cw: rough sex, degradation, yandere theodore nott, gryffindor fem reader, stalker theodore nott, manipulation, smut for a little bit not much - I feel like this is a mix of various different povs but most of my stories are like that
It was no mystery to anyone that you hated Theodore Nott as much as he hated you.
"I'm starting to think you're angry because you're severely attracted to her."
Theodore paused for a moment, his fingers resting on the cigarette in his mouth before tsking. "No, that's not it. She's just so egotistical and insufferable like the rest of the lions."
"Right." Mattheo rolled his eyes but decided to give up trying to reason with his friend besides reasoning wasnt exactly in his forte.
Theodore sat there a moment before standing up, he knew exactly where to find you at all times. It was a gift in itself.
Private studying room in the library, he pushed the door open anyways much to your dismay.
"Get the fuck out." You glanced up for a moment but kept your focus on the book infront of you. He shut the door behind him but remained inside the room, taking a seat on the other side of you.
"I have a challenge for you, principessa."
This made you sit straight in your chair and focus on him fully now. "And what would that be?"
"Which of us fucks better."
"Beg for it and I'll consider this proposition."
.
.
.
You gripped his hair hard and tilted his head so that you could look down at him, his eyes bore into your own. His pupils were blown wide so much so that you barely saw the blue, you laughed. "Look at you, Theodore Nott, groveling at my feet."
His adams apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. "Let's just see who can do it better before you let your ego inflate your head bigger than what it already is." His tone was mocking but his eyes told a different story. He would be crushed if you walked away, good thing you didn't really want to.
He was attractive.
"You can fuck me if you-"
He wasted no time, not even letting you finish your sentence as he turned you around and slammed you into the wall. His heavy breathing against your ear made your knees weak. "I'll fuck you better than anyone ever has."
"This isn't a competition between others, it's us against each other." You reminded him with a roll of your eyes, he smiled against your neck.
"Us." He muttered, his hands grabbing whatever he could on your body.
You could only feel him growing harder as he did so, subconsciously or not he was rubbing his erection against your ass.
"You have no idea how long I have wanted to put you in your place." His ragged breath was made you close your thighs, was it going too far?
"Put me in my place? Look who's humping me like a dog right now."
Instead of stopping, he kept going. "Can't help the affect you have on me, cara mia - doesn't mean I won't bring you down a peg."
"And if I said - stop, no more. What would you do?"
He stopped at last, his eyes narrowed for a moment. You decided to speak for him. "Be heartbroken, devastated, absolutely crushed? That might be more victory than this."
"You wouldn't," He bit your neck rather roughly causing a gasp of shock to leave your lips. You were sure he drew blood but being too in the mood to care at the moment. "You have this need to prove your better than me, so do it."
You turned your body back around, yanking on his hair to bring him down to your level. A kiss that seemed more like a competition began, his fingers began to undo your clothing as you did the same with him.
Riiippp
You gasped as your skirt was completely ripped off of your body, you stared at him in complete bewilderment. "What the fuck? That was my favorite skirt."
"Whoops." A playful smirk was on his lips as he said that, continuing with destroying what clothing remained on your body. Pushing you back onto the table that previously occupied your books, ones long forgotten.
With no foreplay, he tried to slide himself in but pushed him away. He smirked when you did so, "Too big for you to handle?"
You shrugged. "Not in the slightest, I've had-"
His nails gripped your hips as he slid himself into you, a sharp inhale of air made you shut up. "That hurt!"
"Good, teach you to shut up." He moaned out as his eyes closed from the new found feeling of pleasure. His hips slammed roughly into yours a few times before he found rhythm, you sat on the edge of the table - your nails digging into his back.
"Trying to hurt me?" He whispered, out of breath to really speak.
"No, I'm trying to heal you. Dumb fuck," You sarcastically moaned out. He chuckled but sent a glare down at you regardless.
The main reason was that you wanted to draw blood and hurt him as he had done to you earlier, the other half of you was so overcome with bliss that you had to let it out in another place. His back seemed to be doing the trick, he wasn't going easy with his thrusting. It seemed that each whimper you let out only made him go harder and faster, almost like a man possessed.
Had it not been for the silencing charm, you were certain people would have heard your moans from across the castle.
You had never experience pleasure this good before, you would never admit that to this already egotistical bastard but god was it good. "Fu-fuck, right there." Your eyes rolled back as he kept going holding your hips to only increase the speed of his thrusts.
His own teasing had stopped as his breath was taken over by his own moans, you could have sworn you heard him say I love you alongside them as well.
It didn't take long for you both to reach your climax after that, you felt your eyes closed involuntarily - feeling utterly spent. Not before hearing him chuckle, and feeling arms wrap around your body. Too tired to fight back, you succumb to the fatigue of your body.
Fucking him was the easiest thing that ever came with Theodore Nott. No wonder so many do it with him.
You carefully got out of the bed, peeling yourself from his possessive hold. It was a little weird he had even cuddled up to you afterwards, it made your skin crawl when you think back to it. Thankfully, you heard that he barely spoke to anyone after sleeping with them.
That might be heaven on earth.
And it was just that until notes began to pour in.
None of them were cute or funny. They were utterly insane.
'I saw you laughing with Cormac McLaggen today, if you do it again - I'll kill him.' All Cormac did was tell a funny joke.
'I'll break her neck for talking to you that way.' You had gotten into a fight with a fellow classmate, one that had already been forgiven.
'Why are you trying to sleep with other people when you already had me?' You had not tried to sleep with anyone, you simply had a study buddy that happened to invite you to their dorm.
'Why did you agree to become his partner?'
The note that came after coincided with the previous one that had been sent. 'If he pulls anything, people will be finding his body parts for years to come.'
Next came the ones that weren't exactly threats more so just asking how your evening was after knowing where you had been that said day.
'Your little outfit was cute today, do anything different? Of course you did, you want to look cute for me don't you?' That was one that sent shivers down your spine, what kind of sick joke was this?
These notes were driving you into insanity. This person was watching you constantly, the only clue you had was that you had slept with this person. And another clue just that you knew yourself was that you have only slept with men so far. None of them were capable of writing such things except for Theodore Nott. So, your only theory was the most insufferable bastard who was able to lure you into bed under the assumption that it was a challenge.
Peering over your shoulder did you no good either. He, if it was Nott, was always hidden from the naked eye, but you knew he was still there. You could sense him, the hairs on your body would often stand up when you got that instinctual feeling.
"He's watching me." You told your friends that night, laying in your bed - staring at the ceiling of the room.
"Who?" They already knew who you were talking about.
"Nott."
"I think you need some sleep." Your friends no doubt thought you were delirious, lack of sleep only proving their theory more.
"Why doesn't anyone believe me?"
"He slept with the entire school, you really think he decided to stalk you after doing what he has done with the majority of the population?"
No.
She had a point.
Sighing, you turned over on your bed. Was it all in your head? Surely not.
Maybe it was. Were you the psycho obsessed with him? Merlin, had you been obsessing over him this whole time and using that as a coping mechanism?
You began to think of different scenarios of that being likely, but then who was leaving the notes? You sure as hell were not doing that.
A creepy secret admirer? One that you had previously slept with, at that.
You can't say you've slept with as many people as Theodore has so that can only leave the few people you had slept with. Pin point exactly who was behind all of this. "Let's test this theory out."
If it wasn't Nott, it was one of the others.
"Are you mad? Why would I leave you a note like that?" The first boy you asked was the person you had your first time with, he raised a brow inquisitively. "Are you alright, love?"
"I'm fine." You forced a smile.
Not him.
The others looked at you as if you were crazy, perhaps you were - you believed them all though. They had no reason in doing so, no one really did.
So, all roads led back to the original suspect. Though, did you have the nerve to ask him?
"Is it you?"
Theodore had his arm wrapped around a girl's shoulder, whispering in her ear as she giggled. The both of them eyed you up and down before Theodore cracked a smug smile. "Is what me, principessa?"
"...can we speak alone?"
Theodore looked at the girl. "Do you want me to leave you?" He teased her with a nibble on her ear, she shook her head no with a giggle.
That made you feel sick, you had sex with the biggest whore in Hogwarts. That was a known fact. Rolling your eyes, you huffed in annoyance and crossed your arms. "Alright then, I'll leave you alone-"
Theodore stared at you a moment. "That's it? No fight left in you? Did my dick numb you down?"
"Your dick did no such thing, nott. I am just exhausted from all this nonsense, so good day." You held up your hand as a dismissive wave which only made him stand up much to the dismay of the girl he was previously occupying.
He began to follow you out of the room.
Checkmate.
"Why're you being so-" He started but stopped with a laugh when he saw your smirk. "Ah, you clever girl."
"Tell me, nott. Is this your work?" You handed him the psychotic notes that had been left in various places just for you.
He grabbed them with suspicion. "Sorry, cara mia. Not me, can't say that it doesn't make me a little jealous that someone else likes you in this way."
Yeah, right. Theodore Nott jealous? That was laughable. You puffed out your lower lip. "If not you or any of them, then who could it be?"
"There are many who hate you-"
"This isn't hate, this is full blown obsession! This person is threatening to kill anyone I even accidentally look at, that is-" You groaned loudly and turned on your heel. "Forget it, you're no help."
He smirked as you walked away. Fuck, he was having way too much fun with this. It kept your mind off your studies and off other suitors.
THIS WAS ONE OF THE POLL WINNERS!!
This one took awhile because I am not good at writing smut and I did not want it to be like the others I have written before!
Tags: Reader POV, gn!reader, established relationship, no use of y/n, playful teasing, mischievous reader, neck kisses, mildly suggestive themes, it’s not smut but Percy’s arse does get a quick squeeze, domestic fluff, mentions of a broken finger, you are this man's one and onlyyy.
Summary: You’re used to working later than this. No complaints, a little R&R sounds like exactly what you need. But it seems you aren’t the only one who’s home early?
A/N: Told you I was a slow writerrrr. ANYWAY! I started working on this in February but between the lead up to the wedding, remodeling the office at work and starting an actual multi-chapter fic, I had to play this as a lower priority. But it's here!
I like writing for Percy. Idunno what it is, but this guy do be vibing inside my brain. I usually write past tense but I thought I’d try something a little different out. I think I write it really awkwardly so maybe it’ll just come down to practice haha
There is nothing better to you than watching him pretend he doesn't care for fashion.
Percy Weasley is many things. A perfectionist, a hard worker, opinionated. He appreciates neat corners and freshly cut quill nibs and loathes people who ask questions that can easily be answered by taking a minute or two to actually read the department’s bulletin board.
But what you’ve also come to know in your time together is that your husband can be very vain. Most of the time it didn't matter too much. It didn't impact your lives in any hugely dramatic way. Though from time to time it can be it's own odd little obstacle to the comings and goings of daily life.
For example, when he’d broken his finger and a simple Episkey couldn’t fix it. And instead of allowing you to simply apparate the both of you to St. Mungo’s like any reasonable man would, he'd insisted that you help him get his tie on first.
…It would have seemed less ridiculous if his lip hadn’t been wobbling while complaining on and on about the impropriety of it all. But he’d refused to budge. So you’d helped him with the stupid tie.
This doesn’t mean there aren’t bonuses, however.
Another such example being… today.
Right now.
Work was finished up a lot faster than you’d originally expected it to. You were expecting to get off work late, meet Percy near Madame Maulkin's, and get some shopping done along the alley. Treats for Hermes, some new drapes, complain about rising prices, that sort of thing.
So you were highly anticipating a little rest and relaxation in your newfound extra hours in the day. Maybe get a head start on dinner if you feel like it afterwards? Lounging around in your house clothes was also looking very inviting.
Instead, you've come home to the bedroom door slightly ajar, a weekend’s worth of clothes neatly piled around your bedroom and the thoroughly amusing, frankly adorable sight of your husband meticulously coordinating an outfit.
The floor-length mirror placed inside the bedroom had been yours before you'd both moved in together. And for the most part, you’re the one who uses it most. But when you peer in through the open door, Percy’s there in the mirror’s reflection. Turning this way and that in the new waistcoat he’d bought a few days ago.
‘It’s important to dress the part.’
That’s what Percy had claimed when he’d started overexplaining his reasoning in the shop. Off on a tangent in the corner of some upper middle-end suit shop, and you knew he’d been trying to convince himself just as much as he’d been trying to convince you. His justifications for a purchase you’d already easily agreed he should buy if he liked it so much.
He’d gone back and forth twice more before having it rung up at the till.
Now in front of you, he twists another way and looks very happy with said purchase. His palms smoothing the new material with a satisfied gleam in his eye. He spares a glance to his reflection over his shoulder, you watch his brow furrow as he reviews the shape of himself. A myriad of fabrics of varying shades and colors decorating his shoulders, as well as the furniture around him. An assortment of ties that usually live in his top drawer in neatly placed rolls.
One in a dark mauve that he’d bought after graduation because, at the time, he’d thought it made him look grown. Another in a deep turquoise that you think pops very nicely against his copper-colored hair. And another very familiar one, recognizable to you as a highly cherished silk tie in a shade of sky blue. Percy’s "secret" favourite.
He lifts a hand, aiming to adjust his glasses that sit a little lower than usual. And just as he presses them back up his nose bridge, it's plainly visible on his face.
The exact moment Percy finally finds you in the mirror's reflection.
His shoulders hike up to his ears, swiveling around to face you, ties flinging around. They swat him across the face in a consequence of Newton’s First Law.
First and foremost, he looks caught out. For some reason.
Percy looks to you more like he’s been caught doing something shocking or naughty, rather than...playing a bit of dress-up in the comfort of his own flat.
You bite the inside of your lip; a laugh threatening to bubble up and out from between your lips at his reaction, but you swallow it with no small amount of effort.
After all, YOU thought it was adorable. But you also knew Percy better than anyone, and the man would combust in a caustic mixture of embarrassment and shame if you laughed without making it clear first that you weren't actually making fun of him. The switch from Preening Percy to Propriety Percy happens in real time before your very eyes.
“Oh!”
His voice is a bit taut. He makes a great deal of clearing his throat when it fails him the first time.
“You're home? Er—" His eyes triangulate, recognizing how that could come across. He shifts his weight to something you think is intending to be a little less of what he views as flippant.
“What I meant was to say, welcome home.” Percy heralds, very pointedly not looking at the rest of the room.
The amendment itself isn’t too different from the way muggles slap duct tape over a leaking aquarium.
Which was to say poorly considering he was your husband and not, say, a butler graciously welcoming home the lord or lady of the manor.
His hands clumsily start at settling the neckties back into their proper position from where they’ve flung about around his person. Or he was trying anyway.
“This was… This w—that. I was...I’m trying a few things on. Is all–” Percy’s eyes are intensely glued to the tidying work near his left collarbone, though they dart up to check on you every half second.
“—That I am…Doing.” He probably didn’t need to say that. Percy probably didn’t need to be doing a lot of what he was doing.
You open your mouth to tell him this, but he finally gestures sparingly toward the sets of neatly pressed trousers, button-ups, and pocket squares that were splayed about the end of the bed.
"I wasn't expecting you home yet." The bumbling quality of his voice was starting to wear off and you give him a little reassuring smile.
His hands rest on his hips like he's giving a report no one asked for on his comings and goings for a department that doesn’t exist. There’s something about it that you just can’t help but admire.
The outfit, of course. Though Percy's exposition is going at a rate that’s pretty impressive all on its own.
Your eyes rove over the current fit Percy's selected. And finally leaving your hidden post, you push off of the doorframe to join him. You circle around him with an appreciative nod and you look like you're appraising the carved lines of a sculpture in a museum before giving your verdict.
“Pretty.”
He pauses, his expression transforming instantly at the single word. Confusion, understanding, and then polite reproach. His finger rises in a correction, as if to stop you from advancing, verbally or otherwise.
"Er…no. Handsome.” He’s acting as if the distinction were on equal footing to that of his proper job title. The amendment made with all the attitude of a man who probably assumes 'that will be that!', and he sets a coral necktie off to the side in a proud manner. The motion itself was a bit overly dignified and the formality of it stirs a huff of amusement out of you.
The bedroom the two of you share is modest. Comfortable, sure, but nothing fancy. The space is a perfect blend of the two of you. Neat but lived in, with accents borrowed from both. The regular scent of bergamot, the sound of parchment, and an overcast sky that sheds a comfortable amount of natural light into the flat.
There’s also very little clutter in your flat, which Percy often makes doubly sure of. It’s not that you’re necessarily a cluttered person. But like clockwork upon the anticipation of company, Percy cleans every room like he expects guests to whip out magnifying glasses and start grading dust marks on the ceiling fan.
That same overcast sky is acting as a lovely backlight. Catching the edges of Percy’s face as you step closer and giving the room a diffused cozy sort of feeling. Inspecting the menagerie of colorful fabric that’s been left hanging around his shoulders like a sort of silk blend garland. Your fingers come up to get a feel, and despite the minute way his shoulders stiffen, Percy isn't stopping you from making the appraisal.
Making a show of thought as you hold up a navy blue, paisley-patterned tie against the smooth of Percy’s cheek, you start a little game he really should recognize by now. An attentive hum from your lips draws Percy’s brows together in an anticipation that knits tighter every second you keep him waiting. Blinking once or twice, cornflower-blue eyes follow each movement of yours, however slight.
He was…a little confused? But not enough to deviate from his post as your model. So he stays dutifully still, just for you.
"Hm."
You click your tongue as you let the moment lengthen just a little longer, and just like that, Percy’s attempt to seem unbothered is ruined by the way he perks at the contemplative sound like a nosy little bird.
“No?” you determine with an air of overly serious deliberation. ”No, I think you’re pretty.”
His brow re-furrows at your statement, a very familiar but minor indignation arrives on his face. And his hands settle back onto his hips in a way that always makes your lips curl in a warm, affectionate sort of amusement.
“And–” Going one step further, you swipe the length of fabric off his shoulders with a short tug, and the swish of fabric makes Percy’s eyes scrunch shut at the slithering feeling along his neck. His eyes pop back open just a second later to see you holding it aloft, as if it were an article in court.
“..Is this your dad’s tie?”
With a squawk of offense, Percy snatches the tie back, clutching it to his chest. Safe again from your clutches, for now.
“No. It Isn’t. It’s my own tie, thank you very much.” Percy takes the time to smooth out any invisible and imaginary wrinkles. Checking it next to a pocket square and holding it up against the light. Meticulously busy-bodying himself in an attempt to keep up appearances.
A short huff sprouts from his lips, presumably meant to give him the stern appearance of a Bothered Husband. But he can never quite pull it off, and you know him too well to see anything but a cute little pout.
He lowers his glasses down his nose for a moment, squinting at the fabric and pointedly avoiding looking in your direction. But he cracks all too soon when you smile and he flicks it onto the bed to join its salmon companion with an unceremonious toss, a wry smile revealed.
“.......It was my granddad's."
Laughter bubbles out of you almost immediately at the confession, and he crosses his arms disapprovingly.
“I- Are you laughing at me??”
Unfortunately for Percy, that was exactly the case. The whole silly expanse of today’s unique situation is taking its toll at last.
“I can't—" You slap a palm against the air, waving a dismissal as your giggling fit forces you to turn away. “I can’t help it! You’re so cute.”
Percy’s lip twitches, but he swats the pocket square against your arm. Fabric tapping the side of you, feather-light.
“Stop laughing!” He scolds, "Do you really think a man wearing his grandfather’s necktie and size ten shoes can be classified as cute?”
The bubbling quality in his voice was giving him away far too easily.
Drawing him in by the waist just as easily, he obliges the movement without a second thought.
You move like your intending to check the fit of his trousers. But threading your fingers around him, you snag your thumbs into his back belt loops, effectively trapping him against you. The "stern reprimand" from moments before, that neither one of you had believed, softens off of his face as his shoulders lower from where his arms were still floating in surprise at the sudden capture.
Target Acquired.
“Oh yeah.” You insisted. The pale, freckled skin of your husband’s neck peeks out above the stiff collar of his button-up, and how could anyone resist? You nuzzle your face forward against it, resting your chin atop the white fabric.
“Adorable.” This was never up for debate in the first place.
And with the height and brightness of an oddly red lighthouse, a red flush starts to swallow Percy’s skin, starting at his neck and climbing steadily up past his hairline. The sky blue tie still hooked over his left shoulder looks fantastic now against it's Percy-coloured backdrop.
“oh……Hush.” He’s fidgeting with his knuckles behind your back, but once again he can’t muster a single hint of actual irritation. The slow brush of his jaw, shifting until it rests against your hair as though he were compelled to it by a higher power.
Percy’s eyes shut, mind a little fuzzy as he catches the scent of your shampoo. You feel his ribs expand against your own as he inhales the scent of you. He settles inside the embrace, and a warm hand perches against your back just a moment later.
“Darling.""
His voice is accompanied by the warmth of his breath against your scalp. Your own hands are still travelling the small of his back, feeling the thin material.
“Hm?” You hum softly, the shirt fabric soft under your fingers. It’s a good one, you decide absently.
Percy clears his throat. Softly, as though he was worried about bothering you with the sound and feeling of it when you were both pressed so closely together.
“...You….You’re getting handsy.” The warning was mild in nature, very much so, and completely undermined by the way he was curling a strand of your hair around his finger.
With all the fake fuss this man puts up, you’re beginning to think he might simply like the drama of it all.
“Just testing the material. That’s all.” You answer, speaking little puffs of air into the crook of his neck, each word a hot brush of air against skin. It was a lucky fortune having him encircled in your arms, because you feel it the instant he tries to suppress a ghostly spine-crawling shiver by locking himself up as rigidly as he can.
“Gotta get the full—” You slide your hands down the small of his back, fabric smoothing underneath your palms with each inch lower.
Lower.
Lower until you’re grabbing two perfect handfuls of Percy’s arse.
“—Scope of it all…ya know?”
A slightly strangled and surprised sound squeaks out of the accosted ginger, but it quickly melts into a conflicted bumble of almost-words the instant you start peppering sweet little kisses onto him.
“I- that-…Your hands. Love—” He’s leaning further into you gradually.
Teasing this man always made your day. One part because the mischievous nature in you craves seeing him all flustered up like this (and he flusters so easily), and another part because you know he likes it just as much.
“What? I’m appreciating good craftsmanship. The tailoring on this is so–”
“I Want To Take You To Dinner Tonight.”
The words seem to explode out of him in a rush of air and finally make you pause the onslaught.
He’d only managed to get it out because he’d exhaled all the words in one go, just a tad louder than what was probably necessary. But it worked. He has your attention just enough to stop you from continuing teasing him, for a moment.
Which is fine. He’ll only need a second.
If he can get the words out again. Which, knowing your husband in times like these, is a fifty-fifty odd.
"...What?" You can feel his pulse still kicking against your lips.
He pulls back, just enough. Just enough so he can meet your eyes with his face lit scarlet, and his will bravely hanging on by a thread.
Percy clears his throat again, still soft because the room is so quiet and any louder might crush the moment. He settles his hands around your waist. Thumb rubbing in a soothing caress that was just as much for your benefit as it was for his.
An unrelenting focus paints the cornflower blue of his eyes as they hold onto yours, his forehead dipping down until it rests upon your own. Gently even now, as though he were ensuring consideration of every touch you share. Every moment allowed near you a resolute choice of tender attention and meticulous care.
He’s close enough that you could count each and every freckle upon his face.
Percy stares back, and all at once it’s like the two of you are walking hand in hand through the botanical gardens all over again.
Watching him stop ‘just for a moment!' Because Percy’s shoelace just happened to unravel alongside a very beautiful wisteria, on a very beautiful afternoon on what happened to be ‘the most beautiful month of the year,' according to a magazine you had found on Percy’s desk a week earlier.
Only this time his palms are moderately less sweaty, and he’s not wincing due to a very red sunburn across his forehead.
“I took the day off. And I didn’t tell you, please forgive me, because I’d wanted…” He falters if for only a moment. The need to be honest warring with his need to commit to the plan.
For a passing second, the world consisted of a shared breath, the tick of a clock, and the mild scent of his aftershave. His eyes continue to dip downwards and return with every other march of the clock.
Percy swallows. He blinks. And then he opens his mouth.
“...I was getting dressed to take you to dinner. I wanted- Or I'd hoped to um…to surprise you.”
Percy could be very vain. And opinionated, and a hard worker and also the world's biggest perfectionist.
@drarrymicrofic prompt: Tremble. WC: 101
The world roared and shook. Pain, immense and all consuming ripped through her body then oblivion claimed her. Consciousness returned with weightlessness as gravity wrapped her enclosure in its inexorable grip. The metal surrounding her shifted and crashed into another object. The door burst open and instinct took over. She pushed her trembling broken body through the gap and up into the night. Flames erupted behind her, licking at her snowy tail feathers. A glimpse of her boy somewhere above, she couldn’t help him now. Willing her shattered wing to hold for just a bit longer Hedwig aimed for the trees.
Made some covers for the parts already posted of my fic Perennitas (1-5) and also some unposted one that I'm working on right now as a little preview 😅 Chapter 6 will be out soonish hopefully!
Summary for Perennitas: An anthology of one-shots tracing what might have been between Lily Evans and Severus Snape, if they had chosen each other.
Chapter 1: July 1978. Lily drags Severus to Petunia's wedding. It goes about as well as expected.
Chapter 2: June 1978. Lily gets a Muggle job while Severus does nothing at all, and somehow the war they're both hiding from finds her anyway.
Chapter 3: Early 1980. Lily and Severus hide from the war, then from each other, and finally from despair.
Chapter 4: October 1975. Lily spends five days convincing Severus to visit Hogsmeade, and one afternoon learning she shouldn't have asked and that firewhisky solves nothing.
Chapter 5: 1991 school year. Professor Snape (née Evans) is faced with James Potter's and Marlene McKinnon's child, her own avoidance, and the difference between caring and actually doing something.
HAPPY GALENTINE’S DAY MY LOVES, @etl-echo-audiobooks has a gift from us to you! We present you: Not A Valentine’s Date Night by @iamnoctisx , with GORGEOUS art by incendiosketches 💕
Draco shows up with Theo to a party at a pub, with others looking to ~mingle~ for Vday. And who should be there, but Hermione Granger 😈
She is incredibly spicy, thank you @lonniebebinding for QC’ing lite dom Hermione at 7am, you are the realest for that 😂🤌🏼
Hope you enjoy listening as much as I enjoyed recording Maggie’s deliciously brilliant story!
Thanks Jane for letting us use your beautiful art for this post 🤩
Should I start writing again? Im currently writing creatively about faith but I'm feeling an itch to be feral on main and write for Fandom again. Thoughts?
The mist rolling across the Hogwarts grounds did not merely obscure the landscape… It swallowed it whole. The fog clung onto the damp blades of grass, unnaturally freezing, and brushed its gentle fingertips against Liesel's robes. It was the earliest hours of the morning, the sky bruised with the pale, sickly purple of a false dawn; a sky that looked like a wound just beginning to heal.
Liesel stood dead in the center of the sprawling, empty Quidditch field. She was shivering violently, the thin silk of her nightgown offering no protection against the biting chill. Every time she exhaled, her breath bloomed into a small, white cloud of frost that hung suspended in the dead air for a fraction of a second before dissolving into the fog.
The silence was absolute. Deafening, even. It was the kind of heavy, pressurized quiet that made the ears ring.
Then, a voice cut through the fog.
It did not echo, but seemed to vibrate through her bone marrow. It was a low, silken baritone that crept through the mist and pierced into her skin, the cadence flowing through her veins. It carried the dark, resonant acoustics of the stone dungeons she so loved, however laced with a gravity. A terrifying detachment.
Unmistakably her Head of House: Professor Severus Snape.
"Do you blame yourself?"
Liesel turned around sharply, her heart giving a strange, irregular thud within her chest. The damp grass soaked immediately through her bare feet as if her socks had suddenly been exposed. She scanned the empty expanse, her mossy eyes darting around, wide, in an attempt to see through the thick mist around her. The source of the voice was nowhere to be seen.
She was completely along.
"What?" Liesel called out. Her voice stumbles over itself, choking halfway through her message.
"Well, I'd imagine someone in your place…" Snape's disembodied voice continued. The tone was maddeningly calm, but unhurried. It rang out from everywhere and nowhere all at once, drifting over her shoulder, whispering past her ear, "…would feel a sort of… guilt. After all, one doesn't forget a whole person."
Liesel's brow furrowed deep into a V. The cold was no longer just on her skin; it was beginning to seep directly into her blood. She wrapped her arms tightly around her diaphragm, tucking them under her biceps to shield them.
"… Who?" She called out, her teeth beginning to chatter, "What are you talking about?"
The mist stopped moving.
"The accident."
The world snapped.
It was a violent, sensory whiplash. The pale morning light was instantly extinguished, replaced by a suffocating, pitch-black darkness that felt was if it would drag Liesel with it. The freezing air turned stifling and impossibly hot, humid, in a microsecond. It smelled sharply of scorched earth, sweat, and the sickeningly sweet, coppery tang of fresh blood.
A chaotic, roaring noise exploded in her ears.
The screeching of brass instruments stopping at once.
Weeping. Screaming. Panicked, overlapping shouts.
Liesel stumbled forward, her bare feet hitting hard, dry earth instead of damp grass. The creeping dread of the fog was gone, replaced by the pure, high-octane terror of the people around her.
She was suddenly surrounded. A massive, thrashing crowd pressed in on her from all sides. They were a sea of faceless bodies, moving in jerky, frenzied motions, huddled so tightly together that they formed an impenetrable wall of shoulders and backs, completely blocking her view of whatever was lying on the ground in the center of their frantic circle.
A heavy, primal panic seized Liesel's chest. Her lungs constricted. She didn't know what was on the ground, but her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage. She had to see it. The urgency was a physical, burning compulsion. She needed to see it.
Two arms grabbed at her shoulders and she was suddenly pulled to meet the eyes of Draco Malfoy, whose eyes pleaded with her as he begged, "Liesel, stay with me. Don't go over there."
"Draco, what's happening? Who is that?" Liesel asks, her eyes still trained on the heap of vile bodies pushing and shoving violently against each other. Suddenly, a scream echoes through the darkness.
"MY BOY!" A grown man’s weeping sounds above all.
"Move!" Liesel shoves at Draco's chest. She threw her weight forward, trying to get past Draco's stone grip, "Let me through! Move!"
Draco stumbles as her attempt to hold Liesel fails, "Stop! Stop, Liesel!"
Liesel pushed against the dark, indistinct shoulders of the crowd. But the crowd pushed back. They surged against her, their waves of grief and anger hitting her between every heartbeat. When she looked up, the faces of the people around her blurred into terrifying, distorted masks. Their mouths stretched unnaturally wide in screams she couldn't quite decipher. Even their eyes started deep into hers, hollow and dark.
"It's your fault!" A voice shrieked directly into her ear, so loud it made her eardrum pop.
"Why didn't you stop him?!" another demanded. A heavy, invisible hand slammed into her chest, shoving her backward.
"It's your fault!" "It's your fault!" "It's your fault!" The chanting began as a disorganized roar, forming into a rhythmic, deafening drumbeat. She fought harder, her breath coming in ragged, desperate, tearing gasps. She scratched, shoved, and clawed her way through the mass of bodies until she finally burst through to the front of the circle.
She looked down…
But there was nothing there.
Not grass. Not dirt… Nothing.
It wasn't that the ground was empty. It was as if a piece of the world, a specific, human-shaped segment of reality had been violently ripped out of the universe. Liesel attempted to stare at a patch of grass that her brain simply refused to render.
She could see the dark, wet blood staining the earth around the edges. She could feel the absolute, world-ending devastation radiating from the empty space like heat from a furnace. She could sense the phantom, heavy weight of a boy she was supposed to know… A boy who was supposed to be right there… but her eyes physically could not focus on whatever it was.
Visual static, that's all it was. A terrifying, gaping blind spot in her own mind.
A sob tore from her throat, a sound of pure agony for a ghost she couldn't see. Liesel looked up, tearing her eyes from the agonizing blur.
Standing just on the edge of the frantic, wailing crowd, perfectly still and completely untouched by the hurricane of panic… was Professor Snape.
He was observing the scene with dark, unreadable eyes. The chaotic movement of the crowd seemed to flow around him like water around a rock. When Liesel looked at him, his head cocked a fraction of an inch and their eyes locked.
"Professor!" Liesel screamed over the cacophony of screams. She reached a shaking hand out toward him across the empty void. "What's happening? What is it?"
Snape didn't blink. He just stared at her. Slowly, an expression of cold, profound, inescapable tragedy settled over his pale face. He looked at her not as a student, but as a causality. He didn't answer.
Liesel froze. In a split second an absolute paralyzing confusion washed over her.
Before she could muster up a scream to get his attention once again, a part of hands, cold and desperate, slammed flat into her chest.
They shoved her violently backward, off the edge of the world, and straight into the dark.
Liesel woke with a violent, gasping start, her fingers digging into the velvet of the armchair she's resting in. Her eyes dart around, assessing the threats that may have followed her out of her subconscious and into her current world. However, all she saw were four Head Professors staring at her with concerned, calculating stares… and Professor Dumbledore gripping his wand in one hand, and feeding Fawkes with the other. The regular twinkle that appeared in his kind, blue eyes were now faded, replaced with a slight sorrow.
"Fascinating." said Professor Snape, who was just about leaning over her, his black eyes observing her soul.
Liesel softened her grip on the armchair, one by one, the color returning to her knuckles, and slowed her breathing. She wasn't in the damp grass anymore. She wasn't falling through the dark. The clammy sweat sticking to her skin reacted with the warmth of the Headmaster's office, sending a shiver down her spine.
"What have you done, Miss Ollivander?"
The mechanical sounds of Dumbledore's spindly tables ticked, clicked, and whirred, spinning in meaningless circles. Liesel blinked slowly as she studied those around her. They all looked like mourners at a wake.
Professor Sprout was wringing her dirt-stained hands so violently that her skin was a raw, bright red. Professor Flitwick stared gravely at the floorboards, seemingly unable to bear meeting her eyes. Professor McGonagall's face was ashen, her lips pressed into a thin, deeply terrified line.
Liesel smoothed the heavy fabric of her wool skirt over her knees. In the span of her one deep breath, she gathered herself and slowed her trembling. Her spine straightened into a polite confidence.
Snape held her gaze. He didn't ask again.
The next intrusion as immediate, though not as vivid. He swept into her mind, surprisingly gentle. It was as if a draft of wind brushed between her eye and socket, filling her mind with a breeze. Snape's consciousness swept past the mundane and surface-level thoughts… the texture of her favorite cardigan, the scraping of wands in the back of her grandfather's shop in Diagon Alley, the lingering taste of pumpkin juice on Harry's lips. He droved straight toward the foundation of her psyche.
But the world had stopped here.
Where there should have been a vibrant variety of her adolescent love, grief, loss, and memory… Snape hit a wall.
Snape severed the connection violently, taking a sharp, staggering half-step backward. Her Head of House, a man who had stared into the minds of the darkest wizards of the age, looked profoundly… fundamentally disturbed.
"A simple Obliviate, Severus?" Dumbledore's voice broke through the heavy silence, offering a lifeline of logic, "It is not the first time children have played with spells far beyond their depth. A misguided attempt to ease a friend's burden, perhaps?"
"No," Snape breathed. His eyes remained fixed on Liesel's serene expression. he looked back at Dumbledore, his tone grim, "A standard memory charm is blunt. It leaves jagged edges. Tear lines where the memory was violently ripped away. With Obliviate, the mind attempts to heal over the damage, but this is not that. The gaps in her memory are cleanly cut."
Snape hesitated, a rare flicker of bewilderment crossing his face, "If I am not mistaken… it appears Morganachian in nature."
McGonagall let out a sharp, rugged intake of breath. Dumbledore's eyes narrowed slightly, "Morganachian?"
"A myth," Snape said dismissively, though his voice lacked its usual piercing certainty, "An ancient theoretical magic of memory eradication. I have only heard of it. No books exist on the topic. It's simply an oral tale… The ability to cast a Morganachian spell is physically impossible for a modern witch or wizard. There has to be another explanation."
Behind the Slytherin Professor, a furious, hushed whispering broke out. The pacing of the room suddenly accelerated as Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick leaned in toward one another, their voices escalating from a discreet murmur into a heated, urgent exchange.
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience snapping. He spun around, his black robes flowing behind him, "What, pray tell, are the two of you bickering about while we are in the middle of a psychological crisis?!"
Professor Sprout puffed up her chest, her unusually warm, earthy face flushed with indignation, "We are simply discussing the obvious, Severus! Everyone in this castle has heard about the state of your common room. The duel between her and Mr. Malfoy… Perhaps he is capable of such a spell! He has been acting erratically all year and it is unwise of you to ignore-"
"That is entirely ridiculous, Pomona," Flitwick squeaked defensively, cutting her off before Snape even could. He gestured a small hand toward the eerily calm girl in their chair, "She has bested seventh-years in dueling without breaking a sweat! Liesel has retained the title of champion duelist since she disarmed Diggory in front of half of the student body- and let's not forget half the student body of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, too!"
In the armchair, Liesel's head cocked to the side like a curious bird.
Diggory.
The name brushed against the massive crater in her mind. A chill ran down her spine as if someone walked over her grave. It felt exactly like she imagined a phantom limb would feel… a sudden, sharp, blinding ache in a space where nothing existed. Her eyes glossed over for a fraction of a second, staring blankly at the edge of Dumbledore's desk. Her breath hitched.
Snape, however, looked entirely livid.
"This is not a matter of that blasted duel," He snarled, his voice a lethal bite that forced Flitwick to take a physical step back, "Both parties were thoroughly questioned. Both confirmed that no wands here involved, that it was merely an argument that escalated into an accidental loss of magical control. The matter has been investigated and closed!"
He glared between the Herbology and Charms professors, his upper lip curling into a fierce sneer, "And yet, here you stand, eagerly pointing fingers at a boy while a young girl sits in this very room in desperate need of help! Where are your priorities?!"
"We should not dismiss the possibility entirely, Severus," Dumbledore said mildly, his blue eyes watching the exchange with heavy calculation.
Shelled whipped around to the Headmaster, "With all due respect, Albus, it would be impossible for a sixteen-year-old boy to perform such magic. The structure of the void in her mind requires a mastery of magical theory that Draco Malfoy simply does not possess."
"Albus, perhaps we must consider the possibility of--" McGonagall began, her hands trembling so violently that she had to grip her own robes to steady them.
"Thank you, Minerva," Dumbledore interrupted smoothly, raising a hand to silence her before she could voice the horrifying though that was slowly dawning on all of them: that Liesel had done it to herself.
Dumbledore bypassed the arguing professors entirely and leaned over his desk, addressing Liesel directly. The gentle, grandfatherly warmth returned to his voice in full force, "There is nothing to worry about, Liesel. We will find out exactly what has caused this blockage. We will reverse it, and I assure you, you will be back to normal very soon."
"I must strongly advise against any immediate intervention, Headmaster," Snape interjected. His voice cut through the Headmaster's reassurances with cold, clinical precision. He stepped closer to him and the phoenix, his dark eyes flashing with warning, "The mind is currently balanced perfectly around his void. If we attempt to pry the edges open before we know the exact incantation that sealed them, the ensuing cognitive collapse would be irreversible. She will not simply remember. She could collapse."
Dumbledore's expression darkened with sorrow, "A delicate approach, then. We shall proceed with the utmost caution."
”Any approach whatsoever to recovering her memory would place her back in the state she was before! Doing so could-“ Professor Snape’s voice lowered to a volume in which he thought Liesel could not hear, “It could kill the girl.”
But Liesel heard. And what Dumbledore said next in the same lowered tone is what made her mind go completely blank in fear.
”If that is what we must do, Severus.”
The room fell dead silent. The tension was thick, metallic, like the smell of blood in the air from Liesel's frightening experience earlier. Liesel sat perfectly still, listening to the arguing of those that teach her from day to day. She looked at Dumbledore's heavily lined face. She looked down at her own steady, unblemished hands resting gracefully in her lap. Her fingertips… Her palms… She listened to the pristine, unpolluted quiet in her own head.
"No."
The single syllable dropped into the center of the room like a heavy stone Liesel had tossed into the Black Lake. Those around her went rigid, pale.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Ollivander?" Dumbledore asked, his voice losing it's softness.
Liesel looked up, once again meeting the Headmaster's gaze. She didn't look like the traumatized teenager that they saw her as, "I said no, Headmaster," Liesel repeated, her voice perfectly even, "I do not wish to be… fixed, as you would so politely put it."
"Liesel," Dumbledore stepped forward, his voice now even softer than before, "You don't understand what you are saying. You are missing pieces of your own life. You are missing… people who cared for you very deeply. It may not be an easy journey, but it is a journey that is necessary to take once we understand it better.”
"Surely I must consider it a mercy…" Liesel whispers to him.
Dumbledore’s eyes lost a bit of their kidness, "What are you implying?"
"Whatever I am missing, it is clearly something that was causing me a great deal of distress."
Snape took a slow, deliberate step forward and sat down on a wooden chair right beside her. He looked her with an intriguing mix of intelligence and bitter understanding. He was a man who had spent his entire adult life drowning in his own memories and he was looking at a girl who had hers ripped away.
"ignorance is not a cure, Liesel." Snape said, his voice low, "It is merely an anesthetic. Eventually, some of this magic will wear off. And when it does, the pain will not just return. It will break you in ways we cannot even properly predict."
Liesel looked at her Head of House, entirely unfazed by his dark warning.
"Then I suggest," Liesel murmured, her voice dropping to a mature tone, "that we do not try to speed up the process. I am quite comfortable as I am, Professor. I can work in my grandfather's shop just fine. And unless my academic performance begins to suffer, I would ask that my mind be left entirely to my own management."
Liesel stood up suddenly from the armchair, adjusting the cuffs of her blouse. She looked at Dumbledore, who was watching her with an immense sadness, "If that is all, Headmaster, I really must be getting to the library. Harry is expecting me to help him review his Potions essay."
Without waiting for a formal dismissal, Liesel turned on her heel, grasping at her satchel of books as she fled. The heavy oak door clicked softly shut behind her, leaving a suffocating, horrified silence in its wake.
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1 MONTH EARLIER - 6th YEAR
"Liesel"
The voice was choked, seemingly on the edge of a sob. A shaking hand reached out from the dark and hesitated before brushing the pale fignertips against her shoulder.
"Liesel, wake up."
She didn't move. Her mousy brown curls, once tied in a braid but had broken free, fanned out in a chaotic halo against the freezing stone of the Slytherin Common Room floor. Her skin was terrifyingly, unnaturally pale in the deep emerald lighting from the Black Lake. Draco's heart hammered against his ribs with a frantic, sickening rhythm as he knelt beside her as if his lungs refused to take in air.
He had done it.
He had killed his best friend.
He had only meant to erase her.
A moment later, Liesel gasped.
It wasn't a gasp of terror, but the soft, sudden waking from a particularly deep sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, shining in the watery light. She blinked up at the vaulted stone ceiling, her brow furring in mild confusion. Slowly, moving with a strange, languid grace, she pushed herself up into her elbows, wincing slightly as her hand drifting to the side of her head.
"Draco?" Liesel murmured.
Draco stopped breathing entirely. Her voice lacked the heavy, exhausted, bleeding edge it had carried for months. It sounded impossibly light. Airy. Dreamy. Entirely stripped of the crushing gravity of the war. She looked around the room, her dark eyes skimming over the splintered remains of the leather armchairs, the shattered ceramic of the historic vases, and the violent scorch marks singed into the ceiling and antique Persian rug.
Her eyes widened, but only in mild, detached surprise, "Merlin, what happened to the room? … And why does my head feel like it's been split open?"
Draco stared at her. He waited for the screaming. He waited for the panic, the tears, the furious realization of what she had lost. Or even a desperate kiss just to have a taste of someone's skin. But she didn't look angry, or desperate. She didn't look terrified. She just looked… lost.
He swallowed hard, shoving the crushing guilt of what he had done down into his stomach. He had to build his story. He had to start orchestrating the perfect lie right now, before the empty spaces in her mind realized they were empty.
"You…" Draco stammered. He aggressively cleared his throat, forcing a mask of casual composure, "You had too much Firewhiskey. We both did. We had a misunderstanding. We were arguing, and we both lost control of our magic."
Liesel looked down at her own hands, turning them over as if checking for soot, and then looked back up at him. A soft, incredibly trusting frown touched her lips.
"Did we?" Liesel asked softly, her words slightly slurring in magical exhaustion, "I don't remember fighting, I'm sorry, Draco. Snape will have us in detention for weeks for ruining the common room."
The unburdened innocence in her apology felt like a jagged knife twisting directly between Draco's ribs. She was apologizing to him, the boy that just erased her memories.
"Don't worry one bit, Liesel. I'll speak with him," he whispered, his voice cracking horrible. He couldn't look at her eyes anymore. He stood up, offering her his trembling hand, "Come on. You need to sleep."
He hauled her gently onto her feet. She swayed, her balance entirely off, and Draco immediately wrapped an arm tightly around her waist to keep her upright. He guided her away from the destruction, stepping over the shattered glass, and began the long, agonizing walk up to the dark steps to the girls' dormitories. As they walked down the corridor, the sound of rushing water from below their feet echoed between the stone walls, Liesel leaned her head against his shoulder. She was so entirely unbothered by the state of her own mind that she began to hum. It was a slow, old wizard crooner melody.
Draco couldn't remember the last time she hummed. Surely not since the end of their 4th year. Two years. Draco felt as if he wanted to scream until his throat bled.
When they finally reached the heavy oak door of the sixth-year girls' dormitory, Draco raised his fist and knocked three times. And then another three times. And then anoth-
The door swung open between the final three knocks, accompanied by a shrieking voice and a chestnut wand shoved between Draco's eyes, "What in Merlin's name are you doing knocking at our door at 3 in the morning, Draco? I've got to-"
Pansy Parkinson's eyes widen and the words die in her throat upon taking in the image in front of her. Liesel looked entirely wrecked. Her jaw was unclenched as her eyes struggled to remain open. Her chin was covered in a series of small, red scratches, and the ends of her curls were visibly singed, smelling faintly of smoke. But it wasn't Liesel that made the blood drain from Pansy's face.
It was Draco.
Pansy stepped closer, her sharp eyes staring daggers at his appearance. The untouchable, aristocratic Draco Malfoy was completely gone, leaving behind a boy who looked entirely feral. Draco was trembling so violently his teeth were practically chattering. His skin was coated in sweat, rendering him the color of old parchment. His silver eyes were bloodshot and darting frantically around the empty corridor like a cornered animal waiting for a killing blow. The pulse at the base of his throat was beating so fast that Pansy thought it was about to burst.
He didn't look like a boy who just had a spat with a friend. He looked like a boy who had just committed a murder and was holding the corpse.
Pansy knew the secrets Draco had been harboring all year. She knew the pressure he was under. Liesel knew. And looking at him now, she knew with a chilling certainly that he had crossed a line that he could never uncross.
"Draco, what did you do?" Pansy asked, her voice dropping into a dangerous, yet empathetic whisper.
"Please."
Draco didn't explain. He couldn't form the words if he wanted to. His chest heaved in a ragged breath as he gently pushed Liesel forward, out of his own grip and into Pansy's waiting arms.
"Please."
It was a fractured, desperate begging.
"Please, just take her. Make sure she gets to bed okay."
Pansy was entirely shocked into silence. She caught Liesel by the shoulders, her hands steadying the swaying girl, "I- Draco…" Pansy isn't sure what to say. What could she ever say to Draco? "…Alright. I've got her," She wrapped her arm around Liesel's waist and leans back toward the door.
Draco didn't wait to see the door close. He didn't say goodnight. He turned on his heel and half-ran back across the common room and to the boys' dormitory. With him, he carried the full weight of the Tragedy of Liesel Ollivander all on his own.
After all, she wouldn't remember it.
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(a/n: thank you for reading the first chapter of “Never Be the Cure”! the next chapter will jump back to the beginning of their 5th year. If you have any thoughts please feel welcome to let me know :) I can't wait to share Liesel with you all!)
My greatest fear is that I will post one of these out of sequence and not realise...
A bit to unpack here!! We're dipping our little toe into angsty waters...
I hope you enjoy. This chapter was such a challenge. There was so much I wanted to convey in just a dozen slides.
I’m going to keep the text description just to Ao3 I think, going forward? It kept getting cut off here and I don’t have the kind of personality that can continue to let that happen.
