it kills me when people use ai for “therapy” when they’re just getting their bad behaviour reinforced by a robot that’s literally programmed to tell you what you want to hear.
“This is what they took from you” and it’s a blonde family cooking barbecue in the suburbs? Brother you are racist and fascist over hot dogs? You know you can still do that. Also if you befriend other ethnicities, they will bring cool other food to the potluck. Stupid ass
Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.
A/N: I actually hate this😭
Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs
@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3
The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.
"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."
His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.
"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."
Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."
"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."
Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.
"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."
***
Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.
You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.
The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.
“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”
Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.
“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.
Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”
But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.
Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.
You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.
And then —
everything went wrong.
The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light.
A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.
Every cauldron detonated at once.
Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.
You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.
Everyone in the classroom froze.
Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide.
Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes.
Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.
“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.
“Did you see that light?”
“She cursed him—”
“No, he cursed her—!”
“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.
But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.
“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”
Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.
Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.
You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.
You had no idea what had just happened.
But it had changed something.
And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.
***
The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.
Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.
But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.
"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."
You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:
“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”
You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.
You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.
“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”
“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.
“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”
Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.
“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”
Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”
“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”
Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”
Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”
“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”
McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave,
“A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”
The word hit the room like a curse.
“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”
You stared at him.
“No. That’s — that’s insane.”
“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.
Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”
“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.
“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”
Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”
You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.
Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”
He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”
Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”
You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”
Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.
“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”
Your breath caught.
No. No, no, no—
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.
Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”
And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.
You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.
“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”
McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.
Your first day as an adult.
And already… you’d been sentenced to death.
***
The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.
“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”
Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”
Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”
A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.
“I bumped into her. That’s all.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”
Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”
But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.
He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.
“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.
A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.
Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”
Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”
He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.
“Accio.”
A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.
Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.
He was staring at his hand.
It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.
“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”
Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Something was wrong.
It was the way his magic felt.
Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore.
Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.
He stood abruptly.
“I’m going to bed.”
And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.
***
The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.
“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”
But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.
You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.
Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.
***
The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”
There was no response.
He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”
Still nothing.
Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”
Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.
They both froze.
Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.
But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.
Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”
They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.
Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.
“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.
Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.
***
You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.
Your pace slowed as you spotted them.
McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.
All gathered around a single hospital bed.
The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.
It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.
Mattheo.
Your breath caught.
He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.
You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.
“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”
No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.
You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”
McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.
Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What?”
“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.
You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”
Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”
“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”
No one spoke at first.
Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”
You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.
But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.
Your hands curled into fists.
“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”
Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.
“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”
No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.
But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.
“…his breath is getting fainter.”
“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”
Your steps faltered.
And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.
Like guilt.
Like dread.
But you walked away anyway.
***
The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.
You couldn’t sleep.
Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.
You told yourself he deserved it.
You told yourself you were right.
But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.
And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.
It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.
You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.
You just… had to see him.
The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.
Mattheo.
“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.
He hadn’t moved.
His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.
You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.
“I’ll do it.”
The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.
Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”
You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.
“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”
Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”
You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.
“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”
“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.
You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.
You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.
It was cold.
But you held it anyway.
The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.
Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.
You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.
But now…
You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.
“What do I say?” You whispered.
Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”
You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.
Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”
You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”
“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”
Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”
“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”
You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”
Your wand pulsed with heat.
The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.
You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.
A soft gasp escaped his lips.
You froze.
Mattheo’s hand twitched.
Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.
“…You?”
His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it.
And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.
It was done.
The pact was sealed.
You were married.
You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”
McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.
“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”
You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.
You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.
Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.
And then a voice — hoarse, furious:
“What the fuck did you do?”
You froze.
Mattheo.
You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.
He was staring straight at you.
“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.
“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.
He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.
“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”
“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”
Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.
“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”
You flinched like he’d struck you.
The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.
And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.
“You’re right.”
Mattheo blinked.
Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.
“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”
McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.
“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”
Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.
But you weren’t finished.
“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”
You paused — your voice cold as ice.
“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”
The room went deathly still.
You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.
And behind you, no one said a word.
***
The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.
Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:
The marriage bond was to remain a secret.
Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.
But silence didn’t mean peace.
In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.
You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.
Your professors were at their absolute limit.
McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.
The problem was: detention didn’t help.
You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?
Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.
Because the truth was simple:
You two weren’t combustible.
You were already on fire.
And the next explosion was only a matter of time.
It was supposed to be a simple lesson.
“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”
You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.
A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.
Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.
And Mattheo’s?
Two rows behind and off to the right.
Far enough to ignore.
Close enough to still feel him.
You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.
The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.
Right off your desk.
The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—
It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.
His reaction was instant.
Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”
You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”
“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”
The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.
Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.
Your throat tightened like a vice.
“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”
“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”
“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”
His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”
“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”
Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.
“I swear to Merlin—”
Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”
“ENOUGH!”
McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.
With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.
She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.
Neither of you said a word.
“Outside. Now.”
You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.
And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.
But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.
Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.
And it wouldn’t be the bond.
It would be you.
***
Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.
Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.
“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.
The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.
For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?
Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.
Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.
You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”
You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.
Mattheo’s confusion deepened.
He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.
The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?
A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.
He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”
***
The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.
It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.
Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.
You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.
But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.
Your husband.
Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?
Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?
Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.
Not really.
Not freely.
You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.
You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price.
And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.
***
Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."
He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.
No.
He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.
It wasn’t fair.
You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.
He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.
He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.
And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.
Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.
This was just magic.
He didn’t believe in fate.
***
The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.
It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.
Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”
You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.
You didn’t look.
You didn’t need to.
Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him.
Feel his magic.
And it was driving you insane.
Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—
“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.
The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.
You flinched back—
But not fast enough.
A hand caught your wrist and yanked.
Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.
The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.
You froze.
Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.
“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”
Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”
But your voice faltered.
Because your skin was touching.
And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.
Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.
Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”
Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.
“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.
The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.
And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.
He didn’t let go.
He pulled you closer.
One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.
You couldn’t breathe.
For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.
But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.
Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.
You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.
The distance snapped back into place.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.
But something had.
You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.
Then you looked away.
Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else.
But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:
Husband. Wife.
And the magic remembered.
***
The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.
“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”
Mattheo barely heard him.
They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.
“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.
Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.
A voice floated down the stairs.
Yours.
The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.
You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.
He spat the offending thing over the ledge.
“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”
“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”
You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.
He shouldn’t care.
Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”
You tilted your head.
He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”
You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”
He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”
“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”
You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”
He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”
Mattheo’s lungs went tight.
“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”
“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”
You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”
Harry didn’t argue.
“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”
Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?
But his heart was pounding.
Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”
“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”
“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”
You laughed softly.
“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”
Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.
“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”
From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.
“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.
Mattheo didn’t respond.
He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”
***
The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.
“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”
Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”
“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”
Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.
“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”
Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”
“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”
They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.
Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”
Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”
“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”
“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.
“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.
Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.
“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.
“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.
“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.
Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”
“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m leaving.”
Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.
***
Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.
The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.
'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.
It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.
The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.
Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.
As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.
Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.
He was alone. Relaxed.
This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?
Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.
So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.
He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.
Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.
Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?
That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.
You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.
A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.
His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.
He didn’t move at first, just stared.
You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.
Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.
It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.
You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.
Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.
“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”
His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”
You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.
***
The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.
Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.
Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.
“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”
“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.
You rounded a corner—and froze.
Footsteps.
You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.
You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—
You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”
His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”
“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”
His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.
“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.
You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.
When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.
As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.
You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.
“Goodnight, Mattheo.”
A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”
“Get back safe, yeah?”
He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”
You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.
The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”
He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”
“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”
It was only then he realised he was smiling.
And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.
Fuck.
***
The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.
You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.
“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”
You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.
“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.
“I asked first.”
“And I’m ignoring you first.”
He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”
You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”
You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.
He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”
He blinked, “What? Why?”
You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”
Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”
You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.
He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”
You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”
He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”
Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”
He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”
“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”
“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”
You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”
Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”
You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”
You turned to look at him.
The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.
"Maybe I will."
***
The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.
You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.
Until you saw him.
Mattheo.
He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.
You were looking in his direction.
At least that's what you told yourself.
You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.
And that was when Mattheo noticed you.
It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.
Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.
Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.
And you?
You didn’t look at him once.
At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.
Mattheo was gone.
Underwater.
Fully disappeared.
He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.
You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.
He watched the whole time.
*
You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.
“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”
Your eyes widened, “Wait—”
And then you were airborne.
You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.
Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.
And then—
Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.
Mattheo.
You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.
You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.
Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.
But there were no butterflies.
No sparks.
No golden shimmer between you.
Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.
Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.
Mattheo saw red.
He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”
The guy froze mid-step.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.
“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”
“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”
Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.
Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.
You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.
“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”
His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.
He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”
You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”
He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.
“I’ve got you.” He whispered.
And that’s when it hit you.
There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow.
No reminder of your bond.
Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.
Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.
Now?
You already knew.
You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.
Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”
***
You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”
You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”
“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.
Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”
You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”
“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”
Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”
You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”
Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”
You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”
“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”
“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.
“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.
***
Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.
“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”
Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”
“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”
Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”
Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”
“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”
“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.
“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”
“I don’t.”
All four blinked at him.
Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”
Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”
Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”
Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”
“I wasn’t in the mood.”
Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”
But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.
He stared at his hand.
No magic.
But definitely a spark.
***
Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.
A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.
“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”
You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”
That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.
Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?” You pressed.
He hesitated. A beat passed.
Then another.
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”
His throat bobbed, “Does it?”
Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.
“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”
Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.
“Forget it.”
Your chest sank.
“Right.”
You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”
Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.
***
You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.
“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.
You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.
“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”
McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”
You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”
I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.
Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.
“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”
McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”
Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”
McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”
You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.
Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”
Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.
He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.
Other partners?
When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.
But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.
Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.
No. You didn’t want that.
Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”
You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.
Even if you were never truly his.
***
You left the office in silence.
Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.
Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.
Other partners.
The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.
Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.
“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”
You blinked, “Think about what?”
He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”
Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”
He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.
You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”
A pause. Longer than it needed to be.
His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”
You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”
“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”
You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.
Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.
You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?
“But,” You said loudly.
He stopped. Turned.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”
Silence.
It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.
Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.
He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.
“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
You shook your head, “I mean it.”
He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.
His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”
A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.
“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”
Your heart stuttered.
He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”
The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”
He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.
“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”
Neither of you moved.
And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
You didn’t speak.
You didn’t need to.
His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.
You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.
When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.
He didn’t let go.
Neither did you.
And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.
Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.
Oh my god. The way I am smitten with long pieces of writing and this genuinely is the best thing I’ve ever read. You’ve got me head over heels for a fictional man and, girl, I’m not even complaining because I’m just grateful I have the privilege of reading this masterpiece. 🤍
Summary - Best friends. For six years, that's all you were. But you were idiots - idiots who couldn't see each other's yearning for what it was. So you stewed in jealousy and suffered in want. Until one night when something had to give.
Warnings - Strong language, non-con kissing (not really, also not by Theo), he has glasses because I said so, and that's it. <3
WC: 3.5K
You were loud. You had no shame in full-belly laughing in front of anyone, cracking vulgar inappropriate jokes, or talking to a complete stranger like you'd known them half your life.
Theo would never understand how — nor why — you did it.
He saw the attention your antics got you — stares, and judgmental jeers — yet it seemed like water off a duck's back to you.
He did not relate.
If Theodore Nott hated anything, it was being perceived. Look at him too long? He'd leave the room. And God forbid you randomly speak to him; he likely won't respond.
Which is why your benevolence towards any scummy bloke with a bulge boggled his mind.
They'd shamelessly flirt with you, and you'd flirt back every single time. Well, flirting in Nott's mind is a brief, awkward smile and a weak joke, so you were practically on third base with anyone you spoke to.
The worst part to him was when he would be standing right next to you, and one of the greasy gits who wanted to get you out of your knickers would come up and speak like he wasn't even there. A ghost would get more recognition.
He got a lot of flack from his friends for being such a doormat when it came to you, but for the life of him, he couldn't admit what he knew plain and simple — he was too scared to lose you. Some of you is better than none, he couldn't run the risk of overstepping.
Once when he was smoking with Matt in the middle of the night, he said being around you was "torture. It's like being repeatedly kicked in the balls but you're cemented in place."
Mattheo just took another draw of his cigarette. He was used to this — the pathetic yearning that had been going on for six years — just as everyone else was.
No matter how many interventions about how this obsession needs to be outed or stopped, Theo would only cower to imagine telling you he loved you.
He actually dreamed that he cried during the admittance; not a great one for the ego, especially since he woke up to you standing at the edge of his bed with your bright smile, reminding him of what he didn't have, waving yourself in front of him like a carrot to a horse.
You were the girl of his dreams. You were the funniest person he had ever met — don't tell Matt he said that — the smartest, and sweet to the point that many people questioned why you were even a Slytherin.. You were everything.
You always smelt edible with the perfect balance of sweetness and powder, you had eyes that sparkled like constellations, and hair soft as satin. Gods were dreamt up to explain how your beauty came about.
He did let those sentiments slip around the boys far too often.
"Theo?" You repeated for the third time, hand on his bicep, trying to pull him from his apparent staring trance out the stained-glass window.
At your silky voice, he was dragged back to reality. "Where were you?" He asked immediately, looking you up and down like a protective parent, holding your shoulders to keep you in place while he examined — admired — you.
You let him hold you in place, leisurely looking up at him with the plump, unintentional pout and wide eyes, just as you always do. "Divination, of course."
His breath was short, just like his tone; low and bothered, but careful not to take it out on you. "Well, I know that. What took you so long?"
You smiled happily, careless to the clear frustration in his gravelly voice, and just reached up to tug on a curl and make it boing. "I walked back with Zacharias, he helped me with all the books."
Smith, that empty-headed idiot Hufflepuff who quite literally got his hair highlighted.
Nott kissed his teeth, his hands that had slid to your forearms falling to his side, so he wouldn't grab your waist. "Again?"
His hair was curled around your fingers, you stood on your tiptoes, playing with it — and priding yourself in the fact that he still did the routine you taught him years ago. "Yeah. He was really insistent on it this time." You said airily, teasing him under a guise.
Theo rolled his eyes, hearing the mischief in your voice. "I wonder why." He spat quietly, leaning back against the wall, vexed but unable to keep his frown at your touch, and the happy lilt of your voice.
"I know he likes me. I'm not stupid." You replied, letting his hair be when your deft fingers made it lie perfectly, hands slipping to rest lazily over his shoulders.
You were painfully used to this, his catty attitude whenever a bloke tried his luck with you.
He sighed and looked down the empty corridor, not wanting to bother you with his jealous tendencies — they were Mattheo's problem. "Never said you were, principessa."
The Italian always got you. Little butterflies fluttered at every word, yet he never seemed to notice the soft blush hiding beneath your exterior.
A week later and everything was the same.
He watched boys fawn over you while he stewed only metres away and listened to the recounts of your interactions; it was exhausting and off-putting, but inevitable.
This evening, he was attempting to relax; tucked in the deepest corner of the library with his nose in a book. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose where they belonged, and focused on the words lining the yellowing page.
"Come on, Zach. You've been chatting her up for months. When're you going to ask her out?"
"Soon, mate. Soon."
The book was forgotten immediately.
"Is soon when Nott's cold in his grave?"
"That…lanky fuck'n lamppost thinks he owns her."
Theo rolled his eyes at the muffled words from the other side of the bookshelf.
Absurd. He didn't think he owned you, frankly; he had no hold on you at all, something he loathed with a passion.
His friend's voice was a little incredulous when he said your name. "She wouldn't stand for him being controlling."
Scoff. "He's not controlling… Ugh, he's just a whiny baby. Whenever a bloke talks to her, the look on his face is if Cruciatus was a frown."
At that Theodore stood, rounded the aisle, stood right beside a struggling Smith and effortlessly put his book back onto the shelf — the one above the shelf that Zacharias was flailing on his tiptoes for.
He left the library without a word to the pair, quickening his steps down the spiral stairs to the dungeons.
You were never one to respect curfews — Theo wasn't either, but his breaches were mostly for a smoke — and more often than not found yourself out of a night, messing about with your friends.
Tonight was typical, just sitting around the black lake, throwing stones and listening the the dense splash. The gathering was slightly larger than usual, with friends from different houses, and most importantly, boys.
There was a patch of grass on a ledge that overlooked the moonlit water; your favourite place to sit, that had now been tainted by Smith.
He was sitting right next to you — legs spread so your knees touched — breathing very loudly, in your opinion.
You liked Zacharias . He was smart, kind, and pretty funny. You liked him as a friend. He didn't seem to pick up on that.
"Saw Nott earlier." He said while clearing his throat, as if gearing up for a speech.
You pricked up at the mention, looking back at him from the water, joining his speckled green eyes.
He rubbed the back of his neck, thanking the growing darkness for hiding the light blush on his cheeks, and let out an awkward chuckle. "He is…oddly intimidating."
A snort escaped you, wrapping your arms tighter around your knees. "What? Teddy's not intimidating…? " You chuckled, looking back at the water.
Teddy. It seemed to roll off your tongue as instinct. You'd never even called Smith Zach, something he was painfully aware of; that stung in a way he was embarrassed of.
After a few beats of silence, and some mental war, he continued. "Recently… I guess I've been wondering, are you two — I dunno — going out?"
You ignored the ache in your chest when he asked that, focusing your eyes on the shadow of a tree branch shining in the water. "No." Your tone was quiet and schooled, soft under the allusion that you were trying to protect the layer of quiet surrounding you both.
"Just friends."
Zach nodded, his neck enthusiastic while he kept his face calm. He leaned over a little bit, matching your posture and turning his head to the side, watching the glare of cold moonlight atop your features. This was his chance.
The feeling and sound of his breath was overstimulating, and his eyes were burning little holes into your profile. You swallowed, willing yourself to turn and meet his gaze again.
He was silent, mulling things over, it seemed. The cogs were turning behind that fringe, you mused.
But then his lips were on yours — hot and desperate — and his hand was in your hair like he wanted a slap for messing it up.
You pulled back the second you registered the feeling, heaving breath as you looked up at him.
Zacharias was clearly mortified by the red glow of his face, and the way his hands hung in the air like they didn't belong to him. "Shit, I'm s-sorry!" He frantically stuttered, trying to analyse whether or not you now hated him from your expression.
In the castle, Theo lay in bed with drooping yet stubborn eyelids, staring at a picture of you two from last year.
It was late October, an early snow had come and released a blizzard upon the grounds. Everyone abandoned last lesson for a massive snowball fight. It was complete chaos — professors projecting their voices with their wands as they screamed, wailing first years with nosebleeds that painted the snow red — and Nott had no intention of participating.
He sat back against a tree, watching with a mix of amusement and indifference. You had come over, nose tinged pink from freezing, giggling about whoever you had landed a blow on. He cracked a smile reserved for only you, and you collapsed beside him, head falling into his lap.
He adjusted your hat to cover your poor chilled forehead, and let his hand linger, woollen thumb brushing your cheek.
Some first year that was hiding from the wrath of ice took the picture. It only ended up in Theo's grasp because you spotted the boy out of the corner of your eye, and guided him inside so the elder years wouldn't get him.
That's who you were. A ray of sunshine in the middle of a frozen night. The smile on your face when you nuzzled against his stomach, the soft, repetitive brush of his fingers on your cheek.
The boomerang motion in the photograph taunted him, as if to say he's stuck.
He was stuck, yes; in this revolving door of white lies and repression. But he couldn't stop looking.
The sensation of your freezing cheek against his stomach was phantom. You had unzipped his jacket from the bottom just to feel his skin.
God, he wouldn't sleep tonight.
Even the flutter of your eyelashes was felt. It seemed spiritual — metaphorical, to chance — for his body to give you warmth. He couldn't explain what about that moment was so significant; but it made him come to the realisation that this was it.
You were it. He would never get over you; the thought of what could be.
Then he heard the rattle of the shitty door knob and immediately jerked into a seated position and put the picture frame back onto his bedside table.
The door swung open, and you were there, sobbing and broken apart. You weakly shut the door, apologising to the door with your hand and running to his bed.
Theodore's mouth was parted slightly, and his heart felt like it was being dissected chamber by chamber at the sight of your tears. "Oh, cara."
When you reached him, you climbed onto the bed and laid your head on his chest, ugly-crying against his skin.
Without missing a beat, Theo's arm encircled you, and a hand cupped your head, holding you there tenderly.
He wasn't good with comforting people, never had been. But you had taught him the art of physical touch, and he held tight ever since.
Your gripped his bicep so tight it could pop, your damp cheek against his pounding heartbeat.
You didn't know why you were crying. Zacharias hadn't meant to make you uncomfortable, and was compulsive in his apologies. But that wasn't the reason.
Being kissed by him felt uncalled for my fate. All you wanted was Theo…to love, to hold, to cling to for eternity.
No matter what you did, he seemed oblivious.
Theodore rubbed your back, trying anything he could to calm you. He pulled the covers over your form, letting you bathe in his warmth.
Soon enough, when you became too pathetic, you came to your senses and sat up, aggressively wiping your tears away with the sleeve of your hoodie and sitting up.
Nott continued holding you, the hand in your hair slipping to your cheek, fingers twitching, trying not the caress it.
"I'm sorry." You said quietly, with a sort of nasal lilt from your stuffy nose.
He shook his head, grabbing a tissue from the box on his bedside — that sat just above the drawer full of letters — and raised it to your face, dabbing carefully, like you were an priceless statue who threatened to crack under the pressure.
"Don't ever be sorry for coming to me." He whispered, wiping your running nose some would say reverently.
Seeing you like this killed him. Whenever you cried, he felt like a field of wildflowers that lived from your sunshine died.
At his words, you let out a shaking breath, leaning your head to fall into the crook of his neck while you gripped his bare shoulder for dear life.
For god's sake, why did he think you didn't date those boys? Does he think at all? How long have you been waiting for him to get the bloody hint?
By now you had accepted that he didn't reciprocate, but everything reminded you of him. Your whole body ached in exhaustion of want.
"Zacharias kissed me." You whispered.
Your hot words against his neck made a shiver run down his spine. He stiffened. Now he wanted to cry.
"…Oh? How was that?" He whispered back — if he spoke normally, his rough voice would shatter — holding you tighter to combat the real-time feeling of you slipping through his fingers.
All you could do was breathe him in.
The air was silent, thickening to the point that your lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves for any wick of oxygen.
"I hated it." You eventually lifted your head, your face a deep-set weary frown.
Theo's livened eyes crossed your features in a split second, the pads of his fingers dug into the line of your spine, like they were trying to anchor into the skin.
When your words finally processed, he felt a type of urgency like ever before.
"Did he force you?" He asked lowly, his other hand gripping your bicep, looking you up and down as if to search for superficial injuries.
You shook your head, bottom lip beginning to quiver once again. "He just…read it wrong."
You looked away, gulping and wiping your runny nose. "Wouldn't stop apologising." You muttered quietly.
Theo was confused. He didn't want to say anything to upset you more, so just nodded and traced your vertebrae.
Why not him?
Before you knew it the floodgates had opened. "I don't even like him. He's not my type. He's blonde!"
The boy beneath you couldn't help the laugh that escaped him, no matter how ridiculously out of place.
You joined him in it, but yours was more guttural and longing.
"I love your laugh." The sound was tired, but wrapped in silken care.
Whenever he was complimented, Nott tended to go red. Whenever you complimented him, his cheeks created a new hex code of the colour.
"I love your smile." He said softly. And he did, always had. The upturn of your lips, the way the apples of your cheeks lifted and your eyes squinted with happiness.
That same smile peaked through, and you leaned in a bit on instinct, smelling the lingering smoke on his breath mixed with his fir cologne.
"I love your hair." His soft curls were disrupted by your grabby hands, making them bounce over and over.
Theo never liked letting people in — it scared him.
Hiding in the shadows was so much easier. There was no one to impress, no expectations to meet; only he and his distraction of choice.
And yeah, he obviously had his friends, but he only trusted Mattheo and Blaise.
Enzo's a snake, he'd sell his first born child for a chocolate frog. Draco…that one's just self explanatory.
Zabini was too like Nott. They just ended up sitting in silence most of the time; although comfortable, it benefited none.
Mattheo didn't feel things like his best friend did. He saw everything at the surface.
But Theodore lived beneath the break. He watched. He learned. His words begged listen.
You were always that listener. Understanding was your best talent, he never had to explain himself, because you already knew.
He was sure his eyes were spilling it already, maybe the stroke of his fingers on your spine, or the way his hand traced your forearm.
He was a lot of things. A poet on paper yes, but aloud? No.
These words wouldn't leave anyone wondering.
"I love you."
A soft snort escaped you, rolling your eyes and continuing to mess with his hair.
He was used to this, but his heart was pounding, and he really couldn't handle your disregard.
Your name fell from his lips bathed in truth.
You finally stopped playing with his curls, meeting his eyes.
"Theo…"
"I mean it, tesoro." His hand slid from your forearm, trailing goosebumps up to your cheek.
He felt like he was floating, feeling lighter than he had in years.
You could see it, the want in his eyes. Hear that resigned tone only used when he's too tired to keep pretending.
Tears were streaming down your face again, and your body shook with overwhelm — the good kind.
"I love you too, Teddy." You muttered between sniffles, leaning your foreheads together.
He was silent. He wouldn't speak, he wouldn't break this beautiful, fragile moment.
He only closed his eyes, letting himself be surrounded by your presence, believing this was real — that you loved him.
The tips of your noses brushed, and his hand on your cheek loosened, like he knew that he could trust you not to leave him.
You melted, gently gripping his chin and letting your lips meet.
Six years of friendship, howling laughs, and wailing cries that you trusted one another with — it all led up to this.
It was short. A sleepy but passionate touch, nothing lustful; a promise.
His tongue brushed yours, letting his taste of tobacco and espresso tang corrupt the sugary sweetness of your mouth.
When the kiss ended, you stayed like that. Eyes closed, while he nuzzled his nose against your cheek.
That night was spent in each other's arms, the value of touch never undermined as his arm held your waist, and his breath tickled your neck.
You woke in the same position you fell asleep in, only his head had slipped to rest on the pillow of your chest, and your arm had whacked the little bear that lived on his bedside table onto the covers.
It sat just by Theo's head, and you were unable to stop your smile. You kissed his crown, and placed the brown bear — that you bought for him years ago — sitting upright again.
Your two teddy bears.
It was as if he sensed your consciousness; letting out a soft huff of breath against your top, tightening his arm around you.
"Darling?" You murmured softly, tracing your fingers along his forehead.
He looked up at that. His pupils were dilated, and he was clearly still out of it.
But when he saw your face, he smiled, finally at peace.
"Bambina."
Your warmth was his addiction, and he was sure he'd never sleep again if it wasn't in your hold.
Within the course of ten minutes, he was your boyfriend, and you sat smothered in his covers, surrounded by browned envelopes, all labelled "Amore mio."
Theodore Nott m.list
I HOPE WITH ALL MY BS HYPING THIS UP THAT IT DIDN'T DISAPPOINT
in case you are living under a rock, don’t use AI to write your works!!! writing is hard but it’s so rewarding. getting to create something of your own is truly beautiful, don’t be lazy and use a tool that essentially steals from other writers creativity
Summary - Your little prank was not tastefully timed.
Warnings- Bad language, smoking. This is Theo x the current bf tiktok trend lol. No one asked for this it was just in my head. Established relationship ofc, angsty teddy but he does get his comfort dw <3
WC: 1K
Dating Theodore Nott meant never being alone.
Not that he didn’t give you space – no, he cherished his alone time. Only that alone time had recently been spent tastefully lurking wherever you went.
Instead of reading in his usual dungeon nook or the deepest corner of the library, he did it while following you. Or he’d casually ask your detailed plans for the day, your favourite shortcuts, anything to give him an inkling of your location.
It wasn’t in a creepy way — ish —, but in an ‘I'd die if anything happened to you; I always need to make sure you’re safe’ way.
And though you loved him more than anything, you couldn’t help but feel suffocated at times. He had this way of knowing everything you did to the point that you wondered if he had a mic on you.
So you and your friends decided to conduct a little experiment; talking at a relative volume in the middle of the empty courtyard.
“He’s my current boyfriend, that’s it.”
Little did you know that his entire friend group was just around the corner, having a smoke. Theo was furthest from the corner, laughing about something with Mattheo, lungs full of happiness and smoke, when Blaise tapped his bicep.
“You’ll never guess what your girl just said.”
Nott raised his eyebrows without much interest and took another draw of his cigarette.
“'He’s my current boyfriend.'”
Enzo jumped in right after Zabini, taking Theo’s cigarette. “'That’s it'” He brought the cigarette to his lips, wearing that stupid smirk he always had on when gossip was about.
Theo’s eyes widened. “What—”
Matt threw his arm over his best friend’s shoulder, ruffling his hair. “You’re just her sex toy.”
“Get the fuck-” He somehow freed himself from Mattheo’s hold and stormed past his friends – not without stealing his cigarette back from Berkshire and flicking it into the grass.
There you were. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever, giggling with your friends with the face of love’s young dream, like you hadn't just ripped the rug out from under your boyfriend.
He stormed over and unceremoniously grabbed your hips from behind, picking you up. You let out a surprised yelp, hands instinctively reaching back to hold his shoulders. He placed you down after a few steps, spinning you to look at him – his pout.
“Current boyfriend?” He spat lowly, looking down at you like you’d just ripped out his heart and cut it into pieces with a rusted butter knife.
You resisted the urge to laugh in his face – how did he manage to keep such close tabs on you? – but held it in for the sake of his overly fragile state. The lines on your face smoothed as you schooled your expression, feeling his bruising grip on your waist.
You wanted to laugh and tell him that it was only a joke, but the hollowness of his face made you rethink that.
Theo’s mouth was slightly parted in exasperation. He was on the edge of insanity, and you looked like you were about to piss yourself laughing. “Per l'amor del cielo – is that all I am to you?” For the love of God.
The dark circles under his eyes and the tight grip his bony hands had on you were telling. You really shouldn’t have pulled this stunt just a few hours before he got his potions test back.
“No, no!” You reached up to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over the smooth, shaven skin. “It’s a joke, Theo.” You're an idiot — this really was not the time to pull a juvenile prank when he barely slept last night from anxiety.
He swallowed, looking down at you with distrust but leaning into your touch nevertheless.
"I'm sorry, baby." You murmured; in your mind, you were on your knees for the carnal sin of hurting your teddy bear's feelings.
Your boyfriend wiped his runny nose — he also has a cold currently; life has been kicking him in the balls recently — and slouched despite himself.
The watery, self-deprecating laugh that escaped you was inevitable from the way he was looking at you – adorably exhausted. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders.
His head dropped to the crook of your neck, a loud, annoyed sigh against the warm skin. “You're not forgiven." He spat in a tender whisper that contradicted his words.
The sigh that escaped you was weary, guilty, and sad. Your fingers scratched at the nape of his neck in the way that made him purr like a kitten, feeling his grip on you tighten but relax.
"The joke was that you're my current boyfriend, 'cause you're my future husband." Your lips brushed his ear with a timid, regretful tone that made you think maybe it wasn't as clever or entertaining as you thought it was.
That made your boyfriend shut his eyes, his hands snaking under your jumper to feel the warmth of your bare skin.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his neck droop — like it lost its will to stand straight — so your foreheads pressed together. His eyes seemed to have gotten the tiny sparkle you always provided, his breath soft.
You smiled weakly with tight-lipped apology, cupping his face, feeling the unkempt stubble brushing your soft hand.
Theo melted into a puddle of emotion, and every bit of worry and anger inside him morphed into soft, luminescent admiration.
Then suddenly, you were on your tippy-toes, pecking his lips, stained with nicotine that you're now addicted to — inadvertent genius from Nott.
He let the corners of his mouth turn up in exhausted affection, and when you pulled back and nuzzled into his chest, he pressed a kiss to your crown.
You breathed him in silently, noting his lack of cologne for today and appreciating his natural musk that you preferred to any expensive scent.
Theo smoothed down your hair with a careful hand, murmuring into it with a growing smirk. "How soon do I get to make the future husband thing a reality?"
Theodore Nott m.list
i hate this but i don't give a fuck because i lost the original
and do not ask me how i managed to yap what was meant to be a 400 word minific into 1k - jesus girl take the keyboard away
After Y/n Potter finds out about a bet between Theodore Nott and his friends, she is left heartbroken. Theo, who accidentally fell for her, is confident he'll win her back.
Warnings: ANGST, hurt/comfort, depression, heartbreak, slight manipulation, using alcohol to cope. (Let me know if I forgot anything).
Word Count: 2.7k
Masterlist I Part 1
The weeks after the betrayal were a blur.
A slow, suffocating kind of numbness settled over you, thick and inescapable, like fog that clung to your skin and crawled into your lungs, dulling everything but the ache.
You had always been strong. Brave. The kind of girl who carried other people’s pain like it was lighter than her own. You were the one who gave encouraging smiles across the common room, who let others lean on you even when your own shoulders ached.
But not this time.
Not after Theodore Nott.
Because this time, it wasn’t just heartbreak.
It was devastation. It was betrayal. It was a collapse from the inside out.
You stopped smiling. Stopped laughing. Stopped being you.
The mirror became a stranger you couldn’t meet the eyes of. You stopped brushing your hair. Stopped wearing the scarf he gave you. Stopped singing along to the songs your mum used to play, the ones Theo pretended not to like but had memorized anyway.
Your bed became your sanctuary and your prison. You curled beneath the covers, body rigid, unmoving, hoping the world would forget you existed.
You started skipping meals. At first because you couldn’t stomach the thought of walking into the Great Hall and seeing his face and later, because food tasted like ash in your mouth anyway. Your hands trembled more now. The hollows under your eyes deepened. Some days, you didn’t speak at all.
Classes became background noise. Your quill stayed dry. Professors called your name, and you didn’t answer. The world kept spinning, and you couldn’t understand how it hadn’t stopped.
Hermione asked if you were okay. You told her you were just tired.
Ron asked if Theo did something. You shook your head with a hollow laugh.
Harry didn’t ask at all.
He just watched you from across the room, brows drawn tight, his jaw clenched like it physically hurt him not to step in. But he didn’t push. He never had to. He knew your tells. And he knew, with every fiber of his being, that something had broken in you.
The whispers started a few days before Christmas.
It began as murmurs in hallways, then louder, more confident, as the truth clawed its way through the school like wildfire.
“Did you hear what he did to her?”
“She’s Potter’s sister. He’s got a bloody death wish.”
“Merlin, I heard he made a bet, fifty galleons to seduce her, sleep with her, then dump her before the holidays.”
“She trusted him. He used her.”
“She loved him.”
You didn’t deny it. Didn’t defend him. Didn’t speak a word.
Let them say it, all of it. Let them tear his name to shreds, spit it through clenched teeth, pin him to the wall with their fury. You let it happen because part of you hoped if they hated him enough, it might undo how much you still loved him.
But it didn’t.
Because even after everything, you still saw him.
In every hallway you walked down. In the library where you used to sit with your knees brushing under the table. In the Astronomy Tower where you first kissed him beneath the stars. In the corridor where he first touched your cheek, told you that you had ink on your face, and made you blush like an idiot.
You still heard his voice in your head. Still read your old Charms textbook and remembered the note he slipped into it.
You couldn’t eat Chocolate Frogs anymore. Couldn’t bear the thought of one showing up in your bag again, not knowing if it would be a gift or just another cruel echo of what you lost.
And your dreams?
They were the worst of all.
You still dreamed of him.
Of soft kisses and laughter by the lake. Of his hands wrapped around yours. Of the way he used to look at you when you weren’t looking, like you were something fragile and irreplaceable.
Except now, the dreams always ended the same way.
With his voice in that common room.
“She’s easy once you know what to say.”
You’d wake up gasping. Shaking. Sometimes crying so hard you bit your own hand to keep from making noise. Sometimes Harry would find you sitting by the fire hours before dawn, legs pulled to your chest, staring into the flames like they could burn away what he did to you.
And the worst part?
He saw you too.
Not just in classes. Not just in passing.
He looked at you.
Like you were a ghost he’d never stop chasing. Like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and you were the only thing that could fill the gnawing ache he’d carved into himself.
Like he remembered everything too.
You hated that part most of all, the way he still looked at you like he meant it.
As if the boy who shattered you could somehow still feel broken.
As if you weren’t already bleeding enough for the both of you.
And so you held your head high.
Even when it trembled.
Even when your vision blurred.
Because if you let yourself stop, if you let yourself look back…
You weren’t sure you’d ever be able to walk away again.
-----------
It was snowing outside when Theodore cornered you in the Owlery.
The stone walls were slick with cold, the wind slicing in through the high, arched windows, rattling the wooden rafters above. Snow drifted in slow, lazy flurries through the open arches, settling in soft piles near the roosts. Your fingers were stiff, numb with cold as you tried to tie a letter to your owl’s leg, breath fogging in the frigid air.
And then, “Y/N.”
His voice cleaved through the silence like a blade.
You froze mid-motion, the ribbon cutting into your fingers as your grip tightened. The parchment crinkled beneath your hand.
You didn’t turn.
He looked like hell.
Dark circles ringed his eyes like bruises. His lips were cracked, raw from wind or worry, or both. His school robes hung off him like a second skin he no longer fit into, wrinkled, disheveled, the tie completely gone. His hair was unkempt, wind-tossed, but not in the effortlessly cool way it used to be. No. This time, it looked like he hadn’t touched it in days.
There was a strange hollowness in him, like something had caved in and never quite filled back out.
“I need to explain-”
“No.” You cut in sharply, your voice flat and empty. You didn’t even raise your eyes. “You don’t.”
He hesitated.
“Please.”
You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “Just go away.”
“I can’t.” His voice cracked, barely audible above the wind. “I’ve tried. Merlin, I’ve tried to leave you alone, but I can’t-”
Your owl gave a sharp shriek and launched into the air, wings slicing through the snowfall, disappearing into the white blur beyond the arches.
You stood still for another breath, another two, then turned to face him.
He looked like he hadn’t breathed since he last saw you.
And for a moment, just one, he looked hopeful. Like maybe there was something in your eyes that he could still reach.
But there wasn’t.
“You already left me alone, Theodore,” you whispered, voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “The second you agreed to the game.”
He flinched.
You didn’t wait for a response.
Didn’t let yourself linger, because if you did, you weren’t sure your legs would keep moving.
So you walked past him, slow, deliberate, the snow biting at your cheeks like tiny needles, the cold sharp in your lungs. You didn’t stop walking until your fingers were numb and your throat ached from holding in everything you didn’t say.
And behind you, Theodore didn’t follow.
He just stood there.
Silhouetted in snowfall.
Alone.
Exactly the way he made you feel.
-----------
The Yule Ball came and went.
You didn’t go.
The invitations had piled up, boys asking if you’d be their date with nervous grins and trembling hands, but you turned them all down. Politely. Quietly. There was no room left in you for pretty dresses or floating candles or music that reminded you of the way he used to hum under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening.
So you stayed in the common room, curled up in a too-large jumper by the fire, pretending to read a book you’d already finished twice. The Gryffindor girls laughed and twirled around you, high on the thrill of the night, but their voices felt miles away.
He went.
Of course he did.
With Daphne Greengrass on his arm, her nails painted emerald to match his tie, the same color as the ribbon he once used to tie up your hair, the one still hidden in the bottom of your trunk.
They looked like a painting: him tall and pale and silent, her laughing too loudly at things he didn’t say. She clung to his side like it meant something, like she didn’t notice how his eyes were always scanning the crowd, looking for a ghost.
Everyone knew it was a front. Even Daphne.
Especially Daphne.
She tried to kiss him during the last song, slow and soft beneath the glittering snowfall that had started to drift from the enchanted ceiling.
He turned his head away.
Didn’t say a word.
Later that night, when the castle had gone quiet and the corridors echoed with the fading warmth of celebration, you slipped out of your dorm and wandered toward the Astronomy Tower. You told yourself you just wanted air. Just wanted to breathe. Just wanted to reclaim something, anything, that hadn’t been touched by him.
But he was already there.
Curled against the far wall, slumped beneath the stars, the moonlight painting sharp angles into his too-thin frame. His cloak was half-off his shoulder, his tie undone, his hair a mess of curls falling into his eyes.
He was drunk.
Alone.
His hands were trembling, white-knuckled around a crumpled piece of parchment. One of yours. You couldn’t tell which one, the ink had bled, distorted by tears and smudged fingerprints. Your handwriting, once so neat, now unreadable.
He held it like it was holy. Like it was all he had left.
He didn’t see you.
Didn’t hear the soft intake of breath when you realized he was crying.
Not the quiet kind.
The kind that ripped out of your chest when no one was listening. The kind that left you empty.
You stood there in silence, the snow creeping in through the open arches, cold settling into your bones.
And for a second, just one, your fingers twitched at your side, like you might go to him. Like you might kneel beside him and wipe the tears from his cheeks and tell him he ruined you, but you still couldn’t bear to see him broken.
But you didn’t.
You turned.
And left before he could ever know you’d been there.
-----------
February.
Your Potions partner dropped the class.
You were assigned a new one.
Theo.
You nearly protested. Nearly walked out.
But something in you, maybe anger, maybe exhaustion, said no.
You sat beside him in stony silence, ignoring the way his fingers twitched near yours, the way his voice caught every time he said your name.
You didn’t speak.
But he did.
Little by little.
Week by week.
He asked if you were okay.
You didn’t answer.
He complimented your potion knowledge.
You ignored him.
He passed you a note once during a silent reading assignment. All it said was:
“I miss the way you smiled at me.”
You burned it with a flick of your wand.
He didn’t pass another one.
But he never stopped looking at you.
-----------
It happened in March.
You were on patrol. Alone. Prefect duty.
There was shouting echoing through the dungeons. At first you thought it was Peeves. But then you recognized the voices.
Theo.
Draco.
“-She’s not yours to fix, Nott!”
“She’s not yours to talk about!”
“You broke her-”
“And I’ll spend the rest of my life fixing it, if I have to!”
You rounded the corner just in time to see Theo punch Draco in the gut.
Hard.
Draco wheezed and stumbled back, red-faced and furious.
But Theo didn’t look angry.
He looked wrecked.
“I love her,” he said, voice hoarse. “You don’t get to talk about her like she’s some stupid bet we won.”
“She’s a Potter,” Draco spat. “You think her brother’s ever going to let you near her again?”
“I don’t care what Potter thinks.”
Theo turned, eyes blazing.
“I care what she thinks.”
He looked up, and saw you.
Everything stilled.
You stared at each other in the dark hallway, heart pounding, lips parted.
Then you walked away.
Not because you were angry.
But because, for the first time in months…
You didn’t know what to feel.
-----------
Two days later, a letter showed up on your bed.
Nothing except your name.
You hesitated, fingers trembling, then opened it.
Y/N,
I don’t know how to do this right. I never did.
The night they made the bet, I was drunk. I was stupid. I said yes because I didn’t want to be the one they laughed at. I thought it would be harmless. I thought it would be easy.
But you weren’t easy.
You were brilliant. Brave. Kind. You looked at me like I was worth something, and it scared the hell out of me. I didn’t think I deserved that.
Somewhere between pretending and falling, I lost track of the lie.
And by the time I realized I loved you, it was too late.
I don’t want your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I need you to know that I never stopped choosing you.
Even now. Even in silence. Even when it hurts.
You cried.
Not because you forgave him.
But because, for the first time, you believed him.
-----------
The next time he approached you, you didn’t walk away.
You didn’t smile either.
You just stood by the Black Lake, arms crossed, as he approached slowly, like he wasn’t sure you wouldn’t disappear.
“I still hate what you did,” you said softly.
He nodded. “You should.”
“I’m still angry.”
“Good,” he said quietly. “Stay angry. Just… be angry with me. Not without me.”
You exhaled shakily. “You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I’ll wait,” he whispered. “As long as it takes.”
Silence.
Then finally. “You’ll wait… and you’ll make it up to me.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
You raised an eyebrow. “You want me back, Theodore Nott? You’re going to earn it.”
His mouth parted.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
“I can do that.”
And Merlin help you,
You smiled back.
-----------
He wrote you letters. Almost daily.
Never asked for anything.
Just sent you thoughts. Funny stories. Memories. Apologies.
One had a pressed flower from the Black Lake. “Thought you might want to keep it this time.”
One had a bad sketch of you. “My masterpiece. Don’t laugh.”
One had a Chocolate Frog with a note: “For old times. No tricks. Promise.”
You didn’t respond.
But you didn’t throw them away.
-----------
May.
You sat by the lake again, the same log where he first made you laugh.
You heard footsteps.
You didn’t turn.
He sat beside you in silence.
Then, quietly: “Do you hate me less today?”
You smiled, just a little. “Maybe.”
“Enough to go for a walk?”
You looked at him.
His eyes were softer than you remembered. Like he’d carved away every part that used to be cruel just to be worthy of sitting beside you again.
You nodded.
He stood and held out his hand.
You stared at it.
Then, finally, you took it.
It was warm.
Steady.
Real.
He didn’t pull you in.
Didn’t kiss you.
Didn’t rush it.
He just held your hand as you walked, like the slow act of existing beside you was enough.
And maybe, just maybe, it was.
Because love isn’t loud.
It’s not always fireworks and confessions and screaming matches.
Sometimes, it’s just this.
A quiet beginning.
After everything.
-----------
Epilogue
You kissed him again for the first time in the rain.
He was holding your face, soaked and trembling, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe you were real again.
“I’m still angry,” you whispered.
He smiled. “Good.”
“And I still don’t trust you fully.”
“I’ll earn it.”
And when you kissed him, he didn’t rush.
He kissed you like he was scared to wake up.
And for the first time since you walked away that night, the world felt right again.
Not perfect.
But healing.
Together.
----------------
Thank you all so much for all the love on Cruel Games. It siriusly (; means so much me, I really thought that this acc would just be something for me to do for fun and that It wouldn't blow up! Also thank you to all the people said I should make a part two, I'll tag you down below!!
Tag List: @lilians17 @thegoddessofnothingness @fries11 @froggiedragon @nayegpr
This was devastatingly amazing and a true masterpiece. I genuinely don’t think I’m ever going to recover from both parts because it still pains me to think about but I’m so glad it ended happily and this deserves so much praise.
Belly and Jeremiah are terrible for each other and they don’t allow themselves to grow up. And it’s all laughing and jokes and living off delusion now until the real reason they’re together starts hitting them hard. Jeremiah thinks Belly’s a replacement to Susannah, that she should be the one to baby him. “Conrad had my dad and I had my mom”. He made that bargain ever since Season 2. And Belly thinks he’s a replacement to Susannah & Conrad. She lost both of them in such a short amount of time and decided to hold onto another person she didn’t want to lose. Both of them are using each other. They think holding onto their relationship is going to keep Susannah and their childhood alive.
Jeremiah would never be able to grow as a person if he stays with Belly because being with her reminds him that he’s second to Conrad. That Conrad was the one she truly wanted and settled. Being with Belly doesn’t help his insecurity nor helps him discover himself outside of that one sided competition with Conrad he has created.
For Belly, being with Jeremiah not only stops her from growing and following her ambitions – it puts her down to his level of immaturity and compliance. Her leaving an important opportunity like Paris pass by to continue babying a partner that has not goals or ambitions is erasing her. That’s exactly what Laurel told Belly not to do when she entered college and all Belly did was limit her experiences to Jeremiah and why she’s so rightfully against her getting married without having fulfilled her dreams and come into herself. Belly’s literally at the very worst version of herself. It can only go up for her if she follows her heart.
Growing old is scary, grief is scary. But trying to put on a bandaid over it with a relationship that’s doomed to fail isn’t healing – it’s avoidance.
That’s all. That’s all he could be asked to say after avoiding you for three whole days. You couldn’t believe this, you refused to believe it. No way your sweet, loving Teddy was suddenly a heartless jerk, sure he is like that occasionally with others but not you, never you.
“What” you pathetically whispered but he was already turning to leave. “Theodore, don’t you dare.” He didn’t listen, he kept walking. He was walking away from you and for once you felt completely and utterly lost.
You could feel your eyes begin to fill with tears but you refused to let anyone see you this weak. You hated feeling small and he knew it. He didn’t look back. Not once.
Not knowing what else to do and feeling extremely vulnerable in your current distraught state, you ran to the only place you found solace. Resting upon the ancient tree, staring at the continuous ripples of the black lake, you felt nothing, absolutely nothing. He had broken something in you.
As much as you didn’t want to admit anyone could affect you this deeply, he had managed to destroy your whole world with only a few words. No, he was your whole world.
Tears just kept falling, the salty water morphing your face into the ugliest you’d felt in years. You hated crying. You hated feeling weak.
The wind slashed your face and combined with the coldness of the night air, pain struck through you like a blast of magic but you couldn’t even muster up the strength to care. Nothing hurt more than the pain Theodore Nott had just so effortlessly caused you.
You sat there for Salazar knows how long but by the time you’d found the courage to move, you were consumed with darkness alongside your own despair.
It was probably around midnight when you finally arrived at your dorm, dishevelled and disgusting. All you could manage was to collapse onto your bed and be thankful it was a Saturday tomorrow. At least you wouldn’t have to face him.
The following morning was no better than the night before, maybe you could’ve forgot about the whole event if it wasn’t for his constant aroma covering ever inch of your room and every little thing reminding you him. That’s what you get for dating the schools known fuck boy you guessed.
What were you thinking, you couldn’t change him. You felt so stupid, you genuinely believed he loved and now you’re stood all alone and pathetic in a room that did nothing but remind you of him. At least Pansy stayed the night with Blaize, you thought to yourself and appreciated the fact that you wouldn’t yet have to explain anything to her. You’d hate to worry her and in all honesty, you’d hate to embarrass yourself in front of her.
After checking the time, you realised it was still fairly early and upon glancing outside, you realised a coat of fog settled on Hogwarts.
The emptiness in the pit of your stomach still lingered and you silently cursed yourself for the hold you allowed Theo to have on you. Since the sun was yet to properly rise, you began rummaging around for something to wear for the day ahead while also trying to rid yourself of all the memories your belongings carried of Theo.
After settling on a comfortable winters outfit, your eyes caught on something in the corner of your room, Theodore’s favourite jumper. You grabbed it in a rage and threw it to the floor as a packet of cigarettes fell to your feet. You’d never smoked before and you were always against Theodore doing it since they destroyed your body one by one. Now, you had nothing to lose.
You gingerly picked up the packet and placed it on your bed while you began to change. Once you were completely prepared to leave your dorm, the sun had begun to rise and the day had officially began.
You grabbed the cigarettes and a lighter that Theodore bought you to light candles with that had his initials engraved into, how self absorbed of him you thought to yourself as you exited your room. The common room was empty except from a few 3rd years sparsely scattered around reading and writing but other than that, you were in the clear for running into anyone you knew.
You debated what you were actually doing as you walked the eerily quiet halls of the castle, most students usually slept in during weekends.
Once you reached the sun doors, you heard laughter, specifically, the laughter of Theodore and his little gang of trouble makers. Of course he was here, he just had to rub it in even more. You pulled the hood of you jumper up and walked straight past them, praying you wouldn’t catch the attention of anyone. Luckily for you, they all seemed preoccupied and you wondered if Theodore had told them what happened.
You were actually fairly good friends with Enzo and of course Pansy was dating Blaize so this was sure to cause some kind of change especially with the selfish way Theodore decided to execute the breakup.
You sat far enough away that they wouldn’t notice you but not far enough for you to be rid of his addicting voice. No, he’s horrible. You refused to fall for him again or acknowledge your still lingering feelings.
You took a deep breathe of the morning air and stared at the objects in your hands. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Hearing a girl giggle Theo’s name, your head instinctively snapped up to see her holding onto his arm. You couldn’t see his expression but you knew he didn’t feel guilty and by the confused looks of his friends, you assumed he had yet to mention your breakup.
You lit a cigarette and stared at the flame of the lighter before finally putting it to your mouth. It’s just a normal cigarette, what harm could it really do. The first few puffs caused you to cough quite violently but after you were onto your second cigarette you were completely fine and feeling much better than previously.
As you were absorbed in a daze and onto your fourth, you didn’t realise the voices growing louder and progressing towards you. When you heard Enzo yell your name in worry, you turned your head to face him. “Oh, hey enz how are you?” He didn’t answer the question and instead looked at you with pure confusion and concern.
“Y/n what are you doing?” He sounded truly worried for you and guilt began to creep in. “Well, Theodore always smokes and since he broke up with me and all that I thought he wouldn’t care if I used the left over pack he left in my dorm” as you slurred your words responding to Enzo, Theo came up behind him, staring at you with pure horror.
Theo tried to reach for you but you backed against a nearby tree and pulled your wand from your pocket. “Don’t. Don’t touch me.” You cried out before your vision turned blurry and you felt gravity pull you down before being caught by someone.
When you came back to it, you were sat on a familiar bed surrounded by things you recognised, but it wasn’t your rooms, it was Theo’s.
“What am I doing here!” You screamed sitting up despite the pounding the back of your head. You felt a hand rest on your back and turned to face a worried looking Theo. No, it’s just a mask you had to remind yourself. “You don’t love me, you don’t care for me it was all a lie, just leave me alone” you were rambling now but nothing was going to stop you.
Every word you uttered seemed to shatter something within Theo bit by bit but you were too absorbed in your own anger and sadness to notice. “And you didn’t look back. You didn’t even look back Theo” your voice cracked at that and you finally looked at Theo who somehow looked more broken than you.
“I’m sorry” he whispered so quietly that you nearly didn’t even hear it. “I’m so sorry, Y/n” he looked at you with so much emotion that you couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
“Why did you do it, just tell me why!” You were sobbing uncontrollably at this point and Theo had joined you in the bed in an attempt to console you.
“I didn’t want to hurt you”
Hurt you? Hurt you! “Hurt me? Well you done a pretty shitty job at that then didn’t you!” You were suddenly angry again, remembering all the hurt and despair you’d been feeling for the last 24 hours while he had girls grovelling at his feet.
You pushed him away and he looked truly pained by your resentment towards him. “I got fucking hurt Theo I got really fucking and you didn’t care. You laughed and hung around girls while I smoked my pain away!”
Theo looked broken, he finally seemed to realise the consequences of his actions and it broke him to see what he did to you.
“I’m sorry, Cara” his voice broke with the last word and he looked at you as if he was pleading for his life.
“Please forgive me.” He was begging now.
“Forgive you? You’re gonna have to do better than that Theodore.” Although you still loved him greatly, you couldn’t ignore the pain he so easily forced you to endure.
“Just let me at least explain then, please Tesoro.” All you could do was sit there and await his excuses.
“I’m in the wrong I know, I know and I’m so sorry.” He actually seemed somehow genuine but you still weren’t sure if he was just toying with you. “I heard them, I heard your friends say I wasn’t good enough and that I was going to go back to messing around with other girls and break your heart.”
You stared at him in shock and confusion.
“They claimed I was holding you back and you deserved better, I tried to ignore their claims but it was eating away at me. You do deserve better, dolce and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner but I thought it would be better for you to just believe I was a jerk.”
At this point you were speechless, falling into his arms like you’d been wanting to do for the last week of this nightmare.
You led there for what felt like hours, you sobbing into his arms as he held you like he never wanted to let go, like he was too scared you’d leave him if he let go.
After hours of comfortable silence, his deep, raspy voice cut through the air in a plead for resolution “I’ll stop smoking from now on if that’s what you want. I promise I’ll be a better person, just don’t leave me. I need you.” And you needed him too. Although this would be an obvious setback, neither of you could deny it, you were made for each other. No matter what happens, you are soulmates. “You don’t have to quit, just please stay with me.” And with that you drifted off to sleep in his arms while he placed a kiss to your temple. “I will, I’ll always be here. Just don’t smoke loads of drugs again” he chuckled into your hair before closing his eyes too.
