own bed last night. That was all. That was the only reasonable explanation. Or maybe—maybe because you hadn’t tried to change anything last night. The second you went back to Location Zero, or tried to alter the plot, he’d forget. Like he always did.
You pushed yourself upright, ignoring his stare, “I’m going back to my dorm,” you muttered, swinging your legs off the mattress.
Mattheo raised an eyebrow, “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“I’ll go back to my own bed tonight,” You said, slipping your shoes into your hand, “Then everything will be… as it was. You’ll see. Or rather—you won’t see. Because you won’t remember.”
You grabbed hold of the bed curtains, intent on leaving, when his voice came sharp and startled behind you.
“(Y/N), wait—!”
Too late.
“Merlin’s balls!”
Theo’s voice was the first to greet you as you stepped out into the dormitory. He was standing there with his shirt clutched to his bare chest, looking like a scandalized old lady caught mid-bath.
Across the room, Blaise had frozen in front of the mirror, tie half-done, expression slack with disbelief as he stared at your reflection.
You, meanwhile, were completely unbothered—shoes dangling from one hand, robe slipping off your shoulders, hair a mess. You gave them both a polite nod, as if you were just passing through the corridor and not walking barefoot out of the Slytherin boys’ dormitory.
Then Draco’s voice, incredulous and sharp: “Lupin?”
You glanced at him over your shoulder, perfectly deadpan, “Go die in a ditch, Malfoy.”
And with that, you strode out the door, closing it neatly behind you.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Draco stared at the door, jaw slack, “What the hell did I do?”
By the time breakfast rolled around, you could feel the whispers following you through the Great Hall. Eyes flicked your way when you passed. Someone giggled.
Someone else muttered, “She’s Potter’s friend, isn’t she? Sleeping with a Slytherin’s kind of taboo, don’t you think?”
“Which one though?” Another voice asked, and somewhere further down the table, someone else cackled, “Why not all of them?”
You ignored it, or tried to, chin tilted upward in a perfect imitation of indifference, but your heart was pounding like mad. A Gryffindor caught sneaking out of the Slytherin boys’ dorms at dawn—Merlin, you’d given the entire castle a month’s worth of gossip in one morning.
Your friends were no better. Hermione kept glancing at you, clearly wondering if it was true but too polite to ask. And Ron—Ron had gone scarlet every time your name came up, muttering something unintelligible before storming off. It was exhausting.
By the time Charms rolled around, you were already at your limit. You walked past Theo Nott’s desk, minding your own business, when someone started humming the wedding march. Loudly. You froze, books clutched to your chest, and the classroom erupted in barely-suppressed laughter. That was it. You were done.
There was no way in hell you were going to sit through the rest of this idiotic day. Not when you had an easy way out.
You stormed into the Gryffindor common room like a hurricane. The fire was burning low, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione were huddled near it, talking quietly. They all looked up in unison when you entered, faces a mix of surprise and concern.
“(Y/N)?” Harry asked carefully, “You alright?”
You dropped into the chair opposite him, the exhaustion and fury in your bones barely contained, “Listen carefully.”
“Uh—” Ron began, but you barreled on before he could finish.
“The Order of the Phoenix is reforming,” You blurted, “You’re all in more danger than you realize. A horrible toad named Dolores Umbridge is going to become the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and she’s basically a Ministry plant. The Ministry’s going to start a propaganda war against Dumbledore, they’ll call Harry a liar, and it’s all going to go downhill from there.”
Three blank faces stared back at you.
You pressed on, faster now, unable to stop yourself.
“Oh—and Snape’s actually a double agent,” You added, waving your hand like it was nothing, “He’s secretly in love with your mum. Don’t ask, it’s weird, but it’ll make sense eventually.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Hermione’s brow furrowed as she tried to calculate whether you’d finally lost your mind. Ron’s mouth hung open. Harry just stared, pale and speechless, as though he wasn’t sure if this was a joke or a mental breakdown.
“(Y/N),” Harry said slowly, “maybe you should—”
But you were already smiling. Because you felt it. That familiar hum at the edges of your perception—the soft vibration in the air that always came before the world folded in on itself. The telltale sign that the loop was about to reset.
The air thickened. The walls seemed to shimmer. Hermione’s voice warped mid-sentence, stretching and distorting like sound underwater. You leaned back in your chair, eyes fluttering closed, and exhaled.
For a second, everything was dead silent. The only sound was the fire crackling weakly behind you, spitting embers that burned out before reaching the hearth. Then the world dipped into static—low, vibrating, unnatural—until it seemed to rattle your teeth.
When the sound cut off, the quiet was deafening.
Hermione blinked up at you, her expression soft and strangely blank. “(Y/N),” She said cheerfully, as if nothing had happened, “When did you get here?”
You smiled faintly, a painful pang tugging at your chest. The detachment in her eyes was almost worse than anger. You were surrounded by faces you loved—empty, looping, predictable. A world of NPCs, all programmed to play their parts until you pressed reset.
And sometimes, when you looked at them too long, you couldn’t help but wonder—were they aware of themselves? Would they still choose to be your friends if they were? Or had you stacked the deck so carefully that they never stood a chance to say no?
You stood up quickly, forcing a smile. “I just remembered—I left something in the library.” You said, your voice too bright.
They nodded absently, already fading back into their scripted chatter as you slipped out of the common room. The corridor outside was cold and dim, the torches flickering weakly. You walked fast, your pulse still erratic, the aftertaste of magic sharp in the air.
You didn’t expect anyone to be waiting for you.
But at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the stone archway with his arms crossed and a knowing look on his face, stood Mattheo Riddle.
“Ready to talk now?” He asked softly, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.
You froze, your stomach twisting. Your mind whirred, trying to make sense of it.
How was this possible?
“Mattheo,” You said, your voice firm despite the tremor beneath it—despite the fear that he’d dismiss everything you’d just confessed, “I need your help. I can’t do this alone.”
He raised an eyebrow, cool and unreadable, the shadows of the corridor flickering over his pale features, “So… you’ve seen the future?”
“I have.” You said, letting the single word hang heavy between you, weighted with everything you had carried alone for years.
He studied you for a long moment, the intensity in his gaze sharpening. His expression shifted from curiosity to something darker, more calculating, as though he were weighing every word you’d said against his own experience and loyalties, “And in this… future… my father… is he unsuccessful?”
You nodded, “Yes. He fails.”
A shadow crossed his face, disappearing just as quickly as it came. His lips pressed together, his hands curling slightly at his sides, “Then why bother? Why interfere at all? Why not let fate play out?”
You stepped closer, the urgency in your chest spilling over, the words tumbling out like a dam breaking, “If things go according to plan, I’m going to lose my family. Harry will lose the only people who have ever cared about him. Fred Weasley will die. Draco… he’ll be forced to do awful things, things that will haunt him for the rest of his life. So many of our classmates, our professors… they’ll die. Is that what you want?”
For the first time, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes beyond calculation—hesitation, a trace of fear, a shadow of doubt. He hesitated, jaw tightening as if he were trying to force an answer from somewhere deep inside himself. “I… I don’t know what I want.” He admitted, almost reluctantly, his voice quieter now, vulnerable in a way he never allowed anyone else to see.
You took a slow, measured breath, letting your gaze rake over him, studying the lines of his face, the faint tension in his shoulders. That familiar expression of helplessness—the same look you knew all too well in others when confronted with impossible choices—made your chest ache. He was truly at a loss, and for the first time you realized just how much the burden of choice weighed on him.
“Come on,” You said gently, a spark of determination in your voice, “I have something to show you.”
He followed silently, the echo of your footsteps bouncing off the stone corridors. The castle felt impossibly quiet, almost as if it, too, were holding its breath, aware that something delicate and dangerous was about to unfold. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long, wavering shadows that stretched and danced like restless spirits.
You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, loud and insistent, and for a moment, you almost expected the stones themselves to whisper warnings. Mattheo kept pace beside you, tall and silent, his cloak brushing the floor with soft swishes. The sharp scent of the cold stone corridors mixed with the faint, familiar smell of parchment and candle wax.
Finally, you reached your location.
You took a deep breath and began walking, the stone floor cold beneath your shoes. Around the second pass, the air seemed to thicken, subtle ripples running along the walls as if the castle itself were breathing. Mattheo’s footsteps mirrored yours, deliberate and measured.
By the third pass, the corridor shimmered. The stone walls softened at the edges, folding in on themselves, and a door materialized before you—solid yet impossible, as if made of light and shadow at once.
The room of requirement.
The room was bare except for a single, towering object in the center: the Mirror of Erised, its silver frame gleaming faintly even in the dim light.
“What is this?” Mattheo asked, his tone curious but cautious, as his dark eyes swept over the reflective surface.
“You’re a smart guy, Mattheo,” You said, a small smile tugging at your lips, “Something tells me you already know.”
“I didn’t think it was real.” He muttered, his gaze still lingering on the mirror, yet pointedly avoiding its silver depths.
“Oh, it’s real,” You said, “Dumbledore used it in the first boo— ehem— year… to hide the Philosopher’s Stone from your father-slash-Professor Quirrell.”
“I can’t believe my father was in the same room as me the whole time, back in my first year. You know… I still have never met the man.”
You shook your head slightly, “Oh, he wasn’t a man at the time. Merely a shadow of one. I suppose you’ll meet him soon now that he has a body again.”
Mattheo’s gaze sharpened, “And you’re not scared that he’ll read my mind and find out about you?”
You shrugged, a small, wry smile on your face, “I’m not sure. If it were me, the second he did, the world would reset and he’d have no recollection of ever finding out. But you… you’re a phenomenon I’ve never encountered before. I’ve never been able to change the way the river flows—it always finds its place, no matter what. That’s why I need you, Mattheo. You’re the only one who can help me.”
You stepped closer. “Look into it,” You urged softly, “Tell me what you see.”
He hesitated, his gaze finally meeting the mirror. Then, Mattheo’s eyes narrowed as he studied his reflection. “Something that will never come true.” He said finally, his voice low.
“What do you mean?” You asked, meeting his gaze in the mirror watching as your own desires began to morph in front of you.
“I see a life where people don’t condemn me for being Voldemort’s son. Where I can exist freely, without fear or hatred, without being known yet not hated for it.”
Your chest tightened at his words, the ache settling deep, like a bruise that would never fade.
For a long moment, you said nothing. The silence between you felt sacred—heavy, but fragile. Mattheo stood there, his reflection fractured in the warped glass, and for once he didn’t look like the boy everyone whispered about. He didn’t look like the shadow of a monster or the son of a name that made grown men flinch. He just looked… human.
And yet, beneath that longing, you could see it—the quiet resignation in his eyes, the acceptance that this version of his life could never truly exist. It was a wish built on the ashes of something that had already burned down.
You wondered, not for the first time, if the person who dreamt up Mattheo Riddle in the first place had any idea what kind of purgatory they had condemned him to. Whether they’d ever stopped to consider the cruelty of his existence—born not from choice, but from legacy. Crafted just to suffer.
“I can give that to you. I can make that desire a reality, Mattheo,” you said firmly, “I know the future. If you help me change it, I can make sure you come out of this breaking your condemnation. Perhaps even… turn you into a hero.”
Mattheo stared at you, silent for a long moment. The faint glow of torchlight caught in his eyes, and for a second, you thought you saw the flicker of something unguarded—hope, or maybe fear of it. His gaze drifted back to the mirror but you continued to watch him.
His shoulders drawn tight, jaw clenched as though he was fighting something within himself. The mirror shimmered faintly, the silver surface rippling like water under the weight of his longing. You couldn’t see what he saw, but you could feel it in the way his breath hitched ever so slightly.
He looked smaller like this—not in stature, but in spirit. Like the edges of his arrogance, his sharp wit and sly charm, had all melted away, leaving behind a boy who just wanted to exist without a name that damned him.
The longer you watched him, the more that longing etched itself across his face—soft and sorrowful and so terribly human.
“Alright,” He said, voice quiet but determined, “I’ll help you.”
Something shifted after the mirror, though neither of you said it aloud. It wasn’t dramatic—no sudden bursts of affection or whispered promises—but it was there. A subtle realignment. A change in gravity. The sense that the two of you were, somehow, orbiting the same quiet center now.
It started the next morning, outside Transfiguration.
You were leaning against the wall, tired and still half-lost in yesterday’s conversation, when Mattheo appeared beside you like a shadow stepping into its rightful place. He didn’t smirk or make one of his usual cutting comments. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, glancing sideways at you with something almost tentative, as if approaching a skittish creature he didn’t want to scare off.
“You look like you didn’t sleep.” He said, his voice low and unusually gentle.
You snorted, rubbing at your eyes, “Couldn’t sleep, I had too much on my mind.”
He tilted his head, “Like what?”
You hesitated for only a second, “Like you.”
He froze—not dramatically, not with any great visible shock. But something in him stilled, a small muscle near his jaw going slack, his eyes flicking to yours with an expression you had never seen on him before. Then he chuckled under his breath—the closest he came to a laugh—soft and breathy, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.
The moment settled warmly between you, and you didn’t realize a class had begun to gather until the whispers reached your ears.
Someone dropped a stack of parchment. It scattered across the floor like startled birds. Someone else openly stared, gawking without even trying to hide it. Even Malfoy paused in the doorway, eyes flicking between Mattheo’s relaxed posture and your faint smile like he had just stepped into the wrong universe.
Mattheo didn’t snap. He didn’t snarl or throw out a snide remark. All he did was shift slightly closer to you, shoulders brushing, and mutter under his breath, “They act like I’ve sprouted wings.”
“Is it bothering you?” You whispered back, “I could reset the day right now, make it seem like it never happened.”
The look he gave you then—open, startled, almost soft—was so utterly unlike him that the entire classroom fell silent watching the exchange. He stared at you as if you’d offered him something fragile and precious, something he had never imagined someone would give to him.
“Don’t bother,” He said quietly, “I don’t mind.”
You sat in the courtyard with Ron, Harry, and Hermione. Ron was halfway through a heated rant about Quidditch politics—something about illegal broom enchantments and the Cannons being wrongfully slandered—while Hermione was trying, with increasing exasperation, to convince Harry to start his O.W.L. revision before he inevitably panicked two weeks before exams.
It was loud and cozy and familiar—everything Mattheo wasn’t.
And yet your attention snapped the second he stepped into the courtyard. You didn’t see him approach so much as felt it, like pressure shifting in the air.
“Mattheo!” You called before your brain had a chance to intervene.
The reaction was immediate.
Your friend group and his both turned so fast it could’ve been choreographed.
Ron choked violently on a Bertie Bott’s bean.
Hermione blinked like she’d just been hit with a Confundus.
Harry mouthed, Why are you—?
But you were already rising to your feet, brushing dirt off your robes as you crossed the courtyard.
Mattheo had paused mid-step, clearly not expecting you to call out to him publicly. His posture wavered—half rigid, half startled—but there was a glimmer in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. Something warm, almost shy.
He didn’t move away.
Instead, he shifted aside just enough for you to fall into step beside him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. The castle buzzed around you—students whispering, heads turning, gossip brewing faster than you could walk.
The DA meeting had run late—much later than usual. The air in the Room of Requirement still felt charged, thrumming with spent spells and whispered rebellion. Everyone was exhausted, slipping out in staggered pairs or trios to avoid Umbridge’s patrols. You were one of the last to leave, rubbing chalk off your fingertips as you slipped into the dim seventh-floor corridor.
The hallway was eerily quiet.
You took two steps—
And then a shadow peeled itself from the wall.
You nearly screamed.
A hand shot out, warm and firm, covering your mouth before the sound could escape.
“For Merlin’s sake,” A familiar voice whispered, breath brushing your cheek, “It’s me.”
Your entire body sagged. Mattheo.
You swatted at his arm, whispering harshly, “Mattheo—! You scared me—”
“Well, you’re lucky it was me.” He stepped out of the darkness fully, eyes sharp and too intense in the torchlight, “Do you have any idea how difficult it is keeping the other Inquisitorial Squad members away from this floor at night? I’ve been rerouting them for an hour.”
You froze.
“You… you did that for us?”
“For you,” He corrected quietly, “You said they weren’t supposed to find out until later in the semester.”
Right.
You were… kind of just relying on canon to stay canon.
You hadn't exactly bothered with caution or stealth because, in your mind, everything was supposed to unfold the same way it always had.
Mattheo’s expression flickered with something like irritation—and something like fear.
“If Montague or Harper had found you here,” He said, voice low with restrained anger, “You know what would’ve happened.”
You swallowed hard, “…I know. Sorry. The meeting ran late.”
“I noticed.” His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering beneath his skin, “Next time, tell me. I can buy you more time.”
You blinked at him, chest tightening. Not from fear… but from the realization that he was genuinely worried about you.
“Mattheo…” You breathed.
He looked at you then—really looked. And for once, there was nothing cold or guarded in his eyes. Just raw honesty. Something fragile. Something dangerous.
“Come on,” He murmured, voice gentler than you’d ever heard it, “Let me walk you back before someone else finds you.”
He didn’t wait for your answer.
He simply fell into step beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed with every turn, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him in the cold, echoing corridors. His presence wrapped around you like a shield—silent, steady.
And for the first time since coming here, the castle didn’t feel lonely.
The hallway was cold when you slipped out of the Room of Requirement, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, still buzzing with the afterglow of spells and whispered plans. The DA meeting had run late—and once again you volunteered to leave last, so smugly sure you wouldn’t get caught.
Arrogant.
Stupidly arrogant.
Because the second you stepped into the corridor, intending to head for Gryffindor Tower—
—a hand seized your shoulder.
Your blood froze.
“Out rather late, aren’t we?” Umbridge’s syrupy voice oozed directly into your ear, sweet enough to rot teeth.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You spun, words stumbling out— “Professor, I—I was just leaving the library, I—”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Her smile was small and cruel, “And I’m sure you won’t mind answering a few questions in my office.”
Panic detonated in your chest.
Fine. Reset.
You’d reset.
You’d done it dozens of times.
The words spilled out in a rush, desperate:
“You’re going to die. At the end of the year. You’re gonna be dragged into the Forbidden Forest by centaurs and you’re going to die.”
Nothing.
The corridor stayed exactly the same—cold stones, flickering torches, Umbridge’s pink cardigan blooming like a nauseating flower.
A chill crawled up your spine.
She tightened her grip.
Her eyes didn’t even flicker.
She just smiled.
That awful, sugary, unbreakable smile.
“You mustn’t tell lies.” She sang.
Your stomach plummeted.
“No—no, listen—listen—Snape’s going to give you fake Veritaserum because he’s on our side—”
No ripple.
No shift.
No rewind.
The world stayed solid.
Unmoveable.
Wrong.
A sound tore from your throat—something between a sob and a gasp—as your eyes darted wildly around the corridor.
Someone else.
You needed someone else.
Someone to spoil canon for.
Someone to trigger the reset.
But the hallway was empty.
No Peeves.
No Filch.
No portraits awake.
Not even Nearly Headless Nick drifting by.
Just Umbridge.
And her grip tightened like a vice.
“You look pale,” She cooed, “Perhaps some tea will—”
“No—no, please—just wait—I can’t—fuck—why isn’t this working—”
Your voice cracked.
Her smile didn’t.
“Come along, dear.”
She began dragging you toward her office.
Your shoes scraped helplessly against the floor.
Your breaths came sharp and shallow.
Your mind screamed:
Why isn’t it working? Why isn’t it working? Why isn’t it WORKING—
The pink door loomed ahead like a guillotine wrapped in lace.
Umbridge hummed softly as she opened the door.
“After you.” She said sweetly.
You stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Your legs felt like they weren’t attached properly—like you were walking on someone else’s limbs. The corridor swam faintly, pink plates and kitten portraits blurring into the torchlight as you forced yourself forward.
You didn’t even realize you were shaking until you reached the turn at the end of the hallway.
That’s when you heard voices—low, bored, familiar. The Inquisitorial Squad.
You barely lifted your head before you saw them rounding the corner, laughing about something Pansy had said. Malfoy. Nott. Montague. Goyle. And Mattheo.
His steps slowed first. Then stopped entirely. His eyes landed on you— and his expression shattered.
You didn’t know what he saw. Your bloodshot eyes. Your trembling hands. The raw, red words carved across the back of your skin.
Whatever it was, it drained the color from his face.
You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. You just walked past them, silent, hollow, numb. Their voices faded behind you.
You made it several corridors away before you heard it— “(Y/N)!”
You froze.
Footsteps thundered toward you and then Mattheo was there, breathless, grabbing your shoulders like he was making sure you were real.
“What—where—why weren’t you—” You swallowed hard, “I thought you had a meeting with Umbridge.”
He glanced at his watch, confusion flickering across his face, “That was… (Y/N), that was twenty minutes ago."
Twenty minutes.
You hadn’t realized.
You’d been walking in circles, lost in the shock of it, drifting like a ghost.
His hands slid down your arms—and froze when he felt the tremor.
Then he saw your hand.
The fresh, deep cuts.
The gleam of wet red.
The trembling you couldn’t hide.
His breath faltered, “Fuck.”
“Mattheo—” Your voice splintered, “It hurt. It hurt more than anything—”
He cradled your hand so gently it made something in your chest ache.
“Why didn’t you reset?” He demanded softly, pained, “Why didn’t you stop it?"
Your eyes squeezed shut.
“I tried,” You whispered, the words strangled, “I tried, Mattheo. I tried. But it didn’t work. I told her everything. I told her what was coming. I told her—”
Your breath hitched violently.
“She didn’t believe me. I was stuck. I was stuck with her.”
Your voice broke.
He didn’t say anything. Just stepped forward and pulled you into him—one arm around your waist, the other cupping the back of your head. You burrowed into his chest, the fabric of his robes dampening under your tears, muffling your sobs.
“I’ve got you,” He murmured into your hair, voice shaking with fury he refused to unleash, “I’ve got you. You’re okay. It’s over.”
He eased back only slightly, just enough to see your hand again. With a curse under his breath, he drew his wand.
A soft, glowing warmth traced across your skin. The burning ebbed. The ache softened. The carved words—I must not tell lies—blurred, then dissolved entirely.
Your fingers trembled once more, then went still.
But you didn’t let go of him.
And he didn’t try to step back.
You had always skimmed the Department of Mysteries battle in Order of the Phoenix. Too chaotic. Too many spells, too many people, too many moving parts. Boring, you used to think.
Now you wished you had every line memorized.
Because nothing about this was boring.
You couldn’t get up. Your ribs were broken—shattered, maybe—and every breath felt like a knife forcing itself deeper between them. You drifted in and out of consciousness, vision shimmering, sound turning into sharp bursts of noise. But you saw enough.
Ron was coughing blood, so delirious he couldn’t even hold his wand the right way. Hermione’s body lay slumped beside you, still, too still, her curls matted with dust. You reached out a trembling hand until your fingers touched her sleeve—just enough to know she was there.
Neville knelt in front of both of you, shaking, nose broken and face bruised, shielding your bodies with his own. You didn’t know where he found the strength.
You tried to move—just a little, just enough to get upright—but your ribs lit up, white-hot, exploding with agony. Your fingers scrabbled across the floor, reaching, dragging, finally brushing the familiar warmth of your wand—
A scream.
“CRUCIO!”
Bellatrix’s curse slammed Neville to the ground.
And then there was no one left standing but Harry.
Tears pricked your eyes—not from the pain, but from the raw horror of the room. The fallen bodies. The masked figures. And the one hooded Death Eater in the far corner, standing perfectly still.
Mattheo.
You had been very clear.
He was not to interfere—not unless it served his objective.
Your tears slid warm and slow down your temple, pooling in your hair. You didn’t dare call his name. You didn’t dare beg. Because you knew he'd blow his cover the second you did.
And then—impact. Light. The doors slammed open so hard the walls shook.
Your fathers stormed in.
And the rest of the Order behind them.
Relief and dread hit you at the same time, two tidal waves colliding in your ribs. Because you knew exactly what came next. You knew the beats. You knew the tragedy.
Spells erupted, ricocheting in brilliant flashes—green, red, gold. Mattheo, still masked and disguised, joined the chaos, firing curses with brutal precision. You could see him trying—trying so hard—to keep everyone away from the Veil. But the order countered each strike, pushing him back, forcing him to split his attention.
“Good one, James!” Your dad shouted, breathless, laughing despite everything.
Your stomach dropped.
It was the harbinger of doom.
Your fingers curled tight around your wand. Maybe… maybe you could change it. Maybe you could stop it. You forced your broken body up an inch, two inches—
“CRUCIO!”
Bellatrix’s voice ripped across the room.
The spell flew toward your father.
Time slowed.
Your scream never made it out of your throat.
“BOMBARDA!”
The blast slammed into your dad, shoving him out of the spell’s path.
You watched as he was blasted across the room and struck the far wall with a sickening thud.
And then Dumbledore appeared, magic crashing around him like a storm, the remaining Death Eaters vanishing in spirals of black smoke.
Your wand slipped from your fingers.
Your whole body folded inward.
And you collapsed into relieved, shaking sobs—because Sirius was alive, because your father was alive, because for the first time since appearing in this awful universe, canon had cracked and broken right in front of you.
Because for once, someone had been saved.
The world came back in pieces—
sounds first.
Footsteps.
Shouting.
Someone calling your name.
Then warmth. Hands. Too many hands.
“Hey—hey, sweetheart, look at me—look at me—”
Sirius.
You blinked, and his face swam into view—hair loose, cheek split, chest heaving. He looked terrified. Not battle-scared.
Terrified.
Like he had already pictured a hundred versions of losing you.
He cupped your face with shaking fingers, “Oh, thank Merlin—Remus! She’s awake—she’s awake—”
Remus dropped beside him so fast he nearly skidded, hands gentler but no less frantic as they slid beneath your shoulders, careful to avoid your ribs.
“Don’t move,” He whispered, voice cracking, “Don’t try to sit up. Love, you’re hurt—we’ve got you. We’ve got you.”
And just looking into your father’s grey eyes—seeing life in them, warmth, relief—you finally accepted he was alive.
And you broke.
A sob tore from your chest, then another, until you were outright wailing. Sirius’s face twisted, anguish flashing like lightning before he forced it down, trying so hard to stay steady for you.
“Godric, pup, why were you over here alone—why didn’t you—”
“Pads.” Remus warned gently.
Your breath hitched. “Daddy, I tried—” The words dissolved into sobs, “I tried using the mirror, I tried, but it didn’t work. No one answered.”
It was true. You’d clutched the two-way mirror before the battle even started, desperate. Begging for a miracle. Hoping you could reach Sirius—
—but in your hands, it had been just that.
A mirror.
“I was so scared,” You cried, “Scared you weren’t going to come. Or that something would happen to you.”
Remus brushed your forehead with the back of his hand, thumb sweeping away sweat and tears. His smile was soft, shaking.
“Sweetheart, you did so well. You were brave. You’re a brilliant witch. We’re proud of you.”
Another sob wracked your chest. Remus squeezed your hand as Sirius leaned down, forehead almost touching yours.
“You listen to me,” Sirius whispered, voice thick with unshed tears, “your father and I will always be there to save you. Okay? Just—just don’t ever do this again or we’re both going to end up having heart attacks.”
“Don’t talk about dying!” You and Remus exclaimed at the same time—yours watery, Remus’s gently scolding.
Sirius gave a breathless chuckle and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Alright, alright. Come on. Let’s get you back.”
“W-wait—” You looked around the cavernous room, suddenly panicked by its emptiness.
What about Mattheo?
“Come on, love,” Remus murmured, sliding his arm beneath you, “Your friends are already back. Safe.”
The walk to the hospital wing felt endless.
Sirius and Remus kept murmuring reassurances—soft, steady, a constant hum against the ringing in your ears—but your mind was somewhere else entirely.
Mattheo.
He was supposed to meet you here.
He promised.
He promised.
But when your fathers pushed open the doors to the hospital wing—
He wasn’t there.
Your heart stumbled.
Your eyes swept the room once, twice, desperately. The beds were filled only by your other friends, the ones who had limped or been carried out of the Department of Mysteries beside you. Madam Pomfrey hurried toward you with shock and horror etched across her face—but there were no dark curls, no green-trimmed robes, no familiar warmth leaning against the far wall waiting for you.
By the time Sirius and Remus settled you onto a bed, panic had already begun its slow, choking climb up your throat.
Madam Pomfrey worked quickly—diagnostic charms, whispered spells, the awful cracking-pop of your ribs knitting back together. You hissed, teeth clenched, gripping Remus’s hand so tightly he winced.
But your mind wasn’t in the hospital wing.
It was replaying the same question over and over:
Where is he?
Why isn’t he here?
Why isn’t he here?
Night draped itself over the castle. Your fathers stepped outside to speak with Dumbledore, promising they’d write, promising they’d see you soon once term ended. Your friends were already asleep, exhausted, bandaged, dreaming uneasy dreams.
And still—
no Mattheo.
Your chest tightened painfully.
What if he’d been caught?
What if the Ministry recognized him?
What if he’d run into—Merlin—what if his father found him first—
Your stomach twisted violently. You pressed shaking palms to your face, fighting tears that threatened to spill—
When suddenly—
Your head snapped up the moment the door slammed open, rattling on its hinges.
And there he was.
Mattheo stood breathless in the doorway, hair wild, chest heaving like he’d sprinted. His eyes swept the room with frantic precision—
Then landed on you.
And the world stuttered back into motion.
You didn’t think.
You didn’t breathe.
You were off the bed before your mind caught up, feet hitting the floor too fast—
“Mattheo—!”
He reached you in two strides, catching you before you could fall, arms wrapping around you instantly, instinctively, desperately. You buried your face into his robes, hands fisting in the fabric as a sob tore free from your chest.
“You blithering—idiot—” Your voice cracked, raw, “You were supposed to meet me—right after—why weren’t you—why didn’t you—”
His hand slid into your hair, holding you there like he was afraid you might disappear.
“I know,” He breathed, voice trembling, “I know—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
“You weren’t here—” You choked, “I thought—I thought something happened—I thought—”
“I was almost caught,” He murmured, pulling you impossibly closer, “The Ministry was everywhere. Aurors, officials, chaos everywhere—I had to escape without going through the Atrium.”
His breath shook against your temple.
“I almost—” he swallowed hard, jaw clenching, “—I almost met my father.”
Your fingers curled tighter in the back of his robes.
“Mattheo…” Tears streamed hot and fast down your cheeks, “If something happened to you because of me—because I meddled, because I changed things—I would never forgive myself.”
His grip tightened.
“Nothing happened to me,” He whispered fiercely, “Your plan worked. You were brilliant.”
You shook your head, still sobbing, still trembling, collapsing into him like he was the last safe place in the world.
And like last time, he just held you—his hand steady on your back,
his breath warm against your hair—and let you cry.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Maybe less. Eventually you lifted your head from his chest, face blotchy and tear-streaked.
Mattheo brushed your cheek gently, an expression behind his eyes that you had never seen before.
“(Y/N)…” He whispered.
You stared at him through damp lashes, voice breaking all over again as you breathed:
“Thank you for saving my father, Mattheo." You whispered, a fresh wave of tears streaming down your cheeks, "Thank you so much.”
Mattheo smiled, heart settling at the sight of someone thank him for the first time in his life as he brought salvation. Not destruction.
Perhaps he could be a hero, afterall.
The Room of Requirement was silent in that thick, muffled way that made every breath feel louder than it should’ve been. The fire crackled quietly in the grate, throwing long shadows across the walls and across the cabinet — that cabinet — looming like a coffin waiting to be filled.
Mattheo lay stretched across the sofa, his head resting comfortably in your lap. His curls spilled over your thighs, soft and weightless, his breathing slow but tense — the kind of tension that lived in the bones, not the muscles.
You’d both spent enough time pressed together in this room over the last year that the closeness felt natural now. Expected. His hand rested loosely on your knee, thumb drawing absent circles he wasn’t even conscious of.
His eyes drifted to the cabinet again.
“I think this is a bad idea.” He muttered, voice low, throat tight with a worry he rarely showed out loud.
You sighed, not because he was wrong, but because he was right.
“I don’t like it either,” You admitted softly, “But the alternative has too many variables. If Draco fails to kill Dumbledore… your father is going to do something to the Malfoys. And it is imperative that they survive this war.”
You hesitated, “Narcissa needs to stay alive. She’s one of the strongest pieces on the board — but only if her husband and son are alive.”
Mattheo’s jaw tightened. His fingers stilled.
“…But is letting him die really the only way?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper, “Dumbledore could hide them. Move them. Fake their deaths. Something.”
You exhaled slowly, fingers slipping through his curls again — soothing him, grounding yourself.
“Dumbledore is cursed anyway,” You said gently, “We don’t know how long he has left. But we do know that if he passes naturally, we have no guarantee of what happens to the Elder Wand. Where its allegiance goes. Who it chooses.”
Your gaze slid back to the cabinet, its dark surface gleaming in the firelight.
“And that path is too important to risk.”
Mattheo didn’t respond at first. He just stared at the cabinet like it had personally wronged him. Maybe it had. Maybe everything had.
“It feels cruel.” He finally whispered.
Your chest squeezed.
You combed your fingers through his hair again, deliberately slow, and watched his eyes flutter shut — like every time you touched him, some piece of him unclenched.
“I know,” You said quietly, “But this is the only way.”
Mattheo stayed quiet for a long moment, his cheek pressed against your thigh, your fingers carding slowly through his curls. The fire crackled, the cabinet loomed, and every choice you’d made settled between you like smoke.
Then—
He opened his eyes and tilted his head just enough to look up at you.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
There was something raw in his expression—fear, gratitude, a kind of affection he hadn’t learned how to name yet. It tightened something deep in your chest.
He slowly pushed himself upright, curls falling into his eyes as he turned to face you fully.
The room felt different.
Quieter.
Heavier.
He was close.
Too close.
Close enough that his breath brushed your cheek, warm and uneven, close enough that your heart stuttered so violently it felt like it might claw its way out of your chest.
Then his eyes flicked to your mouth.
Just for a second.
But it was enough to pull the ground out from under you.
You leaned in—slowly, helplessly—like his gravity was something ancient and irresistible. Like you were a serpent slipping toward the charmer’s flute, unaware you’d already fallen under the spell long before you started moving.
Mattheo didn’t breathe.
His hand lifted—cautious, deliberate—hovering at the curve of your jaw. Not touching. Not claiming. Just trembling in the space between you, where the air felt thin and electric.
You could feel the heat radiating from his fingertips, the want, the ache, the restraint holding on by a single fraying thread.
Your lips parted without your permission.
You watched his eyes drop again, a tiny flicker downward that sent warmth rushing up your throat, burning across your cheeks, your ears. His breaths came shakier, shorter, matching yours.
He leaned in.
You leaned in.
Your lips hovered—a hair’s breadth, a heartbeat—away from meeting.
And then—
Both of you snapped back with a sharp inhale, like the same spell had shattered around you at once.
You stared at each other, breathless, flushed, shaken.
Mattheo tore his gaze away first, dragging a hand over his face like he could physically wipe the moment off his skin. His jaw was tight, throat working as he swallowed.
“It’s—” He cleared his throat, voice low and rough, “it’s getting late.”
“Yeah,” You echoed, a beat too fast. Your voice came out thin and strained, so you coughed and tried again, “Yeah. I—I should probably head back.”
Neither of you stood.
Neither of you moved.
The air was still humming faintly, charged with the ghost of almost-lips, almost-touch, almost-something you weren’t allowed to name.
You pushed yourself up finally, brushing imaginary dust off your robes just to have something to do with your hands. “Don’t forget, Mattheo,” You said, forcing your voice to steady, “the first chance you have… disarm him.”
He nodded, but his eyes flicked to your mouth again—just for a fraction of a second, just enough to twist your stomach into knots.
“Right,” He murmured, stepping back even though it looked like it physically pained him to do it, “Disarm Draco. I remember.”
You reached for the door.
He didn’t stop you.
But his voice followed you out in a quiet, breathless whisper—so soft it almost got swallowed by the Room’s endless shifting magic.
“Goodnight… (Y/N).”
Harry Potter was dead.
The battlefield fell into a suffocating silence as he strutted forward, Harry’s limp body in Hagrid's arms like a grotesque trophy. Dust and ash swirled around your shoes. Your lungs burned. Every inch of your skin ached, bruised and cut and magic-scorched. Your hands were trembling so violently you weren’t sure you could hold your wand.
A collective inhale of agony.
A hundred hearts breaking in unison.
Across the battlefield, Mattheo looked up. His face was streaked with soot and blood, jaw clenched, chest heaving. The fear in his eyes was raw—fear that the timeline had cracked, that some small change had destroyed everything.
You caught his gaze.
And gave the smallest, most imperceptible nod.
His shoulders loosened a fraction.
Still on track.
Still following canon.
Still alive.
Just barely.
You wished you had time to breathe. To think. To mourn.
But everywhere you looked, the cost of this war stared back at you.
Colin Creevey’s small body.
Andromeda’s lifeless form.
Students who should’ve been studying for exams, not dying on a battlefield.
You and Mattheo had done everything you could—splitting yourselves like ghosts across the castle.
Apparating behind falling walls.
Pulling wizards out of death’s path.
Planting spells that redirected curses.
You’d saved Remus by burying Dolohov under the collapsing section meant to kill Fred.
You’d killed Fenrir Greyback before he ever reached Lavender.
You’d saved dozens.
And still…it wasn’t enough.
Sirius surged forward with a feral shout the moment he saw Harry’s body, "NO!"
He lurched forward, ready to charge straight at Voldemort with his bare hands if he had to—but you and your father caught him, clinging to his robes as he shook with fury and grief.
“Let me go—LET ME GO—he can’t—Harry—!”
“Dad—stop—STOP—” You gasped, muscles burning as he fought like an animal, “Wait—please—just wait—”
Your heart hammered painfully as Neville stepped forward, voice shaking but loud enough to echo through the courtyard. His speech burned with truth, with grief, with hope.
And then—
With one clean, impossibly brave stroke—
Nagini’s head hit the ground.
The final Horcrux was dead.
And Harry—who had been limp and lifeless only seconds before—fell from Hagrid’s arms and rolled under the cloak with the stealth of someone who’d practiced escaping death too many times.
You held your breath.
The air went still.
Then chaos exploded.
Spells flew. Giants roared. Students charged with raw grief twisting their faces. The world became noise and fire.
Your heart slammed into your ribs.
You grabbed your wand.
This was it.
“Mattheo!” You shouted over the rising chaos, “Now!”
Your voice cut through the roar like a blade.
He broke free from the Death Eaters’ formation, stepping directly into Voldemort’s path.
Gasps rippled through the battlefield as Voldemort halted, lips curling in amusement and disdain.
“You,” He hissed, “You dare raise your wand against your master?”
Mattheo didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Voldemort lifted the Elder Wand—the wand that had shifted allegiance a long time ago, the wand Dumbledore had died believing was safe.
Mattheo steeled himself, lifting his own wand—
“AVADA KEDAVRA!”
Two spells shot forward.
Green met white.
White met green.
And Voldemort’s eyes widened as his curse whipped backward, twisting violently in midair before slamming into his own chest.
The Elder Wand refused him.
Chose its true master.
Chose Mattheo.
A scream tore through the battlefield—not human, not magical, something older and more terrible.
Then—
Silence.
Voldemort’s body hit the ground.
Mattheo staggered, the wand humming hot in his grip, but he remained standing. Victorious. Alive.
You felt your knees nearly give out with relief.
This time—
this timeline—
this battle—
you won.
Mattheo stood alone in the center of the ruined courtyard, dust swirling around his boots, wand still faintly glowing in his hand. All around him, Hogwarts roared with life—students sobbing, parents screaming for their children, professors fumbling through smoke and rubble searching for survivors.
Harry was already being swallowed by the crowd—Ginny clinging to him, Ron grabbing him by the shoulders, Hermione crying into his chest.
But Mattheo?
No one went to him.
People stared—cautious, wary, unsure. Whispers cut through the fading smoke like knives.
That’s a Riddle boy…
Was he loyal? Or just another Death Eater?
He killed Voldemort—didn’t he? But—can we trust—
He stood rigidly, breathing unevenly, eyes fixed on the distant heap of fabric that had once been his father. His face was blank—too blank—like the expression was all he had left to hold himself together.
He had saved them all.
And still—
he stood alone.
You felt something in your chest tear.
Breaking free from the crowd’s grip, you pushed through shoulders, robes, ash, ignoring the calls behind you.
You reached him with your heart already in your throat.
Mattheo turned, startled by your approach. His eyes were wide, dark, lost—like he hadn’t expected anyone to choose him in this moment. To claim him. To stand with him.
But you had always chosen to stand with him.
Just as he did you.
“Y—you did it,” You whispered, breath trembling. Tears welled and spilled hot down your dirt-streaked cheeks, “Mattheo…you did it. I'm so proud of you.”
His mouth twitched into the smallest, most fragile smile you had ever seen on him.
“I couldn’t have done any of this without—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You threw yourself against him, arms flying around his neck as your lips crashed into his.
The Elder Wand slipped from his grasp and clattered against the stones.
Mattheo froze only for a heartbeat—
Then kissed you back like the world was ending all over again.
His hands clamped onto your waist, desperate, trembling, pulling you impossibly closer. You felt the sharp hitch of his breath, the shudder that ran through him, the way his fingers tightened like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.
Around you, the battlefield roared alive again.
Gasps.
Cheering.
Shouts of disbelief turning into elation.
Someone yelled your names—then suddenly there were arms around both of you.
Harry crashed into your side, laughing breathlessly. Hermione grabbed your shoulders, sobbing. Ron clapped Mattheo’s back hard enough to shake him. Ginny squealed. Neville whooped. Luna beamed like the moon itself had descended.
And then Sirius’s arms wrapped around you from behind, Remus’s from the side, the Weasleys piling in, friends and survivors and fighters all pressing into a single impossible, miraculous knot of warmth.
A circle of love closing around the two of you.
Mattheo pressed his forehead to yours, breathing shakily, overwhelmed, undone.
"I love you, (Y/N)."
You laughed, a watery little thing, "I love you too."
bonus:
The Elder Wand felt strangely heavy in Mattheo’s hand, almost humming with the weight of centuries. You stepped closer, brushing your fingers lightly against Mattheo’s arm.
“So,” You murmured, “what are you going to do with it?”
You knew that Harry had no intention of ever using the Elder wand but Mattheo had earned the right to use it. If he wanted to keep the wand as his own, you wouldn't argue.
Mattheo glanced at you—really looked at you—and something softened in his expression. Without a word, he snapped the wand cleanly in half.
A loud crack split the air.
Everyone gasped.
Then he tossed both pieces into the ravine below the courtyard.
Ron blinked so hard he looked like his eyes might fall out, “Mate—are you daft?!"
Mattheo slid his arm around your shoulders, tugging you into his side with a small, almost shy smile.
“I already have everything I need.” He said simply.
You felt your heart melt on the spot.
Ron gagged exaggeratedly, “Oh Merlin, mental, this one."
Fred and George immediately jumped in, cupping their hands around their mouths like megaphones.
'(Y/N), I love you,
(Y/N), I do,
When we're apart my heart beats,
only for you~'
"Oh, give it a rest." You chided.
“All right,” Sirius finally announced, clapping his hands together, "As delightful it is to watch my only daughter be wooed by a boy—how about we go home?”
Mattheo hesitated, turning to you.
“Will you—will you write to me?” He asked softly.
Before you could respond, Sirius barked out a laugh.
“Write to you? Why would she write to you when you’re going to be one floor apart?"
Mattheo blinked. Twice.
“…I—I am?”
Sirius clapped a hand onto Mattheo’s shoulder with all the force of a proud, chaotic father.
“No son-in-law of mine is living on the streets. Grimmauld Place has plenty of rooms.”
Then Sirius added, wagging a finger:
“But NO sharing rooms. Over my dead—”
“DADFOOT!”
“Don’t talk about death!”
You and Remus shouted it at the exact same time.
Sirius laughed, looping an arm through his husbands as he began to lead you all back.
“Looks like I’m stuck with you.” He murmured.
Your heart fluttered.
“Lucky you.” You whispered back.
And together—surrounded by your family, your friends, the love of your life and your rebuilt future—you walked toward the castle, toward home, toward something like peace.
From today onwards, you'd have no idea of the events that were about to befall you, of the twists and turns, of the peaks and the lulls. And somehow, you could find peace in that, in knowing that from here on out, you wouldn't have to worry about the inevitable.
Well, until the cursed child, that was.
So, the next time you think about starting that Ao3 account, maybe take a beat to think about the consequences that could follow. And the next time you meet an author with a lot of stories to tell, perhaps wonder where they got all of them in the first place.
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)
Divination was stupid. Theo knew it. Enzo knew it. But unfortunately for the two of them, Daphne Greengrass did not. She was quite the believer in fact—spending hours charting stars to gauge compatibility, gazing into her crystal ball, and practicing her palm reading. A load of bollocks and a complete waste of time in Theo's opinion, but, he wasn't a monster and so he humored his friend, content in blocking out Professor Trelawney's incessant babbling for an hour at the start of his mornings.
Theo was just admiring how particularly gray the walls of the castle were looking this fine afternoon when a sharp elbow to the ribs pulls his attention back to the old bat's class. Theo shoots a glare Enzo's way as he rubs his wounded ribcage pointedly. To only further his agitation, Theo notices that Trelawney is now stood directly in front of him extending a deck of tarot cards to him as she blinks her wide owlish eyes at him expectantly.
With a deep sigh and a rather dramatic eye roll, Theo plucks a card from the deck and hands it back to the witch without even bothering to glance at it. Trelawney doesn't seem to mind much though as she inhales sharply, a grin that seemed much too wide for her face forming as she flips the card back to Theo.
"Yes, yes. Just as I predicted dear boy. Just as I predicted. The Two of Cups!" She announces proudly, brandishing the card out towards the class.
Daphne squeals.
"Oh Teddy—"
"Don't call me that."
Daphne ignores him.
"How exciting. How romantic," she continues, clearly far more interested in the pull than Theo was.
She pulls out a script of parchment, finger tracing down the lines of notes until she finds what she's searching for. Then she shoves the parchment under Theo's nose.
"Look there. The Two of Cups—signifies mutual attraction and deep connections. A representation of kindred spirits in the early stages of falling in love. That's so romantic," she gushes, continuing on in her notes.
Enzo snorts doing a horrible job trying to stifle his laughter. Theo glowers, not even wanting to deign such a ridiculous concept with a response. This was ludicrous. The whole thing. Theo had been attending Hogwarts for well long enough to know that there was not a single present student in the school that he would even dignify having a romantic relationship with. He can't help but shake his head and scoff at the mere idea.
"Oh lighten up Teddy, heaven forbid you let Daphne have this," Enzo snickers, clearly enjoying the discomfort the whole thing brought Theo.
It was easy for him to say. It wasn't his love life being carefully dissected by their mystic enthused friend.
Being the new student at any new school was always going to be nerve wracking. But being the new student at a new school in a whole new country was significantly worse in every aspect. Whispers float down the corridors, your name echoing off the high ceilings of the castle, and eyes flicker towards the ground as you pass as if they hadn't just been staring shamelessly the moment prior. Normally the stares wouldn't bother you much, but the constant hushed voices were beginning to be unnerving. Your lips tighten as you move swiftly through the halls and you can't help but feel a bit self conscious as you smooth out your unfamiliar, deep blue robes.
You weren't exactly enthusiastic about your new school to begin with. It was different—of course it would be—but no matter how much you had prepared yourself for all the changes, it just hadn't been enough. Like really, they let a ratty, old—albeit sentient—hat determine house placements? You hadn't wanted that thing anywhere near your head, but it just couldn't be helped. Then, once you had been placed into your house, you come to find that yours is the only one in the entire school that requires you to solve a freaking riddle just to get into your damn room. Asinine. And to top it all off, the wretched school was literally impossible to navigate because the staircases, apparently, were also sentient and did whatever the hell they wanted.
All that to say, when you finally collapse into a seat in the back of, what you hoped was the History of Magic classroom, you were more than a little miffed. With an agitated huff, you try to stay invisible as more students begin to file into the classroom, taking their seats closer to the front. As seats fill, the extra buffer of breathing room melts a bit of the tension in your shoulders. When your professor—a ghost you notice dryly—begins to write on the chalk board, you finally feel yourself start to relax, pulling out a roll of parchment from your bag and carefully copying down each line.
Just as you're about to finish—The Gargoyle Strike of 1911—the classroom door swings open once more and a boy with brown hair and dark, calculating eyes saunters in. You're content with giving him a quick, uninterested glance before getting back to your notes, but unfortunately for you, the boy is rapidly approaching. His bag hits the floor next to you with a dull thread and you feel your lips turn downward into a frown as you look up at the boy once more in annoyance.
You watch as the boy's mouth opens as if to say something, but then his eyes meet yours and you watch him freeze, mouth agape for a moment then two. Just as it's becoming a bit uncomfortable, he seems to awaken from his trance looking shaken, brows furrowing as if he were wondering why on Earth he was just standing there like a fool. Still though, he tilts his head awkwardly—chin gesturing towards the rest of the class—and for the first time you notice that every other seat in the room seems to be occupied. With a sigh of defeat, you wordlessly turn back to the board, preparing to scramble to write down whatever you'd missed just now, content with simply ignoring this boy's existence for the the rest of class.
"A 'wildcat strike' refers to a stopping of work by unionized workers without authorization from the union. In 1911 the wildcats were winning, meaning things were moving in favor of the gargoyles—"
Good god this was horrible. You weren't even ten minutes into your first day of this new class and you already wanted to throw yourself off the top of Ravenclaw tower. It seemed as though many of the other students in class felt similarly as one of the boys sitting a few rows in front of you lets out a concernedly loud snore. You have to choke down a snicker as your eyes flicker up to the ghost at the front of the room, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't care.
"That's Finnigan. There's a running bet on how long it'll take him to fall asleep after Binns starts monologuing," the boy next to you murmurs, a smirk tugging at his lips.
You turn to look at the boy, surprised to hear him speak after all, and for the first time take a good look. Shit. He was hot. You don't really get the chance to dwell too much on it though because he speaks again.
"That one next to him is Thomas. Any second now he'll start piling things on top of 'em. See how high the stack gets before it falls over or Finnigan wakes up. Whichever comes first."
As if on queue, the boy next to the snoring kid carefully places a thick text book on his friend's back. Then another. It's like you can't look away as you watch on in morbid fascination.
"They friends of yours?" you find yourself asking as the boy, Thomas, adds an ink well to his tower.
Your desk partner snorts.
"Hardly. Lions and snakes don't exactly get along," he says smoothly.
You have no idea what that's supposed to mean, but you don't want to ask. Instead you continue to watch as a bag of Bertie Bott's jelly beans, three quills, a sweater, and someone's pet frog is added to the pile. A potted plant is about to be placed on top when a sneeze sends the whole thing crashing to the floor. Professor Binns doesn't even blink as he just continues on. Finnigan's head shoots up as he takes in his surroundings once more, shoulders slumping when he apparently realizes where he is. Understandable.
The rest of class is an absolute drag as you flit in and out of different thoughts and daydreams. Anywhere was better than here, listening to this ghost drown on. If he were any less interesting, you're sure the entire class would die of sheer boredom and be cursed to haunt this very classroom with the old professor. Doomed to be subjected to the very thing that killed you all in the first place for all eternity.
After what you're certain is the longest hour of your life, class finally ends, but to your dismay, you realize that halfway through class you'd simply given up on taking notes. Dammit. As though reading your mind, the boy next to you slides his parchment towards you. His notes are impeccable. Perfectly neat rows in dark ink with not a smudge in sight.
"I can get them back tomorrow," he says simply, before returning the rest of his materials into his bag.
You open your mouth to thank the boy, but before you even get the chance he's gone in a swoosh of emerald green and black.
The whole thing leaves you a bit stunned. It was the first real interaction you'd had with, really anyone at your new school and you couldn't tell if you'd completely blown it or not. He'd seemed decent enough, whoever he was. And that's when it occurs to you. You hadn't even bothered to ask the boy's name.
"Mmm. What was their name again?" Theo asks, trying to appear nonchalant as he inserts himself into Enzo and Daphne's conversation.
The three of them occupied their usual spots inside the Slytherin common room, the soft glow of green flames painting their faces as their voices mix in with the other echoes of the dungeon. Enzo eyes Theo suspiciously, noting that—despite the unbothered front he put on—Theo's fingers couldn't seem to stop tapping anxiously against his knee. See, usually when Enzo and Daphne were participating in their daily debrief, Theo was staring off into the abyss, pointedly ignoring them. So it didn't take an intuitive genius to pick up on the sudden spike of interest he was showing.
"Y/n. They're from America," Daphne says helpfully, seemingly oblivious to the way that Enzo was trying to dissect their friend's inner most thoughts.
"Why all the interest? They catch your eye? Are you two already falling into the early stages of love?" He taunts when he isn't able to get a proper read on his friend.
Theo's heart stops beating in his chest for half a moment before he juts out his chin defiantly.
"All anyone will talk about. Just curious to know who all the fuss is about," he retorts, forcing his voice to remain steady as he continues to stare ahead, avoiding the curious glances of his friends.
He can tell Enzo doesn't quite buy it, but that simply isn't his problem to worry about at the moment.
So they were from America. Huh.
Truthfully, Theo didn't know much about America. Hadn't ever really cared to find anything out. He was familiar with Ilvermorny of course. Which was presumably your former school, but that was pretty much the extent of it. Maybe he'd ask you about it tomorrow.
Assuming he didn't freeze up again at the mere sight of you. Salazar's ball sack that had been bloody embarrassing. Theo couldn't think of a single other time he'd ever frozen up like that, brief as it had been. Usually Theo liked to consider himself to be quite suave. Charming even, if he did say so himself. And he did. It was completely unlike him to be rendered speechless. Especially not by the mere presence of someone with a pretty face.
But it simply hadn't been his fault. How was he supposed to expect that some great, higher power was going to reach deep into his inner most thoughts and desires—pull together every single physical trait that Theo could possibly fantasize about—and combine them all into one single heavenly creature, and then plop them down right next to him in History of Magic of all classes.
Fate was cruel.
And speaking of fate, there was also all that nonsense from Divination that morning to think about. Theo leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. Surely the fact that batty, old Trelawney had predicted that he would fall in love was a complete coincidence in relation to him practically being prepared to propose to the new student in History of Magic a mere few hours later. How could it be anything else? Divination wasn't real. The whole class had been so close to being completely scrapped so many times that you either had to be a fool, or Daphne to believe in it.
Okay, so maybe Theodore was starting to believe it. A little. But what was he supposed to think as he watches you drag your feet through the door scowling? He feels his chest tighten as the two of you make eye contact and he watches as you make your way over to him.
"This seat taken?" you ask, already dropping your bag to the floor. "Didn't take you as one to be into this kinda stuff," you say conversationally as you pull parchment and a quill from your bag.
Theo scoffs, rolling his eyes.
"I'm not," he assures, "But Daph is," he adds, head tilting as he gestures to his friend.
He watches as your eyes dart over to the pretty brunette sitting happily between him and Enzo, assessing.
"Oh. Are you two?" The question lingers on your lips and Theo is quick to shake his head no.
Salazar he was being stupid. Of course you would assume—Why was he being like this?
"Nah. No. Daph's an old friend. Enz and I are just here for moral support. And an easy O." Theo hears himself drawl. "What about you? Training to become a seer?"
"Hardly. This was the only elective left that fit into my schedule apparently."
Salazar's balls you were perfect, Theo thinks to himself as Trelawney comes sweeping into the room. Her eyes are closed and her fingertips are pressed against her temples as she swooshes around the room, humming lowly.
"I feel new energy. An unfamiliar presence. You!" Trelawney screeches in her trembly voice, stopping in front of a poor, innocent Hufflepuff with an accusatory finger hovering dangerously close to their eyeball.
Theo can't help but let out a dry snicker and is delighted when he sees you out of the corner of his eye trying to hold back a laugh too. When it's clear to the old professor that the student in front of her had actually been present all year, her eyes scan the room, finally coming to a stop when they rest on you.
"Ah, there you are my dear! Your energy feels so concentrated on this side of the room, it simply drew me over," Trelawney babbles as she makes her way over. "Now let's see here. Palms up dear, palms up, let me have a look."
Theo watches amused, ignoring the weird kissing faces Enzo is making at him, as you sigh but still present your palms facing upwards to the professor. Her bony talons quickly engulf your hands, her eyes fluttering shut once more as her head tilts back, a low hum starting once more.
"Yes, yes. How interesting," the hums get louder as the professor's fingers dig into the lines of your palms. "I see. In the darkest hour, a dark shadow, it will over take you. Consume you."
Trelawney's eyes snap open and Theo watches her face melt back into a warm smile as she gives your hands one last squeeze.
"Welcome to class dear. We have much to learn, so much to see!"
Theo finds that he rather likes the way his heart swells when you turn to look at him, brow raised as you shake your head ever so slightly as if to say, 'what a nutter'.
"How many freaking goblin rebellions is it going to take before the British Ministry finally takes the hint and leaves those poor goblins alone?" you huff, slamming your books a little too loudly onto your table in the library.
You can feel Madam Pince attempting to burn a hole through your back as she glares at you, but you ignore her.
"Probably at least—" Theo checks his notes from the day's lesson, "six or seven. Unfortunately not every revolution to rid oneself of British rule is successful," he teases lightly.
You glare at the boy pointedly.
"I'm not even particularly, patriotic," you grumble, the word actually quite sour on your tongue, "but nothing brings Americans together quite like our mutual hatred of the British."
"Mmm. Do let it go on record now that my family is Italian," Theo replies dryly.
Theodore had very quickly become your closest friend at Hogwarts. From that first day in History of Magic the two of you just seemed to click. It also definitely helped that not only did he share your dry sense of humor, but he was also insanely smart, and very easy on the eyes. You'd been worried for a split second when he first introduced you to Daphne Greengrass, a familiar turning in your stomach that you'd quickly identified as jealousy flaring up, but it had been quickly squashed when Theo assured you that they were indeed just friends. But that was neither here nor there. You and Theo had become practically inseparable in the month that you'd been at your new school, much to the chagrin of his friends. You liked them too of course, and they'd been good sports about welcoming you into their little group, but with Theo it was just easy.
You slide your potions notes across the table just as Theo hands over his Charms essay for you to look over. No words exchanged, but you were both perfectly in sync. Easy.
It's far past dark when you finally push your chair back, the old wood scraping against the floor, and you force yourself to stifle a yawn.
"Alright. I'm calling it a night," you announce as you begin packing up your books. "I should head back in case it takes an hour to get that damn eagle to open up the common room door again."
You hear Theo let out a snort at your last comment. He'd heard well and good your complaints about that stupid hunk of metal.
"Guess I'll head out as well. Mattheo has been complaining that he never sees me anymore, but he's just mad he can't copy my notes anymore."
The two of you quickly gather the rest of your things, slinking out of the library right as Pince begins making her rounds to toss the last lingering students out before closing the doors for the night. The walk to Ravenclaw tower is made in comfortable silence as you walk side by side, both of you trying to ignore the way the back of your hands were brushing against each other as you went. When you finally arrive, a whole group of students in black and blue are outside the door when it swings open. Not wanting to miss your chance, you toss Theo a smile over your shoulder before disappearing with the crowd of students through the door.
As soon as you enter your room, you dump your bag on the ground at the foot of your bed, trade your stiff school uniform for a more comfortable track set, and turn right back out the door—a disillusionment spell on the tip of your tongue. You move silently against the walls, retracing the same steps you'd just taken, leading your right back to the library. It's dark now—you knew from experience that as soon as the clock hit ten, Pince was out the doors. You lift your wand, ready to cast the usual alohomora but tonight something stops you. Call it a gut feeling. You grip the handle of the heavy, wood door and without so much as a squeak, the door swings open. Huh. Maybe the cranky librarian had been in such a rush to leave she forgot to lock up.
Without giving it so much as a second thought, you slip through the doors, following the familiar path that lead you right to the heart of the restricted section of the library. Really, you often found yourself wondering, why on Earth did they have a so called restricted section, and then not even bother to put up a single ward to keep students from entering? Wasn't very restricted if they asked you. Your fingertips brush over the spines of different books as you pass through the shelves, pulling one from the shelf every so often if it catches your eye. The silence of the empty library was deafening, but you relished the way you could hear your footsteps echoing on the tile and the rustle of pages turning as you flipped through your nightly finds.
You're on your tiptoes, straining to reach a large tome from the top shelf when you catch sight of a dark shadow appearing out of the corner of your eye. God, you hoped it wasn't that old man Filch. He wasn't as bad as everyone made him seem, you'd been able to talk him out of snitching on you thus far, but it kind of ruined the mood. Your hand drops to rest on the handle of your wand as the shady figure draws closer and you prepare to throw one of your books its way just in case.
"What are you doing here?" the confused voice of Theodore rings out just as you're about to launch your copy of Moste Potente Potions at his head.
You feel your shoulders sag in relief. You hadn't been scared of course. Just vaguely alarmed. Then you let out a laugh.
"And what's funny?"
"Oh, nothing. Just Trelawney and her whole 'A dark shadow is going to overtake you' spiel," you snicker. "And what do you mean what am I doing here? What are you doing here?" you ask rather indignantly, turning back to focus on the book that was just out of your reach.
"I come down to the library at night all the time," Theo replies, crossing his arms defensively.
"Well it's obviously not all the time because I've been here every night this month and I've never seen you down here," you reply casually.
You can practically hear Theo rolling his eyes at you.
"Well of course not all the time, Filch would start getting—sorry did you say you've been here every night? How has Filch not caught you?"
You shrug your shoulders noncommittally, glaring up at the book that seemed to be just taunting you.
"He has a few times, but we usually just chat for a little and then he'll send me on my way."
You don't see the absolutely stunned look on Theo's face.
"You chat? With Filch. About what?" Theo asks incredulously.
You let out an exasperated sigh.
"The weather. Cat toy recommendations for Mrs. Norris. His mother's retirement in France. I don't know, we chat about a lot of things."
You still aren't facing Theo, but if you had been, you probably would have laughed at the completely gobsmacked look that was written across his face.
"Now will you be useful and get that book down for me?" you ask, foot stomping impatiently on the ground.
Still too shocked to respond, Theo reaches up over your head, placing one hand on your shoulder for balance as he easily plucks the book you'd been reaching for off the shelf. Just as he's about to hand it to you though, it seems he comes back to his senses and that smug grin that you'd become so familiar with recently finds its way back to his lips.
"Uh uh uh, where's my reward?" he teases, holding the book just out of reach once more as he smirks down at you.
"Reward?" you ask dryly, looking up to raise an eyebrow at your friend.
Had he always been standing so close?
"I'm a Slytherin. I don't do something for nothing now," he says, voice like honey in your ears.
"What do you want?" you ask, eyes narrowing.
Theo tilts his head as if pretending to think.
"A kiss."
You blink, shoulders shrugging as you turn to face the boy properly. Seemed fair enough to you. You were definitely getting the best end of the deal. So you tug on the collar of Theo's sweatshirt, before crashing your lips into his. His lips are warm and soft and that's all you take note of before pulling away quickly. Theo is clearly stunned once more so you take the opportunity to finally get your hands on the book you'd been eyeing this whole time.
"Thanks Theo!"
Theodore Nott was dangerously close to never brushing his teeth ever again. Because you had kissed him last night. In some sudden, stupid burst of confidence he had asked you to kiss him and you did. It had been a complete joke—Theo hadn't even remotely considered that you'd actually do it, but you'd grabbed the collar of his jumper and then your lips were on his and he knew he was well and truly done for.
"Theo. Theo! You need to get your act together mate," Lorenzo grunts, elbowing his friend to get his attention.
"What? Stop that," Theo mutters, batting his friend away from him.
"Seriously. You're acting like a love sick puppy."Brie
Theo glares.
"Would take one to know one," he snaps, falling back in his seat with a huff.
Now it's Enzo's turn to narrow his eyes.
"I'm going to choose to ignore that because you're just upset that you didn't kiss y/n back," he responds.
Theo's eyes bulge at the bold—albeit correct—observation.
"Can you keep your bloody voice down?" he hisses, eyes flickering about to make sure no one had heard.
Luckily, you had only just entered the divination classroom so at least Theo was safe for now. Or maybe not.
"Morning," you say brightly giving the group a small wave and taking your usual spot next to Theo.
Theo opens his mouth to respond but, Salazar you smelled good today, and your lips, god your lips looked soft and pink and, the words feel caught in Theo's throat. Somewhere in the distance he can hear Enzo snickering obnoxiously, but all Theo can do is stare at you dumbly. This was mortifying. As soon as he figured out how to move again Theo was launching himself straight off this bloody tower.
"Hey, do you want to sneak into the library again tonight?" you ask casually, laying your things out on your desk, seemingly oblivious to the fact that you were about to send Theo into cardiac arrest.
Of course I'll sneak back into the library with you. Especially if it means you'll kiss me again, Theo wants to say. But he has at least a little bit of dignity left, so he straightens himself in his chair, trying to maintain at least somewhat of an air of nonchalance as he finally strings a sentence together.
"Sure."
Okay, so a sentence might be giving himself a bit too much credit, but it was better than sitting there gaping like a daft idiot. You seem satisfied with his answer though as you turn to face the front just as Trelawney waltzes into the room with her usual dramatic flair. Theo drifts in and out of the lesson as Trelawney rambles on about tea leaves and the placement of tasseography symbols. He tried to focus. Really he needed to, because the alternative was his gaze finding its way to the curve of your lips and the way your tongue pressed against the inside of your cheek as you furiously scribbled down notes.
The gentle sound of metal clinking on china pulls Theo wholey back to class as a spoon taps impatiently on the teacup in front of him as if urging him to drink. Glancing around he sees most of his classmates were already bottoms up. Drinking down the rather bitter liquid, Theo carefully places his cup back down in front of him, peering disinterestedly at its contents. Just looked like soggy tea leaves to him.
Trelawney insists on moving about the room though, dissecting the meanings inside each little cup and leaving behind a trail of utterly befuddled students in her wake. When she finally reaches Theo, he can visibly see her begin to vibrate with excitement as she moves his cup around in her hands, swishing the tea leaves back and forth.
"Look there, dear. Do you see?" she asks giddily, shoving the teacup back in Theo's face.
"No." he replies flatly, not even bothering to examine the wet leaves.
"Look closer."
Theo's nose is practically inside the cup now and he can hear you and Enz snickering on either side of him. Traitors. When he still doesn't say anything, Trelawney lets out a huff, sticking her crooked finger into the cup and speaking slowly as if explaining something to a small child.
"Right there. Don't you see?" she asks, as if it should've been the most obvious thing in the world. "An axe—" she swirls the cup to the side. "And a butterfly."
Theo stares blankly at the old woman.
"Use their notes and figure it out," she finally huffs in exasperation before sweeping off to another table.
As soon as she's gone and Theo makes eye contact with you he can't help but chuckle as Daphne scowls at the two of you.
"Look," she sighs, shoving her notes across the table for Theo to read.
The Axe—problems overcome
The Butterfly—success and pleasure
Wonderful. More nonsense. That was the problem with divination—the definitions were so broad they were basically meaningless. Overcoming problems and success? That could be about anything. Theo pushes the parchment back to its owner with a shrug. He'd just do what he always did and make something up for the assignment.
Shadows loom against the dimly lit walls of the library as you and Theo wander through the shelves together. Theo had been quieter than usual tonight. To be fair, he wasn't usually the most talkative person ever, but you had had to push to get your usual banter out of him. He clearly had something on his mind. You don't push though. That was something you both appreciated about each other—just being there together was enough.
Once you both have a sizable stack of books pulled together you tuck yourselves away in one of the back corners of the restricted section. Far enough that not even Mrs. Norris would bother to wander all the way back. You find yourself curling up next to your friend, legs pressed together and shoulders brushing as you cast a soft lumos charm just bright enough to illuminate the pages of your books as you read. The quiet is nice after a long day of navigating the crowded halls and classrooms of the school. Hogwarts was definitely a lively place, and you hadn't realized just how much you missed having some peace and quiet until you'd snuck out of Ravenclaw tower that first night.
"Do you think divination might not be completely useless?" Theo asks a while later, breaking the silence.
You look up in surprise before glancing down at the book he's reading—Divination Through the Ages: A Skeptics Guide—your eyebrows furrowing in thought. If you were being honest, you'd always thought that divination was, to be polite, dumb. In fact, you'd been rather pissed when your head of house, Professor Flitwick, had told you that it was the only class that would fit in your schedule. But you didn't think that was what Theo wanted to hear at the moment.
"I mean, all forms of magic have their unique uses I suppose," you reply carefully, wondering where this was going.
Theo just hums in response, continuing to finger through the pages of the book as you watch with curiosity. Finally, with a deep breath, he snaps the book closed and turns to face you. It's clear he wants to say something as you search his eyes which seem to be getting ever so slightly closer by the second. You can't help the way your eyes drop down to his lips as his tongue glides across his bottom lip nervously. They're so close now you can practically feel the way they had pressed against your own last night. However brief that encounter had been. When you finally tilt your head back up to meet his eyes once more, your nose brushes his and you feel your breath hitch. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was about to kiss you right now.
And then his lips are on yours and you feel your body go limp as he pulls you into him, your eyes fluttering closed as he molds you to him. Your book slips from your fingers with a dull thud as it hits the ground, but you hardly notice. Theo's lips are just as warm, and soft, and utterly intoxicating as you remembered them to be. You can feel Theo smiling against your lips as he pulls you impossibly closer and you forget where you are, what you were doing, everything except what it feels like to be held in Theo's arms.
When you finally break apart, it's your turn to blink in stunned silence as Theo gazes down at you, his breath warm against your cheek.
"Ever since you arrived, everything that divination has told me has come true," Theo says gruffly, clearly not pleased to be having to admit it.
You couldn't blame him. The two of you had kind of bonded over how unseriously you both took the class. Still though, you tilt your head, inviting him to continue.
"The first day we met—that morning in divination, a deck of tarot cards told me I was going to fall in love."
A dry laugh escapes Theo's lips as he pulls back, eyes trained everywhere but at you now. Which is probably for the best as you feel tendrils of heat creeping up into your face.
"I didn't believe them of course. Thought it was pure rubbish."
Your heart stutters for a moment before your eyes land on the book Theo had been reading so intently up until now.
"Hm. And did something change?" you ask cautiously, not daring to get your hopes up.
"Well, the soggy leaves in my tea this morning kind of implied that I should get my act together if I wanted any sort of success, so—" Theo lets out another wry laugh, though there's no humor in his voice. Just a nervous undertone that you can tell he's trying to mask.
"Well did you? Fall in love that is?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy around Theo for the first time.
There's a beat of silence where you can practically feel your heart trying to tear its way out of your chest. You hadn't quite realized just how much you wanted this until it was staring you in the face. Or rather anywhere but. Then Theo meets your eyes once more.
"I think I could. If I'm not half way there already."
His words melt every bit of tension you had been feeling previously as you let out a breath that you didn't know you'd been holding.
"I think I'm half way there too."
Everyone say thank you to the beta readers @simplyastra and @nottendo 🫶🏽
"He wanted to choke this goddess. He wanted to watch her drown in her own poison. He wanted to see just how much misery Misery could take."
- House of Hades
I love love LOVE the foreshadowing to Dark!Percy. I love seeing his anger, seeing why people were scared of him. Love how Walker interprets how angry Percy actually is all the time, how his rage can be so visible on his expression when he's provoked. THIS IS A KID OF THE BIG THREE THAT EVERYONE FEARS! THIS IS THE SON OF THE EARTHSHAKER, STORMBRINGER!
I do want to say something essential about this scene. Yes, he was losing it over Annabeth being hurt. But. This would have been his reaction if it was Tyson or Grover. Because this is Percy and this is his flaw and if anybody he loves is in danger, he literally cannot handle it. So yes, we got a Percabeth scene but that’s not necessarily because of romantic love. It’s just love. In its purest, most undefined and unadulterated form.
Hey yall I've made another thing which in essence will be my outlet for delulu bc somehow telling a shit tonna ppl online isn't as scary as telling my friends irl 🫶🏼
For whatever reason, I can't tag that acc so I'll just rb from it ig if anyone's interested
friday - jegulus - @taylorswiftmicrofic - word count: 408
Regulus could handle himself. He’d been telling overly-confident, macho men to fuck off for years, thanks, and he was very capable of doing so on his own.
But he couldn’t deny that he was a bit relieved when, after five-or-so minutes of trying to let down Mister Let-Me-Treat-You-Right that evening, James Potter walked up to them, stony-faced and determined.
“Reg!” James called, immediately putting an arm around his waist, pulling him tighter to him than they’d ever been before, causing him to shiver. “Hi, baby! Sorry I’m late! You know how Fridays are at work.”
Regulus knew what James was doing. Clearly, he’d been out with some friends and picked up on Regulus’s obvious signs of annoyance and distress from across the bar, so he’d decided to help. This wasn’t real–this wasn’t real.
The man who had been trying to pick him up glared. “You have a boyfriend?” he demanded, like Regulus had personally offended him.
He tried to stay calm. “I’ve been trying to tell you I’m not interested,” he said flatly, leaning into James like it was something he did every day.
“Liar,” the man spat.
Regulus was tempted to tell him exactly where he could shove his dick but instead, James just chuckled lowly. “C’mon, love. Let’s leave him to sulk and go dance.”
And so he found himself dragged onto the dancefloor, pulled close to James’s body.
“Is this okay?” the taller man murmured into his ear as he turned Regulus away from him and pressed his back to his chest, making Regulus inhale sharply. “I just saw you over there and–”
“Yes.” He wasn’t sure if he was answering James’s question or reacting to the lips ghosting over his earlobe, but either way, he was so good. Allowing James to guide his hips to the music, he quickly forgot about the man at the bar, focused only on the man behind him.
Until James muttered. “He’s still looking. Can I–”
“Whatever you want,” he answered, dazed head full of ideas of what James could be doing.
A hand turned Regulus’s face, James leaned slowly over, and…their lips connected.
And yes, maybe it had started for show. But as their tongues tangled and their hips swayed, Regulus’s mind went hazy and his fingers moved to tangle with James’s hands that were splayed over his ribs. He melted, completely forgetting everything but the other man behind him.
@yourshiningautumnoceancrashing @darlingmylovethatsmurder @knightmossy @annisconfused @alwaystightrope @withdevovotion @starcroww (crows love these don't they) @skibidi-toilet-baku-my-dudes @simplyfianella @space-girliee @teameightseven + like all my moots
Bold or highlight your favourite from each of the following pairs.
tea or hot chocolate, cozy books or halloween movies, plaid or corduroy, foggy mornings or twinkly nights, orange or black, pumpkin or apple pie, wool or velvet, picking fruit or carving pumpkins, libraries or coffee shops, cinnamon or peanut butter, spooky or cozy halloween, candles or fairy lights
I tag @dontcallpanic @littleblackraincloudofcourse @inconsolablemoron @kinkykinard @foreverthemomfriend @iamperfectlyfine1 @heart-a-holic @all-or-nothing-baby and anyone else who wants to play (doesn’t matter if we’re mutuals or not). No pressure on anyone who doesn’t!❤️
tea or hot chocolate, cozy books or halloween movies, plaid or corduroy, foggy mornings or twinkly nights, orange or black, pumpkin or apple pie, wool or velvet, picking fruit or carving pumpkins, libraries or coffee shops, cinnamon or peanut butter, spooky or cozy halloween, candles or fairy lights
the tea or hot chocolate was rly hard
np tag: @chaoticfandomgirly @ethereallstarr @fictionalsimp09 @rweyes @aferlog @atokirina-tsuki @apcqlypse and anyone who wants to im so bad at tagging
tea or hot chocolate, cozy books or halloween movies, plaid or corduroy, foggy mornings or twinkly nights, orange or black, pumpkin or apple pie, wool or velvet, picking fruit or carving pumpkins, libraries or coffee shops, cinnamon or peanut butter, spooky or cozy halloween, candles or fairy lights
tea or hot chocolate, cozy books or halloween movies, plaid or corduroy, foggy mornings or twinkly nights, orange or black, pumpkin or apple pie, wool or velvet, picking fruit or carving pumpkins, libraries or coffee shops, cinnamon or peanut butter, spooky or cozy halloween, candles or fairy lights
My loves I'm so sorry I don't have the energy to tag ppl rn pls just join in<3
get to know your moots tag game !
✶ answer the questions, then tag six people
favorite color ꕀ green and brown
last song ꕀ tú by maye
currently reading ꕀ the luminaries by susan dennard
currently watching ꕀ the great british baking show
currently craving ꕀ massaman curry. like always. and like. alcohol and a couple cigs HAHA. a break too :P
coffee or tea ꕀ always tea! i don't like coffee
ty for the tag @saltcxrcle !
tagging: @lelapine @toadspondofwhimsy @outof-spite @h0neyst4rz @hhoneylemon @our-lady-of-venom
favourite colour: dark red/maroon
last song: paranoia by heartsteel, my beloveds
currently reading: dante's inferno, i've been halfway through it for ages :')
currently watching: just finished the latest ink master season and started shrinking and the apothecary diaries :))
currently craving: i'm craving a smoothie at all times, always
coffee or tea: i'm not much of a warm drink girly but i love a good iced tea (bonus points if it's mixed with lemonade)
no pressure tags @lostfracturess @celestie0 @coffee-and-geto @emphism + anyone else who would like to do it <33
fuckkk i'm so late i'm sorry bb!! thanks for the tag 💕💕
favourite colour: burgundy, dark blue, brown, beige and white
last song: Her, The American Dawn
currently reading: La dame aux camélias by Alexandre Duma fils + some of my mutuals fics :)
currently watching: outer banks
currently craving: blueberry muffins hehe
coffee or tea: both!
I’ve never been tagged in anything like this before🥹🥹
favorite color(s): black and red
last song: the red means I love you by madds buckley
currently reading: I’m not gonna lie, I haven’t picked up a physical book in a while but the last book I read was the ballad of songbirds and snakes by suzanne collins
currently watching: re-watching once upon a time
currently craving: sushi
coffee or tea: I prefer tea but occasionally I get some coffee from Starbucks as a treat :3
genuinely unsure if I have other moots, I mostly just lurk on Tumblr🤔 @oops-is-my-life
currently reading: I haven't read a book for joy in so long bc I was studying for the bar exam (my actual last book was a bar prep book)- but the last book I read for fun was The Bangalore Detectives Club!
currently watching: Taskmaster (constantly rewatching actually)
currently craving: Chicken Wings
coffee or tea: I prefer tea- specifically chai, but a bitch will never say no to an iced latte :)
currently reading: six of crows by leigh bardugo + an audiobook called stamped: racism, antiracism, and you by ibram x. kendi and jason reynolds
currently watching: avatar: the last airbender with my roomie + the summer hikaru died because my friend is very autistic about it
currently craving: idk, i just had a big breakfast of banana pancakes and then brushed my teeth so food-wise i really, deeply don’t need anything
coffee or tea: it depends. i love iced coffee and really good coffee from like cafés and such, but other than that i would probably pick tea unless i really needed the caffeine
tagging some folks if y’all want to do it, but no pressure at all! @theoaklady @phantasticphizza @petermustdie @i-am-just-a-skeleton @depressed-pheldritch-horror @peachlessroomba
favourite colour: a couple specific shades of pink and/or orange
last song: The Show Must Go On by Queen
currently reading: ...to be honest i have a book by my bed to read before i sleep but i've been so tired recently i haven't actually done that yet. got it from the library and don't remember what the title is without checking
currently watching: nothing really, i finished the first season of buffy last week and haven't got the next one from the library yet
currently craving: the ability to survive by listening to music instead of eating (i have a lot of sensory issues with food, keeping myself properly fed is So hard. i do not want to eat)
coffee or tea: tea, always, i hate how coffee tastes but tea is delicious
last song: front street by will wood and the tapeworms (live at coffee haus)
currently reading: nothing right now, but the last book i read was peach pit (collection of short woman-centered lgbt horror stories)
currently watching: i'm too busy for tv lately but i've been watching jenna marbles and will wood music videos
currently craving: mac and cheese, red bean buns, cuddles, tahoe cookies, free time, cream soda
coffee or tea: definitely tea, i prefer iced herbal tea because i don't do caffeine. my favorites are peppermint, hibiscus, bengal spice, and anything fruit flavored!
last song: once a catholic always a masochist (fangbanger)
currently reading: the locked tomb series
currently watching: arcane (it’s literally on as i’m typing this)
currently craving: a nice sandwich, a bucket of ice dumped on my head (it’s so hotttttttt), the smell of autumn, Vi from arcane to carry me across a burning bridge, and a pickle
fav colour: maroon or like certain shades of blue/green like teal
last song: orange juice by noah kahan
currently reading: is it bad that between my uni reading and fanfic i haven’t read an actual book since summer 😭 unless rereading the little prince counts
currently watching: modern family (when am i not)
currently craving: idk can i say sleep/bedrotting/something good to read
coffee or tea: tea any day. specifically like proper boiled chai
i’m so shit at concisely answering questions i ramble so much but i did it. yay.
np tag: @chaoticfandomgirly @ethereallstarr @fictionalsimp09 @apcqlypse @that-stressed-out-chic and literally anyone who wants to
I haven't been listening to music much recently bc I've been listening to audiobooks, but I like to put on the playlist I made specifically for the second book in the series I'm writing :D
It has a lot of Hamilton, Greatest Showman, etc. on there lol. Mostly soundtrack music and idk if listening to it would actually feel like a story arc to anyone but me but personally I have a great time
I really like the song Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel, I added it to my running playlist but then I just listened to it on loop because I liked it so much. It also brings back fond memories because when I was little I thought it was about a superhero named Sledgehammer who had shapeshifting powers.
I like SKZ, if that hasn't already been noticed, and I have a few happy songs, q bunch of their softer songs, but right now Cinema by Seungmin and Lee know is high in the list. I really recommend SKZ to people, they're amazing
Hmmmm probably "point of extinction" by Motion City Soundtrack =D
No pressure tags!! @stormflyblue, @the-halfling-prince, @fullfledgedghost, @ace-and-the-rpg-horrors, @skeletonsandstars, + anyone else who sees this and wants to do it ^^
fun fact i had a competition a few months ago and was really nervous so i put this and a couple of other declan songs on loop. instant mood lifter. literally why do you feel so down?
i'll tag @dramaticinlyf @ravensncrowsx @almost-13th @foundheaveen @the-aricher @souperache +anyone else who wants to do this!
Hmmm my happy song...okay this is something that's like mostly confined to the Indian community but no genre of songs is better to lift your mood than an Item song. Literally any item song will make me stop crying and dance. As for smthg in English I'd say those Disney Musicals songs, You're So Vain by Carly Simon and Shake it Off by Taylor swift (its my go to when I need the reminder to just let stuff go)
No pressure tag- @moony-talks @helpimhopelesslyinlove @chuchundras @iamperfectlyfine1 @crystalela @moonytoast666
