it reminds me of you
Theodore Nott x Fem!Reader
Theo's POV, beware - angst ONLY.
There isn't anything wrong with Theo.
There never is.
Ever.
Ever.
Except... he isn't moving. He's sat in the back of the library beside you, staring into the long isle of books ahead of them, like something in the shadows will tell him how to fix himself together.
How to bring back his mother. How to undo his fathers anger. How to breath above the water. How to let people love him. How to play guitar.
How to use wood glue on bits of his body that don't fit anymore.
Like something in the darkness will make him a little brighter. Like something in the dark will take him back to when the things under his bed were the scariest part of the day.
Your fingers brush his bruised knuckles, and he almost flinches.
"I didn't make my bed this morning" he mutters, tense. Everything was perfect, he was perfect, it was that one thing, the one task he'd forgotten. He berated himself. As though making his bed as perfect as the rest of the things around him would fix it.
Maybe that was why he didn't know how to talk to you. You're imperfect. You have ink on your fingers, and your tie is uneven, and your hair is messy. Your shoes are scuffed, your shirt sleeve has a coffee stain on the wrist, your skirt has wrinkles.
You're pretty. Like sunshine.
He's never particularly cared for summer.
He glances down, watching your fingers toy with his own. Didn't you ever stop moving?
You gently squeeze his hand once.
And again.
Three times - his mother used to say that meant 'I love you'.
You pull your hand away to tuck your hair behind your ear, and he watches, trembling fingers reaching out to push it back off your shoulder. If he fixed the things he could, perhaps the things he couldn't fix would follow suit.
Why does this hurt?
Your hand tangles your fingers with his against the old, hard, wood. Your nail polish is chipped, he notices. A part of him wishes he didn't.
Your head lands on his shoulder, and he stiffens. It takes a moment, but he forces himself to relax.
Asleep. She's asleep, is all.
He repeats it to himself twice before he can breathe again.
You smell sweet, like caramel, and fire hearth smoke. He itches to reach for a cigarette. He doesn't. You don't like the smell.
Something, not quite yet broken, wants you to like him.
He should be asleep.
The thought is sudden. Passing. Considered with an unfamiliar annoyance at how often he studied. Smoked. Kept himself awake, even when he had to pinch himself to do it.
The bruises on his knuckles ache. His split lip throbs. His fingers toy aimlessly with a strand of your hair.
Pretty.
He checks the time again, two hours. He's been staring at you for two hours.
Gazing.
Watching.
Admiring.
For two hours.
He looks back at his homework. It could wait... couldn't it?
It would still be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. He doesn't know why he rushes himself, why he feels the need to complete every menial task the second he notices. He just knows that usually, when he doesn't, a panic begins to swell.
A sickened, heavy, desperate, panic.
It sits in the back of his throat, and floods his chest, and burns up his insides like a firestarter dropped into gasoline. Like all he's waiting for is the match.
His eyes stray to his bag. He'd gotten a letter from his father that morning. He hasn't opened it. He's not going to.
He pulls your sleeping body into his lap gently, cradling you to his chest as he gathers your things, and then his.
He hauls both bags over one shoulder, lifts you into his arms, and prays you don't wake as he begins carrying you back to the slytherin common room.
He listens to you breathe.
Contentment, safety, a sick, slippery sort of happiness that leaves his head spinning.
Love has never sounded so clear. Your breath feels like his mother's old lullabies.
Listening to you breathe feels like the home he knew he needed, but didn't want to find. It's too late now, he supposes. He's found it.
God.
He inhales- slow, terrified.
"I need her to need me back."
He whispers to himself.
He settles you down onto your favorite couch in the slytherin common room. He slips off your shoes, and slips off your socks. He gently braids your hair, and pushes the strands he couldn't catch gently behind your ear. He lays a blanket over your body and another pillow beneath your head. He places more wood on the fire, and places a lingering kiss to your temple.
And then, he sits down with your legs in his lap, and stays.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't speak.
But when you stir, that familiar crease between your brows, he reaches up... smoothes it out... and whispers soft promises he means until you're content again.
He loves you, he decides. He never meant to, but something about you felt like seaside in Italy and his mother's lullabies, and his grandfathers pride.
Things with you were... simple.
He loves you. You're tilted, imperfect. You're all he's ever needed. All he'll ever want.
Bruised knuckles drag up your shin, lightly rubbing your knee as you stir.
He doesn't know how to speak to you.
But when he loves you, there will be signs.
Signs like his hands on your knees at three in the morning, and his skewed tie still unfixed only in your presence.
Pretty, he thinks again.
You stir, eyes meeting his. His lips part, and its the first thing he's said to you all week.
"Go back to sleep, cara mia, I'll stay."