#slytherpride

Summary: Theo and Y/N find each other again in the most ordinary moment, yet it becomes the beginning of something extraordinary. Warnings: None just insane fluff?? - Ravenclaw! Reader Word Count: 13.9k

. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.

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Theodore Nott had never truly understood what love felt like.

Affection was a foreign language in the Nott estate; his father’s coldness seeped into every corridor like a permanent draft. His mother had been gone for as long as he could remember, leaving behind nothing but the faintest echo of warmth. The only creature who had ever shown him anything close to tenderness was Tilly, the house-elf who had raised him with trembling hands and quiet devotion. Tilly’s gentle fussing, soft scolding, and the way she brushed his hair back when he cried as a child were the closest he had ever come to being adored.

Until fifth year, when he was paired by Snape’s cruel sense of humor or divine intervention, he wasn't sure with a Ravenclaw girl who challenged him in ways he wasn’t prepared for.

Y/N wasn’t a “know-it-all,” not really. She was something much more dangerous.

She was witty, sharp enough to slice through his excuses, yet creative, her mind always spinning with ideas he never saw coming. She worked like a storm, organized chaos, with quills everywhere and parchment covered in brilliant sketches and theories. And she was never afraid to call him out when he was being lazy or aloof.

At first, she’d been a nightmare to work with. Not because she was bossy—though she absolutely was—but because she refused to shrink in front of him the way everyone else did. She didn’t care that he was a Nott. She didn’t care about his last name, his reputation, or the rumors. She cared that he did his part, and she wasn’t shy about telling him when he wasn’t.

She wasn’t a control freak; she was simply a girl who refused to let her intelligence go unnoticed. A girl who demanded excellence because she gave it herself.

And for Theo, whose whole life had been defined by silence and shadows, she was utterly, terrifyingly fascinating.

Theo realized he was in trouble on a Tuesday.

Not because Y/N did anything dramatic, in fact, it was the opposite. She simply walked into their Potions partnership like she always did: hair slightly messy from the wind, an ink smudge on her thumb, and a stack of parchment under her arm that looked far too heavy for a fifth-year.

“Good, you’re early,” she said, sliding into the seat beside him. “We need to fix the third step in our outline. Your handwriting looks like a boggart trying to escape a quill.”

He opened his mouth to snap back, but she’d already pulled the parchment closer and started rewriting his notes in neat, looping script. Theo didn’t know why he stared. Maybe it was the way her brow furrowed in concentration. Maybe it was the faint smile she wore whenever she proved him wrong. Or maybe it was the fact that she didn’t treat him like a glass statue about to shatter.

“Merlin, Nott,” she sighed without looking up, “you’re doing that brooding thing again.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You absolutely brood. It’s one of your main personality traits.” She tapped her quill against her lips thoughtfully. “Right behind ‘never admits he’s wrong.’”

Theo felt heat creep up his neck annoyance; he told himself. Definitely annoyance.

She nudged his arm with her elbow. “Come on. Help me rewrite this. Unless you want Snape to crucify us.”

He muttered something unintelligible and leaned over her shoulder to read her notes.

And that—that—was the moment everything changed.

Because he was suddenly too aware of how close she was. Too aware of the faint smell of lavender clinging to her robes. Too aware of the fact that when she pushed her hair behind her ear, she accidentally brushed his forearm, and he felt it all the way down to his fingertips.

He jerked back a little. “Watch it.”

She glanced at him with that sly, knowing look that always made him feel exposed. “Relax. I’m not hexing you.”

“You might,” he muttered.

But she smiled. “If I wanted to hex you, you’d know.”

And there it was again, that spark. The one that hit him square in the chest every time she smirked, argued with him, challenged him, or simply existed too close to him. It wasn’t a crush, he told himself. No, nothing that ridiculous.

He just… admired her. Or tolerated her. Or maybe she just got under his skin in a very specific, infuriating way.

But then she looked up at him—really looked—and Theo felt something shift.

“See?” she said softly. “We actually make a good team.”

His throat tightened.

For someone who had never been loved, never been shown softness beyond a house-elf’s trembling hands… Her warmth felt like a threat. Her laughter felt like a risk. And her presence felt like a promise he wasn’t sure he deserved.

This was the moment Theodore Nott realized he was falling—slowly, stupidly, helplessly.

And she had absolutely no idea.

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By sixth year, Theodore Nott had perfected the art of pretending she didn’t exist. Or at least… that’s what everyone else believed.

In reality, he’d kept tabs on Y/N with the precision of a spy and the subtlety of a Slytherin who absolutely refused to admit he cared. He noticed everything without ever being caught.

How she cut her hair over the summer. How she switched from blue ink to black. How she started sitting closer to the windows in the library because she liked the natural light for sketching. How she stopped raising her hand as much in class, but her essays remained brilliant. How she laughed differently now—quieter, but real.

He never spoke to her after their fifth-year project ended. They had submitted it, received an Outstanding, and she had smiled at him this soft, warm little smile that nearly knocked the air out of him.

And he, being an idiot, just nodded and walked away like she was nothing.

He regretted it every day since.

So when Slughorn called out partners for their sixth-year potions assignment, Theo already knew. Of course he did. His luck was cursed.

“Miss Y/L/N… and Mr. Nott!” Slughorn boomed cheerfully. “I hear from dear Professor Snape that you two make quite the team! Very promising! Very compatible working styles!”

Theo nearly choked on his own breath. Snape said what? He wanted to hex himself for ever being competent in front of that man.

Y/N stiffened just a fraction before turning her head toward Theo. Sixteen now, she looked… different. Older. Sharper. More confident. But her eyes, the ones he’d memorized on accident, still sparkled with that quick intelligence that always made him feel like she could read his mind if she wanted to.

Her gaze met his for the first time in a year.

And Merlin, that was enough to undo him.

She gave him a polite nod. Civil. Distant. As if they’d never spent late afternoons arguing over cauldron temperatures and rewriting each other’s notes. As if she hadn’t once made him laugh so hard he spilled half a vial of dittany on himself. As if she meant nothing.

He hated how much it bothered him.

She sat down at their table and pulled her textbook closer. “Nott,” she greeted curtly.

“Y/L/N,” he replied, equally curt—though it came out rougher than he intended.

Slughorn clapped his hands enthusiastically. “Now! Each pair will be brewing a different advanced potion, selected specially for your skill levels!”

Theo’s pulse ticked faster. Different potions. Meaning no backup. No anonymity.

Slughorn beamed, and that was when Theo knew something awful was about to happen.

“Mr. Nott and Miss Y/L/N…” He paused dramatically, reading his list. “You two will be brewing Amortentia.”

Theo stopped breathing.

Amortentia. The most powerful love potion in existence. The one that released the scent of whatever—or whoever you found most irresistible.

He had never hated Slughorn more.

Y/N blinked once, the only visible sign that she, too, was silently screaming. “Professor,” she said, composed as ever, “Amortentia is highly complex for sixth-year students.”

“Nonsense!” Slughorn declared. “You two worked beautifully together under Severus last year. He specifically recommended you as an exceptional pair to brew this potion.”

Theo was going to throw himself out the nearest window.

Y/N turned to him. “Shall we… get started?” she asked carefully.

Theo swallowed. Hard. “Yeah. Sure.”

They both started to grab the ingredients and began to organize them. Neither spoke. Neither breathed. Both pretended they weren’t aware of what they’d be smelling in less than an hour.

Finally, Y/N opened the textbook. “We’ll divide the instructions,” she said, almost too quietly.

He nodded. “Like last time.”

She paused. Not long—but long enough for him to notice.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Like last time.”

They began prepping ingredients, hands brushing occasionally, each touch sending a static shock up Theo’s spine. The tension between them was so thick it might as well have been another potion in the room.

Theo kept his eyes fixed on the powdered moonstone, refusing to let his thoughts wander to the moment the potion turned pearly white, when the steam would curl toward them, and he would smell— Merlin help him.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what he would smell. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she would. And he definitely wasn’t sure he could hide it once she found out.

The cauldron began to warm, the pearl shimmer forming just at the surface. Theo felt each second like a countdown to his own execution.

Y/N stirred clockwise, her wrist precise, elegant, infuriatingly calm. “Add the moonstone,” she murmured.

Theo did. His hand shook.

He braced himself. Any moment the steam would rise—the telltale spirals of Amortentia, silver and opalescent—

And then it happened.

The potion glowed, brightened, and released the first curl of vapor.

Theo expected flowers. Or broom polish. Or something normal.

Instead, the scent hit him like a punch to the ribs.

Lavender.

Charcoal.

Parchment.

And something soft—like the faint smell of the library.

His heart stopped. He actually stopped breathing. Merlin, no. Absolutely not. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

He snapped his head away from the cauldron before instinct could betray him and prayed Y/N hadn't seen the panic flash across his face.

But she wasn’t looking at him.

She was staring into the steam, just as entranced, just as startled.

Theo narrowed his eyes. “What do you smell?”

Y/N blinked once—too quickly. “Nothing important.”

“Right,” he said flatly, “because everyone smells nothing when they’re inhaling Amortentia.”

She shot him a look sharp enough to slice pewter. “I’m not discussing my private senses with you.”

“Private senses?” Theo echoed. “It’s a potion, not a diary.”

“It is literally a love potion,” she hissed.

He opened his mouth to argue, and that was when Slughorn popped up like a mole with bad timing. “Marvelous! Marvelous!” the professor boomed, clapping his hands. “Do breathe deeply, my dears! You’ll find the scents quite illuminating!”

Theo felt like jumping out the window once again.

Y/N straightened. “We’re progressing well, Professor.”

Slughorn nodded, beaming. “That’s what Severus said too—‘Those two understand each other better than they realize.’ Quite an endorsement, hm?”

Theo wanted to disintegrate.

Slughorn waddled off to terrorize another group.

They worked in tense silence until Y/N finally said, barely above a whisper, “Your scent must’ve been… interesting.”

Theo froze. “Why would you say that?”

“You looked like you wanted to crawl out of your skin.”

He glanced at her. “And you looked like you saw a bloody prophecy.”

She glared. “I did not.”

“You did.”

“Did not.”

“Then what did you smell?” he pressed.

She exhaled sharply. “Something familiar.”

“That’s vague.”

“That’s intentional.”

He clenched his jaw. She wasn’t going to tell him—fine. But the steam was rising again, and this time the scent slapped him across the face.

Lavender.

Parchement.

Charcoal.

Her.

Her.

He turned away fast, but not fast enough. Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hiding something.”

Theo cursed under his breath. He could feel heat crawling up his neck. He needed to say something—anything—that didn’t sound like “I’m secretly obsessed with you and this potion just exposed it.”

He opened his mouth.

And something cracked behind them.

A dropped quill.

A sharp inhale.

Theo turned.

Draco Malfoy stood at the table behind theirs, pale as death, eyes wide, expression frozen like he’d just overheard the single most incriminating sentence in Hogwarts history.

Draco never said anything first when it mattered. He just watched. Watched the steam. Watched Theo’s face. Watched Y/N’s tension.

Then his gaze flicked to Theo’s grip on the stirring rod—a little too tight. His pulse in his neck—visible because Draco knew where to look. His stance—uneven, avoiding the cauldron like it was cursed.

A beat.

And then Draco muttered, so low only Theo could hear: “…You’re an idiot.”

Theo stiffened. “Shut up.”

Draco didn’t smile. He didn’t tease. He didn’t gloat.

He simply raised a brow, the kind of brow that said I’ve known you since you were two, and you think you can hide this from me? They glared at each other. The steam rose again. Theo pretended not to breathe.

Y/N finally snapped her notebook shut. “I’m going to wash this off my hands,” she said, her voice steady but her steps quicker than usual. “Don’t touch anything stupid while I’m gone.”

She walked toward the basin by the windows far enough not to hear them, but close enough to be suspicious.

Draco set his own ingredients down quietly, eyes flicking from the steaming cauldron… to Theo… to the spot where Y/N had walked off.

“You’re in trouble,” Draco murmured.

Theo tensed. “Shut up.”

Draco didn’t. Draco never did when it counted. “When did it start?” Draco’s voice was low, almost gentle, exactly the tone he used when he was being sincere rather than smug.

“Nothing started.” Theo’s lie was instant and awful.

Draco clicked his tongue softly. “Theo. I helped you steal biscuits from the manor kitchens when you were four. I know when you’re lying.”

Theo winced.

Draco continued, calm and surgical, “You won’t even look at the steam. That’s not avoidance, that’s fear.”

Theo swallowed. Hard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I do.” Draco’s eyes softened with understanding Theo absolutely did not want. “She’s your Amortentia scent.”

Theo felt his entire world stutter. He ran a hand through his hair. “Draco, don’t—”

“Relax.” Draco’s voice dropped even quieter. “I’m not going to embarrass you. And I’m not telling anyone. Not even the boys.”

Theo sagged with a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

But Draco wasn’t finished. He glanced toward the sinks, where Y/N now stood, drying her hands with careful movements, her head tilted slightly—subtly studying them from the corner of her eye.

“She’s clever,” Draco murmured. “If you don’t get yourself under control, she’ll figure it out before you’re ready.”

Theo’s stomach twisted. “You think she suspects something?”

Draco’s lips twitched. “She’s already analyzing you. Look at her posture.”

Theo did. Y/N was pretending to adjust her sleeves… but her eyes were flicking back and forth between him and the table. Observing. Calculating.

Draco nudged him. “If she catches you looking at her like that, you’re done.”

“I’m not looking at her like anything,” Theo snapped, but his blush betrayed him.

Draco smirked. “And now you’re blushing. Wonderful. Very subtle.”

Theo groaned into his hands. “Draco, I’m begging you—stop.”

Draco leaned in the slightest bit, his voice barely above a breath. “Start thinking, Theo. Because she’ll notice the signs long before you speak them.”

Theo’s pulse went wild.

“And if she smells you in her Amortentia?” Draco added quietly, “you won’t get to hide behind silence anymore.”

Theo froze.

Draco stepped back, perfectly composed. “Fix your face,” he muttered, “she’s coming back.”

Theo snapped upright just as Y/N approached, expression cool, observant, too sharp for his comfort. She placed her notebook back on the desk and said calmly, “What were you two whispering about?”

Theo opened his mouth—

Draco cut in smoothly. “Quills,” he said. “Nott’s handwriting is atrocious.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked between them. She didn’t believe that for a second. Not one. But she only hummed and returned to the cauldron.

Theo tried to breathe normally. Draco shot him a warning look: Get it together.

Y/N stirred the potion… and the steam rose again.

Theo felt his pulse hammer.

Y/N inhaled—barely, unintentionally—and her breath stuttered for half a heartbeat.

She caught something. Something familiar. Something she wasn’t ready to admit either. Her eyes darted to Theo before she masked it.

Intelligent. Sharp. Dangerous.

She would figure it out.

And Theo knew, with terrible certainty, that it was only a matter of time.

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Theo stepped into the sixth-year boys’ dorm expecting silence.

Instead, he found a tribunal.

Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo sat on his bed like a panel of dark-robed judges. Draco looked like the presiding magistrate. Blaise held a chocolate frog as if he were about to cross-examine someone. Mattheo wore the smug expression of a man about to deliver chaos. Enzo looked far too at peace for someone involved in an ambush.

Theo stopped in the doorway, expression flat. “No,” he said. “Whatever this is, absolutely not. I’m leaving.”

Draco patted the bed. “Come. Sit. Face your sins.”

“Nope.” Theo turned. “Absolutely not. I’m leaving.”

Blaise snapped his fingers, pointing. “Close the door, lover boy. You’re not escaping this intervention.”

Theo shut the door but refused to move. “Malfoy, you swore you wouldn’t say anything.”

Mattheo snorted so hard he choked on air. “Mate. He’s a Malfoy. Their whole personality is secrets and violating them.”

Draco looked offended. “I do not violate secrets. I simply… redistribute information.”

“Malfoy!”

Blaise threw a chocolate frog into his mouth. “You didn’t need Draco anyway. We’ve been clocking your pathetic pining for a year.”

Theo blinked, "What pining?"

All four boys burst into laughter at once.

Mattheo wiped a tear. “Oh Merlin, he said it with his whole chest.”

Enzo leaned back on his hands. “We all knew, Theo. We didn’t need a confession. We have eyes.”

Theo threw his arms up. “You all have bad eyes.”

“Actually,” Draco said proudly, “my eyesight is exceptional.”

“Draco, I hope the giant squid eats you.”

“Make it quick,” Draco said, straightening his collar. “I have plans tomorrow.”

Theo’s jaw tightened, barely noticeable unless you’d known him since childhood. "Fine. Out with it, you tossers."

Draco’s lips twitched just slightly. “Very well. Zabini, you go first."

Blaise lifted a brow and looked at Theo. "Remember last year in the library when we were studying for our Defense OWL, and I asked you what chapter we were on?”

Theo shrugged. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t answer,” Blaise said. “You just stared across the room like you were solving a crime.”

Draco added, “He was staring at Y/N.”

Blaise nodded. “Hard.”

Theo sputtered. “I wasn’t staring—!”

“You were,” Blaise said. “I called your name four times. You ignored me so completely, I checked to make sure you weren’t under a trance.” Theo buried his face in his hands.

Next came Enzo, who cracked his knuckles. “My turn. You remember that Ravenclaw boy who was trying to ask her to partner with him for a Charms project?”

Theo stiffened. “…No.”

Draco smirked. “He remembers.”

Enzo leaned back. “You glared at him so hard he backed out mid-sentence. Y/N didn’t even see it. But I did. You almost melted him.”

Mattheo chimed in, “And then Theo spent the next ten minutes pretending he wasn’t angry while sharpening his quill like it was a weapon.”

Theo groaned. “You’re all exaggerating.”

“No,” Enzo said. “We toned it down.” Theo wanted to evaporate.

Then Mattheo spoke; he wiggled his eyebrows like this was the highlight of his week. “My turn. Best moment of my life.” He dramatically clutched his pillow. “Quidditch match last year.”

Theo stiffened. “There was no moment.”

“Oh, there was a moment,” Mattheo said. “Ravenclaw scored, Y/N cheered, and your dumb ass nearly flew into a goalpost watching her.”

Blaise nodded vigorously. “You did a whole mid-air wiggle.”

Draco added, “You did smile like an idiot.”

Theo sputtered, “I DID NOT—”

Mattheo mimicked it. “You literally went—” He made a dreamy, stupid face. Theo lunged at him. Mattheo dodged, laughing.

Blaise clapped Theo on the back. “You floated down like a lovesick fairy.” Theo opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Finally, Draco stood. He looked almost sympathetic. Almost. “Theo,” he said with practiced Malfoy calm, “you keep tabs on her.”

Theo blinked. “I do not.”

“You absolutely do,” Draco replied. “You know her schedule better than she does. You notice when she gets a new quill. You know which Ravenclaw girls she studies with. You always place yourself at the table closest to hers in the library. You walk slower in the hallway if you hear her behind you.”

“That last one was an accident—”

“No, it wasn’t,” all four boys said in unison.

Draco continued mercilessly, “And the best part? Every time she enters a room, you do that thing with your shoulders.”

Theo glared. “What thing?”

Mattheo exaggeratedly lifted his shoulders, straightened them, and pretended to look disinterested while clearly staring. Blaise threw his head back laughing. “It’s the ‘oh Merlin play it cool she might see me’ posture.”

Theo considered setting them on fire.

Draco finished with a softer, pointed look. “We’ve known for a long time, Theo. You’re not subtle. You never were. And today’s Amortentia lesson just confirmed it.”

Theo sank onto his bed, face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

Mattheo tossed him a pillow. “We love you too, Romeo.”

Enzo went over to his side of the room, took out a bottle of alcohol, and opened it in salute. “To Theodore Nott, finally realizing the entire dungeon knows he’s in love.”

Theo made a strangled noise.

Draco clapped his shoulder. “And don’t worry. We’ll help you.”

Theo stared up at them, horrified. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

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The library was nearly empty at this hour.

Candles flickered in long rows, casting honey-gold light across the ancient stone floors. Dust drifted in soft spirals. The air smelled faintly of old paper and lavender floor polish. A late-night hush settled over the shelves, as if the entire castle was holding its breath.

Y/N sat alone at her favorite table in the far corner, near the enchanted window that reflected the Black Lake’s currents. The glow from the underwater lights rippled across her open sketchbook, turning the parchment into shifting silver.

She wasn’t supposed to be drawing.

She had every intention of outlining her Arithmancy notes.

But the charcoal in her hand wasn’t behaving.

It drifted instead—idly, thoughtlessly—across the page, sketching curves and shadows she wasn’t consciously choosing. She hummed softly under her breath, brows lightly furrowed as she worked.

At first it looked like nothing.

A shape. A line. A faint shadow.

She rotated the page, squinting. The candlelight flickered over the parchment so the charcoal strokes darkened and blurred.

Her hand moved again. Another stroke. Another curve. A sharper angle—meant to represent frustration, she thought. Or restlessness. Or—

She paused.

The drawing wasn’t random.

It wasn’t abstract.

It was a pair of eyes.

Not generic eyes. Not ones she’d invented. No, the shape was too familiar. The cut of the brow. The slight downward tilt at the end. The shadow on the lower lid she’d never noticed consciously but apparently had memorized.

The charcoal in her hand stilled.

She stared.

Theo’s eyes stared back.

Very faint. Half-formed. But him. So clearly him.

Y/N blinked—once, twice—her heart stuttering in a way she did not permit.

“What…” she whispered, frowning softly. “Why am I—?”

She reached for the eraser. Stopped halfway. Her fingers hovered.

Because the truth curled in her stomach with quiet precision. She hadn’t sketched just anyone's eyes. She’d sketched his eyes. Without thinking. Without trying. Without even realizing.

Her pulse ticked behind her ear.

She touched the edge of the page, tracing the faint charcoal lines, studying the slight intelligence in the gaze, the intensity that was always there even when Theo was pretending to be disinterested.

It wasn’t the first time her sketches had drifted toward something familiar. But this was the first time she noticed.

The memory from Potions drifted back, Amortentia steam swirling around her, coaxing forward scents that made no sense at the time.

Warm parchment.

Night rain.

A subtle hint of cedarwood.

Ink.

Something familiar but unplaceable.

Something that had pulsed behind her ribs the moment she caught it. She exhaled shakily.

It was him.

She frowned again, leaning back in her chair. Her heartbeat thudded softly through her fingertips, tapping against the spine of her sketchbook.

Theo’s face flickered across her thoughts.

The way he looked at her today. No, didn’t look at her. Purposely, carefully, deliberately avoiding her. The slight tension in his jaw. The way he stiffened when she came close. The quiet storm behind his eyes, he didn’t think she saw.

She replayed Potions class, searching for logical explanations. None presented themselves.

The charcoal drifted back to the parchment, sketching unbidden—this time a line of cheekbone, a faint tilt of eyebrow. The beginnings of a face she wasn’t supposed to know so well.

Her stomach tightened—not unpleasantly, but unfamiliar.

“No,” she murmured softly, shaking her head. “That’s not—He’s not—You’re not—”

But she couldn’t finish the sentence. Any part of it. The candles flickered. The library seemed to lean closer. Her pulse whispered answers she wasn’t ready to admit.

She turned the page.

Fresh parchment. Clean. Safe.

She lifted her quill.

But her hand betrayed her again.

A jawline.

A curl of hair.

Eyes she already knew the shape of.

She set the quill down. Closed her eyes. And finally, finally allowed the truth to flicker—soft, unwelcome, but terribly real: She wasn’t sketching “nothing.” She was sketching him. And something inside her—something sharp and intelligent and terrifying—knew precisely what that meant.

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The castle felt different that morning. Not louder, not quieter, just charged. As if the stones themselves knew something had shifted in the night.

Y/N walked quickly through the corridor leading toward the Great Hall, the cold stones echoing under her shoes. Her sketchbook was tucked securely under her arm, pressed close to her ribs like she could smother whatever truth she’d discovered in it.

She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw charcoal lines turning into his eyes.

Theo’s eyes.

She pulled her robes tighter, as if warmth might slow her racing mind.

It was nothing, she tried telling herself.

Just a coincidence. Just a sketch.

A lie she didn’t believe.

She rounded the corner and collided with someone. Hard enough that her books flew straight out of her arms, hitting the floor with a slap loud enough to echo.

“Damn—sorry,” a familiar voice muttered.

Her breath snagged.

Theo.

He crouched at the same time she did, both reaching instinctively for the fallen mess. Their hands brushed—brief, warm, electric—and they both jerked back like they’d touched a curse.

“Sorry,” Theo said again, quieter now.

“It’s fine,” she murmured, not trusting her pulse.

They reached for separate towers of parchment, notebooks, and quills, papers scattered everywhere like spilled secrets.

Theo’s movements were precise, quick, and too controlled. Like he was trying very hard not to feel anything. He handed her a stack. “This is yours.”

She nodded and took it without looking, too afraid their eyes might meet and everything she had been trying to bury since last night would spill out.

“Thanks,” she said softly.

She didn’t hear her own voice; she heard her heart.

Theo stood up first, brushing dust from his sleeve, his posture too stiff for early morning. His eyes flicked over her quickly, discreetly, but not enough to truly hide it.

“You’re up early,” he said.

“So are you.”

He exhaled, slow and shallow. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Her stomach tightened.

Me neither. She didn’t say it.

“Right,” he said awkwardly. “Well… good morning.”

“Yes. Right. You too.”

Silence wrapped around them—strange, fragile, unbearably aware.

Theo stepped to the side. She stepped in the same direction.

They froze.

She let out a small breath of a laugh, barely there, but real. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

Theo’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “You can go first.”

She walked past him, clutching the notebooks so tightly the edges dug into her palm.

She didn’t glance back.

He didn’t either.

But both of them felt the air shift between them—as if their bodies recognized something their minds were still trying to understand.

Y/N didn’t notice until she reached the end of the next hallway. She paused near a window, balancing her stack to pull out her schedule. A flash of untidy handwriting caught her eye.

She frowned.

This wasn’t her handwriting.

She pulled the book out fully. Not blue Ravenclaw leather. Dark green. The Nott family crest pressed into the corner.

Her breath vanished.

She hadn’t grabbed her sketchbook. She had grabbed Theo’s notebook. Her throat tightened as she flipped open the cover. Neat, slanted script filled the margins—charms, notes, arithmancy formulas, half-sketched runes.

But between them, light, almost hidden, were short annotations.

Observations.

A habit of hers. A detail he’d noticed. Something she’d done in class. A line: Why does she always look away when she’s thinking? She kept on reading... and reading until she couldn't anymore.

Her fingers went still.

Her heart hammered.

She closed the book quickly, hugging it to her chest.

Theo had taken hers.

Her sketchbook.

The one filled with sketches she didn’t want anyone to see.

Especially not him.

Especially not now.

“Oh no,” she whispered, dread and something else flooding her chest.

She turned on her heel—

And ran.

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.

.

Theo dropped into his usual seat at the Slytherin table end of the bench, back to the wall, the place where he could observe the entire hall without anyone sneaking up behind him.

Habit. Instinct. Strategy.

He always preferred control.

Which is why his hands were perfectly steady as he set down the book he assumed was his. He flipped it open casually, half expecting the neat rows of arithmancy equations he’d written last night.

Instead, the first thing he saw was charcoal.

A dark stroke.

Then another.

Shadow. Depth.

And an unmistakable angle of a jaw.

His jaw.

Theo’s breath hitched so sharply he almost convinced himself he imagined it.

He blinked down at the page.

No mistake.

It was him.

Drawn in soft, precise detail like the artist had taken their time, studying each line, each shadow, each part of him he had never once thought anyone bothered to look at.

He reached out and touched the edge of the sketch, fingers barely grazing the parchment. The charcoal had smudged slightly where the heel of someone’s hand must’ve rested—familiar. Human.

Her hand.

His stomach dropped.

He turned the page slowly, afraid to look and more afraid not to.

Another sketch.

Not a full portrait, just his mouth. Neutral, faintly tense, like he always was when he was concentrating. The detail of it made something heavy press against his ribs.

He turned the page again.

His hair.

Messy, uneven, always falling into his eyes.

Who watches someone closely enough to draw them like this?

He swallowed, throat tight.

Another page.

His profile.

Sharp. Unforgiving. More angular than handsome, he’d always thought so. But drawn here… it looked softer.

Not softened—no.

Seen.

The distinction mattered. Theo’s pulse thudded under his skin. He flipped more pages less carefully now, driven by something he couldn’t name.

Another.

Another.

And then—

His eyes.

Rendered in fine, delicate strokes. Focused. Reflective. Alive.

He stared at the sketch until his vision blurred around the edges.

“What…” his voice cracked quietly, a sound he didn’t recognize. “Why would she…”

He closed the book gently, but not before tracing the curve of the drawn pupil with the pad of his thumb. His pulse hammered in his throat.

Theo had never been… anyone’s subject. Not of interest. Not of affection. Not of attention.

His father looked through him. Professors saw potential, not a person. Classmates saw a name, a lineage, a quiet, cold exterior. No one had ever studied him long enough to memorize the exact way his lashes cast shadows when he looked down.

But she…

She had.

He sat back, stunned, feeling something he’d never felt this sharply before— Not fear. Not confusion. Not even embarrassment. Something far worse. Something far better.

Recognition.

She had been watching him. Noticing him. Understanding him in ways he had never allowed anyone to.

Theo’s fingers tightened around the sketchbook.

For someone who had grown up without affection, without warmth, without softness—he didn’t have the emotional vocabulary for what was happening in his chest. It felt like pressure. Like heat. Like someone had turned the world slightly off-axis.

He inhaled deeply, but it did nothing to steady him.

He reopened the sketchbook.

Slowly this time.

Deliberately.

He looked again at the first drawing—his jaw, firm and unyielding. Her charcoal strokes followed the sharp edges of his bone structure with surprising reverence.

As if she saw something there he didn’t. Something worth capturing. He stared at the sketch for a long, long moment. Then another thought hit him—hard, unexpected, grounding: If she had his sketchbook… She had read his notes.

His marginalia.

His observations.

All the small, quiet things he’d documented about her without understanding why. A chill ran down his spine.

She knew.

She must know.

Theo closed the book gently, resting his hand on the cover, breath shallow. “…Merlin,” he whispered. Not fear this time.

Realization. Heavy. Inevitable. Almost terrifying. She didn’t draw people for no reason. He knew enough about her to know that. So what did it mean? Why him?

And why, out of every detail in this castle, out of every face she passed every day, had she been drawing his? Theo sat there, staring at the closed sketchbook, his entire world rearranging itself piece by piece. And for the first time in his life, the cold, quiet certainty hit him like a spell: She saw him. Not the Nott name. Not the mask he wore.

Him.

His fingers curled around the book. His chest tightened painfully. His next breath was shaky. And softly, barely audible, he admitted to the empty space around him— “…I think she feels it too.”

.

.

.

Y/N practically flew through the corridors, her shoes echoing sharply off stone. Students stepped aside as she rushed past, hair slightly wild, sketchbook-shaped panic in her eyes.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. Theo had her sketchbook.

Theo has your sketchbook.

Theo has your sketches.

Theo has your drawings of HIS FACE.

“No, no, no, no—” she whispered under her breath, gripping her robes as she sprinted down a staircase two steps at a time.

A group of third-years scattered. She was halfway to the dungeons before she even knew where her feet were taking her.

Please let me find him before he opens it.

She didn’t believe in miracles, but she prayed for one anyway.

.

.

.

Theo didn’t remember leaving the Great Hall—only the echo of clinking plates, the low murmur of conversations fading behind him, and the weight of her sketchbook pressed to his palms like it might burn a hole straight through him.

He walked in a daze through Hogwarts’ lower corridor, the long stretch of stone lined with flickering lanterns that cast serpentine shadows across the damp walls. The air was cool here, touched with the faint mineral scent of the dungeons and the distant rumble of pipes beneath the floors.

His footsteps were quiet.

His heartbeat wasn’t.

Everything inside him felt suspended, like the world had shifted an inch to the left and hadn’t settled yet. Like something irreversible had been set in motion the moment he’d opened her sketchbook and seen his own face staring back in charcoal.

Then he heard them. Footsteps. Fast. Uncontrolled. Running. Theo turned. And she came flying around the corner.

Y/N appeared with her bag slung over one shoulder, hair loose from rushing, breath uneven, eyes bright and wide—bright with panic, fear, realization.

She clutched his notebook like it held her entire heart inside it.

Theo froze.

She froze.

The air between them snapped tight like a drawn bowstring. She skidded to a halt, almost losing her footing, before she steadied herself and looked at him, really looked at him.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she whispered, “Theo. You have—”

“Your sketchbook,” he finished, voice lower than he intended. “I know.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. She stepped forward like she was being pulled by a force she didn’t recognize yet.

“You—you opened it, didn’t you?”

Theo didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look away. “Yes.”

Her breath left her body in a gasp so quiet it almost vanished. Her fingers tightened around his notebook, nails pressing into the leather cover.

She spoke again, voice frayed. “… I saw yours too.”

His world stopped.

Everything inside him stilled. “You…” he said slowly, voice breaking around the edges, “you read my notes.”

She nodded, eyes glistening not with tears, but with the weight of truth settling over her.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “Yours was on top of my stack, and when I flipped it open—” She inhaled sharply. “Theo, you wrote about me.”

He felt heat flood his neck.

“I did,” he said simply, because denying it now was pointless. “A lot.”

“A lot,” she echoed, her voice trembling with disbelief.

They stood in the corridor like that, the space between them thick with everything they’d kept secret and everything they had accidentally revealed.

Finally, Y/N lifted the notebook she held.

His notebook.

She held it against her chest like a fragile thing.

“There were pages,” she said softly. “Pages of things you noticed about me.”

Theo’s breath shuddered out of him. He’d forgotten the extent of what he’d written. Or maybe he never realized how obvious it all looked to someone else.

“I wasn’t… planning for you to ever see that,” he said quietly. “Or anyone.”

Her eyes softened. “I know.”

Theo’s fingers curled around the edge of her sketchbook. “You weren’t planning for me to see this either.”

She shook her head quickly. “Never.”

He took a step closer, slow, careful, like approaching something sacred. Her breathing hitched, but she didn’t move back.

He lifted the sketchbook slightly. “You drew me,” he murmured, voice low, grounding.

She flushed deep. “I don’t know why I did. It wasn’t—I wasn’t thinking, Theo—”

“You were thinking,” he said, studying her expression. “You just didn’t realize what it meant yet.”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Because they both knew the truth now.

They’d seen it in ink.

In charcoal.

In each other.

Theo looked down at the sketchbook, thumb brushing the smudged corner of a page that still held the imprint of her fingertips.

“You draw things you pay attention to,” he said softly. “Things that occupy your mind.”

Y/N inhaled sharply through her nose, shaking. “And you write things you’re trying to understand,” she whispered back. “Things you can’t ignore.”

Their eyes locked.

This time, no one looked away.

Theo exhaled slowly. “Y/N… the things I wrote—”

“I read all of it,” she said before he could finish. “Every observation. Every note. Every line about me.”

He swallowed hard. “Then you know.”

She stepped even closer, close enough he felt the warmth of her breath on his collar.

“And you,” she whispered, “saw every sketch. Every version of you I put on paper.”

Theo’s grip tightened on the book. “I did.”

Silence fell over them— not empty, but full. So full it vibrated between their ribs.

Finally, she lifted her chin, eyes bright and terrified and brave. “So now what?” she breathed.

Theo looked at her like she was the only thing in the hall that mattered. He raised her sketchbook between them and said quietly, honestly, with no hesitation—“Now… we talk.”

And for the first time, she didn’t run.

She nodded.

And together, they stepped out of the corridor—side by side, holding each other’s truths in their hands.

.

.

.

They didn’t speak as they walked.

Their shoulders nearly brushed, and each time they drifted too close, one of them shifted—barely—like a reflex neither understood yet.

The dungeon corridor twisted, torches flickering low, shadows stretching long across the stones. Theo walked half a step ahead, like muscle memory—silent, steady, aware of every small sound she made behind him.

When he reached a narrow wooden door tucked between two stone archways, “This one,” he said quietly.

Y/N nodded, pulse hammering.

Theo pushed the door open.

The unused classroom beyond looked untouched by time. Desks stacked neatly in the corner, charms diagrams still pinned to the walls, dust floating lazily in the shafts of pale morning light.

It felt private. Protected. A room holding its breath for them. Theo stepped inside. Y/N followed, closing the door softly behind them.

It clicked shut like a secret.

The classroom felt untouched by time.

Dust drifted slowly through slanted beams of morning light. The old wooden desks stacked in the corner cast long shadows across the floor. Everything was quiet — too quiet — the kind of quiet that made every heartbeat echo.

Theo stood against the teacher’s desk, one hand resting on the wood for balance, the other gripping her sketchbook like it was something fragile and precious.

Y/N stood several feet away, clutching his notebook to her chest, fingers curled so tightly around it that the leather cover wrinkled beneath her grip.

For a moment, they didn’t speak.

They just looked at each other — two people standing still while the rest of the world felt like it was shifting beneath their feet.

At last, Y/N exhaled, voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to read as much as I did.”

Theo didn’t look angry. He didn’t look embarrassed. He looked… exposed. “So you read a lot,” he said quietly.

Y/N nodded, eyes lowering. “A bit.” Then — a whisper — “A lot.”

Theo nodded once, small and resigned. “I went through yours a lot.”

The air changed. Heavy, but honest.

.

.

.

Outside the classroom door, four Slytherin boys hid behind a statue of a particularly chubby knight. Blaise held Wesley's Extendable Ear that was under the classroom door.

Mattheo whispered, “Are they confessing yet?”

Blaise smirked. “Theo is definitely going to confess with his whole soul right now.”

Enzo squinted. “Can you hear better if I—” He leaned too far. The statue wobbled.

Draco grabbed his hood, yanking him back. “Enzo, if you compromise this mission, so help me—”

Mattheo shushed them violently. “They’re talking about feelings. Feelings.”

Blaise grinned. “Should we knock? Or applaud?”

Draco glared. “We stay hidden. They need privacy. And if you idiots blow our cover, I’ll—”

Inside, a desk scraped.

Four heads snapped toward the door like starving kneazles hearing a can open.

Mattheo whispered, “I bet Theo’s holding her hand.”

Enzo slapped his chest. “Take me instead, Merlin.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “I’m surrounded by children.”

.

.

.

Y/N stepped forward once.

Theo mirrored her step unintentionally, like his body reacted before his mind did.

Her eyes lifted to his. “When you wrote about me,” she said softly, “What did you mean by ‘I didn’t understand then’?”

Theo inhaled sharply, as if the question had hit him physically. He lifted a hand slowly toward her face, but right before touching her, he stopped. His fingers hovered in the space near her cheek, shaking slightly.

“I didn’t understand,” he said, voice low, raw, “Why you were in my thoughts all the time. Why I noticed everything you did. Why I… watched you without meaning to.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. “And now?” she whispered.

Theo swallowed, eyes darkening. “Now I know it wasn’t nothing,” he said. “Not for me.”

Her lips parted — not in shock, but in relief. “I figured.”

Theo finally opened her sketchbook, turning it toward her. The charcoal portrait of his jawline looked back at them. “This,” he said softly, “is not nothing.”

Y/N flushed deeply, arms wrapping around her torso like she needed to hold herself together. “I wasn’t doing it on purpose,” she whispered. “Sometimes I draw without thinking. When I’m overwhelmed or… distracted.”

Theo’s gaze softened. “You draw the things that stay in your mind,” he said. “The things you can’t ignore.”

She looked startled — because it was true. Because it was exactly true. “How do you know that?” she asked quietly.

He lifted the notebook she was holding and tapped it. “I’ve been… observing you. For a long time.”

Her breath caught. She opened his notebook, slightly flipping to one of the pages she remembered. “The notes you took…” she said carefully. “Theo, some of them were so… specific.”

Theo’s jaw flexed. “They were things I didn’t realize I noticed,” he said. “I’d write them down so I could make sense of them. I thought I was just being… analytical.”

“And now?” she asked softly.

He held her gaze. “Now I know I was paying attention because I couldn’t help it.”

Y/N carefully opened the notebook again and stopped at a specific note. She taps her quill against the parchment three times before writing when she’s anxious.

She looked up at him, eyes softer now. “You noticed that?” she whispered.

Theo nodded once. “You do it every time,” he said. “Right before essays. Or when a professor asks you something difficult. Or when you’re irritated.” His voice lowered. “Or when you’re trying not to show you’re nervous.”

Her stomach tightened.

Another page: She reads faster when she’s upset. Slower when she’s comfortable.

“Did you really watch me this closely?” she asked in a small voice.

Theo didn’t flinch.“I didn’t mean to,” he confessed. “But yes.”

Y/N pressed her lips together, breath shaking. Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I wasn’t imagining it then.”

“Imagining what?” Theo asked.

“That you were… noticing me.”

Theo exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that truth inside him for months.

“I was,” he said. “I always was.”

The weight of their exchanged notebooks hung between them, heavy and fragile. Y/N looked down at his notes again — then back up at him. “Theo,” she said, almost afraid to ask, “Was this… why the Amortentia smell threw you off?”

Theo froze.

Completely.

His hand tightened around her sketchbook.

He looked wrecked.

“…Yes,” he said softly. Then, with more difficulty: “I didn’t understand it then. I couldn’t admit it. But now I know. It was because of you.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

“What did it smell like?” she whispered.

Theo’s voice lowered, rough.

“Lavender.”

“Parchement.”

“Charcoal.”

“And something… quiet. Like the library late at night.”

Her library scent. Her books. Her charcoal stains.

Her.

Y/N’s voice trembled. “Theo…” He stepped closer very slowly, as if each inch changed the gravity around them.

“And you?” he asked, eyes locked on hers. “What did you smell?”

She shut her eyes for a second, gathering courage.

“Rain,” she whispered.

“And ink.”

“And something sharp — like cedarwood.”

Her voice shook. “And… you, Theo. I smelled you. I just didn’t know it yet.”

Theo inhaled short and sharp. His expression cracked wide open. Understanding. Fear. Relief. Want. All of it.

“You smelled me,” he repeated, stunned.

“Yes,” she said. “I did.”

Theo stepped closer.

Close enough that their shoes touched. Close enough, their breaths mingled. Close enough, no lies could exist between them. He lifted a hand, almost touching her cheek, but stopped one breath short again.

Everything in him trembled.

“Y/N,” he whispered, “I didn’t know how to name any of this.”

“I didn’t either,” she whispered back.

“I still don’t,” he admitted, voice raw. “But I know that when you drew me… and when I read your notes… and when you smelled me—”

He stopped, breath shuddering.

Y/N’s eyes glossed with emotion.

“You don’t need the perfect words,” she said softly. “Just honest ones.”

Theo leaned forward, not touching her, but so close her heartbeat tripped. Then, voice breaking in the quiet: “The honest truth is… It’s always been you.”

Her breath caught.

She felt herself tilting toward him, drawn in by gravity, by truth, by everything they had read in each other’s notebooks.

Their faces inched closer, lips a breath apart—

CRASH.

A loud clatter outside the door cut the moment clean in half.

Someone hissed from the outside, “Mattheo, you absolute troll—!”

Theo closed his eyes, jaw tightening in pure murderous rage. Y/N let out a weak, breathless laugh. But when she looked back at him. All the truth was still there.

Nothing had been lost.

.

.

.

The moment the door swung open, the four boys launched themselves away from the wall like startled pigeons.

Blaise, Draco, Mattheo, and Enzo stood in a very crooked line, dusting off nonexistent dirt, adjusting collars, fake-coughing, trying desperately to look like they hadn’t been using an Extendable Ear to eavesdrop for the past fifteen minutes.

Mattheo held a textbook upside down. Enzo stared intensely at the ceiling. Blaise pretended to inspect his own fingernails. Draco attempted casual elegance and failed miserably.

Theo stepped into the hallway with Y/N behind him, eyes flat, tone deadly calm. “Hello.”

All four boys flinched like he’d fired a spell at them.

Mattheo spoke first, way too fast: “Fancy seeing you here, Theodore! Wonderful morning, isn’t it? Crisp air, birds singing—”

“There are no birds in the dungeons,” Theo said.

Mattheo continued, “Yes, well, the metaphorical birds—”

“Shut up,” Theo replied.

Draco cleared his throat. “We weren’t spying.”

“Good,” Theo said, brushing past him, “that means you won’t mind me asking why you’re all sweating.”

Draco instantly wiped his forehead. “Dungeon humidity.”

“It’s December,” Theo muttered.

Blaise tried a different tactic, leaning against the wall and giving Y/N a lazy, overly casual smile.

“Lovely morning, Y/N.”

Y/N blinked. “Is that why you were yelling a minute ago?”

Blaise froze. Draco smacked him on the back of the head.

“Idiot,” Draco hissed.

Enzo beamed, too cheerful. “So! You two done talking?”

Y/N flushed crimson. Theo stiffened. All four boys’ eyes widened, waiting like hungry hyenas.

Theo inhaled sharply, trying to control the storm boiling under his skin. “We’re leaving,” he said flatly.

Mattheo pointed dramatically. “Together?”

Theo’s glare could have melted the stone walls.

Y/N fumbled, flustered, “We’re just— we need to— we were talking and—”

Mattheo gasped. “OH MERLIN, DID YOU—”

“No,” Theo snapped, grabbing Y/N’s elbow in a protective, grounding motion—gentle but sure. “We’re going.”

The boys scattered like rats.

.

.

.

They walked away from the chaos of the Slytherin boys yelling, their laughter echoing faintly behind them.

But Theo and Y/N barely heard it. Because somewhere in the middle of the hallway, without either of them noticing how it happened, their fingers found each other.

Softly. Accidentally. Naturally.

Y/N felt Theo’s hand brush hers for a moment, and instead of pulling away, her fingers curled on instinct.

Theo inhaled sharply. He looked down, startled… and then stunned. Her hand was still in his. Warm. Small. Steady. His fingers tightened around hers before he could stop himself.

Neither of them said a word. Neither mentioned it. Neither wanted to break the spell.

They just walked side by side, hands intertwined, hearts racing in quiet sync.

And Theo, without thinking, without planning, began guiding her somewhere he always went when he needed to breathe. Somewhere quiet. Hidden. Safe. Somewhere only he knew.

Theo turned a corner she’d never noticed before, leading her past a tapestry of a sleeping banshee and down a narrow stone passageway that felt untouched by students. The light dimmed, torches flickering low, making their shadows stretch across the floor.

Y/N looked around, breath soft. “Where are we going?”

Theo hesitated—just one second—then said, “Somewhere no one will bother us.”

She didn’t question it. Didn’t resist. She trusted him. More than she had trusted anyone in a long time.

Finally, they reached a small alcove at the end of the passage: a stone archway, half-lit by a single enchanted lantern that glowed blue and gold. Dust motes floated like stars suspended in water.

Theo stopped, still holding her hand.

Y/N stepped closer. “Why here?”

Theo’s chest rose and fell. “This is where I think best,” he said softly. “Where I go when I need to figure myself out.”

“And now?” she asked quietly.

Theo swallowed. “Now I’m here because of you.”

Her breath caught. They stood face-to-face in the quiet glow of her heartbeat, echoing against the stone, his breath brushing her lips when he spoke.

Theo’s hand, still entwined with hers, trembled. “Y/N,” he said softly, “I’ve been trying not to feel this for so long that I don’t… really know how to do this properly.”

She stepped closer until his chest was almost touching hers.

“You don’t have to know,” she whispered. “We can figure it out together.”

Theo’s eyes fluttered shut.

When he opened them again, the whole world had narrowed to just her.

Theo lifted his free hand slowly, gently, and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her skin as if he wasn’t sure she was real.

Y/N leaned into his touch safe, steady, warm. “Theo,” she breathed, “come here.”

Something inside him gave way. He leaned in, hesitant only for a moment, searching her eyes, asking without words:

Are you sure?

Is this okay?

Y/N nodded once, soft and certain.

That was all he needed.

Theo pulled her closer and kissed her. Softly at first, careful, cautious, like he was afraid she might break. Then deeper, warmer, as if every unspoken feeling they’d held for years finally found a place to go.

Her hand came up to his jaw, fingers brushing his cheek. Theo’s heart nearly stopped. She tasted like breathless hope. The kiss tasted like relief. And like the truth, they had finally let escape.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, Theo rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, trying to steady the way his chest was trembling.

“Y/N…” He whispered her name like it meant everything. “Please don’t let this be the only time.”

She smiled—barely, but enough to light him on fire.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Theo took both of her hands now, holding them between his palms, grounding himself in her warmth.

He breathed once, intensely and steadily, then lifted his gaze to hers. “I’m not good at this,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to say things the right way.”

“You’re doing fine,” she whispered.

Theo exhaled shakily. “Okay.” He held her hands tighter. “I want to be with you,” he said, voice low but certain. “Not just like this. Not just moments stolen in empty hallways.”

Her lips parted.

“I want all of it,” Theo continued. “You and me. Whatever this is becoming. Whatever this could be.” Then, softer: “Y/N… will you go out with me?”

Her breath caught her entire body warming, her heart swelling so fast she thought it might burst. She stepped closer, rising on her toes, and kissed him again, brief, soft, perfect.

When she pulled back, she whispered against his lips: “Yes.”

Theo closed his eyes, exhaling a shudder that sounded like years of walls finally cracking.

“Good,” he breathed. “Good.”

He pulled her into him, not a hug, not exactly, more like a promise.

A beginning.

They stayed there like that, hidden, quiet, holding onto each other as if the castle had finally paused long enough for them to catch up to everything they had been denying.

And for the first time, the future didn’t terrify him.

Not when she was holding onto him.

.

.

.

That same afternoon, dinner was already loud and chaotic when Theo and Y/N walked hand-in-hand into the Great Hall.

Conversations dipped. Gasps fluttered through the tables. Even the candles seemed to flicker brighter as if they, too, were leaning closer. The Slytherin boys exploded into whispers and elbow jabs, each one trying (and failing) to act like they hadn’t been waiting for this for a year.

But at the staff table, only two professors truly watched: Slughorn. And Snape.

Horace Slughorn perked up immediately, hands trembling with excitement.

“Oh! Oh my!” he whispered breathlessly, nudging the air in front of him as if he were elbowing an invisible friend. “Would you look at that, Severus!”

Snape did not look.

Not yet.

Slughorn, however, leaned forward, beaming. “Finally! I knew they’d come around. Brilliant children, both of them. I could see it from the moment I paired them.”

Snape cut his meat slowly, silently.

Slughorn lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Isn’t it wonderful? Young love blooming in our very own halls!”

Snape’s eye twitched. Wonderful was not the word he’d use. Not for something like this. Not for something that felt like watching a ghost walk through a memory.

Finally, Snape allowed himself a glance.

Just a small one. Barely a tilt of his head. But enough.

Theo was guiding Y/N toward the Slytherin table with quiet confidence, thumb brushing the back of her hand like a promise. She looked up at him and smiled softly, shyly, blooming.

And something inside Severus Snape, something long buried under decades of bitterness and regret, tightened painfully.

Not because he disapproved.

But because he recognized the moment.

The innocence of it.

The inevitability of it.

The fragile, unspoken hope of it.

He had felt something like that once.

A lifetime ago.

Before mistakes. Before choices. Before everything hardened into walls he no longer knew how to take down. Snape’s expression did not change outwardly. But his eyes lingered just a second too long.

Long enough to betray that he understood far more than he wished he did.

Slughorn chuckled warmly. “Oh, Severus, don’t scowl. They’re sweet together! Quite charming, really.”

Snape’s voice was quiet, almost lost beneath the hum of the hall. “I’m not scowling.”

Slughorn blinked. Snape took a controlled sip of tea. Then added, almost under his breath, “Simply… observing.”

Slughorn grinned. “Observing what, exactly?”

Snape did not answer. Because the truth felt too familiar on his tongue. He observed the way Theo looked at the girl beside him not with ownership, not with hunger, but with reverence.

He observed how she leaned into Theo’s shoulder, trusting, open, warm.

He observed something he had once wanted more than anything in the world: To be seen. To be chosen. To be understood. And he observed something he had lost — or perhaps never truly had.

But he said none of this.

He simply folded his hands and stared down the hall, his gaze so controlled it bordered on cold.

Slughorn continued cheerfully spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Ah, to be young again. Don’t you agree?”

Snape’s jaw tightened. He did not agree. Not even remotely. But there was something quiet, small, buried beneath the surface of his voice when he responded: “It is… predictable.”

Slughorn laughed. “Romantic, you mean!”

Snape said nothing.

Yet his eyes softened a microscopic shift as he watched Theo whisper something that made Y/N blush and duck her head.

Slughorn nudged him. “You knew, didn’t you? Before they did.”

Snape’s lips pressed into a thin line.

He remembered noticing the way Theo searched for Y/N in the corridors… the way she instinctively moved closer to him in class… the way their tension smoldered quietly, desperately, painfully.

Of course he noticed.

Some things you only recognize if you’ve lived them.

He looked away first. “…It was obvious,” he said in a low voice.

Not cold. Not harsh. Just honest. What he didn’t add — what he would never say aloud — echoed silently under the surface:

I knew what it was because I once felt it too.

And I know how dangerous it is to realize it too late.

But Theo and Y/N?

No.

They had time.

They had courage.

They had done what he never could.

They chose each other.

And Snape, for all his bitterness, could not bring himself to resent it. He simply folded his arms and stared forward, face unreadable, heart unexpectedly heavy. Slughorn clapped him on the back, oblivious to the storm stirring beneath the surface.

“Well then! Cheers to young love!”

Snape’s reply was barely a whisper, almost drowned out by the clamor of students:

“…Indeed.”

But for once, he meant it.

.

.

.

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synopsis : frenemy!mattheo get jealous when fem!reader gets all handsy with bsf!theo after she was sitting on Mattheo’s lap the ride up to the cabin. he decides to make a move on her but he does not really know to. he makes up for it in another way.

warnings! : male!char x fem!reader, mentions of hard on, lap sitting, weight insecurity, innuendo of weight jokes. not really smut but is making out considered it?

part two collection

A car trip up the mountain with a few friends for the weekend was not a bad plan after a whole week of studying and cramming for pre-O.W.L.S. The group could really use the relaxation time.

Being stuck in the car for hours in a overpacked car and squished by bags was the hard part. You could handle the hard part if you kept on reminding yourself that there is a cabin up in the mountain that is calling out your name. But when your assigned seat got taken up by the amount of duffel bags, that is a problem. Well, problems can be fixed with solutions but not for your case.

You stood near the second car, eyeing the mountains as the guys tried to play tetris with the bags so that they could make everyone fit in the car.

"There's too many bags, I told you we shouldn't have brought Pansy." Draco joked, earning a hit on the shoulder from her. He winced and apologised. He pushed the bags more into the car, trying to make space for you. He groaned.

Mattheo, who had been mostly quiet and leaning against the first car, straightened when he noticed what you noticed. There was only going to be one more empty seat in the second car. The first car was filled with Tom, Pansy, Theo and Astoria and bags too so there was no way anyone could fit in that car which is going to probably smell of weed and body odour during the whole ride.

The second car was a tad bigger but still the same problem. Draco clapped once. A huge proud smile plastered on his lips. "Easy," He said proudly. "You can just sit on Mattheo's lap."

Your cheeks turned a light shade of pink and your stomach felt warm. On his lap? Mattheo's lap? She furrowed her brows, her eyes switching between him and Draco. 'It cannot the only way.' she thought.

"What? I don't think—" You get cut off by Mattheo, himself.

"What? No, I'm not letting her sit on my lap during the drive." Mattheo had his arms crossed. "Can't we just leave her here?" His voice sharp like he was the one who was going to be sitting on someone's lap.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll like that, won't you?" You sneered back at him. Earning an eye roll from him. He acts like you are insufferable. His brother butts in from the other car. Door still opened.

A half-finished cigarette hanging in his mouth, "Oh, you'll both survive. It's a two hour drive up." He throws the cigarette butt down on the ground and stepped on it to extinguish it. "Besides, she is not that heavy." He mentioned.

You tilted your head in confusion a little to that last part.

Mattheo scoffed, “You’re not the one that’s going to have her on your lap.” You realised what it meant. You kicked the gravel on the floor in embarrassment.

"Then it's settled then. We have places to be, everyone in." Draco dusted his hands like he did a good job with the seating arrangements.

Mattheo huffed and slides into his seat. Tongue poking his cheek and arms folded. With a reluctant breath, you climbed in and settled awkwardly on his lap. "Fuck me." Mattheo muttered under his breath. You looked down, wondering if he meant that you were heavy or something.

You tightened your core strength so that your whole body weight would not be totally on him. You shook slightly while trying to hover above his lap. Mattheo groans, pulling your waist down. Making you flush against him. You let out a rare sound.

“I can still feel you trying to balance. I’d rather you sit properly than be all shaky and make it worse for me than it already is.” He added. Your back straightened up.

All of your friends could tell that you and Mattheo did not get along well. He would always shoot stares at you when she talks to people, giving the most unwanted attention. He would disagree and insult your opinions when you guys were in a group setting. Now you were here, on his lap in a packed car going up to Theo's family cabin in the mountains.

Your skirt kinds of rode up your thighs. You move your hips up but gravity kept pulling you down every time you did. Mattheo lets a strained sound out softly. You managed to keep your skirt covering half your thighs. You picked at your black lace tights, awkwardly. Your arms folded, not knowing where to put them.

You leaned forward, resting your head on the headrest of the seat infront of you. You could not lean back against Mattheo. He was looking out the window while you shut your eyes.

After a quick break at a rest stop, Draco got into the driver's seat and started the car again.

They were going to Theo's family cabin for the weekend. A weekend of drinking, getting high and making bad choices. Draco drived up the rocky road, making the car bump up and down. "Fuck." You muttered. Your hand held Mattheo's thigh to steady yourself.

"Drive a little slower would ya, Malfoy." You suggested. He apologise but the bumps did not stop. You swore you felt Mattheo stiffening against your ass. His bulge hits her core and you could not help but whimper.

The car jostled again, another brutal bump sending you lurching forward and your hand landed squarely on his thigh again, fingers pressing into the muscle through his jeans. You could feel him tense beneath you, a coiled spring. His hands, still stubbornly at his sides, flexed slightly.

"Try not gripping my goddamn leg like it's a fucking life raft," Mattheo muttered, his middle finger and thumb were rubbing circles on each sides of his temple.

You took your hand off him and held on to the seat in front of you, again. Bending forward. You dreaded how long this was going to take.

Mattheo looked out the window, trying not to focus on your ass on his hardening cock. He kept his groan in his throat. When you bent forward to rest your head against the front seat, he felt himself twitch in his jeans. He cursed himself internally and prayed hard that he does not cream his pants right here.

You feel your eyes getting heavy and you straightened up to refrain from falling asleep because if you did, you would be falling asleep on Mattheo and you did not want. Your head bobs as you felt your eyes shutting. You leaned back and going straight into your precious sleep on Mattheo's chest. He sighed.

Draco looks at the rear mirror, seeing you sleeping on Mattheo's chest and he smirked.

"Comfy there, Riddle?" He asked teasingly. Mattheo fought the urge to growl at Draco's teases.

"She's exactly above my dick." He complained. Draco snickered and shook his head.

“Enjoy it, you know how she is when it comes to guys. No bloke has ever had a chance to shag her since Diggory.” Draco reminded. His hand clenched when he thought about Cedric.

The fact that he was the only guy who managed to shag you. He never told anyone that or showed that he even cared about that but he did.

All Mattheo could think about was the way she smelled like vanilla and strawberries, intoxicating him. His hand brushed against you thigh and you stirred, shivering a little as the both of you were right under the air conditioning.

The way your breathing slowed when you fell back onto his chest. Your hand gripping his sweater’s sleeve like you were going to be taken away if you did not hold onto something.

Something he would not forget or even try to is the way you nuzzled your head into the crook of his neck. He felt your soft lips against his skin. It felt like something that was so forbidden. Since you were asleep, he decided to keep all of these to himself to save you from the embarrassment.

After that whole two hour ride up to the cabin, the car made a heavy break and you jolted awake. You gripped Mattheo’s chest, still heavy eyed and tired. You look around and remembered that the lap you were on did belong to someone who despises you. You take your hand off him and clear your throat.

“Welcome to the best weekend of your lives.” Theo smirked, opening his passenger seat door without looking away from the two in the back seat. You blinked. Trying to regain your consciousness.

Mattheo made a sound. You turn to face him.

“What’re you waiting for? An invitation to get off my lap?” Mattheo sharply said. You pulled the door handle and got off his lap. You stretched widely, hips bending to the side and shooting your arms straight out with a loud yawn. It was almost sunset when you arrived.

You looked over your shoulder, seeing a log cabin. Pretty cozy. Theo was already at the door, fishing through his bag for the key while Blaise, Tom and Draco unloads everything from the car. The two other girls besides you were on the porch swing. Astoria with her head on Pansy’s shoulder, eyes shut too.

Theo manages to unlock the door and he pushes the door too hard making the girls on the porch swing flinch. He rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward, apologetic smile.

“Whoops..” He chuckled awkwardly.

You shake your head and went in the direction towards the house after getting a headache from the smell of the gasoline outside. The three girls went in with Theo first. Eyeing everything that is in the cabin.

“Girls, your room is up the stairs to your left. Two beds so one of ‘ya would be lucky.” Theo mentioned. The three girls stared at each other before rushing to the stairs. They raced up and you manage to reach the door first.

You jump of joy outside the door. “I call sleeping alone!”

Pansy and Astoria groaned. You twist the door knob and pushed it in. The room smelled of wood, candles and basically anything that screamed camping.

You sat on the bed, removing your shoes. Girls night in this room is going to be so wicked. Theo and Blaise knocked on the door, Pansy opens it and saw that the two boys had brought up all of the girls bags.

"Thank you, kind sir." You joked. The girls threw their bags onto the bed and unzipped them to find something more comfortable to change into.

Everyone made it downstairs and you were upstairs alone. Taking some things out of your bag. Someone knocked on the door, Theo. You smile. Saying hi to him.

“How was the ride up? I know you weren’t really in the best position.” Theo nudged her shoulder with a smirk. She rolled her eyes at him and hits his chest playfully.

“Shut up, I kind of fell asleep on him. I don’t really wanna know what happened when I was passed out.”

Theo chuckled, pulling you out of the room and downstairs outside to the campfire where everyone else was already at. You sat beside the girls and Theo was on your side with his arm around you.

Mattheo was already throwing daggers with his eyes at you. You could not tell if it was because you sleeping on him or just your presence here. They all sat in their own conversations till Pansy suggested playing games.

“Spin the bottle anyone?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Okay but if it lands on you, I’m not kissing you.” Draco warns her. He jokes. Pansy mocks him and placed the bottle in the middle of the group. Pansy spins the bottle first and it lands on Blaise. She goes to him and he had a smirk on his face. They kissed and it was back to the game.

Pansy nudges your shoulder, signalling that it was her turn. You spin the bottle and lands on Theo who recently moved beside Draco. Shit. You thought.

“Come here.” He smirked.

You looked beside him, it was Mattheo.

You went across to Theo and kissed him. It felt wrong to kiss him but there was no reason. Maybe it was the way that Mattheo was giving the looks. But it’s Mattheo, a guy who despises your guts.

Theo’s hand snakes to your waist, pulling you deeper into the kiss. Draco stops the kiss and he pulls you off Theo. “Alright, snog at your own time.” He said.

Your lips were bruised, wet and sore.

A few turns went, it was your turn again.

You spin the bottle and this time it lands on Mattheo.

“I can spin again—” You tried your best to avoid this situation but the universe was not on your side. You were cut off by Draco.

“You can’t go against the bottle.” Draco smirked.

Mattheo had his eyes on you already. He puts out his cigarette and flicks it behind him. Letting the smoke out of his mouth that had a healing cut on it. “Do you not want to kiss me?”

He tilts his head. You try to get a word out. He stood up and sauntered to you. He nods as a signal for Pansy to scoot over. He sat beside her. Chewing on the inside of his cheek. He pulled your hand and gently guides you onto his lap. Your breath hitched as you sat on his lap.

“This isn’t an unfamiliar situation, love.” Mattheo wiped your lips with his thumb. You were slightly confused on why but you got your answer.

“I don’t want to taste him, I wanna taste you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Theo got a chance to kiss your lips.”

“Jealous, Riddle?”

@tintdberries don’t forget to smile!

Silence

Mattheo Riddle

“Have you noticed something different about Mattheo lately?” I ask Pansy as we lean over the railing of the stands, the cold autumn wind brushing our faces.

The air above the Quidditch pitch is sharp enough to sting my cheeks, carrying the mixed smells of damp grass, old wood, and butterbeer.

Down below, both teams stride onto the pitch, Slytherin in emerald green and silver, Gryffindor in crimson and gold. Their robes snap in the wind as they mount their brooms, a blur of color against the grey sky.

The crowd surges with noise. Banners are charmed to wave and glitter overhead, and somewhere behind us a group of second-years is arguing loudly over who will catch the Snitch first.

Pansy glances at me briefly before popping another handful of popcorn into her mouth. The kernels crackle between her teeth, the sound almost lost under the roar of the stands. “No, why?” she asks, her eyes already flicking back to Draco as he swings his leg over his broom with practiced ease. I can practically see the hearts in her eyes as she tracks his every movement, her lips curving into a little smile whenever he glances our way.

“I don’t know…” I murmur, frowning slightly. The wind tugs at my hair, sneaking cold fingers down the back of my robes. “He just seems… distant lately.”

I take a sip of my Pepsi, Muggle contraband smuggled in at the bottom of my bag. The fizz crackles on my tongue and scratches down my throat. It feels almost out of place here, surrounded by pumpkin juice and butterbeer and floating trays of cauldron cakes, like it doesn’t quite belong in this world.

Kind of like me, lately, around him.

My eyes find Mattheo near the center of the pitch, surrounded by Theo and Blaise. They’re laughing at something, shoulders shaking, Blaise nearly dropping his broom as he doubles over. Mattheo throws his head back, lips pulled into a familiar grin, except it looks wrong. Stiff. Like it’s painted on. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, those warm brown eyes that usually spark with something wicked whenever they find mine. Now, even from this distance, they look flat and distant, as if he’s focusing on something far beyond the stadium, somewhere I can’t follow.

A small, heavy knot twists in my stomach.

“Maybe he’s just nervous for the game,” Pansy says with a shrug, the green and silver scarf around her neck fluttering in the wind. She brushes a stray lock of black hair out of her face, her manicured fingers lingering for a second as she squints toward the pitch. “You know how he gets before a big match.”

“Yeah… maybe,” I sigh, tracing a finger along the cold metal railing until it numbs the pad of my fingertip. The stands vibrate beneath us as the Gryffindor team soars past, their cheers echoing like a battle cry. Red and gold streamers whip through the air, some enchanted to spit little sparks that fizzle out before hitting the ground.

But I can’t make myself look away from Mattheo.

“It’s just…” I lower my voice as Madam Hooch’s whistle shrieks, making me flinch. The Quaffle is released; players shoot forward, streaks of color slicing through the sky. “He did it last week too. Remember in Potions?” My chest tightens at the memory. “He acted like I was some sort of distraction, barely even looked at me when I tried to talk to him.”

I can still see it so clearly: the way his jaw clenched when I nudged his arm, murmuring a joke about Longbottom’s exploding cauldron. The way he shifted his stool a few inches away, like my presence was suddenly too much, too close. The way his fingers, the same ones that used to trace idle patterns on the back of my hand under the table, stayed wrapped around his quill instead.

Like something had snapped, and I hadn’t heard it until it was too late.

Pansy groans dramatically now, turning to face me fully, her expression caught somewhere between exasperation and concern. “Y/n,” she says firmly, cutting off my ramble before it can spiral, “I’m sure everything’s fine. If something were actually wrong, Theo would’ve told you. He and Mattheo can’t keep secrets to save their lives.”

I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper, my eyes drifting back to where Mattheo now dives after the Quaffle, wind tearing through his hair. His posture is tense, shoulders bunched, his movements just a fraction sharper than usual. He doesn’t look toward our section of the stands, not once. He always used to. Before every match, he’d rise above the rest of the team, scan the crowd until his gaze found mine, and smirk like it was our private little ritual.

Today, he doesn’t even glance up.

“I guess so,” I mumble, my voice barely audible over the crowd’s deafening cheers as a Slytherin Chaser scores. The stands around us ripple with movement, students jumping to their feet, green sparks shooting into the air from a nearby wand. Someone behind us nearly spills their butterbeer in excitement. “I just… hope it’s not me.”

Pansy scoffs and rolls her eyes, but there’s a softness in her gaze when she looks at me. “Oh, it’s definitely not you,” she says with a smirk that doesn’t entirely hide her sympathy. “If anything, he’s probably sulking because you didn’t wish him luck before the match. Boys are ridiculously dramatic, you know.”

Guilt pricks at me.

I could have. I should have.

I’d seen him in the common room earlier, lacing his gloves with slow, deliberate movements. His eyes had flicked up when I entered, then away again just as quickly, as if the sight of me stung. My feet had faltered, and instead of going to him, instead of saying anything at all, I’d pretended to be fascinated by the fire and slipped out.

Maybe this is my fault.

I let out a small laugh for Pansy’s sake, but it feels thin, brittle. It doesn’t reach my eyes any more than Mattheo’s smile reaches his. My gaze drifts back to him, drawn like a magnet I can’t switch off. He weaves between two Gryffindor players with effortless grace, but there’s a recklessness to the way he corners, like he doesn’t much care if he crashes.

“Yeah… maybe you’re right,” I whisper, the words dissolving into the cold air, snatched away by the wind and the roar of the crowd. But a tiny, gnawing part of me, the part that’s been watching every shrug, every averted glance, every forced smile, won’t be soothed.

Because something is wrong.

And I can’t shake the horrible, sinking feeling that whatever it is, it has everything to do with me.

---

The Great Hall hums with chatter and laughter, the clinking of goblets and silverware blending with the low crackle of floating candles above. The scent of roasted chicken, buttery garlic potatoes, and warm pumpkin pasties hangs thick in the air, already settling into my robes. Somewhere down the hall, a first-year shrieks as a friend charms their pumpkin juice to fizz over, and their laughter ripples through the rows of tables.

Slytherin’s table gleams under the enchanted ceiling’s dusky glow, reflecting the soft shimmer of the early evening stars. The ceiling is streaked with low, smoky clouds, hinting at a coming storm. Green and silver banners ripple gently overhead, stirred by a draft that smells faintly of rain and old stone.

I slide onto the bench beside Pansy, the worn wood cool against the backs of my legs, across from Theo and Blaise. Mattheo sits next to Theo, his hair slightly damp from a recent shower after Quidditch practice. A stray curl clings to his temple, glistening where droplets haven’t completely dried. He looks maddeningly perfect, with messy curls falling over his forehead, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the veins in his hands faintly visible as he grips his fork. There’s a faint smudge of dirt still on his cheek, a streak he must have missed in the mirror. I have the sudden, stupid urge to wipe it away.

“Finally,” Pansy sighs dramatically, tossing her glossy black hair over her shoulder so it brushes my arm. Her perfume, jasmine and something sharper like cloves, curls around us. “If they’d kept us waiting any longer, I would’ve hexed the house-elves myself.”

Theo laughs, grabbing a roll from the silver platter in front of him and tearing it open with his fingers. Steam curls up, fragrant and warm. “You? Work up the energy to hex anyone? Don’t make me laugh.”

“Oh, shut it, Nott,” she huffs, nudging his knee under the table, but there’s a smirk playing at her lips. The familiar banter washes over me, comforting in its predictability.

I smile faintly and reach for the mashed potatoes, the serving spoon heavy and warm in my hand. The bowl clinks softly as I scoop some onto my plate, but my gaze keeps drifting to Mattheo.

He’s cutting into a piece of steak with slow, precise movements, his jaw tight, the muscle there ticking every so often.

His eyes are fixed on his plate like it’s done something to offend him.

He doesn’t look up.

Not at Theo, not at Pansy’s dramatics, and definitely not at me.

A little knot forms in the pit of my stomach, heavy and uncomfortable. At lunch, he’d barely said two words. After the match, when everyone else had been cheering and clapping him on the back, he’d slipped away before I could even reach him. I told myself he was just tired, just overwhelmed. Mattheo loved Quidditch too much to sulk after a win.

“So,” Blaise says, leaning back lazily, one arm draped along the back of the bench. The candlelight throws golden edges along his cheekbones. “That last match was brutal. Gryffindor didn’t know what hit them.”

Theo grins, eyes lighting up. “Yeah, especially when Mattheo nearly knocked Weasley off his broom. Classic move.”

“Reckless move,” Pansy corrects, flicking a crumb off her immaculate green sleeve like it’s personally offended her. “You could’ve been sent off for that, Mattheo.”

He shrugs and finally speaks, although not to me. “Was worth it,” he mutters, smirking faintly at Theo. It’s a small, crooked smirk I’ve seen a hundred times, but right now it feels like he’s performing it for them, not feeling it at all.

My fork stills halfway to my mouth. For a moment, I hold my breath and wait for his eyes to flick toward me, for a glance, a shared joke, anything. That’s usually all it takes. One look across the table and the noise of the Great Hall fades into the background. But his attention slides right past me as if I’m not even there.

Heat creeps up the back of my neck, prickling under my collar. Maybe he didn’t see me sit down. Maybe he’s really that tired. Maybe I’m being dramatic. I stab a piece of potato a little too hard, the tines scraping against the plate.

“Mattheo,” I start, my voice softer than I intended. It almost gets lost under the swell of chatter rising from the other tables. I clear my throat and try again. “You didn’t even celebrate after the win earlier. Everything alright?”

For a heartbeat, I’m sure he’s going to look at me. My chest tightens in anticipation. But he doesn’t answer right away. He just stabs another piece of steak, his jaw working as he chews, still staring down at his plate as if I hadn’t said anything at all.

The silence that follows feels deafening, louder than all the clinking silverware and distant bursts of laughter. My hand curls around my fork, my knuckles whitening. I can feel Pansy’s eyes on me, the small shift of her attention like a weight on my shoulder.

Theo glances between us awkwardly and clears his throat. “Uh, I think he’s just tired. Practice has been rough this week.” He forces a little chuckle, but it sounds strained.

“Yeah,” Mattheo mutters, still not looking up. “Something like that.”

Something like what? The words lodge in my throat. There’s a tight, aching pressure building behind my ribs, a mix of confusion and something that tastes dangerously like hurt. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and will the sting in my eyes to disappear before it can turn into anything embarrassing.

Pansy shoots me a quick, sympathetic look, the kind she only ever shows when no one else is paying attention, then changes the subject with forced brightness. “Anyway, Halloween’s next week. We’re all going, right?” She lifts her goblet to her lips, her eyes flicking sideways at me over the rim.

“Obviously,” Blaise says, relaxing back into the familiar topic. “Wouldn’t miss an excuse to drink firewhisky in the common room.”

Theo chuckles, more genuine this time. “And get caught again? Yeah, that’ll end well. I’m still shocked Slughorn believed that story about us ‘testing potion fumes.’”

Their laughter fills the space between us, but their voices feel far away, muffled like I’ve dunked my head underwater. The hall is too bright and too loud. A group of Gryffindors at the next table erupts into song, off-key and yelling the chorus to some house-chant, and the sound grates against my nerves.

My stomach feels tight, my food forgotten, the rich smells of dinner suddenly cloying and heavy. The mashed potatoes on my plate have gone cold, congealing at the edges, but I can’t bring myself to take another bite. I pick at the crust of my roll, crumbling it into soft white bits that stick to my fingertips.

I glance at Mattheo one last time, hoping, stupidly and stubbornly, that he’ll finally meet my eyes, that he’ll give me anything to hold onto. A smirk, a raised eyebrow, a quiet “We’ll talk later.” Instead, he just pushes his plate away with a dull scrape, the sound cutting through the conversation like a blade, and stands abruptly.

“I’m heading out,” he says shortly, the words clipped and flat.

“Mate, you barely ate,” Theo says, frowning up at him. There’s a flicker of concern in his voice that twists something inside my chest.

“Not hungry.” Mattheo’s voice is flat and final. He doesn’t even glance in my direction.

Before anyone can respond, he turns and walks toward the doors, his dark robes swirling around his legs. The enchanted ceiling above him rumbles faintly with distant thunder, as if it’s echoing the hollow roll of my thoughts. I track his retreating figure until the heavy doors swallow him up and he’s gone.

I sit there, staring after him, the sound of clinking silverware and overlapping conversations suddenly too loud, pressing in on me from all sides. A laugh from somewhere to my left makes me flinch. My throat feels dry, like I’ve swallowed ash.

Pansy leans closer, her shoulder brushing mine, her tone softer now and stripped of its usual sharp edge. “Y/n,” she says quietly, so only I can hear over the din, “don’t take it personally. He’s being an idiot.”

I manage a weak smile, though it doesn’t reach my eyes. My cheeks feel hot, my chest tight, and I focus on my plate so I don’t have to see the concern in hers. “Yeah,” I whisper, picking up my fork just to have something to do with my hands. I glance down at my untouched food, the gravy now dull and thick. “Maybe.”

The word hangs between us, thin and fragile, and I can’t tell if I’m trying to convince her or myself.

---

“I told you I wasn’t crazy,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend, frustration scraping at the edges of every word. I lean closer to the mirror, the glass cool and a little fogged near the bottom from the steam of our earlier showers. My wandlight charm floats just above the vanity, casting a soft, golden glow over the clutter of cosmetics. I swipe a bit of gloss across my lips and smooth it with the tip of my tongue, if only to keep my hands busy. “He’s been like this for ages now. You saw how he ignored me the other night at dinner, and I’ve barely spoken to him since.”

Pansy lets out a sympathetic hum, the sound low and familiar, like a song I’ve heard a hundred times. She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, her green-and-silver duvet a crumpled mess beneath her, surrounded by an explosion of makeup brushes, tangled necklaces, and perfume bottles that glint in the dim light. A pair of black heels dangles off the edge of the bed, one already on her foot, the other forgotten beside a half-open copy of Witch Weekly. The faint smell of her favorite vanilla-scented lotion mingles with the always-present hint of parchment and old stone that clings to the Slytherin dorms.

“I mean, there’s definitely something up,” she says, wrapping a section of her glossy dark hair neatly around her curling wand. The heated metal hisses faintly as it meets her hair, and I catch a faint whiff of singed product. “But I don’t get it, Y/n. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Exactly!” I exclaim, a little too loudly. My voice bounces off the low, arched ceiling. One of the girls at the far end of the dorm glances over, then quickly looks away. I toss my makeup brush down onto the vanity, and it clatters against a compact, the sharp sound making my already tense shoulders jump. “I haven’t done anything! He’s my boyfriend, for Merlin’s sake, and yet he’s acting like I’m some stranger he bumped into in the corridor. He even rescheduled our Hogsmeade trip again.”

I grab my bronzer and swirl the brush through the powder, trying to focus on the gentle drag of bristles across my skin instead of the tight, hot ache crawling up my throat. I blend it across my cheeks, but my reflection looks just as exasperated and pinched as I feel. My eyes are too bright, and my lips are pressed together so hard they’ve gone pale around the edges.

Pansy glances over at me, her brow furrowing as she gently shakes out a perfect, glossy curl. It falls over her shoulder like something out of a hair potion advert. “You’ve talked to him about it, right?” she asks. Her tone is light, but I can see the calculation in her eyes. Pansy’s always cataloguing, always assessing, like she’s mentally rearranging all the pieces of my life to see what doesn’t fit.

“I’ve tried everything,” I huff, leaning back in my chair until it creaks in protest. The wood digs into my spine, grounding me just enough to keep from spiraling. “I asked him straight up if something was wrong, and all he said was, ‘I’ve just got a lot on my mind.’” I pitch my voice lower to mimic him, that casual shrug he does, like nothing in the world can touch him. “Which, let’s be real, is boy-code for ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’”

My chest tightens. I remember the way he said it, his eyes flicking everywhere but me, his fingers worrying at the silver ring on his thumb, the one I’ve watched him spin absentmindedly in the common room a hundred times. He barely met my gaze, and when our knees brushed under the table, he moved his away like my touch burned.

I roll my eyes now, more out of habit than actual disbelief, and grab my mascara wand with a bit too much force. The plastic tube slips in my sweaty fingers, and I almost drop it. “We’re supposed to be going to the Halloween party together, Joe and Love from You,” I mutter, forcing a crooked smile I don’t quite feel. “Let’s see how that goes.”

Pansy snorts, lowering her curling wand and setting it carefully on a folded towel to cool. “Honestly? That’s very fitting for Mattheo. Obsessive boyfriend energy and all.”

Her joke lands, but the laugh it pulls from me is small and fragile, like it might shatter if I breathe wrong. “Yeah, except he’s not exactly giving ‘obsessed with me’ lately,” I say, my voice softer. The words feel heavy on my tongue. “More like… indifferent.”

The word makes my stomach twist. I can handle Mattheo angry, reckless, even downright cruel to people who deserve it, but indifferent to me? That feels like someone slowly, carefully siphoning all the magic out of the room.

Pansy turns off her curling wand and tosses it onto her bed before crossing the rug to stand beside me. Her presence is warm and familiar, a steadying counter to the cold little knot of dread sitting just beneath my ribs. “Hey,” she says softly, meeting my eyes in the mirror. Up close, I can see the tiny flecks of gold in her irises and the faint smudge of eyeliner she hasn’t blended yet. “Whatever’s going on with him, it’s his problem. You’re literally glowing right now.”

She picks up a small pot of shimmer from the cluttered vanity and dips her fingertip into it, then dusts it gently over my cheekbones. The powder is cool at first, then warms under her touch. I watch as the light catches on my skin, softening the tension in my face and turning my exhaustion into something almost ethereal.

“If he wants to mope, let him,” she continues, her voice sliding into that confident, blasé tone she uses when she wants to pull me back from the edge. “But you? You’re going to look flawless while he does.”

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head as I blink up at my reflection. I do look good. My eyes are framed by dark lashes, my lips are glossy, and my hair’s charmed into loose waves that fall neatly over my shoulders. I look like a girl who has everything under control. I don’t feel like her.

“You’re ridiculous,” I murmur, though the corner of my mouth is already twitching up.

“Ridiculously right,” she corrects, smirking as she reaches for her emerald-green tie, the Slytherin crest catching the light. She flips her hair back over her shoulder with practiced ease. “Now, finish your eyeliner. If we’re late to class again, McGonagall’s going to murder us both, and I’m not getting detention because you’re having a boy crisis.”

I chuckle, the sound a little more genuine this time, but the tightness in my chest doesn’t completely ease. It sits there, a dull, constant pressure, like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise. I uncap my eyeliner and lean in, the tip of the wand hovering dangerously close to my lash line as the train of my thoughts starts up again.

What if it’s me? What if he’s bored, or over it, or realized I’m not nearly as fascinating as whatever trouble he and his friends get into after curfew? What if the way he used to look at me, like I was some sort of beautiful distraction from the chaos in his head, was just that: a distraction, not something he ever planned to keep?

The wand trembles slightly in my hand, and I force myself to exhale slowly and steady my grip. A thin line of black ink glides along my upper lid, and I focus on that, the smooth pull of skin and the careful flick at the corner.

As I drag the last bit of liner across my eyelid, I can’t help wondering what’s really going on inside Mattheo’s head. I picture him in the boys’ dorm, sprawled across his bed, tie loosened, gaze fixed on the crackling fire in the common room below, his jaw set in that stubborn line I know too well. Is he thinking about me at all, or is he miles away, lost in whatever shadows have been tugging him further and further out of my reach?

And the question that terrifies me most curls, uninvited, around the edges of my mind: whether whatever’s pulling him away is something I can fix, or something he’s already decided not to.

---

Transfiguration was finally over, and the tension in the classroom felt like it could snap a wand in half. Professor McGonagall stood at the front, her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes sharpening like a scalpel every time I failed to answer a question or even meet her gaze. Her tartan robes were perfectly pressed, not a pleat out of place, and somehow that only made the disappointment in her eyes feel sharper. I could feel her scrutiny like a hex waiting to be cast, humming against my skin, sharp and unforgiving, as if she were one eyebrow raise away from turning me into a pincushion for not paying attention.

But I couldn’t focus, not with Mattheo sitting beside me like a ghost, silent and distant, his attention fixed anywhere but on me. Every time I dared a sideways glance, all I caught was the rigid line of his jaw and the way his dark curls fell over his forehead, shadowing eyes that never once turned my way. The more he ignored me, the quieter I became, and the more McGonagall’s patience thinned.

Pansy had taken the seat beside Draco, her laughter soft and syrupy as she leaned into him, twirling a strand of her dark hair around her finger. Draco smirked at something she whispered, pale eyes glinting, clearly entertained. Their quills lay abandoned on the desk between them, parchment empty except for a few lazy scribbles. That left me beside Mattheo, my so-called boyfriend, who hadn’t looked at me once the entire lesson.

His jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking there every few seconds, and his fingers tapped absently against the edge of the desk in a rhythm that set my teeth on edge. He didn’t even have his wand out anymore. It lay between us like a line drawn in the sand. The space between us felt colder than the dungeons, like someone had siphoned all the warmth out of the air and left only this heavy, suffocating silence.

I swallowed, my throat dry, and shifted in my seat, the wooden chair creaking softly beneath me. McGonagall’s voice droned on about proper wand movements for object-to-animal transformations, but the words blurred together, meaningless. I could feel the weight of our classmates around us, with quills scratching, parchment rustling, and whispered incantations, but it all felt far away, like I was trapped under a Bubble-Head Charm with the sound turned down.

I let out a quiet sigh, the kind that carried more weight than words, and began packing my books with slow, deliberate movements. The scrape of parchment, the soft thud of my Transfiguration textbook closing, and the snap of my bag’s clasp all seemed louder in the silence between us. My fingers trembled slightly as I stacked my ink bottle and quill, trying not to notice how Mattheo didn’t move, didn’t react, and didn’t even flick his eyes toward me.

Mattheo and I always walked to Potions together. It was our routine, our unspoken thing, as predictable as the Great Hall’s enchanted ceiling. He’d wait just outside the door, leaning against the stone archway, one corner of his mouth tilted up in that lazy almost-smile, and we’d fall into step together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Today, though, before I could even turn to him or decide whether to nudge his arm or just say his name and hope he’d soften, he was already halfway out the door. His chair scraped harshly against the floor, and then he was gone, his Slytherin robes billowing behind him like he couldn’t get away fast enough.

The sudden absence of him beside me felt like someone had cast a Disillusionment Charm on the air itself. I stared at the empty space he’d left, the imprint of his elbow still on the desk, my heart thudding dully against my ribs.

I huffed, biting back the sting in my chest, and shoved the last of my things into my bag. My hands moved faster now, more frantic than efficient. Don’t make a scene, I scolded myself. Not in front of McGonagall. Not when she already looks like she wants to turn you into a pincushion.

As I stepped into the corridor, the world surged back to life around me.

The hallway outside was a blur of students, the air buzzing with overlapping conversations. Voices echoed off the stone walls, bouncing down the long corridor in a jumble of laughter, complaints about homework, and the occasional excited shout about Quidditch practice. Shoes scuffed and clicked against the floor: polished oxfords, worn trainers, and the squeak of first-years trying to keep up with longer strides.

The smell of old parchment, floor polish, and a faint hint of something floral, maybe a stray whiff of some Ravenclaw’s potion experiment clinging to their robes, mingled in the air. Torches flickered in their brackets, casting a warm, uneven glow over the moving mass of robes in deep house colors.

I spotted Mattheo ahead, a dark head above the crowd, his shoulders stiff and his stride purposeful. He moved like the corridor belonged to him, cutting through clusters of students who instinctively stepped aside. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his tie slightly loosened, his hair a little messier than usual, but not in the way I liked. This wasn’t careless charm. This was tension.

He didn’t glance back.

“Hey,” I called out, weaving through the crowd and jostling against a Hufflepuff who muttered something under their breath. My bag bumped against my hip with every step, the weight of my textbooks suddenly irritating. I quickened my pace until I was close enough to reach him if I just stretched my hand out, if I dared.

He didn’t stop.

“Hi,” he said flatly, the word dropping between us like a stone into the Black Lake. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, gaze locked on some point down the corridor that only he could see. His tone was devoid of warmth, stripped of the familiar teasing or lazy affection that usually laced even his most careless words.

His jaw was still tight, the muscle there jumping like he was grinding his teeth. His shoulders were hunched just slightly forward, as if he were bracing against a chill only he could feel, and his hands stayed buried in his pockets like he was afraid of what they might do if he let them out.

I slowed my pace to match his, walking beside him now, close enough that our robes brushed with every step. The contact, once comforting, now felt like static, unpredictable and sharp. I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves, like standing too close to a misfiring spell.

“Can we talk?” I asked, my voice softer this time, trying to find a crack in his armor. My throat felt tight, and I had to swallow around the lump that had formed there. My fingers curled around the strap of my bag, my knuckles turning white.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, barely moving his lips and still refusing to look at me. The words were clipped and automatic, like he’d rehearsed them and worn them out.

I scoffed, the sound more bitter than I intended. “No, you’re not. You’ve been acting… weird.” The word felt too small for what was happening, but it was all I could manage without my voice shaking.

“I’m not acting weird,” he snapped, too quickly and too defensive. His eyes flicked to the side, skimming over my face for a fleeting second, then darted away like even that had been too much.

The sting of it pricked behind my eyes. Once upon a time, he would’ve held my gaze and smirked, said something disarming that turned my annoyance into amusement. Now, I couldn’t even catch his eyes long enough to read him.

“Yes, you are,” I said, my voice rising with the frustration that had been building all day, maybe all week. Every forced smile, every half-answer, every time he’d chosen silence instead of telling me what was going on twisted together inside my chest and coiled tighter and tighter. My fingers curled into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms and grounding me in the moment. The ache in my chest grew heavier, pressing against my ribs.

“I’m just busy. And tired,” Mattheo muttered as we turned the corner, his voice low and clipped.

We stepped into a narrower corridor, the ceiling arched above us and dotted with blackened candle wax from years of floating lumos charms gone wrong. The torches here burned lower, shadows pooling along the floor and stretching our silhouettes out in front of us. Students brushed past us in waves, Gryffindor scarves flashing red and gold, Ravenclaw badges catching the light, and clusters of Slytherins moving like a school of fish.

Their chatter echoed off the cold stone, but all I could hear was the hollow thud of my own heartbeat in my ears. Busy, my ass.

I stopped walking, my boots squeaking faintly against the flagstones as I planted myself in the middle of the corridor. I folded my arms tightly across my chest, hugging myself more than anything, trying to hold my fraying patience together.

“Busy and tired doesn’t mean you ignore me,” I said, my tone sharp enough to cut through the noise around us. A few nearby students glanced our way, then quickly looked away, sensing the tension like a storm brewing overhead.

Mattheo paused a few steps ahead, his back to me. For a moment, he didn’t move at all. Then he turned halfway, just enough that I could see the angle of his profile, his mouth twisting as he scoffed under his breath.

“I didn’t ignore you.”

The denial burned. I stepped closer, my boots tapping against the floor with short, determined sounds. I could smell the faint, familiar scent of him now, smoke and something dark and warm, along with the lingering trace of potion ingredients that always seemed to cling to his sleeves. Normally, that smell made my stomach flip in a good way. Now it just made it twist tighter.

“You didn’t even look at me at dinner yesterday,” I said, my voice rising just enough to betray the ache behind it. The memory flashed in my mind: the long Gryffindor table, plates piled high with pumpkin pasties and roast potatoes, my laughter fading as I’d watched the back of his head over at the Slytherin table. He’d laughed at Theo’s joke and leaned in when Enzo nudged him, but his eyes had never once drifted toward where I sat.

He finally glanced at me, just a flicker of eye contact, brief and guarded, like he was checking to make sure I wasn’t about to cause a scene. “That’s because I was tired,” he insisted, his jaw tightening again as he looked away.

“Mattheo…” I breathed, his name catching in my throat like a spell mispronounced. “You’re my boyfriend. You can’t just act like I don’t exist.”

The word boyfriend tasted different on my tongue now. Once it had been sweet and exhilarating, like licking sugar off my fingers. Now it felt fragile, like glass I was afraid would shatter if I held it too tightly.

His shoulders stiffened, the line of his back going rigid. He turned fully toward me now, his eyes dark and unreadable, walls sliding into place behind them as neatly as a locked door.

“I didn’t say I was acting like that,” he said, his voice taut like a string pulled too tight. Every word sounded like it cost him something.

“You literally did,” I said, softer now, the fight draining from my tone even though the hurt stayed. My arms dropped to my sides, my fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him, to curl my hand into the front of his robes and force him to look at me properly. “If something’s wrong, tell me. Please.”

The plea slipped out before I could stop it. I hated how small it made me sound, how needy. But the thought of just accepting this, of pretending I didn’t notice him slipping further away, was worse.

He stared at the floor, at a crack running through the stone between us, as if it were the most interesting thing in the castle. The torchlight above us cast sharp angles across his face, shadowing his eyes and hollowing his cheeks just a little. His lashes cast dark crescents on his skin, and he looked tired, more tired than he’d admit.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” I whispered, stepping into his space and shrinking the gap between us until I could feel the heat of his body through our robes. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a panicked knock. “You haven’t been fine for days. You barely talk to me anymore. You sit next to me and it feels like you’re miles away.”

He inhaled, a sharp, subtle breath, but didn’t look up.

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped, the irritation finally surfacing in his voice, raw and defensive. The words cracked around the edges like thin ice.

A few students slowed as they passed, darting quick, curious glances our way before hurrying on, like they were afraid of getting pulled into the gravity of whatever was happening between us.

I swallowed hard, the back of my throat burning. Part of me wanted to push harder and force the truth out of him. Another part of me wanted to retreat and protect what little I had left of my pride. Instead, something halfway between the two slipped out.

“Are we still going to the Halloween party together?” I asked, my voice tentative and fragile, like I was holding out a peace offering wrapped in thin, crinkling paper.

The question felt stupid the second it left my mouth, small and trivial compared to the storm churning in my chest. But it was something solid, something we’d talked about weeks ago when things were easier, when planning costumes and sneaking extra butterbeer had seemed like the biggest things we’d have to worry about.

Students passed us in clusters, their laughter and chatter echoing off the high ceilings. Someone nearby was excitedly describing their costume and mentioned fake fangs, so probably a vampire, while another complained about Slughorn’s latest essay. All of it felt distant and muffled, like I was underwater.

“Yes,” Mattheo replied, his tone clipped and sharp enough to slice through my fragile attempt at warmth.

I nodded, forcing a small smile that barely reached my lips. I could feel it wobbling there, unsure of itself. “Okay… good.” The words tasted hollow.

“Yeah,” he said again, but his eyes still weren’t on me. They flicked toward the far end of the hall, unfocused, like he was already somewhere else, somewhere I wasn’t invited. His jaw stayed tight, his hands shoved deeper into his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward like he was bracing for a storm I couldn’t see.

The realization that maybe the storm was me settled like lead in my stomach.

“Mattheo…” I began, his name trembling on my tongue, carrying all the questions I was too afraid to ask out loud. Do you still want me? Did I do something? Are you already halfway gone?

He turned slightly, just enough to show he’d heard me, but not enough to really face me. The half-angle of his body screamed distance.

“I have to go,” he said abruptly, his voice low and final, like a door closing with a soft, irrevocable click.

I blinked, caught off guard even though I shouldn’t’ve been. “But… we have Potions next,” I said, confusion threading through my words as I took a half step toward him. My hand lifted a fraction, as if to catch his sleeve, then fell uselessly back to my side.

“I know. I’ll see you there,” he muttered, already walking away. His footsteps were quick and uneven against the stone floor, the heels of his shoes striking a hurried rhythm that didn’t match the slow, heavy drag of my heartbeat.

He didn’t look back.

I stood there, frozen in place as the crowd moved around me, parting and reforming like a river flowing around a rock. Robes brushed against my arms, someone’s bag bumped my shoulder, and a first-year muttered an apology and scurried past, but it all felt far away, like it was happening in another corridor entirely.

My stomach twisted, a slow, sinking ache blooming in my chest and spreading like spilled ink. I pressed my lips together and swallowed down the sting behind my eyes. Crying in the corridor between classes was not on my to-do list today.

I watched his back retreat into the crowd, the familiar shape of him swallowed by shadows and noise until he was just another dark robe in a sea of them. The distance between us wasn’t measured in steps anymore, but in all the things he wasn’t saying.

As he disappeared around the corner, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was watching something unravel, something I didn’t know how to mend, something I didn’t know how to hold onto anymore, no matter how tightly I tried to grip it.

---

The clatter of cauldrons and the low murmur of voices greeted me as I stepped into the dimly lit Potions classroom. Brass scales clicked, knives thudded against wooden boards, and somewhere to my left, a cauldron hissed as its contents boiled over and was quickly doused with a muttered curse. The familiar scent of herbs, smoke, and simmering ingredients usually felt grounding, like routine, like safety. Today, it pressed down on my chest, thick and suffocating, as if the tension from earlier had followed me in and settled over my shoulders like an extra robe.

Candles hovered in iron brackets along the stone walls, their flames burning low and flickering, throwing long shadows across shelves lined with dusty jars. Pickled roots, shriveled plants, and cloudy vials seemed to watch me as I moved through the rows of worktables. The dungeon was cooler than the corridors outside, but there was a humid warmth clinging to the air around the cauldrons that made the back of my neck damp.

Mattheo was already at his usual spot near the back, hunched over his cauldron. The silver stirring rod moved in his hand with precise, mechanical circles, never faltering. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms tense, the muscles in his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the faint twitch near his temple. His dark curls fell forward, shadowing his eyes, but even from where I stood, I could tell he wasn’t looking at anything except the thick, swirling potion in front of him.

He didn’t look up. Not when I entered, not when I passed his table. It was like I’d become another bottle on the shelf: background, irrelevant, easy to ignore.

A dull ache settled in my chest.

I sank into my seat across from him, trying to move casually, like I didn’t feel that ache, like the knot in my stomach wasn’t tightening with every second he refused to acknowledge me. My hands shook just enough that I had to place them flat on the table, pressing my palms against the worn wood until the slight tremor stopped. I focused on the neat little piles of ingredients already laid out for the lesson: bundles of dried valerian sprigs, pale chunks of moonstone, vials of something viscous and amber. Anything to keep from staring at the way his shoulders were set like stone.

He used to smirk when I walked in. Roll his eyes, make some sly comment under his breath that made it impossible not to smile, even when I was annoyed with him. Now there was nothing. Just the soft, relentless scrape of his stirring rod against the side of the cauldron.

“Y/n,” a quiet voice said beside me.

I blinked and turned. Theo slid onto the bench next to me, his robes rustling softly. His expression was wary, his brows drawn together, his gaze flicking from my face to Mattheo and back again. His presence was a small anchor in the swirling anxiety that had been grinding away in my chest all morning.

“You look… stressed,” he murmured, keeping his voice low, like even the word might set something off. “Everything okay with Mattheo?”

My throat felt tight. I swallowed and ran a hand through my hair, my fingers tangling briefly before I let my head fall back a little and stared up at the soot-stained ceiling. The candles overhead swayed slightly in a draft, their light trembling the way I felt inside.

“I don’t know, Theo,” I said, dropping my gaze to the potions ingredients in front of me. The words tasted bitter. “He’s acting so weird. He won’t talk to me, and I can’t figure out why.” My voice dipped, quieter. “Have you noticed?”

Theo’s jaw flexed. He glanced toward Mattheo’s back, then quickly away, like even looking too long was dangerous.

“Okay…” he said slowly, shifting closer until his shoulder brushed mine. I felt the slight pressure, grounding but tense. “But you’ve got to promise me something first.”

A prickle of unease crawled up my spine. I straightened, my brows knitting together.

“Promise what?” I asked, frowning.

“That you’ll stay quiet about this.” His eyes were steady on mine now, serious in a way that made my pulse pick up. “No one can know.”

I could hear the soft bubbling of Mattheo’s cauldron in the background, the scrape of quills, the occasional clink of glass. But all of it faded for a moment, swallowed by the sharp awareness of Theo’s words.

I nodded immediately, almost too fast.

“I promise,” I said, the answer coming from the knot of worry that had been lodged in my chest for days. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Theo hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Up close, I could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tiredness that came from late nights and too many secrets. He leaned in until I could feel the warmth of his breath against my ear, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Mattheo got into it at practice the other day,” he murmured. “With someone from another house, one of the Ravenclaws.”

My heart stumbled. The tension in my shoulders spiked. Mattheo in a fight was nothing new, but the way Theo’s mouth tightened made it clear this wasn’t one of his usual scuffles.

“Basically, there was a fight,” Theo continued. “That guy said something really bad about you.”

My stomach dropped like I’d missed a step on the moving staircase. All the air seemed to thin out around me.

“Something bad about me?” I repeated, my voice coming out tighter than I meant it to. I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry.

Theo nodded grimly, his gaze flicking over my shoulder again toward Mattheo before returning to me.

“Yeah. And then, this is the worst part, the guy told Mattheo you could easily get way better.” He grimaced slightly at the words, like even repeating them left a bad taste on his tongue. “And you know how he is. That set him off completely.”

My fingers curled around the edge of the table, my nails biting into the wood. Heat rose to my face: anger, embarrassment, and something else I didn’t want to name. My mind raced with a dozen questions, a hundred possible insults, each one sharper than the last.

He’d fought because of me.

I blinked, my vision going a little fuzzy around the edges as I tried to process what he’d just said.

“He got angry because of something that guy said? About me?” It felt unreal, like I was asking about someone else’s life.

Theo sighed and dragged a hand through his hair, making it stand up in uneven tufts.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “He didn’t want you to hear, or anyone, really. He’s trying to protect you, but I think it just made him pull away even more.” His mouth twisted with something like frustration. “He’s still upset. That’s why he’s been so cold. He doesn’t want to talk about it.”

I stared at the faint scratches etched into the tabletop between us, tracing one with my fingertip as my chest tightened. Relief and sadness crashed over me at the same time, leaving me off balance.

“So it’s not me,” I said slowly, like I needed to hear the words out loud to believe them. “I didn’t do anything wrong?”

“No,” Theo said firmly, leaning in to catch my gaze. His eyes were steady, unflinching. “It’s not you. But you need to be careful how you approach him. Right now, he’s volatile.” His gaze flicked back to Mattheo’s rigid shoulders. “If you push, he’ll shut down even more.”

The word volatile sat heavy in my mind. I thought of Mattheo’s temper, the way it burned hot and bright, how quickly it could harden into ice. I’d seen him angry before, at professors, at other students, at the world, but not like this. Not this quiet, controlled distance that felt worse than being yelled at.

I nodded slowly, biting my lip hard enough to sting.

“Okay,” I breathed. My chest ached with the need to fix it, to say something, to make him look at me again like I mattered. “I just… I want him to be okay.”

“He will be,” Theo said softly, though his eyes were still serious, shadows of doubt lurking there. “Just give him time. And remember, what you just heard stays between us.”

“Got it,” I whispered, the word barely audible. I let my gaze slip back to Mattheo from the corner of my eye.

He was still stirring his potion, his movements flawless, controlled, too controlled. His shoulders were tense beneath his Slytherin robes, his posture rigid. Every so often, his jaw clenched, and I could see the muscle jumping under his skin. Steam curled up from his cauldron, catching the low candlelight and haloing his profile, but there was nothing soft about him. He looked like a storm bottled in glass, one wrong word away from shattering.

Professor Snape’s voice droned on at the front of the classroom, explaining something about infusion times and the dangers of over-steeping lacewing flies, but the words slid past me like water. My quill lay untouched beside my open textbook, ink pooling slowly at the tip.

The rest of class blurred into a haze of motions I barely registered: chopping ingredients, stirring clockwise, counterclockwise, counting under my breath. My hands worked almost on autopilot, following instructions I’d done a dozen times before, while my mind stayed fixed on the boy across from me.

Every tiny movement he made felt significant. The way his fingers tightened around the stirring rod. The way he inhaled sharply when a nearby cauldron popped too loudly. The way his eyes stayed stubbornly on the potion, never flicking up to meet mine, not even for a second. It was like there was an invisible wall between us now, one I hadn’t agreed to, one I didn’t know how to break.

I wanted to reach across the desk, to brush my hand against his, to say something stupid and gentle, anything to crack that cold distance. To remind him he didn’t have to carry all of this alone. But Theo’s warning, volatile, echoed in my head, a low, insistent pulse.

Mattheo was hurting.

And somehow, I had to sit here, breathing in the thick potion fumes and the faint scent of his cologne, pretending to focus on my brew while my heart beat too fast and my chest felt too tight. I had to wait, and watch, and hope that when he was ready, he’d let me in.

If he was still mine to be let into at all.

When Snape finally dismissed us with a curt wave of his hand, chairs scraped back and students hurried toward the door in a clumsy shuffle of robes and muttered complaints. My pulse jumped, my throat suddenly dry. This was my chance, maybe to say his name, to ask if we could talk, to just hear his voice directed at me again.

Mattheo extinguished the flame beneath his cauldron with a flick of his wand, cleaned up his station with brisk, efficient movements, and gathered his things without once glancing in my direction. For a heartbeat, I thought he might look up. I held my breath.

He didn’t.

He walked past me, the faint brush of air from his movement lifting a strand of my hair. The smell of smoke and something uniquely him lingered in his wake. My fingers twitched on the tabletop, itching to reach out, to catch his sleeve, to stop him.

I stayed still.

Theo’s hand landed lightly on my arm, a gentle squeeze.

“Give him time,” he murmured.

My chest ached as I watched Mattheo disappear through the dungeon doorway without a backward glance.

Time, I thought bitterly, gathering my things with numb fingers. Time was the one thing Hogwarts had taught me could change everything, and not always for the better.

And I didn’t know how much more distance I could take before it broke something in me I couldn’t fix.

---

The next morning, we were in Potions again. The last chime of the bell echoed through the stone corridors of Hogwarts, and students began filing out of the classroom in restless waves. Cloaks rustled, chairs scraped against the stone floor, and the air still smelled sharply of asphodel and burnt nettles.

I stayed seated, fingers curled around the edge of the desk, letting the crowd thin. My stomach was knotted so tightly it almost hurt, a cold, heavy weight pressing beneath my ribs. I could feel the dull thud of my heartbeat in my throat.

Mattheo was at the far side of the room, packing his bag with quick, efficient movements. He didn’t slam anything or make a scene. He was careful, almost too careful, like he was holding himself together by force. His dark hair fell over his forehead as he bent over the table, and not once did his gaze flick in my direction. It was like I wasn’t even there.

He’d been like that since the other day: present, but distant. Sitting next to me in class without really being next to me. Answering when I spoke, but never saying more than he had to. It felt like trying to talk through a locked door.

A few last students hurried past me, voices overlapping. Someone laughed too loudly, someone complained about Slughorn’s homework. The torches along the dungeon walls flickered, casting long, wavering shadows across the flagstones. When the room was mostly empty, I pushed myself to my feet and wiped my damp palms on my robes.

Don’t be a coward, I scolded myself, even as a small, terrified part of me whispered that maybe I should just leave it alone. But the sight of him, shoulders tense and expression shuttered, hurt more than the fear did.

I took a slow breath, then another, trying to steady the shaking in my hands. My boots were quiet against the cold floor as I crossed the room. The closer I got, the more aware I became of everything: the faint hum of magic in the dungeon walls, the distant sound of laughter from some upper corridor, the coppery taste of nerves on my tongue.

“Mattheo,” I said softly.

He stiffened at the sound of my voice, pausing mid-motion. His hand froze around the strap of his bag. For a second, he didn’t turn, and panic clawed up my spine. Then he straightened slowly.

“Yeah?” he said. His tone was guarded, neutral, smooth in a way that felt wrong on him, like a mask pulled too tight. It was the same voice he used on teachers, on people who didn’t matter. A wall, solid and cold, between us.

“I… I know you’re upset about… the other day,” I began, forcing the words out carefully, afraid that if I rushed them I’d say something wrong. “Theo told me what happened.”

For a heartbeat, every line of him went still. His fingers tightened on the worn leather strap until his knuckles went white. His jaw clenched hard, a muscle ticking near his temple. His eyes flicked to mine, but only for the briefest flash, dark and guarded, before he tore them away and stared at the floor instead.

“You shouldn’t have to hear that,” he muttered, his voice low and rough around the edges.

The way he said it, like it was something dirty, something that might stain me just by being spoken, made my chest ache.

“I know,” I said, taking a careful step closer. The space between us felt like a line I wasn’t sure I was allowed to cross. “But I want to. I want to know so I can… help, if I can.” My voice shook on the last word, and I swallowed hard, hoping he didn’t hear it.

He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling briefly in the dark curls before he let it drop again. He let out a sharp breath, the sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff, clearly frustrated with me, with himself, with everything.

“I don’t need help,” he said. The words came out sharper than he seemed to intend, and the sound of them made my heart jolt. But almost immediately, his shoulders dropped a fraction, and when he spoke again, his tone softened. “I just… I was tired and angry. That’s all.”

“You were angry,” I repeated gently, tasting the word, “but not at me, right?” I hated how small my voice sounded, how exposed that question made me feel. I shouldn’t have needed the reassurance, but I did.

He stiffened again, his jaw tightening like he was grinding the words into shape before letting them out.

“No,” he said. “Definitely not at you.”

The certainty in his voice loosened something tight in my chest. I stepped closer, close enough now to see the faint shadows under his eyes and the pale tightness around his mouth. He looked exhausted. Haunted.

“Then… let me be here. For you,” I said quietly, lowering my voice as if the dungeon walls might be listening. “Even if you don’t want to talk. Even if you’re upset. I don’t care if you’re mad or quiet or whatever. I just… don’t want to lose you over this.”

The last part came out rawer than I meant it to, and for a second I wished I could take it back, wished I could pretend I was cooler, less affected. But it was too late. The words hung between us, heavy and honest.

Mattheo finally looked at me, really looked. His eyes met mine and didn’t immediately slide away. There was so much there it almost hurt to see it: anger, yes, but not at me; guilt, sharp and ugly; something like fear; and beneath all of it, a flicker of something softer that he seemed desperate to smother.

For a heartbeat, I thought he might say something more, something real. His lips parted, his fingers flexed on the strap of his bag. The tension in the air coiled tighter, buzzing just under my skin.

But then his shoulders hunched in on themselves and the moment collapsed. His gaze dropped again.

“I… I can’t just talk about it. Not yet,” he admitted quietly. His voice was barely above a whisper, but the words landed with solid weight.

I nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at me, and forced a small, understanding smile onto my face that he probably couldn’t see. “Okay,” I said, my throat tight. “I’ll wait. I promise.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, like he was afraid even that much agreement might be too much. Then he swung his bag over his shoulder, the worn leather creaking in the silence.

“Are we… still going to the Halloween party?” he asked. His tone was cautious and careful, like one wrong word might crack whatever fragile thing we’d just managed to hold together. There was an uncertainty there that I wasn’t used to hearing from him, Mattheo, who always seemed so sure and sharp-edged.

“Yes,” I said, and this time my smile felt a little more real. The image of the Great Hall decked out in floating pumpkins and dancing ghosts flashed through my mind: warmth, light, laughter. A future moment where maybe this wouldn’t hurt so much. “We’re still going. Together.”

He gave a tight-lipped nod, but his expression didn’t soften. His eyes darted past me toward the doorway, like he was already halfway gone.

“Good,” he muttered. The word was clipped, almost emotionless, and before I could say anything else, he turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing down the dim corridor.

I watched him go, my chest twisting. Each step he took seemed to pull an invisible thread between us tighter and tighter until I was sure it would snap. Part of me wanted to run after him, to grab his sleeve and drag him back, to demand that he let me in. But my feet stayed rooted to the cold stone.

The dungeon felt strangely empty without him, even though students’ voices still drifted faintly in from the corridor. A draft slipped through the open doorway, raising goosebumps along my arms.

He was still distant, still wrapped in his own storm, unreachable behind walls I didn’t know how to break down. But at least now I understood why the distance was there, and I knew, really knew, that I was willing to wait for him to let me cross it.

For now, that had to be enough. I clung to that thought like a charm against the creeping fear that it might never be.

----

Smut.

• suctions and sanctions

• Flesh light & prone bones

• LEONA-HAWTHORNE’S FICMAS

• sweetest sin

Fluff

Obedience

Bambi Eyes

party prince

Pretty Baby

Sorry this isn't a lot but i was in a rush,I will write something tonight. Remember you are loved. Again, please dm me to give me a request or any ideas you have.

y/n: This food is too hot... I can’t eat it. 

Theo: You’re very hot, and I still eat you.

Everyone at the table: *silence* 

Enzo: YOU GUYS ARE DISGUSTING! 

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Enemies-to-Lovers Vibes | Tension, Banter, Secrets, Common Room Drama

setting: The Slytherin boys joke about you in the common room—until Mattheo cuts through it with a smirk and a truth only he knows.

credits: idea inspo from character.ai (by jassmin_riddle29)

⸻

series masterlist. masterlist.

a/n: so the first part is up! it’s short and not that interesting as it just like sets the scene but I promise interesting things are coming ahead, hope you like the series, I’ll try to put the parts up asap and maybe even a playlist, there are no warnings I think except the curse words

It all started in the third year when Y/N had lost her baby fat and had a glow-up, making her stand out in Hogwarts. So when Adrian Pucey asked her out she agreed to go on a date with him. Adrian was sweet until they reached back to the castle, he started getting a bit too comfortable which bothered Y/N. She politely declined all his advances and wouldn’t put out, which damaged Adrian’s fragile ego. He left her stranded in a courtyard and stormed to his dorm. She returned to her dorm, alone. 

Over the next few weeks, people started looking at her differently, judging her, whispering about her. Adrian and his friend group had spread rumours about Y/N having a one-night stand with all of them, earning her the reputation of being the Hogwarts’ in-house slut. No matter how much she tried to deny it and save her image, the damage was done and all her efforts reaped nothing. Instead, she decided the best option for her was to lay low and live with it. That’s when she decided she would never even talk to another Slytherin again. 

Being in Hogwarts was a blessing and a curse, since the whole incident Y/N had been on a few more dates but all of them ended badly with the boys wanting nothing more than to sleep with her. 

This had what happened with Cormac McLaggen and this was the reason Y/N was currently storming towards the Black Lake, late at night, after curfew with her clothes slightly dishevelled.

She reached the edge of the lake and slipped out of her shoes setting them aside and letting her bare feet dangle in the cold water. Her tears spilled and the voice of her sniffling filled the air. 

‘Waiting for your date, Y/L/N? What did you already use all the rooms inside the castle?’, a taunting voice came from behind. She didn’t even have to turn to recognise that voice. ‘Fuck off, Nott.’, she spat. She turned her head around looking at the beautiful Italian, standing behind her. Theodore Nott, the infamous pure blood who fit into every Slytherin stereotype, or so most thought. This was the reason that had made Y/N have a strong resolve against pursuing her crush on the boy. 

Theodore took in the tears that shined on her face in the moonlight as his gaze softened. ‘What happened?’, he asked as he fished out a handkerchief from his pocket and threw it in her direction. ‘Aren’t you a gentleman?’, she said sarcastically catching the piece of cloth. He rolled his eyes and his dead eyes stared into hers still waiting for an answer. ‘Don’t act like you care, Nott. I’m not going to fall for whatever sympathy act you might do, I’m not gonna sleep with you.’, she said, dabbing the soft cloth under her eyes drying her tears. 

‘As if I’m dying to sleep with you.’, he replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes again, ‘I don’t need you to sleep with me, love, I’ve plenty of girls ready for that.’ He leaned on one of the trees and lit up a cigarette.

She sighed and got up from the edge, turning over to face him, ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ ‘You didn’t answer me, what happened? Found no guy to sleep with for the night? Want me to change that?’, he smirked taking a drag of his cigarette. 

‘For fuck’s sake.’, she murmured under her breath as she ignored him and started walking towards the castle. Theodore grabbed her wrist, turning her around to face him again. ‘You are so rude, Y/L/N. I ask you something and you just ignore me?’, he smirked, a playful hint to his voice that seemed to annoy Y/N further. ‘Come on, Y/L/N, please. Maybe I could help you.’, he pressed, stepping closer. ‘Yeah right.’, she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. She held his gaze and his determination did not seem to waver. 

‘You won’t understand, you’re just like everyone else.’, she sighed. ‘You wound me, let me assure you I’m not just like everyone.’, he said, feigning an injury on his chest. ‘You are. Even you believe those stupid rumours.’, she said, crossing her arms around her chest. ‘What rumours?’, Theodore asked, searching her eyes that seemed to well up at the mention. ‘Oh’, he sighed, ‘You did not sleep with them, did you? Adrian and his little friend group.’ She shook her head, gulping, trying to stop herself from tearing down. ‘Those fuckers.’, he scoffed. ‘What happened today?’, he pressed the matter further. Y/N couldn’t avoid his question anymore.

‘Nothing really. Just what always happens. Went on a date, he tried to sleep with me and got mad when I said I won't.’, she said, avoiding his gaze. ‘Who?’, he asked, the briefest hint of protectiveness in his voice. ‘McLaggen.’, she answered, her voice breaking. ‘You really know how to choose them, don’t you?’, he smirked, trying to lighten the mood, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. Y/N let out a shuddered breath, hugging herself tighter, trying to blink away her tears. ‘Hey, hey, hey, I was kidding, love.’, Theodore said, throwing his cigarette away and as he pulled her in, hugging her. ‘You aren’t wrong.’, she mumbled against his chest, breaking down. He comforted her, soothing her back. 

After a moment, the gravity of the situation settled into Y/N’s brain, registering what was happening as she stepped out of his embrace, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what got over me.’, she sniffled, wiping her tears from the back of her hand. ‘You don’t have to be sorry.’, he said quickly, putting his hands in his pockets and shrugging.