Cedric Diggory x fem!reader
summary: You've always preferred keeping your feet firmly on the ground, but for Cedric, you're willing to make a terrifying exception.
word count: 1.3k
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The sunset over the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch was a spectacular wash of dusty rose and brilliant gold, but you were currently too busy staring down your nemesis to notice: a standard-issue school Cleansweep.
It sat on the grass, looking entirely unimpressed by your lack of flying skills. As a Slytherin, you preferred to have complete control over your surroundings. Hurtling through the sky on a polished stick of wood, suspended hundreds of feet in the air with no safety harness, no protective gear, and absolutely no Madame Pomfrey nearby if things went south, felt like the exact opposite of control. It felt like an invitation to disaster.
But you weren't here because you suddenly wanted to overcome your phobia. You were here for Cedric.
Being his girlfriend meant understanding that a relationship was a two-way street. Cedric was the kind of boy who didn't just tolerate your interests; he threw himself into them. He was a Hufflepuff to his core, meaning his devotion was active, loud, and entirely sweet.
Every weekend when you both had a free afternoon, he would happily let you drag him to the kitchens next to the Hufflepuff common room. There, you’d spend hours baking cookies or complex, laminated croissants entirely the "Muggle way." He’d get flour smudged across his nose, laugh when a pastry didn't rise quite right, and hold the mixing bowl steady with those broad, warm hands.
And then there was your obsession with expensive, high-quality stationery. Whenever the two of you visited Hogsmeade, Cedric would willingly spend hours standing inside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop. He’d watch you inspect different nibs and parchment textures with an expression of pure, undivided attention. If you so much as lingered a second too long over a beautiful emerald inkwell or a feather quill, Cedric was already at the counter, making sure it was yours before you could even reach for your own galleons.
Naturally, you made sure to return the favor. Cedric was a creature of perpetual motion. He absolutely loathed sitting still, often complaining that staying in one place for too long felt like a waste of time. He wanted to be on his feet, moving, exploring. So, you became his walking companion. You walked miles around the castle corridors and the Great Lake, holding up flashcards and quizzing him on Transfiguration theory and Herbology terms while he paced beside you. You showed up to every single one of his grueling Quidditch practices, sitting in the stands with a thermos of hot tea, cheering him on.
But actually getting on a broom? That had always been your hard, non-negotiable boundary.
Until today.
"Still staring it down?" a warm, familiar voice called out, breaking you out of your thoughts.
You looked up to see Cedric walking across the grass. He’d shed his heavy yellow-and-black Quidditch robes, wearing just a comfortable grey knit sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing his forearms. He carried his sleek, impeccably waxed broom over his shoulder. He gave you a bright, encouraging smile that instantly made the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen just a fraction.
"I'm trying to establish dominance," you said, crossing your arms and trying to sound a lot more confident than you felt. "So far, it's winning. It knows I have no harness, Cedric. It's plotting against me."
Cedric laughed, a rich, genuine sound as he came to a stop beside you. He set his broom down and stepped closer, immediately pulling you into his warmth. The faint scent of cedarwood and the crisp autumn air clung to him.
"I promise you, it's not plotting," he murmured, his hands resting gently on your waist. His grey eyes searched yours, soft and endlessly patient. "You don't have to do this, you know. I was perfectly content with our deal. You stay on the ground, I stay in the air."
"No," you said, looking up at him. "You let me drag you around Scrivenshaft's for three hours last weekend, and you didn't complain once. You bake with me. You let me quiz you while we walk until your feet ache. It's only fair I try to meet you up there. Just... once. A very low once."
A look of intense, quiet affection crossed Cedric's face. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "You are incredible. Okay. We’ll go slow. I’ve got you the entire time."
He stepped up behind you, his chest pressing lightly against your back, instantly radiating a steady, grounding warmth. "First, mount up. Don't think about the height. Just feel the weight of the broom."
With a shaky breath, you swung your leg over the handle. Your hands gripped the polished wood so tightly your knuckles turned white.
"Hey, breathe," Cedric murmured near your ear. He stepped even closer, bracketing you in his arms, and placed his hands directly over yours. His fingers were warm, broad, and incredibly steady. "Relax your grip a bit. If you hold it that tight, the broom gets tense, too. Loose grip. Light touch. I'm holding onto it, too."
You let out a shaky exhale, forcing your fingers to loosen slightly under the gentle pressure of his hands.
"There you go," Cedric whispered. "Now, on three, we’re just going to push off the ground. Just a few feet. I promise we won't go higher than you want to."
You nodded, squeezing your eyes shut. "Okay. One, two, three."
With a light push, the ground dropped away. You gasped, instinctively leaning back, but your back only met Cedric's solid, unyielding chest. He held you completely secure, his hands firmly guiding yours on the handle to keep the broom perfectly level.
"Open your eyes, love," Cedric whispered against your temple.
Slowly, tentatively, you opened them. The grass was about five feet below you. It was a modest height, but floating there, suspended in the cool evening air with Cedric’s arms wrapped around you, the fear suddenly felt manageable.
"See? You're flying," he murmured.
"We are very high up," you squeaked, though a tiny smile was starting to tug at the corner of your lips.
"We are barely taller than Hagrid right now," Cedric teased gently, his chin resting just past your shoulder. "But we're going to go just a little higher. Trust me?"
"With my life," you admitted softly.
Cedric’s hand gently tilted the front of the broom upward. The broom glided up into the sky, smooth and effortless. The wind caught your hair, and as the castle came into view, bathed in the spectacular orange and pink light of the setting sun, the terror completely evaporated. The Great Lake looked like a sheet of dark glass, reflecting the twilight, and the distant mountains looked like purple velvet.
"Wow," you breathed, staring at the horizon. "It's... actually beautiful."
"It really is," Cedric said.
But when you turned your head slightly to look at him, you realized he wasn't looking at the sunset at all. His grey eyes were fixed entirely on you, a soft, incredibly tender expression on his face.
Your breath hitched. Up here, away from the gossip of the common rooms, the rivalry of the houses, and the stress of classes, it felt like the two of you were the only people left in the world.
Cedric slowly slid one of his hands away from yours, his fingers gently tracing up your arm before resting lightly on your waist, holding you secure. With his other hand, he reached up and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek.
"I told you I wouldn't let you fall," he whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fleeting second before locking back onto yours. "I'll always catch you."
"I know," you murmured back, leaning into his touch.
Hovering high above the Quidditch pitch, wrapped in the quiet warmth of your Hufflepuff's embrace, you decided that maybe flying wasn't so bad after all—as long as Cedric was the one guiding the broom.
Theodore Nott x pureblood!reader
summary: After a long argument with your father, you're stuck at a suffocating summer party. However, you soon find safety, a sweet makeup touch-up, and a comforting barefoot dance in the moonlit gardens with your childhood best friend, Theodore Nott.
word count: 3.6k
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The velvet puff in your hand felt entirely too light for how heavy your chest was.
You tapped it gently against the pressed powder compact, your fingers trembling just enough to send a tiny cloud of translucent dust drifting into the soft light of your vanity. With a practiced, mechanical rhythm, you pressed the puff against your skin, blending it over your cheekbones, down the bridge of your nose, and across your forehead. It was a routine you could do in your sleep. Tonight, however, it felt like you were painting a porcelain mask over a crumbling foundation.
Your eyes flicked upward to meet your own gaze in the silver-framed mirror, and a sharp, ragged breath caught in your throat.
Glossy. That was the only word for them. The whites of your eyes were mapped with faint, telltale lines of pink, and a heavy glaze of unshed tears threatened to spill over the lower lids. If you blinked too hard, the dam would break, and you didn't have the time or the emotional energy to redo your makeup. Carefully, using the extreme edge of the powder puff, you dabbed delicately at the inner corners of your eyes, catching the moisture before it could betray you.
“You no longer have a father.”
The words rang through the quiet of your bedroom, so loud and clear that for a terrifying second, you thought he was standing right behind you again. You froze, your hand hovering inches from your face, staring at the empty space over your shoulder in the reflection.
But the room was empty. The argument was over. The storm had passed through, leaving only the wreckage in its wake.
It had happened less than an hour ago in the suffocating heat of the formal dining room. The air conditioning had been broken all afternoon, the heavy British summer air pressing against the windows like a physical weight, souring everyone's mood before the evening had even begun. You couldn't even remember what small, insignificant thing had triggered it. A misplaced comment? A tone of voice he didn't like? It didn't matter. Once the spark was lit, your father had burned the entire room down.
The venom in his voice had been a physical blow. He hadn't just been angry; he had been malicious.
“You torture and ruin everything you’re near,” he had snarled, his face twisted into something unrecognizable, stepping into your space until you were pressed against the edge of the mahogany table. “You are pathetic. Useless. I am entirely done with you.”
You turned your face away from the mirror, unable to look at yourself anymore as those words echoed on a cruel, endless loop in your mind. The silence of the manor felt mocking now.
Your father would forget about it a week later, pretend like everything was fine, and return to his usual routine. It was nothing new.
Standing up from the vanity, you took a deep breath, trying to steady the frantic, erratic rhythm of your heart. You reached down, smooth palms sweeping down the fabric of your dress. It was a beautiful piece—a flowing, ethereal summer dress that fell just right, the color casting a soft, flattering glow against your skin. It was exactly the kind of dress that was supposed to make you feel radiant, light, and carefree.
As your hands smoothed the final wrinkles from the skirt, you caught sight of yourself in the full-length mirror across the room. For a fleeting, fragile moment, a tiny hint of a smile tugged at the corner of your lips.
You actually look decent, you thought to yourself. The thought was a quiet, stubborn rebellion against the cruelty you’d just endured. You weren't ruined. You weren't a disaster. You had managed to put on a beautiful dress, your hair fell perfectly past your shoulders, and despite everything, you looked like someone who belonged at a glamorous pureblood summer party. It was a small anchor of comfort, a tiny shield to hold up against the world before you had to step out the front door and pretend that your heart wasn't bleeding out through your ribs.
You reached back for your favorite tube of lip gloss, applying a fresh, thick layer of the shimmering pink tint. Your lips were plump and glossy, catching the light perfectly. You pressed them together, staring at the polished, perfect girl in the glass.
The mask was on. Now, you just had to survive the night.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Nott Manor gardens were a masterclass in pureblood opulence, but tonight, they felt like a gilded cage.
Flawless floating lanterns drifted through the heavy, humid summer air, casting a warm, amber glow over the hundreds of guests mingling on the marble terrace. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, expensive firewhisky, and the suffocating perfume of high society. Everywhere you looked, people were laughing—sharp, practiced, aristocratic laughs that never reached their eyes. Couples glided across the makeshift outdoor dance floor to the sweeping, flawless rhythms of a live magical orchestra, completely detached from the reality of the world outside their bubble.
You stood near the edge of the terrace, a chilled glass of elf-made champagne held tightly in your hand, though you hadn't taken a single sip. Your fingers were wrapped so tightly around the delicate crystal stem that your knuckles were white.
"Oh, darling, your dress is simply divine," a friend of your mother’s purred, gliding past you with a glittering smile that felt entirely transactional. "Such a perfect choice for the summer solstice."
"Thank you, Ms. Zabini," you forced out. The words felt like ash in your mouth. You forced the tiniest, most polite tilt of your lips—a performance you had been practicing your entire life.
But the moment she turned away, the fake smile vanished, and the heavy, crushing weight in your chest returned tenfold. It was dizzying, standing in a crowd of hundreds of people who were all looking right at you, yet feeling entirely, utterly alone. They saw the beautiful summer dress. They saw the perfect, shimmering gloss on your lips and the meticulous makeup. They didn't see the girl who had been screaming in a dining room an hour ago. They didn't see the invisible bruises left behind by words meant to mutilate your self-worth.
Pathetic. Useless.
The words vibrated in your ears, louder than the cello section of the orchestra. Every burst of laughter from a nearby group of teenagers made you flinch internally, convinced for a paranoid second that they somehow knew. That they could look at you and see exactly what your father saw: a disaster. A girl who ruined everything she touched.
The heat of the summer night suddenly felt entirely too restrictive. The air was too thick to pull into your lungs, and the bright, flashing lights of the lanterns began to blur together. You needed to get out. You needed to slide beneath the radar before the glossiness in your eyes turned into actual, cascading tears in front of the most judgmental crowd in Great Britain.
Setting your untouched glass down on a passing waiter’s silver tray, you took a step back into the shadows.
Slowly, carefully, you slipped away from the bright perimeter of the terrace, retreating down the stone steps and into the sprawling, unlit paths of the rose gardens. With every step you took away from the music and the chatter, the suffocating pressure in your throat eased just a fraction.
You kept walking until the noise of the party was nothing more than a faint, rhythmic hum in the distance. The gravel path gave way to cool, damp grass, and you finally stopped under the massive, sweeping branches of an ancient willow tree near the edge of the estate’s dark treeline.
Here, in the dark, there was no one to perform for.
The protective armor you had worn all evening immediately began to crack. Your posture crumbled, your shoulders hunching forward as a cold shiver ran down your spine despite the summer heat. You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, grabbing your own elbows as if you could physically hold yourself together before you completely shattered into a thousand pieces.
You stared out into the dark, silent woods, your lips pressed into a tight, trembling line to stop the sob rising in your throat. Your eyes grew fiercely glossy, the heavy glaze of tears catching the faint, distant amber light of the party. You were so tired. So entirely, physically exhausted from fighting a battle inside your own head.
"You're missing Malfoy trying to explain how he's the best seeker Hogwarts has seen, even though he's the reason the team loses every year," a quiet, familiar voice murmured from the shadows of the willow tree.
You didn't have to look to know it was Theodore.
His voice had a distinct, quiet gravity to it—a low, soothing register that had been a constant in your life since you were both old enough to hide from your parents' stuffy dinners in the dark corners of library alcoves. He stepped out from the curtain of weeping willow branches, the sharp, dark tailoring of his formal dress robes catching the faint, filtered moonlight. He looked every bit the perfect pureblood heir, poised and flawless, but the moment his eyes landed on you, the easy, teasing remark died instantly on his lips.
Theo took in the fierce, protective grip of your arms wrapped around your chest, the tight, trembling line of your jaw, and the unmistakable, glossy shimmer of tears reflecting the distant lantern light.
The childhood friend who knew every inflection of your voice, who could read your moods before you even spoke, instantly recognized the hollow, fractured look of someone who had just been pushed past their breaking point.
"Hey," Theo’s voice dropped, losing every ounce of its formal, public edge. He closed the distance between you in two long, urgent strides, stepping directly into your space. "What happened? Look at me."
You fiercely shook your head, staring stubbornly at the grass, your arms tightening even more. "Nothing. Go back to the party, Theo. I’m just... catching my breath."
"Don't lie to me," he murmured, his voice incredibly gentle but unyielding. He didn't force you to look up, but he stood close enough that you could feel the steady warmth radiating from him, blocking out the rest of the world. "You're shaking. And you only hide out by the treeline when things are bad at home. Is it your dad?"
Hearing him say it—naming the monster in the room—was the final blow to your crumbling defenses. A ragged, trembling breath escaped your throat, and the first tear finally spilled over, hot and heavy, tracking a slow path down your cheek. You quickly reached up with a sharp, frustrated hand to swipe it away, hissing under your breath as your finger came away smudged with dark makeup.
"Damn it," you whispered, your voice cracking completely as the reality of the night washed over you. "My mascara is going to run. I look a mess."
"You don't," Theo said softly, stepping even closer. Without a single thought for the pristine, expensive silk of his formal robes, he raised his arm and used the soft, crisp edge of his sleeve to gently tap beneath your eye, catching the rogue tear before it could ruin the rest of your makeup. "You could never look a mess. But more importantly, I don't care about the makeup. Talk to me."
The dam broke. The sheer safety of Theo’s presence—the familiar, grounding scent of cedarwood and crisp summer air that always followed him—made it impossible to keep the walls up for another second.
The words came out in a breathless, frantic, unvarnished rush. You ranted about the screaming match in the dining room, the suffocating heat of the house, and the sheer, unbridled venom in your father’s voice. You told him how he had cornered you, how his face had twisted with a hatred you couldn't understand, and then, with a choked, bitter laugh, you forced out the words that had been mutilating your mind all evening.
"'You no longer have a father,'" you repeated, your voice trembling violently as you paced a small, agitated line in the grass. "'You torture and ruin everything you're near. You're pathetic. Useless.' He told me he was completely done with me, Theo. Right before I had to put on a stupid dress and come here to pretend everything is perfect."
Theo didn't interrupt you once. He stood perfectly still, his dark eyes tracking your frantic movements with an intense, unwavering focus. But as the horrific specifics of your father’s words left your lips, you could see a terrifying shift in him. The casual, relaxed posture of a party guest vanished entirely, replaced by a fierce, protective stillness.
His jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. His hands, buried in his pockets, curled into rigid fists. Theo knew the cruelty of pureblood patriarchs better than anyone; he lived with the cold, crushing weight of a demanding father every single day. But hearing that malice directed at you—the one person he always sought out, the brightest part of his entire world—made a dark, dangerous anger flare behind his ribs. He looked like he wanted to burn your father’s manor to the ground.
You stopped pacing, your breath hitching as a sob threatened to catch in your chest. You bit down hard on your lower lip to steady it, entirely unaware that you were smudging the glossy pink tint you’d carefully applied an hour ago.
"I just..." Your voice dropped to a broken, fragile whisper, your eyes wide and glossy as you finally looked up at him through wet, heavy lashes. "How can he say that to me? Am I really that awful, Theo? Do I really ruin everything?"
"Hey. Stop that right now," Theo said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding register that instantly cut through the roaring noise in your head.
He closed the final remaining inches between you, crossing the line from childhood friend to something much deeper, much more permanent. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently catching your wrist to pull your hand away from your face, stopping you from biting your lip. His thumb brushed lightly against your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to anchor yourself to him.
"Look at me," he murmured, holding your gaze until your tear-filled eyes locked onto his dark, fierce ones. "He is entirely, completely wrong. Every single word out of his mouth was a lie born out of his own miserable incompetence. You don't ruin anything. You are the brightest, most incredible person in that entire suffocating house, and he doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you. Do you hear me? Look at what you did tonight—you took the absolute worst he could throw at you, and you still put on this beautiful dress, and you still stood tall. You are not pathetic. You are extraordinary."
Theo's thumb stayed resting gently against your chin, the warmth of his skin a steady, grounding anchor against your trembling frame. His dark eyes scanned every inch of your face, his expression softening from fierce protective anger into something so tender it made your chest ache in an entirely different way. A faint, soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips, deliberately breaking through the heavy tension.
"Your dad is an idiot," he repeated softly, his voice a low murmur in the quiet night air. With his free hand, he reached into the inner pocket of his tailored dress robes and pulled out his wand. "And since we are definitely not going back inside that stuffy ballroom tonight, let’s fix this. Keep your eyes closed."
You blinked, a little confused, your long lashes still spiked with tears. "Theo, what are you—"
"Trust me. Eyes shut," he ordered gently.
You let your eyelids flutter closed. Deprived of your sight, your other senses heightened instantly. You could hear the rustle of the willow leaves above you, the distant, faint swell of the orchestra, and the steady, calm rhythm of Theo’s breathing. You felt the warm tip of his wand hover just millimeters away from your cheek, followed by the faint, comforting brush of a whisper-soft Tergeo spell.
The heavy, damp weight of the ruined mascara evaporated from your skin. The cool air hit your face, leaving it feeling clean, fresh, and entirely relieved of the evidence of your breakdown.
"There," Theo murmured, his breath fanning across your cheek. You opened your eyes to find him holding out your small, beaded clutch, which he must have slipped from your hand without you even realizing it. "Now, where is that shiny stuff you always wear? The one you're usually applying every twenty minutes?"
A small, genuine laugh finally broke through your chest—the first real laugh you had experienced all day, and it felt like a splash of cool water on a fever. "My lip gloss? Theo, you don't even know what it's called."
"I know it's pink, and I know it's in here," he retorted, his eyes crinkling with amusement as he unclipped the silver latch of your bag and successfully fished out the tube. He unscrewed the cap, looking at the little doe-foot applicator wand with an expression of intense skepticism, as if it were a complex piece of Ancient Runes. "Right. Sit still. I'm fixing it."
"Theo, absolutely not. You cannot apply lip gloss," you giggled, instinctively trying to take a half-step back, but he was faster. His left hand slid around your waist, his palm warm and firm against the small of your back, anchoring you gently but securely in place.
"I am a Nott, I can do anything," he teased, though his tone shifted into something incredibly intense and focused as he leaned in.
Suddenly, the space between you evaporated. He was close—entirely too close. Your breath hitched as he stepped fully into your personal space, the faint scent of mint and cedarwood wrapping around you like a protective blanket. The playful banter faded into a breathless, charged silence as Theo concentrated entirely on your mouth.
He held your chin steady with his thumb and forefinger, his jaw set, his tongue lightly poking out the corner of his mouth in sheer, unadulterated concentration. Step by painstaking step, he carefully swiped the glossy pink tint across your bottom lip, his hand incredibly steady for someone who had never touched makeup in his life.
Your heart did a sudden, violent flip in your chest. Standing out here in the dark, held firmly against him while he meticulously painted your lips, the entire nightmare of your father's words vanished completely. There was no dining room, no cruel shouting, no suffocating expectations. There was only the steady beat of Theo's heart and the intense, reverent way he was looking at you.
"Smush them together," he whispered, his eyes flicking up from your mouth to meet yours, his dark iris dilated in the moonlight.
You did, pressing your lips together to distribute the slick, glittering formula. Theo stepped back just a fraction to survey his handiwork, a proud, incredibly soft expression melting the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face.
"Perfect. See? A natural," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, rough register that made your skin prickle with goosebumps. "Don't let anyone tell you that you look anything less than perfect tonight."
Before you could even formulate a witty comeback to tease him about his newfound makeup skills, the atmosphere around you shifted. Across the sprawling, dark lawns, the music drifting from the grand ballroom terrace changed. The upbeat, rigid waltz melody melted away, replaced by a slow, sweeping, deeply romantic arrangement of strings that floated beautifully through the humid summer night.
Theo looked toward the distant, glittering lights of the manor, then turned his gaze back down to you. The playful, cocky smirk vanished from his lips, replaced by an expression that was entirely tender, entirely safe.
He tucked the tube of lip gloss carefully back into your beaded clutch and set the bag down on a rustic stone bench nearby. Then, taking a deliberate step back into the shadow of the weeping willow, he dropped into a ridiculously low, overly dramatic, traditional pureblood bow.
"May I have this dance, my lady?" he asked, extending a long-fingered hand toward you. His dark eyes shone in the moonlight with an unspoken, fierce promise to protect you from everything outside this garden. "No stuffy lords, no expectations, no fathers. Just us."
You looked down at your high heels, which were already sinking miserably into the soft, damp summer grass, and then looked up at his waiting hand. For the first time all day, the suffocating weight in your chest felt light enough to lift.
With a genuine grin, you kicked the painful shoes off entirely, letting them toss carelessly into the grass. Stepping barefoot onto the cool, soothing earth, you placed your hand firmly in his.
"I thought you'd never ask," you whispered.
Theo smiled, a soft, private thing meant only for you, and pulled you flush against his chest. His right hand rested with a gentle but protective weight against the small of your back, while your left hand was tucked safely against his crisp dress robes, right over his heart. He began to guide you in a slow, effortless sway, completely ignoring the proper steps of the high-society dances you had both been forced to learn as children. Out here in the dark, there were no rules.
You let your forehead rest gently against his shoulder, closing your eyes as the rhythm of the music washed over you. The world narrowed down to the cool grass beneath your toes, the sweet scent of jasmine, and the steady, calming, rhythmic beat of Theo’s heart beneath his clothes.
"I've got you," he whispered into your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction, pulling you closer into the safest harbor in the world. "I've always got you. Don't ever forget that."
As you swayed together under the canopy of the willow tree, the cruel words from earlier finally lost their power. Your father had tried to tell you that you ruined everything you were near—but wrapped securely in Theodore Nott's arms, you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were exactly where you belonged.
Draco Malfoy x Hufflepuff!reader
Summary: Draco Malfoy thought he was just clearing a stubborn Hufflepuff out of his favorite library seat, until the sharp-tongued badger turned a petty note war into the only interesting thing in the castle.
word count: 1.9k
a/n: part two of this mini story! sorry for taking so long to upload this ♡
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The luxury midnight-blue ink became a quiet, permanent fixture on the right side of the desk. You used it for everything—Runes essays, Charms diagrams, even the messy margin scribbles of your Arithmancy homework. And every time Draco looked across the table and saw that specific, shimmering color on your parchment, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk would tug at the corner of his lips.
The castle remained buried under a heavy blanket of Scottish snow well into January. Because of the freezing temperatures, the library alcove by the clanking radiator became less of a secret and more of a prize. Yet, curiously, no one else ever sat there.
You discovered why on a bleak Thursday afternoon.
You were walking down the Arithmancy aisle when you caught sight of two fifth-year Gryffindors eyeing your empty table, their arms loaded with Gobstones strategy guides. Before they could even step into the alcove, a sharp, cold voice cut through the air from the shadow of a nearby bookshelf.
"I wouldn't," Draco said, leaning against a stack of Transfiguration journals with his arms crossed. His grey eyes were fixed on the Gryffindors with a look of pure, aristocratic disdain. "Unless you particularly enjoy having your parchment turned into ash. That table is occupied."
The two boys blinked, looked at Draco’s pristine Slytherin prefect badge, and wisely scattered back toward the main reading room.
You stepped out from behind the shelf, a smug smile playing on your lips. "Occupied, is it? I didn't know you were running a protection racket, Malfoy."
Draco didn't flinch. He merely smoothed the front of his robes and walked past you to pull out his usual chair. "Don't flatter yourself, badger. If some bumbling Gryffindor sits there, they’ll spill ink all over the wood or leave grease stains from whatever heavy pastries they smuggle out of the Great Hall. I am protecting my own sanity, not your seat."
"Right. Of course," you said, sitting down opposite him. You pulled out a fresh square of parchment, but instead of starting your homework, you slid a neon-pink sticky note across the table.
On it, you had written: Thanks, you tyrant.
Draco stared at the pink paper as if it were a highly venomous creature. He glanced up at you, his jaw tight, but there was a faint, betraying flush of pink high on his cheekbones. He aggressively swiped the note across the table, crumpled it in his fist, and stuffed it into his pocket.
"If anyone sees you leaving these hideous Muggle monstrosities on my side of the desk, I will personally hex you into the next school year," he muttered, though his voice lacked any real venom.
"You won't," you replied easily, dipping your quill into the midnight-blue ink. "Because then you'd have to study all by yourself, and we both know you’d miss my 'drunk spider' handwriting."
He let out a short, quiet breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, though he quickly masked it by snapping open his copy of Most Potente Potions.
The winter days bled into one another, and the nature of the notes began to shift. The sharp insults melted into a dry, comfortable banter that existed entirely on paper, even while you sat less than two feet apart.
Your sighing is vibrating the table. If your Ancient Runes essay is causing you this much mental anguish, just drop the class. - D.M.
You read it, rolled your eyes, and pushed your response back:
I'm not dropping it. The translation makes no sense. What does a reversed Ehwaz rune even mean in this context? - The Spider
Draco didn't write back right away. Instead, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electric second as he dragged your textbook toward him. He scanned the page, his brow furrowing in concentration, before flipping the book back to you. A new sticky note was attached to the page:
It means partnership or a transition, you absolute dunce. But because it’s reversed, it implies a lack of trust or an unwilling alliance. Fitting, isn't it? - D.M.
You stared at his elegant handwriting, then up at him. He was already looking back at his own work, but his shoulders were relaxed, and the rigid, defensive posture he usually held around the rest of the school was completely absent.
An unwilling alliance. Maybe that's what it had been in November. But now, as the snow outside began to melt into the early rains of spring, it felt like something entirely different.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The real turning point happened in late March.
A massive storm had knocked out several of the castle's magical lamps, plunging the lower levels into deep shadow. You and Draco had been working in total silence for hours, entirely consumed by the looming shadow of end-of-term exams. The only light in your alcove came from the Lumos-enchanted crystal Draco had placed between you, casting a soft, blue-white glow over the desk.
You were so engrossed in tracing a complex Arithmancy chart that you didn't hear the distant, heavy chime of the castle clock striking midnight.
You only realized how late it was when the faint, rhythmic clicking of Madam Pince’s heels echoed from the main entrance, followed by the heavy, echoing thud of the massive oak library doors being locked and bolted from the outside.
You froze, your quill hovering over your parchment. "Draco," you whispered, the sudden silence of the library feeling incredibly heavy. "Did she just lock the doors?"
Draco looked up, his grey eyes wide. He pulled out his pocket watch, clicked it open, and cursed softly under his breath. "Miserable old bat. She locked up early."
"What do we do?" You began frantically packing your books into your bag. "If we get caught out of bounds after midnight, Filch will have us scrubbing bedpans in the hospital wing until June. Or worse, my Head of House will find out."
"Calm down," Draco said, standing up and smoothing
his robes, though his own eyes were scanning the dark aisles with a hint of tension. "I’m a prefect, remember? I can easily claim I was conducting a final sweep of the Restricted Section."
"And what about me?" you pointed out, throwing your heavy bag over your shoulder and crossing your arms. "Somehow, I don't think 'she was helping me check the Arithmancy shelves' is going to fly with Madam Pince if she catches us sneaking toward the portrait holes."
Draco’s gaze dropped to you, trapped in the narrow pool of light from the glowing crystal. A slow, familiar smirk returned to his face, cutting right through the panic of the dark library. "Then I suppose you’ll just have to stay very close to me, badger. Try not to trip over your own feet."
"Lead the way, Slytherin," you whispered back, matching his grin despite the frantic beating of your heart.
He reached down, blew out the enchanted light, and darkness swallowed the alcove.
Before your eyes could even adjust, you felt a firm, warm hand wrap around your wrist. It wasn't tight or aggressive; his long fingers slid down to grasp your palm, pulling you gently into the shadows of the Arithmancy aisle. Your heart did a violent, completely unauthorized flip against your ribs. His hand was remarkably warm, a stark contrast to the chilly, drafty stone corridors of the library.
"Keep quiet," he breathed, his voice directly brushed against your ear as he guided you through the maze of towering bookshelves.
The library at night was an entirely different creature. The shadows seemed to stretch, and every tiny creak of the ancient floorboards sounded like a thunderclap. In the distance, the faint flare of a lantern illuminated the main desk—Madam Pince was doing a final walkthrough before heading up to her quarters.
Draco suddenly yanked you backward into a narrow gap between a shelf on medieval hexes and a heavy velvet curtain.
The space was incredibly small. You were pressed flat against the stone wall, and Draco had to step completely into your space to keep out of sight. His hands came up to rest on the stone on either side of your head, trapping you between his arms. He was so close you could smell the clean, expensive scent of mint and cedarwood that clung to his robes. In the dim light filtering through the high windows, his grey eyes were dark, intense, and completely fixed on your face.
Your breath caught. You held completely still, barely daring to breathe as the shadow of Madam Pince’s lantern flickered past the end of the aisle.
Draco’s eyes flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. The arrogant, untouchable pureblood facade was entirely gone, replaced by a raw, quiet intensity that made the air between you feel thick and electric. His thumb brushed a slow, unconscious circle against your side where his hand had rested on your waist to pull you back.
Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved, even long after the sound of Pince’s footsteps died away and the library fell into total, uninterrupted silence.
"You're breathing loudly again," Draco murmured, his voice a low, raspy whisper that sent a delicious shiver straight down your spine.
"You're too close," you whispered back, though you didn't pull away. In fact, you leaned an inch closer, your eyes challenging his. "It's distracting."
A slow, breathless smile broke across his face—not the mocking smirk he gave the rest of the school, but something soft, genuine, and entirely yours. "Everything about you is distracting, you stubborn badger."
He didn't wait for your retort this time. Draco leaned down, his hand sliding up from your waist to cup the side of your jaw, his thumb wiping across your cheekbone as his lips met yours.
The kiss was everything their note war had been—sharp, electric, and full of a strange, pent-up tension that had been building for months—but it was also incredibly soft. He kissed you as if you were the only thing in the entire castle that mattered, his fingers tangling slightly in your hair as you leaned into his chest, your hands finding the lapels of his Slytherin robes.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was ragged, and his grey eyes were glowing with a warmth you had never seen in them before.
"If you mention this to anyone," he whispered, though he was smiling against your lips, "I will deny it completely."
"Oh, please," you laughed softly, your hands tracing the line of his shoulders. "I’ve got it in writing, Malfoy. You saved my seat."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
By May, the inkwell war had officially ended, though the desk remained heavily defended.
The pink sticky notes didn't stop, but their placement had changed. They were no longer left on the wood for the other to find; they were shoved directly into bags, slipped into pockets between classes, or exchanged under the table during dinner in the Great Hall.
On the final Tuesday before term ended, you walked down the Arithmancy aisle, the warm spring breeze blowing through the open stained-glass window. The radiator was silent now, the sun casting long, golden streaks across the familiar oak table.
Draco was already there. He was sitting back, his ankle resting over his knee, looking completely at peace. When you rounded the corner, his eyes immediately tracked to yours, and the soft, private smile he saved only for you appeared on his face.
You sat down opposite him, dropping your bag. Stuck squarely to the center of your parchment was a brand new, neon-pink note.
You picked it up, reading his elegant, familiar script:
I've checked the library regulations. This seat is officially off the market. And so are you. Don't be late for the train tomorrow. I'm saving a compartment. - Draco
You looked up, your eyes shining as you met his gaze. You reached into your bag, pulled out your favorite midnight-blue ink, and began to write your reply right under his eyes, knowing that this particular alliance was never going to end.
Theodore Nott x fem!reader
summary: Drawn together as delusional fifteen-year-olds and torn apart by the dark legacy of Voldemort's war, Theodore Nott and you find your fragile boundaries pushed to the breaking point by a single, desperate phrase whispered over a Muggle telephone line.
word count: 3.6k
a/n: this is loosely based off of the song "Merry Christmas, Please Don't Call." I hope you like it! it's written in third person, but the "she" is supposed to be the reader (or y/n)!
The smell of St. Mungos always lingered on her skin, no matter how hard she scrubbed at her arms in the shower. It was a sharp, biting mixture of crushed dittany, sterile moonstone paste, and the faint, copper tang of blood.
By eighteen, she felt like an old woman.
During her years at Hogwarts, her laugh had been the loudest thing in the Gryffindor common room. She had been a girl who couldn't walk down a corridor without stopping three different times to talk to three different people. Her life had been vivid, bright, and incredibly loud. But the war had a way of turning down the volume of the world until everything was just a dull, echoing hum. Half the faces from those crowded corridors were gone now—some buried beneath the frost of the Hogwarts grounds, others simply too broken to ever return to society.
Theodore and her had started dating in the winter of their fourth year, a time when the world still felt vast and relatively safe, despite the dark rumors beginning to whisper through the castle corridors. At fifteen, they were beautifully, stubbornly delusional. She was a Gryffindor who seemed to exist entirely in high-definition—always laughing too loud, dragging her friends by the hand down the stone hallways, and filling every room she entered with a chaotic, vibrant warmth.
Theo had been her exact polar opposite. He was a creature of shadows and quiet corners, a Slytherin who wore his aristocratic detachment like a suit of armor. He spent his afternoons tucked away in the deepest recesses of the library, hiding behind stacks of ancient Arithmancy texts, looking thoroughly annoyed by the mere existence of other people.
By all accounts, they should have ignored each other entirely. But fourth year had a way of changing things.
It had started with a stormy Tuesday in November. The library was freezing, the draft from the high stained-glass windows making everyone’s ink dry too quickly. She had dropped her bag right across from him, entirely uninvited, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold rain outside.
"You're hoarding the good table," she had announced, dropping a massive tower of Ancient Runes essays onto the dark wood.
Theo had slowly lowered his book, his dark eyes fixing her with a cool, unimpressed glare. "There are forty empty tables in this section."
"Yes, but this one is near the radiator, and you're only using one notebook," she countered, already pulling out her quill. "Share the warmth, Nott. It’s charity."
He had scoffed, a quiet, sharp sound, but he hadn't told her to leave. And that had been the start of it. Within a month, the quiet table by the radiator became theirs. Within two, the library defense mechanism had completely broken down.
She remembered a night just before the Christmas holidays that year. The castle was nearly empty, most students having boarded the Hogwarts Express that morning. A heavy blizzard was howling against the stones of the Astronomy Tower, but she had dragged him up the winding stairs anyway, a stolen flask of hot chocolate tucked into her heavy winter robes.
"It's freezing up here," Theo grumbled, his breath pluming in the dark air as he leaned against the stone parapet. He had his collar pulled up high, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking thoroughly miserable but refusing to actually leave her side. "If my fingers freeze off and drop into the Black Lake, I’m holding you personally responsible."
"Oh, stop being a drama queen," she laughed, her voice ringing out into the snowy night. She stepped close to him, completely ignoring the invisible line that usually kept Slytherins and Gryffindors apart. She reached out, wrapping her bare, warm hands around his neck, gently pulling him down so he had to look at her. "See? I'm warm enough for both of us."
Theo had gone entirely still. The sarcastic retort on his lips died instantly. Under the faint, silver light of the stars, she watched the precise moment his cool, detached mask cracked. His dark eyes softened, tracing the contours of her face with a sudden, fierce intensity.
"You're ridiculous," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, losing all its sharp edges.
Slowly, carefully, as if he were afraid she might vanish into the snow, he brought his hands out of his pockets. He didn't have gloves on, and his fingers were ice-cold against her jaw, but she didn't flinch. When he leaned down to kiss her, it was hesitant at first, a quiet question asked in the freezing dark. But as she leaned into him, her hands moving to tangle in the soft, dark curls at the nape of his neck, the kiss deepened. It tasted like sweet cocoa, winter air, and the intoxicating, reckless belief that as long as they were standing on this tower, nothing in the world could ever touch them.
When they finally broke apart, Theo’s cheeks were flushed a brilliant, healthy pink. He looked down at her, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was a secret smile, one he only ever saved for her.
"Come here," he whispered, pulling her tightly against his chest, wrapping his heavy wool cloak around her shoulders so they were encased in a private cocoon of warmth. "If you catch a cold, I'll never hear the end of it."
They had spent the next two years living in that beautiful, fragile bubble. They spent hours by the Black Lake in the spring, Theo lazily casting minor charms to make wildflowers float into her hair while she read her Transfiguration essays aloud. He would complain about the noise she made, about her tendency to trip over her own robes, about how loud her laugh was—but the moment she stopped laughing, his eyes would narrow with concern, his hand instantly finding hers beneath the table, squeezing her fingers until she smiled again.
But bubbles always burst.
The war hadn't just knocked on the castle doors; it had smashed through them, rewriting the rules of their lives in blood and ash. By their sixth year, the light in Theo’s eyes had begun to die. The dark rumors about his father became terrifying realities. She would watch him across the Great Hall, sitting entirely alone at the Slytherin table, his shoulders hunched, staring blankly at his plate. The quiet, calm boy she loved was being replaced by a ghost.
They still met in secret, but the warmth was gone. Now, when they held each other in the dark corners of the Room of Requirement, it felt like desperate survival. He would hold her so tightly it bruised, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his breath shaking against her skin.
"Don't look at me," he had whispered one night, his voice hoarse and broken as they sat on a dusty velvet sofa. "Please. Just... let me hold you. Don't look at what I'm becoming."
She had cried that night, her tears wetting his collar, because she could feel him slipping away into a darkness she couldn't follow him into. Her own parents were active in the resistance; his father was sitting at the right hand of the Dark Lord. The lines were drawn in permanent ink, and no matter how much they loved each other, they were on opposite sides of a canyon that was growing wider by the day.
When the war finally ended, they tried so hard to pretend the canyon wasn't there.
In those first few months after the Battle of Hogwarts, they were nineteen, exhausted, and fundamentally broken. When she finally moved into her tiny, drafty Muggle apartment, Theo had tried to be the boy from fourth year again. He would apparate directly to her doorstep, avoiding the Floo network entirely because he knew the sudden flash of green flames made her flinch and reach for her wand.
He would stand in the dim, peeling hallway of her building, holding a clumsy bunch of crushed, mismatched flowers he’d bought from a Muggle street vendor, offering her a quiet, hesitant smile.
But the smile never reached his eyes anymore.
They would sit on her second-hand sofa, the silence between them so heavy it made her ears ring. The love was still there—massive, agonizing, and raw—but it was suffocating under the weight of everything they couldn't say. She would look at his left forearm, always hidden beneath tightly buttoned cuffs, and remember the terrifying night her parents’ house was raided. He would look at her hollow, haunted eyes and see the wreckage his father’s world had left behind. They tried to skip over the details, to talk about the weather, about her training at St. Mungos, about anything else—but the war was a third person sitting between them on the cushions, pulling them apart.
The official breakup hadn't been a screaming match. It had just been a quiet, devastating realization on a Tuesday evening in late September.
Theo had been sitting at her small kitchen table, staring down at a cup of tea that had gone entirely cold. The rain was drumming a rhythmic, depressing beat against the glass.
"We're killing each other," he had whispered, his voice completely flat, completely devoid of the sharp wit he used to possess. He didn't look up at her. His fingers were just tracing the rim of his mug. "Every time you look at me, you see the dark mark. And every time I look at you, I see what my family took from you."
She had stood by the sink, her throat so tight she could barely swallow. She wanted to scream, to tell him he was wrong, to tell him that she only saw him—the boy from the Astronomy Tower, the boy who loved marshmallows in his cocoa. But she couldn't lie to him. Because he was right. The history was too heavy. They were trying to build a house on a foundation made of rubble.
"I love you, Theo," she had whispered, the words tasting like copper and grief.
"I know," he replied, finally looking up. His dark eyes were swimming with unshed tears, reflecting the dim light of her kitchen. "That's why I have to leave. Because if I stay, I’ll just drag you down into the dark with me, and you deserve the light."
He had stood up, walked to the door, and left without looking back. A mutual letting go of a rope that was cutting both of their hands to pieces.
But letting go didn't mean the aching stopped.
Even after they were officially done, Theo couldn't completely stay away. The addiction to what they used to be was too strong. There were nights—dark, freezing Tuesday nights when the wind howled through the Muggle streets—when she would hear a heavy, uncoordinated thud against her front door.
She’d open it to find him half-collapsed against the wooden frame. He would be soaking wet from the rain or covered in a light dusting of snow, smelling sharply of expensive firewhisky and bitter winter air. His dark hair would be messy, clinging to his forehead, and his eyes would be unfocused, glazed over with a desperate, drunken misery.
He never said anything on those nights. He wouldn't apologize, and he wouldn't beg. He would just slide down the doorframe until he was sitting on the floor, burying his face in his hands, his broad shoulders shaking silently.
And because she loved him more than she loved her own sanity, she would always pull him inside.
She would lock the door, drop to her knees on the cold hardwood floor beside him in the dark, and pull his heavy, trembling head into her lap. She wouldn't cast a cleaning charm to get the smell of alcohol off him; she just wanted to hold him. Her fingers would thread through his soft, dark curls, soothing the frantic tension in his scalp, pressing gentle, aching kisses into his hair while her own tears slipped silently down her cheeks.
"You can't keep coming here like this, Theo," she would whisper into the quiet, dark room, her voice breaking into pieces against the crown of his head. "You can't show up here anymore. It's killing us both. We can't keep playing this game."
He would just grip the fabric of her trousers, his knuckles turning white as he buried his face deeper into her stomach, breathing her in like a man running out of oxygen. He would squeeze his eyes shut, shaking his head against her lap, silently begging her to just let him have this one, stolen moment of warmth before he had to disappear into the cold morning light again.
Now, she was a Healer. She had traded her school robes for uniform white, and she poured every ounce of her remaining energy into saving people. It was a desperate, exhausting cycle. If she kept her hands moving, if she kept sealing wounds and brewing counter-potions for twelve hours a day, she didn't have to think about the quiet, drafty apartment waiting for her at the end of the line. She didn't have to think about her parents.
And she didn't have to think about Theodore Nott.
Except, she did. Because the universe was cruel, and St. Mungos was the only wizarding hospital in Britain.
It had happened three days ago, just before the holiday rush. She had been carrying a tray of calming draughts down the fourth-floor corridor when she saw him.
Theodore.
He was standing outside the Janus Thickey Ward, where his father was currently wasting away under a specialized Ministry guard. Theo looked like a shadow of the boy she had loved. The sharp, aristocratic lines of his jaw were more pronounced, shadowed by a dark, tired stubble. He wore a heavy black overcoat that seemed to swallow him whole, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
He had looked up. Their eyes locked across the crowded, sterile hallway.
For a single, agonizing second, the hospital sounds faded. The rattle of the potion bottles, the groans of the patients, the rushing footsteps of the other Healers—all of it vanished. She saw the familiar, heartbreaking tilt of his head. She saw the desperate, aching recognition in his dark eyes, a silent plea that begged her to walk across the floor and hold him.
But she couldn't. The history between them was an ocean of glass. His family had worn the dark mark; her family had died because of it. They had tried to outrun the ghosts after the war, but the ghosts always won.
She had simply lowered her gaze, gripped her tray a little tighter, and walked in the opposite direction. She hadn't looked back, even though she felt his eyes burning into her spine until she turned the corner.
They had survived a war, but they couldn't survive the peace.
The first Christmas without him felt less like a holiday and more like a sentence to be served.
In the past, December had always been a season of jittery, breathless anticipation. She remembered fourth year, fifth year, sixth year—the way her chest would tighten with a sweet, frantic kind of anxiety as she watched him open her gifts in the Slytherin common room or during secret meetings in the library. She used to stuff long, rambling, fiercely loving letters into the wrapping paper, her eyes glittering with excitement as she waited for him to read them. Theo would always try to act cool, his aristocratic mask firmly in place, but she would catch the slight flush on his cheeks and the way his fingers carefully folded her letters to hide them in his inner coat pocket.
There were no more "accidental" appearances under the mistletoe anymore. They both always knew he was the one murmuring a quiet, non-verbal spell to make the enchanted berries sprout directly above their heads, giving him an excuse to pull her close and press his cold lips against her warm ones.
There was no more hot chocolate. They used to argue about it every winter. She would pile hers high with whipped cream, insisting it was the only proper way to drink it, while Theo would scoff softly, calling her ridiculous and insisting on being a stubborn purist, adding only a few precise marshmallows to his mug.
No more of any of that.
On Christmas morning, the silence in her small apartment was deafening. To drown it out, she turned herself into a machine. She woke up early, tied her hair back, and began a deep, aggressive cleaning of the flat.
She swept the hardwood floors until her shoulders ached. She dusted corners she hadn't bothered to touch since she moved in, wiped down the kitchen counters until they gleamed under the gray morning light, and scrubbed the baseboards with a fierce, desperate intensity. It was a war against her own mind. If her hands were moving, she didn't have to think. If she kept her eyes glued to the dust and the soap suds, she wouldn't look out the large living room window.
Because outside that window, standing right on the curb, was the old Muggle street lamp and the glass payphone structure.
It was the very same payphone where, exactly one Christmas ago, she had brought Theo to see her new place for the first time. It had been freezing, their breaths pluming in the air, and he had pulled her inside the narrow glass booth, laughing softly as he crowded her against the metal coin box to shield her from the wind. They had shared a kiss that tasted like winter and promises they couldn't keep.
Now, she refused to look at it. She swept harder, the harsh friction of the broom against the floor the only sound keeping her company in the empty room.
By evening, the manic energy of the morning had worn off, leaving her with nothing but a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion.
The gray daylight had bled into a dark, freezing twilight. Outside, thick flakes of snow had begun to fall, dusting the quiet Muggle street in a layer of pristine white. Inside, the apartment was spotless, smelling faintly of lemon oil and loneliness.
Needing something—anything—to warm her freezing hands, she filled the kettle. She reached into the cabinet, her fingers automatically hovering over the tin of cocoa powder. Her heart gave a familiar, painful thud. Hot chocolate reminds me of you, he had told her once, his voice soft against her neck. Good, she had replied, because hot chocolate reminds me of you, too.
With a tight throat, she bypassed the cocoa and grabbed a bag of plain black tea. It was bitter, but bitter was safe.
While the water heated, she walked into the living room, holding her arms tightly across her chest. She couldn't stop herself anymore. Her eyes drifted to the large window.
The Muggle street lamp had flickered to life, casting a hazy, golden cone of light through the falling snow. And there, standing directly inside the glass box of the payphone booth, was a figure.
Her breath hitched, fogging the glass of her windowpane.
It was him. She would know that silhouette anywhere. Theodore was standing in the cramped booth, the black receiver pressed tightly to his ear. He was wearing a heavy jacket and a dark green scarf that stood out sharply against the snow. On his hands were the gray mittens she had bought him from a small shop in Hogsmeade years ago—the ones he used to meticulously charm to grow alongside him because he refused to ever throw them away.
He wasn't looking at the phone. His head was tilted up, his dark, shadowed eyes staring directly up at her third-floor window. He was waiting.
Suddenly, the sharp, mechanical ring of her home telephone shattered the quiet of the apartment.
She flinched. The kettle began to hiss in the kitchen, a loud, screaming whistle, but she couldn't move her eyes away from the man under the street lamp. The phone rang a second time. Then a third.
With trembling fingers, she walked over to the side table and lifted the receiver, pressing it to her ear. She didn't say anything. She just listened to the heavy, static-filled quiet of the line.
"Merry Christmas," his voice whispered.
The sound of it cut through her like a physical blow. It was hesitant, rough, and completely stripped of the calm, aristocratic composure he usually wore like armor. Hearing that voice—the same voice that used to murmur lazy, beautiful things against her skin in the dark—made her entire chest ache with a violent, hollow longing.
"Theo..." She caught herself, closing her eyes tightly. "Theodore. Hello."
"I know I shouldn't have come," he started immediately, his words rushing out as if he was terrified she would hang up on him. His voice was shaking, a rare, terrifying fracture in his usual stoicism. "I know it’s not fair to you, not after everything we said. After everything you told me. But I'm sitting here in the dark, and everything haunts me of you. I can't forget you, tesoro. I can't."
A tear slipped over her eyelashes, hot and fast, tracking down her cheek. "Nott, please," she mumbled, her voice cracking under the weight of his old nickname for her. "Don't do this."
"The toughest part is just sitting here knowing," Theo choked out, his forehead pressing against the cold glass of the payphone booth as he looked up at her light. "Knowing what you're doing every day, knowing how exhausted you are, and I can't even talk to you. I see you at St. Mungos sometimes. I see you from across the floor. My father... he's dying in there, and all I want to do is cross the corridor and hold your hand. But I can't."
She looked out the window, watching his shoulders tremble beneath his heavy coat. The love was still there—massive, terrifying, and completely unchanged. But the wreckage of the world they lived in was too vast to bridge. They were modern damaged, old-fashioned sad, and trying to hold on would only tear them both apart further.
"Theo..." her voice trailed off, a thick, suffocating lump forming in her throat as she watched him stand beneath the lonely street lamp. She squeezed the plastic receiver, wishing with everything in her soul that things could be different.
"Merry Christmas," she whispered softly into the phone, her heart breaking into a thousand quiet pieces. "But please... don't call."
Before he could answer, before she could lose her nerve, she lowered the receiver back onto the cradle, cutting the line, and pulled the blinds shut.
Draco Malfoy x Hufflepuff!reader
Summary: Draco Malfoy thought he was just clearing a stubborn Hufflepuff out of his favorite library seat, until the sharp-tongued badger turned a petty note war into the only interesting thing in the castle.
word count: 2.2k
a/n: second post on Tumblr! if there are any scenarios or story ideas you have, please don't hesitate to comment it! i'll try my best to write it out! ty for reading! here's part two ♡
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The library in November was less of a sanctuary and more of a battleground. Between the fifth-years panicking over their upcoming O.W.L.s and the Seventh-years practically living in the Restricted Section under mounds of ancient parchment, finding a quiet corner was an art form.
You, however, were a master of the craft.
Tucked away in the deepest recesses of the Arithmancy aisle, behind a row of towering, leather-bound tomes that smelled faintly of vanilla and centuries of dust, sat the perfect desk. It was a narrow, heavy oak table shoved into a small alcove by a stained-glass window. When the afternoon sun hit it just right, it cast fractured pools of amber and emerald light across the scratched wood. Better yet, the radiator hidden beneath the sill clanked softly, emitting a steady, blissful heat that kept the damp Scottish chill at bay.
It was your haven. For three weeks, you had claimed it. You’d left your favorite self-inking quill in the drawer, established a precise arrangement for your heavy reference books, and enjoyed the absolute peace of being entirely alone. Reading, writing, and completing your assignments felt blissful in your little corner.
Until Tuesday.
You walked down the narrow aisle, your Hufflepuff robes swirling around your ankles, balancing a dangerously high stack of Ancient Runes texts in your arms. Your mind was already drafting the introductory paragraph of your essay when you rounded the corner and froze.
Someone was in your seat.
Not just someone. Him.
Draco Malfoy was draped across the oak chair with a terrifying amount of entitlement. His Slytherin robes were immaculately pressed, his silver-and-green tie perfectly knotted, and his platinum hair practically caught the amber light of the window like a halo. He was leaning back, one ankle resting over his knee, carelessly flipping through a copy of Advanced Potion-Making. He didn’t even look up when your shadow fell over the table, though the slight, arrogant twitch of his jaw proved he knew exactly who was standing there.
You dropped your stack of books onto the edge of the desk. The heavy thud echoed through the quiet alcove, causing a loose piece of parchment to flutter to the floor.
Malfoy slowly lowered his book. His cold, grey eyes flicked down to the books, up to your face, and then trailed back to his page with agonizing deliberateness.
"You're in my light," he said, his voice a smooth, low drawl that oozed pure boredom. "Move."
You let out a sharp, dry laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. "And you’re in my seat. Move."
"Your seat?" One of his pale eyebrows arched, though he still didn't deign to look at you fully. "I don’t recall seeing a brass plaque with your name engraved on it. Though, considering the lack of taste, I suppose a Hufflepuff would think a public library desk belongs to them by divine right. Shouldn't the greenhouse be your style?"
The pureblood arrogance practically dripped from his tongue. Any other student might have flushed, stuttered, or backed away from the fearsome reputation of the Malfoy heir. But you had grown up attending the same tedious Ministry galas and pureblood garden parties as he had. You knew exactly what lay beneath the pristine facade: a boy who was used to getting his way simply because nobody bothered to tell him no.
"Funny," you retorted, leaning down slightly so you were in his direct line of sight, your eyes flashing with sudden heat. "I don’t recall seeing a Malfoy crest carved into the woodwork either. And considering your family basically owns half the school’s boards, I’m shocked you haven't bought yourself a private study carrel yet. Did your father finally cut your allowance, Malfoy? What a shame."
That hit a nerve. The lazy, arrogant posture vanished in an instant. Malfoy snapped his book shut with a sharp crack and sat up straight. His grey eyes narrowed, turning ice-cold as he glared up at you.
"Watch your mouth," he hissed, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. "You have no idea who you're talking to."
"Oh, I know exactly who I’m talking to," you shot back, matching his venom with a sweet, lethal smile. "I’m talking to a thief who can't find his own study space. I’ve sat at this desk every single Tuesday and Thursday for a month. Move your inkwell before I accidentally knock it over with my very heavy, very clumsy Hufflepuff elbows."
Malfoy gripped the edges of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He looked utterly flabbergasted that a badger was actively snarling back at him. "I always sit here," he lied smoothly, though his eyes betrayed the fabrication. "The light is optimal. The ambient temperature is acceptable. I have no intention of moving for a stray third-year."
"I'm a fourth-year, you blind bat," you snapped, pulling out the chair directly opposite him—the only other seat at the small table—and scraping it loudly against the stone floor. You sat down with a dramatic flurry of your robes, dragging your Runes books toward you. "Fine. You want the desk so badly? We share. But cross the invisible center line of this table, Malfoy, and I will hex your fingers into jelly."
He stared at you as if you had just suggested he sleep in the Forbidden Forest. His jaw tightened so hard you thought a tooth might crack. For a long, breathless moment, the tension between you was palpable—a taut wire ready to snap.
"Fine," he spat, pulling his inkwell closer to his side of the table with a sharp jerk. "Keep to your side of the border. And don't breathe so loudly. It's distracting."
"Don't look so ugly," you muttered back, dipping your quill into your ink with a vicious stab. "It's distracting."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
For the next two hours, the silence between you was a weapon. The only sounds were the furious scratching of your quill, the crisp turning of his pages, and the occasional, aggressive sigh from across the table. Neither of you backed down. It was an exhausting game of chicken, played entirely through body language.
When Madam Pince finally blew out the central lamps to signal the library’s closing, you packed your bags in a flurry of motion, giving him one last, burning glare before stalking out into the corridor.
You thought that would be the end of it. You thought he’d find another place to brood.
But when you returned on Thursday, the desk was empty—and stuck squarely in the center of the wood was a bright, neon-pink sticky note. A Muggle stationary item. The sheer irony of a Malfoy using it made you blink.
He must've done his reading before you had even gotten there.
You ripped it off the wood. Written in an elegant, perfectly slanted, and viciously sharp cursive script was a single line:
Your cheap ink smells like wet dog. Buy a proper bottle or study in the greenhouse where you belong. - D.M.
A gasp of pure indignation left your throat. You crumbled the paper in your fist, your cheeks burning. Oh, it was on. He wanted a war? You would give him a siege.
You yanked a fresh square of parchment from your bag, dipped your quill in that exact "cheap" ink, and wrote back:
My ink is fine. Your face is what smells like wet dog. Move your books three inches to the left next time, your giant leather case is encroaching on my airspace.
You slapped the note right where he couldn't miss it, packed your things, and stormed off to dinner.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
What followed was a month of absolute madness.
The physical confrontations stopped—mostly because your schedules didn't always align—but the desk became a living, breathing archive of your mutual hatred. Every Tuesday and Thursday, you would arrive at the alcove to find a new note waiting for you, and you would leave one in return.
The sticky notes accumulated like colorful, venomous autumn leaves.
To the Hufflepuff who clearly lacks basic spatial awareness: Your handwriting looks like a drunk spider dipped its legs in ink and had a fit on the parchment. I spent twenty minutes trying to decipher your last pathetic insult. Literacy is a virtue. Look into it. - D.M.
You replied within five minutes of reading it:
To the Slytherin Prince of Petty: My handwriting is cursive. I know they don't teach you basic human skills in the dungeons, but try to keep up. Also, thanks for spending twenty minutes thinking about me. I’m flattered. - The Spider
The next day, his response was practically burning through the paper:
I do not think about you. That's disgusting. I think about the tragedy of the Hogwarts admissions standard. Furthermore, stop leaving your crumbs on the desk. If I find one more speck of pumpkin pasty near my Arithmancy charts, I will have Filtch banish you to the kitchens permanently. - D.M.
"Disgusting?" You muttered to yourself, reading the note. "I'll show him disgusting. You countered:
If you touch my pasties, I will tell the entire school that the fearsome Draco Malfoy uses pink Muggle stationary. Aren't you supposed to be disgusted of muggle things? That's bipolar if you ask me. I took a picture of the stack of notes in your bag with a Colin Creevey camera. Try me.
It was juvenile. It was ridiculous. It was the highlight of your entire week.
You found yourself rushing through your lunches just to get to the library earlier, your heart doing a strange, stupid little flutter against your ribs the moment you rounded the corner of the Arithmancy aisle to see if a fresh square of paper was waiting for you. You learned his habits through his complaints. You learned he hated the draft from the window, so you started leaving the latch slightly cracked just to spite him. He learned you hated the dark, so he started leaving a Lumos-enchanted crystal on the desk when he left after dark.
He claimed it was "because I don't want you tripping over your own feet and breaking my desk," but you knew better.
The edge was shifting. The venom was turning into something else. Something sharp, electric, and dangerously addictive.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
By mid-December, a brutal blizzard had trapped the castle in a shroud of white. The library was freezing, the ancient stone walls doing little to keep out the howling wind.
You walked down the familiar aisle, shivering in your heavy winter cloak, clutching a cup of hot tea you’d snitched from the Great Hall. You expected the desk to be empty, given the storm.
Instead, Malfoy was there.
He wasn't reading. He was sitting back, staring out the frosted glass window at the swirling snow. His usual pristine appearance was slightly altered; his silver-and-green scarf was wound tightly around his neck, and his cheeks were flushed a faint, rare pink from the cold.
When he heard your footsteps, he didn't tense up. He slowly turned his head, his grey eyes tracking you as you approached.
"You're late," he said. The drawl was there, but the bite was gone. It sounded almost... quiet.
"The stairs were playing tricks," you replied, setting your tea down. You looked at the desk. Stuck to the center of the wood was a fresh note. You didn't pick it up. Instead, you read it right there, out loud, your eyes locked onto his.
Move your inkwell, badger. I saved your seat. Don't be late.
You looked up from the elegant script, your breath catching in your throat. Draco was watching you, his expression unreadable, but there was a tension in his shoulders that had nothing to do with anger.
"You saved my seat?" you teased softly, taking your place opposite him. "Careful, Malfoy. Someone might think you actually like me."
"Don't flatter yourself," he muttered, though he didn't look away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, beautifully wrapped package, sliding it across the table until it crossed the invisible center line and bumped against your tea cup. "Your cheap ink was giving me a headache. Consider this a charity donation from the Malfoy foundation."
You blinked, carefully untying the green ribbon. Inside was a heavy, crystal inkwell filled with a rich, shimmering midnight-blue ink that practically glowed under the library lights. It was incredibly expensive, the kind of luxury item only sold in the upper crust of Diagon Alley.
It was beautiful.
"Draco..." you breathed, using his first name for the very first time.
He stiffened slightly at the sound of it, his eyes darkening. He cleared his throat, suddenly looking very interested in his fingernails. "It's just ink. Don't make a scene. If you cry, Pince will kick us both out."
"I'm not going to cry, I'm not an idiot," you laughed, a bright, warm sound that seemed to cut right through the freezing alcove. You dipped your quill into the new ink, watching the beautiful, shimmering color coat the nib. "It's perfect. Thank you."
Draco watched you write a single word on a scrap piece of parchment: Thank you.
He reached out, his pale fingers hovering over the paper for a fraction of a second before he pulled the scrap toward his side of the desk. He took his own quill, dipped it into his black ink, and wrote directly beneath your words:
You're welcome. Now shut up and let me study.
You smiled, leaning your chin on your hand as you watched him return to his book. For the first time in a month, the silence between you wasn't a weapon at all. It was a promise.
Theodore Nott x Ravenclaw!reader
Summary: Theodore Nott thought he was playing a harmless game of a dare, until the quiet Ravenclaw he targeted turned out to be the only fascinating thing in the castle.
word count: 2.5k
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Slytherin table at breakfast was usually an exercise in enduring Draco Malfoy’s theatrical complaints. Today was no exception.
Theodore Nott sat at the end of the bench, a cup of black coffee held loosely in his hand, his eyes tracking the morning owls as they flooded the Great Hall. Beside him, Blaise was meticulously buttering a piece of toast, while Draco was mid-rant about the incompetence of the Ministry’s owl-post service.
Theo wasn't listening. He rarely did. The politics, the posturing, the endless obsession with who was who—it was entirely, profoundly boring. They never spoke about any other topic, ever.
"Look at her," Blaise murmured suddenly, nudging Theo’s elbow with a smirk. He pointed his knife toward the Ravenclaw table. "The quiet one. Third from the end. She’s been staring at that bottle of maple syrup for three minutes like it’s a cursed artifact."
Theo shifted his gaze. You were sitting alone, a book propped open against a goblet, staring intently at the small pitcher of syrup in your hand. You looked completely detached from the chaotic chatter around you, existing entirely in your own head.
"Ten Galleons says you can't get her to go to the library with you by the end of the week, Nott," Draco chimed in, his attention easily diverted by the prospect of a wager. "She doesn't talk to anyone outside her little Gryffindor shadow-group with the Weasley girl and Loony Lovegood. Even then, she barely opens her mouth. Quite pathetic, really. "
Theo swirled his coffee, his sharp, analytical mind assessing the girl across the hall. She looked harmless. Quiet. The type of Ravenclaw who probably memorized herbology charts for fun. He was bored, and the prospect of taking Draco’s gold while proving a point was mildly entertaining. He could get himself a nice butterbeer this weekend if he won, and food always tasted better with someone else's money.
"Ten Galleons?" Theo murmured, a dry, cynical smile touching his soft lips. "Make it twenty, Malfoy. I’ll have her carrying my books by Friday."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The opportunity presented itself that very afternoon.
The library was quiet, bathed in the muted, golden light of late autumn. Theo spotted you tucked away in the West Wing alcove, surrounded by a small fortress of ancient texts. You were holding an ink bottle, turning it over in your hands with a concentrated frown.
Theo stepped into the alcove, his leather shoes clicking softly against the stone. He pulled out the chair directly opposite you without asking.
You flinched, your wide eyes snapping up to meet his. For a second, you looked like you were going to gather your things and bolt.
"Relax," Theo said, his voice low, smooth, and deliberately unbothered. He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that."
A faint blush crept up your neck, but you quickly looked down at your book, your shoulders tensing. "Nott," you mumbled, glancing up slowly. "The library is full. Surely there's a table closer to your friends."
"My friends are tedious," he replied smoothly, watching the defensive wall you were trying to build. "And you looked like you were having a very intense staring contest with that inkwell. I was curious."
You pressed your lips together, tapping your quill against the parchment. "It's nothing. I was just... thinking."
"About?"
You hesitated, looking at him skeptically, as if waiting for the punchline. But Theo just sat there, his chin resting in his palm, his grey eyes steady and entirely focused on you. There was no mockery in his posture—just a calm, quiet patience.
"It's stupid," you muttered.
"Try me," he murmured. "I have a high tolerance for stupid. I live with Malfoy."
A tiny, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, and just like that, the floodgates opened. The shy, hesitant girl vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense spark in your eyes.
"It's just that people take ink for granted," you said, your words suddenly tumbling out like wildfire. "But iron gall ink—the kind we use for writing—is actually a chemical reaction. It's made from tannic acid extracted from oak galls, which are caused by parasitic wasps, mixed with iron sulfate. If the ratio is even slightly off, the acid will literally eat through the parchment over a century or two. So technically, half the restricted section is slowly destroying itself from the inside out because some medieval scribe didn't balance their chemistry."
You stopped abruptly, your breath catching. Your face flushed a deep, brilliant crimson as you realized how long you’d just ranted to a complete stranger. "Sorry. I... that was weird. You didn't ask for a history lesson."
Theo didn't move. He didn't blink.
He just stared at you, his analytical mind completely derailed. He had expected a shy, stuttering girl who would blush at a generic pureblood compliment. Instead, you had just delivered a terrifyingly specific, brilliant lecture about wasps and self-destroying books.
It was fascinating.
A slow, genuine smirk spread across his face. The cynical facade he always wore felt a little looser, a little lighter.
"Affascinante..." he murmured under his breath, the Italian word slipping out before he could stop it.
"What?" you asked, shifting uncomfortably.
"Nothing," Theo said, leaning forward, his grey eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, genuine intensity that had absolutely nothing to do with Draco’s twenty Galleons. "Tell me more about the wasps."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
By April, the courtyard had become a shared habit.
The stone benches were warm from the spring sun, and the scent of damp earth and blooming aconite hung heavy in the air. You sat with your legs swung over the edge of the stone wall, looking down at a small patch of clover between the flagstones.
Theo was right next to you. His black school cloak was discarded on the bench, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was leaning back on his hands, his head tilted back to catch the sun, looking entirely at peace—a rarity for a Slytherin in the middle of a bustling Hogwarts afternoon.
"Look at that one," you whispered, pointing down at the grass. "The four-leaf one over there."
Theo opened one grey eye, glancing down lazily. "Are you going to tell me it’s a mutation?"
"It is," you said, a bright, easy smile breaking across your face as you spun around to face him. "It’s a rare genetic variation of the white clover. The odds of finding one are about one in ten thousand. But the funny part is that in the Middle Ages, people believed that if you carried a four-leaf clover, it would grant you the ability to see fairies and spirits that were normally invisible. So, essentially, medieval wizards used to walk around fields for hours just hoping to get a glimpse of a Bowtruckle."
Theodore let out a low, genuine laugh—the kind of laugh he never used in the Great Hall. It was quiet, entirely unprompted, and it made your chest feel warm.
"So what you're saying," He murmured, sitting up and turning his head to look at you, his sharp features softening into a teasing smirk, "is that you’ve been sitting here staring at the dirt for twenty minutes because you're looking for a shortcut to passing Care of Magical Creatures?"
"I don't need a shortcut, Nott, my grades are perfect," you shot back, nudging his shoulder with your own. "I'm just appreciating the history."
"You are ridiculous," he said softly. He reached out, his long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His touch lingered on your cheek for just a second too long, his thumb lightly grazing your cheekbone. "Ridiculous, and incredibly beautiful."
The compliment was delivered so casually, so effortlessly in his dry, smooth voice, that it took you a second to process it. Your breath caught, your face immediately burning a furious, bright pink. You looked down at your hands, trying to hide the massive smile tugging at your lips.
"You're just saying that to distract me from the fact that you haven't started your Transfiguration essay," you muttered, your voice small.
Theo chuckled, leaning a bit closer so his shoulder was pressed against yours. "Maybe. But it doesn't make it any less true."
On the other side of the courtyard, under the shadow of the stone archway, the rest of the world still existed.
Draco Malfoy was leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed as he watched the two of you laugh. Beside him, Pansy was whispering something to Daphne, her expression a mix of amusement and sharp calculation. Blaise Zabini just smirked, twirling his wand between his fingers, his eyes locked onto the way Theo’s hand was still resting on the stone wall, just an inch away from yours.
To the Slytherins, it looked like a masterpiece of a game. Theo Nott, the aloof pureblood, completely charming the quiet, brilliant Ravenclaw exactly as planned.
But from where Theo was sitting, he couldn't see his friends at all. He didn't hear Draco's scoff or Pansy's whispers. He was entirely occupied by the way the sunlight hit your eyes, and the fact that for the first time all year, he wasn't bored at all.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The heavy oak doors of the library usually felt like a shield, but tonight, they felt like a cage.
You sat in the absolute furthest alcove of the West Wing, hidden behind a mountain of ancient Arithmancy texts. Your knees were pulled tightly to your chest. The silence of the castle was supposed to be comforting, but right now, it only amplified the echo of Draco Malfoy’s drawing voice from an hour ago.
“A dare’s a dare, Nott. But you’ve been dragging it out for months. Are you finally done playing with the quiet Ravenclaw, or do you actually like hearing about the structural engineering of Roman aqueducts over breakfast?”
And then Zabini’s low, amused chuckle.
You pressed your forehead against your knees, blinking back hot, burning tears. You felt entirely stripped bare. Humiliated. It all made sense now. Theodore Nott—aloof, devastatingly sharp, a cynical pureblood from the Sacred Twenty-Eight—hadn't spent the last four months sitting at your library table because he found you interesting. He’d done it because of a joke.
You were just a hyper-fixated, shy Ravenclaw who didn't know when to shut up. When you got comfortable, you didn't just talk; you erupted into a wildfire of random, useless information. You had genuinely believed Theo liked it. You had thought the quiet, intense way he stared at you while you rambled about the historical trade routes of nutmeg was because he cared.
Instead, you were just a punchline in the Slytherin common room. A stupid nerd.
A sharp, distinct click of leather shoes on stone broke the silence.
You didn't look up. You didn't need to. The scent of cedarwood, expensive ink, and the faint, crisp chill of the dungeons always preceded him.
"I figured you'd be here," Theo said. His voice was its usual self—low, dry, and terrifyingly calm. But there was a slight edge to it tonight. A tightness.
"Go away, Theo," you muttered into your knees, your voice thick.
"No." The leg of a wooden chair scraped against the floor as he sat down directly opposite you. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "You dropped your Herbology essay in the corridor. And you've been missing for an hour. Talk to me."
"I don't think you need any more material for your friends," you said, finally lifting your head. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your jaw clenched to stop the trembling. "Did you win? Whatever the bet was, did you collect your Galleons? You can stop coming here now."
Theo stiffened. The lazy, arrogant posture he usually held instantly vanished. His grey eyes, usually so unbothered and analytical, narrowed in a flash of genuine panic.
"You heard Malfoy," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"I'm an annoying, nerdy Ravenclaw," you spat, the words spilling out like venom, though your voice cracked. "I know. I get it. I’m frustrating and shy, and I ruin perfectly normal conversations because I can't stop spewing out facts like a broken textbook. Did you know that human tears contain an endorphin called leucine-enkephalin? It acts as a natural painkiller. So technically, my body is trying to chemically fix the absolute joke you made out of me. Isn't that a fun fact, Nott? Go run and tell Blaise."
Theo didn't laugh. He didn't even drop a sarcastic counter-defense.
Instead, he let out a sharp, ragged breath and slammed his hand flat against the table. The noise cracked through the quiet alcove.
"Che cazzo state dicendo..." he muttered under his breath, a low, furious murmur of Italian rolling off his tongue as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked up at you, and for the first time since you’d known him, his cool, aristocratic facade was completely shattered. He looked desperate.
"Listen to me," Theo said, his voice dropping into something fierce and completely devoid of his usual mockery. "Yes. It started as a stupid, mindless dare because Blaise is a textbook idiot and I was bored. That was October. It is now May."
He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"I forgot about that miserable bet three minutes into our first conversation," he said, each word deliberate and heavy. "Do you honestly think I’ve spent the last seven months listening to you explain the global history of maple syrup, or the exact architectural flaws of the Astronomy Tower, for a handful of coins? I don't give a damn about the money, and I give even less of a damn about what Malfoy thinks."
You blinked, a single tear slipping down your cheek. "Then why—"
"Because everyone else in this castle is entirely, profoundly boring," Theo interrupted, a ghost of his dry, cynical smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "They talk about Quidditch, blood status, and gossip. You? You have an entire kingdom of useless, brilliant things inside your head. You look at the world and actually see it. I didn't sit here every day because I had to. I sat here because I'm completely ruined for any other girl who doesn't look at a bottle of ink and tell me the literal chemistry of how it was made."
He reached across the table, his long, pale fingers hovering just an inch away from your hand, giving you the choice.
"You are a nerd," Theo murmured softly, the lighthearted, teasing spark finally returning to his eyes, though his tone was fiercely genuine. "But you're my favorite part of the day. Don't you dare stop talking."
The tension in your chest slowly deflated, replaced by a strange, warm flutter. You looked at his hand, then up at his face, finding nothing but absolute sincerity in his sharp features.
"The ink chemistry fact was actually quite interesting," you whispered, wiping your cheek with the back of your sleeve.
Theo let out a low, relieved laugh, his hand closing gently over yours. "I'm sure it is, love. Tell me more facts, I can't wait to hear them."
