The one where Theodore Nott has six weeks to get over his best friend and be the best Maid Men of Honor she could ever wish for. Or the one where Theodore Nott has six weeks to tell Y/N Black she is the love of his life before losing her forever.
Pairings: Theodore Nott x Reader, Charlie Weasley x reader, Past! Cedric Diggory x reader.
Warnings: Slight Angst. Pinning. Toddler Draco being a brat.
A/N: Hi! I'm back but this time with a Harry Potter post-War Fic. I love the movie The Maid of Honor and It inspired me to write this. English Is not my first lenguage so apologies in advance. Don't be a ghost reader. Hope you like It!
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Theodore Nott had always prided himself on being unflappable. It was a trait that had served him well during the war, through his father's imprisonment, and in the years that followed when he'd carefully rebuilt his life from the ashes of his family's disgrace. But as he sat in the elegantly appointed private dining room of the Leaky Cauldron, watching Y/N Black's face light up with a happiness he hadn't seen since before Cedric Diggory died, Theo felt his carefully constructed composure begin to crack.
"Charlie proposed three days ago and I've been dying to tell you!" Y/N’s eyes sparkled as she held up her left hand, where a modest but elegant diamond ring caught the candlelight.
Theo forced his lips into what he hoped resembled a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. "Three days? And you're only telling me now?" He kept his voice light, teasing, the way it had always been between them. "I'm wounded, Y/N. Truly."
She laughed, that musical sound that had been the soundtrack to his life for as long as he could remember. "Oh, stop being dramatic. You know you're the first person I wanted to tell. Well, after I told Aunt Narcissa and Uncle Lucius, of course. And Draco. But you're definitely in the top five."
"Top five?" Theo clutched his chest in mock horror. "I've been demoted. What's next, am I going to find out about the wedding through the Daily Prophet?"
"Actually," Y/N's smile turned mischievous, "that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Theo, I want you to be my maid of honor."
The words hit him like a Bludger to the chest. Theo blinked, certain he'd misheard. "Your what now?"
"My maid of honor. Well, man of honor, technically, but you know what I mean." Y/N leaned forward, her expression suddenly earnest. "Theo, you're my best friend. You've been there for me through everything – the war, losing Cedric, those awful years when we were all just trying to survive. When I went to America to train as a Healer, you came with me without question. You're the person I trust most in this world, and I can't imagine getting married without you by my side."
Theo stared at her, his throat tight. She was asking him to stand beside her while she married another man. To smile and be supportive while she promised to love someone else for the rest of her life. The irony was almost poetic in its cruelty.
"Of course," he heard himself say, his voice steady despite the chaos in his chest. "I'd be honored."
The relief that washed over Y/N's face was immediate and profound. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Thank you. I was worried you might think it was weird, having a man as maid of honor, but—"
"Nothing about our friendship has ever been conventional," Theo interrupted, his thumb brushing over her knuckles before he forced himself to let go. "Besides, someone needs to make sure those Weasley women don't corrupt you with their wholesome family values."
Y/N snorted with laughter. "Ginny and Fleur are going to be some of my bridesmaids, you know. Along with Pansy, Astoria, and..." she paused, her expression growing slightly uncomfortable, "Daphne."
Theo raised an eyebrow. "Daphne Greengrass? Your future sister-in-law's sister, who also happens to be my ex-girlfriend who absolutely despises me?"
"The very one." Y/N grimaced. "Tori suggested it. Something about family harmony and fresh starts. I think she's hoping that having her in the wedding party will help smooth things over between our families before she marries Draco."
"Well, this should be interesting," Theo murmured, taking a long sip of his firewhiskey. "When's the happy day?"
"Six weeks."
Theo choked on his drink. "Six weeks? Y/N, that's—"
"I know it's fast," she said quickly, her cheeks flushing pink. "But Charlie got offered a promotion. Now he's going to lead the dragon sanctuary in Romania, and he wants us to be married before we move. It's a wonderful opportunity, and the timing just worked out perfectly."
Six weeks. Theo felt something cold settle in his stomach like a lead weight. Six weeks to watch the woman he'd been in love with for over a decade marry someone else. Six weeks to plan a wedding that would take her away from him permanently. Six weeks to figure out how to smile and be happy for her when his heart was breaking.
"Romania," he repeated, his voice carefully neutral. "That's... quite far."
Something in his tone must have given him away because Y/N's expression softened. "Oh, Theo. I know it's a big change, but it's not forever. Charlie says the position is for three years initially, and we'll visit all the time. London will always be home."
Three years. Three years of letters and occasional visits instead of daily conversations and impromptu dinners. Three years of being an ocean away while she built a life with someone else.
"I'm happy for you," Theo said, and he almost managed to sound like he meant it. "Charlie's a good man. He'll take care of you."
"He will," Y/N agreed, her smile returning. "Theo, I know this must seem sudden, but I love him. I really, truly love him. For the first time in years I feel... whole again."
The knife in Theo's chest twisted a little deeper. He remembered the girl who had cried in his arms for months after the war ended, who had blamed herself for surviving when others didn't. He remembered holding her through nightmares and panic attacks when they lived together in New York, watching her slowly piece herself back together with a strength that had awed him. He'd been so proud of her progress, so grateful to see her healing.
He just hadn't expected her healing to take her away from him.
"Tell me about him," Theo said, because that's what a good friend would do. "How did you meet?"
Y/N's face lit up again, and Theo settled in to listen to the story of how the woman he loved had fallen for someone else.
Φ
Ten months earlier
Y/N had been sitting alone at a corner table in the Leaky Cauldron, checking her watch for the third time in five minutes. Theo was over an hour late, which wasn't entirely unusual – his tendency to lose track of time when he was with a woman was a running joke among their friend group – but tonight felt different. Tonight, she'd had something important to tell him.
She'd been offered a position at St. Mungo's, completing her Healer training. It meant staying in London permanently, putting down roots again after four years of feeling adrift. It meant building a real life instead of just existing day to day. She'd wanted Theo to be the first to know.
But as the minutes ticked by and her dinner grew cold, Y/N felt the familiar sting of disappointment. This was the third time this month that Theo had stood her up for one of his conquests. She understood, in theory – after everything they'd been through during the war, they all deserved to find comfort where they could. But it still hurt to feel like she was coming in second to whatever witch had caught his eye that week.
She was just about to give up and go home when a voice behind her said, "Excuse me, are you alright? You look like you could use some company."
Y/N turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered man with kind blue eyes and weathered hands standing beside her table. His red hair was long and tied back in a practical ponytail, and he had a small scar running along his jawline that spoke of dangerous work.
"I'm fine," she said automatically, then sighed. "Actually, no. I'm not fine. I'm stood up, apparently."
The man's expression grew sympathetic. "Mind if I sit? I'm Charlie, by the way. Charlie Weasley."
“Y/N Black," she replied, gesturing to the empty chair across from her. "And yes, before you ask, those Blacks. Though I prefer to think of myself as the reformed branch of the family tree."
Charlie's grin was warm and genuine. "I don't judge people by their family names. Trust me, being a Weasley comes with its own set of assumptions."
They'd talked for hours that night. Charlie told her about his work with dragons in Romania, about the challenges of conservation and the thrill of working with such magnificent creatures. Y/N found herself sharing stories about her time in New York, about the differences between American and British magical medicine, about her hopes for her career at St. Mungo's.
It wasn't until much later that she realized she hadn't thought about Theo once during their entire conversation.
Φ
"And that was it," Y/N finished, her eyes soft with memory. "We've been writing to each other ever since. He comes to London whenever he can get leave, and I visited him in Romania twice. He's... he's everything I didn't know I was looking for, Theo."
Theo nodded, his chest tight. "He sounds perfect for you."
"He is." Y/N's smile was radiant. "I know it probably seems fast to everyone else, but when you know, you know. Right?"
"Right," Theo echoed, though the word tasted like ash in his mouth.
They talked for another hour about wedding plans and guest lists, about Y/N's excitement for her new life and her nerves about meeting more of Charlie's family. Theo played his part perfectly – the supportive best friend, excited for her happiness, ready to help with whatever she needed. It was a performance he'd been perfecting for years, and by now it came as naturally as breathing.
It was only after Y/N had kissed his cheek goodbye and disapparated home to Grimmauld Place that Theo allowed his mask to slip. He sat alone in the empty dining room, staring at the chair where she'd been sitting, and finally let himself feel the full weight of what he'd lost.
He'd been in love with Y/N Black since they were fifteen years old. He'd loved her through her relationship with Cedric, had held his tongue because he'd seen how happy Diggory made her. He'd loved her through her grief after Cedric's death, had been there to pick up the pieces without expecting anything in return. He'd loved her through the war, through the years of healing and rebuilding, through their time in New York and their return to London.
He'd told himself there would be time. That someday, when she was ready, when the wounds had healed and the timing was right, he would find the courage to tell her how he felt. He'd convinced himself that their friendship was so strong, their connection so deep, that she must feel something too.
But now she was getting married in six weeks, and he was going to have to stand beside her and watch her promise herself to someone else.
Theo signaled for another firewhiskey and tried to figure out how he was going to survive the next six weeks without falling apart completely.
Φ
Fifteen years earlier - Malfoy Manor
"Look what I found!"
Eight-year-old Y/N came running across the manor's back garden, her dark hair flying behind her like a banner. In her cupped hands, she carried something small and fragile – a baby bird that had fallen from its nest.
"Is it hurt?" nine-year-old Theodore asked, abandoning the Quidditch magazines he'd been reading with Draco to examine her find. Even then, he'd never been able to ignore Y/N when she needed something.
"I think its wing is broken," Y/N said, her dark eyes wide with concern.
“Then let him die in peace,” Draco said with indifference..
“Don’t say that!,” Y/N eyes started to water and that was the momet when Theo learned he couldn't bear the sight of her sad eyes. "We have to help it. We can't just leave it to die."
Theo looked at the tiny creature in her hands, then at her face, and felt something shift in his chest. Y/N had always been like this – drawn to wounded things, determined to fix what was broken. It was one of the things that made her special, even if it sometimes worried him.
"Alright," he said, already mentally cataloging what they would need. "Let's take it inside. I think mother might know a spell that can help."
They spent the rest of the afternoon in Y/N's room, carefully tending to the bird. Y/N held it while Theo’s mom performed a simple healing charm he'd overheard her use on their owl. When the tiny creature's wing was mended, they made it a nest in a box and took turns feeding it drops of water.
"Do you think it will be okay?" Y/N asked that evening, curled up beside Theo on his bedroom floor, both of them watching the bird sleep.
"It will be," Theo said with the confidence of a nine-year-old who thought he could fix anything if he just tried hard enough. "We'll take care of it until it's strong enough to fly away."
Y/N smiled at him, bright and trusting, and Theo felt that strange flutter in his chest again. "You always know what to do, Theo. That's why you're my best friend."
"Always," Theo promised, meaning it with every fiber of his being.
“NO! YOU ARE MY BEST FRIEND!” Draco protested with his usual petulence. “MOTHER TELL Y/N SHE CAN'T STEAL HIM!”
"I'll be both of your best friends," He tried to desscalate Draco's tantrum and felt his heart flutter when Y/N gave him her brightest smile.
Two months later, they released the bird back into the garden, watching it soar away on strong, healed wings. Y/N had cried a little, sad to see it go but happy that it was free. Even Draco shreded a few tears. Theo had put his arm around their shoulders and promised they'd done the right thing.
He'd never told her that watching things fly away was sometimes the hardest part of loving them.
Φ
Theo's flat was dark when he finally apparated home, the silence pressing against him like a physical weight. He poured himself another drink and stood at his living room window, looking out at the London skyline, remembering.
There had been so many moments over the years when he'd almost told her. Moments when the words had been right there on his tongue, when the way she looked at him made him think maybe, just maybe, she felt the same way.
The night during their seventh year at Hogwarts, when they'd sat in the Astronomy Tower talking about the future and she'd said she couldn't imagine her life without him in it. The morning after the Battle of Hogwarts, when she'd found him in the infirmary and cried with relief that he'd survived. The day she graduated from her Healer program in New York, when she'd hugged him so tightly he could barely breathe and whispered that she couldn't have done it without him.
But there had always been something holding him back. The war, his father's crimes, his own reputation as someone who couldn't be trusted with anything important. Y/N deserved better than the son of a Death Eater, better than someone whose family name was synonymous with betrayal and cruelty.
And now it was too late.
Theo closed his eyes and tried to imagine the next six weeks. The dress fittings and cake tastings, the bachelor and bachelorette parties, the rehearsal dinner where he'd have to give a speech about how perfect Y/N and Charlie were together. The wedding itself, where he'd stand beside her in front of all their friends and family and watch her become Mrs. Weasley.
And after that... after that, she'd be gone. Off to Romania to start her new life, and he'd be left behind with nothing but memories and the crushing weight of everything he'd never said.
His owl arrived with a letter from Y/N.
Thank you for dinner tonight. And thank you for saying yes to being my man of honor. I love you, Theo. You're the best friend a girl could ask for.
Theo stared at the parchment for a long time, his thumb hovering over her neat handwriting. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many words he'd kept locked inside for years. But in the end, he wrote back what he always did:
Love you too. Always here for you.
He hit send and poured himself another drink, wondering how many more times he'd have to say those words while meaning something entirely different.
Outside his window, London sparkled in the darkness, beautiful and distant and cold. Somewhere out there, Y/N was probably writing to their other friends to share her happy news, planning the wedding that would take her away from him forever.
“It’s just…” you trailed off, keeping your eyes on the many carriages in the yard. “It’s rather sad that people are leaving already.”
Robb made a noise of disagreement and stole a look at the yard, making you raise your brows.
“Do you not find it so?”
“I find it sad that they waited this long.”
You gasped. “Robb!”
“What?” He bit back his laugh, catching your hand to lace his fingers with yours when you pushed at his arm. “It was because of them that I couldn’t get you alone for a month—”
“It was because of the fact that we were unwed!”
“And yesterday, when we barely had any time for ourselves the whole day?”
“That was because of the Harvest Feast—” you started, but stopped talking when your eyes fell upon Loras making his way to his horse. Your stomach did a painful flip, and you gently pulled your hand out of Robb’s before pushing yourself off the column you had been leaning against. “Give me a moment.”
Loras was busy with his horse while you crossed the yard but he turned his head when you approached him, a smile lighting up his face.
“Sneaking out without saying goodbye?” you asked and he scrunched up his nose.
“I was under the impression Robb Stark would keep you in his bedchambers the whole day,” he taunted you, nodding in Robb’s direction. “I would’ve sent word, but I figured interrupting your marital bliss would attract his wrath. Or yours.”
Your jaw dropped. “My wrath?”
“It’s more fearsome than his, and I watched him break a knight’s jaw,” he pointed out as you shot him a proud grin. “But I’m glad I got to see you before I left, sweeting.”
That made you pause for a moment, your grin fading before you cleared your throat.
“Thank you,” you managed to say. “For coming.”
“You’re my sister in everything but blood,” he said softly. “Of course I came.”
“I still feared you wouldn’t, after everything,” you said. “Loras, I don’t know if my word holds value when it comes to this, but I’m sorry my brother broke your heart.”
“And I’m sorry my sister broke yours.”
You had been so lost in the bliss the whole day that the sudden wave of sadness washing over you almost took you by surprise. You could feel the ache tightening your throat, so you looked down and pretended to fix your bracelet in an attempt to earn some time to pull yourself together while blinking back the tears.
You were in public and the whole yard was watching, including Robb.
“Is she going to be happy?” you asked once you raised your head again, your expression completely serene. “With Renly?”
“I doubt there’s anyone in the world who can make Margaery happy,” he murmured. “Except maybe you before Robb Stark stole you away.”
“He didn’t steal me away.”
“No,” he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. “No, but you know how Margaery is when it comes to you.”
You forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat, then heaved a sigh.
“Can you do me a favor?” you asked. “Can you tell her I’m happy?”
“For revenge or reassurance?”
“Neither.” A huff of laughter escaped you. “Or both. I don’t know.”
Got any good asoiaf fanfics to read? I remember finding one that had a female Bolton oc... But I can't find it. I think it was AO3 tho.
(I may or may not be making a Bolton descendant... I'm having trouble with their eye color tho, like, what even is ghost gray??)
would it happen to be @dwellordream's haunt/hunt? with donella bolton, daughter of roose and bethany? tbh I do recommend dwell's entire catalogue of fics it's chef's kiss
Summary: The whole Westeros knew the South and the North rarely made a good match; the South was too polished for the North, and the North was too discourteous for the South.
And yet, sometimes fate liked to play its game in an arranged marriage.
Warnings: Mature themes, blood, usual Game of Thrones violent themes (No Red Wedding), separate and specific warnings will be included in each chapter. MDNI.
Important Notes: Robb and the reader and all their friends are in their 20s, the fic will not follow most of the canon, and the parts from the show will be explained within the fic.
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Chapter 1 : Big plans require unexpected moves.
Chapter 2 : First impressions can make or break a union.
Chapter 3 : Cultural differences can cause misunderstandings.
Chapter 4 : Proceeding with caution is wise in a new environment.
Chapter 5 : Disrespect has consequences.
Chapter 6 : Desire ignites even in the coldest places.
Chapter 7 : What is said and what is meant can be two different things.
Chapter 8 : Southern court training has different strengths from the North.
Chapter 9 : Patience is a skill that can be honed.
Chapter 10 : There’s a time and place for subtlety.
Chapter 11 : There are many different ways to find warmth in the cold.
Chapter 12 : Promises must be made carefully.
Chapter 13 : Courtesy demands good manners.
Chapter 14 : Not every invitation is accepted.
Chapter 15 : One must be careful while mending bridges.
Chapter 16 : It's wise to pay attention to the signs.
Chapter 17 : Words can easily turn into oaths.
Chapter 18 : The heir to the north is raised not only to rule, but also to fight.
Chapter 19 : Honesty is the solution to many issues.
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Honesty is the solution to many issues.
Word Count: 5,3k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI. By clicking 'keep reading', or asking to be tagged, you confirm you're 18 +.
Thank you to my wonderful beta @chibi-lioness !
Series Masterlist
The wedding was in two days, and Robb couldn’t have been more confused.
He would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t expect his lady’s cold demeanor to warm up after he won the duel for her hand, and he had even managed to stop himself from breaking that knight’s face as his mother had made him promise, but his lady didn’t look pleased at all.
For some reason.
“I don’t understand,” Robb muttered and sipped his ale. “Aren’t girls supposed to like it when men fight over them?”
Theon nodded wistfully. “Aye, they do.”
“All those ballads say little else!” Robb insisted and Theon tilted his cup in his direction.
“They say nothing else.”
“Then what is happening?” He ran a hand through his hair, then turned to Jon. “What do you think?”
“I think there are no girls at this table,” Jon pointed out. “Which means it’s not much use to assume what they like.”
“I know what girls like,” Theon said, making Jon grimace.
“Has anyone informed them of it?”
“Aw don’t be so envious Snow, someone will warm your bed eventually.”
Robb raised his hand to get Silas’ attention when he stepped into the hall and he approached them to plop down next to Jon.
“Here’s the victor’s table,” he joked and nodded at Robb. “How’s your hand?”
Robb clenched and unclenched it, ignoring the bruises on his knuckles.
“It’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “How’s my lady?”
Silas puffed up his cheeks in deep thought, stealing a glance over his shoulder as if he expected her to appear out of thin air.
“Your maester prepared her a draught, she’s resting,” he said after a beat. “Better let her. It’s been a long day for one so…”
“Angry?” Theon suggested, earning warning glares from both Robb and Silas. “At Robb, I mean.”
“She’ll calm down,” Silas said, “she just doesn’t have the stomach for violence. Even in the jousts, Margaery has to tell her if it’s alright to look because she doesn’t want to see the bloodshed—her best friend,” he added when he saw Jon’s confusion, and Robb scoffed.
“I still don’t know how I feel about her.”
“Makes one of you,” Silas replied. “Because trust me, Margaery has already decided how she feels about you.”
Robb drummed his fingers on the table.
“And my wife?”
“You’ll have to ask her,” Silas said with a smug smile. “But if you’re asking about my sister, who is your betrothed and not yet your wife, I can tell you that her anger does simmer down eventually.”
Except that she was indeed his wife, Silas just didn’t know it yet.
Robb chewed on his lip, trying to ignore the sinking in his stomach. “It didn’t sound like it’d simmer down.”
“No wonder.” Silas rolled his eyes. “Her biggest issue back home was to decide on which gown to wear for which feast, not her betrothed putting himself in danger—”
“I wasn’t in danger.”
“At least not in the way she thought, but Lord Stark would’ve disowned his precious heir if he lost to a Reach knight,” Theon joked, clasping a hand over his shoulder to shake him, and Robb huffed out a laugh.
“Aye, he would have.”
“We’d have Mikken melt down your sword for horseshoes.” Jon grinned at Robb. “So that you could take up needlework with the girls.”
Robb flipped him with a chuckle. “Fuck off.”
“Simpler than my plan” Silas said, “I would’ve killed Ser Gwayne if you lost.”
Jon raised his brows. “Would you?”
“My sister is not going to be wed to that prick,” Silas said. “Robb’s wellbeing has nothing to do with that, no offense.”
Robb sipped his ale. “None taken.”
“I’d just betroth her to the prince of Dorne.”
Robb lowered his cup immediately. “What?”
“Yeah, don’t tell the twins though.” Silas motioned at a servant. “It took me a lot of time to decide between you and him earlier, so it only makes sense.”
The mere idea of her being wed to anyone else made jealousy shoot through his veins so fast that for a moment his mind went black before he cleared his throat, aware of the frown pinching his forehead while the servant put a cup in front of Silas, then filled it with ale.
“My lord.”
“Thank you,” Silas said. “Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t die and I don’t have to go through this whole nonsense again. Much appreciated.”
She wasn’t going to wed anyone else. Not in Dorne, not in anywhere, she was staying right here in Winterfell to be his lady, and—
Well. That was if she ever forgave him.
“Could you two give us a moment?” Robb asked Jon and Theon, taking Silas by surprise. Theon frowned but let Jon pull him by the shoulder and walked away with him to another table while Silas sipped his drink.
“Well, this can only be about my sister,” he commented. “What is it?”
“She’s cross with me.”
“Hasn’t escaped me.”
“And she has been for a while.”
“I have a feeling this duel made the earlier times look like friendly banter,” Silas pointed out. “But yes?”
“She wanted me to withdraw before the duel,” Robb said. “I don’t think she understands—”
“She doesn’t, but nor do you.”
That made Robb frown. “What do you mean?”
Silas ran his tongue over his teeth, then sucked in a breath.
“It appears,” he said, “she cares for you more than I’d like her to.”
“More than you’d like her to?” Robb repeated. “We’re to be wed in two days. Is it so bad that she cares for me?”
Silas lifted his cup to his lips.
“Your maester just had to give her a draught so that she can sleep the remnants of today’s fear away,” he muttered and took a sip. “Because she was worried you’d die in that duel, and wouldn’t listen to anyone including me for the very first time. So you tell me if that’s bad, Stark.”
Robb’s heart clenched painfully in his chest, guilt crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. The memory of her on the verge of tears flashed in his mind, making him let out a breath as he ran a hand through his hair.
“I know why you did it,” Silas continued. “I know you wouldn’t withdraw and that you would win, that’s exactly why you’re the one who’s betrothed to her and not one of these idiots who are here for the wedding. I can understand the way the North works, and dislike its toll on my sister at the same time.”
“Silas, I—” He licked his lips, his stomach doing a painful flip. “I hate that I made her cry.”
“Good,” Silas said and downed his drink, then gave him that perfect courtier smile of his. “Do keep that in mind. Because the next time my sister cries, so will the rest of House Stark for losing their heir.”
With that, he walked away from him, leaving him there dumbfounded.
He decided to go to her door around dinner time to see if she had woken, but the sight of Arys leaving her room greeted him as soon as he turned the hallway leading to her bedchambers. Arys gave Robb a quick smile and closed the door behind him, then stepped away.
“She’s still asleep,” he said, making Robb’s stomach drop in disappointment. “I don’t want to wake her for dinner, she can eat when she wakes. Her maid will be with her for the night, until the morning.”
Robb swallowed thickly and nodded, then went to sit on the windowsill facing her door.
“She should rest,” he muttered, chewing on his lip. “But she’s…she’s alright, is she not?”
“She’s fine,” Arys assured him. “She’ll be completely rested tomorrow morning, trust me. After sudden fear, the body has a way of fixing things. Sleep is the best way to do so, the draught Maester Luwin prepared is just making it faster.”
Robb nodded again, keeping his eyes on the door as if it would magically open to let him see his lady without disturbing her slumber.
“I would listen to me and not Silas on this if I were you.”
Robb’s head shot up. “How did you…?”
“I know my brother,” Arys said with a chuckle. “Don’t take anything he says today as a personal offense. It is now dawning on him that he’s going to leave her here after the wedding, and that he’s going to have to trust you with her.”
“He can.”
Arys offered him the same smile he had seen on Lord Greensted multiple times.
“He won’t,” he muttered as he went to sit beside him on the windowsill. “And it has nothing to do with you. He’s going to need more time than my sister to handle the fact that she will be away from the Reach. He doesn’t know how he’s going to go back home.”
“He can stay in Winterfell as long as he wants.” Robb shrugged his shoulders. “All of you can. Her family is my family now.”
“I appreciate that,” he replied. “But in any case, don’t let what he said haunt your mind.”
“It’s not what he said,” he admitted, making Arys hum.
“Then?”
Robb fell quiet for a moment before he forced himself to take a deep breath.
“What happens if she never forgives me?” He couldn’t help but ask. “She claimed she would never.”
“As southerners, not every word coming out of our mouths is an oath unlike you and your countrymen,” Arys told him. “We’re taught to yield our words as weapons. You’re a good warrior, you know better than anyone that not everyone who swings their swords is trying to kill another. Some simply use it to protect themselves.”
Robb brushed a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes, exhaustion creeping up on him.
“I know,” he muttered. “I just don’t like that I’m the source of her sadness. I’m supposed to be sheltering her from any distress as her husband, not impose such upon her.”
Arys raised his brows and shook his head.
“Don’t blame yourself on that either,” he said. “Nothing you can do, really. It’s the family curse, Cliff used to say.”
Robb tilted his head in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve seen our family,” Arys said. “We tend to stand out in one way or another. You’d think it’d make things easier, but seems to be the opposite. Alton evaded it with Elinor somehow, but Silas, and Cliff, and the twins, and my sister...In a vast sea of admirers, we’re drawn to the one who’ll torment us the most, purposefully or otherwise.”
Robb’s frown deepened and Arys shook his head as if trying to shake off the thoughts, then slapped a hand over Robb’s shoulder in an assuring manner and stood up.
“You should follow her example and get some rest,” he said, nodding in the direction of his lady’s bedchambers. “Congratulations on your victory, Stark. Let my sister sleep.”
Robb watched him make his way down the hallway and turn the corner in complete silence, his thoughts like a storm in his head. He exhaled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, then turned his head when he saw Grey Wind enter the hallway. A small smile curled his lips despite his mood, and he reached out to scratch the direwolf behind his ears, earning a low rumble in return.
“Very well then,” he murmured. “Let’s go get some fresh air, hm? I don’t feel like attending dinner yet.”
Eventually, he would decide to forgo dinner altogether in order to avoid the crowd that was surely still going to be there in the morning for breakfast as well. He could barely sleep that night, only falling into slumber towards the dawn, his dreams restless as if he knew what tomorrow morning would bring.
Summer snow.
All the southerners in the castle seemed rather excited to see it. The hallways were buzzing with chatter, but all Robb could think about was how his lady wasn’t going to like it if it snowed tomorrow during their wedding as well. He couldn’t help but wonder whether that old saying was correct after all, seeing that at least the start of their marriage was going to be cold as winter itself if he didn’t explain himself and made his lady understand why he could not have withdrawn.
He went to her bedchambers first thing in the morning, but her maid informed him she had left, so he made his way into the Great Hall with Grey Wind, his eyes darting around to catch a sight of his lady, yet she was nowhere to be found. As if it wasn’t enough, his presence seemed to have gathered attention, judging by many of the northern lords congratulating him for the duel, some slapping his back and some squeezing his shoulder as they walked past.
“You and I both know you’re not genuine, and so does she—” He heard Lady Jorelle chastise her mother who shushed her as he walked past, but he was in too much of a hurry to stop and greet them. He approached the twins who were in a deep conversation with Theon by the corner, and Braxton nodded at him as Perceon turned around to see him better.
“Good morrow.”
“Good morrow,” Robb said. “Is my lady around?”
“She was here half an hour ago,” Theon said. “She just left.”
“Where?”
“She said she would go to the Godswood to enjoy the snow,” Perceon said and Braxton nodded.
“Alone,” he added. “She wants to enjoy it alone, she said.”
Robb looked over his shoulder in the direction of the entrance, then nodded and took a step but Braxton stopped him.
“Robb, that’s not a good idea.”
“What?”
“You don’t want to talk to her right now,” Perceon said. “Listen, I get that you’re this great warrior, but even a Targaryen on a dragon wouldn’t be able to handle my sister when she’s truly angry. Let her anger simmer down.”
“We’re to be wed tomorrow evening,” Robb reminded him. “I need to talk to her beforehand, if I explain—”
“She’s not going to listen to your explanation,” Braxton said. “She’s not going to listen to anyone. Let her calm down, then try to talk to her, you’ll still have the time until tomorrow evening.”
Robb shook his head.
“I’m not waiting any longer,” he said and strode away from them with Grey Wind padding along beside him. He ignored the lords and ladies on the way that bowed or greeted him as he went down the stairs, then stepped outside to the yard. He crossed it and passed the gates that led to the Godswood, Grey Wind picking up the pace as if he was too excited to stall.
He found her sitting on a fur cloak under the weirwood tree, her knees drawn to her chest, her back resting against the trunk of the tree. It was almost funny, how the mere sight of her was enough to make him stop dead in his tracks, his heart galloping in his chest without her even realizing he was there. She was watching the snowflakes fall from the sky, the wide branches and the blood-red leaves of the weirwood tree almost sheltering her, but the rest of the Godswood was already covered in a thin layer of snow, bound to melt away at the first rays of sunlight.
Was he ever going to get used to the sight of her? Or was he going to lose the air in his lungs every time he cast his gaze on her?
Grey Wind made his way to her, seemingly pulling her away from her own thoughts as she cooed at him, reaching out to give him head scratches. The direwolf rumbled deep, plopping down in front of her so that she could pet him better, and Robb tried to ignore the tension churning his stomach.
“My lady.”
The only clue to how she felt about his presence was the momentary clench of her jaw, yet she sounded calm when she spoke.
Almost too calm.
“Is my presence wanted in the Great Hall?”
He shook his head, now daring to enter her sight though she didn’t lift her head to look up at him, instead kept petting the direwolf.
“No,” Robb said after a beat. “Unless of course you want to go back.”
“I do not,” she said. “I decided to enjoy the scenery.”
He licked his lips. “I thought it would bother you.”
“The weather?”
“The snow,” he corrected her. “Because of that oldwives tale. I doubt it’ll still snow tomorrow, but—”
The rest of whatever he was going to say got lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth when she lifted her head to give him a glare sharper than any sword. She eyed him up and down as if she didn’t just pin him to his spot without uttering a word, then shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t need a sign from the gods to understand what kind of marriage we will have,” she deadpanned. “You’ve demonstrated it perfectly yesterday.”
His stomach sank.
“My lady.” He took a step towards her. “About yesterday…”
She heaved an exhausted sigh and pushed herself to her feet, dusting off the skirt of her gown.
“I require no explanations.”
“I’d like to give them anyway,” Robb insisted as Grey Wind left them there to go deeper into the woods, no doubt to find the rest of his siblings. “I know that you’ve been cross with me, I know this duel did not help, but I assure you, I was never in danger. You had no reason to—”
“Worry?” She finished his sentence for him. “How strange, that’s what everyone kept telling me back in the Great Hall before I excused myself. Singing your praises, telling me I had nothing to worry about. Lady Cerwyn even dared tell me there was no reason to cry.”
“There wasn’t.”
“Just like there was no reason to fall for childish provocations?”
Robb’s head shot up, his jaw clenching at the remark.
“That was no childish provocation.”
“It was,” she said, “and you entertained it.”
“What did you expect me to do?” he asked tersely. “Not accept it?”
She threw her hands up. “Yes!”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
“Honor demands—”
“Who cares?!” she exclaimed. “Nobody cares about that—”
“Maybe not in the south where they lack it.”
…That was the wrong thing to say.
It took Robb less than a second to realize that was the wrong thing to say.
She stared at him in complete silence for a heartbeat before a burst of laughter left her lips, making her lower her head, covering her mouth. If it were any other time, the sight of her shoulders shaking with laughter could’ve been a good sign, but for some reason, Robb had a feeling this was a way, way worse than her glare. She stayed like that for a couple of seconds, then lowered her hand and looked up at him, a menacing smile pulling at her lips.
“I only meant—”
“You’re right,” she cut him off, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re absolutely right. Honor means everything in the north and nothing in the south. You seem to have enough of it for the both of us anyway, so it should be of no issue if I started breaking promises. If anything it’s expected of me, so would you like to be the one to tell Jorelle Cerwyn I withdraw my offer, or should that responsibility fall upon me?”
Well, that was completely irrelevant to this conversation.
He strained his mind to understand how this had anything to do with the reason why she was angry at him, but came up empty.
“Because I think you should do it,” she spat. “While you’re at it, tell her neither her nor her family will ever step foot in Winterfell while I live here. And don’t you ever give me a speech about honor, when you hold no regard for anyone else’s but your own.”
Robb rushed to follow her when she moved away from him. “My lady, I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“Yet you’ve done nothing but!” Her voice rose as she whirled around on her heels. “Ever since I arrived here! So allow me to return the favor; if you wish to bed your mistress so much, you’ll have to go to her cute little castle. I’m told it’s near here, should be easy enough.”
He gawked at her. “…What mistress?”
“Or if that’s too much of an inconvenience for you, go back in there and tell your family we’re breaking the betrothal,” she snapped, making his heart drop. “The whole north would rejoice, and you could go tumble in the snow with her. I’ll be all the way down in the south, and never even think about you ever again.” She pointed back at the castle. “Off you go!”
A silence fell upon them while he tried to wrap his mind around what she had just said.
“You—” He paused, disbelief numbing his mind so badly that he had to force himself to ask: “You think I have a mistress?”
“What game are you playing at?” she asked back, disdain etched on her beautiful face, a couple of snowflakes falling upon her lashes. “There’s no one else here.”
She was jesting. She had to be jesting.
There was no way she believed he could so much as look at another woman let alone take a mistress when she occupied every corner of his heart and his mind. A chuckle escaped him despite his attempt to control himself, but that seemed to awaken a new wave of anger in her.
“You know what?” she said, her voice trembling with fury. “Forget it. I’ll go back to the Great Hall and announce that I will never, ever wed you!”
When he was a mere boy, there was that one time he had heard his mother angrily insisting his father would send Jon away. The idea had scared him so badly that he had stopped in the hallway to listen, and soon enough his father had left his mother’s bedchambers with anger etched on his face. After taking him to his solar to assure him Jon would be going nowhere, Robb had asked his father why he had walked out of those bedchambers looking that angry if Jon was to stay anyway, and his father had heaved a sigh.
“Robb,” he had said. “You’re nearly a man grown. And as the heir to House Stark, it is your duty to make our house proud and set an example. As a Stark and as a man, no matter if it’s your mother, or your sisters, your future lady wife, or any woman you see on the street, you will never be the source of fear for any woman. On the contrary, you will protect them from any man who may impose fear on them. Do you hear me?”
Robb had nodded fervently.
“And,” his father had added, “if you ever find yourself in any kind of argument with a woman, you will never, ever raise your voice or advance upon her. No matter what she says. The only time you move, you walk in the opposite direction. Do you understand me?”
In his defense, he was going to walk in the opposite direction, but with his lady.
He grabbed her hand before she could walk away from him, making her let out a squeal before he pulled her towards the weirwood tree.
“How dare you?” Her voice went high-pitched while she tried to yank her hand back. “Let go of me this instant, or else—”
He stopped in front of the tree and turned to her, letting go of her hand.
“Ask me.”
“What?” She narrowed her eyes, still breathing hard. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re standing in front of the weirwood tree,” he stated. “I cannot lie here. It’s clear you don’t take my words as they are even if I told you to, so ask me whatever you want.”
“You think I won’t?” she taunted him. “Go on. Say it in front of your gods that your mistress—”
“I don’t have a mistress,” he cut her off. “I swear it by my gods and yours.”
“Not yet perhaps, but you plan to take Lady Jorelle as your mistress.”
“No!” Robb said with a huff of indignation. “I do not, and I will not. Do you believe me to be that low?”
“You said—”
“I’ve never said I’d have a mistress,” he insisted. “I told you I would never dishonor you or our marital vows. What part of that suggests I’d do such a thing?”
She pulled back slightly, stealing a glance at the weirwood tree as if she wanted to make sure it was indeed the right tree before turning to him.
“Then what?” she demanded. “You’ll love her from afar and yearn for her your whole life while wed to me?”
He knew he had to set this right and make her stop believing whatever folly she seemed to believe, but seven hells, it took everything in him not to grab her by the shoulders and kiss her senseless.
“No!” he exclaimed. “Of course not, why would you think that?”
“You said I should put her in my ladies-in-waiting—”
His hands shot up so that he could run them through his hair in an attempt to control himself. “You asked for my help!”
“You said you had an arrangement not so different than the southern court!”
Robb dropped his hands, trying to find the right words through disbelief.
“Her family,” he started slowly, as if that could make her understand it better, “has been loyal to mine for generations. There were talks of a betrothal between us, like I’ve told you. I figured it would be a good idea to include her in your ladies-in-waiting as a way of honoring her family and their loyalty, so that they wouldn’t feel spurned. Is that not the same as the southern court? Keeping loyal families close to reward them and keep the alliances going?”
“But you disappeared with her just the other night! You followed her outside and left me in the Great Hall, and—”
“Jon said everyone talked to her family and not her,” he said. “So I wanted to talk to her to make sure she wasn’t heartbroken, and she wasn’t. That whole conversation took less than five minutes, then my father pulled me into a meeting with Lord Bolton as I’ve told you—do you not hear anything that comes out of my mouth, or do you simply refuse to believe it?”
She gawked at him with wide eyes before she averted her gaze, her brows furrowed in deep thought as if she was trying to find more proof of his infidelity.
“So then, you—” she said after a torturous minute and cleared her throat, sticking her nose in the air. “Am I to understand you don’t have affections for her or anyone else?”
The look he gave her was nearly chastising.
“Or anyone else?” he repeated and she shrugged her shoulders, still pouting.
“You said to ask.” She pointed at the weirwood tree. “You cannot lie.”
“I would not,” he said, his heartbeat speeding up. “I do not. My lady, I…”
Gods, now he knew what his father meant when he used to say he was more intimidated by his mother than by the war. A fire spread over his face and ears despite the cool wind shuffling the leaves above them, his stomach doing flip after flip as if his lady held a sword to his throat instead of just standing there, looking up at him.
He could’ve laughed at the absurdity of her having to hear what he felt if he wasn’t so tense all of a sudden, how did she not know?
The whole castle knew. The whole North knew by now.
But perhaps that was the reason. Perhaps he hadn’t been open enough in southern standards, with their flowery language and court banter.
“I wasn’t raised to embellish my words.” He tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, clasping his hands behind him. “Nor write ballads or poetry.”
“I require neither,” she was quick to say. “I’ve grown tired of them long ago. I don’t crave flattery, but honesty.”
“Then trust my honesty when I say you’ve never had to worry about any mistresses,” he told her. “I’ll be loyal to you until my last breath.”
“Because honor and duty demands it?” she asked, making him swallow thickly before he shook his head.
“Because my heart is at your command,” he rasped out, barely able to hear his own voice from the blood rushing in his ears. “For you to decide its fate. Beyond honor or duty. I yield and welcome the defeat if it’s by your love.”
Silence clung to snow as it descended upon the Godswood.
He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to, he realized, not even if his own gods willed him to, not when she held his gaze captive. She stared at him in complete disbelief before realization dawned on her beautiful face, and she let out a breath as if a terrible weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Despite the tears still sparkling in her eyes a soft smile curled her lips, sending hope through his veins faster than lightning in a storm.
“Your heart’s fate is forever twined with my own I’m afraid,” she told him, stealing the air from his lungs. “Yours is at my command, mine is at your mercy. It’s no defeat, I’ve found, though it may appear such when one is not used to the idea of truce. But I’m yours and you’re mine, where’s the defeat in that?”
…She loved him back.
By the Gods, she loved him back.
Any hope of finding the right words deserted him, his ears muffled with the blood rushing in them, excitement almost too much to bear. He lifted his hand to wipe the remnant of tears before cupping her cheek, her eyes fluttering close, her skin almost icy under his warm palm. He pulled her closer in an instant, wrapping an arm around her waist to shield her from the cold wind blowing through the woods before he traced her cheekbone with his thumb, his heart still slamming against his ribcage hard enough to hurt. A giggle escaped her when he playfully ran the tip of his nose over hers, the pleasant sound warming his insides like liquid fire.
He was nearly in a daze when he spoke: “Where have you been all this time?”
Her face lit up with a happy smile, her gaze slipping down to his lips before it snapped up to his eyes again while she traced the direwolf clasps holding his cloak together as if she was too delighted to keep still. Her sweet scent was all around him when he leaned in, flooding his senses, pulling him deeper under her spell and making him lightheaded as it settled in his lungs to make them its rightful home.
“Down in the south,” she breathed out softly. “Waiting for you.”
Suddenly, the grip on her waist is harsher, more desperate. Valarr jerks up to catch her eyes. “Don’t say that. Not that word.” His words are strained, pleading. “Please, not you.”
“What? What word?” She searches his panicked eyes. “Mad?”
“It’s a curse.”
“Val, that isn’t you.”
oneshot imagining the night prince aerion attacked the puppeteers. unaware of the tragedy that awaits, prince valarr spends a quiet night with his wife
tags: angst. angst with happy ending (if you ignore what happens next). angst with hurt/comfort. eventual smut. mention of previous miscarriage. tortured prince.
The oblong moon hangs conspicuously low.
It’s lonely, pearly and fat. Curved in the middle like a sickle, it does not remind her of things pretty and serene, no. The moon is cold, detached, ethereal. It glows sickly in the middle of the sky as stars hang around it. The clouds floating around the moon are thick in the shadows, lost, lonely stubs somewhat covering its deserting beauty. As she watches the moon from her window, her chest stirs from some unknown ache, long buried, never quite on the surface, but never entirely gone either.
The water in the tub is warm and scented. The smell of the lilies and lavender has imbibed her room in a sweet haze, making her dizzy as she finally cranes her neck, lifting her hands to twist her hair. The water soothes her skin as it drips down from her neck, making small ripple in the tub. As her lady-in-waiting is about to hand her the linen, a small knock on her door makes her gasp. Two small, familiar knocks. Then a familiar voice.
“It is me,” he says.
She lets her hair down again, the longing stirring inside her. She nods at her lady Alyssane to open the door and she does it promptly, ducking her chestnut brown hair to obey.
She doesn’t look back as the door creaks open, or as the heavy footsteps enter into her chambers. No, she savours the moment, feels the smell of him—musk and smoke—make gooseflesh on her arms.
“You can go now, Alyssane,” he says kindly. “I can dry my wife myself.”
“Of course, your grace.” There’s a hasty sound of her tripping on her robe, a panicked apology following suit. She watches the moon, the dark shadow of her husband’s armour in her peripheral vision, and waits for Alyssane’s dainty footsteps to wither away. She almost feels sorry for the young girl, scurrying fast to obey The Prince. Everyone’s like that around him. Flushed, enamoured, exhilarated, like they’ve somehow been faced with the sun, something that does not know or fathom the impact they have on their surroundings.
Unaware of the trials of his wife’s lady-in-waiting, Valarr Targaryen closes the heavy oak door by himself. He walks over to her softly, as if afraid that a wrong word might make her unravel. They haven’t spoken since the moon’s past. The sweet, cloying words that he whispered in her ear this morning were singular, unreturned by her. Now he is standing by her tub, head leaned in. The flickers of light from her fireplace are making shadows on his face. His eyes, one ocean blue and one onyx, are iridescent. She can feel her heart catching up, as if it is only starting to beat after a whole full day. She can almost feel it pumping blood to her chest, her neck, her face. She almost feels sorry for herself.
“Ready to come out?” he asks gently.
She does not answer. Just stares, unabashedly, transfixed even when she’s angry at him. He smiles timidly, undeterred.
“I must say the water seems welcome,” he says. His hands lift, and now he is unfastening his gorget. The cuirass, encrusted with red rubies shaped in a three-headed dragon breathing flames, comes down next. She watches quietly, a light flutter on her heart, as he breaks down his armour, stands in front of her with a boyish, near bashful smile. Like he’s doing something tricky, like she has to catch him being a fool.
“Perhaps I should get in with you, save some water.”
She can’t help but smile at this. “A prince who saves water?” she says, her voice a little chafed. “The realm will be pleased.”
He shrugs mischievously, steps into the water. She moves further to let him in, feels the pressure of the water change against her skin. He tilts his head, catching her eyes. “The only person I want to please is you.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Still cross with me?”
“I am not cross,” she sighs. “I am… I am…”
Her voice hitches a little as his hands, treacherous hands, stroke the heel of her foot. It’s a light gesture, something he likes to do. Feel part of her, parts of her, in long, steady motions. She tries to ignore the delirious sensation and focuses on his chest. A violet bruise covers the middle of his chest, its edges streaked with pale blue. The bruise has shrunk considerably smaller since this morning, the colouring of it less nauseating, and as she palpates its center with a deft hand, he does not winch for even a second.
“The maester said that it’s healing quite well,” he says. His index flicks over her knee reassuringly.
“Yes, I see that. It’s just—it’s just.” She lets her hand skim up, holding his face. “I just wish that people would find other ways to entertain themselves other than watching men knock each other off horses. It is needlessly, pointlessly dangerous. I’d rather people engage themselves in poetry or singing or—gods be good—knitting?”
He chuckles, and the sound of his laughter, a little bashful, a little helpless, makes her giggle as well. “I mean it, Valarr. You can make fun of the womanly endeavours as much as you please, but it would not, even in the wildest circumstance, harm—”
“No, no, not that.” He giggles, eyes scrunched in mischief. “Can you imagine my father and uncle knitting by the fireplace? What a wondrous sight.”
She stares incredulously at her husband. At the devastating crease in his eyes, his nose, sloped and perfect, is scrunched in delight. It takes less than a second and she falls in love with him again in the firelight. Her heart makes a short, thudding noise. The water around them vibrates with their laughter.
When they stop the light is mellower, sparks of orange from the dying ember. She takes a handful of water from her tub and throws it in the fireplace. The woods sizzle softly before dying out. Now there is only moonlight between them. And Valarr is staring at her, with those wistful eyes—the look that makes her have gooseflesh in the most unlikeliest of situations. The dark ember of his right eye is a deep, deep cave, and the left on is an ocean. Both eyes are on her, simultaneously, though it feels as if they’re both perceiving something different. He is a multitude, her prince, a dream.
He leans close and their knees touch beneath water. She speaks quietly, heavily, “I do not like that you have to prove yourself to others by letting yourself in harm’s way.”
“Jousting is relatively harmless.”
She rolls her eyes. “Men competing against other men in full armour, betting their horses and their pride. Young men desperately trying to prove their worth, older men churning out years old unresolved fights with their rivals as they mount their horses. It is a recipe for disaster. And for what, exactly?”
They have had this argument already, many times. They both know the dance around it, know their sharp turns and the detours. She knows the look of defeat on her husband’s face as he struggles to find an answer. “There are rules,” he says weakly.
“Yet accidents happen.” She hesitates to get the next words out. “I heard what Aerion did today.”
“Aerion is a shithead,” he scoffs.
“Mayhaps,” she agrees. “But not deficient in his ability to cause damage.”
“My love, I do not want to talk about my vile cousin.”
“But we must. I heard he almost challenged you today. Do you realise how I felt when I learnt that?”
“He has no reason to hurt me—”
“He is Aerion. He does not need a reason.”
“I know—”
“And he is dangerous, Val.” She swallows her contempt, or at least tries to. But they appear anyway, brewing out of her stomach like bile. Valarr hears that, of course he does, and something flickers inside him as well. A spark of fear and surprise.
“What do you mean? My love, has he—has he made you uncomfortable?”
“He makes everyone uncomfortable.”
“But…”
She shakes her head, gently taking his face in her hand. “Not that. He wouldn’t dare.”
“My uncle wanted you for Aerion,” he says suddenly, his voice breaking down at the end of it.
She blinks in surprise. She hadn’t known that. “Does he know that?”
“I fear so.”
Something ominous brews inside her chest. “But I would never want him. Not in a million years.”
She can see him visibly loosen down, slouch forward to rest his head on her naked shoulder. She moves so their legs are entwined, and places her other hand around his shoulders. “My ladies in waiting are afraid of him. They say they find him hiding in dark corners. At night, when they return to their chambers. And the smallfolks all whisper about his pillages in the Flea Bottom. He scares them because they do not know how to stop him… Or who can. And… oh, Val. Egg is afraid of him, too. I think he’s hiding purposefully because he does not wish to see him.”
His breaths are moist on her shoulder. In lieu of his answer there comes an unbreachable silence. Charged with helplessness, she realises that this fear has gripped him far longer than it has her.
“I understand,” she whispers. “What do you do with a mad prince?”
Suddenly, the grip on her waist is harsher, more desperate. Valarr jerks up to catch her eyes. “Don’t say that. Not that word.” His words are strained, pleading. “Please, not you.”
“What? What word?” She searches his panicked eyes. “Mad?”
“It’s a curse.”
“Val, that isn’t you.”
He kisses her, and the sheer force of this—his lips against hers, teeth clashing, his breaths are like gasps of a drowning man—makes her lean back on the tub. She grabs his neck, kissing him back almost habitually. There’s a deep, cloying taste of mulberry wine on his tongue, and she drinks it in, hungrily tracing his mouth with her tongue. The water splashes against them and the sound of it is deafening against their breaths. She is helpless, almost drunk. When Valarr’s hand sneaks between her legs, she parts instinctively, before clarity rises up in her head and she pushes him back.
“No, the maesters said…” She gasps. “The babe.”
His words are heavy, filled with lust. “I remember. Gods be good, I just… I just.” His hands move above her legs to grip her thighs in place in the slippery water. “I just have to be close to you, we do not have to—”
“Oh.” She blushes, even as his finger is teasing her core. “Oh, I see.”
He stares at her. “Trust me.”
She nods and he dips in again, dropping open mouthed kisses on her neck as his fingers enter her core. She holds him helplessly, feeling his finger stretch her out, pull her apart. Her body shakes with the intensity of his endeavours as he ekes out a release from her. His mouth restless, kissing and biting and licking on her skin, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She moans feverishly as he takes her breast in his mouth, sucking on the tender skin of her nipple. Her own hand, helpless, finds his manhood, and she touches his back, savouring his surprised moans, trying to return the delirious haze of pleasure he is giving her.
“Not mad,” he is saying in her ear. His words are thick and lustful and desperate.
“I know,” she gasps. “I love you.”
-------------
“I love you,” he says softly.
Afterwards, they’re both in bed. The thin sleet of silk on her skin is flimsy, at best. She can feel every outline of his body as she lays on top of him. The moon has fallen down further—closer to the land it seems, than to the sky. The curtains blow inside and out, to the rhythm of the summer wind. She hears the sound of his heart, soft and thudding, against his chest and stares at the sad, lonely moon. Thinking about other worlds, simpler times.
“I did not mean to hurt you,” she whispers. “I am sorry.”
His hand, threading through her hair, stops in its motion. It takes him forever to say something. She wants to shake him up, pull him apart and stare at the good heart in the middle of his chest. But before she splutters out something desperate, his hand starts moving again. His fingers scratch at her scalp in the same soothing motion they did when they lost their first child. And now, at the news of the second, the ghost of their firstborn is in the darkness again, haunting them with a soft ache. “I know that. I do not blame you. I love you.”
She nods, feeling a lock of air stuck at her throat. The night is warm and lovely. In simpler times, when she was only a daughter of a middling nobleman, she used to make tents with her siblings on the roof of her home. They giggled and laughed and told wondrous stories of princes and dragons. Of magic and madness. Of curses. She could never once imagine that she’d be here, like this, in love with the prince of the realm, with his child in her belly. Her prince. One that wears his history like a heavy cloak, that is scared by his reflection in the mirror.
After a while, he asks, “Do I ever scare you?”
She shivers. His voice, the raw, needy ache of it, stirs up her blood. She clutches him closer. “Never.”
His other hand moves to hold her waist. The warmth, soft and compelling, envelopes her senses. “But I would understand if I did. I know it can… I can…”
“You don’t scare me, Valarr.”
She can feel him nodding. “The truth is, I understand him. Aerion, I mean. I understand his madness. And as much as I know that he is dangerous and vile and that he needs to be stopped—I also recognise the beast in him. So well that it scares me sometimes.” His breaths, heavy and unsettled, are hot on the crown of her head. She does not move but the sound of his heart with quiet desperation. It is quickening, the beats. She moves her hand to touch his cheek.
“We are relics of the past. Targaryens, I mean. Mere ghosts from a ghost-city. Valyria has been gone for six hundred years and somehow we are still here. Dragonlords without dragons, the kingdoms we rule over are not ours but were snatched and pillaged from the people that lived here. It is all an illusion. Everything that made us different from the other lords has now gone and vanished. We are mere mortals now… and shitty ones at that. The only thing left is our curse. That is why Dareon dreams, why half the Targaryens went mad. That is why curses follow our blood wherever we go. That is why our child…”
“No,” she croaks out. “No.”
He goes on as if he hasn’t heard her plea. But his arm has a tighter hold on her waist now. “Our dragons used to bond with their riders, you know. Each one according to their temperament. Father says that when the dragons were restless, our ancestors used to feel a mad stirring in their bloods. Made them agitated, uncertain. Sometimes I feel… and I am sure that Aerion feels… that same disquiet. As if the ghosts of our dragons are somewhere, out there, reaching out. We are all haunted, all the Targaryens, by our curse and the blood we do not allow to purify. The inbreeding and the prophecies all coagulate inside us. Sometimes I am so sorry, my love, that I have brought you into this. This family… is a cycle of pain. And we have made sure that there is no way out.”
“Shut up,” she breathes, pulling herself up to stare at her husband. His tousled hair, mismatched eyes, a tear in his cheek. All of which makes him so human, so lovely. “Shut up.”
“My sweet…”
“You Targaryens are so foolish,” she hisses. “Foolish.”
He is staring at her. Helplessly, it seems. He wants her to make him believe in her words. And by gods, she will. “You are not gods. You are human and you, Valarr Targaryen, are my husband. You are patient and kind and brilliant. And you will not be shackled by your history. The power you hold, the power your father holds, it isn’t because you are of some ancient blood. It is because you are good men. It is easy to become lost into your myths, to see shadows in the night, to dream of dragons when you have their carcass in the Red Keep. But you have the ability to get out, out in the sun, to see that these are all dust. Dusts. I am real.” She grabs his hand and guides it to her belly. “Our future is real. You may understand Aerion’s madness, but you are never cruel to others, and that makes all the difference, even when you cannot see it.”
Her breaths become shallower as she finishes. As the words leave her mouth, they sting the air between them. Valarr keeps staring at her. Finally, after a thousand charged moments, he nods, just once. “I knew you’d do me good,” he says quietly. “You see things differently than others. I knew you would take me away from the nonsense everyone believes about this family.”
She smiles at the memory. Simpler times.
“I saw you at that tourney, braided hair, that smile as bright as the sun, and I thought, ‘Oh, that is her. That’s her.’”
“And I thought I was hiding so well.”
“Thank gods for Egg,” he says. She chuckles. Two years ago, Aegon had shaved his head and tried to disappear at the tourney the royal family was attending. She had taken him to be an orphan boy, struggling to find a place to sleep. It took her a day to realise that he was not an orphan at all. She thought he was the child of a noble family, hiding from hostility. And before she decided on what to do for him, Valarr had found him, and her, as it seems. Her father was ecstatic. They had never thought such a blessing would fall unto them, not to a house as forgetful as theirs.
“I shall see to Aerion before he does something unfixable,” he says. “You are right. He is a danger, to himself, to all around him.” He thinks for another moment. “And I shall not joust tomorrow. I shall stay here, with you, and hide away from the world for a day. Would you allow that?”
The terrible ache from the swollen moon inflates at his suggestion. Makes it harder to breathe. She only nods, delirious at the idea.
The moon is almost down, and in the rising haze of the morning sun, she can smell something hopeful. Something new. Her life had been uneventful until she met Valarr Targaryen in a spring afternoon. Before that princes and dragons and curses were mere stories. She could not fathom the weight of them on a young man’s shoulder. Could not myths so compelling they could alter one’s fate. Could not wonder if they would rise above it anyway. As if in a dream she walked, unaware of waking hours, unaware of how vast and terrible and beautiful the world could be.
Part something of my OC fanfiction for Knight of the Seven Kingdoms. I'm not good at writing in linear. Mildly inspired by far too much reincarnated into a villainess manhwa. English isn't my first or second language, please please be kind.
Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Targaryen!OC x Aerion Targaryen
Warnings: Targcest, don't like it, don't read it. Aerion being Aerion. Kiera sees too much. OC is Valarr's cousin and Aerion's twin.
Other parts can be found here.
How quickly the wheels of fortune turned, Kiera thought. A mere three months ago, her betrothal to Valarr Targaryen, second to the Iron Throne, had been finalised between her father and the King Daeron II of the Seven Kingdoms. For the first time in her life, her father had smiled at her, the cost of raising her finally returned.
‘Daughters are raised to be wed, for alliances and for the benefit of her family,’ her father would always say, when he deigned to speak to her at all. Often, it was her governess who reminded her and her sisters of so instead.
Her aunt had married a bastard of House Targaryen, and bore him seven sons and two daughters. Despite the rebellion that led to her aunt fleding back to Tyrosh, the fertility of her family was noted, which her father took care to remind her of when he informed her of her betrothal. Her duty was to bear her husband sons, as many as her aunt had if it pleases him.
In less than a moon, her father had saw fit to pack her and half their household onto a fleet set for the Seven Kingdoms. It would have been terribly exciting, for she had never set foot outside of Tyrosh before, and yet she quickly found that the rocking of the ships did not agree with her at all. To her great disappointment, she spent most of her time in her chambers with only her handmaiden for company. She wondered if her father would allow her to keep the girl with her after she was wed, she dearly hope so, she did not wish to be alone in a foreign place, so far away from home.
At the very least, it saved her from spending much time with her father, which was a blessing in and of itself. She had never been in such close quarters with her father before for any length of time, the Archon of Tyrosh often too busy with ruling and with his sons to spend time with a daughter he would marry away.
Her father did not call for her until the tail end of their nearly two moons trip, when King’s Landing was sighted. Yet, there were no kind words spoken, only words of reprimand and reminders of her lessons, to obey her husband in all matters and to bear him heirs.
King Daeron II, her good grandfather to be was the first to greet her father and her as they stepped off their vessel, flanked on both sides by his wife and queen, Queen Myriah Martell, and his eldest son and heir, Prince Baelor, her new goodfather to be. They looked kind, she thought, and wondered if her betrothed was as kind as his family looked.
“My son is waiting for you in the Red Keep,” Prince Baelor told her gently, as if noticing her furtive attempts to spot her betrothed. Kiera could feel her father’s disapproval burning behind her, and prayed that he kept his tongue. It would not do to spoil her standing with her new family before she had spoken her marriage vows yet. By some grace of the gods, he did.
“Thank you, my prince,” she replied, dipping her head in thanks. Prince Baelor had a low, rich voice, deep without sounding dangerous. And his bearded face was kindly and open, with a crooked nose that made him more approachable, or as approachable as the heir to the Iron Throne could be.
Prince Baelor was the epitome of a courteous prince as he helped her mother and her into the prepared carriage before he jumped on his horse, a warhorse of pure black save for the star on its forehead, giving her hope for this marriage.
She couldn’t help the wrinkle of her nose, though she tried to keep her face as placid as possible as they rode through the Red Keep. Queen Myriah merely smiled in sympathy, but did not bring it into question. She found herself missing Tyrosh, for Tyrosh did not smell half as bad, filled with unwashed bodies and the smell of dung, on even the worst days in summer, and yet, she would never set sight on Tyrosh again, she thought mournfully.
Indeed, as Prince Baelor had promised, an assembly of Targaryens stood upon the steps of the Red Keep as the carriage approached, on the forefront stood a man her father’s age, another one of King Daeron II’s sons, she supposed, although she could not begin to guess which one. The prince was stern, a man better suited to commanding battles than courtly duties, she thought, and yet he stood at the forefront of the assembly to greet her. She accepted Prince Baelor’s hand as he graciously helped her off the carriage, glancing around as subtly as she could, hoping to catch sight of her betrothed.
“My son, Prince Maekar,” the king introduced to her father and her, finally allowing her to place a name to the prince. The lessons she had hurriedly tried to memorise once news of her betrothal had surfaced came to her, placing him as the fourth and youngest son of the king, and the Prince of Summerhall.
“Pleasure to meet you,” the prince grounded out, inclining his head even as his countenance reflected otherwise. He looked as if he would rather be anywhere but.
“My grandson, Prince Valarr, first son of Prince Baelor,” was introduced next, and Kiera felt her breath catch in her throat. Her betrothed was dressed in black velvet doublet, embroidered with a scarlet three-headed dragon. He was tall and lean where his father was broad, yet had the shoulders of a man who trained with his sword but the air of someone who felt more comfortable in a library than on the battlefield.
And his face, she had heard of the famed beauty of the descendants of Old Valyrian, had witnessed it in her cousins, in fact. And yet, nothing could have prepared her for her betrothed.
His face was fair and clear, not a single blemish or scar to be seen. His hair was as dark as his father’s and grandmother's, and threaded through it like the most precious of metals was a streak of silvery gold, proof of his Valyrian heritage. And yet, gods be good, his eyes was the most wonderous of all, mismatched at one sky blue and one earth brown, the very sky and earth seemed to be immortalised in his gaze.
“The embroidery is magnificent, my prince,” she managed through a wooden tongue, nearly rendered mute like a fool over her betrothed’s appearance, like a child of ten and not a soon-to-be princess at six-and-ten. And she watched as her betrothed very countenance warmed, his cool princely courtesy melting away like snow on a hot summer day to something much softer and warmer.
His eyes sparkled with pride as he raised a hand, the same hand that had held hers by a moment ago, and held it against the heads of the dragon over his chest. “Tis’ my cousin’s work, and one of her finest work, I would say,” he boasted proudly, beaming as he did so, and poor silly Kiera, too moon eyed over her betrothed, did not notice the grimaces around her. Prince Maekar might as well have been carved from stone, his jaw clenched so tight that he nearly popped a vein as King Daeron II shared an unreadable look with his elder son and wife.
“You seem close to your cousin, my prince,” she scarcely managed to reply, nearly blinded by his smile, already half in love with this man she barely knew. Prince Maekar grinded his teeth audibly beside her, jaw clenched shut at his father’s sharp look and yet King Daeron II merely coughed once, pulling Kiera’s attention forcefully away from her betrothed to her good grandfather to be as he gestured to the red headed boy beside Prince Valarr. The boy was gangly, with limbs too long and freckles dotting his sweet youthful face, the top of his head nearly reaching Prince Valarr’s shoulders though he looked much younger than his brother.
“My grandson, Prince Matarys, second son of Prince Baelor,” so the introduction continued on. Kiera scarcely noticed as Prince Matarys clumsily pressed a courtly kiss to the back of her hand, imitating his elder brother, too focused on the feel of Prince Valarr’s eyes on her. She longed to look back at him, to see that all consuming mismatched gaze on her and yet, it would not be proper.
After Prince Matarys, she was introduced to a score of Targaryens, both old and young, dark and light of hair, and though she tried, she could not truly concentrate on it, still too consumed by thought of her betrothed. It would not be so bad, to marry such a man and bear his heirs, she thought. Countless women have had to do much worse, and with lesser men.
Her first thought upon meeting Prince Maekar’s twins was that the Targaryens were a fertile lot, as they were the second pair of twins she had met in the family, and another boy and girl pair as well. These two were older than the first, and as startlingly similar to one another as the previous pair, perhaps even more so.
The twins were young, with baby fat still clinging to their faces and limbs, yet there was the promise of beauty, a hint of sharpness already poking beneath the chub of childhood. And the colouring, gods be good, if they grew into the looks they were promised, it would not be amiss to say that they could be worshipped as descendants of the Love Goddess of Lys, even in the city famed for their Valyrian beauties. And those eyes, pale lilac and bright violet, staring at her like they wished to devour her alive, the power of a thousand dragons in their glare even as they greeted her in the courtly manner befitting of their station.
But, none of it was truly the reason the twins remain in Kiera’s memory when the other Targaryens did not. After she walked past the twins, she could no longer feel her betrothed's eyes on her, her back feeling strangely cold without the heat of his stare.
After she and her father were settled into the guest chambers in the Red Keep, there was a knock on the door. The door opened to reveal Prince Valarr, still dressed in his black doublet from earlier, his cheeks flushed a light pink with his lips pinker than he remembered, so endearing that she could not help the smile that bloomed across her face.
“My lord,” he bowed to her father, “I was wondering if I could ask the lady to accompany me for a walk or a ride.” He was perfectly polite, standing in the doorway of their given chambers, posture ramrod straight and she looked asken at her father, pleading silently for him to agree. And to her great joy, he did, nodding distantly before focusing on more important matters than his daughter.
“A walk would please me greatly, my prince,” she replied, placing a hand into the crook of his offered elbow as he smiled distantly and politely, willing herself not to flush like the girl inside her wanted to. So caught up in her thoughts that she did not notice a flash of silver gold running from her chambers, or even the childish giggles that followed, nor Prince Valarr’s eyes following the shadows long after they had vanished from sight.
The gardens were a sprawling network of passages, hidden and not. The gardens were beautiful, filled with flowers foreign to her, perfuming the air with their sweetness with large trees to provide shade. And yet, her gaze strayed to her betrothed more often than not, admiring his profile, the gentle slope of his nose, the way the sun turned his eye into liquid gold, the streak of silvery gold in his otherwise brown hair, proof of his Valyrian heritage. Not even realising what she was doing, she unthinkingly reached for the streak of silvery gold in his hair, only catching herself when he ducked from her.
“These are my lady cousin’s favourite flowers,” Prince Valarr said, kneeling beside a flower bed next to a fountain. “They are called Love-in-a-Mist,” he revealed as he stroked one of the flowers, lilac in colour, staring into the fountain as if lost in memories, seemingly not to notice how she stood frozen where he left her, feeling as if someone had doused her with a bucket of cold water. Still, Prince Valarr prattled on despite the lack of response from her. “Her favourite are the blue ones, but I find myself particular to the lilac and purple ones. My lord cousin claims to not hold any in high regard, but I have seen him with a red one at times.”
“Your lord and lady cousin, my prince?” She finally managed to ask, and those wondrous mismatched eyes finally looked at her since they had begun their walk. The blue flowers were a near match to the colour of his blue eye, she distantly realised.
“Yes, my lady. Princess Aella and Prince Aerion, you had the pleasure of meeting them earlier,” Prince Valarr replied, his tongue curling around their names fondly and familiarly. She wondered if he would ever say her name like that, and hated herself for the little flame of envy she could feel in her. They were family, and would soon be her family too, hence it should be nothing to be jealous about.
“I….,” she stuttered, her mind drawing blanks, her hurried lessons seemed to have escape her and her memories of her introduction to the greater Targaryen clan had prove the same. Prince Valarr does not admonish her, but his sigh makes her feel small none the less. She could not helped but feel as if she had failed a test no one had told her about, and she wished that she could sink into the dirt beneath her feet.
“My cousins, the Princess Aella and Prince Aerion, are my uncle Prince Maekar’s second and third born. They are both silver of hair with lilac and violet eyes respectively,” Prince Valarr clarified, his brow drawn tight and his shoulders stiff.
“Come,” Prince Valarr said without waiting for a reply as he stood, brushing the lilac flower fondly one final time before offering her his arm again. He was still courteous as he guided her through the gardens, pointing out spots that his cousins love, and yet, his lips remained pressed into a hard, unforgiving line all the while.
She hummed in interest when appropriate, watching as a bee drifted between the blooms, a golden colour that was insufficient to compare to the gold in her betrothed’s eye and yet, she suspected that Prince Valarr would have treated her the same as any other lady of the court. And she tried, gods know she did, to keep the gentle smile on her face as Prince Valarr mentioned his cousins once again. At this point, she felt as if she knew his cousins better than her own, and it had only been, she squinted at the sky, an hour at best.
“Cousin,” a sweet cheerful voice rang through the garden, interrupting another of Prince Valarr’s stories of his cousins and Kiera could almost weep from joy. She already found herself wondering how she was going to endure this for the rest of her life.
And yet, her relief was short lived as she watched the tension she did not even notice in her betrothed melt away like the ice she and her sisters would get as treats on the hottest of days. Her heart sank as she turned around, sighting the Targaryen twins with servants setting up a tea table in the pavilion behind them, elbows interlinked and waving at them.
“Shall we, my lady?” asked Prince Valarr as he offered an arm to her, as courteous as possible and what could she do but take his offered arm. And even if he was just as courteous as he guided her over to his cousins, she could not help but notice the giddiness in his steps as he did so. He would be skipping, she privately thought, if he wasn't the heir of the heir, second to the Iron Throne.
The twins clearly did not have the same responsibilities tying them down as the princess disconnected herself from her brother before sprinting towards them, her skirts lifted to expose her booted ankles as she did so. Her brother only grinned sharply for a moment giving chase after his sister, the twins matching stride by stride as Prince Valarr dropped her hand to catch his cousin, spinning her around as he did so as if he had done this a thousand times before, his face buried in the crook of her neck. ‘And maybe he had,’ her traitorous brain whispered.
The prince arrived at the second spin, snatching his sister from her betrothed and hugged her against his front, too close for propriety even among siblings yet none present but her displayed any surprise. She shifted uncomfortably, drawing the attention of all three royals present as she did so, watching as the courtly mask of a prince snapped over Prince Valarr, though a soft gleam of joy was still present in his mismatched eyes.
“My cousins, the Princess Aella and Prince Aerion, my lady,” he introduced his cousins to her, stepping aside slightly from when he had moved to shield them from when she had startled them though she did not truly need the introductions. She could have deduced the prince and princess’ identity from their actions alone.
She stared at the prince and princess, paying more mind now that she knew their importance to her betrothed. They were still as beautiful as they had appeared earlier, their Valyrian blood strong in their appearance in contrast to their cousin, and all the more unnaturally beautiful for it. But even more than their appearance, she took note of how close the twins were. Prince Aerion rested his head on his sister’s shoulder, violet and lilac eyes alight with joy staring at her side by side unblinkingly as their hair seemed to blend into each other, making it difficult to tell where one began and one ended. And yet, despite the differences between the cousins, they stood as if they were made for each other.
“Would you like to join us for tea?” asked the princess, shattering the unintended stare off as she grabbed her cousin and brother’s hand, pulling them towards the tea table set up in the pavilion without ever giving them a chance to say otherwise. Watching the princes indulgently interlink their elbows with the princess’, Kiera doubted that they would have denied her anyways as she was left to trail after them.
“All of you may be dismissed except for Celia,” the princess instructed as they reached the pavilion, the servants bowing as they excused themselves, leaving behind a blonde servant girl. The princes both pulled her seat for her, leaving the servant girl to seat Kiera across from the princess, much to her chagrin, and yet, none of the royals present seemed to notice it at all.
She was left to watch as the royals busied themselves with the tea and treats laid out, a seamless routine that very much did not include her. She watched as Princess Aella scooped the cream off a lemon tart onto her plate before depositing the lemon tart on her brother’s plate; as Prince Aerion put the strawberries on his tart on his sister’s plate; as Princess Aella stirred two sugars into the tea and taking a sip of it before exchanging her cup with her cousin’s; as Prince Valarr sliced a cake in two, putting half of it on Princess Aella’s plate. The familiarity very much made her feel left out, as if she was the interloper in their perfect world. They moved as if they were the Targaryen sigil itself, a dragon with three heads and she the unwitting girl who stood before dragons and thought herself worthy.
“Rose tea again, cousin?” Prince Valarr teased, his voice tender and full of unspoken things in a way that made her heart ache. He sounded like a man devotedly in love, and far from her reach even though he sat next to her.
“From the Tyrell themselves, only the best for my sweet sister,” Prince Aerion replied before Princess Aella could, pressing a loose strand of her hair to his lips. And Princess Aella only laughed, pressing a kiss to her brother’s cheek. Kiera chanced a look at Prince Valarr, curious on his reaction yet he only watched them fondly, no signs of jealousy in him.
She continued to watch, silent in a way only forgotten girls are, made small by circumstances and teaching both. ‘Girls are meant to be seen and not heard,’ her governess used to say. Princess Aella clearly had never been told the same as she laughed freely, teasing her brother and cousin as they teased her back, equals with them despite their gender, free in a way Kiera could never be.
At some point, there were crumbs from a tart on the side of the princess’ lip, and Prince Valarr himself reached to wipe it off. “What would you ever do without me, Aella?” he asked, his hand still on her face even after the crumb was gone.
“I would crumble, Var, so you shouldn’t leave me,” replied Prince Aella teasingly, and yet, it did not sound like a tease at all at the same time, her tongue flickering out to lick against Prince Valarr’s thumb.
“Then I shalln’t leave you, Aella,” her betrothed promised even as he pulled his thumb quickly, his ears and the back of his neck flushed Targaryen crimson. Kiera despaired, wondering if she would be forced to watch this for the rest of her life, the legal wife and yet the interloper all the same.
They finally remembered her existence when Princess Aella was making scones, spreading cream and different types of jams set out, apple for Prince Valarr, lemon for Prince Aerion and strawberry for herself, going as far as to feed her brother. It was surely a sight to behold, a prince of the blood of four-and-ten being fed a scone by his sister as if he was a boy of five.
“Would you like a scone too, Lady Kiera? Var and Ae say that I make them best,” Prince Aella asked. Kiera thought rather uncharitably that Prince Valarr and Prince Aerion would say rocks tasted great if Prince Aella offered one to them. Still, she shook her head, her appetite gone from witnessing the interaction of the princes and princess.
Princess Aella frowned, looking at the barely picked at tart on her plate and her still full cup of cold tea. “Was nothing to your taste, Lady Kiera?” The princess asked concernly, “I could send Celia to the kitchens to ask for something for you.”
Again, Kiera shook her head, forcing words out from the lump in her throat. “Thank you for the offer, my princess. I’m merely fatigued from my journey here.”
“Oh, you should have said so. We have prepared a feast to welcome you and your Lord father tomorrow, so perhaps you should rest before then,” Princess Aella offered, giving her the opportunity to excuse herself, which she took gratefully. She scarcely heard Princess Aella scold her cousin for bringing her to the gardens as she left, her heart in pieces when Prince Valarr did not even look at her as she left. Instead, when she looked back, the princes and princess had their heads bent together, ignoring the world as they focused only on each other.
The handmaiden fell in step behind her as she made for the direction of her accommodations silently and without Prince Valarr as a shield, however poor of one he made, she could hear the gleeful whispers around her.
“That’s the girl? The one from Tyrosh?”
“Poor child, to be between the princes and princess.”
“To be the legal wife and the other woman at the same time.”
“I would never put such a fate on my daughter, poor girl.”
And it took all of her willpower not to run through the gardens back to her accommodations. She was a soon-to-be princess at seven-and-ten, not a wild girl child in her family home, she would not run, her dignity would not allow it.
To her great relief, her father was not in the chambers when she arrived, allowing her to be by herself. She did not think that she could face him in her state, for surely he would place the blame on her shoulders.
The next time she saw Prince Valarr was during the feast, where she was sat beside her father, who sat beside the king as a guest of honour. Prince Valarr sat on his father’s side, on the other side of the table and yet, she was close enough to see the way he looked at his cousins, who sat further down the table.
The Great Hall glittered with thousands of candles, the smell of roasted meats and spiced wine mixing with the suffocating crowds of lords and ladies. It truly seemed that King Daeron II had spared no expense to welcome her father and her, and yet, it was regrettable that she had barely paid attention to the feast. Instead, her attention was solely on her betrothed and his cousins.
Most of the younger princes and princesses did not appear for the feast on account of their age, with only Prince Valarr, Prince Daeron, Prince Aerion and Princess Aella the only ones of King Daeron II’s grandchildren who were present. How she wished that being four-and-ten was enough for the prince and princess to be told that they were too young for the feast, if only to spare her from the way Prince Valarr looked at his cousins.
At first, Prince Valarr merely watched his cousins, his eyes barely moving from them even as lords and ladies came up to the head table to greet his grandsire and father, and consequently him. Even his father could barely pull his attention from his cousins, it seemed, watching Prince Valarr glance at his father before his eyes were inevitably drawn over to his cousins, sharing their meal as if they were a single person.
Then, the music started. King Daeron II offered his hand to Queen Myriah Martell and they opened the dance, followed by Prince Baelor and his wife, Lady Jena Dondarrion, her future goodparents. She looked asken at Prince Valarr when the second song, a slow but cheerful song that she could not name, though she supposed she would have to learn soon enough, ended yet he did not even look at her, his eyes following after his cousins as they slipped from their seats to the dance floor, joining the rest of the lords and ladies, giggling as they did so.
The twins spun each other around energetically, more than the song called for if the other dancers were any indication, yet no one strived to put a stop to their antics. The princess laughed brightly, her laughter seemingly carried through the hall to her cousin’s ears as he perked up ever so slightly, as she raked her hand through her brother’s silvery-gold hair, ducking as he reached out a hand to do the same to her. The prince and princess continued their game for the rest of the song, darting around one another as the lords and ladies moved to give them room, only straightening when the band started another.
They danced to another song, and then another, three in a row, improper even to her scant knowledge of Westerosi customs. Still, the twins seemed not to care until Prince Baelor himself and his lady wife separated them, dancing with one twin each for a song. The song had scarcely ended when the twins returned to each other, flushed from dancing and the heat of the hall as they collapsed on one of the lower tables, sharing a cup of wine between them.
Prince Aerion wrapped an arm around his sister’s waist, holding her so close to him she might as well have been sharing his seat, his face resting in the crook of her neck as she held the cup of wine, holding it to his lips in between sips, her other hand resting casually on his forearm as if it belonged there. The twins were truly like one being, she thought, dressed alike as if their shared looks were not enough to mark their resemblance. She watched as Prince Valarr made to join them, only to be stopped by his lord father, Prince Baelor shaking his head as he dropped a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder, shaking his head as he did so. Kiera watched as a mutinuous expression flashed across his face for but a moment, yet it was gone before she could even blink, his face returned to the mask of curious attentiveness it had been all evening.
And yet, she watched as his perfect princely smile falter at the edges for but a moment when someone stood too close to his cousins, only truly returning when Prince Aerion snapped at them, his jaw clench tight. She watched as his knuckles turned white from where he gripped his cup too hard, the wine sloshing in it when someone complimented his cousins, as if the idea that anyone but him acknowledging that they were no longer simply children infuriated him. She watched as his princely smile gained a fond edge as Princess Aella all but practically sat on her brother to stop him when a lord offered a compliment. But most importantly of all, Kiera watched as Prince Valarr watched over his cousins with the territorial eyes of a dragon, forever guarding its most precious treasure.
The gaps in his princely veneer were subtle indeed, especially to someone who had met him so recently as she had, but she was an observant child turned observant girl, for that is how vulnerable forgotten girls survive. And she knew that the raw and possessive streak she had only gleamed in Prince Valarr would mean that she would forever be the outsider between him and his cousins, no matter the legalities of the matter. Yet, she had no say in the matter, for that is how the world is for girls like her.
Part of her wondered if songs would be written of them, and what part she would play in it. The pitiful wife who could not hold her husband’s heart, or the wicked woman who separated lovers, forcing them into the shadows, and yet, none of it would truly matter in the end.
The truth she can see is this, she is to be married to Prince Valarr, who is a good man, but even great men have fallen awry to temptation, and his cousins are already more than temptations, they hold his heart in their young hands. She would spend a lifetime looking at every child Princess Aella bore, wondering if it belonged to her husband or her cousin, that every brown streak of hair or blue or brown eyes would strike fear in her, but worse of all, even if Princess Aella’s children bore no resemblance to Prince Valarr at all, he may still put them over her true born children with him, simply for who their parents are.
And then there was of course the posessiveness in which Prince Valarr viewed his cousins in, tensed even now when they were in his line of sight, as if he needed them within reach at all times. She would be subjected to a lifetime of this, of watching her husband yearn for something while she stood beside him, knowing that she had no place in his heart, a lifetime of knowing that he was only her husband in name and duty.
A lifetime of knowing that every second he was unaccounted for was surely spent at his cousins’ side, where he yearned to be even now. And that was not accounting for the moments where he would be in the public eye with them, for they were a prince and princess of the blood, and his cousins beside, so it would not be shameful to be in their prescence.
So caught up in her thoughts of the future that she missed what happened, only really shocked back to the present by the gasps of the crowd. Prince Aerion had slammed a lord against a pillar with a sickening thud, his ringed hand clamped around the man’s throat. Even from afar, she could see that the blood, crimson against his green doublet, pouring from his nose.
Prince Valarr moved so quickly it seemed that he vanished and reappeared behind his cousins, a hand on Prince Aerion’s wrist where he was holding a dagger, ornately decorated with fine rubies. “He dared to grab my sister,” hissed Prince Aerion, more draconic than human, danger like a blade scraping against silk, promising dragonfire in every word.
Prince Valarr froze, not in a way that signified panic, but the deadly calm before a storm and yet, before he too could move, Prince Maekar arrived. He grabbed his son’s shoulder, yanking him back from the man yet Prince Aerion still managed to shove the man away from him with such violence he collapsed to the ground, spluttering for air. Prince Valarr stared down at the man, looking as if he was considering kicking him for a brief moment.
“What the fuck is the meaning of this, boy?” Prince Maekar thundered, his face set in stone and yet before Prince Aerion, his face mutinuous, could reply, Princess Aella threw herself against her father.
“He pulled me, kepa,” she sobbed against his chest, “so I punched him.” A murmur rippled through the crowd, princesses did not go around punching lords, no matter if the lord deserved it.
“That bitch broke my nose,” the lord howled behind her, pulling another sob from the princess as Prince Maekar’s jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck were jumping, and his eyes burned with a cold, violet fire even as his hand rubbed his daughter’s back soothingly, a protective father and a warrior prince all at once.
“You laid your hand on my daughter,” Prince Maekar hissed, sounding very much like his son had moments ago, a son he still held by the shoulder even as his son had abandoned his glaring at the lord, instead pulling his sister from their father to his chest, wrapping himself around her and her around him.
Prince Maekar let go of his children, stalking up to the lord as if to finish what his son had started when King Daeron II arrived, flanked by Prince Baelor, calling for the guards to escort the lord away.
Prince Baelor looked at his son, standing behind his cousins, a hand on each of them, his face a mask of dreadful calm, princely veneer long gone, his eyes darting around as if expecting danger to pop up from somewhere. “Perhaps the children should retire for the night,” Prince Baelor simply stated and Prince Valarr nodded tensely, gently guiding his cousins out of the Great Hall, still clutching at each other like they meant to join as one.
Kiera was sat at the solar provided when her father entered, his face like thunder and his steps louder still. He did not even look at her as he started pacing the solar, each step like a physical blow to her psych.
“The king has asked to annul your betrothal to Prince Valarr. Instead, he has offered Prince Daeron.” Her father finally declared after pacing the length of the solar thrice. “Prince Maekar and Prince Baelor has offered to pay for your dowry themselves…” And yet Kiera heard none of it saved for the first sentence, for her overwhelming relief drowned out her father’s words.
How quickly the wheels of fortune turned, she thought. A mere three months ago, her betrothal to Valarr Targaryen, second to the Iron Throne, had been finalised between her father and the King Daeron II of the Seven Kingdoms. And now she was to marry his younger cousin instead, while his sister takes her place as Prince Valarr’s betrothed and eventual wife.
I cannot believe people let Snape get the high ground.
How do people casually overlook the fact that Snape spent six entire years of his life telling a kid—who never even got the chance to know his father—that said father was an arrogant douchebag? Like, how do people think that behavior is normal?
Snape, a grown man, spent years trying to convince a grieving, orphaned child that his dead father—who literally died protecting his family—was a terrible person. No compassion for a man who gave his life for his wife and son. No sympathy for a kid who grew up abused, unloved, and completely alone, only learning about his parents through stories told by others.
Instead, Snape chose to rehash his teenage rivalry with James Potter by bullying his son. Imagine being so petty that you can’t move past your high school grudges, even when the other person has been dead for over a decade.
Even the coldest, most detached person would muster some respect for a man who died fighting for good. But Snape? No. He chose to sit on his high horse—ignoring the fact that he was once a Death Eater who only changed sides when his own personal interests were threatened—and still had the audacity to act morally superior to James.
James Potter died a hero. Snape, on the other hand, spent his life tormenting the child of the woman he claimed to love—while refusing to let go of a teenage rivalry and weaponizing it against a traumatized, grieving boy.
I cannot get over how utterly selfish and cruel that is. Snape had no empathy for the dead and no sympathy for the living. And people still try to defend him? Seriously?
Summary: Theodore never wanted children. The day his mother died was the day he had sworn off any semblance of a family. That was until a child appears before him, claiming to be his daughter.
A/N: this is NOT a pregnancy fic you guys i promise also i didn't want to split this into two parts but tumblr deemed it too long so um two parts ig
credits to @dividers-are-us for the divider
Theodore Nott had read enough books to know that the day his entire life changed was supposed to feel different.
The air would be heavier. The world sharper. Something—anything—would be off. A subtle wrongness, a warning. Foreshadowing of the wrench about to be thrown into his carefully ordered life.
He had felt it once before, when his mother died and left a hollow space behind that never quite filled.
But that was the thing.
Nothing felt wrong about today.
Had everything gone as it usually did, it would have been completely mundane—monotonous, even. Theodore woke up, ate breakfast, slipped outside for a smoke. Double Potions. Another smoke. Transfiguration. Lunch. Arithmancy.
And now he was stuck in Charms.
Professor Flitwick had been lecturing about advanced spell interactions—something about like and unlike spells, wand movements and intent—when the first spell fizzled.
Then another.
Then three more went wildly off course, sparks ricocheting off desks and dissolving into the air like fireflies gone wrong.
Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, unimpressed.
“Focus,” Flitwick snapped, wand raised, “Clearly someone here has—”
The room cracked.
Not shattered. Not exploded.
Cracked—like reality itself had split open for half a second.
There was a blinding flash of gold light, a rush of displaced air, and then—
Silence.
Sitting in the middle of the classroom floor was a little girl.
She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. Dark curls fell into her face, dressed in pajamas, and her small hands were clenched into fists as she looked around, eyes wide and terrified.
For exactly two seconds, she was quiet.
Then her lip trembled.
“—Papà?”
Her voice broke.
And then she started crying.
Not soft sniffles. Full-on, panicked sobs—the kind that came from being suddenly, completely lost.
“Voglio il mio papà!” She cried, scrambling to her feet, “Voglio andare a casa!” (I want my daddy! I want to go home!)
The classroom froze.
“…Did she just Apparate?” Someone whispered.
Another voice, baffled, “She’s a child.”
A Ravenclaw girl cautiously stepped forward, “Hey, it’s okay—”
The girl recoiled instantly, backing away as if burned, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“No! No, no, no!” She sobbed, shaking her head violently, “Non ti conosco! Voglio il mio papà! Voglio papà!” (I don't know you! I want my daddy! I want daddy!)
She spun in a slow, desperate circle, looking at all of them with pure, unfiltered fear.
“Papà! Dove sei?!” (Dad! Where are you?!)
Theo stared at her from his seat.
He wasn’t heartless—of course he wasn’t. There was something about the way she wailed, the sheer terror in her voice, that made his chest tighten painfully. And yet, he stayed where he was.
Blaise nudged his arm, “Oi, Nott. You speak Italian, don’t you?”
He didn’t bother answering. Everyone already knew—thanks to the absolute slew of Italian curses he’d hurled at Weasley during the last Quidditch match.
“Great,” Blaise said immediately, “Do something.”
Theo’s eyes flicked back to the girl.
She had dropped to her knees now, small hands pressed to her face as she cried, her breathing beginning to hitch dangerously. A Hufflepuff girl hovered nearby, concern written all over her face, but every step closer only made the child cry harder.
“Voglio il mio papà… per favore…” She sobbed between gasps. (I want my daddy… please…)
Something twisted uncomfortably in Theo’s chest.
“I’m not exactly a baby person.” He muttered.
“Nott,” the Ravenclaw girl hissed, “She’s a toddler. She’s about to have a panic attack, and she can’t understand a word we’re saying.”
The girl let out a sharp, breathless sob, her chest stuttering as she tried—and failed—to calm herself.
“Papà…” She whimpered.
Theo closed his eyes for a brief second and exhaled.
“Cazzo.” (fuck)
He pushed his chair back and stood.
The entire classroom fell silent as he took a step toward her.
Theo approached slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture despite himself.
“Ehi,” He said gently, crouching a few feet away from her. His voice was low, careful, “Va tutto bene. Respira, sì? Piano, piano.” (It’s okay. Breathe, yeah? Slowly, slowly.)
The girl barely registered him.
She was still crying hard, hiccupping sobs shaking her tiny frame as she shook her head over and over, “No, no, no… voglio papà… voglio papà adesso…” (No, no, no… I want daddy… I want daddy now)
“Io so,” Theo murmured, trying to keep his tone steady, “Ma sei al sicuro. Nessuno ti farà male. Guarda me, piccola.” (I know, but you're safe. No one's going to hurt you. Look at me, little one.)
He reached out slightly—then stopped, unsure.
“Come ti chiami?” He asked softly. (What's your name?)
She sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve, eyes squeezed shut as if refusing to look at the world around her. “Voglio papà,” She repeated stubbornly, voice breaking again, “Ho paura…” (I want dad, I'm scared)
Theo swallowed.
“Papà non è lontano,” He said, choosing his words carefully, “Va bene? Respira con me.” (Dad’s not far away, Okay? Breathe with me.)
That was when she opened her eyes.
Really looked at him.
Her crying hitched mid-sob.
For half a second, her face went utterly still—eyes widening, breath catching like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
Then—
“Papà!”
She surged forward.
Theo barely had time to react before a small body collided with his chest, tiny arms wrapping around his neck with desperate force. She buried her face into his robes, clutching him like he might disappear if she let go.
“Papà, papà, papà,” She cried, the word tumbling out between sobs, “Ti ho trovato… non andare via… per favore…” (I found you… don't go away… please…)
Theo froze.
Completely. Utterly.
His arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do as the child clung to him, shaking with leftover fear. Her tears soaked straight through his uniform as she pressed closer, like she was trying to crawl into him.
The room was dead silent.
Theo’s eyes flicked up.
Every single person was staring.
Flitwick looked like he might faint. The Ravenclaw girl’s mouth hung open. Blaise had gone eerily still, eyebrows raised so high they were nearly in his hairline.
Theo slowly mouthed, Get this child off me.
No one moved.
The girl sniffed loudly and tightened her grip, small hands fisting in the fabric of his robes. “Papà.” She whimpered again, quieter now, exhausted.
Theo looked down at her—at the way she fit far too easily against him, at how natural it felt for her to be there—and felt his brain short-circuit.
“I—” He cleared his throat, voice coming out rough, “Io… eh…”
She tilted her head just enough for him to feel the movement, her grip loosening slightly as the tension finally drained from her small body. Her breathing stuttered once more, then evened out, warm against his chest.
Theo looked down just in time to see her eyelids flutter.
Once.
Twice.
And then she was gone.
Fast asleep.
Her forehead rested against his collarbone, tiny fingers still curled tightly in his robes like she was afraid to let go even in sleep. A quiet, shaky sigh left her, the last echo of fear finally spent.
Theo swallowed hard.
The hospital wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, but it did nothing to calm the chaos of the little girl in Theo Nott’s arms. Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and Snape hovered nearby, wands and parchment at the ready, while a few house-elves scurried nervously at the edges of the room.
Theo wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here—one hand on her back, the other awkwardly supporting her legs—and frankly, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to set her down in a cot and get the hell out of there.
“She appears… well, as far as magical diagnostics go." Pomfrey said uncertainly, trailing off.
Flitwick rubbed at the crease between his brows and sighed, “I’m not even sure what spells were cast. Perhaps someone transfigured an object into a child… though it seems highly unlikely. I did a head count, but maybe a student from another class managed to get de-aged? It will take me some time to get to the bottom of this.”
“During which,” McGonagall added crisply, “We need to figure out where exactly she is going to reside.”
All eyes turned to Theo, still awkwardly seated on the bed. The green tie in her grubby hands was clutched tightly, her shirt streaked with snot from her tears. He stared at the ceiling, silently praying to whatever deity listened that this problem would disappear.
“All right,” Flitwick muttered, “We need… more concrete information. Perhaps a simple veritas test to confirm basic biological markers…”
He waved his wand carefully over a tiny strand of her hair, muttering under his breath. The result came up empty. Flitwick let out a frustrated sigh, before his gaze fell on the way her small body curled naturally against Theo. Her fear of strangers was… painfully clear.
He waved his wand again, more deliberately this time.
“It would seem, Mr. Nott,” He began cautiously, “that you are biologically related to her.”
Theo blinked in shock, his grip faltering. The little girl nearly toppled in his arms.
“Excuse me?” He managed, voice tight, heart racing, utterly refusing to acknowledge what Flitwick had just said.
Flitwick adjusted his glasses nervously, “I—I understand this is… unusual. But the magical markers are clear. There is no doubt: you are biologically related to her.”
McGonagall stepped forward, arms crossed, her voice calm but firm, “Mr. Nott, we must consider all possibilities. Clearly, she has appeared here through some magical anomaly."
Snape, leaning against the wall with an unimpressed frown, muttered, “Magical anomaly is one way to put it. Unprecedented, more like.”
Flitwick cleared his throat, “We may need to consider the… temporal aspect. Combined with the accelerated spellwork and residual transfiguration energy from earlier… it is conceivable that she has been displaced here from another point in time.”
Theo blinked, “…You’re saying… she’s from the future?”
“Yes,” McGonagall said carefully, though her eyes softened as she looked at the child curled against him, “And until we can stabilize whatever magical interference brought her here, we will need to come up with a plan to care for her."
Theo exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between frustration and disbelief, "Alright then, take her."
Flitwick hesitated, frowning. The professors exchanged glances.
Theo’s heart thumped in a way that was decidedly unhelpful. The child pressed closer, nuzzling her face into his chest, hiccupping softly.
"Perhaps, it would be best for the child to stay with her fa—"
“I’m not her father,” He said firmly, “…And she is not my responsibility.”
“If you truly refuse,” McGonagall said quietly, “then the staff will care for her until we can determine a safe way to return her to her own time.”
McGonagall nodded once and gestured toward Madam Pomfrey, “Very well.”
Pomfrey stepped forward gently, arms outstretched, “Come now, dear. Let’s get you settled—”
The moment she felt herself being pulled away from the warm chest she’d been clinging to, the effect was immediate.
The little girl stiffened in Theo’s arms, eyes flying open as she registered that the hands lifting her did not belong to him. Her face crumpled, breath hitching once before she broke into loud, panicked sobs.
“No—no, no!” She cried, voice high and shaking, “Papà! Papà, portami!” (Dad! Dad, carry me!)
She twisted against him, burying her face into his chest as if trying to disappear. Tiny arms wrapped around his neck with desperate strength, her small body trembling violently.
“Papà, per favore,” She sobbed, words tumbling over one another, “Ho paura… non voglio… non voglio…” (Daddy, please. I'm scared… I don't want… I don't want…)
Theo’s jaw tightened. He stared straight ahead, pulse pounding, every instinct screaming at him to hand her over and walk away. But her grip only tightened, her cries growing sharp and breathless.
She was shaking.
“Alright,” Theo snapped suddenly, sharper than he meant to, “Stop—just—don’t—”
Everyone froze.
Theo swallowed and glanced down at her. Her face was blotchy and red, lashes clumped with tears, chest hitching unevenly as she struggled to breathe. She looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes, like she was bracing for him to vanish.
Something twisted painfully in his chest.
“…Va bene,” He muttered, the Italian rough but instinctive, “Va bene. Basta piangere.” (All right. No more crying.)
Her sobs stuttered—not stopping, but slowing.
Awkwardly, he adjusted his hold, one arm settling more securely around her back while the other patted her shoulder once—too stiff, too careful. He cleared his throat.
“Shh.” He said quietly, glancing around like he’d been caught doing something illegal, rocking her back and forth like a rusty robot that hadn’t been oiled in years.
She sniffed hard, still clutching him, but the panic ebbed enough for her breathing to even out. Her head tucked beneath his chin, warm and damp against his collar.
McGonagall studied the child for a long moment, then Theo. Her expression softened—just a fraction.
“It seems,” She said evenly, “that she has made her preference quite clear.”
Flitwick nodded, rubbing his hands together nervously, “Yes… yes, I’m afraid forcing the issue would only distress her further.”
Theo exhaled sharply through his nose, “…Unbelievable.”
The girl whimpered once more, fingers tightening in his shirt as if reminding him she was still there.
Theo stiffened, then sighed.
“…Fine,” He said quietly, “Okay. She can—she can stay. For now. Until you figure this out.”
The walk back to the Slytherin dorms was… an experience.
Theo kept his pace measured, one arm secured firmly around the sleeping weight against his chest. She’d fallen back asleep somewhere between the hospital wing and the dungeon corridor, her curls tickling his jaw every time she shifted, breath warm against his collarbone.
He ignored the stares.
The whispers.
The way a passing Hufflepuff nearly walked into a wall trying to figure out why Theodore Nott was carrying a child through the corridors like this was a perfectly normal occurrence.
The Slytherin common room fell silent the moment he stepped inside.
Lorenzo blinked once. Then twice.
“…Is this some sort of social experiment?”
Mattheo’s grin spread slowly, wicked and delighted, “Papa's home.”
Theo shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Say another word,” he warned quietly, “and I’ll hex you.”
Blaise tilted his head, eyes flicking between Theo and the small, curled form in his arms. “Congratulations,” He said lightly, “When were you planning on telling us you’d been leading a double life?”
Theo didn’t dignify that with a response. He adjusted his grip slightly when the girl shifted, instinctively tightening his hold, and turned toward the stairs.
Behind him came a chorus of barely-suppressed laughter and stage-whispered “Night, daddy!” that followed him all the way up.
He noticed the change in his dorm the second he stepped inside.
Not because it was loud.
But because it was wrong.
Sitting neatly on his bed were things that had absolutely not been there that morning.
Tiny clothes, folded with precise magical care. Soft socks. A small blanket charmed with a low, steady warmth. Even a stuffed creature—some sort of dragon, judging by the horns—rested near the pillow, its stitched eyes cheerfully oblivious.
Theo just stood there.
Staring.
This was real. This was happening.
He looked down at the small, sleeping child in his arms, her face slack with sleep, lashes dark against her cheeks. A living, breathing human being. And somehow—somehow—he was now responsible for her.
His stomach twisted.
This hardly seemed responsible.
Did the staff really just let him walk out with an entire child and no follow-up instructions? No pamphlet? No checklist? How was he meant to keep one of these things alive? What if she woke up hungry? Or scared? Or—Merlin forbid—started crying? Again.
Theo swallowed hard, dread creeping in like a cold chill down his spine.
He crossed the room slowly and carefully, as if any wrong step might shatter the fragile reality holding this together, and lowered her onto the bed. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake, curling instinctively toward the lingering warmth of his body.
He hesitated.
Then, with movements stiff and unsure, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and tucked it in the way he vaguely remembered adults doing when he was small—firm but gentle, like it mattered.
He stepped back.
She looked… peaceful.
Completely unaware that she had just detonated his entire existence.
Theo dragged a hand down his face and turned toward the door.
He needed a cigarette. Immediately.
Just as his fingers brushed the handle, a small sound stopped him.
“Papà…”
It was barely audible—a sleepy mumble, her brow knitting faintly as one small hand twitched against the sheets.
Theo froze.
“…Papà.” She murmured again, softer this time, like she was reaching for him even in her dreams.
He closed his eyes and let out a slow, resigned breath.
“Merda.” He muttered.
If he left and she woke up—
He glanced at the chair beside the bed.
Then back at her.
“…Unbelievable.” He whispered.
Theo pulled the chair closer and sat down, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving her face. He flinched every time she so much as twitched, every uneven breath sending his pulse spiking.
Just for tonight.
That’s what he told himself as exhaustion settled heavy in his bones.
Just until she woke up.
Theo woke to pins and needles.
A sharp, unpleasant numbness shot up his legs, like they’d ceased to exist sometime during the night and were only now remembering their purpose. He sucked in a quiet breath and shifted—immediately regretted it.
There was weight on him.
Warm. Solid.
Theo froze.
Slowly, carefully, he looked down.
She was asleep in his lap.
At some point during the night—at some point he did not remember authorizing—the little girl had migrated from the bed, curled herself into the space between his arms and legs, and settled there like she belonged. Her head rested against his bicep, curls splayed messily over his chest, one small hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.
Theo stared.
His mind helpfully offered no explanation.
He vaguely recalled her stirring sometime in the early hours. A soft whimper. A half-formed Papà breathed into the dark. He must have reached out—must have pulled her close without fully waking, murmuring something useless and soothing under his breath.
Apparently, his subconscious had decided this was his life now.
He didn’t move.
Couldn’t, really—his legs were numb to the point of concern, and any shift risked waking her. Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fluttering faintly as she slept, utterly unbothered by the fact that she was using him as a mattress.
Theo let his head fall back against the chair with a silent groan.
“This is a disaster.” He whispered.
She stirred at the sound, nose scrunching slightly, fingers tightening in his sleeve as if anchoring herself. Theo went completely still, heart hammering like he’d been caught committing a crime.
He tensed, eyes snapping down just as she stirred properly, lifting her head and blinking blearily up at him.
For a long second, they just looked at each other.
Then her face brightened.
“Buongiorno,” She said, voice thick with sleep. A pause, “…Papà.” (Good morning.)
After getting her dressed for the day using the clothes the professors had provided, Theo could only thank Salazar that whoever—or whatever—had sent her back in time had at least had the decency to send an older child.
Because Merlin help him, she was competent.
She managed socks on her own. Shoes, too—wrong feet at first, but she fixed it herself with a sharp little huff of frustration. He didn’t even have to supervise. He just stood there, half-awake, watching in stunned silence.
The only time he stepped in was when the shirt became her enemy.
She wrestled with it valiantly, tugging it halfway over her head before getting stuck, arms flailing wildly as she wobbled on the mattress like a headless chicken. For one terrifying second, Theo was certain she was going to pitch forward and crack her skull open on the floor.
Just as he reached her, hands already out, she stamped one socked foot and protested indignantly.
“Papà! Sono una bambina grande—faccio da sola!” (Dad! I'm a big girl, I can do it on my own!)
He waited—hands hovering uselessly in the air—until she finally relented with an irritated sigh and allowed him to tug the shirt the rest of the way down. She immediately smoothed it herself afterward, chin lifted proudly.
Theo pinched the bridge of his nose.
This was going to be a long day.
By the time they stumbled downstairs, the Slytherin dorm was already awake and in motion. Mattheo, Draco, Lorenzo, and Blaise were halfway through getting ready, bags slung over shoulders as they headed out for breakfast.
Theo was still in his pajamas.
He didn’t care.
The professors had given him permission to skip class until further notice—something he had accepted with a detached nod, too tired to even question how serious this apparently was.
He was already mentally charting a course to the kitchens. Quiet. Private. No gawking students. No questions.
He turned toward the common room—
And she bolted.
“—Oi, wait—!”
Too late.
She launched herself down the stairs at an alarming speed, feet barely touching the steps. Theo’s heart stopped dead in his chest.
“Slow down!” He snapped, already moving after her, “You’re going to—”
She did not fall.
Instead, she hit the common room floor at a full sprint and beelined straight for Mattheo, slamming into his pant leg with the force and commitment of a homing missile.
Mattheo yelped, stumbling half a step, “What the—”
“Zio Mattheo!” She chirped joyfully, arms wrapping around his leg like she’d just found a long-lost treasure.
The room went dead silent.
Draco stared.
Lorenzo choked.
Blaise pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking.
Mattheo looked down slowly. Very slowly.
“…Little girl,” He said carefully, “how do you know my name?”
Theo stopped behind her and closed his eyes.
“She can’t speak any English, you idiot.”
Mattheo glanced up at him, affronted, “I see recognition in those beady eyes—”
He looked back down at her just in time to see her grin widen, all teeth and delight.
“Buongiorno!” She announced brightly.
Mattheo snorted despite himself.
Then she lifted her arms toward him, wobbling slightly on her feet, “Portami! Portami, zio Mattheo!”
Mattheo blinked. Once.
Then he looked up at Theo, eyebrow raised.
Theo sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, the tips of his ears burning.
“She’s asking her uncle to carry her.”
Mattheo’s grin turned downright smug as he crouched and scooped her up like she weighed nothing—slung against his arm with all the care of someone carrying a sack of potatoes. She giggled, utterly delighted, legs kicking happily.
Theo moved instantly.
“Oi—if you drop her, I swear to Merlin—!”
Mattheo adjusted his grip lazily, unfazed, “Relax. I’ve got her.”
Blaise smirked, “Wow. Someone’s being all fatherly for a bloke who isn’t a baby person.”
Draco leaned against the stair rail, grinning, “Yeah, daddy. Love this look on you."
“…I hate all of you,” Theo muttered darkly.
The girl twisted in Mattheo’s arms, peering over his shoulder. “Papà!” she called brightly. “Voglio fare colazione con zio Mattheo!” (Daddy! I want to have breakfast with Uncle Mattheo!)
Theo opened his mouth on instinct.
“Non puoi chie—” (You can't ask)
He stopped.
Because she wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t reaching for him.
She wasn’t clinging to his sleeve like the world might end if he stepped two feet away.
She was perfectly content. Happy, even. Nestled comfortably in someone else’s arms.
Theo’s brain stalled.
Then—click.
The realization hit him like divine intervention.
An hour.
A whole, uninterrupted hour without tiny hands grabbing his clothes. Without panicked crying. Without being someone’s emotional anchor.
The synapses in his brain fired one by one like fireworks. Sweet, blessed relief bloomed so fast he was pretty sure he could feel tears—possibly drool—gathering.
He lifted his gaze slowly and locked eyes with Mattheo.
“You,” He said calmly, decisively, “are on babysitting duty.”
“What?” Mattheo barked, “Oi—wait—!”
Theo was already turning away.
“Feed her,” He called over his shoulder, “Don’t drop her."
Out of the common room. Down the corridor. Gone like a wanted man escaping Azkaban.
“HEY!” Mattheo shouted after him, “That’s not how this works!”
The girl waved cheerfully from his arms, “Ciao, papà!”
Mattheo looked down at her.
Then back at the hallway Theo had vanished down.
"Well, I hope you enjoy being an orphan. Take it from me it's better than having a shit dad." He said absently, carrying her toward the door.
Theo didn’t even remember reaching the usual alcove.
He only knew his hands were shaking by the time he lit the cigarette, breath dragging deep and slow as the smoke filled his lungs. The burn grounded him. Anchored him. For five blessed minutes, he was just Theo again—no professors, no timelines, no small human being calling him papà.
He shouldn’t feel guilty for this.
Dammit.
It wasn’t like he was some kind of deadbeat. He wasn’t even her actual father. Her actual father existed a decade in the future and had—presumably—actively chosen to have this suctioning little tentacle of a child.
He exhaled, staring at the stone wall.
And yet.
She adored him. Wanted him. Chose him over everyone else without hesitation. Which meant—somewhere in the future—he must be doing something right.
Sometime in the future… I’m a good father.
The thought unsettled him more than the panic ever had.
He had never imagined children in his life. Never thought himself capable of it—not after losing his mother so young. How would future him handle this? How would he guide her, discipline her, protect her from the quiet, unrelenting cruelties of the world?
How would he keep her safe?
Theo exhaled again, watching the smoke curl upward and vanish.
Merlin, he needed that.
When he finally returned to the common room, the laughter hit him first.
She was being levitated up and down—up and down—by Mattheo, shrieking with unrestrained delight. Chocolate smeared her cheeks, and it was painfully obvious Mattheo had absolutely no sense when it came to not jostling a child who had just eaten her body weight in breakfast.
Theo stepped closer.
Her face lit up the moment she saw him.
“Papà!”
Something eased in his chest.
At least future me doesn’t screw this up, he thought faintly.
Mattheo gently lowered her into Theo’s arms.
And immediately—
“—achoo!”
She blinked. Sniffed.
Then again.
“Ach—ah—choo!”
Theo froze.
Her nose scrunched as she rubbed at it clumsily, eyes beginning to water, cheeks flushing, “Papà…?”
Theo’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.
Was she sick? Had he missed something? She’d been fine an hour ago—
Mattheo’s gaze flicked from her red nose to Theo’s ash-stained fingers. He sighed, already reaching for her and lifting her back into his arms.
“…Go shower,” He said calmly, “I’ll skip first class.”
Theo blinked, “I—I didn’t know—”
“I know,” Mattheo cut in easily, “It’s all good. Go.”
Theo swallowed.
“…Right.” He muttered.
He hesitated only a moment before turning toward the stairs. As he passed, she reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve.
“Papà?” She asked softly.
Theo stopped.
“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly—then corrected himself, Italian rough but sincere, “Tornerò subito. Promesso.” (I'll be right back. Promise)
Her shoulders relaxed instantly.
Mattheo watched him go, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
When Theo returned—hair damp, robes changed, skin scrubbed raw of smoke and ash—the little girl didn’t sneeze once.
Instead, she wriggled free of Mattheo’s arms and launched herself at him with a delighted squeak, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’d been waiting.
Theo caught her automatically.
She settled against him, warm and content.
And for the first time, the weight that settled in his chest had nothing to do with panic.
It felt a lot like guilt.
And something dangerously close to resolve.
Theo was collapsed across his bed, utterly defeated. The day had been… long. He hadn’t even gone to class, but that was before the small human currently treating him like a jungle gym had decided it was time for her daily inspection.
He didn’t even have the energy to move her. She clambered over him, tugging at his robes and sniffing at his hair, and he let her—somehow, it was easier than trying to resist. Five minutes of relative respite came only when she discovered something else interesting: the top of his dresser, the ceiling, the corner of the bedpost.
Every so often, one of her “uncles” captured her attention—Blaise, Draco, and Enzo—each appearing just long enough to be ignored by the child, much to Theo’s surprise. Somehow she recognized them, somehow she liked them, and somehow they had managed to reconcile the fact that she adored Mattheo more than all of them combined faster than Theo had reconciled her existence at all. He watched them all patiently endure, his mind boggling at how quickly they’d adjusted.
Currently, she had his hair in a death grip, determined to tug out every last strand with her clammy little hands. Theo winced as she yanked again, a protest lodged somewhere deep in his chest. She scrambled backward across his chest—kicking him squarely in the face in the process—then crawled toward the edge of the bed and started opening the drawer of his bedside table.
“Oi. Cosa fai?” He asked, tone half-scolding, half-exasperated. (What are you doing)
“Voglio un elastico per capelli! Mamma sempre ne tiene qui.” She declared, fumbling through the drawer. (I want a hair tie! Mom always keeps some here.)
Theo froze.
Mom? She has a mom?
The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. All this time, he had assumed—stupidly—that she had appeared out of thin air, some magical anomaly he had to manage. Now the idea that she had a mother… a real, actual human mother… knocked the air out of his lungs. He felt absurdly unprepared.
She pulled something plastic-sounding from the drawer and held it up.
“Papà… cos’è questo?” (Papa... what is this?)
Theo’s heart skipped. He blinked, eyes widening. And then the aneurysm in his brain fully bloomed: a condom wrapper. In his daughter’s hand.
“Oi! Restituiscilo!” He shouted, leaping upright just in time for her to bolt, giggling, around the room. (Give that back!)
“Get that out of her hand!” He yelled again, spinning to intercept her, but it was too late. She dashed past Blaise, who was already doubled over laughing, and then past Draco, who had his hands pressed over his mouth to keep from cackling. Even Lorenzo had tears in his eyes from the absurdity.
“Little girl,” Lorenzo called, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably as he wiped tears from his face, “wait a second—what is her actual name?”
Theo froze mid-chase, mind scrambling.
“You… you don’t know her name?”
The little girl shrieked with laughter from the foot of the bed, completely oblivious to the chaos she had caused, while Theo felt like the universe was quietly reminding him that, yes he was an utter fool.
The little girl zig-zagged across the room, still clutching the condom wrapper like it was some kind of treasure. Theo lunged, arms flailing, but she ducked under his reach and squealed with pure delight.
“Papà! Prendimi!” She shouted, her voice ringing with mischief. (Papa! Catch me)
“Merlin’s beard, why am I even doing this?!” Theo groaned, diving forward again, only to collide gently with Blaise, who had fallen onto the floor laughing.
“Oi! Watch it, Nott!” Blaise gasped between giggles, brushing off his robes, “Maybe if you had been as enthusiastic about birth control as your little girl there, you wouldn't be having this problem."
Theo didn’t even glance at them. His focus was entirely on the girl, who had somehow vaulted onto the armrest of the sofa and was teetering dangerously.
“Oi! Scendi di lì, immediatamente!” He barked. (Hey! Get down from there, right now!)
“Papà!” She chirped again, holding the wrapper above her head like a flag, “Guarda! Guarda!” (Papa! Look! Look!)
Before he could reach her, Mattheo appeared like a hero in the last second, levitating gently above the floor with his wand, and swooped in. “I got her!” He said triumphantly.
He glanced down at the pile of humans scattered around the room—Blaise doubled over, Draco snickering, Enzo leaning helplessly against the wall—and grinned, “You really gave them a run for their money, huh, Bianca?”
Theo froze mid-lunge.
“You… you know her name?” He asked, voice tight with disbelief.
Mattheo raised an eyebrow, utterly flabbergasted, “You didn’t?”
Raising children, Theo decided, was an absurd amount of work.
He handed Bianca over to Madam Pomfrey the second she woke up.
He had tried—really tried—to delay it, holding out hope that the professors would have some sort of solution by now. But it had been three days. Three days of dungeon air, sleep-mussed curls, and the unmistakable stickiness that came with being a toddler. She desperately needed a shower.
And while Theo was getting increasingly comfortable handling her—some might even say paternal—he was still very much not prepared to be the one responsible for that particular task.
Pomfrey had taken one look at the state of Bianca’s curls, the faint smudges on her cheeks, and Theo’s exhausted expression and immediately agreed.
Theo sighed in relief, already imagining a shower of his own. Or maybe collapsing onto a bed and stealing an extra hour of sleep. He didn’t understand why he was so tired—he was sleeping the same amount he always did.
Still. He felt wrecked.
He promised he’d come back.
Repeated it, even.
Swore on—well. Something. He wasn’t sure what, but it sounded convincing enough.
It didn’t help.
She cried anyway.
Clutched his robes with tiny hands, face crumpling as she begged him not to leave, words tumbling out too fast and too panicked for him to catch more than Papà and non andare. Theo pried her fingers loose with a wince, murmuring reassurances the entire time—but he couldn’t will himself to walk away while she was screaming like that.
Especially now that he knew the difference between her cries.
So, one of the girls’ bathrooms had been cleared out for the morning.
Pomfrey, Bianca, and Theo occupied it alone, the echoes far too loud for his liking. He stood just outside the stall while Pomfrey bathed her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture stiff—like a chastened criminal awaiting judgment.
The child sang.
Loudly.
Badly.
And every time Theo stopped responding—
“Papà?”
—her voice wobbled, threatening to tip into tears.
“Sono qui,” He called back immediately, instinctive, “Brava.” (I'm here. Good job)
She giggled and continued singing something that sounded vaguely like a nursery rhyme and vaguely like a direct threat to musical theory.
Theo leaned his head back against the tiled wall and exhaled.
My God, was she clingy.
Then again… he supposed he couldn’t fault her for it.
If Flitwick was right—if she truly had come from the future—then she’d been ripped away from her home. Likely somewhere warm and familiar in Italy. Dropped into damp, grey Scotland. Surrounded by strangers. Spoken to in a language she didn’t understand.
Clinging to the only constant she recognized.
Him.
The thought settled heavy in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. Theo swallowed, fingers twitching as the familiar urge for a cigarette crept in—persistent, comforting.
He resisted.
Inside the stall, the singing faltered.
“Papà!” She called, sharper now.
“I’m here,” Theo answered immediately, softer this time, “Sono qui. Non vado da nessuna parte.” (I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.)
The singing resumed—quieter. Sleepier.
Theo closed his eyes.
Unbelievable.
Bianca emerged from the bath wrapped in a towel with a warming charm woven into the fabric, her pajamas peeking out beneath it. Her curls were still damp, springing in every direction, cheeks flushed pink and clean, eyes already heavy with sleep. Madam Pomfrey handed her over with a satisfied nod and a stern warning about drafts, and Theo took her automatically, settling her against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He was now only dimly aware of how absurd this entire situation was.
They stepped out into the corridor together, the stone cool and quiet at this hour—
—and promptly ran straight into you.
You froze.
You’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. Whispers carried between classes, exaggerated retellings murmured in the Slytherin common room. Nott has a kid. From the future. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. There were more reasonable theories floating around—some magical accident that accidentally teleported a child here from outside Hogwarts walls. Others were more creative, claiming Theo had a secret child hidden away in Italy and the time-travel nonsense was just a cover story.
You firmly belonged to the former camp.
This—whatever this was—had to be some sort of misunderstanding.
You opened your mouth, ready to apologize for bumping into him—
“Mama!”
The word rang out, bright and clear, echoing far too loudly down the stone corridor.
Bianca lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all day. She wriggled out of Theo’s already-loose hold with surprising strength, arms stretching toward you, the towel slipping dangerously as she leaned forward.
“Mama! Mama!” She chirped, utterly delighted, fingers grasping at empty air, “Sei tornata! Mi sei mancato!” (You’re back! I missed you!)
You stared at her.
Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.
Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
You stared at her.
Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.
Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.
You forced a smile, gentle and careful, lowering yourself slightly so you weren’t towering over her.
“I’m not your mama, little one.” You said softly.
You spared Theo a glance, silently pleading for him to say something—anything—but he looked like a statue carved from pure shock, arms still locked around Bianca as though letting go might shatter reality itself.
Bianca frowned.
Just a little.
Her brows knit together as she studied you, head tilting to one side in confusion. Then she turned in Theo’s arms, small hand gripping the front of his robes like an anchor.
You spared Theo a glance.
He hadn’t moved.
Not an inch.
He looked like a statue carved in shock, Bianca still tucked securely in his arms, as though letting go might shatter something irreparable.
Bianca’s smile faltered.
Just a little.
Her brows knit together as she studied your face, head tilting in quiet confusion. Then she turned slowly toward Theo, curls brushing his collar.
“Papà?” She asked, uncertain now.
Theo swallowed.
She pressed her cheek against his chest and spoke again, voice small but earnest—
“Papà… ora che la mamma è tornata, possiamo andare a casa? Ho sonno.” (Papa… now that mama is back, can we go home? I'm sleepy)
“There is absolutely no way I’m her mother.”
Your voice echoed far louder than you intended in the hospital wing, ricocheting off white curtains and cold stone with humiliating clarity.
Madam Pomfrey paused mid-sentence.
Flitwick blinked.
McGonagall’s lips thinned—just slightly.
Theo, seated stiffly on the edge of the bed with a sleeping Bianca curled against his chest, did not move. He looked like someone who had accepted his fate three hours ago and was now simply watching the universe pile on for sport.
It was hard to believe he’d been standing in this exact position less than a week ago, being told the very same thing.
Honestly, he wasn’t even sure the news had fully settled yet. He hadn’t had time to properly panic—not just about Bianca having a mother, but about who that mother apparently was. A girl he’d never given a second glance to. Someone who, in some unfathomable future, he had fallen in love with. Married. Chosen to have a family with.
Theo Nott. Married. A father by choice.
The thought felt so foreign he thought he might throw up.
“For one,” You continued, gesturing vaguely at yourself like the evidence should be self-explanatory, “I would remember giving birth. I am quite certain of that.”
Pomfrey cleared her throat delicately.
“And second,” You added, beginning to pace, panic sharpening every word, “there are processes involved in creating children. Processes which I have never done—” You pointed sharply at Theo, “—with him.”
Theo didn’t react. Didn’t even flinch. He just adjusted his grip slightly when Bianca shifted, instinctively tucking her closer as she sighed in her sleep.
Flitwick glanced down at his parchment, “…The magical diagnostics are, I’m afraid, quite clear.”
You stopped short. “So you’re actually telling me,” You said slowly, incredulously, “that this child is from the future? A future where I have a baby with Nott of all people?”
McGonagall folded her hands calmly, “Miss (Y/N)—”
“You’re joking, right?” You cut in, letting out a hollow laugh, “I mean, everyone here can see that there isn’t even a modicum of possibility that the two of us would date—let alone get married, let alone have a child.”
Theo’s jaw tightened.
He wanted to argue—wanted to back you up, to scoff and insist this was ridiculous, that there had to be some enormous mistake, some elaborate cosmic joke with particularly poor timing. A week ago, he would have done exactly that.
But he’d been standing in this same position barely days earlier.
He knew now that arguing would get him nowhere.
Soon enough, Bianca would wake up. She always did. And when she did, she would cry—sharp, panicked, desperate cries that cut straight through stone and reason alike. She would call for you the same way she had called for him, voice cracking, hands reaching for something familiar in a world that made no sense.
And if you were even remotely a decent person, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it.
The thought sat heavy in his chest, uncomfortable and inescapable.
But Bianca only shifted in his arms, letting out a small, congested sniff as she rubbed at her itchy nose against his robes. Theo adjusted his hold without thinking, brushing his thumb gently along her back until her body went slack again, weight settling against him.
Theodore Nott was not a single father.
Absolutely not.
He wasn’t even a father if one wanted to argue technicalities—and frankly, he did. Loudly. Frequently. If he wasn’t considered a father, then you certainly couldn’t be considered a mother. It was only fair. Balanced. Logical.
And yet.
If he was being forced to look after a suction cup turned human child—day in and day out—then he didn’t see why you got to take the easy way out and keep avoiding her. Avoiding them.
It felt less like co-parenting and more like he was chasing you down for childcare payments.
So he handed Bianca off to Mattheo—who was, once again, skipping class and therefore had no grounds to complain—and went looking for you.
He caught you just as Potions let out, students flooding into the corridor in clusters of laughter and complaints. Theo slipped through them with singular purpose and grabbed your elbow just outside the classroom doors.
You startled, turning sharply, “Nott? What do you need?”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what this is about,” He hissed, releasing you only to cross his arms over his chest, “Go see your child.”
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, “She’s not my kid.”
“She’s as much yours as she is mine,” Theo shot back, frustration flaring hot in his chest, “and it’s not fair that I’m the one looking after her all day.”
“We can’t even speak the same language.”
“She’s three,” He snapped, “All you need to do is watch her while she plays with toys or draws or—Merlin—something.”
“She doesn’t even want to come with me.”
The words hit harder than he expected.
“Maybe she would,” Theo said, quieter but still sharp, “if you spent more time with her.”
The conversation had officially crossed into absurd territory. Theo felt like every dramatic woman in those ridiculous telenovelas his mother used to watch—hands flying, emotions everywhere, dignity nowhere to be found.
You scoffed, “Oh, come off it, Nott. Don’t you find it strange that she can only speak Italian? Nothing else? Not even my first language?”
Theo frowned, but you weren’t finished.
“She never comes to me first,” You continued, voice tightening, “Never asks me for help when she’s eating. Never reaches for me when she wants something. You’re always her first choice. Have you noticed that?”
His mouth opened—closed again.
“And,” You went on, softer now, more brittle, “you know she never lets me carry her? Not even once. And believe me, I’ve tried. She squirms out of my arms every time.”
The anger he’d carried with him faltered.
He could see it then—the hurt etched into your expression, raw and unguarded. Theo shifted, frowning, “She’s just… not used to—”
“I don’t think that’s it.” You interrupted quietly.
You hesitated. Took a breath.
“What if,” You said, voice barely above a whisper now, “what if in the future… I’m not there?”
Theo’s chest went cold.
“No,” Theo said quickly, the word cutting through the silence like he could sever the thought itself, “No. That’s—there are other explanations.”
You looked at him, eyes searching his face.
“Like what?” You asked.
He exhaled sharply, already reaching, “Maybe we just—split up. In the future. People do that. All the time.”
Your mouth twisted, humorless, “Right. So either I’m dead, or I’m a deadbeat.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said,” You shot back, “Because if I’m alive and well and present, Theo, then why doesn’t she know my language? Why doesn’t she come to me? Why doesn’t she trust me?”
His jaw clenched, “You don’t know that she doesn’t—”
“She doesn’t,” You said quietly, firmly, “And you know it.”
He felt like he couldn't breathe. His hand twitched at his side.
Theo shook his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “You’re making assumptions."
"I don't want to confuse her," You snapped, "What if I spend time with her now and she goes back to a future where she's confused that future me doesn't? Don't you think it's better for her to not be left with any painful memories?"
"Fuck this." He said harshly.
You stared at him, stunned, “Theodo—”
He turned away before you could finish.
He needed a fucking cigarette.
Theo didn’t look at you when you spoke.
“I thought I might find you here.” You sighed, stepping into the Astronomy Tower. The night air was sharp, the stars cruelly clear.
He only glanced at you once before turning back to the edge, exhaling smoke into the dark. The orange tip of his cigarette flared, then dimmed.
He hadn’t gone back before bedtime like he’d promised Bianca.
The thought twisted in his chest—but he shoved it down. Mattheo would handle it. He told himself Mattheo would’ve worn her out enough that she’d gone down on her own. That she’d fallen asleep surrounded by noise and laughter and familiar faces. That she wouldn’t notice.
But he couldn’t go back now. Not like this. Not smelling like smoke and guilt and the kind of fear that hollowed you out from the inside.
You shifted, eyes flicking to the small graveyard of cigarette stubs at his feet, and visibly bit back a comment.
“You can’t seriously be that upset at the thought of me dying, are you, Nott?” You said lightly, like it was a joke you didn’t quite believe in, “After all, we aren’t anything to each other.”
Theo’s fingers stilled.
Truthfully, he wasn’t.
Not in the way you meant.
It wasn’t you he was grieving.
It was the future he thought he was building.
He had thought—Merlin help him—that he was doing something right.
Thought that maybe—maybe—this was him breaking the cycle. Overcoming his own childhood, his own grief, his own scars. The way she clung to him, trusted him, sought him out—he’d taken that as proof. Proof that he was doing something right. That he was raising her in a house full of warmth. Of love.
A home that wasn’t cold.
A father who didn’t disappear into silence.
A childhood that didn’t feel like walking on broken glass.
He had thought he was undoing the damage his own father had carved into him.
Breaking the curse.
And now it felt like he was watching history fold back in on itself.
Bianca would lose her mother. Just like he had.
She’d be left in a cold home, one that hollowed out instead of held you together. She’d grow into something sharp and distant and unfeeling—just like him. Just like his father.
Would he turn into him?
Would he still be able to love Bianca if every time he looked at her, all he saw was you? Would he sit across from her in silence at meals, watching her struggle to eat in the tension, only to hear her throwing up later—alone on the bathroom floor, crying for a mother who wasn’t there?
Would he say the same vile things? Lock her in the same closet?
Would his hands—
Theo’s breath hitched.
He’d never imagined hitting a child. Never.
But perhaps his father hadn’t imagined it either. Not at first.
Perhaps he was driven to it.
He took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it away, crushing the ember beneath his heel before reaching for another with trembling fingers.
He never got the chance to light it.
Your hand closed around his wrist.
Firm. Steady.
He stilled.
Slowly, his focus shifted—really shifted—to you.
For the first time since Bianca had seen you, since the world had tilted on its axis, he truly looked at your face.
And there it was.
Your eyes.
Or rather—
Bianca’s.
His throat closed, eyes flickering over your face as he began to compare the two of you when your nose began to twitch, the smell of the smoke finally getting to you.
"Achoo!"
Theo couldn't help but let out a dry breath of laughter.
“You should spend time with her,” He said finally, voice rough—scraped raw by smoke and something dangerously close to tears, “I wanted nothing more than to remember my mother when she died.”
The words hung between you, fragile and devastating.
Theo swallowed.
“She deserves that,” He added quietly, “And so do you.”
Morning came quietly in the Slytherin dorms. The others had already left the dorm to get breakfast and begin classes.
Theo had been awake long before it—again. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the small lump buried beneath his blankets. Bianca had twisted herself sideways sometime in the night, curls exploding in every direction, one chubby foot sticking out from under the covers like a silent rebellion.
“Bianca,” He murmured gently, nudging the lump, “È mattina.” (It's morning.)
She made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine and promptly rolled onto her stomach, hugging the pillow tighter.
“No,” She mumbled sleepily, “Ho sonno…” (I'm sleepy)
Theo blinked, staring at the blanket-wrapped lump that was technically his responsibility. For a fleeting moment, he considered letting her sleep—just fifteen more minutes, surely that wouldn’t hurt.
But experience had already taught him better.
If she slept in, she’d be feral by noon. No nap. No quiet. No sleep later. Which meant another night of pacing the dorm with a squirming toddler while his own body begged for rest.
He sighed. The deep, tired, fatherly kind—the one he was rapidly perfecting.
Just as he leaned forward to try again, there was a knock at the door.
Theo froze.
His mind leapt immediately to the all possibilities.
Professor McGonagall, stern and efficient, here to inform him they’d finally found a way to send Bianca back to her own time.
Or worse—here to say they couldn’t.
Another knock followed. Softer. Hesitant.
Theo stood slowly, smoothing a hand through his already-mussed hair, heart doing something distinctly unhelpful in his chest. When he opened the door, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting.
But it was you.
You stood there awkwardly, hands clasped in front of you like you might bolt at any second. You weren’t in your uniform—dressed casually instead—and floating just behind you was a small enchanted tray, stacked with breakfast.
Theo’s brows lifted despite himself.
“Oh,” He said. Guarded. Careful. “…Morning.”
You hesitated, then offered a small, tentative smile.
“I brought breakfast.”
Behind him, there was sudden movement.
Bianca’s head popped up from the blankets, curls crushed on one side of her face, eyes still hazy with sleep.
She stared at you for half a second before her entire expression lit up.
“Mama!”
Theo barely had time to react before she scrambled upright, tangling herself in the covers.
“Buongiorno?” You said, tilting your head as you stepped inside, “I—uh. I’m hoping I'm pronouncing that right.”
Theo stepped aside as you entered, watching carefully as Bianca scooted closer, clutching her blanket around her shoulders like a cape. You set the tray down on the bedside table and sat beside her without hesitation.
Breakfast became a quiet, shared thing.
Bianca sat between the two of you on the bed, half-awake but cooperative, munching on cut fruit and toast while you worked patiently through the knots in her hair. She winced once, then relaxed when your touch stayed gentle.
“I used to have curls like this too.” You said softly, lifting a section of her hair.
Theo glanced over, wondering why you were saying this. Perhaps you were just getting sick of being out of the loop while Theo constantly reminded Bianca not to chew with her mouth open, “Really?”
You hummed, “Yeah. Until I spent one entire summer swimming. Completely ruined them.”
"Oh." He muttered.
“And then,” You continued, amused, “I discovered Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and never really went back.”
You began sectioning her hair, fingers moving more confidently now, twisting it into neat little ponies.
Theo slid the tray closer to you, “You sure you don’t want some?”
You shook your head lightly, “I already ate.”
Bianca paused mid-bite, brows knitting together. She looked up at you, then spoke quietly.
“Mamma… stai male di nuovo?” (Are you sick again?)
Theo stiffened slightly, “…Cosa intendi?” (What do you mean?)
Bianca shrugged, matter-of-fact in the way only children could be, “A volte la mamma sta male e non riesce a mangiare.” (Sometimes mommy gets sick and can’t eat.)
Theo looked at you slowly, something uneasy settling in his chest.
You tilted your head, confused, "Am I missing something?"
The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet.
Theo had never realized just how quiet it could get when everyone was actually in class. On the rare occasions he skipped, he was usually surrounded by his noisy gaggle of friends—laughter, insults, the scrape of chairs. Now, with most of the students gone, the space felt cavernous, almost reverent.
Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, casting lazy rectangles of gold across the stone floor. The lake beyond the glass shimmered faintly, shadows drifting slowly along the walls.
Theo sat at one of the long tables, a textbook open in front of him. Beside him, Bianca occupied her own chair, perched atop a cushion to give her some height. Even then, she barely reached the tabletop—her upper body completely propped up on her elbows as she strained forward, tongue poking out in concentration.
A piece of parchment lay in front of her, covered in colorful scribbles, and a box of crayons sat nearby—formerly one of Theo’s cigarette packs, now successfully transfigured.
You sat on his other side.
Your space had slowly expanded until it spilled over into his—parchment and quills scattered between you, a textbook here, a notebook there. You leaned in to show him a particularly complicated potion formula, pointing at your notes with the tip of your wand.
“So yesterday, we covered the difference between tinctures and infusions,” You explained, flipping through your notebook until you found the relevant lecture, “I wrote the key points here—see? You mostly just need to memorize the ratios.”
Theo scanned your notes, brow furrowing as he compared them to the questions listed beneath. He tapped one section with his finger.
“What about this one?” He asked, “It doesn’t match the ratio.”
You leaned closer to see what he was pointing at, scooting nearer without thinking, “Oh—okay, this one’s an exception. It’s considered an infusion because of the brewing process, not the base ingredients.”
You were just about to continue when Bianca suddenly sat upright, eyes wide, like she’d uncovered a great secret.
“Papà! Mamma! Guarda!” She chirped, spinning the parchment toward you with pride.
You leaned in immediately, your expression softening.
It was a drawing—very clearly the three of you. Stick figures, yes, but unmistakable. One tall with dark hair. One beside him with longer hair. And a much smaller one in the middle, curls drawn in chaotic loops. Behind you stood a crooked little house, flowers floating inexplicably in midair, and a tiny sun tucked into the corner of the page.
You laughed quietly, “This is adorable.”
Bianca smiled, satisfied, but said nothing—already basking in the praise.
You turned to Theo, “What’s wow in Italian?”
He shifted his gaze from the drawing to you, and it was only then you realized just how close you’d gotten—practically halfway into his seat. At this distance, you could see every individual lash, the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
You froze.
Theo leaned in, lowering his head toward your ear. When he spoke, his voice was low and lazy, far too close.
“Wow." He said simply.
You pulled back just enough to glare at him, “You’re unbearable.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, “You asked.”
Theo hadn’t planned on going to the Hufflepuff house party.
Not really.
But you’d insisted—gentle, firm in that way that made it hard to argue without sounding like an idiot.
“Go,” You’d said, already kneeling to help Bianca with her pajamas, “You haven’t been out in days. You deserve a night that doesn’t involve a sticky toddler."
Bianca had protested briefly, arms looping around his neck like a vise, but you’d distracted her with some Jaffa cakes. That seemed to do it.
So he went.
There was music. Laughter. Too many people packed into a common room that smelled faintly of firewhisky and bad decisions. Mattheo handed him a drink almost immediately.
Theo stared at it.
Then thought of Bianca—overtired, unfamiliar bed, the very real possibility that she’d decide midnight was an appropriate time to throw a tantrum and demand to be taken back to Theo's dorm only to be greeted by his drunk self.
He handed it back.
“No?” Mattheo blinked.
“No.” Theo said flatly.
He stayed long enough to prove he’d tried. Not to himself but to you. Who he knew would give him a teasing scold when he'd come back early, tail tucked between his legs.
And then—quietly, without much fanfare—he left.
The Slytherin dorms were dim when he returned, the corridors hushed and cool. He moved carefully, like any loud noise might break something fragile.
When he opened his door, the first thing he noticed was the lamp.
Low. Warm. Soft golden light spilling across the room.
The second thing—
You were there, curled on your side beneath his blankets, Bianca tucked against your chest like she belonged there. One of your arms was draped protectively around her small body, fingers curled instinctively at her back. Bianca’s face was pressed into your collarbone, curls splayed wildly across the pillow.
Fast asleep.
Theo stopped just inside the doorway.
Something tight in his chest loosened. Something else replaced it—heavier, warmer, far more dangerous.
You’d kicked off your shoes, throwing off your jacket as well in favour of casting a warming charm over the two of you right as you had fallen asleep. Bianca’s tiny hand was fisted in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring herself.
Theo approached slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He studied your face.
A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek, brushing your lips. In your sleep, your brow pinched faintly, nose scrunching in the exact same way Bianca’s did.
He let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle before he could stop himself.
Carefully—so carefully—he reached out and brushed the strand of hair away from your face with two fingers.
You stirred.
Not fully awake—just enough to shift closer to Bianca, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Your hand tightened reflexively around her back.
Theo froze.
Bianca was going to lose this one day.
She was going to lose this—the warmth, the safety, the arms of her mother.
He was going to lose this someday.
He didn't want to lose you.
He wanted you for the rest of his life.
The thought hit hard and fast, knocking the breath out of his chest.
He swallowed, jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of Bianca’s back. On the way your fingers curved protectively at her spine even in sleep, like your body knew the job before your mind ever caught up.
Then you shifted again.
This time more sharply.
Your eyes blinked open, unfocused and glassy with sleep, lashes fluttering as you took in the dim room. For half a second, you looked confused—then awareness snapped in all at once.
You stiffened.
“Oh—Merlin—” You whispered hoarsely, lifting your head an inch before immediately freezing again when Bianca huffed and burrowed closer.
You blinked.
You slowly sank back down, mortified.
Theo watched as realization dawned on your face.
Then, horrified, you wiped at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand.
“I—” You croaked, then cleared your throat quietly, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t actually asleep.”
Theo raised a brow.
You winced, “Okay. That’s a lie. I was trying not to fall asleep.”
He stayed silent, letting you dig.
“I was pretending,” You continued in a rushed whisper, cheeks warming, “I thought if I stayed really still she’d think it was bedtime and settle down and—well—apparently I fell asleep first.”
Theo huffed out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh.
You shot him a look, “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
You sighed, rubbing your face with one hand, careful not to jostle Bianca, “This is so embarrassing.”
Theo didn’t respond right away.
Instead, he stood, crossed the room quietly, and took the blanket draped over the chair. His movements were careful—deliberate—as he unfolded it and drew it up over you and Bianca, tucking it in around her small shoulders before letting it settle across your waist.
“You can sleep here tonight,” He said finally, voice low. Then, after a beat, softer, “If you want.”
You blinked up at him, the last of sleep still clinging to you.
“Here?” You asked, whispering like the room might object.
He shrugged one shoulder, “She’s already settled. No point moving her.”
You hesitated.
Then nodded, “Okay.”
Theo’s jaw loosened, just a little.
A few days later, Theo was running on fumes.
The bone-deep exhaustion that settled behind his eyes and refused to leave. The kind that made time blur and thoughts lag half a second behind reality. Between the staggered schedules, half-missed classes, and nights that never quite counted as sleep, he felt like he was permanently five minutes behind himself.
You weren’t doing much better.
The professors still hadn’t found a way to send Bianca back, which meant the two of you had fallen into a strange, grinding rhythm: one of you attending class while the other watched her, trading off half-written notes—if by some miracle you hadn’t fallen asleep mid-lecture. You were grateful the professors were granting you at least that much grace.
The rest of the time was spent cramming together right before bedtime while Bianca threw a tantrum of truly mythological proportions.
It turned out she’d woken up once to find the two of you studying together and had somehow come to the conclusion that whenever she went to sleep, you and Theo threw secret parties without her.
So now—despite being exhausted—she refused to sleep.
You hadn’t known children could get overtired before.
Apparently, it was a thing.
A loud, shrill, nails-on-a-chalkboard thing.
Bianca was a small whirlwind. All limbs and laughter and boundless, feral energy that refused to burn out indoors.
So when you suggested a picnic by the Black Lake, Theo thought you’d finally lost your mind.
“You want to let her run free,” He said flatly, “near a giant squid.”
“She just needs to run,” You insisted, rubbing your temples, “Like—really run. Until her lungs give out.”
Theo stared at you, hollow-eyed.
“…You’re a genius.”
So there you were.
The grass near the lake was warm beneath the afternoon sun, the water dark and glassy, the mountains reflected on its surface like a painting. A blanket was spread out behind you with food you’d asked the house-elves to make—and while it looked incredible, you were deeply offended by the lack of sweets.
Apparently the elves had decided Bianca didn’t need sugar.
Who cared about Bianca?
You wanted a chocolate lava cake, damn it.
Bianca, meanwhile, had already abandoned the blanket entirely.
She shrieked with laughter as Theo lifted her into the air, spinning once before tossing her just high enough to make her squeal—then catching her easily.
“Ancora!” She demanded, breathless. (Again.)
Theo obliged.
He laughed—really laughed. Not the tired, guarded version you’d grown used to, but something lighter, freer. He threw her again, caught her, bounced her once on his hip before setting her down just long enough for her to sprint off in a wild, crooked circle.
You watched from the blanket.
At first, it was just fondness. Relief. Gratitude that she was finally burning off that impossible energy. You couldn’t deny it—the sound of a child laughing so freely tugged a smile from you before you could stop it.
Then your gaze shifted.
Theo crouched when she spoke, his attention completely zeroed in on her. When she stumbled, he steadied her without thinking. When she reached for him, he went instantly—lifting her with an ease that felt instinctive, like muscle memory he’d never known he had.
And something in your chest shifted.
Warm.
Tight.
Soft in a way you hadn’t expected.
He stole your breath.
You stared at him.
At the boy you’d never really noticed. The boy you’d fully expected to graduate without so much as a conversation between you. Someone who, before all of this, would’ve been nothing more than a footnote—if that—in the story of your life.
Not your ending.
And yet the realization hit you so suddenly you almost laughed.
Somewhere—somewhen—years from now, a version of you would love him enough to choose to have a child with this man.
And now?
You got it.
You got the vision your future self must have seen when she decided to lock him down.
You supposed it made sense that you’d never seen Theo like this before. He was just a boy—how could you possibly know whether a teenage boy would grow into someone steady? Someone safe. Someone capable of love that endured, of support that didn’t waver.
A man you could build a life with.
But watching him now—watching him lift Bianca again as she squealed, watching the way his hand stayed firm at her back—your stomach flipped.
Your brain short-circuited.
Your ovaries, traitors that they were, staged a full rebellion.
And for the first time, the future didn’t feel impossible.
It felt inevitable.
You stood abruptly and joined them, brushing grass from your skirt. “Alright,” You said, “My turn.”
You bent to lift Bianca—
“No!” She protested instantly.
She wriggled out of your arms with shocking strength for someone so small and darted straight back to Theo, wrapping herself around his leg like an anchor.
Your smile slipped. Just for a heartbeat.
“Oh—okay,” You said quickly, forcing it back into place, “That’s fine. Totally fine.”
You took a step back, suddenly unsure of where to put your hands, your weight, yourself. The breeze off the Black Lake felt colder now. You stared out at the water instead of them, swallowing the strange tightness in your chest.
Theo noticed.
He frowned, glancing between you and Bianca, then crouched so he was level with her. Gently, carefully, he loosened her grip just enough to look at her face.
“Perché non vuoi che mamma ti prenda?” He asked softly. (Why don’t you want mamma to pick you up?)
The word mamma hit you even before you processed it.
You turned away a little more, heart stuttering. You didn’t understand the rest of what he said, not really. You suddenly felt like you were standing on the edge of something sacred and private, like you’d wandered into a family photograph you didn’t belong in.
Bianca’s face scrunched up, serious in that way only children could be when they believed they were being very reasonable.
“Mamma è troppo malata per portarmi, papà,” She said firmly, “Lo sai.” (Mamma's too sick to take me, papa. You know that.)
Theo froze.
The world seemed to tilt, just slightly.
Theo’s eyes flicked to you slowly.
You tilted your head, not knowing how spines began to claw up his hands and feet, making him feel cold, "What's wrong?"
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
summary: Long-time best friends, it's not a surprise that it's you Steve comes to when he needs a fake girlfriend. One little white lie, one perilous family dinner, one evening of pretending to be a couple.
How hard could it be?
[ 12k + best friends to lovers + fake dating + fem!reader]
STEP ONE: THE PROPOSAL
"Be my girlfriend."
The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that just occurred.
You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"
Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that came from.
"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."
You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.
Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. You pick up and give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.
"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head. You make a face. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."
Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."
Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.
"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"
Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.
"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.
"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"
"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."
He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.
"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."
Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.
"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"
He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.
"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."
You take in his words. "But you're not."
"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.
"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."
You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."
Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."
His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.
"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."
You take a moment to think it over.
"When is it?"
"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."
"Dress code?"
"Formal. Duh."
"How many people?"
"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."
Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.
You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?
Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.
You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.
It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?
Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.
Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.
Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.
"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."
You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.
He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."
You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.
Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.
He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."
Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.
"You've got a deal, mister."
Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.
"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."
Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."
You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.
"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.
Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.
His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.
He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."
"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."
—
A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.
You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.
Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.
You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.
You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.
It would take an hour, tops.
A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.
"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.
Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"
You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.
"And just what are you trying to say?"
Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.
"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."
He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."
You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.
Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.
You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.
"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.
"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."
"Different?"
"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"
His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.
You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"
Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.
"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"
You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.
You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.
His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.
You could do that.
"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"
"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."
You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.
A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.
"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."
You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.
Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.
"Think this'll do?"
Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."
You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.
"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."
Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.
"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."
Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"
Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."
Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.
"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."
Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.
"And Brandon."
"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."
"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."
Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."
You blink, perturbed. "What?"
"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."
You cringe a little. He does have a point.
"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.
You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."
Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.
"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"
You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.
"Yeah," You say.
Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.
Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"
"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.
You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.
"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"
Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."
"You lost that game."
"I still scored!"
"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."
Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."
You laugh again, soft and light.
"Who asked who?"
"I asked you." Steve says.
You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.
What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.
Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.
That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?
You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.
You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.
For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.
"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"
"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."
He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.
"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.
Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"
Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."
Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!
Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"
Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.
"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.
"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"
STEP TWO: THE ACT
Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.
Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.
You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.
"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.
He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.
You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.
"We got together the 20th—"
"—of June, last year." You finish for him.
Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."
You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"
"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."
That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.
"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.
"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."
"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."
Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.
"Thanks." He murmurs.
He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.
What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.
You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"
Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.
"They definitely did."
There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.
Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.
"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.
The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."
"Steve."
"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."
"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.
"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.
"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."
"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.
You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.
"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.
Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.
You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."
Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"
"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.
Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.
Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.
"Ready?"
Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."
You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.
He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.
A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.
As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.
Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.
Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.
Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.
Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.
Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?
“Steven.”
The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.
You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.
“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”
He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.
“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”
You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.
“No, Mom, you didn’t.”
There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.
That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.
“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”
The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.
Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.
“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”
You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.
Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.
“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”
This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.
The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.
“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.
Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.
“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”
It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.
Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.
“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”
“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?
You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.
You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.
Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.
“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.
“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”
Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.
He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.
“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.
“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.
Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.
The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.
“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”
The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.
“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”
For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.
However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.
“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.
Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.
A new voice interrupts.
“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”
You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.
He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.
The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.
“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.
Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.
Then he does the same to you.
It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.
God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.
“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.
You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.
“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”
Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.
Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.
“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.
He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.
Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”
He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.
You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.
And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.
Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.
“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”
“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”
Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.
You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.
“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”
Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.
“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”
“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.
He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.
“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.
You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.
“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.
“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”
There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.
You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.
The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.
You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.
“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.
“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.
He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”
He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.
You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.
Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.
It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.
As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.
“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.
From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.
You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.
“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”
“You think?”
You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.
If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?
"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."
Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.
"Touchy?" He provides.
You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.
The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.
And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.
You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.
How different would it really be?
Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.
Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?
The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.
Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.
Just more. More of this.
Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.
"Hm?"
"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”
Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."
Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.
"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”
The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.
Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.
The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.
“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?
He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.
“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.
How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.
“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”
“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.
“Okay," You say. "Fair."
"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"
It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.
"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."
"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."
Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.
"What about you?"
Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."
"Too late."
“Yeah, well, obviously.”
There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.
“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.
He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”
“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”
Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.
Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”
“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”
You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.
“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.
You’ve met him thrice.
Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.
Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.
“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”
Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”
Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”
Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.
Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.
You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.
You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.
“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.
Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.
“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”
There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”
Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”
“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.
“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.
A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.
“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”
Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.
“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.
You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”
He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.
“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”
The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.
Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.
Does he really think all those things about you?
Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.
He turns back to his father’s business friends.
“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”
You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.
It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.
“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”
You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.
Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”
There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.
“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.
“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”
“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”
Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”
Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.
You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”
Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.
“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”
“Eh, what’s the big difference?”
“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”
He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.
“Steve? Leaving so soon?”
The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.
“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.
“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”
Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.
Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.
Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.
“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”
He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.
“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”
He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.
“It’s like- wait, no—”
Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.
“Is he paying you?”
You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.
Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.
“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”
He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.
STEP THREE: THE KISS
You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.
You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.
And… oh.
He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.
For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.
And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.
Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.
He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.
“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”
The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.
“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”
Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.
STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH
It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.
You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.
Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.
You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”
Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.
Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.
Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.
By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.
Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.
As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.
“I'm sorry, okay?"
Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.
"What?"
"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.
"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."
You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.
"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."
Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"
His particular wording isn't lost on you.
"But you are mad." You press.
"I'm not."
You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?
"You sound mad."
Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.
"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"
“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”
Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.
"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"
“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”
That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?
Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.
His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.
"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"
He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"
He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.
A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.
"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.
"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."
"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."
He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.
"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.
"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”
There's desperation in his final plea.
A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.
A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.
"Wha... You never said anything."
It comes out a little insulted.
Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"
"I didn't think I was your type!"
Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.
"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"
"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”
Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.
“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."
"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.
He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.
"And... now?"
Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.
"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"
It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.
"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"
Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.
"Would you... want that?"
"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.
Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.
But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.
And there it is; the true revelation.
"And I don't think I want to."
The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.
He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.
How the hell did you miss it?
"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"
What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.
"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.
Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.
But you want to try.
That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.
He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.
He pauses just before your lips can touch.
Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.
Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.
You're excited.
His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.
"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."
The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.
He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.
You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.
"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.
"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"
"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.
God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.
"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.
You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.
"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"
Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.
"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."
Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.
You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.
Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.
One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.
Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.
As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.
taggin some peeps below!
@illyrianbitch @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @spideystevie @djotime
just ppl that either expressed interest in the preview or i thought would enjoy! <3 i don't know what possessed me to pick this draft up and straight up like double the word count and finish it in one day but whew,,, i enjoyed that sm
summary : cedric diggory was the golden boy of hogwarts, his charming smile and soft gestures had every girl swooning. so what happens when mr perfect stumbles into a sweet and dazed beauxbaton girl?
a/n : this req was so cute thank you mootie selene !! cedric diggory best boy ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜
warnings : non !! fluffy fluff ♡(˃͈ ˂͈ ) reader being cheeky , french from google translate , cedric being flustered , quite long , cedric description isn’t accurate to the books— based of robert !!
dividers : @/giraisol
hogwarts was.. well, bizarre.
it was much smaller than your familiar beauxbaton castle but vastly more complicated.
the swirling staircases, talking portraits and suddenly appearing ghosts made you quite overwhelmed and flustered though you somehow managed to keep your graceful and calm composure—
you knew madame maxime would be proud.
it was also filled with hormonal teenage boys who were greatly swooned by your veela blood.
you realised beauxbaton academy sheltered you slightly, a school where boys weren’t affected by your ethereal glow grew to be a disadvantage.
the boyish grins, the flex of non-existent muscles and tripping over their own feet when all you did was smile at them.
and younger girls shooting you mean glares, or a polite curve of their lips that didn’t quite meet their squinting eyes made it practically impossible to make new friends.
to top off your cake of issues and sorrows, you were currently lost after trying to find your way to the assigned classroom that your headmistress would be teaching in.
“uhm.. excuse me monsieur!” you thick, french accent floated softly throughout the corridor, waving your hand to a somewhat friendly looking ghost.
you jumped “oh? what do we have here? little miss veela.. hah— you’re not that pretty!”
…huh?
the ghost was dressed in non-matching colours and strange patchwork shapes, his tongue stuck out at you which made his jester hat tilting to the side.
“hein? maintenant tu écoutes ici!” (“huh? now you listen here!”)
“oh! look at you!” he sung once more, “your french blows! blows harder tha—”
“peeves! that’s enough.”
“pssh’ whatever! cya’ later vulgar veela!” he skipped away but not before throwing a water balloon at a now crying second year.
a light hand rested on your shoulder, “I’m sorry about that dear..” a kind looking women smiled down at you.
“c'est bien madame..” (“it’s fine madam—”) you took notice of her politely confused face, “oh! uhm.. it okay?”
ah.. anglais stupide. (ah.. stupid english.)
she patted your shoulder once more, “you look lost dear? are you?”
“oui!”
she nodded, “mr diggory! mr diggory— over here please!” she waved a hand hurriedly at nearby group of happily chatting boys and girls.
as you turned you felt your shoulders relax slightly, he looked softer, softer and calmer than the other boys you had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting.
his hair were in seemingly perfect golden-brown curls and his eyes were partially covered but you could see a pretty, warm hazel peek between the silky locks. you felt your eyes trail down his face, his dimples were deep and his jaw was sharply defined, his lips were rested in a cozy smile which basked the colder corridor.
cedrics’ joyful steps faltered ever so slightly as your poised figure came onto light, he knew veelas where known for their beauty but you were something different.
your beauty almost swept him off his feet, though it was leaning towards winter the last of the summer glow shone softly on your face, etching all your harmonious features delicately. your lips which were pulled in together in a small smile were plump and pretty.
“er— yes, professor mcgonagall?”
why’d I stutter..
he pursed his lips, doing everything in his power to avoid your gleaming eyes staring a him with innocent wonder.
“yes! miss— ah..”
“(name), madame.” you placed your hands behind your back and curtsied politely.
cedric blew air out his nose which was now stinging a pretty pink, your french accent was extremely noticeable be couldn’t help but make note of the way your name rolled of your tongue was sultry smooth.
“right! miss (name) is lost and needs some assistance- now if you’ll excuse me— potter and malfoy are fighting… again.” she offered a tight-lipped smile before scurrying off, her large green cloak trailing behind her.
silence.
“so..ah- what room are you looking for?” he grinned at you helplessly, playing with his shirt cuff.
“j'ai besoin d'aide pour—” (“I need help with—”) you paused, placing a finger to your lips in thought. “sky.”
he stared at you with a blank face before laughing, “sky? you need to go to the.. sky?”
you sulked, groaning. “hm…” you curled your hand at put it above your eye while extending the other one further hoping he’d understand that you need to go to the astrometry tower.
“..pirate!”
your head limped downwards. “non!”
“star.. mo— moon.” you mumbled, your face slightly embarrassed.
it seemed a light bulb went off over cedrics head, “ah! astrometry tower?”
you nodded eagerly, grinning widely. “oui, oui!”
by now the corridor had cleared out and only you and cedric remained.
“your.. your na- name..” you muttered, staring at him.
he raised a brow, watching as you mouthed it to yourself quietly. “ce.. cedric?”
he gulped, your name slipped silky from your lips
“mhm..” he breathed.
“it very good name..” you paused, blinking up at him, “beau.” (“beautiful.”)
cedrics lips pursed into a goofy grin, “thanks.. your name is pretty too.”
he stepped to the side and held an arm out, “after you m’lady.”
you giggled and curtsied before stepping forward, the conversation towards the astrometry tower was light and filled with guessing words but never awkward.
“here, just through those doors.” he pointed forward.
“ah,” you nodded and adjusted your bag, “merci!”(“thank you!”)
“oh I know this!” he tapped his chin thoughtly, “vous êtes les bienvenus!” (“you’re welcome!”)
you giggled and stared walking, your heels clicking softly against the floor.
your turned to look back at him, “au revoir, cedric.” (“goodbye, cedric.”)
he grinned, cheeks flushed red. “er— au revoir.. (name).”
he watched as you politely waved and disappeared through the astrometry tower doors.
it seemed fate wanted you both to get closer over the following days.
the suprising and accidental shoulder bumps, him inviting you to sit at the hufflepuff table and how his eyes always found yours in the bustling hogwart corridors, there to guide you through the unruly chaos.
“you find me always cedric.”
“well, you’re not that difficult to spot.” he grinned
you bashfully smiled, “tu es charmant, c'est sûr!” (“you’re charmer, that’s for sure!”)
he quirked a thick brow upwards, “not sure what you said but I hope it’s good..”
“well, of course!”
he laughed before his lips turned upwards into a teasing smile, “was I dreaming or were you cheering for me during the dragon task?..”
you raised your brows, “non! you dreaming mr diggory.”
he let out a breathy laugh, “so— you hear about the ball?”
when you pulled a confused face he held out his arms and started spinning slowly, “dance?.. ball?”
“oh! oui— ball!”
you pursed your lips, “you’re dancing..” you held your books tighter to your chest, “not good.”
he flushed, “harsh..”
you shook your head, “no, non! honest!”
cedric felt a rush if boldness sweep over him, “well, you—” he pointed to you them himself, “teach me to dance?”
your eyes widened, your brows furrowed as you avoided eye-contact. “I would.. love that, oui..” a small smile making it’s way on your face.
the feeling he gave you was new to say the least, very foreign but comfortable. you were always told to never show boys your true side— the soft one, the real one and to mask it with a cold and confident exterior to prevent them from peering in too much and getting attached as it was only your veela aura they saw and wanted.
but cedric brought it out subconsciously, he didnt see you as a pretty procelain doll sitting idly by on a shelf he saw that you loved chocolate croissants and steaming, fresh coffee in the morning or how your favourite scent was vanilla or that you love the winter.
when he stared his eyes were humane and tender, you can’t remember the last time he commented on your looks other than the day you met— apart from pointing out the way the sun reflected ethereally on your eyes when you were eating breakfast with his friends at the hufflepuff table.
“great! meet me at the big tree? after lunch?” he grinned as you nodded eagerly.
“au revoir (name)!” you giggled at the french coated in a thick british accident.
“au revoir, cedric.”
the sky was painted in autumn reds and ambers, the sun shone through the small cracks of the crisp, delicate leaves and the sun rays glinted invitingly bright in the clear lake.
“un.. deux— trois!” (“one.. two— three!”) you slipped as he stepped on your foot once more.
“cedric!” you yelped, steading your grip on his shoulder.
“sorry!..” he grimaced, stepping backwards slightly.
you smiled, “you hopeless!” he rolled his eyes playfully.
he was silent for a second more, “hey— (name)?”
you looked up at him with wondrous eyes, “oui? is everything okay?”
he sighed heavily through his nose, “uhm..er—” he gulped as you maintained clueless eye contact.
“I was wondering..uh—“ he sucked in a large breath, his grip tightening on your waist.
“v- veux-tu aller au bal av.. avec moi?” (“w- will you go to the ball wi- with me?”) his broken french was flimsy and slight incoherent. but you understood.
his face was red and it seemed his normally confident personality was flushed away, his eyes were slightly lidded while his thick brows were pulled together as he stared down at you.
cedric stared at your wide-blown eyes, the way your lips parted in a soft inhale and how your blinking seemed to rapidly increase. he also took into account how pretty you looked— sweat trailed down the side of your head onto your cheek then neck, the curves of your collar bone and jaw were highlighted by the glow the evening sun omitted.
“..oui, I love to.. cedric.”
his lip grew into a boyish grin, dimples deep and happy. “than— au merci..”
the rest of the teaching was filled shy glances and light giggles, “so.. what colour are you gonna wear?”
“bleue!” (“blue!”)
it was late in the hogwarts castle, you stared at yourself in the mirror, watching as fleurs frame came into view behind you and placed both her hands gently on your bare shoulders, “tu es absolument magnifique.” (“you look absolutely stunning.”) she leaned down and kissed your cheek gently, smiling at you.
“au revior fleur..” you looked down up and down your reflection, “je me sens tellement nerveux..” (“I feel so nervous..”)
she handed you some smile pearl earrings, “ne le sois pas... il a de la chance de t'emmener, tu te souviens?” (“don’t be.. he’s lucky to take you remember?”)
you bashfully smiled, waving your arms. “ah!— arrêter!” (“ah!— stop!”) she giggled.
you told her to go on without you since you needed a few more minutes, the newly added earrings were cold as they swayed against your warm skin.
you breathed in and out, trying to calm the tingling nerves. “ok, allons-y.” (“okay, lets go.”)
the entrance to the great hall was filled with giggling girls and flushing boys, you adjusted your dress and peeked out the side of a large banister at the top of the large stairs case.
you eyes wandered and saw cedirc pacing back and fourth, he wore a simple black tuxedo and pale blue bowtie around his neck— his shoes were sleek and clean.
you smiled, staring at his nervous figure. you patted down non-existent creases and slowly made your way to the top of the stairs, staring down at the bustling students.
“she looks beautiful..”
“look at her eye shadow! it’s sparkling!” the hufflepuff raised a confused brow and followed the staring eyes.
cedric diggory could’ve been pronounced dead right then.
your dress was a pale blue like you had told him before, it was silky and pooled in rippes at the bottom of your feet each step you took was graceful and delicate, the shimmer of the christmas lights reflected divinely against your pale blue eyeshadow and simple white heels.
your hair was styled in a way that framed your face perfectly, cedric watched as it sway slightly from the cool breeze of the winter night from the open courtyard door.
you made your final step and cedric stepped forward, placing one hand on his stomach and one hand out to you— bowing at a full angle.
“ma dame.” (“my lady.”) he leaned his head back up which made his milky brown eyes go doe.
you smiled sweetly down at him, gently taking his hand and stepping beside him.
professor mcgonagall came into view, her emerald robes flowing behind her, “there you both are! I assume you’re both ready for the dance?”
you both nodded happily, “good make your way to the other champions please.”
cedric tightened his grip on your hand, “you look..”
his jaw clenched as he looked you up and down, his pace slowing down slightly. “enchanteresse..” (“enchanting..”)
you blinked in surprise, a warmth flowing through you. “cedric.. this word is very hard— how you learn this?”
“just learnt all the words I associate with you.”
you giggled, squeezing his hand. “you charmer.”
“always.” he grinned.
a few moments of waiting, the great hall doors swung open revealing an anticipating and rather enormous crowd of wide-eyed students.
the music started and clapping filled your ears as you all walked in, your arm curled comfortably in cedrics as you smiled at your friends.
the hall had enchanted snow falling from the ceiling and beautiful tables with food set out pleasantly, all the teachers clapping at the end of the hall dressed in expensive robes.
the music haulted promptly as you all found your way to the middle, “do you remember our lesson cedric?”
he scoffed, “of course— I’m a natural now!” you raised a brow and he flushed, looking to the side.
“hey.. don’t look at me like that.. I’m being serious.”
you nodded and placed your hand on his shoulder and a new elegant rhythm drummed in your ears.
cedric took the lead and led gracefully over the snow filled dance floor, he dropped your hand and placed both his sturdy hands on your waist— lifting you up with complete ease.
you giggled and clutches his shoulders.
“you are very strong!”
“only for the prettiest girl.” he winked and placed you back down, you rolled your eyes but the shy smile making its way on your cheeks betrayed you.
after more people joined in you and cedric had managed to slip outside, you were both currently sitting on a small bench in the courtyard with a large tree doing pathetic attempts at trying to shield you from the soft snow.
you held out your palm, “the snow.. very pretty, different from france.” you mumbled, watching as a small snowflake fell in your hand— melting instantly.
cedric hummed, “mhm.. pretty.” he had barely heard what you said due to the fact he was slightly preoccupied with your side profile, small specks of snow littered your lashes and hair and the soft light from the nearby parked carriage created a halo over you, your lips were still glossy and parted as a wisp of cold air escaped from you.
“cedric? you hear what I say?”
he blinked, thanking the cold weather for hiding his flushed nose. “ah— no, sorry! what did you say?”
“I say.. you get a-lot of snow in england?”
he shook his head, still dazed. “not really.. it’s kinda’ rare.”
you turned back to the view, “I see..”
cedric diggory never casted the winter snow a second thought or glance, but the way your eyes shining and sparkleing at the pretty fall of soft ice— he couldn’t help but wonder if there was a spell to make it snow all year round.
summary: In which you unknowingly become a rebound for the most desired boy in the year, that is until the truth comes to light.
A/N: Mainly just about the inner workings of Theo’s mind, pansy’s hair, and Draco abuse!
PT.1
Why the fuck are there neon strobe lights in the common room? I’m gonna kill Draco.
Theo winced and held his fingers to his temple. These death lights, coupled with his drink, meant he was definitely going to have a headache tomorrow. But it didn’t matter - he could have a migraine for all he cared, so long as you walked through that door and ran into his arms.
Too many bodies filled the centre of the room, and the noise was unbearable, so Theo did what he did best: became a wallflower, choosing Mattheo as his unlucky victim to come with him.
“Dreaming about your girl, are you?”
“She’s not my girl. Yet. I’ll ask in a respectful setting, with flowers and good music.”
“Respectful setting?” Mattheo rolled his eyes. “You’ve been hanging out too much with Tom.”
Theo chuckled at that. He tried to brush it off, but even Mattheo could see the truth written all over his face. He did like you - had done for longer than he’d ever admit, maybe even for as long as he could remember.
Three months ago was the first time Theo actually managed to speak to you. He’d tried other times, but you’d never noticed. Oh, like ten months ago, that one Tuesday in Charms, when he tried to whisper that you looked pretty - but the air went down the wrong pipe, and he ended up quietly choking instead. Or the time in first period when you sat opposite him, and he tried to use his eyebrows as some sort of form of communication, though you probably just thought he was judging your hairstyle. In all fairness, your alarm had gone off ten minutes before class started.
After that, he mastered the art of never looking at you when you faced his direction. He wouldn’t let you think he was a freak.
However, I somehow think Snape managed to feel the yearning coming off Theo’s body - at least, I think that’s what that little shiver was when he handed Theo a paper, who currently had his head in his hands, practically drooling as he watched you help your friend who was struggling in class. How altruistic.
All this to say, when Snape called out your name alongside his to be partners, Theo genuinely thought his heart might explode. He had to contain himself, though. He couldn’t seem like he’d wanted this since the first time he saw your face. No, he had to play it cool.
So he scanned the room, eyebrows drawn together in what looked like deep concentration, pretending he was searching for you. Please. He knew exactly where you sat - third row, fourth desk, in that ridiculously good lighting, right next to Cormac McLaggen. He swore that was the only downside to looking at you in class: having to see Cormac McLaggen.
Anyway… after pretending not to know who you were, his eyes finally circled back to you, and he gave it everything he had to seem cool. He raised his eyebrows and gave you a quick once-over, all nonchalant. So cool.
That lasted about three seconds before he heard the laughter of Blaise and Mattheo from across the room. His face went red, he dropped his head in shame, and went off to collect the equipment for your potion.
He was quick to come over with the ingredients you needed, doing his best to look calm and collected, even though his heart was hammering in his chest. He’d practised this in his head - the casual stroll, the polite smile, the steady breathing. Easy enough, in theory.
But when you looked up at him, every ounce of composure vanished. Merlin, that smile of yours could’ve knocked the sense out of anyone. Still, he managed one of his own - the kind that looked effortless, even if his ears were burning red.
“I’m Theodore Nott,” he said, extending his hand before he could overthink it. “But you can call me Theo.”
What was that? But you can call me Theo? Brilliant. Absolutely smooth, Nott.
You said your name in a tone far too pretty for a morning Potions class, and when your hand met his, he was certain the air had been sucked straight out of the room.
A quiet throat clear came from the front of the classroom. It wasn’t loud, but it carried enough weight to snap Theo’s head round. Snape’s expression was unreadable, though the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth might have been amusement or warning.
Theo quickly turned back to the table, pretending to inspect the ingredients like his life depended on it. The tips of his ears were still pink.
Theo hoped you didn’t think he was a player. It had only been a week since he and Astoria had decided their ruse should come to an end. Around a year ago, Astoria had started dating a Hufflepuff boy, Adrian. Hufflepuff: nice, dependable, sweethearts - what could go wrong? Everything. Not only had he cheated on Astoria within the first two months, he was also just an annoying git. He always looked a mess - buttons half done, tie always undone - he was failing at least three of his classes, and he didn’t understand what using indoor voices at the breakfast table on a Monday meant. Mattheo had to physically restrain Tom from grabbing his wand and hexing the boy, talking about how he ‘wouldn’t stand for this.’ Needless to say, Astoria had been done terribly.
And so, what better way to make the most insufferable human think you were totally over them than to date the best-looking boy in Hogwarts? They agreed not to tell a soul because Astoria found it too shameful and didn’t want her “house - cred” to be ruined, whatever that meant. And so, that’s how it started. Theo and Astoria would go on fake dates where they’d give updates on Adrian, and how his left eye would weirdly twitch whenever he saw them together. They’d hold hands, make out, feed each other disgustingly just to rub it in (only twice before Theo had to tap out) - the picture of love.
But all that came to an end when Astoria found herself having feelings for Cedric Diggory. Now, Theo had tried to warn her against this - two Hufflepuff men; he wasn’t liking this track record. But Cedric was a nice guy, and so they fake broke up so Astoria could make herself approachable.
Which, in hindsight, had worked out rather well for Theo. He couldn’t exactly fall for someone else while pretending to be taken, and if he was being honest with himself, he’d already been gone for you long before their little charade ended. Now he was finally single - and, more importantly, finally had an excuse to talk to you without looking like a prick.
Which takes us back to potions. Theo knew the lesson was coming to an end. He swore the only time he’d ever seen Snape show even the faintest hint of a smile was when class was nearly over and he knew everyone would soon be gone.
He couldn’t let this be a one-time interaction, so he did the best thing his brain could come up with in that moment - he invited you to the Slytherin party happening the following night.
Theo internally face-palmed. Oh my god, she’s going to think I’m the biggest man-whore ever. He was going crazy inside, which, on the outside, presented itself through his eyes wandering anywhere but yours. But when he heard you say to come to your dorm at ten, his fears flew straight out the window.
At 9:57, Theo was at your door. He thought it was timed perfectly. After instructing Draco and Enzo to decorate the common room perfectly for your arrival - no sign of uncleanliness in sight - he’d gone back to his room and put on his Sunday best: blue jeans, a black long-sleeved shirt, and his beat-up trainers. Perfect.
It was 9:50. He’d leave at 9:52. Take two minutes to do one final check of the common room and shout at the boys to ‘get it together,’ then three minutes to climb the spiral stairs (because the cigarettes were finally catching up to him), and another three to walk to your dorm.
Now, whether it was adrenaline or nerves that got him there faster, he didn’t know - but he was fairly grateful for it, as it gave him time to pick the perfect pose for when you opened the door.
He tried standing with his hands at his sides, but he looked a bit like Tom - and he wasn’t sure that was a good thing. Then he tried resting one palm on the door, but that just made him look vaguely threatening. All this internal debating meant that when he finally glanced at his watch and saw 10:00, panic hit. He hadn’t picked a pose.
Without thinking, he immediately knocked. His heart raced as he heard footsteps approaching. All he could think to do was lean against the doorframe and say, “You ready, love?”
Thank Merlin you hadn’t looked down - because if you had, you’d have seen that his legs were crossed. Your friend, however, did notice, which was precisely why Theo let you leave the room first before closing the door behind you, throwing a glare in your friend’s direction as he did.
The walk to the Slytherin common room had Theo’s heart racing. He didn’t want to give a bad impression, not when this was the first time he’d see you outside an academic setting. As soon as he opened the door, he saw an empty cup rolling across the floor - one he almost tripped on. He was gonna KILL Draco.
But after a shot together, you joined the rest of Theo’s friends. One thing he hadn’t known about you, and this was crazy considering he knew practically everything about you, was that you were friends with Pansy. He thought he could work with that. Then he remembered how Pansy had had it out for him ever since he’d said she had a war veteran’s bowl cut. She was never going to help him.
Whilst the two of you spoke, Theo took the chance to check on Astoria. She’d told him she was bringing Cedric to the party, and he wanted to see whether she’d managed to break the Hufflepuff curse. When his eyes found them in the crowd, the two of them giggling together in the corner, he couldn’t help but smile softly to himself before turning back to the group, just in case anyone noticed.
Initially, the rest of the boys stayed quiet - partly to avoid intimidating you, and partly because they didn’t really know you. But one menacing look from Theo and suddenly they were the loudest people in the room, doing everything they could to make you laugh. He watched the tension in your shoulders melt away, and you seemed genuinely relaxed. Draco, sensing he was on the thinnest ice, was trying his hardest - bless him - though it earned him a few warning looks from Mattheo and the rest. He was one over-eager grin away from scaring you.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of noise, warmth, and firewhisky. Theo could hardly remember what songs played or who’d been shouting in his ear - all he could remember was you. The way you laughed when Mattheo said something stupid, the way you leaned into him when the room got too loud.
He’d meant to play it cool. Keep his distance. But then you’d reached out your hand and pulled him towards the dance floor.
Merlin, he’d never been good at dancing, not unless you counted swaying awkwardly at the Yule Ball, but when your back pressed against his chest, all sense left him. His hands found your hips before he could think, and suddenly, it was like the rest of the world had fallen away. The bass thudded through the floor, the lights flashed soft and green against your hair, and he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything except how close you were.
He hadn’t meant to bury his face in the crook of your neck. It just happened - gravity, impulse, need. You smelled like vanilla and a bit of smoke from the candles, and he was gone. Completely gone.
Later, he walked you back to your dorm, trying to memorise every second before it slipped away. The castle was quiet, the corridor empty but for the soft sound of your footsteps beside his. When you turned to face him at your door, smiling the way you did, all light and promise, he kissed you. Just once. Gentle. Careful.
And when you disappeared inside, he stood there for a moment longer, staring at the wood grain of your door, grinning like an idiot. Then, finally, he turned away, his chest still aching with something that felt a lot like hope.
Theo had spent all of Sunday replaying the night in his head. Every laugh, every glance, every time your hand brushed against his. It was embarrassing, really, how much space you’d managed to take up in his mind after one night. But he couldn’t help it. He was smitten, and everyone knew it. Mattheo especially, considering he’d slapped Theo awake that morning because the idiot was smiling in his sleep.
But now came the hard part: figuring out if you felt the same. He’d gone over it a hundred times; what to say, where to say it, what expression didn’t make him look like he was about to faint. He wanted to ask you properly, somewhere calm and private, not in the middle of a corridor surrounded by first-years. But the universe had other plans.
As he turned the corner that Monday morning, there you were walking down the hallway, sunlight spilling across your shoulders like the bloody universe had painted the moment just to taunt him. His chest tightened. Not now, this wasn’t respectful he thought, but his feet were already moving.
“Hey!” he called before his brain could stop him.
And when you turned; eyes wide, voice soft as you said his name, he thought for a moment that he might actually throw up. Every carefully rehearsed line went out the window.
He heard himself talking, something about having a great time, wanting to get to know you better, and even as the words left his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. Too much. Too soon. He could feel his pulse pounding in his throat, and when you didn’t answer straight away, panic flooded in.
Merlin, what have you done?
He’d already started to apologise, to retreat into that safe shell of nonchalance, when you suddenly stepped forward. “I would love to get to know you more,” you said, and he could hear the sincerity in your voice.
And just like that, the tension in his chest vanished. His smile broke before he could stop it, genuine and unguarded. For once, he didn’t care who saw.
As you both began walking to class together, he caught himself glancing sideways at you, a little disbelieving, a little dazed. Maybe it was foolish, maybe he was getting in too deep already, but for the first time in a long while, Theo Nott felt like something good might actually be meant for him.
Theo wasn’t a sentimental man - everybody knew that. But nothing made him happier than a good cup of coffee. It was his lifeline. So when he discovered Charmed Coffee a year ago, it was as if the Slytherin gods had smiled down on him fifty times over. It became his safe haven, the one place where he could be himself - that was, until he saw you walk in one day.
On one hand, he was thrilled that the love of his life had impeccable taste. On the other hand, it meant he’d now have to treat every coffee pick-up like a fashion show. Which was a problem, considering he drank the stuff every day without fail. So much so that he’d study there on weekends from nine to four, totally not as an excuse to down five cups of coffee.
When he and Astoria began their fake dating arrangement, he’d suggested his little underground shop - Charmed Coffee - as their meeting spot. Every Sunday, 2:30 to 3:45. Convenient, as he was already going to be there. He quickly realised it wasn’t quite so underground when he saw Pansy walk in and order like a regular. He might’ve gone unnoticed if he hadn’t snickered at her hair, earning himself a satisfying slap to the back of the head.
When he started taking you on dates, Theo thought there was no better place than Charmed Coffee (he really likes saying the name!). You liked it - it was quiet, peaceful - and while he couldn’t really call it underground anymore, he settled for urban. Plus, he hated breaking routines, so this was perfect.
But every time 3:45 came around, Theo felt that familiar heaviness in his chest. He didn’t want to end the dates with you. So he began a new little ritual: he’d sigh, glance at the door, then at you, then back to the door, and finally to the ground - hoping you’d ask to stay longer. You never did. Maybe next week he’d have to add scratching his head into the routine…
After hearing about your sleepover with his arch-nemesis (after Draco, of course), Theo decided to avoid your dorm entirely on Friday. He’d see you at breakfast, then later at the Slytherin party - that was enough. Or so he told himself.
But you were a no-show at breakfast.
Oh well, maybe you weren’t hungry.
Pansy was sitting across from him at the table, but she wouldn’t even meet his eye. Normally, she’d have had some snide remark locked and loaded, but this morning she was unusually quiet, like she was deliberately avoiding him. It was… odd. Then again, he hadn’t seen you all day either. Maybe you were pampering yourself before the party, having a full spa day to get ready. Theo convinced himself that must’ve been it. You deserved to relax, and he wouldn’t bother you.
Which brings us to now.
Theo was still with Mattheo, holding him hostage by the drinks table, both of them half-heartedly judging other people’s dancing while Theo’s eyes darted constantly towards the door. Every few minutes, someone new would come in. Never you.
Then he saw her.
Astoria.
And she was dancing - with Adrian.
Theo’s stomach turned. Why was she dancing with Adrian? After everything that idiot had put her through? He’d sworn she was done with him for good. He knew he couldn’t react, he’d promised Astoria he’d keep her secret, but anger flared all the same, hot and sharp in his chest. His grip on his cup tightened until it cracked, the drink spilling over his hand.
“Hello!” Mattheo let out a high - pitched yelp, jumping back. “You just poured your disgusting drink on me. Seriously, who drinks coffee at a party?”
Theo blinked, snapped out of it. He hadn’t even realised it was coffee. Charmed Coffee.
Mattheo stormed off, giving him a pat goodbye on his shoulder before muttering curses under his breath, and Theo just rolled his eyes.
He didn’t have time to think before Draco appeared beside him, out of breath and looking vaguely alarmed.
“Hey, uh - I just saw your date come into the party and then leave again. I think she was crying.”
Theo froze.
“What? Why?”
Draco shrugged, completely unhelpful. “Dunno, mate. Maybe she saw your face and -”
Theo was already walking away. “Did you smile at her again, Draco? You know your smile’s off-putting!”
Draco stood there blinking, confusion and faint insecurity washing over him as Theo pushed through the crowd and out into the corridor. His heart was racing, a dull panic beginning to rise.
He didn’t know what had happened, what had made you cry, but he was going to find out.
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