Fred accidentally falls in love with this mysterious girl in his class through awkward meetings.
♪ ─── warnings: u are “short” bc fred is a giant (i believe in a big!fred), nonchalant!odd!reader but fred’s lowkey into it, goth!or emo!reader (described as wearing black—imagine whatever u want), nonchalant/unexpressive!reader, swearing, parents are morticia and gomez = u r American (sorry), unspecific house!reader, bsf luna mention, acquaintances to lovers, medium slow burn, high school fight + injuries, 2nd/3rd person omnipotent but fred orientated, “British slang,” mild mentions of racism, 7th year, no y/n, no war au, teen cringe, very brief mention of alc, slice of life, swearing, poc!reader (maybe you’re adopted idk), unmeasured but small timeskips
♪ ─── word count: 9.4k
♪ ─── a/n: i really wanted to make this a oneshot bc im worried if i make it multi-part then the chances of me continuing are lower but like i need to split this up or else it'll never be published bc it’s been rotting since may…
There’s this girl in Fred Weasley’s class; no, he doesn’t fancy her or anything, but he’s heard much about this infamous Addams character. He’s seen her silently floating around school, practically gliding down halls in shiny heaps of black fabric. Sometimes, Fred can make out the soft jingle of jewelry when she approaches.
Her parents, supposedly, are vampires that own giant crematoriums with bakery fronts that they use to incinerate their victims, and her family is devoted to the darkest of arts— all according to little Colin Creevey (but it sounds kinda like Sweeney Todd).
This girl apparently feeds off of fear, has a pet tarantula and sleeps in a coffin. The last two rumours were sourced from one nervous Ronald Weasley, so Fred didn’t take it too seriously.
“You’re lucky you never had to share a class with her,” Ron murmured pensively. Three vibrantly redheaded brothers (Fred, George, and Ron) had cornered themselves into a window alcove, trying to cram in some meek conversation before the bell rang. “I heard that she’s a bat animagus—,”
George nudged Fred’s arm. He wiggled his bushy brows and smirked. “Wouldn’t that be cool?” George implored his twin.
Fred shrugged, lightly considering the thought with a slight bob of his head. “Would be pretty badass,” Fred agreed.
Ron scoffed at his older brothers. “Lavender swears she didn’t see a reflection in the lavatory mirrors the other day,” Ron pressed.
“You know, humans can actually learn echolocation,” George chided.
Ron frowned, “Oh, piss off.”
“No no, it’s true,” Fred said with an affirming nod. “We can only do it through snaps.” The twins simultaneously shut their mischievous eyes, tilted their chins up, and held out their hands to snap in unison.
“Shut up,” Ron grumbled, folding his arms atop one another. He eyed the curious glances their peers were charitably donating. “Quit it— people are looking at us,” Ron snapped. He kicked the closest brother (which was George) as an attempt to silence them.
Fred and George give him a little peek, as their snaps fell out of sync. They snickered and eventually stopped, amused and satisfied with the damage they’ve done to Ron’s social standing.
Ron’s shoulders were hunched and tense; his voice was an exasperate whisper, which only drew in Fred and George for his words to be heard. “Her father went to Durmstrang— the school that Malfoy wanted to attend,” Ron indulged dramatically.
Fred wrapped an arm around Ron, pulling him closer. “You sure it wasn’t Pigfarts?” Fred joked in a feathery tone.
“Headmaster Rumbleroar rules with an iron fist,” George added humorously.
“More like a furry one,” Fred corrected. He squeezed Ron’s arm affectionately. “He’s a lion,” he clarified.
Ron weaseled out of Fred’s degrading hold with a hefty huff. “Merlin, you guys are insufferable,” he stated, nostrils flared and eyes aflame.
“Mate, she gets picked on enough— we don’t need to add to it,” Fred rebutted.
The younger (but taller) boy adjusted his messenger bag sardonically, prepared to abandon the oafish twins. “She’s one scary girl,” Ron decided before striding away, passionate about his beliefs.
“What’s she ever done to you?” Fred called out. He received no answer; he simply watched Ron disappear into the crowd of students.
The Potions classroom was smelling… fishy; it was pungent, vile, and evidence of hardworking students. The ridiculous concoction Professor Snape assigned would take two to three class periods to fully brew. Two to three classes; that’s outrageous! The instructions alone are four pages long, the list of ingredients merely half!
All of this for a 50 point assignment! Fred scowled. His nose scrunched with vexation, as he reluctantly flipped through the directional pamphlet.
With a pestle and mortar, grind up acorn barnacle shells into a fine dust…
Add 27 grams of sheepshead wrasse scales…
Boil zooplankton until thick paste…
Fred scoffed and rolled up his sleeves. “Absolute rubbish,” he mumbled before picking up the mortar. He examined the bowl for another potion’s leftover residue, and when he determined it was clean, he grabbed the small burlap satchette of chicken bone powder (Snape had premade it for the class out of the “kindness” of his slimy black heart) and loosened the tie.
Austin (Fred’s lab partner) adjusted the heat on the Bunsen burner with a scarred hand. “It’ll boil in a few minutes,” the lad announced, peering into the small cauldron. He picked up his copy of the instructions. “I’m gonna collect some of the other ingredients,” he added.
“Alright,” Fred nodded, as Austin approached the supply table across the classroom. There was a decently sized line wrapping around it, as their peers were carefully apportioning themselves the right ingredients.
Fred observed the small cloudy bubbles forming at the mouth of the cauldron. What did the directions say? Wait until the water was boiling to pour stuff in?
He glanced at the papers. Eh… it’s probably fine; he dumped the bone powder in and grabbed a wooden ladle to briefly stir. The greyish dust dispersed and started to equally spread throughout the warming liquid.
He folded his big arms over his chest. Now, he’d have to wait however long it takes Austin to get through that line; he had no other ingredients to lazily mix in.
His eyes, full of impatience and impertinence, studied the broth foam and quietly pop, as bubbles were pushed to the surfaces like bouncing balls.
This is dreadful.
Fred slowly lifted up his chin. He scowled at Snape’s greasy helmet of hair. Curse you, he mentally casted. Curse you!
He irritably sighed, but then his attention found you, one table to the right away from his, humbly plucking off the yellow petals of a marsh marigold. He watched you sprinkle the velvety corolla into the steaming pot, as your lab partner (some irrelevant bloke) gossiped with his friend.
The green stem and white spidery roots remained. You held them up at eye level; you broke off a few dead stocks and tossed them into the bin. You proceeded to place them in a small glass vial of blue fluid to steep. You checked up on your boiling cauldron and then decided to add the chicken bone powder.
You did it all so… gracefully.
This is the girl that sleeps in a coffin? Yeah, right… Fred peered at his empty wooden chopping board. She doesn’t look scary, Fred thought. Well, a little intense or deathly bored sometimes but not intimidating. Who would be scared by someone three apples tall?
“Her only friend is Looney Luna…”
Fred didn’t look up; that was the trick to collecting drama and miscellaneous intel— be nosy without acting like it… pretend the conversation wasn’t even happening… Fred grabbed the instructions and pretended to read them.
“… probably escaped a circus together,” a different voice sniggered. It sounded like that Seymour kid; he used to be Percy’s friend… I think, Fred vaguely recalled.
Your lab partner, unoccupied and who Fred knew as Brody (frosted tips, brown roots, brown eyes, very plain looking), responded, but his pitchy words were incoherent at this distance. Fred licked his lips and pretended to nod at himself comprehensively. Ah, yes, wolfsbane, known for its plant qualities…
“She should go back where she came from,” Seymour whispered.
Fred frowned indignantly. Percy would never be friends with someone like that.
At the edge of his peripheral vision, he noticed the two teenagers ogle at you derisively.
“Shut up,” Brody grumbled. “She’s literally right there.”
They hit each other in the arm, huffing and snickering, daring themselves to make it more obvious.
The chicken bone broth was boiling. Fred turned down the temperature, as Austin returned with a wooden tray full of capsules and ceramic dishes.
Brody kicked Seymour’s leg and glared at the boy’s wild black coils. He glared at Fred, eyeing him dismissively. He tightened his tie uncomfortably. “Sorry,” he lamely retorted.
Austin’s neutral demeanor was quickly displaced by Fred’s sudden shift in attitude. The tall redhead seemed… tense… his jaw was taut and his brows firmly narrowed.
“But we weren’t talking to you,” Seymour spat out dryly.
“What’s happening?” The strawberry blond shyly beseeched Fred.
Brody smacked his friend’s lower back. “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed.
“I don’t care,” Fred shrugged, consequently ignoring Austin. His feet shifted beneath him, subtly parting til they were shoulder-width apart. “Why are you even saying stuff like that?”
Seymour rolled his eyes, “It’s none of your bloody business; piss off.”
“I think it is,” Fred refuted through gritted teeth. “If you didn’t want me getting involved, then you should’ve kept your stupid mouths shut.”
Naturally, you were curious as to what the raucous was about.
Brody was idly standing across from you, his friend Seymour was closing in on Fred. Wide-eyed Austin ineptly pretended he wasn’t third-wheeling an argument and started to grind up barnacle shells.
You found it severely unimpressive and resumed potion brewing.
He pointed at them accusingly. His lips practically snarled. “I know how to have basic respect; you guys struggle to be decent human beings,” Fred criticized.
Brody was baffled. “Me too?” He stupidly questioned.
“Isn’t this sweet?” Seymour mocked, gradually approaching Fred and Austin’s lab station. “Poor ol’ Weasley’s in love with the freak,” Seymour snidely observed.
“As if you’d be able to identify ‘love.’ Didn’t your mum leave you as a baby?”
Professor Snape’s attention had been dully notified. His pupils would’ve thinned into slits like a canine on the prowl if it were possible.
“Boys!” He proclaimed annoyedly. “Resolve this issue before points are docked!”
Seymour was bemused. His hands shook with fury. “Don’t talk about her like that!” Seymour shouted, balling up his fists.
“Oh,” Fred purred wickedly. “You can be protective over someone you dunno but I can’t?”
WHOOSH! THWACK!
Snape’s feet stuck the ground like lightninig. “GENTLEMAN!” The professor screeched.
Fred hissed, “You little piece of shit!” He tenderly massaged his jaw, and his face hardened with indignation. He curled up his fingers and launched a punch at Seymour’s face.
CRACK!
His nose was gushing blood.
Seymour leaped toward Fred, grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him onto the ground.
The two boys grunted, long arms flailing and feet hopelessly kicking.
All academic pursuits had been halted— for decently good reason.
“DETENTION! BOTH OF YOU!” Snape proclaimed, drawing his thin black wand from his robe.
Their classmates ogled in disbelief (in your case, it was subtle intrigue).
Glittering ropes of blue magic warped around the two bodies and then tore them apart.
“Enough with this nonsense!” Snape declared, as Fred was hauled into the air.
Seymour was withering on the ground. “I’m gonna kill you!” He shouted.
“I’d LOVE to see you try!”
The heat in Snape’s face could’ve lit his greasy bowl of hair. His nostrils were flared and eyes aflame with disgust. He waved his wand again and Fred fell onto his knees.
“That’s one hundred points from Gryffindor!” He condemned, grabbing napkins from a nearby lab table. He yanked Seymour up from the floor and shoved the napkins into his hands. “McGonagall’s Office. NOW!”
“He threw the first punch,” Fred glowered, pointing at the perpetrator.
“One more word, Mr. Weasley, and that’s another fifty points!” Snape’s deadly black eyes fell upon the class. “Behave yourselves!” The man seethed. Snape snatched Fred and Seymour by the elbows and briskly escorted them out; his cape billowed behind him like a storm cloud.
“I’ve never seen a dead man look so alive,” George mumbled noncommitedly.
“Mum’s gonna kill you,” Ron warned.
“I can already hear the Howler,” Ginny astonished.
Fred tried to roll his good eye (one of them was swollen), as he shakily brought the ice pack to his temple. The Weasley twin was placed at one end of the infirmary, face heavily bruised and shoulders sore. Seymour was at the other end with Madame Pomfrey treating his broken nose.
George shook his head, “Consequences of playing hero.” He tried not to chuckle at his brother’s weakened state.
“‘Hero’?” Ginny echoed. “Why d’you say that?”
“He’s here, because he was defending some girl,” George dismissively clarified.
Ginny frowned, slightly taken aback. “That’s not what I heard,” the young girl stated.
“Doesn’t matter what you heard!” Fred groused curtly at his siblings; they were huddled around his bed the way vultures circled a corpse. He solemnly touched his cut lip, which stung from the slightest pressure. “I did what I thought was right—,”
Ron snorted at the remark. “Mum’s not gonna agree—,” he interjected.
“Who was he defending?” Ginny implored, cutting both her brothers off. “I think it’s rather romantic,” Ginny said half-jokingly.
Fred blushed, almost missing the humour. “It was not!” He protested.
“The Addams girl,” George solved.
Ron’s jaw dropped in dismay. “You DIDN’T!” Ron gasped.
“Ooooh, he did.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Ginny inquired.
“Nothing!” Fred responded (“Everything!” Ron replied).
Ron’s face scrunched with horror. “Did Seymour give you a concussion too?”
“Ginny,” Fred huffed. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that girl.”
“Is she the one always wearing black?”
“Yes,” said George.
“She is a little weird,” their sister softly thought aloud.
“She is not!”
“She’s a beauty… but a funny girl,” George offered.
“I still don’t understand why you’re so defensive about this,” Ron griped, providing his two cents.
“I did it to prove that somebody was on her side! You, Seymour and everybody in this school isolate her and act like she’s some deranged zoo animal. It’s absolutely ridiculous; she’s done nothing.”
…
…
…
…
“I think you did a very noble deed, Fred,” Ginny said, gently touching his shoulder (he winced and she quickly moved her hand to the metal bedframe). “Sorry,” she murmured bashfully.
“I agree,” George concurred with a nod. “A ‘if not you, then who’ type of... call to action, let’s say.”
Fred smiled a little. His lips were dry and slightly crusted with blood, but he was content.
Until he slowly peeked up at Ron. Fred swapped the ice pack into his free hand (his fingers were growing numb).
Ron was reluctant. “I guess…” Ron trailed off shyly. “I guess I forgot she was still human.”
George shrugged, “Gryffindors are pretty stubborn.”
“But if you plead your case,” Ginny began.
“If you play your cards right,” corrected George.
“Mum might go slightly easier on you,” Ginny deduced.
Fred’s eyes hesitantly drifted over Ginny’s shoulder; someone was standing in the doorway to the infirmary, silently watching from afar and cloaked in onyx.
Fred’s heart began to palpitate, and he managed to sink in the stone-hard mattress. His siblings noticed the change in behavior, and without missing a beat, they turned to see what the fuss was all about.
Ginny and George cocked their heads to the side, pleasantly surprised by your presence (thought Ginny did feel a chill tickle her spine). You had made no indication whether or not you’d actually approach them. You were like a phantom, awaiting the moment to mysteriously disappear.
Ron was about to foam at the mouth— in his head, your humanization was partially admitted as verbal manifestation; he did not NOT see you as Beelzebub reincarnate (say her name three times and she shall appear!). But… exposure therapy was a first step in growth, so Ron tried to stay as quiet as possible (despite shaking in his boots).
You advanced towards the Weasleys with footsteps as quiet as a mouse’s. Your posture, your urgency and expression were so aggravatingly neutral and annoyingly unreadable to the redheaded family (Ron really wanted to scream and see if you’d react). You stopped at the end of the bed (short of half a meter) and stared directly at the injured boy.
Fred’s siblings expectantly turned back to him. He sniffled and nervously spoke first. “Hello,” he bunglingly greeted.
“I’m not gonna thank you for participating in a fight, because I don’t condone delinquency,” you bluntly said. Your hands laid at your sides. They didn’t seem to fidget or naturally sway. Fred’s mind went blank, but before he could form coherent thoughts, you added, “I prefer more structured violence, like sword fights. But I will admit… I am impressed by your chivalry. I personally don’t care what people say about me; I’m used to it, but no one’s ever made an effort to firmly stand by their morals… at least in front of me.”
All of their jaws dropped, including Fred’s— and it felt like a thousand needles were stabbed into the bone. Fred Weasley was speechless, mainly because he was suddenly and extremely void of breath. He’d never actually heard you speak before; surprise didn’t just take him aback, he had completely surrendered to it.
“I acknowledge what you did today.” In the blink of an eye, you were instantly standing on the right side of Fred’s bed, empty of his circling brothers and sister. “But if you have to do it again, make sure it’s in a colosseum and to the death.”
You stuck out your hand.
Despite being known for having a stomach of steel, Fred almost threw up and fainted. He ogled at your hand, unsure what to make of it—
She wants a handshake.
Fred reached out, palms damp and cold. You didn’t have a noticeable or visceral reaction; yours were more frigid than his.
You promptly retracted after a few seconds. “I also overheard most of your conversation with your siblings,” you announced.
George cringed, and Ginny jabbed Ron’s arm, as he flushed red with embarrassment.
You carefully considered their responses. “Don’t worry. My opinion of you all hasn’t dramatically changed.” Your attempt at reassurance didn’t hit the mark; the siblings were disturbed.
You gave each Weasley an attentive look of acknowledgement. Your voice remained unwavering and confidently firm. “Heal soon,” you demanded from Fred crisply, before finally departing.
When you were far enough, Ron whispered, “Bloody hell.”
“A beauty but a funny girl,” Ginny commented, reiterating George’s prior observation.
A pulse in Fred’s chest continued to tense up and release precisely with each soft step you took.
Yeah… Fred thought.
The world doesn’t revolve around Hogwarts; that was something Fred Weasley struggled to perceive. The twee village of Hogsmeade shared the same 24 hours as the rest of the population and operated independently as its own society.
They had their own unreliable postage system, a crumbling old schoolhouse, and crooked cobblestone paths. Their community was equipped with gated neighborhoods and abandoned projects at the outskirts of town.
Mid fall and very late summer in the Scottish highlands made the roads damp and muddy with soggy moss growing in the cracks. The streets are lined with buttery daffodils, pale mountain-avens and sweet bluebells (the mark of a public gardener trying to revive the town’s soul).
Fred tried to keep his spirits high, as he walked on the cracked sidewalk, squished between Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell, who were vibrantly talking over his presence.
Quidditch season started its first game earlier that evening. The suspenseful match resolved with Gryffindor’s victory over Ravenclaw, so prideful Captain Angelina Johnson rounded up all her teammates after they hit the showers and swept them off to a celebratory dinner at The Mooncalf: Bistro & Brasserie.
It felt... wrong for Fred to be here. Yes, he did in fact play, but that was because Angelina absolutely refused to put in Andrew or Jack as his substitute (they were utterly incompetent).
She had seen the swelling in his eye lessen, but completely ignored the fact his shoulders were totally incapable of properly swinging a bat! Fred looked like an absolute idiot, relying heavily on George to take the hits and make all the shots...
Well, there's no reason to relive it.
The restaurant took on the facade of a countryside inn. The roof was tiled with terracotta slabs with three thin gable dormers protruding in the front. The exterior walls were primarily the color of sand with the exception of growing vines and dead branches. The Mooncalf offered wrought iron table and chair sets for outdoor seating
It was a lovely place all in all. George had remarked to Fred about potentially starting up a small joke shop in Hogsmeade, but Fred rejected the idea— Diagon Alley was where success awaited them.
To the right was Alvar’s Bazaar, a dank and depressing vintage outlet for local vendors that sold bleached animal bones, haunted furniture and illegally smuggled foreign artifacts. Fred left with mysterious scratches on his back, and he had no interest in revisiting anytime soon.
To the left was Niffler’s Keep, a hippy thrift store that carried crystals, fake turquoise jewelry and vegan leather handbags. Fred had visited it once with his twin; it reeked of cheap incense and lemongrass. The Weasleys escaped as quickly as they could, before they could further investigate the merchandise.
The Mooncalf was fairly busy this Saturday evening. The spicy aroma flooding the restaurant was heavenly; the small team quickly filed into the entryway (a few slipped into the waiting area where two pairs of lovers were already seated).
There was little lighting in there; the ambiance heavily relied on the white candles sitting upon the mahogany tables and low hanging lanterns. There was a bar off to the right and maroon colored booths and circular wood tables that carried tiny flower vases, condiments and salt and pepper shakers in ceramic duck bottles.
Angelina confidentially approached the tall reception stand, and Fred’s heart almost stopped.
You were the hostess in a grey pinstriped black button up and long dark pants. He hadn’t noticed your nails were painted dark burgundy until now, as a tawny owl swooped in (there was an open window above the door).
The copper bird was clutching a pale rolled up piece of parchment; its scaly claw held out the paper to you, and you considerately took and unfurled it.
Wednesday 6pm
Barton M. - party of 4
You picked up a tortoise shell fountain pen and flipped through the thick calendar book. The sharp silver tip hovered over empty time slots until it landed on the requested date. Fred watched you jot it down, grab a green stamp and press it against the letter.
Reserved.
You rolled the letter back up and handed it to the tawny owl, who hooted and cooed before turning and flying out the restaurant.
You looked up at Angelina expectantly, setting the pen aside. You asked politely with matte eyes, “Do you have a reservation?”
The beautiful captain shook her head. “No,” she answered. “What’s the wait time?”
“About twenty minutes,” you retorted. “Is that acceptable?”
Angelina nodded with content. “We have ten people,” she said.
“I’ll add you to the queue.”
Feeling satisfied and after having secured the team a spot, Angelina gestured for the large group to take a seat on the cushioned benches or lonely ottomans in the waiting area.
Fred, on the contrary, felt unnervingly restive and irked by your unanticipated presence, as if someone had pinched the tubes of his aorta closed for a second.
What the hell is she doing here?
Fred, George, Harry and Ron crammed themselves into the window alcove shoulder to shoulder (Ginny snagged an ottoman— lucky).
The Mooncalf of all places?
The transparent pane had the large white lettering and iconic logo. The outline of the long necked and bug-eyed creature stared down at Fred’s messy hair.
“Man, I’m starving,” Ron quipped, legs crossed and arms crudely pushed into his lap (he was trying to become as small as possible).
Harry rolled his emerald eyes. “We’re all hungry.”
Fred was… fortunate enough to be packed next to Ron, who shimmied his pointy elbow to get his elder brother’s attention.
“She’s everywhere,” Ron whispered to Fred very conspicuously (there was absolutely no bloody way you didn’t hear it). “Haunting the narrative, huh?” he joked.
Fred frowned and kicked Ron’s vulnerable ankle. “Shh.”
A boy appeared, assumably another host judging by his similar attire; he was tan, a curly blond and had tapped you cautiously on your shoulder. Like an alert corvus, your head snapped towards the boy’s direction. Your eyebrows twitched, but your hands were still frozen on the calendar book.
Fred interpreted this reaction as your own special way of expressing surprise.
“Polly wants you to roll up silverware,” he told you.
“You’ll take my spot here?” You entreated sternly.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
You didn’t nod or say anything else, but perhaps that hard blink was your response. You slipped away from the reception lectern like a snake in weeds.
Fred glanced around and stood up. “Toilet,” he announced, when Angelina glowered at him, silently daring him to be stupid on her watch.
Conveniently, the bathrooms were in the direction you were headed, so he outrightly followed you— past the dining families, the first dates and giggling friends, past the enchanted jazz instruments playing themselves on a raised stage.
You ended up at an empty booth lodged in the back of the restaurant that was occupied by two giant plastic boxes. One was full of clean cutlery and the other of rolled up silverware; the black napkins were piled in a neat tall stack.
Fred slid into the seat opposite of you. “Since when did you work here?”
You took out your wand and gently waved the slender twig. The reflective utensils floated out of the scratched-up box, as the thick napkins levitated and wrapped themselves around trios of forks, knives and spoons.
“I started a few weeks ago,” you aloofly said. Your gaze remained in the air, wand rhythmically flicking to magic the cutlery into simple sets. “I work mostly weekends.”
Fred hummed, drumming the soft pads of his fingers on the smooth table. Yep, that makes sense, he thought. Not a lot of free time at Hogwarts.
Your wand, Fred realized, was nothing extraordinary; it was a smooth crooked stick of a bocote tree that had been carefully sanded and coated with varnish.
He chuckled, “Wouldn’t Alvar’s suit you a little more?”
You were unfazed by his opinionated humour. “Yes,” you agreed casually, listening to the clinks and soft thuds of the rolled of napkins. “But my parents encourage me to step outside my comfort zone. They think uncomfortable learning experiences are more constructive than complacent ones, so I applied here.”
Fred couldn’t argue with that logic; there were dozens of times his parents forced him to do something unfavorable (like apologizing for the spider-related trauma inflicted on Ron or cleaning out the unaired attic), but he wasn’t certain that they encouraged him to be a better person…
“Is the pay good?” Fred blurted. He wasn’t considering applying to The Mooncalf— although he could use a real source of income (the more funds for pranks, the better).
“It’s minimum wage, and we split the tips at the end of the night,” you explained briefly. Your wand halted and all the ornaments hung in the air frozen. You ran out of napkins. You swished your wrist and the remaining cutlery flew back into the plastic box and you stood up, slid out of the booth and grabbed the stash of rolled up utensils.
Fred sprang out from his seat too, eager to shadow and continue talking. “You weren’t at the Quidditch game tonight, right?” He followed you into a busier section, lingering behind as you began to set down silverware rolls on freshly cleaned tables.
You had set down the box on an empty chair and thoughtfully laid out four sets at a square table. You moved onto the next vacant placements. “Like I said,” you restated, as you positioned six rolls. “I’m only interested if it’s a battle to the death; I’m not keen on school sports.”
Fred’s nose wrinkled. “I think that’s illegal nowadays,” he scoffed.
“You’d be surprised by who and how people still practice it,” you indulged. “Don’t you remember the Triwizard Tournament? Pitting a bunch of teenagers against each other whilst risking all their lives for socially perceived glory?”
A small smirk managed to form on your lips. The emotion was overwhelmingly uncanny to Fred. It may have been subtle, but any change to your impassive facade was like a boulder crashing into a lake: noticeable.
“I was in the first row for all the rounds,” you added with satisfaction. “It was the most exciting thing to happen at Hogwarts. I only wish I was old enough to enter.”
Fred beamed at the notion and accidentally punched your shoulder in excitement (he didn’t notice the error, but you were inconspicuously shocked by the physical contact).
“So did my brother and I!” Fred exclaimed happily. He sighed mournfully, “If the tournament had taken place a few months later, you would’ve seen me fighting off that Hungarian Horntail!”
Although you were evidently more focused on your job, you spared Fred just enough attention to entertain the conversation. He could see you constantly contemplating whether or not to shoo him away or not.
“I’m assuming you skipped out on the Yule Ball?” Fred shyly threw out. He tried to imagine it: you with ridiculously tall heels, glittery eyeshadow and glossy pink lips. The idea was quickly shot down when he realized he had envisioned an entirely different person.
You rolled your eyes; you thought it was a stupid thing to ask. “Obviously,” you sassed. You were now holding a box empty of silverware rolls. You sharply turned to finally face Fred properly. “I’ve been to more sophisticated galas. I didn’t want to waste my time at subpar dances.”
The blond boy from earlier crept past like a spider on its wispy web, taciturn and calculated. The people he was guiding, however, tromped around like an angry horde of elephants.
“Felt like we were waiting forever,” Ginny commented annoyedly.
“Hope the service is snappy,” Ron added.
“I could eat a horse,” Harry grumbled. He received a jab to his bicep.
“Medium rare?” Ron jested.
“Do you think they give out breadsticks?” George innocently asked.
“I’d eat a handful of salt right now,” Alicia sighed.
Fred’s attention snapped towards the gradually passing team; his eyes met Angelina’s first, who was at the front of the small crowd. Her dark almond shaped eyes narrowed.
Angelina roughly coughed, unamused to find him bothering The Mooncalf’s staff. “Fred,” she sternly warned. “What’re you doing?”
“Just chatting,” he replied quickly with a shrug. He watched you sheepishly. “I’ll, uh, see you later,” Fred concluded with a curt nod.
You ignored him and floated to the front of the restaurant.
Ginny and George shared a tentative glance, as he joined the rowdy Gryffindor herd. They were led to two rectangular tables that had been pushed together to accommodate the party size.
The blond host began to hand out the laminated pamphlets, and the team hurriedly sat down to flip open the menus.
“Your server will be with you soon,” was the last thing the boy said before leaving.
As always, Fred sat with George on his right, Ron on his left, Alicia at the end, and Ginny, Harry, Jack and Andrew opposite them. At the heads of the table were Angelina and Katie.
Ginny’s flittering eyes skimmed the menu and suddenly landed on a short list at the bottom. “Oh, they have savory crepes,” Ginny pointed out, nail tapping on the printed out names.
“That sounds so good, but the real question is: do they have vegetarian ones?” Katie mumbled absentmindedly.
“Who the hell likes French onion soup?” queried Ron, baffled at its inclusion.
“Dad sure loves it,” George answered, laying out a black napkin on his lap.
“I might get the steak frites,” Ron said, ignoring his brother.
Angelina called out, “Are we all just getting gillywater?”
Harry turned to the sound of her voice. “I want a butterbeer!”
Ron leaned forward and peered at the end of the table. “Me as well!’ Ron chirped.
“Same!” Fred bellowed.
“Who’s eighteen?” Andrew inquired boldly.
Angelina furrowed a brow. “I am. Why?”
He beseeched, “Can you order me a Dragon Scale?”
Angelina was aghast by the suggestion. Her eyes were ablaze and she scoffed. “Absolutely not!” The girl proclaimed.
“When you actually score a point, she’ll buy you a drink,” Fred teased loudly.
Sunday mornings were reserved for toasted scones, fluffy scrambled eggs, and last minute copying of homework answers. Fred drowned his pancakes in thick sugary syrup, as he loaned Lee his potions lab report to... base his original and unique analysis off of.
The boy, with one hand carrying a fork and the other a beat-up quill, was furiously writing down chemical reactions he had certainly not noticed during class. To imagine they'd continue brewing tomorrow!
"Thanks, man," Lee absentmindedly spluttered. He poked the prongs of his fork into a greasy sausage. Lee tried to bring the link to his mouth but missed and smeared the sausage onto his cheek.
Fred nudged Lee's writing arm, which accidentally made the 'd' in 'caused' to be printed a little crooked. "You got a little somethin' there," Fred teased, gesturing at his own face.
"Totally forgot we had this dumb assignment," Lee grumbled, flipping to the next page. His eyes briefly scanned the instructions, before he turned to the same paragraph in Fred's documents. "Why didn't he just give us the packet at the end? Ridiculous!"
George spread a thin slab of butter onto his golden brown toast. "We would've forgotten all the info by then," George shrugged. He brought the slice to his lips: crunch.
"I doubt he's gonna even look at this tomorrow," Lee huffed. His penmanship was getting sloppier and sloppier. G's became y's, r's sank into n's, and i's were short l's.
"Then why bother making it look like you did it?" Fred snorted, cutting his pancake into bite-sized chunks.
"Why bother getting into a fistfight for some random?" Lee refuted abrasively.
Fred rolled his eyes; Snape sentenced him to a three detention with Stupid Seymour that afternoon. "You're lucky I'm giving you my answers," Fred reminded him haughtily.
Lee slammed his quill down and pushed the papers aside. "I already gave my thanks," he recalled. He finally ate the sausage link and started cutting up his lukewarm omelette. "Super grateful."
"Uh huh..."
George finished his buttered toast and scooped up a handful of fresh blueberries. "Fred, I've got an idea," he drawled out, popping the small fruit into his mouth.
Fred raised a mischievous brow; that was the one sentence he loved hearing most. "Yes, brother?" Fred theatrically answered.
"People cry when they eat chocolate, don't they?"
Fred picked up his glass of orange juice, he swirled it around, pretending it was wine. "Perhaps they do," Fred said in a snooty accent. "But I've never partaken in such activities. What are you suggesting, old sport?" He took a long sip and made sure to slurp loudly.
"Well, old sport," George picked up his own drink (apple juice) and eddied it, "I'm suggesting we create chocolates that have an emotional kick to them, one that stirs the waterworks and funds profound sentimental and corny displays."
"And we could call them... Tear at First Bite." Fred shook his head at himself. "No, Heartstring Sweets," he corrected.
"Because they tug at your heart!" George nodded approvingly. "You're quite clever, brother."
"Hear hear!" Fred placed his cup down. "But how on earth do you suppose we make these spectacular chocolates, hm?"
"Umm..."
From the open awning windows came flocks of owls, swooping low over the tables and dropping brown packages, parcels of sweets or tied-up envelopes. The nocturnal birds hooted and twittered, as their wings propelled them back into the air after a swift delivery.
Students ripped open candy bars and tore out folded up letters. A muggleborn's parents were considering buying her a car for her 17th birthday, a boy's step uncle was recently engaged, and someone's grandma had taken ill.
"Someone's got themself a Howler!" Seamus cried out, enthusiastically pointing above their heads.
The Gryffindors (and a few members of other Houses) followed the direction of his pale hand to find a Great Grey owl carrying a vibrant red envelope. It swooped down from the rafters with little grace, teetering to the side slightly with its legs kicking out anxiously.
Fred squinted at the feathery blob. He dropped his fork and knife, "Oh shit."
Errol the ancient bird almost collided into Fred's head, but in the process had conveniently surrendered the Howler into the ginger's possession.
"I think we know what that's about," Ron sighed, inching away from Fred.
Fred's stomach rumbled with anxiety; he meticulously slid his thumb nail under the patterned wax seal, letting it lift just enough, so he could open it.
Fred gaped at the letter for a second and then peeled the front flap open; the red envelope shot out of his hands, fervently animated and unfolding itself into a hissing mouth. The pale parchment inside crinkled into sharp jagged teeth, a burgundy ribbon lashing out like a snake's tongue.
The papers ruffled slightly. "FREDERICK GIDEON WEASLEY!" it exclaimed in their mother's voice.
"Here it comes..." George's hands flew up to his ears, ready to shield them from the scornful lecture. He offered a pitiful smile to his twin, whilst also scooting away.
The Howler snarled wickedly, "I AM ABSOLUTELY FURIOUS!" Its paper forked tongue flicked at Fred's nose like a whip; he winced and covered his face. "YOUR FATHER AND I EXPLICITLY WARNED YOU TO BE ON YOUR BEST BEHAVIOR; THIS IS YOUR LAST YEAR AT HOGWARTS, AND YOU ARE OFF TO A BLOODY TERRIBLE START."
Hermione lent Ron her ear as he leaned in, shaken by haunting memories. "I remember when Mum sent me one," he whispered to the frizzy haired girl.
She scoffed at him, pushing his shoulder. "And you deserved that," Hermione said facetiously.
"I RECEIVED A LETTER FROM PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL ABOUT THE NEED FOR DISCIPLINARY ACTION FOLLOWING A FIGHT DURING CL--," the Howler suddenly drooped like a limp balloon, it bent down as if it was listening to something. Mum's voice became hush, "-- what, dear?"
Fred was boggled by the interruption; it must've been Dad! Coming to his rescue? But if good ol' Dad had saved Fred's hide, then the letter wouldn't have been sent in the first place... right?
"Let me see that!" The Howler made a shuffling noise. "I see," it murmured. Mum cleared her throat tentatively, and the red envelope straightened up.
A deeper (and more calm) voice spoke, "We've received a letter from the Addams."
The Gryffindor table almost choked.
"You're kidding!" Ron gasped.
"They've expressed their sincere gratitude and point of view," their father continued in a dignified tenor. "We understand you were merely trying to do the good thing--"
"But doing the RIGHT thing doesn't require getting involved in a FIST FIGHT!" Mum obstructed loudly. "You are almost an ADULT, Fred Weasley, and I expect you to outgrow this-- this-- this delinquency!"
Dad ungracefully coughed. "But we are, hm..." the man trailed off.
"Disappointed that this situation wasn't handled differently!" Mum finished.
"But we love you! Mum and Dad!"
Having delivered its message, the Howler began to shred itself into confetti, and a few pieces landed in Fred's syrup soaked pancakes.
Fred's hand slid onto his forehead in dumbfounded shock. "Oh my God," the boy emitted.
"He survives another day," George noted.
"A real miracle that was..." Harry chuckled.
A week following the Potions Incident™, Fred tried his very very best to be on his best behavior for the sake of his parents. This new effort included making it to class on time, actively listening to his professors, and taking notes-- which may sound like normal student behavior, but it wasn't normal for Fred Weasley.
He was a smart in his own right, but all this sitting around, staring at slideshows and reading boring textbooks... Ugh! Fred highly preferred hands-on activities: he had taken Enchanted Pottery I and II last year, and it was phenomenal.
Yes, he gifted his Great Aunt Muriel a flower vase that replenished its water. Yes, he gifted his mum a magically chilling butter dish that he made. Yes, he gifted his dad a beautiful ceramic plate that could keep its contents warm.
And that was why he got better Christmas gifts that year.
But the past few days, Fred Weasley has been extra nice to his peers. He helped find Luna Lovegood's shoes, he volunteered to go shopping with his sister, and he personally trained Andrew during practice.
Fred had depleted his secret stash of midnight snacks (mostly biscuits, granola bars, and crisps), and he was absolutely starving tonight. The hunger pushed him out of his bed, out of the Gryffindor Common Room, and towards the kitchens.
He deserved some mischief, right?
Well, he'd hardly call this mischief; this was a matter of survival. Fred Weasley was surely about to die if he didn't eat something soon.
It wasn't unusual for Fred to wander around the castle at night, but he was often accompanied by his other half. In Christmas pajama pants, a zip-up that was most certainly George's (his initial was on the inside tag) and a moth-eaten rock band shirt (the logo was incredibly faded, but a good eye can make out the name Wilmot and the Banshees), Fred ventured off towards the kitchens, guided by the abundance of moonlight.
With a school as big as Hogwarts, it was incredibly easy to avoid Filch's lackluster security measures. Most, if not all, the paintings he passed were sound asleep; the figures were passed out, leaning against props, hiccuping and snoring.
Fred's stomach rumbled like waves of thunder, as the delicate pitter patter of his slippers echoed against the cold stone walls.
The kitchens (for convenience and practicality) were in the same corridor as the Great Hall. Warm streams of light escaped through the gap beneath the heavy door, along with metallic clangs of pots and pans. The House Elves were still clocked in it seems. Fred could sniff the faint scent of bread; perhaps they were preparing for tomorrow's breakfast?
Fred's warm palm unhurriedly grasped the long iron doorhandle. He twisted and pushed it open marginally, just enough to peek inside-- on a small stepladder was an elf organizing the spice shelf, another was scrubbing dirty plates at a sink, one was tending to the brick oven, and others were sweeping or mopping the floor.
Coast was clear; Fred enlarged the door opening enough for his entire body to be revealed. His view of the kitchens were much clearer now; he saw giant drying racks, butter churning barrels, large jars of dried herbs, cabinets upon cabinets, the Addams girl, rows of low wooden tables--
Wait.
It's you.
In the kitchen.
In the dead of night.
"What-- what're you doing here?" Fred blurted. His voice, despite being so tender in nature, cut through the air like a playing dart. He caught your attention and a earned a few glances from the working elves.
You were sat criss-crossed on the floor at a table facing the entryway, arms folded over your chest assuredly. "Waiting for the oven to finish baking the cake," you bluntly reacted.
Fred stepped into the room and let the door shut behind him. He was bewildered at such a notion. "You eat cake?" he investigated, hesitantly approaching.
"Yes." You were puzzled by his confusion. "Why is that surprising?"
Fred sheepishly shrugged. "You don't seem like you'd have a sweet tooth." He abashedly sat down on the floor across from you.
"It's my grandmother's yew berry chocolate mousse recipe."
Fred furrowed his brows. "Aren't those poisonous?"
"Not entirely." You looked at the elf wearing a blue headscarf and matching tunic. "Cosa knows how to replicate it perfectly, so I occasionally request for her to make it."
The aforementioned elf was waiting by a brick oven. One of her hands was gloved with a thick mitten, which she used to open the iron door of the oven. Inside were three short trays of chocolate cake.
"It's almost done," Cosa stated, after closing the door. "Cosa will grab the yew berries and the mousse from the icebox," she informed. She snapped her fingers and disappeared with a pop.
Your shrewd eyes dragged themselves across Fred's hunched frame. "What're you doing here?" you echoed back at him.
"Looking for a midnight snack."
"You're welcome to try some of my grandmother's cake recipe," you politely offered.
Fred shook his head, "I couldn't."
You stared at him. "I insist."
"Maybe a little," Fred compromised, feeling somewhat unnerved by your persistence.
Pop!
Cosa magically returned carrying two bowls, one with the tiny red fruit mildly covered in frost and the other full of thick airy chocolate mousse. She set both of them on empty counter space. Cosa grabbed the three chocolate layers and set them out to cool on a metal rack.
"Cosa make more mess for Lenny to clean!" cried a particular House elf who was scrubbing burnt leftovers from iron pots. He pointed furiously at the cake pans.
"Lenny doesn't have to clean that!" Cosa snapped back snootily. "Cosa will take care of it!"
"Lenny is highly skeptical," he grumbled, holding up a pan. He squinted at the black residue sitting in the dish. "Cosa forgot to clean up after making French toast..."
Fred couldn't help but watch the two elves bicker. It was an unusual sight-- they had no eyebrows, but their wrinkly eyes narrowed, their lipless mouths pinched into frowns, and their large ears twitched with irritation.
"The Mooncalf is hiring, if you're interested," you said, ignoring the nearby argument.
"Huh?" Fred hummed involuntarily (he had very much heard you loud and clear).
His eyes slowly moved to your pallid yet serene face, fully expecting a reaction of exasperation or disapproval, but your nature stayed neutral.
"They're looking for more servers," you added, unfazed by his absentmindedness.
Fred frowned, "I might be too busy with Quidditch." Time management wasn't an advanced skill of his, but the temptation of income was decently strong. Having a job would make him seem more mature in the eyes of his family though... "I'll think about it," Fred concluded.
Topics of conversation ran out like water in a drought. You and Fred sat in silence, listening to the House elves work. The ginger grew antsy, uncomfortably writhing with restlessness; the awkwardness practically lit his heart ablaze! You, however, seemed unaffected, as Fred struggled to plunge into his head for topics.
A joke! Tell her a funny story or something! ANYTHING!
Fred licked his lips. "What's red and bad for your teeth?" He impulsively initiated.
You studied him for a few seconds before realizing he wanted some sort of signal to keep going. "What?" you indulged him.
"A brick."
You didn't laugh, and Fred choked on his spit. He only grew more anxious and, maybe for the first time in 7 years, embarrassed.
Embarassed. Fred Weasley doesn't get EMBARRASSED-- not in front of anyone with a pulse! Well, you were debatable...
"Tell me another one."
Fred paled. What's that supposed to mean? Was it so bad she's GIVING ME A SECOND CHANCE TO BE FUNNY? How HUMILIATING!
Fred gulped and tried to scrounge up something. Think, Fred, think! Ugh, I'm trying!
"Why was the frog late for work?"
"Why?"
"His car got toad."
"Funny."
NO, IT WASN'T! YOU'RE NOT EVEN BLOODY SMILING. THERE'S NOT A SEMBLANCE OF AMUSEMENT IN YOUR ENTIRE BODY!
Fred leaned the side of his head into his palm and allowed his fingers to mask his eyes. "Don't patronize me," he pathetically grumbled.
"I wasn't trying to."
The House elf had magically cooled down the cake to room temperature. "Bon appetit!" Cosa declared, passing out two forks and small plates to the students.
Oh, thank, Merlin, a distraction...
They each received a perfect slice of chocolate mousse cake, laying on its side, drenched in a thick yew berry infused ganache.
Fred's emotional turmoil had completely derailed his sense of hunger but seeing the dessert before him... his stomach moaned in anticipation, and he quickly cut off a corner piece and shoved it in his mouth.
Each layer was perfectly moist, the chocolate not too bitter, and the fruit not unbearably tart. The whiplash threw Fred's heart into a tornado-- he had braced the fiery storms of hell seconds ago, but now he was eating chocolate!
"'Let them eat cake!'" Fred quoted, trying to rejuvenate his ego and reputation.
"Marie Antoinette didn't actually say that."
His confidence plummeted like a wave crashing onto a beach.
Fred didn't want to-- Fred really really REALLY didn't want to attempt to read your tone, but he just could NOT for the life of him understand you! An enigma of a human specimen! An unopened Pandora's box!
"But I understand what you're saying," you added. "Do you like it?" you interrogated.
"Yes, it's amazing actually," Fred confessed truthfully.
"Grandmama first made this for my father's birthday dinner a few years ago. We had spent the evening playing games and singing."
"What kind of games...?"
"Pin the Snake on the Chimera, Murder in the Dark, Russian Roulette..."
Why did I even ask?
His cowardice reluctantly shooed itself away, and his light-colored eyes bore holes into your downturned head. You appeared frightfully normal when eating cake; Fred personally believed it was the result of two subjects canceling each other out.
One Very Interesting and Unique Individual
- The Activity of a Midnight Snack
= Average
Fred wanted to rip your hair out (not in anger, but the way a child ripped open a present), peel back the thin layers of skin (like an onion), dismantle your skull (similarly to a puzzle), and poke at your blobby brain. Fred had morally promised himself not to use the W-word, but it was all he could think of; you were explicitly and unapologetically weird.
People are always surprised to hear that Fred Weasley does his homework. It may not always be of the highest quality or worth much merit, but they’re usually done on time. His classmates stay vigilant when it comes to potential boobytraps and pranks, but they turn a blind eye to the hours spent studying and researching.
If they spared a moment looking for his academic efforts, they’d realize he spends just as much time scheming as he does plotting. Schemes are more elaborate than most assume; there are mechanics that Fred and George must engineer and perfect before deploying their art into the world.
“Mate, I think we’re gonna have to retire the singing pasta idea,” George reluctantly conceded. His feet dangled above Lee and Fred’s heads, his back lying flat against the thickest branch of the crooked oak.
Fred scoffed, hitting his twin’s leg, “No, come on, we’re onto something here!” In his lap was a sketchbook, one currently full stringy noodles with faces and giant mouths agape. There were a hundred arrows, a thousand captions and a million diagrams.
“Merlin, we already asked Flitwick, and none of those bloody charms have worked,” George reminded him. He swung the toe of his shoe at Fred’s head. He missed.
Fred tutted, “No, you suck at casting them.” He sprang up from his crossed-legged position below the tree, cast aside his book, and looked up at his brother. “It could’ve worked if you just let me try on one bowl!” Fred claimed defensively.
Lee crumpled up an old note and chucked it at Fred’s face. “Oh, shut up! You guys already wasted 5 plates of good spaghetti!”
“You said they were overcooked!” said George, jumping down from the tree.
“I was hoping you’d leave it be, so I could EAT!” Lee revealed irritatedly.
"Was eating all the garlic bread not enough for you?" Fred complained.
Lee snapped back, "Can't a man just be hungry?" He rose to his feet and met George the Giant beside him, still inches taller.
"I think we should try charming the noodles before and right after they're finished boiling. The sauce is probably messing us up," Fred theorized, waving his hands passionately about. "If it works, then we need to find a way to make it dormant, so we could sell magical noodles that sing when you cook them!"
George and Lee's approval was a gradual thing to win over; they understood what Fred suggested but--
"How the hell do you suppose we make a singing spell dormant? On spaghetti?" George questioned.
"We add a spell to make boiled water trigger it," Fred fired back.
"But it'd be funnier if it appeared normal and then started singing at the dinner table," Lee argued.
Fred crossed his arms, tolerably peeved. "If you're gonna recommend something, at least have a solution to it. I can't come up with all of this by myself," Fred spat.
He watched for their reaction, but none came. George and Lee fully stopped listening; their attention honed in on some stupid bird or conversation behind him.
Fred frowned and wrinkles appeared on his forehead. "Hello?" he pressed vexedly.
With a calloused hand, Lee loosely gestured for Fred to spin around.
"Merlin's beard!" Fred gasped, stumbling with electrified shock. His ears prickled with warm blood at the sight of you, impervious to his consternation. "Sorry," Fred murmured, eyes scanning you up and down. "I wasn't expecting-- uh, you. Hello," Fred waveringly smiled.
"Hello," you greeted.
Fred licked his chapped lips and eyed the terracotta pot you were carrying. "And you have a plant?"
You held out the bush for him to better observe. "Yes, I do."
Its leaves were dark green, almost black, and toothed. Pinkish-white bulbs frequented its beige stems with a few fuchsia colored blossoms.
"This is Byron's Bleeding Heart. It's a rare shrub native only to Turkey," you informed.
Fred awkwardly glanced at George and Lee (they shrugged). "That's nice..." he affirmed uncertainly.
"A week ago, I overheard you discussing with your brother the need for an emotional stimulant for an upcoming prank."
"Oh... okay, um--"
"Let me finish," you deadpanned. Fred gulped and sucked in his cheek. "The petals of this flower don't quite achieve what you're looking for, but they get pretty close," you continued briefly. "When consumed, they trigger the amygdala to release hormones that cause overwhelming nostalgia and sadness."
Fred's knees weakened under his weight, and he felt extremely top heavy all of a sudden.
Merlin's beard! If Fred wasn't frozen in ineffable awe, he'd clutch the imaginary pearls around his neck-- he'd probably kiss your feet or ascend into heaven! Maybe even skip and dance!
Fred Weasley was aghast and getting disgustingly sweaty.
But you! An angel in black that left him speechless! Oh my God!
"Bloody hell," Lee sighed.
"Is he swooning?" George snorted quietly.
"You're amazing," Fred blabbed dumbly.
You extended your arms further out. "I know," you smiled with aplomb.
Fred's heart fluttered; she SMILED! His hands shook, as he reached and accepted the plant graciously. "But why?"
"It's a gift. Those don't need reasons," you replied coolly. Your fingers twitched at your sides, and you began to pick at your nail beds. "Water it once a day, and don't touch the leaves. They sting."
Fred held the clay pot in one arm and wiped his clammy palm onto his pants. He casually laughed and shrugged. "Yeah, shouldn't be too hard."
"Take good care of it."
"I will. Promise," Fred solemnly swore, pressing his right hand over his chest.
"Goodbye."
Goodbye.
Fred blinked; he hadn't returned the farewell.
"Uh, I-- goodbye!" he sputtered.
Fred watched you leave like black smoke dispersing in the wind. His eyes stared at the imprints you left in the dirt, actively replaying the last few minutes over and over (nails: dark aubergine) and over (shoes: muddy) and over (sleeves: rolled up) and over--
"What the actual fuck was that?" Lee inhaled. "Was that a marriage proposal?"
Shut up.
Byron's Bleeding Heart had spicy undertones to its uniquely floral scent.
"He's always been a ladies' man," George joked.
A large blossom began to unfurl and bloom.
"I think we just witnessed Fred fall in love."
The tiny furnace in the middle of the room was grumbling, chewing up wood, and simultaneously keeping everyone warm. It must've been a full moon, as Fred could make out the somber howls and yelps of a werewolf in the Forbidden Forest.
George snored and huffed in his sleep, Kenneth had restless feet, and Lee was basically dead.
Fred's quilt (his 14th birthday gift from Mum-- it matches with George) was pulled halfway up to his torso, and his hands were clasped together on his stomach, as he stared at the mystifying and allusive shapes the darkness made on his bed's canopy. He imagined figure skaters dancing, warped faces chatting and animals skittering across chaparral plains. And then he began to think about you.
Fred secretly hated and regretted something in every interaction he had with you.
"I'll, uh, see you later" at the restaurant-- no DUH, she works there, AND we have class together.
Plus those terribly lame jokes in the kitchen! Kill me!
He never knew he was such a bumbling idiot. Fred had never been like this; not even when he fancied Angelina! He couldn't pinpoint a prior time where he actually cared if he was perceived ridiculous or not; but the type of stupidity he's been portraying was beyond the Weasley Twin brand.
So why does he care?
Why?
Why?
WHY??
First of all, you’re not intimidating. He’s got nothing to be scared of. You didn’t seem like the type of person to be harboring some terrible secret, in fact, if Fred just found the right questions, you’d probably confess willingly.
You're rather harmless despite your preference for violent sports and activities. You’re a lot smaller than he is, he could definitely take you in a fight (not that he’d want to beat you up), but there was a daunting characteristic about you.
The way you carried yourself and spoke… you’re so… poised and proper, almost sophisticated.
You acted as if nothing could affect you. Events barely rippled or stirred your brow; you were an immovable object.
"Is he swooning?"
Fred rolled his eyes at the sound of George's voice echoing in his head. I was NOT swooning! That was an involuntary moment of weakness!
"I think we just witnessed Fred fall in love."
Oh, BULLSHIT! He shifted onto his side, flipped over his pillow, and pressed his cheek against the cold surface. She caught me by surprise. I wanna see YOU keep your cool when a pretty girl gives you a gift!
Byron's Bleeding Heart sat on the windowsill above Fred's bedside table. A small plastic watering can sat besides it, and both were illuminated by the moon's silvery glow.
In which, summer suggests wearing a dress, and you spend longer tugging the hem down than being comfortable in it. Luckily, Mattheo knows the right words to make you see yourself the way he sees you.
Warnings: insecure reader, body image issues, summer season slander.
Words: 856
A frown graced your lips, a particular pinch between your brows as you twisted in front of the mirror. Your hands rested on your hips, eyes narrowing at the way the tulle of the dress caught on your hips.
Summer.
You didn’t like summer.
It was hot, sweat slicked and sticky and really the only thing you would say was a plus point of the sweltering heat was the ice cream, though one could argue ice cream was best eaten in winter, because defiance in eating cold in the chill was something that felt rebellious enough to please you.
But summer wasn’t unbearable only because of the heat, but the dressing choices you had to bear in it.
Dresses, shorts and sleeveless tops weren’t bad, and honestly more than half of Hogwarts carried it off well. But you refused to count yourself as one of them.
All that ever happened, was you pulling at the hem of dresses that fell under your knees every few minutes when it would ride just a little higher over your thigh.
You did it again, tenth time today, pulling the hem of the baby blue dress down with your teeth sinking into your bottom lip.
“You’re gonna ruin the elastic, love.” Mattheo sighed, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and lips pursed.
“It’s too short.” You complained, even though below the knee was well within the dress code. It looked good on people, sure, but you didn’t believe it could look good on you.
“It’s the perfect length.” He scoffed, crossing the room to lightly slap your hand away from fidgeting. “Now what’s the real reason?”
You looked up, nose wrinkling at how easily he read you.
“There’s no reason,” you mumbled, shaking your head, tucking a loose curl behind your ear. “Just don’t like this dress is all.”
He scoffed, a sound low in his throat. He knew bullshit when he heard it, and you weren’t the best liar.
“No you don’t.” He said, reaching over to brush his fingers over the thin strap of your dress with gentle fingers, fixing it. “You just refuse to admit how gorgeous you look in it.
“Which you do,” he continued, flashing you a boyish smile as his hand came to curve around your hip. “Like always.”
“Please,” your cheeks went red. “Save the flattery, Matt.”
“Oh no,” he grinned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I will fawn over my girlfriend as much as I want, and you can’t stop me.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” you said, eye roll turning into a twitch of your lip upwards as he squeezed your hip.
“Seriously,” he said, brown eyes honeying with sincerity. “You look beautiful, love.”
Your breath caught just the slightest, your fingers curling loosely in the sleeve of his linen shirt. He was dangerous when he got earnest like that. Soft eyed and dopey smiled.
“Thank you.” You said, letting yourself smile. His lips mirrored yours, his free hand brushing the dent in your cheek, small, barely noticeable but he saw it. loved it.
“Don’t thank me for telling the truth,” his voice lowered, his head brushing yours as he lowered it in sincerity. “You shouldn’t try to hide. Not when you look like this in a dress.”
He swallowed thickly, his eyes scanning your profile with a flicker. “Too damn good to be true.”
“Matt,” you laughed, letting your head tilt back with a surprised laugh, shoving at his shoulder.
“What?” He caught your wrist with smugness, sealing a kiss to your pulse point with a devilish smirk. “M’ just sayin’!”
He smoothed your dress out with his fingers, shot you a warning look when you tried to pull it down your knee again.
“Stop,” he chided, pulling you to the door before you criticised your reflection any more. “Angel you look perfect, and I’m genuinely going to lose it if you don’t stop pretending like you don’t.”
He tucked your hand firmly under his, warm fingers curling around his bicep as he pulled you into his side. Like you were both just attached that way.
“I like the dress.” He said, tugging you closer. “Hell. I like you.”
“Only like?” You said, head tilted up to meet his gaze with a grin that promised mischief.
“Hmm,” he pretended to think, selling it with a tap to his chin. “No okay fine.” He nodded. “Think I love you.”
You laughed, letting his dorm door slam shut as you pulled him close, kissing his lips. He swallowed your laughter, grinning against your mouth as he cupped your face.
“Still hate the dress?” He whispered, breath ghosting over your lips.
“Nah,” you said, thumb brushing his bottom lip. “Someone I love likes it on me.”
“Damn right.” He agreed, pulling you away from the door and to hogsmeade before you had a change of heart and decided the dress wasn’t it. And if you felt too exposed? Shoulders bare, dress flowing to your thighs?
His simple solution was to wrap an arm around your shoulders and glare daggers at anyone who made the mistake of glancing at you. So yeah, simple solution.
have you ever tried this one? — theo nott x mattheo riddle x malfoy!reader
synopsis! a drunken game of never have i ever in the snakes den goes horribly right.
warnings! nsfw!! unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving) , oral (m receiving) , no use of y/n , all parties are over 18– hogwarts uni au, cream pie, threesome, no double penetration or anal but there is some double dipping iykwim, fuck it everyone’s bisexual, slut shaming joke but it’s all in good fun, they’re all freaks
word count! 1.9k
babe pick a night to come out and play…
“okay… never’vive-ever hooked up with more than one person in one day..” an extremely drunk pansy parkinson giggles, raising her own shot glass up to her lips.
majority of the boys around you raising their own up— theo, mattheo, blaise, evan…
your glass stays on the table, where it had sat for most of the night. while everyone around you was tipsy or wasted, you were clear-headed and quiet.
you wrinkle your nose as you look around, “gross.”
“you slut-shaming us, malfoy?” theo nott raises his eyebrows, looking across the table at you.
“more than one person in the span of twenty four hours is gross, nott.”
pansy shrugged, “it happens.”
you roll your eyes at your best friend. pansy parkinson was a maneater and was shameless about it. where she was outgoing and confident in her sexuality, you were introverted and tended to stay away from guys.
“okay, okay, next, who’s next?” evan rosier asks, looking around the table that everyone was sitting around.
“me,” theo volunteers.
everyone directs their attention to the brunette boy.
“never have i ever hooked up with someone of the same sex.”
you do raise your glass to your lips, the burn of firewhiskey going down your throat at you swallow. you had hooked up with pansy once. you look around the table, shocked at how little of people drank.
you. pansy. theo. mattheo.
mattheo lets out a low whistle, “look at you, little malfoy, i wouldn’t have guessed that about you.”
you shrug, “wouldn’t have guessed it about you either.”
pansy snorts, “he and theo like to share.”
your jaw drops as you look between the two brunette boys. “so you two have hooked up?”
theo shrugs, “a few times.”
pansy slams her glass onto the table, “told ya.”
you look between the two boys, wondering what it would be like to be shared by them, feeling the heat pool in your stomach, you clench your legs tighter together. the air shifts.
“my turn,” mattheo spins his glass around on the table, “never have i ever fantasized about getting fucked by two of my housemates at the same time.”
despite the heat blooming in your face, your glass stays on the table, no one lifts to drink. eyes shift and throats clear.
pansy clears her throat, “well, this has effectively turned awkward. this has been a very enlightening game and i think i will be heading back to my dorm.”
a few others nod and not long after the common room has cleared out. leaving you, theo, and mattheo sitting around.
“you gonna leave?” theo asks, cocking his head to the side.
you shake your head, “what happens if i stay?”
mattheo shrugs, “whatever you want.”
your mouth is dry, you reach for your glass of firewhiskey and down the last of it before slamming it back onto the table. “i’m staying.”
theo’s smile is slow, filthy. “good girl.”
he stands, crossing the space between you in two strides. his hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip before he leans down and kisses you. it’s deep, hungry, tasting of whiskey and smoke. you melt into it, fingers curling into his shirt.
mattheo moves behind you, hands sliding over your hips, pulling you back against the hard line of his cock through his trousers. “fuck, she’s already shaking,” he murmurs against your ear, teeth grazing the shell. “think she’s been thinking about this longer than she’ll admit.”
theo breaks the kiss only to tug your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. his mouth finds your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear while mattheo’s hands work your bra open. the moment your tits are free, mattheo’s palms cover them, thumbs circling your nipples until they stiffen under his touch.
“so pretty.” theo mumbles against your skin as he sinks down onto his knees, kissing down your abdomen before hooking his fingers into your skirt and pulling it down, letting it pool at your feet. leaving you in only a lacy pair of black panties.
theo looks up at you, “wear these just for us, bella?”
you’re unable to answer, mattheo has his free hand reaching for your neck to twist your face to him, connecting your lips.
you can feel theo sliding your panties off of you. he leans in, tongue swirling at your clit. mattheo keeps you upright, one arm banded around your chest, as the other slides between your legs from behind. his fingers part your folds, finding that you’re already so wet. so good for him.
he pushes two fingers in without warning, causing your knees to buckle. he pumps slowly while theo watches. theo leans back in, tongue flicking at your clit, eyes on you, as he watches you writhe in pleasure.
the dual sensation has your legs shaking. mattheo holds you tighter, fucking you with his fingers while theo licks and sucks, the wet sounds filling the room.
“fuck, theo.” your hands find his hair, gripping hard, causing him to groan against your pussy, the vibration shoots through you.
mattheo’s mouth finds your neck again, “gonna come on his tongue, princess? let him taste how badly you want the two of us?”
you nod, breathless, hips rocking between them. theo’s tongue works faster, circling and sucking your clit while mattheo curls his fingers against that spot inside you. your orgasm hits hard—walls clenching around Mattheo’s fingers, thighs shaking as you moan their names.
theo pulls back, lips shiny. he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before kissing you again so you can taste yourself.
“coming back to ours?” he asks.
you nod, out of breath. you’re a sight to see, pressed between the two boys being lead to their shared dorm.
when the room door is shut behind you, mattheo wastes no time carrying you over to his bed, dropping you onto the mattress, he strips fast. pulling his tie off and unbuttoning his shirt. sliding his pants off, everything gone until he’s naked. his cock is thick and flushed, already leaking from the tip.
theo follows shedding his clothes just as quickly. his cock thick, long, and curved.
you sit in the middle of the bed as the two boys make their way over to you and you reach for them without thinking, one hand wrapping around each of their cocks. they’re hot and heavy in your palms. you stroke slowly, watching their faces. theo’s head tips back and mattheo bites down on his lip.
“just like that,” mattheo groans. “get us ready for that pretty pussy.”
you lean forward, taking mattheo into your mouth first. he hisses, hand fisting your hair as you suck him down, tongue swirling around the head. theo watches, stroking himself, then taps your cheek. you pull off mattheo with a pop and turn, taking theo’s cock between your lips instead.
they take turns using your mouth— with gentle thrusts, hands in your hair, praising you in low, filthy murmurs.
“such a good slut for us,” theo says, voice rough. “knew you had it in you.”
mattheo laughs breathlessly. “look at her. malfoy’s golden sister on her knees for two snakes. never thought i’d see the day.”
you pull off them both, spit dripping down your face, “are you going to fuck me or are you two all talk with no bite?”
theo moves first. he flips you onto your back, spreads your legs, and lines up. one smooth thrust and he’s buried inside you, stretching you open. you cry out, back arching. he doesn’t give you time to adjust—just hard and steady, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the room.
mattheo kneels by your head, feeding his cock back into your mouth. you suck him while theo pounds into you, the angle perfect, hitting deep every time.
“switch, you’ve gotta have a go,” theo says after a minute, voice strained. he pulls out, cock glistening with your slick. mattheo takes his place immediately, sliding into your pussy with a groan.
“fuck, she’s tight. and so fucking wet.”
theo moves to your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him while mattheo fucks you. they trade places again and again—theo inside you, then mattheo, then theo—double-dipping their cocks in your dripping cunt, using you between them like they’ve done this before.
theo pulls out of you with a wet sound, cock shiny with your slick. he doesn’t move far. instead he reaches across your body and grabs mattheo by the back of the neck, dragging him in. their mouths crash together right above you.
you stay perfectly still, legs still spread, watching.
theo kisses like he fucks, deep and greedy, and mattheo meets him just as hard, one hand sliding into theo’s hair while the other braces on the mattress beside your head. their tongues slide together, messy and loud, and you can see the way theo’s cock twitches where it hangs heavy between his legs. mattheo’s hand drops to wrap around both of them, stroking slow and lazy while they keep kissing.
you bite your lip, pussy clenching around nothing as you watch.
theo breaks the kiss first, breathing hard, lips wet. He glances down at you with a smirk.
“enjoying the show, princess?”
mattheo laughs low against theo’s mouth before kissing him again, slower this time, sucking on theo’s bottom lip. theo groans into it, hips rocking forward into mattheo’s fist. they stay like that for a long minute—tongues and teeth and quiet sounds—until theo finally pulls back and looks at you again.
“your turn,” he says, voice rough. he pushes mattheo’s shoulder and the other boy moves, settling between your thighs once more. theo stays close, though, one hand resting on mattheo’s back as he watches him slide back inside you.
mattheo fucks you steady and deep while theo leans in to kiss him again, softer now, their mouths moving together right above your face. you can feel every thrust, every time theo’s tongue slides against mattheo’s, and the whole thing makes your head spin.
your second orgasm builds fast. theo is buried deep when it hits, your pussy pulsing around him. he fucks you through it, then pulls out, letting mattheo take over. mattheo thrusts a few more times before he groans, pushing in as far as he can go and coming—hot pulses of cum flooding your insides.
he pulls out slowly, watching as his cum start to leak out of you. theo doesn’t wait. he pushes back inside you immediately, fucking mattheo’s cum deeper, the wet squelch obscene.
“gonna fill you up, too,” he growls. “make you drip with both of us.”
it doesn’t take long. theo’s rhythm falters, hips stuttering as he comes, in spurts as he fucks it deeper into you.
he stays inside you for a moment, breathing hard, before pulling out.
you lie there, legs spread, cum leaking from your well-used pussy. both boys watch, eyes dark.
mattheo drags two fingers through the mess and brings them to your lips. “clean up, princess.”
In which you refuse to believe a man like Mattheo riddle could be obsessed with you and are immediately proven wrong by the man himself.
Oblivious!fem!reader x Mattheo Riddle
Words: 854
A/n: lowkey kinda hate this but here ya go guys
“No.” You say definitively, arms crossed over your chest as a frown graces your lips. “Stop trying to bullshit me, enzo.”
Lorenzo makes a sound of indignance, pouting at you like you’ve truly hurt his sentiments.
“Y/n, don’t do this to me. I’m telling you, that man is utterly obsessed with you.” He insists, leaning down to get all up in your face like the annoying bastard he is. You scoff, pointedly shoving at his chest for distance. His grin is unrepentant even as he stumbles back, like he’s daring you to prove him wrong.
“Why am I friends with you?” You sigh.
“Because I’m a right handsome bloke,” he flounders and you roll your eyes.
Lorenzo had been behind you lately with his ‘theory’. It was an absurd creation of his mind, and he insisted that Mattheo riddle liked you. Well in his words, Mattheo riddle was obsessed with you.
Yeah right.
“Okay, so let’s assume I believe your shit for even a minute.” You say, eyes narrowed. “I’ll still need definitive proof, enz.”
“Proof!” He agrees, and you mentally chide yourself. He looks like he has proof, with the way he’s grinning. Merlin help you.
Lorenzo clears his throat theatrically, arms wide open as he starts to say, “he sits beside you in every lecture, which is weird since you’re a nerd and you talk everyone’s ears off—“
He’s properly cut off by you smacking the back of his head.
“Ow!” He yelps, rubbing his head with an injured expression. “You’re a cruel woman.” But he bounces back with his theory.
“So yeah, he listens to you talk. He never listens to anyone, like, anyone. I’ve only ever seen him glare, but his lips twitch when he looks at you!” He rambles, arms flapping like a bird’s.
“Enzo..” you grumble, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“He’s totally obsessed with you, I swear—“
“Who’s obsessed with who?”
Enzo freezes. You glance up and fight to keep your mouth closed. Mattheo stands behind enzo, arms crossed, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Who’s obsessed with who, Lorenzo?” He asks again, sharper and lorenzo visibly gulps.
“I..um well. You see, Mattheo, there are many people in the school obsessed with other people, makes you wonder if it’s a love potion? Or teenage harmones? Or—?”
Lorenzo is the worst liar in history and you’re growing red with second hand embarrassment. Mattheo looks unimpressed at his blabbering, glancing at you briefly like ‘how do you deal with this?’
Lorenzo flounders, and ends up just spitting it out.
“You’re obsessed with Y/n!” He says, loud enough to make several heads turn in the hallway. You have half a mind to hex your loud mouth friend, but Mattheo’s nonchalance throws you off kilter.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding like it checks out. “And?”
What. The. Fuck. ?
You blink, letting your mouth hang open as you straighten up, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. Enzo gives you a look, smug asshole, and withers just a bit under Mattheo’s glare.
“Nothing..” he mumbles. “Nothing at all, Mattheo.”
“What do you mean nothing?” You scoff, stepping forward. “Don’t play into his delusions! I thought you were above pranks, Mattheo.”
Mattheo looks at you like you’re the one being unreasonable and it boils your blood.
“Y/n,” he says, voice quieter, lacking its usual edge as his eyes soften. “I thought it was obvious?”
Lorenzo takes a step back, letting you and Mattheo be face to face and hides a snicker behind his mouth. You both ignore him.
“I’ve been so bloody obvious? I sit with you in class everyday, I bloody smile at you! I don’t smile at someone unless their making a fool of themselves. And dammit, love, how have you not figured it out?” He says, running an agitated hand through his hair.
“She’s hopelessly oblivious.” Enzo chimes in helpfully.
“No,” you glare at him. “I’m just..” but yeah, enzo might be right on this one. You’re an idiot. Your neck grows hot at the thought and you groan, burying your face in your hands.
“You’re not pulling my leg?” You ask meekly, glancing at him from behind the gaps of your fingers. “You like me?”
“A bit too much, if I’m honest.” Mattheo chuckles, reaching forward to pry your hands from your face. “But in case you need me to spell it out..”
He pulls you closer, his hands firm around your wrists as he tugs you to his chest.
“Hogsmeade?” He whispers, dark eyes boring down at you. “Tomorrow, four o clock?”
“Yeah,” you exhale, your fingers catching his robe sleeves to steady yourself. Lorenzo hollers from behind you. You both ignore him. Again.
“It’s a date.” He grins, and dear Merlin he’s right. He never really does smile at anyone except you. Not like that. Not really.
It’s safe to say, Lorenzo is a royal pain in your ass after Mattheo walks off. But for once, you don’t swat him away for his comments. Because for all your obliviousness..it’s a good thing Mattheo’s bold, and obvious as hell for the woman he wants.
getting matching hand holding tattoos with mattheo riddle
hiii thank you for your request <3 this is so super cute, i hope you like this! based on this video — reader is depicted as wearing a skirt (the hogwarts uniform) + wearing heels btw !! my first ever non-series drabble hehe
masterlist
Despite (unfortunately) being in class together all day, Theo doesn't notice anything different about Mattheo until after quidditch training.
Mattheo collapses onto the common room couch, Theo rolls his eyes but follows suit on the chair beside him. A few first years scurry away, the two of them barely bat an eye.
Mattheo rubs a large hand over his face, his sore muscles straining against his shirt. It's then Theo notices the dark black ink decorating his hand.
"What the fuck is that?" Theo asks, squinting his eyes.
"What?" Mattheo plays at nonchalance, a bored expression on his face.
"Those... are those fucking stars?" Theo says incredulously, leaning forward to touch the pretty little stars decorating his hand.
"Fuck off." Mattheo swats at his hand.
"Did your girl draw that on your hand or something? How the fuck has it not smudged?"
"Want a closer look? I can bring my knuckles real close to your face." Mattheo snarks.
Before some real bickering can begin, they're interrupted by a squeal.
"You're back!" The sound of heels clicking against the floor increases, it sounds like a drum roll.
A lazy grin tugs at Mattheo's face, one he barely bothers to conceal, when you practically leap into his arms. You wrap your arms around him, tucking your head on his shoulder.
"Hi." You say with a smile as you blink up at him. He readjusts his posture so that he's sitting up against the back of the couch, arms slung over your shoulders.
"Hi baby." He says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. He leans his head down lower and places quick kisses across your face, you laugh and squirm in his arms.
You don't know if you'll ever get used to having Mattheo like this — soft and affectionate — no matter how long the two of you have been together. It's deeply unsettling, honestly. So far from the violent and cold-hearted boy you feared years ago.
Theo is sure he'll never get used to it, though. He pretends to gag, drawing your attention to him. You roll your eyes at him.
"Hello, Theo." You say.
"What? No 'hi baby' for me?" He teases, just to get a rise out of you and Mattheo. It works.
"Watch it." Mattheo quips, but it's absentminded as his attention is solely on you. He watches you smoothen out your skirt before you rest your legs on his lap, he tugs the hem of your skirt down and rests his head on yours.
"M'just teasing, principessa" He drawls, Mattheo glares at him.
"Hey, we talked about the italian nicknames." He says.
You soothe your hand over his arm. "No but, Matty, I like that one."
Theo smirks. "See." Mattheo rolls his eyes.
"What principessa wants, she gets." Theo continues, "Besides, I can start calling you principe."
"I'll slit your throat." Mattheo deadpans, you open your mouth to add a retort but opt to close your mouth instead, shaking your head.
Whatever snarky comment Theo was going to retort back with dies in his throat when he watches your hand interlock with Mattheo's. Like puzzle pieces, the tips of your fingers align perfectly with the stars on his hand.
"Holy shit." Theo says, stunned — not for the first time in the long span of you and Mattheo's relationship.
"What?" You tilt your head, giving him a quizzing look. Mattheo sighs, knowing what's coming.
"You got a tattoo for her?"
You blink before you realise what he's so surprised by, you glance down at your interlocked hands and smile when you see the tattoo.
"Oh, that tattoo." You say casually, playing with your hair with your free hand.
"Oh? Oh? That's all you have to say?" Theo says in disbelief, "You two are barely eighteen, how did this happen?"
"I'm older than you." Mattheo says.
Theo rolls his eyes. "Obviously not my point."
"Okay, calm down." You say with a laugh. "We got a little drunk last week and decided to do it, it's not a big deal."
"Not a big deal? It's perma— hang on." Theo narrows his eyes at the two of you. "Did you say 'we'?"
You simply slide your hand away from Mattheo — much to his dismay — and show off your own hand.
On the back of your hand are identical stars, though smaller and more intricate.
"Cute right?" You say, Theo gapes. You shrug. "I think it's really cute."
Without waiting for him to snap out of his shock, you simply interlock your hand with Mattheo's again before settling against his chest, closing your eyes. Theo looks over at Mattheo and gives him an incredulous look.
Mattheo is Theo's longest friend, he knows him. While everyone might think this little impulsive act of devotion is on brand for Mattheo Riddle, he knows him better than that. By permanently marking himself for you, he might as well be carving out a permanent space in his heart just for you to rest in for ever.
Theo raises his eyebrows. Damn. He mouths. You're serious.
Mattheo looks down at you and a faint smile appears on his lips, he looks back at Theo.
I've been serious. He mouths back and Theo knows it's true. Even when you and Mattheo were just friends, way before you two started dating, he knew his friend was gone for you.
Those little stars are nothing but proof of a kind of love most people only get once in a lifetime. It's the kind of love that softens Theo's normally very scary friend as he clings onto his girlfriend in the common room.
It's the kind of love that makes Theo want to throw up (from jealousy or genuine disgust, who's to say?)
Tags: Muggle AU. Literature professor!Theodore Nott x History professor!reader
Word count: 2.9k
A/N: This is the longest thing I’ve ever written, extremely self indulgent with the Trojan war refs, sorry not sorry. I love a good rain confession now don’t I? :)
Synopsis: the one where a competition about who can teach the fall of Troy better, leads to a rainy confession
Header by me!
Oxford was the same as you remembered. The walls were still covered with ivy, the students still ran in the halls with their cloaks billowing behind them for class and you still felt the giddy anticipation in your stomach as you walked inside your alma matar. It had been a dream to return here one day, as a teacher, not a student. And after years of hard work and being the top of your class in not only history but your teaching degree you’d managed to bag the job of Oxford university’s history professor, on the recommendation of the old, retiring professor wourbough who’d taught you at your time here.
You had a lot to prove here, and you wanted your first day to be absolutely perfect. But of course, the universe had it out for you.
“Oh dear–?” A rich, heavily accented voice yelps as you collide with a wall, which is a man on closer inspection. Your books scatter out of your hands and onto the tiles, and you would’ve joined the tomes if your perpetrator hadn’t grabbed your elbow.
You glance up, and truly, from that instant you are an absolute goner. He was tall, enough that you had to crane your neck up to meet his devilishly handsome face, all sharp features and watercolor eyes.
“Are you alright?” His eyebrows furrow in concern and he leaves your elbow, stepping back to survey you.
“Im okay,” you say with much effort swallowing the lump in your throat. Your gaze falls to your poor, fallen books.
“Oh,” he breathes, dropping to a crouch beside you when he catches your form bent over your books.
“I’m so sorry, let me.” He’s quicker than you, easily grabbing your books and handing them back to you in a neat stack. He seems sheepish as he does, another apology leaving him.
“No it’s alright. My fault just as much as yours,” you smile, hoping and praying it’s polite and not the awkward quirk of your lips that drives him away. It’s received well, because he huffs out a laugh and adjusts his grip on his briefcase.
“Professor Nott, I teach literature.” He says with a half smile, offering you his hand.
You do not, under any circumstance, adore the calluses on his palms that you assume must be born from his pen. You shake it like the decent, well mannered woman you are, nodding your head as you introduced yourself.
“I teach history. Well, starting today,” you add with a little laugh that seems to break the ice. His handsome face splits into a bright grin as he drops your hand and nods.
“Oh, today is it? Good start to your day then, Professor?” He says, with a cheeky smile that has you biting your tongue.
“Different than I expected,” you admit, juggling your books in your arms.
He looks like he wants to say more, like ask you something, but the bell rings above you both, the signal for class and he shakes his head.
“Goodluck professor L/N. Oxford’s students tend to eat a teacher alive,” he says with a wink, and then he’s gone.
That was extremely reassuring now wasn’t it?
It is an absolute miracle you find the class, a greater one when your students don’t instantly write you off the second you walk in. You’re a good professor, and a lover of history first. So when you humour the students with obscure history facts, like how ‘Dracula’ was a real man from the Ottoman Empire, or that the city of Troy burned for ten years…you have the history majors eating out the palm of your hand.
The staff room is abuzz when you enter, and you could handle talkative children in class, but coworkers and socialising? That made you get cold feet.
Luckily, professor Nott seemed to spot you, and for the second time that day, he stood before you.
“We keep finding each other,” he said pleasantly, his briefcase gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows. You felt like a Victorian woman as you ogled his arms.
“Oh, is it? I could’ve sworn it was you who found me now,” you grin and his smile brightens, like the challenge in your tone is riveting.
“Very well professor. You’ve uncovered my scheme,” he says dramatically, crossing his arms. “Survived the ravenous children?”
“Barely,” you chuckle, setting your books and purse down on the desk that had your name tag. “But I think I got through to atleast a few of them.”
“On your first day?” He leans against your desk languidly, no shame in imposing on your space. “What a talent, my dear.”
“I’ve been told I have a rather charming personality,” you say, lips quirking. He lets out a sharp bark of laughter.
“Now now, you must tell me the name of who led you to believe this instantly. Can’t have liars like that running around,” he smirks and you roll your eyes at the sass this man was giving you.
“Such a comedian, professor Nott. Are you sure teaching literature is your only calling?”
“I’m a man of many talents, Bella,” he says, aggravatingly suave.
“Italian?” You raise a brow.
“Caught me,” he chuckles, raising his hands up in surrender.
“A language connoisseur now too?”’you tease and he leans into the back handed praise, his eyes flashing with amusement.
“What can I say?” He chuckles, and you pretend like the banter doesn’t make your cheeks heat, nor does it make your stomach flip.
You’d just met the man. You were not attracted to a fellow professor, this was just plain intellectual banter. Nothing more.
You were a god damn liar.
Professor Nott seemed to be becoming a constant in your journey at Oxford, and you would find it aggravating if you didn’t enjoy teasing him back just as much.
You both fought over the coffee machine in the staff room, traded inside jokes between meetings, graded papers together, shipped your students and everything else that made students and professors alike suspicious of your involvement in each other, few months into your joining.
“Professor L/N, a minute?” Theo said, knocking on your classroom door twenty minutes into your lecture. You nodded, ignored the snickers from your children as he ducked into class.
You two were a hot topic for the students of Oxford, and you had no clue just how invested the history and literature majors were in the relationship of their professors. They’d always ask you about Theo between class, and you’d laugh and wave them off. But your students were smart, and today was a golden opportunity for them to do something.
“What are you teaching?” Theo whispered, glancing at your textbook as you rummaged in your purse. He’d lost his pen, and had come to you to borrow a spare. It was a sore excuse to see you, and he hoped you wouldn’t catch on.
“Trojan war,” you explained, fishing the pen out of your purse and brandishing it to him with a winning smile.
“Oh?” His lips quirked as his fingers closed around the pen, “I’d say The Illiad is a better way to teach the kids about Troy than history textbooks.”
You raised a brow at his challenge and the students leaned forward to spy on the conversation.
“The Illiad is an epic, professor Nott. It’s not concrete enough, I can’t quote sonnets to my students,” you joked and he shook his head, twisting the pen between his fingers.
“The whole reason we even know of the fall of Troy is because of homer’s recount in The Illaid, professor.” He argued.
“Why don’t you both teach it your way and compete, professors?” Avery, a first row student of yours called out. You and Theo exchanged a look. It wasn’t the worst idea, you both had to teach the fall of Troy in your portions. Theo, through the illaid, and you through the lense of it being a legend on Greek mythology.
“What do you say, professor L/N?” Theo asked, meeting your eye with a competitive look you knew all too well.
“I’d say, prepare to lose, professor Nott,” you leaned forward as you locked gazes. You barely heard your students cheer, or the way most of them texted their shared group chat with the literature students. The group chat’s name was your ship name, created by your doting, incredibly nosy students.
You and Theo had just been played by seventeen year olds and you didn’t even know it.
You both shook on it, Theodore going as far as signing a fake contract with you that made you roll your eyes and your students text the group chat rapidly, but as you signed it you couldn’t help but feel giddy.
“Oh you’re on,” you told him and he tucked your pen behind his ear with a smug grin.
“Don’t be a sore loser, okay?” He teased, and he would’ve gotten a slap to his arm in front of the entire class if he hadn’t ducked his head away and snickered, waving at you smugly as he left your class.
Oh it was so on.
Now you were a highly competitive person by nature. It wasn’t a bad trait, it just tended to overdrive every other winning trait and made you out to be a bit intense.
Nonetheless, you poured over texts the entire week leading to the ridiculous ‘competition’ you had signed up for with Theo. It was stupid, and it was incredibly foolish of the two of you to give into the whims and fancies of your students. But you were weak when it came to challenges, and so was he.
Theo was one smug bastard as he swaggered into class that day, his chocolate brown suit crisp and his hair neatly combed back, with the most distracting delicate golden spectacles on the bridge of his nose. His smile was assured, his fingers busied in an ear marked copy of the Illiad as he waited for you.
Whatever he or your combined class of students had been expecting when you walked in…it hadn’t been this.
Your hair was down, a braided crown the same way it was worn by women in Ancient Greece, but really, it was your dress that sold it.
In the famous painting of the spartan princess, Helen was clad in a beautiful pink silk dress, and of course you’d gone the extra mile and worn a similar dress from your own wardrobe, a smug little smirk on your face when you entered.
Theo was a weak, weak man for a smart woman, weaker for one so beautiful. His knees nearly buckled at the sight of you and he cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up his nose as a sign of false composure.
“Ah,” he told you with a half smirk. “The face that launched a thousand ships.”
“You’ve done your homework,” you grinned back, because the reference didn’t go past you. Nothing relating to history ever did.
Let today be a day marked in Oxford history, because the literature professor and history professor were flirting through teaching, and it was a sight to behold.
Theo was a meticulous bastard, and he’d led the class by quoting the Illiad, going as far as citing a few lines in Greek that had the girls fanning themselves. He spoke of Troy like it was a romantic setting, like war was poetry.
You disagreed. You spoke of Helen of Sparta, her abduction, the wrongness of Paris and Cassandra’s prophecy about the Trojan horse. The class had ended to thunderous applause, and students unable to decide who deserved the better teacher mantle.
You would never admit it, but you thought he deserved it. Theo would rather eat sand than tell you, but he believed you should’ve won it.
“You were good out there,” Theo bumped your shoulder after class, as you both walked side by side back to the staff room.
“You too, professor.” A teasing smile pulled on your lips, pleased at his compliment. He hummed, shifting his briefcase, a nervous habit of his you’d picked up in the past few months. But, why on earth would he be nervous?
“All good? Are you feeling threatened by my amazing teaching?” You joke, glancing at him. He chuckled, shaking his head.
“I just might be Y/n, you’re a fabulous professor.”
You hadn’t expected that. Something so earnest and sudden, it caught you off guard. Your cheeks colored and you brushed your fingers down your dress.
“Thank you,” you cleared your throat. “Professor Nott.”
“Theo,” he corrected, eyes crinkling with his smile.
“Pardon?”
“Call me Theo.”
You paused, then allowed yourself to smile too, “Theo.”
His smile was worth everything.
It didn’t matter who had won, who’d taught Troy better, whose perspective on the war mattered. All that mattered to you right now, was that Theo kept looking at you like that.
Your gaze shifted to the downpour outside and your eyebrows furrowed. You didn’t carry an umbrella, and you usually walked home.
“Ah,” Theo said, his gaze following yours. He seemed unbothered by the rain, or maybe used to it. “Forgot an umbrella?”
“It was sunny in the morning!” You insisted, like the rain gods should’ve thought twice before making it rain.
“It’s London, bella.” He reminded, an amused smile quirking on his lips that made you feel dizzy and stupid. Like you should pull his lips to yours.
“My bad,” you said dryly, glaring at the sky like you could will the rain to retreat.
“Not a fan?” He teased, arms crossing across his chest as he watched your irritation.
“Not when I have to walk home,” you sighed. He got that look in his eye then, the stubborn determination you’d seen when a student challenged him.
“I’ll come with.” He said, already walking into the rain leaving no room for argument. Your mouth opened to protest, but he was pulling your arm out and despite your best efforts at resistance, he’d pulled you into the downpour. You would’ve let this man pull you to the depths of Tartarus if he kept his hand in yours.
“It’s not that bad!” He yelled over the downpour, his glasses fogged, his perfect hair dripping water and his pristine suit darkening.
“It isn’t,” you breathed. You weren’t, in any way, referring to the rain clinging to your skin, the drops trailing from your lashes to your lips. Not when he looked liked a tragic romance hero, not when his hand was still in yours.
You were not a quiet person. You were loud, opinionated but today, you’d traded your spitfire for walking beside him, hands still held as you both trudged through foggy roads and weeping skies. You’d never hated reaching home as much as you hated it today. You almost invited him in, almost told him to come up, almost pulled him by the front lapels of his coat and mess his hair and kissed him.
“Thanks Theo,” you said instead. “Reach home safe.”
“I will.” He grinned, but when he dropped your hand it looked like he didn’t want to.
It was inappropriate to catch feelings for your colleague. It could lead to suspension, it could lead to breaking up and working with him for years later, it could lead to so much more than what you had the courage for, so you smiled, and you turned away from him.
“Wait.”
You turned so fast you almost fell over.
“Yes?” You breathed, eyes on him automatically. He looked devastating like this. His fingers fidgeted with his briefcase, his tall stature blocking the flickering lamplight that radiated from the end of the street. His gaze was unblinking, fixed on you.
“I have something to say.” He said then, stepping forward. You didn’t dare move, didn’t even speak. You nodded, because if you spoke you’d crumble.
“I’m glad we did this today,” he ran a hand through his hair. “The competition was stupid, but seeing you teach like that, looking like Helen incarnate it..it was worth it.”
His eyes flicked to your lips for a moment, he stepped closer. The rain beat down harder. You didn’t care.
“I am a man of many words, professor. I’ve learnt the right words to say, how to make everything sound poetic and devastating. But you…mio dio, you render me speechless. Words fail me when I look at you. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can’t breathe without your presence. You have bewitched me, captured my heart and made it your own, and I cannot ask for it back, so please, give me yours in return.”
You were not a woman of beautiful words like him. But you knew actions very well, so you laughed, and then you closed the gap, yanking him down by his tie and pressing your lips to his.
“The words you’re looking for, professor Nott,” you whispered against his lips. “Is, I love you.”
His hands reached for your waist, and he offered you a sheepish smile that had you pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“For the record,” you brushed your thumb over his bottom lip. “I love you too.”
It really didn’t matter who the students chose as their favorite teacher, if the rain lessened or if Troy had ever really been better taught from the illaid rather than historical records from various experts. Because Theo’s lips fit quite well against yours, and really, what was literature or history when you had your movie romance with your present and future?
enemies to lovers! (size kink warning) this one is loooong
Very few things managed to truly burrow under your skin.
A Gryffindor celebrating a win like they’d personally invented victory. Someone leaving their disgusting mess for house-elves to deal with. And, most infuriating of all, Theodore Nott.
He was a constant, walking irritation. The crude, suggestive jokes he lobbed specifically to make your cheeks burn, the dark, rolling timbre of his laugh that reached you no matter how loud the room or how hard you tried to ignore it, and those damn storm-grey eyes that always , always, found you like they were hunting.
Tonight, though, he wasn’t just looking.
He was staring.
You’d pushed far beyond your usual boundaries for this last-minute Ravenclaw party. The black dress you’d chosen clung to every dangerous curve you normally kept hidden beneath tailored robes. Low-cut enough to feel sinful, short enough that every step reminded you how exposed you were. The firewhisky your dance partner kept tipping into your mouth had set your blood alight. Your skin tingling, cheeks flushed, the room pulsing in time with your heartbeat.
You didn’t even know his name properly. Jake? Jacob? Something forgettable. What you did notice was the clean, cedar-and-citrus scent of his cologne, the confident way his hands settled on your waist, the warm drag of his palms as they slid lower, guiding your hips to the heavy bass. For once you let yourself sink into it, let your body roll against his, let your fingers trail up the back of his neck. A small rebellion. A reminder that you didn’t need anyone’s permission to feel good.
But Theodore Nott's stupidly handsome face was ruining it.
He hadn’t moved from his spot against the far wall. His long legs crossed at the ankle, cigarette hanging loosely between two long fingers, smoke curling lazily upward. His eyes were locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach clench. The easy smirk he usually wore was gone. In its place was something darker. Jaw tight, pupils blown, a muscle ticking beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone.
You should have looked away.
Instead you arched your back a little more dramatically, pressed your ass back against your partner’s hips, let your head tip back onto his shoulder so your throat was bared. If Theo wanted to glare, let him choke on the sight.
Theo wished he was choking.
It would be a cleaner explanation for the vise tightening around his throat every time that Hufflepuff prick’s hands wandered a fraction too low, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of your hip like he had any claim to you. Choking would be easier than admitting to Enzo, to Blaise, to fucking anyone that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, of all people. The same sharp-tongued Slytherin who’d spent years trading venom with him like it was fucking foreplay.
He hated almost everything about you.
The way your smart-ass mouth could cut deeper than any hex, quick and precise, always aimed right at his ego. The infuriating kindness you showed everyone else. Your dumb soft smiles for first-years, easy laughs with the girls in the common room, even a patient ear for that whiny Ravenclaw prefect who wouldn’t shut up about N.E.W.T.s. Everyone but him. To Theo, you were ice and barbs, and he reveled in melting that frost just to watch you flush crimson and spit fire back.
He loved to fluster you. Loved the way your eyes would narrow, lips parting in outrage before you snarled something cutting. Loved pushing until your composure cracked and you shoved him against a wall or stormed off with that delicious sway in your hips.
What he did not love—what was currently carving a hole through his chest—was that fucking dress. Black fabric so tight it looked painted on, clinging to every dip and swell like it was daring him to peel it off. The neckline plunged low, silver snake pendant glinting between the soft swell of your breasts with every breath. The hem skimmed scandalously high, flashing perfect thigh with each sway to the music. Why did you even own something so offending? And that Hufflepuff nerd was treating your waist like his personal playground.
Theo’s cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers, ash crumbling to the floor as he watched the boy’s palm slide lower, cupping the underside of your ass for one brazen second. Your head tipped back on a laugh all light and tipsy and fucking irritating. Something in Theo’s gut twisted viciously at just the idea of you leaving with him.
Before the thought could even solidify fully in his mind and before he could talk himself out of it with another drag of smoke or a muttered curse. Theo crushed the cigarette under the heel of his boot, the ember hissing out against the sticky floor like a warning he ignored.
Ruining your little dance was better than letting you slip away into some dimly lit corridor with that spineless Hufflepuff, letting him fumble through disappointing, half-hearted sex that would leave you unsatisfied and scowling tomorrow. Really, if you thought about it, he was doing you a favor. Protecting you from mediocrity.
He cut through the crowd like a shadow given purpose, long strides eating distance until he was right behind your date. You didn’t startle when his presence registered—didn’t flinch at the sudden wall of heat and cedar-and-smoke cologne that enveloped you both. Your partner, though? He stiffened instantly, shoulders hunching as if he’d felt the blade before it even touched skin.
Theo’s eyes were cold steel, lips curved in that dark, amused tilt that promised violence wrapped in velvet. The Hufflepuff spun, took one look at the towering Slytherin looming over him with broad shoulders blocking the light, jaw clenched, grey eyes promising something psychotic. The color drained from his face before you even made eye contact.
“S-sorry, I—uh—getting a drink,” he stammered, tail tucked so fast it was almost comical. Then he was gone, melting into the throng like he’d never existed.
You feigned disappointment beautifully, eyes narrowing into slits as you turned to face the culprit. Chin high, lips pursed in that way that always made Theo want to bite them until they bled. “Do you need something, Nott? Think scaring my date off is going to finally get me to fuck you?”
Theo closed his eyes for one single, measured second, inhaling through his nose, forcing the red haze of rage and raw want back behind his teeth. He wanted to bend you over the nearest table right then, yank that sinful dress up around your waist, and spank your ass raw until it glowed crimson, until tears streaked your cheeks and you sobbed apologies between broken moans. The fantasy alone made his cock throb painfully against the confines of his trousers, thickening further at the memory of how you’d looked strutting past him earlier in this horrible dress.
He didn’t think twice.
One hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your waist and yanking you flush against him hard enough that your breasts crushed to his chest, hips slotting together with brutal precision. His erection dug shamelessly into your lower belly, thick and insistent through the fabric, letting you feel exactly what your little show had done to him.
His breath was hot against the shell of your ear, voice a low growl that vibrated straight down your spine. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
A shiver ripped through you traitorous and immediate. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, slick heat blooming between them at the dark promise in his tone. Your voice came out embarrassingly breathy, cheeks burning despite yourself. “Yeah? Or what?”
Theo’s free hand slid up, cupping the back of your neck, his thumb pressing just under your jaw, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to meet his molten gaze. His lips brushed the corner of your mouth, not quite a kiss, more a threat.
“Or I’ll fuck it,” he whispered, each word deliberate, filthy. “Right here. Shove you to your knees in front of every single person in this room, pull that smart mouth open, and stuff my cock down your throat until you’re choking on me. Until the only thing you can say is my name around my dick.”
Your breath hitched audibly, nipples hardening against the thin fabric of your dress, core clenching around nothing at the vivid image. You hated how wet the threat made you, hated how your body responded to his violence like it was praise.
Theo felt the subtle tremor in your frame, the way your hips shifted forward just enough to grind against the hard length pressing into you. His grip tightened, possessive, bruising.
“You think that little Hufflepuff could ever make you this worked up?” he murmured, lips grazing your pulse point, teeth scraping just enough to sting. “He’d fumble, come too fast, leave you aching and unsatisfied. Me? I’d ruin you. Split you open on my cock until you’re sobbing, begging, coming so hard you forget how to hate me.”
Your hands fisted in his shirt, whether to shove him away or pull him closer, you aren't sure. “You’re delusional.”
“Liar.” His thigh wedged between yours without warning, pressing up against the damp heat soaking through your lace. The friction sent sparks shooting up your spine; a soft, involuntary whimper escaped before you could swallow it.
Theo’s eyes darkened to near-black. “Doesn't feel like I'm delusional sweetheart. Now tell me again how much you hate me while you’re dripping down my thigh.”
You opened your mouth but he swallowed any sound you could make with a bruising kiss. All teeth and fury and years of tension snapping like a curse finally cast. You bit back just as hard, nails raking down his back, tasting smoke and whisky and the sharp edge of everything you’d both pretended not to want.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing ragged, foreheads pressed together.
“Upstairs,” he ordered, voice wrecked. “Now. Or I make good on that promise right here.”
You didn’t argue.
You let him haul you through the crowd with his hand possessive on the small of your back, erection still evident, pulse roaring between your legs, knowing the night was about to burn everything you’d built between you to ash.
The door clicked shut with a finality that echoed in the sudden quiet, the muffled bass from the party downstairs now just a distant throb, like a second heartbeat.
Theo didn’t give you time to breathe.
He spun you, shoved your back against the wood so hard the breath punched out of your lungs in a soft gasp. The impact rattled your spine, but the sting was nothing compared to the heat of him crowding in immediately after. His broad chest pinning you, hips grinding forward so you felt every thick, insistent inch of his cock straining against his trousers.
One large hand roamed greedily, shamelessly. Palm sliding up your dress to cup the heavy swell of your breast, thumb dragging rough circles over your nipple until it peaked hard beneath the thin fabric. The other hand yanked his shirt over his head in one impatient motion, muscles flexing and rippling under pale skin dusted with dark hair. He tossed the shirt somewhere behind him without looking, but your mouth runs dry at the sight.
Merlin, he was devastating.
Every line of him carved like he’d been sculpted to ruin you. Sharp collarbones, defined pecs that shifted with each ragged breath, the deep cut of his V disappearing into low-slung trousers, abs tightening as he pressed closer. A faint scar curved along his left ribcage as if proof he wasn’t just pretty but also dangerous made your core clench around nothing.
You hated how perfect he was. Hated how it made the ache between your thighs sharpen into something painful.
No time to dwell on your hatred. Theo’s fingers hook into the fragile lace of your soaked panties that cling obscenely to your folds and shoves them down your thighs in one brutal tug. The fabric caught briefly on the swell of your ass before sliding to pool at your ankles. He stepped back half a pace, just enough to rake his gaze over you like he was memorizing every filthy detail.
Your dress was rucked up around your hips, silk bunched and wrinkled. Thighs slick with your own arousal, glistening in the low lamplight filtering through the cracked window. Hair a wild tangle from his earlier grip, lips swollen and red from biting back moans, cheeks flushed a deep, guilty crimson. Eyes glassy, pupils blown wide with want and fury in equal measure.
He stared like you were art he’d waited years to defile.
A masterpiece, he thought. Every forbidden fantasy he’d buried under layers of spite and cigarettes finally breathing in front of him. Wet. Trembling. His to take.
You reached for the hem of your dress, fingers trembling as you started to drag it over your head, needing to feel skin on skin, needing more.
Theo’s hand snapped around your wrist like iron. Hard and unyielding. He pinned it above your head against the door, the wood cool against your knuckles.
“The dress stays on,” he rasped, voice wrecked, thick with Italian gravel and something darker. His thumb pressed into the racing pulse at your inner wrist, feeling it flutter like a trapped bird. “I’ve spent all night imagining bending you over in this fucking thing. Watching it ride up while I fuck you stupid. You don’t get to take it off until I’ve ruined it.”
Your breath hitched in half protest, half plea. The silk was already clinging damply to your skin where you’d leaked onto it, the fabric suddenly too tight and imposing.
Theo released your wrist only to slide both hands under the hem, palming your bare ass and lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, heels digging into the small of his back as he ground his clothed cock against your dripping center. The rough drag of his zipper and the hard heat beneath it made you whimper loud, broken, embarrassing.
“Feel that?” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. “That’s what you do to me. Every time you open that smart fucking mouth. Every time you glare at me like you want to hex me into next week.” He rocked forward again, deliberate, letting the ridge of him catch against your swollen clit. “And now you’re going to take every inch while this dress is still on you. So when you walk out of here later with your legs shaking and cunt still dripping. You'll feel me with every fucking step and remember exactly who ruined this sinful dress.”
You tried to snap something back, some cutting retort or some kind of denial, but it dissolved into a moan when his fingers found your entrance, two sliding in without preamble. Deep. Rough. Curling immediately against a deep spot that made your vision blur around the edges.
“Fuck—Theo-”
“There it is,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, voice low and filthy. Deep rooted satisfaction bloomed behind his chest, the nickname slipping out so easily when you've refused to use anything but his full name in years. “My name on that pretty mouth. Say it again while I stretch you open. Tell me how much you hate me while your pussy sucks my fingers like it’s starving.”
He pumped harder, scissoring, thumb finding your clit and rubbing merciless circles. Your hips bucked, chasing, thighs trembling around his waist. The door rattled hard with every thrust of his hand and even you, miss perfect, couldn't seem to care about the prospect of anyone hearing you.
“You’re going to come like this first,” he ordered, teeth sinking into the soft skin below your ear hard enough to mark. “Gonna soak my hand, then I’m flipping you around, bending you over and fucking you until you can’t remember why you ever hated me in the first place.”
Your nails scored down his bare back, leaving red trails he’d happily wear like badges tomorrow.
“Promise?” you gasped, pleasure taking over every rationale part of your brain.
Theo’s laugh was dark, dangerous “Trust me, sweetheart,” he breathed, curling his fingers harder, faster, “I promise.”
Your orgasm hit like an explosion. Shattering, violent, thighs locking around him as you pulsed and clenched, slick coating his wrist, dripping down to stain the silk bunched at your hips. You cried out his name unabashed and he swallowed the sound with a bruising kiss, drinking every tremor, every broken whimper.
The tremors still rippled through your thighs in aftershocks that made your knees threaten to buckle when Theo flipped you with brutal economy.
One hand fisted the silk bunched at your waist, the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, and he spun you so your front slammed back against the door. The wood was cool and unyielding against your overheated skin; your cheek pressed flat to it, breasts crushed to the panels, nipples scraping painfully sensitive through the thin fabric with every heaving breath. The latch rattled faintly from the force.
He wished, fiercely and uncharacteristically irrationally, that he’d dragged you all the way down twisting corridors to the Slytherin dungeons. To his own four-poster, heavy drapes drawn, sheets already carrying his scent. Somewhere he could chain this moment, repeat it until sunrise, mark you so thoroughly that even if this was the only night he ever got inside you, you’d wake up tomorrow feeling him in every bruised inch of your body. Just in case you never let him again.
But patience had died somewhere between the wall downstairs and the first landing. This anonymous room above Ravenclaw Tower with it's bare stone, single narrow window letting in pale moonlight and faint smell of dust and old books, would have to be enough. The door would have to be enough.
Your back arched immediately, involuntarily, spine curving like it had been trained to seek him out. Your cunt throbbed in vicious, oversensitive pulses, still swollen, still leaking from your release. Every tiny shift of your hips made the ruined silk drag across your folds, a cruel reminder of how thoroughly he’d already wrecked you.
Theo stepped in close. His bare chest pressed to your back, skin fever-hot, heart slamming against your shoulder blades. One long arm snaked around your front; calloused fingers wrapped around the slim column of your throat, not squeezing just yet. Possessive. Just like all the times he'd thought of this in his head, he almost moaned at just the idea he was choking slytherin's only good girl. His thumb stroked once along the frantic flutter of your pulse while his other hand shoved between your bodies, guiding himself.
He kicked his trousers and boxers aside in one impatient motion. The heavy length of him sprang free thick, flushed dark, veins standing out under pale skin, the blunt head already glistening with pre-cum. It slapped wetly against the curve of your ass before he angled it down.
No warning.
The fat head shoved against your soaked entrance, parting slick folds with inexorable pressure. Your whole body locked up. Muscles seizing, breath snagging sharp in your chest as the sheer size registered all over again. He was impossibly thick, stretching you open inch by burning inch even before he’d pushed inside properly. The stretch was obscene: a deep, aching burn that bordered on too much, the kind that made your eyes water and your thighs tremble harder.
There was no possible way you could take all of him.
No fucking way.
And there was absolutely zero chance in hell you’d ever admit it out loud.
Theo felt it instantly—the sudden, involuntary clench of your walls, the way your whole body locked up the second he tried to push an inch deeper.
He really should have known.
Some smug, rational corner of his mind had always known.
He was big. Thick. Unapologetically so. He’d never had to wonder whether a girl could take him; most of them either begged for it or tapped out early with wide eyes and shaky apologies. But you? Your perfect, dripping cunt had never been properly stretched, never been forced to make room for someone like him. Of course it hadn’t. Look at the boys you let touch you. Look at the soft-handed loser you danced with downstairs, the ones who probably came in their trousers before they even got your dress off. They’d never come close to filling you the way he was about to.
Your body knew it too, even if your mouth would never admit it.
The tension snapped through you like a taut wire, your spine stiffening against his chest, thighs quivering, breath catching in sharp, shallow hitches. Your walls fluttered wildly around the blunt head of him, clenching in reflexive panic, trying to push him out even as your traitorous body betrayed you in the most humiliating way possible. Another hot, slippery rush of slick coating his cock, dripping down the seam of your folds and onto the floorboards beneath you.
He could feel every pulse of resistance, every helpless spasm as your cunt fought to accommodate him.
And fuck if that didn’t make him harder.
Theo’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding for a second as he forced himself to hold still barely an inch deeper than before, letting you feel the impossible stretch, letting you feel exactly how much of him was still waiting. His hand on your throat flexed once, thumb stroking the frantic flutter of your pulse like he was soothing a wild animal.
His grip on your throat tightened just enough. Not cruel, but deliberate. Commanding. The pressure curled your spine further back against his chest, forcing your head to tip, neck arching in a long, vulnerable line so you had no choice but to look at him over your shoulder.
Storm-grey eyes met yours and held. Dark. Molten. Pupils blown so wide the silver was nothing but thin, razor-sharp rings around endless black. He looked wrecked already. Sweat beading at his temples, dark curls clinging damply to his forehead, lips parted on shallow, ragged breaths, and still somehow in complete control. Like he could unravel you with nothing more than that stare.
“Relax,” he rasped, voice pure gravel and smoke, fraying at the edges with the effort it took not to just snap his hips forward and bury himself to the hilt. His lips brushed the shell of your ear soft, almost tender, before his teeth grazed the sensitive skin there. A slow, deliberate scrape that sent fresh heat flooding between your thighs.
“Finally figured out how to get you to shut the fuck up.” The words were low, mocking, laced with dark satisfaction. He rocked forward another torturously shallow inch, barely anything, but enough to make your walls flutter and burn, enough to drag a choked whimper from your throat that you couldn’t swallow back.
“You took my fingers, baby,” he murmured, lips curving against your ear in something too feral to be called a smile. “Two of them. Deep. Stretching you open while you soaked my hand and begged with those pretty little gasps. You can take my cock.”
Another slow, relentless push. The thick ridge of him dragged against every swollen, oversensitive inch inside you. Your cunt spasmed, clenching hard in reflexive protest even as more slick leaked out around him, dripping obscenely down the seam of your folds, coating his balls, trickling warm and sticky onto the floorboards beneath you both.
Theo groaned low, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back where he pressed against you. His free hand slid down to grip your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
“Look at you,” he breathed, voice rough with something dangerously close to awe. “Trying so fucking hard to keep that smart mouth closed now. But your pussy’s telling the truth, isn’t it? Clenching around me like it’s scared I’ll pull out. Dripping like you’ve been waiting as long as I have for this.”
The stretch was vicious. A deep, searing burn that radiated outward from where he was splitting you open, every ridge and vein dragging against your swollen, oversensitive walls like he was carving his claim into you one brutal centimeter at a time. Tears pooled hot and immediate in the corners of your eyes, not from pain alone but from the overwhelming collision of too much and not enough. Your body screaming it couldn’t possibly take more while your cunt clenched greedily around him, betraying every hateful word you’d ever spat in his direction.
He still held your head angled back by the throat, fingers firm around your pulse, forcing you to keep looking at him over your shoulder. No escape. No hiding the way your lips trembled, the way your pupils were blown wide with a mix of fury and want, the way tears clung to your lashes before one finally slipped free and tracked down your cheek.
Your thighs shook violently, muscles quivering so hard they threatened to give out. Your nails scraped uselessly at the wood above your head, leaving faint, desperate gouges in the ancient oak as if you could claw your way out of this moment, out of him. A broken sound tore from your throat before you could clamp your teeth down on it. The satisfied look on his face was enough to piss you off.
“Fuck. You.”
The words came out wrecked, breathy, more plea than insult. Your voice cracked on the last syllable, raw from screaming his name earlier, from biting back every whimper he’d already dragged out of you tonight.
Theo’s thumb stroked once along the frantic hammer of your pulse, the barest whisper of tenderness in the middle of all this violence. His lips curved against the shell of your ear, dark and dangerous.
“Oh trust me,” he rasped, voice low and frayed, thick with the same barely-leashed rage that had simmered between you for years. “I plan to, all night long.”
He punctuated the words with another slow, punishing roll of his hips and burying that last thick inch until he was seated so deep you felt him in your fucking throat. The blunt head kissed your cervix with brutal precision; your whole body locked up in a full shudder, walls spasming wildly around the impossible girth of him. Slick gushed out around where you were joined. Hot, obscene, dripping steadily down your thighs, coating his balls, pooling on the floorboards beneath you both with soft, wet patters that echoed in the quiet room.
You hate him.
Hate how perfectly he fills you.
Hate how your body arches back into him like it had been waiting for this exact moment for years.
Hate the way fresh tears slip free even as your hips tilted higher, silently begging for more.
Theo felt every tremor, every flutter, every helpless clench. His free hand slid from your hip to palm the curve of your ass. Fingers digging in hard enough to leave crescent bruises before he cracked his palm down once, sharp and stinging. The slap rang out; your cunt clamped down so hard around him he groaned low in his throat, hips stuttering for the first time.
“Still hate me?” he growled, lips brushing the tear track on your cheek, tasting salt. “Still want to pretend this isn’t exactly what you’ve been dripping for every time you glared at me across the common room? Every time you shoved past me in the corridor and your breath hitched?”
Another thrust harder this time. The door rattled violently behind you. Your breasts dragged against the wood through the silk, nipples scraping painfully into sensitive peaks that sent sparks straight to your core.
“Say it again,” he demanded, voice fraying into something darker, more desperate. “Tell me to fuck off while your pussy milks me like it’s terrified I’ll stop. Tell me you hate me while you’re crying on my cock.”
Every thrust he gave you made your stomach warm, low molten heat spreading outward like liquid fire, coiling tighter with each brutal snap of his hips. The door at your back rattled in time with the rhythm he set: deep, punishing, unhurried enough to make you feel every single inch dragging out before slamming back in. Your walls fluttered helplessly around him, still hypersensitive from the last orgasm he’d ripped out of you, every ridge and vein stroking places you didn’t even know could ache like this.
His hand on your throat flexed, squeezing just enough to make stars flicker at the edges of your vision while his other palm slid down to grip the front of your hip, holding you hard against him. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed obscenely in the small room, mingling with the slick sounds of your arousal coating him, dripping down your thighs in steady, shameful rivulets.
“You can spit venom at me tomorrow,” he continued, voice fraying at the edges with his own building need. “You can glare across the common room and pretend this never happened. But we both know the truth.”
He pulled back almost all the way leaving you empty, aching, walls fluttering around nothing, then slammed home again, burying himself so deep your toes curled against the floorboards.
“You’ll always want more after tonight.”
The words land like a hex so quiet, certain, devastating. Because he was right. You hated that he was right. Hated how your body arched back into him, hips tilting higher despite yourself, chasing the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness only he's ever given you. Hated how fresh tears slipped down your cheeks even as your cunt spasmed around him again, milking him like it never wanted to let him go.
Theo’s forehead dropped to the curve of your shoulder for a heartbeat, breath hot and ragged against your skin.
“Fuck—Theo—”
“Look at me,” he growled, fingers flexing tighter around your throat enough pressure to make your head spin sweetly, enough to remind you who owned this moment. “Watch my face while I fill this greedy little cunt.”
You obeyed with glassy eyes, lips parted on shallow pants, staring back at him as he sank impossibly deeper.
“So fucking tight,” Theo growled against the shell of your ear, voice raw and frayed, each word punched out in time with the brutal snap of his hips. “You can hate me forever. But I’m the only one who gets to fuck this pussy.”
Your head was spinning with pleasure crashing into the sweet, dizzy pressure around your throat, blurring the line between oxygen deprivation and the white-hot ecstasy building low in your belly. His fingers flexed once, loosening just a fraction, just enough for you to drag in a ragged, desperate breath—before he slammed back into you, hard and deep, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls like a curse being cast over and over.
“Fucking say it,” he snarled, teeth sinking into the soft skin below your ear hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark. His hand on your throat tightened again, rhythmic, possessive, making stars burst behind your closed lids. “Say who this cunt belongs to now.”
Your voice came out wrecked, high and broken, trembling on the edge of another shattering orgasm.
“You, Theo, please.”
The words slipped out soft, broken, desperate and the second they hit the air, something in Theo snapped.
There was a time, not long ago, when he was certain hell would freeze over before you ever begged him for anything. Before you’d ever let that pretty mouth form his name like a plea instead of a curse. He’d spent years imagining it in the dark corners of his mind. Your voice cracking, your pride crumbling, you finally admitting what he already knew: that beneath all the venom and glares, you wanted him just as badly as he wanted to ruin you.
And now here you were.
Begging.
For him.
Gods, he had a sickening feeling he'd do whatever you asked if you just tacked the word please on the end.
His pace turned feral.
He slammed into you faster, each thrust a punishing claim that rattled the door on its hinges and knocked the breath from your lungs in sharp, staccato gasps. The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin filled the room, louder than the distant party thump, louder than your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. His cock drove deep, relentless, the thick head kissing your cervix with every brutal snap of his hips until stars burst behind your closed lids.
Your eyes rolled back, whites flashing, head thunking against the wood as pleasure overloaded every nerve. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but feel him: the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness that made your toes curl against the floorboards and your thighs quake uncontrollably.
“Again,” he growled, voice wrecked and commanding, lips pressed to the sweat-slick curve of your neck. His hand on your throat sliding up to fist your hair instead, yanking your head back so he could see your face. “Say it again. Beg me like you fucking mean it.”
“T-Theo—ah!—fuck—please!”
His name fell from your lips like a chant, broken and breathless, each syllable punched out by the next punishing thrust. Tears streamed freely now with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain, dripping down your cheeks to mix with the sweat and the faint smear of mascara.
“That’s it,” he rasped, teeth grazing your shoulder, biting down just hard enough to leave another blooming mark. “My name. Only my fucking name. No one else gets to hear you like this. No one else gets to feel this perfect little pussy.”
He angled his hips, shifting just enough, and the ridge of him dragged over a swollen, sensitive spot inside you with devastating accuracy. Once. Twice. Relentless.
“Come,” he ordered, voice fraying. “Come on my cock right here, milk me while you scream my name into this fucking door.”
Your whole body seized.
The orgasm built so fast it stole your breath, coiling vicious and tight before exploding outward in a blinding rush. You screamed his name raw, echoing, shattering off stone walls, cunt clamping down so hard around him his rhythm stuttered, hips slamming forward one last time as he groaned low and guttural against your ear.
"Theo- I can't take-"
“You can take it, baby,” he snarled against your neck, teeth sinking into the soft skin just below your ear. “Let the whole tower hear how good you cum when I fuck you stupid against a door. You'll take every fucking drop, gonna fill you up just to watch it drip down these pretty legs while you try to walk back like nothing happened.”
His orgasm stole his breath only seconds later. Hips slamming deep, burying himself to the root as he came with a broken groan. Hot, thick spurts flooded you, spilling out around his cock, dripping down your thighs to join the mess already on the floor.
Theo’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing the bite mark he’d left there, soft now, almost reverent.
“Say it one more time,” he murmured, voice hoarse, stripped raw. “Just once more.”
You swallowed, throat dry, voice wrecked, but the words came anyway, quiet and honest in the aftermath.
“Theo… please.”
His low, breathless laugh vibrated against your skin. “Good girl,” he whispered, pressing a slow kiss to the nape of your neck. “That’s my girl.”
He didn’t pull out yet.
He stayed buried deep. Still half-hard inside you, arms banding around your waist to keep you upright as your legs threatened to give out completely.
“We’re not leaving this room until I hear it a hundred more times,” he promised, lips curving against your ear. “And maybe not even then.”
The door stayed locked.
Your dress stayed on ruined, clinging, soaked.
And the line between hate and something far more dangerous had finally, irrevocably blurred.
Mattheo Riddle could have anyone. Literally anyone.
Girls practically throw themselves at his feet in the corridors with whispering giggles, batting lashes, slipping notes into his robe pockets like they’re being coy. He shuts them down with the same bored flick of his wrist every time. Low, clipped “Not interested” or the sharper “Spoken for” that makes them scatter like startled pixies. He’s attractive in that dangerous, unfair way. Sharp jaw, dark curls that fall just right, eyes that promise trouble and deliver it, and he’s cocky enough to know it. Mean enough to enjoy watching them squirm.
Yet somehow, against every law of logic and self-preservation, he chose you.
And Merlin’s sodding beard, you are infuriating.
Case in point: right now.
He’s trying—actually trying—to do something uncharacteristically romantic. A little midnight detour through the damp, torch-lit underground tunnels beneath the castle, leading to that forgotten alcove with the glowing moonlit vines he discovered last term. He even pocketed a small velvet box earlier and he's paying for even mentioning a surprise. The plan was simple: quiet walk, your hand in his, maybe a smirk and a murmured “shut up for once, yeah?” before he pulls you close against the stone wall and kisses you stupid.
With a low, long-suffering groan that echoes off the damp stone walls, Mattheo throws his head back and stops dead in his tracks. The sudden halt sends you careening straight into his broad back like a poorly aimed Bludger—oof—your face planting right between his shoulder blades with all the grace of a startled Pygmy Puff.
You don't even pause for breath.
“—and then Lavender was like, ‘Oh my Merlin, his hair is so shiny,’ and I was like, ‘Girl, it’s literally just Sleekeazy’s, calm down,’ but honestly if I had hair that behaved I’d be insufferable too—wait, are we lost? This tunnel looks exactly like the last one. Did you Apparate us in circles just to mess with me? Because if so, rude, but also kind of—”
Mattheo spins on his heel so fast his dark curls whip across his forehead. He pins you with the stare—the one that could make sixth-years wet themselves and seventh-years reconsider their life choices. Torchlight flickered across his sharp features, carving shadows under those dangerously hooded eyes, making him look every inch the brooding heir people whispered about in the common room.
You just beam up at him. Full wattage. Eyes sparkling like you’d personally invented joy and decided to share it exclusively with him. Completely oblivious, or pretending to be, that you’d been monologuing nonstop since he dragged you out of the dormitory twenty minutes ago.
“Princess,” he says, voice low and gravelly, the word dripping with equal parts exasperation and something dangerously close to fondness. “Please. This is supposed to be relaxing. Nice. Quiet. Romantic, even—if you can manage five bloody seconds without turning my skull into a beehive.”
Your bottom lip wobbles immediately. Just a fraction. Eyes going suspiciously glassy in the dim light.
Mattheo’s jaw clenches so hard you can practically hear the teeth grind.
This. This was exactly what he means.
Annoying as hell.
One second you’re chattering like a caffeinated house-elf, the next you’re pulling the wounded-puppy eyes that make something in his chest twist painfully. He hates it. Hates how it works every single time.
He drags both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots like maybe pain will restore his sanity. “Merlin’s saggy left—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Don’t. Do not start crying. I swear to Salazar, if you cry right now because I told you to shut up for once—”
Your eyes well up faster. One fat tear slinging to your lower lashes like it's auditioning for a tragic romance novel.
He stares at it. Then at you. Then back at the tear, like maybe glaring will make it evaporate.
You sniffles. Tiny. Pathetic. Devastating.
“Fuck,” he muttersunder his breath. In one fluid motion he closes the distance, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other thumbs away the traitor tear before it can fall. His touch was rough-edged but careful—always careful with you, even when he pretended otherwise.
“Why are you being mean to me?” Your voice comes out smaller than usual, barely above a whisper. All the bubbly chatter stripped away until it’s just this fragile little thing. “I’m just excited to spend time with you.”
Mattheo’s chest physically aches at the sound of it. His loud, unstoppable, never-shuts-up girl reduced to a quiet mumble. Your wide eyes lift to his all trusting and glassy, still somehow hopeful even after he’s just spent the last five minutes trying (and failing) to shush you. Like you genuinely believe he might say something that finally snaps the thread and makes you stop talking forever.
He hates that look. Hates that he put it there.
“Baby—” The word slips out softer than he means it to, rough edges sanded down by guilt. He exhales hard through his nose, then reaches for you before he can overthink it. One hand cups the back of your head, guiding you gently forward until your cheek presses against the warm crook of his neck. Your hair smells like vanilla and whatever stupid floral shampoo you insist on using, and it hits him like a hex straight to the sternum.
“I know,” he murmurs into the top of your head, voice low, almost wrecked. “I know. You’re right.”
Your arms come around his waist automatically, clinging like you’re afraid he’ll push you away again. He feels the tiny shudder in your shoulders, the one you always get right before you start apologizing for existing too loudly, and it makes something ugly twist behind his ribs.
He pulls back just enough to tilt your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes again. Those stupid, trusting eyes that look at him like he’s the sun instead of the walking disaster everyone else sees.
“I just—” He drags his thumb along your jaw, slow, deliberate. “I want to get us to where we’re going without tripping over a root because I’m too busy listening to you explain why Luna Lovegood’s conspiracy theories are actually canon. I can’t focus when you’re being… you.”
Your lip wobbles again, but you try to hide it with a tiny, watery smile. “I can be quiet. Promise. I’ll zip it. No more talking. Silent as a grave. You’ll forget I’m even here—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than he intends. He softens it immediately, cupping your face in both hands now, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he’s trying to erase the dampness there. “No. Never be quiet.”
You blink up at him, confused.
He lets out a short, helpless laugh and rests his forehead against yours again.
“Merlin, you’re killing me here.” His voice drops, rough and honest in a way he usually only lets out when it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world is asleep. “You’re the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met. You talk too much, you walk into walls when you’re excited, you narrate your entire life like it’s a bloody radio play, and half the time I don’t even know what you’re on about.”
Your brows pinch together, waiting for the but.
“But,” he says, quieter now, almost reverent, “you’re my favorite person on the entire fucking planet.” The tunnel goes so still you can hear the distant drip of water somewhere deeper in the stone.
He brushes his nose against yours once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
“So don’t you dare go quiet on me,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over yours without quite kissing you yet. “Not even for a second. I need the noise. I need you being loud and ridiculous and impossible to ignore. It’s the only thing that keeps the rest of the world from feeling like static.”
A fresh tear slips free anyway. He catches it with his mouth this time—soft, barely there, tasting salt and you.
Then he pulls back just enough to smirk, that familiar wicked edge creeping back in because if he doesn’t tease you soon he’s going to do something embarrassingly soft like drop to his knees and beg.
“Besides,” he adds, voice dipping into that low, suggestive drawl he knows drives you mental, “if you’re quiet, how am I supposed to hear all the filthy little things you say when I finally get you alone in that alcove? Can’t have that, can we, princess?”
Your mouth parts on a tiny, shocked laugh and just like that, the spark flickers back into your eyes.
“There she is,” he mutters, satisfied, pressing one last slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “My pretty little menace.”
He laces your fingers together again, tighter this time, and starts walking once more, slower now, like he’s in no real hurry.
“Keep talking,” he says over his shoulder, smirk audible even in the dark. “Tell me why Nargles are definitely real and why I should care. Loud as you want. I’m listening.”
You hesitate for half a heartbeat.
Then you squeeze his hand, take a shaky breath, and launch right back into it. Your voice still a little wobbly, but gaining strength with every word.
“—okay so first of all, the mistletoe thing is NOT just decorative, it’s literally a Nargle repellent, and if you think about it—”
Mattheo rolls his eyes so hard the torchlight flashes across them. But his thumb keeps stroking over your knuckles in slow, steady circles.
humans are so lucky and privileged to be able to have creativity and create art. a shame more and more people are choosing to let ai/robot rob them the joy of creating
Hi gorgeous! I love your new theme and all your writing!! ♡
I came to ask for something from Regulus, he being very protective, IMAGINE in the time of the Death Eaters and someone insults reader for being half-blood 🫣
And he's so scary when he's angry, how I love him <333
Blood On Silk
regulus black x fem!reader
synopsis: you attend a ball hosted by the House of Black, an unwelcome presence marked by your bloodline. when an act of cruelty leaves you injured, in response, regulus rises fiercely to defend what he loves.
warnings: violence, physical assault, humiliation, family conflict, psychological trauma, halfblood!reader, manipulation, power imbalances, prejudice based on blood status, making out, suggestive comments, slight mentions of sex, social exclusion, vivid depictions of blood and injury, happy ending. i listened to the rains of castamere while writing this? tw: this was written in an airport lounge…not proofread!!!
w/c: 4.3k masterlist
You are standing in front of the tall mirror, the pale silk of your dress catching the candlelight in a way that makes it look like you’re wearing moonlight.
The fabric falls soft against your skin, elegant and seductive all at once, the kind of dress that feels like it doesn’t belong on someone like you.
Regulus would disagree.
He approaches without a sound, all warmth and certainty cloaked in silence. You see his reflection before you feel him—the flicker of his dark eyes, the slow lift of his hands.
From a velvet box, he retrieves a necklace: silver, fine as a thread, strung with a single obsidian star.
The charm glimmers with something ancient, a pulse of enchantment just beyond recognition. You don’t recognize the symbol at first, not until the pendant brushes your collarbone and you feel the enchantment hum gently against your skin.
The chill of the metal is brief, and then there is the heat of his fingers, brushing the back of your neck. He lingers there and when he leans in he presses his lips to your skin, right where your pulse flutters.
“I still can’t believe you’re making me wear this,” you whisper, trying to steady your breath and failing.
Your voice trembles at the edges, not because of fear, not entirely, but because you know where you’re going.
Because you know who will be there.
“Your mother is going to behead me with her eyes. And your cousins, I don’t think they even bother hiding their hatred anymore. Not that they ever did. I mean, do you remember last time? Narcissa told me I looked like a swan drowning. I don’t even know what that means.”
Regulus doesn’t interrupt, he never does.
“I just don’t want to embarrass you,” you admit softly, your hands wringing themselves in your lap now, fingers tangled in nervous threads. “They’re going to look at me and see someone who doesn’t belong, someone who shouldn’t be there, someone who—”
“You belong to me.”
You freeze. His hands are still resting on your shoulders, thumbs tracing tiny circles that you didn’t even realize had soothed you into silence. You look up at him in the mirror, and his gaze is already waiting.
“They can say whatever they want, amour,” he murmurs, eyes dark and steady, “and they will. They always do, but I stopped caring about their opinions the moment I realized they couldn’t love anything without destroying it.”
Your heart folds at the edges, soft and aching. He has always been like this—quiet, composed, never loud with his affections, but devastating with them all the same.
He doesn’t promise things with grand declarations or raise his voice to drown out the noise. He simply stands with you, day after day, word after word, until his loyalty becomes the one thing you don’t question.
He leans forward again, arms wrapping around your waist now, and rests his chin lightly against your shoulder.
“You walk into that ballroom,” he says, barely more than a whisper against your skin, “and you hold your head higher than any of them. Not because of them, because of you, because you are more than they will ever understand.”
“I still think I’m going to throw up,” you murmur, half-laughing.
“You won’t,” he says, kissing your jaw. “But if you do, you’ll do it gracefully. And I’ll hex anyone who dares to comment.”
That makes you laugh, properly this time, and he smiles against your skin.
You glance sideways at him, take in the sharp lines of his profile, the way his hair falls loose at his collar, the curve of his mouth set somewhere between solemnity and affection.
“I know I’m overthinking it,” you murmur, the silence too loud around your thoughts.
“But sometimes I feel like walking into these places is like being willingly set on fire, just to see how long I can smile through it.”
He looks at you then—fully—and stops walking. “Don’t do that,” he says gently, tugging your hand until you turn toward him. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“So am I,” he says, and then, without giving you time to step back or brace for it, he spins you softly in place, pulling you into him so that the fullness of your dress sways around your ankles.
You land against his chest, your breath catching in your throat as his arm slides around your waist. The other lifts to cradle your face, thumb brushing against your cheek, his gaze fixed on you like you are the only thing he’s ever seen that made him question the world he was raised in.
“Do you know what I see?” he whispers, voice dipping lower with each word.
“I see grace in motion, I see strength wrapped in beauty, I see someone who stands in rooms full of cruelty and still holds onto softness, and I see the most beautiful woman I’ve ever touched and I still can’t believe she lets me touch her at all.”
Your breath stumbles out of you in a small, startled laugh, but he’s already leaning in, lips grazing your neck where your pulse beats so clearly beneath your skin.
The kiss is feather-light, almost reverent, and then another follows, just below your ear, then lower still, and your hands curl in the lapels of his suit to steady yourself as your knees begin to forget how to hold you up.
“Regulus—” you breathe, but it comes out as more of a sigh.
“You wear white like it was spun for you,” he murmurs into your skin.
“You speak and my world quiets. You worry and I want to carry every weight until you forget how to frown. You reach for me and I forget everything I was ever taught to want, because none of it ever came close to you.”
Your fingers climb to his shoulders, clutching tighter now, your body drawn to his like a tide pulled toward gravity. The silk of your dress rustles as you shift against him, and the scent of him makes your head spin.
You tilt your face, brush your lips against his jaw, a silent invitation that speaks louder than anything you've said aloud.
He chuckles softly, not unkind, but with that aching kind of fondness that wraps around you like warmth in winter.
“No, amour,” he murmurs, voice threaded with restraint that costs him something. He presses one last kiss to your collarbone, slow and deliberate, before pulling back just enough to look at you. “We have to go.”
Your groan is dramatic and half-playful, your fingers still tangled in the folds of his robes. “You’re cruel.”
He smiles. It’s crooked this time, boyish in the way it rarely is, and entirely undone by you. “If I don’t leave now, I won’t leave at all,” he admits, brushing your hair back from your cheek with gentleness.
“And if I give in, we’ll be late, and I won’t be able to stop. And tonight, of all nights, I need them to see you. I need them to see what I chose instead of them.”
Your throat tightens.
Regulus leans in again, his lips brushing the shell of your ear now, velvet and promise and flame. “But when we’re back—” his voice dips, warm and low, “—I’m going to spend the entire night showing you how much I love you. Every minute of it, slowly.”
You shiver. Your heartbeat is a hymn in your chest.
“And if you still think you don’t belong,” he adds, kissing your temple, “I’ll remind you again, and again, until you forget they ever made you doubt.”
You close your eyes and breathe him in. And for the first time since the invitation arrived, you begin to believe you might survive this night—because you are not walking into it alone.
The air outside the dressing room clings with a kind of hush, broken only by the gentle click of your heels and the rustle of silk with every step.
Regulus walks beside you, silent as always, but present in a way that steadies the tremor in your chest. His hand rests over yours, fingers tangled just tightly enough to keep you tethered.\
The carriage waits outside, polished black and moonlit, drawn by a pair of thestrals that flick their heads but make no sound. He helps you in with the ease of habit, and when you settle into the dark leather seats, you realize he hasn’t let go of your hand.
You ride in near silence, the quiet between you made of shared thought rather than absence. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as though he’s memorizing you again, dress and necklace and all, but says nothing.
You glance out the window as the manor comes into view—Grimmauld Place transformed. The windows shimmer with charmed frost, and light pours from within like liquid gold.
A quartet plays softly somewhere inside, and you can already see the silhouettes of guests drifting past tall arched windows. You swallow.
“I still think your mother is going to hex me on sight,” you murmur.
“She won’t,” Regulus replies, calm and certain.
“No offense, but I don’t think certainty applies to Walburga Black.”
He smiles faintly. “If she does, she’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”
You glance at him—at the quiet promise in his voice, the way it’s laced not with arrogance, but loyalty. He isn’t loud in his defiance. He never has been.
When you enter the ballroom, it feels like walking into a relic—heavy with history, thick with enchantments that tangle around your ankles like smoke.
The chandeliers float above like frozen constellations, dripping crystal and silver, casting fractured light across the black marble floors.
The entire space glows in cold elegance: long tables draped in obsidian silk, wine dark as garnet glinting in goblets, every movement reflected in the polished floor beneath your feet.
Regulus doesn’t loosen his grip on you.
You feel the eyes before you see them.
“She looks odd,” someone murmurs behind a fan.
“Is that silk? Bold choice,” says another, sharper voice.
“Didn’t know half-bloods came in white,” someone else laughs, too quiet for most ears.
Regulus hears. Of course he does. His jaw tightens, but he keeps walking, his hand warm and steady against your spine. You press a little closer to him.
“Don’t give them the reaction they want,” he murmurs without looking down. “They’re only brave in groups.”
You exhale slowly, nodding.
He leads you into the middle of the floor, and everything else fades into hush. The world narrows to the soft glide of his steps, the rhythm of the dance between you, the heat of his palm against yours.
“You’re holding your breath,” he says softly.
“I’m trying not to look like I want to flee.”
He turns you in one fluid motion, your skirts sweeping the floor like mist. “You don’t look like that,” he says. “You look like you know exactly what you’re doing.”
“I don’t.”
“Then you’re very convincing.”
You smile despite yourself. “You’re surprisingly charming tonight.”
“I’m always charming,” he replies, with the barest edge of amusement.
You laugh, and the weight in your chest lightens.
Later, you slip away for a moment of air, ducking near the arched corridor that leads to the gallery.
That’s where you find Andromeda, standing with a glass of wine, her posture regal without effort. Her dress is pale silver, understated but elegant, her hair pinned into a low twist that speaks of old money and quiet rebellion.
She turns when she sees you.
“My, you clean up well,” she says, voice smooth and laced with fondness. “Though I must admit, I was beginning to wonder if you’d survived the entrance.”
“Barely,” you murmur. “I think someone tried to curse my hem with a trip-jinx disguised as a compliment.”
“Ah,” she says lightly, sipping her wine. “Welcome to the House of Black.”
You laugh.
Andromeda tilts her head slightly, her eyes sharp, thoughtful. “You look lovely,” she adds, more sincerely. “That colour suits you.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure if it was too much.”
“No,” she says. “It’s exactly enough.”
You glance away. “I feel like I’m trying not to unravel.”
“Then you’re doing a fine job of it. I learned long ago that here, grace is a kind of armor. Wear it until they tire of throwing stones.”
You nod. “How did you survive this world?”
“I didn’t,” she says simply. “I left it. But Regulus—” her voice softens slightly, “—he’s not like the rest of them. He’s quieter about it, but the break is there. You’ve helped him make it real.”
You’re not sure what to say to that. So you say nothing, but your heart feels steadier.
Before long, Regulus finds you again. You don’t see him approach, but you feel him—his presence brushing close. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing effortlessly.
“Stealing you for a moment,” he says, glancing at Andromeda.
She nods. “Only a moment. I’ll keep your absence noticed.”
He leads you down a side corridor, then through another, past heavy curtains and walls lined with bookshelves. You don’t speak until the noise of the ballroom has faded to a distant hum.
“Where are we going?” you whisper.
“Here,” he says simply.
It’s a small study—dark and quiet, firelit. The door closes behind you with a soft click.
Before you can ask, he’s already pulling you to him, hands at your waist, mouth finding yours with the same quiet hunger he’s been holding in all night.
You melt into him, your fingers sliding up into his hair, your body arching with practiced ease into his hold. The kiss deepens, slow and warm, and you moan into it, the tension slipping from your shoulders like silk sliding from skin.
His hands travel gently, possessively, over the curves of your back, his lips brushing your jaw, your throat, the dip beneath your ear.
“You’re driving me mad,” he murmurs, barely a breath. “Do you know that?”
You smile against his mouth. “I was starting to suspect.”
He laughs, a soft, breathy sound against your skin. “You look so beautiful, amour, Tu es la plus jolie fille que j'ai jamais vue, mon amour.”
“You keep talking like that and I’ll never make it through the rest of the evening.”
He leans back just enough to meet your eyes, still breathless. “Then we’d better go back now,” he says, though he makes no move to release you.
You blink at him. “You’re stopping this?”
He smiles, warm and wicked. “We have hours yet,and I plan to spend all of them after this reminding you why I’m worth enduring these evenings for.”
You breathe out a slow, dazed laugh.
“Now come,” he adds, brushing a final kiss across your cheek. “They’ll miss us, and you still haven’t danced with me twice.”
You straighten the bodice of your dress, fingers brushing over the silk as if smoothing fabric could ease the tremble beginning in your ribs.
The heat of Regulus’s kisses still lingers against your throat, and though your mouth tastes like wine and him, there’s something else now pressing in at the edges—responsibility, decorum, the weight of being seen.
“I think I’ll stay here for a minute,” you murmur, adjusting your neckline with a soft sigh. “Freshen up. Fix this hem before it unravels completely.”
Regulus’s brows draw together. “You sure?” His voice is quiet, but there’s something firm beneath it, like the idea of leaving you alone, even in his own home, puts him on edge.
You smile up at him, brushing your fingers over his chest as if to reassure him. “Yes. I’ll only be a moment. And besides—Andromeda’s probably still near the gallery. I’ll find her.”
He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes flick over your face, searching for something you’re not sure he names. Then murmurs, “I don’t like the idea of you wandering this house alone.”
“I’m not a child,” you reply, gently but amused. “And you promised your mother you’d speak to the guests from St. Petersburg. You’ve spent nearly the whole night glued to my side.”
His mouth twitches, but not in disagreement.
“I won’t be long,” you add, smoothing the lapel of his robe. “You’ll find me before the next dance?”
“Always,” he says.
He kisses your cheek before he leaves, his hand lingering just a second too long on your waist. And then he's gone—swallowed into the golden thrum of the evening, back into the tangle of names and obligations that the House of Black never stops demanding from its heirs.
You stand still for a moment in the quiet room, letting your breath settle.
The mirror is old, etched with ivy vines in its silver frame. You lean toward it, dabbing at the corner of your lip with a lace handkerchief, checking that your necklace hasn’t shifted, that the pale silk still sits smooth against your skin.
You murmur a quick cooling charm, press a softening spell to your lips, and slip out the side door—intent on finding Andromeda.
But the house is a maze. Somewhere between the east corridor and the gallery, you miss a turn. The halls here twist in silent curves, lined with portraits whose eyes follow you like questions, and the flickering sconces seem too dim, too far apart.
Your heels click softly against the floor, and the further you walk, the more you start to feel the chill seeping back in. .
Eventually, you spot the entrance to the ballroom again—the carved double doors wide open, music swelling gently beyond. You exhale in relief and head toward the sound, hoping to find Andromeda or Regulus again before anyone notices your brief absence.
You step just inside, and the shift is immediate.
They’re gathered near the wine table—half a dozen purebloods, all in deep jewel-toned robes, laughing softly over the rims of their glasses.
You recognize some of them. Mulciber, Selwyn, Avery, and Rosier, with his ever-present smirk. A few you don’t know by name, but you’ve seen them enough to recognize the tilt of their mouths when they look at you.
Their eyes find you the moment you enter.
The laughter dies down, not all the way, but just enough to sharpen.
You turn, slow and poised, planning to walk calmly back the way you came and find Regulus or Andromeda.
But you only take two steps before three of them peel away from the others, stepping into your path like they were waiting for this exact moment.
The room does not stop, the music doesn’t falter, the wine still pours. But for you, the air sharpens.
The one who approaches first is tall, pale, with an expression carved from disdain. His robes are midnight blue, his ring heavy with a Black family crest, though you don’t think he belongs directly to it.
“Well, well,” he says, sipping from his glass and letting his eyes drag slowly down your form. “I thought the help wasn’t allowed to mingle with the guests.”
Your fingers tighten around your clutch. You take a small step to the side.
He mirrors it.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, head tilting. “Lost your pureblood escort?”
Behind him, another smirks. “Careful,” he drawls. “They say she's clever. You might get hexed.”
“Not by her,” the first replies. “She wouldn't dare.”
You draw a breath and lift your chin, spine lengthening with practiced grace. “Excuse me,” you say, voice cool but steady. “I was just leaving.”
But he steps closer.
And the exit feels farther than it did a moment ago.
It happens too fast to stop but slow enough that you remember every detail.
The man with the wine doesn’t speak. He simply steps closer with a kind of ease that drips arrogance, his expression coiled into something that resembles amusement but hums with quiet malice.
The crystal goblet in his hand tilts ever so slightly. For a heartbeat, you think—perhaps hope—it’s an accident.
But it isn’t.
The red spills like venom across your bodice.
It pours over the neckline of your white silk gown, blooming across the fabric in heavy, blood-colored streaks. It splashes onto your stomach, your waist, your arms. The silk darkens instantly, clinging to your skin, seeping into the stitching, crawling over the satin like rot.
You gasp, staggering back a step, hand flying to your chest, trying uselessly to stop the stain from spreading.
The man smiles as he lowers the now-empty glass.2
“Well look at that! It seems blood always stains,” he says loudly, clearly, deliberately.
It lands with the weight of a curse.
The surrounding crowd is silent for a moment, and then soft laughter rises like smoke, too smooth, too rehearsed, too cruel to be anything but intentional. No one steps forward. No one scolds. No one so much as flinches.
You’re frozen in place. The wine is cold, as it seeps through the fine fabric and chills your skin beneath. But it’s not the temperature that has your chest tightening—it’s the way they’re watching. Like your pain was planned, like this was a performance and they’ve all just taken their seats.
You turn to leave. Your steps are stiff, your throat burning. You want to find Regulus. You want to find Andromeda. You want to wake up from this, tear the ruined dress from your body and disappear into a night where you never came at all.
You take only a few steps before a hand closes gently but firmly around your wrist, halting you. You do not see the owner of the hand—only feel the sudden restraint. Before you can pull away, a deliberate push unsettles your balance, sending you off course.
A sharp scrape runs across your upper arm. It burns briefly, then stings.
Looking down, you notice the fabric of your dress torn where a ring snagged the seam. Blood wells slowly through the satin, vivid against the pale silk. It mingles with spilled wine, staining the fabric as though it were always meant to be.
The laughter around you does not cease. If anything, it deepens, curling around your ears like a thick velvet thread.
You do not cry, not now, but your breath begins to catch, trembling slightly.
Then a hand rests lightly on your shoulder. It is neither harsh nor unkind, but sudden enough to startle you. Turning, you find yourself no longer alone.
Regulus stands before you, a calm yet resolute presence separating you from the others. The atmosphere shifts subtly but unmistakably.
His gaze does not seek yours. Instead, it settles on the man who still clutches the empty glass—the same one who shoved you moments before.
Regulus’s eyes snapped to your arm where the blood welled beneath the torn silk, dark and vivid against the delicate fabric.
It wasn’t just a wound—it was an insult writ in crimson, a raw mark of the contempt you had endured. The mingled wine stain and blood on your dress screamed humiliation, and it shattered something deep inside him.
His breath hitched, trembling with something fierce and uncontrolled. The laughter—low, cruel, mocking—wrapped around you like suffocating chains, each chuckle a slap against his heart.
Without thinking, he seized the empty wine goblet from the man who stood too close, the one who had shoved you, whose laughter still echoed like a blade in the heavy air.
The glass was cold, fragile in his hand, but Regulus held it like a weapon.
His voice broke free in a savage roar that shattered the fragile veneer of the ballroom’s polished grace. “Do you think blood stains?” His words sliced the silence, jagged and merciless.
“Do you think that because she bleeds, because her blood mixes with your filth, she is anything less than any of you!”
He thrust the glass forward, eyes blazing. “I’ll show you how Black blood stains.”
With a brutal shove, he slammed the man backward against the carved stone pillar. The goblet slipped from his fingers and shattered, shards scattering like the shattered pride of those around him.
In an instant, the room erupted. Wands whipped up, light flashing like blades drawn in panic and outrage. The air thickened with magic and tension.
But Regulus was unshaken. His own wand sprang from his sleeve with a flick of his wrist, a dark, lethal promise gleaming in his hand.
“I will not hesitate,” he growled, voice low and charged with wrath, “to tear apart anyone who harms her again! I don’t fucking care who any of you are!”
The crowd held its breath, caught between fear and fascination.
Then Walburga’s voice, sharp as a whip, cut through the chaos. “Enough, Regulus!”
Her presence was cold command. Her eyes flickered with disdain as she stepped forward, her lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.
He spun toward her, every muscle coiled in fury. “You will not silence me, Mother!” he spat, voice ragged and fierce. “Not after what you’ve done.”
“You disgrace this family with this girl,” Walburga said icily. “Lower your wand and leave this hall.”
Regulus’s hands clenched the wand so tightly his knuckles whitened. His breath came ragged, voice rising in a crescendo of unrestrained anger.
“Disgrace? She is the only thing here worthy of honor. The only blood that matters, and you—you are poison!”
Without warning, he shattered the empty goblet in his fist, the crack of breaking glass echoing like thunder. The jagged shard flew through the air, catching Walburga’s cheek with a sickening cut.
Gasps tore through the stunned crowd.
Regulus’s voice dropped to a low, venomous hiss, thick with contempt. “Even your blood stains, Mother. Filthy red, just like the rest of this rotten house.”
Regulus turns.
And the moment he sees you, really sees you, his fury falters.
Because you’re shaking. Your hand is clutched at your side, trying to hide the blood, the silk soaked with wine and something far more human.
Your lip trembles, and your eyes shimmer, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it now. The humiliation. The fear. The way they all watched.
Tears pour from your eyes before you realize it, the sob catching at your throat like it’s been waiting all night to be let out. You try to step away, try to hide—but Regulus is already at your side, his arms pulling you in like the world is ending.
“No,” he breathes, over and over again, kissing the crown of your head, holding you like you’re made of glass and flame all at once. “No, no—I'm here, you're safe now, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
You bury your face into his chest, sobbing harder than you have in years, your fists clutching at his blouse, smearing blood and wine into velvet.
He doesn’t care. His hand is cradling the back of your head, his other arm wrapped fully around your waist, rocking you just slightly as if trying to comfort the storm out of your bones.
“I’m so sorry, amour, ” he whispers, voice raw and low, “I should’ve stayed. I never should’ve let you out of my sight. I knew they’d try something—I knew—”
“Regulus,” you choke.
“I’m here, ma belle.” His jaw tightens again, but his voice stays gentle.
You cling to him like you’ll fall if you don’t. He lifts you gently, one arm under your knees, carrying you through the parted crowd. No one dares speak, not even Walburga, not even Bellatrix. The room has gone quiet as stone.
Only the fury in Regulus Black’s eyes dares meet theirs.
He doesn’t stop until you’re upstairs. He finds the guest room furthest from the ballroom and kicks the door shut behind him.
He sets you down softly on the velvet chaise, then drops to his knees in front of you. His hands tremble as they brush over your stained dress, searching for the cut.
“Let me see it,” he murmurs. “Please.”
You nod, breath catching. The torn silk peels away, and he sees it—a shallow slash, bright red and angry.
His face crumples.“I’ll fix it,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “I’ll fix it all.”
“Come on,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “Let me take you away from here.”
And this time, when he carries you through the hall, no one dares look him in the eye. Not even the portraits.
They all turn their faces away.
Because Regulus Black has chosen.
And he chose you.
You knew it before he spoke, before his fingers found yours with a reverence that felt like a vow—he had chosen you, not just in that moment, but in every quiet glance, every defiance that led him here.
He would never return to this house, and you would never need him to.
As for Regulus, nothing he left behind could measure against what he held in his arms. In his eyes, you were purity uncorrupted, something sacred they could never touch.
He would tear down bloodlines, unmake legacies, dismantle every stone of the house that made him, if it meant being loved by you. And as always, he would take you home—carry you from cruelty, dress your wounds with devotion, and leave you blanketed in a love that demanded nothing and gave everything.
And in the end, he understood: just as their cruelty stained silk with blood, your love had stained him with something far deeper, something no name or legacy could ever wash clean.
Regulus’s voice dropped to a low, venomous hiss, thick with contempt. “Even your blood stains, Mother. Filthy red, just like the rest of this rotten house.”
As a POC I think this cuts even deeper, being hated and looked down upon for something you’re born with. Being filthy, being dirty just because you don’t fit a certain skin color. Lovely work 🫶🏼
