"Sonder"

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.

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

@kaisupremecy

@ilovefictionallmenn

@aviwritessometimes

@devilslittlehelper

@notfckincreative

@workof-a-rr-t

@insideoutjulie

@tikitsune

@booklover2503

@whoreforfictionalmen18

@hzdhrtss

@noonasoul

@echolovesspidey

@potatoheartsyou

@chevelledahuman

@33shadowhunters

@goodvibesonlyxd

@maradcrs

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

@goldfishinpainttubes

@psh-pjh

@honethatty12

@imkindofanaudiogeeksorry

@lilians17

@its-jennarose

@h1mawarii

@lookalivesunshiiiine109

@ivygreenonbricks

@navs-bhat

@swiftlythejackson

@itznotsophia

@allielovesstars

@century13

@moremaple

@kissedbychaosxx

@thalibaby

@goldencherriess

@inkedinevermore

@imaginebeingmentallystable

@viridianblurr

@tiredslepz

@littlerabbitwithwings

@notts-moon

@linnygirl09

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.”

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

@kaisupremecy

@ilovefictionallmenn

@aviwritessometimes

@devilslittlehelper

@notfckincreative

@workof-a-rr-t

@insideoutjulie

@tikitsune

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

@goldfishinpainttubes

@psh-pjh

@honethatty12

@imkindofanaudiogeeksorry

@lilians17

@its-jennarose

@h1mawarii

@lookalivesunshiiiine109

@ivygreenonbricks

@navs-bhat

Theodore Nott Taglist:

@blonde-bansheee

Slytherin Boys Taglist:

@laufeysvalentine

@theodoresvalentine

@nottinmyheart

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.

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

@kaisupremecy

@ilovefictionallmenn

@aviwritessometimes

@devilslittlehelper

@notfckincreative

@workof-a-rr-t

@insideoutjulie

@tikitsune

@booklover2503

@whoreforfictionalmen18

@hzdhrtss

@noonasoul

@echolovesspidey

@potatoheartsyou

@chevelledahuman

@33shadowhunters

@goodvibesonlyxd

@maradcrs

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

@goldfishinpainttubes

@psh-pjh

@honethatty12

@imkindofanaudiogeeksorry

@lilians17

@its-jennarose

@h1mawarii

@lookalivesunshiiiine109

@ivygreenonbricks

@navs-bhat

@swiftlythejackson

@itznotsophia

@allielovesstars

@century13

@moremaple

@kissedbychaosxx

@thalibaby

@goldencherriess

@inkedinevermore

@imaginebeingmentallystable

@viridianblurr

@tiredslepz

@littlerabbitwithwings

@notts-moon

@linnygirl09

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—”

“She doesn’t,” You said quietly, firmly, “And you know it.”

He felt like he couldn't breathe. His hand twitched at his side.

Theo shook his head, hands curling into fists at his sides, “You’re making assumptions."

"I don't want to confuse her," You snapped, "What if I spend time with her now and she goes back to a future where she's confused that future me doesn't? Don't you think it's better for her to not be left with any painful memories?"

"Fuck this." He said harshly.

You stared at him, stunned, “Theodo—”

He turned away before you could finish.

He needed a fucking cigarette.

Theo didn’t look at you when you spoke.

“I thought I might find you here.” You sighed, stepping into the Astronomy Tower. The night air was sharp, the stars cruelly clear.

He only glanced at you once before turning back to the edge, exhaling smoke into the dark. The orange tip of his cigarette flared, then dimmed.

He hadn’t gone back before bedtime like he’d promised Bianca.

The thought twisted in his chest—but he shoved it down. Mattheo would handle it. He told himself Mattheo would’ve worn her out enough that she’d gone down on her own. That she’d fallen asleep surrounded by noise and laughter and familiar faces. That she wouldn’t notice.

But he couldn’t go back now. Not like this. Not smelling like smoke and guilt and the kind of fear that hollowed you out from the inside.

You shifted, eyes flicking to the small graveyard of cigarette stubs at his feet, and visibly bit back a comment.

“You can’t seriously be that upset at the thought of me dying, are you, Nott?” You said lightly, like it was a joke you didn’t quite believe in, “After all, we aren’t anything to each other.”

Theo’s fingers stilled.

Truthfully, he wasn’t.

Not in the way you meant.

It wasn’t you he was grieving.

It was the future he thought he was building.

He had thought—Merlin help him—that he was doing something right.

Thought that maybe—maybe—this was him breaking the cycle. Overcoming his own childhood, his own grief, his own scars. The way she clung to him, trusted him, sought him out—he’d taken that as proof. Proof that he was doing something right. That he was raising her in a house full of warmth. Of love.

A home that wasn’t cold. A father who didn’t disappear into silence. A childhood that didn’t feel like walking on broken glass.

He had thought he was undoing the damage his own father had carved into him.

Breaking the curse.

And now it felt like he was watching history fold back in on itself.

Bianca would lose her mother. Just like he had.

She’d be left in a cold home, one that hollowed out instead of held you together. She’d grow into something sharp and distant and unfeeling—just like him. Just like his father.

Would he turn into him?

Would he still be able to love Bianca if every time he looked at her, all he saw was you? Would he sit across from her in silence at meals, watching her struggle to eat in the tension, only to hear her throwing up later—alone on the bathroom floor, crying for a mother who wasn’t there?

Would he say the same vile things? Lock her in the same closet?

Would his hands—

Theo’s breath hitched.

He’d never imagined hitting a child. Never.

But perhaps his father hadn’t imagined it either. Not at first.

Perhaps he was driven to it.

He took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it away, crushing the ember beneath his heel before reaching for another with trembling fingers.

He never got the chance to light it.

Your hand closed around his wrist.

Firm. Steady.

He stilled.

Slowly, his focus shifted—really shifted—to you.

For the first time since Bianca had seen you, since the world had tilted on its axis, he truly looked at your face.

And there it was.

Your eyes.

Or rather—

Bianca’s.

His throat closed, eyes flickering over your face as he began to compare the two of you when your nose began to twitch, the smell of the smoke finally getting to you.

"Achoo!"

Theo couldn't help but let out a dry breath of laughter.

“You should spend time with her,” He said finally, voice rough—scraped raw by smoke and something dangerously close to tears, “I wanted nothing more than to remember my mother when she died.”

The words hung between you, fragile and devastating.

Theo swallowed.

“She deserves that,” He added quietly, “And so do you.”

Morning came quietly in the Slytherin dorms. The others had already left the dorm to get breakfast and begin classes.

Theo had been awake long before it—again. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the small lump buried beneath his blankets. Bianca had twisted herself sideways sometime in the night, curls exploding in every direction, one chubby foot sticking out from under the covers like a silent rebellion.

“Bianca,” He murmured gently, nudging the lump, “È mattina.” (It's morning.)

She made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a whine and promptly rolled onto her stomach, hugging the pillow tighter.

“No,” She mumbled sleepily, “Ho sonno…” (I'm sleepy)

Theo blinked, staring at the blanket-wrapped lump that was technically his responsibility. For a fleeting moment, he considered letting her sleep—just fifteen more minutes, surely that wouldn’t hurt.

But experience had already taught him better.

If she slept in, she’d be feral by noon. No nap. No quiet. No sleep later. Which meant another night of pacing the dorm with a squirming toddler while his own body begged for rest.

He sighed. The deep, tired, fatherly kind—the one he was rapidly perfecting.

Just as he leaned forward to try again, there was a knock at the door.

Theo froze.

His mind leapt immediately to the all possibilities.

Professor McGonagall, stern and efficient, here to inform him they’d finally found a way to send Bianca back to her own time.

Or worse—here to say they couldn’t.

Another knock followed. Softer. Hesitant.

Theo stood slowly, smoothing a hand through his already-mussed hair, heart doing something distinctly unhelpful in his chest. When he opened the door, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting.

But it was you.

You stood there awkwardly, hands clasped in front of you like you might bolt at any second. You weren’t in your uniform—dressed casually instead—and floating just behind you was a small enchanted tray, stacked with breakfast.

Theo’s brows lifted despite himself.

“Oh,” He said. Guarded. Careful. “…Morning.”

You hesitated, then offered a small, tentative smile.

“I brought breakfast.”

Behind him, there was sudden movement.

Bianca’s head popped up from the blankets, curls crushed on one side of her face, eyes still hazy with sleep.

She stared at you for half a second before her entire expression lit up.

“Mama!”

Theo barely had time to react before she scrambled upright, tangling herself in the covers.

“Buongiorno?” You said, tilting your head as you stepped inside, “I—uh. I’m hoping I'm pronouncing that right.”

Theo stepped aside as you entered, watching carefully as Bianca scooted closer, clutching her blanket around her shoulders like a cape. You set the tray down on the bedside table and sat beside her without hesitation.

Breakfast became a quiet, shared thing.

Bianca sat between the two of you on the bed, half-awake but cooperative, munching on cut fruit and toast while you worked patiently through the knots in her hair. She winced once, then relaxed when your touch stayed gentle.

“I used to have curls like this too.” You said softly, lifting a section of her hair.

Theo glanced over, wondering why you were saying this. Perhaps you were just getting sick of being out of the loop while Theo constantly reminded Bianca not to chew with her mouth open, “Really?”

You hummed, “Yeah. Until I spent one entire summer swimming. Completely ruined them.”

"Oh." He muttered.

“And then,” You continued, amused, “I discovered Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and never really went back.”

You began sectioning her hair, fingers moving more confidently now, twisting it into neat little ponies.

Theo slid the tray closer to you, “You sure you don’t want some?”

You shook your head lightly, “I already ate.”

Bianca paused mid-bite, brows knitting together. She looked up at you, then spoke quietly.

“Mamma… stai male di nuovo?” (Are you sick again?)

Theo stiffened slightly, “…Cosa intendi?” (What do you mean?)

Bianca shrugged, matter-of-fact in the way only children could be, “A volte la mamma sta male e non riesce a mangiare.” (Sometimes mommy gets sick and can’t eat.)

Theo looked at you slowly, something uneasy settling in his chest.

You tilted your head, confused, "Am I missing something?"

The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet.

Theo had never realized just how quiet it could get when everyone was actually in class. On the rare occasions he skipped, he was usually surrounded by his noisy gaggle of friends—laughter, insults, the scrape of chairs. Now, with most of the students gone, the space felt cavernous, almost reverent.

Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, casting lazy rectangles of gold across the stone floor. The lake beyond the glass shimmered faintly, shadows drifting slowly along the walls.

Theo sat at one of the long tables, a textbook open in front of him. Beside him, Bianca occupied her own chair, perched atop a cushion to give her some height. Even then, she barely reached the tabletop—her upper body completely propped up on her elbows as she strained forward, tongue poking out in concentration.

A piece of parchment lay in front of her, covered in colorful scribbles, and a box of crayons sat nearby—formerly one of Theo’s cigarette packs, now successfully transfigured.

You sat on his other side.

Your space had slowly expanded until it spilled over into his—parchment and quills scattered between you, a textbook here, a notebook there. You leaned in to show him a particularly complicated potion formula, pointing at your notes with the tip of your wand.

“So yesterday, we covered the difference between tinctures and infusions,” You explained, flipping through your notebook until you found the relevant lecture, “I wrote the key points here—see? You mostly just need to memorize the ratios.”

Theo scanned your notes, brow furrowing as he compared them to the questions listed beneath. He tapped one section with his finger.

“What about this one?” He asked, “It doesn’t match the ratio.”

You leaned closer to see what he was pointing at, scooting nearer without thinking, “Oh—okay, this one’s an exception. It’s considered an infusion because of the brewing process, not the base ingredients.”

You were just about to continue when Bianca suddenly sat upright, eyes wide, like she’d uncovered a great secret.

“Papà! Mamma! Guarda!” She chirped, spinning the parchment toward you with pride.

You leaned in immediately, your expression softening.

It was a drawing—very clearly the three of you. Stick figures, yes, but unmistakable. One tall with dark hair. One beside him with longer hair. And a much smaller one in the middle, curls drawn in chaotic loops. Behind you stood a crooked little house, flowers floating inexplicably in midair, and a tiny sun tucked into the corner of the page.

You laughed quietly, “This is adorable.”

Bianca smiled, satisfied, but said nothing—already basking in the praise.

You turned to Theo, “What’s wow in Italian?”

He shifted his gaze from the drawing to you, and it was only then you realized just how close you’d gotten—practically halfway into his seat. At this distance, you could see every individual lash, the faint shadows beneath his eyes.

You froze.

Theo leaned in, lowering his head toward your ear. When he spoke, his voice was low and lazy, far too close.

“Wow." He said simply.

You pulled back just enough to glare at him, “You’re unbearable.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, “You asked.”

Theo hadn’t planned on going to the Hufflepuff house party.

Not really.

But you’d insisted—gentle, firm in that way that made it hard to argue without sounding like an idiot.

“Go,” You’d said, already kneeling to help Bianca with her pajamas, “You haven’t been out in days. You deserve a night that doesn’t involve a sticky toddler."

Bianca had protested briefly, arms looping around his neck like a vise, but you’d distracted her with some Jaffa cakes. That seemed to do it.

So he went.

There was music. Laughter. Too many people packed into a common room that smelled faintly of firewhisky and bad decisions. Mattheo handed him a drink almost immediately.

Theo stared at it.

Then thought of Bianca—overtired, unfamiliar bed, the very real possibility that she’d decide midnight was an appropriate time to throw a tantrum and demand to be taken back to Theo's dorm only to be greeted by his drunk self.

He handed it back.

“No?” Mattheo blinked.

“No.” Theo said flatly.

He stayed long enough to prove he’d tried. Not to himself but to you. Who he knew would give him a teasing scold when he'd come back early, tail tucked between his legs.

And then—quietly, without much fanfare—he left.

The Slytherin dorms were dim when he returned, the corridors hushed and cool. He moved carefully, like any loud noise might break something fragile.

When he opened his door, the first thing he noticed was the lamp.

Low. Warm. Soft golden light spilling across the room.

The second thing—

You were there, curled on your side beneath his blankets, Bianca tucked against your chest like she belonged there. One of your arms was draped protectively around her small body, fingers curled instinctively at her back. Bianca’s face was pressed into your collarbone, curls splayed wildly across the pillow.

Fast asleep.

Theo stopped just inside the doorway.

Something tight in his chest loosened. Something else replaced it—heavier, warmer, far more dangerous.

You’d kicked off your shoes, throwing off your jacket as well in favour of casting a warming charm over the two of you right as you had fallen asleep. Bianca’s tiny hand was fisted in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring herself.

Theo approached slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He studied your face.

A loose strand of hair had fallen across your cheek, brushing your lips. In your sleep, your brow pinched faintly, nose scrunching in the exact same way Bianca’s did.

He let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle before he could stop himself.

Carefully—so carefully—he reached out and brushed the strand of hair away from your face with two fingers.

You stirred.

Not fully awake—just enough to shift closer to Bianca, murmuring something soft and unintelligible. Your hand tightened reflexively around her back.

Theo froze.

Bianca was going to lose this one day.

She was going to lose this—the warmth, the safety, the arms of her mother.

He was going to lose this someday.

He didn't want to lose you.

He wanted you for the rest of his life.

The thought hit hard and fast, knocking the breath out of his chest.

He swallowed, jaw tightening, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of Bianca’s back. On the way your fingers curved protectively at her spine even in sleep, like your body knew the job before your mind ever caught up.

Then you shifted again.

This time more sharply.

Your eyes blinked open, unfocused and glassy with sleep, lashes fluttering as you took in the dim room. For half a second, you looked confused—then awareness snapped in all at once.

You stiffened.

“Oh—Merlin—” You whispered hoarsely, lifting your head an inch before immediately freezing again when Bianca huffed and burrowed closer.

You blinked.

You slowly sank back down, mortified.

Theo watched as realization dawned on your face.

Then, horrified, you wiped at the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand.

“I—” You croaked, then cleared your throat quietly, “I wasn’t… I wasn’t actually asleep.”

Theo raised a brow.

You winced, “Okay. That’s a lie. I was trying not to fall asleep.”

He stayed silent, letting you dig.

“I was pretending,” You continued in a rushed whisper, cheeks warming, “I thought if I stayed really still she’d think it was bedtime and settle down and—well—apparently I fell asleep first.”

Theo huffed out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh.

You shot him a look, “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

You sighed, rubbing your face with one hand, careful not to jostle Bianca, “This is so embarrassing.”

Theo didn’t respond right away.

Instead, he stood, crossed the room quietly, and took the blanket draped over the chair. His movements were careful—deliberate—as he unfolded it and drew it up over you and Bianca, tucking it in around her small shoulders before letting it settle across your waist.

“You can sleep here tonight,” He said finally, voice low. Then, after a beat, softer, “If you want.”

You blinked up at him, the last of sleep still clinging to you.

“Here?” You asked, whispering like the room might object.

He shrugged one shoulder, “She’s already settled. No point moving her.”

You hesitated.

Then nodded, “Okay.”

Theo’s jaw loosened, just a little.

A few days later, Theo was running on fumes.

The bone-deep exhaustion that settled behind his eyes and refused to leave. The kind that made time blur and thoughts lag half a second behind reality. Between the staggered schedules, half-missed classes, and nights that never quite counted as sleep, he felt like he was permanently five minutes behind himself.

You weren’t doing much better.

The professors still hadn’t found a way to send Bianca back, which meant the two of you had fallen into a strange, grinding rhythm: one of you attending class while the other watched her, trading off half-written notes—if by some miracle you hadn’t fallen asleep mid-lecture. You were grateful the professors were granting you at least that much grace.

The rest of the time was spent cramming together right before bedtime while Bianca threw a tantrum of truly mythological proportions.

It turned out she’d woken up once to find the two of you studying together and had somehow come to the conclusion that whenever she went to sleep, you and Theo threw secret parties without her.

So now—despite being exhausted—she refused to sleep.

You hadn’t known children could get overtired before.

Apparently, it was a thing.

A loud, shrill, nails-on-a-chalkboard thing.

Bianca was a small whirlwind. All limbs and laughter and boundless, feral energy that refused to burn out indoors.

So when you suggested a picnic by the Black Lake, Theo thought you’d finally lost your mind.

“You want to let her run free,” He said flatly, “near a giant squid.”

“She just needs to run,” You insisted, rubbing your temples, “Like—really run. Until her lungs give out.”

Theo stared at you, hollow-eyed.

“…You’re a genius.”

So there you were.

The grass near the lake was warm beneath the afternoon sun, the water dark and glassy, the mountains reflected on its surface like a painting. A blanket was spread out behind you with food you’d asked the house-elves to make—and while it looked incredible, you were deeply offended by the lack of sweets.

Apparently the elves had decided Bianca didn’t need sugar.

Who cared about Bianca?

You wanted a chocolate lava cake, damn it.

Bianca, meanwhile, had already abandoned the blanket entirely.

She shrieked with laughter as Theo lifted her into the air, spinning once before tossing her just high enough to make her squeal—then catching her easily.

“Ancora!” She demanded, breathless. (Again.)

Theo obliged.

He laughed—really laughed. Not the tired, guarded version you’d grown used to, but something lighter, freer. He threw her again, caught her, bounced her once on his hip before setting her down just long enough for her to sprint off in a wild, crooked circle.

You watched from the blanket.

At first, it was just fondness. Relief. Gratitude that she was finally burning off that impossible energy. You couldn’t deny it—the sound of a child laughing so freely tugged a smile from you before you could stop it.

Then your gaze shifted.

Theo crouched when she spoke, his attention completely zeroed in on her. When she stumbled, he steadied her without thinking. When she reached for him, he went instantly—lifting her with an ease that felt instinctive, like muscle memory he’d never known he had.

And something in your chest shifted.

Warm.

Tight.

Soft in a way you hadn’t expected.

He stole your breath.

You stared at him.

At the boy you’d never really noticed. The boy you’d fully expected to graduate without so much as a conversation between you. Someone who, before all of this, would’ve been nothing more than a footnote—if that—in the story of your life.

Not your ending.

And yet the realization hit you so suddenly you almost laughed.

Somewhere—somewhen—years from now, a version of you would love him enough to choose to have a child with this man.

And now?

You got it.

You got the vision your future self must have seen when she decided to lock him down.

You supposed it made sense that you’d never seen Theo like this before. He was just a boy—how could you possibly know whether a teenage boy would grow into someone steady? Someone safe. Someone capable of love that endured, of support that didn’t waver.

A man you could build a life with.

But watching him now—watching him lift Bianca again as she squealed, watching the way his hand stayed firm at her back—your stomach flipped.

Your brain short-circuited.

Your ovaries, traitors that they were, staged a full rebellion.

And for the first time, the future didn’t feel impossible.

It felt inevitable.

You stood abruptly and joined them, brushing grass from your skirt. “Alright,” You said, “My turn.”

You bent to lift Bianca—

“No!” She protested instantly.

She wriggled out of your arms with shocking strength for someone so small and darted straight back to Theo, wrapping herself around his leg like an anchor.

Your smile slipped. Just for a heartbeat.

“Oh—okay,” You said quickly, forcing it back into place, “That’s fine. Totally fine.”

You took a step back, suddenly unsure of where to put your hands, your weight, yourself. The breeze off the Black Lake felt colder now. You stared out at the water instead of them, swallowing the strange tightness in your chest.

Theo noticed.

He frowned, glancing between you and Bianca, then crouched so he was level with her. Gently, carefully, he loosened her grip just enough to look at her face.

“Perché non vuoi che mamma ti prenda?” He asked softly. (Why don’t you want mamma to pick you up?)

The word mamma hit you even before you processed it.

You turned away a little more, heart stuttering. You didn’t understand the rest of what he said, not really. You suddenly felt like you were standing on the edge of something sacred and private, like you’d wandered into a family photograph you didn’t belong in.

Bianca’s face scrunched up, serious in that way only children could be when they believed they were being very reasonable.

“Mamma è troppo malata per portarmi, papà,” She said firmly, “Lo sai.” (Mamma's too sick to take me, papa. You know that.)

Theo froze.

The world seemed to tilt, just slightly.

Theo’s eyes flicked to you slowly.

You tilted your head, not knowing how spines began to claw up his hands and feet, making him feel cold, "What's wrong?"

To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

@superlegend216

@kaisupremecy

@ilovefictionallmenn

@aviwritessometimes

@devilslittlehelper

@notfckincreative

@workof-a-rr-t

@insideoutjulie

@tikitsune

@booklover2503

@whoreforfictionalmen18

@hzdhrtss

@noonasoul

@echolovesspidey

@potatoheartsyou

@chevelledahuman

@33shadowhunters

@goodvibesonlyxd

@maradcrs

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

@goldfishinpainttubes

@psh-pjh

@honethatty12

@imkindofanaudiogeeksorry

@lilians17

@its-jennarose

@h1mawarii

@lookalivesunshiiiine109

@ivygreenonbricks

@navs-bhat

@swiftlythejackson

@itznotsophia

@allielovesstars

@century13

@moremaple

@kissedbychaosxx

@thalibaby

@goldencherriess

@inkedinevermore

@imaginebeingmentallystable

@viridianblurr

He loves intensely, purposefully, an obsession. A love that could have been made into a ballad that people misinterpret as pure saccharine love when the truth is that he loves with his claws sinking into your flesh, never letting go. You should scream, flinch from his touch, or push him away with damning words, instead, you turn your head at his throat, take his chin in hand and bite down just as hard, tasting him on your tongue. Like two dragons— no, a falcon tearing at a dragon hatchling.

He has his moments, those soft days where he would lie down upon you, letting his weight fall on you with his hands underneath your chemise, palms right on your stomach as it lays there, resting, content, feeling your warmth. He always seeks your warmth, warm-blooded, with those purple heat seeking eyes. During feasts his hand is around yours underneath the table, a thumb brushing along your pulse point, drawing ancient runes upon your skin. Valyrian runes, you’ve come to know after keenly studying his movements and drawing it on a piece of parchment under the cover of darkness and flipping through old texts to understand them. One is for protection, sweet and caring. A few for life, wishing for longevity. And one for fire, all consuming, death and searing flames.

One day this man will kill you with his love, or mayhaps you end up killing him first.

There were tears in your eyes when you wed him, lips tightly pursed as you mumbled the vows that echoed around the sept. “I am his and he is mine.” You wish it wasn’t true.

When you kissed him, you wished, imagined that it was someone else holding you, someone else who wouldn’t draw blood, someone who would love you just as you love him— softly, tender, and unabashed love. And that someone is Lyonel Baratheon.

No matter how much you protested, cried, kneeled before your father and the Lord hand, but the union persisted, you had no say, you had no power. But now you do, you are now a princess by marriage, married to a prince, who thinks he is a dragon reborn, a dragon you have tamed despite the teeth marks left on your skin.

You did your duty, married him, kept your honour despite your want— your need to be with the Laughing Storm instead. With every kiss granted by your husband, with every touch, every whispered words in your ears, you all wished it was Lyonel kissing you, holding you and whispering at the shell of your ear. Like you always thought it would be. You can’t keep beating yourself up over for wanting a better life for yourself.

You wanted a gallant husband, someone kind and loving. And yet you got a man who struck a knight’s horse and he broke his legs in the process. Thank the seven that it was all he did during the tourney, but you wish that he did something worse, something that would break the betrothal. You feel horrid for wishing it so. But you’re stuck in your gilded cage, holding your husband by the scruff of his neck whenever his father’s eyes are turned away from him, which is almost always.

You’ve been told that you’ll learn to love him, and the ladies of the court giggle and whisper about how much your loving husband dotes on you, always so caring, caressing you, eyes never straying too far from you. But you only tolerate him, and yet somehow, in some odd misshapen way, Aerion Targaryen is utterly devoted to you.

He’s in love, but you wouldn’t call it that when you’ve seen real love from your father and mother, and you’ve felt it with Lyonel. Whatever Aerion feels for you, it’s lust, an obsession. He’s obsessed with you, desiring you. A year of marriage with him and you thought it would wane, but no, it only grew.

He’d whisper atop your sweaty skin, pupils blown, swallowing the sounds you make and kisses you right above your pulse to say, “mine, all mine.” His grip never loosened, nor his kisses ever felt light. As if he’s trying to carve his name inside of you, right in your very soul. Trying to have you forget every other hand that has touched you.

But there’s a part of you that knows his obsession would soon fade because you are not Valyrian, you do not share his features, and you do not have his blood. One day he’ll get bored of you. What would he do to you once he’s grown tired of you? Would he discard you? Would he forsake you for another? Bring shame to your name?

After the wedding, your husband would not leave you at peace, when dawn breaks he’s already on you, pawing at your small clothes, panting in your ear, breath fanning your cheek, asking for your warmth. And after every supper, without fail, he’s immediately on you, ripping his doublet off, eyes staring right into your soul. And you’d take him in your bed, let him unravel you, devour you whole, sometimes, you’d devour him too, you take him as he is. You made it your mission to tame him, to not let him bend you to his will, to never bend over for him. It wasn’t easy, but you learned, you learned how to push his buttons right, where to touch, what to say, and the moment you saw his eyes soften, lips agape, breathing into you and pleading for your touch with tears in his purple eyes, you won. But now he wants more.

Aerion wants a dragon he said, a child born from the union of a falcon and a dragon. A child who will surpass the conqueror himself. A child whose blood runs thick with old Valyria and the Andals. He’s obsessed with the prospect of having you swell with child, to hold onto your belly and whisper high Valyrian prayers onto your skin before the babe is even born.

A year into the marriage and it hasn’t happened yet. You thank the mother for not letting his seed take, when you know he’ll inherit his father’s delusions of grandeur. That you would truly be shackled to his side if you would have a child with him. Because despite everything, he would still be yours, half a falcon, your child.

Aerion is kind enough, a smile here and there, and the conversation is easy with him. An intelligent chat over a game of Cyvasse where he never lets you win, and yet you beat him in a few rounds, knowing his moves already. You two would make fun of a Lord at the great hall, whispering japes in your ear as you stifle a laugh. He’s quite charming, a disarming kind of charm that if you didn’t know better would’ve made you think that he’s not the same man who gazes into the fire at the dead of night whilst muttering a valyrian prayer.

You’d think to yourself, “he isn’t so bad.” But then Aerion does something cruel to someone, he tends to ruin lives that he thinks are insignificant to him. A poor stable boy, who didn’t ready your horse fast enough, a handmaiden, whose only crime is dressing you in your Arryn colours, or a Lord of no renown who looked at you too long. He’s overprotective, to the point that it’s stifling, he has forgotten, or ignores the fact that you could wield a sword just like him.

You could call him a companion at least, but definitely not the husband you always dreamed of.

Where Lyonel has the easy kind of charm, where you find yourself laughing easily around him, where every smile from him is genuine, Aerion isn’t any of that. It’s like pulling teeth with him. Perhaps it’s because your heart is with another that you can never love him the same way, but Aerion was never the right man for you, even if you have met him first, even if you learned to love him, somehow, he does not fit well with you. As if there is something wrong with the union, that you are meant to be somewhere else with someone who isn't him. Before the wedding, the wheel of your carriage broke apart. Your gown was ripped at the hem, the wedding cloak went missing. And during the wedding feast the old king grew ill and collapsed mid-feast. It’s as if fate didn’t want any of this to happen, as if something went wrong and you were not supposed to be here.

Everything feels wrong around the red keep. You shouldn’t be walking these halls, wearing Targaryen colours as you walk arm in arm with your Aunt, as she reassures you that it is not easy to grow heavy with child when she had troubles with it as well with her own Targaryen prince.

“It will soon take.” She says softly, eyes shimmering with sympathy. “Soon you will have heirs of your own. And they shall grow with their cousins.” Her finger fixes a strand of your hair, smiling sweetly at you as you two stand over the balcony overlooking the courtyard.

The sky is gloomy, breeze cold against your skin, freezing the golden rope around your neck that is laden with rubies and two curled dragons meeting in the middle, a gift from your dear husband. It seems that there is a storm coming.

“Heirs to what exactly?” You bluntly answer, you found that dancing around your words doesn’t always go inside the thick skulls of the people at court. You’d rather fling yourself through the moondoor than skirt around them just to try not to offend them. You love your aunt, and she’s great company, but she has spent too much of her time at court that she hasn’t truly lived for herself in a long time. She’s just trying to survive to see the next moon with her children.

Her brows knit together, giving you a pursed look as she squeezes your arm. “Do not say that out loud, niece.” She warns, and you see the real her. Not the polite princess smile, not the smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You must refrain from saying such things, understand?”

“But, aunt—”

“Promise me.” Leaning close, she whispers, talking amidst the cover of the whistling wind that flutters the skirt of your gown. “The court is volatile, soon it’ll be Baelor on the throne and you and your husband will need to stand in front of him when his older brother can barely see through the fog of wine. I know you do not wish for children, but do not let your wishes be heard by another.”

“This isn’t the life I wanted.” Is all you could muster, too tired to pretend, too exhausted to argue.

You don’t want a perfect love, that is nigh impossible to obtain and you know it so. You just want something that is better than this, something that isn’t volatile, a love that you can be yourself with, a love that is bone achingly real.

“Do you think I wanted this too?” Her voice falters, before clearing her throat and standing upright. As if a curtain fell over her face, your aunt smiles like nothing happened. “Now, shall we have tea in my solar—?”

The heavy doors open in the courtyard, and the unmistakable sound of hooves echoes around as a whole caravan enters the keep. People turn their attention at the arrival, some bow, some look with a pensive expression. One of them is your platinum haired husband, Aerion comes out of the stables, wind swept hair from his afternoon ride that he invited you to come but you declined his offer, citing that you have a headache. He rolled his eyes at you then, scoffing under his breath and yet he gave you a kiss to your cheek.

As always, Aerion manages to find you within the crowd, head tilted up to look at you on the balcony. He gives you a smile, that smile he only gives you across the room, it could be genuine, or it could be feigned, you still have a hard time recognizing which one most days. His boots are already moving to climb up the steps over to you.

You don’t pay your husband heed when a familiar golden banner flusters in the strong wind.

“Seven hells—” the curse dies in your throat as you see the crowned stag on a golden field. “Gods…” Lyonel. His name echoes inside your head, saying it over and over again in a chorus, like a prayer, wishing, hoping it is truly him walking through those doors.

Your hands grip the bannister, leaning over it to look through each face that passes through. There, in the middle of the caravan, wearing the same gold cloak that he draped over your shoulder that night, is your Lyonel. He looks just the same as before, grinning that same grin you fell for, but his eyes, it doesn’t have the same shine to them, as if the light in his eyes were taken from him.

“Wife.” Aerion appears by your side, smelling like grass and the perfume he always asks you to help put on him every morning, which in turn makes you smell like him. His hand immediately finds yours above the bannister, intertwining his fingers with your own. “I thought you were too ill to come outside.”

“Hm?” You had to unstick your gaze from Lyonel as your neck turned to Aerion, eyes still lingering on the stag drenched in gold before finally looking back at your husband. “The maester gave me a tincture to help.”

He doesn’t look too convinced, jaw set, grip tightening around your hand. “Is that so?” He shifts his weight, eyes glancing at the man before flicking over to you. Does he know? Aerion is many things, but he isn’t an idiot. “Sweet aunt, thank you for bringing my wife out for some air. She prefers the comfort of our chambers and less company nowadays.”

“Of course, my prince. I was about to have tea with her, do you wish to accompany us—”

“Not today, aunt.” He flashes her a false smile, before taking you away from her. “I must rest, the ride took the wind out of me. Come.” Tugging you away, you look back at your aunt as she gives you an apologetic look.

You only wish to see Lyonel again, but as you go further into the keep, you could only see a glimpse of his sigil fluttering in the wind. Just like that fateful day on Ashford.

If only you could’ve seen him look up at the balcony just as Aerion took you away.

The walk to your shared chambers was in silence, but you didn’t falter beside him, keeping pace with his longer strides until you reached the doors of your chamber.

Aerion’s hand leaves yours, shutting the doors right behind him.

“Did you really have to embarrass me in front of my aunt like that?” Your arms cross over your chest, facing him head on. “Aerion—”

“I wanted to take a ride with you.” He says, still facing the door as his jaw clenches. “I wanted to bring you to the lake.”

“To drown me perhaps?”

Turning to face you, his expression falls, shoulders tensing. “Do you think of me cruel? No, I wanted to see the sunrise with you.”

“Why?” You blink, hands falling to your side, twisting towards the table to pour yourself a cup of wine. A familiar companion for you nowadays.

“Why?” He lets out a scoff, taking the cup from you as the drink sloshes on the rim. “Is it a crime to want to spend time with my wife?”

“No, it isn’t. But you’re only sweet when you have done something or want something. Which one is it?”

Aerion’s eyes turn away from you, before taking a gulp of the wine. “The latter.” He says lowly, eyes flicking dangerously to yours. “You, I want you.”

This is desire, not love, an all devouring desire that encompasses the prince. It’s all gnashing teeth and nails digging into your hips, not the soft gentle love that has your heart aflutter, not the kind of love you want or deserve.

Nevertheless warmth pools in your stomach. Desire has everyone in its grip, not even you are an exemption. “Why the lake?” Your fingers bring your skirt to wring, trying to tamp out your desire as your eyes rake upon his corded neck.

“Change of scenery.” Shrugging, he puts the rim of the cup over to your lips. “Drink.”

You’re drained, longing for that kind of love that you’ll take whatever warmth is in front of you, and that warmth is Aerion. In his own twisted kind of love, he gives you warmth, arms to hold you when the nights grow cold, a voice that is sometimes tender in your ears, a voice that is real, not a memory. And those intense eyes that never glance away from you, never turning towards another. He may not be the husband you wanted, nor the man you chose to love, but you stayed anyway. Because the alternative is destruction, loneliness, a dishonourable end. And disappointment, you don’t want to disappoint your father. But a year into the marriage, you’re not the same woman you once were, the same woman who wore a threadbare cloak and danced barefoot around Lyonel and a hedge knight like there is nothing else happening in the realm. Now you’re the woman who stays in her seat, nursing a cup in her hand and watches the revelry from far away when you want to join and dance and to laugh carefree again.

“You are insufferable.” And yet you take a drink, and yet you welcome him in your warm embrace. Still, you kiss him with hunger, hold him like he’s about to fly away. And yet your thoughts were on Lyonel the whole time.

—

“Do you know why he’s here?” You blurt out, warm and sweaty under the covers as he lays his head on your chest like always.

“Who?” His cheek is pressed on your skin, cheeks flushed and red, still panting atop you. His index draws the rune for life over your stomach, a prayer.

“Baratheon.” You simply say, if you said his name he would know from how sweet you uttered it.

Aerion hums, a deep rumble you could feel in your ribcage. “Oh, him, his lord father passed.” His breath tickles your bare skin. “Perhaps he was called to bend the knee to grandsire.”

“Why is that needed?” Your fingers rake through his platinum hair that he always melts at the act. “His late father already did that years before.”

His head turns to you, chin resting right on your sternum as his purple eyes tries to gaze into your mind. “He despises us, that’s why.” Us, not him, or his house, us. He believes that you are a part of his house as much as he is, you’re starting to think so too. “Why are you so curious about this Baratheon, hm?”

Why this specific Baratheon? Why this specific man? When there have been plenty of Lords who have walked through the keep and you did not pay them any heed.

“I saw him at the tourney at Ashford. And I will not lie to you but he was almost betrothed to me. He was a suitor.”

“Almost.” Moving, he looms over you, elbows perched on the side of your head as he smugly smiles down. “Almost. But you ended up betrothed to me,” his knee parts your legs under the covers, leaning down to press a kiss on the hinge of your jaw. “Married to me. In bed with me.”

Jealousy is worse than a cup of wine. He’s drunk off it.

“Oh, Aerion.” Taking his face in your hand, you make him look at you. “Are you jealous?”

“A dragon doesn’t concern himself with a mere stag.” Leaning against your touch, he pecks the inside of your palm, all the while gazing into your eyes tenderly.

And yet that mere stag still holds your heart.

—

You hate it when Aerion is right.

The great hall is buzzing with life, it seems that everyone got the news of the new arrival at court. From the Lords and Ladies of the court, to the Baratheon bannermen drenched in their house colours, the great hall is filled with nobles. On the right side of the throne are mostly Targaryens and their kin, watching the other side with pensiveness, some with intense gazes full of suspicion.

You stand beside your husband, staring at Lyonel’s squire whose eyes lingered too long on your face. And yet the young man didn’t flick his gaze away, he even looked at the prince with the same intensity. You surmise that he was staring at you because he recognized you from the tourney, the same girl who was in a raggedy cloak, smiling and dancing with his Lord liege, who is now holding hands with a prince of the blood, clothed in black and red.

Your father settles beside you, face weary, he’s always weary around the red keep after getting the position as master of coin the moment you married Aerion. That was the deal, an exchange, but he now wonders if it’s a worthy one when he sees the weary look on his daughter’s face. The same expression his sister has as she stands alone, her children too young to participate in court, her husband too engrossed in his own mind to ever notice her gone.

The Arryns in the Red Keep are stuck in a gilded cage they have locked themselves in.

You miss your brothers, you miss your mother, and you miss Juniper, who Aerion dismissed without your say when she didn’t bite her tongue when she saw your tear stained cheeks and the love marks all over your skin.

The old King sits on the throne, back hunched, skin pulled taut around his bones. He wheezes, but tries to keep his composure as his son and heir stand beside the throne as the hand pin on his lapel catches the light.

Someone coughs amidst the awkward silence, waiting for the double doors to open as you twist a strand of your hair around your index.

“The gall of this man.” Aerion hisses in-between his teeth, fingers digging into your hand tenderly. “Mayhaps we shouldn’t have wasted our time coming here.”

“We were called upon, Aerion.” Sighing, your eyes are glued to the doors, waiting impatiently, feet shifting, hair pulled by your index.

“Stop that.” He takes your wrist away from your hair, pushing it back to your side. “It’s unbecoming.”

“I cannot help it.” You bite back, eyes steely at your husband instead of unabashed love.

You feel your father’s guilty eyes bore into your back.

“Then try to, my sweet.” Aerion tugs your hand to his side again, weaving his long fingers around your own, engulfing your palm.

You tug back, harder, until his hip hits your own. “No.” Taking your braid, you twist it around your finger, adding to his frustration.

“Now who’s being insufferable?” His breath brushes along the shell of your ear, you could feel his desire roll off him from your petulance.

“We both are,” your head cranes to look into his eyes, not backing down, nor folding underneath his gaze. “guess we are in fact perfect for each other, husband.”

The corner of his lip curls, a chuckle bubbling in his throat. Then the doors open with a loud creak, announcing his arrival.

Murmurs bounce off the stone walls as the herald thumps his cane against the floor.

There, standing like he owns the castle, in all his glory, sun shining on his back, drenching him in more gold, is Lyonel himself.

“Lord Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, the Laughing Storm.”

The cane smacks again, and Lyonel finally moves.

Your heart cinches in your chest, tighter than how Aerion is holding onto you. You haven’t seen him in a year, you’ve longed for him for a year, said his name in your head for a year so you would not forget it, so you wouldn’t forget his face. He looks just the same as you remembered, more handsome than you imagined in your mind at the dead of night.

Seeing him this close is guttering, when you thought you have controlled your longing for Lyonel, it rears its head whenever your thoughts grow heavy, stronger, more heart wrenching than the last good bye. Gods, you missed him, you still love him.

He still has his cloak on, draped over his shoulders, a golden river dragging right behind him. The same earring you felt in-between your fingers dangles in his lobe, and those dark eyes, the eyes you’ve gazed into lovingly, tried to imagine in your year long longing is finally right in front of you.

Lyonel isn’t wearing his stag crown, he isn’t an idiot, and he doesn’t have a death wish when it could be seen as traitorous in front of the King. He doesn’t wish to see the stranger just yet when his eyes subtly glance around the crowd looking for you.

There, right beside the bastard he loathes, is you. Still the same woman he danced with through the night, the same woman he talked to beside the river and laid your heart for him as he showed you his soul. You’re the same woman he fell madly and deeply in love with. Lady Arryn, he should’ve known from the start it was you, no longer in a threadbare cloak, no longer having the same smile he always looked for in the crowd.

It’s cruel how they took the light from your eyes. How cruel it is to subject you to this shackled life when you should’ve been soaring freely.

Lyonel couldn’t help the scowl from appearing on his face the moment he sees Aerion’s hand wrapped around your own in a bone crushing hold.

You interpret his expression as fury, anger towards you, and what’s left of your heart shatters.

A year at court and nothing has fazed you, nothing threw you off guard, whatever Aerion says bitingly never truly hurt you in a way that matters. But Lyonel’s anger, his thunderous fury, is the one thing that pained you so.

Aerion’s eyes glances at you, fingers loosening around your hand for a moment. “Wife, you look sickly.”

“Headache.” You simply say with the lump in your throat. “I feel ill, Aerion.” You watch as his intense eyes turn tender, the edges of his face softening as his grip turns loving. “Take me away from here.”

He inhales deeply, arm curled around your back. His purple eyes flashes with something. Was that sympathy? “Come.”

The prince leads you away, parting the crowd for the both of you just as you hear the King greet Lyonel.

If only you saw how his head moved, following you as you walked away from his life once again.

—

“Is there a chance that you are with child?” Aerion asks as he places a cold damp cloth over your forehead. His touch is gentle and caring, a glimpse of a better man.

“No, I am not.” Eyes shut, you don’t see his face tighten at your words. “I may be barren, Aerion, you mustn’t hold up hope.”

Water splashes on your face as you crack an eye open.

“Don’t talk like that, my love.” He calls you that as if it is true. Perhaps it is true in his mind, but you don’t see it. You never felt it, only glimpses of that love when he’s soft and pliant after a coupling, or when the morning sun shines on his face as he slept. Just a glimpse of what could’ve been. “We shall have a dragon, I’ve seen it.”

“They’re dreams, my prince. Nothing more.” Shaking your head, you feel his sword roughed hand cup your stomach. “I’ve heard the whispers, you know, from your grandsire’s men.”

His jaw tightens, moving at the hinges as he huffs a breath. “What kind of whispers?” He knows.

“That you should just annul our marriage when there hasn’t been a child born from our union.” His head falls, and yet hope blooms in your chest as you give him the idea, planting it in his head. “The high septon would allow it so—”

“But I do not.” His tone lowers dangerously, his hand gripping onto the blanket over you. “I will not. You are my wife until the stranger comes for us. And I know we will have a child soon, that is not cause for an annulment. We do not heed the words of men beneath us.” He utters it with absolute certainty.

Perhaps this is Aerion’s version of love. And it’ll be your undoing.

“It’s this fucking air.” He vaults from the bed, a hand raking through his hair as the sun shines on him. He faces the opened window, shutting it with a slam. “We are not the only ones having trouble having a child, Valarr and his wife, my uncle…” exhaling, his nostrils flared with frustration. “It’s this damned keep.” You could practically see his head churning.

“Aerion—”

“We shall move to Summerhall. Where the air doesn’t smell like piss and death, and there will be no annoyance there apart from my father and siblings.” With quick strides, he moves over to you, taking your hands, and laying his head on your stomach, cheek pressing upon your skin, hearing your insides curl and groan. Under the light, he looks lovely, so innocent, so in love. “It’ll just be us.”

“Just us.” You mutter back, chest feeling tight, eyes wide as he leans for a kiss upon your shocked lips. “What if I die in my birthing bed? That you have to choose between me or the babe just like King Viserys did with his Queen Aemma.”

“No,” his palm cups your face, heavier than before. His desperation and fear ebbs from his hold. “That will not happen, you are healthy and still young, if it comes to that I…” Aerion falters, Aerion doesn’t falter. But he does in this instance, chiseled face contorting right in front of you. “It will not happen. Say it back to me, my love.”

“It won’t happen.”

—

The feast the King held in honour of the Laughing Storm came as a surprise to everyone, but not to you. You always knew that Lyonel could befriend anyone, even the people he hates.

He’s performing, quite well in fact as he sits beside the King on his left, laughing and conversing with the old man, whom you haven’t heard laugh this hard ever. Baelor has this polite look on his face, he always has that expression, a retrained face that he never lets slip in front of anyone.

The music is jaunty and happy, the same music that was playing in Lyonel’s pavilion the day you danced with him. Perhaps he asked for it to be played, or perhaps it’s fate mocking you.

You’re at the end of the long table in the great hall, seated beside your aunt and her mumbling husband as Aerion picks at his food. You wish to look at Lyonel, but you’re afraid that once you do, you’d sob and break.

“You must eat, niece.” Your aunt piles another piece of ham onto your plate. “Having an empty stomach won’t do you any good.”

“You need to keep your strength up for when the babe comes.” Aerion declares as if you are already with child. You know you are not when all your illnesses were feigned.

“What babe, Aerion?” Your spoon twists in your hand as you turn pointedly at him. “The maester confirmed it, I am not with child.”

Aerion’s jaw clenches, biting his lower lip as he chuckles dryly above the rim of his cup. “Then why are you always ill, hm? Or was it all feigned?” He knows, Aerion has always been good at reading people, but not always with you. You keep to yourself, a closed book that he’s desperate to read.

“Would you even love the child?” You ask, heart already broken as it lies beside your feet. “Or do you just love the prospect of having one before your cousin does?”

His goblet slams against the table as wine spills over the glass. The conversation around the hall silences, heads turning towards the source.

Head lowering, a hand grasping at your skirt in a grip, his eyes narrow at you. “The child is mine, ours, do you think me so vain and cruel to not love my own? The proof of our love?”

Taking his hand atop your skirt, you unfurl his fist, taking his fingers slowly until it’s around your hand instead. “Do you actually love me, Aerion?”

His narrowed eyes blink, twisting into softness, irises blooming, lilac eyes turning almost black. His breath hitches in his throat, a thumb brushing along your palm, as his jaw is unclenched, features softer, kinder. “Why would you even ask me that?” You’ve never heard his voice sound so small, so delicate, a tone broken at the edges with hurt. “Am I still not enough?”

“What—?”

“Why did you even marry me?” Hurt flashes across his face, a brief moment of vulnerability before his jaw clenches, fisting your skirt, lashes clumped together, before he abruptly stands up, fuming.

He’s hurting, why is he hurt?

“Aerion—” You vault from your seat to follow him, but a hand stops you, rough, sword calloused familiar hands. Following the source of the ringed hand, you see the Laughing Storm himself. “My Lord Lyonel…”

“My Lady.” Lyonel appears in front of you like in your dreams, giving you that same sweetened smile that has doomed you to love him forever. “If your husband permits it, may I have this dance?”

“Lyonel…” You take a deep inhale, air stuck in your throat as you gawk at him. “I’m— I’m afraid my husband is feeling quite ill. He left.”

Everyone has their eyes on you and the Lord of Storm’s End, whispering amongst each other, keenly watching the interaction. It does not help when the king and Baelor are keeping watch also, making sure that you and Lyonel act that is befitting your station. They know that he was once your suitor.

“How…unfortunate.” And yet his amused smile betrays his words. Lyonel’s hand slides down from your wrist and over to your hand, a thumb brushing along your palm tenderly. “Then, may I have this dance, my Lady Arryn?”

You let out a choked laugh, a genuine one as you go around the table and over to him. “It’s Lady Targaryen now actually.”

“Oh, yes, my apologies.” He doesn’t mean it as he guides you towards the middle of the room with the rest of the court as they dance to the beat of the drums and harpsichord.

The crowd parts for the two of you, bowing down respectfully, whilst sharing glances with each other from the delicious gossip happening right in front of them.

Your gaze flickers down to the joined hands, a sight you never thought you’d ever see again. You feel for his callouses, the same one you tried to recall in your head whenever Aerion held yours in his slender hand.

“You need not worry, my Lady.” Lyonel whispers to you, smirking underneath the candle lights as his familiar earring catches the light. “I will stay at a perfectly respectful distance.” Just as he says it, he pulls you in against him, a hand on your waist, fingers pressing gently. Whilst the other glides across the length of your arm, touch lingering until his fingers intertwine with yours. “Comfortable?”

“Very much so.” You shudder, breath stuck in your throat as you gaze at the joined hands, feeling the familiar warmth blossom in your chest. “Hello, Lyonel.”

“Hello, my doe.” His eyes are soft, a lopsided smile that has you chuckling under your breath.

“I haven’t heard that in a while.”

“Gods, I cannot believe that I’m standing in front of you again.” He utters just for your ears only, the Laughing Storm, who prides himself in his loud voice, whispers to keep you safe in the wandering eyes and ears of the court. A bright grin spreads across his rakish face, bottom lip bitten to stifle a laugh bubbling in his throat as his eyes sparkles with mirth. Lyonel says your name, saccharine and honeyed, as if no time has passed between you, as if he has been practicing saying your name during your absence so as to not forget the taste of it on his tongue.

“You look quite well, Lyonel.” Your voice is as tender as his hold upon your waist. Whilst you two dance along the memorized practiced steps like the crowd around you, you see his mask fall.

“For a man so heartbroken, I do look quite handsome, hm?” He starts to lean against your face to nuzzle at your neck, until he remembers where he is. He’d give anything to hold you affectionately again, like that day in Ashford where he danced through the night with you until you were laughing in his arms and saying his name like a lover would.

Your brows furrow, guilt flashing in your eyes, regret marring your pretty face. “I’m sorry. I should’ve fought harder—”

“None of that.” Shaking his head, earring dangling with every movement, a curl falls over his face that you intensely want to move away to see his eyes fully. Lyonel’s smile falls, dark eyes glossing over with the same grief as he tips your chin up with his index and thumb. “None of that, my love. There was naught to be done. I would’ve fought tooth and nail for you but when I awoke from my injuries after the tourney to announce you as my queen of love and beauty as rightfully so, you were gone with the blonde headed bastards.”

“The princes wanted it to be done quickly to rein in Aerion. They thought I could do that, pull him away from unchivalrous deeds or perhaps change him.”

“Well, did you?” Brows knitted together, his steps glide across the floor as your skirts whirl around the two of you. “You’re quite good at that but you’re not a miracle worker.”

“I tamed him at most. Smooth out his edges but…” shutting your eyes tightly, he waits, Lyonel has always been patient with you, unlike Aerion who pulls and tugs at you towards what he wants, but not towards what you need. “I don’t think you’d like to hear how I managed it.”

Stormlander fury bursts in his eyes. “Has he hurt you in any way?”

You purse your lips, giving him a wobbly smile. “Not in a way that matters.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” Your tone breaks in the middle as the crowd continues to dance around the two of you, obscuring you from your kin. “I’d give anything to be away from here. Aerion has his moments, where I could see his love, but not always…not always.”

“I scarcely recognized you in these colours, I scarcely recognize you at all, my doe.” Lyonel, strong, defiant Lyonel, who would face the storm himself with a booming laugh breaks in front of you.

“And you, you look just like in my dreams.” His face cracks at your painful confession. “I thought you had forgotten about me, Lyonel.”

“I would never.” What have they done to his falcon? They’ve taken your talons and cut your wings, so much so that it has taken the warmth from your eyes. “I did promise you, haven’t I? That I’ll come looking for you, if only you have made it easier for me by telling me of your true nature.”

“That was quite foolish wasn’t it?” You look at him apologetically. “I did plan on telling you the next day, or mayhaps run far away with you if you would have me but that was also a maiden’s foolish desire.”

“Very much so, my Lady.” Lyonel twirls you gently, before you meet with him again in the middle. “But not the latter. When was the last time you danced?”

“At my wedding feast.” Swallowing the lump in your throat, you feel the back of your eyes warm, tears threatening to spill over. Whether from sheer relief and happiness or grief, you do not know, but you don’t let it spill.

“Tell me that isn’t so.” His heart breaks for you one more time whilst his hand squeezes you.

“Unfortunately it is.” Sniffing, you blink away the tears. “My husband isn’t one for dancing. Nor revelry.”

“You don’t belong here.”

“I know. I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.” His hands lift you by your waist briefly, keeping up with the crowd. Keeping face when there are far too many eyes around.

“What have they done to you?”

“I’ve told you, nothing that would matter.” Your gaze roams around warily.

Lyonel stops abruptly, hands still on your body as his shoulders tighten, jaw clenching as he breathes out a shallow breath. “It matters when your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, when you flinch at loudness, when you don’t look like yourself. They made you into this…this shackled thing and clipped your wings.”

“I’m surviving.”

“Not living.” Lyonel’s anger isn’t pointed at you, but at the people seated at the highest table. “This isn’t the life you deserve, my love.” When he calls you that, you truly believe him that he does love you, as simple as that. As easy as that.

“Lyonel,” a tear escapes from your eye as you quickly wipe it away. “It gladens me to see you here but why are you here?” Your voice cracks, terrified for his sake. “You said you came to look for me but here I am. What now?”

“To ask you what you want. To give you a choice that they took away from you.”

“Lyonel…”

“Do they know of the story at the lake with the fire? Do they know what you are capable of?” His grip onto your hands turns bruising before loosening, thumbs caressing along your skin as an apology. “Not just being their pretty princess to bring more half baked dragons into this world. The real you, the one who fought a man twice as large as her and lived, the version of you who challenged me from across the room without faltering. The woman who wedged herself in my heart and clung there as I fell for her. You do not deserve this life, you’re supposed to soar, not to be kept in this cage.”

You finally break in front of him. Tears stream down your face as he brings his sleeve over to your cheeks, wiping the tears away gently.

“My love, my doe.” His hands cup your face gingerly in his hands, not because he’s afraid that you will break, but because he’s afraid that they will take you away from him if he holds on tighter. “What do you want? Your wish is my command.”

You meet with his eyes, finding no lie nor jest in those dark eyes you dream about, eyes that you adore so much. Your next words break you. “Will— will you take me away from here?”

It’s what he wanted to hear from your lips, it’s what he predicted you would ask of him. He didn’t bring a whole army with him for no reason. He might have kneeled before the King and swore a vow, but what is that vow worth to be with his great love? Knights have traded their honour for far worse things, unchivalrous things, but this, saving you and taking you away from this wrenched place is part of his vow as a knight. Protecting the innocent. For him that is the most consequential vow, not the one he swore to a bloodline that has done worse to his realm.

“I know it’s too much of an ask, please forgive me, just forget it—”

“Yes.” Lyonel’s eyes spark with determination. “Why do you think I came all this way?”

—

In the dead of night, you stare at your husband’s sleeping face. He almost looks angelic under the moonlight, peaceful, pleasant. With your letters shoved under your father’s chamber door, explaining to him what you’ve done and telling him to go back home if he was smart. And with ravens flying towards Storm’s End and the Vale, you lean down to Aerion’s sleeping face and kiss his forehead.

He smells of wine, he drank himself to sleep after the feast, he never does that. You may never know why he acted that way, or why he said those words to you, as if you were his great love and not just someone to breed and call his own. But you don’t care enough for his reasoning when he has already carved his name into your ribcage. It’ll forever be there like a scar that won’t heal, but it’s a reminder of your family’s failings, a reminder that you survived it, a reminder that you lived to be with the one you were supposed to be with.

You’ve got a lot of regrets, maybe you should’ve accepted Lyonel’s proposal the moment the letter landed on your table instead of whinging about it. Perhaps you would already be married to him, save yourself some hurt. Or perhaps fate weaved another path for you and Lyonel to be together instead, one of those paths lay before you now as you grab your cloak and clasp it over your shoulders.

You’ve shed every Targaryen heraldry from your body as you wear your house colours once again, a brilliant blue with a soaring falcon right on the bodice. Mayhaps you may wear Baratheon colours one day. For now, you must leave all this behind.

Turning away, you stop abruptly at the weak tug on your skirt.

Aerion’s holding onto the silk of your gown, eyes half lidded and fogged from the wine as it dulls his senses, weakens his façade.

“My wife…” he sighs out, collar stained with wine, fingers curled weakly around your gown. “Where…where are you going?”

Taking his hand, you slowly unfurl his fist. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”

“Don’t— Don’t go.” You almost falter at how soft and tender he is. “Please…my love.”

Taking a shuddered breath, you kneel before him on the settee, placing a kiss right on his knuckles. He’s awfully drunk, he will never remember this conversation.

“Did you really love me, Aerion?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He licks at his dry lips, brows furrowed, face contorted into hurt. “I did— I do. I do love you.”

“Then let me go peacefully.” You don’t cry for him, instead you mourn what could’ve been.

He could’ve been good to you if he showed his love that doesn’t leave bite marks, a love that you only see briefly whenever he lays his head against your chest, a strand of your hair curled around his finger as he listens to the beat of your heart. He loves like he’ll never love ever again, a love that he’s afraid would be taken away from him forcefully. So he loves fiercely, agonizingly devout, a terrifying desire to be loved back. He loves with dragon fire that ended up burning you. And it’ll burn him too if he doesn’t change.

Aerion hums, something in him wants to hold on tighter, to fight, to yank you back to his side. But the wine warms his insides, the wine hinders his thinking. His eyes close again, he must be dreaming an awful dream.

Soft breaths fill the shared chambers once again. And you finally pull away, placing his hand atop his chest as you hitch your skirts and flip the dragon tapestry away to reveal the hidden passage out of the castle.

Lyonel greets you in the dark together with his bannermen that are all armoured up with their swords at their hips, ready to fight beside their liege Lord if need be.

His beaming grin could light the way for you as he holds a hand up for you on his horse.

“Was there trouble?” He asks, voice laced with concern as he yanks you up on the horse.

“No,” you sit behind him, arms curled around his middle as you lay your cheek against the cool steel of his armour. “No trouble, let us go, Lyonel.”

The Laughing Storm doesn’t need another confirmation as he rides away with you. Just like he dreamed of. Just like he once promised.

—

The noise from Aerion’s chambers wakes the whole castle when he found out about your treachery. He wields his sword, swinging it around the room as he breaks everything inside. And on the other, he grips your necklace, the one he has fashioned just for you. He holds on it so tightly that it draws blood upon his palms.

No one could calm him down. The one person who could is now miles away from him, riding away with another man.

Shards of glass fling away, broken wood lay littered across the floor where he once had you. The bed wasn’t spared, goosefeathers fly around him as he stabs and slashes at the bed that still smells like you.

“I want Lyonel Baratheon’s head!” His guttural screams carry around the keep.

To Aerion, you were kidnapped, taken from him while he was at his most vulnerable. To him, you loved him just like he has loved you. To him, Lyonel Baratheon is malignant, a vile and evil man. And the prince has cursed his name, and named him as the sworn enemy of the crown for what he has done.

The heir and the Lord hand himself writes an urgent letter to his younger brother, and another asking Lyonel to give you back to your husband before anything untoward happens, before a war breaks between the noble houses that were once kin.

Your father and aunt left the red keep before Aerion’s anger flooded the castle. They’re headed over to you and plead with you to go back to your husband. Lyonel has closed his borders to them and anyone that allies with the crown.

Ser Duncan greeted you and Lyonel at the door of Storm’s End, he did not look quite happy at the turn of events, but once he met with your eyes and saw the grief and pain underneath them, he understood why Lyonel had to take you away. He has sworn his sword and shield to him, and in turn, before he was in Lyonel’s care, he swore to you first.

And as you lay beside Lyonel in Storm’s End, with your hand in his curls as he lays upon your chest, smiling and telling you stories of what you missed. You ignore the lightning and thunder outside, and you tuck away the looming conflict around the realm as you laugh and smile with your great love with a lighter heart. The light in your eyes slowly comes back, and Lyonel finally feels that he is complete.

And yet, despite all the happiness that you could feel in your bones, there’s a war coming. And you started it.

Hobie never liked being in Miguel’s lab.

Granted, he’s always had a fascination with machines. All those years of dumpster diving and sneaking into junkyards helped him sniff out some useful parts and cool trinkets to fix, even if they would be better off being stripped down for copper and aluminum to sell. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched for someone to think Hobie would be in heaven in this futuristic laboratory with all of the gadgets and gizmos.

But no. It’s just a cold, dark metal cell with flashing lights straining the punk’s eyes.

Hobie lets out a scoff as he stares up at Miguel on top of his stupid workstation platform– work down here on t’ ground like a normal bloke, ya pretentious prick. Orange holographic screens hover around the towering man, video feeds of different spider-people running around in their patrols displayed all around him. Meanwhile, the older spider taps along on his control panel like some glorified security guard. With a whirring hiss the platform descends– almost at a snail-like pace– as the red streaks on his suit glow amid the darkness.

In the three months Hobie’s been recruited in this strange Spider Society, he’s still not sure what to make of its elusive leader. Miguel is either this formidable spider scientist Cassie raves about…or some neurotic quasi-nudist under that holographic suit fucking off to his inventions. Either way Hobie can’t ignore that sick twisting in the pit of his stomach every time he’s in this mechanical room, the flashing amber lights within the dark lab akin to warning signs to the punk. Hobie’s hands drop to his sides, his calloused fingers brushing against the metal wall until they run along a small protruding panel. He pops it off with ease before pocketing it like nothing happened.

The rich bastard can afford to buy another part like this anyway.

A thrum of tingles blooms along the punk’s side, and Hobie glances over to the yellow-clad spider beside him. Cassie stares up at him through her white-streaked bangs, her eyes steadfast and expectant. It reminds Hobie of that old German Shepherd that used to scare him away when he was a kid. It wouldn’t bark at him, nor growl at him, but those eyes would always follow him every time he passed by, lingering only on him until he ran away. Cassie’s eyes, although not as hardened or wary as the German Shepherd’s, still pierce through him the same way, still fixated on him until he slips up.

Hobie averts his eyes back to the lowering platform. As fond as he is of the yellow spider after a few months of being partnered up, her habit of staring still unnerves him.

The platform lands with a loud slam, and the flurry of tingles under Hobie’s skin subsides when Cassie finally looks away. Although with the brief reprieve follows a new prickling in the back of his head, and Hobie schools his scowl away as the towering older spider turns towards the teens. Even with Hobie straightening up his back to his full height, with his boots platformed to make himself taller, Miguel still looms over the teen with his shoulders hunched over.

It annoys Hobie to no end, petty as it is.

Shadows blanket across Miguel’s face, orange and yellow lights from the holograms pulsing behind him. Hobie’s skin crawls under the older spider’s scrutiny, the hint of red in Miguel’s eyes piercing through the darkness against flickering amber.

Pixelated glitches of orange pop around the older man before a tiny holographic woman flickers by Miguel’s ear, her humming outline illuminating the side of his face.

“Finally,” Lyla groans as she glitches into a perch on Miguel’s shoulder, and the older spider side-glances at the AI with a weary frown. “You’ve been up there for who knows how long! God, you’re worse than some of these teenagers here, having your eyes be glued to a screen–”

“Lyla–”

“I swear, do you know how bad your tunnel vision is? It’s like one word floats into your ear and spills out the other–”

“Lyla–”

“And don’t even get me started with your posture, hunching over the keyboard like Dracula or something! The least you could’ve done is raise the workstation, that way you won’t have to deal with the risk of back pain–”

“LYLA!”

The holographic woman glitches from Miguel’s shoulders and pops up between the two younger spiders, raising her hands up in cheeky surrender. “Hey, I’m just looking out for you, boss. Can’t have my creator be a shriveled up old man with arthritis before he hits forty–”

“Thank you, Lyla,” Miguel’s eye twitches as he steps off the platform. “You are dismissed.”

Blowing a glitchy raspberry, Lyla floats back with her signature shit-eating grin towards the young spiders.

“At least I broke the ice between you guys. Good luck!”

And with that, the holographic whirlwind flickers away, leaving the exasperated elder and dumbfounded teens alone.

“...Shall we move on to the reports, you two?”

“Right…”

“Yes, sir…”

Miguel shakes his head in resignation as he taps on his watch before more holographic screens pop up behind him. The screens display some familiar sights to Hobie: that dull classroom, the graffitied alleyway, the view of the scenic cityscape–

“It has been four weeks since you two have been assigned this mission to Earth-318,” Miguel begins as he pulls up more holographic screens behind him, revealing more public spots Hobie recognizes. “Have you two made progress on your respective objectives?”

Hobie’s eyes flick over to the sudden jolt of movement in his periphery as Cassie straightens up in front of the elder spider.

“W-well, sir,” the yellow spider taps on her watch before a pink beam shoots up from her wrist, “it’s taking a little longer than expected, but I believe I’ve made steady progress...”

The beam disperses into particles, drifting around the trio like glittering dust, before swirling into a map of the Boroughs– each one split into puzzle pieces slowly coming together. A bright yellow line shoots through the map, colliding into three different marked coordinates until it forms an outlined triangle.

“Based on the feedback Lyla provided for me from the spider-bots before they were taken, as well as the frequencies from the remaining active ones, I managed to detect three signals– two within the upper Brooklyn area and one in lower Manhattan.”

Cassie reaches her hand out towards the pinging dot hovering over the edge of Manhattan, flexing her fingers before the hologram shifts from the map into a glitchy, run-down building. “The strongest signal is emitted from this building in Manhattan’s Chinatown, although from what I can tell from surveillance–” her fingers tap along the screen of her watch before pulsing lights flicker from the small holographic building and tiny wandering figures flood inside it– “it’s a lot more active at night.”

Multiple holographic beams shoot out from the building, displaying enlarged wanted posters of various criminals. Hobie’s eyes flick over to a familiar face amongst the holograms– a nervous gaunt man staring at the camera, his skin and clothes dusted in sand and grit. He fights the urge to wince as the paper-like cuts on his skin sting from the last encounter. The punk also recognizes the familiar calling cards from the others– a feathered winged harness on a bird-like geezer, electric sparks crackling from a woman’s fingertips, a hideous green mask shielding a man’s face.

Hobie fights the urge to flip that particular rogue off; he doesn’t need any reminders of Osborn right now.

“From what I can tell, a lot of the rogues from this universe gather around this particular venue,” Cassie continues as the holographic wanted posters glitch away. “More than likely, it’s a secret meeting hub for them, possibly to pass along intel and other deals away from the public. I am still working on hacking into their security system, but…”

A frustrated grimace flickers on the girl’s face as she taps along her watch, only for a red flashing X to pop up in front of the building, “It seems they have some kind of electromagnetic interference around the perimeter.”

Cassie turns her eyes onto Miguel, her jaw clenched and her eyes hardened with determination. “It’s only a minor issue though. I can still figure out a way to mitigate it, but the security system here will still take some time to be fully infiltrated, even without the EMI.”

A few more padded taps from her fingertips echo within the lab as two new holographic images flicker in the air. One is a wanted poster of a masked man clad in purple with a clawed gauntlet. The other is a screenshot of a glitched out figure in front of the bar.

“Besides that hiccup,” Cassie stares up at the displays with a mix of frustration and caution, “there are also two particular rogues who can be possible obstacles for this mission. One–” the image of the masked man enlarges– “is a variant of the Prowler. He frequents this area, but he generally patrols in the upper Brooklyn area, particularly in central Bed-Stuy and southern Bushwick.”

The lowest coordinate point glows brighter as the holographic wanted poster shrinks back next to it. “This particular Prowler is more of a stealth-based rogue compared to the others in the multiverse, but he’s still capable of hand-to-hand combat. However…”

Cassie’s face pinches up into a harsher scowl, one Hobie has often seen on her during her little ‘slumps’ in missions. “The most concerning aspect of this variant is his potential engineering prowess. Based on the surveillance and fluctuating frequencies within Bed-Stuy, he may be one of the more technically-adept Prowlers.”

A pink glitch crackles in the air before another holographic screen pops up, this time showing a recording feed. A man shrouded in violet and black hunches over a work table through a window, his gauntlet-sheathed hand holding a mechanical spider. Multiple wires spill from the underbelly of the spider, swaying in the air under the mercy of the rogue. Sharpened fingertips trail down the wires, grazing the rubber-like covers as if tempted to cut down a slit, until they tap against the hanging chip at the end. White lights hum through the chip, twinkling through tiny transparent tabs. The masked man grasps the chip between his fingertips, raising it up in the air under tungsten light, the white blinking from the chip eclipsed by the amber overlight.

The robotic spider twitches in his hand, metal limbs pitifully scuttling in the air, an unfortunate victim under the rogue’s mercy.

His clawed finger tugs at the chip, the blade-like fingertip tucked beneath the wires, before the Prowler finally cuts the heart of the robot out. The white light from the spider flickers out as it falls limp, but the purple-clad man just tosses the metal corpse at the pile of its lifeless brethren.

The holographic screen flickers away as Cassie continues her report. “The fact that this Prowler was able to bypass most of the security measures for all of the spider-bots should be noted for the mission. According to Lyla, typically if someone were to attempt to hack access, the spider-bot would–”

Sparks of orange light flash back in front of the elder spider’s face, nearly blinding Miguel.

“Go KABOOM–" Lyla cuts in with a cheeky smile before glitching back to Cassie’s shoulder. “Sorry, had to get it out of my system. Well, not in my system, but y’know what I mean–”

“Lyla,” Miguel groans as pinches the bridge of his nose, “don’t interrupt Cassandra’s report–”

“Dang, can I at least get a please out of it–?”

“Lyla–”

“W-well,” Cassie steps in with a sheepish smile, her hands up in the air in a placating manner, “Lyla isn’t wrong, but…”

The smile soon falters as she glances back at the miniature wanted poster hologram, “the fact he didn’t set any of them off is still a huge concern. If possible, we may need to upgrade some of our security protocols in the remaining bots’ software.”

A low grunt rumbles from the older spider as he snaps his fingers, and a holographic keyboard flickers in place. With a quick flutter of his fingers, the keyboard lights up where his fingertips hover before glitching back out.

“Continue, Cassandra.”

Hobie fights the urge to roll his eyes, but Cassie eagerly nods. “The Prowler would be manageable to take care of by himself, but…”

As she trails off, the light in her eyes dim as she squares her shoulders. New tingles ebb through Cassie, washing over Hobie in a twisted wave until he swallows down the urge to gag. The glitched screenshot enlarges in front of the group– a towering distorted figure stands in front of the building, staring back at them with glowing red eyes. A wicked grin stretches across the pixelated face while the figure holds a digitally-gnarled block of a hand up in the air.

“I’m afraid this particular rogue will be the biggest issue for us.”

More pixelated images explode across the holographic map, all with the same glitched out figure staring back at the camera with variations of the same wicked grin, no matter what it’s doing. Walking across the street, exiting a corner shop, even riding in the bus– those red eyes taunt the camera, as if already winning a sick game forced upon the spiders. Hobie glances back at Cassie, who exudes pulses of frustration as she glares at the mysterious figure.

“As of right now, I have no discernible match of who this variant is,” the yellow spider sighs, her voice wavering in discontent. “No matter how many times I try to surveil them, whether through the spider-bots’ live feeds or through the security cameras throughout this universe, I can’t get a good enough scan to identify–”

“No need.”

The air drops into a bone-chilling standstill, prickling goosebumps along Hobie’s skin. His eyes drift over to Miguel, only to meet cold red eyes shooting daggers at the image. A large vein pops out of the elder spider’s neck, his jaw clenched and his canines slowly growing into sharp fangs. His muscles strain under his holographic suit as he crosses his arms against his chest, his nails growing and sharpening.

“I am well aware of this one.”

The claws slowly retract before Miguel snaps again. An orange projection flashes behind the elder, and Hobie turns away from the sudden blinding light. A woman’s voice rings through the room, a hoarse cackle sending chills down Hobie’s spine before he finally looks back. The distorted figure from before is more enhanced, but Hobie can tell it’s an older video– a pixelated older woman’s face stares back at the camera, her eyes blocked by red hexagonal glasses. Dark markings are etched along her arms and up her neck. Her forearms strain under dirtied handwraps. A cheeky smirk tugs along her lips, almost cheshire cat-like to the punk, while she flips her braided ponytail behind her shoulder.

“Finder’s keepers, O’Hara. You really gotta stop losing your little toys. But don’t worry, they’ll be safe with me. You won’t mind me playing with them a bit though, right?”

Another deep, foreboding chuckle rumbles from the stranger before the video ends in static. The video glitches away, but more holographic screens project in the air soon after. Different variants of the woman are displayed– one crooning into the microphone in a long red dress in front of an audience; one with a pink leotard and sharp knives sneaking into a club; one in a dark purple catsuit with red splattered over her face, wiping blood off a skinny-looking sword while surrounded by lifeless bodies.

Even in a 2D space, only made of pixels and light projected before him, Hobie can’t stop the overwhelming dread looming over him. He stares at the same cheshire-cat smile on each of their faces, turning more menacing in his eyes, like the woman would suddenly pull herself out of the holographic screens.

“Delilah.”

Miguel growls out that name, as if it’s a forbidden curse for his tongue, while the holograms swirl around the teens. “There is little information we’ve gathered about her–”

More projections pop up, with a blaring alarm ringing off every time a red X flashes over them before disappearing. “The only conclusive evidence we have of her existence throughout the multiverse is her occupation as a highly-ranked assassin. Any other information about her is either undocumented or erased in each universe. And unfortunately in our case–”

All the holograms of the mysterious woman disappear, leaving behind the screenshots of the glitchy figure– “we have the least information about this variant. From what we do know, however…”

Red eyes sharpen at the glitchy image, the cat-like smirk taunting the elder spider, before Miguel turns his attention to Cassie.

“You’re not to look further into this rogue. I will handle it.”

Cassie’s face instantly drops, a hint of panic wavering behind her brown eyes. “Miguel, wait, I can handle this–”

“Your main objective is to retrieve the rest of the spider-bots, Cassandra,” Miguel’s logic shuts down any protest latched onto the yellow spider’s tongue. “As much as you want to take on more for this mission, the spider-bots take priority. Do you understand?”

Hobie glances over to his partner, watching the yellow spider shrink under Miguel’s scrutiny. Disappointment and frustration vibrates through her as she averts her eyes to the ground, her hands balling up into fists, before she reluctantly nods.

“Yes, sir.”

The pink holograms disperse in shimmering shards, swirling back to Cassie until they condense into a small bubblegum-hued girl perching onto her shoulder. Concern flickers on the pink AI’s pixelated face as she rests her head against Cassie’s cheek, and the yellow spider silently reaches up to the hologram with a reassuring caress.

“I’m okay, Gwen. You can go on rest mode now.”

The pink AI shakes her head as she curls up into a ball. “There was a spike in your brain waves and heart rate. It’s becoming a frequent occurrence for the past few weeks–”

“I’m fine, Gwen–”

“Your heart rate also fluctuates when you lie–”

“You did not need to say that out loud–”

“But it’s a concern that should be addressed–”

“Now, now,” Hobie sighs as he steps up to the duo, “as funny as it is t’ see ya two bicker like a bunch of nans, ya should probably listen to Pinkie Pie, Cassie.”

The AI brightens into a neon pink hue before dispersing into a pixie dust-like cloud, only to swirl and reform back in front of his face.

“Although I don’t appreciate the My Little Pony connection–”

“Yer li’l what–?”

“I always knew I liked you,” the miniature hologram grins at him. “I take back everything I’ve ever said.”

“Oi, now wait a moment, what does that mean–”

“She’s kidding!” Cassie darts in front of the punk as she shoos the AI away, a rosy hue creeping up her skin and a strained smile stretching across her face. “She doesn’t mean anything–”

“But you’ve said it too,” Gwen pouts as she hovers back over the yellow spider’s shoulder. “You told me how he’s like the super punk version of–”

“I will factory reset you and sell you to Apple.”

A loud gasp crackles from the bubblegum AI before she stomps her foot in the air with a petulant pout. “How rude! And to think Mr. Stark trusts you with my software–”

“Well, he didn’t make you, I did. So technically, I have every right to your software as I please.”

Cassie huffs as she taps along her watch. “Now go on rest mode, I’ll have you reevaluate me later, okay?”

The pout on the AI’s lips worsens before she relents, sticking her tongue out at her creator before dispersing into pink smoke again.

A low grunt rumbles in the air, and the teens turn back to the unamused Miguel.

“Shall we move on?”

Hobie shrugs as he steps back towards the door. “Not much t’ move on to, ‘m afraid. Ya already got t’ gist of t’ situation from Cassie, so I t’ink we can wrap this up–”

“You still have to give your report.”

“Ah damn, really?” Sarcasm tinges the punk’s voice, reluctance tugging his lips into a frown. “Thought t’ light show and comedy duo would suffice f’ ya–”

“Your mission is just as important for the Spider Society.”

With another loud snap, more holographic screens pop up behind Miguel, the same live feeds of other spiders looming over him and the teens. “As small as it is right now, we are helping preserve the multiverse from further catastrophe. With what happened in Earth-1610 and thereafter–”

“I don’t need ya repeatin’ yer spiel,” Hobie cuts him off with a deadpan as he crosses his arms. “Ya can save that fer the other blokes you manage to rope in.” Heavy footfalls echo against the metal walls as Hobie saunters towards Miguel. “All ya need t’ know is that ‘m doin’ m’ job, ‘n ‘s workin out–”

“You can’t just pass along your report with a brief comment and a flick of the wrist,” Miguel steps up to the punk teen, straightening up and squaring his shoulders until he towers over Hobie. “It is a complex situation, where rogues and innocents alike are being displaced by tears within the multiverse. This isn’t like your ragtag guerrilla group, Hobart–”

“Oi, watch ya mouth.”

The veneer of nonchalance cracks as Hobie glares daggers at the elder spider. Body taut and hands clenched into fists, the punk is a trigger away from making the first swing. “Don’t bring m’ band into this, O’Hara.”

Fire blazes behind russet eyes, clashing with the cold, red-tinted scrutiny from Miguel.

“Then treat this mission like how you would for your little cause at home.”

All the holographic screens behind Miguel dispel, leaving the group in the shadows, before Lyla pops back to life between the two spiders.

“Okay, before you two start your little cat fight, I wanna know about the details!” The orange-hued AI huffs as she pulls up a smaller screen. “I mean, from what I can tell from all the feeds in this universe, I personally think she’d be a good fit here.”

White crackles thrum through the holographic screen until a lone figure pops up in front of Hobie. Perched over a ledge of a building, a familiar blue-clad hero dangles her legs over the edge as she stares out at the cityscape. Moonlight glints over neon-orange plastic, her goggles shielding her eyes while the rest of her face covering hangs around her neck. Freckled cheeks are puffed out as the hero chomps onto a sandwich, her feet fluttering even faster while she bounces on the ledge. Her free hand fidgets with a small radio hooked on her side, her fingers toying with a small dial, as if searching for her favorite song within the sea of frequencies.

Mei just looks like a little kid like this.

“I mean, look at her!" Lyla flickers with a cheeky grin. “She’s got her little set up and everything, even without our tech! She can definitely adapt to our procedures and patrols easily! Plus she has a pretty solid balance with her life, not too absorbed in her vigilantism while not letting her personal life go too crazy–”

“Lyla, this is not your report to make–”

“But she’s definitely someone to get on board–”

“That’s not for you to decide.” Miguel massages the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. “She would still have to go through multiple screenings before she can be considered as a member–”

“That’s if she wants to.”

All eyes turn to the punk, but his eyes are locked on the holographic screen as the miniature blue-clad spider gets up and stands on the ledge. “Just ‘cuz she can take on a ton of villains don’t mean she’d want to twenty-four seven.”

Hobie continues to watch the little 2D figure of Mei peering down the ledge, leaning over the edge until dark-plaited braids slip from her shoulders. Slivers of yellow peek through the plaits as the puffed pigtails dangle over, swaying in the direction of the wind. She tugs her covering over her lower face before leaning even further and falling headfirst.

Hair and fabric whip behind her as Mei plummets towards the busy streets, LED lights from nearby buildings dappling her figures in a neon rainbow. The sleeves of her arms flap against her sides, dancing in an almost wing-like manner against the late night backdrop. The two small braids trail behind her while two other looped braids are being pulled back by the winds. There is no panic in her demeanor– her body is taut, straight and rigid like a line, with no room for any uncertainty and fear– as she yields to gravity beckoning for her.

“That being said,” Hobie’s eyes linger on Mei’s figure when she suddenly shoots a web to a billboard and swings over the traffic like a pendulum, “she can definitely do it.”

Mei soars back up to the sky the moment the web snaps from the force. Back arched and limbs languid, the cityscape lights fade away from her in lieu of the moonlight. Basked in pale silver, she hovers over the cityscape amongst the skyscrapers in brief intervals before falling and swinging again. Each swing propels the momentum faster, taking her to greater heights throughout the concrete jungle. With every peak she reaches towards the sky her hand stretches out towards the moon and stars, as if trying to pluck a twinkling light for herself, before she descends and repeats the process again.

A small prickle digs into Hobie’s chest at the carefree freedom displayed before him.

“Mei…she can make it work if she wanted to.” Hobie clears his throat as he averts his eyes from the holographic screen. “From last week alone, she’s shown she can think fast on her feet. She’s capable of combat, whether against one bloke or a whole lot of ‘em, but she can make her own call whether or not she can handle it, dependin’ on t’ situation.”

Another dull ache ghosts along his temple, he gingerly massages it as he continues. “Main thing ‘bout her that might bite ya in the arse might be her bein’ used t’ workin’ alone. Her quick thinking is a double-edged sword if y’not careful– she’s not the most attentive with her actions while fightin’.” A brief image of crumbled rubble and whirling winds of sand flicker in Hobie’s mind, with a gaping hole in a brick wall and scuffed converses in the air. “She can be reckless, puttin’ herself in danger. She’ll shrug it off, but still–”

“Sounds like someone else we know–”

Hobie narrows his eyes in a sidelong glance at Cassie as she perches herself onto a nearby worktable. A mirthful glint flashes in her eyes as she gives him a shrug, swinging her legs over the edge. He rolls his eyes before flicking his attention back to the screen, lingering on the blue acrobatic figure flipping in the air.

“She’s also a bit…abrasive. She ain’t gentle ‘n all, force-feedin’ ya food and medicine while chewin’ ya out–”

“Which, in your case, she probably needed to–”

“Oi, Cassie–”

“Continue, Hobart,” Miguel cuts through the banter with a disgruntled sigh, “before you derail the report any longer.”

Hobie narrows his eyes at the elder spider, a small scowl flickering on his face, before movement hovers in his peripheral vision. Russet eyes trail back to the holographic screen, lingering on the little figure flipping back against the backdrop of the late-night sky. A ghost of a smile curls on the punk’s lips as Mei finally lands in an empty street and scurries off into a dark alleyway, flipping her jacket inside out before shadows swallow her.

“She’s…hard t’ read at times. One minute she’s dozin’ off ‘n just followin’ behind in t’ background, ‘n then t’ next she’s all intense ‘n pullin’ ya ‘round like a damn ragdoll– ‘s like whiplash with her or somethin’.”

Hobie trails off as Mei reemerges from the shadows– her once-familiar blue windbreaker now stark-white, her intricate braids slightly frizzy and disheveled, her freckled cheeks flushed from the biting winds. With a quick survey around the area, she rushes across the street towards a red-bricked apartment complex with a rhythmic bounce in her step.

It’s almost jarring how Mei can switch between lives so easily but simultaneously be consistent with herself.

“Honestly, I dunno f’sure if she’s cut out for bein’ here,” Hobie finally pulls his eyes away from the screen as the little figure of Mei disappears into the brick building, “nor would she even want to, but…she definitely has potential.”

Soft humming from the surrounding equipment fills in the silence for a beat before Lyla flickers onto Hobie’s shoulder.

“Wow. I didn’t think you’d actually deep dive into her personality so quickly, Hobie.”

“What–?”

The AI flickers back to Miguel as the screen disappears, darting around the elder spider as he types along his holographic keyboard.

“I mean, I know you had a late start with your mission in the beginning,” Lyla continues as more tiny screens pop up around her, trailing after her with every flicker to a different spot, “especially with her suspension and her constant movements through the city throughout that week. Hell, even I couldn’t find her half the time.” She flickers back in front of Hobie’s face, a cat-like grin curling up her face. “But y’know what, you really pull through when you need to. You got a lot more out of her than even Miguel and I, and we’ve been trying to find her before you came on board!”

Lyla looks over her shoulder with a mirthful stare towards the towering leader, more lights flashing across Miguel’s face as he reviews more live feeds from other dimensions. “Was that enough of a report for you, boss?”

Miguel rolls his eyes with a quiet scoff, refusing to turn back to the AI’s direction. “I mainly wanted Hobart–” Cassie clasps her hand on Hobie’s shoulder before he barks out an irritated retort– “to assess Spider-Girl’s fighting capabilities. From what I could tell from surveillance, he’s been involving himself in her personal life far more than in her patrols–”

Cassie tugs Hobie back harder as he bristles from Miguel’s dismissive tone. Streaks of amber flash along the chestnut in her eyes, her fingers digging into his spiked leather vest as she subtly shakes her head. Hobie stares back at the yellow spider with sparks of indignation in his eyes, his body thrumming with the urge to storm off, but her silent plea extinguishes his frustration before he relents with a scoff.

“That being said,” Miguel glances over at Hobie, ignoring the blatant irritation vibrating from the punk, “you were still able to determine her disposition through your interactions, and in turn, weighed out the benefits and drawbacks of having her here. That in itself is crucial for her screening as a prospective member.”

With another snap, the keyboard disappears from sight before fluorescent lights suddenly flash throughout the lab, blinding the younger spiders. “Keep up your assessments. You’ve provided a lot more insight for Spider-Girl than what we expected out of this mission. However, for the next report, observe from how she is during her patrols rather than assume through her personal life.”

Hobie’s jaw clenches under Miguel’s scrutiny as he blinks away his momentary blindness. “Right. Whatever.”

“I’m serious, Hobart.” Miguel approaches Hobie with slow strides, straightening up and towering over the punk. “Just because I gave you some leniency on how you conduct your mission doesn’t mean you can waste time and play around in another universe.”

Hobie’s hands flinch, curling into fists. “Play around?”

Cassie’s hand gently digs deeper into Hobie’s shoulder. “Miguel, please…”

Hobie shrugs her hand off, refusing to look away. Despite the nonchalant veneer, Hobie’s eyes harden into a cold stare. “I dunno what ya t’ink ‘m doin’ over there, but I ain’t playin’ ‘round—”

“Really?”

A scoff leaves Miguel’s lips. “The only reason I allowed Cassandra and Lyla to forge your registration in Spider-Girl’s school was to collect more intel in your reconnaissance, but from what I can tell, all you’ve been doing is sitting on a desk and poorly pretending to be a student.”

Hobie grits his teeth, a vein slowly popping from his neck.

“Ya told me t’ keep an eye on Mei.” Coils of thorns snake around the punk’s chest, puncturing into his lungs as poison seeps into the wounds. “I don’t remember havin’ t’ be some snobby twat buryin’ m’ face into books fer this mission.”

“You are supposed to be discreet.” The elder spider steps into Hobie’s space even further, his shadow looming over Hobie. “You were to blend in and observe from a distance. Instead, you made yourself a walking spectacle with your stunts in a completely different universe—”

“Even if I kept myself in t’ background, she’d still notice me.” Hobie’s voice cuts through with a harsh snap. “She would’ve jumped over her desk ‘n attacked me if I didn’t make m’self known t’ her—”

“What Hobie’s trying to say is—” Cassie steps between both of them with a nervous, placating laugh, the amber streaks in her eyes sparking against the brown— “she might be more sensitive with her senses. He made an executive decision for himself early on, and it paid off for the mission.”

Electricity crackles in the air between the two spiders— Hobie’s heated glare clashes with the cold front of Miguel’s, brewing an impending storm within the mechanical lab. Eyes cloaked in shadow despite the sickly-white lights beaming down, the older spider lets out a relenting scoff before he turns his attention to Cassie.

“Then let’s hope this decision is not a detriment in the long run, Cassandra.”

Red-tinged eyes flick between the teens, a machine-like survey that sends a chill down Hobie’s spine and bubbles his blood at the same time, before Miguel turns back to his workstation.

“Both of you are dismissed.”

---

“Hobie–”

“No.”

“Hobie, c’mon–”

“No.”

“Can you just hear me out–?”

“No.”

Hobie ignores the stares from passing spider variants as he storms through winding halls, every footfall from him clanging against whirring metal. The platformed bridge groans and breaks apart to different directions the moment the two spiders step on, its automatic interval moving like clockwork, until it slams in place with another platform for them to cross through. Irritation vibrates within the punk, pulsing through the air with every stride. Other spider-people step aside in reflexive caution as his anger licks their skin like a blazing fire.

“Bloody prick— how t’ hell’s he gon’ tell me how t’do me job. S’all done, innit? Makin’ it sound like ‘m gon’ fuck ev’rythin’ up from t’ get-go.”

Cassie trails behind in a skip-like jog, her footsteps drumming in tandem with Hobie’s stomps. “Miguel’s just under a lot of stress right now. There’s been a lot of anomaly outbreaks throughout the multiverse lately—”

“Don’t mean he can take that stick out his arse and try t’ beat me with it—”

“That’s not a fun visual to imagine…”

Silver sliding doors slam open when the teens approach it, revealing towering holographic screens and a control panel glowing in the dark. Each stomp from Hobie bounces against the walls until he yanks a rolling chair before the panel, flopping onto it with a grunt and leaning back on it.

“I should’ve just stayed home t’day.”

“Wouldn’t you have to give reports over there too?”

Hobie curses under his breath as he lolls his head over the top rail, his deep-set eyes cloaked in blue light from the screens. He stares back at the yellow spider, weary and solemn, before a sigh slips through his lips.

“Y’know what I mean, Cassie.”

With a shrug, she crosses through the control room with a skip to her step. “Either way, at least Miguel was happy with our reports—”

“That’s happy?”

Hobie blows a raspberry as he leans further back onto the chair. “If that’s him happy, then I can’t imagine what he’d look like when he’s ragin’. Bloody wanker lookin’ like he’s stuffed up in the arse crack—”

“Again, not a fun visual to imagine.”

Cassie’s face pinches into a grimace as her fingers fly towards a flashing keyboard. “But we did make a lot of progress for this mission, so Miguel should give us more leeway. We just gotta send out some quick reports of our findings to him before the next meeting—”

“Y’mean you are.” Hobie sits back up as more holographic screens flash in front of them. “I ain’t tryna talk t’ ‘im any more than I need t’, Cassie.”

“It’s really not that bad,” the yellow spider quickly types some coordinates, and the screens flicker to different street views. “You can just send a quick text or call to him whenever something new pops up—”

“Ain’t that what Lyla’s for?”

“She can only keep track of so much through her surveillance.” Cassie enlarges a few screens with a few taps on the keyboard. “Even without the potential EMIs throughout this world, Lyla still has to monitor the rest of the multiverse. Miguel’s gonna want her to look out for more anomalies for the rest of the society while we take care of any incoming issues here.”

Another scoff exhales through Hobie’s lips as he stares up at one of the screens, one of a familiar unmasked spider stepping out of the red-bricked apartment complex with a taller figure following behind. The punk swallows down a chortle as Miles grabs Mei by her jacket collar, the sight of her stumbling back a rare moment of her guard down.

“Ain’t it weird that he’s trustin’ us with it, though?” the punk muses. “He could’ve assigned this t’ one of t’ other members he picked up before us, yeah?”

“Jess is staying here as one of the moderators, so she’s busy screening potential members,” Cassie sighs as she zooms in on another screen. “Ben’s still on his own mission with…whatever he’s doing for Miguel. I’m sure he’ll tell me later.”

A noncommittal hum rumbles in Hobie’s throat as the screenshots of wanted posters pop up in smaller bursts in front of him. “ ‘N what about that one bloke, the one that’s always wearin’ t’ pink fuzzy dressin’ gown?”

Cassie’s fingers freeze over the keyboards. She stands before the punk like a statue, her face pinched into a slight frown.

“Mr. Parker—” her face grimaces even more before dropping— “is only part-time at the moment. He's been working out his schedule with Miguel since he found out he’s gonna be a father.”

Another dissatisfied hum rumbles from Hobie as he leans against the control panel. “He makes it seem like we got free time on our hands…”

“I mean, I kinda do…”

Hobie side glances Cassie with an unimpressed deadpan.

“What?” she shrugs as she enlarges one of the wanted posters. “I either do my patrols or go to school. There’s nothing wrong with that—”

“Ya need a hobby—’

“I have hobbies!”

“Readin’ ‘n watchin’ romance stuff ain’t enough,” Hobie scoffs. “Yer jus’ sittin’ ‘n usin’ yer eyes—”

“Hey, you liked Pride and Prejudice!” Cassie scoffs as she turns her attention back to the holographic screens. “Don’t just blow off Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth’s cinematic slow burn like it’s a trashy soap opera—”

Her words die as purple and blue lights flood over them and into the dark room. The first thing Hobie’s eyes land on from the screen is the glint of the clawed gauntlet, followed by hues of violet striking through black spandex. Sharp eyes stare back through the screen, almost taunting the teens, as the Prowler’s masked face looms over them. The punk glances back at the yellow spider, her eyes locked in on the screen with caution.

“…Somethin’ up with ‘im?”

Cassie presses her lips together into a thin line as smaller screens pop up around the still image. “No, it’s just…” A heavy sigh slips through her lips before she shrinks the image of the purple-clad rogue, “he just reminds me of someone I know.”

A low hum rumbles from the punk as he leans back on his chair again. “Overcompensatin’ with t’ gloves, ain’t he?”

Cassie sputters out a huff of laughter before clearing her throat. “There are actual functions for the gauntlets, Hobie.”

“Please,” the taller spider scoffs as he props his feet on top of the control panel. “They’re bulky, metal gloves with pink ooze ‘n cat claws.”

“They help with climbing—”

“As opposed t’ what, grapplin’ hooks? If anythin’, grapplin’ hooks would’ve been easier t’ carry than those bulky t’ings.”

“And they’re really dangerous during close combat—”

“So is a shiv or a broken beer bottle.”

“Are you actually judging a guy’s choice in aesthetic for his weapons?”

“Yes!”

“WHY?!”

“I can tell those are gon’ be a pain in the arse t’ maintain!” Hobie jumps from his seat as he bumps his hip against hers. His fingers type along the keyboard in a flurry until the screen of the wanted poster zooms in on one of the gauntlets. “D’ya understand how painstakin’ly tedious those claw-fingers would be t’ sharpen? ‘N don’t get me started on ‘em pistons! Those can probably get clogged with that pink shit in ‘em—”

“Okay, so you don’t like the mechanics of his gauntlets. Valid. But—!”

Cassie bumps Hobie out of the way as her fingers tap on the keyboard in a hurry, pulling up another screen with a surveillance video playing. The same man shrouded in purple and black charges at some unfortunate souls in black suits, his clawed gauntlets locked and ready to attack. Pops of gunfire reverberate against metal walls while the Prowler easily dodges them before slashing his sharp claws at the unfortunate targets.

“I don’t think anybody’s going to be judging his choice of weapons when he’s charging at them with ten knives for fingers!”

Hobie clicks his tongue as he flops back onto his seat. “They won’t be as scared if he ends up wit’ arthritis from ‘em t’ings. They can’t be good fer his wrists ‘n fingers, ‘specially if he’s like in his fourties—”

“Either way, he’s still somebody to worry about.” Cassie grimaces at the sight of the purple-clad rogue slashing an unfortunate goon down before the screen flickers to a live feed. “Not just with combat, but with technology too.”

The screen displays an overview of an urban neighborhood, with few cars passing by on the streets under flickering streetlights. More lights flicker from the keyboard after Cassie’s fingers as she resumes typing. “The fact he got access to the spider bots without triggering any safety protocols is still a big issue we should keep in mind.”

Hobie rumbles out a noncommittal hum as his eyes linger on the holographic screen.

“There’s always gotta be somethin’ with ‘em rogues, huh?” the punk muses. “Always somethin’ t’ muck everythin’ up fer us.”

With a slight shrug, Cassie waves her hands until the holographic keyboard disappears. “That’s what we’re here for, though. To make sure things get fixed up and put back into place.”

The screens flicker in set intervals, switching into random surveillance spots throughout the city. Normal civilians pass through the feeds, as if oblivious from being watched. Or maybe they’re simply used to it, what with some small robotic drones whirling by over the dispersed crowds.

Strangely enough, Hobie doesn’t remember seeing those when he’s there.

Blue light floods over both of the spiders as one of the larger screens flicker over to an occupied bus. Familiar braids sway under yellow-orange streetlights through dingy windows. Mei leans closer to Miles’s shoulder before he props an earbud in her ear. Blue light from Miles’s small handheld breaks through the amber lights, shining over both teens’ faces while they stare at the screen. Mei looks like a normal civilian like this, in her own little bubble with her best friend, oblivious to the world around her.

Hobie could almost forget that she was swinging around the city just an hour earlier.

“Even then though,” Cassie sighs as she stares at the screen, eyes locked onto the displayed duo, “we don’t know what’s going on with them. What makes them do the things they do. Or if they even want to do them…”

“…Cassie, I don’ t’ink t’is is t’ time fer me t’ have a philosophy class—”

“Well, too bad.”

The yellow spider rolls her eyes as she waves the screens away, plunging them into near darkness before soft amber lights creep into the room. “Food for thought, Hobie. You gotta see things in a different light sometimes. Not everything is gonna turn out the way you think.”

A low grunt rumbles in Hobie’s chest, a frown tugging his pierced lip. “I dunno, I t’ink I’ve gotten pretty good at readin’ people as of late—”

“And that’s how you get your butt kicked when you least expect it. Case in point—”

A tingle erupts along Hobie’s wrist before Cassie grabs it. She quickly pushes his sleeve up, revealing the numerous bruises along his skin as she gingerly twists his arm back and forth.

“Sandman did a number on you during your last patrol in Earth-318—”

Hobie winces with a pained grunt when Cassie presses her thumb against a purpling bruise along his wrist.

“—and you refusing to go to the med bay is making your injuries last longer than they should.”

Cassie winces at the sight of another blooming bruise along his elbow before she flexes her hand against it. A startled yelp erupts from the punk when sharp pain shoots up his arm after his joint pops. “Not to mention you still have to get checked out for that concussion Mei gave you—”

Hobie yanks his arm from the yellow spider with a pointed look, clutching it against his chest.

“I’m fine, Cassie. I don’ need ‘em fancy drugs Miguel cooks up pumped int’ me.”

“It’s not actually Miguel who makes them—”

“Either way, I don’ need ‘em!” Hobie holds his hands up, ignoring the pops reverberating up his spine as he starts to back away. “I can heal up jus’ fine. Always have. No point of havin’ a healin’ factor if I ain’t gonna use it, innit—?”

“That’s not the point.”

Cassie’s words echo against the metal walls. Jaw set, shoulders squared, body rigid— Cassie paralyzes the punk under her glassy scrutiny.

“You still have to worry about your universe. You think your band’s gonna be happy with you being too injured to fight?”

Her voice rises as she takes a step towards Hobie, forcing him to step back. Small shocks of amber flicker in her eyes with each step she stomps.

“Or that you’re willing to throw your life away because you’re too stubborn to see a doctor?”

A vein strains against Cassie’s throat as her words claw their way out through her mouth.

“Especially when you have access to healthcare? Free healthcare?!”

Hobie flinches from her sound argument, turning his head away from the dog-like glare from the yellow spider. A sharp stab blooms in his ego, stubborn pride warring with retrospective logic, but he bites his trigger-happy tongue from shooting too early.

His chest heaves before he lets out a relenting exhale through his nose.

“…I’ll go t’morrow if it gets worse.”

Cassie’s eyes instantly lighten up. A relieved smile soon follows.

“You better. I’ll be by your side until you’re cleared—”

“Cassie, yer not me mum. I can go by m’self—”

“But you’ll just skip it if you do.”

Damn it.

Hobie’s face pinches into a dissatisfied frown as Cassie circles around him with a knowing grin.

“Well,” the yellow spider shrugs as she backs away, fingers already padding along her metal watch, “either way, we got everything done for today. I need to head back home and pick up my little sister from daycare.”

“Yer really livin’ up that mother hen role, Cassie,” Hobie rolls his eyes with a snort before a swirling shock of orange and red pops up beside them. “Ya gotta get some hobbies fer yaself—”