:)

requests are open

Slytherin Boys:

Theodore Nott:

Series:

★ Malfoy's Little Sister: theodore finds his feelings for malfoy’s little sister growing, but he can’t act on them… right ?

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

One Shots:

★ Your Love is My Drug: theodore nott won’t admit that he loves lila… so maybe his actions push her away… or maybe the news of someone else making a move will kick his ass into gear

Tom Riddle:

Series:

★ You Belong With Me: in their final year at hogwarts, a tightly bound slytherin circle navigates loyalty, power, and unravelling emotions. YN tries her best to push away any memory of tom riddle and their fractured past, but he refuses to let it stay buried. between sharp wit and lingering obsession, some bonds prove impossible to break…

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

One Shots:

★ None yet... requests open!

Draco Malfoy:

Series:

★ None yet... requests open!

One Shots:

You’ll have it by the end of this week 🫡

pairing: ex!tomriddle x yn. slytherin!friendgroup x yn

summary: In their final year at Hogwarts, a tightly bound Slytherin circle navigates loyalty, power, and unravelling emotions. YN tries her best to push away any memory of Tom Riddle and their fractured past, but he refuses to let it stay buried. Between sharp wit and lingering obsession, some bonds prove impossible to break…

warnings: poorly proofread lol, characters from loads of eras/fanfics, ex-boyfriend trope, bit of angst, bit of fluff, flashbacks, yn reader, fighting, possessive tom, jealous tom, slowww burn, yn lowkey hates mattheo ahhahaha

author's note: i've had the first 3 parts of this series in the drafts for a whileeee now. again, flashbacks are in italics

word count: 5.2k

Link to part one here

Link to part two here

A week passed.

No notes. That, more than anything, unsettled her.

The first morning she checked her bedside table without thinking. The second morning she told herself she wouldn’t. By the third, it had become routine again. Her hand slipping beneath her pillow, fingers brushing along the inside of her robes, the pages of her books.

But every morning, there was nothing. No folded parchment. No careful ink. No quiet, admiring words left where no one should have been able to place them.

It should have felt like relief, but it didn’t because Tom didn’t disappear with them. If anything, he became more present.

Not in any obvious way. Not in a way that anyone else would notice or question. He wasn’t following her, wasn’t inserting himself into conversations, wasn’t hovering close enough to be called out.

But he was there.

Always just slightly behind her. She would turn a corner and catch the edge of his robes disappearing into a classroom she had been heading toward. Sit down at breakfast and find his place recently vacated, goblet still warm, chair slightly out of place. Hear his voice in a room before she entered it, only for it to fall quiet as she crossed the threshold.

It wasn’t enough to prove anything.

But it was enough that she started anticipating it.

Enough that she began looking for him before she even realised she was doing it.

Transfiguration was the first class that morning.

The classroom smelled faintly of parchment and polished wood, sunlight spilling through the tall windows and casting long, clean lines across the desks. It was quiet in the way only McGonagall’s classes ever were. Focused. Controlled.

Pansy slumped into her seat beside YN with a sigh. “If she says ‘precision’ one more time, I’m going to lose it.”

“You lack precision,” Theodore said from her other side, not looking up from his notes.

“And patience,” YN quipped.

Pansy let out a quiet breath, her lips twitching as she arranged her things neatly in front of her. “At least I’m consistent,” she added.

“That’s not the boast you think it is,” Theodore replied.

Professor McGonagall turned at the front of the room. “Miss YLN.”

YN’s head lifted instantly. “Yes, Professor.”

“Would you care to demonstrate the adjustment?”

She stood without hesitation, her wand already raised. The class watched, silent, as she positioned herself beside the desk. Her movements were clean and controlled.

The goblet shifted under her spell, and it began transforming smoothly into a bird. Well, almost smoothly. The bird kept the copper gleam of the goblet, looking peculiar but beautiful.

“Good,” McGonagall said, “Everyone flip to page 293 and practice with your partner.”

From directly behind her, “Almost.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around her wand.

“You’re dropping your hand too early,” he continued, still not looking at her. “You’re anticipating the final shift before the structure settles.”

Heat crept up her spine, unwelcome and familiar. She didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge him.

Instead, YN turned to Pansy to begin practising as directed. However should couldn’t stop Tom’s words creeping back into her mind.

So she adjusted her grip. Just slightly. And tried again.

The object settled perfectly into place.

“Good girl,” his voice was warm yet condescending. YN returned to her seat, posture unchanged, expression composed.

“You must hate him,” Pansy whispered.

“Deeply.”

Theodore glanced between them, his face far from amused. “That didn’t sound convincing at all.”

YN ignored him, though her thoughts lingered longer than she wanted them to.

“You’re doing it again,” Tom said, leaning back against the bench, watching her with his arms folded.

“Doing what?” she asked, not looking up from her work.

“Overthinking it. Your shoulders are so tense they’re in your ears.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” He stepped forward, his large hands landing softly on her shoulders. “Breathe YN.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “And what, you don’t ever overthink a spell?”

His voice paused as his hands continued to travel up and down her back. Moving her hair to one side, he leaned in close to her ear, pressed closely against her back. “No.”

“That’s incredibly arrogant.”

“It’s accurate.”

She rolled her eyes, but as the warmth from his hands continued to rub her back comfortingly, she felt the stress melt away. When she returned her gaze to the coin on the table in front of her, the answer came easier. He always made it easier.

"Good girl."

YN blinked, forcing herself back into the present.

She hated that.

The way he still fit into her thoughts, like he had never left.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of corridors and voices, the castle settling into its usual rhythm around her.

Potions came and went. This time, they weren’t paired together, which should have helped.

But it didn’t.

He was still there. Still moving with that same controlled precision, still anticipating everything before it happened. YN felt like she was suffocating in his presence.

A war constantly raging in her mind.

She spent all summer healing. Forgetting him as much as she could when their rooms were across from one another at the Nott’s summer manor. And now, for whatever reason, he was making it his mission to get back into her mind.

She didn’t know if she wanted to stop him.

At one point, she reached for an ingredient, only to find it already in her hand. Her brows furrowed slightly as she looked down at it. She couldn’t even think straight.

Looking over to where he sat across the room, Tom didn’t look at her.

By the time evening rolled in, the air had cooled, the sky stretching dark and open above the castle. The wind roared as YN made her way up the final few steps of the astronomy tower. The wind was sharper here, tugging at her hair as she stepped out onto the stone, the scent of smoke already lingering in the air.

Theodore and Mattheo were there.

“You’re late,” Mattheo said, leaning back against the railing, cigarette between his fingers.

“It’s been a long day,” YN replied, moving to stand beside them.

“That’s because you’re Head Girl now,” he grinned. “Responsibility looks terrible on you.”

“Give it a week,” she said. “I’ll find some fifth year to delegate everything to.”

Theodore snorted, flicking ash over the edge. “Try-outs tomorrow. Then a match against Hufflepuff on Saturday lunchtime.”

“I heard,” YN said. “Planning to embarrass yourself?”

“Unlikely.”

Mattheo scoffed. “Keep your negativity to yourself, love. We’re winning this year.”

“You say that every year.”

“Well, statistically speaking, it's pretty likely that one year I’ll be right.”

“Statistically? Oh, please, Riddle, we know for a fact you got an acceptable in arithmetic last year.” YN rolled her eyes, moving closer to the fire in the middle of the floor.

He grinned. “Oh don't be like that with me.”

“Merlin, why is he even here. You never mentioned we were babysitting, Theo.”

Theodore laughed properly at that, shaking his head.

Mattheo put out his cigarette, pushed himself upright, stretching his arms over his head. “As if I'd spend my night with you anyway, YLN. I have a sexy little blonde waiting for me somewhere in the castle. I’m heading down.”

“Blonde? Who?,” YN replied. Her mind ran to Pansy. She was sure the two of them were messing around. If they were, did she know he was also seeing other girls?

Putting his finger to his lips as though it was the most important secret, he turned to disappear down the stairs, "Don’t fall over the edge... my big brother would be so devastated."

Silence settled. She refused to acknowledge his stupid remarks. In fact, she wanted to ignore any thought of Tom entirely.

YN leaned her elbows against the stone, looking out over the grounds.

“Have you noticed anything… off about him?” she asked, her tone casual.

Theodore glanced sideways at her. “Who?”

“Tom.”

A pause.

“Off how?”

She hesitated, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the stone.

“Just… well, I'm not really sure. But something feels different.”

Theodore considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “He’s always been different.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

He looked at her more carefully this time. His expression was serious, and YN knew what he was thinking. He was fearful that she was going to fall back into Tom's tricks. Fall back under his manipulation.

“No. I haven't noticed anything. Why?”

“Just asking.” YN flashed him a small smile, trying to dismiss the concern etched into his brow.

He held her gaze for a second longer, then let it go.

“Maybe you’re just paying more attention,” he said.

“Maybe.”

But it didn’t feel like that.

Mattheo found Tom later that night in the common room.

Tom didn't even lift his gaze from the book in his lap. "Well?"

“She was up in the tower,” Mattheo said casually, dropping into the chair across from him.

Tom still didn’t look up. “Was she?”

“With Theo.”

A pause. Now the younger Riddle had his attention.

“Did she say anything interesting?”

Mattheo shrugged. “Not really. Just Quidditch. Harassing me. The usual.”

Tom’s eyes lifted slightly. “Nothing else?”

“No.”

Another pause. “Let me know if that changes.”

Mattheo smirked faintly. “You’re obsessed.”

Tom didn’t laugh. "Keep an eye on her, and I'll make it worth your while."

Later in his dorm, Tom stood alone near the window, looking into the depths of the Black Lake, the castle quiet around him.

His wand rested loosely between his fingers as he began to think up a plan. He wasn't going to stand around and watch Nott poison YN's mind. He wasn't going to let Nott fill her little head with lies or make her believe that Tom didn't love her... or that Tom wasn't what was best for her.

The thought of it made his fist clench around the wood before he released again.

He didn’t need to use much magic. He knew his way around her mind like it was the back of his hand. He knew just how to get what he wanted.

Not control in the way others understood it. Just memory placed at the right moment. A feeling sharpened just enough to linger.

He didn’t even need to create anything new. Everything he needed was already there, in her mind. In her heart. He simply guided it.

And so, he closed his eyes, focusing his mind on her.

On the sound of her laugh when she forgot herself. The feeling of her curled against his chest in the early hours of the morning. The way her fingers used to trace absent patterns against his arm while she read beside him in silence.

His wand lifted slightly. A quiet pulse of magic spread from the tip, invisible as it disappeared into the stillness of the room.

Tom concentrated carefully, deliberately weaving the feeling into her mind. Not enough to alarm her. Not enough to make it obvious.

Just enough for her to think of him when she lay down to sleep.

Enough for his voice to echo in the back of her mind when someone else made her laugh.

Enough for her chest to ache with something warm and familiar every time she remembered what it felt like to be loved by him.

A faint breath left him as he lowered the wand again. He was satisfied that this would work because, in truth, YN had never been particularly good at letting him go.

All he had to do was remind her why.

The weekend came quickly.

The stands were packed, green and silver flooding one side as Slytherin took to the pitch. The energy was alive.

YN leaned forward slightly, her eyes tracking the movement overhead.

“Ten galleons on Slytherin,” Pansy said.

“Obviously,” YN replied.

“You say that like it’s guaranteed.”

“Maybe if that meathead Mattheo wasn't on the team," she rolled her eyes, "But still, I believe in our boys. I bet ten galleons Mattheo causes a fight"

"Oh, you're so on for that."

The match was fast. Aggressive.

Mattheo flew like he fought. Reckless. Relentless. Draco sharp and precise. Blaise smooth in a way that made everything look effortless. Theodore steady, controlled, exactly where he needed to be at all times.

They won. Of course they did.

The stands erupted with house songs and cheers for the students in green.

The walk back to the castle was loud, full of laughter and shouting, energy spilling over from the match. “You were decent,” YN said to Theodore.

“High praise.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Just as Theodore went to open his mouth to respond, he got tugged back by Enzo, who was trying to point out some Hufflepuff girl.

YN kept walking, a smile spread on her face.

A boy from Ravenclaw fell into step beside her. “YLN, right?”

She glanced at him. “Depends who’s asking.”

He smiled. “Adrian.”

“Walters, right?”

He laughed. “Ah, so you do know who I am. That makes this all the more easier... I was wondering if you’d want to hangout sometime.”

YN raised a brow, tilting her head slightly. “You’re asking me on a date?”

“I said hanging out, but if you're asking me on a date, then my answer is of course. How about we say the library, 7pm?”

He was cheeky, she'd give him that. And so, she couldn't help the laugh that escaped her lips.

“The library? Is that the best you've got?”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

A pause. “Fine,” she said. “One hour.”

“Deal.”

They parted at the entrance.

Tom didn't go to the match. He thought Quidditch was a pathetic excuse for people to glorify violence under the guise of school spirit.

So instead, he paced the common room.

The fire crackled low against the dark stone walls, casting flickering shadows across the leather couches and green velvet armchairs scattered throughout the room. Most students were still making their way back from the Quidditch pitch, probably lingering about to celebrate Slytherin’s win, leaving the dungeon unusually empty.

His sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms, tie loosened slightly from where he had tugged at it for the last twenty minutes. Every now and then, he glanced toward the entrance of the common room before looking away again.

The portrait swung open.

Mattheo stepped through first, broom slung lazily over his shoulder. There was dried blood smeared across the collar of his Quidditch jumper and a fresh split across his knuckles.

Tom’s eyes narrowed immediately. “What happened to your hand.”

Mattheo looked down lazily. “Montgomery mouthed off. I corrected him.”

“You're an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

Tom shut the book in his lap with a dull thud. “Where is she?”

Mattheo smirked slightly at the lack of subtlety. “I played great, thank you for asking, brother. Yes, we won, actually!”

Tom’s stare sharpened.

Mattheo dropped the grin, huffing. “Relax. She’s behind me somewhere with Theo and the others.”

Mattheo's movements froze slightly, something Tom noticed immediately. Their dark eyes locked as Mattheo thought carefully about his next words.

“She made plans.”

Tom’s expression didn’t change immediately, but something colder settled behind his eyes.

“With who?”

“Ravenclaw bloke. Walters, I think.” Mattheo dropped into the armchair opposite him with a groan. “Tall. Bit annoying.”

Tom said nothing. Mattheo watched him carefully now, any trace of amusement fading from his face as the silence stretched longer than it should have.

He could feel Tom's anger radiating across the common room. “Think they’re meeting in the library.”

Honestly, Mattheo didn't know why he was still talking. Maybe an attempt to break the suffocating silence. Maybe because he was slightly scared of Tom.

Tom leaned back slowly against the couch, jaw tightening slightly as his fingers tapped once against the armrest.

Once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

“She said yes?”

Mattheo shrugged. “Looked like it.”

The temperature in the room seemed to shift. Mattheo noticed it immediately, shifting where he stood. “Don't do this, Tom,” he muttered.

Tom’s gaze lifted slowly to meet his. “Do what?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

A humourless smile tugged at the corner of Tom’s mouth. “Do enlighten me.”

“You act like she’s still your girlfriend.”

The words landed heavily between them.

Mattheo expected harsh words. What he didn't expect was to see Tom's hand slip into his robes, grabbing his wand.

Tom simply stared at him, twisting the sleek wand in his fingers.

“That’s because,” he said carefully, “she is still mine.”

Mattheo scoffed. “Mate—”

Tom stood so quickly that the sound of his movements echoed off the stone walls. The movement alone was enough to send a wave of fear through Mattheo’s body.

“She walked away,” Tom corrected, voice low and measured. “There’s a difference.”

“Not really.”

Tom stepped closer.

“You wouldn’t understand the difference.” Silence followed.

The fire crackled sharply beside them.

Mattheo studied his brother more carefully now, the irritation slowly giving way to something more uncertain because Tom didn’t look angry.

Anger was easy to recognise. This was something else. Something scarier.

“You know she hates being controlled,” Mattheo said quietly.

Tom’s expression darkened almost imperceptibly. “You think this is about control?”

“Yes.”

A humourless breath left Tom’s nose.

“She spent two years building her entire life around me,” he said. “You think she suddenly woke up one morning and stopped loving me?”

“That’s not what happened and you know it.”

Tom ignored him.

“She’s confused,” he continued calmly. “That’s all.”

Mattheo frowned slightly. “Tom, what is it exactly that you plan to do?”

No answer.

“What happens if she actually moves on?”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “She won’t.”

The portrait door opened again before Mattheo could answer. Voices spilt in from the corridor outside. Fourth-year girls in fits of giggles as Draco flirted with them.

Then, her.

YN descended the staircase, heading towards the girls’ dormitories. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, her dark skirt swaying softly against her legs as she crossed toward the far side of the room.

Tom’s gaze locked onto her instantly.

Mattheo looked between the two of them and muttered, “Oh, Merlin save me.”

YN barely glanced at Mattheo as she approached, her voice dripping with indifference “You’re bleeding on the furniture again.”

He looked down. “Adds character.”

“It adds infection.”

Then her eyes shifted, landing on Tom. Their eyes met instantly, and her stomach tightened immediately, though she refused to let it show.

“Busy?” he observed smoothly.

Her expression didn’t change. “Not particularly.”

“I heard you've found yourself a new study partner.”

YN's eyes shot to Mattheo, who suddenly found a great interest in the floor. “It’s called being helpful.”

His gaze lingered on the sarcastic smile on her face before drifting back up to her sharp eyes. “You move on quickly.”

Her jaw tightened. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“You are.”

Tom tilted his head slightly, studying her with that same calm intensity that always made her feel like he was seeing too much.

“The other night,” he said quietly, “you could barely stand to look away from me... And now you’re letting another boy take you on study dates.”

Mattheo’s eyes widened at both the bluntness and disdain in his brother's voice.

“It’s studying.”

“Mm.”

“You don’t get an opinion on it.”

“No?” His voice remained perfectly level. “Interesting.”

Her cheeks flushed in anger as she turned abruptly, making her way to her dorm to get ready.

The library was pretty much empty on a Saturday night.

The towering shelves seemed darker somehow, shadows stretching between rows of books as candlelight flickered low against the polished wood. Most students had already left by the time YN arrived, leaving only a handful scattered across the room pretending to study while exchanging whispers behind raised books.

Adrian was already there.

He looked up as she approached, smiling easily as he pushed a chair out for her with his foot. “You actually came.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I was fully prepared to be stood up.”

YN slid into the seat across from him, placing her books down neatly. “That would’ve been rude.”

“And yet, somehow, I think you’d survive the guilt.”

“Probably.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head before opening the textbook in front of him. “Right then, Head Girl. Save me from failing.”

For the first half hour, they actually studied.

Well, mostly.

Adrian was clever enough to keep up with her, though nowhere near her level, and confident enough not to be intimidated by it. He made her laugh more than she expected him to, mostly because he wasn’t trying very hard.

“You’re staring at me like I’m stupid,” he said eventually, leaning back in his chair.

“That’s because you’re intellectually beneath me.”

He placed a hand over his chest dramatically. “Cruel.”

She giggled at his dramatics and general charm.

“I’m beginning to understand why people find you intimidating.”

YN smirked faintly, resting her chin against her hand. “Only beginning?”

“I thought it was exaggerated.”

“And now?”

“I think they were underselling it.”

Another laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

It felt… easy. The complete opposite of what she was used to.

No pressure. No intensity simmering beneath every word. No constant feeling of being scrutinised or understood too deeply.

Just simple conversation.

By the time Madam Pince announced the library was closing, YN was almost disappointed.

“Looks like your tutoring career is over,” Adrian said, gathering his things.

“A tragedy for us both.”

“You say that now, but when I fail my next assignment, I’m blaming you personally.”

“It won't keep me up at night, Walters.”

He smiled again as they stepped out into the corridor together. “I’d walk you back, but Ravenclaw curfew is in ten minutes and I quite enjoy not being yelled at.”

“How responsible of you.”

They slowed near the staircase. For a moment, he hesitated.

“We should do this again.”

YN tilted her head slightly. “Study?”

“That depends,” he replied smoothly. “Are you always this charming?”

A quiet laugh escaped her. “Goodnight, Adrian.”

“Goodnight, YN.”

She turned before he could say anything else, the faint smile still lingering on her lips as she made her way down the corridor alone.

The castle was quieter now. Most students had disappeared back to their common rooms, leaving only the occasional flicker of torchlight against the stone walls and the echo of distant footsteps somewhere far below.

YN adjusted the sleeves of the jumper as she walked. It swallowed her hands slightly, dark green fabric hanging loosely from her frame.

She should have stopped wearing it months ago.

“You’re stealing my clothes now?” Tom asked, watching her from where he sat sprawled across the leather sofa in the Slytherin common room.

YN glanced down at the jumper before shrugging lazily. “You left it in my dorm.”

“I left it there one time.”

“And now it lives with me.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why is it that you like wearing my things?”

Tom stood slowly, crossing the room until he stopped directly in front of her. His fingers hooked lightly on the loose fabric, tugging her closer.

“Do you wear it when you miss me?”

Her breath caught slightly despite herself. “You’re unbelievably arrogant.”

“Mm,” he murmured as she went up on her tiptoes to place a soft kiss on his lips.

The memory hit her so suddenly that she nearly stopped walking. YN tightened her grip on the books in her arms, forcing herself forward.

Then she turned the corner and froze.

Tom was there.

Leaning back against the stone wall like he had been waiting for hours.

Maybe he had.

The sleeves of his dark shirt were rolled slightly, eyes lifting slowly toward her as she stopped in the middle of the corridor.

The faint smile that had lingered on her face disappeared immediately.

Silence stretched tightly between them as his eyes lowered to the jumper.

Something dark flickered behind his gaze.

“Don’t,” she warned, trying to walk past him.

Tom was quick, though. He grabbed her wrist, swiftly pulling her to be flush against his chest, their faces inches from one another.

“You looked like you had fun.”

“So?”

Tom’s fingers tightened slightly around her wrist. “I don’t like it.”

“Tom—”

“No.” His voice dropped lower. “You don’t get to stand there wearing my jumper and act confused about why another man touching you bothers me.”

Her eyes flashed instantly. “I’m not confused, Tom. I just don’t care.”

The lie tasted bitter the second it left her mouth.

Something in his jaw tightened.

“You don’t care?” he repeated quietly, like he was testing the words for flaws.

“No.”

His grip on her wrist loosened just slightly, only to slide higher up her arm instead. Not to hurt her. Just to hold her there.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” he said, voice calm in a way that felt far more dangerous than anger. “You still sleep in my jumper. You still look at me like I'm some kind of God, and I’m supposed to believe you don’t care?”

YN’s pulse hammered violently beneath her skin. She would place money on the fact that he could hear it.

“I look at you because you make it impossible not to,” she snapped. “You’re everywhere. You make it your business to be everywhere, Tom, all the time.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, so you noticed.”

Her chest heaved deeply.

“You do this constantly. You push and push and push until I feel like I’m losing my mind," she hissed.

Tom’s eyes darkened slightly. “No,” he said softly. “I do it to remind you.”

“Of what?”

His gaze dragged slowly across her face as he raised his hand to carefully caress her flushed cheeks. “What you really want.”

The words made something twist painfully in her chest.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re pretending like you're over this... over us”

“I am not pretending!”

“You are,” he cut in smoothly. “Because if you were truly over me, none of this would affect you.”

YN let out a sharp breath, shoving hard against his chest. “Maybe I’m just tired of you acting like you own me.”

Tom barely moved.

“You say that,” he murmured, stepping closer again, “but every time someone else gets too close to you, you look at me afterwards.”

Her stomach dropped. He was right, and they both knew it.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

Something flickered across his expression then. Fast enough that she almost missed it.

Not hurt, but rather something darker.

“No,” he replied quietly. “You hate that I know you.”

The corridor suddenly felt suffocatingly small. YN tried pulling away again, but Tom’s hand slid from her arm to her waist instinctively, like his body remembered the movement before he even thought about it.

That familiar touch nearly unravelled her on the spot.

“Let go of me.”

“I can't bear that you let him flirt with you.”

“Oh my god,” she laughed bitterly, “you cannot be serious.”

“You smile at him like he actually makes you happy... laugh as if he's actually funny.”

“Should I apologise for acting normal?”

“You should apologise for acting interested.”

“I was interested,” she shot back, purely to wound him.

And as she expected, it worked. His expression shifted instantly, the hand at her waist tightened, dangerously close to bruising.

“There it is,” she whispered, anger flaring hotter now. “That’s exactly why I left you.”

Tom leaned down slightly, his face now so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

“And yet,” he murmured, “you’re still here.”

The words hit harder than they should have because no matter how many times she walked away from him, she always stopped when he asked her to. And she hated herself for it.

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes, dark and impossibly intense. YN could feel her pulse pounding violently beneath her skin, could see the cogs turning in his mind.

But before she could react, he dove forward, closing the already small gap.

The kiss wasn’t soft or hesitant.

It was entirely desperate.

It was the kind of kiss that came from the years of unresolved tension and words neither of them knew how to say properly. The two years of dating, facing incredibly high highs and horrifically low lows. His hand slid firmly against her jaw as he pulled her impossibly closer, like he was scared she might disappear on him.

And Merlin... She kissed him back.

Instantly.

Like muscle memory.

Like her body betrayed her before her mind even had the chance to catch up.

A quiet sound escaped her throat as his mouth moved against hers, all familiar heat and possession and devastation. The books slipped slightly in her grasp, pressed awkwardly between them as Tom backed her against the cold stone wall.

His fingers tangled briefly into her hair, tilting her head back just enough to deepen the kiss, and suddenly every lonely night, every forced attempt to move on, every stupid effort to convince herself she was over him came crashing down around her.

This was the problem. Tom consumed her entirely, and he knew it.

The kiss slowed only slightly as his forehead rested briefly against hers, both of them breathing unevenly into the narrow space between them.

“You see?” he murmured softly, almost breathless now. “You can lie to everyone else, YN. But not to me.”

Reality crashed back into her all at once.

YN shoved hard against his chest, breaking away so suddenly that the sound of her breathing echoed sharply through the corridor.

Her lips were red. Her chest rising too quickly as her back stayed pressed against the cold wall.

Tom looked far too composed in comparison, though his grip at her waist remained firm like he still hadn’t fully let himself believe she was there.

“What is wrong with you?” she whispered.

Something dangerous flickered behind his eyes. He took a step closer again, slowly this time. His fingers brushed lightly against the sleeve of the jumper she wore.

“You know what? Maybe I should let you keep it... I know you like to sleep in it when you miss me.”

Her breath caught sharply.

The exact words from the memory. The exact tone. Like he had reached directly into her head and pulled it back out.

Fear flickered briefly beneath the anger now.

“You need to stop doing that.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “Doing what?”

“That.” Her voice dropped. “Going inside my head.”

For the first time all evening, Tom went still.

And in that silence, YN realised something horrifying: He wasn’t confused by the accusation, he was deciding how much to admit.

“I don't know what you're talking about. I can't help it if you think about me, love,” he said quietly.

Her stomach twisted violently. “Tom—”

“You loved me enough to make space for me there,” he continued calmly, fingers still resting against her waist. “That doesn’t just disappear because you’re angry.”

“You don’t get to manipulate me into loving you again.”

pairing: ex!tomriddle x yn. slytherin!friendgroup x yn

summary: In their final year at Hogwarts, a tightly bound Slytherin circle navigates loyalty, power, and unravelling emotions. YN tries her best to push away any memory of Tom Riddle and their fractured past, but he refuses to let it stay buried. Between sharp wit and lingering obsession, some bonds prove impossible to break…

warnings: characters from loads of eras/fanfics, ex-boyfriend trope, bit of angst, bit of fluff, flashbacks, yn reader, fighting, possessive tom, jealous tom, slowww burn, yn lowkey hates mattheo ahhahaha

author's note: i've had the first 3 parts of this series in the drafts for a whileeee now. again, flashbacks are in italics

word count: 4.5k

Link to part one here

Morning in the Slytherin girls’ dormitory arrived softly.

A pale, silvery light filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the stone walls. It was quieter here than anywhere else in the castle... thick, undisturbed silence that pressed gently against the air.

YN was awake before it. She always was.

There was something about early mornings she preferred. She liked the silence that blanketed her before the castle stirred, before voices filled the corridors, before she had to be seen. It gave her time to collect herself, to rebuild the composure she wore so effortlessly.

She pushed herself up slowly, brushing a strand of honey hair from her face.

And stilled.

There, resting neatly on her bedside table, was a folded piece of parchment.

She frowned. She hadn’t left anything there the night before.

Reaching for it, she unfolded it carefully, eyes scanning the ink—

You looked beautiful last night. As always.

Her breath caught. Her fingers tightened slightly around the parchment as her eyes flicked over the handwriting. It was elegant and clean, precise and controlled. Familiar.

She folded it up again, slower this time, placing it back down as if it hadn’t shifted something quietly inside her chest.

Behind her, Pansy groaned.

“If you’re already awake, I hate you.”

“Hate away,” YN replied, voice even.

Pansy rolled over, squinting at her. “Why do you look like you’ve already lived a full day?”

Changing the topic away from her, YN shot back, "I'm just shocked to see you in our dorm of a morning. Trouble in paradise?"

“You’re exhausting. There is no paradise.”

YN’s lips curved teasingly, but her gaze flicked once more to the parchment. A heavy feeling settling over her chest.

The Great Hall was already alive by the time they arrived.

Noise echoed against enchanted ceilings, plates clattered, voices overlapped; chaos in the most familiar way.

Their group slipped into their usual place at the Slytherin table like it had been waiting for them. Draco and Blaise immediately began arguing over something inconsequential, probably quidditch. Enzo was halfway through explaining something no one had asked about. Pansy picked at her food with mild disdain.

Theodore sat beside YN. As always.

“Did you sleep?” he said quietly, not looking at her.

“I did. However, I don't need to ask if you did, the matching eye bags with Mattheo tell me you were up on top of the astronomy tower all night... again.”

Across the table, Tom didn’t look at her.

Not directly. But somehow she felt it. That quiet awareness. That presence.

Like standing too close to something that burned, even when you couldn’t see the flame.

“It's not easy to sleep when your mind is elsewhere, is it, YN?” he said smoothly, cutting into his food.

No one reacted. But the words landed.

YN didn’t look up. She didn’t need to in order to know there was an evil smirk dancing across his lips.

Brushing him off quickly as though he didn't matter, YN turned to the rest of the group, "Merlin, potions first thing of a morning is cruel".

“It’s barbaric,” Pansy agreed immediately, abandoning her goblet with a dramatic sigh. “Who decided we should be expected to function before noon?”

“People with discipline,” Draco said coolly, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, “so not you obviously."

“You don’t have discipline either,” Pansy shot back. “You have crippling daddy issues and a superiority complex.”

Blaise let out a quiet laugh. “Eh, those are the same thing for Draco.”

“Honestly,” Pansy continued, “if Slughorn expects anything remotely impressive this early, he’s setting himself up for disappointment.”

Mattheo stretched lazily in his seat. “I quite enjoy Potions.”

“Of course you do,” YN muttered, standing and smoothing down her skirt. “It involves fire, sharp objects, and the possibility of explosions. It’s practically tailored to your personality. Thank god you're not in our class.”

He grinned. “You're extra kind this morning, love.”

“I try my best,” she sneered, her face showing just how irritating she found the younger Riddle.

Lorenzo pushed himself up from the table, nearly knocking over his drink in the process. “Do you think we’ll actually make anything interesting today, or is it another one of Slughorn’s ‘subtle variations’ that all look identical?”

“They’re not identical,” Theodore said, rising beside YN. “You just don’t pay attention.”

“I pay attention,” Lorenzo protested.

“No,” Blaise cut in, “you watch. You're not even smart enough to know what you're meant to be paying attention to. There’s a difference.”

“I disagree.”

“That doesn’t make you right,” Blaise replies in a sing-song voice.

YN let out a soft breath through her nose, a smile tugging at her lips as the group began to move.

The corridors were already filling. Students spilling out of the Great Hall, voices echoing against the stone walls, footsteps overlapping in a steady rhythm. Pansy slipped easily into step beside YN, looping her arm through hers without asking.

“If Slughorn pairs me with someone incompetent,” she said, “I’m leaving.”

“You say that every year, so I’m betting won’t,” YN replied.

“I will.”

“You’ll complain, and then you’ll stay.”

Pansy tilted her head. “You know me too well.”

“It’s a burden I carry gracefully.”

Theodore walked on YN’s other side, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze forward but attention unmistakably on the conversation.

“Can't be worse than last year,” he said “, Looney Lovegood. I had no chance of ever scoring higher than an Exceeds Expectations.”

“Merlin, she's dreadful, but don't act like you were ever destined for more than an Exceeds Expectations,” YN mused.

Behind them, Draco and Blaise continued their quiet back-and-forth, Mattheo occasionally interjecting with something entirely unhelpful, before he turned off to head toward his own class.

As they walked through the door, the smell hit first. Sharp and metallic in a way that gets stuck at the back of your throat. The second thing to hit her was the colour. Red. 'Great, 2 hours with the Gryfindors, ' she thought.

Cauldrons gleamed under low light, ingredients neatly laid out along the benches as Slughorn beamed at them from the front.

“Ah, my favourite class,” he announced, spreading his arms as though welcoming honoured guests. “Final year already, where does the time go?”

“Mercifully fast,” Draco muttered under his breath.

“Take your seats, take your seats! Come in, everybody, right up to the front, that's it!”

The group dispersed, slipping into their usual places without needing to think about it.

YN sat beside Theodore. Pansy on her other side.

Slughorn clapped his hands together. “Now then. Today’s potion requires precision, patience, and, most importantly, chemistry between partners.”

A few groans echoed through the room. He smiled wider.

“So, I’ve taken the liberty of assigning pairs.”

YN felt it before she heard it. That quiet shift in the air. It's almost like that nutter Trewlaney had rubbed off on her, because she knew, deep inside, what was coming next.

“Miss YLN… Mr Riddle. Two of my best students, there we go up here to this bench, please.”

The Slytherin group reacted exactly as expected. Pansy’s head snapped toward her. Draco smirked, nudging Blaise, whose expression shifted into something quietly entertained. Lorenzo let out a low whistle. Theodore tried to meet her eyes, but YN didn't look anywhere but straight ahead.

She remained still for half a second longer than necessary.

Then she stood. Composed like being in close proximity with Tom for the next two hours didn't make her heart flutter and her stomach drop in dread at the same time.

“Try not to murder each other,” Pansy murmured.

She turned and walked to the new bench. Tom was already there waiting with this irritatingly smug look on his face. But he didn’t say anything as she approached.

To be honest, he didn’t need to. Everything between them had always existed in the space before words. So, YN set her things down carefully, fingers steady despite the quiet tension curling beneath her skin.

And for a moment neither of them moved.

They sat in still like statues, their chests barely rising and falling as they waited for Slughorn to pair off the rest of the class.

Then, in perfect synchrony, they began.

Ingredients were measured without discussion. Movements aligned instinctively. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness in the mechanics of it.

Like nothing had changed.

“You’re rushing the second stir.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

She didn’t respond, but her movements slowed, just slightly.

A beat passed.

“You always do when you’re more focused on reading than stirring,” he added, voice quieter now.

Her grip tightened instinctively.

There they stood in an empty classroom. YN had been panicking about the potions practical, so Tom snuck her out past curfew to help her.

“You’ll ruin it if you rush,” he murmured behind her, voice low, almost amused.

His hand closed gently over hers, guiding the motion to be slow, deliberate.

The other rested at her waist, pulling her so close that she could feel the warmth radiating off his body.

“Then stop distracting me,” she muttered, though she leaned into him just slightly with a soft smile.

“I’m helping you. Think of me as your tutor.”

“I, of all people, do not need tutoring.”

“I know you don't need it, but you like it,” he whispered as he kissed her cheek.

The present snapped back into place as he gripped the top of the spoon, half of his hand closing over hers.

YN inhaled softly. She couldn't help it.

They hadn't been that close since they broke up 4 months ago. She wanted to scold him, push him away, tell him to give her space. But his smell was intoxicating, and before she could stop herself, it slipped out, “Tommy—”

Her entire body went still, and silence followed.

Tom didn’t move for a single count before resuming stirring, likely not wanting to mess up the potion. His hand remained steady over hers, guiding the motion of the spoon as if nothing had changed.

But still, she could tell that something shifted. Something subtle yet dangerous. Like she had just lit the fire beneath him without realising.

And so she had.

In that single word, something old had resurfaced. Not the arguments. Not the tension. Not the fractured ending they both pretended to stand by.

Something before that. Something he had refused let go of.

Tom’s gaze stayed locked on the cauldron, but his mind ran elsewhere. She had said it without thinking. That meant it still lived somewhere inside her.

Buried, perhaps. Ignored. Suppressed. But not gone.

For months, he had tolerated the distance. Let her play at detachment, let her convince herself that she had walked away cleanly, that whatever they had built could simply be… ended.

He had allowed it. Not because he believed it, but because he knew she would break. He knew that she would come back.

But then summer passed, and she hadn’t. So now, when he saw the opening, his hand shifted ever so slightly against hers, not enough to be obvious, just enough to remind her it was still there. Still guiding. Still in control.

He didn’t look at her. For the first time since the break, something in him settled. Something of a certain clarity.

They were not over. They never were. And now he knew exactly where the cracks were.

Not in her composure.

Not in her silence.

But in the parts of her that still remembered him without trying.

Tom had never been sentimental. He didn’t believe in chance, or fate, or whatever nonsense people used to justify their lack of control.

And this... it was something entirely different from that nonsense.

She had built something around him once. Something close enough to reverence that it blurred into devotion.

And she thought she could simply dismantle it? No.

His jaw tightened slightly, the faintest shift in his expression, gone as quickly as it came. He would not chase her, he would not beg, but he sure as hell was not going to let her walk away.

So he decided right then and there, his large hand still engulfing hers, that he would remind her. Carefully. Precisely. Patiently. In every way that the world would allow him, Tom would be a force she could not ignore.

He would place himself back into the spaces she thought she had cleared. Into her routine. Her thoughts. Her instincts.

Until she stopped resisting it. Until she stopped pretending that she was done with him. And when she finally realised that, when she came back to him, we would be waiting exactly where he had always been.

YN pulled her hand out from under his and turned away quickly, focusing on the potion with sudden intensity, her pulse louder than the bubbling cauldron. “Pass the valerian root,” she said, too composed.

He handed it to her without a word, but didn’t look away.

Herbology was their next class. YN walked beside Theodore and Pansy, her posture composed, her expression neutral. If either of them noticed the slight tension still lingering in her shoulders, they didn’t comment on it.

“That was unnecessarily stressful,” Pansy said, brushing a strand of dark hair over her shoulder.

“It was day one,” YN replied.

“Well count me out for day two .”

Theodore let out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “At least you didn’t have to deal with whatever that was,” he said, nodding vaguely behind them where Tom strode alongside Blaise. “Slughorn looked like he was about to cry from pride.”

“He probably was,” YN muttered. “He lives for that sort of thing.”

“Of course he does,” Pansy said. “It’s the closest he’ll ever get to actual achievement.”

“Ooh, harsh… but true,” Theodore added.

They stepped into the greenhouse, warmth immediately wrapping around them again. It smelt of damp earth, crushed leaves, and something faintly sweet. It was a welcome change from the thick, metallic heat of the dungeons. Rows of plants lined the space, some twitching slightly as students brushed past them.

“Right then!” Professor Sprout called from the front. “Pairs today, same as usual!”

YN barely had time to set her things down before Theodore dropped his bag beside her.

“Lucky you,” he said lightly. “You get me.”

“How will I cope,” she replied dryly.

“You won’t. You don't. But I’ll carry us as always.”

She huffed a sarcastic breath, reaching for the gloves laid out on the table. It was easy with Theodore. Effortless in a way that didn’t demand anything from her. They had been best friends since they were babies. She had never lived a day without him by his side, and in a way, he was the brother she never had. The whole group shared a similar sentiment; it wasn't easy being the only child in the houses they grew up in... having everything placed on your shoulders alone.

“Don’t pull too hard,” Theodore added, watching her reach for the plant. “You’ll snap the root.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m just saying."

"Yeah, ok Mr Exceeds Expectations. I know what I'm doing, I’m always right.”

A voice cut in before she could respond.

“Not quite.”

Her hand stilled.

Tom. Of course.

He stood at the table beside them, sleeves rolled slightly, expression calm, composed like he hadn’t just inserted himself into a conversation that didn’t involve him.

“You will damage the root if you twist it like that,” he continued, eyes on the plant, not on her.

Theodore looked triumphant. “Told you so.”

YN kept her attention on the plant, her fingers adjusting slightly despite herself. “Whatever, I had it under control,” she said.

“Clearly.”

By the time they left Herbology, the sun had shifted higher, heat settling more heavily over the grounds as they made their way back toward the castle.

The noise had returned to the Great Hall.

YN dropped into a seat between Theodore and Draco, exhaling softly as plates filled in front of them. The noise was welcome now, something to drown out the constant hum sitting just beneath her skin.

She noticed it as she leaned back. A jumper draped over the back of her chair.

Dark. Familiar. Her fingers brushed the fabric briefly as she caught a whiff of the scent she knew too well.

“That yours?” Theodore asked, glancing at it.

She didn’t move it. "Uh, no... no it's not.”

Arithmancy passed quietly. Too quietly.

None of her friends sat near her in this class. So it should have been easy to focus.

Numbers lined the board. The professor spoke in a monotone that blurred into the background. Rows of students, heads bent over parchment, the scratch of quills the only real sound in the room.

She followed the professor's instructions and flipped to the next page of the book, and something slipped out onto the desk.

Another piece of parchment. Her breath caught as her eyes darted around the classroom. No one was looking at her, not even in her general direction.

Slowly, she unfolded it.

You make everything look effortless.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the page. This wasn’t coincidence.

In a striking contrast, Defence Against the Dark Arts was anything but quiet. Magic cracked through the air sharp bursts of light cutting across the room as pairs moved through drills. Voices overlapped, instructions shouted, magic colliding in controlled bursts.

YN moved easily, wand steady, movements precise. She had a natural knack for combat and didn't even need to think.

Across the room, Tom mirrored that same control. Effortless and calculated.

For a brief moment, their eyes met and something passed between them. Not cold like this morning or gentle like in potions. But rather something she wished wasn’t familiar.

They stood in an empty corridor. It was late. Far too late for either of them to be out of bed, but neither of them cared. The torches along the walls flickered violently, casting sharp shadows that seemed to stretch and twist with every movement.

“Lower your wand,” Tom said, voice cold, controlled.

“No,” YN snapped, her grip tightening. “Not this time.”

“You’re being irrational.”

“I’m done letting you control me,” she shot back, her voice breaking despite herself.

His jaw clenched. “You don’t get to decide that.”

A harsh laugh escaped her, wet with frustration. “Of course I do. That’s how this works, Tom.”

Something dark flickered behind his eyes. “Lower your wand,” he repeated, slower this time.

“Or what?” she challenged, her chest rising and falling too quickly. “You’ll make me?”

A moment in time passed. Then—

“Expelliarmus!”

The spell shot from her wand in a burst of light, fast and precise, forcing him back a step, but not enough.

“Stupefy!”

He blocked it effortlessly.

“Is that what you think this is?” he said, almost amused now, circling her slightly. “A duel?”

Her eyes stayed strained on him as tears spilt down her cheeks. He looked at the girl in front of him, and he thought she looked pathetic. She was always so composed, so sure of herself, so in control. But now...

He scoffed, "Please, YN, save the dramatics. You never follow through.”

The words hit harder than any spell.

“You say you’re leaving,” he continued, voice lowering, more dangerous now. “You say you’re done. Merlin, how many times have I heard that one from you? And yet there you are. Still here. Still arguing. Still—”

“Because you don’t let me go!” she shouted, her voice cracking as the tears began to blur her vision. “You don’t stop, Tom.”

“Why would I?” he cut in sharply. “Why would I stop when I have you under my control, doing everything I say…”

Silence fell for half a second. Heavy and suffocating, causing her chest to rise more frantically. His gaze locked onto hers, something intense, unrelenting, almost consuming in the way he looked at her.

“You’re not something I just… lose interest in,” he said, quieter now. “You don’t walk away from me because you’re frustrated.”

Another spell shot from her wand, reckless this time.

He deflected it instantly. “Stop,” he said.

“No!”

“Stop this,” he repeated, stepping closer.

“I hate you,” she managed to choke out through the sobs.

Something in his expression shifted, but it wasn't what she wanted to see. His face wasn't laced with hurt, his voice wasn't laced with sadness.

All he showed was dismissal. “No. You don’t.”

The words landed like a verdict.

“You don’t get to tell me how I feel,” she said.

“I don’t need to,” he replied. “I know.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks and down her neck.

“I’m trying to leave you,” she said, quieter this time. “Why won’t you just let me?”

Tom stepped closer. Grabbing her wand and throwing it to the floor, disarming her in a lazy effort, proving his point that in fact she could never follow through.

He was now close enough to lift his hand out and tilt her chin up so she had to look at him. The weight of his presence pressed into her space like it belonged there. Her breath hitched.

“You think this is you walking away?” he continued, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “It’s not. It’s you panicking because you don’t understand it.”

“I understand perfectly,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “You don’t leave something like this. Not when it’s real.”

Her eyes searched his, desperate, uncertain.

“And this is real?” she asked, her voice barely there.

“It is to you.”

By the time dinner arrived, exhaustion had settled into the edges of everything. The Great Hall buzzed louder than usual, students talking over each other, energy uneven and restless.

YN sat back in her chair, rolling her shoulders slightly as plates appeared in front of them.

“I’m already done with this year,” Pansy announced.

“It’s been one day,” Blaise replied.

“And it’s been exhausting.”

Before she could respond a rush of wings cut through the noise.

Two owls.

One landing in front of YN.

One in front of Tom.

“Oh, this is interesting,” Draco said, leaning forward.

“Open it,” Pansy demanded.

YN reached for the letter, breaking the seal carefully, her expression unreadable as her eyes scanned the parchment.

Head Girl.

Across the table, Tom had already opened his. “Head Boy,” he said simply.

Of course.

The table erupted.

Noise erupted.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Mattheo laughed.

“This will be insufferable,” Enzo added.

“No,” Draco corrected, watching the two of them carefully, “this will be entertaining. Fate sure has a sense of humour.”

YN looked up, but Tom was already looking at her.

The letter detailed that there would be a meeting on the third floor this evening after dinner.

So that's where they were headed.

The corridor was quiet with all the other students still in the Great Hall. Their footsteps echoed softly against the stone and for a while, neither one of them spoke.

Then, slicing through the tension, “We always did work well together.” The words landed lightly, almost conversational. Like he was recalling something harmless. Something simple.

Her jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

He didn’t react. He didn’t so much as glance at her.

“If you’re going to spend the year trying to ignore me,” he continued, tone steady, measured, “you’ll find it exhausting.”

“I think I'll manage.”

“Will you?” he said softly, but not kindly. He was pushing her buttons, and he knew all the right ones to press. “You never were very convincing.”

The meeting itself was brief.

Instructions. Responsibilities. Expectations.

Late patrols. Shared duties. Time spent together whether they liked it or not.

The walk back to the common room felt longer.

“You know… it’s almost funny.”

She didn’t look at him. “What is?" her tone was bored.

“How everything keeps putting you back beside me.” Her fists clenched slightly at her sides. “Almost like it knows something you don’t.”

She stopped walking. Just for a second. Then continued, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

The common room was already full when they returned. Voices, laughter, the familiar low hum of Slytherin settling in for the night.

The group was waiting.

“Well?” Pansy demanded immediately.

“Extra points for Slytherin this year? Finally, a chance to win the House Cup?” Lorenzo added.

“Unlikely,” YN said, “Look at the idiot you're sitting beside. For every 10 points we get, he loses 50.”

They all laughed, knowing, unfortunately, that was true. Ever since Mattheo was sorted into Slytherin, they had no shot at winning the House Cup.

YN moved toward her usual seat, lowering herself into it with practised ease as she began to recap the night's meeting for her friends and informing them of the other Head Boys and Girls.

Tom didn’t sit beside her. But he didn’t sit far either. And somehow that felt worse.

Later, in the quiet of her dorm, YN sat on the edge of her bed, the castle finally still. She got dressed for bed in silence, ridding herself of the longest first day of school in history.

Pansy wasn't in the dorm yet, go figure.

She slid under the heavy green quilt, immediately cuddling into her pillow when she felt it... Another note under the white pillowcase.

Her breath slowed as she unfolded it.

I always knew it…

Her heart began to pound.

You never really left.

Silence filled the room. She knew who the notes were from. Though it wasn’t his handwriting they were his words.

All of a sudden she was hit with a piercing pain in her head, as memories overtook her. Stolen glances, delicate touches, late night trysts and kisses understand the civets. And for the first time since ending things, she didn’t know if she wanted to prove him wrong. She couldn't stop the thoughts spiralling in her head.

They didn’t feel like her own. Not entirely anyway. She couldn't control what she was seeing or the feeling they were bringing up.

She began to feel nauseous at the speed of her own mind. Dissoriented as memories flashed before her eyes. Her breathing was picking up, she felt like the walls were closing in around her.

And then suddenly it all stopped. Her breath slowed.

In place of the confusion, anger overtook her as a cold realisation settled.

She knew what that was.

The feelings, the memories, the helplessness... they were placed carefully. Intentionally.

pairing: ex!tomriddle x yn. slytherin!friendgroup x yn

summary: In their final year at Hogwarts, a tightly bound Slytherin circle navigates loyalty, power, and unravelling emotions. YN tries her best to push away any memory of Tom Riddle and their fractured past, but he refuses to let it stay buried. Between sharp wit and lingering obsession, some bonds prove impossible to break…

warnings: characters from loads of eras/fanfics, ex-boyfriend trope, bit of angst, bit of fluff, flashbacks, yn reader, fighting, possessive tom, jealous tom, slowww burn, yn lowkey hates mattheo ahhahaha

author's note: i've had the first 3 parts of this series in the drafts for a whileeee now. flashbacks are in italics

word count: 2.2k

Link to part two here

The library at Nott Manor did not feel like a place meant for seventeen-year-olds.

It felt ancient and full of secrets. Like every book lining the dark walnut shelves had chosen to be there, to consume the centuries of family affairs. Tall windows stretched toward the ceiling, letting in molten Italian sunlight that painted everything gold. YN could see dust mites drifting lazily in the heat and smell the faint gleam of polished wood.

And at the centre of it all, inevitably, was them.

YN sat at the piano near the far wall, her fingers ghosting over the keys, not quite playing a song, just testing notes as if the instrument were a thought she hadn’t decided to finish. Her hair fell over one shoulder, catching the light like something deliberately designed to be looked at. Her expression, however, gave nothing away. To the untrained eyes, she appeared calm, distant, and almost bored.

Theodore Nott occupied the chair beside her, long legs stretched out, a book resting open in his lap, though he hadn’t turned the page in several minutes.

“Everyone is being unusually quiet,” Blaise Zabini remarked from the chaise near the window, one brow raised as he inspected the room as if it owed him something. “It’s unsettling.”

“That’s because you haven’t started talking yet,” Draco Malfoy drawled from the floor, leaning back against the couch with a glass dangling loosely from his fingers. “Give it time.”

“I have been talking.”

“No,” Pansy Parkinson said, not looking up from her nails, “you’ve been narrating your own existence. It’s different.”

Lorenzo Berkshire snorted from where he was sprawled upside-down on an armchair. “I like it. It adds ambience.”

“It doesn’t,” Mattheo Riddle muttered, flicking ash from the cigarette between his fingers toward an already overfilled tray. “It just makes his voice louder.”

Theodore exhaled quietly through his nose. YN’s lips twitched just barely.

Across the room, Tom Riddle sat at a small table near the shelves, a chessboard laid out before him. He wasn’t playing anyone. He never needed to. One hand hovered over a piece, long fingers precise, deliberate. Calculating.

“I received a letter this morning,” Draco said, turning his head slightly, “Greengrass.”

Pansy’s head snapped up instantly. “Oh, do tell.”

“Not quite sure that's any of your business, Parkinson,” Draco replied smoothly. “I just wanted to let these other gits know that I'm in high demand this year... unlike them.”

“Give it a rest,” Pansy said, ignoring him entirely, eyes gleaming. “I heard that she spent most of her summer with Bewley.”

“Who?” Blaise added lazily.

"He finished Hogwarts last year, works for some fancy department in the Ministry. He was Slytherin, pure-blood, I believe." YN hummed absently, still plucking away at the ivory keys.

“Well, anyway, the interesting part is that earlier this month, they had a huge fight outside Toloman's Trinkets, that new shop in Hogsmeade, and she hexed him. I reckon he deserved it.”

“Most men do,” YN murmured.

Mattheo grinned. “See, that’s why she’s my favourite. So fiesty.”

“You say that to everyone,” Theodore said quietly.

“Yeah, but I mean it when I say it to her.”

YN tilted her head, looking at him with slight disgust. “How flattering.”

Tom moved a piece. The soft click echoed louder than it should have.

“Greengrass is a smart girl,” he said, voice smooth, almost absent. “Too smart for you, Draco. She knows how to control men, how to keep them wrapped around her finger, and more importantly, when to throw them away.”

Before she could stop her mind from wandering, the memories flashed before her eyes like a strike of lightning. Just for a second. But long enough for her heart to skip a beat—

“You don’t get to decide when you’re done,” Tom’s voice had been low, dangerous. It was calm, almost, in a way that caused fear to course through her soul.

Her wrist was still in his grip. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough to remind her it could.

“I already have,” YN snapped, trying to pull back, chin tilted in defiance that didn’t quite mask the flicker of something else. “You don’t own—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, quieter now. Worse. His fingers tightened just slightly. “Don’t say things you don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly,” she said, though her voice betrayed her just a fraction. “You don’t control me.”

Tom’s jaw clenched. His eyes dark and unreadable flicked over her face like he was memorizing it.

“Everything I do is about control. I get the final say, YN, when will you understand that?” he said. “No one walks away from me until I decide I'm done with them. Including you.”

Her fingers faltered, and a loud, dull note sliced through her memory.

Theodore noticed how she stilled. Seemingly unprompted.

He knew her better than anyone... he liked to believe he knew her better than Tom did. He saw the blank look in her eyes, the way her fingers trembled ever so slightly.

He didn’t look at her immediately. That would’ve been too obvious. Instead, he shifted slightly in his chair, voice low enough that only she could hear.

“You alright?” he murmured.

Her eyes flicked to his briefly. Offering a soft but absent smile as she stayed silent.

“You’re not answering me.”

YN let out a soft breath, a mask of indifference finding its way back home as she began to play a soft melody again. “I’m fine.”

Theodore studied her for a moment longer, then nodded once, accepting it, but not believing it.

Across the room, Tom’s hand stilled on the chess piece.

His gaze had shifted, sharp enough to cut.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, fingers curling slightly against the wood of the table. There was something dark in the way he watched them, something restrained.

Possessive.

Annoyed.

As if Theodore’s quiet concern was an intrusion.

As if it wasn’t his place.

As if... as if she was still his.

The thought slid through his mind as naturally as breath. Not in the way others might think. Not soft. Not sentimental.

Ownership wasn’t affection. It was a fact. And facts didn’t change just because people pretended they had.

By the time evening settled over the manor, the air had shifted.

The heat hadn’t faded, but something else had crept in, something restless. Anticipatory.

The pool glowed under soft lights, water shimmering like glass. Bottles littered the edges as laughter echoed louder.

YN sat cross-legged on the stone edge, shoes long abandoned, a drink dangling loosely from her fingers. Pansy lounged beside her, half-drunk already and entirely unbothered.

“I’m just saying,” YN insisted, gesturing wildly, “you think we're dumb... but we're not. You two are absolutely sleeping together.”

“We are not,” Mattheo snapped from across the pool.

“Ooh, so defensive,” Blaise noted.

Lorenzo nearly fell into the water laughing.

Theodore leaned back on his hands, watching it all with quiet amusement, the kind that never quite reached his eyes unless this group was involved.

“Pansy,” YN called lazily, tilting her head, “if you were going to have a secret affair, at least choose someone less obvious.”

“Oh, so now you’re judging my standards?”

“I’m judging your taste in men.” She grinned sharply.

“Shut it, YLN,” Mattheo growled.

“Who asked you to talk.”

"You did love, I know you adore me."

She did not. She might even go so far as to say 90% of the time, she despised him. She thought he was immature and careless. She thought he had no drive or ambition, and quite frankly, no place in this group. As far as she was concerned, he is the complete wrong fit for Pansy. "Please, Mattheo, your voice is giving me a headache, as it does most days."

“And the others?”

“I tolerate you.”

“That’s basically devotion.”

YN laughed softly... Ok, careless? yes. Funny? also, yes.

For a moment, everything felt easy.

Mattheo stood suddenly, grabbing her hand. “Dance with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on. It's our last night of summer!”

He yanked her up anyway, ignoring her protest as music played faintly from somewhere. It was messy, ridiculous, spinning her badly, nearly slipping on the wet stone. Pansy and Blaise joined in, throwing their arms around as if they had no care in the world.

She laughed harder, trying to shove him away, but to no avail.

Mattheo liked to make the most of her friendliness when she was drinking. On any normal day, she would have hexed him the second he tried to touch her.

“You’re insufferable.”

Across the pool, Tom watched. Silent. Still.

His expression gave nothing away, but his grip on his glass tightened just slightly.

The way she laughed. The way she let herself be pulled into something chaotic, something careless.

Something that wasn’t him, but rather his arrogant little brother.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Yet his red-hot gaze bore into the side of Mattheo's head as if willing him to burst into flames.

King’s Cross was loud. Too loud.

Steam, chatter, movement, it all blurred together as they stepped onto Platform 9¾, their group cutting through the noise like something sharper, more deliberate.

They filled a compartment easily.

Draco and Blaise immediately took over one side, Pansy draped dramatically across the seats. Lorenzo pressed his face to the window in an attempt to catch a glance of the new 1st years. Mattheo sprawled wherever he pleased.

YN slid into the corner seat, Theodore beside her as always.

Tom sat across. 'Of course he did', she thought, 'Merlin forbid I get some bit of space from him after spending all summer together'.

The train lurched forward, and conversations all around the train picked up again.

The Great Hall was exactly as she remembered.

Candles floating. Ceiling enchanted. A lingering smell of something warm, sandalwood or cinnamon perhaps. Everything impossibly large except for the first years lined up, small and nervous.

She had stood there once.

Smaller. More uncertain.

Watching as names were called, heart pounding just a little too fast.

“Riddle, Tom.”

He had walked forward like he already belonged.

Like the world had been waiting for him.

The hat barely touched his head.

“SLYTHERIN!”

Applause. Whispers.

She didn’t know why, but she couldn't take her eyes off him. She felt something bubble in her stomach.

It wasn't nervous anticipation waiting to find out what house she would be sorted into.

It was excitement. Something about the pale, dark-haired boy made her feel excited.

YN found herself hoping even more to be in Slytherin.

“YLN, YN.”

Taking a deep breath, hearing the words of her mother in her head "always present yourself with grace... don't you dare bring down the YLN name", she straightened her back, walking with pride up to the stool where the mangy hat waited for her.

And then, the words she had been waiting for—

“SLYTHERIN!”

She bounced down the stairs, excited to join her lifelong friends under the green banner. Draco and Pansy had their arms wide open, waiting to welcome her. Theodore grinned and cheered the loudest while Blaise and Enzo clapped and whistled.

As the sorting ceremony went on, she turned to look at the Riddle boy in the eyes. "Hi, I'm YN YLN," her kind smile lighting up her face. He reached out his hand, his cold finger grasping onto hers, "Tom. Tom Riddle"

Warmth lingered in her chest as she blinked back to the present.

She couldn't help the way her heart fluttered, despite the unwelcome, persistent memoreis.

“You’re smiling,” Theodore murmured beside her.

“Am I? Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” he chuckled.

They turned back to the conversation at hand as the feast appeared. YN wasn't one for unnecessary noise. She grew up as an only child in a house that had no love. She learned to find a lifeline in the silence.

But her only exception to that was the Hogwarts Great Hall.

Her heart felt full as she looked around. Children of all ages from the four different houses laughing and shouting in glee. She looked to her friends. From the outside, people perceived their lives as perfect, but no one knew the truth.

It was cold and filled with expectations yet never being allowed to make their own choices. But here, in Hogwarts, they were free. They were happy.

“You realise,” Draco said, cutting into his food, “this is our final year.”

“Don’t ruin it,” Pansy snapped.

“I’m adding drama.”

“You add nothing of value.”

“Debatable.”

Mattheo raised his glass. “To our last year of freedom.”

“To us,” Lorenzo added.

YN hesitated for half a second, then lifted hers too. “To us.”

Across the table, Tom's eyes met hers with determination. He lifted his glass, tilting it toward YN. "To us"

pairing: theodore nott x malfoy!reader

summary: final part (probs) where YN and Theodore's relationship comes to light.

warnings: reader is younger than theo (like a year or two), brothers' best friend trope, jealous thoedore, bit of fluff, yn reader, naturally draco is a bit of a cockblock, suggestive, possessive theo, stupid mattheo. lowk not proofread lol

word count: 2444

link to part one here. link to part two here

Winter settled over Hogwarts quietly, like the secret the young couple chose to keep.

Frost traced delicate patterns along the tall windows of the Slytherin common room, the lake a dark unmoving shadow. Inside, the fire burned brighter than usual, casting warm gold against green leather and stone. It felt smaller in winter, closer somehow, like everyone had been drawn inward.

Y/N was curled sideways on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, shoulder pressed firmly against Draco’s side. He had one arm draped lazily along the back of the couch behind her, fingers occasionally tapping against the couch in an absent rhythm as he sat there lost in a book.

“Move,” Draco muttered, nudging her knee with his.

“No, I'm comfortable,” she replied sweetly, not moving an inch.

“You’re crushing me.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m suffocating.”

Mattheo snorted from the armchair opposite, tossing a chocolate frog into his mouth. “Merlin, you two are insufferable.”

“They’re always like this,” Blaise added, lounging beside him, one ankle crossed over his knee. “It’s actually worse when they’re apart.”

“Oi,” Draco snapped.

Y/N grinned, "He couldn't bear to spend a day without me".

Theo sat in his usual place, half-shadowed, watching. Always watching. But this time, his gaze wasn’t distant. It was sharper now. Familiar. Possessive in a way that had no place being there... and yet, it was.

Across from Y/N, her roommate, Scarlett Vale, sprawled dramatically across the floor, propped on her elbows, chin in her hands. She was all sharp smiles and quick wit, her dark curls falling messily around her face, eyes constantly dancing with mischief. She had the uncanny ability to insert herself into any situation and make it twice as chaotic.

“I think we should test it,” Scarlett said.

Draco blinked. “Test what?”

“If you’d actually die without her.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“We could try. Separate you for a week.”

“Absolutely not.” Draco huffed dismissively.

“See?” Y/N beamed. “Codependent.”

“I’m not codependent,” Draco snapped. “You just attract trouble.”

Y/N gasped, offended. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do,” Theo muttered, a light smile dancing on his lips.

“She does,” Enzo chimed in, grinning.

“Traitors,” Y/N muttered.

Theo’s lips twitched faintly.

Then Mattheo leaned forward, dragging a hand down his face. “Speaking of trouble…” The tone shift was immediate.

Blaise’s eyes sharpened. “What did you do?”

Mattheo exhaled. “I may have… hooked up with... Cassandra.”

Silence. Then, a loud course of jeering.

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Blaise said flatly.

“All the girls in Hogwarts, and you keep messing around with your crazy ex?” Enzo added with a dramatic eyeroll.

Draco groaned. “You’re an idiot.”

“She thinks we’re getting back together,” Mattheo continued, his voice pleading for his friends to take his dilemma seriously.

Scarlett perked up instantly. “Oh, this keeps getting interesting.”

“I don’t need interesting,” Mattheo snapped. “I need a solution.”

Blaise leaned back, eyes flicking, almost challengingly, to Theodore before returning to Mattheo. “Well,” he drawled, “you could always fake date someone else.”

Mattheo frowned. “Who?”

Blaise’s smirk grew.

“Oh no,” Enzo said immediately.

“Oh yes,” Blaise replied. “Y/N.”

The room stilled. Theo didn’t move, but something in him went very, very still.

Draco sat up straighter. “Absolutely not.”

Y/N blinked. “What? Me?”

“It’s perfect,” Blaise continued smoothly. “Cassandra sees you with someone else, she backs off. Clean, simple.”

“Simple?” Draco scoffed. “You want him to pretend to date my sister?”

“Yes.”

“No. Not happening. I mean it. I don't want you boys getting any closer than you already are.” Draco's voice was so determined and cold that Y/N couldn't help but look to Theodore, her eyes glinting with panic.

Scarlett shot to her feet. “Wait. This is actually brilliant.”

“Thank you,” Blaise said.

“No, absolutely not,” Draco snapped again, now fully glaring. “She’s not getting dragged into your mess.”

“I can speak for myself,” Y/N cut in, raising a brow.

Draco turned to her. “You’re not doing it.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I do, actually.”

Theo almost smiled at her stubbornness, but the situation at hand was quick to sober him.

Mattheo groaned. “Can we focus? I’m being hunted.”

“By a girl you chose to hook up with,” Enzo pointed out.

“Details.”

Scarlett clapped her hands. “No, this is perfect. Fake dating? Steamy public kisses? Oh, this is gold.”

“I’m not kissing him,” Y/N said immediately.

Blaise tilted his head, taunting Theodore with the amusement in his eyes. “You might have to.”

Theo’s jaw tightened.

Draco looked like he might commit murder.

“Absolutely not,” Draco said, voice sharp. “No one is kissing my sister.”

“Oh, relax,” Scarlett said breezily. “It’s fake.”

“The 'dating' might be, but that kiss won't.”

Y/N sighed. “It’s not that serious.”

Draco turned to her, incredulous. “Not that serious?”

“It’s just pretending.”

“It’s Mattheo.”

“Exactly,” she said dryly. “It's not like I'd ever do it for real.”

Mattheo looked offended. “Cheers.”

Theo’s gaze hadn’t left her. Not once. He felt a war waging in his mind: respect her wishes and keep their developing relationship a secret, or take her right there in the common room to show Mattheo who she belongs to.

“Fine, let's do it,” Y/N said shrugging. “I’ll help. But only if it’s quick. And no kissing!”

Draco whipped his head toward her, exhaling sharply, running a hand through his hair. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Probably,” Blaise agreed.

“Definitely,” Enzo added.

“Exciting though,” Scarlett said brightly.

“Come on,” Draco muttered later, standing. “If we don’t leave now, breakfast will be gone.”

Y/N hopped up immediately. “Ooh, I bet there's only one scone left. Dibs.”

Y/N grinned and bolted. Draco swore and chased after her, her sweet laughter echoing as they disappeared up the stairs, already bickering again.

“They’re so dim,” Scarlett stated, falling into step beside Blaise as they started toward the exit. Leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “So, how dramatic do you think this fake relationship is going to get?”

Blaise smirked. “Depends how much you encourage it.”

“Oh, I plan to be unbearable.”

“I had no doubt.”

She laughed, tugging him along.

Theo didn’t move, his eyes glued on Mattheo's back. The door shut. Silence settled as Theodore's glare hardened.

“Well... are you coming, mate?”

Theo moved fast. His hand shot out, gripping Mattheo’s collar, slamming him lightly back against the stone.

“Call it off.”

Mattheo blinked, surprised. “Easy, Nott.”

“I’m not asking.”

Mattheo studied him for a moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Then he smirked.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “You’re serious?”

Silence. Theo’s grip tightened as he pushed Mattheo further into the wall. Mattheo’s smirk widened. “No,” he breathed, almost delighted. “No way.”

Theo said nothing. And that was all the confirmation he needed.

Mattheo let out a low laugh. “Oh, you’re fucked.”

Theo’s eyes darkened. “Don’t.”

Mattheo tilted his head. “Malfoy’s little sister?”

Theo didn’t respond.

“Merlin,” Mattheo muttered. “You’re actually gone.”

Theo released him roughly.

“Touch her,” he said quietly, “and I’ll kill you myself. Bare hands.”

Mattheo just grinned.

A few days later, the courtyard buzzed with life despite the cold.

Y/N sat beside Scarlett on the stone wall, their breath visible in the winter air, half-finished lunches forgotten between them as they scraped for any last gleam of the fading sun.

“You're falling hard,” Y/N sing-songed.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I mean, who could blame you? Blaise is something else.”

“Stop it! I’m not.” Scarlett's face flushed to embody her name. However, before she could respond—

“Perfect, there you are.” Mattheo appeared out of nowhere, swift and purposeful.

His arm slung around Y/N’s shoulders, pulling her into his side as he pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

She froze.

“Play along,” he muttered quietly against her skin. “She’s watching.”

Y/N's eyes shot around swiftly, before she forced a laugh, leaning into him.

“Subtle,” she muttered.

“I try.”

Scarlett looked delighted. “Oh, so this is happening,” she whispered.

The rest of the group approached. Blaise first, then Enzo... And finally, Theodore.

He saw it. Mattheo's arm. The closeness. The kiss on the cheek. Something in his expression snapped. And then he turned and walked away, fists clenched so hard he felt his nails might draw blood.

Y/N’s smile faltered.

Blaise and Mattheo exchanged a pointed look.

“Hmm,” Enzo said unknowingly, “that’s weird.”

“Not at all,” Blaise murmured.

The bell rang, and the courtyard cleared out almost instantaneously. Y/N knew she had to find Theodore before his temper got the worst of him.

Rounding the corner, she had disappeared around, she found him halfway down the corridor. “Theodore!”

He stopped. But didn’t turn. She stepped in front of him, forcing his gaze to meet hers.

“Teddy, it’s not real,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting like that?”

His jaw flexed. “Because I don’t like seeing it.”

Her expression softened. “He won’t take it too far.”

“He already has.”

She reached for his hand, squeezing it. “I’m yours,” she murmured.

“Say that again,” he said quietly. Desperately.

She smiled.

“I’m yours.”

The words didn’t just land, but rather they settled into him, heavy and undeniable, like something he had been waiting to hear for far too long. For a second, Theo just looked at her as if committing the moment to memory.

Then she leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t like the others. Not needy, not stolen in chaos or urgency. It was softer. Intentional. Her lips brushed his first, testing, like she was grounding him, like she understood exactly what he needed without him having to say it. His hand came up instinctively, cupping the side of her face, thumb brushing just beneath her cheekbone. He tilted his head slightly, deepening it just enough to make it linger, just enough to feel her sigh against him.

Everything else faded. The corridor, the noise, the tension.. all of it was gone. It was just her.

When she pulled back, it wasn’t far. Their noses brushed, breath still shared, her hand resting lightly against his chest where his heart hadn’t quite calmed yet. His forehead dropped to hers, eyes closing for a brief moment as if he could hold onto the quiet.

“Be careful,” he murmured, softer now. Less of a command and more of a plea.

Her fingers curled slightly into his shirt.

“Always,” she whispered back.

That night, the girls' dorm was warm and dimly lit. Scarlett lay sprawled across her bed, staring at the ceiling.

“So, Nott looked like he was about to commit murder today,” she said casually

Y/N froze “…what?”

“Courtyard.” She rolled onto her side, “I wonder what happened to him. Perhaps I might use it as an excuse to speak to Blaise... you know, play the caring friend.” Scarlett giggled as she raised her eyebrows suggestively at Y/N.

But Y/N hesitated. She didn't laugh or joke back.

Scarlett's eyes lit up. “Do you know something?” The suspicion was starting to rise within her, and Y/N could tell.

“Don’t,” Y/N warned.

“No, absolutely do not ‘don’t’ me right now,” Scarlett shot up, pointing at her. “Tell me everything.”

Y/N bit her lip, sighing. “We’re… together. Dating.”

Silence.

“I KNEW IT.”

“Keep your voice down. And no, you did not”

“This is brilliant,” Scarlett whispered loudly, grabbing a pillow and hugging it. “Since when?”

“A few weeks.”

“Merlin's beard. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to!”

“You weren’t.”

“I was! I just wanted to keep things quiet for a while... until I found a way to tell Draco.”

“Mhm, you absolutely did not plan to tell me.”

Y/N laughed despite herself.

Scarlett leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Details.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Coward.”

The next day, after a long day of classes, the group walked back toward the common room, chatter filling the corridor.

Cassandra appeared ahead, and the curse Mattheo let out under his breath echoed around the group.

“Here we go,” Blaise murmured, his eyes lighting up like he was a first-year seeing the castle for the first time.

Without hesitation, Mattheo stepped in close to Y/N, pulling her against him. His voice dropped, soft and teasing. “Smile.”

She did.

He leaned in, whispering something that made her laugh. Genuine and light.

Then he shifted, pressing her gently back against the wall, his arm braced beside her head.

The illusion was perfect. Too perfect.

So perfect that Theo saw red.

Mattheo leaned closer, intending to seal the deal and get Cassandra off his back for good. However, he didn't get too far as Draco grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back.

“She’s gone,” Draco snapped. “You can stop now.”

Mattheo blinked and before he had the chance to glance back up the corridor, Theo’s fist connected with his jaw.

The crack echoed. Mattheo staggered into the wall, releasing a low groan from the pain.

Silence fell across the group. Moments passed before anyone made a move.

Enzo stared. “What—”

Blaise let out a low whistle.

Scarlett's mouth dropped open.

Y/N blinked and then laughed. “Well,” she said lightly, “that’s one way to let everyone know.”

Draco froze. “…know what?”

Y/N stepped forward, grabbing Theo’s hand. He didn’t hesitate to pull her into his side, feeling the storm inside him settle as she was finally back where he belonged. He held her there, his arm firm around her.

His gaze never left Mattheo.

“I warned you once, I won't warn you again... touch her again,” Theo said calmly, “and I will not stop at just your jaw."

Mattheo wiped his mouth, grinning despite the hit. “Duly noted.”

Draco looked between them. Slowly. Carefully. And finally, realisation dawned.

“…you two...”

Theo didn’t look at him. Didn’t flinch.

Y/N blushed lightly. And for once, neither one of them had anything to say

pairing: tom riddle x ex!gf!reader

summary: y/n and tom recently broke up, but that doesn't mean she has stopped playing his right-hand man. as she watched tom destroy his soul, the one she had loved so much, she begins to wonder if it's too late to stop him.

warnings: based on the vibes of taylor swifts 'father figure' but this won't be evident until the sequel, tom makes a horcrux, descriptions of pain, tom being an asshole,

an: i hate this lmao, indescribably shit writing lmao

word count: 1.8k

The echo of his words stayed with her long after the snow began to fall on the Black Lake.

“Love,” he’d said, his eyes as still as glass, “is the only thing clever minds can’t control. And I refuse to be ruled by anything so undisciplined.”

It had been winter then, too,  the last weeks before Christmas. The Great Hall smelled of pine and wax, but in the deserted corridor outside, the air was sharp with cold and the faint trace of ink and parchment. He had spoken as though lecturing her, not breaking up with her, and she’d listened in silence, arms folded tight against her ribs.

She hadn’t cried. He’d hated tears; they were messy, inefficient. But she had felt something fray quietly inside her… not heartbreak, but the realisation that even affection could be out-argued.

A month later, the cold had settled into her bones, but she’d learned to live with it. She told herself that distance was protection, that she could stand by his side again and feel nothing at all. And so there she was, sitting at a table crowded with boys and girls who fancied themselves exceptional, ambitious, hungry, but ultimately, brittle with nerves. Tom Riddle sat at the head, spine straight, fingers resting on the open ledger before him. His voice, when it came, was measured and calm, the sort that could make a confession sound like a promise.

“If we are to be more than what this school expects of us,” he said, “we must learn the difference between failure and correction.”

No one dared look up.

Y/N sat opposite him, her chin balanced on her hand, studying him as if she could read the thoughts moving behind his composure. There was no outward cruelty in him tonight, only that light, unbending authority that made the air thin.

A fifth-year he’d recruited had botched a task in Knockturn Alley. He was stammering now, eyes darting between Tom and the door, his face as pale as parchment. Authority that, for once, she could match, and perhaps even surpass, in the quiet strength of her presence.

“My Lord, I didn’t mean—”

“Mistakes,” Tom interrupted sharply, “are a luxury that only the weak invoke.”

He stood, moving with that careful grace that always preceded something unpleasant. Silently, as though he was nothing more than a ghost, he stalked over to stand towering behind the boy. Y/N felt the room tilt with expectation. She saw the way the others held their breath. She saw the way they waited for him to break the silence, and someone’s will along with it.

Then she spoke. Her voice was low, unwavering, the kind that brooked no argument yet carried a hidden command.

“Tom… that’s enough,” she said, eyes fixed on him. “He made a mistake. Punish him, and you’ll extinguish what little courage your followers have left."

The word followers landed like a pebble in a glass.

Tom turned his head toward her slowly. The boy he’d been about to humiliate let out a soft breath at the attention being taken off of him.

“Courage?” Tom repeated, almost curious. “You think fear isn’t a fine motivator?”

“I think,” she said evenly, “you confuse obedience with devotion. You may demand loyalty, but it must be nurtured, not terrorised. You understand this, yet you test it anyway.”

For a heartbeat, nothing moved. His gaze sharpened. His eyes weren’t furious, but they were searching hers as though she held the code to a puzzle he had yet to solve. He regarded her, the quiet authority she carried unspoken yet undeniable. He had always led, but she could bend him if she chose. The awareness flickered briefly behind his eyes, not fear, but calculation.

“Everyone, leave,” he said without looking away from her, “but not you.”

The scraping of chairs was frantic. In less than ten seconds, the room was empty.

When the door closed, Y/N exhaled softly. “Do you always need an audience?”

He ignored the jab and sat down again, smoothing the page before him. “You defend incompetence, Y/N. That’s new.”

“I defend people who still have something to lose." she replied, voice calm, sharp.

“Then you’re wasting your energy.” His tone was mild, but his jaw had tightened. “Weakness spreads if you indulge it.”

“And strength isolates until there’s nothing left to command,” she countered, voice steady, the words more a principle than a challenge.

That earned her a small, almost reluctant smile from him. “Still trying to redeem me?”

“Redeem you?” she scoffed lightly, “No, Tom… I guide you.”

For a while after the meeting, they worked in silence. Tom had unrolled a parchment covered in curling runes, the sort of thing that demanded precision. She leaned over it, her sleeve brushing his, and pointed to a mistranslation in the margin.

“It’s not sanguis vitae,” she murmured. “It’s vita sanguinis. Life of the blood, not blood of life.”

He looked at her, really looked, and for a flicker of a moment she saw uncertainty, the shadow of a boy who’d once asked her to read Latin with him under the library lamps.

“I stand corrected,” he said quietly.

“You hate being corrected.”

“Indeed I do… I hate being wrong.”

Her laugh was soft, unexpected. “You were both once.”

He almost smiled again, but the expression dissolved before it could even form. He dipped his quill and returned to his notes, the candlelight catching on his cheekbones.

Y/N watched him for a long time, the lines of his face drawn in cold geometry. She wondered if he ever missed being fully human, or if he’d long since convinced himself it was an inconvenience.

Finally, she spoke, “You could have been a great man without this.”

He didn’t look up. “Greatness doesn’t come without this.”

“You mean control.”

“I mean inevitability.” His quill stopped moving. “You think I chose to be what I am?”

“Yes,” she said defiantly. “Every day you choose it again.”

That silenced him. Outside, the lake pressed against the glass like a dark heartbeat.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost thoughtful. “You once told me you admired my conviction.”

“I still do. I just wish it pointed somewhere less self-destructive.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying her as though trying to remember how she fit into the arithmetic of his ambitions. “You sound disappointed.”

“I suppose I am,” she admitted. “But not surprised.”

Something passed between them; a current neither named. For a breath, his eyes softened, and she saw the boy who had once sat beside her, quiet, patient, the boy she could still influence.

Then it was gone.

“You shouldn’t contradict me in front of them,” he said, back to his usual calm. “It undermines order.”

“I know,” she said. “Maybe that’s the point.”

He rose, closing the ledger. The movement drew a faint whisper from his robes, sharp as a blade. “You’re lucky I still value your mind.”

“You don’t have to threaten me, Tom.”

“I’m reminding you where we stand.”

Y/N met his gaze steadily. “If that were the truth, which it is not, you wouldn’t need to say it.”

For the first time that night, his composure cracked, a flash of temper like lightning behind clouds. Then it was gone, replaced by a measured exhale.

“You shouldn’t tempt my patience,” he said. “You’re one of the few I allow near me. Don’t deprive me of that.”

“And there it is…” she said, gathering her parchment, “you sound more afraid of that than I am.”

A beat of silence passed between them, carrying all of the emotions and words they would never utter. “I would have burned down the world with you, if only you had let me.”

He didn’t respond. For a moment, the distance between them felt almost fragile, one word away from shattering or closing entirely.

Y/N moved with deliberate precision, hands practiced and spare, sorting through objects of possible power laid on the black obsidian altar: a silver locket tarnished with age, a dagger with a worn handle, a small wooden box that seemed to hum under her touch as if something within it pulsed like a heartbeat.

Tom stood across from her, candles behind him throwing his profile into a clean, cruel silhouette. He was still, the way a predator holds still before a hunt, and the air about him seemed to tighten like a noose.

“Rationalise them,” he said finally, voice calm, sharp. “Which will hold, which will fail. Let us not waste time.”

They joined today in the hidden chamber of Salazar Slytherin in order to determine what object would next play host to a part of Tom’s already thrice-shattered soul.

She lifted the locket first. Silver, delicate filigree threading like ivy; a crest she’d seen in a book once, misattributed and misremembered, the sort of name that carried weight, legend, and notoriety. Tom had acquired it in the summer of his fourth year, the tale around its acquisition as thin as smoke.

“Something like this is too small,” she murmured, fingers testing the catch. “Too exposed. A relic with a famous name is a lantern. There will always be hands, always curiosity. It invites theft, theft invites scrutiny.” Her voice was steady; she catalogued more than she judged. “And the metal is soft. It won’t withstand… a binding that requires endurance.”

Tom’s jaw shifted the merest fraction, an approval that avoided warmth. He discarded the locket in a glance as anyone would discard a poor tactic.

The plain wooden box was next. It looked, at first glance, unassuming. The wood was older than the metal of the locket, grain tight and dark as if the box had been seasoned by weather rather than by hands. When she set her palm on it, it thrummed faintly, as if something within recognised her touch. The vibration was not mechanical, but rather it was the ghost of a pulse, a residual sympathy that made her skin prickle.

“This one is strange,” she said, surprise softening her voice. “It hums. Its old wards are weak but present. If properly rationalised, it will mask what it holds.”

She looked at him then, eyes levelling. “It’s small, but it’s resilient. Its plainness is its greatest defence. Someone will overlook it in favour of treasure. They’ll assume the weight of history sits elsewhere.”

Tom’s attention sharpened. He studied her as she spoke, the faintest shadow of calculation in his eyes. Everyone overlooks the unremarkable, he thought. Its anonymity is its protection. He could bend it, shield it, manipulate its perception, and no one would trace its secret.. It promised the slow, patient concealment he coveted, a quiet death sentence against discovery.

“You will prepare it,” he said, voice small enough to be almost conspiratorial. “Cauterise its old enchantments. Lay a diversion upon its surface, something mundane, something to invite dismissal rather than interest. Guard its name. Do not speak of this to anyone.”

She understood the hierarchy even in that command: she would be the architect of concealment, the one to render the object invisible by craft rather than magic alone. She nodded, pulse skittering with a mix of fear and the kind of complicity that had become a steadier thing than fear itself.

“And the sacrifice, who shall it be?” she asked, though she did not want the answer she knew she might not be given.

Tom’s mouth tightened. “You are not to know the who,” he said simply. “Only the how.”

He set the box back on the altar with a soft finality that made the wood sound hollow in the candlelight. Y/N could see the calculation still turning behind his eyes.

She tucked the box it into her cloak, the small vibration against her ribs like a secret heartbeat. Y/N slipped her cloak’s hood up and left the dungeon with the object cradled against her, carrying not only wood and hinge but the faint, dangerous echo of the intention it would one day keep.

When the moment came, Y/N did not flinch. She watched him pace, methodical, precise, preparing for the act that would fracture his soul. The air itself seemed to constrict around him, shadows thickening as if the chamber held its breath.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice tight, almost human. “Do not leave me.”

She stepped closer, hand brushing his arm with deliberate calm. “I won’t. You will finish this. You must finish this.” Her tone carried no question, only authority. He could feel the weight of her will pressing against his, steadying him, binding him to his purpose.

Tom knelt before the small wooden box, its surface stripped of wards, mundane and unremarkable to all but those who knew to look. He began the incantations, syllables twisting and hissing like serpents; Y/N did not understand the words, but she understood the rhythm, the cadence, the rising tension that signaled the impending rupture.

And then it struck — a force like thunder ripping through the world around him. Tom’s body convulsed, collapsing onto his knees, jaw rigid, fingers clutching at the box as if it alone could anchor him. His groan was low, animalistic, fractured — the sound of a soul tearing itself apart.

“Do not falter,” Y/N said, voice steady, commanding. “You are not finished. Not now. Not ever.”

She pressed her hand to his shoulder, guided his posture, and murmured the counts of breaths in measured tones. Her presence was an immovable constant, a quiet authority he could rely on even as every fiber of him screamed in pain. She refused to let him quit, refused to allow the torment to conquer his resolve before his ambition had its claim.

Minutes passed like hours. When the ritual ended, he slumped back, the blackened box resting on the altar like a shard of shadow, heavy with the echo of his soul’s fracture.

The next morning, she returned to his dorm, carrying water and some food she had swiped from the Great Hall. He was on the narrow bed, lying rigid beneath thick blankets, hands still twitching as if the pain had not yet left him.

She sank into the corner of the room, careful not to disturb him, watching him with an intensity that no one else had ever permitted herself. He looked almost… human. Almost like the boy she had once known. She could already see the toll his desires had taken; the hollows of his cheeks were deeper, the shadows under his eyes sharper, the hair darker against skin paler than ever.

Her mind calculated the stakes. If she stopped him now, he would never trust her again. Or worse, he might kill her. Yet the thought that burned brightest was far more dangerous: if she stopped him, restrained him, saved him — perhaps she could reclaim him, the Tom beneath the cruelty and ambition.

She studied him, hand hovering over his chest without touching, feeling the fragile pulse beneath. The quiet tension of the room was thick, as if the castle itself waited for the outcome.

Then he stirred. Eyes snapping open, black and alert, impossibly sharp.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice rough, measured, as though trying to reclaim composure.

“I came to check on you,” she said quickly, but without fear. Every word carried authority, a subtle assertion of her right to be present.

“Check on me?” His tone was incredulous, bordering on impatient. “I do not require caretakers.”

Her gaze did not waver. “I am not a caretaker. I am necessary. You would not finish otherwise.”

She bit back a retort, the words that wanted to remind him she wasn’t afraid. However, she opted to simply roll her eyes at his drama. "You're welcome, by the way, had it not been for me, you would not have finished this particular task."

pairing: theodore nott x malfoy!reader

summary: theodore finds his feelings for malfoy’s little sister growing, but he can’t act on them… right?

warnings: reader is younger than theo (like a year or two), brothers' best friend trope, jealous thoedore, bit of fluff, yn reader, naturally draco is a bit of a cockblock, suggestive, makeout scene. lowk not proofread lol

word count: 2.4k

link to part one here... let me know if you want a part detailing draco/the boys' reaction :)

link to part three here

The Slytherin common room lay heavy in its usual greenish glow, shadows shifting across the stone walls as the fire snapped in the hearth. The hour was late enough that most of the house had drifted off to bed, leaving behind only stragglers. Two third-years hunched over parchment at the far table, ink blotting under their frantic quills. A pair of sixth-years played chess by the window, their murmured commentary broken by the occasional scrape of stone pieces.

Theodore Nott sat where he always did in the back corner, half-submerged in shadows, an open book balanced on his knee. His eyes moved across the page, but none of the words stayed. His mind wandered, his hand resting idle against the leather binding.

Then he heard her laugh.

His head turned before he could stop himself.

Y/N Malfoy was seated across the room on one of the couches. She looked comfortable, one leg tucked beneath her, her hair falling over her shoulders in a wave of bright blonde. The fire flickered beside her, casting an ethereal halo around her as she leaned closer to the boy sitting next to her.

Theo’s stomach tightened.

It wasn’t just any boy.

Nathaniel Avery. Sixth-year. Arrogant, charming in the way boys thought themselves to be when they’d grown into their looks. He had been circling Y/N for weeks now. Theodore had noticed. Avery had been finding excuses to sit near her in the common room, always making gloating comments about his family's fortune, just loud enough for her to hear.

Theo’s fingers curled around the edge of his book.

He shouldn't have cared. She was beautiful. Sharp and bright in a way that drew people in. Of course boys noticed. Of course they hovered, trying their luck.

But knowing that didn’t ease the burn.

He sat frozen as Avery leaned back, spreading out across the couch with his usual lazy arrogance. His arm stretched casually across the back, close enough that his fingers grazed Y/N’s shoulder. She didn’t lean away.

Theo’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking.

She was smiling, her lips curving, her green eyes catching the light. She said something Theo couldn’t hear, and Avery chuckled, his gaze fixed firmly on her mouth.

Theo shifted in his chair, his body tight, rigid. His breath had gone shallow, his chest constricting.

Then Avery moved again.

His hand dropped lower, fingers brushing against Y/N’s leg as though testing how far he could go. Y/N met Theodore's eyes briefly with a challenging look, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her head, listening as Avery leaned in, his mouth close to her ear.

Theo’s vision narrowed.

A sharp, hot wave of jealousy surged through him, fierce enough to drown out everything else. It was primitive, ugly, a need that had no place in the poised mask he wore for the world. He felt it clawing through his chest, tightening his throat, urging him to move, to act.

Every inch of his body screamed possession. But his brain knew the ugly truth: that she isn’t his.

The book snapped shut in his lap with a crack, heads turning briefly in surprise before quickly looking away. Theo stood, his tall frame cutting through the dim light as he crossed the room with deliberate strides.

He didn’t think. He couldn’t.

When he stopped in front of the couch, the boy looked up, startled, his arm freezing mid-drift. Y/N blinked, her expression composed but her eyes flickering with a fake innocence that Theodore knew she mastered from a young age to manipulate her parents and brother.

Theo’s voice came low, edged with steel. “Y/N. We need to talk.”

Avery frowned, his tone defensive. “We’re in the middle of something.”

Theo ignored him, his gaze never leaving hers. “Now.”

For a beat, silence pressed heavy between them. Y/N tilted her head, studying him with that infuriating defiance. Then, slowly, she rose to her feet.

“Excuse me,” she said sweetly, brushing her hand over Avery's shoulder as she passed him.

Theo’s hand caught her arm firmly, guiding her out of the common room. The door swung shut behind them, cutting off the flicker of firelight and the murmur of voices, leaving only the quiet drip of water in the dungeon corridors.

They turned the corner, shrouding themselves in the privacy of the damp dungeons, but still close enough to the common room. Only then did Theodore release her arm.

He turned on her, his grey eyes storming. “What the hell was that?”

Y/N raised a brow, her arms crossing loosely over her chest. “What was what?”

“Don’t play games with me.” His voice was sharp, unsteady. “What do you think your brother would say if he saw you like that?”

Her eyes glinted in the low light. “Good thing he didn’t.”

His stormy eyes drilled into hers, attempting to read anything she may be feeling that she didn't let her graceful face betray. Y/N said nothing; she continued to stare back, challenging him to utter the real reason that he dragged her out here.

But after another few seconds of the intense staring competition, she decided that she'd have to be the one to lead this conversation.

Her lips curved, amusement sparking. “So you were watching... Always watching, aren't you?”

Theo froze. His pulse thundered.

“You think this is a joke?” His words came out rough, his control fraying. “Watching him put his hands on you—” He broke off, his throat tight.

"Tell me, Nott... why does it bother you?"

Taking a step forward, she continued before he had the chance to reply. Holding eye contact, she reached forward to lightly brush her fingers right in the middle of his chest bone. "Would it have bothered you if he touched me like this?"

Theodore's mouth dried, but his eyes never left hers.

Her hand trailed down lightly, stopping to trace patterns around his belly button. "What about here? Hm? Would this have made you snap?"

His jaw was clenched, his face sporting a dangerous look. But still, his eyes never left hers, which, in contrast to his angry ones, still held that feigned innocence.

Her hand trailed down lower again, gracing the spot where his untucked shirt should have sat in between his skin and his waistband.

Before she had the chance to bite another remark at him, he grabbed her wrist and ripped it away from his body, instantly missing the warmth from her slender fingers. His chest was heaving. He wanted to shake her, to demand why she would push him like this, why she would risk driving him mad. “You’re cruel,” he whispered finally, his voice shaking with the effort to hold himself together.

She stepped closer again, her expression softer now, but her smile taunting. “If you care so much, Theo… why don’t you just say so?”

The last of his composure shattered.

He moved before he could stop himself, one of his hands rising to grab her jaw while the other pulled her closer by the waist. And then, his mouth was on hers, fierce and consuming. The kiss was rough, desperate, his lips crashing against hers like he could burn away every trace of Avery’s touch.

She gasped, then melted against him, clutching his robes in both fists as though she had been waiting for this as long as he had.

Theo pressed her back against the cold stone wall, his body caging hers in, his hands sliding down to her waist and under her perfectly pressed shirt. He swore he felt electricity course through him when their skin met, and so he gripped hard enough to make sure she wouldn't forget the feeling of his hands on her. He kissed her like he was drowning, like he had been starving for this moment.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, and her laugh broke breathless against his mouth. The taste of her, the warmth, the way she sighed his name, it was enough to undo him completely.

The world narrowed to the press of her lips, the drag of her burgundy nails at his collar, the sharp rise and fall of their breathing tangled together.

He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to. But then—

Draco’s voice echoed from the hall, casual and close. “I’ll write to him tomorrow. If he doesn’t answer, that’s on him.”

Theo and Y/N pulled apart at lightning speed, exchanging a look of pure panic. Instinctively, they placed distance between them, but Y/N's chest was still heaving with the remnants of the kiss.

Draco appeared with Cassandra Windora, Slytherin's other prefect, trailing behind him, his eyes narrowing when he spotted them. “What are you two doing out here?”

For a second, they stood there in silence, staring at the two prefects, the air heavy with everything they couldn’t say. Then Theodore composed himself, schooling his face into calm indifference. “Ran into each other.”

“Just talking,” Y/N added smoothly, her smile too innocent.

Draco’s eyes darted between them, suspicious, but he said nothing. He shook his head, calling out, "well, come on then," as he continued down the corridor.

Theo exhaled slowly, his pulse still racing as he followed behind Draco, into the door of the common room. He glanced over his shoulder, meeting her eyes just quickly enough to catch the look of confusion swirling in them.

The next morning, as chatter filled the air, Y/N had opted to sit with the girls in her year, laughing absently at something one of them whispered. She looked radiant in the morning light, hair catching the glow from the enchanted ceiling.

Theo sat with his usual group, his posture relaxed but his chest still tight from the night before. He hadn't slept a wink. Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel her lips on his and her nails drawing against his skin. It was utterly maddening.

Draco spoke first. “Why is she sitting there instead of here?” His eyes narrowed. “Did something happen last night, Nott?”

Theodore's eyes shot up to Draco's light ones, the pumpkin juice catching slightly in his throat. "What?" Theodore coughed out.

"You were speaking to her last night. Did she seem alright?" But before Theodore could talk, Draco continued on his little rant, "You know, now that I think of it, she was really quiet last night... Did she say if she was mad at me? What were you two even talking about?"

Theo sipped his juice, forcing himself into poise. "No, no… she seemed fine when I saw her. I don't think she was angry.”

Blaise’s eyes flicked up from his plate, sharp and knowing. He held Theo’s gaze for a moment, the barest smirk curving his mouth.

Theo looked away, his face unreadable. His heart stammering as he recalled the previous night... as he recalled the interrogation Blaise had inflicted upon him once he returned to their dorm, chest still heavy and cheeks still flushed. He had been relentlessly teasing Theodore, asking if it was that Ravenclaw, who had been acting as Theodore's shadow for weeks now, was the one responsible for his flustered state. In an attempt to really get a rise out of Theo, Blaise had droned on, something about how "even the best men fall apart after a good fuck." And now, Blaise knew it hadn't been a Ravenclaw that Theodore was with.

No matter how hard Theodore tried to stay present in the boys' conversation, no matter how hard he tried to care about Draco's rant about the Gryffindor Quidditch team, he couldn't help how his eyes kept jumping to find her delicate frame at the top of the hall. She caught his eyes once or twice, but each time she would immediately look away. There were no smirks, no teasing glances, nothing. And this alone caused a ball of anxiety to form in Theodore's chest.

The next time he glanced up, he caught a blur of blonde hair turning he corner out of the Great Hall.

He found her later, slipping out of Charms with her friends. He waited until they turned the corner before he caught her wrist, pulling her into a quiet alcove.

Her eyes widened, then softened. “Theo—”

He cut her off, his voice low and fierce. “Why didn’t you sit with us?”

She blinked, caught off guard. She ran a hand through her silky hair, and Theodore almost reached his other hand out to do the same, but a deflated sigh from her mouth snapped him back into reality. “Because of Draco. I feel bad.”

“Don’t.” His grip tightened, his eyes burning. “I don’t feel bad.”

Her breath hitched. Her eyes fell to the floor, refusing to meet his.

“I don’t care what he thinks,” Theo said, his voice rough with honesty. “I don’t care if it’s wrong. I can’t watch you sit there, laughing with someone else, pretending I don’t...” He trailed off, unable to finish.

Her heart pounded. “Theo…”

His hands found home on her jaw, and he held her like she was the most precious thing to exist. Gently, he tilted her face up, forcing her to rip her eyes from the ground. “Say you want this too,” he whispered, almost begging.

She closed her eyes, her hands rising to clutch his wrists. “Of course I do.”

The kiss that followed was softer than the night before, deeper, slower. His lips moved against hers with a kind of reverence. She sighed into his mouth, pressing closer, her fingers curling tighter around his wrists.

When they parted, breathless, his thumb brushed her cheek.

“We can take it slow,” he murmured, his voice soft but sure. “We’ll tell Draco when you think it’s the right time.”

She nodded, though her stormy eyes still burned. “I don’t want to hide.”

“We won’t,” he promised softly. “Let's just enjoy our own little bubble for a while.”

And so they did. For a few weeks, they stayed in the shadows, stolen moments between classes, glances across crowded rooms, touches that lingered too long to be innocent.

And both knew it was only the beginning.

pairing: theodore nott x malfoy!reader

summary: theodore finds his feelings for malfoy’s little sister growing, but he can’t act on them… right ?

warnings: reader is younger than theo (like a year or two), brothers best friend trope, undeclared love, bit of angst, bit of fluff, mixed povs, yn reader, naturally draco is a bit of a cockblock

word count: 2k roughly

part two here..

The fire had burned low, shadows casting jagged shapes across the stone walls of the Slytherin common room. Theodore Nott sat sprawled in one of the armchairs near the hearth, long fingers drumming against the armrest while the others bantered lazily.

Mattheo was mid-story, Blaise smirking into his glass, Draco scowling as usual. Enzo leaned across the table, grinning at some private joke. Theo half-listened, his eyes drawn again and again to the staircase.

He hated himself for it. For waiting. For wanting.

And then, there she was.

Y/N Malfoy.

Draco’s little sister descended the stairs with a book tucked under her arm, her pale hair falling loose around her shoulders, her body clad in silk pajamas that flattered her body. She was older now, in fifth year and no longer the child he remembered tagging after Draco during summers. There was a sharpness to her smile now, wit flickering in her eyes, but she still carried herself with that infuriating innocence that made everyone lean closer, laugh harder, give her more than she asked for.

“Don’t tell me you’re coming to annoy me again,” Draco muttered, though his lips twitched like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’d rather talk to your dreadful friends than you,” Y/N shot back sweetly, plopping herself onto the arm of the chair closed to her- Theodore’s chair.

Theo’s hand stilled on the opposite armrest. She was close enough that if he reached out, he could tug her down into the seat beside him. Close enough to see that that the firelight traced the delicate curve of her jaw and glinted off her dark eyes.

Enzo gave a low whistle. “Blimey, Malfoy. When did your sister grow up?”

Theo’s head snapped to him, sharp, before he could stop himself.

Draco glared. “Watch it, Berkshire.”

Blaise chuckled, tipping his glass. “He’s not wrong. She’s… different this year.” His gaze lingered too long, and Theo’s blood burned.

Mattheo grinned. “Sharp tongue, Malfoy face. I hate to say it mate, but she might be the best of you both.”

“Shut up,” Draco snapped. “All of you.”

Y/N only smirked, basking in the attention. “Finally, some recognition.”

Theo said nothing. He always said nothing. But his silence was not indifference it was restraint. Because every word that rose to his tongue was dangerous. Every thought was worse.

Instead, he let his gaze flick to her once, just once. Her laugh broke across the room like music, and Theo memorized it, carved it into the marrow of his bones. His chest tightened, a visceral ache.

He realized he was staring when her eyes caught his.

“You’re staring,” she whispered lightly, just for him to hear. Her eyes carried a challenge, daring him to break.

Theo leaned back slowly, masking his heartbeat with ice. “So are you.”

To her challenge, he raises a shield.

Her lips curved, almost-smile, before she turned away getting involved in the conversation once more.

But Theo’s world had already shifted.

He clenched his jaw until it ached, fighting the sharp jealousy knifing through him as Blaise leaned toward her, making her laugh again. It was petty, pathetic. He hated himself for it.

Still, he couldn’t look away. He never could.

Because she was everything he couldn’t have. Draco’s sister. Younger. Off-limits in every sense.

And yet she was the only thing he wanted.

So he stayed silent. Watching. Waiting. Wanting.

Always wanting.

The library was quiet at this hour, just the scratch of quills and the occasional turn of parchment. Y/N sat curled at a table near the back, ink staining her fingers, quill bobbing as she scribbled notes for her essay.

She chewed absently at the end of her quill, lost in thought. It was a bad habit, one Draco always scolded her for, but she liked the focus it gave her.

A shadow fell across the page as someone passed by the table. She glanced up but her eyes locked in someone else.

Theodore Nott was at a table several rows away, a book open before him. He wasn’t reading. She knew he wasn’t. He was watching her.

He thought he was subtle but big was he wrong.

Their eyes locked and for a long, suspended moment, neither of them looked away.

Her heart thudded hard against her ribs. She forced herself to raise a challenging brow, lips twitching like she wasn’t flustered. But when his face stayed still, she returned to her essay feeling flustered and confused.

The truth was maddening.

She noticed him everywhere. The way he leaned against doorframes, arms folded, aloof. The way he fell silent when she entered a room, though his eyes followed her every move. The way he never joined in when Blaise or Enzo teased her, his silence speaking louder than their words.

And sometimes, when the world went quiet, she let herself wonder.

Did he feel it too?

She wanted to ask. To break the silence with something reckless. But he was older and one of her brother’s best friends. She has known him her whole life, so she knows Theodore Nott hides behind sharp edges and colder words.

And so she bit it back. Studied him in stolen moments. The way his fingers tapped against his book when he was restless. The way his storm-grey eyes darkened when Blaise or Mattheo got too close. She pretended not to notice the way he looked at her. Pretended she didn’t wait for a second of reprieve in a chaotic day; a moment of eye contact; some form of acknowledgment.

And Merlin, she wanted him to say something. Anything.

But he never did.

So she said nothing too.

The quill slipped from her ink-stained fingers, clattering softly onto the table. She sighed, reaching for it.

When she glanced up again, Theo was still watching. He didn’t look away this time.

Heat pooled in her chest, her breath catching. Her lips parted, words rising, dangerous and impossible.

But before she could speak, Draco’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and familiar.

“There you are. I knew you’d be hiding here.”

Theo’s gaze snapped back to his book, mask restored in an instant.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Y/N gathered her things, heart aching with what she didn’t say.

Because she was in love with him. She had known it since her second year. But she would never admit it.

So they both stayed silent. Two people burning for one another, both pretending not to.

The October sun filtered weakly through drifting clouds, casting dappled light across the stone courtyard. A breeze swept through the cloisters, carrying parchment leaves and laughter with it. Students lingered in knots, their robes billowing, voices echoing against the arches.

Theodore Nott had intended to pass through quickly. His satchel was slung over his shoulder, his thoughts already on the Arithmancy notes he hadn’t finished. But then he heard her.

Y/N Malfoy’s laugh.

It carried across the courtyard, bright and easy, threading under his skin like a song he’d memorized against his will. He slowed before he even realized, his eyes seeking her out instinctively.

She was perched on the edge of a low stone wall, a book balanced carelessly on her lap. Her hair gleamed in the sunlight, catching strands of gold, and she was smiling, really smiling, at something Draco had said. Her brother lounged beside her, smirking at his own wit, clearly pleased with himself.

Theo almost kept walking. Almost.

But Y/N spotted him. Her face lit up, her hand lifting in a wave. “Theo!”

The sound of his name on her lips sent a sharp thrill down his spine. Draco turned, raising a brow. “Nott.”

Theo hesitated, then crossed the courtyard. His strides were deliberate, measured. He had perfected the art of indifference. Inside, though, his pulse betrayed him.

“You’re late,” Y/N said, tilting her head.

“Didn’t know I was expected,” he replied smoothly, though the corners of his mouth threatened to betray him.

She grinned. “You’re always expected.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Merlin, spare me. Don’t encourage him, Y/N.” He stood, stretching lazily. “I’ve got to meet Blaise. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Y/N kicked at his ankle playfully as he walked off. “Love ya.”

“Uh-huh,” Draco muttered, disappearing through the archway.

Theo and Y/N were left alone.

The courtyard seemed to hush around them, though chatter still echoed from nearby groups. Theo leaned against the wall beside her, crossing his arms, the picture of composure. But his thoughts were anything but calm.

“Studying?” he asked, nodding toward the book.

Y/N glanced down, wrinkling her nose. “Supposed to be. Potions. But it’s boring.”

“Then you’re doing it wrong.”

Her laugh bubbled out, light and unguarded. She nudged his shoulder with hers, a casual touch that made his skin prickle. “You’re insufferable. Just like Draco.”

“Insufferable, but right,” he murmured, watching the way the sunlight played across her face.

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. For a moment, it was easy- being around him that was, it felt too easy. They slipped into banter as naturally as breathing, trading sharp remarks and quick grins, their words layered with something unspoken beneath.

When she shifted to hop off the wall, she wobbled slightly. Theo’s hand shot out, firm against her waist.

The touch was brief, instinctive. His fingers pressed into the curve of her side, steadying her. Her breath caught, just for a second. His hand lingered a fraction too long before he released her.

“Careful,” he said, his voice lower than he intended.

Her heart gave a traitorous lurch. She forced a laugh, brushing it off. “Don’t worry. I’m very graceful.”

Theo’s lips twitched. “Right.”

They fell into step together as they walked across the courtyard, his hand brushing the small of her back once when someone jostled them. Again, casual. Again, not casual at all.

She leaned toward him as he murmured a dry comment about a Ravenclaw who had dropped his books in spectacular fashion. Their laughter tangled together, easy and warm, and for a moment they forgot themselves.

Forgot the world.

The space between them shrank. Their shoulders brushed. His grey eyes caught her green, holding, searching.

Time stretched thin. And then—

“Oi, Nott!”

Mattheo’s voice shattered the spell. He strode across the courtyard with Blaise and Enzo in tow, grinning broadly. “Thought we’d lost you.”

Theo stepped back sharply, the mask sliding into place. His hands tucked into his pockets, his expression schooled into indifference.

Y/N blinked, her breath still unsteady, before forcing a smile. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, perching herself neatly on the edge of another bench as though nothing had happened.

The group arrived, oblivious. Enzo cracked a joke, Blaise smirked, Mattheo slung an arm around Theo’s shoulder.

Theo glanced at her once, across the chatter. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, just for a heartbeat, and then away.

Back to distance. Back to silence. But Merlin help them both, they wanted more.

pairing: theodore nott x f!oc

summary: theodore nott won’t admit that he loves lila… so maybe his actions push her away… or maybe the news of someone else making a move will kick his ass into gear

warnings: slightly toxic theodore, jealousy, possessive, some light arguing, make out but nothing too steamy

word count: 3k ish

The green glow of the Black Lake filtered into the Slytherin girls’ dormitory, wavering across the stone walls as if the entire room was submerged. Lila Gray sat before the mirror, her long mousy-brown hair spread like a wave against her shoulders and down her back. Pansy Parkinson hovered over her, wand in hand, twisting sections of Lila’s hair into sleek waves.

“You’re lucky,” Pansy said with a hint of a whine as opposed to her usual sharp smirk. “If I’d have known every single one of you were going to be invited to this dumb club, perhaps I actually would have tried this year. But I swear- Slughorn has had it out for me since fourth year!”

Lila let out a soft chuckle remembering that lesson in fourth year- Pansy and Blaise had been caught getting handsy in the storeroom during potions. The entire school had heard about it before the day of classes rolled to a close.

“Like seriously, even Mattheo was invited?!” Pansy exclaimed as she completed the final touches on Lila’s hair.

Lila tilted her chin, catching her own reflection. Her skin carried a warm, sun-kissed glow that contrasted perfectly with her striking green eyes. She smiled faintly, that polished Slytherin smile— the one that made people believe she was sweet, approachable, adored. They never looked deep enough to notice the hunger in her, the way her charm was a carefully honed blade.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think it was Mattheo’s potion skills that secured his invite.” Lila said with a soft smile.

Pansy lifted her head to meet Lila’s eyes in the mirror, a glint of amusement evident in the swirls of her dark pools, a faint giggle falling from her lips at her best friend’s words. “Let me know what hunks are there tonight- it might encourage me to study for our NEWTS… in fact, let me know what ministry brat you’re sat beside.”

“You make it out like I’m going hunting for my next man.”

Pansy snorted. “You always are. That’s why every boy adores you. You’re dangerous but they don’t realize until it’s too late.”

“Mm. Unlike you, who makes your daggers very obvious,” Lila teased, earning an exaggerated eye-roll from Pansy.

The door creaked open, revealing the familiar drawl of Draco Malfoy from the corridor. “Gray, are you ready yet? If you’re late, Slughorn will put you next to Longbottom, and that’s a crime against nature.”

“Give her two minutes,” Pansy snapped back. Draco huffed and left.

Lila smoothed down the green silk of her dress robes. They fit like they had been tailored to her curves, elegant and understated in a way that made the boys look twice. She slipped on her gold serpent-shaped ring and rose.

“Perfect,” Pansy said smugly. “Theodore is going to combust when he sees you.”

Lila’s lips twitched, though she didn’t reply. Theodore Nott was already a problem—her problem. Cold, selfish, sharp as a knife. They had spent the last year tangling in the dark corners of the castle, trading barbs, touches, and kisses that always left her shaken. Yet it was never defined, never spoken aloud. Possessive as he was, Theodore never named it. And she… well, she never asked.

Slughorn’s quarters had been charmed into something warm and candlelit for tonight’s gathering. Golden platters gleamed, laughter rose in pockets of sound. Lila entered with Draco and felt the usual ripple of eyes turning toward her.

Theodore was already there. He sat with Mattheo Riddle, dark-haired and lounging like he owned the place. Blaise Zabini leaned back in his chair, offering Lila a slow smile of acknowledgment. But it was Theodore who stilled, storm-grey eyes sweeping over her, every muscle taut as if she had just wounded him merely by walking in.

Lila ignored it— deliberately. She slipped into her seat beside a Ravenclaw boy with sandy hair and quick blue eyes: Edward Crane, the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain. He was charming, clever, and Slughorn’s newest golden prize.

“Gray,” Edward greeted smoothly. “I was hoping I’d end up next to you.”

“Edward Crane, haven’t spoken to you in quite some time,” Lila replied, looking at him through her long lashes with a sultry smile.

“Oh, it’s just Eddie, please. While you look absolutely ravishing tonight, I can’t help but wonder just how good you’d look in Ravenclaw colors.”

Theodore, two seats down, was less amused. His jaw flexed as he cut into his roast beef like it had personally wronged him. His eyes flicked between Edward’s easy smile and the way Lila tilted her head, laughing at something clever the Ravenclaw said.

Blaise leaned closer to Theodore, murmuring under his breath. “You’re about to break the cutlery, mate.”

“Shut it.”

Draco, across from Lila, raised a brow as if to say you’re provoking him. But Lila only sipped her wine and let her green eyes glitter. She knew Theodore well enough to recognize the storm gathering. A dark thrill coiled in her stomach. Ignoring the looks from her friend, she turned back to Eddie and continued conversation. It was pleasant, she’d admit. They spoke about the upcoming quidditch season, and she teased him about Slytherin’s supremacy, he retaliated by informing her that when Slytherin lose, he’d be more than happy to keep a blue jersey with his name on it aside for her. Lila didn’t realize how cheeky Eddie was or just how well they got on together. So for once, she was thankful that Slughorn’s dinners were unnaturally long.

When dinner ended and the guests drifted into smaller circles, Theodore cornered her near the archway leading out of the Hall. His hand clamped around her wrist, pulling her into the shadows.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed, low and sharp. His grey eyes burned with fury.

Lila arched a brow, her voice cool. “What was what?”

“You— giggling at Crane like some lovesick Hufflepuff. Do you enjoy humiliating me?”

“Humiliating you?” she echoed, her laugh soft and cutting. “You think everything is about you, Theodore.”

He stepped closer, pinning her against the stone. His body radiated a heat that contradicted the ice of his voice. “Don’t play games with me, Lila. I will not share you.”

Her lips parted, half-smile, half-defiance. “Share me? Are you implying that I’m yours, Teddy?” She refused to break eye contact, challenging him as a contemplative hum emitted her lips, “Funny, I don’t recall you ever saying that aloud.”

For a moment, his mask cracked— fear, raw and pure panic flickered in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced with cold anger. “Don’t push me.”

“Or what?” she whispered, tilting her chin up. “You’ll sulk in the corner until I soothe your ego?”

His grip on her wrist tightened, possessive and desperate, before he abruptly let her go as if burned. “You drive me insane,” he spat, turning on his heel and leaving her in the shadows.

Lila watched him walk away. She believed that if he had been a cartoon character, steam would be blowing from his ears. That thought made her chuckle to herself a bit, and she chose to continue with lighthearted thoughts in an attempt to distract from the pain lingering on her wrist.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath to compose herself. Theodore always got like this. The second she began to realize there were boys other than him in this castle, he lashed out and drew her back in. He made sure that she didn’t step out of line. Her eyes shot open, an undeniable glint of confidence coursing through them as she held her chin high and walked back into the party to resumed her night.

Lila returned to the Slytherin common room a few hours later. She let the mask of indifference fall, but the encounter left her chest aching. She curled into the emerald sofa by the fire, staring into the flames.

Draco dropped into the chair beside her, smirking faintly. “Ignore him. He’s an idiot.” When she didn’t reply back he reached forward and gave her thigh a light squeeze- an attempt to show her she was never alone. Her head fell to the side, her light brown hair covering her bare arms like a shawl. Lila allowed her eyes to meet Draco’s soft ones, and she answered him with nothing more than a smile.

Enzo, who was sprawled on the other leather sofa, tossing a chocolate frog in the air. “A jealous idiot. Honestly, it was entertaining. You had him ready to kill Crane with his spoon.”

Lila gave a small, genuine laugh at that. Draco looked away from Enzo, back at her, softer again if that was possible. “Don’t let him get to you. He’ll come crawling back— you know he always does.”

She didn’t answer, but the warmth of her friends’ easy chatter smoothed some of the sting. Eventually, she excused herself and slipped into bed, pulling the emerald curtains around her. Sleep came slowly, tangled with thoughts of stormy eyes and words unspoken.

The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with the usual chaos of breakfast. Lila entered with Pansy, who was already chattering about her latest annoyance with Millicent Bulstrode.

Halfway through buttering her toast, Pansy leaned in conspiratorially. “Oh, by the way— I heard all about Mr Cranes little crush. Rumor has it that, apparently, he’s very interested in you. I think it’s a brilliant match, really. You do like clever boys, don’t you?”

Her tone was airy, but her dark eyes flicked deliberately toward Theodore, who sat a few spaces down with Mattheo and Blaise.

Lila shot a quick look to Draco and Enzo, trying to decipher from their eyes which one had been gossiping. But she couldn’t say for certain it had been either one of them.

Lila’s turned back to Pansy, her lips curved, catching on to her best friend’s intentions. “Is that so? I do have to say, he was brilliant company last night- I’d be happy to spend more time with him…”

Across the table, Theodore’s fork clattered against his plate. His head snapped up, storm-grey eyes locking on hers like a curse.

Pansy smirked into her pumpkin juice. “Mm. You could do far worse. Smart, charming, from an old family. He’d treat you well.”

Theodore’s hand curled into a fist under the table. Mattheo leaned back, grinning wickedly. “You’re baiting him, Parkinson.”

“And?” Pansy replied sweetly.

Lila kept her expression serene, though her pulse thrummed. She let Theodore stew, her eyes catching his for just a fraction longer than necessary.

The morning dragged them into Potions. Slughorn bustled around the dungeon, setting cauldrons bubbling. Theodore deliberately paired with Lila, sliding onto the stool beside her without a word.

She arched a brow. “I thought you were avoiding me.”

He gave her a cool, pointed look. “I don’t trust you not to poison yourself if I leave you unsupervised.”

“Touching,” she murmured.

They brewed in tense silence, the air between them sharp with unspoken words. Every brush of his hand against hers when reaching for ingredients felt deliberate, almost punishing. Yet when the potion began to swirl wrong, Theodore’s hand shot out, steadying hers with a gentleness that betrayed him.

“Careful,” he muttered, his breath brushing her ear. “I won’t let you fail.”

Her chest tightened, but she only replied lightly, “How noble of you.”

In Charms later, Theodore and Lila sat on either end of their friends, dragging out this argument for as long as they could apparently. Blaise leaned over to whisper, “You two are exhausting, you know that? Entirely insufferable.”

“Stay out of it,” Theodore snapped.

Lila, who had caught it all, only smirked, lashes low. Theodore always gives in. It was only a matter of time.

That evening, after hours of tension, Lila slipped into the empty astronomy tower. She often came here to breathe, away from the watchful eyes of Slytherin. The stars glittered cold and distant above.

She heard him before she saw him— his footsteps echoed behind her. She didn’t turn. She knew who it was.

“You followed me,” she said softly.

“Don’t I always?”

His voice was low, rough with an honesty he rarely allowed himself. Lila turned then, her green eyes catching him as he stepped into the moonlight. Theodore leaned in the doorway, his posture sharp as ever, but there was something broken in the way his hands shoved deep into his pockets, like he didn’t trust them not to reach for her.

“I hate how you make me feel,” he admitted, almost strangled. Lila’s dark brows instantly furrowed at his words. Her stomach dropped as her mind raced, wondering where he was going with this. “I hate seeing you with anyone else. It makes me want to burn the whole castle down.”

Her breath caught. For once, there was no mask, no coldness. Just him, raw and terrified and furious and hers.

She stepped closer. “Then don’t push me away… please... please Theo, stop pushing me away.”

For a heartbeat, he looked like he might just turn and leave. But then in careful measures strides, he crossed the floor to her. His hands found home on her waist, squeezing softly as if anchoring himself, as her shot Jo to caress his jaw. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice breaking into something jagged. “I don’t know how to be good at this. I don’t know how to love without ruining everything I touch.”

Lila’s throat tightened. “Then don’t think. Just… be here. With me.”

That undid him. He dropped his head to close the distance, his mouth finding hers with a force that nearly stole her breath. It wasn’t gentle at first—it was desperate, messy, like he’d been holding it in for far too long. His hands framed her face, fingers sliding into her hair, pulling her closer, closer, until there was no space left between them.

The kiss deepened as her back met the cold stone wall, but she barely registered it— every nerve in her body was alight where he touched her. What began as a rush of desperation shifted into something slower, hungrier. His lips moved against hers like he was memorizing every shape, every curve, and when she parted her mouth slightly, his breath hitched. The sound sent a shiver down her spine.

But he wasn’t going to let it end here. He tilted his head, changing the angle, and dove back in. His lips brushed hers again and again, softer, then fiercer, as though he couldn’t decide whether to devour her or worship her. His thumb stroked along her jaw, gentle, while his other hand stayed buried in her hair, tightening every time she kissed him back harder.

When she let out a soft moan into his mouth, the smallest sound, Theodore broke with it. He pressed his body against her more firmly, pushing her deeper into the wall, kissing her like he could pour every unsaid word, every secret fear, every selfish desire straight into her lungs. It was possessive, it was reverent, it was utterly unhinged.

And she kissed him back just as fiercely, giving him everything, matching the storm with fire.

Lila melted against him, her hands slipping into the fabric of his robes, clutching at him like he might vanish.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, their foreheads stayed pressed together. Lila’s lips tingled, her heart hammering against her ribs. Theodore’s chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his storm-grey eyes searching hers with a rare kind of fear.

ᴀ ᴛᴀʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴋɴɪᴠᴇꜱ ɪɪ

pairing: coriolanus snow x f!toxic!reader

alternative ending to part one

further warnings: toxic, rough, arguing, manipulation, degrading, suggestive.

The news broke at morning assembly about a week later: Blythe Goldthorn was named to deliver the address at the Capitol Youth Forum… a speech originally promised to Coriolanus Snow. For weeks he had been rehearsing every word, every calculated inflection, certain that this was his moment to step into the light. But now the headmaster’s voice rang through the marble hall, announcing her name instead of his.

Applause followed. Genuine, thunderous. Students turned to admire her, eyes shining with admiration. Blythe, ever perfect, inclined her head modestly, her hair catching light like a crown. But Coriolanus felt the ground tilt beneath him. His eyes met hers harshly, almost like a warning sign of what was to come.

Later, in the privacy of her room, he erupted. “You let them take it from me!” His voice cracked through the silence like a whip. He stood over her desk, fists planted on the polished wood, veins standing stark against his pale skin. His tie was loosened, hair disheveled in a way that stripped him of his usual immaculate control.

Blythe remained seated on the chaise, legs crossed, watching him with infuriating calm. “I didn’t let them do anything.”

“Oh don’t give me that, Blythe. I saw your father leaving the deans office last week and now this. You need to fix this. They chose wrong and you know it.” He spun, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. “This was mine, Blythe. My chance to stand in front of the Capitol, to show them what the Snow name still means. You knew that!”

Her lips curved upwards just slightly— subtle, sharp. If Coriolanus didn’t know her so well he would have missed it. “And yet, here we are. They picked me.”

Something inside him snapped. In two strides he was across the room, yanking her to her feet by her wrist. She gasped softly but didn’t resist, dark eyes gleaming as he roughly backed against the wall. “You think this is a game?” His voice was a low snarl, his breath hot against her cheek. “You think I’ll stand by while you take what’s mine?”

Her free hand rose, fingers curling around his tie, pulling him closer rather than pushing him away. “What’s yours?” she whispered, taunting. “Coryo, nothing belongs to you. You’re clinging to scraps of a name that means less with every passing year. Without me, you’re no one.”

His grip on her wrist tightened until her knuckles whitened. “Say that again.” And so she did. Softly, deliberately. “Without me, you’re no one.”

For a heartbeat, his rage burned so bright it nearly blinded him. He wanted to shake her, to force her to swallow the words. Instead, he crushed his mouth against hers in a kiss that was closer to violence than tenderness. She let him—no, she kissed him back, teeth sinking into his lip, drawing blood, her nails clawing at his shoulders through his shirt.

The kiss broke, ragged and messy, leaving them both gasping. Coryo’s hands were still locked around Blythe’s arms, pinning her in place against the wall. Her golden-brown hair spilled across her face, her lips red and swollen, her dark eyes glittering like obsidian flames.

“You should be begging for my forgiveness,” he hissed. His voice cracked with something ugly and raw. “After what you stole from me—”

“I didn’t steal it.” Her laugh was soft, dangerous. “I was given it. Because I’m better. Because I’m the one they want.”

He slammed her back harder into the wall, his fingers digging into her arms so tightly she winced. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” she cut in, her tone still maddeningly calm despite the bruise he was no doubt leaving on her skin. “Don’t remind you of the truth? That no matter how hard you claw and scrape, you’ll never measure up to me?”

Something broke loose in him. A snarl tore from his throat as he seized her face with one hand, gripping her jaw roughly enough to force her to look at him. “Don’t you dare speak to me like I’m beneath you. Don’t forget who I am.”

Her lips twisted into a half-smile even as his grip bruised her jaw. “I could never forget, Coryo. You remind me every time you fall apart in my hands.”

The words drove him mad. He crushed his mouth to hers again, more violent than before. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a battle — teeth clashing, lips colliding, his tongue invading, hers refusing to yield. She bit him again, drawing another metallic tang of blood. He groaned into her mouth, shoving her harder, until her head struck the wood with a dull thud.

She gasped, a sharp sound that curled into a laugh. “Rough tonight, aren’t we?”

“You drive me to it,” he growled, dragging her toward the bed, half-shoving, half-lifting her onto it. She fell back against the silken covers, hair fanning out like a golden halo gone dark, her chest rising and falling with quick, deliberate breaths.

Coriolanus stood over her, tie loose, shirt half-untucked, pale eyes burning. He looked almost unhinged — stripped of polish, stripped of control — and for a moment, Blythe savored it.

“This is who you really are,” she whispered, voice low and taunting. “Not the perfect Capitol boy. Not the polished Snow. Just a desperate, angry little man who knows he’ll never outshine me.”

His hand was on her throat before the words fully left her lips. His thumb pressed into the hollow beneath her chin, not quite choking but enough to silence her. Enough to remind her who held her life between two fingers.

“Careful, Blythe,” he murmured, his voice dangerously soft. “You might find I like proving you wrong.”

Her eyes gleamed, utterly unafraid. “Then prove it.”

That was all it took.

He climbed onto the bed, straddling her, his grip unrelenting. Their mouths met again — fierce, frantic, both of them biting, devouring, consuming. His hands roamed her body with no gentleness, tugging at her uniform, raking across her skin like a man trying to mark his claim. She arched up into him, not yielding but matching his violence with her own, nails digging into his shoulders, dragging down his back hard enough to make him hiss.

“You’re mine,” he said between kisses, a growl more than words. “Say it.”

“No.” She smirked against his mouth, breath hot, voice dripping venom and desire alike. “You’re mine.”

He grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head against the mattress, his weight heavy on top of her. “Say it, Blythe.”

Her laugh was breathless, mocking, intoxicating. “Make me.”

And he tried. God, he tried — with kisses that bruised, with his hands tightening on her wrists, with the raw force of his body pressing hers into the bed. But still she smiled, still she taunted, still she met him in every blow of passion with her own brand of poison.

When at last he broke from her mouth, forehead pressed to hers, chest heaving, both of them flushed and trembling, he whispered, hoarse and furious:

“You’ll destroy me.”

Her black eyes burned with wicked triumph. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

The room was dim except for the soft golden glow of the lamp on her bedside table. Outside, the Capitol hummed faintly through the thick drapes. Inside, time had narrowed to the two of them — her body beneath his, his shadow falling over hers, every breath like a spark threatening to ignite the whole house.

Coryo’s grip on her wrists loosened, just enough for her to shift. She didn’t pull away. Instead she slid her fingers along the back of his neck, nails grazing the skin, a whisper of control disguised as surrender. He shuddered.

“You’re trembling,” she murmured, low and mocking.

His pale eyes flicked down to hers, burning. “So are you.”

Her lips parted. “Not from fear.”

He scoffed, mocking her words. But regardless, he lent his head down to kissed her again, slower now but no less fierce, his hands moving from her wrists to her sides, his thumbs pressing into the soft places of her body as though memorising them. She arched under him, every movement a blend of provocation and invitation. The two of them moved like combatants circling, each touch a strike, each gasp a concession.

The bed creaked as he shifted, bracing himself above her. She tangled her legs around his, drawing him closer, not because she wanted to be owned but because she wanted to own the moment as much as he did. His breath caught against her throat; hers turned to a low, breathless laugh.

“This,” she whispered, voice dark velvet against his ear, “is why you’ll never let me go. Because even when you hate me, you want me more.”

He drew back enough to look at her — hair mussed, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from his kisses — and for a heartbeat what stared back at her was raw, hungry, feral.

What happened next blurred at the edges, neither soft nor wholly violent — just them, tangled together, power and desire twisting into something wordless. The line between fighting and wanting dissolved; every movement felt like a threat and a promise all at once.

By the time the lamp’s light had burned low, the room smelled of sweat and roses, and the two of them lay sprawled across the sheets like combatants after battle. Coryo’s shirt was half off, his tie discarded on the floor. Blythe’s hair stuck in wild strands to her temples, her neck bearing the faint marks of his hands, her lips still curved in that knowing, infuriating smile.

“You’re a monster,” he said quietly into the dark, his voice hoarse.

Her fingers traced lazy circles on his chest. “So are you.”

He turned his head to look at her. She looked back without flinching, her black eyes glinting like polished stone. For a long moment neither of them spoke. Then, almost despite himself, he reached for her hand, twining their fingers together. “You think you’re untouchable,” he said, voice low and trembling. “But you’re not. Not with me.”

“Prove it,” she breathed.

ᴀ ᴛᴀʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴋɴɪᴠᴇꜱ

pairing: coriolanus snow x f!toxic!reader

warnings: academy!snow. super toxic coryo, even more toxic reader, possessive, manipulative, jealousy, rough coryo, steamy make outs but nothing more, power driven. dark themes — you’ve been warned.

word count: 3k ishhhh

alternative more toxic ending can be found here lol

The bell of the Capitol Academy rang with a shrill finality, and the halls spilled over with polished shoes, pressed uniforms, and the haughty chatter of students who believed the world already belonged to them. Coriolanus Snow stood at the top of the marble staircase, arms folded behind his back, surveying the swarm below with the same clinical eye he’d turn on a chessboard. His pale hair gleamed beneath the morning light filtering through the high windows, his tie knotted so neatly it seemed carved in place.

Appearances, as always, were everything.

But his gaze wasn’t drawn to the masses. It was drawn to her.

Blythe Goldthorn ascended the staircase as though it parted for her, long golden brown hair shimmering like liquid light, eyes as dark as ink and twice as bottomless. The smile she wore was perfect—an artful curve of lips that suggested warmth, approachability, charm. Most of the academy adored her. Professors praised her sharp mind and good manners. Students envied her ease of grace.

But Coriolanus knew better. He knew the real Blythe—the one who coiled with ambition, who whispered venom beneath her polished exterior, who looked at the Capitol not as a home, but as a kingdom to be seized.

And that was why he loved her.

“Coryo.” Her voice cut through his thoughts like a knife through silk. She reached the landing and paused, tilting her head just enough to let the golden curtain of her hair catch the light. “You look like you’re about to give a speech from Olympus.”

He smirked faintly, though his hands tightened behind his back. “Better Olympus than the gutter. Someone has to embody the Capitol’s best, don’t you think?”

Her black eyes gleamed as though she caught the double edge to his words. “And who better than you?”

It was not flattery. It was a challenge.

They walked together down the corridor, arm brushing against arm. To onlookers, they looked flawless—two golden youths, the Academy’s finest. Inside, however, there was a different storm.

“Tell me,” Blythe said lightly, though her tone had the faint lilt of interrogation, “why did I hear that you and Clemensia Dovecoat had a little moment before class this morning?”

Coriolanus didn’t falter, though his jaw ticked. “She dropped her books, I was merely helping her.”

“And you felt compelled to play the gallant knight?” Her voice was sweet, but her eyes were sharp and cold and as black as obsidian.

“She tripped in the corridor.” He kept his tone even. “The poor girl looked ridiculous. I couldn’t let her make a fool of herself.”

Blythe stopped walking. Students had to swerve to avoid colliding with her, though none dared voice their irritation. She was staring at him now, that beautiful mask of hers cracking at the edges to reveal the steel beneath.

“You couldn’t let her make a fool of herself? So you made a fool of me.” she repeated softly.

Coriolanus tapped into every ounce of self-control he had, attempting to keep a civilized mask in front of his peers. “Made a fool of you how… please do enlighten me as to how you’ve drawn that conclusion.”

Blythe took a small step forward, their toes nearly touching. She was challenging him. Letting him know that he has done something to get under her skin. “I’m just trying to understand why you helping Clemensia off of the floor resulted in your hands all over her.”

Before he had the chance to respond, Blythe had dominated the conversation again, silencing him with a single look. “… why she was being held in your arms like some kind of victim.”

Coriolanus exhaled through his nose. He leaned down, close enough that his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, and murmured, “I was protecting my image, Blythe. Not hers. Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”

Her lips curved into a smile again, though her eyes never softened. “Of course,” she said. But he knew the matter was far from closed.

Later that afternoon, the two of them sat in an empty music room— the one place where whispers and laughter from the Academy halls couldn’t follow. Coriolanus perched on the piano bench, fingers gliding absently over ivory keys without pressing them down. Blythe stood near the window, arms folded, sunlight crowning her in gold.

“You humiliated me,” she said suddenly, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Coriolanus turned, incredulous. He had been waiting for her to mention this again. “We’re talking about Clemensia again? Don’t be absurd. No one in their right mind would think I’m interested in her.”

“That isn’t the point.” Blythe’s dark eyes burned. “You let yourself be seen with her. At your side. Helping her. Protecting her. Do you have any idea what that looks like?”

His lips curved, thin and humorless. “Like I was being decent. And since when has decency been a crime?”

“Since it made me look like a fool,” she bellowed. Her voice rang so fiercely through the room that Coriolanus almost expected the string instruments to echo her.

He rose from the bench, crossing the room in deliberate, measured steps. He towered over her, though she didn’t flinch. If anything, she seemed to grow taller, her chin tilting up in defiance.

“You,” he said softly, dangerously, “would never look like a fool. Not if you slit your own throat in the Capitol square.”

Her lips quirked into a poisonous smile. “Is that some declaration of admiration, Coryo? Or a threat?”

His hand shot out, gripping her jaw, forcing her to tilt her head back until he was looking up at him, her dark eyes meeting his pale blue ones. His thumb pressed against her cheekbone with just enough pressure to cause a sting; reminding her that he could hurt her if he chose.

“It’s possession,” he murmured. “It’s the truth. I won’t have you twist this into something it’s not. Anyone who looks at you- anyone who imagines they could have you- they’re fools. And I hope you understand that anyone who think they can take something from you… they’re even bigger fools.”

She didn’t fight him. Not exactly. But her hand slid up his chest, fingers curling around his tie and yanking him closer until their foreheads touched. “And you’re mine,” she whispered, voice low and venomous. “Don’t think for a second I wouldn’t burn this Academy to ash if you betrayed me.”

The air between them was electric, vibrating with the tension of two blades clashing. He tightened his grip on her jaw. She tugged harder on his tie.

“Say it,” she demanded.

His eyes narrowed. “Say what?”

“That you’d never look at another girl the way you look at me.”

“I don’t need to say it.”

“Yes, you do.”

A pause. His breath ghosted against her lips. Then, slowly, deliberately, he said, “There is no one else. There will never be anyone else. Not because I’m good, Blythe. But because you’d kill me if I tried.”

Her smile spread, wicked and triumphant. “Exactly.”

And then she kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was brutal, consuming, the kind of kiss that felt like drowning and being set aflame at once. His hand slid from her jaw to her throat, fingers curling against the delicate column there, not quite choking but reminding her of the power he held. She responded by biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

He groaned into her mouth, half in pain, half in desire.

When they finally broke apart, both were panting, foreheads pressed together, lips swollen and bloodstained.

“You’re insufferable,” Coriolanus whispered hoarsely.

“You love it.”

“I do.” His thumb brushed her throat again, softer now. “God help me, I do. And I’ll never stop.” Her black eyes glittered with victory.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The truth was written in the blood at the corner of his mouth, in the bruises forming on her jaw, in the way they clung to each other like a secret neither could afford to lose.

Because love, for them, wasn’t flowers and soft words. It was power. It was control. It was obsession, toxic and absolute. And it was theirs alone.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Coriolanus adjusted the cuffs of his uniform for the third time as he sat at Blythe’s writing desk. The room was an elegant blend of old Capitol wealth and carefully cultivated charm—mahogany shelves stacked with leather-bound tomes, gilded lamps throwing warm pools of light across thick rugs, and a crystal vase of pale roses on the window ledge. The Goldthorn family estate was vast compared to the modest Snow apartment, and it carried the kind of easeful affluence his own family had once pretended to possess but no longer did.

Blythe lounged across from him, sprawled on a velvet chaise with her academy uniform skirt just brushing her knees, long golden-brown hair tumbling over her shoulder as she skimmed a textbook. She looked at ease here, utterly at home in the wealth that draped the walls, the polished silver frames, the heavy curtains.

“Your hand is shaking.” Her voice was mild, but her dark eyes flicked to the page in front of him with faint amusement.

Coriolanus stilled. “It’s not.”

“It is.” She smirked, closing her book with a soft thud. “I suppose you’re thinking about how you’ll impress my parents tonight.”

He lifted his chin. “I don’t need to impress them. I already belong here.”

Blythe laughed, soft and cutting at once. “You belong with me, Coryo. That’s not the same thing.”

His jaw tightened. She knew exactly where to press.

“You forget,” he murmured, leaning forward, “that appearances are everything. They’ll see a boy who’s elegant, articulate, with the right connections. That’s all they’ll care about.”

“And you think charm will hide hunger?” She tilted her head, studying him. “You want power so badly, it seeps out of you. My parents will smell it the moment you sit at their table.”

His lips curved in a thin smile. “Then we’ll all have that in common.”

For a moment, silence fell. Not uncomfortable, never uncomfortable, but sharp with the hum of mutual recognition. They were alike in that sense, that restless desire to bend the Capitol to their will.

Blythe rose, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. She trailed her fingers along the the top of his shoulders before leaning down, her lips brushing his ear. “You’re ambitious, Coryo. Ruthless. But don’t mistake your desperation for strength. I was born into this. It’s in my blood. You need me.”

He turned in his chair, seizing her wrist before she could pull away. His eyes, icy and unforgiving, locked onto hers. “And yet,” he said with a curled lip, “you chose me.”

Her lips twitched, betraying the faintest smile. “I did.”

Dinner with the Goldthorns was a study in masks. The long table gleamed with polished silverware and crystal goblets, the chandeliers burning low golden light across the lacquered wood. Blythe’s father spoke of legislation, her mother of appearances at the next Capitol gala. Coriolanus listened carefully, interjecting only when he knew his words would land. His charm was precise, practiced; a laugh in the right place, the grave nod at the mention of governance.

All the while, Blythe watched him, her dark eyes drinking in every calculated gesture. She knew the act as well as he did. She performed it herself daily. But watching him slip so easily into the rhythm of old wealth, despite his threadbare reality, ignited something sharp and admiring in her chest. By the time the meal ended, both had played their parts to perfection.

Once dinner had finished and Coriolanus and Blythe had retreated back up the stairs, back into her room, the mask cracked.

Blythe closed the door with a soft click, and before she could turn, Coriolanus had her back up against it, his mouth crashing onto hers in a kiss edged with hunger and triumph.

“You think I don’t belong here,” he muttered against her lips, “but I made them look at me like one of their own.”

Her nails raked down his back, sharp enough to sting even through his shirt. “You’re clever, Coryo. I’ll give you that. But cleverness won’t save you when the board is mine.”

He smirked, nipping at her lower lip. “Then I’ll make sure I’m standing at your side when you win.”

Her laughter was breathless as she tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. “Standing beside me? No. You’d try to sit on the throne yourself.”

The conversation dissolved into a tangle of mouths and hands, ambition bleeding into desire, power twisting into passion. Blythe’s back was ripped from the wall as Coriolanus began to walk backwards, leading her with one hand tangled into her hair as the other began to work away at his belt. Once he loosened it, his hands found their home on her body, quickly getting to work to remove the barriers between their skin.

Blythe’s head tilted back, a soft moan escaping from her lips and Coriolanus’ teeth scraped down the front of her throat.

It should be known: Coriolanus didn’t just love Blythe. He viewed her as the final piece needed to complete his soul, as the only ounce of oxygen to fill his lungs, as the sun and moon and stars. He adored her. He adored her mind and her ambition.

But he thinks he loves her most like this; weak at his fingertips, begging him for more.

By the time they collapsed onto her bed, tangled in sheets and shadows, they were transcended into a world where only the other existed.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The news broke at morning assembly about a week later: Blythe Goldthorn was named to deliver the address at the Capitol Youth Forum… a speech originally promised to Coriolanus Snow. For weeks he had been rehearsing every word, every calculated inflection, certain that this was his moment to step into the light. But now the headmaster’s voice rang through the marble hall, announcing her name instead of his.

Applause followed. Genuine, thunderous. Students turned to admire her, eyes shining with admiration. Blythe, ever perfect, inclined her head modestly, her hair catching light like a crown. But Coriolanus felt the ground tilt beneath him. His eyes met hers harshly, almost like a warning sign of what was to come.

Later, in the privacy of her room, he erupted. “You let them take it from me!” His voice cracked through the silence like a whip. He stood over her desk, fists planted on the polished wood, veins standing stark against his pale skin. His tie was loosened, hair dishevelled in a way that stripped him of his usual immaculate control.

Blythe remained seated on the chaise, legs crossed, watching him with infuriating calm. “I didn’t let them do anything.”

“Oh don’t give me that, Blythe. I saw your father leaving the deans office last week and now this. You need to fix this. They chose wrong and you know it.” He spun, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. “This was mine, Blythe. My chance to stand in front of the Capitol, to show them what the Snow name still means. You knew that!”

Her lips curved upwards just slightly— subtle, sharp. If Coriolanus didn’t know her so well he would have missed it. “And yet, here we are. They picked me.”

Something inside him snapped. In two strides he was across the room, yanking her to her feet by her wrist. She gasped softly but didn’t resist, dark eyes gleaming as he roughly backed against the wall. “You think this is a game?” His voice was a low snarl, his breath hot against her cheek. “You think I’ll stand by while you take what’s mine?

Her free hand rose, fingers curling around his tie, pulling him closer rather than pushing him away. “What’s yours?” she whispered, taunting. “Coryo, nothing belongs to you. You’re clinging to scraps of a name that means less with every passing year. Without me, you’re no one.”

His grip on her wrist tightened until her knuckles whitened. “Say that again.” And so she did. Softly, deliberately. “Without me, you’re no one.”

For a heartbeat, his rage burned so bright it nearly blinded him. He wanted to shake her, to force her to swallow the words. Instead, he opted for something a little calmer. His free hand planted firmly of her neck, making it harder to breathe with each passing moment. “Watch what you say to me, Blythe. You may be a Goldthorn but you’re really not all that.”

Her spare hand shot up to wrap around this wrist responsible for cutting off her oxygen supply. She dug hair nails in, watching the quiet flicker of pain in his eyes as she drew blood. He released her neck.

They stood there for a second, eyes locked. Unmoving. Assessing the damage done.

“I didn’t —” Coriolanus inhaled deeply, his hand running through his hair to disrupt what was once perfect waves of beautiful blonde. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She took a small step forward towards him, lifting his chin with her blood stained fingers, making him meet her gaze.

He was shocked to see her eyes were soft, for once. But he remained quiet and still, allowing her to take control.

Holding eye contact, she placed a soft a delicate kiss on his lips. A mere peck, before pulling back to look at his face again. And without warning, Coriolanus captured her mouth against his in a kiss that was almost featherlight. She softly closed her eyes, a low hum emitting from her throat as he began to ramp up the intensity.

When he tore his mouth from hers, he was shaking, chest heaving. “You know that I love,” he didn’t ask but declared.

She didn’t answer, but just stared into his stormy eyes. Again, she reached out to touch his face. His hand slid from her waist to her as, his fingers squeezing. But still it did not feel like he could get enough. She rested her head into the nook of his neck, “You’ll ruin me,” she hissed.

Her smile was all teeth. “And you’ll let me.”

His head dropped to her shoulder, jaw clenched, every muscle taut with fury and want. She ran her fingers through his hair, soothing and possessive all at once, like taming a wild thing that still might bite. “You’re furious because you see yourself in me,” she whispered against his ear. “The hunger. The ambition. But where you claw, Coryo, I glide. Where you beg, I take. And they’ll always give me what you want, because I was born with the power you crave.”

He jerked back, eyes blazing, hands gripping her arms so tightly she’d have bruises by morning. “Don’t you dare patronize me.”

“Then prove me wrong.”