#notts blurb

[govnder]

cuteness aggression with theo omg 💔 like either him or reader jst getting major cuteness aggression from each other cause ugh, i wanna bite him SO. BAD!! it’s a problem actually, duda…😓

i loved this idea so bad that i spent the whole day writing it, trying to make it perfect. i can TOTALLY see reader being overly affectionate towards theo and he reacting like “🙄 ugh” and pretending he is not loving it. with that said, i wrote reader attacking theo, because i can't really imagine him doing it because aaaaalll of his issues. thank you for the ask, anon <3

cuteness aggression with theo.

theodore’s room was quiet at two in the morning, the kind of quiet that settles only after bodies have spoken the oldest language in the earth. your bodies lay tangled together in the way you both arrived into the world—naked, bare, and freed from any restraint and barriers that clothes could offer after an hour of intense love making. beneath the blankets, you were warm and protected from the merciless winter cold of the scottish night, and the only sounds that disturbed the silence were your mingled breaths.

and, well, the sounds of your mouth against theodore’s skin.

you didn’t know what had gotten into you. when you both collapsed back onto the mattress (far more luxurious than anything any other hogwarts student owned, mind you, a courtesy of theodore’s old and powerful last name), sweaty and tired, something about him looked different to you. the vulnerability and relaxation the lines of his naked body expressed, combined with his dilated pupils and the raspy tone in his voice—evident in the whispers born from all the effort of the moans and grunts he had let escape moments ago—made him look excessively gorgeous.

so gorgeous you couldn’t hold yourself back.

your lips, swollen from your recent activities, found theodore’s cheek in a series of wet kisses, with no sexual intention, unlike the ones you had shared an hour prior. theodore glanced at you sideways, confused, but didn’t move.

that stillness told you everything: he liked this.

so you climbed atop of him, your breasts brushing his chest, and you began kissing all across the expanse of his face. eventually, theo protested softly, a whispered “what are you doing,” but the question was cut short by a lingering, silencing kiss from your warm mouth. one of his calloused hands—made rough by years of quidditch—rested on your lower back, and the other found its place on your nape, almost guiding—pleading—where he wanted your kisses. excluding you from the equation, no one could say theodore was an overly affectionate person. before you, fucking women and then forgetting their names was his pattern, seeking only the carnal, never real tenderness. when a few girls confused things and dared to try to hold theodore’s hand in the great hall, he put them in their place and was painfully clear when he said he “didn’t fuck with clingy girls.”

but when you entered his life and his certainties began to shift, theodore found himself liking—craving, actually—your bouts of affection. still, due to his own emotional blockages, the pda was limited to a hand on your back, your waist, your shoulder, your fingers entwined with his. he let the big, innocent devotion and kisses be your territory, understanding that he simply wasn’t the type of man to do what you did, the way you did it.

in subtle ways, he showed you he accepted your gentle touches, even if he rolled his eyes because he needed to “keep his composure.” to you, it was obvious, and needed no further explanation: he enjoyed it.

“you’re cute,” you whisper between pecks on his cheek, your index finger tracing the bridge of his nose. your lips wandered to his chin, his dark circles, temple, his forehead and the tip of his nose, making soft pops that caused a faint tickle on his skin. “very cute.”

he lifts a his thick eyebrow, gray eyes half-lidded as he looks at you as though you’ve said something outrageously untrue. “cute?” he murmurs, his thumb stroking your back slowly, gently. “i just fucked your brains out, and you’re calling me cute?” he says crudely.

you meet his tone with ease, fluent in the language of theodore nott. “there’s no use trying to break the moment by being crude, theodore.” you hiss softly, your kisses now paying special attention to the beauty mark on his right cheekbone. that damn enchanting, maddening and lovely mole. “you still look very cute to me.”

he always tried to break the moment whenever you looked too in love with him. it was a pattern; as if he got embarrassed receiving attention meant purely and solely for tenderness.

as your heart seemed to overflow with love for the man who was your momentary personal mattress, your kisses grew firmer, more aggressive. more playful. after spending a good while on that specific mole, your attention shifted to his sharp jawline, delivering wet, loud, hard kisses that made him flinch. “handsome,” your voice is clearer now. “even when you try to be an ogre.”

his eyes squeezed shut, brows wrinkling and his nose scrunching in a way that summoned bunny lines where your finger had traced earlier. “stop,” he said, without really meaning it, a blush uncharacteristic of him gathering across his pale, thin cheeks. “stop, bambina…”

once again, silenced by a peck; this time not as gentle and quick, but longer and lovingly aggressive.

he gave up trying. theodore simply knew it was pointless.

your laughter echoed through the dark room, delicate and sincere, the sound carried with amusement and delight at seeing him sink into his own blush. briefly, your lips found his adam’s apple, but soon returned to his face. your soft hands cradled his cheeks, and at this point, theodore was sulking. another kiss was pressed to the tip of his nose.

“as i said,” you look at him, now facing you back, his embarrassment painting his cheeks a beautiful shade of scarlet. “cute.”

he rolls his eyes. you were fucking insufferable.

he loves pointing out when he makes you blush. it doesn’t seem quite as fun when he’s the victim of the unbearable heat running through his own face.

seems like the tables have turned.

[govnder]

omg duda, imagine theo finally meeting someone who can speak italian in hogwarts 💔💔 the amount of inside jokes and niche references that him and reader would have from their fav media and music in their culture to things like playful flirting that only they understand!!

theodore nott x italian speaker!reader. -> brief smut

since childhood, theodore had always yearned for someone who spoke his mother tongue, a dearly cherished inheritance passed down by his mother like a folk song, fragile and precious. however, in a world where people took pride in ignorance, or so theodore believed, it was nearly impossible to find someone who could match him linguistically. he often felt misread; theodore felt that no one truly knew his real personality, since he definitely wasn’t as flippant and quick-witted when speaking english as he was in italian. then, when he met you, it was as if a part of him that had always lived in darkness was finally illuminated.

the first time he truly noticed you was when he was wandering through the castle, skipping classes, and consequently came across a nameless diary in the hogwarts courtyard, tossed aside and forgotten in a shadowy corner. hoping it belonged to someone from the golden trio—potter, preferably—so whatever secrets lay inside could be weaponized, he opened the leather cover.

what he found, however, was the last thing he expected: a delicate handwriting in black ink spilled across the yellowed pages, and, to his astonishment, the words were written in italian. theodore would have sworn that this was the equivalent of bloody tom riddle creating his first horcrux, feeling that illicit, electric thrill of discovery that riddle must have felt. how was it possible that there was another italian speaker at this school, in the middle of scotland, and theodore had no knowledge of it? nott knew everyone, even if only by sight. but never, in almost seven years at hogwarts, had he noticed the presence of other voice that spoke his language.

the mystery unraveled quickly. you appeared soon after, flustered and shaken in your uniform, having rushed out of your classroom in panic over your precious, now lost diary. then theodore knew. he knew who you were, of course, but he’d never paid you much attention. nor had you sought his, unlike the other desperate girls who were always hovering around him.

your luck was so utterly fucked that the only person who spoke italian in this school was the detective who had found your diary.

few words were exchanged, among them “i didn’t know you spoke italian” from the gray-eyed boy, and an embarassed “yes, i do” from you. you wouldn’t ask if he had read it—honestly, you already knew the answer and chose to spare yourself the humiliation—so you simply took it and fled, cheeks burning with shame at what he might have seen.

hopefully, not much.

──・──

BEFORE THE RELATIONSHIP:

your approach would be slow and gradual, and the initiative would come from theodore. small notes slipped to you during class written in italian, containing things like “sai qual è la risposta della sei?” do you know the answer to number six or “è il mio sogno lavare i capelli di snape con uno shampoo costoso. sul serio, non ho mai visto niente di più orribile.” it’s my dream to wash snape’s hair with an expensive shampoo. seriously, i’ve never seen anything more horrible, once you were closer, observations that were solely meant to you. there, you would realize that this was theodore’s way of starting conversations and reaching out discreetly, in a way that no one but the two of you would understand. with these small acts, you’d notice that he wasn’t the unbearable boy the gryffindors and a portion of the school (which was polarized between slytherin bootlickers and complete snake haters) made him out to be—and that, in fact, he was genuinely thoughtful, sharp, and quietly compelling.

smiles followed in the corridors. a shared ciao became routine. sometimes, if you were heading to the same place, he would draw you into conversation, always in italian. from the other side of the corridor, mattheo would look at him in confusion, not understanding why the hell theodore was speaking the language with a girl he barely acknowledged before; and theodore would tell him only what was necessary. this was a new part of his life that he considered private, even if he barely knew you yet.

the turning point would be when trelawney paired the two of you for a divination assignment. you’d meet at the library, intending to work, but spent most of the afternoon talking instead. there, you’d tell him why you learned Italian—as a way to express yourself without anyone around understanding—and theodore would take the opportunity to flirt, making it clear that you were the first girl intelligent enough to speak the language he’d always known; and that you enchanted him. your cheeks would burn, and he’d give you the most charming smile you’d ever seen—typically Italian, really. when you admitted he was the first native speaker you had ever known, his smile widened. “then I’ll have to take you to italy someday,” he’d say with a wink, before picking up his quill and insisting you actually begin studying. from then on, well, the urge to know theodore more deeply grew considerably.

as the days passed, theo found himself increasingly enchanted—not just with you, but with the freedom he felt around you, able to express himself with words that weren’t in the english dictionary. speaking italian with you awakened parts of himself he hadn’t known were dormant. he’d show you his favorite italian songs, and when you said your favorite was the classic “volare,” by the gypsy kings, theodore’s smile was worthy of a toothpaste commercial—bright and enormous. merlin, he loved that song. he had a deeply affectionate memory of his mother dancing to it many years ago, red hair in the wind and a flowing dress in the summer air.

gradually, english would slowly give way to italian, and you’d rarely speak the former language. especially when you were in crowds—you didn’t want others to understand you.

“did you read my diary?” you asked one day, walking beside him through the halls. your uniforms almost dragging on the floor. “no,” he replies. “but only because there wasn’t time, gattina. i would have read it if I’d had the chance.” he winks mischievously.

theodore would take you to various italian restaurants once things finally began to escalate. there, he’d tell you stories about his mother, his life in italy as a child, and how good it felt to finally have someone who understood him. you listened, honored by the trust he placed in you.

your inside jokes would be absurd—he couldn’t remember a time when he’d laughed so much. the best part was that they were truly internal; no one would ever understand you. references to classic italian films that were never translated to english would be as common as snow in winter, and he would make a point of showing you more esoteric works that a non-speaker would never grasp. in this way, your bond would grow each day, as strong and indestructible as nuclear paste.

when he finally asked you to be his girlfriend, it would be the italian way. an intimate proposal, a picnic with dishes his mother used to make and that he cooked himself. he’d give you a promise ring—a fedina, as they called it—a small silver band with a tiny emerald stone that symbolized your bond; and that would keep other boys out of your orbit.

──・──

DURING THE RELATIONSHIP:

the notes would persist, but now with a more… intimate tone. “non vedo l’ora di scoparti stasera ;)” i can’t wait to fuck you tonight; “quella collana è molto carina, ma scommetto che le mie mani che ti strangolano sono più piacevoli.” that necklace is very nice, but i bet my hands strangling you are nicer, and other obscene writings that aren’t very appropriate to share.

the promise to take you to Italy and introduce you to more Italians would have been fulfilled long ago. rome, always rome, would be religiously chosen for the summer break, and theodore would watch adoringly as your dress spun in the wind at some little bar on one of the streets lit by yellow european lights, the heat responsible for painting tiny beads of sweat on your forehead as you danced to the traditional funiculì, funiculà—but you wouldn’t stop. you’d interact and dance and eat and drink gracefully with some of theo’s acquaintances, and he could distinguish your light accent and your voice from afar in the myriad of different voices.

your arguments would be heated, with shouting and never, ever using english words. once again, italian would reign between you, and something about the curses and strong phonetics lacking in english made you and him fully agree that arguing like that was better. more honest. scorching—just like your souls. after the reconciliation—which never took more than an hour, because you simply couldn’t bear the excruciatingly painful distance—the sex would be wild.

“scusami per essere un ogro fottuto, amore mio,” theodore says between moans, thrusting into you hard in contrast to his gentle words. his cock filled you completely, your pussy gripping him so tightly that, if you hadn’t already come three times on his tongue, he’d probably have trouble in thrusting. “cazzo, tesoro, scusami,” he whispers against your ear, stroking your clit with a calloused thumb in a frantic rhythm.

after hogwarts, when he had already seen you wear the wedding dress that phoena had worn long ago and a miniature version of the two of you ran through nott manor, you and theodore would commit to teaching your child Italian first, and then—many years later, mind you—you’d tutor him english. not because the boy had any interest in the language—he hated it just as much as his father—but because he’d be going to hogwarts, and unfortunately, even after a few generations, eleven-year-olds still didn’t speak other languages; and because english was still the world's language. reluctantly, theodore would help you in this arduous mission, but he hoped, quietly, that his child would one day find what he had found—someone who spoke to the deepest parts of him, as you always had. that his child would find someone as special, intelligent, and sweet as his mother.

[govnder]

DUDAA HII 😽😽 your latest fic literally gave me such a big brain idea!! imagine if reader had a baby sister or brother and theo was over for the first time☹️ like imagine how cute reader would look just playing or getting food for their sibling and theo’s literally just like “yeah. yeah that confirms that you’re going to have my kids now”

theodore nott's first baby fever.

theodore hadn’t thought about having children until this very moment.

kids were a distant notion for the boy who had watched the life bleed from his mother’s green eyes, her death dealt by his father’s wand. he would forever remember that doomed tuesday—playing with her one last time in the morning, and realizing, by late afternoon, that she would never play with him again. add to that the abusive, suffocating control that christian nott kept over him until the war ended and azkaban turned his new home, and theodore became absolutely certain he would make as despicable of a father as his own had been.

children weren’t his dream. not by a long shot.

however, that changed when he met your parents for the first time, one month after the war ended. he was hesitant—the dark mark still throbbed on his forearm, and he feared what your parents might see when they looked at him—but you insisted he should go. you told him that now that the world stopped burning, you had realized how brief life could be, and you didn’t want to waste any more of it between him and his future in-laws that might someday become his family. with your bright eyes, soft lips, and sweet voice begging him to go, theodore simply couldn’t say no, even if his brain alarmed him not to—terrified your parents would get the wrong impression of him.

or at least, as wrong an impression as his appearance suggested. your parents condemned voldemort's ideals with the same vehemence you did, and, well—having a boyfriend with a bloody dark mark on his arm wasn’t exactly what they had envisioned for you.

but theodore saw you had really told him the truth when you said you had already explained to your parents that he had been a death eater, but one who had been forced into the ranks by his father’s brute cruelty. even so, nothing prepared him for your mother’s warm embrace, nor for the soft confession that she admired his strength, neither for when your father shook his hand in a way that told him everything he needed to know: he did not disapprove him.

not completely, at least.

but none of that came close to preparing him for your sister.

she was small. the little girl—three years old at most—had your eyes and hair, like a pocket-sized version of you, but plump, chubby and soft. from an armchair in your living room, he watched you play with her on the carpeted floor. you kissed her, hugged her, made silly voices that coaxed the toddler to laugh with every bit of air in her tiny lungs, and more than once, theodore caught himself smiling.

you did all of it so effortlessly.

you fed her with a hot-pink spoon, making an annoying airplane noise she adored.

you covered her chubby cheeks with kisses dramatically until she erupted in giggles.

you changed her disgusting diaper without even wrinkling your nose.

you detangled her hair with gentleness.

you crouched down to speak to her at eye level.

he was fascinated.

he allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, what things might have been like if circumstances were different—if this child were the fruit of your love. if his hands weren’t so stained with blood to hold a pure little baby. if he didn’t carry a past that clung to him like an obsessing spirit.

maybe he could be a good father. you would certainly be a remarkable mother.

jesus, the thought of seeing your belly swollen with a child who shared your smiles or his light brown curls, hearing a first cry while you lay on a hospital bed, weak from natural labor or asleep beneath C-section anesthesia... even the image of him holding your hair back while you vomited through the nausea of the first trimester felt… strangely sweet.

and that’s the moment theodore knew he wanted it.

he wanted you to be the mother of his child—children, if you wished them. he wanted to teach them all the good things he had learned from phoena—italian, the comfort of his country’s cuisine, special spells hogwarts would never teach—and be the best father those kids could ever dream of. he would protect them and keep them far from grandfather’s reach but close to their grandmother’s memory. he’d tell them how brave their mommy truly was, and recount—softened into fairy-tale versions—all the situations you faced during the wizarding war. he’d kiss you in front of them just to make them jealous; a girl and a boy, perhaps. or two boys. or two girls. it didn’t matter.

he just wanted them. he wanted you, and the life that could bloom from you. once again, without really meaning to, you had revealed a gentler piece of him to himself.

theodore watched you play with your tiny sister, still sitting on the armchair, a wide smile blooming every time he heard her giggles and babbled words. “can i hold her?” he asked, uncertainty glinting beneath his italian accent.

you looked at him with love and a smile as wide as your lips could stretch. you knew theodore held a deep reservation about children, always seeing himself as too brutish, too monstrous to be anywhere near those little angels. you disagreed fiercely.

and when you placed your sister in his arms and she looked at him with curiosity, her doe eyes sparkling at the new human in front of her, you watched another layer of the inner frost inside him crack open, letting through the kindest, warmest heat. his smile when she wrapped her entire little fist around his finger was so wide his cheeks actually seemed to ache.

you watched, live and in color, a new idea of future fatherhood silently take shape in theo; and it was probably the most beautiful sight you had ever witnessed in your entire life.

[govnder]

DUDAAAA i love your fics so muchhh! 🩷🩷 i was wondering how theo would be like as a dad/navigating readers pregnancy

love you 🩷🩷🩷

this is such a sweet idea! i am not sure if i am happy with this lol but i wanted to write this before new years. i wrote a few headcanons covering the day reader showed theo the positive pregnancy test all the way to the day reader gave birth—i chose not to assign a gender to the baby so you can imagine it according to your own thoughts about him being a girl or boy dad. i must also add that this is set in a post-war scenario, so both theo and reader are financially stable and above 18. i hope you enjoy it! xx

theodore nott navigating through reader's pregnancy.

when you discovered the pregnancy, it hit theodore hard. he didn’t know how to react—he had never been good with children, shaped as he was by a harsh childhood. son of a father brutally incapable of feeling any kind of love and a mother who was taken away precociously, theodore was certain that being a good father was beyond his abilities. christian nott had raised him coldly and calculatingly, teaching discipline without warmth, so when you held out the pregnancy test, its thin lines unmistakably positive, the fear of becoming the very thing he despised devoured him like worms. still, he held you as you cried, whispering into your hair that he would do the impossible for the child that would begin to grow in your womb, whispering promises he was not sure if he could keep.

in the days that followed, theodore visited his mother’s grave at the old nott manor (long abandoned by a christian who would rot in azkaban and by a son who carried deplorable memories of the place, theodore still kept house-elves there to care for the estate and keep alive the place where his mother had spent her final years, though) again and again. at her grave, he confessed to her that he was apprehensive, that he truly didn’t know what path to follow now. that he was afraid of what was to come—afraid of becoming like his sperm donor. that he wanted her embrace, the kind that would reassure him that everything would be all right, that he would be alright and a much, much better father than the one he had. that he wished she were there to meet her grandson or granddaughter—but since she wasn’t, he would take on the responsibility of telling the child just how noble phoena nott had been while her eyes still shone with life. he would leave with the feeling that his mother had heard him, that she would guide him in this new chapter—even if from another spiritual plane, unreachable by theo’s calloused hands.

during the first two or three months, theo felt lost in a labyrinth. he woke up repeatedly in the dead of night from nightmares that left his heart pounding—visions of you dying as phoena had, of himself standing useless at the center of ruin. dreams of him becoming a wretched father. dreams of your child looking at him with hatred, just the way he did with christian. theodore wasn’t one to cry, but the tricks of his unconscious mind brought him to tears like a baby whose favorite toy had been taken away. his sobs woke you, and as gently as ever, you surrounded him with infinite care.

“you’re the man i chose to be the father of my child,” you assured him, holding a tear-soaked theo against your chest, your legs wrapped around his waist as he lay curled against you. “you’re the only person i would ever choose to have a family with. you’re not like your father, theo. and i am grateful, so grateful for you and for this life we’re beginning together.”

those words soothed the italian. only you had that power. and when you kissed him sweetly and wiped away the tears tracing paths of insecurity down his sharp cheeks, he managed to chase the bad thoughts away, falling asleep in your arms with the certainty that he wouldn’t have those visions again—he knew they didn't dare to follow him there.

as the months passed and as he allowed himself to be seen by you, something shifted. he bared himself entirely to you, and you received that opportunity speaking to him with patience, helping him recognize that he was your choice; slowly, theodore began to see fatherhood through different lenses. maybe he wouldn’t be so terrible, after all. maybe the tenderness he gave you could be widened, extended, made into something that could hold a child. perhaps he would not fail so greatly. 

the turning point came when you reminded him of the beginning of your relationship—when he realized what he felt for you went far beyond the carnal, something frightening real compared to the shallow relationships from the past—and how this was somehow the same. how he had pushed you away out of fear of not being what you deserved, and how you stayed anyways. he came to understand that you were right: if not for your irritating and steadfast persistence, perhaps you wouldn’t be where you were now. your bond wouldn’t be so strong. you wouldn’t have faced a war and come out alive to tell the story. you wouldn’t have the living proof of your love growing in your womb. and so, after another visit to his mother’s grave, theodore decided he would give himself a chance—a chance to prove that he wasn’t what his father had molded him to be, but a man capable of being gentle, loving. a man who could be the father his child deserved.

the days moved slowly—at baby steps, ironically enough. at night, he would rest his head on your legs and talk to your belly, still flat and not showing. he read everything he could find: books on fatherhood, on psychology, how to deal with children, how to leave the past behind where it belonged. he thought of it as a sort of self-made parenting manual; perhaps he could publish it someday, if he succeeded in his mission. you always said he was a wonderful writer, after all.

“you’re going to be as beautiful as your mother,” he whispered against your round belly, planting soft kisses as his large hand caressed you while you slept. “i can’t wait to teach you italian and tell you about your grandmother. to protect you. to anchor you.” he murmured, his gray eyes closing. “i love you. so much.” another kiss to your stomach. “and your mother does too.”

he watched your belly grow with each passing day and accompanied you to every medical appointment. he asked the doctor countless questions: is the baby healthy? did you need any specific nutrients? is there even a test for that? when can we know the sex? 

the doctor laughed gently. “you chose the father well,” she told you, earning a wide smile from you. theodore flushed. well. it seemed others saw what you had always known.

his love for the child blossomed like the most beautiful rose, and soon theodore found himself imagining a life-filled child running through the house. even the tantrums would be precious, should they inherit their father’s temperament. any doubt about his ability to love his kid faded away—because he was not his father. he'd honor the love he received from phoena. he'd honor you.

when the baby’s gender was finally revealed, theodore found himself in a trance. it was real. on the screen, unmistakable even in grayscale, was his child. the baby had his nose. his bone structure. no matter how hard he tried to hold it together, the revelation unleashed tears he didn’t even know he’d been holding. merda. it was overwhelming, terrifying and beautiful all at once—but he needed to stay strong. you cried too, lying on the exam table with your already-rounded belly covered in gel, and he tried to remain composed as he stroked your hair. it was so hard not to fall apart at the sight of that little bundle of love the two of you had created.

the bigger your belly grew, smaller were your responsibilities. theo did everything—from cooking (indulging your strangest pregnancy cravings, which he would never dare to try himself) to cleaning. if you dared to attempt any effort, he carried you back to the couch, lifting you through the house the same way he had on your wedding day. he even teased you, saying you were still beautiful, even with your lips perpetually pouting. to him, you were celestial—especially like this. also, he would sometimes hold your belly while you stood, smiling when he saw your sigh of relief as the weight was taken off your front.

he already considered you his queen—but now it was as though that love had tripled. he cared for you like never before: feeding you when you felt weak, making sure you got every nutrient needed for both your health and the baby’s. he massaged your aching feet, combed your hair when you felt lazy... he wanted you to feel as light as possible, even with a little bundle weighing on your body.

he called mattheo, blaise, draco, and lorenzo to help build the nursery. together, the men created the best sanctuary possible for the child to come—but theo insisted on assembling the furniture himself. his mother had once told him she’d had to hire people to do it when he was born, because christian hadn’t bothered. theo took quiet satisfaction in being the opposite.

on the night your water broke—at dawn, of course, because theo’s child would obviously inherit his talent for mischief—theodore panicked before the rational part of his brain kicked in and intervened. he drove you to the hospital, deciding apparition was too risky—and you were taken away immediately. c-section was decided upon; theo said he would feel calmer knowing you’d be in less pain.

when he entered the operating room, dressed in the proper clothes and cap of a sterile blue, he held your hand the entire time. he watched every procedure like a hawk, biting back the urge to offer some annoying commentary. he was terrified something would go wrong—that you’d be taken from him, that he’d be forced to choose between you.

but when the first sharp, piercing cry filled the room, he broke. a loud sob followed the infant’s wail—one of pure relief that everything had gone well and that you still slept peacefully under anesthesia. but more than anything, it was happiness. happiness surged through his tall body like electricity, lighting every bone. when he held the bloodied baby and felt the weight of three kilograms of life, he knew his baby was born healthy. a perfect replica of him, save for the unmistakable curve of your lips. 

theo waited impatiently for you to wake while the baby was cleaned, and once he had him back in his arms, he refused to let go until you opened your beautiful eyes. my god, his kid was beautiful. perfect. and so deeply loved.

more tears fell when you woke and saw your kid for the first time—the result of your love. seeing theo’s features mirrored in the baby, and the way your husband’s gray eyes were swollen from crying, you knew, once again, that you had chosen right.

[govnder]

hii duda!! i wanted to ask how theodore would be like with dating someone outside of the usual british hogwarts kids snd instead like korean, brazilian, vietnamese, etc. :)) i dont have anything specific but im curious abt he feels abt the food, the holidays, affection culture (me and my family aren’t affectionate cause we’re asian lol, but im super clingy and close with friends and partner!!)

theodore nott x foreigner!reader.

i believe theodore faced some prejudice when he first arrived at hogwarts—an outsider not by choice, but by origin. italian, not british. the judgmental and curious looks from kids in his own house (and all the others too, if we're being honest) nearly pushed theo towards a spiral of bullying. but theo already wore a hard shell at eleven, built from a childhood that forced him to grow quickly, combined with the unconditional support of mattheo—a boy a bit more violent than any other kid at his age should be, who received those same chauvinistic looks because of the person who brought him into the world. together, they made it clear that theodore was no boy to be mocked. and so, he eventually earned his place at hogwarts.

with that said, i think theo would subconsciously gravitate toward a foreign girl. who could understand an immigrant better than another immigrant?

you would understand him in ways that anyone ever could. better than anyone when it came to language barriers. even though both of you were very strong english speakers, some questions about prepositions—in, on, or at, please, which one now, for the love of god?—and uncommon words always sneak their ways into you. he’d help you with grammar, because theodore had always been exceptionally gifted at writing and understanding the logics of language, and you’d help him with his pronunciation, because his thick italian accent sometimes bothered him, no matter how many times you told him it was cute. step by gentle step, the two of you would climb your way to the top of the staircase of complete english fluency—or at least something close enough to it.

when it came to cuisine, theodore would try his best to step into your world, because cooking was one of the purest forms of love he knew. if you are from asia, for example, the flavors of seaweeds and exotic condiments would catch him off guard a bit, because they were uncommon from the western culture he grew up in; yet he’d discover tastes that reshaped his palate. if you are latina, theodore would be somewhat horrified by the variations of the typical italian dishes he was raised with—but he would fall in love with your cuisine all the same. mexican tacos, feijoada, brigadeiro, and the bright, intoxicating and alcoholic caipirinhas from brazil (because of course theodore would love the mix of alcohol and local fruits), argentine alfajores… he would savor them all. after a trip to meet your parents, he would definitely need to work out thrice as hard to lose the weight he gained from being spoiled by those he now loved.

theo would be tender—achingly respectful—when it came to clothing and physical touch. if you came from a more conservative cultural background, theo would adjust his clothes and behavior accordingly without hesitation, aiming for the highest respect. wherever in the world you were from, he’d honor your cultural etiquette and boundaries about affection that might be considered too intimate for public display; that part would be the hardest for him, because italians are naturally warm and expressive. still, he would never risk to cross a line—and honestly, he’s terrified of appearing a poorly raised boy. during your holidays, theo would strictly follow the guidelines he read online about your country with comical seriousness, but once the festivities began, everything would simply come naturally to him. like a chameleon, he’d blend in among your relatives, and if his heavy accent weren’t so obvious, maybe one day he could even pass as one of them.

wherever you came from, theodore would do everything he could to integrate himself into your culture—and bring you into his. he would love learning about your customs and traditions, absorb your stories and seek, always, to know you more deeply.

[govnder]

omggg dara!! love the new theme, it’s so aesthetic i feel like i stepped into an art museum with how many works of art are on ur blog 😽✌️ i wanted to ask ur thoughts on theo’s music tastes?? esp with so many ppl headcanoning him to love the neighborhood orrr my own personal headcanon: frank sinatra!! he would so feel nostalgic listening to him 😊 pls and thank u, girl!!

i believe theo’s musical taste would range between older songs, under his mother’s influence, rock, and more alternative sounds. theodore nott is completely mad about music, and he deeply appreciates creative, profound compositions, the kind that only those truly gifted are capable of making.

frank sinatra would, without a doubt, be theo’s favorite. phoena grew up listening to sinatra with her own mother, and that became one of the inheritances theo carried with him. when he was a child, before tragedy took his mother away, phoena would play frank’s songs while she cooked traditional italian dishes. she would lift theo into her arms and dance with him when he was small, letting herself drift away from the task at hand. as he grew older—around 7 or 8—theo had already learned the lyrics to the songs they listened to so regularly. after the day that completely changed his life, sinatra became a constant presence in theo’s headphones, a way to keep his mother’s memory alive. he would never again hear her sweet voice humming along before leaving a drowsy theo in his bedroom, while owls called in the distance and the moon illuminated the mansion, hidden among trees and far from the center. he remembered vividly how he used to fight sleep just to hear the melody blended with phoena’s voice. and now that her timbre had been taken from the world forever, never to be heard by any living being again, frank sinatra held the power to transport him back to easier days, like a time machine.

“somethin’ stupid” was one of theo’s favorite, as well as phoena’s—the song they sang together the most. so frank sinatra is, definitively, theodore’s favorite artist, since his music safeguards so many memories.

depeche mode would also be one of theo’s personal choices. their unique production and singular compositions would draw him in like a magnet, and i think they would be the band he listened to the most—the second most-played artists in his library, falling just behind sinatra. his favorite would probably be “never let me down again,” captivated by its production, remarkably technological for its time, and its intense emotional sensitivity.

still within the realm of magnificent productions, he would be an avid fan of “the downtown lights” by the blue nile. the lines “nobody loves you this way,” “we're walking down this empty street [...] wrong or right, be at my side,” and “how do I know you feel it?” would perfectly reflect theo’s insecurities about his relationship, and the song would be dedicated to you. he would remember how nervous he was when he shared his wired headphones and showed you that song. the smile you gave—just as amazed as he was by the unique production—made him certain that, insecurities and all, you were profoundly alike.

i can’t talk about theodore nott’s musical taste without mentioning sufjan stevens. theo’s first contact with stevens was through the album carrie & lowell, a record about grief, memory, abandonment, and the attempt at forgiveness—a disc that earned the medal of “only listen when you’re at rock bottom and feel like sinking even further.” it was deeply personal to theo, and he only returned to it when the ache for his mother became unbearable. many of the songs echoed theo’s dynamic with his father too, with specific lines that made him want to tear his hair out. fourth of july? banned from theo’s music app. absolutely not—unless he felt the need to torture himself more than usual and self-sabotage in a way even cigarettes could never quite manage.

that said, sufjan had songs that were still melancholic but reminded him of home. futile devices and mystery of love, with their gentle melodies and their connection to a film set in italy, were played religiously whenever he walked through italian cobblestone streets. the thoughtful lyrics reached theo’s ears like a kind of caress, intensified by the landscape of his homeland and the warm climate surrounding him.

theodore would, for sure, listen to ethel cain, and she would be his favorite female artist. the dark, story-driven themes of preacher’s daughter would pull him into a spiral of personal identification and hit far too deep; it would be a slow & low blow. he wouldn’t skip tracks. he wouldn’t listen to it when distracted. secretly, he would be afraid of listening too much, because she stirs things he spent his entire life trying to keep under control. she writes like someone who doesn’t want to be saved, and feels like someone who has already understood that pain can also be comfortable.

the neighbourhood would also be a good choice for theo’s headphones on days he craved something on the alternative side. “daddy issues,” “softcore,” and “devil’s advocate” would never get a break from plays while theo lived. he would connect with the atmosphere of emptiness, obsession and a love that hurts because he doesn’t know how to express himself. the contained, non-explicit sensuality, lyrics about emotional dependency and a touch of romanticism would be some of the factors that drew him in. he wouldn’t listen to everything, nor all the time, but it would certainly be one of the bands he shares with you.

finally and impossible to overlook, i could never let theo’s obsession with music from his homeland out, entirely italian and deeply nostalgic. his favorites would be:

franco battiato: his favorite italian artist. battiato writes like someone who thinks too much and feels too much. theo would recognize himself in his writing. “la cura” would be sacred to him; he wouldn’t listen to it in public. only at night, with soft light and you nearby, maybe lying against his chest or beside him.

milva: she's dramatic, theatrical and tragic. he wouldn’t listen often, but when he did, it would be because he was emotionally too open. milva is controlled excess, and that would strike him on very specific days.

lucio dalla: especially the more melancholic lucio. “caruso” would touch something theo wouldn’t know how to name. he would listen alone, but think of you.

paolo conte: sings italian jazz, has a raspy voice. perfect for thoughts that don’t want answers and empty bars; theo would listen to conte with a drink in his hand.

ornella vanoni: she sings about adult solitude. theo would recognize himself in her tired and transparent tone. “senza fine” would be almost unbearable in how intimate it feels.

theodore doesn’t play when it comes to music. show him an artist with shallow compositions and dull production, and you’ll earn the sharpest raised eyebrow, along with a harsh judgment of your tastes.

more.

© govnder, 2026.

[govnder]

*tap tap* 🎤🎤 do you think theo would enjoy american food?? particularly americanized italian cuisines?? (i keep sending you food asks im so sorry, i just love ur interpretation of theo so much 😭)

i think theo would enjoy the culture of greasy hamburgers with fries—but no, i don’t think he’d appreciate americanized italian cuisine. theodore would, in fact, find it absurd what americans did to italian cooking, and because of that, he’s extremely selective about the restaurants he visits. he usually does some research beforehand, and the owners being italian is essential—that way, he knows he’ll find the true cuisine of his country, not some caricature of it. for example, it’s common to find spaghetti with meatballs served together, but in italy, the meatballs necessarily come separately. or take fettuccine al burro (known in the states as fettuccine alfredo), which was utterly brutalized by americans who added cream, garlic, and sometimes—to theodore’s absolute horror—chicken. the italian version is made only with butter and parmesan; the correct version, according to him. nothing more, nothing less.

another point worth mentioning is pizza. theodore once had to break his restaurant rules during a trip to new york and went to the nearest pizzeria—only to find nothing short of a nightmare. people were eating with their hands, while in italy, they use forks and knives; he felt personally assaulted. but nothing compared to the awful surprise of the taste: the united states' pizza was floury, the crust was chalky, the sauce was clearly store-bought, and it even had added garlic, oregano, and other herbs—the flavor was heavier and sweeter than the pizzas he used to eat in his home country.

to theo, what they’d done to his country’s cuisine was comparable to cultural violence, to things theodore couldn’t even say for moral reasons (not that he actually cared much about that, but he knew that if he went around spitting out everything he thought, you would end up pulling him by the ear). to sum it up, he despises what they’ve done to his country’s food—but it’s a far too sensitive topic for him to a casual conversation.

[govnder]

uhmmhmhmh theodore and ravenclaw!user studying advanced arithmancy (wizard math basically LMAO cause i’d imagine that theo’s rlly smart with stats and logic) together in the library while trying not to die and making jokes together to cope with the workload 😛😛

that’s such a great idea! theodore would actually be really good with numbers and, even though reader's a ravenclaw, i imagine he could help her a lot whenever she needed — she may be extremely smart, but unfortunately, she still doesn’t know everything. thank you for the ask, love. i hope you like it! 🤍

theodore, though he appreciated fields like history and geography, had always leaned more toward numbers. arithmancy, potions and astronomy were his favorites, yet he was never the sort to dismiss the subjects where numbers had little place. still, something in logic called to him.

perhaps it was the sense of control — the certainty that an equation had one possible outcome, one exact truth waiting to be uncovered. or perhaps it was because, after a life shaped by painful events, numbers offered him something life rarely had: reason. calculations and results existed for a purpose. unlike the chaos of his past, he could understand why a sign was positive, or why X equaled what it did. with numbers, the world made sense.

you, however, had never been good with them — a fact that stung more than you cared to admit. you had been sorted into ravenclaw years ago, and everyone expected them to master every field, didn’t they? but that wasn’t the truth. mathematics always seemed to slip through your fingers, no matter how tightly you tried to hold on. your effort tripled, sometimes quadrupled, just to stay afloat. you managed to score a little above average — proof enough of your ravenclaw wit — but never much more. in other subjects, you shone: literature, philosophy, languages, history. anything but numbers.

with the winter holiday exams looming, you finally swallowed your pride and asked theodore for help. you had been friends for years — not best friends, but steady ones — and you knew better than anyone how brilliant he was with numbers. still, it had taken time to admit you needed him, even after he’d offered countless times before. but arithmancy had grown more difficult this year, and the thought of a failing grade on your perfect record was enough to make you sweat and feel your heart race.

so you met in the library on a friday night. you’d told him you were free any day — you were studying early, after all, and you didn’t want to intrude on the weekend you knew he spent partying, but he had only rolled his eyes and said, “friday night. nine o’clock. library. don’t be late.”

and you weren’t. not by a second.

he was already there when you arrived: seated at a table with a book on arithmancy open before him, papers covered in notes scattered alongside quills and ink. he didn’t look remotely bothered about the party he was surely missing in the slytherin common room. in his simple, comfortable clothes, he looked perfectly at ease.

you approached, uncertain of his mood, and set your bag down in the chair beside him. you smiled, small and hesitant. he looked up. “hi.”

“you look tense,” he said without greeting, italian accent coloring his english. “everything alright?” he arched an eyebrow. merlin, he always arched those damn brows — at everything, for everything — and it drove you mad.

“yes.” you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “i just… i don’t want to bother you. it’s friday night, and no one studies on a friday night, and—”

“merlin, chill out.” he cut you off with a smirk tugging at his lips. you’re so bloody cute, he thought. “if i didn’t want to be here, believe me, dove, i wouldn’t be.” his grey eyes glimmered under the library’s dim lights, which always burned lower at this hour, cloaking him in even more mystery than usual. “let’s just start, shall we?”

and so, you did.

he explained everything with a patience you hadn’t expected from him, circling back whenever you faltered. you had never imagined theodore nott could be this attentive. to everyone else, he was impatient, volatile, sharp-edged in his coldness, but here, he was different. he repeated himself as often as you needed — magical matrices, for instance, which took six explanations before you finally solved a problem, and then two more when confusion crept back in. he never chastised you for mistakes. the only times his irritation showed were when you lied, claiming you’d understood. he saw right through it — the subtle knit of your brows gave you away. “if you’re not honest about what you don’t get, this won’t work,” he’d say, arrogant as ever, before lighting a cigarette with deliberate nonchalance.

but it worked. perfectly. and you understood everything.

the night deepened, and once theory was behind you, the two of you spent hours on exercises. by the end, exhaustion weighed heavy — your eyelids drooped, your body begged for sleep. theodore lit cigarette after cigarette, the smoke curling in the air, but you barely noticed. you were too tired, too full of numbers to care. at some point, the quills were set aside, and the silence between you broke into laughter. you didn’t remember when it began, only that you were both laughing so hard your stomachs ached.

theodore revealed a ridiculous side of himself, sharing the worst jokes he knew. his favorites were the long, meandering ones that demanded your wavering attention, only to collapse into the most disappointing punchlines. your look of disappointment sent him into fits of uncontrollable laughter.

without meaning to, you began admiring his laugh — low and roughened by years of smoking — while he found himself clinging to yours — bright, unrestrained, the kind of sound he wanted to keep bottled like a potion, to drink every morning.

eventually, your own tension eased, and you joined him, throwing in your own awful jokes. one after another, each more idiotic than the last, until he murmured “you’re so stupid,” with an amused curve to his lips.

time slipped away. you lost count of the hours, the jokes, the sweets from your bag. you didn’t remember drifting off, either, exhaustion pulling you under. you didn’t remember resting your head on his shoulder.

but theodore remembered. he remembered everything — the warmth of you leaning against him, the quiet that settled after laughter, the steady rhythm of your breathing. with a faint smile and the certainty you’d pass arithmancy after all, he rested his head against yours and let sleep take him.

and there, in two uncomfortable library chairs, theodore nott slept better than he had in years.

“shut the fuck up or i’ll fucking kill you,” theodore hissed when mattheo staggered into the library, drunk and calling him to the party. in an instant, he cupped his long hand over your ears, the cold brush of his rings grazing your skin. “get lost, figlio di puttana,” he whispered, his grey eyes colder than steel. he checked — and thank merlin, you hadn’t stirred. because if you had, mattheo would have a serious problem come morning, and theodore would too, with the storm of questions that was bound to follow — if riddle remembered any of it at all.