pairing; lorenzo berkshire x fem!reader

summary; enzo loves you, and that includes loving how extraordinarily unpredictable you can be

content; reader is a drama queen, enzo can handle it

word count; 0.7k

Lorenzo Berkshire was a terribly predictable guy.

If he wasn’t having a smoke with his friends or stuffing his face in the kitchens late at night; he was with you.

But even Enzo couldn’t predict your mood swings or when you’d find another reason to be upset with him. Maybe that was why he loved you, you kept him on his toes.

“C’mon, baby, I’m sorry,” he was currently pleading desperately as he followed you into the common room.

The speed at which you could walk in those heels of yours should’ve surprised him, but he had long since learned to expect the unexpected from you.

You waved a dismissive hand over your shoulder, not even bothering to hold the door open for him. It nearly smacked him in the face, but Enzo trudged on.

He was calling for you again when the corner of the common room, where all of you two’s friends usually congregated, erupted into synchronized groans.

“What’d you do now, Berky?” Blaise’s voice was the first one he heard, low and teasing, from where he was sprawled along a couch by the fire.

“He didn’t forget the anniversary of your goldfish’s death again, did he?” Daphne piped up, leaning forward on the green arm chair.

Finally, you stopped, turning to your friends as they awaited what was sure to be another very logical reason why you were upset with Enzo.

“Worse,” you hiccuped, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle your cries, only making Lorenzo deflate more. He hated seeing you cry. “I asked him what color I should get for my nails next, and he said—”

A pause as you gathered yourself, sniffling.

“He said red!”

Every head snapped to where he was standing uselessly by the door, their eyes burning into him like he’d threatened to cut your fingers off.

You dabbed at the dampness below your eyes, blinking fast. “He knows that red isn’t in my color palette,” you croaked out, not even looking at him.

He exhaled and the action physically pained him. He thought that a thousand knives to his chest would ache less than seeing you so distraught. It never got easier.

Slowly, Lorenzo approached you, and when you didn’t flinch away from him, he encircled his arms around your waist and pulled you into his chest.

His voice was a low murmur into your hair as one of his hands rubbed up and down your spine. “I know that every color looks divine on my gorgeous girl,” he soothed, then shot a glare over to the idiots he called friends, who were watching like reality television. “Everyone knows that, don’t they?”

When the friend group didn’t do so much as let out a peep, Lorenzo narrowed his eyes threateningly.

“Don’t they?” he repeated more firmly.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Absolutely breathtaking.”

“You’d look stunning in a garbage bag, girl.”

Satisfied, Lorenzo pressed a tender kiss to your hairline, then walked you backwards until you were near the staircase to the dormitories, away from prying eyes.

“Then it’s settled, no more tears,” he cooed, soft and sweet just for you as he brought his hand to gently lift your chin.

You looked up at him with those red, glossy eyes, and he swore he fell in love with you again. You were beautiful, even when you cried.

His voice dropped even lower, his breath a careful caress against your lips. “You get whatever color your pretty heart desires, but know that it isn’t your nails or a specific color palette that makes you beautiful, okay?”

You nodded but he tutted disapprovingly, lips quirking up.

“Words, sweet girl,” he coaxed.

The sight of your tiny smile was like sunlight breaking through the clouds, warm and inviting.

“Okay, yeah,” you said sheepishly, swatting at his chest with a noncommittal glare.

“Yeah?” he murmured, lips nearly brushing yours now.

With an impatient huff, you curled your fingers into his shirt and pulled him the rest of the way down, crushing your mouth to his.

He laughed, the hand on your chin, running along your jaw and threading through your hair, angling your face just right.

When Enzo pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, words rough with emotion and his panting.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” you muttered back just as he pulled you in for another sweet kiss.

summary; theo doesn’t care enough to be interviewed by you, but when he sees how it affects you, he can’t help himself

content; sunshine reader, theo being sweet

word count; 2.1k

Theodore Nott didn’t have many problems.

He was a starter on the Slytherin Quidditch team, lived in a manor in the countryside, and could get pretty much any girl he wanted.

There was one thing that seemed to constantly hold him back, though.

He didn’t care.

Theo didn’t care to try in class. He was smart and he knew he could easily be the top of his grade, but he just didn’t care.

He was good at Quidditch, sure, but he could be great if he really wanted to.

And he could have a new girl on his arm every week if he so pleased, with his devastating green eyes and messy brunette hair that only added to his charm, but he just couldn’t find the will to do any of that.

That was his problem—what every teacher wrote on his progress report cards and why every coach yelled at him in the locker room—he didn’t care.

Theo always thought that this was just his life. No amount of discipline or detention could force him to suddenly start caring about his wellbeing. About his future.

Until you.

You were all bright smiles and cheerful voice every time he saw you on the field. You were a sideline reporter for your journalism class, but had quickly become the school’s go-to voice for the athletes. You attended a fair amount of practices, ran around the sidelines of every game, and your interviews were the most anticipated media coverage in Hogwarts.

The teams loved you, too. They were always more than willing to stop and let your blinding grin and playful words coax them into answering a few questions.

But Theo? Oh, he would never be fooled by you. He told himself that he didn’t care, that no matter how many times you skipped up to him and asked him for an interview or to pose for a picture, he wouldn’t give in.

You were dangerous. You made the cold-hearted Slytherins care, the calculating Ravenclaws let loose for a little, the go-lucky Hufflepuffs sober up for serious questions, and the egotistical Gryffindors criticize their own game.

You were a strange addiction that Theo would never indulge in. Ever.

Then he heard your scream.

It was after a particularly rough practice. He was exhausted, sore, and mentally drained from the week. There was no stopping Theo on his path to a long shower, the comfort of his bed, and a much needed smoke. But the frustrated screech that rang through the corridor apparently was the exception.

He stopped walking, pausing at the entrance to listen to another little upset huff coming from further down.

He didn’t know how or why, but he immediately knew it was you. He also couldn’t explain why this knowledge made him detour from his path and over to where you were angrily ripping up a stack of papers and chucking them at a wall.

Odd considering you were supposed to be all sunshine and rainbows, but he didn’t really care, per usual.

Of course he didn’t care about you being upset, he merely continued approaching due to his curiosity. That was it.

Your back was to him and you let out another enraged groan as you let what remained of the papers scatter to the floor.

“This seems highly unproductive.”

The bored drawl of his voice made you nearly jump out of your skin as you turned to face him. Then, surprisingly, you narrowed your eyes at him.

“You,” you growled, stalking towards him like he ate the last treacle tart, finger pointed accusingly at him.

“Me?” he questioned, raising a single eyebrow at you.

“Theodore Nott.”

“That’s my name.”

“Do you know what you did?” your tone was beyond irritated and he didn’t think he’d ever get the honor of seeing you lose your composure.

He couldn’t help but enjoy it, and he especially couldn’t help the way his lips tugged up in an amused grin that only made you angrier.

“Enlighten me, sunshine, how did I make you all stormy?” he taunted, crossing his arms over his shirt that clung to his chest.

You scoffed, pressing your finger against his bicep, but he didn’t budge.

“Don’t mock me, Nott, this is catastrophic!” you rolled your eyes, opting to keep your hands to yourself instead.

“Yeah? Catastrophic?”

“Yes, exactly. Do you want to know what grade I received on my quarterly report for journalism?” you spoke louder, gesturing wildly to the mess of papers behind you that looked like a Hippogriff came barreling through the corridor.

Who knew an unhappy reporter could be so destructive?

“I suspect you’ll tell me regardless,” he mumbled, tone bored but eyes sparking with an intrigue that he rarely had.

“An Acceptable! Acceptable, Theodore! Do I seem like the kind of person to accept an acceptable?” you finally shouted with an over the top wave of your arms.

“No ma’am,” he shook his head, smirk still playing on his lips as he stared down at the mini hurricane that was your fury unleashed.

You huffed and stomped away from him to collect your bag from the floor, sifting through its contents before you pulled out a slightly crumpled piece of paper with paragraphs of writing on it.

“Can you guess why I, the most respected journalist in the castle, received an acceptable?” you grumbled.

“Again, I suspect—”

You flattened the sheet haphazardly against your leg and then promptly shoved it into his chest, cutting off his words.

Slowly, and with an amused glance at you, he turned the paper over in his hands, quickly skimming the loopy writing that he assumed was your professor’s comments.

Then his eyes widened and his smirk fell. His name was on there.

‘I’d like you to do a better job at gaining perspective from every player on the pitch, specifically Mr Nott, whose excellence in the game puts him in the top rankings in the school. You have yet to send in a single interview from him, and your writing is getting otherwise repetitive. Please resubmit when you take initiative and give both myself and the student body an insight into every player.’

Theo could see why the sides of the paper were nearly ripped to shreds now.

He couldn’t imagine what you felt reading this, and if it was even half the fury he felt, the paper surely showed it. He thought maybe the poor sheet would catch on fire with how hard he was glaring at the writing from your professor.

It was his fault. Your writing was repetitive because of him.

Suddenly, he felt a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach, and it felt strangely like guilt. Like care.

The sound of paper shredding beneath his fingers finally tore him out of his destructive thoughts. His fingers had dug into the criticism like he could physically peel the ink off of it and shove it down your professors throat. Merlin knows he wanted to.

“Let me get this straight,” Theo began, voice unnervingly steady despite the rage buzzing beneath his skin and making his blood boil. “Your professor marked you down…because of me?”

When his eyes slowly trailed back up to yours, he saw all the fight leave your body in real time. Your shoulders slumped, your gaze fell to your shoes, and you finally seemed to be affected by the cold draft seeping in through the windows.

Reluctantly, you nodded.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, the old compassionate reporter returning instantly as you fiddled with your bag straps. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you, it’s just—”

“No,” he cut you off, crumbling the paper in his hands and taking your bag from you.

You looked up at him again, alert, and watched as he rummaged through your belongings to pull out a notebook. Theo flipped to a clean sheet, pulled out a quill, and shoved both items into your hands, letting your bag fall to the floor with a thud.

“Ask me about my goals scored during Saturday’s match,” he demanded, voice leaving no room for argument.

He watched you blink rapidly, brain working overtime to register the shift in his mood, before a tiny, rewarding smile graced your features.

“Well, I usually have my Quick-Quotes Quill during live interviews,” you exhaled, eyes gleaming in that way he definitely favored over the glint of rage he’d known before.

Theo shook his head, feeling his own smirk return. “C’mon, sunshine, this is an exclusive interview with the top ranked chaser in the school. I’d take advantage of it if I were you.”

Bouncing on your heels, you chuckled, quill at the ready. “Top ranked is generous, Nott. How about the two turnovers that occurred while the Quaffle was in your possession on Saturday? Does that diminish the fact that you scored 7 goals, or make your feat that much better?”

Theo scoffed out a laugh, thrown a bit off kilter by your question. No wonder players enjoyed your interviews, your questions caused them to really think back on their game, something he rarely did. But for some reason, you asking the question made him care a little bit more about giving you a good answer.

“I think the turnovers highlight how hard both myself and my team fought in that match and that, despite our mistakes, we were able to stick it out and get Slytherin another win,” he replied smoothly, watching you rapidly write down his words with a new kind of intrigue.

The next twenty minutes went exactly that way, you asking him tough questions that actually forced him to think and him giving you the best answers he could.

Eventually, you two found yourselves sitting side by side on the floor of the empty hallway, backs against the wall and voices low.

You finished writing with a sigh and set your notebook and quill down, letting your head fall to the wall. He mimicked your position, but his eyes never left the side of your face.

“I’m sorry,” the words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he forced them out. He forced his lips to form those two wretched words because he couldn’t help but care about your feelings. It confused him and disgusted him and fascinated him all at once. “I should’ve just let you interview me.”

You shrugged, eyes flicking over to his, and gave him that warm smile that he couldn’t help but admire.

“I get it. You aren’t really one to… care,” you spoke softly, gaze leaving his. He watched your throat bob as you swallowed down the words in your mind.

He wished he could be in there. He wished he could swim through your thoughts and find out exactly what makes that smile of yours beam like sun rays on an early morning. He wanted to read your worries as thoroughly as he read through your professor’s criticism just so you’d never have them again. You, kind and honest, deserved nothing but that in return. And if that required care, he was more than willing to start giving a shit.

“I wasn’t,” he agreed, tilting his head slightly, trying to catch your gaze. When you still didn’t look at him he carefully brought his hand up to nudge your chin with his knuckles, guiding your eyes to meet his.

His exhale was shaky as he watched you, but he licked his lips and persisted.

“But I think my entire program is messed up.”

You blinked at him, eyes flickering over his features.

“Messed up?” you croaked out, voice small for once. But not quite in a bad way.

“Mhm,” he nodded, smirking slightly. Merlin, you were so close. Your thigh was pressed against his and your skin was smooth beneath his fingertips. And your eyes. They glowed like your irises were crafted from the very sun, so warm and welcoming.

You were radiant.

“How is it so far?” you whispered, leaning into his hand as he let his palm cup your cheek, thumb rubbing softly over the skin.

“How’s what?” he asked.

“Caring.”

The smile that made its way onto Theo’s lips was cheeky and wide, something he wasn’t quite used to, but he’d live with the ache in his cheeks forever if it meant he got to keep looking at you.

“Rewarding,” he murmured glancing at your lips.

When he felt your hand rest softly against his chest, he leaned the rest of the way in.

Theo captured your lips in a sweet kiss, pressing into you with gentle insistence. His other hand came up to cup your face tenderly, like your very being was fine china entrusted in his grasp.

summary; you aren’t usually so irresponsible. good thing your friend always has his eyes on you

content; mattheo being possessive but also sweet, mentions of underage drinking (duh)

word count; 1k

You didn’t think your night could get any more disorienting until you heard his voice cut through the silence.

It was dark in the abandoned corridor, but the deafening beat of music still rang in your ears. The Hufflepuff party to celebrate the end of exams had surely been eventful, especially for you. You didn’t usually drink, instead opting to nurse one drink the whole night and monitor your drunk friends’ questionable choices.

So then, what changed?

Maybe it was the Outstanding you’d received in Potions despite that being the subject you often struggled with. Maybe it was the charming boy who danced with you until your limbs went numb and your cheeks ached from smiling.

Maybe it was the prickling sensation of eyes on you the entire night that made you down drink after drink to force away the unease.

Either way, you were wasted.

The acrid scent of his cigarette registered in your mind before his voice did, the smoke that was curling around your slumped figure made you finally peak up at the boy looming over you.

Mattheo Riddle was smirking, per usual, and all you could do was watch as he carefully pulled the cigarette from between his lips. He stared down at you, your heels long gone and tight dress scrunched at your hips. You sat with your back against the wall and one hand clamped to your forehead like some kind of damsel in distress.

In your defense, you didn’t even remember how things escalated to your current situation. So yeah, you were quite distressed.

“Lost, are we?” his smooth drawl washed over you like a bucket of freezing water, sending a tingly feeling all the way from your eyebrows to your bare feet.

You straightened up, opening your mouth to speak but feeling the words get lodged in your throat. The witty remark that you’d thought up was sticky, stuck to your brain, and maybe even your vocal cords, so that all you could do was blink up at him stupidly.

“Your eyes,” were the words that somehow escaped your lips. Not quite a quip. Not quite a coherent statement at all, really.

Mattheo huffed out a laugh, gliding his tongue along his top teeth like speaking to you was requiring some kind of restraint.

“Yes, are they there?” he asked in a tone laced with tired amusement. Despite the circumstances, he was being oddly gentle.

“No, they were with me!” you slurred, raising your hand from your forehead to point an accusing finger at him. Soon, however, the action required too much effort and you let your hand fall into your lap with the other, voice quieter now. “The whole night, they were with me.”

You only noticed the way Mattheo’s eyes darkened because of your acute focus on them. His jaw ticked and he finally stopped hovering over you to crouch before you, bringing a hand up to cup your chin.

With a firm grip on your face, he spoke slowly, “his hands were all over you. You think I wouldn’t keep watch?”

When your head lolled forward slightly, he steadied you with his other hand, long fingers splayed over your cheeks. “Whose hands?” you muttered, face now close enough to his so that all his features were blurring together. Or it could’ve been the Firewhiskey doing that.

Mattheo shook his head disapprovingly, clicking his tongue. “You don’t even remember? Merlin, you’re wasted.”

Your drunk brain registered this as an insult and you scowled. Well, you tried to scowl, but it must’ve came out as more of a sad tug of your lips because Mattheo’s entire demeanor softened instantly.

“I was really excited, Mattheo,” you whined, eyelids drooping as you rambled. “Did good on my Potions exam. Pansy convinced me to let loose, said I shouldn’t always be the responsible one. But I think she was wrong. I like being the responsible one. I don’t like this…this wooziness.”

The dark haired boy’s thumbs rubbed soothingly over the apples of your cheeks as he listened to you stumble over words. His eyes were always dark and intense, but now they were swimming with concern.

“I know, baby, but you gotta know your limits, yeah? You can’t let others pressure you into doing things you don’t want,” he murmured, breath ghosting over your lips.

“M’sorry,” you whispered back.

“Don’t apologize to me, love, just let me take care of you.”

You nodded and allowed him to push you gently so you were leaning against the wall. He stamped out his cigarette under his shoe and you scrunched up your face at the action.

“Riddle, you’ll burn the whole castle down,” you remarked quite sadly, words garbled and quiet.

Mattheo’s lips quirked up into a tender smile as he chuckled. He reached for something beside him, causing you to stare at his hand in confusion.

“I have magic, honey, same as you. No one will burn. Now c’mon,” he coaxed, fingers intertwining with yours to help you up as the others on his left hand curled around the straps of your heels.

“You found my shoes,” you wondered aloud, finally on your feet.

“A trail of high heels followed you when you left the party. Luring me in, were you?” he teased, releasing your hand to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you into his side. His fingers wandered down to tug the hem of your dress lower.

You grinned cheekily, leaning your head on his shoulder as you two slowly walked through the halls. “What if I left them for Cormac?”

When Mattheo’s fingers dug harshly into your hip, you started giggling.

“So you do remember whose hands were on you,” he grumbled, the Slytherin Common Room drawing nearer.

You only cackled louder which caused Mattheo to tug you more firmly into his side.

summary; you expected things to be different after mattheo found out what you’d been keeping from him, but you didn’t expect it to get to his head. literally.

warnings; high school au, modern au

note; part 1, part 2

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a weapon on the ice, but that kid has got a serious temper. He spends more time in the penalty box than Crouch Jr! You remember that boy?”

You shook your head silently, staring blankly out of the windshield.

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” your father dismissed with a wave of his hand, the other resting lazily on the steering wheel. “That Riddle boy is real valuable, though, so I’m willing to look past that. I really think he can bring my program back to what it once was. He’s already pretty popular in the media.”

You nodded along, barely registering his words. Your mind was elsewhere, somewhere in a dimly lit stairwell surrounded by anatomy textbooks and broad shoulders.

You finally looked over at your dad when he gave your shoulder a small nudge.

“Maybe you’ll even have time between all those doctor classes to come watch a few games,” he teased, but his tone held a flicker of hope. A flicker that you would snuff out before it became a flame.

“Maybe if your players hit the puck instead of their opponents, I’d be more inclined to watch,” you mumbled, toying with the jade ring on your finger.

Your dad laughed heartily at that, and you watched with a tiny smile despite the sinking feeling that crawled throughout your stomach.

The boy. The boy with the pretty brunette curls that fell over his forehead messily, like he’d woken up that morning and merely splashed water on them. The boy with the cut on his brow and a split lip.

Mattheo Riddle.

You couldn’t help the urge to treat his injuries when he’d stumbled into the little hiding spot you’d made for yourself in that stairwell. You were more than bored, music cranked to full volume in the headphones that you’d bedazzled all by yourself, eyes barely reading the book in your hands.

You had tried to find a spot away from all the noise, but still, the muffled cheering and the obnoxious goal horn bled through your music.

It all only made you more curious about the game you hated.

But then the roaring of the crowd through the walls shifted to aggressive jeering as the players no doubt punched and shoved each other around the ice, and your stomach dropped to your feet.

You hated that violence. How could someone willingly drive their fist into someone else’s nose, knowing that the damaging of their nasal septum could lead to breathing problems for the rest of their life?

Okay, maybe not everyone knew exactly that, but they were doing it to hurt another person, and that never sat right with you. It made your hands clammy and shaky, fingers twitching with the urge to fix whatever was broken.

Which is why you had to treat Mattheo Riddle’s injuries.

However, your aversion to violence didn’t quite explain why your heartbeat sped up every time his skin touched yours or your cheeks ached with the smile that you couldn’t quite stamp down in his presence. He, with just one private moment and some gentle words, had somehow managed to put you in a constant state of high blood pressure and you didn’t quite know how to handle it.

“I know you just happened to bump into him, kid, but I’d still be cautious if I were you,” your dad’s careful warning cut through your thoughts. Your dad was usually so lighthearted and kind. You’d never heard him so serious and it only made you spin that ring on your finger faster. “You hate violence, he no doubt craves it. It’d do you well to stay away from him.”

After you and Mattheo’s almost-kiss and your hurried attempt at escape, your dad had found the two of you exchanging hushed words by the door. Your father wasn’t quite as disturbed as you expected him to be, partially due to the fact that you hadn’t given him much time to register the interaction at all. You’d all but ripped your backpack from Mattheo’s shoulder and rushed out into the parking lot, where you then explained to your dad that what he’d seen had just been an innocent run-in with one of your classmates.

He hadn’t suspected that that particular classmate of yours had been plaguing your thoughts for weeks.

So maybe you were going crazy at the prospect of speaking to him again. Maybe the entire weekend your skin had been buzzing from the memory of his lips brushing yours. The feeling of his breath hitting your slightly parted lips, his brown eyes closer than you’d ever seen them, it all worked to slowly unravel your carefully structured mind. He had a dimple on his right cheek, your brain had noticed without your permission, and it only showed when he gave you that silly grin and called you ‘doc.’

It was maddening.

Come Monday after that game, the voice in your head damn near belonged to him. All of your attempts at studying had failed because your brain couldn’t hold anything except the distinct tilt of his head when he was amused.

And you’d been completely foolish to think that speaking to him again would set your mind straight, because he hadn’t said a word to you.

Every passing glance you’d spared him in the halls had not been returned.

Every time you’d seen him he was scowling at nothing in particular, not even paying attention to his obnoxious friends around him.

And every opportunity you’d seen to speak to him was snatched away as he avoided your very presence.

It was giving you a strange sort of déjà vu.

Oddly enough, it was when you’d retreated to your sanctuary, the library, when you finally spoke to him.

Classes for the day had already been let out, and it was your favorite routine to sit at the nice table in the library and catch the late bus home so you could spend a few peaceful hours studying. The place was empty and the scent of books and the sound of the librarian shuffling around behind her desk was all that remained.

You had finally made it to the familiar spot, clutching a few books to your chest and backpack brimming with schoolwork, when a head of messy brunette curls caught your eye.

You immediately stopped, squinting at the boy occupying your favorite table.

Mattheo Riddle was in the library. In your spot.

But the odd thing was: he had no books out.

There wasn’t a single piece of paper or even a pen on the table that could’ve indicated him doing some kind of work.

He was just sitting there, fingers clasped together on the surface, jaw clenched so tightly you swore you could hear his teeth grinding, and eyes trained on the markings in the smooth wood. His hair was a bit damp and he was wearing a ‘Hogwarts Hockey’ practice jersey, padded hockey shorts still on his body like he’d been in the middle of practice before he wandered over to your table.

His posture was stiff, but the way he didn’t even look up as you approached told you that he’d been sitting there, spacing out, for quite a while.

You stood right next to the table, and he only looked up when you let your books fall onto it.

“Mattheo?” you said slowly, lips tugging up in a tiny, teasing smile. “Are you getting back at me for infiltrating your spot a few weeks ago?”

The boy blinked up at you like you’d woken him from a trance, then frowned a frown that you’d never seen before. It wasn’t quite a scowl like the kind he usually had on at school, but he didn’t look sad either. He looked almost lost.

When he didn’t answer you, your smile dropped and your voice took on a softer tone, tilting your head to the side in confusion. “Mattheo?” you repeated, gentler this time.

“I hate the library, doc,” he whispered, voice matching the lost little boy look he was giving you. “I hate the library, but my legs carried me all the way over here anyway.”

Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Smells like you in here…like books and my imagination.”

You furrowed your brows at his unblinking nature, leaning closer to his face, inspecting his eyes. That’s when you noticed his pupils. His left eye was almost completely black, but his right pupil was dilated slightly less, only making you press even closer in concern.

Your hand came up to gently cup his cheek, and you turned his head slightly, gasping at the blossoming purple mark on his temple.

“Mattheo are you…are you concussed?” you spluttered, other hand reaching up to hold his face still.

His eyelids fluttered and you swore that the sound vibrating through his throat closely resembled a purr. Mattheo Riddle was leaning into your hands and purring.

“Said I was okay to walk to the health office by myself,” he slurred, looking up at you through half-lidded eyes. “But y’know I hate those people, angel. I hate ‘em. Was walking past the library and I…I smelled you. Then I couldn’t think of anything else, of anyone else. Just you. Just this.”

Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest at his words and you could’ve stopped breathing when his hands came up to steady your shaking hands on either side of his face.

His hands were rough and calloused against yours, but his cheeks were soft. So soft you didn’t think you ever wanted to let go. Better yet, you never wanted to leave his proximity.

Stepping slightly closer as Mattheo turned to face you fully, knees bracketing your legs, you murmured slowly, “You’re disoriented. You need to go home, to rest.”

“Please don’t go,” he mumbled sadly, pressing his lips to your palm. Your lips parted in shock, you didn’t think Mattheo Riddle had ever pleaded for anything in his life. “This is where I need to be. Only want your hands on me, and I hate when people put their hands on me. I just met you and you’ve already fucked with my head. Doc, I hate doctors.”

His hands left yours to circle around your waist, pulling you suddenly closer. You yelped as he yanked you between his thighs and rested his chin against your stomach, staring up at you with those dazed brown eyes and a frown that tugged at every single one of your heartstrings.

This boy. This boy with the gruff voice that only softened when he was with you. This boy with rough hands that held you like you meant something. This boy and his sweet words.

“I lied to you, Mattheo,” you sighed, fingers reaching up to brush stray curls off his forehead as the guilt gnawed at you viciously. It’d been a lingering feeling all weekend as you remembered the disturbed look on his face that night after his game. “You should hate me for not telling you. I would. Doing…whatever we’re doing…could mess with your entire career!”

“You couldn’t be more wrong,” he groaned, words sticky in his mouth as he struggled with the thoughts that were likely bouncing around painfully in his head. Worry joined the guilt in your body as you eyed his concussed state. You opened your mouth to tell him he needed to seek treatment, but he kept talking. “You aren’t a liar. Far from it. Yeah, I was a bit frustrated with you for not saying anything, but I don’t blame you. Not one bit. And I can’t stay away from you.”

Mattheo heaved in a pained breath, but his rambling cut off your protests once more, words slurred. “I don’t care that my future coach is your dad. I mean, he’s a little scary, but not having you is way scarier. I’ve never been worried about my career, I know I’m good, I’ve met tons of people who say the same thing. But I’ve never met someone who I’d let patch up my injuries, I’ve never met someone like you.”

In finality, he whispered, “I’m not letting you get away from me.”

You blinked quickly, eyes burning with the emotion you were holding back, and you laughed thickly despite yourself. “You sound very sure of yourself,” you huffed, eyes trailing over his face, lingering on his bruise.

“Good, cause I don’t feel like it,” Mattheo winced as your finger brushed lightly over his temple.

You immediately felt your brain switch into doctor mode, and by the weak, but knowing, smile on his face, you knew he saw it too.

“You have a concussion, Riddle, you need to sleep,” you muttered sternly, but he only laughed as you pulled at the skin under his eyes to inspect his pupils. “You cannot go back to practice, and you definitely shouldn’t be in the bright library lights right now.”

He was full-fledged grinning up at you now, big hands sprawled across your back and chin digging into your stomach. “Yeah? Is this your way of telling me you like me back?”

You chuckled again, feeling the blood pump faster into your poor heart and butterflies wreak havoc in your stomach. “Yes, it can be,” you lilted, voice slow as you took in his hazy state. “But it’s also an order.”

“Yes, doc,” he grumbled, eyelids drooping shut with each word.

You panicked and shook his head gently, but he still hissed at the pain.

“Sorry,” you said sheepishly, brushing a damp curl from his forehead again. “It’s just—you shouldn’t sleep yet. Wait a few hours, incase any worse symptoms occur.”

“Can’t help it. Your voice is so soft and you smell like books.”

The following hour and a half was filled with Mattheo’s slurred teasing as you stumbled through the halls with him leaning his weight on you, a car ride from hell as you fought to keep him awake while driving his extremely expensive car back to your house, and a lot of convincing from your part to get him inside.

“I’ll explain everything to him, Mattheo,” you coaxed as you turned the engine off and leaned over the center console to peer into his gorgeous brown eyes.

“S’already humiliating enough that a girl’s driving me home,” he huffed, pressing a palm to his forehead. “Now I have to meet her terrifying father half fucking conscious? Kill me already, would you?”

“You’re very dramatic, did you know that?” you shook your head, unbuckling his seatbelt and patting his shoulder once before slipping out of the car. You leaned against the open door in annoyance when he made no move to get out. “Would you like me to come around and open the door for you in proper chivalrous manner?”

“Merlin, no!” he rushed out, moving with a speed that you didn’t think was healthy in his state. He stumbled up your porch steps behind you, silent with what was no doubt anxiety thrumming in his concussed head.

You felt it too, and with shaky fingers you unlocked your door.

You had no idea what your dad might say about you bringing home his next biggest prospect, dizzy and delirious, but you couldn’t risk leaving Mattheo alone. Your doctor brain wouldn’t allow it, and your foolish heart couldn’t even bear it.

“Dad?” you called as you stepped through the threshold of your home, flicking on the hallway light but immediately flicking it off when Mattheo hissed in pain behind you.

You heard your dad call back your name in confusion, his voice coming from the living room. “Shouldn’t you be at the library? It’s still pretty early,” he shouted over the commentary of what was likely a hockey game playing on the TV.

You gulped, reaching blindly behind you to grasp Mattheo’s hand, pulling him into the dimly lit room where your father had his feet kicked up on the coffee table and fingers locked behind his head.

“Well, I was but, uhm,” you began nervously, standing in the entryway of the living room, waiting for your dad to turn around and spot the six-foot-something wall of muscle barely upright on his feet beside you. “I ran into someone…”

Your father turned at that, and his eyebrows raised so high up his forehead you thought they might fly off all together. It was safe to say he was stunned, speechless as he slowly rose from the couch, hockey game forgotten, and stared at Mattheo.

“That’s…” your dad trailed off, gaze flicking between the two of you with rising confusion.

“He’s concussed, dad, and you know how I am about injured people!” you immediately said, fingers tightening around a silent Mattheo’s hand. “He doesn’t like being treated by the medical staff at school and I couldn’t leave him on his own! Please let him stay and rest, just for tonight. He’ll be better by the morning!”

There was an eery sort of quiet that settled over the room after you finished rambling, before Mattheo finally decided to grace your father with his disgruntled words.

“I’ll be a perfect saint on the ice for her,” he spoke in a pleading tone, taking a shaky step forward. “I’ll stay out of the papers unless it’s hockey related, I’ll be more friendly in interviews—just please let your daughter fix me with her soft hands, because seeing two of you is a lot scarier than one.”

You felt your heart swell in your chest at his sweet words. No one had ever been willing to better themselves just for you. But he would. He wanted to. All so your dad would accept him.

You couldn’t help the grin that spread over your lips, pulling your father’s attention away from the swaying boy. The man’s eyes softened as they trailed over your smile, then down to your hands still gripping each other’s firmly.

“He’s not just a classmate, is he?” your dad asked slowly, voice tender in a way you’d never heard it before.

You shook your head.

He approached you two, sizing up Mattheo. Not as a legendary hockey star or a potential player, but as a boy holding his daughter’s hand.

“You’d better be on your best behavior, boy, you hear me?” he grunted, pointing a finger at the taller boy.

Mattheo seemed to be having a hard time focusing on the finger in his face and harsh words directed towards him, but he nodded quickly.

“Goodnight, then,” and your father merely spared you one last knowing glance before stepping around you two and heading towards the stairs.

“I’ll even wear a bloody suit,” Mattheo called to your father’s retreating figure, only receiving a dismissive hand in response.

Once you heard the door to your dad’s bedroom shut in the distance, you turned on Mattheo and threw your arms around his neck.

“That went far better than I expected!” you squealed, feeling his arms come around your waist.

“Shh,” he shushed, pressing his lips to your hair. “I really do like this, baby, but I still feel like I got an anvil dropped on my head.”

You smiled sheepishly into his chest but only tightened your arms around him. “Sorry,” you whispered, feeling one of his hands travel up your side.

“I know how you can make it up to me,” he hummed deeply, reaching for your chin with careful fingers and directing your gaze up to his.

You raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “I thought you were seeing double.”

“I don’t mind seeing two of these,” he brushed a thumb under your bottom lip, smirking. “And I think I know my way around your face with how often I stare at it.”

You swallowed hard at his deep voice vibrating through his chest that pressed against yours, but didn’t pull away when he leaned down so your noses touched.

“One kiss, Mattheo, then you need to rest,” you whispered, lips brushing his dangerously.

summary; things take a turn after your chance meeting with the grumpy hockey captain, and he’s desperate to know why

warnings; read part 1 to understand, light angst

note; part 1, part 3

It’d been two weeks since Mattheo’s secret spot was stolen.

Two weeks since his wounds had been handled with a care he didn’t even think possible.

Two weeks since he’d said more than a few words to you.

To put it simply, Mattheo was spiraling.

He told you he’d take it slow, for your sake, but he didn’t that think would include barely speaking to you for weeks. You’d left a bedazzled imprint on his heart and sprinkled glitter in his brain, and every day he didn’t hear your voice sent him spiraling further. He wasn’t very well-versed on every single form of torture, but he was sure that your avoidance and the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes was the worst kind.

It was beginning to feel like a game of cat and mouse to him with the way he would seek you out during school just for you to rush the opposite way. He didn’t know what he possibly could’ve done to make you seem so distraught by his presence.

It was the day of another big game, one that would bring his team closer to playoffs, when he was finally able to corner you before class.

Panting from his hurry over to you and lugging his huge hockey bag, he placed a hand on the locker beside yours.

“Hey,” he breathed, cringing when you startled and turned to him.

“Oh,” you said, voice rising an octave, big eyes darting around in that manner that told him you were already planning an escape route. “Hi there.”

The hallways were nearly empty, but he knew you had study hall the next period, so you wouldn’t be late to anything important if the bell rang. He needed to grab hold of his chance before you slipped away again.

“Listen, as great of a doctor as you are, I really think you should consider track with how fast you’ve been able to slip away from me for two weeks straight,” he taunted, tilting his head down to pierce you with his serious gaze. He let his clunky bag slump off his shoulder and onto the ground, hand dangling by your side, nearly brushing your own. “While I do wish you’d stop running from me for just a moment, if this is all I get, then so be it.”

You huffed, furrowing your brows, but you didn’t move. Instead, you closed your locker and turned to lean against it, staring up at Mattheo with those big, calculating eyes of yours.

Without his permission, his lips pulled up into a soft smile. You were looking at him. You were looking at him like his thoughts were written on his forehead and you were seeing into his very soul. You weren’t running.

“I’m seriously not that fast. And I am not running from you,” you scoffed but that familiar soft lilt of your voice greatly contrasted with the defensiveness seeping from your tone, making his smile widen even more. He almost missed your voice more than he missed your gentle touch.

“I didn’t chase you down so you could lie to me, doc. I want you at my game today,” Mattheo pressed, lessening the space between your bodies just a bit so you could see how determined he was.

“Mattheo,” you began, and his face softened at the way your lashes fluttered quickly, that nervous tick that he knew oh so well.

“Not to watch,” he interrupted, his voice quieter now, his hand sliding down from the locker to rest gently in the space between your neck and shoulder. He brushed his thumb under your jaw, feeling it unclench at his touch. “I just need something to look forward to, something to help me play better. This really important coach is coming to watch, he’s recruiting me to play at his university next year. But that doesn’t matter—well it obviously does matter, but not to you—”

He halted his anxious rambling, shutting his lips in mortification. He didn’t think he’d ever done that in the presence of anyone else.

Anxious? Rambling? What had you done to him?

He sighed at his own antics, watching you take your bottom lip between your teeth as you no doubt read every micro expression crossing his face.

He tried again, gentler now that your face was finally close to his and your skin was beneath his fingertips after two agonizing weeks.

“Please, doc, meet me at our spot. I want…I need—I miss you.”

He wanted to talked to you. He needed you to talk to him.

“I’m sorry,” your voice broke through his desperate train of thought, unnaturally shaky. Your hand found his, intertwining your fingers and he immediately felt his brain cool down at your touch. But his entire body was on edge at the tone of your voice, simultaneously anxious and uncertain, like something was bothering you that you couldn’t quite say. “I’m sorry for avoiding you, Mattheo. I just didn’t know…”

He hated the frown that pulled at your lips as you struggled to find words. He always hated it, but this time he didn’t know why it was there, and he hated it more.

Mattheo brought your intertwined hands to his chest, pressing the back of your hand to his heart so you could feel the erratic rhythm that beat for you, that pumped blood to see your face and hear your voice.

“You can talk to me, angel,” his voice was low, a sweet coaxing sound that only you ever heard as his other hand slid up to cup the back of your neck.

“I know, and I will—once I figure out how,” you swallowed hard at that, eyes glazing over with that focus you’d held while patching him up in a secluded stairwell or figuring out the perfect excuse to slip away from him for weeks after that.

He knew what it meant, you were thinking hard, and if your hand wasn’t locked with his you’d probably spin that familiar ring. He knew how your voice slipped into the air like a summer breeze when you were vulnerable, like you were letting the wind take your secrets.

Maybe he was selfish for wanting to pick the thoughts from your mind and bottle your airborne secrets like fireflies, but he did. He wanted that and more. He would give you that and more in return. But only if you let him.

“Oi, Riddle! Snogging is not a pregame ritual, last I checked!”

The both of you startled, glancing over to see Mattheo’s teammate Enzo standing at the end of the hallway, hockey bag slung over his shoulder, accompanied by Blaise and Theo.

Mattheo sighed, squeezing your hand as the trio’s eyes lingered on the two of you, you pressed against your locker and his hand cupping your face. His expression, which had once been so open and gentle, hardened into the mask he wore everyday.

“Fuck off, Berkshire,” he sneered, glancing over his shoulder once more before leaning back down to you, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “I’ll see you after the game, doc.”

He brushed his thumb along your jaw once, then let his hand fall from your face and slip from your grasp.

With one last grumbled remark about ‘idiotic teammates’ Mattheo was lugging his bag down the hallway.

Mattheo’s hockey games were always loud, but even louder was the one that would send his team to the playoffs for the fourth year in a row since he’d joined. There wasn’t an empty seat in the stands. Students were roaring through the arena glass, frantic wagerers were waving money around their peers, and parents were clutching their hearts as another player was banged against the boards.

This was the kind of environment Mattheo lived for. He thrived under the pressure of his future coach watching him, critiquing every one of his moves and mentally preparing for the fall. The weight on his shoulders, the expectation that he would go on to be a successful player at the top university, only pushed him to play harder.

And yet, through all the noise and the fanfare, Mattheo’s mind always traveled back to you. You and your big eyes, dangly earrings, and soft voice. You and your fear of violence. You and your tolerance for him that still shocked him.

His brain had been tormenting him in this way ever since that night in the stairwell. Bus rides to away games allowed him to stare out the window and connect every lyric of his pregame music back to you. It was otherworldly how easily you’d invaded his thoughts and stuck there like a new song he wanted to learn every word to.

That’s why, when he scored the game winning goal and his teammates shoved him around the ice while the crowd cheered wildly, his mind fell back to whether you would be impressed by his performance. Would you be covering your eyes every time there was a fight? Would you grin up at him with that sweet smile of yours and congratulate him?

Even his future coach’s rugged smile began to look a bit like yours.

“Excellent job out there, Riddle,” the man grunted, slapping Mattheo’s shoulder roughly.

His team had already begun to head toward the locker room, but there was always one more person for Mattheo to reluctantly greet or accept an interview from after a big game like this.

Raking a hang through his damp hair, he nodded gratefully, eyes drifting past the broad shouldered man to the corridor that led to his spot. To you.

“Thanks, Coach,” Mattheo responded simply.

The university coach began to talk about his plans for the upcoming season, how much he was looking forward to having Mattheo on the team, and then a bit about how his future team was forming nicely.

Mattheo was only partially distracted by the thought of you, but he was able to make it through the conversation with minimal small talk and a promise from his coach that he’d be at every home game. And then, Mattheo was gone.

He always left the ice fast, usually nursing a few bruises and wounds, but always longing to slump into his stairwell alone and avoid the medical team.

This time, however, he was looking forward to an entirely different type of treatment.

“You have the most recognizable footsteps, did you know that?” your voice filled his ears as soon as he ascended the stairs and his lips immediately yanked up into a grin.

You’d actually came. You hadn’t run. You were curled up in the corner of the stairwell, reading another book about anatomy, and you were smiling up at him like you were anticipating his company almost as much as he was yours.

He couldn’t help the way his hands automatically found yours, letting your book fall to the floor as he pulled you from the ground.

“Hi, sweet girl.”

“Hi, Mattheo.”

He felt all the leftover adrenaline leave his body at the sound of your lovely voice saying his name. In that moment, he suspected he could listen to you read an instruction manual for hours and still be awestruck. His arms encircled your waist, pulling your chest flush against his, and he felt your hands slide up his torso.

Mattheo let his head rest in your hands as they carefully cupped his face, inspecting the new cut along his cheekbone and bruises littering his jawline.

“How do you manage to sustain new injuries every game?” you mumbled, eyes darting over his features in that evaluating, yet nurturing, way of yours.

His breath fanned against your skin as he pressed his lips to your palm, eyelids fluttering closed and his smile getting even fonder, if possible.

“I tend to throw off my helmet before I punch anyone,” he replied smugly, voice lazy and muffled against your hand. When he opened his eyes and saw your unimpressed stare, he backtracked quickly. “So I can see him clearly and try not to permanently alter his face, of course.”

You laughed at that, your giggles resembling the soft jingle of wind chimes to his fuzzy brain.

Mattheo sighed softly, thumbs smoothing along your back in slow circles, examining your features closely as they shifted with your pure emotions. He thought he could sit there forever and watch the tiny crease form in the corner of your eyes when your beautiful lips drew up into that radiant grin.

Your lips really were quite alluring.

“I really like when you do that,” the words fell stupidly out of his mouth as your chuckles subsided, leaving those magnificent lips of yours in an affectionate smirk.

“Do what?” you questioned, fingers curling delicately into his brunette curls, cautious of the new bruises along his jawline.

“Laugh. Smile. Anything, really,” he leaned the slightest bit closer, just so he could see every mark and gentle dip in your skin. “I missed you, doc.”

His words made your smile turn somber. You casted your gaze down to the minuscule space between your bodies as you hesitated with your words.

“I really am sorry, Mattheo,” your voice was low, timid almost. Airy in that way that left your words to drift aimlessly through the air, like you weren’t used to (or didn’t want) them being fully heard. “I didn’t mean to make you feel sad…I just—well you know I think a lot.”

You were dancing around a confession and it tugged at something in his heart. It hurt him to see you so lost, so fragile and anxious. Your hands, which had formerly been resting loosely in his hair, clasped around the back of his neck, and he felt your muscles twitch as you no doubt spun that ring on your finger.

He let a hand slowly rise from your waist, skating up the side of your body before his knuckles carefully found your chin. He tilted your gaze back up to his, leaning imperceptibly closer.

“I don’t want you to feel obligated to tell me anything, angel. We’re going slow, remember?” he soothed, lips a whisper away from yours.

Your eyes, the same ones that analyzed him like he was an equation you were desperate to solve, softened as they traced over his features. Gone was the calculating stare, replaced by something much more tender, much closer to quiet attachment. It was almost as if his words had triggered something. Your hands went still on the back of his neck as you ceased your fidgeting and your frown evened out into something almost curious.

“No—yes, I mean, yes I remember. But you should know this. I’m just worried it might…mess things up,” the hushed words left your mouth quickly, those panicked little breaths sweeping against his lips as you both gravitated closer.

Mattheo let his silence guide you towards opening up to him fully, hoping that his sincere gaze and gentle circles of his hand on your back would coax you into relieving your shoulders of whatever weight was on them.

But you were silent too. All that remained was the sound of your soft breaths mingling together in the tiny space between your mouths.

There was just you in that moment, your eyes close enough for him to memorize every fleck of color, even the dilating of your pupils.

There was your soft sweater, tangled between the gentle grip of his fingers at your waist, disturbed only by his thumb brushing up and down your side.

There was the parting of your lips, hardly noticeable if only he hadn’t been watching them intently, waiting for your words to float into the wind and into his welcoming hands.

There was no longer a gap between your lips anymore, brushing each other as delicate as tranquil waves washing over sand.

Then, there was music.

The only telltale sign that the melody wasn’t the same one that played in Mattheo’s head when you were near, was you flinching away from him.

It was your phone. Your phone was ringing.

You carefully extracted yourself from his arms, bending down to pick up your phone, which lay forgotten next to your anatomy book.

You sighed at the caller ID, then looked up at him apologetically, phone still ringing. “I have to go.”

“Go?” he mumbled, then came to his senses and scrambled to pick up your book and backpack for you, slinging it over his shoulder like last time. “Go? Where are you going?”

“My ride is—he’s telling me it’s time to go,” you called over your shoulder as you began descending the stairs.

Mattheo felt like he’d been shot in the chest. He staggered back a second before hurrying to catch up with you.

“He?” he called out your name, perhaps the first time he hadn’t addressed you by a pet name, and fell into a quick stride beside you. “Who’s your ride? What were you gonna say?”

You stopped at the back entrance of the rink, turning to face him just before you pushed opened the door. Your face morphed into one of distress, eyelids blinking fast and fingers finding that ring on your finger.

“I didn’t want to mess things up for you,” you exhaled shakily. “I know how important hockey is to you, and I don’t want to—”

A quick shout of your name cut you off and caused both of you to whip your heads toward the source.

Striding towards you, sporting a collegiate hockey sweatshirt and that familiar disgruntled look, was Mattheo’s future coach.

The one who’d given him a full ride scholarship to the most elite hockey university in the country.

The one whose smile looked a bit too much like your own.

“Hi dad,” you squeaked, and Mattheo nearly fainted.

summary; mattheo hates being touched, and he especially hates being patched up after games. but what can he do when you insist?

warnings; reader is a bit whimsical but she’s a genius, modern au, high school au, fluff, mentions of blood

note; everything i know about hockey is from lynn painter so; part 2, part 3

Mattheo Riddle had little interest in anything that wasn’t hockey.

More often then not, he’d forget the names of the many girls who approached him at parties, turn in assignments weeks after their due dates, and ditch class just to get more time on the ice.

With a full ride to the university with the best hockey team in the nation and a varsity squad bound to take the championship, Mattheo was content to cruise through senior year with just his stick and a few bruises.

Those cuts and bruises especially didn’t bother him, and he’d much rather add on to the plethora of scars littered across his skin than have anyone’s gloved fingers poking around his body.

That was one more thing that didn’t concern him, having his injuries treated by the snobby nurses who creeped around the bench during games.

Which is why, after a particularly violent game where he’d been sentenced to the penalty box more times than he could count, he veered away from his teammates heading towards the locker room. His head was pounding, and the cut on his lip was stopping him from moistening them. The slash above his eyebrow stung every time he scowled at a passerby.

Maybe he shouldn’t have thrown his helmet to the floor to launch himself at the guy who’d shoved Nott into the boards. Maybe the purpling bruise under his eye and the throbbing in his nose was a telltale sign that, after knocking a tooth out of one of his opponent’s mouth, he should get his injuries treated.

But he never did.

Instead, he slowly let his shoulders relax with every step away from the arena. The noise settled as he turned corners, the sounds of excited fans packing up and the buzzing of the Zamboni became muffled.

He climbed the steps of the most hidden staircase in the rink, his hidden staircase, each heavy thump of his foot a reflection of the exhaustion creeping into his veins.

Finally, he could relax and hide away from the medical staff in peace.

Then he stopped.

Still staring down at his shoes, he noticed he’d almost stepped on a textbook. A textbook that looked very much like it belonged in a doctor’s office, with the cover featuring a color coded skull and the word ‘anatomy’ in big letters.

Last time Mattheo checked, there were no textbooks in his secret stairwell.

His eyes finally drifted upwards and landed on the anomaly.

You were curled up in the corner of the small landing between floors, back against the wall, headphones on with loud music leaking out, laptop in your lap and another open textbook by your feet. You typed mercilessly, like the keyboard was on fire and each letter burned your fingertips.

He’d seen you around school before, big eyes always searching the world like you were seeing words in the sky that no one else could. You walked like air swept under your feet with every step and you talked with the lightness of a leaf falling off of a tree. Of course he knew you, he just didn’t know why you were in his corner.

You hadn’t even noticed his arrival, so absorbed in your work that the over 6 foot, broad shouldered hockey player managed to slip from your vision. Until he took a step closer and his shadow loomed over you like you were something he had to conquer to find his peace.

You peeled the headphones off your head, which he finally noticed were bedazzled with an absurd amount of glittering gems, and looked up at him with those big eyes.

Mattheo was sure he looked as intimidating as ever, maybe even more so due to the blood dripping down his temple and the pure irritation he felt.

But the craziest thing he had possibly ever seen happened. You blinked. Once. Twice. Pressed your lips together in a polite smile. Then put your sparkly headphones back over your ears.

Mattheo Riddle was speechless.

Usually, one look from him was enough to send people running, especially delicate little things like you.

Never had he been dismissed.

He furrowed his brows, but he was sure he looked more bewildered than angered, and crouched down to your level, waving a hand in front of your face.

You huffed out a small breath and pulled the headphones from your ears again.

“Hi,” you said, voice drifting into his ears like a gust of wind had personally delivered it to him, all airy and soft. Your lips pulled up into that polite smile again, and he didn’t know what effect that simple gesture was supposed to have on him, but he felt it in his chest.

Mattheo parted his lips to speak, then closed them. They were chapped, his throat was dry, and his knees were aching from being crouched before you. He licked his lips, then immediately winced as he felt the sting of his cut and the iron taste of blood hit his tongue.

He opened his mouth to try again.

“You’re in my spot,” his voice was gruff, but his tone wasn’t the intimidating drawl he was going for. He sounded almost… confused?

You glanced around the landing of the stairs where you had set up camp, then back at him. Your eyes were quizzical, calculating, like you were seeing things only you could see and reading his very thoughts. Then you spoke again, and his chest clenched with that unfamiliar feeling.

“You’re bleeding.”

Without his permission, Mattheo’s hand reached up to the side of his head, wiping the drop of blood that had been seeping across his skin. He stared at his bloody hand, then smeared it on his dark jeans, internally cringing at the action.

He scowled deeper. When had he ever cringed at his own actions? What were you doing to him?

“I know,” his voice wavered, the words leaving his lips in an uncomfortable murmur. Then he swallowed and looked back at you. “You’re in my spot.”

“I really think you should get that treated,” you squinted up at the cut above his brow, then your eyes trailed to his split lip. “It’ll get infected soon, especially that one if you keep licking your lips.”

You pointed briefly to his mouth, then settled your hands back on your keyboard, still watching him.

Mattheo shook his head, “I don’t care. You—”

“You should,” you continued, cutting off what was meant to be a violent consequence if you didn’t evacuate his spot immediately. “Split lips can be particularly painful, especially because we use our mouths pretty often. And that eyebrow cut will just keep bleeding, since our faces are highly vascular.”

He aggressively wiped away the blood dripping down his face again, scowling fully at you this time.

“What are you, my personal medical nightmare? Can you leave?” he spat, standing from his crouch to glare down at you, crossing his arms.

You frowned, and immediately he felt his glare falter. That didn’t look right.

“I’m waiting for someone,” you said simply, toying with a ring on your finger.

“You can wait somewhere else,” Mattheo grumbled, running a hand through his sweaty mess of curls. “Students aren’t supposed to be back here during games anyway.”

“Your eyebrow is getting pretty bloody now.”

He clenched his jaw so hard he thought maybe some of his teeth would fall out and join those of his opponents.

He walked to the opposite end of the landing, which wasn’t very far, and slumped against the wall. He sighed as he dropped to the floor, letting his head fall back against the wall and his sore arms rest against his knees.

Maybe he could ignore you just like he ignored his teammates and the medics and the teachers who always nagged him. Maybe he could sink into the hard ground where no one would bother him or touch him or breathe too close to him again.

Maybe his thinking was too wishful.

“I could help you,” that voice, a sound like waves crashing into a sandy shore and birds singing on the first spring morning. It warmed his cold skin, made him involuntarily unclench his jaw, and his eyes blink open.

You were standing over him now, boots nearly touching the toes of his shoes, jackets sleeves dangling over ringed fingers, and smooth lips pulled up into a smile. This one didn’t look as polite and dismissive though, it looked more welcoming, like maybe you weren’t just annoyed with his presence after all.

He narrowed his eyes at you, head still tilted back to meet your determined gaze.

“I didn’t come here so you could play doctor,” he scowled, wiping away another drop of blood. “I came to get away from all that shit.“

You pursed your lips thoughtfully, humming, and your eyes did that thing where they evaluated his very existence. Then you nodded, turning away from him to pick up your backpack.

He watched you skeptically as you rummaged through its contents before pulling out a first aid kid, a water bottle, and some napkins.

You walked back over and occupied the floor right next to him.

His scowl deepened and he shifted away, but it didn’t seem to deter you as you folded your legs underneath you and cracked open the plastic water bottle.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Mattheo’s question went unanswered, so he was forced to watch as you dribbled water onto the napkins. Every movement was calculated and careful, even the way your earrings dangled back and forth was methodical. Your lip was pulled between your teeth, hands steady, and he wasn’t exactly sure why he’d noticed all this about you. Or when you’d scooted closer.

He blinked when the cold, wet napkin hit his temple, jaw tight, gaze locked on you, but he couldn’t find it in him to move away.

You carefully cleaned up the new and dried blood, then folded it and dabbed at his lip.

Your hands weren’t gloved, your words weren’t nagging, and your touch was gentle as a breeze.

“This kinda stuff makes you nervous?” you asked softly as you set the napkin aside and opened up your first aid kit.

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, arms falling away from his knees to allow you to lean closer.

It was like his usually loud brain had been taken out and rewired to only play static.

Mattheo could only look at you. You and your delicate features, like they’d been watercolor painted onto a canvas. You and your tender voice, a sweet, simple melody in the chaotic orchestra that was his thoughts. You and your calculating eyes. You and your dangly earrings. You and your bedazzled headphones.

“I guess,” his voice wasn’t gruff or even annoyed. It was like the electric force field that guarded him had faltered. He wasn’t showing you the violent hockey player that kept bruises as trophies. He wasn’t showing you the arrogant playboy who went through girls like dirty socks.

He was just Mattheo. The Mattheo that no one had ever cared to know. The Mattheo that was being treated with the gentlest of touches and sweetest of words.

“I don’t like their gloves. Or their prodding,” he continued, eyes still searching your face, not even registering the alcohol pad that you’d pressed to his cut. “They ask me too many questions and use words I’ve never even heard of.”

You slowly lowered the bloody wipe and let your eyes meet his.

“What’s going on in that head of yours when you do that?” Mattheo muttered, fingers twitching in his lap.

“Do what?”

“That look. Like you can read my mind or something.”

You grinned. You grinned and either the dim lights in the stairwell suddenly brightened or that simple pull of your lips had casted an unearthly glow that had him squinting to see.

And you had dimples.

Mattheo felt a smile of his own making his cheeks ache.

“Well, I can’t read your mind, but I will say that those are all valid things to be uncomfortable with,” you laughed slightly, a honeyed tune that he wished he could save to his pregame playlist. “Though, gloves are standard.”

“I don’t like the squeaking,” his voice lowered to a teasing drawl and he leaned slightly closer.

“You’ll like an infected wound even less.”

“That’s debatable, doc,” he bit the inside of his cheek to stop his stupid grin from growing even more. Apparently, only soft-spoken thieves could bring that smile out of him. “How d’you know all this stuff, anyway?”

You glanced back at your textbooks lying on the floor and your closed laptops. “I’ll be pre-med next fall,” you shrugged, pulling out a weird looking bandaid from your first aid kit. You then stopped and looked up at him. “That make you scared of me?”

He laughed, head falling back against the wall. “Don’t think that’s possible, doc. You’re too gentle.”

You rolled your eyes, hovering your hand over his forehead, bandaid dangling from your fingers. Mattheo picked his head up, smirk softening, and carefully took hold of your wrist. “Aren’t you scared of me?”

You froze, focusing your gaze back on his. His words were different, vulnerable in a way. Like he wasn’t teasing anymore.

You shook your head, matching his fond smile.

“You’re too gentle.”

His hand fell from your wrist and he could only watch as you patched up his cut.

Mattheo Riddle, gentle? Never in his life would he think that could be a word used to describe him.

But maybe that was the Mattheo that no one knew. Maybe this was a version only you could know. One you were already becoming accustomed to.

“It’ll pinch for a bit, but it should heal up fine. Wasn’t too deep. Take this off in the morning, clean it again, and let it get some air,” you muttered, face close to his as you smoothened the bandage over his skin.

“Hey, doc?” he shifted towards you on the cold floor, voice low as if he was afraid anything louder would disrupt whatever fog had fallen over them.

You met his eyes, thumb still tracing above his eyebrow, feet still folded underneath you, knees pressed into his thigh.

“Why’d you steal my secret spot?”

Mattheo found his gaze glued to the way your throat moved as you swallowed and your eyelashes fluttered as you blinked. You were nervous for a change, and he could’ve patted himself on the back for being able to notice. Or punched himself in the face, maybe.

When you pulled away, he decided that being deprived of your tender touch hurt worse than being slammed against the boards by his opponents.

He could only watch in silence as you packed your stuff away, eyes anywhere but on him. The floor felt colder when you stood up.

“My ride wanted to watch the hockey game and I needed to study,” you said, voice shaky as you shoved textbooks in your backpack.

Mattheo stood, watching you scramble. His demeanor oddly calm for the deafening thoughts that had begun to buzz around his brain again.

“What’s wrong?” he sounded devastated, taking hold of your wrist again, stopping you from packing up. “What did I say?”

“Nothing,” you blinked fast and he watched the apprehension flicker across your face. “Nothing, but since the game’s over, I should probably go find my ride.”

He barely tightened his grip on you and tugged, but it was enough for you to face him fully. He lowered himself slightly so he wasn’t looming over you, so maybe that anxiousness would seep away from your features and he could see his gentle doctor again.

He didn’t say anything more, he knew that if you didn’t want to tell him, you wouldn’t. But he hoped that the small sliver of himself he’d presented to you would be enough for him to know this one thing that bothered you in exchange.

You frowned and his heart clenched.

You sighed and his fingers twitched around your wrist.

“I like treating injuries, I don’t like seeing them happen,” the words came out like they were stuck to your tongue, and you shied away from his gaze as you continued. “Hockey is…well it’s very violent.”

Mattheo suddenly felt shame wash over him like a bucket of cold water being poured over his head, but he didn’t know exactly why. He saw your eyes flicker up to his cut, flashing with panic as you thought about how it could’ve happened. Your frown deepened, and he knew he couldn’t look at it any longer.

With his other hand, his knuckles brushed your chin as he gingerly turned your gaze back to his. His voice was soft, almost coaxing.

“M’sorry, doc,” he crooned, rubbing his thumb along your jaw, watching the muscles unclench and your frown even out. He smiled at that, pulling at the end of your lips with his thumb. “It didn’t even hurt. Besides, that alcohol pad of yours stung more.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as your shoulders relaxed again. “You didn’t even flinch when I cleaned your cut, I’m not convinced,” you countered, watching him with those calculating eyes he’d begin to grow quite fond of.

“Yeah? How do I convince you then?” Mattheo glanced down, loosening his hold on your wrist to intertwine your fingers with his. He listened to your breath hitch, those big eyes of yours getting even bigger as his other hand fully cupped your jaw. You were so sweet, like candy he knew he’d be addicted to once he had a taste.

And Merlin did he want a taste.

You smiled, almost playfully, and squeezed his hand.

“Maybe you should go back to being scared of doctors.”

“But I really like this one.”

“You just met this one.”

Mattheo’s smirk widened into a full, cheeky grin. He nodded, eyes gleaming like you’d presented him with a challenge he couldn’t turn down.

“Alright, we’ll go slow,” he decided, rubbing his thumb along your cheek one more time before reaching down to take your backpack from your other hand, shrugging it over his own shoulder.

You furrowed your eyebrows as he tugged on your hands that were still connected, following him down the staircase.

“We’ll do what?” you squeaked, nearly jogging to keep up with his long strides.

“We’ll go slow,” he echoed, glancing back at you and slowing down his steps, smile softening. “Until I haven’t just met you. Until I know more than that you blink fast when you’re nervous and spin that cute ring on your finger when you’re thinking really hard.“

You blinked quickly, big eyes staring up at him, and he didn’t even know if you’d done it on purpose, but he laughed.

summary; you hate mattheo after he broke your crush’s nose, but it’s hard to hate someone you once loved

warnings; angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending, mattheo is groveling

If Mattheo Riddle was having a good day, you were likely dead.

You’d be lying if you said getting on his last nerve wasn’t entertaining. Because it was. Immensely.

He’d get this aggravated tick in his jaw whenever you commented on his Quidditch performance at the most recent game, or his fingers would twitch in the ghost of a fist when you’d swiped his pack of cigarettes for the third time that week.

Only small inconveniences, but none of them could really fill your need for revenge.

You hadn’t always hated him, with him being best friends with your older brother Theodore, you’d find yourself spending a lot of time with him. But after that fateful day, nearly two months ago, you couldn’t find it in you to be around him without the overwhelming feeling of resentment clawing at your skin.

You could only suspect that this feeling of intense loathing was mutual by the way his gaze would follow you every time he happened to cross your path. His eyes lingered like you were still something he had to watch over, like you were a habit he hadn’t yet broken.

This would only serve to irritate you more, how could he hate you when he was the one who ruined your life?

It was three days before your birthday.

The Slytherin Quidditch team had finally pulled off a win over Gryffindor and you had practically skipped back up the grounds with the rest of your friends, already talking animatedly about your outfits for the celebration that night. When the evening rolled around, the common room was decorated with Quidditch banners and a number of drinks that you weren’t sure how the older students acquired but were grateful for nonetheless.

Theo, always the overprotective brother, made you swear to be safe, and had mumbled something to Mattheo beside him about keeping an eye on you. You’d just rolled your eyes and pushed past them to go find your friends. And more importantly, to go find Rowan Hill.

Rowan Hill was a fifth year Slytherin who you’d had a crush on for months. He was tall, played on the Quidditch team, and had a charming smile that’d been flashed in your direction numerous times. And that night, he had been the one to urge you to go to the party, saying that he’d hoped to see you there.

And see you he had.

You were an hour into the party, dancing and laughing loudly with your friends, when fate had led you into a quieter corner with Rowan.

Things were going well enough, you had only stuttered once and you didn’t think you were smiling too hard to the point it would be creepy. That was until you felt a cold chill run down your spine, and your fingers tightened around your plastic cup when you glanced over Rowan’s shoulder.

Mattheo was watching.

He wasn’t just watching though, he was fuming. The cigarette that’d been dangling from his lips was now on the floor, stamped out under his boot like it’d personally offended him. His jaw was clenched so hard you’d think his teeth would shatter from the force.

You felt your heart plummet to your feet, because then he was walking toward you.

Apparently it wasn’t enough that he was striding towards you and Rowan cozied up in the corner like his body and his mind had been separated, but the groups of dizzy girls and guys trying to charm them just had to part for him.

Mattheo was behind Rowan in seconds, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder, spinning him around, and driving his fist straight into your dream boy’s jaw.

You gasped loud enough for people’s conversations to stop, but Mattheo on the other hand, did no such thing.

Rowan fell into the wall beside him, groaning and clutching his cheek as Mattheo cocked his arm back and punched him again, right between the eyes.

The poor boy crumpled to the floor and you, furious, snapped your gaze back up to Mattheo.

He was an odd portrait of calm, popping his jaw and absentmindedly rubbing his knuckles, staring down at Rowan like he was chewed up gum on the bottom of his shoe rather than a victim to his fists.

“Riddle! What the hell?” you screeched, stepping around Rowan to shove Mattheo’s chest, who barely moved an inch despite the impact.

His eyes flickered to yours and his expression looked almost bored, like you were overreacting, like he didn’t understand your anger.

“He doesn’t need to be anywhere near you,” he breathed, pursing his lips together like you were an insolent child who knew no better.

“Who are you to tell me that?” Your voice cracked in mortification as you looked back down at your months long crush sitting up in a daze, blood gushing from his nose and a purple hue blooming on the right side of his jaw.

You crouched down to be level with Rowan, examining his wounds, but he flinched away from you. The boy scrambled off the floor, only sparing Mattheo one terrified look before he bolted out of the common room.

You watched him go with wide eyes, hands shaking at your sides, ears ringing despite the hushed conversations that began to fill the room again, quiet words that were no doubt about you. You tried to breathe deeply, in and out, but it was no use, air wasn’t your friend in that moment. No one was.

“Hey—” Mattheo’s voice, now lacking that bored tone in favor of a softer one, managed to slip past the ringing in your ears. He reached for you, but you smacked his hand away, cutting off whatever bullshit was about to leave his lips.

You glared up at him, vision half blurry by the embarrassed tears that pricked at your eyes. “You’re psychotic, Mattheo! You—you…”

You wanted to finish your sentence, to chew him out for ruining your chances at finding a boyfriend, but the bile that was rising to your throat told you otherwise. With one last hateful glare at the boy before you, whose eyes were scanning your face quickly, you left. You knocked into his shoulder roughly and pushed past all the nosy Slytherins who’d watched the whole thing go down.

After that day, no boy dared to so much as breathe close to you, your friends were uneasy around you, and even your potions partner wouldn’t look you in the eye. And it was all Mattheo’s fault.

So, almost two months later, the night after another huge win for the Slytherin Quidditch team, you were as far away from the lively common room as possible, wandering the moonlit halls aimlessly.

The stars twinkled mockingly down at you as you glanced out the tall windows, watching you despair about that night in the same way you always did and internally curse a boy who likely didn’t even remember ruining it. All of your friends had planned to meet up with the boys they constantly giggled about during late study sessions and at dinner, but no one would even show interest in you anymore, not after Mattheo’s stunt.

You could almost sense him in the cold air that dusted across your damp cheeks, the distinct scent of his expensive cologne and hint of smoke that always lingered when he was around wafted by you like a distant memory. And his voice, that smooth tone and sarcastic drawl that only made him sound more arrogant than he already was, it bounced around in your head in an obnoxious, never ending game of tennis.

You drew your bottom lip between your teeth, biting harshly into the flesh to stop the second round of tears that dotted your vision that night. Most days, you were uncontrollably angry at Mattheo for the way he acted, every time you saw him you wanted to yank the perfect brunette curls right off his scalp.

Other days, when it was late at night and your brother was off flirting with a girl and your friends were nowhere to be seen, you just missed him. You missed his comforting presence when the two of you would sit on the common room couch, knees brushing occasionally, and silently read your own books. You missed the way he would fix your tie for you when Theo would make fun of you for still not being able to tie it correctly, and how he would ruffle your hair afterwards with that minuscule smile that you could almost believe was just for you.

You missed the things you could tell him that no one else ever heard, how sometimes you felt like you weren’t enough compared to your brother.

You missed the simplicity of showing him your jewelry collection on a warm night just days before that wretched party, when he had complimented the lavish diamonds but said you needed more gold because it brought out your eyes.

You hadn’t touched any of your gold jewelry in two months.

You’d finally let the first tear fall as you turned down another dimly-lit corridor when a hand clasped around your wrist.

“Hey, I’ve been calling your name for ages,” a horribly familiar voice scolded quietly as you turned to see who’d grabbed you. “You shouldn’t be walking alone this late.”

Mattheo’s brown eyes shone in the moonlight as they darted over your features, fingers flexing against the pulse on your wrist.

You yanked your arm out of his grasp, backing away and wiping away any tears with the back of your hand. You forced your eyes to settle into a glare, hands clenched into fists as you scoffed at him. “Don’t touch me. Don’t act like you care about me, either,” you spat, shaking your head distastefully.

He exhaled through his nose but didn’t move, jaw ticking in that way it normally did around you. For nearly two months now, you’d thought it was irritation, but the way the candles flickered across his sharp features made it instead look like he was stopping himself from doing something.

“You’re crying,” he whispered as if the thought slipped past his lips in the form of too sincere-sounding words. “Why aren’t you at the party?”

If your eyes could shoot lasers at that exact moment, Mattheo would’ve dropped dead instantly.

Your glare only intensified as you took a step closer, red-rimmed eyes narrowed up at him. “Why aren’t I at the party?” you repeated his question, a bitter laugh bubbling up from your throat as you shoved a finger in his chest. “You don’t even realize what you’ve done, do you? What you did to me?”

The humiliating feat of walking past all the whispering students two months ago flashed through your mind as you exhaled a shaky breath. Some of them had been your friends, but all of them had watched your crush run away from you because your brother’s stupid friend couldn’t control his anger issues. And none of them had forgotten. You hadn’t forgotten.

“You and your stupid overprotective act! You think you’re protecting me? You may as well have wrapped me in bubble wrap, Mattheo!” you shouted before he could open his mouth again, pressing your finger hard against his chest. He looked down at where your skin touched the fabric of the Quidditch jumper he was still wearing like it was something foreign. “The first guy to not be scared of you and my brother, and you went and altered his nose for life! That’s not caring about me, that’s your own selfish behavior!”

Your voice was thick with the tears that you’d previously been crying, but you didn’t care anymore as you shoved at his chest. It all seemed too familiar, with the way he was barely swayed by your physical assault but your words caused that calm look in his eyes to dissipate completely. Maybe if your own anger and hurt weren’t messing with your head, you’d be able to register the remorse on his face. The shame, the guilt, and even the devastating bout of pain that washed over his features, turning his usual unreadable expression into something deeper, something more meaningful.

“You spoiled everything!” you shoved at his chest again.

“Yeah?” he breathed.

“You’re a dickhead!” another shove.

“I am.”

“And you’re arrogant!”

“I am.”

Your voice cracked. The tears fell harder. “I used to love you!”

“You did?” Mattheo blinked, the hard set of his jaw and the sure tone of his voice faltered, the force of your final shove making him stumble back this time.

You hiccuped, stepping away again, wrapping your arms around yourself tightly. You regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth, but they were as painful as they were true, and you couldn’t take them back now.

They say distance makes the heart grow fonder, and his absence had yanked your heartstrings so hard, you’d finally realized how you felt.

“And…and I used to think you could love me too.”

His adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, the destroyed look on his face making him seem almost human again, not like some monster with cruel intentions. He approached you, slowly, arms outstretched as if not to spook you.

His hands, shaky and calloused, slid up your arms, almost reverently.

His lips were parted as his hands snaked a path up, over your shoulders, thumbs rubbing softly along your collarbone, and finally finding a home on your jaw, fingers curled lightly in your hair.

“I can,” Mattheo murmured as his thumbs gently traced your jawline. He exhaled again, a tiny, defeated groan leaving his lips as he shut his eyes. “Shit, angel—I do.”

Your breath hitched and you blinked away more tears like maybe this was another one of your cruel dreams, but the pads of his fingers wiping your tears as they fell felt too real.

He swallowed hard again, shaking his head, pressing closer as he spoke, breath fanning your lips and eyes locked on yours in the pale moonlight.

“After the game that day, Hill told some other bloke on the Quidditch team that he’d invited you to that party. He was bragging about it. About what he had planned,” his breathing came out shaky as his eyes flashed with that familiar anger, that protectiveness, but his grip on your face stayed as gentle as ever. “He was going to…fuck—I’m so sorry, love. I should’ve told you.”

You felt like you were falling down a well, though maybe you were falling and the only keeping you upright was his hands cupping your face like you were made of glass.

“I know I fucked things up for you, I know I’m the reason you aren’t having fun tonight, I know I could’ve handled that bastard differently but I cannot do anything normal around you,” his forehead was pressed against yours and he was pushing the words past his lips like they’d been tangled in his mind for years. “You make me crazy, Nott, absolutely batshit crazy.”

At your stunned silence, his shaky hands slowly fell from your face and he created the smallest bit of distance between you, as if he was afraid of what would leave your lips.

Eyes still locked on yours, he reached into the collar of his sweater and pulled out a chain. Dangling from the bottom, was a delicate gold ring. He unclasped the chain from his neck and held it out to you, watching as you hesitantly took it.

“I bought you the ring for your birthday. You need more gold,” he added quietly, fingers twitching at his sides. “I’m sorry.”

Mattheo Riddle, the boy who refused to be rude to you even after everything you did to him. The boy who paid attention to what metals complimented your eye color. The boy who you’d loved ever since your brother forced him to help you with potions because you were miserable at it. The boy who loved you back.

A smile pulling at your lips, you closed the small space between you two with a tug at his sweater and pressed your lips to his.

He groaned, immediately wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his body as his lips moved slowly over yours.

The kiss was deep and focused, as if he wanted to read the writing on your heart and memorize the rhythm of its beats with just the brush of his lips against yours. It was a mix of the cigarette you knew he’d smoked before he came up to you and the salty taste of your leftover tears.

Your hands wandered up his chest and into his hair and you felt his breath hitch as you slid your fingers through his soft chocolate curls.

His lips left yours to move downward, eyes still closed and fingers pressing into the skin between your shirt and your pants. He kissed along your jawline, nipped at the pulse point on your neck, and whispered against the silky skin of your collarbone,.

“I love you,” he repeated like a mantra, infatuated, as if he couldn’t believe he could finally utter the words aloud.

He loved you. He loved you and you didn’t understand how you’d never noticed because if you could feel it from just his lips on yours, what had he said all those times you felt his careful touches? Was he saying he loved you when he tied your tie for you or helped you study with a gentle hand over yours?

Bringing his eyes back level with yours, your grin making your cheeks ache as his hooded eyes blinked down at you, you muttered, “Mattheo, you made every guy in school afraid to look at me.”

Finally, Mattheo smirked, that agonizing smirk that used to torture you in every way, but the adoration in his eyes now made it even more unbearable.

summary; your best friend theo takes care of you while you’re sick

warnings; childhood friends too scared to admit their love, fluff, very soft theo

notes; yk that one scene from people we meet on vacation?

Some say that a connection that transcends feeble emotions is rare, that being able to completely understand another is a gift.

You didn’t remember when Theodore Nott, the quiet boy your parents would force you to play with while your families had dinner, became Theo, your best friend. But between the quiet moments of comfort he’d provide after another year of not receiving a Christmas gift from your parents and the careful one-sided conversations where you would listen to his worries about his future; that fickle bond strengthened into a friendship that fueled you like the blood coursing through your veins.

Perhaps your two beings were always meant to find each other. Maybe the universe had welded your hearts to beat in sync and curated your very souls to perfectly align. Like when you’re studying late one night and Theo immediately knows you don’t understand the Potions assignment but refuse to ask for help, so he calmly slides his notes across the table without even looking up from his own work. Attentive, careful, but inadvertent, as if his brain was wired to care for you.

Or how you can spot the clench of his jaw from a mile away—a telltale sign that he’s overwhelmed or that his social battery is just drained. You immediately latch onto his side and plan the smoothest exit possible, all while tracing your nails up and down the inside of his arm because you know it soothes him.

This silent understanding between the two of you stemmed from being around each other your entire lives.

You distinctly remember running around important galas with him, dirtying up the dress your mother told you not to. You two would play in his mansion’s garden until you’d get a rose thorn stuck in your skin and you’d both cry all the way back to his front door—you because the thorn in your finger would surely kill you, and him because seeing you in pain would surely kill him.

Your first couple years at Hogwarts, you’d think your souls were chained together the way you two refused to leave the other’s side. He was your anchor in a sea of change that you thought you’d drown in. You were his lifeline, his comfort, his reason to stay level while the world around him fought to turn him upside down.

Things never changed between you. Not when you got older and started going to parties, where he would drag you up to bed after and take off all your makeup because he knew you hated sleeping in mascara. Not when you’d hide his cigarette packs to slowly start weening him off of it, even when he grumbled about wanting a smoke.

Not even when your friend group, and potentially the entire school, constantly pondered when the two of you would get together.

That wasn’t usually a topic you two talked about. It only made your stomach churn and your feet tap with restlessness. Why would they think that?

“I swear, I tried to come sooner but these bloody chocolates are a pain to find.”

You blinked groggily, lifting your head up from where you were curled up in a mountain of blankets that had become your temporary home.

Summer break couldn’t have come quicker, but unfortunately, you had spent the first couple days of it feeling a sickness building in your system. Even worse, you’d spent the last few hours dealing with the brunt of it. Your parents condemned you to your room with some sour smelling potion and a notice that they’d be gone for the night at the gala that you had once been excited to attend.

Theo dusted off his pants as he stepped out of your fireplace, Floo Powder still clinging to his brunette strands and a paper bag clutched in one arm. When he looked up, the annoyed furrow of his brows immediately softened, and he lowered his voice slightly, waking over to your bed.

“Oh, cara mia,” his voice was gentle in a way you rarely heard anymore (or were sober enough to register) as he crouched beside your bed, lowering the bag in his arm to the floor. He reached out, gliding his knuckles along your cheek, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. “How are you feeling, hm?”

You could only stare blankly at him, partly because you were basking in the softness of his touch against your skin and partly because you don’t even remember telling him you were sick. Maybe you had and the hazy sensation that riddled your body was messing with your memory. It sure was messing with your vision, or had Theo always looked so soft and blurry around the edges?

The Italian accent that coated all of his words was a saccharine melody that trickled into your ears and down your body, sending tingles all the way to your fingertips. The daze that clouded the world was definitely toying with your thoughts and making you think ludicrous things like how soft his lips would feel against yours or if he would taste like the minty toothpaste he always left in your bathroom during sleepovers.

Slowly, as if scared to mess with the contents of a dream and watch it all vanish before you, you reached for him.

“Teddy? You’re here?” you murmured as your fingers made contact with the soft skin of his cheek. You felt it ripple beneath your fingertips as he cringed at the childhood nickname, though he still allowed your touch to linger.

“You know I hate that name, but yes, I’m here. Are you that out of it?” he smiled softly at you, teasingly, and you couldn’t help but trace the dimple that bloomed beneath his skin.

But then you frowned, retracting your hand and burying your face back into the blankets. “Haven’t had anything to drink tonight, seriously,” the words were jumbled and muffled into the thick cotton wrapped around you, your attempted eye roll turning into a prolonged blink.

Theo, sickening grin still painting his features, just shook his head. He gave your head a comforting pat, ruffling your hair, and stood, placing the bag he brought on your nightstand. He mumbled something about the foul potion that you’d drank but you couldn’t comprehend it over the deafening crinkle of the bag.

“Would you stop making all that noise, please?” you sniffled out, coughing between a few words.

“M’sorry, tesoro, but I brought your favorites,” he carefully pulled out an assortment of items, throwing the empty bag to the floor. “Cauldron Cakes, had the elves make your favorite soup, and…”

Theo trailed off, narrowing his eyes at you as he carefully nudged the blankets off your face to press his palm to your forehead. He frowned immediately, eyes flashing with concern.

“And that hoodie of mine that you like, but I’ll only let you wear it once this fever’s down, got it?”

You huffed, eyes half lidded and tracing the hard lines of his face only softened by your current state. You’d always known your best friend was attractive, how could you not? With the amount of girls that approached you each day asking if you were dating him, why you weren’t dating him, and if they could date him; it was hard not to notice.

Right now, though, he looked like the boy no one else got to see. The Theo that you didn’t have to share with the entire girl population of the school or pretend didn’t exist when he put on his indifferent mask to others.

This Theo was just for you. This Theo made it nearly impossible to control those ludicrous thoughts.

“Still with me, amore?” he asked, thumb brushing along your temple with a reverence one would save for fine china. He leaned in closer, jaw clenched in the way that told you his brain was working overtime to process all the thoughts he was sending it.

“Mhm. You?”

He chuckled, a sweet sound that, if supplied more often, probably could’ve cured your sickness right then. “You making fun of me?” his voice dropped an octave as his fingers began to run carefully along your scalp.

You just sniffled, barely managing a sleepy shake of your head that pulled another fond laugh from Theo’s lips.

“I’m guessing you haven’t eaten today,” he murmured, almost to himself, one hand still gently massaging your head and the other finding your own to fold your fingers over his. “Can you sit up for me, tesoro? You need some food in you.”

His voice, dipped in sweetness and with that gentle rasp, coaxed you to finally pull the blankets lower, allowing him to take in the red rim around your eyes, dark circles, and the coloring of your irritated nose.

“There you are,” he cooed, squeezing your hand once before letting it drop to slide his arms under yours, helping you sit up.

“Theo…” you huffed, blinking groggily at him, body limp in his arms. “You’re s’posed to be at that party…” Finally able to get a good look at him, your eyes trailed over his figure.

His hair was disheveled and you knew he’d been running his hands through it in that way he always did when he was stressed. He had a dress shirt on but the first few buttons were undone and the sleeves were wrinkled from where he’d pushed them up to his elbows. The soft pink of his lips tugged up again, pupils dilated and trained on you with quiet fascination.

“I was there, but I couldn’t find you. Talked to your parents and they said you were home with a fever,” he tilted his head closer, propping you up against your pillows. “What fun are those silly things without you, anyway?”

If your entire face wasn’t already warm from the fever, it scorched as his soft words hit your ears. He sounded so real and it shot a shiver down your spine. Quiet confessions like that, the ones he easily gave you like they were written in a constitution, nearly broke you every time. They made you spiral, made you rethink your decade long friendship.

They made your heart soar up to the clouds but made your stomach plummet. If he said those things to you so easily, how was he saying them to other girls?

Before you knew it, a steaming thermos of your favorite soup was below your nose as Theo stirred its contents. You frowned at it, not feeling an appetite at all but wanting to taste the savory soup that you cherished.

“I can’t…m’not hungry,” you grumbled sadly, fingers toying with your blankets.

“Just a few bites, per favore?”

You wished you could say no to him.

Theo spoon fed you nearly half of the soup before he finally closed it and put it back in his bag. Then, being the overbearing and protective best friend he is, he forced you out of bed and into a slightly cold shower.

“Leave the door unlocked,” he’d said, and when you asked why, he only smirked. “Can’t have you collapsing in the shower with no help, right, principessa?”

You merely rolled your eyes but obliged, returning a few minutes later to him cleaning your messy nightstand. Not only that, he’d replaced your sheets and left only one blanket from your previous pile.

“My blankets, Theo…!” you whined, throwing your dirty clothes off to the side.

He straightened up at your voice, taking in the sight of you, standing and less flushed after a refreshing shower. He smiled, reaching for a bundle of fabric and tossing it to you. “Speaking full sentences now, I see. Feeling better?”

The piece of clothing hit you square in the chest, and upon unfolding it, you smiled as you saw it was your favorite hoodie of his. It practically belonged to you with the amount of times you’d stolen it from his closet and kept it for weeks.

“I will get snot all over your hoodie, Nott,” you scoffed, pulling it over your head and watching it fall to your thighs.

Theo merely laughed as you trudged over to your bed and sunk into the fresh sheets, immediately curling up under the blanket and letting your eyes flutter shut.

When your best friend spoke again, his voice was gentle and right in front of your face. You kept your eyes closed, swallowing hard. “Need anything else, cara?”

You shook your head and felt him linger for just a second longer before footsteps retreated from your bed. At once, you snapped your eyes open.

“Where are you going?” you asked him, sounding almost panicked as he stopped in his tracks and turned, book dangling from his left hand.

“Letting you sleep,” he responded in a questioning tone, brows furrowed in confused amusement.

You shook your head, opening up your blanket. Maybe the haze that’d fallen over the world since you’d been sick was truly messing with your brain, but you knew for sure that you wanted him close. You always wanted him close. It wasn’t like you and Theo hadn’t ever shared a bed or anything, so there was no harm done.

“Tesoro…”

“Teddy…”

He scowled at you and you only gave your best desperate smile, patting the empty space beside you. “Please?” You added on, the juicy red cherry on top.

With a dramatic huff, Theo strode over to your bed, kicked off his shoes, and huddled under the covers beside you. He held out his arm expectantly and you immediately nestled in, cheek smushed against his chest, leg thrown over his waist, and arm splayed across his torso.

“I just can’t say no to you,” he mumbled, the arm around your shoulders pulling you in tighter while his other one reached for your thigh, dragging you partially on top of him.

“You love me, Theo,” you mumbled sleepily, already halfway into a deep sleep. “And I love you. Please don’t love anyone else.”

Theo’s breath hitched, arm pausing on its way around your shoulders, but you were already asleep.

“Ti amo anch'io, tesoro,” your best friend mumbled, lips pressed to your hairline as he slowly relaxed with your weight against him.

What you didn’t see was Theo’s fond gaze soaking in the sight of you so comfortable against him, the pads of his fingers tracing along the shell of your ear and down your jaw, rubbing your collarbone and finally finding a home in your hair. He soothed your scalp, fingers carding through the strands in that careful way he knew would only send you deeper into sleep.

The book he was supposed to be reading sat on your nightstand collecting dust. He knew he wasn’t going to so much as open it while you were in his arms. He’d stop the world from spinning just so you could rest uninterrupted a few minutes longer. Because his usually loud brain was silent when you were near. Because his future didn’t seem as daunting with you in the picture.

summary; the quiet girl seems to only despise enzo and he’s determined to figure out why

warnings; none

There wasn’t a quiet corner in the entire castle that you hadn’t curled up in.

The little nook behind the bookshelves in the Slytherin common room? You had your muggle book tucked securely in your arms and socked feet nestled underneath you at least five nights a week.

The lonely tree near the Black Lake where a family of birds had built a nest? You twirled your hair around your fingers and watched the water ripple whenever the weather was favorable.

The crooked table at the back of the library that you could only inhabit during the day because the lack of lanterns in that corner made it exceptionally hard to do your Charms essay? It practically had your name on it.

Enzo wouldn’t consider himself to be a very observant person, he actually relished in the fact that he was the complete opposite. So how was it that he had managed to memorize your quiet routines?

It all started with a rogue Chess piece.

Enzo was never the most calculated person, this he knew, but losing a match he swore he would win and had bet Galleons on? Rightfully, he was pissed.

“Zabini, you bloody cheater!” he sneered, slamming his hand down on the table so roughly that his queen flew to the floor and a few breakfasters in the Great Hall glanced over.

“You’re rubbish at chess, Berkshire. And your short temper is proof of that,” Blaise smirked at the fuming boy before him, eyes swimming with cruel amusement. The dark-skinned boy turned to Theo, who’d been quietly observing the two of them. “Now, how many Galleons did he say again? Five?”

“You know well enough how many,” Enzo grumbled under his breath, turning on the bench seat to retrieve the chess piece that’d received the blunt end of his rage.

You happened to be walking down the aisle between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw table at that exact moment, heading straight for his fallen piece. You had two books clutched in your arms, one that looked to be a muggle book and the other a Potions textbook. Bottom lip caught between your teeth in quiet focus, eyes watching your shoes step perfectly according to each individual brick; you were the spitting image of the shy, lonely girl he’d always believed you to be.

Enzo began to open his mouth to kindly ask you to pick it up for him, but you’d already stopped before it.

Your eyes slowly trailed up, catching his gaze that had already been trained expectantly on you, and something in your expression shifted. Your lip had escaped your teeth, only to be pulled into a subtle frown, like the sight of him made you envision people dog-earring book pages and leaving markers uncapped. The space between your brows creased and the calmness in your eyes shifted. You were annoyed—angered, even. And he seemed to be the cause of it.

Enzo was sure he looked just as dumbfounded as he felt, but he blinked quickly and spoke. “Would you—?”

You huffed a tiny breath through your nose, deliberately stepped over the chess piece, and walked away before he could even finish his sentence, feet following that same odd pattern.

Behind him, Blaise and Theo burst into mocking laughter. ‘First time being rejected Enzo?’ and ‘Shocked that a girl doesn’t want to get in your pants?’ faintly registered in his mind, but all Enzo could do was stare at the sad chess piece, lips still parted around his unspoken words.

That small interaction was what triggered weeks of constant observation (Blaise called it stalking, but Enzo thought that was quite a vulgar term).

Enzo’s eyes found the outline of your figure illuminated by the firelight in the Slytherin common room, just as you turned your back to him in that small armchair. His ears caught the sound of you packing away your papers in the library when the sun began to set.

Even in the halls, he stopped dead in his tracks when a Gryffindor girl dropped a book from the pile she was trying to balance in her arms. You happened to be passing by and immediately picked up the book, even taking half of the stack from her and offering to help her carry them to her common room. This version of you puzzled him the most, because you’d been so quick to help someone out but scowled at him when he dared to look in your direction.

He knew you were kind, albeit quiet. So why were you only hostile with him?

The sun was setting as Enzo navigated his way through the near-empty corridors, an orange glow casted on every surface of the castle. Usually at this time, he would be laughing loudly in the middle of the common room with his friends or sneaking into the kitchens before dinner. But today, Enzo had a clear goal, revealed only by the quickness in his steps as he strode towards the library.

It was Thursday, meaning that you’d be in your usual table in the corner, probably finishing up an assignment that he wouldn’t even think about for another week.

Of course, he was right. As Enzo hastened his pace through the library doors, past whispering couples and giggling friend groups that’d probably gotten no work done, he only had one thing on his mind. You.

It seemed to be a common occurrence nowadays. His brain flooded with questions and speculations that only caused him to spiral and replay every interaction he’d ever had just to answer a single question.

“Why do you hate me?” Enzo’s voice came out blunt and slightly out of breath from his almost-jog across the castle.

You flinched, grip tightening on your quill, head snapping up to look at him. He was supposed to be studying the change in your expression when you looked at him, but that proved nearly impossible with the way the setting sun melted into your skin and caused your eyes to sparkle distractingly.

It would’ve done him good to note how captivating you were during all his extensive research.

“Me…?” You fumbled over the word, glancing around the empty corner as if someone was going to pop out and scream ‘boo.’

Enzo blinked fast, eyes trailing over your features. You looked startled, obviously, but your lips were pulled into a frown. Maybe it was all the observing he’d done of you since the chess incident, but this frown told him so much more. You weren’t quite annoyed or angry, you were hurt.

“Why…” he swallowed, uncrossing his arms. You were soft, calm, a quiet flurry of snow that passes in the night, barely leaving residue on windows. He was a loud, thunderous storm that could probably tear down a suburban neighborhood on the right night.

He exhaled, bracing his hands on the chair opposite you, leaning forward. He was doing this all wrong. “I just mean…did I do something to you?”

Enzo wasn’t usually this careful with his words and it surprised even him, but with the way your furrowed eyebrows relaxed and the death grip on your quill loosened, he knew he’d done something right.

You chewed your lip, a habit he’d caught you doing on multiple occasions. When your eyes searched his face, it felt like you were looking directly into his mind, and he thought maybe he should pick out his brain and hand it to you, just so you could have a better look. He wanted you to have a better look, but he didn’t exactly know why.

Your hand raised and you gestured sadly to a lantern on the wall beside your table.

Enzo tilted his head in confusion, but that was the only answer you gave him, glancing back down and picking at the feathers of your quill anxiously. He frowned, stepping around the table to take a closer look. The lantern was broken, but he knew this. It was the reason you always left this spot at sundown, because you could no longer see.

“I don’t get it,” he scratched the back of his neck bashfully, turning to look back at you. Your frown deepened and he swore he almost reached out to physically stop the sad expression from twinging your lips. He never wanted to see it, he never wanted to feel the tiny ache in his heart again.

You took a deep breath, setting down your quill, as if readying yourself for a big speech.

“It used to work. I used to be able to study here past dark, but…” you trailed off, glancing away from him like the eye contact tired you out. “One day I came in and you were here. You were—uhm, with a girl. You two knocked into it and…well.”

You gestured sadly to the broken lantern again, not even bothering to pick your head up.

Enzo—Lorenzo Berkshire, ‘womanizer,’ the guy every girl has either had or wished for even a speck of his attention—blushed. Badly.

Pink sprung onto his cheeks, spreading warmth up to the tips of his ears. He didn’t even remember the name of the girl he’d been snogging in this very corner, didn’t even realize it was your corner.

How could he? How could he have brought his questionable habits into this sacred space? And on an even more mortifying note, how could he remember the exact route you took to Potions class everyday but not the name of the girl he was snogging?

“Oh, Merlin,” he hissed, pressing the heel of his hand to his eyes as if he’d just dropped his car keys down a sewer instead of make his quiet girl frown. He cursed quietly under his breath, taking his hand away from his face to look down at you with a matching frown.

You were still staring at the floor, but it felt like a bludger was doing circles in his stomach and he needed the feeling to go away. He needed to get that frown off your face. He needed to see your eyes.

Involuntarily, his voice softened and he crouched down, placing a hand on the table next to where yours rested.

“Hey,” he murmured gently, his voice alone coaxing your gaze to his. Your breath hitched at his sudden closeness, even he was a bit shocked, but he pressed on. “You’re telling me that my dumb arse is the reason you leave this spot at sundown almost every day?”

You continued to chew your lip and nodded reluctantly, gaze haphazardly snapping between him and his hand rested awfully close to yours.

“I am so sorry, you little mouse,” Enzo murmured, his tone soft and slightly teasing, hoping to see some of that anxiousness slide off your face.

Fortunately for him, those distracting lips of yours quirked up—not quite a smile, but pretty damn close. And also, the happiest you had ever looked in his presence. Baby steps. How was he supposed to help the shit-eating grin that overtook his face?

“You are reckless, Lorenzo Berkshire,” your voice was still adorably quiet, but the settling of your features and the slight taunting in your voice gave him enough confidence to place his hand atop yours.

“That I am. And you are quite distracting, did you know that?” Enzo reveled in the way you finally, finally smiled. He could get used to that. “And I will fix your light source, or trust me I will come here everyday with a lantern until midnight, if that’s what you need.”

“You could fix it…but you could still come,” the words seemed to tumble out of your mouth without your permission and you immediately scrunched your face up in a new expression he could now identify as embarrassment. “If you’d like.”

“You don’t understand—I’d love to. Sit here and have you use me for my light while I get to stare at you work?” he smirked, narrowed eyes taking in the way you refused to meet his gaze as he folded his fingers over your hand, squeezing softly. “Sounds like my dream.”

You pursed your lips at his tone, looking back at him with a scowl that he knew you didn’t really mean. All the time he spent studying your face, your expressions, and your habits seemed to pay off.

“No more flings in my corner, then,” you poked his chest with the hand that wasn’t grasped in his, tone too soft to seem intimidating.

“Yes ma’am.”

He didn’t mention that he hadn’t even thought about snogging a random girl in a dark corner for weeks, not since you and your careful routines took up his entire mind.

summary; you and harry share a quiet moment amidst the chaos of christmas holidays at the burrow

warnings; established relationship, new relationship, harry whimpers, fluff, reader has freckles, secretly dating ??

Harry padded quietly down the stairs, the sound of your feet softly hitting the kitchen cabinets was rhythmic in the silence of the night. The rest of the Weasley family was sleeping, but something told him that you’d eventually slink out of Ginny’s bedroom that you were sharing with her and Hermione for the week. Harry was well aware of your tendencies to bask in the stillness of twilight, and he also knew that the absence of light (and people) gave him a moment of privacy he’d be idiotic to pass up.

The air was flecked with speckles of dust, illuminated only by the pale moonlight that seeped through the open windows and bathed you in a pool of light. He didn't want to scare you, eyelids fluttered shut and palms pressed against the coolness of the counter as you leaned back on them. He almost thought against the idea of disturbing your peace (and the beautiful view that came with it). You looked otherworldly, your freckled skin drinking in the moonlight like it belonged to your soul. But his desire to have your eyes on him won out as he took another step into the kitchen, the floor creaking under his feet.

You turned your head to him at the sound, eyes catching his. They were wide with shock for a moment, but you quickly let out a small exhale when you saw it was him.

You relaxed when you saw him.

Harry couldn't help but smile at you, the breath he was holding in his lungs escaped in short puffs. He found that his mouth was suddenly dry, and for some reason his thoughts shifted to if his hair looked okay. He ran a hand through it, struggling to find words under your intense gaze.

"Why are you watching me, Harry," when you said his name, he swore the moon glowed brighter.

"I just..." he stammered stupidly, still unable to wipe the grin off his face. Then he laughed, slowly moving to stand before you. "You look—you're really pretty."

Your face screwed up in the way it always did whenever he said anything about you. He knew you hated compliments, but you’d have to get used to them if you continued to look like that.

The hum you gave in response told Harry that you didn't quite believe him, so he stepped closer, nearly in between your dangling legs.

"I really like your hair," he whispered, squinting up at you. "And your eyes, and your freckles," he reached out, tracing his fingers along the smooth skin of your arm until he stopped on a splotchy freckle by the pulse on your wrist.

"A boy once told me they looked like a disease," you muttered back, staring at his thumb rub circles over your pulse.

"If you're a disease, you've already infected me. I should probably be dead," he gave you a lopsided grin, his other hand rising to delicately hold your chin. "You're in all my thoughts, under my skin, tied to my soul. Definitely contagious."

He watched you try to suppress your growing smile, but you ultimately failed. Your eyes crinkled, soft lips quirking up into that familiar addicting grin.

Staring up at you, his hand secured around your wrist and placed upon your jaw, he couldn't help but think he wouldn't rather be anywhere else. Maybe this was where he belonged, your dazzling eyes blinking down at him, your features drenched in moonlight that clung to your skin like it ached for you as much as he did.

"Really?" you dragged out sarcastically, royally failing to conceal your bashfulness.

"Really," he whispered back.

You smirked and slid off the counter, attempting to maneuver around him. He was quicker, using his hold on your wrist to bring you back to him, chests pressed together. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer so your noses almost touched. You placed your hands near the neckline of his shirt, tracing the stitching with one finger.

Harry glanced from your eyes to your lips, leaning in ever so slightly. He could feel your breath fan over his lips, almost tauntingly.

Just as he was about to close the distance, you spoke.

"D'you know I was taught to dance when I was eight," you said brightly, eyes glinting with mischief.

Harry blinked once. Twice. He wasn't even paying attention to his surroundings anymore, all his senses were clouded by you. He could smell the clean cinnamon shampoo in your hair, see the way you pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, and hear your breathy chuckles as you watched him struggle to find his voice. He was captivated by everything about you, even the silky tone of your voice as you knowingly denied him the one thing he'd been craving ever since he first got a taste.

"My love," the endearment barely escaped his lips, so quiet you probably wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't practically spoke into your mouth. He dipped his head lower, but you retracted yet again, your smirk even wider.

"You keep your right hand there, but your left," you spoke softly, your voice gliding along his skin like warm honey, as you took his left hand into your right, pulling your joined hands out to the side of your bodies.

"I learned too," his whiny voice scratched his ears harshly, but he didn't care. He'd plead with you till the end of time if it meant you’d grace his lips with your own.

"Yes, but it is different in France," you let your left hand fall from his chest, stretching it to your side. "Quite a lot of spinning."

Harry was stuck memorizing the way your eyes flickered with something nostalgic as you guided his hands accordingly, like he was a puppet and you the puppeteer. He thought, in that moment, that you could guide him off a cliff and he’d be more than willing, just as long as you were his doom.

"I'd always be so dizzy afterwards," you continued murmuring as the two of you spun, socked feet gliding against the creaky floorboards. Harry's feet stuttered, nearly causing him to trip, so he glanced down at them, biting his lip in concentration. "Here, the woman has her face over the man's shoulder, but in France they never look away from each other's eyes."

Harry took that as his sign to set his gaze back on yours. He instantly smiled down at you, as if the muscles in his face pulled up on instinct. You were beautiful.

You spoke softly under your breath, even quieter than a whisper. At first, he thought he just couldn't hear you, but after a while it became clear that your words weren't English at all. You were muttering in French, your words flowing in a soft melody. The lyrics dripped off your tongue like sweet nectar, basking him in warmth despite the cold December winds raging outside.

To any outsider, it would seem insane for two people to be spinning in the silence of the empty kitchen. But Harry had no regard for anything else besides the shimmering of your irises staring back at him like maybe nothing else mattered to you either.

When you finally stopped muttering and the dance came to an end, your outstretched hand dropped to his forearm, then carefully trailed up his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. You settled your hand at the back of his neck, fingers curling around the small strands of hair like they always did.

Harry brought the hand that remained clasped in his up to his lips, staring at you as he kissed it and then placed it on his neck to join the other. Your hands folded together, pulling him closer until finally he could see every little marking and dip and dimple on your face again. This was the best way to look at you, he thought, so close that you couldn't hide any part of yourself, even if you wanted to.

His other hand found your waist as he finally whispered, "Please, darling, can I kiss you now?"

You chuckled which caused your noses to bump.

"I suppose now that you've learned, yes."

Harry wasted no time connecting his lips to yours, hands flexing around your waist, pulling you closer than ever. He was smiling—he couldn't help it. He always smiled when he felt your lips. Sure, you were a witch and he was a wizard, but the real magic came from being this close to you. Feeling your skin underneath the pads of his fingers as they dipped just slightly beneath the hem of your shirt, feeling your hands comb through his unruly hair; it was all magic.

He slid his tongue along your bottom lip, and when you slowly parted them, he smiled even wider.

Your nose rubbed against the rim of his glasses and you broke apart, your face having the most adorable little scrunch that made him want to weld your bodies together, fuse your skin into one. He wanted you to consume his entire being the way his existence already belonged to you. When you kissed him, he was yours.

"Off," you panted out the demand, one hand reaching up to peel his glasses off his face. He merely closed his eyes, unable to wipe the cheeky grin off his face still, even as your thumb traced his smile lines and trailed under his eye where his glasses once rested. "What's that stupid face for?"

"I get to kiss you," he whispered back, opening his eyes to drink in the sight of your face so close to his. Maybe he was biased, but the sight in front of him was absolutely breathtaking. The way your lips curved slightly, eyes traveling over his face with a sort of fondness he'd longed to see in your eyes since the moment he met you. You were glowing. He dipped his head lower, resting his forehead against yours. "I get to be this close to your face, see all those little freckles, and kiss you."

"You sound unreasonably happy about that," you shook your head, thumb brushing over his temple slowly. "And you can't even see anything without those cute glasses of yours anyway."

He laughed, lips brushing your cheek, then ghosting over your ear. "I should probably get closer then, huh?"

He felt your laughter vibrate through his chest and he brought his face back to yours, silencing your giggles with a deep, slow kiss.

But then he laughed. And pulled away.

"Did you call my glasses cute?"

He watched the space between your eyebrows crease as you tried to glare at him, but it was entirely half-assed.

"Shut up," you scoffed pathetically, and pulled his lips back down to yours.

He hummed into your mouth, wrapping his arms fully around your waist, leaving no more room between you two.