SUMMARY : you hate your obsessive husband, he doesn’t take it so well.
A/N :: didn’t wanna write this tonight but felt bad, hope yall enjoy
“I know—I know I’m selfish, Principessa..” Theodore trails off, fingers curling at your sides, inching tighter as his frantic eyes chase your gaze. “I want you all to myself.” He states, attempting to bring you closer to him.
The distance was there, your marriage was arranged, purely by the idea that you two were pure-bloods and would make the family line stronger. Despite the fact that you were clearly too young, still in school. It was bullshit, you never wanted this— him.
Theodore Nott was witted, a charismatic energy many felt drawn to; your parents were no different.
They had deemed Theodore a positive influence, dismissing the fact that he was close friends with Draco Malfoy, a Death Eater, hence Theo’s usual stark demeanour and no matter what you did, it was impossible to prove so.
However, Theo followed behind you everywhere like a puppy. Deep blue eyes always searching for an ounce of care that could at least soothe his spilling heart. Yet you never showed any regard, making sure he never fell into the idea that you loved him back.
Your hands clench into fists, teeth grinding against each other, he was a distraction. A distraction from assignments, duties, and priorities which he certainly wasn’t included in. “Vulnerability is a weakness, you disgust me.” You bite back, pulling yourself away.
His expression darkens, the familiar twinkle in his determination fading away instantaneously. Fingers fiddling with the keys in his pocket, anything to not yell out of anger.
“This isn’t vulnerability, you are my wife. I don’t want to see you hanging around other men, especially Harry Potter.” He states firmly, biting the insides of his cheeks shortly afterwards. His patience was crippling by the minute.
There it was, the man you knew was hiding beneath ‘sweet gentle Theodore Nott’. He was obsessed, unhealthily some may suggest. Most would if they saw him like this.
You cross your arms, scoffing at the change in his attitude towards you. A ‘brilliant’ husband he was. The bloody man couldn’t even keep his act up for more than a mere minute.
Theodore moves in, closing the gap between you once more, now cradling your face with such fondness it would fool any outsider looking in.
Your eyes widen for a moment, surprised at his confidence. The composure he’s been able to keep. “Careful, Nott.” You mumble, backing up against the wall.
He smirks in return, the twinkle suddenly appearing once more. “You won’t be able to resist for long, I look forward to that.” He utters back courageously, anticipation pumping through his veins.
Before you can think of a response, his lips crash onto yours, sucking your bottom in a hurried mess, biting occasionally like a miniature punishment. His tongue twirls with yours, head moving in as close as he possibly can, one hand still cupping your cheek and the other at the back of your waist.
As much as you try to deny and push, you melt into the kiss. Whimpering softly at the sudden contact. You were human at the end of the day, you still despised him, but this felt too good to pass.
After a few seconds, he breaks away, panting heavily as his hand makes its way back to your face, rubbing around the mole on your lower cheek. You were so beautiful, it didn’t matter you weren’t as obsessed as he was because he still has you.
“This doesn’t mean anything, you’re still bothersome to me.” You exclaim, brows furrowing into a tight line. Immediately pushing him hard, as far as you can away from you.
The original grin still remains on Theodore’s face, perhaps wider. The triumph he was celebrating was loud enough for you to notice yet silent enough for you not to hear. “As you say, tesoro.” He whispers, winking before leaving your dorm.
sypnosis: two different personalities falling in love. so in love that it consumes you.
warning: not proofread. lowercase writing. definitely ooc.
i tried to make this angst but i figured the album's already devastating. i hope you see what i did here with lorenzo and an OR song
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your red ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀
attention came naturally to lorenzo berkshire. the entire school is drawn to his optimism, his confidence, and the way he manages to make friends with anybody. originally, you thought that maybe it was too good to be true. until you saw him in his element: music and quidditch.
he was passionate. and he was very talented
the first time you saw it was at a quidditch game. lorenzo soars into the air, a huge grin on his face as he shoots the quaffle into the goal the tweny-fourth time since this game started. he played like someone who loved the game more than he loved to win. each swerve and dive was reckless, the type only he could have the confidence to do. some girls behind you swoon as lorenzo effortlessly passes the quaffle to theodore, swiftly dodging the gryffindor's bludger.
you were in awe. you barely even understood who won, you assumed it was slytherin by the way the gryffindors next to you looked. staring at him, hyperfocused, you noticed the way he settles onto the grounds. he smiles, giving high fives to the younger years in their team. his warmth was contagious
the next time you witnessed lorenzo Berkshire in his element was at a party in the slytherin common rooms, one where pansy parkinson had to convince you to come. parties are not exactly your scene, telling her "i'd rather be in bed, pans." but pansy always finds a way. and you're grateful she did.
because by the time you joined the party, lorenzo is on the makeshift stage in the middle of the room with three other people. his electric guitar resting on the top of his hip, attached around his body with a thick strap. toying with the strings of the guitar, his face focused with his teeth chewing on his lower lip. you barely even payed attention to the rest of the band.
lorenzo never stood in the center of the room, yet he drew the attention effortlessly. his fingers moves with ease that made it look seamless. his head is dipped whenever he smiled to himself, the tune of his guitar supporting the lead guitar's solo. the way his curls fall into his face, shaking them away without missing a beat. he looks up, smiling widely at the crowd of slytherin, ravenclaw, and hufflepuff students dancing and jumping to the beat.
lorenzo grins, laughing when mattheo, theodore, and blaise cheer him on from the other corner of the room. the sound is bright enough to slip through the music, it was impossible to look away and you were falling before you know it.
my blue 𓂃⋆.˚
the last few days of fall was your favorite part of the year. before the school gets covered in a blanket of snow, you took every chance you got to study or read by the black lake. what you were unaware of, was that lorenzo had started to take notice of you, too.
he flies forward on his quidditch broom, his hair slick with sweat as he completes his quidditch drills with the rest of the group. lorenzo looks around, taking a breather mid-air, when he sees her. he sees her from a far, scarf all the way up to her cheeks as she flips through a book he couldn't decipher from above. lorenzo's interest is piqued, the rest of the practice he couldn't help but focus on you in his peripheral vision.
since that day, he noticed you in that position every practice. lorenzo berkshire was charming. the attention came with a reputation, and talking to you was what stumped him. it took him a total of three weeks and four days before he could muster up the courage to talk to you.
"hey! y/n, right?" he asks, catching up to you on your way to class, a bashful smile on his face. "i see you from practice sometimes, studying by the black lake."
you looked at him, stunned. you had barely registered the fact he was talking to you because, well, he was talking to you. "hello, yes... do you need something?" you spoke, confused. why was he talking to you? you two were like on different sides of the same universe.
he smiles wider, even, you were so sure yoh were making a fool of yourself. "i've been meaning to introduce myself. and say hello." he adds, letting out a small huff of laughter.
you barely even realized you were returning a smile back. "everyone knows who you are, lorenzo." you said and his neck turns red. he shook his head and smiles. "i.. guess you're right. but i still wanted to introduce myself... and maybe get to know you?"
you could've sworn you were dreaming.
𑣲purple
you couldn't tell when it happened. or how it happened. you and lorenzo fell in love with no warnings. he had been promoted to captain of his team two years later, on your last year at hogwarts. dating him was simple. easy. it felt almost like breathing.
dating him was sitting on the stands during quidditch practice, waiting for him to finish practice, just to walk together to your dorm. it meant sitting through every rehearsal, trying your best to study with music in the room.
"i have to study, baby." you pouted softly at his attempt to pursuade you to stay the night at his dorm. his hands resting on your hips, yours around his neck. he groans, dramatically, and shakes his head.
"then let me come with you." he pleads. "i missed you."
"i missed you too, but i can't focus with you in the room." you chuckle softly, shaking your head. "we'll see each other tomorrow." and lorenzo scoffs at that, hating that he'd have to wait twelve more hours to see you.
it happened before you even knew. the quidditch pitch became a regular for you, you don't remember when it started, but it quickly became a part of your weekends. they were loud, crowded, and incredibly chaotic. but lorenzo played amazingly. and he loved how you waited for him after the game. the afternoons you've spent with his band's rehearsals, watching him play and waiting for him to finish up. the lines blurred into a circle.
you don't remember the last time you went to the black lake alone, two spots instead of one occupied the willow tree nearest to the edge of the lake. the library table by the south entrance you love for its quietness became a table for two, you saved a seat for him even without realizing it.
his world became yours, and yours became his.
lorenzo smiles, his arms snaking around your waist from behind as he settles his head on your shoulder. you could feel his breath on your neck when he asks, "how's my girl?"
it was two in the morning after one of his rehearsals, you smiled tiredly, shaking your head. "sleepy."
grinning, he peppered kisses on your neck gently, squeezing you. "m'sorry practice ran late." you hum, nodding.
"i liked the book you recommended me. it's very you." he hums into your ear quietly.
"hm? when?"
"the other night."
you smiled, surprised he even found the time. for something you enjoyed.
your lives intertwined, finding each other again and again, until two lines stopped looking so separate.
ㆍ S.B x Arranged Marriage! Reader
ㆍ Angst // SLOW BURN // one sided relationship // happy ending!
ㆍAn arranged marriage kept them under the same roof, but years of quiet indifference left them strangers in their own home. When Sirius finally shows a new, unexpected vulnerability, Y/N must decide whether to trust him—or let the distance between them become permanent.
ㆍ8.3k
ㆍRequest: ashdreams2023
ㆍTaglist: @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush @pottermagiczz
ㆍA/N: i apologize for how long this took but i absolutely loved this angsty little piece <3
Much love, Saige
[masterlist]
The Black family had always been bound by blood, but Sirius Black had long since learned that blood was a chain, not a comfort.
He had escaped its pull once — stormed out of Grimmauld Place at sixteen, slammed the door behind him, and sworn never to return. But the irony of fate, as it often did, found its way back to him years later in the form of a signature on parchment.
An arranged marriage.
A peace offering.
A way, his mother’s letter had said, to “restore the Black family’s dignity.”
He’d laughed when he first read it; a dry, humorless sound that didn’t reach his eyes. He had no reason to humor her, no reason to involve himself with the ghosts of his lineage. But the war was ending, the Order was quieter now, and his defiance had dulled with exhaustion. Somewhere between the funerals and the rebuilding, he had stopped fighting everything on sight.
So when the proposal came, a match arranged years ago by family tradition, meant to bind the Black name to another “respectable” pure-blood house, Sirius didn’t tear it up. He didn’t even scoff.
He simply signed.
And that’s how he met you.
You weren’t cruel. You weren’t vain. You weren’t anything the Blacks had been known for. That, perhaps, was the problem. You were polite, careful, quiet — an echo in a house that had once been full of shouting.
The wedding was small, the kind that left more whispers than memories. Sirius had shown up late, smelling faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. You’d worn a soft gray gown that your mother said was “understated but elegant.”
He hadn’t said you looked beautiful.
He hadn’t said anything at all.
Now, months later, Grimmauld Place was too big for two people who barely spoke.
You slept in the same bed. You ate the same dinners. You smiled at the same guests who came to call — old friends, new acquaintances, members of the Order who congratulated you both with a knowing grin. You called him husband in public, the word tasting foreign every time. He called you wife with that easy charm of his, voice smooth enough to make anyone believe he meant it.
But behind closed doors, it was different.
There were nights he reached for you, only because it was expected — because you were his wife, and he was your husband, and that was what married people did. His hands were always gentle, his kisses practiced. But they were never for you. They were obligations wrapped in warmth. When he turned away afterward, falling asleep without a word, you lay awake staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.
It wasn’t hatred that lingered between you. It was something worse — indifference.
He treated you kindly, almost too kindly, as though afraid to bruise a fragile thing. He asked about your day, but not because he wanted to know. He complimented your dress at dinner parties, but only when someone else might overhear. He never yelled. He never scowled. He never cared enough to.
And yet, somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to despise him.
Because sometimes, in the smallest, most fleeting moments.. you caught glimpses of the man beneath the distance. The way his voice softened when he spoke of James. The quiet grief in his eyes when he thought no one noticed. The way he always made sure you walked on the inside of the pavement when you went out together, as if protecting you was a reflex he couldn’t suppress.
Those tiny fragments of tenderness were enough to keep hope alive — a cruel, fragile thing that refused to die.
You had been married six months when the silence began to feel heavier than the walls around you. You tried to fill it; with books, with chores, with conversation. You’d talk about the garden you wanted to plant, or the stray cat that came to the window sometimes. Sirius would nod, half-listening, and then disappear into his study.
He was always disappearing.
Sometimes, you’d hear the low murmur of his voice from that room — old friends, most likely. Sometimes Remus, sometimes Order business. You never asked. You weren’t sure if it was your place.
You had stopped expecting warmth. You simply learned to exist in the spaces between his life and yours.
Until one evening, something shifted; not enough to change anything, but enough to make you notice.
It was late, the fire low and the house quiet. Sirius came in from the cold, shaking snow from his hair, his shoulders dusted with frost. You were reading by the hearth, blanket wrapped around your legs, when he paused at the doorway. For a brief moment, he just looked at you — as if seeing you properly for the first time. The flicker of recognition in his gray eyes startled you.
“You’re still up,” he said, voice rough from the cold.
You nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He hesitated, then moved closer to the fire. You watched the light play across his features — the tired eyes, the faint scar along his jaw, the weight he carried like a shadow. He smelled faintly of smoke and winter.
For once, the silence didn’t feel entirely unbearable.
“You should rest,” he murmured after a while. “It’s late.”
“So should you,” you replied quietly.
He almost smiled. Almost.
And then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He turned away, retreating toward the stairs.
“Goodnight, wife,” he said, not looking back.
You closed your book, heart aching at how easily the word wife could sound so empty.
“Goodnight, husband,” you whispered into the quiet.
And though he didn’t hear you, you wished — more than anything — that he had.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You began to take notice of some little things first.
The way Sirius preferred his tea — black, no sugar. The way he leaned back in his chair when he read, one ankle crossed over his knee. The music he sometimes played in the study, low and scratchy, old records of Muggle rock bands he must’ve picked up in his wilder years.
You didn’t know when exactly you started trying to please him.
Maybe it was the silence, heavy and constant, pressing against your ribs. Maybe it was the small ache that came from watching him laugh at something Remus said, a laugh that never seemed to belong to you.
So, you started small.
You brewed his tea the way he liked it — dark, strong. When you brought it to his study, he barely glanced up from his parchment. “Thanks,” he muttered absently, taking the cup without looking at you.
He didn’t notice the way you’d taken the time to warm the mug beforehand.
Next came dinner. You asked Kreacher to prepare things Sirius liked — roast chicken, potatoes, buttery rolls, dishes that made him nostalgic for the meals at the Potters’ home, before everything went wrong.
When you called him to the table, he was late. You waited, watching the food cool until finally his footsteps echoed down the hall.
“This looks good,” he said with a faint smile, taking his seat. You smiled back, foolishly relieved. But halfway through the meal, you realized he wasn’t really tasting it. He was just… eating. Like it was habit, like you could’ve served anything and he wouldn’t have noticed the difference.
Still, you tried again.
You found a record he might like — one of those old Muggle albums with a guitar riff he always hummed under his breath. One evening, while he sat by the fire with a book, you put it on quietly.
His head lifted a little, gray eyes flicking to you, something almost surprised in them.
“This is… good,” he said softly.
You smiled, heart thudding. “I thought you’d like it.”
He nodded, the faintest curve of his mouth there for only a second. And then he went back to reading.
The record spun on, filling the empty house with the sound of something that used to mean freedom. You sat nearby, pretending to read too, though your eyes stayed on him instead. Watching the way his thumb traced the edge of the page, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he seemed entirely untouched by the effort you’d made.
You weren’t expecting gratitude. You weren’t even expecting affection. You just wanted something — a flicker of interest, a trace of awareness that you were trying to reach him. But he stayed the same, polite and distant.
It was almost worse than anger.
A few nights later, you wore something new. A soft dress in a color he’d once mentioned liking, a passing remark months ago that had somehow stayed with you. You joined him for dinner again, nerves making your hands shake slightly as you poured the wine.
He didn’t seem to notice.
His eyes skimmed over you with the same detached politeness he offered anyone else. He asked how your day had been. You told him about the book you were reading. He nodded. That was all.
The next morning, you woke before him. He was lying on his side, turned away, hair messy against the pillow. The light from the window traced the line of his back beneath the sheets. You stared for a long moment, wondering what it might be like to reach out — to touch him just because you wanted to, not because it was expected.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you slipped quietly out of bed, dressing in silence, pretending that the ache in your chest wasn’t growing heavier by the day.
Later that week, you overheard him talking to Remus in the study. You hadn’t meant to listen, you were passing by, tray in hand, but his voice caught your attention.
“She’s been… different lately,” Sirius said, tone uncertain. “Doing things I like. Playing old records. Cooking things I used to eat with James.”
Remus’s voice was low, thoughtful. “She’s trying, Sirius.”
“I don’t know why,” Sirius admitted after a pause. “We both know what this is. I didn’t ask for—” He stopped, exhaling. “She deserves someone who looks at her properly. I can’t force that.”
Your heart sank before he even finished. You moved away before you could hear Remus’s reply, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.
That night, you said nothing at dinner. Neither did he.
When he reached across the table to refill your glass, his hand brushed yours by accident. He looked up, startled — and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his expression, something softer than pity, something almost human.
But then it was gone. He drew back, clearing his throat. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said.
“I’m just tired,” you answered, forcing a small smile.
He nodded, as if that explained everything.
Later, when you lay beside him in the dark, listening to the faint sound of his breathing, you wondered if he’d ever notice you for more than the space you occupied — if there was ever going to be a day when being his wife didn’t feel like pretending to be someone else’s ghost.
And though you didn’t mean to, you whispered it into the night anyway.
“I wish you’d see me.”
He didn’t stir.
But in his sleep, Sirius shifted just slightly closer, his hand brushing yours beneath the sheets — unaware, unintentional, but enough to make your eyes sting all over again.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
For the first time in months, Sirius noticed you. Maybe it was because of the humility Remus gave him in conversation that night, or the small whispers of prayer from you that slipped into his mind as he slept beside you.
But he didn't see you properly, not the way a man notices a woman he’s in love with — but in fleeting, unguarded moments that slipped past his defenses before he could reason them away.
It started in the mornings.
He’d come downstairs to find you already awake, hair pinned back neatly, sunlight falling across your face as you poured tea. You’d glance up when you heard him, offering that same quiet smile — the one he’d always taken for politeness. But lately, he realized, it wasn’t polite at all. It was gentle. Earnest. Real.
He didn’t know when he’d stopped believing sincerity could exist in his world.
“Good morning,” you said one day, voice soft.
“Morning,” he replied automatically, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitated before taking his cup. “You’re up early.”
“I wanted to watch the sunrise,” you said. “It’s clear today.”
He nodded, pretending he didn’t notice how peaceful you looked in that light, like you belonged to something he could never quite touch. He turned away before it could mean anything.
But it did.
He caught himself watching you sometimes. At dinner. In the garden. When you passed him a dish and your fingers brushed. There was no reason for it — no desire, no spark he could name. Just a strange, quiet awareness that had begun to unsettle him.
He’d been trying not to think about what Remus had said the other day.
“She’s trying, Sirius.”
He hadn’t meant to sound cold, but he knew he had. He hadn’t wanted a wife. He hadn’t wanted this. But now that he had it — now that you were here, so careful, so patient — something in him began to shift.
It made him uncomfortable.
Guilt had a way of doing that.
He started noticing details he’d missed before.
How you always tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were nervous. How you hummed softly while reading. How you looked up when he entered a room, like you were waiting for something — even if you didn’t expect it to come.
You never asked for more. Never demanded affection. You simply existed quietly beside him, filling the house with the sound of someone who was trying not to disturb.
He caught himself wondering what it would take to make you smile, really smile. Not the one you gave for the sake of peace, but something that reached your eyes. And then he’d curse himself for caring, because he wasn’t supposed to.
Not like that.
One evening, he came home earlier than usual. You were sitting on the floor by the fireplace, legs folded beneath you, an open book in your lap. You looked up, startled, when you saw him.
“Oh,” you said, standing too quickly. “You’re home early.”
He gave a small shrug, shedding his coat. “Thought I’d give Kreacher the night off from cursing me.”
You smiled faintly. “He does seem to enjoy that.”
For the first time, Sirius chuckled — a real, genuine sound. You blinked, as though you hadn’t heard it before. Maybe you hadn’t.
He moved closer, leaning against the mantel. “What are you reading?”
You showed him the cover. “Something Muggle. A novel about second chances.”
He tilted his head. “Do they get one?”
“I’m not sure yet.” You looked down, tracing the page. “But I hope they do.”
Something about that, the quiet longing in your tone, stuck with him. He nodded slowly, eyes lingering on you longer than they should have.
You turned back to your book, pretending not to notice.
The next day, he found himself in Diagon Alley without a plan. He’d meant to pick up parchment and ink. Somehow, he ended up in a small shop that sold both Muggle and wizarding books. He wasn’t sure why he was there, but when he saw a display of novels near the window, his hand moved before his mind caught up.
He bought one. A simple paperback — something about a woman who wanted to be seen.
That night, he left it on the armchair beside your favorite reading spot. He didn’t say a word. You didn’t mention it either, but the next morning, he noticed the book was gone — and a small vase of fresh flowers sat on his desk in return.
Neither of you acknowledged the exchange. You didn’t need to. It was the first unspoken language you’d shared since your wedding day.
After that, things changed in subtle ways.
Sirius lingered at breakfast a little longer. You waited up for him a little later. Conversations stretched a bit past formality. Once, his hand brushed yours as he handed you a cup, and instead of pulling away, he let the contact linger — a second too long, not enough to be called affection, but enough to make you look up.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to your breathing beside him. He thought about your whisper from nights before — the one he’d half-heard in the dark, soft and almost broken.
I wish you’d see me.
He hadn’t meant to hear it. He’d been half-asleep, mind adrift. But he’d heard it, and it stayed with him.
He turned slightly, looking at you in the faint moonlight. Your back was to him, shoulders rising and falling in steady rhythm. You looked peaceful. He wondered if you ever dreamt of something better. Someone better.
He reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your face.
You stirred slightly but didn’t wake.
“Maybe I do see you,” he whispered.
It wasn’t quite true yet, but it was closer than yesterday.
He lay back, eyes open in the dark, wondering what it meant that he finally cared.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The first thing you noticed was how quiet you’d become.
Not the ordinary kind of quiet that had defined your marriage since the beginning — the polite, companionable silence of two people pretending they were fine. No, this was different. This was the sort of quiet that pressed down like a fog, heavy and endless, swallowing the edges of every word you tried to say.
It wasn’t that you’d stopped trying overnight. It was more like the effort had finally worn you thin.
There had been hope, once. Little, foolish hope — fragile as spun glass. You’d let it grow in secret, fed by small gestures and half-seconds of warmth. The book he left for you, the soft look in his eyes that night by the fire, the way he said good morning with something almost tender behind it. You had clung to those moments like a lifeline.
But days turned into weeks, and the small warmth faded back into routine. He was kind, yes. Always kind. He would hold the door for you, ask after your day, pour you wine at dinner. But kindness wasn’t closeness. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t seeing you.
And maybe, you thought one evening as you brushed your hair in the mirror, maybe it never would be.
You stared at your reflection — the strands falling neatly around your shoulders, the gown you’d chosen carefully because you knew he liked the color blue. You looked… fine. Ordinary. Unremarkable. You wondered if that was what he saw when he looked at you — something decent, polite, unmemorable.
The sound of the front door opening echoed faintly through the hall. Sirius was home.
You straightened instinctively, brushing invisible wrinkles from your dress. It was pathetic, this reflex, the way your body still wanted to impress him, even when your heart knew better.
He came in, shaking off his coat, smelling faintly of the outside — cold air, tobacco, a trace of something smoky. His hair was mussed, his expression tired.
“You’re home late,” you said softly.
“Order meeting,” he replied, voice distracted. He glanced at you briefly, then away again. “You didn’t have to wait up.”
“I wasn’t,” you lied.
He nodded absently, already halfway to the stairs. “Long day. I’ll see you in the morning.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught. You just nodded, watching him disappear up the steps. The ache that followed was familiar -- dull, patient, merciless.
That night, when you joined him in bed, he was already asleep. Or pretending to be. You lay on your side, facing away from him, and realized you hadn’t really been touched, truly touched, in weeks. Not since that last night he’d reached for you out of obligation. Not since you’d stopped pretending it meant something.
Something inside you broke quietly, the way glass breaks under water — soundless, invisible, absolute.
The next morning, you didn’t make his tea.
You didn’t wait for him at breakfast or join him in the study. You spent the day in the garden instead, sleeves rolled up, hands in the dirt. The cold bit at your fingers, but the ache was grounding — honest in a way nothing else in that house was.
When Sirius passed by the window that afternoon, he paused. You were kneeling by the rosebushes, brushing soil from your palms, the faintest trace of color in your cheeks. He hadn’t seen you like that before — not the quiet, graceful figure who filled his house like furniture, but someone alive. Someone else.
He almost stepped outside. Almost. But the uncertainty stopped him, as it always did. He told himself you wanted space. He told himself you looked content. He told himself a dozen things to make the hesitation easier.
You didn’t see him watching. You didn’t care if he did.
By evening, you were exhausted — not from work, but from feeling. You had spent so long trying to be good, to be patient, to deserve his attention. And for what? The house still echoed the same way it always had.
When you came in for dinner, Sirius was at the table, a glass of wine in hand. He looked up, startled — maybe because you hadn’t joined him in the morning, maybe because you hadn’t waited.
“You were gone all day,” he said.
You nodded, sitting down without meeting his gaze. “I needed air.”
“Something wrong?”
You gave a faint laugh, bitter and soft. “You’d notice?”
The question hung in the air. He frowned slightly, not defensive, just lost. “Of course I would.”
You looked at him then, really looked, and realized how tired he seemed. The faint lines around his eyes, the weight in his shoulders. You used to think that if he looked at you like that, you’d feel closer to him. But all it did now was make you feel smaller.
“I don’t think you would,” you said finally. “Not really.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
You stood before he could find them, gathering your plate. “I’m going to bed.”
“You haven’t eaten,” he said quietly.
“I’m not hungry.”
Your footsteps echoed on the stairs, steady, final.
In your room, you undressed in silence. The mirror reflected someone you didn’t recognize anymore — someone who’d tried so hard to become what he might want that she’d forgotten who she was before.
You thought of the girl you’d been before the marriage, the one who still believed in love, in choices, in warmth that came freely instead of being earned. You wondered if she’d hate you now.
Sirius didn’t come up right away. He sat alone at the table long after the candles burned down, your words replaying in his mind. You’d notice?
It wasn’t an accusation — it was too soft for that. It was worse. It was the sound of someone who had given up.
When he finally came to bed, you were already asleep, or at least pretending to be. He hesitated at the doorway, looking at you the way one looks at something fragile, afraid to touch it.
He wanted to say something. Anything. But he didn’t know where to start. So instead, he sat at the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
You opened your eyes then, just barely — enough to see the shape of him in the dark, hunched and lost.
He didn’t see you looking.
And for the first time, you didn’t feel the urge to comfort him. You just closed your eyes again, letting the distance settle like dust between you.
Maybe it was too late.
Maybe he’d finally started to notice, but you’d already run out of hope to give.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Sirius woke to an empty bed.
The sheets beside him were still faintly warm, the faint indentation of your body visible against the linen, but you were gone. The house was quiet in that thick, unsettling way that meant something had shifted. It wasn’t the usual morning silence — the calm, habitual hush that came before the day began. No. This was absence.
He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The space between you felt wider now, heavy with things unsaid.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed you pulling away. He had, in the way one notices a draft under a door, or a missing sound they’d long since tuned out. It had started small: the empty teacup that used to wait for him on the desk, the soft hums that no longer filled the corridor, the way your chair at dinner was often left empty, replaced by a polite note on parchment: Ate earlier. Don’t wait up.
He told himself it was nothing.
That you needed space.
That it was better this way.
But now, standing alone in the kitchen, with no trace of your quiet domestic presence, Sirius felt something sharp twist in his chest — not guilt exactly, not yet, but something close to it.
You had always been there, he realized.
In the rhythm of the house, the steadiness of each day. In the way the curtains were drawn back each morning to let in light. In the quiet meals that appeared when he forgot to eat. In the peace that existed despite him — despite his ghosts, despite the coldness he’d let settle between you.
You hadn’t asked for much. You’d never demanded affection or comfort or truth. You’d just stayed. That was what made it worse.
He remembered your voice at dinner, low and tired.
“You’d notice?”
He had no answer for it then. He still didn’t.
Because the truth was simple: he hadn’t.
He’d built walls long before your marriage, and he’d let you live behind them like a polite stranger, all under the pretense of sparing you — as if indifference was a kindness.
But when had it turned into cruelty? When had he become his own family’s ghost story, a man who could not love the person he’d vowed to protect?
By midday, Sirius found himself pacing the halls. He told himself he was looking for a book, but his eyes kept catching on traces of you instead.
A ribbon left on the windowsill.
A half-read novel by the chair.
A faint scent of lavender that lingered on the air.
He followed it into the garden.
You were there, kneeling among the rosebushes again, wearing that worn cardigan he always thought was too big for you. Your hair was loose today, a few strands caught by the wind. You looked… peaceful, he thought. And that was what scared him most.
“Didn’t think you liked the cold,” he said quietly.
You turned your head slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. “It’s better than sitting inside.”
He hesitated at the doorway, hands deep in his pockets. “You should’ve woken me.”
“I didn’t see the point.”
The words were soft, but they hit harder than anything she could have shouted.
He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat tightened. So instead, he watched as you stood, brushing dirt from your palms. There was no anger in you, no spark left to fight with. Just quiet exhaustion.
“Y/N,” he started, but you were already walking past him toward the house.
“I’ll have dinner ready later,” you said.
And then, after a pause: “You don’t have to join me if you’re busy.”
He turned to watch you go, a strange panic settling in his chest.
For months he’d thought this distance was safety — that as long as you were polite and calm, things were fine. But now he realized how silence could rot a home faster than any fight ever could.
That evening, he didn’t go out. He sat by the fire instead, alone, his mind restless. The house felt too large without you moving through it. Too hollow.
He thought about the little things you’d done — all the things he’d dismissed without a second glance. The dinners that had been for him. The music that had been his. The small, thoughtful gestures that had gone unnoticed because he’d decided they didn’t matter.
How many had there been?
How many times had he looked at you and chosen not to see?
He thought of you sitting across from him at dinner, wearing that blue dress — the one that had made him pause for a heartbeat before looking away. You’d looked beautiful that night. He hadn’t said a word.
A low ache formed in his chest. Regret, sharp and unfamiliar.
When the clock struck ten, he went upstairs. The door to your room, your room now, he realized, was closed. A line had been drawn, silently but surely.
He knocked once.
“Y/N?”
Silence.
He almost turned away, but then your voice came, quiet and careful: “Yes?”
“I… wanted to say goodnight.”
There was a pause, long enough for him to feel foolish. Then: “Goodnight, Sirius.”
No bitterness. No warmth. Just polite distance, the same tone he’d used with you for months.
He closed his eyes, hand still resting against the door.
He had no one to blame but himself.
Later, lying awake in the dark, he couldn’t shake the thought that this was how people left you. Not in anger or grief — but by degrees. Slowly, quietly, until one day you looked up and realized they weren’t waiting for you anymore.
And maybe that was what scared him most of all.
Because for the first time since your wedding day, Sirius realized he didn’t want you to leave.
Not the version of you who sat across from him like a stranger, but the one who had tried — the one who’d smiled at him in the sunlight and hoped he’d look back.
He’d missed her.
He’d missed you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The air in Grimmauld Place had grown thick with silence. Not the cold, angry kind that follows a fight, but the kind that grows quietly, like dust settling on things left untouched.
You had stopped trying to fill the void between you and Sirius. The effort had become too exhausting, and each attempt had been met with the same soft, polite indifference that had slowly chipped away at your hope.
He’d always been civil, even kind at times. That was the worst part. Sirius wasn’t cruel. He just wasn’t there.
He sat across from you at dinner most nights, eating quietly, sometimes talking about work or things that didn’t matter. And you’d nod, smile faintly, sip your wine, and tell yourself you were fine with that. Because if you didn’t, you might shatter.
Lately, though, you’d begun to fade in your own home. You dressed simply, you spoke less. The fire in you, that quiet but persistent desire to be seen had dimmed.
You woke one morning before him, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. His arm was draped across your waist, heavy and absent, like muscle memory rather than affection. He looked peaceful, and you almost envied that.
You slipped out from beneath his arm carefully, dressing in silence. You didn’t bother with your hair the way you used to, nor with the perfume he once called “nice.”
You made breakfast. For both of you, as always. But you didn’t wait for him to join. You ate quietly by the window while the sky outside stayed pale and sleepy.
When he finally came down, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, you barely looked up.
“Morning,” he said, voice still low from sleep.
“Morning,” you murmured, setting your cup down.
He hesitated. Normally, you’d have smiled — asked about his plans, tried to make conversation. Instead, you stood, placed your cup in the sink, and said, “I’ll be out for a while.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “Out? Where?”
“Just… out.”
And then you left.
That became the new rhythm. You spent your days wandering the nearby streets, visiting small cafés, sitting in bookshops until the afternoon light began to fade. You didn’t buy anything. You just… existed somewhere other than that cold, echoing house.
When you returned, he was often gone, sometimes at headquarters, sometimes out with James or Remus. When he was home, the two of you exchanged words out of habit more than desire.
He noticed the shift, but he didn’t know what to do with it.
He’d catch you humming softly while cleaning the sitting room, only to stop when he entered. You no longer asked him if he wanted tea, or if he’d eaten. You didn’t press your hand against his arm in passing. You didn’t fill the silence with pleasantries.
You’d gone quiet.
And somehow, that silence was louder than anything he’d ever heard.
One evening, he found you in the study, seated by the fire. You didn’t look up as he entered. Your book was open, but your eyes weren’t moving across the page.
He lingered by the door, watching you for a long moment. The firelight made your features soft, tired, distant. You looked… older. Not in years, but in weariness.
“You’ve been out a lot lately,” he said finally.
“I have.”
“Everything alright?”
You nodded once. “Yes.”
He waited for more, but nothing came.
“Y/N,” he said, softer this time. “Did I do something?”
You blinked, finally looking at him. “Do something?”
He shifted, uneasy under your calm tone. “You’re… different.”
You closed your book gently, setting it aside. “I’ve stopped trying, Sirius.”
His brow creased. “Trying what?”
“To be someone you might notice.”
He froze, lips parting, but you went on before he could speak.
“I’ve spent months trying to make this… marriage something more than a name on paper. I tried to make you comfortable, to be kind, to be what I thought you wanted. But it’s exhausting trying to be chosen by someone who never wanted you to begin with.”
He exhaled slowly, guilt flickering across his face, but you weren’t finished.
“I don’t blame you,” you continued, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. “You didn’t ask for this either. I know that. But I can’t keep pretending that this life doesn’t ache. I can’t keep setting a place for you in my heart when you’ve never once stepped inside it.”
Sirius’s throat worked around words he couldn’t form.
You stood, smoothing the front of your skirt. “You don’t need to say anything. I’m not angry. I’m just… tired.”
And with that, you left him in the flickering firelight, the faint scent of your lavender soap fading in the air.
That night, he couldn’t sleep.
He lay awake staring at the ceiling, the same way you had that morning. The bed felt too large, too quiet. For the first time, he realized he hadn’t actually seen you in weeks. Not really.
He thought of the mornings you used to hum while setting out breakfast, the gentle curve of your smile when he came home late. He thought of your perfume, the way it lingered on his robes even when he didn’t notice.
He’d taken it all for granted.
Now, all that warmth had gone—and the house felt like what it truly was: cold stone and obligation.
And Sirius Black, who had once sworn he would never be like the rest of his family, realized with a sick twist in his chest that he had become exactly like them.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Sirius returned home one late afternoon, the sound of the front door closing softly behind him. He didn’t slam it, didn’t curse under his breath about the endless creak of the hinges like he usually did.
There was something quieter about him. Something careful.
You noticed it first in the way his boots didn’t drag against the floors; how his voice, when he greeted you, didn’t echo through the hall like an afterthought.
“Evening,” he said from the doorway of the drawing room.
You looked up from the book in your lap, blinking at him. “Evening.”
He hesitated before stepping in. You could tell immediately that something was different—he didn’t move with the same restless energy, that constant need to fill the silence. Instead, he seemed almost… hesitant.
He looked at you as though seeing you properly for the first time in a long while.
“I saw you walking back from the market earlier,” he said after a pause. “Did you... buy flowers?”
Your brow furrowed slightly. “Yes. Just a few.”
“I haven’t seen flowers in the house for months,” he murmured, glancing toward the vase on the mantle. The lilacs were small, delicate, the faintest trace of life against the gloom of Grimmauld Place.
You didn’t answer.
Sirius shifted, running a hand through his hair. “They look nice,” he said softly.
You nodded. “Thank you.”
The silence stretched thin between you, full of unspoken things.
Over the next few days, you noticed little things, small shifts that didn’t make sense.
The breakfast dishes were washed before you came downstairs one morning. He started leaving earlier, but returned at more reasonable hours. He no longer reeked of smoke and firewhisky. He lingered near the kitchen sometimes, asking if you needed help.
It wasn’t much. But it was something.
And you didn’t know what to do with that.
You had built your own armor, piece by piece. Indifference had become your refuge. Now, suddenly, he was showing cracks in his own, and you couldn’t decide whether to look through them or turn away.
One afternoon, you were in the library, dusting shelves half-heartedly when he appeared in the doorway again.
He stood there a moment, arms crossed loosely, watching you. “You still clean in here?”
“Someone has to,” you replied, voice even.
He smiled faintly. “Suppose that’s true.”
You turned back to the shelves. His footsteps approached slowly until he stood beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne — something he hadn’t worn in so long.
“You know,” he said quietly, “this house never feels alive unless you’re in it.”
You froze, your hand pausing mid-wipe.
It was the sort of thing he might’ve said once, offhandedly charming— but this time, it sounded earnest.
You didn’t look at him. “You don’t have to say things like that, Sirius.”
“I’m not saying it because I have to.”
You swallowed. “Then why now?”
He hesitated, and for a moment you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, softly:
“Because I’ve been a fool. And I don’t think I realized how much until you stopped looking at me.”
Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned to face him. His expression was unreadable — no smirk, no easy charm. Just quiet sincerity that unnerved you more than anything.
“I didn’t think you wanted me to look at you,” you said carefully.
“I didn’t know what I wanted,” he admitted, voice low. “But I do know that this house feels colder without you in it. That’s not nothing.”
You stared at him, unsure what to believe. His words sounded genuine, but you’d built too much of yourself around disappointment to trust the warmth too quickly.
So you said nothing.
After a long moment, he nodded once, as if accepting that. “Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll give you space.”
And then he left — quietly, like a ghost who knew better than to haunt too loudly.
That night, you lay in bed on your side, staring at the wall. Sirius came in late but sober, moving carefully so as not to disturb you.
You pretended to be asleep.
You felt the mattress dip as he settled beside you. Then, for the first time in months, his hand hovered uncertainly over your back. It didn’t touch — but it stayed there, as though he wanted to bridge the distance but didn’t yet feel entitled to.
And strangely, you found yourself listening to his breathing.
You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. But somewhere deep inside, something fragile stirred, a flicker of something that was not yet forgiveness, but not entirely indifference either.
In the morning, he was gone again, but the lilacs had been replaced with new ones.
And on the kitchen counter sat a folded note in Sirius’s handwriting:
“I know I can’t undo the years I wasted. But I’m here now. For whatever that’s worth.”
You stared at it for a long time, unsure whether to smile or cry.
Because after all this time, you weren’t sure if it was worth anything at all — or if it might finally be the start of something real.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The house had been quieter lately, but not empty, more like the air had shifted into something waiting.
You could feel it every time Sirius walked into a room — the tentative calm that followed him, like he was trying not to disturb something fragile.
It was strange to witness. For years, you’d grown used to the thunder of his presence: the loud laughter that filled corridors, the careless charm, the weight of his footsteps echoing off stone floors. Now, that recklessness had been replaced by patience.
You didn’t know what to do with patience.
You decided to test it. Not cruelly, not to punish him — but to see if the new calm he wore so carefully was real, or just another mood that would pass like all the others.
It began with breakfast.
You rose early, as always, and made tea. You didn’t expect him to join you — he rarely did — but halfway through your toast, you heard him coming down the stairs.
He looked surprised to see you still at the table. You normally finished before he ever appeared.
“Morning,” he said gently.
“Morning.”
He hesitated, then gestured toward the seat across from you. “Mind if I…?”
You nodded once. “Go ahead.”
He poured himself tea, quiet and careful, and when he reached for the sugar, you noticed something: he’d started taking three spoonful's.
You blinked. “You like it sweet now?”
He glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Trying to be less predictable.”
You huffed a soft, unexpected laugh — small, but real. And he looked almost startled by it.
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp this time. It was calm, like two people finally learning how to breathe in the same space.
You began noticing him more after that, not as the man you’d built from memory, but as someone different.
He’d fix little things around the house: oil a hinge, mend a loose latch, clean the old family frames that had gathered dust. You’d walk into a room to find him standing quietly, sleeves rolled up, hair falling over his face, muttering at stubborn screws or paint chips.
You didn’t speak much, but you lingered.
One evening, you caught him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, trying to cook. The air smelled faintly of garlic and smoke. He looked up when you entered, eyes widening slightly.
“I’m aware this looks like a crime scene,” he said, motioning to the pan.
You leaned against the counter. “That’s one word for it.”
“Remus swore I could make pasta,” he muttered, poking it with the spoon like it had personally offended him.
“Remus has too much faith.”
Sirius laughed, properly laughed, and it startled you. It wasn’t loud or wild like before; it was softer, almost shy. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You could always show me how it’s actually done.”
You tilted your head. “You’d let me?”
“I’d beg you, if that’s what it takes.”
So you did. You took the spoon from his hand, brushing fingers by accident, and tried not to think about how that tiny contact made something flicker in your chest.
The nights that followed were calmer. You still slept with space between you, but it didn’t feel like a void anymore.
Sometimes, you’d find him reading in bed when you came in. He’d glance up, offer a quiet “goodnight,” and you’d answer without the cold edge that used to linger on your tongue.
There were no grand gestures, no sudden declarations. Just small moments that began to stitch themselves into the rhythm of your days.
One afternoon, you found yourself walking with him into the garden. The sun had made a rare appearance through the London haze, and Sirius looked almost younger in the light.
He paused beside the lilacs you’d planted, crouching slightly to touch a leaf.
“They’re surviving,” he said, almost to himself.
“They’re resilient,” you murmured. “I think they learned to adapt to this place.”
He glanced at you then, eyes soft. “You’re talking about the flowers, or yourself?”
You felt your throat tighten, but you didn’t look away. “Both, maybe.”
His smile faltered into something sad and fond. “You shouldn’t have had to adapt to me.”
You didn’t answer right away. The breeze rustled the lilacs. “People do what they must.”
He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood beside you in the sunlight until the moment felt whole again.
That night, you stood at the vanity brushing your hair. Sirius sat on the edge of the bed behind you, quiet, hands clasped between his knees.
You met his gaze in the mirror for a second — long enough to see hesitation in his eyes.
He rose slowly, stepping behind you. His reflection hovered close, uncertain.
“May I?” he asked, nodding toward the brush in your hand.
Your heart stuttered. You hesitated, then passed it to him.
He began to brush through your hair carefully, gently, as if afraid you might break if he pressed too hard. His touch was slow, deliberate, reverent in a way that made your chest ache.
It wasn’t intimate in the usual sense. It was quiet, almost sacred.
When he was done, he set the brush down and said softly, “You deserve more than what I’ve given you.”
You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. “Maybe,” you murmured. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”
His breath caught. You stood, brushing past him gently, and slipped into bed.
For the first time in years, when he followed, you didn’t turn away.
You weren’t ready to believe in him fully. Not yet. But you no longer flinched from the hope that maybe, just maybe, he was trying.
And for now, that was enough.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It had been weeks since Sirius’s quiet transformation began, and though the walls of Grimmauld Place still loomed heavy with its shadows, something in the air had shifted entirely.
You felt it every time he was near, that almost-electric awareness, the ache of something unspoken sitting just beneath the surface. You’d begun to move around each other like magnets, careful not to touch, careful not to draw too close, because you both knew what might happen if you did.
But tonight, the restraint frayed.
The storm outside had rolled in quietly, the kind that hummed low through the walls, making the lamps flicker and the air hum. You were in the study, pretending to read, the sound of rain tapping against the window.
Sirius stood by the fireplace, half in shadow, his shirt sleeves rolled, the amber glow cutting along his jaw. You could feel his eyes on you — not the absent kind of looking he used to do, but something heavy and searching.
You turned a page you didn’t read. “You’re staring.”
He didn’t deny it. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
He smiled faintly, but it wasn’t playful. “Not enough, maybe.”
You looked up then, meeting his gaze. There it was — the weight of years spent circling one another, all the longing and exhaustion and quiet affection tangled into something that finally demanded to be seen.
“Why now?” you asked softly. “Why only start trying when I finally stopped?”
Sirius took a slow step closer, then another, his voice low. “Because I was afraid of wanting something I didn’t think I could have.”
“And what is it you want now?”
He was close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, the scent of rain and smoke in his clothes. He looked down at you, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You,” he said. “But not the way I was supposed to. The way I do now.”
Something inside you cracked — a quiet, fragile thing that had been holding everything in place for years. You rose slowly from your chair, and suddenly, the space between you was gone.
He reached out first, fingers brushing against your jaw as if asking permission. When you didn’t pull away, he cupped your face fully, thumb tracing the edge of your cheek.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” you whispered.
“Like what?”
“Like you mean it.”
“I do,” he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasn’t gentle at first, it was desperate, all the years of silence and unspoken words breaking open in one sharp exhale.
His hands tangled in your hair, your fingers caught against his collar, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting a lifetime to remember how. Lips parted, tongues grazing each others teeth in rushed decisions, hands gripping each other as if never needing anything more in the world.
The storm outside cracked loud against the windows, but neither of you moved from each other.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless.
“I don’t deserve this,” he murmured.
“Then earn it,” you said, voice trembling but sure.
Something in him broke at that , you felt it in the way he kissed you again, slower this time, as though memorizing the taste of forgiveness. His hands slid around your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against yours.
You didn’t think. You didn’t need to. You just let yourself fall into the warmth you’d both been starving for.
The book slipped forgotten to the floor. The fire cracked and flared. His lips found yours again and again, hungry, reverent, lingering — each kiss more certain than the last, each breath a confession he couldn’t speak aloud.
When you finally broke apart, neither of you spoke for a long moment. His thumb traced your bottom lip, still swollen from the kiss, and he smiled faintly.
“I think,” he said softly, “this is the first time this house has ever felt alive.”
You pressed your forehead against his chest, closing your eyes as his arms came around you.
For the first time, there was no distance left to bridge.
And in that quiet, storm-lit room, the two of you finally let the walls crumble — not in anger or obligation, but in something that felt dangerously close to love.
A/N: I might write more for Neville because he's precious and i love him <3
Would hold both your hands in his if you were outside and you said your hands were cold then gets all flustered when you smile and thank him.
The type of guy to still have a MASIVE crush on you even when you’re actively dating each other.
He’s really patient in general and especially when it comes to you.
After attending the yule ball, he gets a taste for dancing with you. He’s usually pretty awkward and clumsy but still manages to make it romantic somehow.
He likes it a lot when you wear his cardigans or sweaters. Not even in a possessive way he just thinks you look gorgeous in them. Bonus points if he gets them back and the smell like you.
To him you’re an absolute goddess and he would kiss the ground you walk on if you asked him to.
Would spend months researching and growing your favorite plant for you <3
It will take him some time but if he trusts you enough, he will open up to you about his past (and you BETTER comfort him)
Will stand up for you even though it makes him feel like disappearing into a dark hole and never coming back.
Is actually the sweetest partner alive and will make you little handmade gifts and trinkets.
In this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure, you and Tom Riddle are childhood friends -- but now he's obsessed with you...
🔗READ/PLAY HERE to make your own choices!
[Playthrough by Anonymous]
A year has gone by.
You’re alone in the garden, standing near the low stone wall where ivy claws its way upward. The air smells of damp earth and crushed leaves, the sky heavy with the promise of rain. You like it here. It’s easy to think when no one is watching.
You turn to see Amy and Denis a few paces away. Amy’s arms are folded, not defensive but uncertain. Denis keeps glancing over his shoulder, as if expecting someone else to appear.
“Is something wrong?” you ask.
Amy exchanges a look with Denis. You recognize it. You share a room with them. You’ve seen that look late at night, whispered between bunks when they think you’re already asleep.
“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” Amy says carefully. “Not lately.”
You frown. “I’m fine.”
“That’s what worries us,” Denis says. His voice is gentle, almost apologetic. “You always think you are.”
You laugh softly. “What’s this about?”
Amy steps closer, lowering her voice. “It’s about Tom.”
Your shoulders relax without you meaning them to. “He’s my friend.”
“We know,” Amy says quickly. “And that’s not the problem. It’s just…” She hesitates. “He watches you. All the time. And not like the rest of us do.”
Denis nods. “When you’re in the common room, he always knows. When you leave your room, he notices. When someone else sits with you, he appears.”
You shake your head. “He just pays attention.”
“That’s not attention,” Amy says quietly. “That’s possession.”
Before you can answer, the garden changes.
The air tightens, like a string pulled too far.
Tom Riddle stands at the edge of the path, rain-dark hair slicked back, eyes already fixed on you. The timing is too precise to be coincidence.
Amy stiffens. Denis goes pale.
Tom’s gaze flicks over them, brief and cold, before returning to you. His expression softens, practiced and familiar.
“There you are,” he says warmly. “I wondered where you’d gone.”
“We were just talking,” Denis says, forcing calm.
Tom smiles at him. It’s polite. Empty.
“You should be inside,” Tom says. “It’s about to rain.”
Amy’s jaw tightens. “We were just making sure they were okay.”
Tom’s eyes sharpen. “They’re always okay with me.”
The words settle like a lid closing.
Amy steps back, instincts overriding stubbornness. “Come on, Denis.”
They retreat, fast enough that you barely have time to process it, their shared glance lingering with worry rather than relief.
You turn back to Tom, confused. “They think you’re… weird.”
His smile returns, softer now, meant only for you. “People misunderstand what they don’t have.”
He steps closer, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his chest.
“I look after what matters to me,” he says. “And you matter.”
You return Tom's smile, the familiar warmth of trust settling in your chest. He's always been there for you—through the cold nights, the punishments, the moments when the world felt too big and too empty. Of course he watches out for you. That's what friends do.
"I know," you say softly. "I matter to you."
Tom's expression softens further, something genuine flickering behind his eyes. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours for just a moment before pulling back. "Always," he murmurs.
The first drops of rain begin to fall, cold and sparse against your skin. Tom looks up at the heavy sky, then back at you. "We should go inside. Mrs. Cole is making an announcement about a trip."
"A trip?" you ask, following him as he turns toward the orphanage.
"To the sea caves," he says, his voice casual. "In February. She's telling everyone after lunch."
You feel a spark of excitement. You've never seen the sea before. The idea of caves and waves and salt air feels like something from a storybook. "That sounds wonderful."
Tom glances at you, his smile still in place. "It does," he agrees. But there's something in his tone—a carefulness, a hesitation you can't quite place.
You stay outside a moment longer, tilting your face up to feel the rain. The drops are cold and clean against your skin, washing away the lingering unease from Amy and Denis's words. Tom waits beside you, patient as always.
"It's nice," you say softly, closing your eyes. "The rain."
"It is," Tom agrees, but his voice is distant. When you open your eyes, you see he's not looking at the sky. He's watching you, his expression thoughtful. The rain darkens his hair, making it cling to his forehead in damp strands.
"You should come inside," he says after a moment. "You'll catch cold."
You smile at him. "You sound like Mrs. Cole."
Something flickers in his eyes—annoyance, maybe, or something sharper. But it's gone quickly, replaced by his usual calm. "I just don't want you getting sick," he says, his tone gentle again.
The rain begins to fall harder, pattering against the leaves and stone. You shiver despite yourself, the cold seeping through your dress. Tom notices immediately.
"Come on," he says, taking your hand. His fingers are warm against yours, a contrast to the chill in the air. "Mrs. Cole will be starting soon."
He leads you toward the orphanage, his grip firm but not tight. As you reach the door, you glance back at the garden one last time. The rain has turned the world grey and blurred, like a watercolor painting left out in the weather.
Inside, the warmth hits you first—the familiar smell of cabbage and dust, the sound of children's voices echoing in the hallway. Mrs. Cole stands at the far end, her sharp face lit by the weak afternoon light from a high window. She's holding a piece of paper, and the other children are gathering around her, their faces curious.
Tom's hand tightens slightly around yours. You look up at him, but his eyes are fixed on Mrs. Cole, his expression unreadable.
You squeeze Tom's hand reassuringly, feeling the tension in his fingers. He glances down at you, his expression softening for just a moment before returning to that careful neutrality he wears around others.
Mrs. Cole clears her throat, the sound sharp in the quiet hallway. "Children, listen up," she says, her voice carrying over the murmur of voices. "I have an announcement about a special outing."
Excitement ripples through the gathered children. Outings are rare—a trip to the park once a year, maybe a visit to the museum if someone donates enough. But this feels different.
"We'll be taking a trip to the sea caves in February," Mrs. Cole continues, a rare smile touching her lips. "It's been arranged by one of our benefactors. We'll spend the day exploring, have a picnic lunch, and be back before dark."
The children begin whispering excitedly, their faces bright with anticipation. You feel a thrill of your own—the sea! You've only ever seen it in pictures.
Then Mrs. Cole's expression changes. Her eyes scan the crowd, landing on Tom. Her smile fades. "There is one condition," she says, her voice turning firm. "Tom Riddle will not be coming."
The hallway goes quiet. All eyes turn to Tom.
He doesn't react at first. He just stands there, his hand still in yours, his face perfectly still. But you feel it—the way his fingers go rigid, the way his whole body tenses beside you. His expression doesn't change, but something dark flickers in his eyes, gone so fast you might have imagined it.
Mrs. Cole meets his gaze, her own expression unyielding. "The trip is for children who have shown good behavior and cooperation," she says, though everyone knows that's not the real reason. "Tom will remain here with one of the caretakers."
She turns away, beginning to give details about dates and what to bring. The other children slowly return to their excited chatter, though now it's tinged with awkward glances in Tom's direction.
Tom releases your hand. He doesn't look at you. He just turns and walks away, his footsteps silent on the stone floor. He disappears down the hallway toward the isolation room, his back straight, his shoulders stiff.
You don't hesitate. You slip away from the crowd and follow Tom down the hallway. The isolation room door is closed when you reach it, but you press your hand against the wood, feeling the familiar warmth of your magic. The lock clicks open softly.
Inside, Tom stands by the small window, his back to you. The room is cold and dim, the only light coming from the grey sky outside. He doesn't turn when you enter.
"Tom," you say softly.
He doesn't respond. His shoulders are tense, his hands clenched at his sides. You can feel the anger radiating from him—cold and sharp, like broken glass.
"You should be with the others," he says finally, his voice flat. "Hearing about the wonderful trip you'll take without me."
"It's not fair," you say, moving closer. "You should be able to come too."
Tom turns then, and his face makes your breath catch. There's no anger in his expression—just a cold, empty calm that's somehow worse. His eyes are dark and distant, as if he's already retreated somewhere you can't reach.
"Fair doesn't exist here," he says quietly. "You know that by now."
You reach for his hand, but he pulls away. The rejection stings, but you understand. He's hurt, and Tom doesn't know how to be hurt without building walls.
"I'll talk to Mrs. Cole," you say. "I'll make her change her mind."
Tom looks at you, and for a moment, something like warmth flickers in his eyes. But it's gone quickly, replaced by that careful neutrality. "Don't bother," he says. "She won't listen. She never does."
"But I have to try," you insist. "I want you to see the sea too."
He studies your face, his gaze intense. "Why?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why does it matter so much to you?"
"I'll do extra kitchen duties," you say, your voice firm. "I'll scrub pots and peel potatoes and do whatever she wants. I'll earn your place on the trip."
Tom looks at you, his expression unreadable. The cold anger seems to drain from him slowly, replaced by something more thoughtful. He studies your face as if searching for something—doubt, hesitation, a sign that you don't mean it.
"You'd do that?" he asks quietly. "For me?"
"Of course," you say without hesitation. "You're my friend."
The word feels small in the cold room, but Tom's expression softens just a little. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours. This time he doesn't pull away.
"Kitchen duties won't change her mind," he says, but there's no bitterness in his voice now. Just resignation. "She doesn't like me. She never has."
"Then I'll keep doing them until she takes pity on me," you say stubbornly. "Until she sees how much it matters."
A faint smile touches Tom's lips—not his usual practiced smile, but something smaller, more genuine. "You're too stubborn for your own good."
"You're worth being stubborn for," you say, and you mean it.
Tom's fingers tighten around yours. He looks at your joined hands, then back at your face. "If you're going to do this," he says slowly, "do it properly. Don't just offer once. Keep offering. Every day. Until she can't say no anymore."
You nod, determination settling in your chest like a warm stone. "Every day," you promise.
The next morning, you find Mrs. Cole in the kitchen, already overseeing breakfast preparations. The room is warm and steamy, filled with the smell of porridge and weak tea. She looks up when you enter, her sharp eyes narrowing.
"What do you want, child?" she asks, her tone brisk.
"I want to help," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "With the kitchen duties. Every day. Until the trip."
Mrs. Cole studies you, her expression unreadable. "And why would you do that?"
"So Tom can come to the sea caves," you say honestly. "He deserves to see them too."
For a long moment, Mrs. Cole doesn't speak. She just looks at you, her face tired and worn. Then she sighs, a heavy sound that seems to carry the weight of all her years at Wool's Orphanage.
"Fine," she says finally. "You can start today. But I'm not making any promises."
You don't wait for further instructions. You move to the large sink where breakfast pots are already piled high, their sides crusted with dried porridge. The water is lukewarm when you turn the tap, but you plunge your hands in anyway, reaching for the scrubbing brush.
Mrs. Cole watches you for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she turns back to the stove without another word.
The work is harder than you expected. The porridge has hardened into a stubborn film that clings to the metal. Your fingers ache as you scrub, the rough brush scraping against your skin. Steam rises from the water, fogging the window above the sink. But you keep going, your movements steady and determined.
Days pass this way.
You rise before the other children, slipping into the kitchen while the sky is still dark. You scrub pots, peel potatoes until your fingertips are raw, sweep floors until your arms ache. Mrs. Cole doesn't praise you, but she doesn't stop you either. She just watches, her sharp eyes noting your persistence.
Tom finds you one morning, your hands red and chapped from the hot water. He doesn't speak at first. He just stands in the doorway, watching you scrub.
"You don't have to do this," he says quietly.
"I want to," you say, not looking up from the pot in your hands. "I promised."
He's silent for a long moment. Then he moves to stand beside you, picking up a towel to dry the clean dishes. You don't ask why he's helping. You just feel a warmth spread through your chest, easing the ache in your hands.
Weeks go by. February approaches. The other children talk excitedly about the sea caves, their voices carrying through the hallways. You listen while you scrub, imagining the sound of waves, the smell of salt air.
One morning, Mrs. Cole stops you as you're about to start on the breakfast dishes. Her face looks older in the grey dawn light, the lines around her eyes deeper than usual.
"Enough," she says, her voice tired. "You've done enough."
You look up, your heart pounding. "Does that mean—"
"Tom can come," she says, cutting you off. She sounds resigned rather than pleased. "But he stays with you the entire time. And if there's any trouble—any at all—he'll be sent back immediately. Understood?"
You nod, your throat too tight to speak. The relief that washes over you is so strong it makes your knees feel weak.
Mrs. Cole studies you for another moment, her expression softening just a little. "You're a stubborn child," she says, but there's no anger in her voice. "Stubborn and loyal. That's a dangerous combination."
She turns away, ending the conversation. You stand there in the steamy kitchen, your hands still damp from the sink water, and let the news settle inside you. Tom can come. He'll see the sea.
A month passes. The trip to the sea caves comes and goes—a blur of cold wind, dark caves, and Tom walking silently beside you the whole time. He didn't smile much, but you saw the way his eyes lingered on the waves, the way he touched the wet stone walls as if memorizing their texture.
Now it's late December, a few days before New Year's Eve. The orphanage feels different during the holidays—quieter, emptier, as if everyone is holding their breath.
You're walking through the common room when you hear them: two older boys from the dormitory down the hall, their voices carrying from behind a bookshelf.
"...born on New Year's Eve, can you believe it?" one says, snickering. "Like he couldn't be normal even about when he showed up."
"Probably thought he was some kind of special gift," the other replies, his tone mocking. "Tom Riddle, the midnight baby. Bet his mother couldn't wait to get rid of him."
Their laughter is sharp and cruel. You freeze, your hands curling into fists at your sides. Tom's birthday. You didn't know. He never told you.
You don't confront them. You don't even move. You just stand there, listening to their laughter fade as they walk away, and something settles inside you—a quiet determination.
Tom's birthday is in a few days. New Year's Eve. He never told you, which means he probably doesn't expect anyone to remember. But you will. You'll get him something perfect.
The bookshop across the street has been there forever, its windows dusty, its sign faded. You've passed it a hundred times, but you've never gone inside. Now you find yourself standing outside it, looking through the glass at shelves crammed with old books.
The bell above the door jingles when you push it open. The air inside smells of paper and dust and something else—something old and quiet. An elderly man sits behind the counter, reading a newspaper. He doesn't look up.
You wander through the narrow aisles, your fingers brushing against leather spines and faded cloth covers. You're not sure what you're looking for until you see it—a small, plain diary bound in black leather. It's simple, unadorned, but something about it feels right. Like it's waiting for someone.
You pick it up. The leather is smooth under your fingers, the pages blank and crisp. It feels like possibility.
The man at the counter looks up when you approach. "That'll be sixpence," he says, his voice raspy.
Sixpence. You don't have sixpence. You don't have any money at all.
You look down at the diary in your hands, then back at the man. "I don't have sixpence," you say quietly.
He studies you for a moment, taking in your worn dress, your thin frame. "Then you can't have it," he says, not unkindly. Just stating a fact.
You place the diary back on the counter, your fingers lingering on the leather for just a moment before you turn and leave. The bell jingles again as the door closes behind you.
Outside, the winter air bites at your skin. People hurry past, their faces pinched and tired. Times are hard. Everyone says so. But you stand there on the pavement, looking back at the bookshop window, and you know one thing for certain: you're going to get that diary for Tom.
You get an idea.
You focus, the way you do when you make things warm or move objects without touching them. Your magic feels like a current under your skin, familiar and strange all at once. You look at a woman walking past, her purse hanging loosely from her arm. You concentrate, and a dollar note slips from the opening, floating gently through the air toward you.
Your heart pounds as you catch it. The woman doesn't notice. She keeps walking, her head bent against the wind.
For a moment, you just stand there, the dollar crisp in your hand. Guilt prickles at the edges of your mind, sharp and cold. But then you think of Tom—of his birthday, of the way he never expects anything from anyone—and you push the feeling away.
You go back into the bookshop. The bell jingles again. The old man looks up, his eyebrows raised.
"I have money," you say, placing the dollar on the counter. Your voice sounds small in the quiet shop.
He looks from the money to your face, his expression unreadable. Then he nods slowly, taking the dollar and sliding the diary toward you. "It's yours," he says.
You pick up the diary, the leather smooth and cool against your palm. It feels heavier than it looks, as if it contains more than just blank pages. You slip it into your pocket, where it rests against your thigh, a secret weight.
Outside, the guilt returns, stronger this time. You stole. You used your magic to take something that wasn't yours. The knowledge sits in your stomach like a stone. But when you touch the diary through your pocket, you feel a strange certainty—this was meant for Tom. This is the right gift.
You hurry back to the orphanage, your mind already turning over how to give it to him. New Year's Eve is only a few days away. You'll have to find the right moment, when you can give it to him privately, when he won't feel embarrassed or exposed.
The diary feels warm in your pocket, as if it's already absorbing your intention, your hope. You imagine Tom's face when he opens it—the surprise, the quiet pleasure he never shows anyone else. The thought makes the guilt feel smaller, less important.
You have the gift. Now you just need to give it.
New Year's Eve arrives cold and quiet. The orphanage feels emptier than usual—some children have been taken by relatives for the holiday, others have retreated into themselves. You wait until after dinner, when the corridors are dark and still, before slipping out of your room.
The diary is hidden under your pillow. You retrieve it, feeling the smooth leather against your fingers. Then you make your way to Tom's room.
He's sitting on his bed when you enter, a book open in his lap. He looks up, and for a moment you see the surprise in his eyes before he masks it. "What are you doing here?" he asks, though his voice lacks its usual sharpness.
"I heard it's your birthday," you say softly, closing the door behind you.
Tom's expression tightens. "Who told you that?"
"It doesn't matter." You move closer, holding out the diary. "Happy birthday."
He looks from your face to the black leather book in your hands. For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing yours as he takes it. He turns it over, studying it as if it's a puzzle he needs to solve.
"It's a diary," you say, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "For writing things down. Secrets. Thoughts. Whatever you want."
Tom opens it, running his thumb over the blank pages. His expression is unreadable, but you see the way his fingers tighten around the cover, the way his eyes soften just a little.
"Thank you," he says quietly. He looks up at you, and for once, he doesn't hide what he's feeling. You see the gratitude there, raw and real. "No one's ever given me a birthday present before."
You sit beside him on the narrow bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. Tom doesn't move away. He keeps looking at the diary, his fingers tracing the edge of the cover.
"What will you write first?" you ask softly.
Tom is quiet for a moment. The only sound is the distant murmur of the orphanage settling for the night—a floorboard creaking, someone coughing down the hall. Then he looks up, his dark eyes meeting yours.
"Secrets," he says simply. "Things no one else should know."
He opens the diary to the first page, but doesn't reach for a pen. Instead, he just holds it, as if the blank pages are enough for now. The room feels different tonight—warmer, closer. The stone walls seem to hold the quiet between you like a promise.
From the corner of the room comes a soft hissing sound. You both turn to see Nagini coiled near the baseboard, her black scales gleaming in the dim light. She lifts her head, her tongue flicking out to taste the air.
"What are you doing here?" you ask Nagini, your voice soft.
The snake lifts her head higher, her dark eyes fixed on you. "The cold," she hisses, the sound like dry leaves rustling. "The wallsss are cold. Your room is warmer."
Tom watches the exchange, his expression curious but not surprised. He's heard you speak to Nagini before, but he's never joined in. You glance at him, wondering if he understands.
"You can talk to her too," you say quietly. "If you want."
Tom looks from you to Nagini, his gaze thoughtful. For a moment, he doesn't speak. Then he makes a soft hissing sound, low and fluid, that doesn't sound like English at all.
Nagini's head tilts. "You speak the tongue," she says, her voice carrying a note of surprise. "The boy speaksss."
Tom's lips curve into a small, private smile. He hisses again, longer this time, and Nagini responds, her body coiling and uncoiling as she moves closer to the bed.
You watch them, feeling something shift in the room. It's not just that Tom can speak to snakes too—it's the way he does it, with a confidence that suggests he's known this secret for a long time. He's been keeping it, just like he keeps everything else.
Nagini slithers onto the bed, her cool scales brushing against your leg. "He is like you," she says to you. "But different. Hisss magic tastes different."
Tom's smile widens, just a little. He reaches out, letting Nagini slide over his hand. "She's right," he says, switching back to English. "Our magic is different. Yours feels... warm. Like sunlight. Mine feels..."
He trails off, as if searching for the right word. But he doesn't finish the thought. He just looks at you, his dark eyes serious in the dim light.
February arrives grey and damp, the promise of the sea caves finally becoming real. The morning of the trip dawns cold, with a sharp wind coming off the water. You stand on the pebbled beach with the other children, your thin dress offering little protection against the chill.
Tom stands beside you, silent as always. While the others run toward the waves, you kneel in the wet sand, searching for shells. You find seven—small, pearlescent things that gleam like secrets in your palm. You press them into Tom's hand without a word.
He looks at them, then at you, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. The wool is still warm from his body.
"Come on," he says quietly. "Let's see the cave."
You follow Tom toward the cave entrance, the seven shells still warm in your palm. The wind cuts through the thin fabric of your dress, but Tom's jacket holds his warmth close to your skin. It smells like him—clean and sharp, like rain on stone.
The cave mouth is a dark opening in the cliff face, wider than you expected. Inside, the air changes—damp and cool, smelling of salt and wet rock. The sound of the waves fades to a distant murmur, replaced by the drip of water somewhere in the darkness.
Tom stops just inside the entrance, letting his eyes adjust. You stand beside him, your shoulder brushing his. The cave feels like another world, quiet and secret. You can hear your own breathing, the soft rustle of Tom's clothes as he moves.
"Look," he says softly, pointing.
Further in, where the light from the entrance barely reaches, the walls seem to shimmer. You move closer, and as your eyes adjust, you see them—carved into the stone, glowing faintly with a soft blue light. Ancient runes, twisting and curling like vines across the rock.
You reach out without thinking, your fingers brushing against the cool stone. The moment your skin touches the runes, something happens.
A warmth spreads through your hand, up your arm, settling in your chest. Beside you, Tom gasps softly. You glance at him and see his hand pressed against the stone too, his eyes wide. Your magic—that familiar current under your skin—stirs, reaching out. And you feel Tom's magic answering, not warm like yours, but something else—sharp and bright and hungry. They don't clash. They dance, twining together in the air between you, shimmering with that same soft blue light as the runes.
It's beautiful. For a moment, you forget everything else—the orphanage, the cold, the other children. There's just this: the magic, the runes, Tom beside you, your powers meeting in the quiet dark.
Then a voice shatters the silence.
"What are you doing?"
You both turn. Denis and Amy stand at the cave entrance, silhouetted against the grey sky. Denis's expression is curious, but Amy's is suspicious, her eyes narrowed as she takes in the glowing runes, the shimmering air between you and Tom.
Tom's magic snaps back like a pulled thread. The blue light fades. His expression goes cold and still, his eyes fixed on the two intruders.
"What do you want?" you ask, your voice echoing softly in the cave's damp air.
Denis takes a step forward, his eyes still fixed on the runes. "We saw you come in here," he says. "What's that on the walls? It was glowing."
Amy stays closer to the entrance, her arms crossed. "It's weird," she says, her voice sharp. "You're both weird. Always together, whispering. And now this—glowing rocks? What are you doing?"
Tom doesn't move. He stands perfectly still beside you, but you feel the change in him—a tension that wasn't there before, cold and sharp. His eyes are fixed on Denis and Amy, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach tighten.
"It's nothing," Tom says, his voice calm and even. Too calm. "Just old carvings. The light plays tricks."
But Denis isn't listening. He moves closer, reaching out toward the runes. "It was blue," he insists. "Like magic or something."
The word hangs in the air between you all. Magic. Denis says it like it's a joke, but you see the doubt in his eyes, the flicker of unease. Amy shifts her weight, her gaze moving from the runes to Tom's face, then to yours.
"You're lying," she says to Tom, her voice accusing. "You're always lying. Mrs. Cole says you're wicked. She says we should stay away from you."
Tom's expression doesn't change, but you see the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. The air in the cave feels colder suddenly, as if the warmth has been sucked out of it.
"You should leave," Tom says softly. "Now."
"Guys, what satisfaction do you get from bullying Tom?" you say, stepping in front of him. Your eyebrows furrow. "You're just as wicked as him if making him suffer makes you feel happy."
Denis blinks, taken aback. Amy's expression hardens.
"He's still human," you continue, your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. "He has feelings, yet you treat him like you're animals."
For a moment, there's only the drip of water in the cave, the distant crash of waves. Denis looks down, shuffling his feet. But Amy's face flushes with anger.
"We're not the ones who scare the other kids," she snaps. "We're not the ones Mrs. Cole calls wicked. He is."
You feel Tom move behind you. Not away—closer. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, his fingers tightening just enough that you can feel the pressure through the fabric of his jacket. His touch isn't reassuring. It feels possessive, like a claim.
"Madison," he says softly, his voice calm. Too calm. "Don't."
You glance back at him. His expression is still, but his eyes—his eyes are dark and focused on Amy, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch. It's not anger, not exactly. It's colder than that. More deliberate.
Amy takes a step back, her bravado faltering under Tom's gaze. Denis grabs her arm. "Come on," he mutters. "Let's just go."
But Tom speaks before they can leave. "No," he says, his voice still quiet. "You came to see what we were doing. You wanted to know about the magic."
The word hangs in the air again, but this time it doesn't sound like a joke. It sounds like a promise.
You reach back, your fingers closing around Tom's wrist. "Tom," you say, your voice low. "It's not worth it. Let them go."
Tom doesn't look at you. His gaze stays fixed on Denis and Amy, who are backing toward the cave entrance now, their faces pale. Denis's hand is tight around Amy's arm, pulling her with him.
"It's always worth it," Tom says softly. His voice doesn't sound like his own—it's flat, empty of the warmth you sometimes hear when he speaks to you. "They came to see magic. They should see it."
You feel his magic then—not the dancing warmth from before, but something colder, sharper. It prickles against your skin like static. The air in the cave grows heavy, pressing in on all sides. The drip of water slows, as if even the cave itself is holding its breath.
Denis makes a choked sound. Amy's eyes are wide with fear now, all her earlier bravado gone. She opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.
"Tom, please," you whisper, your grip tightening on his wrist. "Don't."
He finally looks at you, and what you see in his eyes makes your stomach drop. There's no anger there, no rage. Just a cold, calculating focus. He's not losing control. He's choosing this.
"They'll tell," he says, his voice still quiet. "They'll tell everyone about the runes, about the magic. They'll put doubts in your mind. They'll try to take you away from me."
The words hang between you, stark and true. You think of Mrs. Cole's warnings, of the way the other children whisper about Tom when they think you can't hear. You think of the diary in his room, the secrets he's already started to keep.
Tom turns back to Denis and Amy. He doesn't raise his hand. He doesn't speak. He just looks at them, and something shifts in the air—a pressure that wasn't there before.
Denis's knees buckle. He drops to the cave floor, his hands coming up to clutch at his head. Amy stumbles backward, her mouth working silently. Her eyes are blank, empty.
You watch, your heart pounding in your throat. You want to look away, but you can't. You're frozen, Tom's wrist still tight in your grasp, his magic humming through the air around you.
"Wh-what's happening to them?" you ask, your voice trembling.
Denis is curled on the cave floor now, his body shaking. Amy stands frozen, her eyes empty and staring at nothing. She doesn't blink. She doesn't seem to breathe.
Tom finally looks away from them, his gaze shifting to you. The cold focus in his eyes softens, just a little. He turns his wrist in your grasp, not pulling away, but instead lacing his fingers through yours.
"They're seeing things," he says quietly. "Things that will make them forget about the runes. About the magic. About us."
His hand is warm in yours, a stark contrast to the chill in the cave. You look from his face back to Denis and Amy. Denis has stopped shaking. He's lying still now, his eyes closed. Amy hasn't moved.
"Are they...?" you start, but can't finish the question.
"They're fine," Tom says, his voice gentle. "They'll wake up in a few minutes. They won't remember anything. They'll just know they shouldn't have followed us. They'll know to stay away."
He squeezes your hand. "It was just to protect you," he adds, his eyes searching your face. "To protect us. They would have told. They would have ruined everything."
You believe him. You want to believe him. But the image of Amy's blank eyes, of Denis shaking on the floor—it stays with you, sharp and cold.
Tom lets go of your hand and moves toward the cave entrance. He doesn't look back at Denis and Amy. "Come on," he says. "Let's go back to the beach. Before anyone wonders where we are."
You follow him, your legs feeling unsteady. As you step out into the grey light, you glance back once. Denis is stirring, sitting up slowly. Amy blinks, her expression confused. She looks around as if she doesn't know where she is.
Then Tom's hand is on your shoulder, turning you away. "Don't look," he says softly. "It's over."
The rest of the field trip passes in a blur. The other children play on the beach, their laughter sharp against the sound of the waves. You sit with Tom on a rock, his jacket still around your shoulders. He doesn't speak, but his presence beside you feels like an anchor.
When Mrs. Cole calls everyone to leave, Denis and Amy are quiet. They don't look at you or Tom. They don't speak to each other. They just follow the group, their movements slow and careful, as if they're remembering how to walk.
On the train back to London, Tom leans his head against the window, his eyes closed. You watch the countryside rush past, the grey fields and bare trees blurring together. The seven shells are still in your pocket, smooth and cool against your fingers.
Three years pass.
Three years pass in the quiet rhythm of Wool's Orphanage—scrubbed floors, shared secrets, whispered conversations in Tom's room. You grow taller. Your magic grows stronger, though you keep it hidden, a warm secret under your skin. Tom keeps his magic sharper, colder, but he shares it with you in the dark, showing you what he can do.
Then, one July morning when you're both eleven, everything changes.
Mrs. Cole knocks on Tom's door, her expression unusually tense. Behind her stands a tall man with auburn hair and half-moon spectacles, wearing robes of deep purple that seem to shimmer in the dim hallway light.
"Tom, Madison," Mrs. Cole says, her voice tight. "This is Professor Dumbledore. He's here to speak with you."
Tom is sitting on his bed, his back straight, his dark eyes fixed immediately on the stranger. His clothes are clean but too small, the sleeves riding up his wrists. He doesn't smile.
"You're the professor," he says flatly.
Dumbledore steps into the small room, his presence making the space feel even smaller. His blue eyes are sharp behind his spectacles, taking in everything—the iron bed, the cracked window, the way Tom sits protectively between you and the door.
"I am," Dumbledore says, his voice gentle but firm. "And I've come to talk to you about a school. A school for people like you."
You move closer to Tom instinctively, your shoulder brushing his. The air in the room feels charged, like before a storm. Tom doesn't look at you, but you feel him shift slightly, his posture becoming more protective.
Dumbledore's gaze softens as he looks at you both. "The school is called Hogwarts," he says. "It's a place where young witches and wizards learn to use their magic properly. To control it. To understand it."
Tom's eyes narrow. "Magic," he repeats, the word hanging in the air between them. "You know about that."
"I do," Dumbledore says. "And I know that both of you have abilities that set you apart. Things you can do that others cannot."
He looks from Tom to you, his expression thoughtful. "Madison, isn't it? Mrs. Cole tells me you've been here since you were seven. That you arrived with no memory of your life before."
You nod, your throat tight. The green flash—the only thing you remember—feels suddenly close, as if it's just behind your eyes.
"And Tom," Dumbledore continues, turning back to him. "You've always known you were different. You can make things happen. Move objects without touching them. Influence animals. Even influence people."
Tom's jaw tightens. He doesn't deny it. "I can make bad things happen to people who annoy us," he says, his voice cool and measured. "I can make them hurt if I want to."
The words hang in the small room, stark and unapologetic. Dumbledore doesn't flinch. He simply watches Tom, his expression unreadable. You feel Tom's hand brush against yours, his fingers curling around your wrist. His grip is tight, possessive.
"Hogwarts..." you say slowly, the word feeling strange on your tongue. "You're telling me there are other people like us? Like... a whole other community?"
Dumbledore's expression softens. "Yes," he says. "A whole world, in fact. Hidden from those without magic, but very real. Witches and wizards live among Muggles—non-magical people—but we have our own schools, our own government, our own shops and streets and traditions."
You feel something shift inside you, a warmth that has nothing to do with your magic. A whole world. Other people like you. The thought makes your chest ache with a hope you didn't know you were holding.
Tom's grip on your wrist tightens. "And they'll teach us how to control it?" he asks, his voice still cool. "How to use it properly?"
"To use it wisely," Dumbledore corrects gently. "Magic is a gift, but it comes with responsibility. At Hogwarts, you'll learn spells, potions, charms—how to channel your abilities safely. But you'll also learn that magic must never be used to harm, to control, or to steal."
Tom's expression doesn't change, but you feel the tension in his hand. His eyes flick to Dumbledore's wand, which rests in the professor's pocket, just visible beneath his robes. There's a hunger in that look—sharp and focused.
Dumbledore follows his gaze. "You'll have a wand of your own," he says. "Every witch and wizard does. It chooses you, in a way. Becomes an extension of your magic."
Tom's attention snaps back to Dumbledore's face. "And we'll go together?" he asks, his voice sharper now. "Madison and I. We won't be separated."
It's not a question. It's a demand.
You stay quiet, processing everything. A whole hidden world. Other people like you. A school where you'll learn to use your magic properly, where you won't have to hide it anymore. The thought makes your head spin.
Tom's hand is still tight around your wrist, his fingers warm against your skin. You can feel the tension in him—the way he's leaning forward slightly, his dark eyes fixed on Dumbledore. He's not just listening. He's calculating, weighing every word.
Dumbledore watches you both, his expression thoughtful. "You'll go together," he says to Tom, answering the unspoken demand. "Hogwarts accepts all magical children, regardless of their background. You'll both start in September."
He pauses, his gaze drifting around the small room. It lingers on the cracked window, the iron bedframe, the bare floorboards. Then his eyes settle on something under Tom's bed—a small wooden box, tucked just out of sight.
Tom stiffens beside you. His grip on your wrist tightens almost painfully.
With a flick of his hand, Dumbledore makes the box slide out from under the bed. It moves smoothly across the floor, coming to rest at his feet. Tom makes a sharp, choked sound in his throat.
"Those are mine," he says, his voice tight with anger. He tries to stand, but Dumbledore holds up a hand.
"I'm sure they are," Dumbledore says calmly. He opens the box. Inside are small treasures—a yo-yo, a thimble, a silver button. Things you recognize from other children. Things that have gone missing over the years.
And at the bottom, tucked carefully beneath everything else—your handkerchief. The one you lost months ago. And a single strand of your hair, dark against the pale wood.
You stare at it, your mind struggling to make sense of what you're seeing. Why would Tom have your handkerchief? Why would he keep a strand of your hair?
"Oh, there's the stone I gave you on Christmas when we were kids," you whisper to Tom, ignoring the odd stuff but instead letting your gaze linger on the softly glowing stone nestled among the stolen trinkets. "I can't believe you kept it."
Tom's grip on your wrist loosens, just a little. He doesn't look at you, but you see his shoulders relax slightly. The stone—the one you made for him, the one that holds a piece of your magic and radiates constant warmth—glows softly from the box, its light gentle against the darker objects around it.
Dumbledore looks from the stone to you, his expression thoughtful. "A gift?" he asks, his voice gentle.
You nod. "I made it for him. It's always warm."
Dumbledore's eyes soften. He reaches into the box and picks up the stone, holding it in his palm. The light seems to brighten for a moment, as if recognizing his magic. "This is quite remarkable," he says quietly. "Ancient magic, if I'm not mistaken. Very rare."
He looks at you, his gaze sharpening. "You made this?"
Before you can answer, Tom speaks. "She did," he says, his voice tight. "It's mine. Give it back."
Dumbledore studies Tom for a long moment, then carefully places the stone back in the box. He doesn't return the box to Tom, though. He keeps it on the floor between them.
"There is nothing wrong with being curious, Tom," Dumbledore says, his voice still calm. "Or with keeping gifts from friends. But you must learn to respect others' things, and their pain. These other items—they belong to other children. Taking them causes hurt."
Tom's jaw tightens. "They're mine now," he says, but there's less conviction in his voice than before. His eyes keep flicking to the stone, to your handkerchief, as if checking that they're still there.
Dumbledore closes the box. "I'll return these to Mrs. Cole," he says. "She can see that they find their proper owners. Except for the stone, of course. And Madison's handkerchief."
He looks at you, his expression kind. "Would you like your handkerchief back?"
You look at the handkerchief, then at Tom. His expression is closed off, his eyes dark and unreadable. But you remember the way he looked when you gave him the stone—the way his face softened, just for a moment.
"He can keep it," you say quietly to Dumbledore. "It's just a handkerchief."
Dumbledore studies you for a moment, his blue eyes thoughtful behind his spectacles. Then he nods and places the handkerchief back in the box with the stone. He closes the lid and sets the box on Tom's bed.
Tom doesn't reach for it. He just watches Dumbledore, his posture stiff and wary.
"The stone is a remarkable piece of magic," Dumbledore says, turning his attention back to you. "Ancient magic is rare—very few witches or wizards are capable of wielding it. At Hogwarts, you'll have the opportunity to explore that gift properly, with guidance."
He pauses, his gaze moving between you and Tom. "But first, you'll need supplies. Books, robes, a wand. There's a place in London called Diagon Alley, hidden from Muggle eyes. I'll give you both letters with instructions on how to enter. And when September first arrives, you'll take the train from King's Cross Station, platform nine and three-quarters."
Tom's eyes light up at the mention of a wand. "Platform nine and three-quarters?" he repeats, his voice sharp with interest. "How do we find it?"
Dumbledore smiles, a small, knowing expression. "You'll run straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten," he says. "It sounds impossible, but it works. Trust in the magic."
He reaches into his robes and produces two envelopes, each sealed with red wax. He hands one to you, one to Tom. "Everything you need to know is inside. Read them carefully. And remember—this is a new beginning for both of you. A chance to learn, to grow, to belong."
Tom takes his letter, his fingers careful on the parchment. You hold yours in both hands, feeling the weight of it. The wax seal is stamped with a crest—a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake, all surrounding a large letter H. Dumbledore stands, his robes rustling softly. "I'll leave you to read your letters," he says. "If you have any questions, you can write to me. The address is on the envelope."
He looks at you both one last time, his expression serious but kind. "Take care of each other," he says quietly. Then he turns and leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
You're alone with Tom again. The silence feels different now—charged with possibility, with the weight of the letters in your hands. Tom is already opening his, his fingers careful on the wax seal.
For a long moment, you both just sit there, holding your letters. The parchment feels heavy in your hands, real in a way that makes your heart beat faster. You look at Tom, and he's looking at you, his dark eyes wide with something you've never seen in them before—not calculation, not hunger, but pure, unguarded wonder.
Then he moves.
He doesn't say anything. He just sets his letter aside and reaches for you, pulling you into a hug so tight it steals your breath. His arms wrap around you, his face buried in your hair. You can feel him shaking, just slightly.
"Everything changes now," he whispers against your ear, his voice rough with emotion. "We belong now. We have a place. A real place."
You hug him back, your own eyes stinging. For years, it's been just the two of you against the world—two strange children in a grey orphanage, hiding what you are. But now... now there's a whole world waiting. A school. Other people like you. A future.
Tom pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still gripping your shoulders. "Together," he says, and it's not a question. It's a promise. "We go together. We stay together."
You nod, unable to speak. The stone on the bed glows softly beside Tom's open letter, its warm light filling the small room. Outside, London goes on with its ordinary day. But in here, in this moment, everything has already changed.
You have a place now. You belong.
And you have each other.
Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
🎮interactive fanfic "Orphans | YANDERE!TOM RIDDLE AU" by @bloodred-writer
It's Dudley's birthday today. Harry knows because Dudley yelled about it all morning before Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia took him to the amusement park. The house is quiet now. Harry likes it when it's quiet.
He sits on his blanket in the cupboard, his tummy rumbling. He thinks about the teddy bear under Dudley's bed. It has a glowing belly. Harry saw it last year when Dudley got it, but then it disappeared, buried under other toys. Dudley doesn’t even remember it. But Harry does. He wants it.
His little feet move carefully across the floor. The hallway is big and scary when he is alone. The door to Dudley’s room is open just a little. He pushes it and it creaks. Harry freezes. Nothing happens. He sneaks inside.
The floor is messy. Wrappers and toys and clothes everywhere. He kneels by the bed, reaching under. His fingers touch something soft. He pulls it out. It’s dusty, but it’s the bear. Harry hugs it and hurries back to his cupboard, shutting the door behind him.
He sits, legs crossed, holding the bear in his lap. He brushes the dust off its soft fur. His fingers find the belly. He presses it.
The bear glows pink.
Then, it speaks.
"I love you."
Harry blinks. He presses it again.
"I love you."
His heart feels funny, like it’s trying to be big but doesn’t know how. No one has ever said that to him before. Not Uncle Vernon. Not Aunt Petunia. Not Dudley.
He presses the belly again.
"I love you."
"I love you."
"I love you."
Harry closes his eyes, hugging the bear close. He presses the button over and over. The tiny voice fills his cupboard. It makes him feel warm inside, like maybe, just maybe, someone really does love him.
