Short Summary: Theodore Nott leaves subtle traces of himself in your path until the quiet tension between you becomes impossible to ignore in the shadows of Hogwarts.
The first time you noticed Theodore Nott watching you, it was in Potions.
Slughorn had paired the class randomly and the cauldron between you bubbled a violent emerald. Theo leaned against the workbench opposite, sleeves rolled to his elbows, green tie already loosened like he couldn’t be bothered with decorum. His gaze wasn’t obvious—never was—but you felt it: cool, assessing, lingering on the way your fingers gripped the silver knife as you sliced moonstone.
He didn’t speak. Not once. When the bell rang he simply pushed off the bench, brushed past you close enough that you smelled cedar and faint tobacco, and left a single green-and-silver tie draped over the back of your chair like he’d forgotten it there on purpose.
You kept it. Tucked it into your bag. Told yourself it was nothing.
The second time was in the library after curfew.
You’d slipped in through the one-way passage behind the Restricted Section, craving silence and the smell of old parchment. The Restricted Section was technically off-limits, but the alcove just outside it had the best armchair and no one ever checked.
Theo was already there.
He sat in your chair—legs stretched long, one ankle crossed over the other, cigarette dangling unlit from his lips. Moonlight sliced through the high windows and caught the silver ring on his thumb. He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just tilted his head, dark curls falling into his eyes, and murmured, “You’re late.”
You froze. “This isn’t your spot.”
“Is now.” He patted the armrest beside him. “Sit.”
You didn’t. But you didn’t leave either.
He pulled the cigarette from his mouth, twirled it between long fingers, then offered it to you. “Want one?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Yet.” A ghost of a smirk. “You will.”
You rolled your eyes and dropped into the opposite chair instead. He watched you the entire time—unblinking, patient—like a cat deciding whether the mouse was worth the chase.
That night he told you nothing personal. Just talked about potion theory in that low, velvet drawl until your eyelids grew heavy. When you finally stood to leave, he caught your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop you.
His thumb brushed the inside of your pulse point once. Then he released you and pressed something small and cool into your palm: his silver ring, engraved with a tiny N.
“Keep it,” he said. “Until I want it back.”
You wore it on a chain under your shirt the next day.
After that, it became a pattern.
He’d appear in places you didn’t expect: leaning against the wall outside the Slytherin common room when you returned from prefect rounds, smoke curling from his lips like a question mark; sitting two rows behind you in Charms, quill tapping rhythmically while his eyes traced the line of your neck; leaving half-finished cigarettes on the windowsill of the Astronomy Tower with your initials scratched into the paper.
He never touched you in public. Never spoke to you in front of the others. But in the quiet moments—empty corridors at three a.m., the back of the greenhouses after Herbology, the shadowed alcove behind the Black Lake portrait—he would step too close, breath warm against your ear, and murmur things that made your stomach flip.
“You smell like vanilla and trouble,” once.
Another time: “I keep thinking about your mouth when you’re trying not to smile.”
You learned his tells quickly.
The way his jaw tightened when Draco or Blaise mentioned arranged matches. The way his fingers flexed around his wand when someone said “Nott Sr.” too loudly. The way he exhaled smoke like he was trying to push the war out of his lungs.
You also learned he kissed like he smoked: slow, deliberate, savoring every drag.
It happened in the old prefects’ bathroom on the fifth floor, steam thick and mirrors fogged.
You’d gone there to think after a particularly vicious argument in the common room—Pansy had called you “soft” for refusing to hex a first-year Gryffindor. Theo found you sitting on the edge of the tub, knees drawn up, staring at the mermaid mosaic.
He didn’t ask questions. Just locked the door, shrugged off his robe, and sat beside you.
Water lapped at the porcelain. His knee pressed against yours.
“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.
“I’m not.”
He reached over, took your hand, threaded his fingers through yours. His skin was warm, calloused from wandwork and years of holding cigarettes too tightly.
Then he leaned in.
The first kiss was careful—testing. His lips brushed yours once, twice, like he was giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
The second was deeper. Hungrier. His hand slid to the back of your neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there while his tongue traced the seam of your mouth. You opened for him without thinking. He tasted like smoke and mint and something darker, something that made your head spin.
When he pulled back his eyes were black, pupils blown wide.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped.
You didn’t.
He kissed you again—harder this time—backing you against the cool tile until your shoulders hit the wall. His hands mapped your waist, your ribs, the curve of your spine under your shirt. You arched into him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging until he groaned low in his throat.
He broke away only to drag his mouth down your neck, teeth grazing the spot where your pulse hammered. “You have no idea,” he muttered against your skin, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
“Then show me.”
He did.
Not everything—not yet—but enough that when you finally stumbled back to the common room your lips were swollen, your shirt untucked, and his ring was back on his finger, warm from your skin.
After that night, the game changed.
He still didn’t claim you in public. Still left traces instead of words: his tie knotted loosely around your wrist one morning, a half-smoked cigarette tucked into your Potions textbook with “mine” scrawled on the paper in his sharp handwriting, his cloak draped over your shoulders during a Quidditch match when the wind turned bitter.
But in private he was relentless.
The Astronomy Tower became your place.
Late nights, stars sharp overhead, Theo would pull you into the shadows behind the telescope, press you against the stone wall, and kiss you until you forgot your own name. His hands would slip under your shirt, palms hot on your bare back, fingers tracing your spine while he whispered filthy promises in Italian against your throat.
“Ti voglio,” he’d murmur. “Every fucking inch.”
You’d bite his lip in answer, hard enough to draw a hiss, and he’d retaliate by pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other worked the buttons of your blouse open.
He never rushed. Never took more than you offered. But the things he offered in return—slow drags of his tongue, teasing bites along your collarbone, the way he’d drop to his knees and look up at you through dark lashes while he kissed the inside of your thigh—left you breathless every time.
One night, under a sky thick with storm clouds, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
“I don’t do casual,” he said, voice rough. “Not with you.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Then what is this?”
He searched your face. For once the mask was gone—only Theo, raw and unguarded.
“Everything,” he answered simply.
You kissed him then—slow, deep, pouring every unspoken thing into it.
When you pulled away he was smiling. Small, crooked, real.
“Say it,” he demanded softly.
You traced the line of his jaw with your thumb. “You’re mine, Theodore Nott.”
His eyes darkened. “And you’re mine.”
He sealed it with another kiss—fiercer this time—until lightning cracked overhead and rain began to fall in fat drops.
You didn’t care.
You stayed there until dawn, tangled together under his cloak, his ring back on your finger where it belonged, smoke from his last cigarette curling into the storm like a promise.
In the end, Theodore Nott didn’t need grand declarations.
He just needed you.
And you—wearing his tie, his ring, the faint taste of tobacco on your tongue—were more than happy to let him have you.
Summary: Theodore never wanted children. The day his mother died was the day he had sworn off any semblance of a family. That was until a child appears before him, claiming to be his daughter.
A/N: This is the second part and since you waited so patiently i included 3 bonus scenes teehee posting it early for my babies
Special mention to @for-the-love-of-puppies and @luffysprincess who predicted this turnout lol our brains are in sync
Credits to @dividers-are-us for the divider
Part 1
Bianca was a blur of movement by the Great Lake.
She darted along the grassy bank, boots thudding softly against the earth as she zig-zagged around rocks and half-buried roots, stopping every few seconds to crouch down and inspect something with intense focus before bolting off again. A stick became a wand, a pebble became treasure, and the reeds at the water’s edge were clearly hiding something very important.
You watched her with a fond smile, arms folded loosely as you leaned back against the cool stone.
“She has too much energy.” You said, though there was no real complaint in your voice—only wonder.
Theo huffed a quiet laugh beside you, eyes never leaving her, “She’s a firecracker.”
Bianca shrieked with laughter as she nearly tripped over her own feet, caught herself at the last second, and then stood very still—carefully regaining her balance before continuing on her way.
Theo tilted his head slightly, watching her, “She takes after you.”
You laughed, startled, “Are you crazy?”
He glanced at you, amused, “What?”
You nodded toward Bianca. “Look at her. She’s observant. Thoughtful. She watches everything. She’s lively, yeah—but she hardly ever leaps without looking first.” You smiled softly, “That’s all you.”
Theo went quiet at that, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.
He watched Bianca sprint past a patch of wildflowers, slow just enough to avoid stepping on them, then take off again.
“…Maybe.” He conceded.
A moment later, he added, half-thoughtful, half-teasing, “She’d be a good Chaser.”
You snorted, “Of course you’d say that.”
“Did you see that turn?” He said, nodding toward her as she swerved sharply to avoid the water’s edge, “She'll be a star quidditch player.”
You hummed, considering it. “I don’t know,” You said slowly, “I kind of see her as a Magizoologist.”
Theo glanced at you, “Yeah?”
“She’s gentle,” You said, “Curious. She doesn’t just want to look—she wants to understand.” You smiled as Bianca crouched again, whispering something to a very unimpressed-looking duck, “I think she’d love creatures.”
Theo’s expression softened.
“Whatever she chooses,” He said quietly, “she’ll be brilliant.”
The words lingered between you.
The lake rippled softly. The breeze carried the scent of water and grass. Bianca’s laughter echoed across the shore, bright and unburdened.
And then—slowly, inevitably—the conversation faded.
Neither of you spoke.
Because the truth settled in like a weight neither of you wanted to name.
There were futures you were imagining that you wouldn’t get to see. First matches. First discoveries. First failures. First triumphs.
Theo swallowed.
You hugged your arms closer to yourself, eyes fixed on Bianca as if memorizing the way the sunlight caught in her curls.
For a moment, it was almost peaceful.
And for a moment, that made it hurt so much more.
Bedtime was always a gamble.
There were nights when Bianca conked out long before she was meant to, curled boneless and warm in Theo’s arms, and you and him would exchange a silent look before jointly deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. No pajamas. No teeth brushed. Not if it meant waking her. You’d just lay her down as she was and hope she didn't wake up.
Some nights, she went down like a dream—padding excitedly toward bed because she was looking forward to the story that Theo read to her. When it was your turn, Bianca would read to you instead, you'd study the pictures with exaggerated seriousness, and make enthusiastic oohs and ahhs at all the right moments while Bianca beamed in pride at her reading skills.
And then there were the nights she refused.
It would almost be easier if she weren’t tired—at least then you could burn the energy off. A walk around the castle usually did the trick. More often than not, she’d be asleep in Theo’s arms before you even turned back toward the common room, her cheek pressed into his shoulder, breathing slow and even.
But the worst nights were when she was exhausted and still couldn’t sleep.
Overtired, overstimulated, and furious about it.
The crying cut through you in a way nothing else did—sharp and relentless, scraping along your nerves until you felt hollowed out. Theo held on as long as he could. When it became too much, he’d quietly excuse himself.
"Ten minutes." He promised, "I'll be back."
But when fifteen passed and he still hadn’t returned, you didn’t go looking for him. You knew where he was—the common room, breathing, grounding himself. You let him have those extra minutes.
You held Bianca instead, her small body tense in your arms, her face damp with tears. You hugged her close and rocked back and forth, humming softly at first, then singing—a lullaby from a film you used to love as a child.
Gradually, the sobs quieted.
Her breathing evened out.
And when you were absolutely certain she was gone—truly asleep—you tucked her into bed, smoothing the blankets, lingering just long enough to make sure she didn’t stir.
Only then did you leave.
You closed the door quietly behind you and let out a long breath.
“She’s finally down.” You murmured, collapsing onto the couch beside Theo like your bones had simply decided they were finished.
He looked up from the parchment spread across the coffee table. His hair was mussed, sleeves rolled up, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come back up.” He said quietly.
Your head tipped against his shoulder without thinking. “It’s okay, Theo,” You replied softly, “You deserved the break after the fight to get her into pajamas.”
He exhaled—a deep, exhausted sigh—and let his head fall forward for a moment. The common room was dim, fire crackling low, everything wrapped in that hazy, end-of-day quiet where the world felt temporarily paused.
After a beat, Theo straightened slightly, shaking his head like he could physically shake himself awake. “Okay,” He said, gesturing to the parchment with his chin, “Do you want to start writing the Charms essay?”
You nodded, eyes already heavy. “In a second,” You murmured, “Just… give me a second.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
The fire crackled. The room softened. The parchment remained untouched.
And sometime in the night, Theo’s head tipped gently against yours, his breathing evening out as sleep finally claimed him too—the two of you tangled together on the couch like you belonged there.
Morning crept into the Slytherin common room slowly.
Pale light filtered in through the tall windows, casting faint shapes across the stone floor and catching on the dying embers in the fireplace. The room was quiet in that in-between way—too early for students rushing to class, too late for true solitude.
Sometime during the night, the distance between you and Theo had disappeared entirely.
Your head was tucked beneath his chin now, his arm slung loosely—but securely—around your waist. One of your legs had somehow ended up tangled with his, your body curved into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His cheek rested against the crown of your head, breath warm and steady, fingers curled faintly into the fabric of your sleeve.
You looked… settled.
Theo hadn’t slept that deeply in weeks.
The first voices shattered the quiet.
“Oi—what the hell?”
Blaise stopped short just inside the common room, halfway through a yawn. Mattheo, behind him, followed his line of sight—and froze. Then a slow, shit-eating grin spread across his face.
“Mama y papà.” He said cheerfully.
Theo stirred at the sound, brows knitting together. You shifted too, burrowing closer on instinct, your face scrunching in your sleep in that exact way Bianca did when she didn’t want to wake up yet.
Theo’s eyes fluttered open.
It took him a moment to piece things together.
The couch. The dying fire. The weight against his chest.
You.
His arm tightened before he could stop himself.
Draco let out a low whistle. “Merlin,” He drawled, “You leave one kid with him for a week and suddenly he’s playing house.”
Theo’s eyes snapped fully open, “Shut up.”
Lorenzo folded his arms, unimpressed but unmistakably entertained, “Are we interrupting something?”
You shifted again, mumbling something soft and unintelligible into Theo’s chest. Your hand slid up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt like it was a lifeline.
Theo held his breath.
For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling—at the stone arches, at the faint greenish light—fully aware of his friends staring like the two of you were a particularly scandalous exhibit in a zoo.
And still, despite himself, his eyelids felt heavy again.
“Bianca?” He murmured, voice barely there.
“Still fast asleep.” Mattheo supplied easily.
Theo didn’t even fight it.
His eyes slid shut again, arm tightening just a fraction more around you as his head tipped back against the couch.
Out cold.
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
“Oh my God,” Blaise whispered, “He’s actually asleep."
Lorenzo stared, "My old man used to do the same too. Fell asleep through a whole movie once."
The Slytherin common room was almost unnervingly quiet at that hour.
The fire burned low in the hearth, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls, green flames reflecting in the tall windows like something alive beneath the lake outside. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, leaving only a soft pool of light near the couches where you and Theo sat—books spread open, parchment littered with notes, ink smudges marking the evidence of three solid feet of Transfiguration essays each.
You were officially on a break.
You shivered, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders just as Theo stood, rolling his neck once before moving toward the small table where he’d set up the kettle. You watched him quietly as he brewed tea—precise, unhurried, like the ritual itself grounded him.
When he returned and placed a cup in front of you, you couldn’t help the smile that curved your lips.
The teabag was still steeping.
You took a careful sip. It was perfect. Strong, but not bitter. Exactly how you liked it.
A soft chuckle slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Theo glanced up, “What?”
You shook your head, lifting the cup slightly, “Nothing. Just—thank you.”
He nodded once, but his mouth twitched like he knew there was more to it.
Then, almost without thinking, you said, “You know… before meeting her, I didn’t think I’d ever even look twice at you.”
Theo’s quill froze mid-scratch.
Slowly, he turned to face you, one brow lifting. “Wow,” He drawled, “I feel incredibly flattered.”
You winced, “No—wait. That came out wrong.”
He studied you now, the teasing edge fading, curiosity sharpening his expression.
“I just mean,” You continued, fingers worrying the hem of your sleeve, “before Bianca, I honestly thought we’d graduate and pass by each other without ever really being in each other’s lives.” You hesitated, “But now…”
“Now what?” He asked quietly.
You gestured vaguely between the two of you—the firelight, the late hour, the way his knee brushed yours and neither of you moved away.
“You know exactly how I like my tea,” You said softly, “And I know how you like yours. I’m allergic to smoke, and you stopped smoking before this even became…” Your voice trailed off as you ducked your head, unsure how to name what sat between you, “Whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is,” You finished, almost to yourself, “It’s funny, isn’t it? How sometimes things just… happen. Completely out of order.”
Theo leaned back slightly, watching you like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.
“She changed things.” He said.
“Yes,” You whispered, “She certainly did.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“I never thought about it before.” He admitted finally, voice low.
“About what?”
“Any of this,” He said, “A family. A future. I didn’t think I was capable of it, to be honest.” His jaw tightened. “Thought I was too screwed up to deserve one.”
Your chest ached.
“And now?” You asked softly.
“Now,” He said, barely above a breath, “I want it more than anything in the world.” His eyes met yours, “Bianca. And you.”
Your heart stuttered painfully.
“I don’t know when it happened,” He went on, “Or how. I just know that somewhere along the way, I stopped yearning for my past—and started anticipating the future instead.”
The fire popped, sharp in the stillness.
You looked at him—really looked. The shadows beneath his eyes. The tension he carried like armor. The boy who had let himself love without realizing how deeply it would cut.
“I think,” You said, voice trembling just slightly, “I feel the same way, Theo.” You swallowed, “I want a future with you.”
You reached for him before fear could catch up, your fingers brushing his wrist. He went utterly still at the contact, breath hitching like you’d struck something vital.
You hesitated, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you lifted your gaze to his—and then your hands began to tremble when you saw it. The want in his eyes. Bare. Unguarded.
Theo leaned in slowly, deliberately—giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
His forehead rested against yours first, warm and steady, grounding you both.
“Ti amo.” He whispered.
You didn’t need to understand Italian to know what he was saying.
The kiss started softly, tentative—his lips brushing yours like a question he was afraid to ask too loudly. When you responded, just as gently, his breath shuddered, relief and emotion tangling together.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. Like he was learning you. Like he was afraid that if he rushed, the moment might fracture.
His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if anchoring himself. You melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater, the firelight warming your skin as the world narrowed to this—this quiet, impossible thing that had found you both.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, foreheads still touching.
You really did love him.
Theo had been in a mood.
It settled over him the moment the owl arrived—thick parchment, precise handwriting, the professors’ seal pressed into the wax like a finality. You’d read it together at the kitchen table in the common room, Bianca swinging her legs beneath the chair, humming to herself as she colored, blissfully unaware.
We believe we have found a way to reverse the spell.
Preliminary tests indicate a high probability of success.
We are confident we can return the child to her proper time.
Ever since then, something in Theo had gone quiet.
Not angry. Not cruel. Just… withdrawn. As if he’d folded inward, brick by careful brick, building walls he refused to name. He spoke less. Smiled less. When Bianca reached for him, he held her a little tighter, a little longer—like he was memorizing the weight of her, the way she fit against his chest.
You told yourself you understood.
Of course he was going to miss her. You were going to miss her too. Somewhere between shared breakfasts and bedtime stories, scraped knees and tangled curls, Bianca had taken root in your heart. The thought of watching her vanish—of returning to your normal lives and pretending these weeks hadn’t rewritten you—made your throat ache in a way you didn’t know how to soothe.
That night, Bianca went to bed easily.
Too easily.
She pressed a sticky kiss to your cheek, murmured something sleepy in Italian, and curled beneath her blankets without protest. No fuss. No tears. Just acceptance.
It felt like a bad omen.
Theo waited until the door clicked shut behind you before he spoke.
“What if we don’t send her back?”
You turned slowly, the words not quite registering, “What?”
“What if we keep her here,” He said, voice low and urgent, like if he spoke too loudly the idea might shatter, “What if we just—don’t go through with it. We have time with her. Real time. Why should we give that up?”
Your stomach dropped.
“Theo,” You said carefully, “What are you talking about?”
“We’re her parents,” He said, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious, “And if we send her back, we’re sending her to a life where she doesn’t have a mother. At least this way—” His voice cracked, just slightly, “—at least this way she has both of us.”
“Theo—”
“I know it hasn’t been perfect,” He rushed on, stepping closer, words tumbling over each other, “But we’re learning. We can do this. We already are. You see her—she’s happy here. She’s safe.” His eyes searched yours desperately, “She doesn’t have to lose you.”
Your chest burned.
“I know we could do this,” You whispered, “I know that. But Bianca isn’t our child. Not really. No matter how badly we want her to be.”
His jaw tightened, muscles jumping beneath the skin.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” He said sharply, “To grow up without a mother. To wake up every day knowing there’s a hole in your life you’ll never fill.” His voice dropped, rough and raw, “If she stays here, she doesn’t have to lose you. Whatever it is—whatever happens to you—we can catch it early. We can fix it.”
Your vision blurred.
“If Bianca stays here,” You said, voice breaking, “the you in the future loses his daughter forever. He’s already lost his wife, Theo. Don’t make him lose his baby girl too.”
Something in him snapped.
“Screw him.” He said hoarsely.
He reached for you suddenly, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes like he could stop the tears if he tried hard enough. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.
“I have everything I’ve ever wanted right here,” He whispered, “Right now.”
Your sob escaped before you could stop it, fingers clutching at his sleeves like an anchor.
“Theo,” You breathed, “you know as well as I do… she isn’t meant to be here.”
He sucked in a breath—and this time, he couldn’t hold it back.
The sob tore out of his chest, raw and broken, his grip tightening like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
“Don’t make me give you up, (Y/N),” He choked, voice collapsing on your name, “Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you too.”
His forehead stayed pressed to yours as his shoulders shook, grief and fear and want spilling out all at once. He wasn’t just pleading for Bianca.
He was pleading for you.
For the life he’d tasted and already couldn’t bear to lose.
And you held him there, crying quietly into his collar, knowing that love—no matter how real—was not enough to change fate.
The second Theo entered the hospital wing, every instinct in his body screamed the same reckless, impossible thing.
Grab you. Grab Bianca. Apparate.
Disappear so completely that no one would ever find you again.
His mother had family in Italy—old blood, old names, people who still believed hospitality was sacred. They would open their doors. They would help you. They would protect you.
How hard could it be, really, to end up on their doorstep with a frightened child and a woman he loved?
Too easy.
Too selfish.
You didn’t even look at him when the thought flickered across his face. You simply squeezed Bianca’s hand and guided her forward, gentle but firm. You knew if you looked back at him, you would be all to convinced to leave together.
Theo swallowed hard, the bitterness rising sharp and ugly in his throat.
All he wanted—all he had ever wanted—was for the three of you to be happy. Together. Why was that such an impossible thing to ask for? Why did it feel like the universe kept dangling it just close enough for him to taste before ripping it away?
He knew the truth, even if it tore him apart.
Bianca belonged with his older self.
The man who chose to have her.
The man who could protect her.
The man who could stay.
But she was his daughter too—damn it. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood. And the thought of letting her go felt like carving something vital out of his chest.
You knelt in front of Bianca, pulling her into a tight embrace. You kissed her forehead, whispered words she couldn’t possibly understand, and said as little as you could. Her fingers were small and warm in yours, but they grew slick with sweat as she glanced around at the unfamiliar adults. She tightened her grip, grounding herself the only way she knew how, holding onto you like she could anchor the moment in place.
Theo watched, throat burning.
Then he knelt too.
He’d done it a thousand times—tying her shoes, wiping tears from her cheeks, crouching to her level when he needed her attention—but this time his knees hit the stone floor harder than usual. Pain flared and vanished, eclipsed by something far worse. His hands trembled as they came up to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing over her skin slowly, reverently—like he was trying to memorize the exact warmth of her.
“Hey.” He said softly.
His voice cracked immediately.
He closed his eyes, jaw tightening, and tried again, “Bambina.” (Little one)
Her eyes lifted to his.
Just like yours—wide, glassy, endlessly deep. Like looking into a pool of pearlescent ink that reflected too much truth.
“Ti vedrò presto, amore.” He said gently, brushing a curl back from her face. (I’ll see you soon, love.)
“Le cose saranno un po’ diverse…” His breath hitched, “Ma devi avere pazienza, va bene? Andrà tutto bene.” (Things will be a little different… but you need to be patient, okay? Everything will be fine.)
Bianca studied him with grave seriousness, like she was weighing his words carefully.
Then—suddenly—her face lit up.
“Oh!” She said brightly, “Come quella volta.” (Oh! Like that time.)
Theo blinked, “Come quando?” (Like when?)
“Come quando sei andato via con la mamma.” She explained easily. (Like when you went away with Mama.)
His chest tightened, “Quando?” (When?)
“Quando siete andati in ospedale.” She continued, rocking on her feet. (When you went to the hospital.)
"E poi sei tornato a casa felice." (And then you came home with happiness.)
Theo’s breath caught violently.
The room tilted.
"Felice?" He asked quietly, feeling like hell. (Happy?)
The word felt wrong in his mouth.
A cold, sickening thought slithered into his mind.
Was he happy when you passed?
His chest tightened, panic blooming sharp and fast, bile rising in his throat. His hands trembled where they rested, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Then—
Bianca tilted her head, frowning slightly—confused by his confusion.
“Quando sei tornato con il mio fratellino, Felice.” She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. (When you came back with my little brother, Felice.)
The world went very, very still.
Blood rushed through Theo’s head so fast he swayed, knees locking as though a feather could knock him over.
“Tuo… fratello?” He repeated hoarsely. (Your… brother?)
She nodded, curls bouncing. “Sì.” (Yes.)
“È piccolo,” She added solemnly, “Piange tanto.” (He’s little. He cries a lot.)
The hospital.
You being sick.
Too sick to carry her.
Too sick to eat breakfast.
The reason Bianca hadn’t seemed sad.
The reason she’d been so independent.
Not because you were going to die.
But because you were making room for someone new.
Felice.
Happiness.
Everything slid into place with sickening, breathtaking clarity.
“Oh." Theo breathed.
Bianca reached up, cupping his cheek with her small, warm hand.
“Non piangere, papà,” She whispered. (Don’t cry, Papa.)
He hadn’t even realized he was crying until that moment.
Salazar—this was mortifying. Breaking down like this. In front of professors. In front of you. In front of a three-year-old.
And yet—he couldn’t stop.
Tears spilled freely now, hot and unrestrained.
Because now he knew.
He would be happy.
He would love you.
And you would love him back.
You would build a life together. Two children. Maybe more. A family so warm and whole that Bianca would speak of it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His children would never have to imagine a future without their mother.
He would never have to watch them grow up with that hollow ache he’d carried his entire life.
He would never have to watch you get sick, watch you leave this world, leaving him alone to raise your daughter, the last remaining memory of you.
Theo pulled Bianca into his chest, holding her like he could imprint the feeling into his bones—her weight, her warmth, the steady beat of her heart.
“Ti amo.” He choked, “Ti amo tantissimo.” (I love you so, so much.)
Her arms wrapped around his neck—fierce and small.
You stared at the pair of them, heart aching, mind reeling. You felt for Theo—deeply—but shock quickly overtook sympathy.
Because between the two of them, you had absolutely not expected him to be the one crying.
“…Wait,” You said slowly. “What’s going on?”
Bianca turned her head as best she could while still buried against Theo’s chest.
“Papa says he loves me, mamma,” She announced cheerfully, “You’re too slow these days.”
Both of you froze.
“…You speak English?” You and Theo said in unison.
bonus:
The room was finally quiet.
Bianca was gone—sent back to a future that suddenly felt more real than the present—and Theo’s bedroom felt too large without her small presence filling it. The curtains were half-drawn, moonlight spilling across the sheets in pale silver bands. You lay on your side facing Theo, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arm resting loosely around your waist.
Theo was on the cusp of sleep, just as he had been for the past hour, but your incessant thinking refused to let him go.
“But if Bianca hadn’t come back,” You murmured, staring up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, “we would’ve just… gone on with our lives.”
He hummed softly, half-asleep but listening, his thumb tracing absentminded shapes into your side.
“And we wouldn’t have fallen in love,” You continued, the words tumbling out faster now, like if you didn’t say them you’d drown in them, “And if we didn’t fall in love, she wouldn’t exist. Which means she wouldn’t be able to come back and make us fall in love in the first place.”
You turned your face into his chest, your voice muffled, “So at the center of the loop—at the very beginning—there had to be a version of us that fell in love and had Bianca without any intervention at all.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy but not empty.
Then Theo sighed, fond and exhausted and deeply amused in that way that meant he loved you too much to be irritated.
“(Y/N), my love… amore mio,” He said gently. He had taken to repeating everything in Italian after English so it would help you learn faster. You felt his chest rise as he spoke again, slower and deliberate.
“My future bride… la mia futura sposa. It is four in the morning.”
You groaned softly. “I know,” You sighed, “I just… I miss her.”
His arm tightened around you, grounding and warm, “Me too.”
For a moment, that was all there was—breathing, moonlight, and the quiet certainty that somewhere, somehow, the two of you were happy and whole.
Then Theo shifted.
You felt it before you saw it: the subtle slide of his hand, warm fingers sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt like he thought you wouldn’t notice.
“Say the word, dolcezza,” He murmured, his voice dipping into something unmistakably dangerous, “and I’ll bring her back to us.”
You slapped his hand away without even looking.
“It is four in the morning.” You said flatly.
He chuckled, low and unapologetic, eyes still closed like this was all part of his master plan, “Italiano, per favore.”
You hesitated, “Um… sono...sono le… una, due, tre, quattro… quattro del mattino?” (Um...it's....one, two three, four....four in the morning?)
“Perfetta,” He said smugly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Your accent is getting better.”
bonus bonus teehee:
The front door closed with a quiet, final click behind you.
For a moment, you just stood there.
The house felt different somehow—too still, like it had been holding its breath. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The sofa. The stairs. The framed photos waiting to be filled with memories that hadn’t happened yet.
Home.
You looked down at the bundle in your arms, your baby boy wrapped in impossibly soft blankets, his face pink and sleepy and perfect. Tears blurred your vision before you even realized they were coming.
Theo stepped in behind you, arms full—hospital bags slung over his shoulders, a car seat awkwardly balanced against his hip. He froze when he saw your face.
“Hey.” He murmured gently.
You turned, blinking hard, then leaned into him anyway, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—slow, grounding, full of everything you didn’t have words for. Then you kissed Felice’s tiny forehead, breathing him in like you’d been afraid he might disappear.
“Bentornato a casa, piccolo,” You whispered, voice shaking, “This is where you’re going to grow up.” (Welcome home, baby boy)
Theo swallowed, eyes shining. He reached out, brushing one finger over Felice’s cheek like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.
And then—
“MAMMA!”
Footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Bianca came flying into the hallway, curls bouncing wildly, socks half-slipping off her feet. Mattheo, her godfather, was right behind her, laughing and reaching out uselessly like he could actually stop her.
“Bianca—piano, piano!” He called, “Slow down—!”
Theo reacted instantly.
He dropped the bags without a second thought and scooped Bianca up mid-run, lifting her clean off the ground just before she could crash straight into you. She shrieked with laughter as he spun her once, relief spilling out of him in a dozen breathless kisses pressed to her cheeks, her temple, her nose.
You watched them with a soft, aching smile.
Your heart lurched at the sight of your baby girl in his arms—hair wild, eyes bright, whole and glowing with excitement. You had missed her more than you’d allowed yourself to admit during the last few days. Every quiet moment in the hospital had carried the echo of her laughter, the absence of her small weight climbing into your lap.
You had been waiting eagerly to acquaint your children.
Theo had insisted it was better this way. Better for your recovery, better that you didn’t have to juggle between children so soon. He’d been gentle but unmovable about it, the same way he’d been your entire pregnancy—this one and Bianca’s.
At the first sign of discomfort, he’d been apparating you straight to the hospital wing or summoning your healer for a home visit without hesitation. You’d teased him once that your obstetrician must be thoroughly sick of him by now.
But judging by the way Theo paid—promptly, generously, without ever blinking—and by the fine silk scarf and expensive purse he’d gifted the healer who brought both of his children into the world, you suspected annoyance was the last thing they felt.
If anything, they were probably fond of him.
“Hey—hey—hey,” He murmured into her hair, “Careful, amore mio. Papà’s got you.”
Theo finally stopped spinning, still holding Bianca securely against his chest. He pressed one last kiss into her curls and rested his forehead briefly against hers, eyes closed like he was grounding himself.
And you realized, with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness—
And despite the 36 hours of grueling labor, you realized that, for this man, you would do it all again in a heartbeat.
Theo shifted Bianca onto one hip, still holding her tight as if she might vanish if he let go. Her laughter softened into a happy hum as she curled into him, arms looped around his neck.
Then her eyes finally landed on you.
On the bundle in your arms.
“Mamma?” She whispered, voice suddenly small.
You felt your throat close instantly.
“Vieni qui, amore,” You murmured, smiling through the sting behind your eyes, “Piano, va bene?” (Come here, love. Easy, okay?)
Theo crouched, keeping Bianca safely lifted as he guided her closer, one protective hand braced at her back. Mattheo lingered a few steps behind, unusually quiet, waiting for the family to have their moment.
Bianca leaned forward, peering into the soft folds of the blanket.
The baby stirred, tiny fingers flexing, lips puckering in a half-sleepy frown.
Her gasp was barely a sound.
“È… piccolo,” She breathed, "He's smaller than me."
Theo huffed out a soft laugh, eyes glassy.
You tilted Felice just enough so she could see his face properly. His eyes fluttered open for a brief second—dark, unfocused, brand new.
Bianca’s hand twitched like she wanted to reach out, then froze mid-air.
“Posso?” She asked, glancing up at you for permission. (Can I?)
“Yes,” You whispered, “Gently.”
Felice shifted again, a soft sound leaving him, and Bianca’s eyes went impossibly wide.
"He spoke to me." She gasped.
Theo pressed his lips together hard, eyes shining as he bent to kiss the side of Bianca’s head, then yours. His free hand came up to cradle you, thumb stroking slow, careful circles like he was afraid the moment might shatter.
“This,” he said quietly, voice thick, “is Felice, your little brother.”
Bianca straightened immediately.
“Felice,” She repeated, testing the name. Then she smiled, bright and sure, “Ciao, Felice. Io sono Bianca.”
The baby slept on, oblivious.
Mattheo cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes like something had gotten in them, "Merlin, enough to make a grown man cry."
And standing there in the doorway of your home, with laughter in the air and your children between you, you knew—
This was it.
This was the life Bianca had promised.
Happy.
bonus bonus BONUS scene for my patient babies:
The one thing about living in Italy was that you missed the company.
Not the weather, not the food—certainly not the wine—but them. The loud, sharp-edged comfort of people who knew you before the life you’d built now. The friends who felt less like friends and more like family, forged in dungeons and late nights and shared survival.
The friends you’d left behind at Hogwarts.
You thanked every higher power you could think of that Mattheo had moved here a few years after Bianca was born. It softened the ache. Made the distance feel survivable.
And now—now that it was Bianca’s sixth birthday, the first child in the entire group to hit that milestone—the rest of them had descended to Italy like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Thank goodness Slytherins were rich.
Draco and Blaise were already deep in conversation near the terrace doors, voices low and animated, catching up like no time had passed at all. Lorenzo and Mattheo, meanwhile, had somehow been tricked—lured, really—into assembling Bianca’s princess castle in the middle of the sitting room.
That would teach them to bring gifts that required instructions.
Bianca hovered nearby like a general overseeing her troops, crown slightly askew, offering entirely unhelpful instructions. Felice, on the other hand, had claimed the discarded wrapping paper as his own, even though his uncles had been kind enough to bring presents for him as well.
Instead, he toddled around the sitting room, triumphantly dragging the empty box the princess castle had come in behind him, until Theo scooped him up at the last second—saving him from the scattered screws as Mattheo struggled to put the thing together.
Theo hovered near you like a shadow, as he always did these days. One hand rested habitually—possessively—against the small of your back, grounding, warm. The other balanced Felice on his hip, your son’s face still slightly sticky with cake frosting as he played absently with the little tie you’d put him in today.
Then the front doors flew open.
“MISS ME, YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS?”
Pansy Parkinson’s voice sliced clean through the manor.
Theo barely had time to turn before she was already there—flinging her coat into Draco’s arms without looking, heels clicking furiously across the marble floor. Her eyes found you instantly.
Her face lit up.
“Oh my God—” She started, already smiling—
Then she stopped.
Her gaze dropped.
Paused.
Lifted.
Dropped again.
You barely had time to blink before—
SMACK.
Theo yelped, jerking back, hand flying to his arm, “What the hell—?!”
Pansy rounded on him like a woman possessed, “Can you PLEASE stop climbing on top of this poor woman?”
You laughed helplessly, one hand instinctively moving to your stomach.
Theo stared at her, scandalized, “Excuse you—”
“Salazar’s balls,” Pansy cut in, eyes wild, “How many children are you planning on having? Fancy your own Quidditch team, do you?!”
“How many children we decide to have is none of you—”
“And she is not an oven to keep popping out your buns,” Pansy said sweetly, patting his shoulder like she was doing him a favor, “Control yourself.”
Theo spluttered, “It’s not like I could carry them myself, now could I?!”
“You’re a wizard,” She snapped back, “I think you could figure it out!”
You tried—tried—to regain control, “Pansy—”
She turned on a dime, expression melting instantly as she crossed the space between you and pulled you into a careful hug.
“Oh, come here,” She murmured, “Look at you. Absolutely glowing.”
You laughed against her shoulder.
“I get it,” She added thoughtfully, pulling back to look at you again, “If I were Theo, I’d be filling you up with kids too.”
Theo opened his mouth.
SMACK.
“Do not.” Pansy warned.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Summary: Theodore never wanted children. The day his mother died was the day he had sworn off any semblance of a family. That was until a child appears before him, claiming to be his daughter.
A/N: this is NOT a pregnancy fic you guys i promise also i didn't want to split this into two parts but tumblr deemed it too long so um two parts ig
credits to @dividers-are-us for the divider
Part 2
Theodore Nott had read enough books to know that the day his entire life changed was supposed to feel different.
The air would be heavier. The world sharper. Something—anything—would be off. A subtle wrongness, a warning. Foreshadowing of the wrench about to be thrown into his carefully ordered life.
He had felt it once before, when his mother died and left a hollow space behind that never quite filled.
But that was the thing.
Nothing felt wrong about today.
Had everything gone as it usually did, it would have been completely mundane—monotonous, even. Theodore woke up, ate breakfast, slipped outside for a smoke. Double Potions. Another smoke. Transfiguration. Lunch. Arithmancy.
And now he was stuck in Charms.
Professor Flitwick had been lecturing about advanced spell interactions—something about like and unlike spells, wand movements and intent—when the first spell fizzled.
Then another.
Then three more went wildly off course, sparks ricocheting off desks and dissolving into the air like fireflies gone wrong.
Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, unimpressed.
“Focus,” Flitwick snapped, wand raised, “Clearly someone here has—”
The room cracked.
Not shattered. Not exploded.
Cracked—like reality itself had split open for half a second.
There was a blinding flash of gold light, a rush of displaced air, and then—
Silence.
Sitting in the middle of the classroom floor was a little girl.
She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. Dark curls fell into her face, dressed in pajamas, and her small hands were clenched into fists as she looked around, eyes wide and terrified.
For exactly two seconds, she was quiet.
Then her lip trembled.
“—Papà?”
Her voice broke.
And then she started crying.
Not soft sniffles. Full-on, panicked sobs—the kind that came from being suddenly, completely lost.
“Voglio il mio papà!” She cried, scrambling to her feet, “Voglio andare a casa!” (I want my daddy! I want to go home!)
The classroom froze.
“…Did she just Apparate?” Someone whispered.
Another voice, baffled, “She’s a child.”
A Ravenclaw girl cautiously stepped forward, “Hey, it’s okay—”
The girl recoiled instantly, backing away as if burned, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“No! No, no, no!” She sobbed, shaking her head violently, “Non ti conosco! Voglio il mio papà! Voglio papà!” (I don't know you! I want my daddy! I want daddy!)
She spun in a slow, desperate circle, looking at all of them with pure, unfiltered fear.
“Papà! Dove sei?!” (Dad! Where are you?!)
Theo stared at her from his seat.
He wasn’t heartless—of course he wasn’t. There was something about the way she wailed, the sheer terror in her voice, that made his chest tighten painfully. And yet, he stayed where he was.
Blaise nudged his arm, “Oi, Nott. You speak Italian, don’t you?”
He didn’t bother answering. Everyone already knew—thanks to the absolute slew of Italian curses he’d hurled at Weasley during the last Quidditch match.
“Great,” Blaise said immediately, “Do something.”
Theo’s eyes flicked back to the girl.
She had dropped to her knees now, small hands pressed to her face as she cried, her breathing beginning to hitch dangerously. A Hufflepuff girl hovered nearby, concern written all over her face, but every step closer only made the child cry harder.
“Voglio il mio papà… per favore…” She sobbed between gasps. (I want my daddy… please…)
Something twisted uncomfortably in Theo’s chest.
“I’m not exactly a baby person.” He muttered.
“Nott,” the Ravenclaw girl hissed, “She’s a toddler. She’s about to have a panic attack, and she can’t understand a word we’re saying.”
The girl let out a sharp, breathless sob, her chest stuttering as she tried—and failed—to calm herself.
“Papà…” She whimpered.
Theo closed his eyes for a brief second and exhaled.
“Cazzo.” (fuck)
He pushed his chair back and stood.
The entire classroom fell silent as he took a step toward her.
Theo approached slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture despite himself.
“Ehi,” He said gently, crouching a few feet away from her. His voice was low, careful, “Va tutto bene. Respira, sì? Piano, piano.” (It’s okay. Breathe, yeah? Slowly, slowly.)
The girl barely registered him.
She was still crying hard, hiccupping sobs shaking her tiny frame as she shook her head over and over, “No, no, no… voglio papà… voglio papà adesso…” (No, no, no… I want daddy… I want daddy now)
“Io so,” Theo murmured, trying to keep his tone steady, “Ma sei al sicuro. Nessuno ti farà male. Guarda me, piccola.” (I know, but you're safe. No one's going to hurt you. Look at me, little one.)
He reached out slightly—then stopped, unsure.
“Come ti chiami?” He asked softly. (What's your name?)
She sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve, eyes squeezed shut as if refusing to look at the world around her. “Voglio papà,” She repeated stubbornly, voice breaking again, “Ho paura…” (I want dad, I'm scared)
Theo swallowed.
“Papà non è lontano,” He said, choosing his words carefully, “Va bene? Respira con me.” (Dad’s not far away, Okay? Breathe with me.)
That was when she opened her eyes.
Really looked at him.
Her crying hitched mid-sob.
For half a second, her face went utterly still—eyes widening, breath catching like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
Then—
“Papà!”
She surged forward.
Theo barely had time to react before a small body collided with his chest, tiny arms wrapping around his neck with desperate force. She buried her face into his robes, clutching him like he might disappear if she let go.
“Papà, papà, papà,” She cried, the word tumbling out between sobs, “Ti ho trovato… non andare via… per favore…” (I found you… don't go away… please…)
Theo froze.
Completely. Utterly.
His arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do as the child clung to him, shaking with leftover fear. Her tears soaked straight through his uniform as she pressed closer, like she was trying to crawl into him.
The room was dead silent.
Theo’s eyes flicked up.
Every single person was staring.
Flitwick looked like he might faint. The Ravenclaw girl’s mouth hung open. Blaise had gone eerily still, eyebrows raised so high they were nearly in his hairline.
Theo slowly mouthed, Get this child off me.
No one moved.
The girl sniffed loudly and tightened her grip, small hands fisting in the fabric of his robes. “Papà.” She whimpered again, quieter now, exhausted.
Theo looked down at her—at the way she fit far too easily against him, at how natural it felt for her to be there—and felt his brain short-circuit.
“I—” He cleared his throat, voice coming out rough, “Io… eh…”
She tilted her head just enough for him to feel the movement, her grip loosening slightly as the tension finally drained from her small body. Her breathing stuttered once more, then evened out, warm against his chest.
Theo looked down just in time to see her eyelids flutter.
Once.
Twice.
And then she was gone.
Fast asleep.
Her forehead rested against his collarbone, tiny fingers still curled tightly in his robes like she was afraid to let go even in sleep. A quiet, shaky sigh left her, the last echo of fear finally spent.
Theo swallowed hard.
The hospital wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, but it did nothing to calm the chaos of the little girl in Theo Nott’s arms. Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and Snape hovered nearby, wands and parchment at the ready, while a few house-elves scurried nervously at the edges of the room.
Theo wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here—one hand on her back, the other awkwardly supporting her legs—and frankly, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to set her down in a cot and get the hell out of there.
“She appears… well, as far as magical diagnostics go." Pomfrey said uncertainly, trailing off.
Flitwick rubbed at the crease between his brows and sighed, “I’m not even sure what spells were cast. Perhaps someone transfigured an object into a child… though it seems highly unlikely. I did a head count, but maybe a student from another class managed to get de-aged? It will take me some time to get to the bottom of this.”
“During which,” McGonagall added crisply, “We need to figure out where exactly she is going to reside.”
All eyes turned to Theo, still awkwardly seated on the bed. The green tie in her grubby hands was clutched tightly, her shirt streaked with snot from her tears. He stared at the ceiling, silently praying to whatever deity listened that this problem would disappear.
“All right,” Flitwick muttered, “We need… more concrete information. Perhaps a simple veritas test to confirm basic biological markers…”
He waved his wand carefully over a tiny strand of her hair, muttering under his breath. The result came up empty. Flitwick let out a frustrated sigh, before his gaze fell on the way her small body curled naturally against Theo. Her fear of strangers was… painfully clear.
He waved his wand again, more deliberately this time.
“It would seem, Mr. Nott,” He began cautiously, “that you are biologically related to her.”
Theo blinked in shock, his grip faltering. The little girl nearly toppled in his arms.
“Excuse me?” He managed, voice tight, heart racing, utterly refusing to acknowledge what Flitwick had just said.
Flitwick adjusted his glasses nervously, “I—I understand this is… unusual. But the magical markers are clear. There is no doubt: you are biologically related to her.”
McGonagall stepped forward, arms crossed, her voice calm but firm, “Mr. Nott, we must consider all possibilities. Clearly, she has appeared here through some magical anomaly."
Snape, leaning against the wall with an unimpressed frown, muttered, “Magical anomaly is one way to put it. Unprecedented, more like.”
Flitwick cleared his throat, “We may need to consider the… temporal aspect. Combined with the accelerated spellwork and residual transfiguration energy from earlier… it is conceivable that she has been displaced here from another point in time.”
Theo blinked, “…You’re saying… she’s from the future?”
“Yes,” McGonagall said carefully, though her eyes softened as she looked at the child curled against him, “And until we can stabilize whatever magical interference brought her here, we will need to come up with a plan to care for her."
Theo exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between frustration and disbelief, "Alright then, take her."
Flitwick hesitated, frowning. The professors exchanged glances.
Theo’s heart thumped in a way that was decidedly unhelpful. The child pressed closer, nuzzling her face into his chest, hiccupping softly.
"Perhaps, it would be best for the child to stay with her fa—"
“I’m not her father,” He said firmly, “…And she is not my responsibility.”
“If you truly refuse,” McGonagall said quietly, “then the staff will care for her until we can determine a safe way to return her to her own time.”
McGonagall nodded once and gestured toward Madam Pomfrey, “Very well.”
Pomfrey stepped forward gently, arms outstretched, “Come now, dear. Let’s get you settled—”
The moment she felt herself being pulled away from the warm chest she’d been clinging to, the effect was immediate.
The little girl stiffened in Theo’s arms, eyes flying open as she registered that the hands lifting her did not belong to him. Her face crumpled, breath hitching once before she broke into loud, panicked sobs.
“No—no, no!” She cried, voice high and shaking, “Papà! Papà, portami!” (Dad! Dad, carry me!)
She twisted against him, burying her face into his chest as if trying to disappear. Tiny arms wrapped around his neck with desperate strength, her small body trembling violently.
“Papà, per favore,” She sobbed, words tumbling over one another, “Ho paura… non voglio… non voglio…” (Daddy, please. I'm scared… I don't want… I don't want…)
Theo’s jaw tightened. He stared straight ahead, pulse pounding, every instinct screaming at him to hand her over and walk away. But her grip only tightened, her cries growing sharp and breathless.
She was shaking.
“Alright,” Theo snapped suddenly, sharper than he meant to, “Stop—just—don’t—”
Everyone froze.
Theo swallowed and glanced down at her. Her face was blotchy and red, lashes clumped with tears, chest hitching unevenly as she struggled to breathe. She looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes, like she was bracing for him to vanish.
Something twisted painfully in his chest.
“…Va bene,” He muttered, the Italian rough but instinctive, “Va bene. Basta piangere.” (All right. No more crying.)
Her sobs stuttered—not stopping, but slowing.
Awkwardly, he adjusted his hold, one arm settling more securely around her back while the other patted her shoulder once—too stiff, too careful. He cleared his throat.
“Shh.” He said quietly, glancing around like he’d been caught doing something illegal, rocking her back and forth like a rusty robot that hadn’t been oiled in years.
She sniffed hard, still clutching him, but the panic ebbed enough for her breathing to even out. Her head tucked beneath his chin, warm and damp against his collar.
McGonagall studied the child for a long moment, then Theo. Her expression softened—just a fraction.
“It seems,” She said evenly, “that she has made her preference quite clear.”
Flitwick nodded, rubbing his hands together nervously, “Yes… yes, I’m afraid forcing the issue would only distress her further.”
Theo exhaled sharply through his nose, “…Unbelievable.”
The girl whimpered once more, fingers tightening in his shirt as if reminding him she was still there.
Theo stiffened, then sighed.
“…Fine,” He said quietly, “Okay. She can—she can stay. For now. Until you figure this out.”
The walk back to the Slytherin dorms was… an experience.
Theo kept his pace measured, one arm secured firmly around the sleeping weight against his chest. She’d fallen back asleep somewhere between the hospital wing and the dungeon corridor, her curls tickling his jaw every time she shifted, breath warm against his collarbone.
He ignored the stares.
The whispers.
The way a passing Hufflepuff nearly walked into a wall trying to figure out why Theodore Nott was carrying a child through the corridors like this was a perfectly normal occurrence.
The Slytherin common room fell silent the moment he stepped inside.
Lorenzo blinked once. Then twice.
“…Is this some sort of social experiment?”
Mattheo’s grin spread slowly, wicked and delighted, “Papa's home.”
Theo shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Say another word,” he warned quietly, “and I’ll hex you.”
Blaise tilted his head, eyes flicking between Theo and the small, curled form in his arms. “Congratulations,” He said lightly, “When were you planning on telling us you’d been leading a double life?”
Theo didn’t dignify that with a response. He adjusted his grip slightly when the girl shifted, instinctively tightening his hold, and turned toward the stairs.
Behind him came a chorus of barely-suppressed laughter and stage-whispered “Night, daddy!” that followed him all the way up.
He noticed the change in his dorm the second he stepped inside.
Not because it was loud.
But because it was wrong.
Sitting neatly on his bed were things that had absolutely not been there that morning.
Tiny clothes, folded with precise magical care. Soft socks. A small blanket charmed with a low, steady warmth. Even a stuffed creature—some sort of dragon, judging by the horns—rested near the pillow, its stitched eyes cheerfully oblivious.
Theo just stood there.
Staring.
This was real. This was happening.
He looked down at the small, sleeping child in his arms, her face slack with sleep, lashes dark against her cheeks. A living, breathing human being. And somehow—somehow—he was now responsible for her.
His stomach twisted.
This hardly seemed responsible.
Did the staff really just let him walk out with an entire child and no follow-up instructions? No pamphlet? No checklist? How was he meant to keep one of these things alive? What if she woke up hungry? Or scared? Or—Merlin forbid—started crying? Again.
Theo swallowed hard, dread creeping in like a cold chill down his spine.
He crossed the room slowly and carefully, as if any wrong step might shatter the fragile reality holding this together, and lowered her onto the bed. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake, curling instinctively toward the lingering warmth of his body.
He hesitated.
Then, with movements stiff and unsure, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and tucked it in the way he vaguely remembered adults doing when he was small—firm but gentle, like it mattered.
He stepped back.
She looked… peaceful.
Completely unaware that she had just detonated his entire existence.
Theo dragged a hand down his face and turned toward the door.
He needed a cigarette. Immediately.
Just as his fingers brushed the handle, a small sound stopped him.
“Papà…”
It was barely audible—a sleepy mumble, her brow knitting faintly as one small hand twitched against the sheets.
Theo froze.
“…Papà.” She murmured again, softer this time, like she was reaching for him even in her dreams.
He closed his eyes and let out a slow, resigned breath.
“Merda.” He muttered.
If he left and she woke up—
He glanced at the chair beside the bed.
Then back at her.
“…Unbelievable.” He whispered.
Theo pulled the chair closer and sat down, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving her face. He flinched every time she so much as twitched, every uneven breath sending his pulse spiking.
Just for tonight.
That’s what he told himself as exhaustion settled heavy in his bones.
Just until she woke up.
Theo woke to pins and needles.
A sharp, unpleasant numbness shot up his legs, like they’d ceased to exist sometime during the night and were only now remembering their purpose. He sucked in a quiet breath and shifted—immediately regretted it.
There was weight on him.
Warm. Solid.
Theo froze.
Slowly, carefully, he looked down.
She was asleep in his lap.
At some point during the night—at some point he did not remember authorizing—the little girl had migrated from the bed, curled herself into the space between his arms and legs, and settled there like she belonged. Her head rested against his bicep, curls splayed messily over his chest, one small hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.
Theo stared.
His mind helpfully offered no explanation.
He vaguely recalled her stirring sometime in the early hours. A soft whimper. A half-formed Papà breathed into the dark. He must have reached out—must have pulled her close without fully waking, murmuring something useless and soothing under his breath.
Apparently, his subconscious had decided this was his life now.
He didn’t move.
Couldn’t, really—his legs were numb to the point of concern, and any shift risked waking her. Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fluttering faintly as she slept, utterly unbothered by the fact that she was using him as a mattress.
Theo let his head fall back against the chair with a silent groan.
“This is a disaster.” He whispered.
She stirred at the sound, nose scrunching slightly, fingers tightening in his sleeve as if anchoring herself. Theo went completely still, heart hammering like he’d been caught committing a crime.
He tensed, eyes snapping down just as she stirred properly, lifting her head and blinking blearily up at him.
For a long second, they just looked at each other.
Then her face brightened.
“Buongiorno,” She said, voice thick with sleep. A pause, “…Papà.” (Good morning.)
After getting her dressed for the day using the clothes the professors had provided, Theo could only thank Salazar that whoever—or whatever—had sent her back in time had at least had the decency to send an older child.
Because Merlin help him, she was competent.
She managed socks on her own. Shoes, too—wrong feet at first, but she fixed it herself with a sharp little huff of frustration. He didn’t even have to supervise. He just stood there, half-awake, watching in stunned silence.
The only time he stepped in was when the shirt became her enemy.
She wrestled with it valiantly, tugging it halfway over her head before getting stuck, arms flailing wildly as she wobbled on the mattress like a headless chicken. For one terrifying second, Theo was certain she was going to pitch forward and crack her skull open on the floor.
Just as he reached her, hands already out, she stamped one socked foot and protested indignantly.
“Papà! Sono una bambina grande—faccio da sola!” (Dad! I'm a big girl, I can do it on my own!)
He waited—hands hovering uselessly in the air—until she finally relented with an irritated sigh and allowed him to tug the shirt the rest of the way down. She immediately smoothed it herself afterward, chin lifted proudly.
Theo pinched the bridge of his nose.
This was going to be a long day.
By the time they stumbled downstairs, the Slytherin dorm was already awake and in motion. Mattheo, Draco, Lorenzo, and Blaise were halfway through getting ready, bags slung over shoulders as they headed out for breakfast.
Theo was still in his pajamas.
He didn’t care.
The professors had given him permission to skip class until further notice—something he had accepted with a detached nod, too tired to even question how serious this apparently was.
He was already mentally charting a course to the kitchens. Quiet. Private. No gawking students. No questions.
He turned toward the common room—
And she bolted.
“—Oi, wait—!”
Too late.
She launched herself down the stairs at an alarming speed, feet barely touching the steps. Theo’s heart stopped dead in his chest.
“Slow down!” He snapped, already moving after her, “You’re going to—”
She did not fall.
Instead, she hit the common room floor at a full sprint and beelined straight for Mattheo, slamming into his pant leg with the force and commitment of a homing missile.
Mattheo yelped, stumbling half a step, “What the—”
“Zio Mattheo!” She chirped joyfully, arms wrapping around his leg like she’d just found a long-lost treasure.
The room went dead silent.
Draco stared.
Lorenzo choked.
Blaise pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking.
Mattheo looked down slowly. Very slowly.
“…Little girl,” He said carefully, “how do you know my name?”
Theo stopped behind her and closed his eyes.
“She can’t speak any English, you idiot.”
Mattheo glanced up at him, affronted, “I see recognition in those beady eyes—”
He looked back down at her just in time to see her grin widen, all teeth and delight.
“Buongiorno!” She announced brightly.
Mattheo snorted despite himself.
Then she lifted her arms toward him, wobbling slightly on her feet, “Portami! Portami, zio Mattheo!”
Mattheo blinked. Once.
Then he looked up at Theo, eyebrow raised.
Theo sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, the tips of his ears burning.
“She’s asking her uncle to carry her.”
Mattheo’s grin turned downright smug as he crouched and scooped her up like she weighed nothing—slung against his arm with all the care of someone carrying a sack of potatoes. She giggled, utterly delighted, legs kicking happily.
Theo moved instantly.
“Oi—if you drop her, I swear to Merlin—!”
Mattheo adjusted his grip lazily, unfazed, “Relax. I’ve got her.”
Blaise smirked, “Wow. Someone’s being all fatherly for a bloke who isn’t a baby person.”
Draco leaned against the stair rail, grinning, “Yeah, daddy. Love this look on you."
“…I hate all of you,” Theo muttered darkly.
The girl twisted in Mattheo’s arms, peering over his shoulder. “Papà!” she called brightly. “Voglio fare colazione con zio Mattheo!” (Daddy! I want to have breakfast with Uncle Mattheo!)
Theo opened his mouth on instinct.
“Non puoi chie—” (You can't ask)
He stopped.
Because she wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t reaching for him.
She wasn’t clinging to his sleeve like the world might end if he stepped two feet away.
She was perfectly content. Happy, even. Nestled comfortably in someone else’s arms.
Theo’s brain stalled.
Then—click.
The realization hit him like divine intervention.
An hour.
A whole, uninterrupted hour without tiny hands grabbing his clothes. Without panicked crying. Without being someone’s emotional anchor.
The synapses in his brain fired one by one like fireworks. Sweet, blessed relief bloomed so fast he was pretty sure he could feel tears—possibly drool—gathering.
He lifted his gaze slowly and locked eyes with Mattheo.
“You,” He said calmly, decisively, “are on babysitting duty.”
“What?” Mattheo barked, “Oi—wait—!”
Theo was already turning away.
“Feed her,” He called over his shoulder, “Don’t drop her."
Out of the common room. Down the corridor. Gone like a wanted man escaping Azkaban.
“HEY!” Mattheo shouted after him, “That’s not how this works!”
The girl waved cheerfully from his arms, “Ciao, papà!”
Mattheo looked down at her.
Then back at the hallway Theo had vanished down.
"Well, I hope you enjoy being an orphan. Take it from me it's better than having a shit dad." He said absently, carrying her toward the door.
Theo didn’t even remember reaching the usual alcove.
He only knew his hands were shaking by the time he lit the cigarette, breath dragging deep and slow as the smoke filled his lungs. The burn grounded him. Anchored him. For five blessed minutes, he was just Theo again—no professors, no timelines, no small human being calling him papà.
He shouldn’t feel guilty for this.
Dammit.
It wasn’t like he was some kind of deadbeat. He wasn’t even her actual father. Her actual father existed a decade in the future and had—presumably—actively chosen to have this suctioning little tentacle of a child.
He exhaled, staring at the stone wall.
And yet.
She adored him. Wanted him. Chose him over everyone else without hesitation. Which meant—somewhere in the future—he must be doing something right.
Sometime in the future… I’m a good father.
The thought unsettled him more than the panic ever had.
He had never imagined children in his life. Never thought himself capable of it—not after losing his mother so young. How would future him handle this? How would he guide her, discipline her, protect her from the quiet, unrelenting cruelties of the world?
How would he keep her safe?
Theo exhaled again, watching the smoke curl upward and vanish.
Merlin, he needed that.
When he finally returned to the common room, the laughter hit him first.
She was being levitated up and down—up and down—by Mattheo, shrieking with unrestrained delight. Chocolate smeared her cheeks, and it was painfully obvious Mattheo had absolutely no sense when it came to not jostling a child who had just eaten her body weight in breakfast.
Theo stepped closer.
Her face lit up the moment she saw him.
“Papà!”
Something eased in his chest.
At least future me doesn’t screw this up, he thought faintly.
Mattheo gently lowered her into Theo’s arms.
And immediately—
“—achoo!”
She blinked. Sniffed.
Then again.
“Ach—ah—choo!”
Theo froze.
Her nose scrunched as she rubbed at it clumsily, eyes beginning to water, cheeks flushing, “Papà…?”
Theo’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.
Was she sick? Had he missed something? She’d been fine an hour ago—
Mattheo’s gaze flicked from her red nose to Theo’s ash-stained fingers. He sighed, already reaching for her and lifting her back into his arms.
“…Go shower,” He said calmly, “I’ll skip first class.”
Theo blinked, “I—I didn’t know—”
“I know,” Mattheo cut in easily, “It’s all good. Go.”
Theo swallowed.
“…Right.” He muttered.
He hesitated only a moment before turning toward the stairs. As he passed, she reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve.
“Papà?” She asked softly.
Theo stopped.
“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly—then corrected himself, Italian rough but sincere, “Tornerò subito. Promesso.” (I'll be right back. Promise)
Her shoulders relaxed instantly.
Mattheo watched him go, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
When Theo returned—hair damp, robes changed, skin scrubbed raw of smoke and ash—the little girl didn’t sneeze once.
Instead, she wriggled free of Mattheo’s arms and launched herself at him with a delighted squeak, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’d been waiting.
Theo caught her automatically.
She settled against him, warm and content.
And for the first time, the weight that settled in his chest had nothing to do with panic.
It felt a lot like guilt.
And something dangerously close to resolve.
Theo was collapsed across his bed, utterly defeated. The day had been… long. He hadn’t even gone to class, but that was before the small human currently treating him like a jungle gym had decided it was time for her daily inspection.
He didn’t even have the energy to move her. She clambered over him, tugging at his robes and sniffing at his hair, and he let her—somehow, it was easier than trying to resist. Five minutes of relative respite came only when she discovered something else interesting: the top of his dresser, the ceiling, the corner of the bedpost.
Every so often, one of her “uncles” captured her attention—Blaise, Draco, and Enzo—each appearing just long enough to be ignored by the child, much to Theo’s surprise. Somehow she recognized them, somehow she liked them, and somehow they had managed to reconcile the fact that she adored Mattheo more than all of them combined faster than Theo had reconciled her existence at all. He watched them all patiently endure, his mind boggling at how quickly they’d adjusted.
Currently, she had his hair in a death grip, determined to tug out every last strand with her clammy little hands. Theo winced as she yanked again, a protest lodged somewhere deep in his chest. She scrambled backward across his chest—kicking him squarely in the face in the process—then crawled toward the edge of the bed and started opening the drawer of his bedside table.
“Oi. Cosa fai?” He asked, tone half-scolding, half-exasperated. (What are you doing)
“Voglio un elastico per capelli! Mamma sempre ne tiene qui.” She declared, fumbling through the drawer. (I want a hair tie! Mom always keeps some here.)
Theo froze.
Mom? She has a mom?
The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. All this time, he had assumed—stupidly—that she had appeared out of thin air, some magical anomaly he had to manage. Now the idea that she had a mother… a real, actual human mother… knocked the air out of his lungs. He felt absurdly unprepared.
She pulled something plastic-sounding from the drawer and held it up.
“Papà… cos’è questo?” (Papa... what is this?)
Theo’s heart skipped. He blinked, eyes widening. And then the aneurysm in his brain fully bloomed: a condom wrapper. In his daughter’s hand.
“Oi! Restituiscilo!” He shouted, leaping upright just in time for her to bolt, giggling, around the room. (Give that back!)
“Get that out of her hand!” He yelled again, spinning to intercept her, but it was too late. She dashed past Blaise, who was already doubled over laughing, and then past Draco, who had his hands pressed over his mouth to keep from cackling. Even Lorenzo had tears in his eyes from the absurdity.
“Little girl,” Lorenzo called, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably as he wiped tears from his face, “wait a second—what is her actual name?”
Theo froze mid-chase, mind scrambling.
“You… you don’t know her name?”
The little girl shrieked with laughter from the foot of the bed, completely oblivious to the chaos she had caused, while Theo felt like the universe was quietly reminding him that, yes he was an utter fool.
The little girl zig-zagged across the room, still clutching the condom wrapper like it was some kind of treasure. Theo lunged, arms flailing, but she ducked under his reach and squealed with pure delight.
“Papà! Prendimi!” She shouted, her voice ringing with mischief. (Papa! Catch me)
“Merlin’s beard, why am I even doing this?!” Theo groaned, diving forward again, only to collide gently with Blaise, who had fallen onto the floor laughing.
“Oi! Watch it, Nott!” Blaise gasped between giggles, brushing off his robes, “Maybe if you had been as enthusiastic about birth control as your little girl there, you wouldn't be having this problem."
Theo didn’t even glance at them. His focus was entirely on the girl, who had somehow vaulted onto the armrest of the sofa and was teetering dangerously.
“Oi! Scendi di lì, immediatamente!” He barked. (Hey! Get down from there, right now!)
“Papà!” She chirped again, holding the wrapper above her head like a flag, “Guarda! Guarda!” (Papa! Look! Look!)
Before he could reach her, Mattheo appeared like a hero in the last second, levitating gently above the floor with his wand, and swooped in. “I got her!” He said triumphantly.
He glanced down at the pile of humans scattered around the room—Blaise doubled over, Draco snickering, Enzo leaning helplessly against the wall—and grinned, “You really gave them a run for their money, huh, Bianca?”
Theo froze mid-lunge.
“You… you know her name?” He asked, voice tight with disbelief.
Mattheo raised an eyebrow, utterly flabbergasted, “You didn’t?”
Raising children, Theo decided, was an absurd amount of work.
He handed Bianca over to Madam Pomfrey the second she woke up.
He had tried—really tried—to delay it, holding out hope that the professors would have some sort of solution by now. But it had been three days. Three days of dungeon air, sleep-mussed curls, and the unmistakable stickiness that came with being a toddler. She desperately needed a shower.
And while Theo was getting increasingly comfortable handling her—some might even say paternal—he was still very much not prepared to be the one responsible for that particular task.
Pomfrey had taken one look at the state of Bianca’s curls, the faint smudges on her cheeks, and Theo’s exhausted expression and immediately agreed.
Theo sighed in relief, already imagining a shower of his own. Or maybe collapsing onto a bed and stealing an extra hour of sleep. He didn’t understand why he was so tired—he was sleeping the same amount he always did.
Still. He felt wrecked.
He promised he’d come back.
Repeated it, even.
Swore on—well. Something. He wasn’t sure what, but it sounded convincing enough.
It didn’t help.
She cried anyway.
Clutched his robes with tiny hands, face crumpling as she begged him not to leave, words tumbling out too fast and too panicked for him to catch more than Papà and non andare. Theo pried her fingers loose with a wince, murmuring reassurances the entire time—but he couldn’t will himself to walk away while she was screaming like that.
Especially now that he knew the difference between her cries.
So, one of the girls’ bathrooms had been cleared out for the morning.
Pomfrey, Bianca, and Theo occupied it alone, the echoes far too loud for his liking. He stood just outside the stall while Pomfrey bathed her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture stiff—like a chastened criminal awaiting judgment.
The child sang.
Loudly.
Badly.
And every time Theo stopped responding—
“Papà?”
—her voice wobbled, threatening to tip into tears.
“Sono qui,” He called back immediately, instinctive, “Brava.” (I'm here. Good job)
She giggled and continued singing something that sounded vaguely like a nursery rhyme and vaguely like a direct threat to musical theory.
Theo leaned his head back against the tiled wall and exhaled.
My God, was she clingy.
Then again… he supposed he couldn’t fault her for it.
If Flitwick was right—if she truly had come from the future—then she’d been ripped away from her home. Likely somewhere warm and familiar in Italy. Dropped into damp, grey Scotland. Surrounded by strangers. Spoken to in a language she didn’t understand.
Clinging to the only constant she recognized.
Him.
The thought settled heavy in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. Theo swallowed, fingers twitching as the familiar urge for a cigarette crept in—persistent, comforting.
He resisted.
Inside the stall, the singing faltered.
“Papà!” She called, sharper now.
“I’m here,” Theo answered immediately, softer this time, “Sono qui. Non vado da nessuna parte.” (I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.)
The singing resumed—quieter. Sleepier.
Theo closed his eyes.
Unbelievable.
Bianca emerged from the bath wrapped in a towel with a warming charm woven into the fabric, her pajamas peeking out beneath it. Her curls were still damp, springing in every direction, cheeks flushed pink and clean, eyes already heavy with sleep. Madam Pomfrey handed her over with a satisfied nod and a stern warning about drafts, and Theo took her automatically, settling her against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He was now only dimly aware of how absurd this entire situation was.
They stepped out into the corridor together, the stone cool and quiet at this hour—
—and promptly ran straight into you.
You froze.
You’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. Whispers carried between classes, exaggerated retellings murmured in the Slytherin common room. Nott has a kid. From the future. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. There were more reasonable theories floating around—some magical accident that accidentally teleported a child here from outside Hogwarts walls. Others were more creative, claiming Theo had a secret child hidden away in Italy and the time-travel nonsense was just a cover story.
You firmly belonged to the former camp.
This—whatever this was—had to be some sort of misunderstanding.
You opened your mouth, ready to apologize for bumping into him—
“Mama!”
The word rang out, bright and clear, echoing far too loudly down the stone corridor.
Bianca lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all day. She wriggled out of Theo’s already-loose hold with surprising strength, arms stretching toward you, the towel slipping dangerously as she leaned forward.
“Mama! Mama!” She chirped, utterly delighted, fingers grasping at empty air, “Sei tornata! Mi sei mancato!” (You’re back! I missed you!)
You stared at her.
Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.
Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
You stared at her.
Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.
Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
You forced a smile, gentle and careful, lowering yourself slightly so you weren’t towering over her.
“I’m not your mama, little one.” You said softly.
You spared Theo a glance, silently pleading for him to say something—anything—but he looked like a statue carved from pure shock, arms still locked around Bianca as though letting go might shatter reality itself.
Bianca frowned.
Just a little.
Her brows knit together as she studied you, head tilting to one side in confusion. Then she turned in Theo’s arms, small hand gripping the front of his robes like an anchor.
You spared Theo a glance.
He hadn’t moved.
Not an inch.
He looked like a statue carved in shock, Bianca still tucked securely in his arms, as though letting go might shatter something irreparable.
Bianca’s smile faltered.
Just a little.
Her brows knit together as she studied your face, head tilting in quiet confusion. Then she turned slowly toward Theo, curls brushing his collar.
“Papà?” She asked, uncertain now.
Theo swallowed.
She pressed her cheek against his chest and spoke again, voice small but earnest—
“Papà… ora che la mamma è tornata, possiamo andare a casa? Ho sonno.” (Papa… now that mama is back, can we go home? I'm sleepy)
“There is absolutely no way I’m her mother.”
Your voice echoed far louder than you intended in the hospital wing, ricocheting off white curtains and cold stone with humiliating clarity.
Madam Pomfrey paused mid-sentence.
Flitwick blinked.
McGonagall’s lips thinned—just slightly.
Theo, seated stiffly on the edge of the bed with a sleeping Bianca curled against his chest, did not move. He looked like someone who had accepted his fate three hours ago and was now simply watching the universe pile on for sport.
It was hard to believe he’d been standing in this exact position less than a week ago, being told the very same thing.
Honestly, he wasn’t even sure the news had fully settled yet. He hadn’t had time to properly panic—not just about Bianca having a mother, but about who that mother apparently was. A girl he’d never given a second glance to. Someone who, in some unfathomable future, he had fallen in love with. Married. Chosen to have a family with.
Theo Nott. Married. A father by choice.
The thought felt so foreign he thought he might throw up.
“For one,” You continued, gesturing vaguely at yourself like the evidence should be self-explanatory, “I would remember giving birth. I am quite certain of that.”
Pomfrey cleared her throat delicately.
“And second,” You added, beginning to pace, panic sharpening every word, “there are processes involved in creating children. Processes which I have never done—” You pointed sharply at Theo, “—with him.”
Theo didn’t react. Didn’t even flinch. He just adjusted his grip slightly when Bianca shifted, instinctively tucking her closer as she sighed in her sleep.
Flitwick glanced down at his parchment, “…The magical diagnostics are, I’m afraid, quite clear.”
You stopped short. “So you’re actually telling me,” You said slowly, incredulously, “that this child is from the future? A future where I have a baby with Nott of all people?”
McGonagall folded her hands calmly, “Miss (Y/N)—”
“You’re joking, right?” You cut in, letting out a hollow laugh, “I mean, everyone here can see that there isn’t even a modicum of possibility that the two of us would date—let alone get married, let alone have a child.”
Theo’s jaw tightened.
He wanted to argue—wanted to back you up, to scoff and insist this was ridiculous, that there had to be some enormous mistake, some elaborate cosmic joke with particularly poor timing. A week ago, he would have done exactly that.
But he’d been standing in this same position barely days earlier.
He knew now that arguing would get him nowhere.
Soon enough, Bianca would wake up. She always did. And when she did, she would cry—sharp, panicked, desperate cries that cut straight through stone and reason alike. She would call for you the same way she had called for him, voice cracking, hands reaching for something familiar in a world that made no sense.
And if you were even remotely a decent person, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, uncomfortable and inescapable.
But Bianca only shifted in his arms, letting out a small, congested sniff as she rubbed at her itchy nose against his robes. Theo adjusted his hold without thinking, brushing his thumb gently along her back until her body went slack again, weight settling against him.
Theodore Nott was not a single father.
Absolutely not.
He wasn’t even a father if one wanted to argue technicalities—and frankly, he did. Loudly. Frequently. If he wasn’t considered a father, then you certainly couldn’t be considered a mother. It was only fair. Balanced. Logical.
And yet.
If he was being forced to look after a suction cup turned human child—day in and day out—then he didn’t see why you got to take the easy way out and keep avoiding her. Avoiding them.
It felt less like co-parenting and more like he was chasing you down for childcare payments.
So he handed Bianca off to Mattheo—who was, once again, skipping class and therefore had no grounds to complain—and went looking for you.
He caught you just as Potions let out, students flooding into the corridor in clusters of laughter and complaints. Theo slipped through them with singular purpose and grabbed your elbow just outside the classroom doors.
You startled, turning sharply, “Nott? What do you need?”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what this is about,” He hissed, releasing you only to cross his arms over his chest, “Go see your child.”
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, “She’s not my kid.”
“She’s as much yours as she is mine,” Theo shot back, frustration flaring hot in his chest, “and it’s not fair that I’m the one looking after her all day.”
“We can’t even speak the same language.”
“She’s three,” He snapped, “All you need to do is watch her while she plays with toys or draws or—Merlin—something.”
“She doesn’t even want to come with me.”
The words hit harder than he expected.
“Maybe she would,” Theo said, quieter but still sharp, “if you spent more time with her.”
The conversation had officially crossed into absurd territory. Theo felt like every dramatic woman in those ridiculous telenovelas his mother used to watch—hands flying, emotions everywhere, dignity nowhere to be found.
You scoffed, “Oh, come off it, Nott. Don’t you find it strange that she can only speak Italian? Nothing else? Not even my first language?”
Theo frowned, but you weren’t finished.
“She never comes to me first,” You continued, voice tightening, “Never asks me for help when she’s eating. Never reaches for me when she wants something. You’re always her first choice. Have you noticed that?”
His mouth opened—closed again.
“And,” You went on, softer now, more brittle, “you know she never lets me carry her? Not even once. And believe me, I’ve tried. She squirms out of my arms every time.”
The anger he’d carried with him faltered.
He could see it then—the hurt etched into your expression, raw and unguarded. Theo shifted, frowning, “She’s just… not used to—”
“I don’t think that’s it.” You interrupted quietly.
You hesitated. Took a breath.
“What if,” You said, voice barely above a whisper now, “what if in the future… I’m not there?”
Theo’s chest went cold.
“No,” Theo said quickly, the word cutting through the silence like he could sever the thought itself, “No. That’s—there are other explanations.”
You looked at him, eyes searching his face.
“Like what?” You asked.
He exhaled sharply, already reaching, “Maybe we just—split up. In the future. People do that. All the time.”
Your mouth twisted, humorless, “Right. So either I’m dead, or I’m a deadbeat.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said,” You shot back, “Because if I’m alive and well and present, Theo, then why doesn’t she know my language? Why doesn’t she come to me? Why doesn’t she trust me?”
His jaw clenched, “You don’t know that she doesn’t—”
“She doesn’t,” You said quietly, firmly, “And you know it.”
He felt like he couldn't breathe. His hand twitched at his side.
Theo shook his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “You’re making assumptions."
"I don't want to confuse her," You snapped, "What if I spend time with her now and she goes back to a future where she's confused that future me doesn't? Don't you think it's better for her to not be left with any painful memories?"
"Fuck this." He said harshly.
You stared at him, stunned, “Theodo—”
He turned away before you could finish.
He needed a fucking cigarette.
Theo didn’t look at you when you spoke.
“I thought I might find you here.” You sighed, stepping into the Astronomy Tower. The night air was sharp, the stars cruelly clear.
He only glanced at you once before turning back to the edge, exhaling smoke into the dark. The orange tip of his cigarette flared, then dimmed.
He hadn’t gone back before bedtime like he’d promised Bianca.
The thought twisted in his chest—but he shoved it down. Mattheo would handle it. He told himself Mattheo would’ve worn her out enough that she’d gone down on her own. That she’d fallen asleep surrounded by noise and laughter and familiar faces. That she wouldn’t notice.
But he couldn’t go back now. Not like this. Not smelling like smoke and guilt and the kind of fear that hollowed you out from the inside.
You shifted, eyes flicking to the small graveyard of cigarette stubs at his feet, and visibly bit back a comment.
“You can’t seriously be that upset at the thought of me dying, are you, Nott?” You said lightly, like it was a joke you didn’t quite believe in, “After all, we aren’t anything to each other.”
Theo’s fingers stilled.
Truthfully, he wasn’t.
Not in the way you meant.
It wasn’t you he was grieving.
It was the future he thought he was building.
He had thought—Merlin help him—that he was doing something right.
Thought that maybe—maybe—this was him breaking the cycle. Overcoming his own childhood, his own grief, his own scars. The way she clung to him, trusted him, sought him out—he’d taken that as proof. Proof that he was doing something right. That he was raising her in a house full of warmth. Of love.
A home that wasn’t cold.
A father who didn’t disappear into silence.
A childhood that didn’t feel like walking on broken glass.
He had thought he was undoing the damage his own father had carved into him.
Breaking the curse.
And now it felt like he was watching history fold back in on itself.
Bianca would lose her mother. Just like he had.
She’d be left in a cold home, one that hollowed out instead of held you together. She’d grow into something sharp and distant and unfeeling—just like him. Just like his father.
Would he turn into him?
Would he still be able to love Bianca if every time he looked at her, all he saw was you? Would he sit across from her in silence at meals, watching her struggle to eat in the tension, only to hear her throwing up later—alone on the bathroom floor, crying for a mother who wasn’t there?
Would he say the same vile things? Lock her in the same closet?
Would his hands—
Theo’s breath hitched.
He’d never imagined hitting a child. Never.
But perhaps his father hadn’t imagined it either. Not at first.
Perhaps he was driven to it.
He took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it away, crushing the ember beneath his heel before reaching for another with trembling fingers.
He never got the chance to light it.
Your hand closed around his wrist.
Firm. Steady.
He stilled.
Slowly, his focus shifted—really shifted—to you.
For the first time since Bianca had seen you, since the world had tilted on its axis, he truly looked at your face.
And there it was.
Your eyes.
Or rather—
Bianca’s.
His throat closed, eyes flickering over your face as he began to compare the two of you when your nose began to twitch, the smell of the smoke finally getting to you.
"Achoo!"
Theo couldn't help but let out a dry breath of laughter.
“You should spend time with her,” He said finally, voice rough—scraped raw by smoke and something dangerously close to tears, “I wanted nothing more than to remember my mother when she died.”
The words hung between you, fragile and devastating.
Theo swallowed.
“She deserves that,” He added quietly, “And so do you.”
Morning came quietly in the Slytherin dorms. The others had already left the dorm to get breakfast and begin classes.
Theo had been awake long before it—again. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the small lump buried beneath his blankets. Bianca had twisted herself sideways sometime in the night, curls exploding in every direction, one chubby foot sticking out from under the covers like a silent rebellion.
“Bianca,” He murmured gently, nudging the lump, “È mattina.” (It's morning.)
She made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine and promptly rolled onto her stomach, hugging the pillow tighter.
“No,” She mumbled sleepily, “Ho sonno…” (I'm sleepy)
Theo blinked, staring at the blanket-wrapped lump that was technically his responsibility. For a fleeting moment, he considered letting her sleep—just fifteen more minutes, surely that wouldn’t hurt.
But experience had already taught him better.
If she slept in, she’d be feral by noon. No nap. No quiet. No sleep later. Which meant another night of pacing the dorm with a squirming toddler while his own body begged for rest.
He sighed. The deep, tired, fatherly kind—the one he was rapidly perfecting.
Just as he leaned forward to try again, there was a knock at the door.
Theo froze.
His mind leapt immediately to the all possibilities.
Professor McGonagall, stern and efficient, here to inform him they’d finally found a way to send Bianca back to her own time.
Or worse—here to say they couldn’t.
Another knock followed. Softer. Hesitant.
Theo stood slowly, smoothing a hand through his already-mussed hair, heart doing something distinctly unhelpful in his chest. When he opened the door, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting.
But it was you.
You stood there awkwardly, hands clasped in front of you like you might bolt at any second. You weren’t in your uniform—dressed casually instead—and floating just behind you was a small enchanted tray, stacked with breakfast.
Theo’s brows lifted despite himself.
“Oh,” He said. Guarded. Careful. “…Morning.”
You hesitated, then offered a small, tentative smile.
“I brought breakfast.”
Behind him, there was sudden movement.
Bianca’s head popped up from the blankets, curls crushed on one side of her face, eyes still hazy with sleep.
She stared at you for half a second before her entire expression lit up.
“Mama!”
Theo barely had time to react before she scrambled upright, tangling herself in the covers.
“Buongiorno?” You said, tilting your head as you stepped inside, “I—uh. I’m hoping I'm pronouncing that right.”
Theo stepped aside as you entered, watching carefully as Bianca scooted closer, clutching her blanket around her shoulders like a cape. You set the tray down on the bedside table and sat beside her without hesitation.
Breakfast became a quiet, shared thing.
Bianca sat between the two of you on the bed, half-awake but cooperative, munching on cut fruit and toast while you worked patiently through the knots in her hair. She winced once, then relaxed when your touch stayed gentle.
“I used to have curls like this too.” You said softly, lifting a section of her hair.
Theo glanced over, wondering why you were saying this. Perhaps you were just getting sick of being out of the loop while Theo constantly reminded Bianca not to chew with her mouth open, “Really?”
You hummed, “Yeah. Until I spent one entire summer swimming. Completely ruined them.”
"Oh." He muttered.
“And then,” You continued, amused, “I discovered Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and never really went back.”
You began sectioning her hair, fingers moving more confidently now, twisting it into neat little ponies.
Theo slid the tray closer to you, “You sure you don’t want some?”
You shook your head lightly, “I already ate.”
Bianca paused mid-bite, brows knitting together. She looked up at you, then spoke quietly.
“Mamma… stai male di nuovo?” (Are you sick again?)
Theo stiffened slightly, “…Cosa intendi?” (What do you mean?)
Bianca shrugged, matter-of-fact in the way only children could be, “A volte la mamma sta male e non riesce a mangiare.” (Sometimes mommy gets sick and can’t eat.)
Theo looked at you slowly, something uneasy settling in his chest.
You tilted your head, confused, "Am I missing something?"
The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet.
Theo had never realized just how quiet it could get when everyone was actually in class. On the rare occasions he skipped, he was usually surrounded by his noisy gaggle of friends—laughter, insults, the scrape of chairs. Now, with most of the students gone, the space felt cavernous, almost reverent.
Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, casting lazy rectangles of gold across the stone floor. The lake beyond the glass shimmered faintly, shadows drifting slowly along the walls.
Theo sat at one of the long tables, a textbook open in front of him. Beside him, Bianca occupied her own chair, perched atop a cushion to give her some height. Even then, she barely reached the tabletop—her upper body completely propped up on her elbows as she strained forward, tongue poking out in concentration.
A piece of parchment lay in front of her, covered in colorful scribbles, and a box of crayons sat nearby—formerly one of Theo’s cigarette packs, now successfully transfigured.
You sat on his other side.
Your space had slowly expanded until it spilled over into his—parchment and quills scattered between you, a textbook here, a notebook there. You leaned in to show him a particularly complicated potion formula, pointing at your notes with the tip of your wand.
“So yesterday, we covered the difference between tinctures and infusions,” You explained, flipping through your notebook until you found the relevant lecture, “I wrote the key points here—see? You mostly just need to memorize the ratios.”
Theo scanned your notes, brow furrowing as he compared them to the questions listed beneath. He tapped one section with his finger.
“What about this one?” He asked, “It doesn’t match the ratio.”
You leaned closer to see what he was pointing at, scooting nearer without thinking, “Oh—okay, this one’s an exception. It’s considered an infusion because of the brewing process, not the base ingredients.”
You were just about to continue when Bianca suddenly sat upright, eyes wide, like she’d uncovered a great secret.
“Papà! Mamma! Guarda!” She chirped, spinning the parchment toward you with pride.
You leaned in immediately, your expression softening.
It was a drawing—very clearly the three of you. Stick figures, yes, but unmistakable. One tall with dark hair. One beside him with longer hair. And a much smaller one in the middle, curls drawn in chaotic loops. Behind you stood a crooked little house, flowers floating inexplicably in midair, and a tiny sun tucked into the corner of the page.
You laughed quietly, “This is adorable.”
Bianca smiled, satisfied, but said nothing—already basking in the praise.
You turned to Theo, “What’s wow in Italian?”
He shifted his gaze from the drawing to you, and it was only then you realized just how close you’d gotten—practically halfway into his seat. At this distance, you could see every individual lash, the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
You froze.
Theo leaned in, lowering his head toward your ear. When he spoke, his voice was low and lazy, far too close.
“Wow." He said simply.
You pulled back just enough to glare at him, “You’re unbearable.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, “You asked.”
Theo hadn’t planned on going to the Hufflepuff house party.
Not really.
But you’d insisted—gentle, firm in that way that made it hard to argue without sounding like an idiot.
“Go,” You’d said, already kneeling to help Bianca with her pajamas, “You haven’t been out in days. You deserve a night that doesn’t involve a sticky toddler."
Bianca had protested briefly, arms looping around his neck like a vise, but you’d distracted her with some Jaffa cakes. That seemed to do it.
So he went.
There was music. Laughter. Too many people packed into a common room that smelled faintly of firewhisky and bad decisions. Mattheo handed him a drink almost immediately.
Theo stared at it.
Then thought of Bianca—overtired, unfamiliar bed, the very real possibility that she’d decide midnight was an appropriate time to throw a tantrum and demand to be taken back to Theo's dorm only to be greeted by his drunk self.
He handed it back.
“No?” Mattheo blinked.
“No.” Theo said flatly.
He stayed long enough to prove he’d tried. Not to himself but to you. Who he knew would give him a teasing scold when he'd come back early, tail tucked between his legs.
And then—quietly, without much fanfare—he left.
The Slytherin dorms were dim when he returned, the corridors hushed and cool. He moved carefully, like any loud noise might break something fragile.
When he opened his door, the first thing he noticed was the lamp.
Low. Warm. Soft golden light spilling across the room.
The second thing—
You were there, curled on your side beneath his blankets, Bianca tucked against your chest like she belonged there. One of your arms was draped protectively around her small body, fingers curled instinctively at her back. Bianca’s face was pressed into your collarbone, curls splayed wildly across the pillow.
Fast asleep.
Theo stopped just inside the doorway.
Something tight in his chest loosened. Something else replaced it—heavier, warmer, far more dangerous.
You’d kicked off your shoes, throwing off your jacket as well in favour of casting a warming charm over the two of you right as you had fallen asleep. Bianca’s tiny hand was fisted in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring herself.
Theo approached slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He studied your face.
A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek, brushing your lips. In your sleep, your brow pinched faintly, nose scrunching in the exact same way Bianca’s did.
He let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle before he could stop himself.
Carefully—so carefully—he reached out and brushed the strand of hair away from your face with two fingers.
You stirred.
Not fully awake—just enough to shift closer to Bianca, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Your hand tightened reflexively around her back.
Theo froze.
Bianca was going to lose this one day.
She was going to lose this—the warmth, the safety, the arms of her mother.
He was going to lose this someday.
He didn't want to lose you.
He wanted you for the rest of his life.
The thought hit hard and fast, knocking the breath out of his chest.
He swallowed, jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of Bianca’s back. On the way your fingers curved protectively at her spine even in sleep, like your body knew the job before your mind ever caught up.
Then you shifted again.
This time more sharply.
Your eyes blinked open, unfocused and glassy with sleep, lashes fluttering as you took in the dim room. For half a second, you looked confused—then awareness snapped in all at once.
You stiffened.
“Oh—Merlin—” You whispered hoarsely, lifting your head an inch before immediately freezing again when Bianca huffed and burrowed closer.
You blinked.
You slowly sank back down, mortified.
Theo watched as realization dawned on your face.
Then, horrified, you wiped at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand.
“I—” You croaked, then cleared your throat quietly, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t actually asleep.”
Theo raised a brow.
You winced, “Okay. That’s a lie. I was trying not to fall asleep.”
He stayed silent, letting you dig.
“I was pretending,” You continued in a rushed whisper, cheeks warming, “I thought if I stayed really still she’d think it was bedtime and settle down and—well—apparently I fell asleep first.”
Theo huffed out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh.
You shot him a look, “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
You sighed, rubbing your face with one hand, careful not to jostle Bianca, “This is so embarrassing.”
Theo didn’t respond right away.
Instead, he stood, crossed the room quietly, and took the blanket draped over the chair. His movements were careful—deliberate—as he unfolded it and drew it up over you and Bianca, tucking it in around her small shoulders before letting it settle across your waist.
“You can sleep here tonight,” He said finally, voice low. Then, after a beat, softer, “If you want.”
You blinked up at him, the last of sleep still clinging to you.
“Here?” You asked, whispering like the room might object.
He shrugged one shoulder, “She’s already settled. No point moving her.”
You hesitated.
Then nodded, “Okay.”
Theo’s jaw loosened, just a little.
A few days later, Theo was running on fumes.
The bone-deep exhaustion that settled behind his eyes and refused to leave. The kind that made time blur and thoughts lag half a second behind reality. Between the staggered schedules, half-missed classes, and nights that never quite counted as sleep, he felt like he was permanently five minutes behind himself.
You weren’t doing much better.
The professors still hadn’t found a way to send Bianca back, which meant the two of you had fallen into a strange, grinding rhythm: one of you attending class while the other watched her, trading off half-written notes—if by some miracle you hadn’t fallen asleep mid-lecture. You were grateful the professors were granting you at least that much grace.
The rest of the time was spent cramming together right before bedtime while Bianca threw a tantrum of truly mythological proportions.
It turned out she’d woken up once to find the two of you studying together and had somehow come to the conclusion that whenever she went to sleep, you and Theo threw secret parties without her.
So now—despite being exhausted—she refused to sleep.
You hadn’t known children could get overtired before.
Apparently, it was a thing.
A loud, shrill, nails-on-a-chalkboard thing.
Bianca was a small whirlwind. All limbs and laughter and boundless, feral energy that refused to burn out indoors.
So when you suggested a picnic by the Black Lake, Theo thought you’d finally lost your mind.
“You want to let her run free,” He said flatly, “near a giant squid.”
“She just needs to run,” You insisted, rubbing your temples, “Like—really run. Until her lungs give out.”
Theo stared at you, hollow-eyed.
“…You’re a genius.”
So there you were.
The grass near the lake was warm beneath the afternoon sun, the water dark and glassy, the mountains reflected on its surface like a painting. A blanket was spread out behind you with food you’d asked the house-elves to make—and while it looked incredible, you were deeply offended by the lack of sweets.
Apparently the elves had decided Bianca didn’t need sugar.
Who cared about Bianca?
You wanted a chocolate lava cake, damn it.
Bianca, meanwhile, had already abandoned the blanket entirely.
She shrieked with laughter as Theo lifted her into the air, spinning once before tossing her just high enough to make her squeal—then catching her easily.
“Ancora!” She demanded, breathless. (Again.)
Theo obliged.
He laughed—really laughed. Not the tired, guarded version you’d grown used to, but something lighter, freer. He threw her again, caught her, bounced her once on his hip before setting her down just long enough for her to sprint off in a wild, crooked circle.
You watched from the blanket.
At first, it was just fondness. Relief. Gratitude that she was finally burning off that impossible energy. You couldn’t deny it—the sound of a child laughing so freely tugged a smile from you before you could stop it.
Then your gaze shifted.
Theo crouched when she spoke, his attention completely zeroed in on her. When she stumbled, he steadied her without thinking. When she reached for him, he went instantly—lifting her with an ease that felt instinctive, like muscle memory he’d never known he had.
And something in your chest shifted.
Warm.
Tight.
Soft in a way you hadn’t expected.
He stole your breath.
You stared at him.
At the boy you’d never really noticed. The boy you’d fully expected to graduate without so much as a conversation between you. Someone who, before all of this, would’ve been nothing more than a footnote—if that—in the story of your life.
Not your ending.
And yet the realization hit you so suddenly you almost laughed.
Somewhere—somewhen—years from now, a version of you would love him enough to choose to have a child with this man.
And now?
You got it.
You got the vision your future self must have seen when she decided to lock him down.
You supposed it made sense that you’d never seen Theo like this before. He was just a boy—how could you possibly know whether a teenage boy would grow into someone steady? Someone safe. Someone capable of love that endured, of support that didn’t waver.
A man you could build a life with.
But watching him now—watching him lift Bianca again as she squealed, watching the way his hand stayed firm at her back—your stomach flipped.
Your brain short-circuited.
Your ovaries, traitors that they were, staged a full rebellion.
And for the first time, the future didn’t feel impossible.
It felt inevitable.
You stood abruptly and joined them, brushing grass from your skirt. “Alright,” You said, “My turn.”
You bent to lift Bianca—
“No!” She protested instantly.
She wriggled out of your arms with shocking strength for someone so small and darted straight back to Theo, wrapping herself around his leg like an anchor.
Your smile slipped. Just for a heartbeat.
“Oh—okay,” You said quickly, forcing it back into place, “That’s fine. Totally fine.”
You took a step back, suddenly unsure of where to put your hands, your weight, yourself. The breeze off the Black Lake felt colder now. You stared out at the water instead of them, swallowing the strange tightness in your chest.
Theo noticed.
He frowned, glancing between you and Bianca, then crouched so he was level with her. Gently, carefully, he loosened her grip just enough to look at her face.
“Perché non vuoi che mamma ti prenda?” He asked softly. (Why don’t you want mamma to pick you up?)
The word mamma hit you even before you processed it.
You turned away a little more, heart stuttering. You didn’t understand the rest of what he said, not really. You suddenly felt like you were standing on the edge of something sacred and private, like you’d wandered into a family photograph you didn’t belong in.
Bianca’s face scrunched up, serious in that way only children could be when they believed they were being very reasonable.
“Mamma è troppo malata per portarmi, papà,” She said firmly, “Lo sai.” (Mamma's too sick to take me, papa. You know that.)
Theo froze.
The world seemed to tilt, just slightly.
Theo’s eyes flicked to you slowly.
You tilted your head, not knowing how spines began to claw up his hands and feet, making him feel cold, "What's wrong?"
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
You never hated a pair of boots more in your life. The soles were run down, the plastic peeling up at the edges. They were caked in mud due to the rainy weather, and most importantly, they were making a mess on your side of the desk. You shoved them off, making their owner yelp and nearly fall back out of his chair. Maybe he should have thought of that before encroaching on your space. But Mattheo never thinks, he’s devoid of critical thinking skills and only cares about himself.
“How many times do I have to tell you to keep your feet off the desk, Riddle?” You huffed, slinging your book bag onto the floor and falling into your seat. It’s been three weeks since McGonagall had to separate Theo, Mattheo, and Enzo and your life has been upended since. You were now forced to suffer with Mattheo Riddle as your desk partner for the rest of the year, and it was only October.
“Oh, that's right. I knew there was a grating voice in my head trying to remind me of something.” Mattheo said, dryly, “I guess it was just you.”
“Daydreaming about my voice? How sweet.”
“More like a nightmare, y/l/n”
“You’re both pretty, now shut up.” Draco mumbled from your left, his head teetering on the palm of his hand. He looked tired, which made sense because the idiot stayed up all night working on his potions essay due today when he should have finished it on Sunday, like everyone else. Mattheo opened his mouth with a retort, but by some miracle McGonagall entered the room then and everyone went silent. She stalked up to her desk, turned and leaned back on it.
“Good morning, class.” She started, before uttering the worst words you’ve ever heard. “We will be working in pairs today, continuing our studies on body-modification. This time, you will be practicing Crinus Muto on each other rather than yourselves. This is quite a bit more difficult without a willing participant, so I will ask you all to allow the transfiguration to take place. At least, in the meantime. Cooperate. You may begin.” All the students stood and backed away from the desks, allowing McGonagall to move the tables to the sides of the classroom with a wave of her wand. You turned slowly, meeting the alert and mischievous eyes of Mattheo Riddle.
“Be gentle with me, Y/l/n.” He said, sending a wink your way. You ignored the way that made your stomach light up briefly and fixed him with a glare.
“You’re lucky we’re just doing hair. Though, you’d look a lot better as a dungbeetle. And less annoying.”
“I’d always find a way to annoy you, darling.” The pet name took you off guard, and you willed yourself not to blush. You’d never hear the end of it if you did. You turned away, just in case, and he followed you to an open space of the classroom. “You go first.” You said, turning to face him. You took a deep breath, relaxing your body and letting your eyes flutter close. You tried to allow the transformation to happen, but… you felt nothing. You opened one eye, seeing Mattheo standing there and looking at you with a strange expression. His wand arm was only partially raised, like he’d been frozen in place.
“What’s wrong, love, you have stage fright?” You teased, curious to see what happens when you throw an endearment back at him. The effect was instant, a few sparks flew out of Mattheo’s wand and he dropped it in shock. At this point in your Hogwarts career, accidental magic was unheard of. Most witches and wizards have a handle on it by now. That was… interesting, and you filed that information away for later use.
“Shut up, I was just distracted.”
“By my incredibly good looks?” You asked, and Mattheo rolled his eyes.
“Something like that, yeah.” He responded, bending down to pick up his wand and pointing it straight at you. “What do you think, a pink mullet? It would really suit you.” You suddenly felt nervous, not sure how you should feel giving him this much power. You’re glad you had the means to fix whatever monstrosity he was cooking up. You closed your eyes again, and suddenly you felt a small warmth surrounding your head, and you relaxed rather than fight it. Your hair grew, falling into your face. You could feel the weight of it as it met your shoulders and then stopped. You opened your eyes and found Mattheo grinning and handing you a mirror. Your hair was green. Not a bright green but a dark forest, matching well with the green accents on your uniform. It actually didn’t look bad.
“Huh. Very punk rock.” You said, which made him snort.
“And very punk rock to say that out loud.” He responded, “I’d say you look ten times
cooler but zero times ten is still zero.” You glanced to see McGonagall on the other side of the classroom before flipping your middle finger up at him. “You can’t even flip me the bird without making sure you don’t get caught, y/l/n, you’re such a baby. Live a little.”
“Just because I don’t get in trouble constantly for idiotic things means I’m a baby? At least I’m not a delinquent with daddy issues.” Mattheo laughed and opened his mouth to respond, but Blaise cut in for him. He was standing just a few feet from you, and had been listening like you were providing quality entertainment.
“Hey, at least Mattheo has his mom. No one seemed to want you.” It was meant to be a joke, you knew that because you knew Blaise. You were actually pretty good friends with him but you were a lot more sensitive to those jokes thanMattheo was, not that anyone knew that. But Blaise parroted back everything you’ve told yourself since you were five and knew what it meant to be abandoned by a mother. You were horrified when tears pricked your eyes, and you turned suddenly to fake a coughing fit.
“Do you need to go get some water Mr. Y/l/n?” Professor McGonagall asked, and you nodded and strode out of the room without looking back. The bathroom was a floor down, and you didn’t make it that far before there were tears streaming down your face. By the time you reached it, you had almost calmed down but the tear tracks still served as evidence of your weakness. Luckily, the bathroom was empty and you could let out a gentle sob. Just one, because it had been screaming to get out of your throat. You took a few deeps breaths, and turned on the water to splash your face. Before you could, however, the door swung open and Mattheo stood there.
“I knew it. I’m going to kill Blaise,” he said, turning to go stomping back out but you caught his arm.
“No, you’re not. I’m fine, just… stupidly sensitive.” You wiped your face with your hand before cupping them in the stream from the tap. Once you filled your hands slightly, you threw the water onto your face, soothing your now warm cheeks.
“Blaise just made a joke about the one thing you never joke about when someone is missing a parent. He doesn’t know, because he has his full and loving family, but I know how much it hurts to be told the one thing you try not to tell yourself.” Mattheo’s boots made loud clunks against the tile as he approached you, and you felt a gentle hand on your arm. It pulled you to him, and you went easily into his arms. They enveloped you in a tight hug, and his hand rubbed circles on your back. It was comforting, and rather than it being weird, it felt… good. You separated slightly, only to catch Mattheo staring at your mouth. Without thinking you pressed back forward, catching his mouth with yours. The hand on your back paused for a moment, before it gripped at your robes and pulled you closer to him. You slid one of your hands into his dark brown locks, your fingers curling around strands of soft hair. You were pushed backward against the sink, porcelain digging into your lower back as Mattheo’s tongue slid against the seam of your lips. You opened you me mouth and let his tongue tangle with yours and you couldn’t help but let out a small whine.
“I thought… you hated me…” Mattheo whispered between kisses, “Thought… I was annoying.”
“You are annoying.” You whispered back, and he let out a laugh against your mouth. “But you’re also sweet, in your own way.” You said, and he beamed at you before
dropping another kiss against your lips.
“I’m never happy than I am fighting with you.” Mattheo confessed quietly, his hands reaching up to cup your cheeks. “And I’m so sorry our fighting led to Blaise upsetting you.”
“It’s really fine, I’m not going to break apart. It just really caught me off guard. I’m sorry I brought up your dad.”
“Oh please, you’re dead right. I sure as shit have daddy issues.” He grinned and brought his lips to yours one more time before letting you go. He stepped back and your were able to dislodge yourself from the sink. “So… Hogsmeade this weekend? Just the two of us?”
“I would really like that… Mattheo.” His eyes lit up when you said his name, his first name and not his last in an exasperated tone. You slid your hand into his and gestured toward the door. “I’m ready to go back to class. I’m thinking you’d look pretty hot as a blonde.”
“I’m always hot, thank you very much.” He tugged on your hand and the two of you started walking, unable to keep goofy smiles off your faces. “I really thought you hated me.” He said, squeezing your fingers.
It began with a strong scent of sulfur, and then Harry's world went black for a moment before waking up with a blurry, looming dark figure over him.
His eyes fluttered - heavy, and sore. It only took a second for the petal to hit the cauldron, but it was enough to send him right off his feet. He didn't know what he did wrong. The cold stone beneath him felt uncomfortable against his back, but a hand quickly swept beneath his head, cradled it off the floor.
Harry grumbled.
Barely shy of nine, he didn't have enough words to describe what happened. But the last thing he remembered was Severus teaching him something in his home laboratory. He was only ever allowed in there when Severus was present - and the imposing man was very adamant of that.
"Dad - " Harry tried again. His throat dry and filled with whatever he was hit with.
The childs' lips was soon met with a cold vial within his blurred vision.
"Here - drink - " Severus broke through the child's haze, handing him something that Harry had only ever seen once before. The man's voice was stern, but he knew it rang with worry. He was safe in his fathers' arms - he always knew exactly what to do.
...Despite knowing he would be scolded later for whatever mistake he made.
" - Yuck. " Harry drank it anyway, feeling as if he just swallowed a cupful of pure honey.
"Didn't I tell you to wait until the potion turned violet to add the azalea petal?"
Oops. So that's what happened.
"Sorry, Dad - " Harry grumbled, already feeling the fog in his mind, lifting.
Severus gently slid the glasses back onto the childs' nose, before helping him up onto his feet. The man's face sharped into view - the familiar stern crinkle of his brows told Harry more than what was needed.
Severus arched an eyebrow; but there was silence for a few moments. Dark eyes met with green. Harry knew he was in trouble.
But instead, Severus pursed his lips, "Next time, wait for my instruction."
Harry simply nodded, not even trusting his own voice.
It was only then he realised the man's hand was still clasping his shoulder - a thumb gently brushing the collar of his shirt. Reasurring. Gentle. And in much relief.
Severus isn't one to get drunk. Ever. It's too rare. You would think this man is as close to a saint when it comes to drunkenness because in all your years with him you've seen him down a fair few glasses and be perfectly fine. High tolerance in full glory. While two of the ones he downs could easily have you spinning. But how do you know when he's had a bit too much? You have to pay attention or you'll miss it.. Besides, he's not one to get drunk everywhere. As the perfectionist he is he plans it. And it always lands at home. When you're there. (You're obviously always home) but he nevers does it outside. He gets touchy. Clingy.
Being the black cat and golden retriever does have a kick to it when he suddenly starts staring too long or laying next to you with his hands on you. Always takes a second for you to react that he's the one starting contact, and then you're scared to make a move that will make him go away. But you're free when he's drunk. why? Because he doesn't care. He stays. Like you're the air he breathes. You could be doing anything: washing dishes, folding clothes, laying down, and he will come out of nowhere and simply be on you. "Hi mama" he mutters softly, breathing heavily while his hands wander your stomach and waist, his mouth kissing clumsily your neck "I've missed you. Been all alone down there," plants a little kiss "by myself, just thinking..."
"Sev..." you say lowly, closing your eyes and inhaling, your hand going to the nape of his neck behind you "Honey you drank too much."
"Did not." He denies gently "I'm perfectly fine, my love." His tongue darting out to shamelessly kiss your pulse point "I'm just so happy to see you, sweet girl..." his hand grips your waist a little firmer to pull you back into him, his body melting into yours "My wife is so beautiful." And he's a gentle drunk.
You smile, turning your head to look at him to find him staring at you already, ready to kiss you "mmm" he hums against your lips "beautiful." He gently turns you to face him "I'm so lucky I married you."
You smile, your arms wrapping around his neck as you savor the liquor on his lips with detail "My wife, my wife" he sighs dreamily "you're the fucking love of my life." He pulls back a little and looks you straight in the eye "I'm going to grow old with you until the day that I die because you're not allowed to die first."
"But then I'll be sad if you die first." You pout
"No, because that means that I'll be waiting for you on the other side, holding the door open for you." He pecks your lips "That sound good to you?" He smiles and you nod
"Like a gentleman?" God the alcohol really reached his brain, he nods
TW: sensitive content about Harry's time at the Dursleys'
This comic is taken from Chapter 6 of the fanfic O Mine Enemy, written by KirbyLane on AO3!! :)) Please give it a read!! It is a fantastic story (and completed)!
Depending on how this is received, I'll make more comics from this fic! I already have a couple of ideas in mind. I didn't know if this content was too controversial to draw; I didn't want to depict it lightly. Please let me know what you think!
Harry having never learned how to play because the Dursleys refused to buy him toys, Dudley refused to let him play with his, and other kids generally avoided him.
When he gets adopted by Snape, pre-Hogwarts, Snape finds out about Harry never being allowed toys while they’re out shopping and he proceeds to buy him a little dear plush.
Harry is absolutely enamored by the plush, but has absolutely no clue what he’s supposed to do with it at all. So after about 30 minutes of him just appreciatively staring at the stuffed animal, Severus is completely perplexed and asks him what’s wrong.
Harry tries explaining to the best of his ability that he doesn’t know what to do, but truly does love the gift, leading to him asking Snape, “how do I play?”.
Severus is immediately reminded of his own childhood, pre-Lily, where he had no one to play with. He is absolutely distraught that Harry has had a similar childhood experience and needs to fix that now, like right now. He sits down on the floor, crisscross applesauce style, and attempts to teach Harry how to play despite having not done so in over a decade.
“First step, children tend to choose a name for their new toy. What would you think is a good name for our… little friend here?” Severus picks up the plush deer awkwardly.
Harry’s eyes crinkle in delight at the scene.
“Why do kids name them?” Harry tilts his head, staring wide eyed at the plush, “I don’t want to pick the wrong name.”
“Oh? Well, I suppose it makes you feel more attached to the toy, and it helps when it comes to imaginative play to specify which one you are referring to,” the tall man’s brows furrow for a second, “As for choosing the wrong name, there is no ‘wrong’ answer little prince. This is a gift. This is yours.”
Harry blinks, “Mine?”
“That’s right, now name please, it doesn’t need to be perfect, you can always change it later child.”
Looking around the room for inspiration, Harry mumbled out a name, “… Mr. Fawn?”
“Perfect, Mr. Fawn, it is. Now, it’ll be a little difficult to demonstrate pretend play with only one character, but I think I can manage a small display.”
Severus proceeds to give the cutest lil introduction for Mr. Fawn, going so far as to make a voice to keep Harry as engaged as possible. Harry is absolutely having the time of his life giggling, gasping, asking questions and yelling out responses.
They end up doing this until bedtime. Severus gives back Mr. Fawn to Harry so he can sleep with him, watching as they go through their nighttime routine that Harry absolutely refuses to let the deer go. As soon as Severus shuts the lights out in Harry’s room, he hears Harry whisper, “night Sev’rus, night night Mr. Fawn.”
