Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“love is never logical. I know I could've stopped it all; god why didn't I stop it all?"
word count: 6,644.
summary: during your sixth year at hogwarts, an unlikely friendship forms between you and the charming, troublemaking lorenzo berkshire. what starts as constant teasing and study sessions slowly turns into something neither of you expected, leaving you to navigate feelings that are far more complicated that n.e.w.t.s.
author’s note: first chapter of my first enzo series! yes i'm quite aware a prologue is supposed to be short and quick, but alas I am a perpetual yapper who has absolutely no self-control, so please enjoy the lore and backstory between these two before things really start ramping up x
♫ logical - olivia rodrigo. nav. chapters. more enzo.
Sixth Year
Hogwarts Castle — Scottish Highlands, Scotland
Sixth year was supposed to be simple.
Study hard. Pass your N.E.W.T.s. Try not to get murdered by Hermione Granger's increasingly aggressive study schedules.
Reasonable goals, honestly.
Unfortunately, Hogwarts rarely cared about reasonable goals.
Breakfast in the Great Hall smelled like burnt toast, strong coffee, and the collective suffering of students surviving on four hours of sleep. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted windows overhead while owls swooped between tables delivering letters, parcels, and occasionally mild chaos.
At the Ravenclaw table, you were busy attacking a piece of toast with far more hostility than it deserved.
Across from you, Ginny watched for a moment before setting down her pumpkin juice.
"Why do you look like someone's spat in your coffee?"
You looked up immediately.
"Because Binns assigned us three essays before nine in the morning."
Ginny snorted.
"You love essays."
"That's not the point."
"You color-code your notes for fun."
"That's also not the point."
A few seats away, Hermione finally looked up from the alphabetized monstrosity she called a planner. She scanned the two of you over the top of her parchment before letting out a long-suffering sigh.
"Honestly, both of you sound ridiculous."
Ginny pointed dramatically across the table.
“See? She gets it.”
“No, I don’t,” Hermione corrected. “You’re enabling her theatrics.”
You pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense.
“Hermione Granger accusing me of theatrics is rich considering you once cried over an Arithmancy grade in fifth year.”
Hermione looked scandalized.
“I got a ninety-eight.”
“Exactly.”
Ginny burst out laughing while Hermione narrowed her eyes at you over the rim of her teacup.
“You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
Truthfully, breakfast with Hermione and Ginny had become one of your favorite parts of sixth year. Hermione brought structure. Ginny brought chaos. You mostly contributed sarcasm and snacks.
The arrangement worked surprisingly well.
“You’re both avoiding the real issue,” Ginny announced suddenly.
You frowned. “What real issue?”
“The fact the Lorenzo Berkshire has been staring at you for the last five minutes.”
You nearly inhaled your coffee.
Hermione immediately glanced toward the Slytherin table with all the subtlety of a Bombarda spell. “Oh dear.”
“Oh dear?” you repeated weakly.
“He’s absolutely looking at you.”
You grimaced. “Maybe he’s looking at someone behind me.”
“He’s not,” Ginny said.
“He could be.”
“He winked,” Hermione informed you helpfully.
You closed your eyes briefly.
Across the room, the Slytherin table erupted into laughter.
You still did not look over.
You refused to give him the satisfaction.
That was exactly what he wanted.
Lorenzo Berkshire had the sort of laugh that carried across a room. Loud enough to turn heads, charming enough that nobody seemed to mind. Unfortunately, half the female population of Hogwarts appeared to find that endearing.
The truly irritating part was that he was objectively attractive in the same way fire was objectively hot. Widely acknowledged. Scientifically verifiable. Potentially dangerous if handled incorrectly.
He was tall in a lazy sort of way, as though he'd never quite realized how much space he occupied. His uniform was perpetually untidy, sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows and tie loosened just enough to suggest he'd either come from Quidditch practice or a terrible decision.
Sometimes both.
Girls liked Lorenzo because he flirted shamelessly and made them feel chosen. Boys liked him because he was reckless and somehow impossible to genuinely dislike.
You disliked him anyway.
Mostly on principle.
Hermione gathered her books neatly into her bag before standing. “Come on. We’re going to be late for Charms.”
“We meaning you,” Ginny corrected. “Some of us weren’t cursed with responsibility.”
Hermione rolled her eyes fondly. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
The three of you moved through the crowded corridors together while students rushed toward class around you. Hermione walked with purpose like she always did while continuing a conversation about N.E.W.T.-level coursework.
You listened with half your attention until Hermione suddenly stopped speaking mid-sentence.
“What?”
Hermione's eyes flickered over your shoulder.
The look alone made your stomach sink.
"You've gained a shadow."
You already knew who it was before you turned.
Sure enough, Lorenzo appeared beside you a second later, grinning like he'd been personally invited to persistently annoy you.
You let out an immediate groan. “Go away.”
Instead of being offended, Lorenzo looked absolutely delighted.
“Good morning to you too, little raven.”
“I’d rather drink Acromantula venom than be called pet names by you.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“I’ve had time to think about it.”
Ginny made a loud, delighted sound of laughter, while Hermione—traitor that she was—looked far too entertained for someone who was supposed to be the voice of reason.
Lorenzo glanced between the group before focusing back on you. “You always this friendly in the morning?"
“Only with people I dislike.”
“Ouch.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “That one might’ve actually hurt.”
You finally glanced at him properly. “You’re literally smiling.”
“Maybe I enjoy it.”
“Well, that’s concerning.”
“The insults build character.”
“You seem overdeveloped already.”
That earned a real laugh from him—warm and surprised like he hadn’t expected you to keep up with him so easily.
Regrettably, Hermione noticed it too.
You saw the exact moment something clicked in her expression.
Merlin help you.
Hermione Granger with an idea was one of the most dangerous creatures alive.
“You know,” she said mildly, “I actually think you two would get along if you stopped bickering for one second.”
You and Lorenzo answered at the exact same time.
“No, we wouldn’t.”
The synchronicity alone was enough to send Ginny into hysterics.
Lorenzo looked vaguely offended.
“You wound me, Hermione.”
Hermione smiled innocently.
“Pity.”
“The bullying in this castle has become outrageous.”
“You started it,” you informed him.
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Approximately every time you speak.”
The thing was, Lorenzo shouldn't have been that attractive while carrying three textbooks under one arm and grinning like an idiot.
Yet somehow, tragically, he was.
By the time you reached the Charms classroom, you were already aiming for your usual seat by the window. Safe. Predictable. Strategically far away from distractions.
You had just settled in when Lorenzo dropped into the seat directly beside you.
You turned slowly to look at him.
“There are other chairs.”
“But this one’s closest to you.”
A strangled noise came from Ginny behind you. Hermione looked one second away from completely losing it.
“You’re insufferable,” you informed him.
“Only for you, love.”
Professor Flitwick clapped his hands together excitedly once everyone settled down.
“Good morning, class! Before we begin, I’ve decided students could benefit from collaborative seating arrangements this term.”
Your stomach sank.
Then he called your name.
“You will be seated beside Mr. Berkshire.”
For a moment, the world genuinely felt unfair.
Actually unfair.
Somewhere across the room, Theo Nott made a choking sound while Mattheo Riddle laughed into his sleeve.
Lorenzo turned to you with the expression of someone who had just won the lottery.
“Oh,” he said, delighted. “This is going to be fun.”
At first, it was just Charms.
Then it became study groups that you hadn’t exactly agreed to but somehow always ended up attending anyway.
Then, somewhere between shared parchment and late-night revisions, Lorenzo Berkshire stopped being an occasional nuisance and became a permanent fixture in your life.
It started, technically, with tutoring.
Or more accurately, it started with Lorenzo repeatedly refusing to leave you alone until you finally gave in out of sheer exhaustion.
“Just one hour,” you warned, already gathering your notes as you met him in the library later that week. You made a point of sounding firm, like there was any chance that would matter.
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair looking entirely too pleased with himself, as though he had just won something important.
“Knew you’d say yes.”
You didn’t even look up as you flipped open your book. “You know nothing about me.”
That finally made him pause. His gaze flickered toward you, and something about his expression softened in a way you weren’t prepared for.
“I think I’d like to,” he said.
It was simple. Casual, even.
It shouldn't have affected you the way it did.
Unfortunately, it absolutely did.
The first session was supposed to last an hour.
It turned into three.
Three turned into six over the course of the week.
And before you really had time to notice what was happening, Lorenzo had developed an alarming habit of appearing wherever you happened to be studying.
The library.
Empty classrooms.
Even once by the Black Lake between classes, as if he’d simply materialized there by coincidence and not intent.
At some point, you stopped asking how he kept finding you.
Then, somehow, it became normal for him to sit at the Ravenclaw table during breakfast, claiming he needed help with assignments he very obviously already understood.
“You realize you’re actually smart, right?” you asked one evening while going over Charms theory with him, watching him scribble notes with exaggerated seriousness.
Lorenzo looked up immediately, scandalized. “That’s a horrible thing to say to someone.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He placed a hand over his chest like you had wounded him deeply. “Don’t ruin my reputation.”
Despite yourself, you laughed.
The sound made something in the air shift.
Lorenzo went very still for half a second.
“What?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he said too quickly, already looking back down at his notes.
But after that, he looked at you differently.
Study sessions became routine.
Library corners tucked between shelves where no one bothered you. Empty classrooms after hours when the castle had gone quiet. Late nights in the common room when the fire burned low and time seemed to stretch.
You learned things about Lorenzo that didn’t fit the version of him people talked about in the corridors.
The strangest part was that he never seemed interested in proving them wrong.
Around everyone else, Lorenzo performed. He was charming because people expected him to be. Confident because it was easier than admitting when he wasn’t.
But around you, he was different.
Softer.
Almost like he had forgotten he was supposed to be pretending.
Beneath the charm and the arrogance, he was funny in a way that didn’t feel performative when it was just the two of you. Clever in a way people overlooked because he preferred deflecting with jokes instead of proving himself.
And he learned things about you too.
That your sarcasm wasn’t just attitude, it was armor. That you were sharper than you let people assume. That you could keep up with him—word for word, thought for thought—without ever really trying.
What surprised everyone else was how easily he started fitting into your life.
Lorenzo had always been someone people noticed. He entered rooms loudly, left them louder, and somehow managed to make every conversation revolve around him.
But with you, he stopped trying so hard.
He didn’t need an audience.
He didn’t need everyone laughing.
He just sat beside you in the library, stole your notes when he was bored, argued with your theories, and somehow became the person you expected to see whenever you walked into a room.
Somewhere in all of that, something shifted.
You weren’t sure when it happened.
Maybe it was during the nights when everyone else had gone to bed and the castle felt like it belonged only to the two of you. Maybe it was the way he started remembering small things without thinking—how you took your coffee, which quills you preferred, when you stopped talking because you were tired rather than because you were finished.
Or maybe it was simpler than that.
Maybe it was just the way he could make you laugh after a bad day without even trying.
The first time you noticed something was different was when someone else made him laugh.
It was ridiculous, really.
Lorenzo laughed with everyone.
That was what he did.
He was charming and easy and impossible not to like.
But when you saw another girl leaning against the doorway of the library, smiling at him the same way half the school did, something uncomfortable twisted in your chest.
You hated that you noticed.
You hated even more that he noticed you noticing.
Whatever it was, the result was the same.
You stopped dreading seeing him.
Then, worse than that, you started looking for him.
Which was a problem.
Because Lorenzo Berkshire was exactly the kind of person you had spent years convincing yourself you would never fall for.
Too charming.
Too confident.
Too impossible to ignore.
It was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
“You’re staring again,” you said one evening without looking up from your parchment, though you could feel his gaze from across the table in the library.
“I’m thinking,” Lorenzo replied easily.
“That’s concerning.”
“I think you’re pretty.”
Your quill nearly slipped from your fingers.
Across the table, Lorenzo was watching you like he already knew exactly what he’d done, and worse, like he was enjoying it.
“You can’t just say things like that,” you managed, forcing your attention back to your notes.
“Why not?”
The question came softly, almost genuinely curious.
“Because—”
You stopped.
Because what?
Because it made your chest feel tight in a way you didn’t have a name for? Because Lorenzo Berkshire flirted with half the school without consequence and you refused, absolutely refused, to become another girl who misread it? Because you had no interest in being someone he could smile at once and forget the next day?
You pressed your quill harder against the parchment than necessary.
Lorenzo leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table, still watching you.
“Cute,” he said.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
He said it so easily, so confidently, like it was simply a fact he’d already decided for both of you.
And the worst part was how sure he sounded.
Like he might actually be right.
The weeks that followed only made things worse.
Study sessions stopped feeling like something you endured and started becoming something you actually looked forward to. Somewhere between arguing over essays, sharing notes, and pretending not to laugh at Lorenzo’s increasingly ridiculous commentary, spending time with him became easy in a way you hadn’t expected.
The days seemed to pass faster when you knew you’d see him afterward. Shared jokes slipped naturally into conversation, inside references appeared without either of you remembering where they started, and small habits formed so quietly that neither of you ever acknowledged them aloud.
Yet somehow, despite all of that, the thing that unsettled you most was how normal it felt.
Lorenzo would save you a seat without asking. You would bring an extra scone to class because you already knew he’d forgotten breakfast. He’d lean over your shoulder to read something and remain there a second longer than necessary. You’d catch yourself looking for him whenever you entered a room.
And somewhere in between all of that, lingering glances started lasting a second too long to comfortably ignore.
By the time Lorenzo invited you to a Slytherin party, saying no felt strangely impossible.
Which was how you ended up making what would later prove to be a catastrophic decision.
The Slytherin common room looked nothing like the library where most of your time together had been spent.
Everything glowed beneath low enchanted lighting that cast shifting shades of green across the stone walls, making the room feel both softer and more dangerous at the same time. Music pulsed through the space while clusters of students crowded the room, dancing, laughing, and making the sort of decisions they would almost certainly regret by breakfast the following morning.
You stayed near the drinks table for as long as you could, fingers wrapped too tightly around a cup you weren’t even really drinking, wondering at what exact point your life had brought you here.
“You look terrified.”
The voice came from beside you.
You turned slightly to find Lorenzo leaning casually against the wall, looking completely at home in the chaos surrounding him. One shoulder rested against the stone while a familiar smile tugged at his mouth, as though he found your discomfort endlessly entertaining.
“I am terrified.”
His grin widened.
“Of me?”
“Of Slytherins.”
Lorenzo dramatically pressed a hand against his chest.
“That’s offensive.”
“You people are deeply unsettling.”
The laugh that escaped him was warm and entirely unapologetic.
Within minutes of arriving, the evening had already unfolded exactly as you’d expected. Pansy had offered you a shot with the enthusiasm of someone conducting a highly unethical scientific experiment. Theo had kissed you directly on the mouth for reasons he refused to explain and then disappeared into the crowd laughing. Blaise had taken one look at you before solemnly warning you to avoid the cupboard near the stairs without offering any additional information whatsoever.
You still weren't entirely sure whether he'd been joking.
Amidst the chaos, Lorenzo stayed close as though you might disappear if he let you out of his sight for even one second.
"You know," he said lightly, stepping closer as the crowd shifted around you, "you're here voluntarily."
You let out a quiet laugh.
“Not my finest moment,” you admitted.
That earned another grin.
"No," he agreed. "But definitely one of my favorites."
Your eyes narrowed.
"That wasn't even remotely smooth."
"It worked though."
Before you could argue, his gaze drifted over you for a moment before returning to your face.
"You look nice tonight."
The words were casual. The effect was anything but. Your pulse stumbled hard enough that you immediately hated yourself for it.
"Don't do that."
His brow lifted innocently.
"Do what?"
"Say things like that and then act innocent afterward."
Something flickered briefly across his expression before disappearing beneath a grin.
"I'm never innocent."
"That's exactly the problem."
His smile softened slightly.
"And yet," he murmured, voice quieter now, "you still came here with me."
You hated how much warmth that sent straight through your chest.
As the evening wore on, the noise gradually blurred together into something distant and indistinct. Time stopped feeling particularly linear. Music, laughter, conversations, and movement all folded together until the entire night felt hazy around the edges.
Through it all, Lorenzo remained beside you.
Sometimes it was a hand settling briefly against your lower back as he guided you through a crowded room. Sometimes it was his fingers brushing yours when he passed you another drink. Sometimes it was the way he leaned slightly closer whenever he spoke, forcing you to pay attention even when you were determined not to.
None of it should have mattered.
Unfortunately, all of it did.
Every touch felt intentional.
Every glance lingered just a fraction longer than necessary.
By the time you realized how isolated you had become from the rest of the party, you and Lorenzo were already standing near one of the quieter staircases, far enough away from the crowd that the music sounded distant.
The sudden quiet felt strangely intimate.
Earlier that night, when you’d been overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd and far too many people asking questions, Lorenzo had noticed before you said anything.
He always did.
He had quietly handed you a drink, guided you somewhere less crowded, and never once made you feel like you were difficult for needing a moment.
That was the dangerous thing about him.
He made it very easy to forget what everyone else said about him.
“You trust me?” Lorenzo asked quietly.
The question caught you off guard.
Not because the answer was difficult.
Because it wasn’t.
You did.
Somewhere between late-night study sessions and conversations that stretched long after they should have ended, Lorenzo had become the one person you never questioned.
“Yeah,” you admitted.
His expression changed slightly.
Like he hadn’t expected that answer.
Like your trust meant more than he knew what to do with.
Lorenzo kissed you carefully the first time.
Like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.
Like he wasn't entirely convinced this was real either.
Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt before you even realized what you were doing. His hand settled gently against your waist, steady and warm, and neither of you seemed particularly eager to be the first one to break apart.
The second kiss carried far less caution.
After that, everything became a blur of racing heartbeats, stolen breaths, and the quiet sound of his laughter against your mouth as though he still couldn't quite believe any of this was happening.
Later, when he led you through dimly lit corridors toward his dormitory, you knew you should've felt nervous.
Instead, you felt safe.
Which was somehow far more dangerous.
Because boys like Lorenzo were never supposed to feel safe.
They were supposed to be temporary. Exciting. The kind of mistake you laughed about years later while your friends reminded you they had warned you from the beginning.
Yet every time you looked at him, he seemed impossibly careful with you, as though he was handling something fragile, as though breaking your trust would be the worst thing he could possibly do.
When you finally stepped inside, he rested his forehead briefly against yours.
"Are you sure?"
The question was so quiet it almost hurt.
You hesitated, only for a second, but it was enough.
His expression softened immediately.
"You don't have to do anything," he said at once. "Seriously. We can just sleep. I don't mind."
That shouldn't have affected you as much as it did.
You laughed softly instead, mostly because your heart was beating too fast and you had no idea what to do with your hands.
"I'm fine."
Lorenzo studied your face carefully, like he was searching for something hidden there.
"You'd tell me if you weren't?"
"Yeah."
His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek.
"You nervous, little raven?"
"Just a little."
His smile softened.
"You don't have to be. Not with me. Never with me."
That should have been reassuring.
Instead, it made your chest tighten in a way you couldn't quite explain. Maybe because it sounded sincere. Maybe because, somehow, sincerity felt far more dangerous than charm ever had.
You swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden nervousness twisting in your stomach, but the words slipped out before you could stop them.
"I just... haven't done this before."
The silence that followed settled between you almost immediately.
For perhaps the first time in your life, Lorenzo looked completely stripped of every defense he possessed. The usual smirk was gone. So was the teasing confidence he wore so effortlessly. All that remained was a brief, startled stillness.
"Oh."
You immediately regretted saying anything.
"Please don't make it weird."
His eyes widened.
"Weird?" he repeated. "Sweetheart, I'm trying very hard not to go into cardiac arrest right now."
Despite yourself, you laughed.
The sound seemed to pull him back to earth. Some of the tension eased from his shoulders as he exhaled slowly, and when he looked at you again, his expression had softened even further.
"Do you trust me?" he asked again.
The question felt different this time than it had before.
Earlier, it had been easy—something asked between laughter, lingering glances, and almost-kisses. Now it carried a weight that made your chest tighten.
Because this wasn't flirting anymore.
And the awful truth remained exactly the same.
You trusted him completely.
Probably more than you should have.
"I trust you, Enzo."
Something shifted in his expression at that.
Whatever traces of teasing or performance remained seemed to fall away entirely. He reached for your hand slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to pull away before his fingers finally curled gently around yours.
"We go slow," he murmured. "And if you want me to stop, I stop. Alright?"
You nodded.
"No pretending you're fine if you're not."
"I know."
"You sure?"
A faint smile tugged at your lips.
"You ask that a lot for someone with such an enormous ego."
His laugh was soft and genuine.
Then he kissed you again, and this time everything felt different.
The kiss was slower, more careful, carrying a tenderness that made your chest ache. There was something almost reverent about it, as though he was taking his time, memorizing every detail instead of rushing past the moment.
And somehow, that felt more dangerous than anything else.
Because none of this felt casual anymore.
That was the problem.
Lorenzo Berkshire was supposed to be fun—a crush, a fleeting mistake, a cautionary tale you laughed about later.
Instead, he felt real.
Terrifyingly, undeniably real.
And afterward, tangled together beneath dark green sheets while moonlight spilled across the floor, Lorenzo brushed a strand of hair away from your face with a gentleness that didn't match a single rumor you'd ever heard about him.
"You alright, little raven?"
You nodded sleepily.
His smile softened.
It was the most unguarded you'd ever seen him.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The silence didn't feel awkward. It felt suspended, as though the world had briefly paused and forgotten to keep moving.
His fingers traced absent patterns along your waist while you rested against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
Eventually, his voice broke the quiet.
"You're thinking too much again."
You smiled.
"How can you tell?"
His fingers brushed lightly between your brows.
"You get this little line right here."
Your stomach flipped.
"You notice a lot about me."
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"I notice everything about you."
You turned slightly to look at him.
His hair was messy. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion. His shirt had vanished somewhere into the room without either of you remembering exactly when.
He looked unfairly beautiful.
And for reasons you couldn't fully explain, that realization scared you.
Not because you were afraid of him.
Because you were afraid of what this was becoming.
Somewhere between shared study sessions, stolen glances, and Lorenzo remembering exactly how you took your coffee without ever needing to ask, this had stopped being simple.
And judging by the way he was looking at you now, it had stopped being simple for him too.
That realization settled quietly between you.
And eventually, despite everything, you fell asleep anyway.
When you woke the next morning, sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains, washing the room in a pale, uncertain glow. For a few disorienting seconds, you remained suspended somewhere between sleep and memory, your mind struggling to place the unfamiliar warmth surrounding you.
Then Lorenzo shifted beside you.
His arm tightened instinctively around your waist, pulling you closer against his chest, and your breath caught immediately. The movement was so natural, so unconscious, that it felt intimate in a way you hadn't prepared yourself for.
Merlin.
Everything from the night before came rushing back at once.
His hands tangled in your hair. The softness of his voice whenever he asked if you were alright. The way he had looked at you afterward, with an expression far too sincere for someone like Lorenzo.
That was the part that lingered—not the kisses or the nerves, but the quiet tenderness in his eyes afterward. Something soft and unguarded that felt almost impossible from him, and somehow made your chest ache whenever you thought about it.
Like you mattered.
Like he was seeing something worth keeping.
Panic followed almost immediately.
Because Lorenzo was beautiful and funny and effortlessly charming in the way certain people simply existed in the world without trying. He was the kind of boy girls wrote poetry about in secret journals and cried over behind closed dormitory doors.
And you—
Godric.
You were already halfway in love with him.
The realization settled heavily in your chest, stealing the remaining traces of sleep. Dangerous didn't feel like a strong enough word for it. Dangerous implied there was still time to stop. This felt much worse.
This felt inevitable.
Carefully, you slipped out from beneath his arm, moving as slowly as possible while gathering your clothes from the floor. Every sound seemed amplified in the quiet room. The rustle of fabric. The creak of a floorboard. The nervous rhythm of your own heartbeat.
Lorenzo stirred once behind you, shifting deeper into the pillows, but he didn't wake.
You paused despite yourself.
For a moment, you simply looked at him.
Morning light softened the sharp edges of him. His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, his face relaxed in a way you almost never saw when he was awake. Without the constant smirk and easy confidence, he looked younger somehow. Less like the boy everyone knew and more like the one you'd slowly gotten to know over the past few months.
The one who remembered how you took your coffee.
The one who saved you a seat in the library without mentioning it.
The one who always seemed to notice when you were having a bad day before anyone else did.
For one reckless second, you almost climbed back into bed.
You almost let yourself stay.
Then common sense arrived and ruined everything.
You told yourself you only needed air. Five minutes to think. Five minutes to get your emotions under control before you did something completely humiliating, like confess your feelings to Lorenzo Berkshire after one night.
You weren't leaving him. Not really.
You just needed a few minutes to breathe, to untangle the mess of thoughts and feelings that had somehow taken over overnight. A little distance, a little clarity, and then you'd come back.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
You made it halfway down the corridor before realizing your necklace was still sitting on his bedside table.
With a quiet curse under your breath, you turned around.
The castle was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning as you retraced your steps, your shoes barely making a sound against the stone floor. By the time you reached the corridor leading to his dormitory, your embarrassment had faded enough that you were already mentally preparing yourself for the inevitable teasing.
You were only a few steps from the door when voices drifted through it.
You immediately recognized Mattheo's.
“Well, well,” he drawled, sounding far too amused for this hour of the morning. “Where’d your little raven disappear to?”
There was a pause.
A pause long enough that your heart almost betrayed you.
Because for one impossible second, you thought maybe he would say something.
Something that sounded like he missed you.
Something that sounded like last night mattered.
Inside the room, you heard movement. The rustle of sheets. Someone opening a drawer. The easy, familiar chaos of boys stumbling through another morning.
Then silence.
A brief pause settled over the room, as though everyone was waiting for an answer.
You should've kept walking. You should've turned around and given them the privacy of a conversation that was never meant for your ears.
Instead, you froze where you stood.
And then Lorenzo laughed.
The sound reached you before the words did, familiar enough that your chest tightened instinctively. Yet there was something different about it now. Not cruel, not deliberately unkind, but careless in a way that made your stomach sink. It was the easy, thoughtless laugh of someone who had no idea they were standing on top of a landmine, completely unaware of the damage they were about to cause.
"Don’t know,” Lorenzo said.
The answer came too quickly.
Too casually.
Like he was trying harder than usual to make it sound like he didn’t care.
“Don’t care.”
For a moment, your mind refused to make sense of the words. They seemed to hang suspended in the air between the door and the corridor, disconnected from meaning, disconnected from the boy who had spent the last several months tearing down your walls and becoming an essential part of your life.
There was a strange pause before he continued.
The kind of pause that made you wonder if maybe, for one impossible second, he was going to say something else.
Something honest.
"I got my dick wet and another name in the black book. That's all that really matters."
The world didn't shatter.
That would have been easier.
Instead, it felt as though something inside you simply went silent. Every thought vanished at once, chased away by a sudden rushing noise in your ears that drowned out everything else. Somewhere inside the dormitory, Mattheo laughed. Someone said something in response. A few more voices joined in.
You barely heard any of it.
The corridor suddenly felt impossibly long and strangely unreal, as though you were standing outside your own body watching the scene unfold from somewhere far away.
Because the worst part wasn't even what he'd said.
It was how effortlessly the words had left his mouth.
There was no hesitation. No discomfort. No indication whatsoever that the night you'd spent replaying in your head since waking up had meant anything to him beyond a passing amusement.
Of course.
Of course you'd gotten it wrong.
You had mistaken something real for something temporary.
And somehow, that hurt worse.
You had taken every smile, every lingering glance, every moment of softness and built an entire story around it without realizing you were the only person living inside that story.
Lorenzo had never promised you anything.
He had never asked you to fall for him.
You had simply filled in the blanks yourself.
Another name in the black book.
The phrase echoed relentlessly through your mind, growing sharper each time it repeated itself. Not a girl he cared about. Not someone worth remembering. Just another story. Another tally mark. Another name scribbled into a collection that meant far more to him than you ever had.
You stood there for another second, perfectly still, afraid that if you moved too quickly whatever fragile thing was holding you together might finally splinter apart.
Then, before anyone could open the door and find you standing there, you took a slow step backward. Another followed after that, and then another, each one carrying you farther away from the room, farther away from the boy you'd trusted far more than you should've.
And before anyone could hear it happen, you walked away and let your heart break somewhere else.
The next Charms class felt unbearable in a way you could never have prepared for.
You arrived early, choosing a seat near the middle of the room where it would be easy to stare straight ahead and pretend you weren't waiting for something you already dreaded. The classroom gradually filled around you with the usual morning noise, students chatting as they unpacked books and compared homework, but none of it managed to settle the knot that had been sitting in your stomach for two days.
Lorenzo arrived a few minutes later.
He looked exactly the same as he always did. Relaxed. Effortlessly composed. Infuriatingly handsome in a way that now felt almost cruel. There were no visible signs that anything had changed for him, no indication that the night replaying endlessly in your head had followed him into the daylight at all.
Then he saw you.
His expression shifted immediately, the easy smile disappearing almost as soon as it appeared.
"Hey," he said carefully as he slid into the seat beside you. "You disappeared pretty quickly the other night."
You didn't look at him.
Instead, you kept your eyes fixed on the front of the classroom, your posture rigid and controlled. The distance between you felt deliberate now, every inch of it carefully maintained. You were suddenly grateful for the desk separating you because it gave your hands somewhere to hide while your pulse hammered beneath your skin.
Beside you, Lorenzo frowned.
"Y/N?"
Slowly, you turned your head.
And when you finally spoke, your voice came out calm enough to surprise even yourself.
"Well," you said evenly, "you got an easy fuck and another name for your book."
The effect was immediate.
Every trace of color drained from his face as though someone had physically struck him. His entire body went still, eyes locked on yours in complete disbelief.
"In the end," you continued quietly, refusing to let your voice shake, "that's all that really matters, right?"
For the first time since you'd met him, Lorenzo looked entirely stripped of the things that usually defined him. There was no charm, no confidence, no easy grin waiting to smooth everything over. There was only horror.
"You heard that?"
You looked away before he could see anything else in your expression.
"No."
The lie was pathetic. You both knew it.
He leaned toward you immediately, panic flashing across his face. "Wait—"
"No."
"It wasn't—"
"I genuinely do not care."
The words tasted bitter the second they left your mouth. You cared so much it felt impossible to breathe around it.
"That's not true," he said instantly.
His voice sounded different now. Tighter. Stripped raw of all the effortless confidence he usually wore like armor. For once there was no performance in it, no carefully crafted charm. Just uncertainty and something dangerously close to desperation.
"You think I meant that?" he asked.
You stared straight ahead at the blackboard.
"I think," you interrupted quietly, "that you should leave me alone."
And for once, Lorenzo had no clever response.
No joke.
No charm.
No perfectly timed smile to make everything disappear.
Because he had spent months convincing you that he was different.
And somehow, in one stupid sentence, he had proven he wasn’t.
"Little raven—"
"Don't call me that."
The words landed harder than you intended, sharp enough that he physically flinched.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Professor Flitwick swept into the classroom, and whatever chance there had been to fix it vanished.
Lorenzo tried anyway.
He cornered you after class, apologizing before you'd even made it through the doorway. He found you after dinner. Waited outside the library. Appeared after Quidditch practice with increasingly frantic attempts to explain himself.
You ignored every single one.
At first he seemed convinced he could fix it if he just found the right words. Then the days stretched into weeks, and the determination slowly faded into something quieter. Eventually, painfully, he stopped trying.
The year moved forward without him in it.
You stayed with Hermione and Ginny, building a life out of routines and coursework and friendships that didn't require you to think too hard about what you'd lost. Lorenzo stayed with Theo and Mattheo, surrounded by laughter that sounded too easy to mean anything and girls who still looked at him like he hung the stars.
Sometimes, despite your best efforts, you caught him looking at you across classrooms or crowded corridors.
The expression was never the one you remembered.
The smugness was gone. The flirtation too.
Instead, there was something heavier in its place. Something that lingered a little too long to be casual and looked far too much like regret.
It didn't matter.
At least that was what you told yourself.
Because regret couldn't change what you'd heard.
Regret couldn't make you unhear it.
And regret certainly couldn't put back the pieces of something you'd been foolish enough to believe was real.
Then he graduated.
Then you did.
Then life happened the way it always does, carrying you forward whether you were ready or not.
Years passed. Cities changed. People came and went.
And eventually Lorenzo Berkshire became something you learned to lock away carefully, buried beneath distance and time and the stubborn insistence that you were perfectly fine without him.
Until Hermione got engaged.
And suddenly, after nearly a decade of pretending he was just a memory, the boy who broke your heart at sixteen was standing across a ballroom looking at you like he had never once forgotten how to hold it.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
been through some bad shit, i should be a sad bitch.
—— who would've thought it'd turn me to a savage?
summary: 'girls come and go, but boys are forever?' mkay. we'll see about that.
word count: 2.5k
soundtrack: sorry not sorry - demi lovato
author's note: @puddlesoffrogs thinks this reader is toxic. i personally think her actions are completely reasonable 🙂↕️
The words spilled from Mattheo’s mouth like poison, and three things happened immediately.
First, you couldn’t remember how to breath; the single thing your body was designed to do automatically was suddenly broken.
Next, you felt a scream, a cry in your throat ripping through you, gaining momentum as it pinged off every place you felt pain, which was everywhere.
And third, you felt the molten hot touch of anger, of rage, of shame for being hopelessly, soul-crushingly in love with him when he could turn around and say, “You’re great, I’m just… not feeling it. It’s about to be summer, you know? Better to let us have our own fun.”
As if this somehow benefited you too.
As if he wasn’t crumbling the very walls of the world around you as he confirmed what you’d always feared: the two of you were grossly mismatched. He was the prince of the school, he was smirked lips, a cigarette between his fingers, ice cold stares and hands that ran hot over your body. He was stolen glances and whispered promises, lies you now realized.
"You’re fucking perfect."
"You’re all I can think about."
Though never those three big words. And by the grace of Salazar you’d held them in too, even though you felt them, and would have sold them to him for a kiss and a prayer.
And you?
You were lovely in your own right, relatively popular, but it was no secret that you and Mattheo had caught everyone by surprise. You had been cautious, careful, wary at first but logic and reason soon gave way to desire, too content with his attention and the way his lips captured yours, the way he’d hold your chin in place, captivating you, to think through the consequences.
So you came to define yourself by him. Who were you? Riddle’s girl. A Slytherin, a libra, sure, but you were first and foremost Riddle’s girl.
Until you weren’t.
People walking by eyed your conversation with low whispers as they passed and Mattheo took a quick drag of his dwindling cigarette before dropping it to the floor and crushing it, like your heart.
You still couldn’t find your breath and you still couldn’t find your words and the world began to blur behind fat tears you didn’t want him to see, so you held your head high, pushed past him, and walked away.
If you’d learned anything in your time as his girlfriend, in the year spent with his group of friends, it was the art of hiding your emotions behind an implacable facade.
Mattheo stuck his tongue into his cheek, his eyes narrowing at your reaction, as he watched you walk away from him, forgetting that there were several other things they had taught you as well.
Anger.
How to hold a grudge.
And revenge.
You stumbled into your room, slamming the door behind you and wiped furiously at the tears that refused to stop pouring, hiccupping as you fought against your body’s every desire to break down.
You were taking gasping breaths, trying to find your air as you paced back and forth, your eyes squeezed shut, your mind a whirlpool of painful memories, trying to dissect what had ever been true and what had been a lie and failing miserably.
Then, a particular memory appeared like a spell.
Enzo breaking up with some girl last year, her running from the Great Hall, the way her cries echoed off the stone walls as he nonchalantly grabbed a roll and stuffed it in his face.
Your eyebrow quirked; were they really all so heartless?
"Better to cut if off now," he said, emotionless. "She was far too into me. I mean, do I look like I’m settling any time soon?"
He'd laughed.
The guys had laughed along with him.
You rolled your eyes.
"Girls come and go," Theo agreed, "But boys are forever" he smirked, raising his glass as they all shared a toast.
Mattheo had at least had the decency to press a kiss to your cheek, which made you think you were somehow exempt, above their rule of law and the loyalty that held them together.
You stopped pacing and slumped into your chair as you stared out the window, tears drying as you watched the late spring sun settle into the highlands.
Slowly, ever so slowly as you watched it disappear, setting the world in an unforgiving darkness, your agony gave way to something new, something iron hot.
You stood, grabbed your quill, and ripped a piece of parchment haphazardly as you steadied yourself enough to write with such force you nearly tore through the page.
1. Blaise
2. Draco
3. Lorenzo
4. Theo
A slow smile crested your lips.
Mattheo was well practiced in exuding indifference. But he’d be lying if he said your reaction didn’t bother him.
He thought he was ready to let it go, to get on with his summer, to get the fuck out of Hogwarts and get into some proper debauchery with his friends. But he’d been with you longer than anyone else and as such he’d been steeling himself for you to scream, to cry, to fight back, to call him names, to hex him, to beg him to stay. But he got nothing. And that left him in a mental pretzel.
He twiddled with his lighter.
He’d already checked and you’d blocked him on every social.
He nudged Blaise. “Give me your phone.”
Blaise side eyed him, ready to argue, before Mattheo plucked it out of his hands.
He opened the first app he could find and searched your name.
Nothing.
“She’s off the grid, mate. Think she deleted everything.”
"Hmpf." He tossed the phone aside and lay his head back on the common room couch.
Two nights later you were home, sitting amongst your trunk and a pile of clothing, unpacking for the summer, when Mattheo texted you.
"Ifcked up. Canwe tkl?"
Drunk.
Your fingers hovered over your phone and you thought about it, really thought about it for several moments, because isn't this exactly what you wanted? To talk? To get him back?
You bit your bottom lip.
No.
What you wanted was never to have had your heart shattered in the first place. What you wanted was for the ache in your chest to dissipate, to go fifteen minutes without crying, to stop replaying every moment of the last year with him on repeat.
What you really, truly wanted was for him to feel a modicum of the pain you felt now.
(1) BLAISE ZABINI.
Blaise was easy.
He was the kindest of the group, the one you were closest to. It almost made you feel bad.
Almost.
He had texted you immediately the day Mattheo had broken up with you to make sure you were okay, and within a week he stopped by your house to check on you. You opened the door, a wobbling pout on your lips.
“Ah, dammit, come here” he’d said, welcoming you into his strong arms.
He was warm from the sun and smelled clean and fresh. You found genuine comfort in his embrace but you pulled back slowly, your cheeks brushing, and you turned your head to press your lips to his before either of you could think about it.
You waited for him to pull back.
He didn’t.
You let it linger, feeling him return the gentle pressure. And then...
“Oh, gods, I’m-I’m so sorry, Blaise. I’m such a mess” you said, pulling back and covering your face with your hands, feigning embarrassment. "Please let’s forget that ever happened."
“Yeah, n-no worries, it’s alright YN” he conceded, a smile on his lips.
(2) DRACO MALFOY.
Draco was going to be harder.
He was shrewd... but he was also soft and it was far too easy to bump into him in the small town not far from his parents' place.
He, too, managed to have compassion for you in his cloudy grey eyes and one drink together at the pub on the corner turned into two, as you gently, easily stroked his ego, and fed him the praise you knew he so desperately adored.
“Surely they’ll make you head boy next year, Draco, there’s no one better suited to it. You’re the smartest, most cunning of our class.” You smiled at him under lidded eyes, moving to adjust his collar, letting your fingers brush his throat where you saw his adam’s apple bob.
You reached onto tiptoes and let your lips slide over his, soft and warm. He squeezed your waist, clearly struggling to decide whether to pull you in or push you away.
You stepped back, enjoying how starstruck he looked as you bit your lip flirtatiously.
“Enjoy your summer, Draco” you said, before sauntering away.
(3) LORENZO BERKSHIRE.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t leaving Enzo as a little treat for yourself.
You planned a girls' night out that just so happened to be at his favorite club in London on the same night that his favorite DJ was playing. What were the odds!?
Then, you bumped into him like it was the purest coincidence on the outskirts of the dancefloor and he forgot not to stare as his jaw dropped and eyes blew wide. He’d never seen you like … this: skin aglow, a carefree smile, flushed cheeks and glossed lips, bright eyes that twinkled when they saw him, and as predicted he was thinking with his dick long before he knew what hit him. You were hot, like hot hot, he’d always thought so but now … now you were broken up, single, right? And you were looking at him like maybe the exact same thing was going through your mind.
It went a little further than you expected.
One minute you were hugging each other, laughing at the coincidence, and within 22 minutes his tongue was down your throat as he lifted you and pressed you into the wall as his hand swirled beneath your dress.
You left that night laughing, dizzy, and buzzed.
(4) THEODORE NOTT.
Theo was always going to be the hardest.
He wasn’t your friend like Blaise, he wasn’t soft like Draco and he wasn’t easy like Lorenzo; he was Mattheo’s best friend and he wasn’t going to fall for your bullshit.
But a year in his presence taught you exactly what made him tick; you knew his likes, his dislikes, his weaknesses, his fantasies, it’s amazing what guys will say after a few too many whiskeys late into the night.
So on a Sunday afternoon at the coffee shop in Little Italy next to the best bakery in town while wearing a dress that screamed summer in Positano that sat high on your thighs, with strappy sandals, a tinted lip and winged eyeliner you knew you had him the second he saw you.
"YN?" He asked. "What are you doing here?"
His voice was accusatory like you had encroached on his space, but he couldn’t hide the way his dark eyes landed on every inch of you, like he wanted to look away but couldn’t.
"I was thinking of you, actually" you admitted sheepishly. "You always talked about this place, I thought I’d tried it and see if the espresso was as good as you said it was..." You paused for dramatic effect, let your eyes fall, your lip quiver. "I can get it to go–"
"–No, no, sit, you can’t drink it out of plastic" he said vehemently, pulling out the seat beside him.
For a few moments it was uncomfortably quiet. You took small sips, set your cup down. The cafe was small, and you were pressed nearly shoulder to shoulder. You mustered your courage and turned to look at him; at this distance you could smell him like cigarettes and cologne, could feel his warmth against you.
"Theo," you started quietly. "For what it's worth, I never believed what Mattheo said about you."
He reared back, confused.
You continued, mirroring his confusion. "You know, that you only get girls because your Italian? And they think it’s exotic and–"
"–He said that?" He muttered, genuine hurt in his voice that you told yourself you'd feel bad about later because that hurt, that vulnerability was all you needed.
You leaned in quick, chaste, pressing your lips to his and then pulling away, even though you felt his fingers lingering on your thigh.
"I said too much, I should go" you muttered, rising to leave before he could stop you.
You waited until you rounded the corner to smile.
Your silence that summer drove Mattheo absolutely crazy.
And for some reason his friends seemed awfully quiet too.
He was actually looking forward to coming back to school, to getting his head on straight.
Until you passed him in the hall.
"YN?" he said before he could stop himself, more of an outward expression than an effort to get your attention, because you looked… great.
“Hi, Mattheo” you said, warm and genuine.
“Have a good summer?" he asked.
“A really great summer, actually! Just busy, full of fun, tried a lot of new things" you swallowed your smiled. "You?"
“Yeah, a bit quiet" he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know, the guys were busy..."
Got him.
"Yeah, Enzo’s trip to Ibiza sounded amazing though" you quipped.
His eyes shot to yours. He didn’t know Enz went to Ibiza.
"And Theo finally getting to see his family on the Med?" you continued, unwavering, "Plus Blaise and Draco seeing Mumford and Sons? I die! About time, don’t you think?"
Mattheo's eyes narrowed. He didn’t know any of that. And if you weren’t even on socials… how did you...?
You could see the gears turning.
“...I didn’t know” he admitted.
“Oh!” you feigned a look of genuine surprise before you pursed your lips innocently. "But Mattheo," you said curiously, stepping towards him, getting right up in his grill as you reached to straighten his tie, "I thought you and your friends were inseparable? What was it? Girls come and go but boys are forever? Or is that that just what you tell yourselves about your loyalty to one another?"
Your eyes met his and burned hot with a fire he could feel coming off of you that made his heart drop into his stomach.
“Perhaps they’re not as loyal to you as you think” you whispered against his ear, before letting go of him with a light shove and brushing past him.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” he shouted after you.
You smirked without turning around.
That night each of the boys sat on their respective four poster beds in amiable silence; on their phones, flipping through the Quidditch Times. Mattheo twirled his lighter in his fingers, faster, faster, faster, stewing as he side-eyed the boy to his left.
If looks could kill, there would be nothing but a pile of ash on Lorenzo Berkshire’s bed, because Mattheo knew it was him who betrayed him. He knew he eye-fucked you constantly, knew he had next to no morals to begin with. His fingers itched for his wand but before he could think better of it he erupted.
“The fuck happened with you and YN?” he said loudly, angrily, like a growl. His hands and eyes stayed on his lighter in an effort not to kill his alleged best friend.
The room quieted to the creak of a single floorboard and the echo of laughter down the hall.
No one so much as breathed.
And then.
“Look—”
“Mate—”
“She!—”
“Amico…”
His head wrenched up to see all four of his friends, eyes wide, staring back and forth at each other, before looking back at him.
Draco was as red as an apple.
Blaise was visibly sweating.
Lorenzo wore a lazy pout, not nearly as upset as he should be.
And Theo looked down at his hands.
The sum total of everyone Mattheo cared about, everyone he trusted was in this room. And as an uncomfortable silence echoed around him he realized with an aching heart that in a single summer he’d not only lost the only girl he’d ever loved, but he lost the loyalty and trust of the only brothers he’d ever known.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“i'm so glad we made it; look how far we've come, my baby."
word count: 7,305.
summary: you and theo grow from uncertainty, fear, and past trauma into a steady, deeply devoted partnership built on trust and unconditional love. surrounded by close friends and shared history, you create a chaotic but warm life centered on healing, chosen family, and learning to accept happiness without fear.
author’s note: this is it, folks. thank you so much for reading. truly this series was so much fun to write and I loved bringing these characters to life. hope you enjoyed the journey. as always, thank you for reading ♡
♫ you're still the one - teddy swims. nav. chapters. more theo.
Present
October 10, 2006
Hawthorne House — Richmond upon Thames, London
Theo had been pacing for nearly twenty minutes.
Back and forth across your bathroom floor, through the bedroom, then back again, like somehow wearing a path into the hardwood floor might prepare him for whatever came next.
You, meanwhile, sat calmly on the edge of the marble counter, wand in hand, watching your husband unravel with an almost fond sort of affection.
There was something achingly endearing about seeing Theodore Nott, who had once faced down ancient pureblood politics and family trauma with sharp and cold precision, now looking moments away from collapse over a diagnostic spell.
“Theo.”
He didn’t stop pacing.
“Teddy.”
“How are you calm right now?” he demanded, his voice pitched somewhere between genuine panic and personal betrayal.
You blinked at him.
“Because panicking won’t change the outcome?”
Theo looked borderline scandalized.
“I can’t believe I married someone capable of being rational during a crisis.”
You would’ve laughed if he didn’t look so genuinely terrified.
His curls were already a mess from repeatedly dragging his hands through them, his white shirt wrinkled, and his usually composed demeanor had all but disintegrated entirely.
He looked beautiful like this, somehow. Human. Open.
“What if I’m awful at this?” he blurted suddenly, his voice cracking in a way that made your heart ache. “What if I completely cock it up?”
You stilled.
“Babe.”
“I’m serious,” he said, turning to you fully now, his expression wide and fragile in ways he only ever allowed himself to be with you. “What if our child hates me? What if I’m too much like him?”
And there it was.
Not the fear of fatherhood itself.
Fear of inheritance.
Fear that somewhere deep beneath all his healing, all his love, all the years he had spent carefully rebuilding himself from the ruins of boyhood, there were still fractured pieces of his father waiting to resurface.
Your heart broke for him then.
Not because you doubted him. Never that.
But because even now, after everything, some wounded part of him still questioned whether he was worthy of the beautiful life you had built together.
“Oh, Teddy.”
You stood without hesitation, crossing the room and gently taking his face in your hands before he could retreat too far into the dark corners of himself.
“You are nothing like him,” you said softly, firmly, your voice steady with the kind of certainty only love could forge. “Nothing.”
Theo’s breath stuttered, but uncertainty still flickered in his glassy eyes.
“How can you be so sure?” he whispered.
You brushed your thumbs lightly beneath his eyes, your own throat tightening.
“I’m sure,” you whispered, “because I’m bringing a child into this world with the man that I love.”
Theo went perfectly still.
“A man who has proven time and time again how fiercely and deeply he loves the people he cares about.”
His breath caught so sharply it was almost painful to hear.
“Theo,” you whispered, your own voice trembling now. “I’ve watched you love with your whole heart. I’ve watched you fight for me. For our family. For our friends. I’ve watched you heal wounds you didn’t create. I’ve watched you become the gentlest parts of yourself, over and over again.”
Tears welled in his eyes then, quiet and shining and devastating.
“You are kind,” you continued softly. “You are patient. You are protective. You are so full of love, Teddy. More love than you even know what to do with sometimes.”
His expression crumpled slowly, beautifully.
“I’m not scared,” you continued, your own tears gathering now, “because I know that our child is going to be loved beyond measure. I know they are going to have a father who would move mountains for them.”
Your fingers trembled slightly against his cheeks.
“You’re going to be an amazing dad, Theo.”
For a moment, he simply stared at you.
Like he still couldn’t quite comprehend how he had ever gotten lucky enough to be loved like this.
Then his forehead dropped to yours, and the shaky breath that left him sounded heartbreakingly close to a sob.
“You really believe that?” he whispered.
“With everything I have.”
Theo let out a watery, fragile laugh, his hands finding your waist like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
“Merlin,” he murmured shakily. “I love you so much.”
You smiled softly through your own tears.
“I know, baby.”
That pulled another laugh from him, smaller this time, but fuller.
Like your certainty was slowly stitching him back together in real time.
“You make me want to be better than I ever thought I could be,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion.
“You already are.”
And perhaps that was the thing.
Theo had spent so much of his life terrified that love would someday force him to become his father.
But standing here, wrapped in your steady devotion, your unwavering faith, and the beautiful future you had built together from every shattered piece of your shared past, he finally understood something profound.
Love had not made him his father.
Love had made him something entirely new.
Your diagnostic spell shimmered softly then, golden light curling around your stomach in delicate strands.
Both of you froze.
Theo looked genuinely seconds away from fainting.
You glanced down.
Then up.
And smiled.
Theo stared at the glow as though his entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.
“You’re pregnant,” he whispered, sounding utterly awed.
You laughed softly through sudden tears.
“I’m pregnant.”
For one perfectly suspended, sacred second, he simply stared.
Then Theo made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob before dropping to his knees in front of you, his trembling hands settling so reverently against your stomach as though he already understood something miraculous lived there.
“Oh my god,” he breathed.
Tears spilled freely now, unchecked and overwhelming.
“We’re having a baby.”
You carded your fingers through his curls, crying now too, though your laughter softened it.
“We are.”
Theo pressed a reverent kiss just below your navel, his voice cracking entirely.
“Hi, amore.”
That absolutely shattered you.
Because suddenly this wasn’t fear anymore.
This wasn’t uncertainty.
This was Theo.
Your Theo.
Loving your child before they had even taken their first breath.
When he looked back up at you, his face tearstained and radiant, there was no fear left.
“We made something,” he said, half laughing through tears. “You and me.”
You smiled down at him, your hand cradling his cheek.
“Yes,” you whispered. “We made something beautiful, my love.”
Theo rose then only to pull you impossibly close, holding you like the most precious thing he had ever known.
And perhaps you were.
His wife.
His home.
The mother of his child.
The love that had rewritten his entire life.
He cupped your face with both hands before kissing you with tearful, overwhelming tenderness.
“I can’t wait,” he whispered against your skin, his voice trembling with emotion. “I can’t wait to start a family with you.”
Your arms tightened around him instantly.
“I’m so glad we get to do this together.”
“Together,” he repeated softly, like it was the greatest comfort he had ever known.
And maybe it was.
Because for the first time, fatherhood didn’t feel like something terrifying and impossible. It felt like another great love story waiting to be written.
And Theo, with you in his arms and your child growing between you, had never felt more ready.
Present
February 14, 2007
Hawthorne House — Richmond upon Thames, London
Theo approached your pregnancy with the intensity of a man who genuinely believed the universe had entrusted him with its most precious miracle.
You were not, under any circumstances, allowed to lift anything heavier than a teacup if your husband happened to be nearby.
“Teddy,” you said flatly one morning as he swiftly confiscated a basket of freshly folded laundry from your arms, his brows furrowed like you’d been caught attempting something deeply reckless. “I’m pregnant, not terminally ill.”
Theo looked entirely unrepentant.
“Yes, but why risk it?”
You stared at him.
He stared right back, utterly sincere.
He was impossible.
Endlessly attentive, absurdly overprotective, and so hopelessly devoted that even your most irrational hormonal outbursts rarely stood a chance against his patience.
When you burst into tears because your toast had, in your own words, “felt emotionally disappointing,” Theo didn’t laugh.
He simply frowned with heartbreaking seriousness, kissed your temple, and marched back into the kitchen to make you an entirely new breakfast while muttering something in Italian about how no wife of his would ever suffer subpar toast.
When you snapped at him for breathing too loudly while you were attempting to nap, he blinked once, quietly apologized, and then proceeded to breathe so cautiously afterward that you eventually dissolved into guilty, teary laughter.
And when your emotions overwhelmed you for no discernible reason at all, when your body ached and your patience wore thin and everything simply felt like too much, Theo never once made you feel burdensome.
He was just there.
Steady hands.
Soft kisses.
Endless reassurance.
For all his dramatics, Theo loved you through pregnancy with a kind of quiet, unwavering tenderness that made even your hardest days feel a little softer.
Your life, however, was anything but quiet.
Hermione was pregnant again, radiant and mildly exasperated as she balanced Ministry reforms, healer appointments, and a rambunctious Scorpius while Draco hovered over her with nearly as much intensity as Theo hovered over you.
Padma, on the other hand, spent most social gatherings chasing after her impossibly fast twins Rohan and Rhea, while Blaise trailed after her looking equal parts besotted and deeply betrayed by how much chaos two toddlers could create.
Pansy had become fully consumed by wedding planning, which mostly consisted of terrorizing florists, threatening caterers, and somehow still finding time to critique everyone’s fashion choices.
Frankly, it was exhausting just watching her.
And once your pregnancy was announced, the snakes became absolutely insufferable.
What began as excitement rapidly devolved into an increasingly aggressive competition over who would become your child’s favorite.
“Do you think a vineyard is an appropriate gift for a newborn?” Mattheo asked one afternoon with startling sincerity as though this were a perfectly reasonable question.
You stared at him.
“The baby can’t legally own land, Mattheo.”
He frowned thoughtfully.
“Right. I’ll put it in trust, then.”
Not to be outdone, Draco looked almost offended by Mattheo’s lack of ambition.
“A vineyard is hardly memorable,” he scoffed. “I’ll buy the child a castle.”
You blinked slowly.
“Draco,” you said flatly, already developing a headache. “What in Merlin’s name is my unborn child supposed to do with an entire castle?”
Pansy, typically immune to the constant pissing contest between the men she called friends, had apparently gone mad with baby fever as well.
“A castle is nothing,” she said with a flippant wave of her hand. “My goddaughter deserves nothing but the best. A palace will be suitable, at the very least.”
From across the room, Blaise barely looked up from his drink.
“Shall I request a refund on the chateau, then?”
Padma, who was disentangling one twin from the curtains while the other attempted to eat decorative sugar roses, sighed deeply.
“He’s not joking.”
Theo, naturally, was horrified.
“My daughter will not be bribed with real estate.”
“She absolutely is,” Draco replied.
“She deserves options,” Mattheo added.
“She deserves peace,” Theo shot back.
You, meanwhile, were laughing too hard to be remotely helpful.
Despite their relentless efforts, expensive promises, and deeply unnecessary attempts at outdoing one another, fate seemed to have its own sense of humor.
Because the first person your daughter kicked for, beyond you and Theo, was Enzo.
Quiet, reliable, deeply unbothered Enzo who had simply placed a hand on your stomach during dinner while everyone else was mid-argument over whose estate would make the superior summer holiday destination.
The kick was immediate.
Enzo froze.
The entire table fell silent.
“Well,” Blaise said at last, sounding personally betrayed. “That’s frankly humiliating.”
Draco looked horrified.
“Surely she merely startled.”
Mattheo looked ready to dispute biology itself.
“Traitor,” he whispered begrudgingly at your belly.
Enzo, to his credit, only blinked once before smirking with infuriating calm.
“She clearly has excellent taste.”
You laughed so hard you nearly cried, while Theo pressed an affronted kiss to your temple and muttered darkly about how your daughter was already testing his patience.
Every evening without fail, though, Theo still knelt before you with the same reverence he had once reserved for life-altering confessions.
His hands would gently cradle your growing belly, his lips brushing over your skin as though he could somehow imprint his love directly onto your child before she even entered the world.
“Hello, my sweet girl,” he’d murmur, his voice unbearably warm. “Please ignore your absurd aunt and uncles. Your father remains your favorite person, isn’t that right, amorina?”
You huffed from your place against the pillows, trying and failing not to smile.
“You can’t possibly know it’s a girl.”
Theo glanced up at you then, maddeningly smug.
“It’s a girl.”
“The healer hasn’t even confirmed that yet.”
He only kissed your stomach again, entirely certain.
“I don’t require confirmation. I simply know.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said lightly, pressing another lingering kiss just beneath your navel, “you love me.”
Infuriatingly, you did.
And somehow, even more infuriatingly, he was right.
The day your healer finally confirmed Theo’s long-held suspicion, you genuinely considered being annoyed on principle alone.
Because really, his ego hardly needed the encouragement.
But one look at him rendered that impossible.
Theo looked simultaneously vindicated and dangerously close to tears, his hand clutching yours so tightly you could scarcely focus on anything else.
“I told you,” he whispered, sounding so emotional you almost laughed.
“You’re never going to let this go, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
His grin was radiant.
Soft.
Boyish in a way that still occasionally caught you off guard after all these years.
Merlin, you loved him.
Later that evening, curled together in bed with golden lamplight spilling softly across rumpled sheets, Theo rested with one hand splayed protectively across your stomach as though he couldn’t bear to be too far from either of you.
His thumb traced absent, loving patterns against your skin.
And suddenly, with tears threatening for reasons you couldn’t entirely explain, you said quietly:
“I think I know what we should name our daughter.”
“Don’t I get a say in this, amore?”
You laughed softly, taking his hand and guiding it more firmly over your belly.
“Of course you do, baby.”
Your voice wavered then, emotion catching unexpectedly in your throat.
But when you looked at him, really looked at him, at the man who loved you so fiercely, so gently, and who already loved your daughter with his whole heart, the choice felt more certain than anything.
“I want to name her Alessandra.”
Theo went completely still.
For one, suspended, fragile moment, he simply stared at you.
And then his entire face crumpled.
“After my mother?” he whispered, his voice breaking so beautifully it shattered something tender in your chest.
You reached for his face immediately, brushing away the tears already slipping free.
“Yes,” you said softly, your own voice trembling now. “For giving me the greatest gift I've ever known. My best friend. The love of my life. The father of my child.”
Theo made a sound then, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, before surging forward to kiss you with such overwhelming love that it nearly stole your breath.
It wasn’t graceful.
It wasn’t composed.
It was Theo.
Raw, emotional, and so full of love it felt impossible for one person to contain it all.
“You extraordinary, beautiful witch,” he choked out against your skin. “You absolute menace.”
You couldn’t help your watery laugh.
“Is that your way of saying you approve?”
Theo pressed his forehead to yours, his shoulders still shaking slightly with emotion.
“Cara mia,” he whispered, his voice thick with tears and devotion alike. “I have never approved of anything more in my entire life.”
By that point, you were beginning to suspect pregnancy had not, in fact, made you the emotional one.
Or perhaps it had simply made Theo worse.
Not that you minded.
Especially not when he spent the rest of the night kissing both you and your daughter as though the two of you had given him everything he had spent his entire life searching for.
And perhaps, in many ways, you had.
Present
June 28, 2007
Hawthorne House — Richmond upon Thames, London
Alessandra Estelle Nott arrived like a storm wrapped in sunlight.
Bright.
Fearless.
Beautiful.
And unfortunately for Theo, entirely too clever for her own good.
From the moment she could walk, she did so with alarming confidence and absolutely no regard for anyone’s blood pressure, particularly her father’s. While she may have looked exactly like you, Alessandra inherited Theo’s sharp mind, his devastating charm, and much, to your endless amusement, his uncanny ability to cause trouble while somehow still looking entirely innocent.
“She gets that from you,” you said often, watching as your daughter offered suspiciously sweet apologies after yet another minor catastrophe.
Theo, naturally, looked deeply offended by this despite overwhelming evidence.
“I was never that menacing.”
You merely raised a brow.
Draco, unfortunately, was usually nearby to set the record straight.
“You once set Mattheo’s curtains on fire because he ate your last sugar quill.”
Theo sighed heavily, already outnumbered.
Your daughter was adored beyond reason.
By you.
By Theo.
By Estelle, who never once denied her anything, much to your dismay.
By Nonna, who insisted Alessandra hung the moon and could likely do no wrong, even when she was very obviously doing wrong.
And by her many honorary aunts and uncles, all of whom spoiled her so relentlessly that discipline often felt entirely futile.
Hermione brought her books far above her reading level, convinced she was raising a future intellectual powerhouse. Draco purchased her absurdly expensive miniature brooms before Theo could protest. Blaise taught her how to be charming enough to avoid consequences, which you privately suspected was a grave mistake.
Padma somehow balanced it all out with practical wisdom, while Enzo and Mattheo treated Alessandra like a delightful shared responsibility and occasional co-conspirator.
“She’s going to be impossible,” you told Theo one evening as Alessandra successfully convinced Mattheo to sneak her extra dessert.
Theo watched his daughter’s triumphant grin with profound weariness.
“She already is.”
Liam Berkshire, however, proved to be an entirely different problem.
Because while Theo could somewhat tolerate his daughter being adored by most of wizarding Britain, he was significantly less enthusiastic about Liam offering Alessandra a flower during a garden playdate at Malfoy Manor.
Liam, all charm and effortless confidence, very much like his father, held it out with a smile far too suave for a toddler.
“For you, Alessandra.”
Your daughter, never one to lack confidence, accepted it like visiting royalty receiving tribute.
“Thank you, Liam.”
Theo looked personally victimized.
“Lorenzo,” he said, voice full of genuine betrayal, “control your son.”
Enzo, naturally, looked insufferably pleased.
“I don’t know, Theo. Seems rather poetic.”
He leaned over just slightly, teasing your husband with a smirk. “I imagine we might be in-laws someday.”
Theo turned slowly, staring at him like he had just suggested treason.
“Absolutely not.”
Hermione, standing nearby with Lily Potter tucked against her hip, visibly resisted the urge to laugh.
“They’re children.”
“Today,” Theo muttered darkly, as though preparing for inevitable war.
You, of course, were absolutely no help.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being proactive.”
And though Theo’s suffering became somewhat of a running joke amongst your friends, it only worsened as the children grew.
Alessandra, Liam, Scorpius, Albus, and the Zabini twins became a beautifully chaotic little unit, tearing through Hawthorne House, Rosemere Cottage, and the Italian vineyards with enough energy to terrify every adult in their orbit.
They were not gentle children.
There were scraped knees. Muddy shoes. Questionable magical experiments. Loud laughter. Endless affection.
And chaos, almost always led by Alessandra, who somehow managed to drag Rhea and Rohan into her orbit as willing accomplices, especially when she needed backup for something she absolutely should not have been doing.
Yet for all her chaos, she was fiercely protective of Lily Potter and Lyra Malfoy, standing in front of them like a tiny guard dog whenever the boys got too loud, too rough, or too daring in their games.
“No,” she would declare firmly, hands on hips. “Leave them alone.”
Even James Potter usually backed down after that.
And through it all, you often found yourself pausing just to take it in.
Because this.
This loud, imperfect, beautiful life.
It was everything the two of you had fought for.
Years later, beneath the golden Tuscan sun, Alessandra sat beside Nonna in the vineyard gardens with dirt smudged on her cheek and wild curls escaping her ribbons. Her little legs swung beneath the stone bench as she examined the vines with serious concentration far beyond her years.
“Mummy says I’m named after my grandmothers,” she said proudly. “After Alessandra and Estelle.”
Nonna smiled softly, her weathered hand brushing a stray curl from the little girl’s face.
“That’s true.”
Alessandra beamed.
“She says they were fiercely bright and smart and beautiful women. That they both loved Papà very much, even if it was in different ways.”
At that, something tender and old flickered in Nonna’s gaze.
Your daughter looked thoughtfully toward the hills, as though considering the weight of such a legacy.
“I want to be just like them,” she declared.
Then after a brief pause, she added with sweet certainty:
“Just like you too, Nonny.”
For perhaps the first time all day, Nonna looked genuinely speechless.
Her eyes glistened as she cupped Alessandra’s cheek with trembling affection.
“You already are, amore.”
And as you watched from where Theo’s arm rested warm around your shoulders, his lips pressing softly to your temple, you felt your heart swell almost painfully.
Because in that moment, surrounded by generations of love, you realized something extraordinary.
The life the two of you had built was not perfect.
It was louder than expected. Messier than planned. More chaotic than either of you had probably anticipated.
But it was full.
Full of love.
Full of healing.
Full of family.
And as Theo smiled down at your daughter, who carried so much history and hope in one tiny, unstoppable form, you knew with absolute certainty that after everything, this was always what home was meant to look like.
Present
May 2, 2008
Château de Lys Noir — Provence, France
Pansy Parkinson had once declared that if she ever got married, it would be somewhere beautiful enough to make people sick with envy but comfortable enough that nobody would be afraid to spill wine on the furniture.
Oddly enough, Château de Lys Noir in Provence turned out to be exactly that.
The sprawling estate sat tucked between lavender fields and rolling vineyards just outside Gordes, all pale stone walls, climbing roses, and rare magical flora cultivated by Neville himself. Moon lilies bloomed along the garden paths while enchanted wisteria dripped from ivory archways, glowing softly beneath floating candlelight as evening settled over the countryside.
It was elegant.
It was extravagant.
And somehow, despite all of it, it still felt warm.
Like a representation of the beautiful life Pansy and Neville had built together.
And as you stood beside Pansy as her maid of honor, smoothing the intricate lace veil draped over her shoulder while she pretended not to be emotional, you realized with sudden sharp affection just how far all of you had come.
“You’re crying already?” Pansy asked flatly as she adjusted one of her earrings.
You sniffled once. “I’m fine.”
“You cried during breakfast.”
“That was different.”
Theo, lounging near the doorway with Alessandra balanced against his hip, looked entirely unconvinced.
“She also cried because the swans outside looked in love,” he informed Pansy.
“They did look in love,” you argued.
Pansy sight dramatically. “Merlin, help me. Both of you are unbearable.”
Your daughter served as flower girl with all the confidence of royalty and absolutely none of the restraint. She scattered petals aggressively, waved enthusiastically at guests halfway down the aisle, and at one point loudly informed her uncle Draco that he looked far too serious for a wedding.
Scorpius Malfoy, serving as ring bearer, looked deeply offended on his father’s behalf.
“He always looks like that,” he whispered back solemnly.
Draco placed a hand over his heart in mock betrayal while Hermione tried unsuccessfully not to laugh.
Liam Berkshire, unfortunately for Theo’s sanity, had grown into an alarmingly charming child. He danced with Alessandra during the reception with all the confidence inherited from Enzo, who looked entirely too pleased with himself watching nearby beside his wife.
“Oh, they’re adorable,” Selene cooed softly.
Enzo grinned. “Shall we start negotiating dowries soon?"
Theo looked ready to hex his friend into the next century.
“Don't make me hurt you, Berkshire.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your champagne. Theo, meanwhile, continued glaring at poor Liam with the intensity of a man watching a national crisis unfold in real time.
“Baby,” you said through laughter, “they’re two.”
“That’s old enough.”
Across the dance floor, Alessandra twirled happily beneath the floating golden lights while Scorpius, the Zabini twins, Rohan and Rhea, Albus Potter, and James Potter sprinted recklessly around the ballroom in what appeared to be a highly illegal game involving enchanted flower arrangements.
Only Lyra Malfoy and Lily Potter remained untouched by the chaos. Mostly because Alessandra treated both girls with startling protectiveness.
When James attempted to steal one of Lily’s desserts that evening, Alessandra had smacked his hand with frightening efficiency.
“She said no,” your daughter informed him sternly.
Theo had looked so proud you thought he might cry.
Eventually, after exhausting herself from dancing and chaos and several near catastrophes involving the wedding cake, Alessandra wandered over to Theo with sleepy eyes and flushed cheeks.
“Papà,” she asked softly, tugging his sleeve, “can we dance too?”
Theo’s entire face softened instantly.
“Always, amorina.”
You watched them sway together slowly beneath glittering chandeliers while Alessandra rested her head against his shoulder, her tiny hand tucked safely into his. Theo smiled at something she whispered, kissing the top of her curls without missing a beat.
And suddenly, painfully, beautifully, you were crying again.
Because you could see it so clearly.
How completely Theo loved her.
How utterly Alessandra adored her father in return.
It lived in every glance between them. Every laugh. Every instinctive reach for one another.
“You’re crying again,” Hermione whispered knowingly as she appeared beside you with a glass of champagne.
You laughed weakly through tears. “I can’t help it.”
Hermione’s own expression softened as she watched Theo spin Alessandra carefully across the dance floor while she giggled loud enough for half the ballroom to hear.
“He’s a wonderful father,” Hermione said quietly.
Your chest ached with love. “I know.”
Later, after Alessandra had been stolen away by Lily and Lyra in search of flowers, you found yourself seated beside Hermione while Padma attempted very hard to ignore Blaise whispering something into her ear.
Padma’s face turned violently red.
“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione said immediately. “He’s asking for another baby, isn’t he?”
Padma nearly choked on her drink.
“He merely said Rhea and Rohan would benefit from a younger sibling,” she defended weakly.
You grinned. “I’m honestly surprised it took this long.”
Blaise looked entirely unapologetic.
“I've been terribly patient.”
“We already have twins,” Padma reminded him.
“Yes,” Blaise replied calmly. “And they’re excellent. I’d like more.”
Padma buried her face in her hands while you and Hermione dissolved into laughter.
Much later in the evening, you noticed Mattheo suddenly go completely still beside the dance floor.
It startled you enough that you followed his gaze immediately.
A woman stood near the terrace doors in deep blue silk, laughing softly at something Luna was saying. She was beautiful in that effortless way, all warm eyes and graceful smiles, and the second she turned toward Mattheo, his entire expression changed.
Theo noticed too.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Mattheo looked faintly ill.
“No bloody way,” Enzo muttered.
You blinked.
“The Beauxbatons girl?”
Mattheo nodded slowly, still staring at her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.
Years ago during the Triwizard Tournament, she had visited Hogwarts alongside the Beauxbatons delegation. Mattheo met her during one snowy evening in the courtyard after she accidentally hexed a suit of armor into singing opera at passing students.
Apparently he laughed so hard he cried.
Apparently she kissed his cheek afterward.
And apparently, despite pining after her for months, Mattheo had never actually told her how he felt before she returned to France.
“She left before I could tell her,” Mattheo admitted quietly. “I kept thinking there’d be another chance.”
Theo stared at him for a long moment before snorting softly.
“Well,” he said, clapping a hand against Mattheo’s shoulder, “you should probably tell her you love her before it’s too late.”
Mattheo narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
Theo smirked. “Though perhaps don’t write it in a letter.”
You laughed immediately while Mattheo rolled his eyes so hard it nearly looked painful.
Still, only seconds later, he crossed the ballroom directly toward her before courage could abandon him a second time.
And to everyone’s delight, she smiled the moment she saw him.
Moments later, they were dancing together only a few feet away from you and Theo.
You watched Mattheo laugh at something she whispered, his entire face softer than you had ever seen it.
And unfortunately, it made you emotional all over again.
Theo looked over mid-dance and groaned affectionately.
“Are you crying, amore? That’s the fourth time today.”
“Oh, hush, Teddy,” you sniffled. “I just love love.”
Theo laughed quietly beneath his breath, pulling you closer.
“I know that, but I’ve only ever seen you this emotional when you were pregnant with our daughter…”
You sniffled again. Then stared at him meaningfully.
Theo’s eyes widened instantly.
“Truly?”
“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” you informed him. “Considering you’re the one who can’t keep his hands off me.”
Theo rolled his eyes dramatically.
“Please, bella, I wasn’t the one who dragged you into that cupboard earlier.”
You smacked his shoulder, mortified. Theo only laughed, catching your hand before pressing a kiss against your knuckles.
“We’re having another baby, amore.”
The sheer wonder in his voice nearly broke you all over again.
You kissed him softly, smiling through tears.
“Just when I think you couldn’t possibly make me any happier, you find another way to outdo yourself, Teddy,” you whispered. “I love you, you impossible man. You absolute menace.”
Theo’s smile turned soft immediately. Completely wrecked with love.
“I love you too, Y/N.”
And beneath golden chandeliers and distant music and endless warmth of the people who had become your family, Theo kissed you like he still couldn’t believe this life belonged to him.
Honestly, neither could you.
Present
December 20, 2014
Rosemere Cottage — Cornwall England
The kitchen at Rosemere Cottage smelled like cinnamon, vanilla, and fresh baked bread by the time you wandered downstairs that morning. Soft sunlight poured through the windows while your mother moved around the kitchen in her apron, flour dusted across her cheek as though she had forgotten it was there hours ago.
Niccolo Christoph Nott sat at the counter swinging his legs carefully, watching her with enormous blue eyes like she was performing actual magic. Alessandra sat beside him with her chin in her hand, pretending to be terribly grown up despite the fact that she kept stealing little bits of dough whenever she thought no one was looking.
“Nana,” Nico whispered seriously as Estelle rolled pastry across the counter, “how do you make it smell warm?”
Estelle laughed softly under her breath.
“I think that might just be the butter, sweetheart.”
“No,” he insisted, brows furrowing. “Our kitchen doesn’t smell like this.”
“That’s because Papà burns everything,” Alessandra informed him immediately.
Theo looked deeply offended from where he leaned against the doorway holding a mug of coffee.
“That is slander.”
“You set mum’s pancakes on fire last month,” Alessandra replied.
“In fairness,” Theo said carefully, “I was distracted.”
You rolled your eyes while Nico giggled quietly into his sleeve.
Estelle only smiled to herself as she slid another tray into the oven. The children always softened her in ways that made your chest ache a little. Sometimes you still caught flashes of grief in her when she thought no one noticed, but moments like this brought something lighter back into her too.
After breakfast, the five of you wandered out into the gardens while the afternoon sun stretched warm and golden across Cornwall. Theo carried Nico on his shoulders for half the walk because your son had grown shy the moment the neighboring cottage owners waved hello from across the hills.
Alessandra marched ahead fearlessly with her hands tucked into the pockets of Theo’s old jumper she had stolen months ago and refused to give back. Every few feet, she stopped to make sure Nico was still close behind her.
The roses had fully bloomed by now. Soft pinks climbed across trellises while cream and deep crimson blossoms spilled over the stone pathways in heavy clusters. The sea breeze carried their scent through the garden, sweet and delicate beneath the salt air.
“Your grandfather planted these after your mum was born,” Estelle told the children as she brushed her fingers carefully along one of the rose bushes. “He said the garden didn’t feel bright enough before her.”
Alessandra looked around with wide eyes.
“All of them?”
“Well,” Estelle laughed softly, “not all at once. It took him years because he was terribly stubborn and insisted on doing most of it himself.”
Theo snorted quietly beside you.
“Sounds familiar.”
You nudged him with your shoulder while Estelle smiled knowingly.
“There are new ones too,” she continued gently. “That pale pink row over there was planted when Alessandra was born. And those little white climbing roses were added after Nico.”
Niccolo’s face lit up immediately.
"The little ones?"
“The Christoph roses,” Estelle corrected softly, smiling at him. “Your mum insisted your grandfather would’ve loved that they were planted for you.”
Nico stared at the flowers for a moment with that thoughtful little expression he always wore when something touched him deeply.
“Because my middle name is Christoph?” he asked quietly.
You felt your throat tighten almost immediately.
“Yes, sweetheart,” you said softly. “You were named after him.”
Nico looked strangely proud of that, though still shy about it too. He tucked himself a little closer against your side while Alessandra looked between the adults like she was piecing together something important.
“You were little too,” Alessandra informed him suddenly. “And you screamed for like three years straight.”
“I did not,” Nico gasped.
“You absolutely did, amore,” Theo said.
Nico looked scandalized while you bit back laughter behind your hand.
Alessandra wandered closer over to Estelle then, carefully touching one of the roses with surprising gentleness.
“What was Grandpa like, Nana?”
For a moment, Estelle grew very still. Not sad exactly. Just thoughtful in that quiet, faraway sort of way grief sometimes made people.
Then she smiled.
“Oh,” she said softly. “He was wonderful.”
You watched your mother’s face as the children gathered around her. Theo’s hands found yours without him even looking away from them, his fingers slipping easily between yours like second nature.
“He was funny,” Estelle continued. “Very funny. He used to dance with me in the kitchen while dinner burned because he got distracted singing.”
Theo brightened immediately.
“A man after my own heart.”
Nico giggled quietly while Estelle laughed through the slight wobble in her voice.
“He loved your mum more than anything,” she said softly. “From the moment she was born, the man completely lost his mind. He carried her everywhere. Talked about her constantly. Bragged about every little thing she did.”
Alessandra grinned.
“Like Papà.”
Your throat tightened painfully at that. Because it had been years now since your father died, and still sometimes grief arrived fresh and sharp when you least expected it. But hearing your mother speak about him now, watching your children learn who he was through her memories, made something warm bloom beside the ache.
Like he was still here somehow.
Nico looked up at Estelle quietly then.
“You loved him very much, didn’t you?”
Estelle’s eyes filled instantly. She nodded once, pressing a hand lightly over her heart.
“I still do, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Just because someone is gone doesn’t mean you stop loving them. They stay here, in your heart.”
Niccolo thought about that carefully for a moment before nodding in understanding.
“Just like Papà’s mum.”
Estelle smiled through her tears.
“Yes, love,” she whispered. “Exactly like that.”
Silence settled over the garden after that, soft and peaceful rather than sad. Theo wrapped an arm around your waist while Alessandra slipped her hand into Nico’s, tugging him toward the rose bushes to show him which flowers she thought looked prettiest.
You watched your children disappear laughing down the garden path while your mother stood beside you in the sunlight.
And for the first time in a long while, grief didn’t feel like losing someone.
It felt like loving them still.
Present
September 1, 2021
Hawthorne House — Richmond upon Thames, London
The house was unusually quiet for a morning that should’ve been chaotic. Suitcases sat neatly by the front door, half-packed with chocolate frogs, fresh quills, and the wool jumpers you insisted Nico bring even though September had barely begun.
Niccolo, however, had disappeared entirely.
You found Theo halfway down the corridor, quietly peering into his study with poorly concealed amusement.
“He’s hiding,” Theo whispered conspiratorially.
You smiled despite yourself. “He’s nervous.”
Theo’s expression softened instantly at that.
Nico had been excited all summer right up until this morning, when the reality of Hogwarts suddenly became frightening instead of magical. Alessandra had tried reassuring him over breakfast, loudly declaring that she would “hex anyone who annoyed her baby brother,” which somehow only made him look more anxious.
It probably hadn’t helped that everyone kept asking which house he thought he’d end up in.
Alessandra was firmly convinced he’d be a Ravenclaw because he read encyclopedias for fun. Scorpius thought he might end up in Slytherin “by association alone.” James Potter had very confidently declared that Nico was “far too nice” for Slytherin while Lily insisted Hufflepuff would suit him perfectly because “they’ve got the best kitchens anyways.”
The problem was that all the people he loved most were scattered across different houses already.
Alessandra, Scorpius, Albus and the Zabini twins were in Slytherin together and utterly inseparable. James, Lily, and the Parkinson-Longbottom sisters Posey and Primrose, had landed in Gryffindor alongside the rest of the Weasley clan. Lyra and Liam were thriving in Ravenclaw.
And Nico was quietly terrified of ending up somewhere alone.
“I think he’s worried about being by himself,” you murmured quietly.
Theo sighed softly through his nose. “He won’t be alone.”
But both of you understood the fear anyway.
Nico was different from Alessandra. Softer around the edges. Quieter. The sort of child who observed before speaking and hid behind books whenever too many eyes landed on him at once.
He had spent most of August collecting advice from every adult in his life with increasingly visible panic.
Hermione had given him a color-coded study planner for “proper academic balance.” Draco insisted that confidence mattered more than house placement and told him to never let anyone see fear on his face. Pansy advised him to dress well and tell her girls if anyone bothered him so they could “take care of it discretely.” Enzo and Blaise had slipped him contraband sweets for “unforeseen emergencies.”
Mattheo’s advice had been entirely unhelpful.
“If anyone bothers you,” he’d said seriously, “aim for the nose. Makes the eyes water.”
You had banned him from giving further guidance immediately afterward.
But it was Neville’s advice that Nico had clung to most.
“Feeling scared means you care,” Neville had told him gently while Nico helped him repot flutterby bushes at the Parkinson-Longbottom estate a few weeks earlier. “And for what it’s worth, I was terrified too my first year.”
Nico looked absolutely astonished by that.
“Really?”
Neville had laughed softly. “Really. And now I teach there.”
Ever since then, Nico had relaxed slightly at the thought of having Uncle Neville nearby at school, tucked safely in the warmth of the greenhouses where things grew wild and tangled and alive.
Theo gently pushed open the study door.
Nico sat cross-legged on the carpet beside the bookshelf, round glasses slipping down his nose as he carefully sifted through a stack of old parchment tied together with a faded golden ribbon. His Hogwarts trunk sat abandoned nearby, very clearly unpacked despite your instructions otherwise.
“There you are, bub,” Theo said softly.
Nico looked up guilty. “Sorry.”
Theo immediately ruined any attempt at seriousness by smiling. “Terrible criminal you are.”
Nico hesitated before holding up one of the letters carefully between his fingers.
“Are these letters all for Mum, Papà?”
Theo leaned against the doorway beside you, his expression warming with something achingly fond.
“Yes, amore,” he said quietly. “I wrote to her all the time, even when we were just friends.”
Nico pushed his glasses back up his nose, brow furrowing thoughtfully.
“You loved her even then?”
“Painfully so,” Alessandra announced before Theo could answer.
She strode into the room with all the confidence of someone who had never once doubted her place in the world. You followed behind her more slowly, carrying the jumper Nico had forgotten in the kitchen.
“Uncle Enz and Uncle Matty said Papà has been pathetically in love with Mum since they met at Hogwarts,” Alessandra continued smugly.
Theo looked deeply offended. “I’ll have you know I was very dignified about it.”
You laughed softly under your breath. “You wrote me seventeen letters in one summer, babe.”
“That is dignified for me.”
Nico snorted quietly at that while Alessandra rolled her eyes in identical fashion to her father.
“To be fair,” you said warmly, stepping further into the room, “I’ve loved your father since Hogwarts too. I just didn’t know it back then.”
Alessandra’s face scrunched thoughtfully. “When did you know?”
You reached over to smooth her dark curls back from her forehead.
“It’s a long story, my love,” you said gently. “But if you ask nicely, maybe Papà will tell you.”
Alessandra turned immediately, deploying the devastating puppy-eyed expression Theo had never successfully resisted once in his life.
“Please, Papà. I want to know the story.”
Nico nodded quickly beside her. “Me too.”
Theo stared at both of them for a long moment like he could hardly believe they were real. Then he sighed dramatically through his nose, though the smile tugging at his mouth gave him away completely.
“Traitors,” he muttered affectionately.
He crossed the room and settled onto the sofa, patting the space beside him until both children climbed over immediately. Alessandra tucked herself against his shoulder while Nico leaned carefully into his side, still clutching one of the old letters in his hands.
You stayed where you were for a moment, watching them.
Theo looked up at you then. And the smile he gave you was so full of quiet love, so familiar and steady and yours, that it stole your breath even after all these years.
Carefully, he untied the ribbon around the letters.
“Three little words,” Theo began softly. “That’s how our story started.”
And as your children curled close, listening wide-eyed, Theo started the story that had built your entire world.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
