Iris

𝓜𝓮: ᴀʀɪᴇꜱ, ʀᴀᴠᴇɴᴄʟᴀᴡ, ᴇɴᴛᴊ, ꜱʜᴇ/ʜᴇʀ

ꜱʟʏᴛʜᴇʀɪɴ ʙᴏʏꜱ

ᴛʜᴇᴏᴅᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴛ ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ ʟᴏʀᴇɴᴢᴏ ʙᴇʀᴋꜱʜɪʀᴇ ʙʟᴀɪꜱᴇ ᴢᴀʙɪɴɪ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ

ꜱʟʏᴛʜᴇʀɪɴ ʙᴏʏꜱ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛ

-> in which you ignore Theo as part prank/part retaliation

Theodore Nott is confused.

Which is already a rare occurrence, but today? Today he’s very confused.

Because for the past three days, you’ve been ignoring him. Not in a dramatic, hex-your-name-out-of-the-sky kind of way. Not even in a loud, door-slamming kind of way.

No. This is some other level ignoring. Cold. Calculated. Surgical.

You still sit near him in class. Still pass the Potions ingredients without a word. Still write shared Arithmancy answers in the margins of his textbook when he forgets his own. But you don’t look at him. You don’t speak to him. And when he says “good morning,” you blink like he’s background noise.

It’s horrifying. And it’s working.

He’s unraveling.

It started at that dumb party Saturday night. There was music and butterbeer and dim lighting. You were five minutes late because your friend needed to change outfits three times. When you arrived, there was a girl. Talking to him. Laughing at his joke.

And he let her.

You saw it. Saw her touch his arm. Saw him not actively burst into flames at the contact. And sure, he looked vaguely panicked the whole time, but did he move? Did he say, “Sorry, I have someone far superior to talk to right now”?

He did not.

So now he’s being punished. Deservedly.

You’re on Day 3 of your prank: the silent treatment. Your longest relationship to date is with the idea of winning, and this is no exception. Unfortunately, Theodore Nott is stubborn. And smart. And annoyingly handsome when he’s distressed.

So he escalates.

It begins with a note. Passed across the breakfast table like a spy in enemy territory.

“If this is about the party, I didn’t like her. I like you. Please talk to me. Also, you left your favorite quill at my dorm. It’s safe. Unlike my sanity.”

You ignore the note. Fold it into a paper crane and send it fluttering into the mass of owls overhead.

He retaliates at lunch.

“Hi,” he says pointedly, sliding into the seat across from you in the library. “Lovely weather we’re having. You look nice. Your silence is deafening. I respect it, but I am slowly dying.”

You keep annotating your Herbology chart.

“I’m hallucinating your voice in my dreams now,” he adds helpfully. “Last night, you told me to eat more broccoli.”

You underline the word fungus with extra emphasis.

He slouches down in his seat. “Okay. This is fair. I deserve this. She cornered me, you know. I was being polite. Or cowardly. Same thing, really.”

You tap your quill rhythmically. Your lip twitches. Dangerous territory.

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Did I mention I like you? Like, like like you. Like, want-to-hold-your-hand-even-when-you're-mean like you.”

You blink.

Then, traitorously smile. Just barely.

He notices.

“Gotcha,” he breathes, grinning like a man who’s just survived a war or found a chocolate frog in his coat pocket.

You look up at him finally. Arch one brow. “You let her touch your arm.”

“I didn’t let her. I froze. I panicked. I thought about saying I had leprosy.”

“You smiled.”

“I was scared.”

You sigh. But your voice is warm again. “You’re a very bad flirt.”

“Only with people I don't like,” he says. Then, after a pause: “Do you forgive me?”

You hum thoughtfully. “Only if you keep hallucinating me in your dreams. I have more dietary recommendations.”

“Done.”

He leans forward, cautiously, like you might vanish if he gets too close.

You don’t.

And when his hand brushes yours under the table, you let it stay there.

i have returned

I am alive and well 🙂‍↕️

THANK YOU FOR ASKING ANON 💗💗

Don't Hiss & Tell

-> A/N: ily @kiaxika for this perfect request, i'd kiss your creative brain. MWAH

You would like the record to show:

You are not afraid of snakes.

Well. Not that afraid.

Okay, moderately afraid. The slithering. The scales. The tiny forked tongues flicking out like they’re plotting your doom. It’s all… a lot. But you are in love with Tom Riddle. Which is how you find yourself here: sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Slytherin common room at nearly midnight, while Tom gently lifts the lid off a large, suspiciously ventilated frosted glass crate.

“Ready?” he murmurs, voice low and crisp.

“Mm-hm,” you squeak.

He glances over, brows knitting slightly. “You’re… shaking.”

“I’m vibrating with enthusiasm,” you say. “Completely different.”

Tom pauses. His eyes, dark blue, intense, endlessly clever, scan your face, as though recalibrating every word he’s about to say. Then he lifts the lid the rest of the way. And out spills a tangle of scales and glittering eyes and delicate little flickering tongues. There must be at least half a dozen snakes in there. Some are coiled. One is bright green and eyeing you suspiciously. One loops gently around Tom’s wrist like a living bracelet.

“This is Aracelis,” Tom says, in a voice you’ve only ever heard him use when he tries to make you feel safe after a long day of exams. “She’s a tree viper from Costa Rica. Very sweet.”

Aracelis is not sweet. Aracelis is terrifying.

You force a polite smile. “So cute.”

Tom peers closer. “She’s actually quite affectionate, once she knows you. Watch.”

And before you can protest, he lifts the snake and gently drapes her across your shoulders.

Your entire soul leaves your body.

“Tom—Tom—Tom—”

You didn’t hate parties. You just… didn’t thrive in them.

Too much noise. Too many people. Too many boys with collars popped like they invented being insufferable. And somewhere inside, probably holding court in the center of it all, was Mattheo Riddle, smirking, tipsy, radiant in that disheveled, reckless way that only he could pull off.

You lasted twenty-three minutes.

And then you slipped out the back, heels clacking softly against old stone as you made your way to the tiny balcony off the third-floor hallway. The night air was cool and quiet and still. It smelled faintly of your expensive perfume and a little like freedom.

You leaned against the railing, exhaled, and let the music dull behind you.

And then, almost immediately...

The door creaked open.

“Should’ve known,” came a familiar voice. “You’d be out here while the rest of us rot in eternal social hell.”

You turned.

Mattheo Riddle stood in the doorway, a little flushed, curls slightly messier than usual. His tie was loosened. His shirt had one too many buttons undone, his cheeks held a tinge of red.

He looked like trouble, personified.

“You’re drunk,” you said lightly.

He blinked, clearly weighing that. “Not drunk. Just… vibing.”

You raised a brow, mouth twitching into a faint smile at the muggle vocab he had undoubtedly caught from you. “Vibing?”

“Is that not the youth term?” he asked, stepping closer, boots thudding softly against the floor.

You shrugged, trying to look casual even as your heart pulled a little tight. “Wasn’t expecting you to leave your kingdom in there.”

He came to stand beside you, leaning on the balcony railing, gaze sweeping across the moonlit courtyard like he was sober enough to remember any of it the next day.

Then, softer than before:

“Wasn’t fun without you.”

You turned your head. He was already watching you.

“What, no fan club to entertain you?” you teased. “No admirers to fawn over your curls and devastating charm?”

He huffed a laugh. “There were. One of them spilled wine on my shoes. I considered faking my own death to escape them.”

You snorted.

He tilted his head, still watching you. “You’re a hard girl to impress.”

“That’s because you usually open with insults and chaos.”

Mattheo smirked. “It’s part of my appeal.”

You rolled your eyes, but your voice was gentler now, serious. “You didn’t have to follow me out here.”

“I know,” he said, eyes flicking to your face. “I just… wanted to.”

You blinked. There was something about the way he said it, no bravado, no smirk. Just quiet honesty, tinged with firewhiskey and warmth.

He nudged your arm. “Besides. If you’re not having fun, I’m not having fun.”

Your heart did a very dumb thing.

You tried to deflect. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t like me.”

“Mm,” he hummed, still smiling. “I was worse at pretending you weren’t the only person I wanted to talk to tonight.”

You looked away. Not because you didn’t believe him, but because you did, and that was somehow worse. Mattheo stepped closer, just slightly, shoulder brushing yours. “So. If I’m out here, and you’re out here… this is the party now, yeah?”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. “Guess so.”

“Brilliant,” he said, pulling a tiny flask out of his jacket like he’d planned this all along. “Because I brought provisions.”

You laughed. “Is that your secret to surviving social events? Bribery and liquor?”

“Only when the person I actually want to spend time with escapes to the balcony like a mysterious, radiant little stormcloud.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was already fluttering like a moth to a very unpredictable flame.

And when he offered you the flask with a lopsided grin and his fingertips brushed yours just a second too long, you knew This wasn’t just about escaping the party.

crying happy tears this is so sweet

Theodore Nott is struggling in Charms. Allegedly.

You don’t believe it for a second. This is a boy who can perform a non-verbal hex with a single flick of his wrist and the vague expression of someone trying to remember if they locked the door or not. The same boy who corrected Professor Flitwick, politely, of course, on wand movement theory last week. And yet.

Today, he’s holding his wand like it’s a fish he’s not quite sure is dead.

You stare. “What… are you doing?”

He looks at you, wide-eyed, all innocent confusion. “Trying to Levitate the damn thing. Obviously.”

You glance down at the textbook page, then back at the feather on his desk, which remains very much not levitated. It’s just sitting there. Mocking him. Like the rest of the class who already moved on to Step 2.

You raise a brow. “Did you… forget how to do literally the first charm we ever learned?”

Theo shrugs, twirling the wand between his fingers like a baton. “Maybe my grip’s off.”

He says it like he didn’t spend all of last year showing off by doing entire spell sequences one-handed. Backwards. Blindfolded. Probably while reciting Latin poetry.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m very serious,” he says. “Gravely. Vastly, even.” He holds out his wand. “Fix me.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Fix. My. Grip,” he repeats, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone claiming to be magically impaired. “You’re good at this. Better than me.”

You squint suspiciously. “You just want me to touch your hand.”

“Touch is a strong word.” He grins. “I prefer ‘guide with academic intent.’”

Still, you sigh and take his hand. Mostly for science. His palm is warm and annoyingly large, and for someone faking helplessness, he definitely flexes his fingers just a little when yours brush against them.

You adjust the angle of his wrist. “You’re holding it like it’s a soup spoon.”

“Maybe I like soup.”

“You don’t stir the feather into the air, you pretentious gremlin. You lift it.”

Theo leans in slightly, voice low and dramatic. “Only you could insult me like that and still make me feel like I’m being serenaded.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I prefer ‘charmingly persistent.’”

“You prefer making my life difficult.”

He tilts his head, all slow mischief. “Is it working?”

You look down. His wand is now perfectly positioned. His grip? Flawless. Your hands are still kind of touching.

You drop them like they’re on fire.

Theo smiles, slow and lazy, like a cat who just knocked a glass off the table for sport.

“Feather’s still not floating, though.”

drunk theo, soft chaos, and a lot of feelings he normally pretends he doesn’t have

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just concern. Basic human decency. Something any reasonable person would do when their best friend shows up at a party with shadows under his eyes from the stress of finals week and a drink in his hand he doesn’t seem to remember picking up.

You tell yourself that even as you cut through the haze of perfume and smoke and too-loud laughter in the common room, scanning for him. Even as your heartbeat quickens, like it always does when he’s near.

You find him on the floor.

Well. Slouched on the floor. One leg stretched out, the other bent just enough to rest his elbow on it. His tie’s been loosened and forgotten, his shirt’s half-untucked, and someone has drawn a tiny star in blue ink on the back of his hand. You can tell from the way he’s swaying slightly that he’s had far more than usual. Theodore Nott doesn’t get drunk. Not like this.

“Hey,” you murmur, crouching beside him.

He looks up slowly, eyes unfocused but still undeniably, devastatingly him.

“You came,” he says, a little too loudly, with a dopey smile that doesn’t belong on his face. “I was thinking about you, and then... you’re here. That’s magic.”

You glance around. No one's paying attention. Somehow, that makes it worse.

“You okay?” you ask, soft, careful. “You drank a lot.”

He nods sagely. “I did. I deserve a medal. Or a nap.”

“You hate parties.”

“I do hate parties,” he agrees, swaying slightly. “But I like you.”

You blink. “Theo—”

“And you weren’t gonna come,” he adds, pouty now. “You said, ‘Too much homework,’ and I thought, ‘That’s fine. I’ll just drown myself in alcohol and existential dread.’ Very poetic.”

You exhale slowly. “Alright. Let’s get you out of here.”

You help him up. He’s heavier than he looks, and he clings to you like you’re both drowning and you’re the only piece of driftwood in the sea.

He leans close as you start leading him toward the boys’ dorm.

“You smell like vanilla,” he whispers.

You try to keep your expression neutral. “You smell like firewhiskey and poor decisions.”

“That’s my new cologne,” he says solemnly. “Limited edition.”

You get him to sit on his bed, and he flops backwards dramatically, limbs everywhere, eyes fluttering shut.

“I should kiss you,” he says to the ceiling.

You freeze.

“What?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” he mutters. “Too dizzy. Might miss.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, pulling off his shoes with practiced motions. “You’re gonna be so embarrassed tomorrow.”

He hums. “Not if you never tell me what I said.”

You smile. “Oh, I’m writing everything down.”

He groans, turning his face into the pillow. “You’re evil. Beautiful and evil. That’s a dangerous combo.”

You adjust the blanket over him, brush a bit of his hair off his forehead.

“Sleep, Theo.”

But as you turn to go, his fingers catch your wrist. His eyes are half-lidded, voice quiet now, barely a whisper.

“Stay?” he asks. “Just ‘til I fall asleep.”

You pause. Swallow.

Then nod.

You sit back down. He closes his eyes, hand still loosely wrapped around your wrist.

And just as sleep starts to pull him under, he murmurs,

“Formations!” you yell, blowing your whistle. “Get in position, you too, Riddle!”

Mattheo, who is currently doing absolutely nothing helpful except leaning on his broom and watching you like you personally invented oxygen, blinks innocently.

“I am in position,” he says, fluttering his lashes. “Emotionally. Spiritually. Mentally.”

“You’re standing on the grass.”

He checks. “So I am.”

You narrow your eyes. “Fly. Now.”

He finally mounts his broom and kicks off, but not before flying close enough to whisper, “Yes, ma'am.”

You clench your jaw so hard your teeth protest. Dating Mattheo Riddle, as it turns out, is a full-time job. Especially when you’re also his Quidditch captain, and he thinks professional boundaries are just suggestions with optional side quests.

“Alright, we’re running the Porskoff Ploy,” you call out. “Riddle, take left flank—"

“I’ll take your left hand in marriage if we win this game.”

“—and shut up,” you finish, pointing your gloved finger at him.

He salutes with a wicked grin, then actually does what he’s told, which is suspicious and terrifying. For a solid twenty minutes, he flies like a model teammate. Executes every play. Doesn’t flirt once.

Naturally, you're worried.

You blow your whistle. “Alright, bring it in.”

They circle back. Mattheo’s sweaty, flushed, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing to your blood pressure. You’re holding the clipboard when he lands beside you, peeling off his gloves.

“Proud of me?” he asks casually.

“You actually followed directions,” you mutter, flipping the page, eyes glued to your clipboard. “Should I be concerned?”

He leans in. “I just wanted to see what it takes to get Captain Bossy Boots to kiss me in public.”

You elbow him in the ribs. “Don’t test me.”

“I love testing you,” he says. “You love my tests. You crave the exams I bring into your life.”

“Okay, now you're just saying words.”

“I was being a good boy,” he murmurs. “Didn’t I earn a reward?”

You don’t look up from the clipboard. “You earned laps. For the first thirty minutes when you were being a menace.”

Mattheo groans loudly. “This is workplace harassment.”

“You don’t work here.”

He leans in again, voice dropping. “Then kiss me and I’ll consider it volunteer service.”

You glance around. The team is distracted, some stretching, some rehydrating. You shift your clipboard to block your face and peck him quickly.

He freezes.

“Wait—did you just—”

“One more word,” you warn, eyes still on your notes, “and I’m making you wear the spare practice kit.”

His face drops. “The one that says ‘Kiss the Keeper’ on the back?”

“Exactly.”

He groans again but doesn't push his luck. You smirk to yourself and whistle. “Alright, back in the air! Riddle, keep your hands to yourself this time.”

Mattheo flies off, but not before yelling, “No promises, sweetheart!”

You’re going to murder him.

Or marry him.

a very inconvenient discovery

You don’t realize what you’ve done until you’re halfway through your second class of the day and open your notebook to find...

Not your handwriting.

Not your diagrams. Not your very specific color-coding system. And certainly not your very dramatic drawing of Professor Binns mid-lecture, labeled “Sir Snooze-a-Lot.”

You stare at the page. Then flip. And flip again.

Oh no.

You’ve taken someone else’s notebook.

You never make mistakes like this. Your entire personality is built around being the girl who does not make mistakes like this. The girl who labels her tab dividers and rewrites her notes in neat, margin-aligned bullet points.

And now you’ve accidentally stolen someone’s entire academic life.

You're about to panic when a small ink blot in the corner of a page catches your eye.

It’s not a blot. It’s… a doodle?

Of a plant. One you recognize from Herbology drawn with an almost obsessive attention to detail, like someone who secretly loves the subject but doesn’t want anyone to know. Cute. Kind of nerdy.

You flip again.

Another page. Another harmless doodle.

You squint. There’s writing next to it, a scrawled little annotation that reads: cold in the library again. she never brings a jumper.

Your stomach does something weird.

You turn the page one more time.

It’s a sketch of… you.

It’s not a masterpiece or anything, but you recognize yourself immediately: the curve of your cheek, the way your quill rests against your lower lip when you’re thinking. There’s a tiny label under it, scribbled like an afterthought:

"Library girl."

You slam the notebook shut, face hot.

Okay. So.

You’ve just accidentally discovered that someone, an anonymous, emotionally repressed someone, has not only been sketching you in their notes… they’ve noticed things. Like the fact that you’re always cold in the library. Like the way you sit. The way you—

Oh Merlin.

Who does this belong to??

You think back to that morning. The rush of class. The pile of identical-looking notebooks on the desk in the library.

There’s only one other person who sits near you there. Always. Like clockwork. Never speaks. Just reads quietly in his perfect posture and his perfect jumper and his perfect bloody bone structure.

Theodore Nott.

You nearly fall off your chair.

Because if this notebook is his...

You look down at the cover. Nothing. Not a single identifying mark.

Of course. He would be mysterious about it.

You spend the next three hours spiraling.

Maybe, hopefully, it wasn't Theodore Nott’s? What if it is his and he finds out you saw and... Oh no.

He’s going to hex you.

You clutch the notebook like it’s about to self-destruct. You need to return it. Quietly. Discreetly. With as little eye contact as possible. Preferably while pretending you’ve seen nothing at all. Unfortunately, fate (and Theo Nott) are not that kind.

Later that evening. The library.

You slip into your usual spot and there he is.

Seated across from you like always, looking calm and composed and terrifyingly unreadable. His hair is a little messy, like he’s been running a hand through it, and his tie is slightly askew in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.

Your eyes meet.

Something flickers in his.

He looks down at the desk in front of him… where he has your notebook. Oh no. He knows.

You hold his notebook out toward him like a peace offering, trying not to die on the spot. “I, um— We switched. Earlier. I think.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just takes the notebook from your hands and flips it open. Your face burns in mounting horror as you take your own notebook back and see that he dog-eared a page where your very detailed to-do list included:

Finish Transfig essay

Ask Theo Nott what his problem is

(or if he just hates me personally???)

(he’s hot tho. unfortunately.)

“You read it,” he says, voice low and maddeningly calm, snapping you back from your brief paralyzation of horror.

“Did not,” you lie immediately.

One of his brows lifts.

Your face burns. “Okay, maybe a little. But like... casually.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you. “You read this casually? Was it a casual read for you?”

You fidget. “I didn’t mean to.”

There’s a long, awful pause. Then, softly and unexpectedly, he says, “I thought you’d be mad.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I thought… you’d be freaked out.” He taps a finger lightly against the edge of the notebook. “That I drew you. That I notice things.”

You stare at him.

“Theo,” you say, voice too high. “You drew me like a Victorian botanist in love. I’m not freaked out. I’m flattered.”

He gives a quiet huff of laughter, then looks down, shy, almost. It's disarming. You reach for your own notebook again, flipping it open and finding a new note on the inside cover. In that familiar sharp script:

“You looked cold. I’ll bring a jumper next time.”

You glance up.

knight!theo | medieval au ⚔︎

The castle slumbers.

Rain patters softly against the high, stained-glass windows, and the candle at your desk burns low, its golden flame dancing across your ink-stained fingers. You shouldn’t still be here. The other court scribes have long since vanished, and even the guards are trading shifts beneath their breath.

But the scrolls before you whisper like old friends, records of ancient treaties, old languages curling across parchment like spells.

You don’t notice the door open.

Not until the floorboard creaks... the one you keep meaning to fix.

Your quill stills.

You look up, heart skipping.

He stands there, silent in the threshold, half-draped in shadow. Rain beads across the black leather of his shoulder guards, his hair damp, curling at the edges. A dark cloak slung across one shoulder. A blade at his hip.

Ser Theodore Nott.

He shouldn't be here. Not at this hour. Not in the library. Not with you.

“My lord,” you say softly, standing too quickly. You nearly knock over the candle.

He doesn’t blink. His gaze, sharp and unreadable, scans the room before returning to you.

“I was told you kept the original texts from the House of Gwael,” he says, voice quiet. Clipped. As if it costs him something to ask. “I need to read them.”

You swallow. “Of course.”

You bend to retrieve the scrolls, your fingers trembling. Not because you’re frightened. You’re not. It’s just—

He’s taller than you remembered. And even in the flickering candlelight, he’s beautiful in the way statues are beautiful: cold and eternal and utterly untouchable.

You hand him the scroll.

His fingers brush yours.

A mistake, probably. He’s wearing gloves, and yet the contact makes your breath catch anyway.

Theo notices. You can feel it... not in any expression (his face stays unreadable as ever), but in the slow, precise way he unrolls the scroll, eyes flickering toward you only once.

“I didn’t think knights cared for language,” you murmur, half to yourself.

He glances up. His voice is low and sure.

“I care for many things people assume I don’t.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you return to your seat, unsure whether to keep reading or flee to your chambers and scream into your pillow. The candle gutters. He stays.

Minutes pass. The only sounds are rain, your turning pages, and the soft scratch of his gauntlet against parchment. Then, quietly:

“Why do you work so late?”

You look up.

Theodore’s gaze is trained on the page, but his question lingers in the air, warm and unexpected.

You blink. “No one notices me here.”

At that, his eyes lift. Hold yours.

“I do.”

Your heart thuds. Loud enough that surely even a knight can hear it.

“I’ve noticed,” he says, more gently now. “You’re always the last to leave. Even in the cold. Even when your hands shake.”

You flush, throat tight.

“I like the quiet.”

He hums. “So do I.”

A long pause. A soft flicker of lightning. His hand drifts, without thinking, to the hilt of his sword, the motion absentminded, protective.

You wonder if he’s always like this, or just with you.

Theo rolls the scroll back up and sets it down but doesn’t leave. Not yet.

Instead, he says softly, “You read poetry, don’t you?”

You nod, uncertain.

“I remembered a line, once,” he says, still not looking at you. “When I was bleeding. I thought I would die. But it came back to me anyway. Something about stars. And the way some people carry light inside them.”

You stare.

He finally meets your gaze.

“I thought of you.”

And just like that, the room feels smaller. Warmer. Brighter.

Like a candle that refuses to go out.

...

The next time you find it, it’s tucked between the pages of your copy of Herbal Magicks of the Olden Kingdoms.

A shard of dragon glass. Real. Cool to the touch, with a small crest engraved at its center: not from your kingdom. Foreign. Ancient. Pinned beside it: a note. Neatly folded.

Your name is written in an impossibly tidy hand. You open it.

For the scholar who outshines the sun with her questions. This was taken from the ruins of Aelwyn, where the old queens studied spellfire and starlore. I thought of you when I saw it. —T.N.

Your breath catches.

He thinks of you. In battle. In ruins. In other kingdoms.

You clutch the note to your chest and spend a full five minutes pacing the length of the library trying not to combust.

You don’t get the chance to thank him. Not yet.

Because the court session that day is… a mess.

You’re summoned to bring the translated treaty notes, normal work, but the nobles are restless. They gossip, drunk on mead and power, casting eyes at the quiet scribe who dares sit in council.

And then Lord Durran (slimy, bored, and old) speaks up.

"Tell me, girl," he sneers, loud enough to echo. “When did scribes begin thinking themselves courtiers? Or are you simply warming Lord Nott’s lap in exchange for coin?”

The hall freezes. You do, too. Until the scrape of a chair. A deliberate step.

Theodore Nott doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. But when he moves, the entire chamber listens.

“I suggest,” he says coldly, “you keep my name off your tongue unless you’re prepared to swallow your teeth.”

Gasps ripple. Durran flushes, paling. No one challenges Ser Theodore. Not even fools.

He doesn’t look at the others. Only at you.

And then, in the shadows of the halls outside the courtroom, he walks over and places another small item in your palm.

It’s a pendant this time. Worn. Engraved with a script only three historians in the realm could read.

“I thought you might translate it,” he murmurs, quiet enough just for you.

And with that, he turns. Walks away. Cloak swirling. Sword gleaming. You remain frozen, your heart racing. It says something that you don’t even open the pendant until much later. You just stand there, cheeks burning, wondering how it’s possible for someone so silent to make this much noise inside your chest.

...

It takes you three days to crack it.

Not because you’re slow, gods no. You’re the only person in the castle who can read High Eltheric, a long-dead language that looks like poetry and spells had a lovechild.

But you hesitate.

You hold the pendant beneath your pillow, beneath your breath, fingers tracing the etched lines like they’ll whisper something before your mind dares translate it. Every time you try to begin, you think of Theo’s eyes on you. The way he placed it in your hand. Like it meant something. Like you mean something.

Finally, on the third night, rain against your windows, firelight low, you set the pendant beside your ink pot, take a steadying breath, and begin.

Word by word, the meaning unravels:

To the one whose mind is a thousand burning stars I offer what little heart I have. If you ever wish to claim it.

Your quill drops.

Your breath hitches.

You read it again. And again. And again.

It doesn’t change.

He gave you a coded love confession. In a dead language. That only you could read.

What kind of maddening, infuriating, devastatingly romantic knight—

You sit back in your chair, staring at the pendant like it might burst into flames. Because now you know. Now you see it. The pattern of his gifts. The books. The relics. The looks that lingered too long and the way he always stood between you and danger, like a silent shadow forged of steel and longing.

You bite your lip.

And you smile.

Because you realize: he thinks you haven’t noticed.

A/N: obsessed with this au | ty to @kiaxika and tagging @ladyblablabla

WAIT.

You just sparked my brain oh my god wait let me write a summary of my ideas in a brain dump.

In a kingdom of steel and secrets, where scholars toil in shadows and knights do not weep, there blooms a most unlikely tale.

You are but a quiet scribe, known for ink-stained fingers. He is Sir Theodore Nott, the brooding blade of court, sworn to silence and blood, feared by all… save one.

When strange and precious gifts begin appearing by moonlight you begin to suspect that someone is watching. Someone who listens, though he never speaks.

What begins as mystery may unravel into devotion.

But his love is written in cipher and only the brightest minds may read it.

Knight!Theo x Scribe!Reader

You find it on an ordinary Tuesday.

A flower — but not one from any Hogwarts greenhouse you recognize. Its petals shimmer faintly under the torchlight, an impossible color somewhere between pearl and starlight, perched neatly atop your Charms textbook like it had simply grown there.

You glance around the common room.

No one looks your way. No snickering pranksters. No dreamy admirers writing sonnets in the corner.

Just…stillness. Homework. Whispered conversations. The crackle of the fire.

You touch the stem carefully. The bloom doesn't wilt under your fingers. If anything, it leans toward you.

There’s no note. No explanation. Just the flower: strange and perfect and left for you.

You glance around again, slower this time. Watching.

The prefect flips a page in his book. A few younger students argue over wizard chess.

No one watching. No one smiling. No one suspicious.

You tuck the flower carefully into your satchel, pretending you aren’t blushing like a fool.

You tell yourself it’s probably some Herbology project gone wrong. A mistake. A coincidence.

But later that night, as you fall asleep with the flower resting in a jar by your bedside, you can’t shake the feeling that someone had meant for you to find it. Someone who was watching.

And somewhere, deep inside Hogwarts’ winding halls, someone is.

And he is smiling.

...

The flower doesn’t wilt.