"Sonder"

Year 2:

Soulmates were a tricky business.

No one fully understood the magic behind it—how the universe could possibly decide, from the moment you were born, that there was one person out there meant specifically for you. Even now, it remained one of the greatest mysteries of the magical world. There were no rules you could study, no spells to influence it, no way to predict it.

All anyone really knew was this: somewhere out there existed a person whose magic matched yours so perfectly that the universe itself would one day intervene and make it known.

How it chose to do that, however, was entirely unpredictable.

Some people were born with timers on their wrists, ticking down to the exact second they would meet the person meant for them. Others lived their entire lives in muted shades of grey until they met their soulmate and the world burst into colour all at once. Some carried their soulmate’s first words etched permanently into their skin, waiting for the moment they would finally hear them spoken aloud.

For others, it came later.

Marks that appeared on first touch. Marks that only revealed themselves after years of friendship. Marks that didn’t appear at all until it was far too late to matter.

There was no pattern. No certainty. No way to guess what form your own bond would take—or when it would appear, or who it would tie you to.

And so, by your second year, you had stopped thinking about it too much.

Well... not entirely.

Like any other girl, there were nights when you lay awake staring at the ceiling, letting your mind wander to the inevitable moment when it would happen. You imagined the first meeting in painstaking detail—how everything would fall into place like the final pieces of a puzzle, how suddenly the world would make sense in a way it never had before, as if you had finally found where you were meant to be.

You imagined what it would feel like to be close to them.

To hold their hand. To kiss them. To run your fingers through their hair and feel them do the same to you.

You imagined quiet moments and laughter, whispered words meant only for the two of you, a future that felt certain in a way nothing else ever did.

And sometimes, buried into your pillow so no one could hear, you’d find yourself smiling—giddy with anticipation for a life that hadn’t even begun yet.

But it was easy not to dwell on it too much.

None of your friends had found their soulmates yet—not Hermione, not anyone—and that made it easier. It meant you weren’t falling behind. It meant there was still time.

When it happened, it would happen.

And when it did, everything would make sense.

Until then, your biggest problem remained your exams.

The Great Hall was silent in that suffocating, unnatural way it only ever was during exams.

Rows upon rows of desks stretched endlessly beneath the enchanted ceiling, each one placed with careful precision—far enough apart to make cheating impossible, close enough to remind you that you weren’t alone in your misery. The usual warmth of the hall felt stripped away, replaced by something rigid and tense.

The only sound was the uneven scratching of quills against parchment, echoing faintly in the vast space like a hundred tiny clocks ticking out your time.

You hunched over your Transfiguration paper, brow furrowed in concentration, your hand moving quickly but carefully—fast enough to keep up with your thoughts, slow enough to avoid smudging the ink.

You were on the last question.

Finally.

Relief flickered through you as you exhaled quietly, adjusting your grip on your quill. You leaned in slightly, beginning to write your answer, already thinking about how quickly you could leave once you were done—how good it would feel to be free of the stifling silence, the pressure, the weight of it all.

A shadow fell across your desk.

Your quill stilled mid-word.

“Miss (Y/N).” Came Professor McGonagall’s voice, low and composed.

You looked up sharply, your pulse jumping.

She stood just behind you, posture as straight as ever, hands folded neatly behind her back. Her expression gave nothing away—no irritation, no warmth, just that familiar, impenetrable calm.

“Yes, Professor?” You whispered, instinctively lowering your voice to be mindful of your fellow classmates. The last thing you needed was Hermione scolding you after the exam for making a ruckus while she was trying to focus.

Her gaze flicked briefly to your paper, lingering for just a moment, before returning to your face.

“I’ll need you to come with me.” She said quietly.

Your stomach dropped.

“Now, please.”

For a second, you just stared at her.

Confusion hit first—sharp and immediate.

Had you done something wrong? That didn’t make any sense. You hadn’t even finished your exam yet. Your eyes darted down to your parchment, then back up at her.

“…my exam—?”

“I will take it with us.” She replied smoothly, already reaching forward.

Before you could protest, she lifted the parchment from your desk, your unfinished answer still drying on the page. You stared up at her in surprise, your quill still clutched in your fingers, ink well sitting open on the desk.

Something wasn’t right.

Slowly, you pushed your chair back, the scrape of its legs against the stone floor sounding far too loud in the heavy silence. A few heads turned at the noise—quick, curious glances—but just as quickly snapped back down to their work.

After all these were your final exams, they didn't have the time for their focus to be broken.

Your heart began to beat a little faster as you stood, a faint, uneasy feeling settling in your chest.

“Follow me.”

You trailed after her down the narrow aisle between the desks, acutely aware of every step you took, every eye you could feel flicking toward you before darting away again.

The large doors of the Great Hall loomed ahead, growing closer with every step, and with them, that strange, creeping sense that something had shifted.

You didn’t know what you had done.

Still, you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek and clenched your fists at your sides, willing yourself not to cry from sheer anxiety. The past few weeks had already left your nerves stretched painfully thin.

Between late nights revising, early mornings spent cramming information into your head, and the constant pressure hanging over every second-year student during exam season, it felt as though every nerve ending in your body had been stripped raw.

Even now, as you followed Professor McGonagall through the corridors, you could feel your heart hammering painfully against your ribs. You dug your nails into your palms until they hurt, desperately trying to ground yourself, but the growing lump in your throat refused to disappear.

Professor McGonagall led you into an empty classroom adjacent to the Great Hall and quietly shut the door behind you. The click of the latch sounded far louder than it should have.

"Sit."

You obeyed immediately, lowering yourself into the nearest chair while she remained standing. For a long moment she simply looked at you, her expression unreadable save for a distinct note of disappointment that made your stomach sink even further.

"Miss (L/N)," She began, her voice calm and measured, "students are made aware at the beginning of every examination period that cheating results in an immediate Dreadful. Your parents will be notified and the staff will need to discuss whether you will be permitted to sit a reexamination or whether further disciplinary measures are necessary."

For a second, you genuinely thought you had misheard her.

The words didn't make sense.

You stared up at her blankly.

"Professor... what?"

Her expression remained unchanged.

"You were found in possession of examination materials during your Transfiguration exam."

"I wasn't copying."

The denial left your mouth before you could stop it.

McGonagall's gaze lowered pointedly and, confused, you followed it.

The moment you saw your leg, your entire body went cold.

Written across the skin of your calf in cramped black handwriting were notes. Definitions. Theories. Entire sections of information taken directly from your textbooks and condensed into neat little sentences. There had to be dozens of them, stretching across your skin in dense clusters of writing.

Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

"What the hell?"

Your mind immediately began scrambling for an explanation. Had someone done this while you slept? Had ink somehow transferred from your notes? Had you absentmindedly written on yourself during a revision session? None of it made sense. You had showered the night before.

In your panic, you failed to notice that this wasn't even your handwriting.

"No."

You immediately started rubbing at your skin.

"No, Professor, I didn't write this."

You scrubbed harder, panic making your movements frantic.

"I swear I didn't."

The notes didn't budge.

Your palms were beginning to sweat, but the ink remained exactly where it was, stubborn and unmoving.

"It's not even coming off!"

The last few words came out dangerously close to a sob.

You looked back up at McGonagall, your vision beginning to blur around the edges as tears gathered in your eyes. Everything suddenly felt horribly unfair. You had spent weeks preparing for these exams. You had stayed up late memorizing definitions, quizzed yourself until your head hurt, worried yourself sick over every possible outcome.

"I swear I didn't do this, Professor," you said, your voice wobbling despite your best efforts. "I promise. Please don't fail me. I studied so hard."

The tears escaped before you could stop them.

One moment you were trying to hold yourself together and the next you were crying outright, fat tears rolled down your cheeks while the tiny amount of mascara you'd put on that morning in an attempt to look slightly less exhausted began smudging around your eyes. The embarrassment only made it worse. You couldn't remember the last time you had cried in front of a teacher, but now you couldn't seem to stop.

It was only through your tears that you noticed something change in McGonagall's expression. The disappointment that had been there moments ago had vanished completely, replaced by something that looked remarkably like realization. Her eyes flickered briefly from the notes scrawled across your skin back to your face and you watched as the pieces seemed to fall into place behind them.

"Miss (L/N)," She said, her voice considerably gentler than it had been a moment ago, "it would appear that I owe you an apology."

You blinked up at her through watery eyes, still struggling to catch your breath.

"What?"

"I believe there has been a misunderstanding."

For a moment you simply stared at her, the words refusing to make sense. A misunderstanding? Five minutes ago she had been discussing whether you would be forced to repeat the year.

"Once you've composed yourself," McGonagall continued, clearing her throat and smoothing a hand over her robes, "You may return to the examination hall and complete your exam."

The room fell silent.

You looked down at the notes still covering your skin and then back up at her, trying to understand what had changed. The writing was still there. The evidence hadn't disappeared. If anything, it seemed even more obvious now than it had before. Yet whatever conclusion McGonagall had reached was apparently enough to completely alter the situation.

Before you could ask any further questions, however, she was already moving toward the door.

By the time you had managed to stop crying and make yourself somewhat presentable again, your eyes were still red and your cheeks still blotchy. You clutched your exam paper tightly against your chest as you made your way back toward the Great Hall, still trying to piece together what had happened.

The corridor ahead was empty save for two approaching figures.

At first you barely paid them any attention.

Professor Snape was walking briskly in your direction, his dark robes billowing dramatically behind him as they always seemed to. Beside him walked another student, hands shoved into his pockets and expression thunderous enough to make most people step out of his way.

Mattheo Riddle.

At first, you barely paid attention. Then your eyes caught on the black smudges beneath his eyes—dark, uneven streaks that clung to his lashes and marked the skin beneath them. Mascara. Your mascara.

You stopped walking.

Mattheo stopped too.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The corridor around you felt strangely distant, as though everything else had faded into a muffled blur while the two of you stood suspended in something sharp and disorienting.

His gaze moved over your face, lingering on your red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Slowly—almost visibly—understanding began to settle across both of your expressions at the same time, like the final pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

The notes that hadn’t been written by you but had appeared on your skin anyway.

The mascara that hadn’t been applied by him but was now smeared across his face.

The reason Professor Snape was escorting him down the corridor.

His expression darkened first.

Yours followed not long after.

You had never met him before. Never spoken to him.

And yet somehow, within minutes of discovering he was your soulmate, Mattheo Riddle had nearly gotten you expelled.

As he continued to glare at you from across the corridor, looking every bit as offended by the situation as you felt, you came to one very simple conclusion.

The universe had an absolutely horrific sense of humour.

Year 6:

It was quiet in the dormitory—far too quiet for a weekday morning.

You frowned slightly, still half-asleep as you burrowed deeper beneath your blankets, turning your face further into the pillow. Usually by now the room would already be alive with noise: drawers slamming shut, sleepy complaints about unfinished homework, someone inevitably losing a sock five minutes before class. But there was none of it. No chatter. No rushing footsteps.

Which could only mean one thing.

You had woken up too early.

A pleased little sigh escaped you as you snuggled further into the warmth of your bed, already drifting back toward sleep. Maybe you had another hour left. Maybe—

“(Y/N) (L/N), FOR GODRIC’S SAKE, WAKE UP! YOU’VE ALREADY MISSED BREAKFAST!”

You bolted upright so fast you nearly headbutted the bedpost.

“WHAT?!” You shrieked, voice rough with sleep as panic shot through you all at once, “Hermione, why didn’t you wake me?!”

“I DID, YOU TEA TOWEL!”

The insult barely registered as you threw your blankets off yourself and stumbled out of bed in a frenzy, hair a complete mess and heart racing with the immediate horror of being late. Your bag was still unpacked from the night before, half your books hanging out of it as you rushed around the room trying to pull yourself together.

“Why didn’t anyone shake me harder?!” You complained, yanking your uniform shirt over your head inside out before realizing and swearing under your breath.

Hermione, already fully dressed and exasperatingly put together, didn’t even look up from stuffing parchment into her bag, “I did! It's not my fault you sleep like the dead.”

You huffed, grabbing your skirt and tugging it on crookedly as you rushed toward the mirror, mentally planning the fastest possible route to class. If you skipped properly brushing your hair and just fixed it on the way—maybe if you brushed your teeth in the bathroom nearest the Charms corridor—

And then you looked up.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it felt like the floor had disappeared beneath you.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

Your own reflection stared back at you in equal horror, pale and frozen and impossibly awake now, but you barely noticed the expression on your face because your eyes were locked on the red mark pressed against your cheek.

A lipstick stain.

Bright. Smudged.

Unmistakably shaped like the imprint of someone’s mouth.

Your breath caught.

There was another near the corner of your lips, blurred slightly like it had been kissed there carelessly. One against your jaw. Another lower down, just beneath your ear.

Dread began settling into you slowly, horribly, piece by piece.

“No.” You whispered.

Your hands started shaking.

“No, no—”

You turned slightly toward the mirror, fingers fumbling desperately with the collar of your shirt as you pulled it aside.

More.

Faint red marks scattered across your skin, disappearing beneath the fabric of your clothes. Some were clearer than others; some were smeared, dragged slightly, as though whoever had left them behind had done so thoughtlessly. Casually.

You stared at them, your reflection blurring around the edges as tears began burning in your eyes.

Your throat tightened painfully.

The room suddenly felt too small, too warm, your chest caving inward as realization settled fully over you.

“)Y/N), come on, class starts in—”

Hermione stopped mid-sentence.

You didn’t turn around, but you saw her expression shift in the mirror from annoyance to shock. Her eyes caught on the marks scattered across your neck and collarbone, and the look on her face softened so quickly it made something inside you crack further.

“Oh.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

A heavy silence settled across the room. Then you heard Hermione approach slowly, carefully, like she was afraid one wrong movement would shatter you completely. She stopped just behind you, her reflection appearing over your shoulder, and when you finally forced yourself to look up again you saw nothing but sympathy written all over her face.

“Oh, (Y/N),” She said softly, and somehow the gentleness in her voice hurt worse than the marks themselves, “I’m so sorry.”

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to inhale, then exhale, trying desperately to hold yourself together.

“It’s fine,” You said immediately, too quickly, your voice unnaturally flat, “It’s not like I liked him anyway.”

The second the words left your mouth, your chin trembled.

Hermione’s expression crumpled.

And suddenly you couldn’t do it anymore.

A broken sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, and then the tears were falling all at once, hot and uncontrollable as the ache in your chest finally split wide open. You covered your mouth with your hand like that could somehow hold the sobs back, but it was useless. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you as weeks and months of buried hope came crashing down all at once.

Hermione caught you before you could fall properly, pulling you into her arms immediately.

And the second she did, you broke completely.

You cried into her shoulder so hard it hurt, fingers clutching desperately at the fabric of her jumper while humiliation and heartbreak tore through you in waves.

Your soulmate had slept with someone else.

A few mornings later, when Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table for breakfast, she wasn't remotely offended when the eyes of her friends immediately flicked over her shoulder.

It had become something of a routine.

Every day for the past week, someone would look up when she arrived, expecting to find you trailing behind her. Every day their faces would fall when they realized she was alone.

Just as she was today.

Harry was the first to break the silence, "She still won't come down?"

Hermione's grip tightened slightly around her spoon.

The concern on his face mirrored exactly how she felt.

You hadn't attended a single class all week. The first two days had been the worst. You had cried until you physically exhausted yourself, until your body finally gave out and sleep claimed you against your will. By the following morning, you'd developed a fever bad enough that Hermione had practically dragged you to the Hospital Wing herself.

Madam Pomfrey had taken one look at your blotchy face, red-rimmed eyes, and dangerously high temperature before ordering you into a bed and refusing to hear arguments.

Hermione had stayed beside you for as long as she'd been allowed.

She remembered watching you sleep fitfully beneath white sheets, occasionally stirring only to curl further into yourself. She remembered the way your hand would sometimes move unconsciously toward your neck, fingers brushing against skin where the marks had long since faded.

Eventually Madam Pomfrey had forced Hermione out, insisting there was nothing more she could do.

Now several days later, the fever had broken.

But you still hadn't left your room.

Hermione shook her head, "No."

Hermione sighed, reaching for her tea, though her attention was nowhere near her breakfast. Her gaze swept across the Great Hall, not aimlessly skimming over the hundreds of students filling the room, but locking onto its target almost immediately like a heat-seeking missile.

Mattheo Riddle.

He sat at the Slytherin table with his friends, laughing at something one of them had said, completely at ease, looking every bit like he hadn't a single worry in the world. The sight of him sitting there so carelessly, smiling like life had handed him every reason to, made Hermione irrationally want to march across the hall, grab him by the ears, and squeeze his head until it popped like an unsightly pimple.

He had absolutely no idea.

No idea that his soulmate hadn't left her bed in days.

No idea that she'd cried herself into a fever.

No idea that Hermione had spent hours sitting beside her, listening to her sob until she had nothing left in her, only to watch her stare blankly at the canopy above her bed as though she'd forgotten how to exist.

Her jaw tightened.

"Look at him," She muttered bitterly, her eyes boring so intensely into the side of his head that she was almost disappointed when he didn't spontaneously burst into flames, "I spent half the week consoling her, and he's sitting over there like he's the bloody king of the world."

Then, she looked back down into the untouched cup of tea in front of her, watching her own furious reflection ripple across its surface. The anger was still there, burning hot beneath her skin, but it had long since become tangled with something far more unbearable.

Helplessness.

Because no matter how angry she was, it wouldn't undo what had happened.

It wouldn't stop you from shutting yourself away in your dormitory, curtains drawn around your bed, convinced that facing four wooden bedposts was somehow easier than facing the rest of the world.

She felt the sting behind her eyes before she realized she was blinking a little too often.

"I can't believe someone like her is supposed to end up with someone like him." She murmured, her voice losing all of its earlier bite.

She absentmindedly stabbed at her pancakes with her fork, skewering a lone berry in the process without even noticing.

"She's the sweetest, kindest, most selfless person I've ever met," Hermione continued quietly, swallowing around the lump that had formed in her throat, "She'd do absolutely anything for the people she loves, and somehow..." She gave a humorless laugh, shaking her head, "Somehow he's the person the universe chose for her."

Finally, Hermione let out a slow, defeated sigh.

"How could the universe be so cruel?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, but neither of them answered.

Because what could they possibly say?

Afterall, they had no idea what it was like to be rejected by your soulmate.

Your head felt impossibly heavy.

When you'd finally cried yourself to sleep the night before, you'd hoped that maybe—just maybe—you'd wake up feeling even a little bit lighter.

Instead, it felt as though someone had stuffed your head full of damp cotton.

Everything was muted.

You could see the familiar shape of your dormitory around you, the sunlight spilling lazily through the windows, painting warm patches across the wooden floor, but none of it felt real. If someone had asked you to name half a dozen things in your own room, you weren't entirely convinced you could have done it. Your thoughts drifted in and out without ever quite settling long enough to grasp them.

Outside, Hogwarts carried on as though nothing had happened.

Somewhere below the tower, students laughed as they crossed the courtyard on their way back from breakfast. Every so often, a shrill whistle carried in through the open window, followed by the distant roar of voices from the Quidditch pitch.

Life went on.

It always did.

But inside your dormitory, it felt as though time itself had stopped.

Like you were sitting inside a vacuum, sealed away from the rest of the castle, where even the sound of your own breathing seemed impossibly far away.

You hadn't even realized someone was knocking.

The sound barely registered through the haze clouding your mind, so faint and distant that you mistook it for part of a dream. It wasn't until the door slowly creaked open that you finally stirred, letting out a weary sigh without even bothering to look up.

"Hermione," You mumbled into your pillow, your voice hoarse from days of crying, "Please... I don't want breakfast."

There was a brief pause.

"Well," Came a decidedly unfamiliar voice, "It's a good thing Chocolate Frogs aren't considered breakfast."

Your eyes snapped open.

Slowly, you pushed yourself upright, blinking through the fog in your head until the figure standing sheepishly in your doorway came into focus.

Messy ginger hair.

Hands buried deep in his pockets.

A crooked smile that looked like it wasn't entirely sure whether it belonged there.

"...Fred?"

The way you said his name made him chuckle softly.

Not because it was funny, exactly, but because your tone carried that slight undercurrent of cautiousness, like you were trying to work out whether you were looking at Fred Weasley or his identical twin.

"It's me," He assured you with an easy grin, "George is considerably uglier."

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched.

Fred caught it but, to his credit, didn't point it out. He simply closed the door quietly behind him and wandered further into the dormitory, his hands still buried in the pockets of his jumper as though he were only stopping by for a casual chat.

Although, you knew better than to believe that.

He was here for something.

You just couldn't work out what.

Had Hermione sent him? Had she somehow decided that Fred's ridiculous sense of humour might succeed where she had failed? More importantly, how in Merlin's name had he even managed to get into the girls' dormitory in the first place?

"...What are you doing here?" You asked.

The question left your mouth more out of politeness than genuine curiosity.

Truthfully, you didn't really care.

Whether Fred was here or not, whether he'd come to cheer you up or drag you to breakfast or simply stare at you until you spoke, all you wanted was to be left alone again. So you settled back against your headboard, waiting for whatever explanation he had prepared so you could nod absentmindedly, mumble something about still being tired, and hope he'd take the hint.

Fred scratched the back of his neck.

"I don't really know," He admitted after a moment with a small shrug, "I heard Hermione talking about you downstairs."

He finally pulled his hands from his pockets.

A handful of Chocolate Frog boxes tumbled into his palms.

"I heard she was worried." He looked down at the collection of sweets before giving one shoulder another little shrug, "Next thing I knew, I was standing outside your door."

He crossed the room and sat down carefully on the edge of your bed.

Instinctively, you tugged your cocoon of blankets out from beneath him, unwilling to surrender even that small comfort. Fred pretended not to notice. Instead, he simply dropped the Chocolate Frogs into your lap one by one.

"I figured," He said, "if nothing else, chocolate rarely makes things worse."

You stared down at them for a second before absentmindedly picking one up and peeling open the box.

"Whatever Hermione's worried about..." You murmured, carefully unfolding the cardboard, "...it isn't going to happen."

The chocolate frog immediately sprang from your hands.

You watched it bounce across the dormitory floor, disappearing beneath someone's bed but you paid no heed, fishing the card from the now-empty box instead.

Helga Hufflepuff.

Nice.

"I just wanted some time to be alone," You said quietly, your thumb tracing absent circles over the edge of the card, "Some time to think. You wouldn't understand."

Fred's smile faded.

"Oh," He said, leaning back on his hands, "Believe me."

His eyes drifted toward the window for a moment.

"I know exactly what that's like."

You froze, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the edge of the Nicolas Flamel card as you silently cursed your own stupidity.

Of course.

You had completely forgotten who you were talking to.

Everyone knew Fred Weasley's story.

It had been impossible not to.

It had spread through Hogwarts like wildfire the day the twins turned sixteen and discovered, to the absolute bewilderment of the entire school, that they shared the same soulmate mark. The same name inked onto both of their wrists.

Angelina.

No one had known what to make of it. How could the universe make a mistake? It wasn't supposed to.

Yet somehow, two brothers had been promised the same girl.

In the end, Angelina had chosen George.

No one blamed her. She'd simply followed her heart.

And just like that, Fred had become the boy without a soulmate.

What followed had been painful to watch.

Every passing week seemed to chip away at something that had once felt unbreakable. Fred and George had always existed as a pair. Joined at the hip, people liked to joke. Before that, joined by an umbilical cord. There had never been one without the other.

It had been heartbreaking watching the distance grow between the twins afterwards. Not all at once, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, until people realized Fred no longer occupied the seat beside George in the Great Hall. They stopped seeing them sneaking through corridors together after curfew. Their jokes became less frequent, their laughter less shared.

Fred simply couldn't bear to watch the girl he'd spent years believing was destined to love him fall into his brother's arms instead.

Eventually, time had done what time always did.

The sharp edges had dulled.

The twins laughed together again. They pulled pranks together. They looked, from the outside at least, like themselves again. But anyone paying close enough attention could tell they were never quite the same.

How could they be?

Their seemingly inseverable brotherhood had been eclipsed by an ineffable bond.

Soulmates.

It was no longer Fred and George, the terrible terrors. Now, it was George and Angelina, the star-crossed lovers, and Fred, who had been left behind.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, the apology slipping out before you could stop it.

Fred's eyes met yours.

"So am I."

He didn't elaborate.

He didn't have to.

And for the first time in days, you felt the glass jar you had trapped yourself in begin to crack.

This whole time, you'd convinced yourself that hiding in your dormitory was helping. As long as you stayed within these four walls, you could pretend the world outside had stopped moving. Pretend that morning had never happened.

Reality settled over you with unbearable clarity.

That was what this was, wasn't it?

Rejection.

Mattheo had known exactly who you were. He'd known that every mark left on his skin would bloom across yours. He'd known you would wake up wearing the evidence of his choices.

And he'd done it anyway.

The thought hollowed you out.

Your entire life, you'd been told that soulmates were certainty. That somewhere in the world there was one person who would choose you above everyone else because the universe itself had decided you belonged together.

So what did it mean when they didn't?

If even your soulmate could look at you and still choose someone else...

Where exactly did that leave you?

Slowly, you lifted your eyes from the card to Fred, who was sitting beside you now, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, his gaze already fixed on you.

Your heart ached.

Because the answer to your unvoiced question was written all over his face.

He was every bit as heartbroken as you were.

Just as lost.

Just as unsure of where he fit into a universe that had promised him one thing, only to hand him another.

It hurt him every time he saw George with Angelina. You knew it did. No matter how much he loved his brother, no matter how genuinely happy he wanted to be for him, there had to be a small part of him that wondered why it hadn't been him.

Why fate had bothered writing her name onto his skin at all.

And you knew, with sickening certainty, that the next time you saw Mattheo...

It would tear you apart in exactly the same way.

Fred's expression softened as he noticed your eyes beginning to fill again.

He offered you a small, sympathetic smile.

"Well..." He said, giving one shoulder an exaggerated shrug, "At least we've got each other."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It was watery and quiet, immediately chased by the tear that finally slipped down your cheek. Fred grinned a little wider, looking entirely too pleased with himself for managing to get even the tiniest laugh out of you.

"I suppose the reject bin isn't completely empty."

"No," Fred agreed, "Turns out it's got surprisingly good company."

Turns out misery really did love company.

It was almost pathetic, in a way.

The only reason you had finally been able to leave your room, to walk back into the Great Hall, to sit through classes without feeling like the walls were caving in around you, was because you'd discovered you weren't the only person carrying around this strangely specific kind of heartbreak.

Your chest still tightened whenever Mattheo walked into a room. Every accidental glance across a corridor still left you feeling hollowed out from the inside, wondering how someone who was supposedly destined to love you had found it so easy to choose somebody else instead.

But sitting beside Fred somehow made it easier to breathe.

You supposed anyone watching from the outside would've found it to be the most obvious outcome imaginable.

Birds of a feather.

Two people who had somehow fallen through the cracks of destiny naturally gravitating toward one another.

Before long, spending time with Fred stopped feeling like something you consciously chose to do and instead became part of your routine. You'd find him waiting outside your classroom without either of you having planned it, or he'd drop into the empty seat beside you at breakfast as though it had always belonged to him.

Sometimes you talked about soulmates.

Most of the time, you didn't.

And somehow, those were your favourite conversations.

You hadn't realized just how grateful you'd become for his presence until one morning at breakfast when Harry slid onto the bench opposite you, looking unusually flustered and whispered, "I met my soulmate last night."

Thankfully, Hermione's excited gasp and Ron's loud, "You what?!" completely drowned out the sound of your breath catching in your throat.

For a brief, horrible second, it felt as though you had left your own body.

The conversation continued around you in muffled voices while you watched it all unfold from somewhere far away, like you were observing it through thick glass. Hermione was already peppering Harry with questions. Harry, red-faced and grinning despite himself, tried unsuccessfully to answer them both at once.

You just... watched.

Until something warm wrapped gently around your hand beneath the table and your attention snapped back. Without saying a word, you laced your fingers through his beneath the tablecloth, hidden from everyone else.

The knot in your stomach loosened.

Not completely. But just enough so that when you turned back to Harry, the smile on your face no longer felt so forced.

"Congratulations, Harry," You said softly, "I'm really happy for you."

Harry's smile faltered.

Only then did it seem to occur to him what he'd just blurted out—and who he'd blurted it out in front of.

A flicker of guilt passed across his face behind his glasses.

"Oh, (Y/N), I didn't—I wasn't thinking—"

You shook your head before he could finish, "It's okay."

And surprisingly...

It was.

Harry relaxed, offering you a small, grateful smile before Hermione immediately launched into another question, successfully stealing his attention once more.

Only then did you turn your head.

Fred was already looking at you.

Your joined hands still rested beneath the table, his thumb absentmindedly brushing across your knuckles.

"I just can't believe how much time I've wasted."

Your voice was quiet as you stared up at the canopy of Fred's bed, watching the afternoon sunlight dance lazily across the faded red fabric. Beside you, Fred lay with one arm tucked behind his head, the other dangling over the edge of the mattress. He turned his head slightly.

"Hm?"

It wasn't often the conversation drifted back to soulmates anymore.

Somehow, the two of you had become remarkably good at avoiding the very thing that had brought you together in the first place. But every now and then, usually when the castle had gone quiet around you, one of you would bring it up again.

And somehow it was always easier talking to Fred than anyone else.

"I've never even been on a date," You admitted with a humourless laugh, "Can you believe that?"

Fred's eyebrows lifted.

"I just... wasted so much time." You sighed, picking absentmindedly at a loose thread in the blanket. "I kept thinking there was no point. Why bother dating when the universe was supposedly going to hand me the perfect person eventually?"

You shook your head.

"I was so convinced that one day everything would just... happen."

A small smile tugged at your lips.

"I suppose, in retrospect, that's a rather ridiculous way to live."

Fred was quiet for a moment.

Then he nodded.

"I get it."

You looked over at him.

"Before my soulmate mark appeared," He continued, "I never really bothered trying either. I always figured I'd meet my soulmate eventually, so whoever I dated beforehand wouldn't really matter."

He let out a small breath through his nose.

"And after..." His smile turned a little sad, "Well, there wasn't much point then either."

You understood immediately.

"Everyone already had someone they were meant to end up with."

"Exactly."

He shrugged, "It felt like borrowing someone else's future."

Silence settled comfortably between you.

"I know exactly what you mean," You murmured, "Even if I'd somehow found someone I actually liked. It would've only been a matter of time before they found their soulmate."

"And then I'd just be..." You trailed off, "Temporary."

Fred didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

Because he'd spent the last year feeling exactly the same way.

You groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over your eyes, "I just want to go on a date for once."

Fred snorted.

"Is that too much to ask?" You bemoaned.

"I don't even want anything extravagant," You continued, finally sitting upright since the topic had become important enough to warrant an actual discussion. You gestured vaguely with your hands, trying to paint the picture in the air between you, "Just… one completely ordinary date."

Fred turned his head to look at you.

"I want to wear a pretty dress," You admitted, counting on your fingers, "I want to spend far too long doing my hair, even though it'll probably end up looking exactly the same as it did before. I want someone to bring me flowers."

The last part made Fred's eyebrows climb.

"...Flowers?"

You frowned at him as though he'd just said something outrageously offensive.

"Yes. Flowers."

"You've just spent the last minute insisting you don't want anything extravagant."

"They're flowers. It's the bare minimum."

A comfortable silence settled over the room again. You flopped back against the mattress with an exaggerated sigh, staring up at the canopy above while Fred continued looking at the ceiling beside you.

"I just..." You murmured after a while, your voice softer now, "I wish I knew what it felt like."

"What?"

"To have butterflies."

The admission felt oddly embarrassing.

"To get excited because someone asked me out. To spend the whole day wondering what they're going to think when they see me. To hold someone's hand because they wanted to hold mine." You laughed quietly at yourself, "I don't even care whether it's life-changing anymore."

You swallowed, the words catching slightly in your throat.

“I just wanted to know what normal feels like.”

For a moment, Fred didn’t respond.

He just lay there beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed lazily on the canopy above as though he were turning your words over somewhere quieter than conversation. The pause stretched longer than you expected it to—long enough that you almost convinced yourself he wasn’t going to answer at all, that the moment had passed and you’d said too much again.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he spoke.

“So let’s go on one.”

You frowned, turning your head slightly, having forgotten how the conversation had even ended, “...Go on what?”

“A date.”

That made you sit up a little more properly, the word feeling strangely out of place in the softness of the room, “A date?”

“Seems like the obvious solution.” He added, as though he were suggesting something as simple as going for a walk.

You blinked at him, trying to make sense of his expression, “...With who?”

Fred looked almost insulted.

"With me."

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind this time.

The air between you shifted—just slightly. You became acutely aware of the space between your shoulders, the way your fingers were curled into the blanket, the way Fred didn’t seem to notice any of it at all.

He, meanwhile, looked completely unconcerned with the fact that he had just suggested something that felt like it should be impossible to say out loud.

“I mean…” He continued after a beat, shrugging one shoulder as if it were obvious, “Think about it.”

You hesitated, “I am.”

“We’re both sitting here complaining we’ve never really dated anyone.”

“Yes…”

“We’re both catastrophically single.”

“Unfortunately.” You muttered, despite yourself.

“We both want to know what all the fuss is about.”

“I suppose.”

“So…” He spread his hands slightly, palms up, as though presenting the most logical conclusion in the world, “Why don’t we just take each other? Scratch the itch a bit.”

You looked away for a second, down at your hands where they were picking absently at the edge of the blanket, “I don’t know…” You admitted quietly.

Fred didn’t push. He rarely did.

Instead, he shifted slightly closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that his presence was harder to ignore.

“You said you wanted to wear a pretty dress.”

“I did.” You murmured.

“You said you wanted a normal date.”

That made you glance back at him again.

Your voice came out softer this time, almost uncertain, “I do.”

A pause.

The kind that felt like something was being decided inside it.

Fred’s expression didn’t change much, but his voice gentled.

“So let me take you on one.”

Even though you were almost entirely certain Fred had suggested the date as a joke, you found yourself surprisingly nervous when the day finally arrived.

Not because you expected anything to happen.

It wasn't really a date, after all.

Not a real one.

Just two rejects pretending, for a few hours, that the universe hadn't forgotten about them.

Still, you couldn't deny there was something undeniably exciting about getting ready for it.

You stood in front of the mirror for far longer than you cared to admit, smoothing invisible creases from your clothes before immediately finding new ones to fuss over. Your hair had already been redone twice, and you were currently debating whether it looked better tucked behind your ears or left loose around your shoulders.

You had practically licked your lips dry, wanting to put on just a little bit of gloss, if not to look good then at least to stop you from worrying them so much.

But third year had taught you that makeup simply wasn't worth the argument.

The memory still made you grimace.

You had gotten a tube of cherry lip gloss as an impulse purchase from Hogsmeade. The bottle was just so cute and the colour was just right and it smelt like a cherry pie.

You'd worn it exactly once before Mattheo had cornered you in a corridor, positively livid over the matching sheen that had mysteriously appeared on his own lips.

The argument had been spectacular.

You'd shouted.

He'd shouted louder.

By the end of it both your cheeks had been burning, partly from anger and partly from the sheer humiliation.

After that, you'd quietly switched to glamour charms.

You shook your head, willing the memory to leave your mind. A light spritz of perfume followed, and then another after you convinced yourself the first one hadn't been enough.

This wasn't a date.

You reminded yourself of that several times while changing outfits.

And yet, by the time you finally slipped out of Gryffindor Tower—carefully timing your escape before Hermione and the others returned from lunch so nobody could make a spectacle of it—you couldn't deny the flutter of anticipation low in your stomach.

Your first date.

Fake though it may have been.

Fred was already waiting beside the Black Lake when you arrived. The moment he spotted you, his face broke into an easy grin. He awkwardly straightened where he stood before holding out a small bouquet of hand-picked wildflowers.

A smile spread across your face before you could stop it.

You accepted them carefully, bringing them close enough to catch their sweet scent, asking with a teasing lilt to your tone, "Now whose Herbology project did you ruin by nicking these?"

Fred clutched dramatically at his chest.

"I would never."

"No?"

"I'll have you know these were ethically sourced. Well, a bit of unpaid labour." He said, showing you the slight dirt that was still left on the tips of his fingers.

You grinned, leaning to give him a quick peck on the cheek, "There, paid for in full."

"So..." You said, looking up at him, "What's the plan? It isn't swimming, is it? Because I spent entirely too long on my hair."

His eyes flicked over said hair for only the briefest moment.

"It looks nice."

You blinked.

"...Thank you."

The words came so casually that he didn't even seem to realize he'd said them aloud. Then his usual grin returned, "And don't worry. I've got something much more special in mind."

Rather than reassuring you, that somehow made you considerably more suspicious.

Fred simply laughed before turning on his heel and beckoning for you to follow. He led you around the edge of the Black Lake and toward a dense cluster of trees you'd never paid much attention to before.

"I thought we'd collectively agreed wandering into mysterious forests was a terrible idea after the centaurs last year." You remarked as you ducked beneath a low branch he held out of your way.

"We did."

"And?"

"We also established I was the worse student between the two of us."

You rolled your eyes, "Can't argue with that."

A few moments later he stopped.

Nestled between several thick tree trunks was what appeared to be nothing more than a tiny tunnel woven entirely from vines and ivy.

Before you had time to question it, Fred crouched down and disappeared inside.

You stared after him.

"...Bit brazen of you to expect a girl to get on her knees on the first date, don't you think, Weasley?"

His laugh echoed back through the tunnel.

"Oh, come on."

"I'm simply making observations."

"Get in here, (Y/N)."

Still muttering dramatically under your breath, you crouched down and crawled after him. The tunnel only lasted a few feet.

The first thing you noticed as your head emerged from the other side was the sunlight. Bright summer sunshine spilled across your face exactly as expected.

The second thing you noticed was the cold.

A sharp, winter chill immediately kissed your cheeks and nipped at the end of your nose.

You blinked.

Then looked up.

Your breath caught.

Hidden away beyond the curtain of vines was a tiny clearing unlike anywhere else on the Hogwarts grounds.

Wildflowers carpeted the earth in every imaginable colour while rabbits darted lazily through the grass, entirely unconcerned by your arrival. Golden afternoon light poured through the canopy overhead, making the entire place glow like something lifted straight from a fairy tale.

But none of that was what stole your breath.

At the very centre of the clearing lay a lake.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly frozen.

A sheet of flawless ice sat beneath the blazing summer sun as though winter itself had been trapped inside this tiny corner of the world.

"...What on earth..."

"Amazing, isn't it?"

You turned to find Fred watching you rather than the lake.

His grin was quieter now. There was still that unmistakable stretch of pride across his face as he took in your gobsmacked reaction, but beneath it lingered a hint of fondness that sent a slight flush to your cheeks, one you stubbornly insisted was caused by the cold.

"I was mucking about here in second year," He admitted with an embarrassed scratch at the back of his neck, "George and I were trying to invent a product that could make it snow indoors."

"And?"

"And... I may have perpetually frozen the entire lake."

You stared at him, "You may have?"

He shrugged, "I got scared I'd be in trouble if anyone found it."

"So you..."

"So, I never told anyone."

As he spoke, he reached out and absentmindedly cast a quiet Scourgify over your clothes, brushing away the bits of moss and leaves that had collected while crawling through the tunnel.

His fingers paused near your shoulder.

"There."

He gently plucked a tiny twig from your hair before tucking a loose strand behind your ear with absent familiarity.

"So..." You looked back at the lake, "You've never shown anyone this?"

"No."

"...Not even George?"

Fred's smile softened.

He shook his head.

"No."

Something warm unfurled low in your chest.

Warmer than the summer sun beating down on you.

You felt it.

The butterflies.

Walking back toward the castle felt strangely bittersweet.

Like stepping out of a storybook.

The hidden clearing disappeared behind the curtain of vines the moment you stepped through it, swallowed once again by the forest as though it had never been there at all. If you hadn't still felt the lingering chill clinging to your clothes, you might have convinced yourself you'd imagined the entire afternoon.

Your nose stung from the cold.

Your cheeks, however, had turned pink from hours spent laughing beneath the summer sun.

The two of you had spent hours on that frozen lake.

By the time the sun had begun sinking below the treeline, painting the ice in shades of amber and gold, the two of you had been too exhausted to do much more than sit side by side on the frozen shore, talking until the growing darkness reminded you that professors generally frowned upon students disappearing into enchanted forests after curfew.

Now, the familiar warmth of the castle wrapped around you as the heavy oak doors swung shut behind you.

The sudden change in temperature made your fingers tingle unpleasantly as feeling slowly returned to them.

A comfortable silence settled between you as you wandered through the entrance hall.

Students passed around you in little groups, chatting animatedly over dinner plans and unfinished essays, but neither of you made any move toward joining them.

Eventually, you reached the foot of the marble staircase.

You turned toward Fred.

He'd been unusually quiet for the last few minutes.

The easy confidence he'd carried all afternoon had somehow disappeared somewhere between the lake and the castle, replaced instead by something unexpectedly hesitant. His hands had found the pockets of his jumper again and he rocked back slightly on his heels before clearing his throat.

"(Y/N)..."

"Hm?"

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"So..."

You waited.

"I know..." He let out a small, awkward laugh, "I know this wasn't exactly a date-date. But…" His eyes found yours again, "I had a really good time."

Something in your chest fluttered.

"And unless I've completely misread today..." He continued carefully, "I think maybe you did too."

You did.

Far more than you'd expected to.

"So..." He took a small breath, "Unless I've made an absolute fool of myself here, I was wondering if maybe—"

"Let's go on a second date, Fred."

The words escaped before your brain had the chance to stop them.

You hadn't meant to interrupt him.

Truthfully, you'd been rather enjoying the exceedingly rare spectacle of Fred Weasley stumbling over his own words. It was oddly endearing watching someone who always seemed to have a joke ready suddenly become hopelessly tongue-tied.

Unfortunately, your own anticipation had won the race.

Silence settled between you. Fred simply stared. For one wonderfully long moment, he looked completely dumbfounded.

Then, slowly, a grin began tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It spread across his face before he could stop it, bright enough that you watched him actively try to suppress it.

"Well," He drawled, folding his arms as though he hadn't just been struck speechless, "Someone's certainly getting ahead of herself, isn't she?"

You folded your own arms in mock offence.

"Oh?"

"I hadn't even finished asking yet."

"You were taking too long."

He took one thoughtful look at you before his grin returned in full force.

"...So," He tilted his head ever so slightly, "Same time next week?"

Fred was always good at date ideas.

You knew that much by now.

Every time you met him, there was something planned—something a little ridiculous, a little exhausting, and always, without fail, something that made it impossible for you to think about anything else except how much you were laughing.

But with the July heat pressing down over Hogwarts like a heavy, unrelenting spell, even Fred’s usual energy had begun to soften at the edges.

The castle itself felt sluggish. Corridors held onto warmth long after sunset, windows stayed permanently open, and even the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall seemed stuck in an endless stretch of pale, hazy blue.

But it seemed the unbearable heat had given Fred an idea for another date.

Which was how you found yourself standing at the edge of the Black Lake in a cute bikini you’d been waiting all summer to wear, your shoes discarded somewhere in the grass behind you, watching him attempt to skip stones across the water.

He managed one bounce.

The stone immediately sank.

“Hm,” Fred said thoughtfully, staring at the ripples like they had personally betrayed him, “I’ve gotten considerably worse at that.”

“You were never good.”

“I distinctly remember being excellent.”

“That’s the heat talking. It’s cooked your brain.”

He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence.

“You wound me.”

“I try.”

He looked at you, a sinister smile on his face that gave you a feeling that he was planning something, “Well, I try harder.”

You barely had time to process the warning in his grin before you felt it—a sharp splash against your shoulders, cold water exploding across your skin.

“Fred!”

You sputtered as you broke the surface, hair dripping into your eyes just in time to see him double over laughing.

And then, before you could retaliate, he cannonballed in after you.

Every moment of calm dissolved into splashing, laughter, and half-hearted attempts to dunk one another beneath the surface. Fred succeeded exactly once before you retaliated by grabbing his ankle and dragging him under with you, emerging seconds later breathless and triumphant.

By the time the chaos finally eased, you’d drifted farther from shore, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and your sides aching from laughing too hard.

For a moment, there was nothing but gentle movement. Water lapping softly against your shoulders. Sunlight scattering across the surface in broken gold. Fred floating nearby, hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like he didn’t have a single thought in his head except this.

You turned slightly, your gaze catching on something in the water near your hands.

It glimmered faintly beneath the surface.

“Oh—wait—” You said, reaching out instinctively, “I think that’s a shell or something. It's pretty."

Before you could even finish the sentence, Fred was already diving.

He disappeared beneath the surface without hesitation.

"Chivalry is dead, they say."

The words died in your throat when he resurfaced a moment later, shaking water from his hair.

In his hand, he held the shell out proudly, grinning at you, “Ta-da.”

You smiled automatically, already reaching for it, already preparing some teasing comment until your eyes slipped past his hand.

Past the shell.

To his wrist.

Angelina.

The name sat against his skin like it belonged there.

Like it had always belonged there.

Your fingers stopped mid-air.

Fred was still talking, still smiling, still looking at you with that easy warmth that had become so familiar you didn’t even think about it anymore. His voice blurred slightly at the edges, like it was coming from farther away than it actually was, and the lake around you suddenly felt quieter, heavier, as though it had decided to hold its breath with you.

You couldn’t look away from it.

Angelina.

It wasn't wasn't the first time you were seeing it. It definitely wasn't new.

And yet seeing it like this—so close, so real, so casually visible between moments of laughter—made something inside you tighten in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.

The universe’s choice.

Not you.

Never you.

A strange stillness settled in your chest, not sharp at first, just heavy, like the slow sinking of something you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your thoughts began to slip before you could catch them, drifting in directions you couldn’t stop.

Would they make a good couple?

Did she ever think about him when she looked at George?

Did she ever wonder what it would’ve been like if she’d chosen differently, if she’d taken a different path, if she’d looked at the wrong twin and hesitated just a second longer?

And worse—did Fred ever think about it too?

The shell in his hand suddenly felt irrelevant, something from a different moment entirely, like it didn’t belong in this one anymore. Like it had been part of a version of the world where you weren’t thinking about this. Where you weren’t standing in the middle of a lake watching the evidence of a future you didn’t belong in wrapped around his wrist.

You weren’t even fully aware of the shift until it had already happened.

One moment you were here, in sunlight and laughter and water that still clung warm to your skin.

The next, everything felt distant.

Muted.

As though you had stepped just slightly outside of yourself.

“…(Y/N)?”

You blinked, forcing yourself back into your body, into the moment, into the lake and the shell and him.

Fred was closer now, his expression no longer playful. The smile had faded without him even seeming to notice, replaced by something quieter, more attentive.

“You alright?”

For a second, you forgot how to answer.

Then you managed something that almost resembled normal.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

His eyes didn’t leave your face.

“You sure?”

Too quickly—too automatically—you nodded.

“Just cold.”

Even as you said it, you knew it wasn’t convincing.

Fred didn’t push. He rarely did when it mattered.

Instead, he moved closer through the water until his arm brushed yours, steady and grounding, and then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he slipped it around your waist to keep you from drifting too far with the current.

“Yeah? Well,” He said softly, almost lightly again, as though trying to pull you back without forcing it, “We can fix that.”

And for a moment, you let him.

Just a moment.

A final moment.

In all honesty, you hadn’t meant to avoid him.

Really, you hadn’t.

It wasn’t like you actively chose to turn around every time you saw Fred in the corridors, or pretend you hadn’t received his notes because you’d gone to bed early, or slip out of a room the second you heard his boisterous laughter drawing closer—the same laughter that used to send a wave of warmth flooding through you.

But every time you saw him—his warm brown eyes, shadowed by long lashes—you felt that sinking pit open up in your stomach, swallowing everything else whole. It ruined your day before it had even properly begun.

And even though all you wanted was to be near him, you couldn’t help but turn away every time his eyes searched for you.

You really should have considered the fact that Fred wasn’t going to take it lying down.

And that he knew all about the secret passageways scattered around Hogwarts.

So you really shouldn’t have been surprised when he appeared in the corridor that had been empty not even a second ago—grabbing your wrist and stopping you in your tracks.

“Fred.”

“This push-and-pull bullshit isn’t going to work with me, (Y/N),” He said immediately, “If you want to break up with me, you better look me in the eye and do it.”

Ironic.

Because you couldn’t.

Your gaze stayed anchored to his wrist—specifically, to the inked name along his pulse, peeking out from beneath his sleeve.

And just like that, the pit in your stomach returned.

“This isn’t going to work, Fred.”

His brows twitched, his grip tightening just a fraction—like he was afraid you’d slip away again if he loosened it.

“Why?”

You let out a breath, shaking your head like the answer should be obvious.

“Because you’re not meant to be with me,” You said, “You’re already… destined for someone else.”

A flicker of confusion crossed his face.

“My brother’s soulmate?” He said, almost incredulous, “I would never do that to him. And she’s already made her choice.”

“And if she didn’t?” You pressed, your voice tightening, “If she changes her mind tomorrow? If she decides you’re the one she’s meant to be with… would you change yours?”

The question hung between you.

Fred didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze sharpened.

“Well then what about you?” He shot back, “If Riddle suddenly realizes how badly he messed up—comes crawling back, begging you to take him—would you go?”

The edge in his voice hit harder than you expected.

Suddenly, you were back in your dorm room again, staring at lipstick marks you hadn’t chosen, feeling that same hollow, awful ache in your chest.

Except this time—

he wasn’t your soulmate.

You had no claim to Fred.

If he turned around tomorrow and chose Angelina, you couldn’t fault him for it.

After all… she was his soulmate.

And if he wasn’t by your side—

If Mattheo came back, asking for your forgiveness—

Would you really be able to go back to him like nothing had happened? Could you let him touch you with the same hands that had touched someone else, pretend you didn’t know exactly where they had been? Could you stand there in his arms and still feel that sense of certainty you used to dream soulmates would bring—the feeling that this was your place in the world, that you were chosen, needed, loved completely?

“No,” You said, your voice barely above a whisper as the realization settled in, “I wouldn’t.”

Your voice steadied as you continued.

“I don’t want someone who would hurt me on purpose,” You said quietly, “I don’t want someone who makes me feel like I’m something they can come back to when it suits them. Like the only reason I’m with them is because someone out there decided it.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

“I want you.” You admitted, your voice tightening as you realized just how true it was.

These past few weeks with Fred had been the happiest you’d been in a long time. When you were with him, it felt like you’d finally found your place in the universe.

And that terrified you.

Because he wasn’t yours.

Not really.

And if those lipstick marks had broken your heart, then watching Fred walk away from you and go back to Angelina the second she called would destroy you.

“But I want you to want me too,” You finished, “Not just because I’m there. Not just to fill some empty space.”

Silence settled between you.

Fred’s grip loosened—not letting go, just sliding from your wrist to your hand, holding it instead.

“I’ll admit it,” He said after a moment, “That’s how it started.”

Your chest tightened.

“Just… something to make it hurt less,” He continued, quieter now, “Something to not feel so bloody lonely all the time.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you.

“But it’s not that anymore, (Y/N).”

And when you met his eyes, all you saw was sincerity. It hit you in a way you couldn’t quite explain—like the two of you weren’t just standing in a corridor anymore, but somewhere else entirely. Somewhere smaller. Quieter.

Just the two of you in the entire universe.

“I’m falling for you,” He said, like it scared him a little to admit it, he'd been burned before and he was scared he was going to be again, “And I want to be with you. Soulmate or not.”

You wanted to believe him.

You really did.

But the tattoo of her name lingered in your mind—a ghost between the two of you you didn’t know how to exorcise.

“But what about—”

“Fuck Angelina, alright!”

Your eyes widened and he dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate, “There isn’t a single part of me that wants her right now,” He said, “I thought I did. I thought I was supposed to. But I don’t.”

His voice dropped.

“Not like I do when I’m with you.”

You stared at him, that pit in your stomach beginning to dissipate, just slightly.

“(Y/N), please.” He said, taking your hand in both of his and pulling you closer, guiding your palm to rest against his chest.

His heartbeat was fast.

Almost as fast as yours.

“If you don’t feel the same way about me, that’s okay,” He said softly, “But don’t push me away because you think I’d rather be with anyone other than you. Because there is no one else, and there never will be.”

Something in you shifted, quiet but undeniable, and before you could second-guess it you stepped closer, your hand coming up to rest against his shoulder as you rose onto your toes, leaning in with the simple intention of pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

But at the last second, he turned his head.

Your breath caught, your lips just a hair away from meeting his, so close you could feel the warmth of him, could see your own reflection in his blown out pupils. Your gaze dropped, almost involuntarily, to his mouth for just a moment and before you knew what was happening, you had closed the distance.

You had always thought your first kiss would be with your soulmate. You had saved it, carefully, stubbornly, building it up in your mind during sleepless nights—imagining electricity in little jolts rushing through your body, feeling inexplicable heat where he would've grabbed the dips of your waist, imagining certainty, imagining that unmistakable feeling that would tell you, without question, this is it.

You thought you would feel boundless joy rush through you, a state of euphoria that made you feel tethered and floating at the same time as you kissed the person you were meant to be with for the very first time.

As your arms slid around Fred’s neck and pulled him closer, as he kissed you back, his arms looping around your waist as he began to lose himself into you, blurring the lines between where you ended and he began.

You realized—

It was everything you had ever dreamed it would be.

The Gryffindor common room was rarely this quiet.

It almost felt like you had managed to catch your foot in the rug and slip into some kind of alternate dimension. Normally, it was chaos in its purest form—laughter spilling over armchairs, someone shouting about Quidditch from across the room, first-years getting shushed for the tenth time in five minutes. But tonight, the fire crackled softly instead of roaring, and even that felt like it was trying not to disturb the peace.

You were curled up in Fred’s lap like it was the most natural place in the world, one of his arms loosely around your waist while the other lazily traced patterns against your knee. You, meanwhile, were fully invested in a crossword puzzle like your life depended on it.

“Six across,” You murmured, brow furrowed, “Ten letters. ‘An ingredient in Pepper-Up potion—’ oh, this is easy.”

Fred hummed behind you, amused, “You say that about every single clue.”

“Because I am right every single time.”

“You absolutely are not.”

You glanced up at him over your shoulder, squinting, “Are you challenging my intellectual superiority?”

He shrugged, though that infuriating smirk was still on his face, “Not at all. Oh look—twelve down. Another word for humility. Quick, how many letters in 'not (Y/N)'?”

You clicked your tongue, rolling your eyes, and moved on to the next clue, solving it just as quickly as the last one. You leaned back against him with a satisfied little grin—and Fred tightened his arm around you just enough to make you tilt into him again.

“Show-off.” He murmured.

You solved another clue, and without thinking, pressed a quick kiss to his jaw.

Fred paused.

Then, like it was nothing at all, he kissed the top of your head in return.

It became a rhythm after that—clue, answer, kiss; clue, answer, kiss—soft and absentminded, warm in a way that made the rest of the world feel very far away.

Until it didn’t.

“You two are adorable.” Came a voice behind you.

You both turned slightly.

Lavender Brown stood a few steps away, arms folded, her expression somewhere between pity and smug satisfaction. Her gaze flicked pointedly between you and Fred, lingering just a second too long on the way you were sitting together.

“It’s just…” She continued lightly, “such a shame, isn’t it?”

You blinked, “What is?”

“That you’re not actually soulmates.” Her lips curled, “It’s such a shame you’ll never know what it feels like to be in your soulmate’s arms.”

Silence settled for half a beat.

Fred’s hand stopped moving on your waist.

You slowly closed the crossword book.

Then you looked up at her properly.

“Well, I actually take a lot of pride in that,” You said, voice sweet as honey, “At least I’m not like some people who the big man in the sky clearly knew wouldn’t be able to land a partner with that face and personality… so he had to shackle some poor bloke to them just to make it work.”

Fred made a sound that suspiciously resembled a cough hiding a laugh.

Lavender’s face went red instantly, “That’s— I didn’t—”

“Mm.” You tilted your head, “Anyway, good talk.”

She opened her mouth again, clearly searching for something to salvage her dignity, but nothing came. After a second of flustered silence, she spun on her heel and walked away far faster than she’d arrived.

The moment she was gone, Fred let out a low whistle.

“Good job, sweetheart.”

“Well,” You said with a small shrug, “I am the funny one in this relationship.”

Fred hummed quietly—the sound vibrating through his chest where your back was pressed against him.

“Oh yeah?” He murmured.

There was something in his voice now—lower, slower, warmer.

“S'that so?”

Something about it—the depth of his tone, the way his words seemed to slur like they were weighing on his tongue, the way he looked at you like he was genuinely drunk on you—made your stomach drop in a way you’d never felt before.

The crossword book slipped from your lap and fell to the floor.

And then you were turning fully in his arms, grabbing the front of his jumper, and kissing him properly.

Fred made a sound of surprise that quickly melted into something far more pleased. His palm slid to your back, pulling you in, and you felt yourself go slightly hollow with it—like every thought had been knocked clean out of you. Your hands moved up to frame his jaw as he kissed you back with growing desire.

And for a moment, the rest of the world didn’t exist at all.

Ron Weasley chose that exact moment to walk into the common room like he had impeccable comedic timing and absolutely no sense of mercy.

The door swung open with a creak, letting in a burst of cold corridor air—and Ron, flanked by a couple of his friends, froze mid-step.

Ron physically recoiled.

“For God’s sake,” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, “Can you guys stop this disgusting display of affection?"

Fred didn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looked mildly offended that Ron had interrupted his very important work of being glued to your lips.

You, still slightly breathless—and also slightly offended—were actually a little relieved he’d walked in. Because if you’d been allowed to carry on, you were fairly certain you’d be expelled for public indecency.

Ron gestured vaguely at the scene like it physically pained him, like he was about to wretch up his guts at the thought of one of his best friends with his brother, “It makes other people who haven’t found their soulmates feel bad.”

Your eyes flicked to Fred.

And before you could stop it, you both shared the same secret smile.

Ron hadn’t even realized what he’d implied.

Still, something warm and oddly sweet curled in your stomach anyway.

Fred noticed it too. Of course he did.

“Right,” He said lazily, looking back at Ron, “We’ll make ourselves scarce then. Wouldn’t want to traumatise poor, lonely Ronald.”

“Oi—”

But Fred was already standing, pulling you up with him in one smooth motion like it was second nature.

You barely had time to steady yourself before his hand found yours.

And just like that, he was leading you toward the staircase.

You glanced over your shoulder at Ron one last time, sending him a mischievous smile and a quick wink.

He responded with a face of pure disgust.

It made you laugh—but the sound faded as you climbed higher into the tower, Fred still holding your hand like he had no intention of letting go.

epilogue: (lowkey the og plan was to kill off freddie but i changed my mind lol)

Eventually, Mattheo Riddle became very good at pretending.

It was a skill he perfected over the years in the same quiet, miserable way people learned to live with old injuries—carefully, stubbornly, until the pain became less of a sharp wound and more of a permanent ache woven into everyday life.

At first, it had been difficult. Mattheo had always been a man of candor. When he wanted something, he took it. When he felt desire, he showed it, and more often than not the world bent willingly into his hands. When he felt anger, disgust, hatred—he made sure everyone around him felt it too.

But heartbreak?

Guilt?

Regret?

Those emotions sat strangely on him, like clothes tailored for someone else entirely.

For a long time, he found reminders of you everywhere. Every couple passing him in the street felt like a mockery of something he had ruined with his own hands.

But time had a cruel way of dulling even the sharpest pain.

Eventually, Hogwarts became memories instead of places. The castle faded into nothing more than fragments in the back of his mind. He stopped dreaming about you eventually. Or perhaps he simply stopped remembering the dreams by morning.

He learned how to fill his days well enough.

Work helped.

Noise helped.

Women helped sometimes too, though never for very long. He became frighteningly good at moving from one distraction to the next without ever lingering long enough for silence to settle around him properly.

Because silence was dangerous.

Silence was where you lived.

People stopped mentioning your name around him after a while.

That helped.

Or at least, that was what he liked to believe.

Years passed that way.

Quietly. Pathetically.

And eventually, he became good enough at pretending that even he almost believed himself.

Until one morning, long after he had stopped allowing himself to think about soulmates at all, Mattheo woke to faint silver lines stretching across the skin of his stomach.

For a long moment, he simply stared at them in the mirror.

Then, silently, he swallowed the pain.

And pretended he never noticed them.

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Then after a few weeks of exercising together, Sonar shuffled over to you with half a swagger and half bashfulness in his stride.

“Hey, man, you good?” You ask, popping your headphones off, sweating and panting as you ran on the treadmill that was built for speedsters.

“Yeah, it’s getting a bit cold out.” His eyes darted around, a red fabric clutched in his hand.

“Yeah, my denim jacket isn’t cutting it anymore.” Chuckling, you lower the speed to talk to him fully, sensing something is up with him. “You good, bud?”

“Bud?”

There’s a snicker from somewhere in the gym, and Flambae is suspiciously hiding his mouth behind a dumbbell. Whilst Royd has turned around, even though you could clearly see him stifling a laugh through the floor to ceiling mirror. Robert is more subtle as he lowers the speed on his stair master.

“Yeah, you’re my buddy!” You smile innocently, genuinely having no idea why half the gym is listening in on the conversation. “Did Mal hide your clothes again from the showers? Because I told her—”

“No!” He flushes pink, you didn’t even know he could blush. “It’s not that. Here.” His arm reaches out to you, showing you the sweatshirt. “It’s cold out.”

You press pause on the treadmill, taking hold of the sweatshirt with a smile. “Are you giving this to me?”

“Duh.” Sonar rolls his eyes.

Now the whole gym is listening in and the usual clunking of metal pauses. It’s never quiet here, but you don’t notice it as much as you grin ear to ear and throw your arms around Sonar sweetly.

It’s not just any old sweatshirt, it’s a Harvard one. With the classic print that is unmistakable, that you’ve also seen him wear it out once when you ran into him at the corner store during a day off. You know how much he loves the university, he boasts about it frequently, so getting something from him, especially something as special from his alma mater was like becoming best friends with the guy.

“That is so nice! Thank you so much!” You squeeze him once, and he just stands there like a tree. You take his stiff silence as him being uncomfortable so you pull away quickly with a wobbly chuckle. “It’s great that you noticed me freezing my ass off in the office. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, no problem.” His voice peaks, he flustered some more and turns around quickly, leaving the gym and you as you hold the soft fabric in your hands, smiling to yourself

Multiple heads turn to you, and you suddenly feel like a bacteria under a microscope.

“What?” You stare at them with a raised brow.

“Nothing.” Royd, Flambae, and Robert simultaneously say in the same monotonous tone.

“Well, don’t let me distract you, boys.” Chuckling, none the wiser, you turn the treadmill on again.

“Impossible.” Robert uttered under his breath, and you glanced at him with a soft barely hidden smile.

You didn’t think too much about the interaction with Sonar at first, you’re used to getting something from the team. Just last week you got some cookies from Blonde Blazer after she saw you eyeing the same cookies she had for lunch earlier that week. Then a few days before that you got a lighter from Invisigal, nothing fancy, just something to light your scented candle in your office after you lost yours. She said she got tired of coming to your office with it smelling like damp carpet after Waterboy accidentally spilled water all over the carpet and the company is too cheap to get the carpets out and dried. Not to mention that Robert buys you lunch whenever your breaks coincide with his. So getting little presents from the team is normal for you, still special, but it’s a normal occurrence around the office when most of them don’t know how to show appreciation with their words and would rather show it through actions because it’s easier. It’s endearing, and you never ran out of thank yous for them.

When you walked in the next day wearing the precious Harvard sweatshirt over your blouse, all windswept hair and cheeks cold from the wind outside, you must’ve looked like a mess. But Sonar, the same man who would bite someone’s head off, literally if they said something bad about his finances— almost fainted. He shudders, and holds onto the wall beside him for balance as he blocks the doorway to the breakroom. Flambae wasn’t impressed behind him, but as you walked by, greeting the two with a smile as usual, something flashed in Flambae’s eyes.

That very same day during a gym session, Flambae tossed you a towel, nothing special, just a towel that had a flame embroidered at the hem to wipe your sweat off your face. Again, you didn't think of it much, he’s just being nice, which is weird by itself when he’s usually scowling in your direction or looking incredibly bored whenever you open your mouth. This time though, when you used the towel with a smile as thanks, he had that intense look in his eyes.

Something’s up with the Z-team.

Even Golem, sweet Golem has given you something. It’s a piece of geode, nice and shiny and rough at the edges. The way he gave it to you was so adorable with his large hands holding onto it daintily, you couldn’t resist it even if you wanted to. The nice rock has found its way onto your office table, and Golem would smile at it every time he swings around your office. Sometimes you think he only comes around to check on the precious rock, which you don’t mind, you like his company, he’s a really good listener.

Then it was Chase, the guy would rather sell you for one cornchip to the devil if it meant getting his youth back. You understand his reasoning, but you’re worth more than a piece of chip. So you’re awfully suspicious when he handed you an inconspicuous paper bag.

He shrugs, “It’s for Beef.”

You look inside the paper bag and a chocolate muffin greets you. “Unless you want Beef to keel over.”

“Oh, shit, did they give me a different flavor?” He feigns a wince, he’s not a very good actor. “Fuck, I guess you can have it instead.”

“Okay, Chase, what the fuck is going on with everyone?”

“What do you mean?” He makes a face, blinking slowly at you as his moustache wiggles above his lip. A tell.

“You know something.” Your eyes narrow.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, kid.” With a dramatic shrug, he turns to leave.

The door clicks shut and you take out the muffin from the paper bag. It has chunks of chocolate and a drizzle of raspberry sauce on top. It looks delicious, but too big for one person to eat it all.

“Hey, Invisigal, you want some?”

She appears from the corner of your office with a smirk. “Hell yeah!”

Now Royd has given you something, a letterman jacket that is too big on your form, almost engulfing you underneath the fabric. You thanked him nonetheless, it was really comfy and soft that you wore it to bed when your heater broke. Robert wasn’t amused when you crawled into bed beside him though. He really thought that Royd was in the room in between the two of you when it still smells like the big guy.

“But it’s so comfy, and I’m freezing.” You explain, brows furrowed as you wiggle your toes under the blanket whilst he looms over you with his hands on the side of your head.

“Take it off.” Robert says in that intense serious tone of his that never fails to make your stomach do flips.

“Why?” You test him, the corner of your lips tugging into a teasing smile. “Our heater is broken and do you really want me to turn into an icicle?”

“I have a jacket you can borrow.” He simply says, lowering himself down atop you until his chin rests on your sternum, eyes gazing into your own with intensity. He reminds you of Beef when he wants a cuddle.

“It’s in the laundry, Robby. You literally only own one jacket.” Your fingers rake through his hair, running along his scalp as he sighs, shoulders visibly easing. “It smells like sweat and coffee.”

“I thought you said you liked how I smell after the gym?” His brow rises, hands pinching your sides. “And you’re addicted to coffee, you had three cups today.”

“You’re keeping count of my caffeine intake? You stalker.” You pinch back, and he embraces you tighter. “What is up with you guys, hm? You’re all up my ass recently.”

“Who is?” His half lidded eyes open, jaw setting as he tilts his head. “I know Sonar’s been eyeing you like it’s mating season.”

“Christ, Robert.” You giggle, taking hold of his face gently. “I’ll tell you which ones if you tell me why they’re being suspiciously sweet on me.”

“They’re probably fucking with me.” Sighing, Robert’s head falls down against your chest, breathing you in as his legs tangle with yours underneath the covers.

“Why would they— well, they do that all the time but why through me? They don’t even know we’re together.”

Robert takes a deep breath, his mind recalling everything from the past month. After a beat, his head tips back, groaning. “They overheard me talking to you when I forgot to turn off my headphones. And they probably think that you’re free now when I supposedly found someone else.”

It was an innocent phone call back when you asked him out to dinner at a nice Italian place you’ve been eyeing, and yet for some reason the Z-team thought he was talking to someone else and not the woman he’s been pining for since his first day in SDN. Now Robert wonders how the rumour even started and who spread it. He has a few suspects.

“Oh!” You snort out a chuckle. “Wait, they don’t know we're dating.”

“Sweetheart.” His voice turns tender, a warm calloused hand taking your cheek in his soft hold. “I’ve been pining for you for far longer than that.” Your heart cinches, smiling softly at him. “And they know, those fuckers seem to know everything about me but not the other way around.”

“So they’re like, trying to get with me?” Brows knitted, you suck in your teeth. “Huh, didn’t know I was so sought after.”

“Have you seen yourself? You’re perfect, and unfortunately they see that too, as if it’s hard not to.” A smile tugs at his lips, leaning closer to peck at the underside of your jaw. “Now tell me who those fuckers are.”

Your laughter echoes around the apartment that you’re slowly decorating together with him. “What are you gonna do about it, Mechaman?” Poking his cheek, you aim to provoke him. On any other day he wouldn’t even budge, but tonight as you wear another man’s jacket? Oh you’ve provoked him alright.

“I’m gonna kill them.”

“No, you won’t.” You stifle a guffaw, squeezing his nose.

“Not really, probably just break their legs.”

“Oh, so you’ll break Chase’s legs too?”

“Chase?” Robert blinks in surprise, he then makes a face, nose scrunching, tight-lipped. “I think he’s the one that’s just fucking with me. He knows, and the fucker probably knows what the others are doing. Maybe even goading them on.”

“What is this 4D chess you guys are playing?” Laughing, you squeeze him, legs around his waist as you cuddle close to Robert. “You know this wouldn’t be a problem if we just tell them.”

“They’ll never let us live it down—” He pauses mid sentence, the cogs in his mind moving as you see his eyes change from annoyance to something mischievous. “I’ve got an idea.” Pulling away, the blanket falling away, he takes you by the ankles, one hand on each as your legs are beside his head, a familiar sight that makes your skin warm and your lower belly twisting with need. “I’ll give you something that will tell them to fuck off.”

You gasp, suddenly sweating underneath him. “Holy shit, a baby?!”

“What?” Robert’s eyes crinkle, chuckling as he pecks at your ankle. “No, sweetheart.” His hand glides along the length of your leg and down to your thigh, the pads of his fingers squeezing the plump of your hip.

“T–then what?” Your breath shudders at the sight of him over you with those bedroom eyes and smirk that floods your senses with want.

He crawls over to you, breath fanning your warm skin as he perches himself above you, gazing at you with hunger in his eyes.

“You’ll see.” He drawls, soft, saccharine as his lips linger above your own. “Can I, sweetheart?”

“Absolutely.” Sighing, you're already blissed out.

—

Robert gave you something alright.

A turtleneck is still too hot for the weather, and you couldn’t possibly miss a day of work as you and Robert exit the elevator doors side by side and hand in hand. He has a rare smug look on his face, the kind of expression that you’ve only seen him wear after a successful mission and he’s still running high on adrenaline, sweating from the warmth of the mechaman suit. Now you’re seeing it on him as his fingers intertwine with yours, walking side by side with you onto the SDN bullpen.

“Morning, everyone.” You utter bashfully, tugging at your collar. Clearing your throat as you pull away at the fabric to subtly show off the mark Robert gave you that is just under your collarbone. With everything that has happened in the office, the HR department wouldn’t care for this stunt. This is probably mild for them, considering things.

“Hey—!” Sonar’s smile crumbles, eyes darting towards your marked neck, then over to Robert’s that has the same purple and red bruises on his pulse. The intertwined hands does him in. “Robert, you fucker!”

Flambae looks offended, as if he wasted his time but underneath his eyes you could just see the disappointment on his face. “Damn it.” He walks back into the breakroom with his shoulders slouched.

“Yeah, we’re together.” Robert casually says, a thumb rubbing along the back of your hand as he glances at you with a softened look he only reserves just for you. “Now can you all stop trying to get with my girl?”

Royd frowns with a sigh, before fixing his expression with a smile. “Congrats, you two!”

While Chase turns his office chair around with his arms crossed, a leg thrown over the other and with an even more smug look on his face. “Finally.” He simply says, and Robert rubs a hand on his face, suddenly aware of the eyes as he tugs at his collar.

“Fucking Chase.”

Realization flickers on your face. “Oh!” You don't know the extent of his plan, but you do know that his intentions were for Robert to finally reveal the nature of your relationship with him. To which you subtly give Chase a thumbs up. Again, if only they knew how to use their words, it would’ve saved the guys some time.

Malevola walks in with a present wrapped nicely in hand. When she sees you hand in hand with Robert, she hisses between her teeth. “Oh, come on!”

Bianca was a blur of movement by the Great Lake.

She darted along the grassy bank, boots thudding softly against the earth as she zig-zagged around rocks and half-buried roots, stopping every few seconds to crouch down and inspect something with intense focus before bolting off again. A stick became a wand, a pebble became treasure, and the reeds at the water’s edge were clearly hiding something very important.

You watched her with a fond smile, arms folded loosely as you leaned back against the cool stone.

“She has too much energy.” You said, though there was no real complaint in your voice—only wonder.

Theo huffed a quiet laugh beside you, eyes never leaving her, “She’s a firecracker.”

Bianca shrieked with laughter as she nearly tripped over her own feet, caught herself at the last second, and then stood very still—carefully regaining her balance before continuing on her way.

Theo tilted his head slightly, watching her, “She takes after you.”

You laughed, startled, “Are you crazy?”

He glanced at you, amused, “What?”

You nodded toward Bianca. “Look at her. She’s observant. Thoughtful. She watches everything. She’s lively, yeah—but she hardly ever leaps without looking first.” You smiled softly, “That’s all you.”

Theo went quiet at that, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.

He watched Bianca sprint past a patch of wildflowers, slow just enough to avoid stepping on them, then take off again.

“…Maybe.” He conceded.

A moment later, he added, half-thoughtful, half-teasing, “She’d be a good Chaser.”

You snorted, “Of course you’d say that.”

“Did you see that turn?” He said, nodding toward her as she swerved sharply to avoid the water’s edge, “She'll be a star quidditch player.”

You hummed, considering it. “I don’t know,” You said slowly, “I kind of see her as a Magizoologist.”

Theo glanced at you, “Yeah?”

“She’s gentle,” You said, “Curious. She doesn’t just want to look—she wants to understand.” You smiled as Bianca crouched again, whispering something to a very unimpressed-looking duck, “I think she’d love creatures.”

Theo’s expression softened.

“Whatever she chooses,” He said quietly, “she’ll be brilliant.”

The words lingered between you.

The lake rippled softly. The breeze carried the scent of water and grass. Bianca’s laughter echoed across the shore, bright and unburdened.

And then—slowly, inevitably—the conversation faded.

Neither of you spoke.

Because the truth settled in like a weight neither of you wanted to name.

There were futures you were imagining that you wouldn’t get to see. First matches. First discoveries. First failures. First triumphs.

Theo swallowed.

You hugged your arms closer to yourself, eyes fixed on Bianca as if memorizing the way the sunlight caught in her curls.

For a moment, it was almost peaceful.

And for a moment, that made it hurt so much more.

Bedtime was always a gamble.

There were nights when Bianca conked out long before she was meant to, curled boneless and warm in Theo’s arms, and you and him would exchange a silent look before jointly deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. No pajamas. No teeth brushed. Not if it meant waking her. You’d just lay her down as she was and hope she didn't wake up.

Some nights, she went down like a dream—padding excitedly toward bed because she was looking forward to the story that Theo read to her. When it was your turn, Bianca would read to you instead, you'd study the pictures with exaggerated seriousness, and make enthusiastic oohs and ahhs at all the right moments while Bianca beamed in pride at her reading skills.

And then there were the nights she refused.

It would almost be easier if she weren’t tired—at least then you could burn the energy off. A walk around the castle usually did the trick. More often than not, she’d be asleep in Theo’s arms before you even turned back toward the common room, her cheek pressed into his shoulder, breathing slow and even.

But the worst nights were when she was exhausted and still couldn’t sleep.

Overtired, overstimulated, and furious about it.

The crying cut through you in a way nothing else did—sharp and relentless, scraping along your nerves until you felt hollowed out. Theo held on as long as he could. When it became too much, he’d quietly excuse himself.

"Ten minutes." He promised, "I'll be back."

But when fifteen passed and he still hadn’t returned, you didn’t go looking for him. You knew where he was—the common room, breathing, grounding himself. You let him have those extra minutes.

You held Bianca instead, her small body tense in your arms, her face damp with tears. You hugged her close and rocked back and forth, humming softly at first, then singing—a lullaby from a film you used to love as a child.

Gradually, the sobs quieted.

Her breathing evened out.

And when you were absolutely certain she was gone—truly asleep—you tucked her into bed, smoothing the blankets, lingering just long enough to make sure she didn’t stir.

Only then did you leave.

You closed the door quietly behind you and let out a long breath.

“She’s finally down.” You murmured, collapsing onto the couch beside Theo like your bones had simply decided they were finished.

He looked up from the parchment spread across the coffee table. His hair was mussed, sleeves rolled up, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back up.” He said quietly.

Your head tipped against his shoulder without thinking. “It’s okay, Theo,” You replied softly, “You deserved the break after the fight to get her into pajamas.”

He exhaled—a deep, exhausted sigh—and let his head fall forward for a moment. The common room was dim, fire crackling low, everything wrapped in that hazy, end-of-day quiet where the world felt temporarily paused.

After a beat, Theo straightened slightly, shaking his head like he could physically shake himself awake. “Okay,” He said, gesturing to the parchment with his chin, “Do you want to start writing the Charms essay?”

You nodded, eyes already heavy. “In a second,” You murmured, “Just… give me a second.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

The fire crackled. The room softened. The parchment remained untouched.

And sometime in the night, Theo’s head tipped gently against yours, his breathing evening out as sleep finally claimed him too—the two of you tangled together on the couch like you belonged there.

Morning crept into the Slytherin common room slowly.

Pale light filtered in through the tall windows, casting faint shapes across the stone floor and catching on the dying embers in the fireplace. The room was quiet in that in-between way—too early for students rushing to class, too late for true solitude.

Sometime during the night, the distance between you and Theo had disappeared entirely.

Your head was tucked beneath his chin now, his arm slung loosely—but securely—around your waist. One of your legs had somehow ended up tangled with his, your body curved into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His cheek rested against the crown of your head, breath warm and steady, fingers curled faintly into the fabric of your sleeve.

You looked… settled.

Theo hadn’t slept that deeply in weeks.

The first voices shattered the quiet.

“Oi—what the hell?”

Blaise stopped short just inside the common room, halfway through a yawn. Mattheo, behind him, followed his line of sight—and froze. Then a slow, shit-eating grin spread across his face.

“Mama y papà.” He said cheerfully.

Theo stirred at the sound, brows knitting together. You shifted too, burrowing closer on instinct, your face scrunching in your sleep in that exact way Bianca did when she didn’t want to wake up yet.

Theo’s eyes fluttered open.

It took him a moment to piece things together. The couch. The dying fire. The weight against his chest.

You.

His arm tightened before he could stop himself.

Draco let out a low whistle. “Merlin,” He drawled, “You leave one kid with him for a week and suddenly he’s playing house.”

Theo’s eyes snapped fully open, “Shut up.”

Lorenzo folded his arms, unimpressed but unmistakably entertained, “Are we interrupting something?”

You shifted again, mumbling something soft and unintelligible into Theo’s chest. Your hand slid up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt like it was a lifeline.

Theo held his breath.

For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling—at the stone arches, at the faint greenish light—fully aware of his friends staring like the two of you were a particularly scandalous exhibit in a zoo.

And still, despite himself, his eyelids felt heavy again.

“Bianca?” He murmured, voice barely there.

“Still fast asleep.” Mattheo supplied easily.

Theo didn’t even fight it.

His eyes slid shut again, arm tightening just a fraction more around you as his head tipped back against the couch.

Out cold.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“Oh my God,” Blaise whispered, “He’s actually asleep."

Lorenzo stared, "My old man used to do the same too. Fell asleep through a whole movie once."

The Slytherin common room was almost unnervingly quiet at that hour.

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls, green flames reflecting in the tall windows like something alive beneath the lake outside. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, leaving only a soft pool of light near the couches where you and Theo sat—books spread open, parchment littered with notes, ink smudges marking the evidence of three solid feet of Transfiguration essays each.

You were officially on a break.

You shivered, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders just as Theo stood, rolling his neck once before moving toward the small table where he’d set up the kettle. You watched him quietly as he brewed tea—precise, unhurried, like the ritual itself grounded him.

When he returned and placed a cup in front of you, you couldn’t help the smile that curved your lips.

The teabag was still steeping.

You took a careful sip. It was perfect. Strong, but not bitter. Exactly how you liked it.

A soft chuckle slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Theo glanced up, “What?”

You shook your head, lifting the cup slightly, “Nothing. Just—thank you.”

He nodded once, but his mouth twitched like he knew there was more to it.

Then, almost without thinking, you said, “You know… before meeting her, I didn’t think I’d ever even look twice at you.”

Theo’s quill froze mid-scratch.

Slowly, he turned to face you, one brow lifting. “Wow,” He drawled, “I feel incredibly flattered.”

You winced, “No—wait. That came out wrong.”

He studied you now, the teasing edge fading, curiosity sharpening his expression.

“I just mean,” You continued, fingers worrying the hem of your sleeve, “before Bianca, I honestly thought we’d graduate and pass by each other without ever really being in each other’s lives.” You hesitated, “But now…”

“Now what?” He asked quietly.

You gestured vaguely between the two of you—the firelight, the late hour, the way his knee brushed yours and neither of you moved away.

“You know exactly how I like my tea,” You said softly, “And I know how you like yours. I’m allergic to smoke, and you stopped smoking before this even became…” Your voice trailed off as you ducked your head, unsure how to name what sat between you, “Whatever this is.”

“Whatever this is,” You finished, almost to yourself, “It’s funny, isn’t it? How sometimes things just… happen. Completely out of order.”

Theo leaned back slightly, watching you like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“She changed things.” He said.

“Yes,” You whispered, “She certainly did.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“I never thought about it before.” He admitted finally, voice low.

“About what?”

“Any of this,” He said, “A family. A future. I didn’t think I was capable of it, to be honest.” His jaw tightened. “Thought I was too screwed up to deserve one.”

Your chest ached.

“And now?” You asked softly.

“Now,” He said, barely above a breath, “I want it more than anything in the world.” His eyes met yours, “Bianca. And you.”

Your heart stuttered painfully.

“I don’t know when it happened,” He went on, “Or how. I just know that somewhere along the way, I stopped yearning for my past—and started anticipating the future instead.”

The fire popped, sharp in the stillness.

You looked at him—really looked. The shadows beneath his eyes. The tension he carried like armor. The boy who had let himself love without realizing how deeply it would cut.

“I think,” You said, voice trembling just slightly, “I feel the same way, Theo.” You swallowed, “I want a future with you.”

You reached for him before fear could catch up, your fingers brushing his wrist. He went utterly still at the contact, breath hitching like you’d struck something vital.

You hesitated, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you lifted your gaze to his—and then your hands began to tremble when you saw it. The want in his eyes. Bare. Unguarded.

Theo leaned in slowly, deliberately—giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His forehead rested against yours first, warm and steady, grounding you both.

“Ti amo.” He whispered.

You didn’t need to understand Italian to know what he was saying.

The kiss started softly, tentative—his lips brushing yours like a question he was afraid to ask too loudly. When you responded, just as gently, his breath shuddered, relief and emotion tangling together.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. Like he was learning you. Like he was afraid that if he rushed, the moment might fracture.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if anchoring himself. You melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater, the firelight warming your skin as the world narrowed to this—this quiet, impossible thing that had found you both.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, foreheads still touching.

You really did love him.

Theo had been in a mood.

It settled over him the moment the owl arrived—thick parchment, precise handwriting, the professors’ seal pressed into the wax like a finality. You’d read it together at the kitchen table in the common room, Bianca swinging her legs beneath the chair, humming to herself as she colored, blissfully unaware.

We believe we have found a way to reverse the spell. Preliminary tests indicate a high probability of success. We are confident we can return the child to her proper time.

Ever since then, something in Theo had gone quiet.

Not angry. Not cruel. Just… withdrawn. As if he’d folded inward, brick by careful brick, building walls he refused to name. He spoke less. Smiled less. When Bianca reached for him, he held her a little tighter, a little longer—like he was memorizing the weight of her, the way she fit against his chest.

You told yourself you understood.

Of course he was going to miss her. You were going to miss her too. Somewhere between shared breakfasts and bedtime stories, scraped knees and tangled curls, Bianca had taken root in your heart. The thought of watching her vanish—of returning to your normal lives and pretending these weeks hadn’t rewritten you—made your throat ache in a way you didn’t know how to soothe.

That night, Bianca went to bed easily.

Too easily.

She pressed a sticky kiss to your cheek, murmured something sleepy in Italian, and curled beneath her blankets without protest. No fuss. No tears. Just acceptance.

It felt like a bad omen.

Theo waited until the door clicked shut behind you before he spoke.

“What if we don’t send her back?”

You turned slowly, the words not quite registering, “What?”

“What if we keep her here,” He said, voice low and urgent, like if he spoke too loudly the idea might shatter, “What if we just—don’t go through with it. We have time with her. Real time. Why should we give that up?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Theo,” You said carefully, “What are you talking about?”

“We’re her parents,” He said, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious, “And if we send her back, we’re sending her to a life where she doesn’t have a mother. At least this way—” His voice cracked, just slightly, “—at least this way she has both of us.”

“Theo—”

“I know it hasn’t been perfect,” He rushed on, stepping closer, words tumbling over each other, “But we’re learning. We can do this. We already are. You see her—she’s happy here. She’s safe.” His eyes searched yours desperately, “She doesn’t have to lose you.”

Your chest burned.

“I know we could do this,” You whispered, “I know that. But Bianca isn’t our child. Not really. No matter how badly we want her to be.”

His jaw tightened, muscles jumping beneath the skin.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” He said sharply, “To grow up without a mother. To wake up every day knowing there’s a hole in your life you’ll never fill.” His voice dropped, rough and raw, “If she stays here, she doesn’t have to lose you. Whatever it is—whatever happens to you—we can catch it early. We can fix it.”

Your vision blurred.

“If Bianca stays here,” You said, voice breaking, “the you in the future loses his daughter forever. He’s already lost his wife, Theo. Don’t make him lose his baby girl too.”

Something in him snapped.

“Screw him.” He said hoarsely.

He reached for you suddenly, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes like he could stop the tears if he tried hard enough. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

“I have everything I’ve ever wanted right here,” He whispered, “Right now.”

Your sob escaped before you could stop it, fingers clutching at his sleeves like an anchor.

“Theo,” You breathed, “you know as well as I do… she isn’t meant to be here.”

He sucked in a breath—and this time, he couldn’t hold it back.

The sob tore out of his chest, raw and broken, his grip tightening like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“Don’t make me give you up, (Y/N),” He choked, voice collapsing on your name, “Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you too.”

His forehead stayed pressed to yours as his shoulders shook, grief and fear and want spilling out all at once. He wasn’t just pleading for Bianca.

He was pleading for you. For the life he’d tasted and already couldn’t bear to lose.

And you held him there, crying quietly into his collar, knowing that love—no matter how real—was not enough to change fate.

The second Theo entered the hospital wing, every instinct in his body screamed the same reckless, impossible thing.

Grab you. Grab Bianca. Apparate.

Disappear so completely that no one would ever find you again.

His mother had family in Italy—old blood, old names, people who still believed hospitality was sacred. They would open their doors. They would help you. They would protect you.

How hard could it be, really, to end up on their doorstep with a frightened child and a woman he loved?

Too easy.

Too selfish.

You didn’t even look at him when the thought flickered across his face. You simply squeezed Bianca’s hand and guided her forward, gentle but firm. You knew if you looked back at him, you would be all to convinced to leave together.

Theo swallowed hard, the bitterness rising sharp and ugly in his throat.

All he wanted—all he had ever wanted—was for the three of you to be happy. Together. Why was that such an impossible thing to ask for? Why did it feel like the universe kept dangling it just close enough for him to taste before ripping it away?

He knew the truth, even if it tore him apart.

Bianca belonged with his older self. The man who chose to have her. The man who could protect her. The man who could stay.

But she was his daughter too—damn it. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood. And the thought of letting her go felt like carving something vital out of his chest.

You knelt in front of Bianca, pulling her into a tight embrace. You kissed her forehead, whispered words she couldn’t possibly understand, and said as little as you could. Her fingers were small and warm in yours, but they grew slick with sweat as she glanced around at the unfamiliar adults. She tightened her grip, grounding herself the only way she knew how, holding onto you like she could anchor the moment in place.

Theo watched, throat burning.

Then he knelt too.

He’d done it a thousand times—tying her shoes, wiping tears from her cheeks, crouching to her level when he needed her attention—but this time his knees hit the stone floor harder than usual. Pain flared and vanished, eclipsed by something far worse. His hands trembled as they came up to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing over her skin slowly, reverently—like he was trying to memorize the exact warmth of her.

“Hey.” He said softly.

His voice cracked immediately.

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening, and tried again, “Bambina.” (Little one)

Her eyes lifted to his.

Just like yours—wide, glassy, endlessly deep. Like looking into a pool of pearlescent ink that reflected too much truth.

“Ti vedrò presto, amore.” He said gently, brushing a curl back from her face. (I’ll see you soon, love.)

“Le cose saranno un po’ diverse…” His breath hitched, “Ma devi avere pazienza, va bene? Andrà tutto bene.” (Things will be a little different… but you need to be patient, okay? Everything will be fine.)

Bianca studied him with grave seriousness, like she was weighing his words carefully.

Then—suddenly—her face lit up.

“Oh!” She said brightly, “Come quella volta.” (Oh! Like that time.)

Theo blinked, “Come quando?” (Like when?)

“Come quando sei andato via con la mamma.” She explained easily. (Like when you went away with Mama.)

His chest tightened, “Quando?” (When?)

“Quando siete andati in ospedale.” She continued, rocking on her feet. (When you went to the hospital.)

"E poi sei tornato a casa felice." (And then you came home with happiness.)

Theo’s breath caught violently.

The room tilted.

"Felice?" He asked quietly, feeling like hell. (Happy?)

The word felt wrong in his mouth.

A cold, sickening thought slithered into his mind.

Was he happy when you passed?

His chest tightened, panic blooming sharp and fast, bile rising in his throat. His hands trembled where they rested, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Then—

Bianca tilted her head, frowning slightly—confused by his confusion.

“Quando sei tornato con il mio fratellino, Felice.” She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. (When you came back with my little brother, Felice.)

The world went very, very still.

Blood rushed through Theo’s head so fast he swayed, knees locking as though a feather could knock him over.

“Tuo… fratello?” He repeated hoarsely. (Your… brother?)

She nodded, curls bouncing. “Sì.” (Yes.)

“È piccolo,” She added solemnly, “Piange tanto.” (He’s little. He cries a lot.)

The hospital.

You being sick.

Too sick to carry her. Too sick to eat breakfast.

The reason Bianca hadn’t seemed sad. The reason she’d been so independent.

Not because you were going to die.

But because you were making room for someone new.

Felice.

Happiness.

Everything slid into place with sickening, breathtaking clarity.

“Oh." Theo breathed.

Bianca reached up, cupping his cheek with her small, warm hand.

“Non piangere, papà,” She whispered. (Don’t cry, Papa.)

He hadn’t even realized he was crying until that moment.

Salazar—this was mortifying. Breaking down like this. In front of professors. In front of you. In front of a three-year-old.

And yet—he couldn’t stop.

Tears spilled freely now, hot and unrestrained.

Because now he knew.

He would be happy. He would love you. And you would love him back.

You would build a life together. Two children. Maybe more. A family so warm and whole that Bianca would speak of it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His children would never have to imagine a future without their mother.

He would never have to watch them grow up with that hollow ache he’d carried his entire life.

He would never have to watch you get sick, watch you leave this world, leaving him alone to raise your daughter, the last remaining memory of you.

Theo pulled Bianca into his chest, holding her like he could imprint the feeling into his bones—her weight, her warmth, the steady beat of her heart.

“Ti amo.” He choked, “Ti amo tantissimo.” (I love you so, so much.)

Her arms wrapped around his neck—fierce and small.

You stared at the pair of them, heart aching, mind reeling. You felt for Theo—deeply—but shock quickly overtook sympathy.

Because between the two of them, you had absolutely not expected him to be the one crying.

“…Wait,” You said slowly. “What’s going on?”

Bianca turned her head as best she could while still buried against Theo’s chest.

“Papa says he loves me, mamma,” She announced cheerfully, “You’re too slow these days.”

Both of you froze.

“…You speak English?” You and Theo said in unison.

bonus:

The room was finally quiet.

Bianca was gone—sent back to a future that suddenly felt more real than the present—and Theo’s bedroom felt too large without her small presence filling it. The curtains were half-drawn, moonlight spilling across the sheets in pale silver bands. You lay on your side facing Theo, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arm resting loosely around your waist.

Theo was on the cusp of sleep, just as he had been for the past hour, but your incessant thinking refused to let him go.

“But if Bianca hadn’t come back,” You murmured, staring up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, “we would’ve just… gone on with our lives.”

He hummed softly, half-asleep but listening, his thumb tracing absentminded shapes into your side.

“And we wouldn’t have fallen in love,” You continued, the words tumbling out faster now, like if you didn’t say them you’d drown in them, “And if we didn’t fall in love, she wouldn’t exist. Which means she wouldn’t be able to come back and make us fall in love in the first place.”

You turned your face into his chest, your voice muffled, “So at the center of the loop—at the very beginning—there had to be a version of us that fell in love and had Bianca without any intervention at all.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not empty.

Then Theo sighed, fond and exhausted and deeply amused in that way that meant he loved you too much to be irritated.

“(Y/N), my love… amore mio,” He said gently. He had taken to repeating everything in Italian after English so it would help you learn faster. You felt his chest rise as he spoke again, slower and deliberate. “My future bride… la mia futura sposa. It is four in the morning.”

You groaned softly. “I know,” You sighed, “I just… I miss her.”

His arm tightened around you, grounding and warm, “Me too.”

For a moment, that was all there was—breathing, moonlight, and the quiet certainty that somewhere, somehow, the two of you were happy and whole.

Then Theo shifted.

You felt it before you saw it: the subtle slide of his hand, warm fingers sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt like he thought you wouldn’t notice.

“Say the word, dolcezza,” He murmured, his voice dipping into something unmistakably dangerous, “and I’ll bring her back to us.”

You slapped his hand away without even looking.

“It is four in the morning.” You said flatly.

He chuckled, low and unapologetic, eyes still closed like this was all part of his master plan, “Italiano, per favore.”

You hesitated, “Um… sono...sono le… una, due, tre, quattro… quattro del mattino?” (Um...it's....one, two three, four....four in the morning?)

“Perfetta,” He said smugly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Your accent is getting better.”

bonus bonus teehee:

The front door closed with a quiet, final click behind you.

For a moment, you just stood there.

The house felt different somehow—too still, like it had been holding its breath. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The sofa. The stairs. The framed photos waiting to be filled with memories that hadn’t happened yet.

Home.

You looked down at the bundle in your arms, your baby boy wrapped in impossibly soft blankets, his face pink and sleepy and perfect. Tears blurred your vision before you even realized they were coming.

Theo stepped in behind you, arms full—hospital bags slung over his shoulders, a car seat awkwardly balanced against his hip. He froze when he saw your face.

“Hey.” He murmured gently.

You turned, blinking hard, then leaned into him anyway, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—slow, grounding, full of everything you didn’t have words for. Then you kissed Felice’s tiny forehead, breathing him in like you’d been afraid he might disappear.

“Bentornato a casa, piccolo,” You whispered, voice shaking, “This is where you’re going to grow up.” (Welcome home, baby boy)

Theo swallowed, eyes shining. He reached out, brushing one finger over Felice’s cheek like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.

And then—

“MAMMA!”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Bianca came flying into the hallway, curls bouncing wildly, socks half-slipping off her feet. Mattheo, her godfather, was right behind her, laughing and reaching out uselessly like he could actually stop her.

“Bianca—piano, piano!” He called, “Slow down—!”

Theo reacted instantly.

He dropped the bags without a second thought and scooped Bianca up mid-run, lifting her clean off the ground just before she could crash straight into you. She shrieked with laughter as he spun her once, relief spilling out of him in a dozen breathless kisses pressed to her cheeks, her temple, her nose.

You watched them with a soft, aching smile.

Your heart lurched at the sight of your baby girl in his arms—hair wild, eyes bright, whole and glowing with excitement. You had missed her more than you’d allowed yourself to admit during the last few days. Every quiet moment in the hospital had carried the echo of her laughter, the absence of her small weight climbing into your lap.

You had been waiting eagerly to acquaint your children.

Theo had insisted it was better this way. Better for your recovery, better that you didn’t have to juggle between children so soon. He’d been gentle but unmovable about it, the same way he’d been your entire pregnancy—this one and Bianca’s.

At the first sign of discomfort, he’d been apparating you straight to the hospital wing or summoning your healer for a home visit without hesitation. You’d teased him once that your obstetrician must be thoroughly sick of him by now.

But judging by the way Theo paid—promptly, generously, without ever blinking—and by the fine silk scarf and expensive purse he’d gifted the healer who brought both of his children into the world, you suspected annoyance was the last thing they felt.

If anything, they were probably fond of him.

“Hey—hey—hey,” He murmured into her hair, “Careful, amore mio. Papà’s got you.”

Theo finally stopped spinning, still holding Bianca securely against his chest. He pressed one last kiss into her curls and rested his forehead briefly against hers, eyes closed like he was grounding himself.

And you realized, with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness—

And despite the 36 hours of grueling labor, you realized that, for this man, you would do it all again in a heartbeat.

Theo shifted Bianca onto one hip, still holding her tight as if she might vanish if he let go. Her laughter softened into a happy hum as she curled into him, arms looped around his neck.

Then her eyes finally landed on you.

On the bundle in your arms.

“Mamma?” She whispered, voice suddenly small.

You felt your throat close instantly.

“Vieni qui, amore,” You murmured, smiling through the sting behind your eyes, “Piano, va bene?” (Come here, love. Easy, okay?)

Theo crouched, keeping Bianca safely lifted as he guided her closer, one protective hand braced at her back. Mattheo lingered a few steps behind, unusually quiet, waiting for the family to have their moment.

Bianca leaned forward, peering into the soft folds of the blanket.

The baby stirred, tiny fingers flexing, lips puckering in a half-sleepy frown.

Her gasp was barely a sound.

“È… piccolo,” She breathed, "He's smaller than me."

Theo huffed out a soft laugh, eyes glassy.

You tilted Felice just enough so she could see his face properly. His eyes fluttered open for a brief second—dark, unfocused, brand new.

Bianca’s hand twitched like she wanted to reach out, then froze mid-air.

“Posso?” She asked, glancing up at you for permission. (Can I?)

“Yes,” You whispered, “Gently.”

Felice shifted again, a soft sound leaving him, and Bianca’s eyes went impossibly wide.

"He spoke to me." She gasped.

Theo pressed his lips together hard, eyes shining as he bent to kiss the side of Bianca’s head, then yours. His free hand came up to cradle you, thumb stroking slow, careful circles like he was afraid the moment might shatter.

“This,” he said quietly, voice thick, “is Felice, your little brother.”

Bianca straightened immediately.

“Felice,” She repeated, testing the name. Then she smiled, bright and sure, “Ciao, Felice. Io sono Bianca.”

The baby slept on, oblivious.

Mattheo cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes like something had gotten in them, "Merlin, enough to make a grown man cry."

And standing there in the doorway of your home, with laughter in the air and your children between you, you knew—

This was it.

This was the life Bianca had promised.

Happy.

bonus bonus BONUS scene for my patient babies:

The one thing about living in Italy was that you missed the company.

Not the weather, not the food—certainly not the wine—but them. The loud, sharp-edged comfort of people who knew you before the life you’d built now. The friends who felt less like friends and more like family, forged in dungeons and late nights and shared survival.

The friends you’d left behind at Hogwarts.

You thanked every higher power you could think of that Mattheo had moved here a few years after Bianca was born. It softened the ache. Made the distance feel survivable.

And now—now that it was Bianca’s sixth birthday, the first child in the entire group to hit that milestone—the rest of them had descended to Italy like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Thank goodness Slytherins were rich.

Draco and Blaise were already deep in conversation near the terrace doors, voices low and animated, catching up like no time had passed at all. Lorenzo and Mattheo, meanwhile, had somehow been tricked—lured, really—into assembling Bianca’s princess castle in the middle of the sitting room.

That would teach them to bring gifts that required instructions.

Bianca hovered nearby like a general overseeing her troops, crown slightly askew, offering entirely unhelpful instructions. Felice, on the other hand, had claimed the discarded wrapping paper as his own, even though his uncles had been kind enough to bring presents for him as well.

Instead, he toddled around the sitting room, triumphantly dragging the empty box the princess castle had come in behind him, until Theo scooped him up at the last second—saving him from the scattered screws as Mattheo struggled to put the thing together.

Theo hovered near you like a shadow, as he always did these days. One hand rested habitually—possessively—against the small of your back, grounding, warm. The other balanced Felice on his hip, your son’s face still slightly sticky with cake frosting as he played absently with the little tie you’d put him in today.

Then the front doors flew open.

“MISS ME, YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS?”

Pansy Parkinson’s voice sliced clean through the manor.

Theo barely had time to turn before she was already there—flinging her coat into Draco’s arms without looking, heels clicking furiously across the marble floor. Her eyes found you instantly.

Her face lit up.

“Oh my God—” She started, already smiling—

Then she stopped.

Her gaze dropped.

Paused.

Lifted.

Dropped again.

You barely had time to blink before—

SMACK.

Theo yelped, jerking back, hand flying to his arm, “What the hell—?!”

Pansy rounded on him like a woman possessed, “Can you PLEASE stop climbing on top of this poor woman?”

You laughed helplessly, one hand instinctively moving to your stomach.

Theo stared at her, scandalized, “Excuse you—”

“Salazar’s balls,” Pansy cut in, eyes wild, “How many children are you planning on having? Fancy your own Quidditch team, do you?!”

“How many children we decide to have is none of you—”

“And she is not an oven to keep popping out your buns,” Pansy said sweetly, patting his shoulder like she was doing him a favor, “Control yourself.”

Theo spluttered, “It’s not like I could carry them myself, now could I?!”

“You’re a wizard,” She snapped back, “I think you could figure it out!”

You tried—tried—to regain control, “Pansy—”

She turned on a dime, expression melting instantly as she crossed the space between you and pulled you into a careful hug.

“Oh, come here,” She murmured, “Look at you. Absolutely glowing.”

You laughed against her shoulder.

“I get it,” She added thoughtfully, pulling back to look at you again, “If I were Theo, I’d be filling you up with kids too.”

Theo opened his mouth.

SMACK.

“Do not.” Pansy warned.

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There comes a moment in every girl’s life that cements itself into her mind. It takes up a corner of her brain and becomes the foundation for every action she takes thereafter. It rewires her chemistry, ensuring that, years later, it will resurface unbidden, vivid and relentless.

She remembers it as though it’s happening right then. Every detail is etched onto the canvas of her mind with the precision of a master painter. She recalls every word, every inflection, every syllable. She feels again the rush of emotions, as if the pit of her stomach were reliving the moment in real time.

That was how it felt when your eyes landed on your boyfriend making out with your best friend, the girl who had been by your side since first year, the one you trusted implicitly. You stepped into the Hog’s Head that night, and your vision tunneled the second you saw them in the booth, lips locked.

The clinking of glasses around the pub sparkled mockingly in the dim light, a cruel contrast to the way your heart sank, your body shutting down as ice ran through your veins.

First came confusion. Perhaps you’d seen wrong, perhaps your mind was playing tricks. But as the seconds passed, certainty settled in, burning the image into your brain.

What do I do?

In any instance where you had been betrayed like this, your first instinct would have been to go to your best friend—the girl who had stuck with you since your first year when you were placed as dormmates.

Stuck in your place, your brain was short-circuiting, trying to, but in the end unable to do anything else but stare at them.

For fuck’s sake—are they scuba divers? Are they ever going to come up for air?

It seemed like they heard you, finally parting, and it seemed that your boyfriend—or rather, ex-boyfriend, and if he’s so lucky, not late-boyfriend—spotted you first, his face going pale the second he saw you.

You scoffed.

They were doing this in a public place, and he had the gall to look surprised when you managed to spot them?

And then you felt it—the emotion that managed to crush through all of the others like a tidal wave, filling your body and clouding your thoughts. Rage. Fury.

You spun on your heel, barreling through the crowd toward the door.

“(Y/N)!” Your boyfriend called behind you, but you ignored him, sidestepping another patron as you charged and left him in your dust. It seemed like your anger had managed to blur the edges of your vision, and you collided with another student.

“Watch it—!”

Theodore Nott stood at six feet tall, towering over you more than your boyfriend ever had, jawline so sharp it could cut you—if not for that, his words certainly would. He glared down at you with stormy eyes that you couldn’t quite call blue but couldn’t call green.

You heard your boyfriend call your name once more as he approached you, and it seemed the desperation on your face was apparent to someone as apathetic as Theodore, who only raised a brow at you.

And in that instant, you made one of the most reckless decisions of your life.

Your hands curled around the lapels of his jacket before you could even command your body to do otherwise, yanking Theodore toward you and leaning up on your tiptoes to close the gap, pressing your lips to his.

A split second passed, and your head was spinning, body coming back to life.

Have I lost my mind? I’ve just been utterly humiliated by my boyfriend and my best friend. Now I’ve kissed one of the notorious snakes—without consent, no less—which makes me literal scum. He’s going to push me away any second, probably hex me, and make this humiliation ten times worse.

All those self-deprecating thoughts came to a silent standstill the second his arm looped around your waist, another hand cupping your cheek as you tilted his head to deepen the kiss.

The moment stretched, every second dragging out as if the world itself had decided to pause and watch. His lips moved against yours with a deliberate, almost teasing patience that sent a shiver down your spine, making your knees threaten to buckle. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle press of his chest against yours, grounding you even as your mind screamed in disbelief.

Your hands tightened on his jacket, nails digging in slightly as if anchoring yourself to reality. Your mind screamed in protest, reminding you of every reason this was reckless—this was Theodore Nott, the last person you should be doing this with, and yet… you couldn’t stop.

The kiss was urgent, hungry, but also careful, as though he could sense the storm raging inside you and wanted to meet it without drowning you completely.

Finally, reality slammed back into you. You broke the kiss with a gasp, eyes still closed, trying to catch your breath after being so violently knocked out of orbit by a kiss you could only describe as divine.

When your eyes met his again, you were rendered speechless.

Oh, you better admit yourself into St. Mungo's tonight, you imbecile.

“Oh my—uh… I—I shouldn’t have—I'm sorry—” You stammered, tearing your hands from his jacket and stepping back. Embarrassment burned hotter than your anger had moments ago.

You swallowed, shamefully looking down as you moved toward the exit once again, "I'm gonna go—"

Your voice trailed off, choked by a mix of embarrassment and disbelief. You wanted to disappear, to vanish from the pub before anyone could process what had just happened. Before he could.

You pivoted toward the door, picturing yourself in the cool night air where your face might finally stop burning.

But before you could take another step, a firm hand caught your wrist. You froze, the warmth of his grip rooting you in place.

“If you leave first,” He said, his voice low and smooth, carrying that unmistakable edge of challenge, “you lose."

You didn't even know if your ex-boyfriend was still there, you had lost any awareness of your surroundings the second your lips met his.

Your eyes widened, and you stammered, “I… I’m not… I don’t—”

The corner of his lips twitched as though he was fighting a smile at your pathetic state, a teasing glint in those stormy eyes that made your knees threaten to give out again. “Why don’t you… join me and my friends?”

You swallowed, heart hammering, and glanced back at your ex. He was still standing there, awkward, flustered, clearly humiliated. It was… satisfying, in a small, dark way.

If you left now, before they did, it would look like you had something to be ashamed of. You didn’t deserve that.

They didn’t deserve to enjoy the rest of their night undisturbed. They deserved to squirm in their seats, to feel the weight of your stare drilling holes into them. They deserved their night ruined. Their lives ruined.

“…Fine,” you whispered, almost against your will. Your voice trembled with a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to thrill. “But only for a little while.”

Theo’s grin widened, that teasing glint in his eyes sharpening. “Oh… I don’t know,” he said, placing his hand on the curve of your waist, leading you to the table that had been taken by the other Slytherins, "We can be quite a fun bunch."

Theodore guided you through the Hog’s Head, arm casually looped through yours, like you’d belonged there all along. You couldn’t help but notice the way the pub-goers glanced at you, whispers flickering through the crowd. Your stomach fluttered with a mix of nerves, shame, and something you didn’t dare name.

When you reached the table, his friend's eyes immediately lit up. They were lounging casually, drinks in hand, and the smirk on Blaise’s face made it clear that they had clearly witnessed your make out session.

"Well, well, well, looks like someone’s been busy." Mattheo drawled, his wicked grin hidden half behind his glass as Theodore pulled out a chair for you and then slid his own closer.

It took everything in you to not look so startled when he wrapped his hand around your shoulder, trying to hide your incredulousness at how seamless this act managed to come to Theo.

You lowered your gaze from Mattheo's who was set on staring at you with an ear-to-ear grin like an imp, only to catch Theo’s eye—he seemed to read your thoughts instantly and, without missing a beat, chucked a fry at his best mate, "Stop ogling my girl, you prat."

“Ohhh,” Mattheo drawled, leaning back in his chair, "She's your girl now? That's the first I've heard of this."

Draco snorted, smirking at Theo, “Yeah, Theo, since when? You never mentioned a girlfriend before.”

Before you could even sputter, Theo’s calm, controlled voice cut through the teasing. “Yeah,” He said effortlessly, as if stating the weather, “We’re dating.”

You froze. What?! You were still reeling from the kiss, and now he was lying with such ease that it made your brain stutter. You were so caught off-guard, so out of your comfort zone that you couldn't even say anything.

He didn’t even flinch, "And we're not first-year girls that I should tell you everything."

Enzo let out a low whistle. “Wow… Theo, good for you, man."

You felt like your chest had been sucker-punched. How could he lie so effortlessly? So convincingly? You were still fumbling over your own thoughts, heart racing from the kiss, and he was… untouchable.

Theodore leaned slightly closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Relax. Just play along. Trust me.”

Trust him? You barely knew him. And the two people you’d trusted most in the world had just ripped you to shreds.

This was a bad idea.

But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because Theodore was right—if you left, your ex would see it, and you’d lose.

So you stayed. You plastered a grin on your face and let Theodore enjoy himself with his friends. You tried your best not to glance at the betrayers—refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing they occupied even a single neuron in your brain.

When tears threatened to prick your eyes, you bit the inside of your cheek hard and reached for Theo’s drink, taking a slow sip to ease the tightness in your throat.

Thankfully, it seemed they weren’t as shameless as you’d feared. They looked too uncomfortable to enjoy themselves, shifting in their seats, eyes flicking toward you before darting away. The sight of them leaving some time later brought you a sliver of satisfaction. However, that was made very bitter at the realization that they were leaving together.

You held out for another twenty minutes before finally turning to Theodore with a tired smile. “Walk me back?”

He didn’t hesitate. He stood immediately, earning a chorus of jeers from his friends about being a “simp” who couldn’t let his girl walk alone. Theodore just flipped them off before guiding you out with a warm hand at the small of your back.

The walk was quiet. Snowflakes gathered in your hair and clung to your coat, the world muted by the thick white dusting over Hogsmeade. Then, halfway down the path, you stopped abruptly.

Theodore turned to you, “What’s wrong?”

You stared down at the snow-covered road, tears burning at the edges of your vision, “She’s back at my dorm.”

You pressed the heel of your gloved palms into your eyes, your chest trembling with the sobs you’d been holding in all night, “And if she’s not… then I’ll be left wondering if she's with him for the rest of the night.”

Theodore sighed, steering you toward a small alcove behind the pub. It overlooked the rest of Hogsmeade, quiet and dim under the glow of lanterns. You sank down against the fence, not caring about the wet snow soaking through your clothes, hiding your face in your knees as the dam finally broke.

The image of them at the pub replayed relentlessly behind your closed eyelids, no matter how much you willed it away.

They’d done it so unabashedly, so arrogantly—her practically in his lap. Comfortable enough to humiliate you like that in public meant it couldn’t have been the first time.

Your mind reeled back to every time they’d both been absent, every “we just ran into each other in the hallway” excuse, every occasion they’d been “too busy” to join you in Hogsmeade.

They’d done this where other students could see. Had no one thought to tell you? Did your other friends just… choose to stay silent? Were they ever really your friends at all?

Theodore didn’t say a word. He just stood beside you in silence—until the soft clink of his lighter broke through your thoughts. You looked up, face blotchy and eyes raw, just in time to see him take a long drag from a cigarette, the smoke stark against the winter air.

“Can I have one?” You asked.

"No," He glanced down at you, “Take it from me, sweetheart—once you start, it’s very hard to stop.”

You exhaled sharply, lowering your forehead back to your knees. You tried to breathe deep, to steady yourself, to make sense of any of it, “What good even are you?”

There was another beat of silence.

“I’m sorry,” He said, and you looked up again, “I sprang that whole thing on you. If you don’t want to, I’ll take it back. Make it seem like I was the one mistaken. You don’t need to worry.”

“Why did you do it?” You asked quietly, “You could’ve easily pushed me away. I mean, I was the one at fault there.”

“Because,” He said, taking another slow drag, “you looked desperate.”

You huffed a humorless laugh, “I’m swooning.”

Theo’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “Besides,” He added, tilting his head so the dim light from the pub hit the sharp cut of his jaw, “I wasn’t about to let them see you run off like you’d done something wrong.”

You blinked at him, caught between wanting to roll your eyes and wanting to thank him, “So you just… decided to announce to half the school that we’re dating?”

“It’s better this way,” He said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Rumors spread fast. By Monday, everyone will think you’ve moved on—and not just moved on, but traded up.” His gaze flicked to you, calm but deliberate, “Let them choke on it.”

Your throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t from wanting to cry.

"And what do you get out of this arrangement?"

Theodore glanced at you through the thin curl of smoke leaving his lips. His expression didn’t flicker, but there was a spark of something behind his eyes—mischief, maybe, or calculation.

“Let’s just say…” He exhaled slowly, the smoke catching in the cold air like ghostly ribbons, “…I have my reasons.”

You swallowed and then sighed, watching as your breath became visible in the cold air, tears now dry on your cheeks, “I want them to pay for it.”

Theodore smirked, the corner of his mouth curling like he’d just been waiting to hear those words, "And so they shall."

You pushed open the door to your dorm, ready to collapse onto your bed and pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn’t happened. After talking with Theodore for a while, you’d waited until well past curfew to sneak back into Hogwarts, hoping your ex-boyfriend and ex–best friend had either gone to sleep separately or she was holed up in his dorm.

Honestly, at this point, you didn’t care where they were or what they were doing. They’d been dead to you long before you saw them at the pub tonight.

All you wanted was a bed. Sleep. Silence.

Theodore had still given you the option to change your mind about him — told you he’d take the blame if you wanted to pretend you didn’t know each other. But you were too wrung out from crying, too hollow to think. Your body was ready to collapse the second your face hit the pillow.

Except the moment you stepped inside, sleep vanished.

She was there.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, biting her thumbnail — that nervous habit of hers you hated that you knew.

Your mind started firing questions faster than you could breathe. Was she nervous? Guilty? Regretful? Did she feel anything at all?

Her head snapped up.

“Hey,” She said softly, eyes wide with something dangerously close to guilt, “Can we talk?”

You froze. Part of you wanted to say yes. She’d been your best friend, the person you’d cared about more than anything. You didn’t want to lose her.

Your heart almost opened the door. Your mind slammed it shut.

“No.”

She blinked, flinching like you’d slapped her, “Please, just—”

“I said no.” You moved past her toward your bed, shrugging off your coat, “Whatever you think you need to say, save it. I don’t care.”

“(Y/N), please! I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

You laughed—sharp, humorless, “You didn’t mean to kiss my boyfriend? How exactly does that work? You trip and fall face-first onto his mouth?”

Her jaw twitched. Then she scoffed, “Fine. If you’re gonna act like you’re so perfect, maybe remember you’re not exactly a saint either.”

Your head snapped up, “Excuse me?”

She crossed her arms, chin tilting higher, “We all saw your little show with Nott earlier. Don’t think you can sit there acting holier-than-thou when you cheated too.”

Heat surged under your skin.

“What I was doing with Nott is none of your business. But don’t you dare pretend that makes you right. You are the lowest, ugliest, skankiest slag I’ve ever met in my life.”

“That’s rich,” She spat, “Coming from the slag who spread her legs for the first guy she saw. Nott probably thought you were easy, didn’t he?”

You took a step forward. Then another. She backed up.

“Theodore has nothing to do with this, and neither does anyone else. The person I’m pissed at is you.” Your voice shook now, not from fear, but fury, “You were supposed to be my best friend! How could you betray me like this? Humiliate me in front of everybody? Go behind my back? I would never have done this to you. I wouldn’t have even thought about it!”

With each sentence, you jabbed a finger into her chest, until you finally shoved her, the force surprising even you.

She didn’t back down.

“You deserved it, didn’t you? Acting all high and mighty — then turning around and doing the same thing.”

Something in your chest cracked. You looked at her, really looked, and realized you didn’t recognize her anymore.

You laughed, breathless and disbelieving, “The only difference between us is I didn’t throw away seven years of friendship for some asshole who can only think with his dick. You think he won’t turn around and do the same thing to you that he did to me? You’re deluded.”

One more shove.

Then you straightened, voice quiet but lethal.

“If you ever approach me again, I’ll kill you. Until then?” You took a step back, smirking like she was something you’d scrape off your shoe, “Have fun with my sloppy seconds, slut.”

The next morning, the corridors were alive with the usual rush of students heading to the Great Hall, but your thoughts were still tangled in last night’s chaos. You tightened your coat around you, trying to focus on anything but the memory of their faces, when a familiar voice cut through the din.

“(Y/N)!” Your ex-boyfriend called, catching up just as you reached the entrance to the Great Hall. His face was flushed, a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and confusion, “What the hell was that yesterday?”

You froze for a heartbeat, then let a sardonic smile creep across your face, “Oh, that? I thought your tongue down my best friend’s throat was a pretty clear indication that we were both seeing other people.”

His face burned red, guilt and humiliation flickering across his features. You barely felt any satisfaction—what you felt yesterday had been raw, scorching, and unshakable. This was just a pale echo.

“Look, I—” He began, his voice tight, “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“Didn’t mean to cheat on me with my best friend? Or didn’t mean for me to find out?” You let each word land like a slap.

His jaw clenched, his gaze hard, “You’re one to talk, acting like you didn’t leave with Theodore Nott of all people yesterday.”

You tilted your head, cool and deliberate, “I did. So? That doesn’t give you the moral high ground to lecture me. If you think you’re the victim here… think again.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous murmur, “Wait—are you serious? Are you actually—”

And then you saw him. Theodore Nott, leaning against the wall with that impossibly calm expression, arms crossed, watching like the world had paused for his amusement.

Your chest tightened, but you squared your shoulders. “Yes,” You said clearly, deliberately loud enough for both of them to hear, “I am dating Theodore Nott.”

The color drained from his face, the clever retorts dying on his tongue. You didn’t give him a chance to recover.

Theo’s smirk sharpened, eyes flicking between you and him, silently daring him to challenge your words, to give him a reason to rearrange his sorry mug this fine morning.

You started walking, leaving your ex behind, and Theodore fell naturally into step beside you. His presence was calm, confident, infuriatingly infuriating—and comforting at the same time.

“You promised, Nott,” You murmured, your voice low and dangerous, “We’re going to make them pay.”

Theo’s grin widened, the corner of his mouth lifting into that familiar, teasing arc. “Oh, don’t worry, mia cara,” He said smoothly, eyes glinting with mischief and you felt your ears get hot, “We're gonna make them regret ever messing with you.”

Side by side, you stepped into the Great Hall. Whispers began immediately, flickering through the crowd like wildfire. And as the students’ eyes turned toward you, you realized—the game had officially begun.

The chatter of students filled the Charms classroom as you stepped inside, your nerves buzzing the way they always did when eyes might follow you. You hesitated in the doorway for a fraction too long, scanning the rows of desks. Usually, your spot was second row, left side—the place you always shared with your best friend. But now? The thought of sitting there made your stomach twist. Should you take it anyway, claim your ground, and glare if she had the audacity to join you?

Before you could decide, a warm hand brushed against the small of your back.

“Over here.” Theodore murmured, voice low but commanding. He didn’t give you room to argue, guiding you through the rows with a confidence that ignored every curious glance that followed. You ended up in the second-to-last row, his chosen territory.

You dropped your bag to the floor and slid into the seat he indicated, shooting him a quick, reluctant smile. Almost instantly, you became acutely aware of the heat of his knee brushing yours beneath the desk.

Theodore leaned back in his chair with practiced ease, stretching his arm just far enough to rest casually along the back of yours. “That’s better,” He said, deliberately louder now, his voice carrying through the classroom. His smirk deepened, “Need my girl next to me.”

The effect was immediate. The two Hufflepuff girls in front of you whipped their heads around under the pretense of adjusting their books. They tried to be subtle, glancing sideways from the corners of their eyes, but the way their shoulders pressed together and their whispers turned sharp made it obvious who they were talking about.

Theo noticed too. His smirk widened, one eyebrow arching as if to say exactly as planned.

You resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs, ducking your head instead as heat crept up your neck. Subtle was not in Theodore Nott’s vocabulary, apparently.

Your heart jumped when the door opened again and she walked in—your ex–best friend, sliding into the classroom like nothing had happened. She looked tired, as she always did on mornings like this; Charms was the earliest class on your schedule, and she never managed breakfast before dragging herself out of bed. No, instead she always smuggled in a handful of Honeydukes’ cockroach clusters, nibbling on them through class.

And sure enough, there they were, sitting in a paper bag on her desk.

Your lips curled into a knowing smirk.

How could she be so careless? She knew you better than anyone—had known every one of your tricks, your habits, your moods. She should have known you wouldn’t leave her unpunished.

You waited until Professor Flitwick had begun explaining wand movement on the board, until the room was full of the faint swish of quills and the scratching of parchment. Then, when her hand dipped into the bag, you flicked your wand under the table. A silent transfiguration. Smooth, clean, precise.

She popped the cluster into her mouth. Chewed once.

And then froze.

Her eyes widened just a fraction, and then she gagged, clapping a hand over her lips. You bit down on your own smile as, with a sharp cough, she spat onto her desk—not a melted chocolate, but a fat, wriggling cockroach that skittered across the wood.

The room erupted.

Screams, laughter, the scrape of chairs as people leapt away. Someone shouted, “Bloody hell, they’re moving!” as two more clusters in the bag twitched and burst into chittering, crawling life. Your ex-best friend shoved her desk back in panic, her face pale as the cockroaches spilled out in a wave across the floor.

You didn’t react like the rest of them, watching as chaos struck and she turned green in the face, barely able to breathe. You lifted your feet and bag from the ground, careful to avoid all the cockroaches that seemed to multiply from her bag—the replenishing charm you cast on the bag doing wonders.

Theodore didn’t even glance at the teacher; instead, his attention was entirely on you, on the way your chest rose and fell, eyes still sharp, just barely contained.

With a single fluid motion, he pulled your chair a little closer, resting your legs in his lap. You froze, breath hitching, heat crawling up your spine—but there was no time for that. The room still hummed with whispers and laughter, and you could feel every pair of eyes glancing back at the scene.

“Elegant work, sweetheart.” He murmured low, the words meant only for you. His fingers brushed lightly along your ankle, light enough to be intimate, heavy enough to claim attention.

You suddenly understood why in the olden days showing ankle was considered scandalous, judging by the set of shivers Theodore's thumb against your ankle had sent up your spine.

“Detention! For eating in class and causing this disruption! Minus ten points!” Professor Flitwick’s squeaky voice rang across the room.

You fought the grin tugging at your lips, eyes sliding back to your former best friend, who sat frozen, cheeks burning with humiliation.

Oh, poor girl.

That pitiful, shocked face only made you hate her more.

The library was quiet, the soft rustle of pages and the occasional scratch of quills filling the otherwise hushed room. You were bent over a stack of textbooks, notes scattered across the polished wooden table, eyes straining to keep focus as the afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows.

You were so absorbed in your work that you didn’t notice the shadow falling across your page. A soft, familiar warmth pressed against the back of your chair, and a low chuckle reached your ears.

“Can’t study forever, you know.” A deep voice murmured.

Before you could turn around, a pair of lips pressed gently against the top of your head. A small, contented sigh followed as Theodore rested his chin lightly on your shoulder.

“Missed you, sweetheart.” He said softly, his words meant only for you, though the air between you carried them enough for nearby students to murmur.

You froze for a heartbeat, pencil hovering mid-note, then tilted your head slightly, allowing him the small indulgence. His hand slid to rest on yours, fingers brushing against your notes, grounding you in the moment.

A few whispers floated through the library, subtle but unmistakable: “Is that…?” “Theodore Nott and—” “Wow.”

The heat rose in your cheeks, but it wasn’t embarrassment—it was the thrill of being seen with him, the quiet intimacy, the silent power you both held over anyone watching.

Especially the power it held over you.

You didn't know how he was able to touch you so intimately, pretend like you had a long history, hold you close and fake that look in his eye that made you feel like you were the center of his universe.

It was baffling.

Theodore rested his head for a moment longer before leaning back just enough to peer at your notes, “Though… you’re really focused, aren’t you? I’d almost feel guilty interrupting.”

You gave a small smile, eyes still on your parchment, “You could say that, yeah.”

He chuckled, nudging your shoulder gently with his own, “Then I’ll just keep you company… silently.”

And with that, he settled next to you, close enough that his warmth was constant, silent enough that you could still work—but every so often, he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple or brushing a strand of hair from your face.

Then you sensed movement behind you. Glancing up, you caught sight of your ex and your former best friend sneaking into the room, eyes immediately locking on you and Theodore.

They didn’t just glance—they stiffened, shoulders squared, and suddenly it was like a performance. She leaned close to him, laughing a little too loudly, brushing against him in a way that screamed look at us, we’re happy, look at what you’re missing. Your ex mirrored her, puffing out his chest and whispering something that made her giggle.

It was painfully obvious—they wanted you to see them, to feel jealous, to react.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached up, grabbed Theodore by the collar, and pulled him down into a deliberate, teasing kiss, letting them watch the undeniable spark between you. He responded immediately, moving his hand to your waist, deepening the kiss and cupping your cheek.

But of course, they weren’t going to give up that easily. Determined to “out-do” you, they moved to the far side of the library, your ex hugging her from behind and peppering kisses to her neck as she giggled. They ducked into the alcove at the back that was notorious for students fooling around.

Theodore raised a brow, lips curling into that maddeningly flirtatious smirk, leaning to press his lips to your ear, “What do you say, love? Feel like beating them at their own game? I’m sure we’d have a better time anyway.”

You chuckled, shaking your head, trying to ignore the heat crawling up your neck.

With a subtle glance toward the librarian’s desk, you caught Madam Pince’s attention. Quietly, you waved her over, corners of your mouth tugging into a grin.

Theodore’s eyebrows shot up, “Oh? You’re evil, bellissima.”

“Oh, you love it.” You murmured, still holding his hand. You pointed to the bookshelf where they were hiding, leaning back with a sly grin.

What happened next was beautiful chaos.

A shriek echoed through the library—sharp, furious, unmistakably theirs. Madam Pince’s voice rang out, shrill and indignant: “What on earth are you two doing in here?!”

You and Theodore exchanged a glance and stifled laughter as you heard her yelling, her wand flashing to confiscate their belongings, and chasing them down the aisles, half-dressed and completely humiliated.

The whispers and stares of the other students only added to the spectacle. You suppressed another laugh as you watched points being deducted from their house records, their humiliation complete.

For now.

The stands were packed, the cold wind whipping your hair around your face as you and Theo leaned against the railing, watching the match unfold below. You watched as your ex’s team began collecting points, you and Mattheo booing their every move at the top of your lungs.

“YOU CALL THAT FLYING?!” Mattheo yelled, and you cupped your hands around your mouth, “MY GRANDMA CAN FLY BETTER THAN THAT!”

You coughed—cold air and screaming taking their toll—before a scarf was gently draped around your neck. You turned in surprise to see Theodore, not even looking at you, more intent on wrapping it carefully so it covered your ears and nose without smothering your mouth. When it proved impossible, he conceded and settled for placing a warming charm on you.

You smiled bashfully, hiding your pink cheeks in the scarf, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, bella.”

“Disgusting behavior in public.” Mattheo muttered under his breath, earning a soft chuckle from you.

Everything seemed normal—until the golden blur began acting strangely.

Even for a snitch, its movements were erratic. But this was worse than usual. It seemed to purposefully avoid the opposing team, darting exclusively toward your ex’s side. The match ground to a halt as the players floated to a stop, confusion spreading across the pitch. Madam Hooch called everyone together, frowning as she tried to assess the situation.

When the groundskeepers and referees inspected the field, the truth became clear: the snitch in play wasn’t real. Someone had swapped it.

Confusion rippled through the stands as whispers grew louder.

“Where’s the real Snitch?” The head referee demanded, scanning the players.

A quick locating spell revealed it immediately—tucked neatly in your ex’s bag, as if he had accidentally carried it with him. The real snitch sat there, innocently gleaming in the sunlight, waiting to be discovered.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Every eye in the stadium turned to him.

Your ex’s face drained of color, hands fumbling over the bag in shock. “I—I didn’t—!” He stammered.

But the damage was already done. The spectators murmured furiously, teammates muttering accusations, and whispers of “he cheated” began circulating instantly.

Theo leaned back against the railing, smirk spreading across his face, and whispered in your ear, “Are you enjoying the show, my love?”

You bit your lip and nodded, trying not to laugh aloud, and reached for his hand under the railing, giving it a subtle squeeze. No words were needed—the humiliation was working exactly as planned.

“Due to tampering with the snitch, it’s an automatic loss for Ravenclaw—Hufflepuff wins!” Madam Hooch announced, confirming the disaster.

“Another impeccable plan. I’m impressed,” Theo murmured in your ear, voice teasing, “You make it look easy.”

The crisp Hogsmeade air nipped at your cheeks as you stepped off the train, Theodore’s hand sliding easily into yours. The village was bustling with students, their laughter echoing over the cobblestone streets, but all you could feel was the warmth of his grip and the soft pull of his presence beside you.

Theodore was actually the one to suggest that you guys spend the day together. At first, you were going to opt out, feeling bad that the last couple weeks had been revolving around you and wanting him to get some time with his friends but he insisted, saying that you couldn't spend your Hogsmeade apart or people would talk.

You couldn't argue with that.

But even then you found yourself looking forward to it.

Despite this being only a temporary arrangement with no feelings behind it, Theodore was actually great company. He was thoughtful and considerate, he liked hearing you talk and a quality people didn't really appreciate a lot was that he was hilarious.

You couldn't go five minutes without him prompting a belly laugh from you.

You paused in front of a small shop, your eyes catching a delicate necklace in the display window. A thin chain with a tiny, intricate charm glinting in the sunlight—it was beautiful. Your breath caught.

“Oh… that’s gorgeous.” You murmured, pressing your palm lightly against the glass.

Theodore leaned over, following your gaze. His eyes softened when he saw the necklace, “You like it?”

“I do… but…” Your voice trailed off as you peeked at the price tag. Your eyes widened, “but I do not love the price tag.”

The bell above the shop door jingled as you both entered. You wandered near the counter, trying to convince yourself it was just a dream. Theodore approached the shopkeeper, exchanged a few words, and before you could even process what was happening, the necklace was being handed to you in a small, neatly wrapped box.

You stared at it, then at him, “No… no, you can’t. This is way too expensive. I can’t—”

“It’s only ten Galleons.” He said, clearly perplexed by your reaction.

“Only… ten Galleons?” You repeated, your voice rising slightly in surprise, “That’s… that’s like… my entire pocket money for the next two months!”

Theodore smirked, as if your shock were the most amusing thing he’d seen all day, “Yes, and? You’re my girl. You like it, you get it. What’s the problem?”

The problem was you weren't really his girl.

So, why was he going out of his way to behave like you were? This was a question that had stayed in your head since that first night in Hogsmeade. What was he getting out of this? Why would he be so readily enthusiastic in your plan when it was clear you were the only one truly benefitting from this?

When you met his eyes again, stormy blue that looked green in some lights, the questioned died on your tongue.

Because whatever the reason, you weren't sure you wanted him to stop.

You stared at him, half in disbelief, half in awe, “You—really? You’re just… giving it to me?”

You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief as you let him fasten the necklace around your neck. The charm glinted against your chest, and the warmth of the gesture left you grinning.

When you turned to meet his eyes again, you smiled bashfully up at him before leaning in to press a soft kiss against his cheek.

Theo froze in surprise the second your lips touched his cold skin, and the sight of his startled expression made something warm bloom in your stomach.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t done more than that—in fact, in your persistence to prove to your exes that you were well past moved on, you’d taken to making out with Theo in nearly every public space Hogwarts had to offer. And if it wasn’t that, it was the way he always had an arm around you, casual and possessive, no matter where you went.

So the fact that something as small as a cheek kiss could knock him off guard made you smile. Made you feel like all the intimacy you shared wasn’t just a front. Wasn’t all fake.

“Thank you.” You whispered.

You settled cross-legged on the soft carpet of the Slytherin common room, leaning back against Theodore’s legs as he sat comfortably on the couch. His hands were busy in your hair, while his scarf lay draped across your lap. Carefully, you threaded the fringe at the end of the scarf, showing him how to braid it so he could mimic the motion on your hair.

“So then you take this left strand and bring it over—it becomes the new center strand—and then you bring the new right strand and bring it over.” You explained, feeling the occasional tug on your hair. You immediately noticed the braid slipping.

“It keeps slipping… your hair is too greasy.” He muttered, brow furrowed.

You scoffed, feigning offense, “I think you mean… smooth and silky.”

“This isn’t working.” He grumbled, letting go of your hair and starting over, separating it into three neat parts.

“Baby, this is the easiest braid ever. You’re going to faint when I teach you about a Dutch braid.” You teased, tugging gently on a strand to demonstrate.

Before he could respond, the door creaked open and Mattheo sauntered in, smirk plastered across his face. “Ohhh, what do we have here?” He drawled, “(Y/N) (L/N), Hogwarts’ first houseless student considering we never see her in her own common room, and Theodore Nott, her loyal… dog.”

He then grimaced at the sight of the two of you, “Can y’all not do this in a public space? Some of us think the sight of happy couples is enough to induce projectile vomiting.”

Theo didn’t flinch, though the corner of his mouth tugged into a small smirk. You felt a small thrill as his thumb grazed the space under your ear, leading to your neck, grounding you in the moment.

You raised a brow, voice dripping with mock menace, “You really wanna piss me off when I’m at prime height to punch you in the balls?”

Mattheo rolled his eyes and collapsed onto the couch, still grinning, “You’re coming to Theo’s birthday next Friday, right? Considering you practically live here.”

You hesitated, unsure, “I… I don’t know. I mean—”

Theo leaned over you, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “You'll be there right?” He murmured, voice low and coaxing, the simple gesture making your chest tighten, "Please?"

You bit back a smile, looking up at him, and realized there was no way you could say no—not when he asked like that.

You stepped into the Slytherin common room, barely able to hear your own thoughts over the bass that rattled the walls. It thudded deep in your chest, vibrating through your bones as you descended the staircase to the dungeons.

The room was packed, bodies moving together in a blur beneath the strobing lights, faces indistinguishable in the chaos. But your eyes found Theo instantly. He was surrounded by his friends, laughing at something Mattheo said, until his gaze landed on you.

His entire expression shifted—lit up like you were the only thing in the room. Without a second thought, he left them behind and crossed the room to meet you at the base of the stairs.

His eyes swept over your little black dress, the necklace he gifted you resting prettily on your collarbones, and his hands found their way to your waist—low, possessive, warm against the thin fabric, "Che bella, carissima."

"Happy birthday, Theo." You murmured, your palms resting lightly against his chest.

"Grazie, dolcezza." He replied, voice low and smooth as he leaned in. His mouth met yours without hesitation, your fingers sliding into his hair. Lip gloss smudged against his skin, and the artificial taste of lollipop lippie flooded both your mouths.

If you hadn’t been so caught up in the kiss, maybe you would’ve questioned it. Why you were kissing Theo when neither your boyfriend nor your best friend was anywhere in sight. Why you were feeding into the rumor mill in the shadowy corner of the common room instead of center stage where everyone could see.

Maybe you would’ve wondered why you shaved your legs, wore the dress that made your breasts look perfect, took extra time curling your hair, and reached for the expensive perfume you saved for special occasions.

But with Theo’s fingers brushing bare skin along your spine—thanks to the low back of your dress—those thoughts didn’t stand a chance.

You pulled away, laughing softly at the sight of glittery gloss smeared across his lips. You tried to wipe it away with your thumbs, but that proved nearly impossible when he kept catching your fingers in quick kisses.

"I have a present for you." You whispered, revealing the small gift bag you’d kept tucked behind your back. Theo pressed a kiss to your temple before taking it, digging through the tissue paper until he pulled out a steel flask—cool, heavy, and etched with intricate designs like something stolen from an ancient temple.

When he felt the liquid slosh inside, he unscrewed the cap and took a sip, brows lifting in surprise when the familiar taste hit his tongue.

"I cast a replenishing spell on it," You explained, "When it runs out, it’ll refill on its own."

His lips curved in a slow smile, still holding your gaze.

"I was just thinking about that day you said you’d miss my cocoa," You added, "So…I thought you’d appreciate it."

Theo chuckled quietly, looking down at the flask with an expression you couldn’t quite read—something deeper than amusement.

"Do you…not like it?" You asked after a beat.

He shook his head immediately, "I adore it, pretty girl."

Before you could respond, Mattheo’s voice cut through the music. "If you guys are done ASSAULTING OUR EYEBALLS—" You both rolled your eyes in perfect unison, "—IT’S TIME FOR CAKE!"

You followed the crowd toward the long table where the cake waited, candles flickering under the dim lights. You expected to melt into the group somewhere between Enzo and Blaise, but before you could even drift in that direction, Theo’s hand shot out, curling firmly around your wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going, Dolcezza?” He murmured, tugging you to stand at his side—his spot—right in front of the cake.

“Theo,” You hissed under your breath, “it’s your birthday, I should be—”

“You're exactly where you should be.” He cut you off smoothly, eyes glinting in the candlelight. His hand didn't lift from your waist, keeping you pinned to his side, the faint smell of smoke and cocoa clinging to him like a second skin.

You didn’t have time to argue before Blaise slid over, holding out a small slip of parchment and a quill, “Here you go, mate."

Your brows furrowed, “What’s this?”

Theo took the quill without hesitation, his head bending low as he scribbled something on the paper in quick, sure strokes.

“It’s an old Nott thing,” Mattheo explained, “Birthday boy writes down a wish, folds it, and keeps it with him until it comes true. You’re not supposed to tell anyone what it is.”

Theo didn’t even glance up, just folded the parchment neatly, tucking it into the inner pocket of his jacket with deliberate care.

“And you keep it on you?” You asked, curiosity getting the better of you.

“Always,” Theo said simply. His gaze met yours, sharp enough to make your stomach twist, “A wish doesn’t work if you let it out too soon.”

You should’ve looked away, but there was something about the weight of his stare—like whatever he’d written down was more dangerous than anyone else in the room realized.

“Now,” Mattheo groaned, breaking the tension, “can we please sing so I can eat some damn cake?"

You laughed, but your mind was already racing, replaying the way Theo’s lips had curved just slightly when he’d sealed the parchment away.

And for the first time, you wondered if that wish had anything to do with you.

The common room was a haze of dancing bodies, flashing lights, and the faint tang of cider and punch. You’d just come back from the corridor with Theo, the warmth of his hand still lingering on your waist, when Mattheo leaned over with a mischievous grin.

“You need to try this,” He said, holding out a tall glass filled with a neon-colored drink. At the bottom, a small, bright candy rested like a hidden treasure, “It’s our latest cocktail—sweet and sour. The sweetness of the drink with the sour candy at the bottom is fucking good.”

You raised an eyebrow, examining the glass that looked radioactive, "This looks cursed."

"It's good, baby," Theo said smoothly, eyes sparkling as he handed you the glass, “You should give it a try.”

With a shrug and a laugh, you took a sip. At first, it was sweet, almost pleasant. Then your tongue hit the candy, and your eyes widened in shock. Your face scrunched up immediately.

“Oh—oh my god,” You choked out, spitting it back a little, "This is awful! I feel like I'm sucking on a lemon!"

Theo chuckled low, leaning closer, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for the glass. “Give it here.” He murmured, voice teasing.

You held the candy between your teeth, letting him tilt your head and take it into his mouth. The kiss that followed was slow, teasing, and intimate, the world around you fading as he skillfully removed the candy without breaking the connection between your lips. Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers tangling naturally like it does whenever you kiss.

When he finally pulled back slightly, forehead resting against yours, his eyes shone with playful delight, "You're crazy," He said, swishing the candy around in his mouth, "This is delicious."

"You two are disgusting." Mattheo muttered again, shaking his head.

You’d slipped out into the quieter corridor for a moment’s reprieve. The cool dungeon air was a relief after the heat of the crowd.

You were seated on one of the stairs, catching your breath, when footsteps echoed down the hall. You didn’t turn, but the scent of Theo hit your senses the moment he draped his jacket around your shoulders and settled beside you.

“Hi.” You murmured, leaning your head down to rest on your knees, offering a small, tired smile.

“Hi. You alright?”

You nodded, “Just a little tipsy. I needed some air.”

“Oh, I know just what to do about that.” He teased, reaching into his jacket and pulling out the flask you had gifted him. You chuckled as he opened it, handing it to you, steam curling into the cold air. You took a few sips, letting the warmth spread through you.

“When I said I was going to miss your cocoa,” He began, a hint of mischief in his voice, “I didn’t mean you should give me a lifetime supply.”

Your brows furrowed, a pang of worry settling in your chest. Did he not like the present?

"I don’t want the flask if it means you won’t be around to share it with me,” He said softly, leaning closer so only you could hear, “I’ve always just wanted you."

You took a sharp inhale, your heart beginning to pound against your ribcage.

"Are—Are you being serious?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his pocket and held something out between two fingers—a folded slip of parchment, worn at the edges, looking as though it might crumble if handled too roughly.

You frowned, “What’s this?”

“My birthday wish from last year.” He said simply.

You blinked, “Won’t giving it to me mean it won’t come true?”

His lips curved into that maddening, calm smile, “Take a look.”

You hesitated, then unfolded the paper. The ink was slightly smudged, but the words were unmistakable:

I wish for (Y/N) to notice me.

Your stomach flipped in disbelief, “Theo…”

“I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember.”

The air seemed to thin around you, your pulse loud in your ears, “You… you’re serious?”

He nodded, “I’ve felt this way for a long time. I thought last year would finally be the year I made my move, but then you started dating him, and I thought I lost my chance.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” You whispered.

“I was ecstatic when you finally turned your attention to me that night. Not the way I wanted at first, maybe, but I was never going to let that chance get away from me.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, your chest tightening with a mix of disbelief and relief. Theo’s eyes were locked on yours, calm and steady, but filled with something so raw it made your heart thrum.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from his face, fingers lingering at his jaw. “So… all of this—” you gestured between the two of you, “—the fake dating, the kissing, the… everything… it wasn’t just to get back at them?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head, “No. That part was fun, I’ll admit. But it wasn’t the real reason I wanted to be close to you.” His hand slid over yours, palm warm against yours, grounding you, “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for longer than you can imagine.”

Your heart lurched, a mixture of relief and longing flooding through you, “Theo…”

He leaned closer, forehead resting against yours, voice just above a whisper, “So, what do you say? No more pretending. No more games. Just… us.”

Something inside you broke—years of tension, uncertainty, and longing unraveling in a single heartbeat. You cupped his face in your hands, leaning into him fully, “Okay,” You breathed, “Just us.”

His grin widened, a triumphant glint in his stormy eyes, and he kissed you—slow, deep, and deliberate, every touch and press of his lips sealing the promise between you. No pretense, no lies. Just the two of you, finally, fully together.

The two of you stayed there for a while, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the distant thrum of the party fading into nothing. The world had narrowed to just you, just him, and the long-awaited start of something neither of you wanted to hide ever again.

Bonus:

Breakfast in the Great Hall felt different that morning.

You’d think that after months of this routine with Theo, another morning spent at his side wouldn’t feel so significant. But it did. Everything felt sharper, warmer. You didn’t feel like you had to prove anything anymore. You didn’t feel like you had to put on a show. The hand holding yours was hidden beneath the table, but you didn’t care if anyone saw—or if they didn’t. It didn’t matter anymore.

And yet, despite everything shifting, you and Theo were still the same—falling into that easy rhythm, voices low as you traded quiet jokes. Only now, you noticed the way it felt different. How intimate it was when Theo’s gaze lingered not just on your eyes but flickered, unconsciously, down to your lips. How he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room, even in the middle of the bustling Hall.

How had you missed all the signs before?

Theo was brushing a crumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb when the bliss cracked.

“Everyone!”

The word boomed too loud, slicing through the clatter of cutlery and low chatter. Your entire body stiffened before you even turned around. Of course. Him.

Your ex stood in the aisle, puffed up with self-importance, chest thrown back like he’d just mounted a stage. He had that smug gleam in his eyes, the kind that screamed he’d practiced this speech in the mirror ten times over.

“I think it’s time you all knew the truth about Theodore Nott and (Y/N) (L/N).” He announced, every syllable dripping with fake triumph. He cut a sharp look at you, then Theo, then back to the sea of students now staring.

The Hall quieted, curiosity winning out. Even the Gryffindors craned their necks, waiting for drama.

“They’ve only been pretending to date,” He declared, letting the word hang in the air, “To make me jealous.”

His voice swelled with self-satisfaction, like he’d just solved some grand mystery.

Your hand tightened around Theo's.

“You don’t have to keep pretending just to get back at me. I get it. I was angry too when we ended, but—” He paused, putting on his most magnanimous smile, “I’ll forgive you. I’ll take you back.”

The silence that followed was… brutal. Half a beat too long.

Slowly, you let your gaze drift—not at him, but across the Hall, to where his so-called new love sat, her expression crumbling as her boyfriend publicly begged for you.

A smirk ghosted across your lips, satisfaction unfurling in your chest. I warned her, you thought. You told her he’d betray her the same way he’d betrayed you. You’d just assumed he’d run to someone new. But no—he’d come crawling right back. Pathetic. Maybe you really were just too good to forget.

A ripple of laughter broke out along the Gryffindor table. Somewhere down the line, a Ravenclaw girl snorted so hard pumpkin juice sprayed out of her nose. Even some of the Slytherins traded incredulous looks, smirks curling as if to say, is he serious?

"He has officially lost the plot." Someone muttered loud enough for half the Hall to hear. Someone else chortled in response.

Your ex’s confident smile faltered.

Blaise Zabini leaned lazily on his elbows, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the hush. “Pretending?” He gestured toward you and Theo with a casual flick of his hand. “Mate, the whole castle’s been gagging on their PDA for months.”

Someone else piped up, "Yeah. If that’s pretend, then they deserve Oscars. The way he looks at her—like she’s the only thing in the world—you’d have to be blind to miss it.”

You chuckled, dropping your gaze from the pathetic sight in front of you and turned back to your current boyfriend, who only smirked at you, though you could see the tenderness that lay underneath, "See? Everyone else could see I was gone for you before you did."

Bonus bonus: (Ten years later)

The day you first kissed Theodore Nott was arguably one of the worst days of your life, despite all the good that eventually came from it. The betrayal of seeing the person you loved cheat on you with your best friend was a wound so deep it had reshaped you.

Theo had always claimed he was glad he’d never experienced anything like it. Until the same thing happened to him.

“This is killing me,” He muttered, pacing the length of your shared bedroom like a man awaiting his execution. His hands dragged through his hair, his voice raw, “I hope you know that.”

Your throat tightened, but you forced an eyeroll, masking your sympathy with irritation, “Theo, it’s not that big of a deal. Will you stop getting your knickers twisted?”

He whirled on you, eyes blazing. “Not a big deal? Not a big—” He broke off, laughing bitterly, “You were so betrayed when this happened to you that you practically tore their lives apart. And now you expect me to just—what? Pretend I’m fine?”

You scoffed, folding your arms, “We are not comparing the biggest betrayal of my life with your daughter having a crush on Mattheo.”

The air went still.

Theo staggered back a step, like you’d struck him. His face twisted in horror as his hand clutched his chest. “Don’t say it out loud.” He croaked, his voice breaking.

He looked genuinely wounded, muttering under his breath as though mourning a death, “I raised her better than this…She used to want to marry me!”

Before you could roll your eyes again, the shrill ding-dong of the doorbell cut through the tension.

Theo froze mid-step, every muscle in his body going taut. Slowly, his head turned toward the door like a man staring down a firing squad.

And then—

“HE’S HERE!”

Your three-year-old's shriek echoed down the hall, followed by the thunder of little feet pounding against the floorboards. She practically skidded into the foyer, hair wild, socks sliding on the wood as she lunged for the door.

“Bianca, you know you're not allowed to open the door without us!” Theo barked, but it was too late.

The door swung wide.

Mattheo Riddle stood there, casual, self-assured, hands shoved in his pockets. A faint, rakish smirk tugged at his lips. With the leather jacket and helmet under his arm, it was easy to see why your daughter was utterly smitten. Had you not known the fool he was during school, you might have been just as captivated.

“Hi.” He drawled, eyes immediately landing on his god-daughter.

“UNCLE MATTHEO!” Bianca squealed, launching herself into his arms without hesitation. He caught her with practiced ease, lifting and spinning her once before settling her on his hip.

Mattheo shifted her higher onto his hip, grinning like he owned the place, “And who’s my favorite girl?”

“Me!” She squealed, giggling as she buried her face into his shoulder.

Theo’s jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard it crack. His knuckles whitened at his sides, and he took one menacing step forward like he was about to snatch his daughter back by force.

Mattheo, utterly unbothered, tilted his head, smirk widening. “I see someone’s cranky.” He teased lightly, holding Bianca closer with a teasing flourish.

"(Y/N) did not go through 14 hours of aggravating labour for this horrendous display."

“Now you know how I felt all those years back at Hogwarts, watching you two glued to each other’s lips like a bad romance novel.”

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Bianca was a blur of movement by the Great Lake.

She darted along the grassy bank, boots thudding softly against the earth as she zig-zagged around rocks and half-buried roots, stopping every few seconds to crouch down and inspect something with intense focus before bolting off again. A stick became a wand, a pebble became treasure, and the reeds at the water’s edge were clearly hiding something very important.

You watched her with a fond smile, arms folded loosely as you leaned back against the cool stone.

“She has too much energy.” You said, though there was no real complaint in your voice—only wonder.

Theo huffed a quiet laugh beside you, eyes never leaving her, “She’s a firecracker.”

Bianca shrieked with laughter as she nearly tripped over her own feet, caught herself at the last second, and then stood very still—carefully regaining her balance before continuing on her way.

Theo tilted his head slightly, watching her, “She takes after you.”

You laughed, startled, “Are you crazy?”

He glanced at you, amused, “What?”

You nodded toward Bianca. “Look at her. She’s observant. Thoughtful. She watches everything. She’s lively, yeah—but she hardly ever leaps without looking first.” You smiled softly, “That’s all you.”

Theo went quiet at that, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.

He watched Bianca sprint past a patch of wildflowers, slow just enough to avoid stepping on them, then take off again.

“…Maybe.” He conceded.

A moment later, he added, half-thoughtful, half-teasing, “She’d be a good Chaser.”

You snorted, “Of course you’d say that.”

“Did you see that turn?” He said, nodding toward her as she swerved sharply to avoid the water’s edge, “She'll be a star quidditch player.”

You hummed, considering it. “I don’t know,” You said slowly, “I kind of see her as a Magizoologist.”

Theo glanced at you, “Yeah?”

“She’s gentle,” You said, “Curious. She doesn’t just want to look—she wants to understand.” You smiled as Bianca crouched again, whispering something to a very unimpressed-looking duck, “I think she’d love creatures.”

Theo’s expression softened.

“Whatever she chooses,” He said quietly, “she’ll be brilliant.”

The words lingered between you.

The lake rippled softly. The breeze carried the scent of water and grass. Bianca’s laughter echoed across the shore, bright and unburdened.

And then—slowly, inevitably—the conversation faded.

Neither of you spoke.

Because the truth settled in like a weight neither of you wanted to name.

There were futures you were imagining that you wouldn’t get to see. First matches. First discoveries. First failures. First triumphs.

Theo swallowed.

You hugged your arms closer to yourself, eyes fixed on Bianca as if memorizing the way the sunlight caught in her curls.

For a moment, it was almost peaceful.

And for a moment, that made it hurt so much more.

Bedtime was always a gamble.

There were nights when Bianca conked out long before she was meant to, curled boneless and warm in Theo’s arms, and you and him would exchange a silent look before jointly deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. No pajamas. No teeth brushed. Not if it meant waking her. You’d just lay her down as she was and hope she didn't wake up.

Some nights, she went down like a dream—padding excitedly toward bed because she was looking forward to the story that Theo read to her. When it was your turn, Bianca would read to you instead, you'd study the pictures with exaggerated seriousness, and make enthusiastic oohs and ahhs at all the right moments while Bianca beamed in pride at her reading skills.

And then there were the nights she refused.

It would almost be easier if she weren’t tired—at least then you could burn the energy off. A walk around the castle usually did the trick. More often than not, she’d be asleep in Theo’s arms before you even turned back toward the common room, her cheek pressed into his shoulder, breathing slow and even.

But the worst nights were when she was exhausted and still couldn’t sleep.

Overtired, overstimulated, and furious about it.

The crying cut through you in a way nothing else did—sharp and relentless, scraping along your nerves until you felt hollowed out. Theo held on as long as he could. When it became too much, he’d quietly excuse himself.

"Ten minutes." He promised, "I'll be back."

But when fifteen passed and he still hadn’t returned, you didn’t go looking for him. You knew where he was—the common room, breathing, grounding himself. You let him have those extra minutes.

You held Bianca instead, her small body tense in your arms, her face damp with tears. You hugged her close and rocked back and forth, humming softly at first, then singing—a lullaby from a film you used to love as a child.

Gradually, the sobs quieted.

Her breathing evened out.

And when you were absolutely certain she was gone—truly asleep—you tucked her into bed, smoothing the blankets, lingering just long enough to make sure she didn’t stir.

Only then did you leave.

You closed the door quietly behind you and let out a long breath.

“She’s finally down.” You murmured, collapsing onto the couch beside Theo like your bones had simply decided they were finished.

He looked up from the parchment spread across the coffee table. His hair was mussed, sleeves rolled up, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back up.” He said quietly.

Your head tipped against his shoulder without thinking. “It’s okay, Theo,” You replied softly, “You deserved the break after the fight to get her into pajamas.”

He exhaled—a deep, exhausted sigh—and let his head fall forward for a moment. The common room was dim, fire crackling low, everything wrapped in that hazy, end-of-day quiet where the world felt temporarily paused.

After a beat, Theo straightened slightly, shaking his head like he could physically shake himself awake. “Okay,” He said, gesturing to the parchment with his chin, “Do you want to start writing the Charms essay?”

You nodded, eyes already heavy. “In a second,” You murmured, “Just… give me a second.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

The fire crackled. The room softened. The parchment remained untouched.

And sometime in the night, Theo’s head tipped gently against yours, his breathing evening out as sleep finally claimed him too—the two of you tangled together on the couch like you belonged there.

Morning crept into the Slytherin common room slowly.

Pale light filtered in through the tall windows, casting faint shapes across the stone floor and catching on the dying embers in the fireplace. The room was quiet in that in-between way—too early for students rushing to class, too late for true solitude.

Sometime during the night, the distance between you and Theo had disappeared entirely.

Your head was tucked beneath his chin now, his arm slung loosely—but securely—around your waist. One of your legs had somehow ended up tangled with his, your body curved into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His cheek rested against the crown of your head, breath warm and steady, fingers curled faintly into the fabric of your sleeve.

You looked… settled.

Theo hadn’t slept that deeply in weeks.

The first voices shattered the quiet.

“Oi—what the hell?”

Blaise stopped short just inside the common room, halfway through a yawn. Mattheo, behind him, followed his line of sight—and froze. Then a slow, shit-eating grin spread across his face.

“Mama y papà.” He said cheerfully.

Theo stirred at the sound, brows knitting together. You shifted too, burrowing closer on instinct, your face scrunching in your sleep in that exact way Bianca did when she didn’t want to wake up yet.

Theo’s eyes fluttered open.

It took him a moment to piece things together. The couch. The dying fire. The weight against his chest.

You.

His arm tightened before he could stop himself.

Draco let out a low whistle. “Merlin,” He drawled, “You leave one kid with him for a week and suddenly he’s playing house.”

Theo’s eyes snapped fully open, “Shut up.”

Lorenzo folded his arms, unimpressed but unmistakably entertained, “Are we interrupting something?”

You shifted again, mumbling something soft and unintelligible into Theo’s chest. Your hand slid up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt like it was a lifeline.

Theo held his breath.

For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling—at the stone arches, at the faint greenish light—fully aware of his friends staring like the two of you were a particularly scandalous exhibit in a zoo.

And still, despite himself, his eyelids felt heavy again.

“Bianca?” He murmured, voice barely there.

“Still fast asleep.” Mattheo supplied easily.

Theo didn’t even fight it.

His eyes slid shut again, arm tightening just a fraction more around you as his head tipped back against the couch.

Out cold.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“Oh my God,” Blaise whispered, “He’s actually asleep."

Lorenzo stared, "My old man used to do the same too. Fell asleep through a whole movie once."

The Slytherin common room was almost unnervingly quiet at that hour.

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls, green flames reflecting in the tall windows like something alive beneath the lake outside. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, leaving only a soft pool of light near the couches where you and Theo sat—books spread open, parchment littered with notes, ink smudges marking the evidence of three solid feet of Transfiguration essays each.

You were officially on a break.

You shivered, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders just as Theo stood, rolling his neck once before moving toward the small table where he’d set up the kettle. You watched him quietly as he brewed tea—precise, unhurried, like the ritual itself grounded him.

When he returned and placed a cup in front of you, you couldn’t help the smile that curved your lips.

The teabag was still steeping.

You took a careful sip. It was perfect. Strong, but not bitter. Exactly how you liked it.

A soft chuckle slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Theo glanced up, “What?”

You shook your head, lifting the cup slightly, “Nothing. Just—thank you.”

He nodded once, but his mouth twitched like he knew there was more to it.

Then, almost without thinking, you said, “You know… before meeting her, I didn’t think I’d ever even look twice at you.”

Theo’s quill froze mid-scratch.

Slowly, he turned to face you, one brow lifting. “Wow,” He drawled, “I feel incredibly flattered.”

You winced, “No—wait. That came out wrong.”

He studied you now, the teasing edge fading, curiosity sharpening his expression.

“I just mean,” You continued, fingers worrying the hem of your sleeve, “before Bianca, I honestly thought we’d graduate and pass by each other without ever really being in each other’s lives.” You hesitated, “But now…”

“Now what?” He asked quietly.

You gestured vaguely between the two of you—the firelight, the late hour, the way his knee brushed yours and neither of you moved away.

“You know exactly how I like my tea,” You said softly, “And I know how you like yours. I’m allergic to smoke, and you stopped smoking before this even became…” Your voice trailed off as you ducked your head, unsure how to name what sat between you, “Whatever this is.”

“Whatever this is,” You finished, almost to yourself, “It’s funny, isn’t it? How sometimes things just… happen. Completely out of order.”

Theo leaned back slightly, watching you like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“She changed things.” He said.

“Yes,” You whispered, “She certainly did.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“I never thought about it before.” He admitted finally, voice low.

“About what?”

“Any of this,” He said, “A family. A future. I didn’t think I was capable of it, to be honest.” His jaw tightened. “Thought I was too screwed up to deserve one.”

Your chest ached.

“And now?” You asked softly.

“Now,” He said, barely above a breath, “I want it more than anything in the world.” His eyes met yours, “Bianca. And you.”

Your heart stuttered painfully.

“I don’t know when it happened,” He went on, “Or how. I just know that somewhere along the way, I stopped yearning for my past—and started anticipating the future instead.”

The fire popped, sharp in the stillness.

You looked at him—really looked. The shadows beneath his eyes. The tension he carried like armor. The boy who had let himself love without realizing how deeply it would cut.

“I think,” You said, voice trembling just slightly, “I feel the same way, Theo.” You swallowed, “I want a future with you.”

You reached for him before fear could catch up, your fingers brushing his wrist. He went utterly still at the contact, breath hitching like you’d struck something vital.

You hesitated, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you lifted your gaze to his—and then your hands began to tremble when you saw it. The want in his eyes. Bare. Unguarded.

Theo leaned in slowly, deliberately—giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His forehead rested against yours first, warm and steady, grounding you both.

“Ti amo.” He whispered.

You didn’t need to understand Italian to know what he was saying.

The kiss started softly, tentative—his lips brushing yours like a question he was afraid to ask too loudly. When you responded, just as gently, his breath shuddered, relief and emotion tangling together.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. Like he was learning you. Like he was afraid that if he rushed, the moment might fracture.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if anchoring himself. You melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater, the firelight warming your skin as the world narrowed to this—this quiet, impossible thing that had found you both.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, foreheads still touching.

You really did love him.

Theo had been in a mood.

It settled over him the moment the owl arrived—thick parchment, precise handwriting, the professors’ seal pressed into the wax like a finality. You’d read it together at the kitchen table in the common room, Bianca swinging her legs beneath the chair, humming to herself as she colored, blissfully unaware.

We believe we have found a way to reverse the spell. Preliminary tests indicate a high probability of success. We are confident we can return the child to her proper time.

Ever since then, something in Theo had gone quiet.

Not angry. Not cruel. Just… withdrawn. As if he’d folded inward, brick by careful brick, building walls he refused to name. He spoke less. Smiled less. When Bianca reached for him, he held her a little tighter, a little longer—like he was memorizing the weight of her, the way she fit against his chest.

You told yourself you understood.

Of course he was going to miss her. You were going to miss her too. Somewhere between shared breakfasts and bedtime stories, scraped knees and tangled curls, Bianca had taken root in your heart. The thought of watching her vanish—of returning to your normal lives and pretending these weeks hadn’t rewritten you—made your throat ache in a way you didn’t know how to soothe.

That night, Bianca went to bed easily.

Too easily.

She pressed a sticky kiss to your cheek, murmured something sleepy in Italian, and curled beneath her blankets without protest. No fuss. No tears. Just acceptance.

It felt like a bad omen.

Theo waited until the door clicked shut behind you before he spoke.

“What if we don’t send her back?”

You turned slowly, the words not quite registering, “What?”

“What if we keep her here,” He said, voice low and urgent, like if he spoke too loudly the idea might shatter, “What if we just—don’t go through with it. We have time with her. Real time. Why should we give that up?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Theo,” You said carefully, “What are you talking about?”

“We’re her parents,” He said, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious, “And if we send her back, we’re sending her to a life where she doesn’t have a mother. At least this way—” His voice cracked, just slightly, “—at least this way she has both of us.”

“Theo—”

“I know it hasn’t been perfect,” He rushed on, stepping closer, words tumbling over each other, “But we’re learning. We can do this. We already are. You see her—she’s happy here. She’s safe.” His eyes searched yours desperately, “She doesn’t have to lose you.”

Your chest burned.

“I know we could do this,” You whispered, “I know that. But Bianca isn’t our child. Not really. No matter how badly we want her to be.”

His jaw tightened, muscles jumping beneath the skin.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” He said sharply, “To grow up without a mother. To wake up every day knowing there’s a hole in your life you’ll never fill.” His voice dropped, rough and raw, “If she stays here, she doesn’t have to lose you. Whatever it is—whatever happens to you—we can catch it early. We can fix it.”

Your vision blurred.

“If Bianca stays here,” You said, voice breaking, “the you in the future loses his daughter forever. He’s already lost his wife, Theo. Don’t make him lose his baby girl too.”

Something in him snapped.

“Screw him.” He said hoarsely.

He reached for you suddenly, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes like he could stop the tears if he tried hard enough. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

“I have everything I’ve ever wanted right here,” He whispered, “Right now.”

Your sob escaped before you could stop it, fingers clutching at his sleeves like an anchor.

“Theo,” You breathed, “you know as well as I do… she isn’t meant to be here.”

He sucked in a breath—and this time, he couldn’t hold it back.

The sob tore out of his chest, raw and broken, his grip tightening like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“Don’t make me give you up, (Y/N),” He choked, voice collapsing on your name, “Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you too.”

His forehead stayed pressed to yours as his shoulders shook, grief and fear and want spilling out all at once. He wasn’t just pleading for Bianca.

He was pleading for you. For the life he’d tasted and already couldn’t bear to lose.

And you held him there, crying quietly into his collar, knowing that love—no matter how real—was not enough to change fate.

The second Theo entered the hospital wing, every instinct in his body screamed the same reckless, impossible thing.

Grab you. Grab Bianca. Apparate.

Disappear so completely that no one would ever find you again.

His mother had family in Italy—old blood, old names, people who still believed hospitality was sacred. They would open their doors. They would help you. They would protect you.

How hard could it be, really, to end up on their doorstep with a frightened child and a woman he loved?

Too easy.

Too selfish.

You didn’t even look at him when the thought flickered across his face. You simply squeezed Bianca’s hand and guided her forward, gentle but firm. You knew if you looked back at him, you would be all to convinced to leave together.

Theo swallowed hard, the bitterness rising sharp and ugly in his throat.

All he wanted—all he had ever wanted—was for the three of you to be happy. Together. Why was that such an impossible thing to ask for? Why did it feel like the universe kept dangling it just close enough for him to taste before ripping it away?

He knew the truth, even if it tore him apart.

Bianca belonged with his older self. The man who chose to have her. The man who could protect her. The man who could stay.

But she was his daughter too—damn it. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood. And the thought of letting her go felt like carving something vital out of his chest.

You knelt in front of Bianca, pulling her into a tight embrace. You kissed her forehead, whispered words she couldn’t possibly understand, and said as little as you could. Her fingers were small and warm in yours, but they grew slick with sweat as she glanced around at the unfamiliar adults. She tightened her grip, grounding herself the only way she knew how, holding onto you like she could anchor the moment in place.

Theo watched, throat burning.

Then he knelt too.

He’d done it a thousand times—tying her shoes, wiping tears from her cheeks, crouching to her level when he needed her attention—but this time his knees hit the stone floor harder than usual. Pain flared and vanished, eclipsed by something far worse. His hands trembled as they came up to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing over her skin slowly, reverently—like he was trying to memorize the exact warmth of her.

“Hey.” He said softly.

His voice cracked immediately.

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening, and tried again, “Bambina.” (Little one)

Her eyes lifted to his.

Just like yours—wide, glassy, endlessly deep. Like looking into a pool of pearlescent ink that reflected too much truth.

“Ti vedrò presto, amore.” He said gently, brushing a curl back from her face. (I’ll see you soon, love.)

“Le cose saranno un po’ diverse…” His breath hitched, “Ma devi avere pazienza, va bene? Andrà tutto bene.” (Things will be a little different… but you need to be patient, okay? Everything will be fine.)

Bianca studied him with grave seriousness, like she was weighing his words carefully.

Then—suddenly—her face lit up.

“Oh!” She said brightly, “Come quella volta.” (Oh! Like that time.)

Theo blinked, “Come quando?” (Like when?)

“Come quando sei andato via con la mamma.” She explained easily. (Like when you went away with Mama.)

His chest tightened, “Quando?” (When?)

“Quando siete andati in ospedale.” She continued, rocking on her feet. (When you went to the hospital.)

"E poi sei tornato a casa felice." (And then you came home with happiness.)

Theo’s breath caught violently.

The room tilted.

"Felice?" He asked quietly, feeling like hell. (Happy?)

The word felt wrong in his mouth.

A cold, sickening thought slithered into his mind.

Was he happy when you passed?

His chest tightened, panic blooming sharp and fast, bile rising in his throat. His hands trembled where they rested, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Then—

Bianca tilted her head, frowning slightly—confused by his confusion.

“Quando sei tornato con il mio fratellino, Felice.” She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. (When you came back with my little brother, Felice.)

The world went very, very still.

Blood rushed through Theo’s head so fast he swayed, knees locking as though a feather could knock him over.

“Tuo… fratello?” He repeated hoarsely. (Your… brother?)

She nodded, curls bouncing. “Sì.” (Yes.)

“È piccolo,” She added solemnly, “Piange tanto.” (He’s little. He cries a lot.)

The hospital.

You being sick.

Too sick to carry her. Too sick to eat breakfast.

The reason Bianca hadn’t seemed sad. The reason she’d been so independent.

Not because you were going to die.

But because you were making room for someone new.

Felice.

Happiness.

Everything slid into place with sickening, breathtaking clarity.

“Oh." Theo breathed.

Bianca reached up, cupping his cheek with her small, warm hand.

“Non piangere, papà,” She whispered. (Don’t cry, Papa.)

He hadn’t even realized he was crying until that moment.

Salazar—this was mortifying. Breaking down like this. In front of professors. In front of you. In front of a three-year-old.

And yet—he couldn’t stop.

Tears spilled freely now, hot and unrestrained.

Because now he knew.

He would be happy. He would love you. And you would love him back.

You would build a life together. Two children. Maybe more. A family so warm and whole that Bianca would speak of it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His children would never have to imagine a future without their mother.

He would never have to watch them grow up with that hollow ache he’d carried his entire life.

He would never have to watch you get sick, watch you leave this world, leaving him alone to raise your daughter, the last remaining memory of you.

Theo pulled Bianca into his chest, holding her like he could imprint the feeling into his bones—her weight, her warmth, the steady beat of her heart.

“Ti amo.” He choked, “Ti amo tantissimo.” (I love you so, so much.)

Her arms wrapped around his neck—fierce and small.

You stared at the pair of them, heart aching, mind reeling. You felt for Theo—deeply—but shock quickly overtook sympathy.

Because between the two of them, you had absolutely not expected him to be the one crying.

“…Wait,” You said slowly. “What’s going on?”

Bianca turned her head as best she could while still buried against Theo’s chest.

“Papa says he loves me, mamma,” She announced cheerfully, “You’re too slow these days.”

Both of you froze.

“…You speak English?” You and Theo said in unison.

bonus:

The room was finally quiet.

Bianca was gone—sent back to a future that suddenly felt more real than the present—and Theo’s bedroom felt too large without her small presence filling it. The curtains were half-drawn, moonlight spilling across the sheets in pale silver bands. You lay on your side facing Theo, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arm resting loosely around your waist.

Theo was on the cusp of sleep, just as he had been for the past hour, but your incessant thinking refused to let him go.

“But if Bianca hadn’t come back,” You murmured, staring up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, “we would’ve just… gone on with our lives.”

He hummed softly, half-asleep but listening, his thumb tracing absentminded shapes into your side.

“And we wouldn’t have fallen in love,” You continued, the words tumbling out faster now, like if you didn’t say them you’d drown in them, “And if we didn’t fall in love, she wouldn’t exist. Which means she wouldn’t be able to come back and make us fall in love in the first place.”

You turned your face into his chest, your voice muffled, “So at the center of the loop—at the very beginning—there had to be a version of us that fell in love and had Bianca without any intervention at all.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not empty.

Then Theo sighed, fond and exhausted and deeply amused in that way that meant he loved you too much to be irritated.

“(Y/N), my love… amore mio,” He said gently. He had taken to repeating everything in Italian after English so it would help you learn faster. You felt his chest rise as he spoke again, slower and deliberate. “My future bride… la mia futura sposa. It is four in the morning.”

You groaned softly. “I know,” You sighed, “I just… I miss her.”

His arm tightened around you, grounding and warm, “Me too.”

For a moment, that was all there was—breathing, moonlight, and the quiet certainty that somewhere, somehow, the two of you were happy and whole.

Then Theo shifted.

You felt it before you saw it: the subtle slide of his hand, warm fingers sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt like he thought you wouldn’t notice.

“Say the word, dolcezza,” He murmured, his voice dipping into something unmistakably dangerous, “and I’ll bring her back to us.”

You slapped his hand away without even looking.

“It is four in the morning.” You said flatly.

He chuckled, low and unapologetic, eyes still closed like this was all part of his master plan, “Italiano, per favore.”

You hesitated, “Um… sono...sono le… una, due, tre, quattro… quattro del mattino?” (Um...it's....one, two three, four....four in the morning?)

“Perfetta,” He said smugly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Your accent is getting better.”

bonus bonus teehee:

The front door closed with a quiet, final click behind you.

For a moment, you just stood there.

The house felt different somehow—too still, like it had been holding its breath. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The sofa. The stairs. The framed photos waiting to be filled with memories that hadn’t happened yet.

Home.

You looked down at the bundle in your arms, your baby boy wrapped in impossibly soft blankets, his face pink and sleepy and perfect. Tears blurred your vision before you even realized they were coming.

Theo stepped in behind you, arms full—hospital bags slung over his shoulders, a car seat awkwardly balanced against his hip. He froze when he saw your face.

“Hey.” He murmured gently.

You turned, blinking hard, then leaned into him anyway, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—slow, grounding, full of everything you didn’t have words for. Then you kissed Felice’s tiny forehead, breathing him in like you’d been afraid he might disappear.

“Bentornato a casa, piccolo,” You whispered, voice shaking, “This is where you’re going to grow up.” (Welcome home, baby boy)

Theo swallowed, eyes shining. He reached out, brushing one finger over Felice’s cheek like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.

And then—

“MAMMA!”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs.

Bianca came flying into the hallway, curls bouncing wildly, socks half-slipping off her feet. Mattheo, her godfather, was right behind her, laughing and reaching out uselessly like he could actually stop her.

“Bianca—piano, piano!” He called, “Slow down—!”

Theo reacted instantly.

He dropped the bags without a second thought and scooped Bianca up mid-run, lifting her clean off the ground just before she could crash straight into you. She shrieked with laughter as he spun her once, relief spilling out of him in a dozen breathless kisses pressed to her cheeks, her temple, her nose.

You watched them with a soft, aching smile.

Your heart lurched at the sight of your baby girl in his arms—hair wild, eyes bright, whole and glowing with excitement. You had missed her more than you’d allowed yourself to admit during the last few days. Every quiet moment in the hospital had carried the echo of her laughter, the absence of her small weight climbing into your lap.

You had been waiting eagerly to acquaint your children.

Theo had insisted it was better this way. Better for your recovery, better that you didn’t have to juggle between children so soon. He’d been gentle but unmovable about it, the same way he’d been your entire pregnancy—this one and Bianca’s.

At the first sign of discomfort, he’d been apparating you straight to the hospital wing or summoning your healer for a home visit without hesitation. You’d teased him once that your obstetrician must be thoroughly sick of him by now.

But judging by the way Theo paid—promptly, generously, without ever blinking—and by the fine silk scarf and expensive purse he’d gifted the healer who brought both of his children into the world, you suspected annoyance was the last thing they felt.

If anything, they were probably fond of him.

“Hey—hey—hey,” He murmured into her hair, “Careful, amore mio. Papà’s got you.”

Theo finally stopped spinning, still holding Bianca securely against his chest. He pressed one last kiss into her curls and rested his forehead briefly against hers, eyes closed like he was grounding himself.

And you realized, with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness—

And despite the 36 hours of grueling labor, you realized that, for this man, you would do it all again in a heartbeat.

Theo shifted Bianca onto one hip, still holding her tight as if she might vanish if he let go. Her laughter softened into a happy hum as she curled into him, arms looped around his neck.

Then her eyes finally landed on you.

On the bundle in your arms.

“Mamma?” She whispered, voice suddenly small.

You felt your throat close instantly.

“Vieni qui, amore,” You murmured, smiling through the sting behind your eyes, “Piano, va bene?” (Come here, love. Easy, okay?)

Theo crouched, keeping Bianca safely lifted as he guided her closer, one protective hand braced at her back. Mattheo lingered a few steps behind, unusually quiet, waiting for the family to have their moment.

Bianca leaned forward, peering into the soft folds of the blanket.

The baby stirred, tiny fingers flexing, lips puckering in a half-sleepy frown.

Her gasp was barely a sound.

“È… piccolo,” She breathed, "He's smaller than me."

Theo huffed out a soft laugh, eyes glassy.

You tilted Felice just enough so she could see his face properly. His eyes fluttered open for a brief second—dark, unfocused, brand new.

Bianca’s hand twitched like she wanted to reach out, then froze mid-air.

“Posso?” She asked, glancing up at you for permission. (Can I?)

“Yes,” You whispered, “Gently.”

Felice shifted again, a soft sound leaving him, and Bianca’s eyes went impossibly wide.

"He spoke to me." She gasped.

Theo pressed his lips together hard, eyes shining as he bent to kiss the side of Bianca’s head, then yours. His free hand came up to cradle you, thumb stroking slow, careful circles like he was afraid the moment might shatter.

“This,” he said quietly, voice thick, “is Felice, your little brother.”

Bianca straightened immediately.

“Felice,” She repeated, testing the name. Then she smiled, bright and sure, “Ciao, Felice. Io sono Bianca.”

The baby slept on, oblivious.

Mattheo cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes like something had gotten in them, "Merlin, enough to make a grown man cry."

And standing there in the doorway of your home, with laughter in the air and your children between you, you knew—

This was it.

This was the life Bianca had promised.

Happy.

bonus bonus BONUS scene for my patient babies:

The one thing about living in Italy was that you missed the company.

Not the weather, not the food—certainly not the wine—but them. The loud, sharp-edged comfort of people who knew you before the life you’d built now. The friends who felt less like friends and more like family, forged in dungeons and late nights and shared survival.

The friends you’d left behind at Hogwarts.

You thanked every higher power you could think of that Mattheo had moved here a few years after Bianca was born. It softened the ache. Made the distance feel survivable.

And now—now that it was Bianca’s sixth birthday, the first child in the entire group to hit that milestone—the rest of them had descended to Italy like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Thank goodness Slytherins were rich.

Draco and Blaise were already deep in conversation near the terrace doors, voices low and animated, catching up like no time had passed at all. Lorenzo and Mattheo, meanwhile, had somehow been tricked—lured, really—into assembling Bianca’s princess castle in the middle of the sitting room.

That would teach them to bring gifts that required instructions.

Bianca hovered nearby like a general overseeing her troops, crown slightly askew, offering entirely unhelpful instructions. Felice, on the other hand, had claimed the discarded wrapping paper as his own, even though his uncles had been kind enough to bring presents for him as well.

Instead, he toddled around the sitting room, triumphantly dragging the empty box the princess castle had come in behind him, until Theo scooped him up at the last second—saving him from the scattered screws as Mattheo struggled to put the thing together.

Theo hovered near you like a shadow, as he always did these days. One hand rested habitually—possessively—against the small of your back, grounding, warm. The other balanced Felice on his hip, your son’s face still slightly sticky with cake frosting as he played absently with the little tie you’d put him in today.

Then the front doors flew open.

“MISS ME, YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS?”

Pansy Parkinson’s voice sliced clean through the manor.

Theo barely had time to turn before she was already there—flinging her coat into Draco’s arms without looking, heels clicking furiously across the marble floor. Her eyes found you instantly.

Her face lit up.

“Oh my God—” She started, already smiling—

Then she stopped.

Her gaze dropped.

Paused.

Lifted.

Dropped again.

You barely had time to blink before—

SMACK.

Theo yelped, jerking back, hand flying to his arm, “What the hell—?!”

Pansy rounded on him like a woman possessed, “Can you PLEASE stop climbing on top of this poor woman?”

You laughed helplessly, one hand instinctively moving to your stomach.

Theo stared at her, scandalized, “Excuse you—”

“Salazar’s balls,” Pansy cut in, eyes wild, “How many children are you planning on having? Fancy your own Quidditch team, do you?!”

“How many children we decide to have is none of you—”

“And she is not an oven to keep popping out your buns,” Pansy said sweetly, patting his shoulder like she was doing him a favor, “Control yourself.”

Theo spluttered, “It’s not like I could carry them myself, now could I?!”

“You’re a wizard,” She snapped back, “I think you could figure it out!”

You tried—tried—to regain control, “Pansy—”

She turned on a dime, expression melting instantly as she crossed the space between you and pulled you into a careful hug.

“Oh, come here,” She murmured, “Look at you. Absolutely glowing.”

You laughed against her shoulder.

“I get it,” She added thoughtfully, pulling back to look at you again, “If I were Theo, I’d be filling you up with kids too.”

Theo opened his mouth.

SMACK.

“Do not.” Pansy warned.

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Theodore Nott had read enough books to know that the day his entire life changed was supposed to feel different.

The air would be heavier. The world sharper. Something—anything—would be off. A subtle wrongness, a warning. Foreshadowing of the wrench about to be thrown into his carefully ordered life.

He had felt it once before, when his mother died and left a hollow space behind that never quite filled.

But that was the thing.

Nothing felt wrong about today.

Had everything gone as it usually did, it would have been completely mundane—monotonous, even. Theodore woke up, ate breakfast, slipped outside for a smoke. Double Potions. Another smoke. Transfiguration. Lunch. Arithmancy.

And now he was stuck in Charms.

Professor Flitwick had been lecturing about advanced spell interactions—something about like and unlike spells, wand movements and intent—when the first spell fizzled.

Then another.

Then three more went wildly off course, sparks ricocheting off desks and dissolving into the air like fireflies gone wrong.

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Focus,” Flitwick snapped, wand raised, “Clearly someone here has—”

The room cracked.

Not shattered. Not exploded.

Cracked—like reality itself had split open for half a second.

There was a blinding flash of gold light, a rush of displaced air, and then—

Silence.

Sitting in the middle of the classroom floor was a little girl.

She couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. Dark curls fell into her face, dressed in pajamas, and her small hands were clenched into fists as she looked around, eyes wide and terrified.

For exactly two seconds, she was quiet.

Then her lip trembled.

“—Papà?”

Her voice broke.

And then she started crying.

Not soft sniffles. Full-on, panicked sobs—the kind that came from being suddenly, completely lost.

“Voglio il mio papà!” She cried, scrambling to her feet, “Voglio andare a casa!” (I want my daddy! I want to go home!)

The classroom froze.

“…Did she just Apparate?” Someone whispered.

Another voice, baffled, “She’s a child.”

A Ravenclaw girl cautiously stepped forward, “Hey, it’s okay—”

The girl recoiled instantly, backing away as if burned, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“No! No, no, no!” She sobbed, shaking her head violently, “Non ti conosco! Voglio il mio papà! Voglio papà!” (I don't know you! I want my daddy! I want daddy!)

She spun in a slow, desperate circle, looking at all of them with pure, unfiltered fear.

“Papà! Dove sei?!” (Dad! Where are you?!)

Theo stared at her from his seat.

He wasn’t heartless—of course he wasn’t. There was something about the way she wailed, the sheer terror in her voice, that made his chest tighten painfully. And yet, he stayed where he was.

“Is she—speaking Italian?” Someone murmured.

A ripple of voices followed.

“Yeah.” “Definitely Italian.” “I don’t speak Italian.” “Does anyone speak Italian?”

Someone turned.

Then another.

Then, inevitably, every gaze slid to Theo.

Blaise nudged his arm, “Oi, Nott. You speak Italian, don’t you?”

He didn’t bother answering. Everyone already knew—thanks to the absolute slew of Italian curses he’d hurled at Weasley during the last Quidditch match.

“Great,” Blaise said immediately, “Do something.”

Theo’s eyes flicked back to the girl.

She had dropped to her knees now, small hands pressed to her face as she cried, her breathing beginning to hitch dangerously. A Hufflepuff girl hovered nearby, concern written all over her face, but every step closer only made the child cry harder.

“Voglio il mio papà… per favore…” She sobbed between gasps. (I want my daddy… please…)

Something twisted uncomfortably in Theo’s chest.

“I’m not exactly a baby person.” He muttered.

“Nott,” the Ravenclaw girl hissed, “She’s a toddler. She’s about to have a panic attack, and she can’t understand a word we’re saying.”

The girl let out a sharp, breathless sob, her chest stuttering as she tried—and failed—to calm herself.

“Papà…” She whimpered.

Theo closed his eyes for a brief second and exhaled.

“Cazzo.” (fuck)

He pushed his chair back and stood.

The entire classroom fell silent as he took a step toward her.

Theo approached slowly, hands raised in a placating gesture despite himself.

“Ehi,” He said gently, crouching a few feet away from her. His voice was low, careful, “Va tutto bene. Respira, sì? Piano, piano.” (It’s okay. Breathe, yeah? Slowly, slowly.)

The girl barely registered him.

She was still crying hard, hiccupping sobs shaking her tiny frame as she shook her head over and over, “No, no, no… voglio papà… voglio papà adesso…” (No, no, no… I want daddy… I want daddy now)

“Io so,” Theo murmured, trying to keep his tone steady, “Ma sei al sicuro. Nessuno ti farà male. Guarda me, piccola.” (I know, but you're safe. No one's going to hurt you. Look at me, little one.)

He reached out slightly—then stopped, unsure.

“Come ti chiami?” He asked softly. (What's your name?)

She sniffed, wiping her nose with her sleeve, eyes squeezed shut as if refusing to look at the world around her. “Voglio papà,” She repeated stubbornly, voice breaking again, “Ho paura…” (I want dad, I'm scared)

Theo swallowed.

“Papà non è lontano,” He said, choosing his words carefully, “Va bene? Respira con me.” (Dad’s not far away, Okay? Breathe with me.)

That was when she opened her eyes.

Really looked at him.

Her crying hitched mid-sob.

For half a second, her face went utterly still—eyes widening, breath catching like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Then—

“Papà!”

She surged forward.

Theo barely had time to react before a small body collided with his chest, tiny arms wrapping around his neck with desperate force. She buried her face into his robes, clutching him like he might disappear if she let go.

“Papà, papà, papà,” She cried, the word tumbling out between sobs, “Ti ho trovato… non andare via… per favore…” (I found you… don't go away… please…)

Theo froze.

Completely. Utterly.

His arms hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do as the child clung to him, shaking with leftover fear. Her tears soaked straight through his uniform as she pressed closer, like she was trying to crawl into him.

The room was dead silent.

Theo’s eyes flicked up.

Every single person was staring.

Flitwick looked like he might faint. The Ravenclaw girl’s mouth hung open. Blaise had gone eerily still, eyebrows raised so high they were nearly in his hairline.

Theo slowly mouthed, Get this child off me.

No one moved.

The girl sniffed loudly and tightened her grip, small hands fisting in the fabric of his robes. “Papà.” She whimpered again, quieter now, exhausted.

Theo looked down at her—at the way she fit far too easily against him, at how natural it felt for her to be there—and felt his brain short-circuit.

“I—” He cleared his throat, voice coming out rough, “Io… eh…”

She tilted her head just enough for him to feel the movement, her grip loosening slightly as the tension finally drained from her small body. Her breathing stuttered once more, then evened out, warm against his chest.

Theo looked down just in time to see her eyelids flutter.

Once.

Twice.

And then she was gone.

Fast asleep.

Her forehead rested against his collarbone, tiny fingers still curled tightly in his robes like she was afraid to let go even in sleep. A quiet, shaky sigh left her, the last echo of fear finally spent.

Theo swallowed hard.

The hospital wing smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon polish. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, but it did nothing to calm the chaos of the little girl in Theo Nott’s arms. Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, and Snape hovered nearby, wands and parchment at the ready, while a few house-elves scurried nervously at the edges of the room.

Theo wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here—one hand on her back, the other awkwardly supporting her legs—and frankly, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to set her down in a cot and get the hell out of there.

“She appears… well, as far as magical diagnostics go." Pomfrey said uncertainly, trailing off.

Flitwick rubbed at the crease between his brows and sighed, “I’m not even sure what spells were cast. Perhaps someone transfigured an object into a child… though it seems highly unlikely. I did a head count, but maybe a student from another class managed to get de-aged? It will take me some time to get to the bottom of this.”

“During which,” McGonagall added crisply, “We need to figure out where exactly she is going to reside.”

All eyes turned to Theo, still awkwardly seated on the bed. The green tie in her grubby hands was clutched tightly, her shirt streaked with snot from her tears. He stared at the ceiling, silently praying to whatever deity listened that this problem would disappear.

“All right,” Flitwick muttered, “We need… more concrete information. Perhaps a simple veritas test to confirm basic biological markers…”

He waved his wand carefully over a tiny strand of her hair, muttering under his breath. The result came up empty. Flitwick let out a frustrated sigh, before his gaze fell on the way her small body curled naturally against Theo. Her fear of strangers was… painfully clear.

He waved his wand again, more deliberately this time.

“It would seem, Mr. Nott,” He began cautiously, “that you are biologically related to her.”

Theo blinked in shock, his grip faltering. The little girl nearly toppled in his arms.

“Excuse me?” He managed, voice tight, heart racing, utterly refusing to acknowledge what Flitwick had just said.

Flitwick adjusted his glasses nervously, “I—I understand this is… unusual. But the magical markers are clear. There is no doubt: you are biologically related to her.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed, “No. I… that… that’s impossible.”

McGonagall stepped forward, arms crossed, her voice calm but firm, “Mr. Nott, we must consider all possibilities. Clearly, she has appeared here through some magical anomaly."

Snape, leaning against the wall with an unimpressed frown, muttered, “Magical anomaly is one way to put it. Unprecedented, more like.”

Flitwick cleared his throat, “We may need to consider the… temporal aspect. Combined with the accelerated spellwork and residual transfiguration energy from earlier… it is conceivable that she has been displaced here from another point in time.”

Theo blinked, “…You’re saying… she’s from the future?”

“Yes,” McGonagall said carefully, though her eyes softened as she looked at the child curled against him, “And until we can stabilize whatever magical interference brought her here, we will need to come up with a plan to care for her."

Theo exhaled slowly, a sound somewhere between frustration and disbelief, "Alright then, take her."

Flitwick hesitated, frowning. The professors exchanged glances.

Theo’s heart thumped in a way that was decidedly unhelpful. The child pressed closer, nuzzling her face into his chest, hiccupping softly.

"Perhaps, it would be best for the child to stay with her fa—"

“I’m not her father,” He said firmly, “…And she is not my responsibility.”

“If you truly refuse,” McGonagall said quietly, “then the staff will care for her until we can determine a safe way to return her to her own time.”

McGonagall nodded once and gestured toward Madam Pomfrey, “Very well.”

Pomfrey stepped forward gently, arms outstretched, “Come now, dear. Let’s get you settled—”

The moment she felt herself being pulled away from the warm chest she’d been clinging to, the effect was immediate.

The little girl stiffened in Theo’s arms, eyes flying open as she registered that the hands lifting her did not belong to him. Her face crumpled, breath hitching once before she broke into loud, panicked sobs.

“No—no, no!” She cried, voice high and shaking, “Papà! Papà, portami!” (Dad! Dad, carry me!)

She twisted against him, burying her face into his chest as if trying to disappear. Tiny arms wrapped around his neck with desperate strength, her small body trembling violently.

Theo froze.

Pomfrey halted mid-step. Flitwick winced. Even Snape straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Papà, per favore,” She sobbed, words tumbling over one another, “Ho paura… non voglio… non voglio…” (Daddy, please. I'm scared… I don't want… I don't want…)

Theo’s jaw tightened. He stared straight ahead, pulse pounding, every instinct screaming at him to hand her over and walk away. But her grip only tightened, her cries growing sharp and breathless.

She was shaking.

“Alright,” Theo snapped suddenly, sharper than he meant to, “Stop—just—don’t—”

Everyone froze.

Theo swallowed and glanced down at her. Her face was blotchy and red, lashes clumped with tears, chest hitching unevenly as she struggled to breathe. She looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes, like she was bracing for him to vanish.

Something twisted painfully in his chest.

“…Va bene,” He muttered, the Italian rough but instinctive, “Va bene. Basta piangere.” (All right. No more crying.)

Her sobs stuttered—not stopping, but slowing.

Awkwardly, he adjusted his hold, one arm settling more securely around her back while the other patted her shoulder once—too stiff, too careful. He cleared his throat.

“Shh.” He said quietly, glancing around like he’d been caught doing something illegal, rocking her back and forth like a rusty robot that hadn’t been oiled in years.

She sniffed hard, still clutching him, but the panic ebbed enough for her breathing to even out. Her head tucked beneath his chin, warm and damp against his collar.

McGonagall studied the child for a long moment, then Theo. Her expression softened—just a fraction.

“It seems,” She said evenly, “that she has made her preference quite clear.”

Flitwick nodded, rubbing his hands together nervously, “Yes… yes, I’m afraid forcing the issue would only distress her further.”

Theo exhaled sharply through his nose, “…Unbelievable.”

The girl whimpered once more, fingers tightening in his shirt as if reminding him she was still there.

Theo stiffened, then sighed.

“…Fine,” He said quietly, “Okay. She can—she can stay. For now. Until you figure this out.”

The walk back to the Slytherin dorms was… an experience.

Theo kept his pace measured, one arm secured firmly around the sleeping weight against his chest. She’d fallen back asleep somewhere between the hospital wing and the dungeon corridor, her curls tickling his jaw every time she shifted, breath warm against his collarbone.

He ignored the stares.

The whispers.

The way a passing Hufflepuff nearly walked into a wall trying to figure out why Theodore Nott was carrying a child through the corridors like this was a perfectly normal occurrence.

The Slytherin common room fell silent the moment he stepped inside.

Lorenzo blinked once. Then twice.

“…Is this some sort of social experiment?”

Mattheo’s grin spread slowly, wicked and delighted, “Papa's home.”

Theo shot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “Say another word,” he warned quietly, “and I’ll hex you.”

Blaise tilted his head, eyes flicking between Theo and the small, curled form in his arms. “Congratulations,” He said lightly, “When were you planning on telling us you’d been leading a double life?”

Theo didn’t dignify that with a response. He adjusted his grip slightly when the girl shifted, instinctively tightening his hold, and turned toward the stairs.

Behind him came a chorus of barely-suppressed laughter and stage-whispered “Night, daddy!” that followed him all the way up.

He noticed the change in his dorm the second he stepped inside.

Not because it was loud.

But because it was wrong.

Sitting neatly on his bed were things that had absolutely not been there that morning.

Tiny clothes, folded with precise magical care. Soft socks. A small blanket charmed with a low, steady warmth. Even a stuffed creature—some sort of dragon, judging by the horns—rested near the pillow, its stitched eyes cheerfully oblivious.

Theo just stood there.

Staring.

This was real. This was happening.

He looked down at the small, sleeping child in his arms, her face slack with sleep, lashes dark against her cheeks. A living, breathing human being. And somehow—somehow—he was now responsible for her.

His stomach twisted.

This hardly seemed responsible.

Did the staff really just let him walk out with an entire child and no follow-up instructions? No pamphlet? No checklist? How was he meant to keep one of these things alive? What if she woke up hungry? Or scared? Or—Merlin forbid—started crying? Again.

Theo swallowed hard, dread creeping in like a cold chill down his spine.

He crossed the room slowly and carefully, as if any wrong step might shatter the fragile reality holding this together, and lowered her onto the bed. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake, curling instinctively toward the lingering warmth of his body.

He hesitated.

Then, with movements stiff and unsure, he pulled the blanket up around her shoulders and tucked it in the way he vaguely remembered adults doing when he was small—firm but gentle, like it mattered.

He stepped back.

She looked… peaceful.

Completely unaware that she had just detonated his entire existence.

Theo dragged a hand down his face and turned toward the door.

He needed a cigarette. Immediately.

Just as his fingers brushed the handle, a small sound stopped him.

“Papà…”

It was barely audible—a sleepy mumble, her brow knitting faintly as one small hand twitched against the sheets.

Theo froze.

“…Papà.” She murmured again, softer this time, like she was reaching for him even in her dreams.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow, resigned breath.

“Merda.” He muttered.

If he left and she woke up—

He glanced at the chair beside the bed.

Then back at her.

“…Unbelievable.” He whispered.

Theo pulled the chair closer and sat down, leaning back with his arms crossed, eyes never leaving her face. He flinched every time she so much as twitched, every uneven breath sending his pulse spiking.

Just for tonight.

That’s what he told himself as exhaustion settled heavy in his bones.

Just until she woke up.

Theo woke to pins and needles.

A sharp, unpleasant numbness shot up his legs, like they’d ceased to exist sometime during the night and were only now remembering their purpose. He sucked in a quiet breath and shifted—immediately regretted it.

There was weight on him.

Warm. Solid.

Theo froze.

Slowly, carefully, he looked down.

She was asleep in his lap.

At some point during the night—at some point he did not remember authorizing—the little girl had migrated from the bed, curled herself into the space between his arms and legs, and settled there like she belonged. Her head rested against his bicep, curls splayed messily over his chest, one small hand clutching the fabric of his shirt.

Theo stared.

His mind helpfully offered no explanation.

He vaguely recalled her stirring sometime in the early hours. A soft whimper. A half-formed Papà breathed into the dark. He must have reached out—must have pulled her close without fully waking, murmuring something useless and soothing under his breath.

Apparently, his subconscious had decided this was his life now.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t, really—his legs were numb to the point of concern, and any shift risked waking her. Her breathing was slow and even, lashes fluttering faintly as she slept, utterly unbothered by the fact that she was using him as a mattress.

Theo let his head fall back against the chair with a silent groan.

“This is a disaster.” He whispered.

She stirred at the sound, nose scrunching slightly, fingers tightening in his sleeve as if anchoring herself. Theo went completely still, heart hammering like he’d been caught committing a crime.

He tensed, eyes snapping down just as she stirred properly, lifting her head and blinking blearily up at him.

For a long second, they just looked at each other.

Then her face brightened.

“Buongiorno,” She said, voice thick with sleep. A pause, “…Papà.” (Good morning.)

After getting her dressed for the day using the clothes the professors had provided, Theo could only thank Salazar that whoever—or whatever—had sent her back in time had at least had the decency to send an older child.

Because Merlin help him, she was competent.

She managed socks on her own. Shoes, too—wrong feet at first, but she fixed it herself with a sharp little huff of frustration. He didn’t even have to supervise. He just stood there, half-awake, watching in stunned silence.

The only time he stepped in was when the shirt became her enemy.

She wrestled with it valiantly, tugging it halfway over her head before getting stuck, arms flailing wildly as she wobbled on the mattress like a headless chicken. For one terrifying second, Theo was certain she was going to pitch forward and crack her skull open on the floor.

Just as he reached her, hands already out, she stamped one socked foot and protested indignantly.

“Papà! Sono una bambina grande—faccio da sola!” (Dad! I'm a big girl, I can do it on my own!)

He waited—hands hovering uselessly in the air—until she finally relented with an irritated sigh and allowed him to tug the shirt the rest of the way down. She immediately smoothed it herself afterward, chin lifted proudly.

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose.

This was going to be a long day.

By the time they stumbled downstairs, the Slytherin dorm was already awake and in motion. Mattheo, Draco, Lorenzo, and Blaise were halfway through getting ready, bags slung over shoulders as they headed out for breakfast.

Theo was still in his pajamas.

He didn’t care.

The professors had given him permission to skip class until further notice—something he had accepted with a detached nod, too tired to even question how serious this apparently was.

He was already mentally charting a course to the kitchens. Quiet. Private. No gawking students. No questions.

He turned toward the common room—

And she bolted.

“—Oi, wait—!”

Too late.

She launched herself down the stairs at an alarming speed, feet barely touching the steps. Theo’s heart stopped dead in his chest.

“Slow down!” He snapped, already moving after her, “You’re going to—”

She did not fall.

Instead, she hit the common room floor at a full sprint and beelined straight for Mattheo, slamming into his pant leg with the force and commitment of a homing missile.

Mattheo yelped, stumbling half a step, “What the—”

“Zio Mattheo!” She chirped joyfully, arms wrapping around his leg like she’d just found a long-lost treasure.

The room went dead silent.

Draco stared.

Lorenzo choked.

Blaise pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking.

Mattheo looked down slowly. Very slowly.

“…Little girl,” He said carefully, “how do you know my name?”

Theo stopped behind her and closed his eyes.

“She can’t speak any English, you idiot.”

Mattheo glanced up at him, affronted, “I see recognition in those beady eyes—”

He looked back down at her just in time to see her grin widen, all teeth and delight.

“Buongiorno!” She announced brightly.

Mattheo snorted despite himself.

Then she lifted her arms toward him, wobbling slightly on her feet, “Portami! Portami, zio Mattheo!”

Mattheo blinked. Once.

Then he looked up at Theo, eyebrow raised.

Theo sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, the tips of his ears burning.

“She’s asking her uncle to carry her.”

Mattheo’s grin turned downright smug as he crouched and scooped her up like she weighed nothing—slung against his arm with all the care of someone carrying a sack of potatoes. She giggled, utterly delighted, legs kicking happily.

Theo moved instantly.

“Oi—if you drop her, I swear to Merlin—!”

Mattheo adjusted his grip lazily, unfazed, “Relax. I’ve got her.”

Blaise smirked, “Wow. Someone’s being all fatherly for a bloke who isn’t a baby person.”

Draco leaned against the stair rail, grinning, “Yeah, daddy. Love this look on you."

“…I hate all of you,” Theo muttered darkly.

The girl twisted in Mattheo’s arms, peering over his shoulder. “Papà!” she called brightly. “Voglio fare colazione con zio Mattheo!” (Daddy! I want to have breakfast with Uncle Mattheo!)

Theo opened his mouth on instinct.

“Non puoi chie—” (You can't ask)

He stopped.

Because she wasn’t crying.

She wasn’t reaching for him.

She wasn’t clinging to his sleeve like the world might end if he stepped two feet away.

She was perfectly content. Happy, even. Nestled comfortably in someone else’s arms.

Theo’s brain stalled.

Then—click.

The realization hit him like divine intervention.

An hour.

A whole, uninterrupted hour without tiny hands grabbing his clothes. Without panicked crying. Without being someone’s emotional anchor.

The synapses in his brain fired one by one like fireworks. Sweet, blessed relief bloomed so fast he was pretty sure he could feel tears—possibly drool—gathering.

He lifted his gaze slowly and locked eyes with Mattheo.

“You,” He said calmly, decisively, “are on babysitting duty.”

“What?” Mattheo barked, “Oi—wait—!”

Theo was already turning away.

“Feed her,” He called over his shoulder, “Don’t drop her."

Out of the common room. Down the corridor. Gone like a wanted man escaping Azkaban.

“HEY!” Mattheo shouted after him, “That’s not how this works!”

The girl waved cheerfully from his arms, “Ciao, papà!”

Mattheo looked down at her.

Then back at the hallway Theo had vanished down.

"Well, I hope you enjoy being an orphan. Take it from me it's better than having a shit dad." He said absently, carrying her toward the door.

Theo didn’t even remember reaching the usual alcove.

He only knew his hands were shaking by the time he lit the cigarette, breath dragging deep and slow as the smoke filled his lungs. The burn grounded him. Anchored him. For five blessed minutes, he was just Theo again—no professors, no timelines, no small human being calling him papà.

He shouldn’t feel guilty for this. Dammit.

It wasn’t like he was some kind of deadbeat. He wasn’t even her actual father. Her actual father existed a decade in the future and had—presumably—actively chosen to have this suctioning little tentacle of a child.

He exhaled, staring at the stone wall.

And yet.

She adored him. Wanted him. Chose him over everyone else without hesitation. Which meant—somewhere in the future—he must be doing something right.

Sometime in the future… I’m a good father.

The thought unsettled him more than the panic ever had.

He had never imagined children in his life. Never thought himself capable of it—not after losing his mother so young. How would future him handle this? How would he guide her, discipline her, protect her from the quiet, unrelenting cruelties of the world?

How would he keep her safe?

Theo exhaled again, watching the smoke curl upward and vanish.

Merlin, he needed that.

When he finally returned to the common room, the laughter hit him first.

She was being levitated up and down—up and down—by Mattheo, shrieking with unrestrained delight. Chocolate smeared her cheeks, and it was painfully obvious Mattheo had absolutely no sense when it came to not jostling a child who had just eaten her body weight in breakfast.

Theo stepped closer.

Her face lit up the moment she saw him.

“Papà!”

Something eased in his chest.

At least future me doesn’t screw this up, he thought faintly.

Mattheo gently lowered her into Theo’s arms.

And immediately—

“—achoo!”

She blinked. Sniffed.

Then again.

“Ach—ah—choo!”

Theo froze.

Her nose scrunched as she rubbed at it clumsily, eyes beginning to water, cheeks flushing, “Papà…?”

Theo’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.

Was she sick? Had he missed something? She’d been fine an hour ago—

Mattheo’s gaze flicked from her red nose to Theo’s ash-stained fingers. He sighed, already reaching for her and lifting her back into his arms.

“…Go shower,” He said calmly, “I’ll skip first class.”

Theo blinked, “I—I didn’t know—”

“I know,” Mattheo cut in easily, “It’s all good. Go.”

Theo swallowed.

“…Right.” He muttered.

He hesitated only a moment before turning toward the stairs. As he passed, she reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Papà?” She asked softly.

Theo stopped.

“I’ll be right back,” he said quietly—then corrected himself, Italian rough but sincere, “Tornerò subito. Promesso.” (I'll be right back. Promise)

Her shoulders relaxed instantly.

Mattheo watched him go, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

When Theo returned—hair damp, robes changed, skin scrubbed raw of smoke and ash—the little girl didn’t sneeze once.

Instead, she wriggled free of Mattheo’s arms and launched herself at him with a delighted squeak, wrapping her arms around his neck like she’d been waiting.

Theo caught her automatically.

She settled against him, warm and content.

And for the first time, the weight that settled in his chest had nothing to do with panic.

It felt a lot like guilt.

And something dangerously close to resolve.

Theo was collapsed across his bed, utterly defeated. The day had been… long. He hadn’t even gone to class, but that was before the small human currently treating him like a jungle gym had decided it was time for her daily inspection.

He didn’t even have the energy to move her. She clambered over him, tugging at his robes and sniffing at his hair, and he let her—somehow, it was easier than trying to resist. Five minutes of relative respite came only when she discovered something else interesting: the top of his dresser, the ceiling, the corner of the bedpost.

Every so often, one of her “uncles” captured her attention—Blaise, Draco, and Enzo—each appearing just long enough to be ignored by the child, much to Theo’s surprise. Somehow she recognized them, somehow she liked them, and somehow they had managed to reconcile the fact that she adored Mattheo more than all of them combined faster than Theo had reconciled her existence at all. He watched them all patiently endure, his mind boggling at how quickly they’d adjusted.

Currently, she had his hair in a death grip, determined to tug out every last strand with her clammy little hands. Theo winced as she yanked again, a protest lodged somewhere deep in his chest. She scrambled backward across his chest—kicking him squarely in the face in the process—then crawled toward the edge of the bed and started opening the drawer of his bedside table.

“Oi. Cosa fai?” He asked, tone half-scolding, half-exasperated. (What are you doing)

“Voglio un elastico per capelli! Mamma sempre ne tiene qui.” She declared, fumbling through the drawer. (I want a hair tie! Mom always keeps some here.)

Theo froze.

Mom? She has a mom?

The thought hit him like a bucket of ice water. All this time, he had assumed—stupidly—that she had appeared out of thin air, some magical anomaly he had to manage. Now the idea that she had a mother… a real, actual human mother… knocked the air out of his lungs. He felt absurdly unprepared.

She pulled something plastic-sounding from the drawer and held it up.

“Papà… cos’è questo?” (Papa... what is this?)

Theo’s heart skipped. He blinked, eyes widening. And then the aneurysm in his brain fully bloomed: a condom wrapper. In his daughter’s hand.

“Oi! Restituiscilo!” He shouted, leaping upright just in time for her to bolt, giggling, around the room. (Give that back!)

“Get that out of her hand!” He yelled again, spinning to intercept her, but it was too late. She dashed past Blaise, who was already doubled over laughing, and then past Draco, who had his hands pressed over his mouth to keep from cackling. Even Lorenzo had tears in his eyes from the absurdity.

“Little girl,” Lorenzo called, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably as he wiped tears from his face, “wait a second—what is her actual name?”

Theo froze mid-chase, mind scrambling.

“You… you don’t know her name?”

The little girl shrieked with laughter from the foot of the bed, completely oblivious to the chaos she had caused, while Theo felt like the universe was quietly reminding him that, yes he was an utter fool.

The little girl zig-zagged across the room, still clutching the condom wrapper like it was some kind of treasure. Theo lunged, arms flailing, but she ducked under his reach and squealed with pure delight.

“Papà! Prendimi!” She shouted, her voice ringing with mischief. (Papa! Catch me)

“Merlin’s beard, why am I even doing this?!” Theo groaned, diving forward again, only to collide gently with Blaise, who had fallen onto the floor laughing.

“Oi! Watch it, Nott!” Blaise gasped between giggles, brushing off his robes, “Maybe if you had been as enthusiastic about birth control as your little girl there, you wouldn't be having this problem."

Theo didn’t even glance at them. His focus was entirely on the girl, who had somehow vaulted onto the armrest of the sofa and was teetering dangerously.

“Oi! Scendi di lì, immediatamente!” He barked. (Hey! Get down from there, right now!)

“Papà!” She chirped again, holding the wrapper above her head like a flag, “Guarda! Guarda!” (Papa! Look! Look!)

Before he could reach her, Mattheo appeared like a hero in the last second, levitating gently above the floor with his wand, and swooped in. “I got her!” He said triumphantly.

He glanced down at the pile of humans scattered around the room—Blaise doubled over, Draco snickering, Enzo leaning helplessly against the wall—and grinned, “You really gave them a run for their money, huh, Bianca?”

Theo froze mid-lunge.

“You… you know her name?” He asked, voice tight with disbelief.

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, utterly flabbergasted, “You didn’t?”

Raising children, Theo decided, was an absurd amount of work.

He handed Bianca over to Madam Pomfrey the second she woke up.

He had tried—really tried—to delay it, holding out hope that the professors would have some sort of solution by now. But it had been three days. Three days of dungeon air, sleep-mussed curls, and the unmistakable stickiness that came with being a toddler. She desperately needed a shower.

And while Theo was getting increasingly comfortable handling her—some might even say paternal—he was still very much not prepared to be the one responsible for that particular task.

Pomfrey had taken one look at the state of Bianca’s curls, the faint smudges on her cheeks, and Theo’s exhausted expression and immediately agreed.

Theo sighed in relief, already imagining a shower of his own. Or maybe collapsing onto a bed and stealing an extra hour of sleep. He didn’t understand why he was so tired—he was sleeping the same amount he always did.

Still. He felt wrecked.

He promised he’d come back.

Repeated it, even.

Swore on—well. Something. He wasn’t sure what, but it sounded convincing enough.

It didn’t help.

She cried anyway.

Clutched his robes with tiny hands, face crumpling as she begged him not to leave, words tumbling out too fast and too panicked for him to catch more than Papà and non andare. Theo pried her fingers loose with a wince, murmuring reassurances the entire time—but he couldn’t will himself to walk away while she was screaming like that.

Especially now that he knew the difference between her cries.

So, one of the girls’ bathrooms had been cleared out for the morning.

Pomfrey, Bianca, and Theo occupied it alone, the echoes far too loud for his liking. He stood just outside the stall while Pomfrey bathed her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, posture stiff—like a chastened criminal awaiting judgment.

The child sang.

Loudly.

Badly.

And every time Theo stopped responding—

“Papà?”

—her voice wobbled, threatening to tip into tears.

“Sono qui,” He called back immediately, instinctive, “Brava.” (I'm here. Good job)

She giggled and continued singing something that sounded vaguely like a nursery rhyme and vaguely like a direct threat to musical theory.

Theo leaned his head back against the tiled wall and exhaled.

My God, was she clingy.

Then again… he supposed he couldn’t fault her for it.

If Flitwick was right—if she truly had come from the future—then she’d been ripped away from her home. Likely somewhere warm and familiar in Italy. Dropped into damp, grey Scotland. Surrounded by strangers. Spoken to in a language she didn’t understand.

Clinging to the only constant she recognized.

Him.

The thought settled heavy in his chest, sharp and unwelcome. Theo swallowed, fingers twitching as the familiar urge for a cigarette crept in—persistent, comforting.

He resisted.

Inside the stall, the singing faltered.

“Papà!” She called, sharper now.

“I’m here,” Theo answered immediately, softer this time, “Sono qui. Non vado da nessuna parte.” (I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.)

The singing resumed—quieter. Sleepier.

Theo closed his eyes.

Unbelievable.

Bianca emerged from the bath wrapped in a towel with a warming charm woven into the fabric, her pajamas peeking out beneath it. Her curls were still damp, springing in every direction, cheeks flushed pink and clean, eyes already heavy with sleep. Madam Pomfrey handed her over with a satisfied nod and a stern warning about drafts, and Theo took her automatically, settling her against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He was now only dimly aware of how absurd this entire situation was.

They stepped out into the corridor together, the stone cool and quiet at this hour—

—and promptly ran straight into you.

You froze.

You’d heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. Whispers carried between classes, exaggerated retellings murmured in the Slytherin common room. Nott has a kid. From the future. Ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. There were more reasonable theories floating around—some magical accident that accidentally teleported a child here from outside Hogwarts walls. Others were more creative, claiming Theo had a secret child hidden away in Italy and the time-travel nonsense was just a cover story.

You firmly belonged to the former camp.

This—whatever this was—had to be some sort of misunderstanding.

You opened your mouth, ready to apologize for bumping into him—

“Mama!”

The word rang out, bright and clear, echoing far too loudly down the stone corridor.

Bianca lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all day. She wriggled out of Theo’s already-loose hold with surprising strength, arms stretching toward you, the towel slipping dangerously as she leaned forward.

“Mama! Mama!” She chirped, utterly delighted, fingers grasping at empty air, “Sei tornata! Mi sei mancato!” (You’re back! I missed you!)

You stared at her.

Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.

Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

You stared at her.

Then at Theo—who looked just as stunned, mouth parted slightly, grip tightening instinctively around her before he even seemed to realize he was doing it.

Then back at the small, very real child reaching for you like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

You forced a smile, gentle and careful, lowering yourself slightly so you weren’t towering over her.

“I’m not your mama, little one.” You said softly.

You spared Theo a glance, silently pleading for him to say something—anything—but he looked like a statue carved from pure shock, arms still locked around Bianca as though letting go might shatter reality itself.

Bianca frowned.

Just a little.

Her brows knit together as she studied you, head tilting to one side in confusion. Then she turned in Theo’s arms, small hand gripping the front of his robes like an anchor.

You spared Theo a glance.

He hadn’t moved.

Not an inch.

He looked like a statue carved in shock, Bianca still tucked securely in his arms, as though letting go might shatter something irreparable.

Bianca’s smile faltered.

Just a little.

Her brows knit together as she studied your face, head tilting in quiet confusion. Then she turned slowly toward Theo, curls brushing his collar.

“Papà?” She asked, uncertain now.

Theo swallowed.

She pressed her cheek against his chest and spoke again, voice small but earnest—

“Papà… ora che la mamma è tornata, possiamo andare a casa? Ho sonno.” (Papa… now that mama is back, can we go home? I'm sleepy)

“There is absolutely no way I’m her mother.”

Your voice echoed far louder than you intended in the hospital wing, ricocheting off white curtains and cold stone with humiliating clarity.

Madam Pomfrey paused mid-sentence.

Flitwick blinked.

McGonagall’s lips thinned—just slightly.

Theo, seated stiffly on the edge of the bed with a sleeping Bianca curled against his chest, did not move. He looked like someone who had accepted his fate three hours ago and was now simply watching the universe pile on for sport.

It was hard to believe he’d been standing in this exact position less than a week ago, being told the very same thing.

Honestly, he wasn’t even sure the news had fully settled yet. He hadn’t had time to properly panic—not just about Bianca having a mother, but about who that mother apparently was. A girl he’d never given a second glance to. Someone who, in some unfathomable future, he had fallen in love with. Married. Chosen to have a family with.

Theo Nott. Married. A father by choice.

The thought felt so foreign he thought he might throw up.

“For one,” You continued, gesturing vaguely at yourself like the evidence should be self-explanatory, “I would remember giving birth. I am quite certain of that.”

Pomfrey cleared her throat delicately.

“And second,” You added, beginning to pace, panic sharpening every word, “there are processes involved in creating children. Processes which I have never done—” You pointed sharply at Theo, “—with him.”

Theo didn’t react. Didn’t even flinch. He just adjusted his grip slightly when Bianca shifted, instinctively tucking her closer as she sighed in her sleep.

Flitwick glanced down at his parchment, “…The magical diagnostics are, I’m afraid, quite clear.”

You stopped short. “So you’re actually telling me,” You said slowly, incredulously, “that this child is from the future? A future where I have a baby with Nott of all people?”

McGonagall folded her hands calmly, “Miss (Y/N)—”

“You’re joking, right?” You cut in, letting out a hollow laugh, “I mean, everyone here can see that there isn’t even a modicum of possibility that the two of us would date—let alone get married, let alone have a child.”

Theo’s jaw tightened.

He wanted to argue—wanted to back you up, to scoff and insist this was ridiculous, that there had to be some enormous mistake, some elaborate cosmic joke with particularly poor timing. A week ago, he would have done exactly that.

But he’d been standing in this same position barely days earlier.

He knew now that arguing would get him nowhere.

Soon enough, Bianca would wake up. She always did. And when she did, she would cry—sharp, panicked, desperate cries that cut straight through stone and reason alike. She would call for you the same way she had called for him, voice cracking, hands reaching for something familiar in a world that made no sense.

And if you were even remotely a decent person, you wouldn’t be able to ignore it.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, uncomfortable and inescapable.

But Bianca only shifted in his arms, letting out a small, congested sniff as she rubbed at her itchy nose against his robes. Theo adjusted his hold without thinking, brushing his thumb gently along her back until her body went slack again, weight settling against him.

Theodore Nott was not a single father.

Absolutely not.

He wasn’t even a father if one wanted to argue technicalities—and frankly, he did. Loudly. Frequently. If he wasn’t considered a father, then you certainly couldn’t be considered a mother. It was only fair. Balanced. Logical.

And yet.

If he was being forced to look after a suction cup turned human child—day in and day out—then he didn’t see why you got to take the easy way out and keep avoiding her. Avoiding them.

It felt less like co-parenting and more like he was chasing you down for childcare payments.

So he handed Bianca off to Mattheo—who was, once again, skipping class and therefore had no grounds to complain—and went looking for you.

He caught you just as Potions let out, students flooding into the corridor in clusters of laughter and complaints. Theo slipped through them with singular purpose and grabbed your elbow just outside the classroom doors.

You startled, turning sharply, “Nott? What do you need?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what this is about,” He hissed, releasing you only to cross his arms over his chest, “Go see your child.”

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, “She’s not my kid.”

“She’s as much yours as she is mine,” Theo shot back, frustration flaring hot in his chest, “and it’s not fair that I’m the one looking after her all day.”

“We can’t even speak the same language.”

“She’s three,” He snapped, “All you need to do is watch her while she plays with toys or draws or—Merlin—something.”

“She doesn’t even want to come with me.”

The words hit harder than he expected.

“Maybe she would,” Theo said, quieter but still sharp, “if you spent more time with her.”

The conversation had officially crossed into absurd territory. Theo felt like every dramatic woman in those ridiculous telenovelas his mother used to watch—hands flying, emotions everywhere, dignity nowhere to be found.

You scoffed, “Oh, come off it, Nott. Don’t you find it strange that she can only speak Italian? Nothing else? Not even my first language?”

Theo frowned, but you weren’t finished.

“She never comes to me first,” You continued, voice tightening, “Never asks me for help when she’s eating. Never reaches for me when she wants something. You’re always her first choice. Have you noticed that?”

His mouth opened—closed again.

“And,” You went on, softer now, more brittle, “you know she never lets me carry her? Not even once. And believe me, I’ve tried. She squirms out of my arms every time.”

The anger he’d carried with him faltered.

He could see it then—the hurt etched into your expression, raw and unguarded. Theo shifted, frowning, “She’s just… not used to—”

“I don’t think that’s it.” You interrupted quietly.

You hesitated. Took a breath.

“What if,” You said, voice barely above a whisper now, “what if in the future… I’m not there?”

Theo’s chest went cold.

“No,” Theo said quickly, the word cutting through the silence like he could sever the thought itself, “No. That’s—there are other explanations.”

You looked at him, eyes searching his face.

“Like what?” You asked.

He exhaled sharply, already reaching, “Maybe we just—split up. In the future. People do that. All the time.”

Your mouth twisted, humorless, “Right. So either I’m dead, or I’m a deadbeat.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“That’s exactly what you said,” You shot back, “Because if I’m alive and well and present, Theo, then why doesn’t she know my language? Why doesn’t she come to me? Why doesn’t she trust me?”

His jaw clenched, “You don’t know that she doesn’t—”