#bf!theodore

Theodore had never been one to care much for his birthday. The date had long since lost its meaning, hollowed out in the wake of his mother’s passing. Once, when he was small, Phoena had turned his birthdays into something magical — grand affairs filled with laughter and color. There were themed decorations of his choosing, mountains of sweets that left him giddy, and a parade of toys that would lose their charm within a week, save for one: a small enchanted car she had gifted him years before. Its vibrant blue and red hues caught his boyish fascination, and he adored the way it zoomed and spun through the halls of their home like it had a life of its own.

But after she left — after she died — the day dulled. The colors faded. And his father never so much as pretended to notice the date, much less mark it with any significance.

Yet your birthday was another matter entirely.

Theodore made your day a sacred ritual. Not because you ever asked him to. In fact, you’d never spoken of it at all. But he noticed — the way your eyes sparkled a little brighter as the month approached, how your voice carried an extra lilt of joy, the quiet anticipation that clung to you like a scent. You came alive in the weeks before your birthday, and Theodore, ever attuned to the softest shifts in your being, found himself treasuring that day more than he’d ever cared to admit about his own. Because it was your day — the day the world was given you. And if there was anything in this life worth celebrating, it was that.

So, as was becoming tradition, he spent the quiet hours before dawn in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, wand tucked behind his ear, and the scent of chocolate curling warm through the air. He baked with quiet reverence, decorating the cake in shades of your favorite color, every movement meticulous. He’d always loved cooking — a quiet kind of love he inherited from his mother — and though he cooked for you often, preparing all the Italian recipes he imagined you’d adore, there was something uniquely sacred in the act of baking. He followed the worn pages of his mother’s old recipe book to the letter, as if by doing so he might call her presence into the room beside him.

When the sky began to pale, Theodore slipped into your dormitory with a whispered “Alohomora,” wand in one hand and the cake in the other. He crossed the room softly, placed the cake on your bedside table, and climbed into bed beside you — still wrapped in sleep — pressing kisses to your face and murmuring a half-sung version of the birthday tune against your temple. He wasn’t one for grand displays of affection — in fact, he often found them cloying, almost theatrical. But with you, especially behind closed doors, his restraint unraveled. You craved words of affirmation, and on this day, he gave them freely, poured them into your skin like honey.

And that was only the beginning.

With each passing hour, he presented you with a new gift — carefully chosen things that reminded him of you: jewelry that caught the light like your eyes did, books he’d seen you eyeing in the library, clothes in the shades he thought looked best on you. He took you to your favorite restaurant, watched the way you smiled over your plate, and handed you a bouquet of your favorite flowers — fresh, dewy, and impossibly fragrant. His kisses were sweet and unhurried, stolen between courses, placed at your hairline, your knuckles, the edge of your jaw.

He gave you letters, too. Long ones. Ink-stained pages scrawled in his slanted hand, filled with the things he couldn’t always say aloud — not out of fear, but because some corners of his heart were harder to reach than others. He pressed the sealed envelopes into your hands with instructions to read them only when you were alone, when the world was still and soft and quiet enough for truth.

As twilight approached, he laced his fingers through yours and led you to the Astronomy Tower — your favorite place in all of Hogwarts. There, as the horizon bloomed in shades of violet and flame, he stood behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, his chest warm against your back. You watched the sky as if it were a story unfolding just for you.

Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a small black box.

Inside, nestled on dark velvet, was a butterfly hair clip crafted from rose gold. It gleamed in the dying light, delicate and luminous — clearly well-loved, though not new. “It was my mum’s,” he said softly, his chin resting on your shoulder, his cheek brushing yours. “She gave it to me before… you know. Told me to give it to the girl I’d love.”

You turned to him, tears brimming, and kissed him — long, grateful, trembling with emotion. You whispered your thanks into his mouth, over and over, and he knew — he knew — he’d made the right choice. That he was holding in his arms the only person who’d ever made him believe in softness again. It felt, sometimes, like his mother had sent you to him — stitched you into his path with threads only the stars could trace. And when he spoke to her at night, he thanked her for that. For you.

Later that night, he told you to dress up — to wear something you liked. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t need to. What you didn’t know was that, days earlier, Theodore had pulled together every string he could. In a forgotten room tucked deep within the castle — one that Mattheo and Blaise had transformed into a kind of sacred hideaway — he’d arranged a surprise party. There were floating candles and garlands of charm-glittered ribbon, another decadent cake, and your closest friends gathered to celebrate you with laughter, drinks, and music echoing off the stone.

And when it all wound down, he brought you back to his room — not to end the day, but to mark it in the most intimate way he knew.

He made love to you gently, reverently. As if every part of you was something holy. His hands found every place you ached for him, coaxed you apart and back together again, until you were gasping his name and trembling beneath him. The whole time, he stayed close, pressing kisses to your cheeks, your collarbone, your fingertips — murmuring all the things he needed you to know. And when it was over, when you were warm and clean and tucked into his side, sleep heavy on your lashes, he stayed awake just to look at you. His fingers traced patterns on your back, slow and absent, as if trying to memorize the shape of you.

You were his everything.

And God — how he loved you.