Theodore Nott and you had always been just friends.

It began in the late bloom of summer, in a garden lined with white roses and wilting lavender, the air thick with the kind of heat that clung to the skin and made time slow. You were only three when your mother’s hand found yours, soft and firm as she guided you across the gravel path of the Nott family’s estate, your new neighbours. Her voice was light, pleasant, perfumed with diplomacy as she greeted the Notts, who stood beneath the ivy-covered trellis like they belonged there.

But you hadn’t cared about greetings or titles or the sharp way Mr. Nott looked at your father. No — your eyes had found him. A little boy with grass-stained trousers, wild hair that refused to be tamed, and pale eyes the color of steel before a storm. He was squatting in the sandpit the groundskeeper had barely finished raking, dragging a stick through the dirt with the focused intensity of a philosopher.

He looked up, squinting.

You stared back.

And without a word, you wobbled off the path, let your newly polished shoes sink into the dusty sand, and dropped beside him like you were meant to be there all along.

You didn’t speak much at all at the time. Not in full sentences, anyway. There were giggles and grunts, soft babble and bright laughter as you fought over a chipped blue bucket and declared war with tiny shovels. He handed you a broken seashell, claiming it was enchanted. You gave him a clump of damp earth, insisting it was a gift. You left with sand in your shoes and a sunburn on your nose, and he left with a bruised shoulder because you’d shoved him for smashing your castle.

From that day forward, he was your best friend — and you were his.

At six, he caught a wasp in a jar and left it on your windowsill “as a pet.” It was a particularly sweltering July afternoon, the kind where the air shimmered above the cobblestones and even the house-elves seemed too hot to scold you for tracking dirt inside. You’d been sulking on the floor of your bedroom, limbs sprawled dramatically across the cool marble tiles, bemoaning the injustice of being forbidden from visiting the lake because “pureblood children do not splash about like Muggles.” You had just begun a truly Oscar-worthy sigh when you heard the soft clink of glass outside your window. Curious, you padded over and peeked out, nose nearly pressed to the pane. There, sitting in the sunbeam on your windowsill, was a glass jam jar—still sticky with remnants of plum preserve. The lid had been punctured with haphazard holes, and inside it buzzed a single, very angry wasp. Pinned to the jar with a scrap of parchment and a glob of melted wax was a note. The handwriting was wobbly, but unmistakably his:

“I got you a pet. His name is Stingy. Don’t let him out. He’s got issues. —Theo”

You shrieked.

Your mother came running, wand drawn, thinking you'd been hexed or worse. But all she found was you, standing at the window with a jar in your trembling hands, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Theodore left what on your windowsill?”

“A wasp,” you squeaked, still unsure whether to be touched or horrified.

A moment later, you saw him down in his estate’s garden — shirt untucked, shorts ripped, dirt smeared across one cheek — grinning up at you like he’d just delivered a bouquet of roses. He waved. The grin widened. You didn’t wave back.

Instead, you brought the jar to dinner with you the next time the Notts visited. You set it in front of his place setting with all the dignity a six-year-old could muster and whispered, “He’s your problem now.” The wasp was long dead, of course. Theo looked at it solemnly for a moment, then leaned toward you and whispered, “You didn’t feed him.” You almost shoved your mashed potatoes in his face.

Just friends.

At nine, he dared you to climb the sycamore tree at the far end of your garden — and then pushed you off the lowest branch to see if you’d bounce. You didn’t. You landed on your left wrist with a sickening crunch that made your vision swim. He stared down at you, pale-faced and trembling, his earlier laughter dying on his lips.

“I didn’t think you’d actually fall,” he muttered, then knelt beside you, arms shaking as he helped you up. He didn’t call for the house-elf. He didn’t yell for help. He carried you the whole way back himself, his breath ragged in your ear, whispering apologies so frantic you couldn’t tell if he was more afraid of your pain than the inevitable scolding from his father that was about to come.

Just friends.

When your Hogwarts letters came, you were ten and inseparable — always found pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on your estate’s library floor, or curled up in window sills arguing about which constellation was the prettiest. You read potion books together, the same moment, eyes wide and breath caught. When September arrived, you sat side by side on the train, legs swinging and nerves burning, watching the countryside blur into dusk. You were sorted into Slytherin together. He smirked at you as you passed through the Sorting Hat, his eyes alight with mischief and something warmer, softer — something unspoken. You sat beside him at the long emerald-draped table that night, heart pounding, and when the noise of the Great Hall swelled too loud and the silverware felt too heavy in your hand, he nudged your knee with his and leaned in with a half-smile. “Don’t pass out. I’ll have to carry you again.” You rolled your eyes. But your fingers twitched beneath the tablecloth, brushing his. 

Just friends.

As the years passed, your friendship grew in quiet ways. It no longer lived in muddy knees and fake wars in the garden. No, it began to settle into something quieter. Something warmer. It was in the way he handed you a quill when yours broke during Transfiguration without needing to be asked. In the way you always remembered how he liked his tea — two sugars, no milk, even though he always insisted he hated sugar. You grew up together, side by side, inch by inch. Until one day, you stopped — stuck at a measly five-foot-two — while he just kept going, shooting past you. Shared detentions became less about mischief and more about the thrill of rebellion — the two of you sneaking out past curfew not to set traps or prank Gryffindors anymore, but to watch the stars from the Astronomy Tower, shoulders brushing, words soft and slow like the night itself. You'd lie on the cold stone floor with your robes draped like blankets and talk about things you were slowly beginning to understand — fear, pressure, family legacies, and what love might look like if it ever found you.

By third year, Theo had learned how to charm chocolate frogs to sing opera in the library. You nearly choked laughing. 

By fourth year, he’d started noticing girls. You noticed, too.

There was a shift in him — subtle, quiet, but impossible to miss when you knew him as well as you did. His eyes lingered a bit longer in the corridors, tracking the swish of skirts, the curve of a smile. Not brash like the other boys. No, Theo’s gaze was different — quiet, calculating, laced with curiosity and something almost wary, like he wasn’t sure what he was meant to be looking for. You tried not to pay attention. But you did. Of course you did. You watched him as he watched them. And you tried not to wonder if he’d ever look at you like that — with interest. With purpose. With anything other than the familiar softness of childhood comfort. You caught him once, staring at a girl from Beauxbatons during the Triwizard Tournament festivities. She had long, shimmering hair and laughter like bells. Theo’s expression had been unreadable, eyes half-lidded and lips pressed together in quiet observation. You didn’t know why it stung. That night, you tossed in your bed long after lights-out, staring at the emerald canopy above you like it might give you answers. It didn’t.

And then there was that Hogsmeade trip.

You remember the chill in the air that morning — how the wind bit at your cheeks as you tugged your scarf tighter, your gloved hand brushing his as you walked side by side down the sloped cobblestone road into the village. He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t say anything either. You spent the afternoon as you always did — sharing a butterbeer, elbowing each other in Honeydukes over who got the last Acid Pop, squabbling over which quill looked the most pretentious in Scrivenshaft’s.

And then it happened. A boy from Ravenclaw — tall, with a sharp jaw and easy charm — stepped forward just as you were shifting your books in your arms. You recognized him from Arithmancy, always smiling, always one too-smooth compliment away from detention.

“Need a hand?” he asked, already reaching.

You hesitated for half a heartbeat, then handed over the topmost book with a quiet “Thanks.” He grinned. Theo stood to your left, silent. As the boy led the way toward the carriages, chatting easily, your eyes flicked back to Theo, who was walking silently by your side.

He wasn’t looking at the boy. He was looking at you. Expression unreadable. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his long black coat, shoulders drawn slightly in. His jaw was tense — not obviously, but enough that you noticed. Enough that it made your heart stutter.

But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t joke. Didn’t tease. Just walked next to you, watching you as someone else was at your other side. You waited for him to say something on the way back. A comment. A smirk. A jab at Ravenclaws and their “hero complexes.” Anything. But the silence stretched. So you said nothing, either. You didn’t talk about it. You never did.

By fifth year, games turned into dares. Not childish ones like “steal Filch’s keys” or “hex someone’s quill.” These were quieter, more dangerous. “Say nothing if you’re jealous.” “Don’t flinch when I touch you.”

Gentle teasing turned into long, lingering eye contact that made your stomach twist and your cheeks flush for reasons you didn’t care to name. The space between you thinned, became charged, electric — like something unspoken was constantly brushing against your skin.

You stayed up later than you should have. In the common room, on slow-burning nights when the fire had turned to embers and the world outside was dead quiet, you’d sprawl across the green velvet couch with your legs draped over Theo’s lap as you read. Sometimes, he’d pretend to be annoyed. Other times, he’d trace absentminded shapes onto your calf while studying. When he was tired, he’d tilt his head back against the cushions, long lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, and your foot would press lightly against his — not quite fully touching, but never far.

Your friend group had solidified by then. Blaise, ever the flirt, always had some girl wrapped around his finger — though he swore he was far too handsome to settle for just one. Pansy bounced between gossip and heartbreak, her eyes always darting to Draco even when her lips swore she was “over him.” Daphne played it cool — indifferent and unimpressed, until someone with strong cheekbones and terrible intentions caught her eye. And Draco... well, Draco had begun entertaining the idea of courtships, pureblood expectations trailing behind every glance he offered. They all noticed something between you and Theo.

Blaise would smirk at the way Theo’s hand rested casually on your knee, always just a little too long.  Pansy would make snide remarks like, “God, just kiss already,” and then roll her eyes when you both scoffed. Daphne said it once at breakfast, loud and plain as day: “They act like they’re married and don’t even realize it.” Draco, for the most part, didn’t say anything — just observed, cool and composed, his gaze flickering between the two of you like he was calculating something. Like he knew.

But you didn’t. Or maybe you pretended not to. That was easier, safer. Familiar.

“Are you two—?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

“Come on, you practically finish each other’s—”

“We’re just friends.”

You both laughed. Every time. Like it was absurd. Like the very idea was hilarious. Like the thought had never once kept you awake at night. But it had.

Especially when Theo let his hand rest against the back of your neck during study group, warm and idle, like he didn’t realize what he was doing. Especially when you leaned over to show him a passage in your book and felt his breath on your collarbone. Especially when you saw him flirting — real, obvious flirting — with a girl from Ravenclaw at a party, all charm and smirking eyes, and you laughed too loudly at someone else’s joke just to pretend you didn’t notice. The truth lingered there, always — just beneath the surface of your ribcage, waiting to break free. But neither of you spoke it.

Just friends.

By sixth year, things weren’t so funny anymore.

Not when he was now a whole head taller and he never let you forget it, either. At the school library he’d smirk and lean against the nearest shelf while you dragged a ladder over just to reach a book he could easily pluck with one hand.

“Need help, you grumpy gnome?” he’d ask, eyebrow raised, full of mockery and affection.

You’d roll your eyes and scoff. But still, you let him get the book for you every time.

Not when your breath caught in your throat every time his fingers brushed your lower back in a crowded corridor and stayed there for one heartbeat too long. Not when his gaze lingered on your mouth during stupid, pointless arguments — eyes dark, unreadable, like he was daring you to say something. Like maybe, just maybe, he’d lose his restraint if you said the right word. But you never did. Neither of you did. Instead, he dated girls who weren’t you. Pretty ones, loud ones, polished ones with glossy hair and beautiful smiles. You watched them cling to his arm in the hallways, batting their lashes and whispering into his ear. He let them. He even smiled sometimes, soft and small. But the smiles never quite reached his eyes.You told yourself it didn’t bother you. That this was how things were meant to go. That it was normal. Expected from hormonal teens exploring love. So you let yourself fall, too — into half-hearted flings with boys who smelled like cologne and praise. Boys who told you you looked beautiful when you hadn’t tried. Boys who kissed you behind the tapestry near the Prefect’s Bathroom and pressed you up against cold stone walls with eager hands and promises you didn’t believe.

Your first kiss was with a boy named Callum. Warm lips. Too wet. Too fast. You didn’t feel a thing. You remember telling Theo about it — late one night, legs curled beneath you on the common room floor, the fireplace throwing gold across his cheekbones. He didn’t say anything at first. Just blinked slowly, nodded once, and reached over to pluck a Chocolate Frog from your stash like it was any other night.

“Did you like it?” he asked after a long pause, voice low and unreadable.

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the flames.

“It was... fine.”

When you asked him about his first kiss, he told you it was with a Hufflepuff named Eevee in a broom closet during a game of Truth or Dare. You’d laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you needed to. Because something in your chest twisted too tight at the image of it. She wasn’t the last. He had girlfriends. Some of them stuck around longer than others. You had boyfriends. Or flings. Or long, drawn-out mistakes. But the pattern was always the same. The stupid teenage love fights. The fading affection. The silence that followed.

And then — always — the comfort.

It was Theo who found you on the Astronomy Tower the night Callum told you that you were “a bit too cold for his taste.” You’d gone there to scream. Or cry. Or disappear. Instead, you found him leaning against the railing like he already knew you’d come. He didn’t ask questions. Just handed you a flask of pumpkin cider and stared up at the stars with you until the burn in your chest eased. It was you who knocked on his door the night Eevee dumped him for a Quidditch captain, claiming Theo was “too emotionally unavailable.” You sat beside him in silence while he drank hot chocolate out of a chipped mug and muttered about how feelings were overrated anyway. You wiped his tears when he didn’t realize he was crying. You held his hand under the table during breakfast the next day, hidden by the edge of the bench. None of your friends ever commented on it anymore. They just knew. That no matter who either of you kissed —No matter whose hand you held, no matter whose name you would mention — It was always Theo who walked you back to the dormitory when your head hurt and your patience wore thin. Always Theo who sat beside you in Potions and handed you your knife before you could even ask. Always Theo who noticed when your laugh wasn’t quite real, and who said nothing — just slid a chocolate bar onto your desk before class and looked the other way. It was him. Always him.

Just friends.

Toward the end of sixth year, things began to shift again — subtly at first, then all at once.

The pressure outside the castle walls was building. Whispers of war and disappearances. You all felt it. The tension in the air. The silence between classes. The way the professors began watching too closely and speaking too softly. The letters from home didn’t help — cryptic, urgent things from your families, warning you of family histories you were still too young to fully understand, but old enough to know you couldn’t ignore. So naturally, your friend group did what young, privileged, reckless and extremely sheltered Slytherin teenagers do when the world starts to feel like it’s cracking at the edges: You partied.

Not the kind of parties that ended with polite kisses and quiet laughter. No — these were wild, clandestine things hidden deep in the castle, behind abandoned classrooms and in forgotten corridors that smelled like dust and danger. The Slytherin common room became a haven after curfew, drenched in contraband Firewhisky, stolen weed, and various shrooms someone always managed to sneak out of Herbology under their robes. You’d sit on the velvet couches with a half-empty bottle in one hand, a cigarette in the other, your legs swung over Theo’s lap like always — both of you high enough to forget the ache, drunk enough to laugh at things that weren’t funny. It was a new kind of thrill. A way to feel something. Or nothing.

You all craved distraction. And you found it — in drinks that burned too quickly, in spells cast sloppily, in the shadows of darkened rooms and the heat of someone else's hands. You were seventeen. The first time it happened — with someone who wasn’t Theo — it had been at one of those parties. A boy with a charming smile and a crooked jaw, whose name you barely remembered and whose touch never quite settled into your skin the way you thought it would. It was rushed. Clumsy. Forgettable. Afterwards, you sat on the edge of the bed and pulled your skirt back into place while he slept, your head foggy and your heart hollow. You never told Theo. Not really. But he must have known. He always knew.

And him?  He had his own moments. A new girl in Ravenclaw. Then a Hufflepuff with a thing for older boys. He’d return to the common room with his collar wrinkled and his smile sharp — like he was trying to prove something. To himself. To the other boys. To you. Blaise and Draco boasted the loudest, of course. Like it was a competition. Like sex was a rite of passage rather than a sacred, complicated, awkward thing. Theo joined in just enough to keep pace, tossing out smirks and one-liners that didn’t quite sit right in his mouth. You always rolled your eyes at him, your expression unreadable. And when the others talked openly — about who had done what with whom, about what they liked or didn’t — you always brushed it off with a dry smile and a shrug.

“Overrated,” you’d say.

It made them laugh. But not Theo. Theo would watch you quietly when you said things like that. Like he was trying to read between the words. Like he wanted to ask if it had meant anything. He never did. And you never told him how it really felt. How you laid in bed that night, staring at the canopy above you, feeling… nothing. Not dirty. Not broken. Not sad. Just… empty. Because you’d always imagined that moment differently — softer, quieter. With someone who made you laugh until your ribs ached. With someone who knew your favorite constellation and the exact way you took your tea. With someone who handed you chocolate on bad days and never let your silence go unnoticed. With Theo. But it wasn’t him. So you drank. You danced. You smoked. You played your part in the grand distraction of teenage rebellion while the world outside grew darker. The laughter became louder. The nights longer. The dares more dangerous.

But even in the chaos — in the smoke and the spells and the forbidden kisses — it was always Theo who found you when the party quieted and the ache returned. Theo, who tucked your hair behind your ear when your mascara smudged and pretended not to notice. Theo, who held your hair back when you threw up behind the Quidditch stands after too many drinks and handed you a stolen bottle of water with a quiet, “Idiot.” Theo, who helped you sneak back to your dorm and whispered, “You good?” in that low, rasped voice that always meant more than it sounded like.

Just friends.

Late Summer before year Seven. Your house. Empty. Quiet. Haunted.

Your parents were gone — flown off in the dead of night like shadows dissolving into deeper shadow — and so were Theo’s. Both families off to do the things Death Eaters did when they thought their children were old enough to be left behind. Old enough to fend for themselves. Old enough to understand what silence meant. Except you didn’t understand. Neither of you did. No one cared to explain, or no one dared. There were no long goodbyes, no answers — only the tremor in your father’s voice when he kissed your forehead too fast, the way Theo’s mother clutched his hand like she might not get to again. You could hear the fear in them, feel it coiled tight beneath their words, and it left you both too paralyzed not to listen. They gave no return date. Just a hushed goodbye, a stack of protective wards, and an order not to leave the manor grounds. So you didn’t. Neither of you did. For two weeks, it was just you and Theo. Two dark manors. Various dark rooms. Two cigarette boxes steadily emptied under skies that never felt light again.

You never asked why he came over that night. You didn’t have to. He showed up at your gates with a backpack slung over his shoulder and an unlit cigarette between his lips. You let him in without a word, just stepped aside, heart heavy and hands cold. And when night came, and the house began to feel too vast, too hollow, too still — you didn't even consider sleeping in your own bed. The shadows were too deep in your parents' absence. The corners too loud. Even the house-elves had begun moving differently, quieter, with soft, sad eyes that followed you down the halls. You found him on the balcony of the guest room, where the view stretched over moon-drenched gardens and perfectly polished stone. You didn’t speak at first. Just passed him a new cigarette, your fingers brushing his as he took it from your hand and lit it with a flick of his wand. It was your worst habit — something your other friends still did for fun, to look cool. But for you and Theo, it was different. It had become a ritual. A comfort. A shared vice in a world that kept demanding too much.

The smoke curled between your faces, silver ribbons twisting into the thick August night air. You leaned against the railing, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on your shoulders — school, war, the mark on your forearm that had yet to be carved, but already burned in your blood. Neither of you laughed anymore. Not tonight. The conversation was slow. Muted. War. Obligation. Death. You spoke about the things you didn’t say to anyone else — the shadows you carried, the things that kept you up at night. What you were afraid of. What you couldn’t stop dreaming about. The moment you saw your father with blood on his sleeves and realized it hadn’t come from him. The way he looked at you like he wished you hadn’t seen. The moment Theo overheard something he wasn’t supposed to — whispered names, punishments, plans — and couldn’t forget the sound of someone screaming for mercy, the way it echoed in his ears for days. It wasn’t light conversation. It wasn’t gossip. It was real. Ugly. Twisted. You couldn’t fully grasp what was happening — how could you? Your families did their best to shelter you both from knowing too much. But you weren’t stupid. You weren’t children anymore. You could read between the lines. You could see the cracks in your parents’ facades, the fear beneath the orders. You didn’t know everything, but you knew enough. You knew it was bad.

When the cigarette burned low between his fingers, he flicked it off the balcony, watching as the ember spun through the dark like a dying star before vanishing into the garden below. His hand lingered in the air for a moment… then twitched. Just once. Like it wanted to do something — reach, touch, say what he couldn’t — but didn’t yet dare. And then… he said your name. Soft. Frayed. Like a warning. Or a question. You turned to him slowly. His eyes were tired. Bloodshot. Smoke-kissed. There was something fragile in them — something raw and unspeakable. His hand reached out, tentative, resting at the curve of your hip like it had every right to be there. Like it had always belonged there.

And then he kissed you. No hesitation. No smirk. No snide remark to follow. It was slow — achingly slow. A drag, not a spark. Warm, smoky and quiet. His lips tasted like tobacco and the kind of grief you didn’t talk about in daylight. His hand cupped the side of your jaw, gentle, reverent, like he wasn’t sure you were real. You didn’t pull away. You leaned in. Because this wasn’t like the others. This wasn’t messy or desperate. It wasn’t clumsy or rushed. It was honest. The air around you was thick with everything unspoken — years of glances, brushes, laughter turned hollow. All of it igniting between your mouths, breath and fire and need. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. He said nothing. Neither did you. You never spoke of it again. Not the kiss. Not the touch. Not the way your heart had stuttered in your chest like it wanted to break free from your ribs and press itself into his hands.

You stayed friends. Just friends. Because it was easier to stay quiet than to risk the ruin of what little comfort you still had.

Seventh year began.

A painful, unnatural thing — a year painted in false smiles and tight dresses, wild parties and louder laughter, all masking the dread clawing up your throat. You danced like everything was fine. You drank like the world wasn’t ending. You smoked more. Slept less. Your body began showing the signs. By winter, your reflection had thinned. Your long hair was gone, shorn to your shoulders on a whim you couldn’t explain. Something about feeling too heavy. Too soft. You’d watched the strands fall in the bathroom mirror with numb eyes and a blade in your hand. Theo said nothing about it. Not really. Just passed you a cigarette and lit it for you. His eyes lingered, though. Longer than they used to.

Christmas that year was a cold affair. Not in weather — the manor was spell-warmed, the fireplaces roaring, golden flames licking at logs stacked too perfectly. But in every other way, it was frigid. A small gathering — just your family and his. All stiff robes and colder smiles, Death Eaters trying to mimic holiday cheer like they hadn’t spent the past year cloaked in blood and secrets. Laughter sounded wrong. The wine was too red. You sat at the end of the table beside Theo, both of you silent, staring into the candlelight like maybe — just maybe — you could burn away the guilt growing beneath your skin. Your mother had over-baked the dessert. A blackened crust. Filling hardened into something between toffee and tar. She served it anyway, and nobody commented. Not even Theo. No one had the heart to point out the obvious flaw, too busy picking at their plates with quiet detachment, eyes flickering with things they couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t. The air was suffocating — names not mentioned, events not acknowledged. You were both dressed in your finest, but your eyes were tired, your posture slumped. The candlelight only deepened the shadows under your eyes. It felt colder than it should’ve. You felt duller. Like something inside you had hollowed out to make room for fear. For the weight of everything unspoken. You hadn’t heard from some of your cousins in weeks. Your uncle’s name had been whispered in one of those horrible letters that arrived in the dead of night — the kind your parents never read aloud, only burned. Next to you, Theo didn’t touch his food. Just held his glass loosely in one hand, his jaw tight, his eyes even tighter. His thigh pressed lightly against yours under the table, an anchor in a sea of ice. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You were both waiting for the storm to break — and trying, in the quiet between bites, not to shatter first. After dinner, presents were exchanged in a strained attempt to soften the air. Brightly wrapped boxes appeared under the flickering lights of the drawing room — gold foil, emerald ribbons, all perfectly tied. You watched as your mother handed Theo a silver pocket watch engraved with runes, her smile too wide, her hands too pale. His father gifted you a jeweled hairpin, something old and ornate, set with a blood-red stone in darkened silver. Delicate. Sharp. Useless. The gifts were expensive. Carefully selected. Nothing was done halfway in your world — not even in times of looming dread. But they were unnecessary, irrelevant things. Symbols of a normalcy that no longer existed. Still, you and Theo were polite. Practiced. You murmured soft “thank you's” and offered faint smiles that didn’t reach your eyes. He rested his hand on your lower back as you said your thanks and you mirrored the gesture later as he nodded his way through a compliment about the watch’s engraving. It was theater. Every movement rehearsed. Every breath strained. Your families tried. You could give them that. They did their best to pretend, to shield you both with tradition and false warmth, with gifts and crackers and familiar carols playing quietly from the phonograph in the corner. But the cracks were showing. You could feel it — the unraveling. The way your parents glanced toward the windows too often. The way Theo’s mother fidgeted with her rings. The way none of them mentioned what was happening just beyond the wards. As if silence could keep it all at bay. But you and Theo knew better. You accepted the gifts. You smiled, you played along, because it was easier than breaking. Because it was Christmas. And because pretending — even for one night — was all anyone had left.

Later that night, in a house too dark and too quiet, you found yourself in your room. But this time, there was silence. You sat across from each other on the edge of his mattress, shoulders barely touching, shadows flickering from the hearth across his jaw.

“I have something for you,” you said softly, reaching into the folds of your robe and pulling out a small velvet pouch.

Theo raised an eyebrow, but took it without question. When he tipped the contents into his palm, a ring rolled into his fingers — smooth, darkened silver, cool to the touch. His initials were engraved on the outside, delicate and precise.

He turned it slowly between his fingers. “You got me a ring,” he said, voice unreadable.

You shrugged. “I know you always lose things…don’t you dare lose this too.”

He huffed a laugh, but it was warm. He slid it onto his finger without hesitation. “Fits perfectly.”

Your throat tightened. “I measured your finger while you were asleep last month.”

Theo’s smile faltered — just a little. But something gentler took its place in his eyes. “You’re insane.”

You smiled. “You’re welcome.”

A beat of silence. A shift in the air.

Then he stood up, walked across the room, and pulled something from his own discarded robe. A small black box, no ribbon, no card. Just a quiet offering. He held it out to you.

Inside was a silver necklace — a fine chain and a charm shaped like a safety pin. But wrapped tightly around it was a delicate serpent, fangs bared, emerald eyes glinting like secrets.

“It reminded me of you,” he murmured, voice low. “Sharp. Clever. Dangerous when necessary.”

You said nothing — just turned, lifted your hair, and let him clasp it around your neck. His fingers lingered, not just to fasten it, but to feel you. The slope of your neck. The warmth of your skin. The quiet, steady beat of your pulse beneath his touch. His lips hovered there for a second. Then touched. A soft, slow kiss at the base of your throat — not rushed, not greedy, but full of something tender and dangerous and unspoken. You turned to face him and he looked at you like he didn’t know where to begin. Or maybe like he already had began in his mind. You reached for him, pulling him in by the hem of his shirt. He didn’t speak. Just leaned down, laying you gently across the mattress, pressing his lips to yours again — slow, deep, meaningful. The kind of kiss that trembled with everything you were both too afraid to say. Your fingers slid over the warm skin of his back as his shirt hit the floor. Yours was halfway undone, the clasp of your bra slack, the necklace still gleaming between your collarbones. His hands traced your waist. Yours tangled in his hair. Breathing unsteady. Kisses turning more urgent. But you didn’t go further. Not yet — not because you didn’t want to, but because the moment never gave you a chance.

Because just then, voices rose from the corridor beyond the bedroom door. Muffled at first. Then clearer. Sharper. Urgent. Your name. His. Whispers of the unthinkable. Turning you into Death Eaters. Marrying you off to each other. Hiding you away — to protect you, to save face, to give you a chance of survival. They spoke of it like strategy, not lives. Like your bodies were pieces on a board. Two heirs. Two bloodlines. Two names too valuable to risk. The proposal wasn’t romantic. It was cold. Practical. Transactional. There was too much to lose — the shared business, the old money, the ancient reputations so carefully kept intact. If the world crumbled, you had to be kept safe. Together. Away. Somewhere nobody could touch you. Behind the thick oak doors, your mothers argued with your fathers — voices rising, brittle and desperate.

“They deserve to know!” his mother snapped, sharp with grief already blooming beneath her stern voice.

“They’re not ready,” your father bit back, voice low, tight with the kind of fear he never let you see.

“Then make them ready!” your mother had hissed — and it stopped you cold. She never argued with him. Never raised her voice. Not like that.Her words trembled on the edge of panic. “Or do you want the shock to kill them if we don’t make it back?”

A sharp bang followed — Theodore’s father slamming his glass down, his voice rising over all of them.

“Nobody is dying.”

Silence. Sudden. Staggering. As if, all at once, they realized you and Theo could hear everything. As if your names had been spoken too loudly. As if the truth had bled too far. The silence that followed was louder than the shouting had been. A silence that said what none of them would admit out loud: They didn’t expect to survive.

Your body went cold beneath him, every nerve taut. Your fingernails dug into his bare chest as he sat frozen above you, his jaw clenched, his muscular arms flexing with either fury, fear — or both.

You didn’t say a word. Neither did he.

The rest of the night was silent. The air too still. The fire burned low in the hearth, the shadows long and unforgiving. You curled into his side, shivering despite the heat of his skin. He held you. Kept his arms wrapped tightly around you as you cried into his chest — quietly, steadily, until sleep took you both like a mercy. From that night on, you never spoke of it. But he always wore the ring you gave him, like it anchored him to something. And you — you never took off that necklace. Like it might protect you from a world that had stopped making sense. Like it might remind you that for one moment in time… you were his.

Just friends.

March. Your eighteenth birthday.

A blur of green lighting, music thumping through the common room walls, and Firewhisky burning a path down your throat like it was trying to cauterize the ache in your chest. Everyone was there — Blaise with some girl on his lap, Pansy dancing barefoot on a table, Draco brooding with a drink in one hand and a sharp grin on his face. Theo didn’t leave your side all night. He watched you with unreadable eyes as you laughed too loud, danced too close, leaned into someone else's touch just long enough to make him angry. When the party finally thinned, and the halls emptied of smoke and song, you pulled him into your room without a word. And this time— This time you didn’t stop.

You kissed him hard, your hands yanking him toward you like you were starved. His shirt was gone in seconds. Yours followed. Your back hit the mattress with a thud, and the rest was heat and whispered curses. Raw. Lust-filled. Unapologetic. His name fell from your lips like a sin. Yours left his like a promise he never got to keep. It was the kind of night that could've changed everything. But it didn’t. Because the next morning, you woke up tangled in sheets that still smelled like him, and he was already pulling his shirt back over his head. Already avoiding your eyes. Already retreating behind that same careful silence.

Your friends teased, of course.

“Oh, they’re at it again.”

“Just make it official already.”

You both laughed it off. He smirked like he wasn’t dying. You rolled your eyes like you didn’t care.

Just friends.

But by the time the final term rolled around, everyone knew what you were. A twisted kind of constant. A pattern. A secret with no secrecy left.

Oh, they just fuck.

That’s what they said now. Not with venom. Not with judgment. Just... with a shrug. As if that explained all the nights you spent in his bed, half-clothed and quiet. As if that explained the way his hands found your hips like they belonged there. As if that explained why neither of you could look at each other for too long in the daylight. Just sex. Just lust fueled from fear and frustration. Just friends. And yet, sometimes — when your lips met his in the dark, and your hands clutched the back of his neck like it was the only thing keeping you secure — it felt like something more. Something that could wreck you. But you never said it. Neither did he. As if speaking it would make it too real. As if the fragile, unspoken thing between you would shatter under the weight of honesty. Because that was the one rule you never broke. Don’t call it love. Don’t make it love. As if you were afraid — terrified — of ruining what had always kept you tethered. The friendship. The shared childhood. The years of unfiltered existence. The quiet comfort of someone who knew you before the world got to you.

By the end of that final year, the harsh reality of life got to you both. Your sheltered upbringings cracked like porcelain dropped on stone. No amount of wealth, no inherited status, no pureblood pride could shield you from the way war hollowed people out and left nothing but ruin behind.

Theo’s mother — Gone. Just… gone. No body. No explanation. One day there, the next, a missing name whispered behind locked doors. The Nott estate hung a black veil over its gates, and no funeral was ever held. There was no point. Grief like that was wordless — just cold halls, two untouched teacups and a father who stopped speaking altogether. Lord Nott, once sharp and cruel with his lectures, had gone fully nonverbal. Not by curse — but by choice. As if silence was the only form of control he had left.

Your father — alive, yes. Barely. He came back from that damned mission, but not the same man who had tucked you into bed with stories about ancient magic and told you to always think three steps ahead. His body was broken beyond recognition. The medics didn’t let you see him at first. They said it would be “too distressing.” Eventually, you did. And they were right. He was unrecognizable. Wheelchair-bound. Spine bent at an unnatural angle. One leg gone from the knee down. His wand hand — once so steady, so sure — was now a twisted, useless claw curled permanently against his chest. His face was gaunt and pale, skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones. Scars like lightning bolts slashed down his neck. His eyes were sunken and wild. You remembered staring at him in silence, unable to move. Because he terrified you. Not in the way an enemy would. But in the way a nightmare does when it looks like someone you love wearing the wrong skin. A ghost in a body that wasn’t built to hold him anymore. He couldn’t speak at first — not from any injury to his throat, but from shock. From trauma that settled into his bones and refused to leave. And when he finally did speak again, his voice was rough. Short. Cold. Barked orders and fragmented thoughts. No longer your clever, strategic father — the man who once gently corrected your spellwork and taught you how to read people like books — but something else entirely. A man stitched together from grief and pain. A shadow with too many memories and too little future. Your mother — still healing from her own wounds — became his nurse. She rose with the sun and fell asleep in chairs beside his bed, hands blistered from potion bottles and bandages. She stopped wearing jewelry. Stopped painting her nails. Her posture slumped. Her laugh disappeared. She aged years in mere months — not from time, but from the weight of it all.

You heard her crying once, through the door of the grand kitchen. Quiet. Shaking. Then silence. Then the kettle boiling like nothing had happened. You stayed away from your parents' room as much as you could. And hated yourself for it. But every time you looked at him… you didn’t see your father. You saw what war did.

Your mothers had been right that Christmas. The fear in their voices, the tension in the way their hands had trembled as they poured wine and tried to smile — it had all been true. They had known what was coming. And still, no one prepared you.There were no instructions. No easing in. You and Theo were thrown into it — contracts, vaults, magical properties, shared estates, heirlooms, taxes, infernal negotiations with families older than stone. The joint businesses, the web of wealth spun between your last names, all fell into your hands. You were expected to just know — to manage, to lead, to represent, to preserve legacies that were already falling apart. You had to learn everything in a matter of days. Not weeks. Not months. And you did. So did he. Because what other choice was there? You were no longer just students. You were heirs to something crumbling. You were survivors of something that never truly ended.

Theo, who once smirked during Potions and drew obscene doodles in the margins of your notes, now wore tailored suits and pinched the bridge of his nose over budget ledgers. You, who used to skip class to nap in the sun, now read estate law by candlelight and signed contracts that made your stomach turn. Shared business. Shared history. Shared ruin. And yet, in the quiet, in the moments between meetings and estate visits and painfully public galas, you still found each other.

At night, when you thought everyone was asleep and the world had gone quiet, you’d meet in the corners of your decaying privilege. His study. Your greenhouse. The stables at the Greengrass estate during a black-tie engagement party neither of you wanted to be at. You’d find each other in the dark. A familiar rhythm. The same kiss. The same desperate hands. The same way your body knew his, like you’d been made for this, even if you never got to officially claim it. It wasn’t passion anymore — not really. It was survival. Because without it — without him — you weren’t sure you’d still be standing. School officially ended. Graduation came and went without you. While your classmates celebrated the start of a new life, you were already buried in the old one.

As the months rolled on, it began to change you. Not just inside — not just the fatigue, the sleeplessness, the weight of responsibility. But outside too. Theo grew leaner, his sharpness no longer boyish but sculpted by loss. His stubble always present now — not because he was trying to impress anyone, but because he didn’t have the energy to care. And you —You’d grown colder. Still beautiful, but distant. Your fingers slender and always stained with ink, your voice quieter, but never unsure.You moved like a woman who knew how to survive. Together, you navigated endless meetings; estate conflicts and public appearances — always seated side by side, always quietly aligned. Like a married couple. Like a power duo. Like something real, even if it wasn’t.

You’d been in the Nott estate office for hours. Stacks of parchment, ink-smudged records, bloodline documentation, contracts, estate transfers — all tangled up in the web of shared legacy that neither of you had asked for, but now had to untangle. The windows were drawn. A single lamp flickered, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. Above you, the yelling started again. Theodore’s father — a once dignified, articulate man — now reduced to ghostlike fury, roared behind closed doors. You could hear him stumbling, the scrape of wood against stone, a loud crash as something shattered. And then again — cries. Muffled, broken. You couldn’t tell if they were from pain, grief, or madness anymore. You and Theo had long stopped reacting to it. You sat across from each other, bent over opposite ends of the desk, searching desperately for one specific scroll that had vanished in the chaos. Your hands trembled. Theo’s jaw was tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek. The silence was heavy. Suffocating.

“You filed it wrong,” he snapped finally, voice low but sharp.

You looked up, exhaustion fraying your edges. “I didn’t. I double-checked. It’s not here.”

“It has to be,” he growled, standing abruptly. “We can’t afford to lose this one. Not this one.”

You stood too. “Don’t raise your voice at me, Theodore. I’m trying just as hard as you.”

His hand slammed against the desk, papers jumping in every direction. “It’s not enough!”

Something cracked. Not the desk. Not the lamp. You. He moved opposite you, towering over your frame, the air between you tense and buzzing. His shoulders squared, jaw clenched, anger etched into every sharp angle of his face — but it wasn’t just anger. It was everything. Grief. Pressure. The unbearable weight of inheritance and expectation pressing down on both of you.

“You think I don’t know that?” you hissed. “You think I’m not drowning too?”

The silence that followed was dangerous. Alive.

Then, in one breathless movement, Theo swept the remaining papers off the desk with a furious snarl, grabbed your waist, and shoved you back against the polished wood. His hand gripped your neck — not harsh, but firm — his breath hot against your ear as he rasped, “Fuck you.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, voice low, steady. “Do it then, bastard. Fuck me.”

That was all it took. His mouth crashed into yours — hard, hungry, desperate. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. But it was real. Raw. You kissed him back with equal force, hands fisting in his collar, dragging him closer as his hips pressed into yours. A clash of teeth and tongues, of fury and grief and longing. Hushed gasps. Scraped sighs. You clawed at his back like it might anchor you to the moment, to something that still made sense — leaving angry red streaks in your wake, some broken just enough to draw blood. His hand slid under your shirt. Yours tangled in his hair. You didn’t care about the desk. The office. The yelling upstairs. For a few stolen minutes, there was nothing but heat — the ache of needing to forget, the need to feel alive, to release anger, if only briefly. And when it ended — when your breaths slowed and your foreheads rested together — you didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Didn’t explain. You simply slid off the desk, tugging your oversized shirt back over your shoulder, smoothing the hem of your loose shorts with trembling hands. Then, wordlessly, you began collecting the papers scattered across the floor. Theo helped, running a hand through his disheveled hair, jaw set and unreadable. Neither of you looked at each other. You smoothed out a torn contract. He re-inked the title line. And you went back to work. The marks you left on his back stayed for weeks — angry, raw reminders of a moment you both refused to speak of. You tended to them in silence, dabbing salve over the scabs with careful hands. Theo never complained, even when the pain made him wince. He just sat still, jaw clenched, as if he needed to feel the sting, to feel something.

People whispered. They always did.

“They’re perfect together.”

“They run their families like they were born for it.”

“They have to be together, right?”

But they didn’t know. They didn’t know how you’d sign the last page of a treaty with your hand trembling and Theo would place his fingers over yours — just for a second — to steady you. How you’d brush against each other on the gala stairs and both flinch, as if the touch was too much. They didn’t know about the arguments behind closed doors, the way grief twisted everything tight. Didn’t see you both unravel — trying to keep up with legacies you were never meant to carry alone.Didn’t see the way your fathers now sat silently in the shared manor farm’s garden, side by side — your father’s hands gnarled and motionless in his lap, Theo’s father pushing the wheelchair in slow, stiff silence during their mandatory daily walks. Didn’t see your mother smoking alone at dusk beside the grave of Theo’s mother — a grave with no body. Just a stone. Just a name. You were still just friends. Still clinging to the label like it might save you. Not because you didn’t want to call it love anymore — but because now, you couldn’t. There was no time. No energy. No room left for soft words and safe confessions. Not with everything else you were carrying.

The peace after the storm came three years later.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Not all at once. It came slowly, like the way bruises fade — inch by inch, color by color, until one day you looked in the mirror and realized the ache was gone, but you still remembered exactly how it felt. You and Theo had learned to breathe again. Not deeply. Not freely. But enough. Enough to survive the meetings. Enough to sleep for more than four hours. Enough to stop jumping when owls arrived unexpectedly. Enough to function in the daylight, to keep your voices steady, to hold a quill without shaking. You were still sleeping in your own homes with your parents, still tethered to the ruins of what had been. But more often than not, you found each other in Theo’s bed — not for passion, not for pleasure, but for stillness. For warmth. For something close to peace. Just holding each other in silence, hearts beating like stubborn clocks in the dark. One morning, you had walked alongside your fathers in the garden. Slowly. Carefully. You had finally gathered the courage — or maybe just the numbness — to stomach the way they looked now. His father guiding your father’s wheelchair, both silent as ghosts, eyes cast low like men already half-buried. It was there that his father first openly pitched the idea of marriage to both of you. Not as a romantic gesture. Not even as protection anymore. But as necessity. Politics. Legacy. A tie to keep everything standing. Theo hadn’t said you were just friends. He hadn’t said no. He had only said, flatly, “There’s no time.”

And your father — your once-sharp, untouchable father — had started crying. Not loud. Just quietly. Shamefully. Because he couldn’t walk you down the aisle without assistance. Because he couldn’t hold a wand. Because he was no longer the man you had looked up to with such blinding pride. You had clutched Theo’s hand so tightly his fingers had gone pale. He hadn’t let go. That same night, you had sat outside in the old tree — the one he’d pushed you from years ago. The bark still scraped. The branches still high. The memory still vivid. You didn’t speak. You just sat in the crook of the trunk, a cigarette burning slow between your fingers, staring out into the dark, and wishing everything would stop spinning — just for a while. Theo had climbed up beside you like he always did, the wood creaking under his weight. And without a word, he’d pulled you gently against his side, his arm wrapping around your back with the kind of ease only years could grant. His lips found your temple — soft, gentle — and he whispered something quiet into your ear. You didn’t catch all of it. You didn’t need to. It was the tone that mattered — low, steady, like an anchor dropped into stormy water. You leaned into him, resting your head beneath his chin, letting the smoke curl upward as his fingers traced lazy patterns on your spine. For a moment, nothing hurt. For a moment, the world stood still.

One summer afternoon, an owl arrived. You were in Theo’s study, both of you hunched over estate plans in silence, the kind of quiet that had become second nature — not hostile, just heavy. The open window let in the distant hum of cicadas and the faint scent of warm stone. The owl cut through it all with a sharp flap of wings, landing on the back of Theo’s chair with practiced ease. You blinked, reaching for the parchment tied to its leg. Pansy’s handwriting. Flowing. Delicate. Dramatic. A vacation. Her beach villa. Two weeks. Sun, sand, alcohol, “and absolutely no business, darling.”

Around you, life had kept moving — faster than either of you could follow. The Malfoys had escaped the war with little more than scratches and enough gold to polish their name clean. Draco had expressed interest in Daphne’s sister Astoria, fallen in love, and now they were expecting their first child as a married couple — a picture-perfect future handed to them on a silver spoon. Pansy had found love in Blaise, of all people, and last you heard, they’d gotten engaged. Daphne had vanished off to some far land, buried in magical research and ancient libraries, sending the occasional vague postcard with too much sun and too few words. Everyone had moved on.Except for you two. You’d declined nearly every group invitation over the years. Some never even reached you anymore. The others came wrapped in awkward politeness — sympathy laced into the phrasing, like everyone knew but no one wanted to say it aloud. Everyone knew your situation. They whispered it behind their hands at galas and in footnotes of society columns: the heirs who stayed behind. The children who became the legacy. Only Pansy had stayed in contact properly. Owls passed between you — sometimes short and sweet, sometimes long and rambling. She never pushed, just reminded you that she was still there. Still waiting. But you’d never gone. Never had the time. Never had the energy to pretend you were whole enough to relax. Until now.

“Is this… a joke?” Theo asked eventually, voice low and flat.

You didn’t answer. Just folded the parchment once more and placed it on the desk between you like it might detonate. A vacation. A real vacation. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had one. No duties. No legacy. No headlines. No contracts. No whispered condolences. No tense galas. No black robes or uncomfortable meetings. Just… escape. It felt foreign. Unreal. Irresponsible. And still —Still, a part of you ached for it. Not the beach. Not the cocktails. Not the idea of rest. But the idea of being you again. Not your name. Not your family’s. Just you. Theo leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, and exhaled slowly. You watched the way his jaw flexed, the way his shirt clung to his collarbones, the way exhaustion lived in his body like a second soul. The silence stretched, heavy and careful, like all things between you. You reached for the letter again, scanning it once more.

 “Two weeks,” you said quietly, setting it back down. “We’d be off the grid. No meetings. No correspondence. No expectations.”

Theo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. 

“It’s impractical,” he muttered. “We have three estate reports due. I still need to finalize the imports for—”

“We can delegate,” you interrupted, calm. “Take the work with us if we must. But I think—” You exhaled slowly. “I think we need the distance. From all of this.”

You gestured vaguely to the desk, the stacks of parchment, the endless flow of sealed envelopes. Theo didn’t respond immediately. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on a dark spot in the wooden grain of the desk. Then, finally, his gaze met yours.

“We go,” he said. “Just a few days. Nothing excessive.”

“Fine,” you agreed with a slight nod. “I’ll write back.”

No smiles. No jokes. No laughter. Just two people who had grown used to survival. Two people who made decisions like allies, like business partners. Because that's what you did. You endured. Together. 

The vacation came. And for the first two days, neither of you knew what to do with it. You arrived late in the afternoon — salt in the air, the light golden and low, the villa glowing with warm sandstone and the sound of distant waves crashing against the cliffs. It was almost too beautiful. Artificial. Like stepping into a memory you didn’t belong in. Pansy greeted you at the door, her hair twisted into a silk scarf, her grin wide and bright, a new engagement ring on her finger gleaming like a spotlight. Blaise was behind her, hand resting lazily on her waist. He smirked and said something about you two looking “as thrilled as a pair of accountants at a rave.” You didn’t laugh. Theo didn’t either.

Inside, the villa pulsed with sun and music — warm and alive in a way that felt almost foreign. Draco was already lounging shirtless by the pool, sunglasses perched on his nose, one hand lazily stroking the curve of Astoria’s very obviously pregnant belly. She looked radiant, her skin kissed golden by the sun, her laughter ringing out as she tipped her head back at something he whispered. Around them, their friends glowed with the same ease — pleasant tans, light clothes, relaxed smiles. Like the war had never touched them. You and Theo looked like ghosts. Pale. Drawn. Unseasoned by joy. You'd packed three swimsuits, but couldn’t bring yourself to put any of them the first day. You’d grown so slender in recent months that your reflection no longer felt like your own. Your body — once yours, once familiar — now felt like something borrowed and worn thin. You stood in front of the mirror too long. Silent. Theo noticed. He always did.

“It was your idea,” he muttered later, tension clipped into his voice as he stood in the shared bedroom of the villa. “You’re the one who said we needed this.”

“I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you replied, equally quiet. Defensive. “Like we don’t belong here anymore.”

The silence that followed was thick. Neither of you moved. It wasn’t really about swimsuits. Or sunlight. Or laughter.  It was about what you’d become — and how far you’d drifted from your friends. Then, without a word, Theo stepped behind you. His arms slipped around your waist, pulling you gently back into him. You felt his lips brush the side of your head as he whispered, “You worry too much.”

A pause.

“You’ve always been gorgeous.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You just leaned into him, letting the words settle between the two of you like something fragile.

That same night, after a dinner that felt more like a performance than a meal, you sat curled up with a book in your lap — not reading, not even pretending to. Your fingers gripped the spine too tightly, knuckles white. The pages didn’t turn. Theo was nearby, sprawled on the adjacent chair, one arm draped lazily along the back. His eyes weren’t on you. They were locked on the horizon, sharp and quiet, like he was daring it to say something. Dinner had started innocently enough. Pansy had tried — really tried — to keep things light, even as she sipped from her wine glass with the telltale smirk of someone trying to pull threads back together.

“So,” she began, eyes flicking between you and Theo across the candlelit table, “What finally dragged you two out of your cave? Don’t tell me it was the promise of tan lines and mocktails.”

Theo didn’t smile. Neither did you. It was Blaise who chuckled into his drink.

Pansy tried again. “Still just messing around like you were at Hogwarts? Or did one of you finally grow up and confess something real?”

You had managed a dry, noncommittal smile. Theo stabbed his food with a bit more force than necessary, the clink of silverware sharp in the quiet.

“No time for discussing feelings,” he muttered, eyes fixed on his plate. “Too much work.”

You didn’t argue. You just nodded, barely. Silently agreeing.

Then, after a pause, he added, quieter this time — as if it mattered more than he wanted to admit — “But we’re still close.”

Pansy didn’t push. Nobody did. Then Draco — in a tone too casual to be careless — leaned forward slightly and asked, “How are your families?”

The question hit like a slap. Sharp. Unwelcome. Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers clenched tighter around your fork. Heat flared in your chest — not anger, but something more bitter, more helpless. Like a scream trapped behind your ribs. Your hand slid under the table, gripping Theo’s thigh through his shorts. Your long nails dug in, leaving harsh, red crescents in his skin. A warning. A plea. He didn’t flinch. His hand covered yours — warm, relaxing. He gave it the faintest squeeze, thumb brushing your knuckles once, then said quietly, with no elaboration: “Better.”

That one word hung in the air. Final. Clipped. Uninviting. The conversation moved on, awkwardly, stumbling into safer territory. Someone laughed a little too loudly. The subject shifted to the weather today being unbearably hot, then to Astoria’s pregnancy, and then — mercifully — to dessert. You didn’t mind Draco. You liked him, even. He’d been a close friend for years. But the question — innocent or not — had sliced right through what little armor you still had left. If Theo hadn’t spoken first, you weren’t sure what might’ve come out of your mouth. And so later, when the moon was high and most of the others had wandered off to their rooms or the beach, you sat outside together in a comfortable silence that wasn’t really comfortable at all. Just familiar. The book lay unopened in your lap. Theo’s jaw was tight as he stared at the sea. No one joined you. No one interrupted. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t judgment. It was just... distance. The kind you grow used to when you’ve lived too long behind walls no one else knows how to climb.

Day two bled into heat and salt and sun. The others were scattered — Blaise and Pansy off snorkeling somewhere beyond the rocks, their laughter occasionally echoing over the waves. Draco was seated under a shaded umbrella, massaging Astoria’s swollen ankles with surprising tenderness, the two of them tucked into their own quiet world. Theo had gone for a run. His body moved like he was chasing something — or maybe trying to outrun it. Every flex of his shoulders caught the light like marble. He’d shaved — the first time in what felt like months — and the sharpness of his jaw, no longer hidden beneath stubble, made something unfamiliar twist in your stomach. You’d gone to grab a brush from the bathroom that morning, pausing in the doorway for a heartbeat too long. He stood by the sink, towel slung low on his hips, steam curling around him, his movements precise, methodical. The aftershave he wore — the one you’d given him for his last birthday — lingered in the air, fresh and clean and far too rare. He barely used it. There was never time. You stepped closer, silently, meeting his reflection in the mirror as your fingers brushed the edge of the counter. Then, without a word, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his jaw — soft, fleeting, almost questioning.

“Smells good,” you mumbled against his skin, the words barely audible but thick with meaning.

His hand paused mid-motion. Not quite a smile, but the ghost of one tugged at the corner of his mouth. Almost. But not quite.

His hair, damp from an earlier swim, was slicked back, a few strands falling forward as he ran. You sat on a sun-warmed rock a few meters away, hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, Theo’s shirt draped over your swimsuit. You’d burned yesterday — badly — and now his button-down protected your flushed skin. You weren’t reading. You weren’t doing anything, really. Just staring. Watching him like it was the first time you’d allowed yourself to see him. Something in your chest thudded — quiet but impossible to ignore. He caught your gaze mid-stride, his expression softening in the way it always did when it was just you. And then he waved, slowing as he jogged toward you, his breath steady, lips slightly parted. You didn’t wave back. Not yet. You just kept watching him come closer, wondering, without meaning to, what you both could have been if the timing had been right for once.

By day three, something shifted.

It was small. Barely there. You were eating breakfast outside on the patio, legs pulled beneath you, a cup of bitter espresso growing cold beside your plate. Theo sat across from you, hair damp from a morning swim, shirt wrinkled from a night spent tossing.

He looked up from his plate, brow raised at your silence, and muttered, “If you frown at that book any harder, you’re going to scare the author out of retirement.”

You blinked. Then laughed — surprised by the sound of it, startled by the sudden lightness. The rest of the group went quiet. Pansy’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Draco raised an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. Blaise shot Theo a look and smirked. It was subtle, but the reaction was there — like they’d just seen a ghost exhale. No one said anything. Not out loud. Theo didn’t smile exactly, but his eyes softened as he looked at you. That same night, the two of you went for a walk on the beach. It was quiet. A silence neither heavy nor awkward — just there, between footsteps on wet sand and the sound of distant waves. His hand found yours as naturally as breathing. Your summer dress swayed softly with the breeze, the silver serpent necklace still resting cool against your collarbone. He was still wearing the ring. The one you’d given him. It was duller now, a few new scratches cutting through the initials — but he wore it. Always. After a while, Theo glanced at you and muttered,

 “This whole thing’s... not too bad.”

You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting.

“No,” you murmured. “It’s not.”

You both stopped near the dunes, where the sand was still warm underfoot. The moon cast a pale glow across the waves.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter.

You didn’t reply — not in words. Instead, you stepped closer, let your head rest lightly against his shoulder as you both sat down. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak again. You just let his arm wrap around you while you stared out at the sea.

By day four, he threw you into the pool.

You were in the middle of drying your legs in the sun, sunglasses perched on your nose, a rare moment of ease softening your expression. He walked past casually. Paused. Looked down at you. And without warning, without ceremony, scooped you up and launched you into the water. You came up gasping, hair stuck to your cheeks, laughing through a stream of curses. He dove in after you. You splashed him. He dunked you. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. It was familiar — messy, chaotic, joyful. Like a version of yourselves you’d buried beneath duty and grief. A life before the war, before bloodlines and business, before everything became sharp-edged and quiet.

Blaise had laughed from a deck chair, calling the others out to watch the chaos unfold. “Merlin, they’re alive!” he shouted, grinning like it was the most surprising thing he’d seen all summer.

You managed to climb on Theo's shoulders with pure, stubborn determination, shrieking as you tried to dunk him beneath the water. He grabbed your waist and threw you off again, the splash echoing through the courtyard. But you didn’t go down quietly. You surfaced with a wicked grin, swam up behind him, and yanked his shorts down under the water with a triumphant snort. His bark of laughter turned into a string of curses muffled by your laughter. You gave him the finger, tongue stuck out like a smug child, and climbed out of the pool victorious — dripping wet and absolutely unbothered.

The deadline you gave yourselves — “just a few days” — blurred. Stretched. By the end of the week, you weren’t keeping track of time anymore. Theo spent less time staring into the distance, more time beside you. You weren’t clinging to your book anymore — sometimes it sat forgotten beside a half-drunk glass of wine, your head tipped toward the sun. There were moments now. Small ones. Soft ones. Moments where he laughed without bitterness. Where you smiled without flinching. Where the two of you shared silence without the weight of the past pressing on your chests. You still didn’t talk about what you were. But for once, you weren’t pretending. Not lovers. Not friends. Just two people breathing for the first time in years. Most nights, you’d lay in bed beside each other, sharing lazy, hushed conversations. About everything and nothing. Estate renovations you’d never actually start. Which room had the best light for tea in the morning. The dumb things Blaise said. The even dumber things you two had done as teens. You’d fall asleep mid-sentence sometimes, smiles lingering. After the others went to bed, you always slipped away together for a walk. It became a habit neither of you named — just something that felt necessary. You’d walk along the quiet shore, or wander through the villa grounds barefoot, whispering under the stars. One evening, after Theo joked about throwing you into the sea if you had kept teasing him, you playfully elbowed him and muttered that you’d haunt him in his bath forever if he did. He had chuckled, said “worth it,” and then, with a strange kind of quiet certainty, leaned in and kissed you — soft, slow, nothing like the other times. Theo started waking you early, just after sunrise. He’d tug you from bed with a grumble of “come on, lazybones” and force you to join him for morning workouts. You hated them. You were horrible at most of the exercises he showed you — uncoordinated, sleepy, constantly complaining. But you always outran him. Every time. Barefoot, laughing, hair tangled in the wind, leaving him behind on the sand while he cursed after you with a grin. One morning over breakfast, you found yourself in an unusually animated conversation with the girls. Astoria talked about the baby’s nursery while Pansy passed around wedding brochures and complained about choosing a flower color. You made a particularly crude joke about what labor sounded like, mimicking a hippogriff in heat. Everyone laughed — even Astoria, who nearly choked on her juice. Theo, from across the table, had turned slowly to stare at you, utterly scandalized. You just sipped your coffee with a smirk while Pansy wheezed beside you, clutching her stomach.

Week two had settled into your bones like sunlight. You hadn’t planned to stay this long. Neither of you had. But time moved differently here — slower, softer, like the universe had finally stopped asking you to fight. The morning began the way many had: with Theo doing pushups in the sand. This time, though, you didn’t join. You sprawled on his back as he worked through the set, pretending to be a drill sergeant barking orders. He grumbled, muttering something about poor form and insubordination, but didn’t try to shake you off. The laughter that followed felt foreign. But not unwelcome. You returned to the villa a bit earlier, digging through an old handwritten recipe book you’d packed — one of the few things his mother had left behind. You found the worn page with her pancake recipe, smudged with flour and time. You made them exactly as written. No substitutions. No modern twists. Theo returned not long after, fresh from his workout, shirtless and sun-warm. He walked straight to you, arms slipping around your waist as you flipped a pancake. He pressed a soft kiss to the back of your neck, murmuring something about how it felt like home. His hands gently rubbed along your stomach, a motion so instinctive, so familiar, it sent a shiver through your spine.

“I forgot how good this smells,” he whispered, nuzzling your hair. “It’s like she’s here.”

You set the table quietly, the others still asleep, the sun casting lazy beams across the kitchen floor. The villa smelled faintly of chocolate and butter — the pancakes charmed to stay warm. Theo was gone, showering but taking uncharacteristically long. Long enough that your stomach twisted. You opened the bathroom door just in time to hear the hitch in his breath — the sharp, silent kind of sobbing that shook his shoulders even under the hot stream of water. His body was curled in on itself, hands braced against the tiled wall like he was holding himself upright on memory alone. This was the first time you’d seen him cry in years. You stepped in, fully clothed in your short summer dress, no hesitation. The steam clung to your skin, your hair already dampening. You didn’t speak. Just wrapped your arms around his back, let the water soak through you completely. He didn’t pull away. He sagged against you like it was the only place he knew how to fall. You kissed his shoulder as best as you could reach. His spine. His jaw. Whispered into the heat and silence:

“It’s okay.”

“You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

“I’m still here.”

“Still breathing.”

“Still with you.”

He didn’t speak at first. Just breathed — ragged, wet, broken — into your shoulder. But then, barely audible above the water and the ache in his chest, he mumbled something. Words you couldn’t quite catch. Your brows knit, lips parting to ask him to repeat it — but before you could, he turned. His hands found your waist, fingers trembling. Then your back met the cool tile of the shower wall. It wasn’t the kind of release that came from desperation or fury — not this time. It wasn’t making love either. It hovered in between. There was restraint in the way he kissed you, in the way his mouth trailed your collarbone like a habit he couldn’t unlearn. There was a tenderness in how his hands and hips moved, like he didn’t want to hurt you — not anymore. But it was still tension. Still need. Still the only way he knew how to let go. And you let him — because you felt it too. That pressure in your chest, the weight of everything you hadn’t said, everything you couldn’t say. You needed the closeness. The quiet violence of it. The comfort of two bodies still reaching for something in the dark. So you gave in, together — not to forget, not to escape, but just to feel something that wasn’t loss.

Breakfast was oddly silent. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, just careful. Respectful. Protective. Theo’s eyes were red-rimmed, his expression unreadable as he focused on his food. His hand brushed yours once beneath the table — briefly, barely — but it was enough. It was obvious he’d cried. Undoubtedly, everyone had heard the stifled gasps and creaking pipes from the bathroom, the low rhythm of bodies against tile despite your efforts to stay quiet. But no one said a word. No teasing from Blaise. No knowing glance from Pansy. Even Draco, usually unable to resist a smirk, simply nodded a silent greeting. Instead, they complimented the pancakes.

“These are… amazing,” Astoria said with a gentle smile, reaching for a second helping.

“Might be the best I've had,” Pansy added, sipping her coffee like it was just any other morning. “You’ll have to share the recipe.”

You’d replied softly, eyes on your plate, “It’s Theo’s mum’s. Family secret.”

Next to you, Theo stilled. Then looked away. And that was it. No more questions. No comments. Just a table full of people choosing kindness over curiosity — the kind of friends who knew better than to ask.

The afternoon was golden. A slow breeze rustled through the tall palms as sunlight shimmered across the surface of the pool. Everything smelled like salt, suncream and fresh lime. Pansy floated lazily in the pool, humming under her breath, sunglasses perched crooked on her nose. Blaise and Draco sat under the pergola in deep conversation, voices low as they argued — again — about Quidditch teams and playoff brackets like they hadn’t aged a day since sixth year. Astoria was curled up nearby on a chaise lounge, one hand resting gently on her stomach, her book half-forgotten in her lap. Too many cocktails had been sipped — fizzy, colorful things with ridiculous garnishes — and the laughter that floated across the patio was light, untethered. Astoria's glass, of course, was alcohol-free, her drink bright pink and sparkling with some enchanted citrus blend. She looked radiant, even without the buzz. You, on the other hand, were tipsy for the first time in years. Giddy in a way that made your limbs loose and your words just a little slurred. Theo was too, stretched beside you on the lounge chair, one arm slung lazily over the side. His cheeks were flushed, his grin unguarded. He muttered something under his breath — probably a complaint about the ridiculous paper umbrella in his drink — and you burst into laughter that wouldn’t stop. You couldn’t remember the last time your bodies weren’t tight with tension. The alcohol loosened something deeper — not just in your limbs, but in your hearts. For once, you were just two people melting into a sun-drenched afternoon, not heirs, not soldiers, not survivors. You returned to the oversized sunbed tucked beneath the shade of the canopy, balancing two fresh cocktails in your hands. The heat clung to your skin, the salt from earlier still drying on your legs. Theo lay sprawled across the lounger, eyes closed, one arm resting behind his head, his chest slowly rising and falling. You sat beside him, careful not to spill the drinks, and leaned over to place his on the small side table. His eyes blinked open lazily, taking you in — bikini, sun-flushed skin, and all.

“Merlin,” he muttered, voice thick and low. “You look too damn good in that.”

Before you could respond, he tugged at your wrist, pulling you down so that your upper body settled across his chest. You giggled, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, and he smirked against your hair. His arms curled loosely around you, one hand idly tracing the curve of your spine, the cocktail forgotten for the moment. He was in nothing but his swim trunks, his skin sun-kissed and damp from the earlier dip in the pool. As you finally settled against him, he reached up with one hand, running it through his messy, wind-tossed hair. The other hand fumbled lazily for the cigarette box on the table. He pulled one out, lit it with a flick of his wand, and took a slow drag, the smoke curling between you. You watched as he exhaled toward the open sky, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, lingering. He turned his head slightly, meeting your lips properly this time, a slow, familiar exchange. When he pulled back, he passed you the cigarette without needing to ask, his fingers brushing yours. You took it, took a drag, and let the smoke drift into the breeze. Your cheek against his sternum, your eyes half-lidded, your body draped over his like he was home as you continued your previous drink infused, lazy argument.

"I am not letting this one go, Theodore. You are the one who insisted we plant that stupid frostleaf in zone five," you murmured, voice slow, lips brushing his collarbone as you spoke.

Theo scoffed, head tipped back against the cushion, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself.  "You said it needed partial shade."

"And you said you'd reinforce the dome charms. Which you didn't."

"Because someone forgot to order the runestone stabilizers," he said, turning his head slightly, his voice rough and lazy. "We lost four moonfruit pods because of that."

You hummed, tapping your finger against his chest. "Mm. Still think it’s your fault."

He reached for the cigarette again, took a drag, and handed it back — but this time, his fingers paused around yours. His eyes flicked to your lips. He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to. He leaned in slowly, brushing your nose with his before pressing his mouth against yours. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask permission. It simply belonged. Slow. Warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss that started with a sigh and ended in silence. His lips moved with yours like he already knew how — like he always had. You kissed him back just as slowly, shifting your body slightly over his, your hand curling around the side of his neck. His fingers found the small of your back again, grounding you. Not pulling. Just holding.

You pulled back a little, your nose brushing his again. "We're supposed to be relaxing."

He smirked lazily, not opening his eyes. "I am relaxed. You’re the one who keeps bringing up the bloody farm."

You kissed him again. Just a soft press. No tongue, no urgency. Just lips grazing. Lingering. Then again, deeper this time — not heated, not rough. Just there. Steady. Familiar. Like you could spend a lifetime kissing him like this and never get tired.

His mouth parted slightly, and your teeth scraped gently against his lower lip before you pulled away, just enough to whisper, “We should probably hire someone to manage it.”

“Mm.” His eyes opened halfway, gaze heavy-lidded and unreadable. “We could. But then we wouldn’t have anything to argue about while making out in the sun.”

You smiled against his jaw. “So this is your strategy. Pick fights with me to justify the kissing.”

“You caught me.” He kissed your temple. “Shameful, really.”

You passed the cigarette back to him, your fingers running lazily along the side of his ribs. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re still lying on top of me,” he said, taking another drag. “So I win.”

You laughed, low and warm. His thumb rubbed circles into your back. You rested your cheek against his chest again, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Another kiss. Soft, aimless. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about sex or tension or release. Just presence. And for the first time in years, there was no edge in it. No hiding. Just this. Just now. Your friends glanced over every now and then — not with curiosity, not even with surprise, but with quiet relief. As if they were all silently thinking the same thing: finally.

Pansy made some offhand comment — something about you two being “The best cupid ever.” and “Honestly, I should start charging for my matchmaking services.” — which drew a few soft laughs and a dramatic eye-roll from Blaise. You didn’t react, just gave a lazy middle finger in her general direction without lifting your head.

Theo smirked. “Charming as ever.”

You hummed. “Mhm. Remind me to hex her drink later.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

He kissed your temple again, slower this time, lingering. You could feel his smile against your skin. The warmth wrapped around you like a blanket — the lapping of the pool water, the scent of sea salt and citrus, the weight of Theo’s arm around your waist, firm and sure. You could stay here forever. But some part of you — the part still wired for responsibility — stirred.

“We still have that event when we get back,” you murmured eventually, words barely above a whisper, your lips brushing the space between his collarbone and throat. “The Rosiers’ fundraiser thing. And the estate check-in the day after.”

Theo groaned softly, eyes still closed. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t say anything,” he mumbled, cutting you off mid-sentence. He turned his head toward yours and kissed you again — slow, drawn out, silencing. His fingers slid gently up your spine, grounding you once more in the moment. “We’ll think about it when the time comes.”

You sighed into the kiss, nodding slightly, even as your thoughts tried to drag you back. But he kissed you again. And again. Until you forgot what you were trying to remember. Until there was nothing but the warmth of his mouth and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Until the only thing that mattered was the way his hand rested over your heart, as if to remind you: Not yet.

Dinner that night had started with Theo at the grill, shirt half-buttoned, wand tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. Most of the others had wandered off toward the beach, drawn by the promise of a final dip before the sun disappeared. But you and Theo had stayed behind — still very much buzzed from cocktails and sun, swaying more than walking, laughter catching in your throats like bubbles. He was flipping skewers with practiced ease, the flames casting golden light across his cheekbones.

“You know,” he began, eyes narrowed at the meat as if it had personally offended him, “your dad once smacked me in the back of the head with a spatula for salting too early.”

You snorted. “Fifth year, right? He said you were ruining centuries of culinary magic with your ‘lazy seasoning.’”

Theo grinned. “Swore if I ever married into the family, he’d disown me if I served undercooked lamb.”

You leaned on the counter beside him, eyes playful. “Well, lucky for you, your meat’s never undercooked.”

He glanced sideways. “Are we still talking about lamb?”

You grinned, leaning in close, your voice a sultry murmur. “Depends. You planning to show me how well-seasoned it is, Nott?”

That earned you a kiss — rough, sudden, his hand finding your waist and pulling you flush against him. You kissed him back eagerly, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. The heat wasn’t just from the grill anymore. At some point, the tongs clattered to the ground. A skewer nearly rolled off the edge. You both stumbled into the counter, knocking the entire barbecue over, bits of meat splattered everywhere.

“Shit—”

“Fix it!” you laughed, breathless, smacking his chest as he scrambled for his wand.

A quick Reparo saved the dinner. Mostly. You were still breathless with laughter as you floated the slightly-singed peaches back onto the platter.

“Perfect,” Theo declared proudly. “Just how your dad didn’t teach me.”

You winked. “We’ll say it’s rustic. He’ll cry tears of joy.”

Draco, already halfway through his second helping, wiped his mouth with a napkin and said casually, “I’ll give it to you, Nott — your meat’s surprisingly well-seasoned.”

You choked mid-bite, coughing as a piece nearly went down the wrong pipe. Theo patted your back with all the faux innocence of someone definitely not responsible.

Pansy didn’t miss a beat. “Well, she’s had plenty of practice enjoying Theo’s meat in her mouth.”

You groaned, still recovering from the coughing fit, while Theo muttered under his breath, “Can we please stop with the bloody meat jokes?”

Astoria, giggling behind her glass of lemonade, gasped, “Stop, stop — I swear, the baby’s pressing on my bladder, I’m going to pee myself.”

Laughter erupted around the table, soft and honest, the kind that curled around your ribs and loosened something tight inside. Even Theo was smiling, his hand brushing your thigh under the table in a quiet kind of affection.

As the night wore on, the music had slowly faded. The clinking of silverware had long since stopped. The scent of grilled skewers and roasted peaches still lingered faintly in the breeze, but the world had gone soft — wrapped in a silk silence that only came with places far from the real world. You were lying on the same sunbed as earlier, only now a light blanket was thrown over your legs, and the air was cooler, salted with wind from the sea. The pool water shimmered in lazy ripples nearby, catching the moonlight in fractured reflections. Theo was stretched beside you, one arm folded behind his head, the other draped across your waist. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the occasional red glow brightening the line of his jaw. The two of you were quiet, like the night — like the stars themselves had hushed to listen in. You tilted your head back, staring up. The sky was vast. Deep and dark and impossibly full.

“Remember when we used to sneak out just to do this?” you murmured, your voice lazy, full of sun and wine and salt.

“Mm,” Theo hummed in response. “Back when we thought stargazing made us poetic.”

You grinned. “Back when we thought anything made us poetic.”

A pause.

Then you added, voice faintly amused, “Hard to believe everyone’s already asleep. Pansy, especially. She used to threaten to hex anyone who even mentioned bed before 2 a.m.”

Theo chuckled, low in his chest. “Years of partying caught up with them. We’re surrounded by old souls now.”

You turned your head against the curve of his shoulder, looking up at him. “You’re one to talk. You haven’t gone dancing shirtless on a table in at least... three years.”

He exhaled smoke and smirked. “True. But at least I haven’t gone full Draco.”

“Oh Merlin,” you groaned, laughing into your hand. “That man went from brooding teen heartthrob to doting husband and father in record time.”

“And yet somehow, that unborn child is not the product of anything prim or proper,” Theo said with mock seriousness, eyes still on the stars.

You snorted. “Right? There’s a reason Pansy said she heard things through the walls during that holiday they took months ago.”

Theo looked at you then, his grin lazy, eyes shining in the low light. “Poor Pansy.”

“She’s scarred.”

“She deserves it.”

You both fell into another comfortable silence, eyes drifting back up to the stars. The sky stretched endlessly above you — scattered with constellations you used to memorize.

You squinted. “That one’s... the hunter. Right?”

Theo glanced up, unimpressed. “No. That’s clearly the swan.”

You lifted your head, offended. “That’s not even close to a swan.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You forgot everything, didn’t you?”

You jabbed him in the side with your elbow. “I did not. That one—there—is definitely the hunter.”

“That’s the dipper,” he said flatly.

You stared.

“…Is it?”

Theo smirked. “No idea.”

You blinked at him.

He grinned wider. “I just wanted to win.”

You let your head fall back with a laugh, resting against his chest. “You’re the worst.”

He kissed the top of your head. “And yet, here you are. Laying on top of me. Again.”

You smiled into his shirt, your hand finding his under the blanket. Fingers interlaced. No words. The stars stretched on above you. The stars above were achingly bright. Far too distant to touch, yet somehow closer than they’d ever felt before. The warmth of Theo’s body beside you, the quiet hush of waves brushing the shore just beyond the villa walls, the low hum of cicadas in the distance — it all wrapped around you like a second blanket, thicker than air, softer than memory. You let your eyes trace the patterns in the sky. Not that you remembered what they were. Not anymore. There had been a time when you and Theo would stay up late, sprawled in the tall grass behind your estate, naming constellations like you owned them. Now, you could barely tell Orion from a smudge on glass.

“I thought I’d have a child by now,” you said, your voice so soft it barely stirred the air.

Theo stilled. Not completely — his chest still rose and fell beneath your cheek — but you felt the way his breath caught, how his thumb paused its motion against the back of your hand.

You didn’t look at him. “Not because of pressure, or expectation. Just…” A faint, wistful smile tugged at your lips. “I always imagined holding someone small. Someone new. Teaching them how to swim. How to breathe through a nightmare. Loving them in all the ways I wished I’d been loved.”

He was quiet for a beat too long. And then—

“That sounds terrifying.”

You laughed once, dry and amused. “It is. But it’s beautiful, too. You get to start over. To raise someone from scratch. Make sure they know how wanted they are.”

Theo’s voice came slower this time, a little unsure. “Are you—thinking about it? Seriously?”

You turned your face into his chest, letting his heartbeat soothe the strange ache blooming in your ribs. “Not right now. I mean, look at us. We can barely remember to eat when we’re knee-deep in family estate paperwork.”

He gave a quiet huff — not quite a laugh, but close. “So you’re saying you haven’t secured a secret baby deal with some charming wizard behind my back?”

You nudged him playfully with your elbow. “No, but now I’m considering it. Just to spite you.”

“Charming,” he muttered. “Truly maternal energy.”

You smiled. It lingered this time. As the stars wheeled above and the warm night pressed in around you, something shifted. Like a current turning under still water. You felt it in the way Theo’s fingers tightened around yours, the way his breath changed — deeper now, steadier. And quieter.

He spoke again, barely more than a murmur. “What are we?”

The question should have startled you. It didn’t. It just settled, gently — like it had always been there. Waiting.

You shifted slightly to look at him. His profile was half-shadowed, all soft angles and stubble, moonlight catching in his lashes. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first — they stayed fixed on the stars, like he couldn’t bear to look at you if this moment turned fragile.

“I mean…” He swallowed. “We’ve been everything, haven’t we? Friends. Enemies, kind of. Coworkers. Fuckbuddies. Family, almost.” A dry laugh escaped him. “Not in order.”

You said nothing, just watched him quietly.

“I think I’ve always wanted to ask,” he continued, voice even softer now. “What this is. What you are to me.”

“Then why didn’t you?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

His eyes finally met yours. And there it was — that expression you’d seen a thousand times but never understood until now. Something raw. Something bare.

“Because if I asked, and you said the wrong thing… I wouldn’t survive it.”

Your breath caught.

“Because if I gave this a name,” he went on, “it might crack. And I’d lose the only real and constant thing I’ve ever had.”

You stared at him, helpless against the emotion building in your throat. The weight of years between you. Of missed moments. Of long nights and longer silences. You sat up slightly, your blanket falling just low enough for the night air to kiss your bare shoulder.

“The world never gave us a chance,” you whispered. “Not really. There was always something. A war. A legacy. A fire to put out.”

“And we let it,” he said, quietly. “We let it take what could’ve been ours.”

A long pause. His eyes searched yours.

“I don’t want to let it anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, held it tightly between both of yours. Your voice trembled, but your words didn’t.

“I don’t need a name for this,” you said. “I just want something real. Something that’s ours. Not inherited. Not strategic. Not survival.”

His hand rose slowly, brushing your cheek with reverence.

“You’ve always been real to me,” he whispered. “Even when I was too much of a coward to say it.”

He looked at you — really looked at you — like he was seeing the past, present, and future all at once. Like every version of you he'd ever known had folded into the woman before him now, and he didn’t want to blink in case she vanished.His gaze dropped to your lips. Slowly — as if pulled by something older than reason, older than time — he leaned in. Not in a rush, not with intent to conquer or claim, but with the reverence of someone approaching a sacred thing. As if kissing you might unmake him, and he wanted to savor every second before the unraveling began. His breath brushed yours first — soft, uncertain. Then his lips touched yours. And this time — this time, it wasn’t stolen or frantic or desperate. It wasn’t about lust or tension or pretending not to care. This kiss was slow. Reverent. The kind of kiss that settled instead of sparked. That said more than words ever could. Your lips moved against his in the kind of rhythm only years could create — familiar, but new. His thumb brushed your jaw as his other hand curled around your hip beneath the blanket, pulling you in gently, like you were something sacred. When he pulled back, your breath mingled. Neither of you moved far.

“So we stop pretending?” he asked, voice husky, heart in his throat.

You nodded. “Even if we’re bad at this.”

His lips brushed yours again — once. “Even if we’re terrified.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

Another kiss followed, this one lingering like a promise. Your hands found the edge of his shirt, fingers sliding beneath, palms against warm skin. His touch mirrored yours — careful, reverent. Not in a hurry. Not this time. He shifted over you slowly, weight balanced between his arms as the blanket slipped slightly, forgotten in the hush of the night. The stars blinked quietly above, casting their silver light across your bare shoulders, tangled legs, the slow press of mouths and hearts finally moving in sync. Your breath caught as his lips traced your neck — not rushed or claiming, but memorizing. Like he'd kissed you a hundred times before but only now understood what it meant. Clothes became memories. Fingers traced old scars and familiar curves as though seeing them for the first time. There was no rush, no rougness, no anger— only the soft sound of skin meeting skin and the way you whispered each other's names like confessions. He murmured things against your collarbone. You responded in sighs, in gasps, in the arch of your body meeting his. Moans swallowed by kisses, hands in his hair, his stubble against your cheek.

Then — quiet, nearly lost in the moment — came the words:

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, as if he’d been holding them back for years and they finally broke free.

You didn’t pause. Didn’t flinch. You just kissed him deeper, slower, your mouth shaping the same words into his.

“I love you too,” between kisses to his jaw, his temple, his mouth again.

Another kiss.Not a hungry one, not rushed or desperate — but the kind that settled instead of sparked. The kind of kiss that said stay. That asked, without words, are you sure? You answered with your hands, grasping the sides of his bare toned torso, pulling him closer, grounding him with the silent truth that had always lived between you. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. And then, slowly — like time itself had stretched open just for you — he became one with you, his touch reverent, steady. Everything about it felt intentional. There were no boundaries now. No pretense. No performance. Just you, him, and the soft rustle of linen as the blanket fell away fully. Neither of you said anything about protection. The thought drifted by, then vanished, drowned in the slow rise of heat between your bodies — in the way your skin fit his like a memory long buried and finally remembered. You weren’t reckless. Just… undone. Quietly, completely. When he finally fully sank into you, it was with the gentleness of someone who knew every piece of you — and wanted to love them all. You gasped softly, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers tightened in his hair. He didn’t rush. He wasn’t angry or frustrated. Each movement was slow, deep, deliberate. Like you were writing something onto each other, something lasting. A rhythm born not of lust, but of meaning. Of knowing. Of years of holding back finally melting into touch. Your mouths met again and again — between sighs, between whispered names, between soft moans and gentle gasps. You held his face like he might vanish, and he touched your waist like he’d been dreaming of it. And then, breathlessly, his forehead against yours, voice fraying at the edges — “I love you so much.”

You kissed the words into his mouth before saying them back. “I love you more.” Again. Slower this time. Surer. 

You made love under the stars that night, the sleepy villa hushed around you. Tangled in the warm summer night and years of unspoken truth. Touches that felt like questions. Kisses that felt like answers.Hands tracing paths long memorized but never truly explored — until now. The tension unraveled slowly, achingly. Like the final page of a long story you’d both been too afraid to read. Quiet whimpers slipped from parted lips as you reached your peak — together, finally. A soft gasp, a stuttered breath, a whispered name like a prayer. It wasn’t loud.It didn’t need to be. It was the kind of undoing that settled in your bones and stayed there. When the world stilled, when the echoes faded and the waves whispered just beyond the terrace walls, you stayed wrapped around each other — skin to skin, soul to soul. His body pressed to yours, protective and warm, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. You shifted gently, your lips ghosting across the line of his jaw, down the curve of his throat, pressing soft kisses there — lazy, loving, lingering. He hummed low in his chest, fingers threading through your hair, anchoring you to him like he never wanted to let go.

“I think,” he murmured, voice sleep-soft and rough from use, “this is what peace feels like.”

You smiled against his skin. “Then let’s not lose it this time.”

There was no answer at first — just the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and the soft hush of breath against your temple.

“We won’t.”

The next day arrived too soon.

Suitcases thudded closed. Sunglasses were pushed up into hair. The sun hadn’t even reached its peak, but the sleepy villa already felt quieter, heavier — like it knew you were leaving. You stood near the gate with Theo, both of you still in flip flops, skin warm from the last morning rays, the scent of sea salt  lingering on your clothes. There was something different in your posture now — not just exhaustion soothed by vacation, but a softness neither of you had worn in years. A calmness that had finally settled beneath the surface. Pansy noticed it first. She looped her arm through Astoria’s as the two of them watched you from the porch, their silhouettes framed by climbing bougainvillea and the gold-pink of early noon. Astoria, glowing and content, sipped from her glass of water with a knowing smirk. But it was Pansy who spoke, loud enough for all of you to hear.

“Told you this trip would finally get those two to stop acting like sexually repressed soulmates,” she muttered with a smug smile.

Astoria laughed, turning slightly toward her. “You did say that. And you were absolutely right.”

You caught the tail end of it and rolled your eyes with a half-smile. Theo just smirked, wrapping an arm lazily around your shoulder like it was second nature now — as easy as breathing.

“Ignore her,” he said, brushing his lips against your hair in a quick, almost casual gesture. “She just never left her matchmaker phase.”

Pansy raised her glass in mock salute. “I'm just thrilled I don’t have to listen to the will-they-won’t-they saga anymore.And I still hold the title of best matchmaker, thank you very much.”

“Cheers to that,” Blaise added as he joined Pansy and Astoria on the front porch, coffee in hand.

You turned to Theo, your hand slipping into his — warm, steady, real. There was no panic in it this time. No flinching. Just a quiet confidence built on years of falling and finding each other again.

“Ready to get back to work?” you asked.

He squeezed your fingers gently. “As I’ll ever be.”

You both looked back at the villa one last time — at the floatie still drifting in the pool, at the sand clinging to the edges of your towels, at the place where things finally changed. Slowly,  you stepped into the waiting car — no longer pretending, no longer hiding. Just you and him. Finally. But something lingered. Stayed. Buried deep within you, like a secret whispered by the stars. Unseen. Unfelt. But there.  A spark. A beginning. The softest trace of life, already blooming in silence.

A promise made not with words, but with touch. With love.  A wish breathed into the night sky — “I want a child someday” — caught by a falling star, and answered in the heat of that kiss, in the slow, sacred rhythm of that night.

As the sun kissed the horizon and the car carried you both away, a tiny heartbeat — still weeks from its first beat —had already begun to make a home within you. The product of tenderness. Of love. Of everything you'd both been too afraid to say — finally spoken, finally heard. Neither of you knew yet. But the stars did. And they were smiling.

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When his cigarettes weren’t doing it anymore, Mattheo began drinking at thirteen. It wasn’t like his friends weren’t doing it – hell, Enzo was one of the heaviest drinkers of their entire friend group and Theo always had his lighter on him

Mattheo lost his virginity at thirteen to a seventh year girl

He continued this trend of smoking, drinking, and fucking all throughout the years. It became common for him and the rest of the Slytherins to sit in the back of the class, smoking or muttering annoyed comments. When they were younger, the professors would try to give them detention for it, but Draco would just make a remark about messaging his father or Theo would keep direct eye contact with the professor as he kept smoking. Needless to say, nothing changed. If they were actually issued detention (most likely by McGonagall) they just wouldn’t show up. (After McGonagall once cornered all of them in the Great Hall and levitated them out to serve their detention sentence, they all got a bit more respectful in her classroom. That didn’t stop them from doing it to the other teachers. Snape, for example, hardly batted an eye)

Somehow, this didn’t impact their Quidditch playing. Mattheo had joined the team in his third year as a Beater and he actually really enjoyed the game. Flying allowed him to leave his troubles on the ground and while pulling himself out of bed at the crack of dawn just because they wanted to stick it to Oliver Wood was unfortunate, he was a fucking good Beater

There was a couple of girls he would keep around every so often who didn’t mind being in his bed before being tossed away, but inevitably, Mattheo would get irritated by their claims that they were the one to tie down the son of the Dark Lord. That’s all it ever was, wasn’t it? He was the Heir of Slytherin, son of You-Know-Who, the next Riddle… never just Mattheo

He did enjoy Professor Lupin to an extent. The man never pushed him to do anything, which he was thankful for, especially because he knew what would come out of the closet if his Boggart was released. The professor even gave him some chocolate after that class

Of course, his life wasn't as miserable as one may make it out to seem. He had a good group of friends who he genuinely was close to, no matter the social expectations of their parents. They would all lounge around the Black Lake and Enzo would throw a Quaffle up and down in the air as Draco laid in Pansy’s lap and Blaise and Mattheo smoked. Daphne Greengrass would inevitably join them, complaining about some professor and Theo would somehow incorporate a lewd remark in her direction, smirking

It was one day like that when you entered his life. Mattheo was lighting another cigarette. It was dangling from his lips and his hand was curled around his lighter, trying to get it to spark. His eyes were downcast, focused lazily on the light, when he heard a scoff. Theo’s snicker reached his ears just as his gaze flicked up. You were walking past with a gaggle of your friends, looking down at him from where he was seated. Disgust laced your stare

Mattheo had already been having an unlucky day. Maybe he would’ve let it go on a good day, but he had gotten up late so there wasn’t any coffee left in the Great Hall, Flitwick had then called him out in front of the class, he had noticed a tear in his Quidditch robes, and now his lighter wasn’t working. “Oi! L/n,” he called out, motioned to Theo for his lighter. “What’s with the pissy face? It doesn’t suit you.” He caught Theo’s lighter and flicked it open, sucking in a cloud of nicotine

Your friend grabbed your arm, but you were not known to back down when it came to your opinions. “My problem, Riddle?” you asked, turning around on him. “Is that we’re here in this magical world, practically a utopia, and you’re fucking it up with your smoking.”

Everyone around you stilled.

Oh, shit. Mattheo couldn’t help the wicked grin that curled onto his lips. He slowly stood up, cracking his back as he did so. “Is that it?” he asked, still smirking. Blaise tried to cover his laughter at how terrified your friends looked

Mattheo didn’t know if the reason you weren’t terrified like your friends was because you were dumb or a mudblood. He thought that all muggleborns should have been told about his lineage. Maybe you had missed the memo or didn’t realise the gravity that came with the Riddle name

“Yeah, that’s it,” you replied, placing a hand on your hip. “Smoking’s really bad for you, you know that, right? This has been known for years now.”

Mattheo scoffed and took another drag of his cigarette. “Uh-huh,” he said, unconvinced. “Newsflash, sweetheart, I’m not worried about lung cancer. Kinda the last of my concerns right now.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be infecting the rest of us,” you argued. 

When Pansy whispered over to Daphne, “who does she think she is?” your eyes finally flicked to the rest of his group and how they were all staring at you, either entertained or thoroughly unimpressed. You got the feeling like you were an animal behind bars they were peering at. You had stepped out of your place and were going to come to regret it if nothing happened soon. It was the feeling all teenagers had at some point and one you would remember well. When your friend tugged at your arm once more, you gave in and let her pull you away

You could still feel Mattheo’s eyes burning into you as you walked away

There were only so many students in a Year at Hogwarts. With the joined classes, it wasn’t uncommon for social circles to mix and wider groups of friends to be created. It was normal for everyone to know everyone. That being said, Mattheo made a point of not socialising outside of his friend group. No one wanted him anyway, so what did it matter?

He knew what your general manner and vibe was. You cared more about school than he ever would and he doubted you had ever taken a shot, much less smoked weed. You weren’t as stuck up as Granger was — he had at least seen you laughing and joking with your friends sometimes — but you weren’t someone he associated with

Mattheo began to keep an eye out for you during fourth year. It was almost unconscious, like a new character had been unlocked in a video game and he began noticing you around. But he didn’t do anything about it

At the Yule Ball (which Mattheo was reluctant to attend), he had been forced into a black suit and dress shirt by Draco. He stepped outside with Theo, unbuttoning the jacket and first couple of buttons, to take a much needed smoke break. He could see Snape breaking up couples on the other side of the grounds, but it was a hushed argument close by that got his attention

He was so close to ignoring it when he heard your name. Maybe it was his nosiness that got the better of him. He jerked a head to Theo who followed after him as Mattheo investigated

“I swear, Pieter, just leave me alone. I’m not even your date,” you were saying when Mattheo rounded the corner

No, Mattheo’s expression didn’t change when he saw a Durmstrang student coming onto you, but an unexpected chill ran through him. He didn’t like how close that boy was to you. He didn’t like how you were turning from the boy, trying to get away. “Oi,” he spoke before he could think

The Durmstrang student glanced over. Even if he didn’t know Mattheo was the son of Voldemort, the general darkness that followed Mattheo around was enough to frighten anyone, especially when Mattheo was staring at the Durmstrang student with the barely controlled anger that got him into so many fights

 “What’s going on,” Mattheo said. Behind him, Theo stared at the Durmstrang boy. The two Slytherins didn’t need to even look angry – it was just their aura that frightened anyone

“Is this your girl?” the Durmstrang boy asked, glancing over at you. You were looking between the two, confusion written over your face, but still coiled up, ready to do what you needed to stay safe. You wanted to believe that Mattheo wouldn’t hurt you, but if push came to shove, you were willing to do whatever it took to stay safe

Mattheo shrugged, dropping his cigarette on the ground and stubbing it out with his dress shoe. “Does it matter?” he drawled. “Seems like she doesn’t wanna be with you.”

For once that night, the Durmstrang boy made the right decision. Maybe it was the scarred over knuckles on Mattheo or the way Theo was looking at him that got him to back down. “Alright,” he muttered, shuffling away

Mattheo’s attention turned to you when the boy disappeared. There was a long moment of silence between the two of you, both of you waiting for the other to say something to break the tension. “You’re welcome,” Mattheo finally said, expectant

You scoffed and crossed your arms. “I had it handled. I don’t need a ‘big, strong man’ to come and save me.”

A flicker of a smirk flashed across his face. “So you think I’m big and strong?” After you scoffed again and rolled your eyes, Mattheo asked, “but seriously, where’s your wand?”

A sort of shocked, maybe even terrified look came across your face. “I… I forgot,” you muttered. “I- I didn’t even– oh, god, I’m so stupid.” You ran a hand over your face. “You’d think that after four years of magic, I wouldn’t freeze up like an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Mattheo chuckled. Theo muttered something about mudbloods from behind them and Mattheo glanced back at his friend. For once, he hesitated. “Just don’t do it again,” he remarked gruffly, his light smirk vanishing

Later that year, after the Triwizard Tournament, when everyone was skirting around him and rumours were spreading, you didn’t look at him with hatred. No, it was more concern that flooded through you, like you were worried for him, not about him. Mattheo brushed it aside as his mind playing tricks on him

At the beginning of fifth year, Mattheo returned to Hogwarts with the Dark Mark emblazoned on his forearm

Whispers followed him wherever he went, but Mattheo had lived his whole life keeping his shields up. He walked down the halls, shoulders back and cigarette dangling from his lips, a dangerous nonchalance emanating from him. When Enzo and Draco began acting up or Mattheo rested his feet up on his desk, the teachers didn’t dare to comment

He kept on drinking and smoking his cares away, but one stubborn part of his brain kept thinking of you. It was brief and fleeting at first and he couldn't understand it for the life of him. He wanted to ask Pansy about it, but knew that she might blab to Draco who would inevitable tell the whole group

He had bigger things to think about, anyway. Umbridge was taking over the castle and even though Draco and Pansy were in her idiotic little group, Mattheo and the rest of his friends refused to be associated with her. It was one thing that united a majority of the students. Now, he didn’t go far enough to join Potter’s stupid Dumbledore’s Army play group (of course he knew about it), but he wouldn’t rat them out either

He knew the stigma Slytherin house got from everyone else and honestly, he was tired of it. He knew he definitely fit that stigma, but there were a couple of younger students who had been put in the house simply because they were ambitious and cunning. There were even some muggleborns in Slytherin and one of them made a goddamn decent Chaser on the Quidditch team

Even though the pink witch was terrorising the castle, Mattheo still was a teenage boy. He couldn’t help the jealousy that overcame him when he saw you getting closer to the Weasley twins. While he hated the Weasley twins and the rest of their clan, he couldn’t help but admit that some of their pranks were decent (like terrorising Draco with reminders of his weasel days)

Mattheo didn’t know why you were getting closer to them and it irked him like no other. He was coming out of detention one day, blood drying on the back of his hand with the stupid scars of one of Umbridge’s vague insults. He saw you in a corner with one of the twins standing over you. Immediately, he stiffened. What were you doing so close to that ginger abomination? Why was he touching you and talking quietly? Mattheo’s jaw clenched tightly when he noticed that the twin was examining your hand. Oh. You must’ve had detention before Mattheo did and now the Weasley twin was tending to your wounds

Conflicting emotions ran through the son of the Dark Lord. His hatred for both Umbridge and the Weasley twin grew tenfold. That pink witch shouldn’t have laid a finger on you. Hell, Mattheo was pretty sure that you had never even gotten detention before. What on earth could you have done to warrant such a harsh punishment? Then, to top it all off, his counterpart on the Quidditch field was comforting you when it could’ve been Mattheo

Of course, would Mattheo have been a good person to comfort you? As much as he hated to admit it, he doubted he would have been able to give you the comfort you needed, though a weird part of him wanted to try

As he passed by, you caught his eye and gave a deprecating little laugh as you lifted your hand in explanation. Mattheo nodded once and then raised his own hand. The Weasley twin squared his shoulders, glaring at Mattheo, but when the Slytherin continued walking, the ginger shifted back. Mattheo could hear the twin whisper to you and Mattheo practically preened when he heard your quiet voice say, “he got hurt too. It’s Umbridge to be furious at, not him.”

It was in sixth year during one of Slughorn’s weirdass potion classes that things were clarified. Amortentia was not on his list of potions he wanted to brew, but goddamn if the smell of your bodywash didn’t fill up the classroom. He didn’t even recognise some of the scents he was smelling, but it was undoubtedly you. Slughorn waddled over to the Slytherins and asked Blaise, Pansy, and then Mattheo. As Mattheo’s nostrils flared and he glared at his professor, Slughorn took a step back. “Ah, well, some things are better left unsaid, hmm, Mr. Riddle?”

Of course, Theo and then Enzo and then all of his friends wanted to know what he smelled. He refused to tell them

Mattheo found you in the library one day. It was growing colder and so you were bundled up in a sweater of your house colours. He had made sure not to smoke that morning because he knew you hated the smell. For once, the son of the Dark Lord was nervous. He had never been anxious around girls before

He stood in front of your table until you glanced up and noticed him. “Hey,” he greeted in a mutter. You repeated the word and invited him to sit. He shook his head and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Nah, it’s okay. Uh, I actually… Well, I wanted to thank you, I guess.” The last time he had thanked someone was when Blaise let him borrow his quill. “For- for treating me like- uh, well, like another student.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Like normal, you know?”

“I didn’t realise I was doing anything different,” you told him. This was not a conversation you were expecting to have today

He nodded and cleared his throat. “Well, you did. So… thanks.” He pressed his lips together and stood there awkwardly. After a beat, he cleared his throat again. “I’m gonna go.”

Mattheo had never felt such relief when, as he turned on his heel, you asked if he wanted to stay

You didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Why the hell was Mattheo Riddle suddenly acting all nice? He could be next to literally any other girl right now, ones that were probably prettier or smarter, but no. He was sitting next to you. Part of you thought it was a bet or he was drugged or something, but by the end of your study session (you were studying, he wasn’t), you couldn’t help but trust him just a little bit. Maybe that was why you said yes when he asked you out on a date

You only told your closest friends what was happening. If your roommates found out, you were sure the entire castle would know by breakfast. You didn’t wanna put that on you or Mattheo. That exact reason was why he didn’t take you to Hogsmeade or somewhere public

Your first date was in the Room of Requirement. Mattheo had turned the place into a comfy little room with a sheet draped over one wall to act as a projector screen for the movie he had chosen. It was oddly charming, especially knowing he could’ve made an actual projector screen appear with fancy movie theatre chairs, but nope. Instead, there was a bundle of blankets and pillows which were constructed into the comfiest seating arrangement ever. It was not what you had expected from the boy who had millions to his name

It was not the Mattheo you had seen snog a girl at a party before, hands groping along her chest. It was the Mattheo who was nervous and seemed to actually care about you that showed up on your date. Instead of flowers he got you all the snacks and candy you could wish for

He couldn't figure out for the life of him how to work the muggle projector

You had to take over and show him. You made a playful comment about how muggleborns weren’t all useless and he muttered a sorry for his past words

He was in awe of muggle movies. He had seen a couple once or twice, but was still enraptured. It also didn’t help that he had chosen an animated film, so the entire time he was just staring up at the screen, eyes wide

At the end of the date, Mattheo revealed that it was the first date he had ever taken a girl on. “I’ve just always skipped that part, you know?” he grinned before adding, “not to sound crass or anything. Please don’t dump me.”

You rewarded his efforts with another date

Mattheo was slow to let you in. Things were very secretive when it came to Mattheo Riddle. He didn’t tell any of his friends he was dating you (to be fair, neither did you) and he did his best to not interact much outside of the dates. He was his cocky, cool, and arrogant self in class, but when evening came and he met you a couple paces from the door to your common room to take you to the Room of Requirement (that’s where most dates took place), he would whisper a compliment about how good you looked

It was clear neither of you completely trusted the other at first, but that was expected. The first couple of months were, as mentioned above, very slow going, but eventually, you two began to let the other in. You would lean against him during movie nights and he would wrap an arm around your shoulders. When the Room of Requirement became a restaurant, he would offer you his fork of pasta to try. His voice would soften as he told you about his childhood when you two were at the Astronomy Tower, looking up at the stars. You would crack jokes about how horrible he was at mini-golf when you insisted that’s what the Room of Requirement became. He would make a point of adjusting your form when you tried out pool (even if you didn’t need help at all)

As you dated Mattheo and he slowly let you into his life, you realised there was a whole part of the wizarding world you didn’t know existed. There were hierarchies and rules everyone had to follow, especially when they came from the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the rigid pureblood community. You felt so bewildered when he first mentioned this to you

Mattheo had clearly grown up in a very structured world with parents that didn’t care if he lived or died. It was one thing to grow up like Draco Malfoy where you were protected at every turn, but still attended galas and dances; it was something entirely different to be Mattheo Riddle who was passed around from obscure relative to relative as his mother rotted in Azkaban and his father still held power from beyond the grave over all of the homes Mattheo visited. He had never really fit in anywhere because everyone he stayed with had been a follower of Voldemort, so it was like there was a power imbalance between this kid who held the Riddle name and whatever adults he was staying with. It led to none of the adults really lecturing him or teaching him what was wrong or right. The places he stayed were never a home, they were just a house he slept in. He had finally moved in with the Malfoys when he was seven and had been introduced to his half-brother, Lorenzo, who he hadn’t even known existed

The Malfoys finally gave him some structure, but they still clearly favoured Draco over any of the boys. Lucius was pissed that Bellatrix had basically just dumped her kids onto him (this isn’t what he had signed up for when he married Narcissa), though did feel as if it was an honour to raise the son of his late Master, whereas his wife was a bit more accommodating

That was where Mattheo mostly learned about the expected way he was supposed to act and the true gravity of his father’s name. Lucius Malfoy loved to lord Mattheo’s lineage over the young boy and whip him into shape

You learned that yes, Voldemort was back, and it was the summer between your fourth and fifth year that Mattheo had finally met his dad for the first time in his life

It was clear by the way Mattheo would shut down and his voice would lower when he talked about Voldemort that it was a touchy subject. He didn’t get into much detail, especially at the beginning of your relationship, but you could tell that he had been through much more than any teenager should have

You knew that Mattheo stayed at Hogwarts over Christmas and hardly got any presents (except a few snuck in by Snape, McGonagall, and Dumbledore because there’s obviously a plan in place for students with rough home lives like Mattheo). You also knew that he detested summers, much like a friend of yours, Harry Potter, did

Mattheo Riddle would tell you all of this, and then pretend not to know you during classes. At first, you didn’t mind and would do the same, but eventually, as months passed, you couldn't help the sting that followed when Mattheo would only glance at you with that dead-eyed stare in the halls. That’s what led him to make your relationship public

You had revealed to him your feelings one day after another movie night in the Room of Requirement. You were laying between his legs and he had begun to knead your thighs when you tensed up. It led to an awkward conversation, but one that needed to happen

There was no over-exaggeration of your relationship to make it public. Mattheo simply began hanging around your desk before and after classes, draping an arm over your shoulder, and spending more time with you – all things he had wanted to do when your relationship was private. Of course there were some mutterings around the castle, but his friends weren’t the most perceptive

The signs were there in front of them: he had stopped smoking as much, was spending less time around them, and seemed overall happier. But it wasn’t until one day, when they were all in the common room that they figured it out. Mattheo checked the clock and pushed himself off of the couch. “Alright, I’m gonna go,” he said

“Your entire social life is in this room. Where’re you going?” Draco asked as he took a sip of butterbeer

Mattheo shrugged and said, “out with Y/n. She’s gonna teach me muggle games.”

Four heads whipped towards him and Pansy and Daphne nodded before continuing their conversation. “L/n?!” Draco asked as Theo demanded, “when have you been hanging out with her?” At the same time, Enzo exclaimed, “out? Are you dating?!” and Blaise scoffed, “you’re kidding, right?”

Mattheo, who was shrugging a light jacket on (because the castle got cold in February), turned back towards his friends, an eyebrow raised. “Uh, yeah? Y/n? We’ve been dating for like, four months now.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell us?!” Theo gasped out

“I haven’t fucking hid it,” Mattheo said. He waved a hand at Pansy and Daphne. “They knew!”

The rest of the Slytherin boys rounded on the two girls. “You knew?!” Draco’s voice only kept getting higher

“Duh,” Pansy rolled her eyes. “It’s pretty obvious.”

Daphne nodded along, painting her nails. “We haven’t met her yet, though. Riddle’s very protective over his lady,” she sang out. “We could meet her today,” she suggested with a sly grin. As all of the Slytherin boys voiced their agreement, Mattheo glared at Daphne

That’s how you ended up teaching the majority of the sixth-year Slytherins how to play Uno

Mattheo was highly disgruntled by the entire thing and kept muttering to himself. He only shut up when you kissed his cheek. Theo and Draco were in constant argument over the rules, since you had taught them “street rules” and were too busy explaining to Enzo how the reverse rule worked to mitigate their argument. Daphne and Pansy had teamed up to try and Blaise was weirdly good at it

They didn’t even seem to mind that you were a muggleborn

As all people are, Mattheo Riddle was a nuanced person. He was sarcastic, witty, and hot-headed, but also touch-starved, flirtatious, and confident. He had his ups and downs like anyone and the two of you managed all of your combined emotions together

People definitely noticed the changes in Mattheo. Whereas he used to slouch in the back of the classroom, staring daggers at anyone who dared interrupt him, he instead made more jokes with his friends and it wasn’t uncommon for his sharp smile to lift his lips

He grew more cocky and he attributed it to the fact that you were on his arm. He loved to flirt with you, even though you were already dating. He would make cheeky little comments and provocative jokes that had him waggling his eyebrows at you

You once made a comment about how you thought he looked very sexy in his uniform and ever since then he had put a bit more effort into his appearance. He would put a bit of mousse in his hair and make sure his tie was knotted correctly. Quidditch kept him fit and it paid off, especially when the two of you were making out and you ran your hands over his biceps or dug your nails into his hair

Mattheo loved showing you off. He was big on PDA. Once you two had had your first kiss, he couldn’t keep his hands off you. His arm would be around your waist, a hand resting on your hip as you walked through the corridors. If it was a weekend and you didn’t need to wear your uniform, he would slip his hand into your back pocket. He adored the thrill of dragging you to a secluded little corner and snogging, even if you warned him that someone could find you 

He had broken off all of his past flings early in sixth year, before the two of you even started dating and if any one of them made a snarky remark about how he had downgraded, he was quick to storm up to them and start a shouting match (he would never hit a girl, but he would track down their boyfriends if they had them and beat them to a pulp)

Yes, Mattheo still did get into fights even though you two were dating. He had gotten really sullen after the first time it had happened while the two of you were together, like he was expecting you to break up with him, but when you had simply nodded along to Madame Pomfery’s instructions on how to apply to healing cream she had given him, he relaxed. Now, it was common for him to go to your dorm instead of the hospital wing

His tendency for fighting had decreased, mostly because he didn’t go looking for them anymore, but he would still square up if anyone said anything. He tried not fight in front of you, though

His biggest turn on was when you wore his Quidditch jersey with his last name on your back

He liked to listen to The Smiths and really connected with their music

Mattheo also liked to draw. He was oddly good at it and would draw hazy scenes from your relationship where one couldn’t tell who the people were, but you could recognise the Astronomy Tower from your dates

He kept one of your hair ties around his wrist. It was a silent reminder to everyone that he was taken and he liked to play with it during classes

He was obviously incredibly wealthy. All of Bellatrix’s money went to him while she was in Azkaban and the Blacks were one of the most affluent wizarding families. That, combined with the money Voldemort had amassed when he was in power was enough to last Mattheo generations. He also had many properties to his name all over Britain, but wouldn’t get ahold of them until either his parents died, or he turned of age

Mattheo really liked the slow moments with you. He loved to lay his head in your lap or lay on top of you and have you trace the scars on his body. It made him feel better about the scars he had gotten from fighting or his father, now that Voldemort was back. He would never ask for it, but he would always look up at you a bit expectantly whenever he wanted it. However, he would never let you touch his forearm where the Dark Mark was. It was clear he was ashamed of it and didn’t want you to think of him in that way

As sixth year winded down, Mattheo got more and more on edge. He was in the tower when Dumbledore died and he was eager to get onto the train back to Platform 9 and 3/4 when the year was done. He hated the idea of going back to Malfoy Manor where both of his parents now were. You wanted him to spend the entire summer with you, but he knew his parents would never allow that. Instead, he got Blaise to say Mattheo was staying with him and his family for three weeks, when in reality, Mattheo was with you. Blaise’s mother had no ties to Voldemort, so she was fine with her son’s lie

The weeks Mattheo spent with you were heaven in his eyes. The world seemed brighter and later, he would tell you they were the only weeks of the summer he allowed himself to remember

You showed him all around the muggle world and it was glorious. Mattheo could leave his last name behind, especially because your family didn’t have a clue what the Riddle name meant. You had told your parents that Mattheo had a difficult home life and they were more than accommodating

He got to sleep in your bed which was the highlight of his time (not because of the sex – though that did happen — but because of the proximity to you)

On the day before he had to go back to Malfoy Manor, Mattheo took you aside and quickly pleaded with you not to attend Hogwarts for your seventh year. “Y/n, I can’t fucking put you in that position,” he muttered, gripping your hand. “I- I can’t save you from everything that will happen.”

Yet, he understood why you had to go. Mattheo attended with you and you saw a different side of your boyfriend. You saw the side that grew up with the hierarchies and Sacred Twenty-Eight

Hogwarts was hell. You and Dumbledore’s Army tried your best to help every underclassman you could, but many of them were scared of you because they saw you hanging out with Mattheo

Mattheo, meanwhile, was like royalty. The Death Eater teachers gave him special attention and the best grades. By proxy, you were also treated as such. Mattheo made clear from the very start that whoever touched you would face direct consequences from him. He was given the position of Head Boy and you would sleep in his private dorm every night so he could ensure you were okay

He, along with some other Slytherins, were called away every once in a while by Voldemort and that’s when you felt most exposed. The dementors seemed to gravitate towards you, as if they could feel your fear, and you even went so far as to lock yourself in Mattheo’s dorm during weekends

Things reached a boiling point towards the end of the year. The Battle of Hogwarts was inevitable. Mattheo and his friends hadn’t been in class for a week now and when the Death Eaters came marching up to the school, you could pick out your boyfriend from just the way he walked

McGonagall gave you a look when Harry Potter showed up, but you only stared back. Love would not get in the way of doing what was right

The moment the battle started, Mattheo made it his mission to find you. He dropped his Death Eater’s cloak and raced around the castle. Dodging curses and jinxes wasn’t the thing that got his heart-rate up – it was the idea that he might turn a corner and your dead eyes would be staring back at him

He found you telling off Colin Creevey for sticking around for the battle. You were near the Room of Requirement and were trying to get the young boy to Aberforth when you spotted Mattheo. The two of you collided in a hug that spoke more than you could ever say. “Oh, thank god, thank god,” you whispered over and over. Meanwhile, Mattheo was pressing kisses to your forehead, chest heaving

He nearly growled when Colin Creevey took a picture of you two

(He later got the picture from him)

You ushered Colin out to safety before turning back to Mattheo. “I’m getting you out of here,” he declared sharply. You knew better to argue

As you were running through the halls, the two of you practically crashed into the Golden Trio. You locked eyes with Hermione 

Mattheo had always had a complicated relationship with Harry Potter. He couldn't deny the jealousy he felt of Harry. Even though they were both in very similar positions and thrust into a life neither of them asked for, at least Harry had an adult support system and people who genuinely loved him. Mattheo had you, of course, but there was a father and mother figure hole in his heart he could never truly fix

After a moment of charged indecision, Mattheo stepped to the side. The Golden Trio nodded in thanks and went on their way

You squeezed Mattheo’s hand, pride flowing through you

The two of you found your way to the Great Hall. It was there that he locked eyes with his mother. Bellatrix’s eyes flitted over to you. She cast a dangerous red spell across the room and then stepped over dead bodies and rubble to get to you, slowly. “So you’re the girl that has captured my son,” she breathed out and Mattheo stepped in front of you. “Oh, come now, Matty,” she cooed. “Let me admire her.”

“Not happening,” Mattheo snapped.

“Imagine my surprise,” Bellatrix continued, “when I find out that my son is sending letters over summer to a mudblood,” she spit out. You tensed behind her and gripped Mattheo’s hand

“Mum,” Mattheo said harshly, a reminder. Bellatrix raised her wand faster than you could comprehend and shot a curse at you. Mattheo shoved you out of the way and it singed your shoulder. Before you knew it, mother and son were in an intense duel. The Great Hall parted, doing nothing but watching, as the two forces clashed. Spells lit up the room. You wanted to intervene, but couldn’t risk Mattheo’s concentration being broken

Bellatrix was a powerful witch, but Mattheo had both her blood and the blood of Voldemort running through his veins

He had no qualms when it came to killing her

The Great Hall seemed to hold its breath as Mattheo stared at the place where his mother used to stand. Slowly, his head turned to stare at you. You were quick to race over and Mattheo was eager for the comfort of your arms

During the brief break in the battle, Mattheo refused the burning of the Dark Mark. He knew his father wouldn’t hesitate to kill him due to his treachery. Instead, he sat with you as you held him close. You tried to cool the intense pain in his forearm with some spells, but it turned out that numbing the area with ice worked best. You ran your hand through his hair softly, letting him begin to process the emotions working throughout him

You said in the castle with him as Harry duelled his father. Mattheo didn’t want to see himself be made an orphan. He held no regret over what was about to happen and when his Dark Mark finally faded, both of you knew it was over

It took months to get back to normal. Mattheo didn’t want anything to do with the Wizarding World. He knew his name would follow him until his dying days. He took you to one of his properties in a far off corner of England – not to hide away in, but to recentre himself. Eventually, in the back of the garden, he erected two tombstones for his parents

Mattheo Riddle proposed to you on your fourth anniversary when you both were twenty. Your wedding was a small affair, but he couldn’t help but admit he loved to see all of his old friends again. There was a weight off of everyone’s shoulders that made it more light-hearted

He hired Colin Creevey to be your photographer

Mattheo took your last name but kept Riddle as a middle name. He couldn’t completely part from it

His favourite part of your wedding (apart from the wedding night) was having the first dance with you as husband and wife

After a couple more years, you two moved back into the Wizarding World. You bought a house on the outskirts of a small wizarding community where the war had hardly touched. It was a lovely place for friends to stop by and was very homey

Mattheo spent his time loving you. Mornings were slow and calm and both of you needed that time to unwind and be young again

He would come up behind you in the kitchen and weave his arms around you

Mattheo liked to slow dance with you in the living room

He also gained a greater appreciation for muggle things and liked to incorporate them into your house

He liked to work with his hands, even though he could easily use magic. He built a storage shed in the backyard

Mattheo also joined his friends weekly to play Quidditch just for fun. It got him out of the house and really did help his mental state

Theo and Enzo were the people most likely to drop by randomly and you were all too happy when Daphne and Pansy tagged along

When Draco had Scorpius and you went over with food and to meet the baby, Mattheo was terrified to hold the kid. Seeing you hold the kid however… ooh you had a fun night when you got back home

His proudest achievement was definitely being your husband

Mattheo began writing letters to Harry Potter and the pair met up every once in a while in Diagon Alley

Hermione, now Minister of Magic, pardoned Mattheo soon after she came into office and spoke highly of him to the press. Neither you or Mattheo attended the ceremony, but you did send Hermione your thanks and love

War had aged Mattheo and you. Trauma was a complicated thing that waned in its healing. Nightmares plagued him more than they did you and while he knew they would never go away, things had gotten much better as time went on

"would you please just talk to me?" you screamed. he had been acting weird for a few days now. 

at first you hadn't thought anything of it, not at the beginning. it had started with draco, who had been strange since the school year started, staying behind when the rest of you would go somewhere or disappearing in the middle of dinner. 

you had tried talking to him, you had grown closer over the time you and theo were together. you had quickly realized that it was hard for draco to build relationships, partly because he wasn't sure how and partly because he was scared of being left. 

you had done a pretty good job at showing him that you were going nowhere and that he, even if theo and you should break up one day, would still be your friend. 

you had thought that it had something to do with his parents. he didn't mention them often and you had only met them once, during a visit to the manor for a festivity during the winter break of the fifth year. you admitted that you didn't know them well, but it was easy enough for you to judge narcissa malfoy and the connection she had to her son. the love that kept her from ever risking something happening to him.

whatever was going on with him, his mother was well informed and probably already searching for a solution.

but draco had made it clear to you that he wanted to be left alone and you didn't push him to tell you more, just comforted him whenever he would let you or pansy. 

his weird behavior had been a constant throughout the entire year, until the point where it had influenced mattheo and enzo to act just as suspiciously and if you thought it couldn't get worse, you had been wrong. 

"i can't" theo muttered between clenched teeth, and you tried to look at his face as he frantically turned away from you. 

"is it about harry? is it about something he said to draco? did he say something to you?"

harry and the rest of your gryffindor friends were normally a topic you strictly avoided when in company of the slytherins and especially draco. you didn't agree on the childish rivalry they had going on and rather just kept out of that. but now that you thought about it, harry had been acting just as strange as draco had since the beginning of the year.

"potter doesn't matter, y/n" theo pressed his hands on both your shoulders, scaring you with the look on his face. 

"let me help you, love" you tried to not let it affect you, to not let the fear shine through your voice and honestly, you weren't scared of him, but of what would happen to the boy you loved so desperately it felt like breathing. 

"you can't" theo shook his head. "but you have to get ouf of the castle immediately, promise it to me"

"what? why should i--"

"you have to promise it" theo repeated louder, desperate and teary eyed as he stared at you like you had already died. 

the threatening war had made it harder to overlook the differences between you and the slytherins. you were a pureblooded witch, but definitely didn't share the same views about blood purity your friends did. 

"okay" you cooed, taking him into your arms. "i promise, i promise anything you want" 

theo didn't leave much room for questions when he told you to get off the hogwarts grounds and apparate home to your parents a few minutes later. you were scared and confused, as you watched the fear in his eyes flame up at whatever was coming. there was something he was not telling you and it simply broke your heart, knowing that he had to go through it alone. 

you weren't sure what took over you, when you heard a familar laugh, one that was so earth shattering and haunting, you couldn't help but dash back into the castle, despite what you had promised your boyfriend, his name repeating over and over again in your mind. 

you took two stairs at once, sprinting up the tower, wand in hand and ready to jump to theo's defense. 

"you made mummy so proud, boys" bellatrix said and you wanted to throw up at the tone in her voice. you could just imagine enzo and mattheo, or what was left of them, looking at their mother, not one bit of love or familiarity on their face. just fear. 

before you could climb the rest of the stairs, a hand grabbed you, pulling you to the side, behind old school supplies. the persons other hand was pressed onto your mouth and your eyes grew big until you noticed harry, stoic expression, not amused at seeing you. 

"harry" you muttered relieved. 

"what are you doing here?" harry whispered, not caring for the fear in your voice or the intent you had had coming up here in the first place. 

before you could answer, bellatrix spoke once again. 

"your boy has surely made you proud too, nott" she giggled. "just like our draco will make his parents in just a few minutes"

your eyes went up to the floor above you like your own name had been called. it wasn't even theo she had called by the name and still you could just imagine his slumped down shoulders and sickly expression. the same he had been spotting these past few days.

harry watched you closely, as if to make sure you would keep quiet, before his eyes turned back up too. 

“do it” bellaxtrix hissed at draco, who had raised his wand at dumbledore.

harry and you exchanged glances, before he too, raised his wand. you gripped on his arms tightly, shaking your head at him. 

“we can’t” you mouthed. 

“dumbledore” harry whispered. you shook your head again, tears spilling over your cheeks. 

your eyes left harry and wandered back through the floorboards. you couldn’t see theo, enzo, and mattheo, but draco was clearly shaking in fear and you couldn’t help but be worried about him. 

“draco” bellaxtrix encouraged once more “do it!”

“he’s not brave enough, bellatrix” notts voice rang out sounding as triumphantly as possible. you heard movement on the floor, a pair of dark shoes stepping forward and you wondered what nott was planning to do, when your heart suddenly stopped beating. 

“avada kedavra” a voice muttered, wand raised and aimed at dumbledore, who fell backwards so slowly as if time had stopped.  

harry gripped your arm, your body still frozen, as your eyes stayed focused on notts shoes. theodore notts shoes. not his father. theo, your theo. 

theo had just killed dumbledore. 

one part of you wanted to scream, jump into the open and scream at him or bellatrix or all the people a few steps above you, but the other part, the unstoppable dread, was aching to hide away from all of it, to just go and never come back.

how could you ever look at him again after what you had just witnessed? would he still be the same after he had done something like this? you couldn’t. he wouldn’t. your heart ripped open. 

“y/n” harry whispered, pushing you back to hide the both of you behind some old astronomy maps. footsteps descended down the stairs and out of the tower and you felt like you could breathe again once he had left. 

you sank to your knees immediately. harry still watched the space around you, not sure if you were entirely safe yet. 

someone ran up the stairs. harry tried grabbing you to push you back behind the old things, to shield you from whoever was coming back and trying to finish the job. 

it was snape and harry felt relieved for the first time upon seeing the teacher. he didn’t fully trust him, but dumbledore did. also, snape was a far better option than any of the death eaters. 

snapes eyes jumped between harry and you on the ground, before they turned to look up the stairs. 

“they’re gone” harry said, voice raised to drown out your sobbing, before he bent down once more and helped you back onto your feet. he pulled you close, to bring you comfort and shield your tear spilled face from snape's penetrating gaze.

harry wasn’t sure if he imagined it, but he could almost see a bit of pity in snape’s eyes, when the man watched you stand on your shivering legs, only held up by harry, as if your body was too heavy to stand on it’s own.

it was just suddenly that the meaning of snape's presence painted a clear picture in your mind. narcissa malfoy hadn't found a solution, no she had found something that was even better: a substitute, someone to step in, when draco would ultimately fail upon the task he had been given.

and tiberius nott had done the same, only that he had proudly sold out his son instead of sparing his life.

you threw off harry’s arms, walking across the room, step by step, until you were standing in front of the teacher, ready to bash his head in.

“you are too late” you cried, not caring if spit or tears or anything else fell onto his robes. you stabbed a finger to his chest. “it’s your job to help. why didn’t you help him?” you cried.

snape furrowed his brows in confusion. “draco?” he asked in his normal tone, but a little bit of surprise broke through. just like you had thought. not even snape had held draco for capable of fulfilling his task.

you shook your head. slowly, bitterly. It was unfair that you had to say his name, that you had to recapture the event like a missed quidditch game, that snape had been late enough to miss it, but perfectly on time to watch your life fall apart.

you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. couldn’t even mutter the name that had been the most beautiful thing to you these past years, there was nothing left. no meaning behind those letters and still you couldn’t do it. “nott” you said. 

it was over. 

“nott?” snape repeated, as if he was daring you to finally say what you had been dreading. 

“junior” harry muttered. you turned your head at him and he looked down on his shoes, as if he was ashamed you had heard him. 

“surprisingly unexpected” snape noted, like you had been discussing the weather.

“what?” you muttered, your voice strained. 

“y/n” harry said softly and you could hear him coming closer. you broke apart from snape, slapping his hand away when he tried reaching for your arm in an unusual caring manner. 

“you failed him” you spit at him, before you stormed out of the tower, harry hot on your heels.

bellaxtrix and the rest of the deatheaters, were jumping down the grass path to hagrids hut. following behind them were draco, enzo, mattheo and finally theo, who stepped out of the castle as last.

they had probably strolled through the halls, bringing their inevitable destruction into the home you had grown to love and cherish.

harry and you had watched them from the side of the entryway, dried tears on your cheeks and the anger taking over the pain that had tightened your chest. you loved him, but you couldn't believe that he had had no choice.

killing someone was not debatable.

you had watched in susprise when theo had not been there with them, but your surprise had been quickly taken over by even more anger, when he finally strolled through the door, hands in his pockets, like he was talking a late evening stroll.

your hand wept forward without so much as a thought, gripping the material of his tie and yanking him back.

theo made a gurgling sound, briefly breathless, and it was only his surprise that allowed you to measure up enough strength to effectively pull him back. that and your anger.

harry helped you as he pushed theo against the wall, wand at his throat.

theo took a big breath as soon as you let go of his tie, his eyes widened in surprise as he completely ignored harry and only looked at you, your face cast with shadows of the darkness in the creeping night and the regret that was so evident it only pained him further.

"didn't i tell you to go home?" it didn't surprise you that there was still a hint of superiority in his voice, even if it had faltered tremendously.

"you knew about all of it, didn't you?" you asked instead.

"y/n" theo sighed, in a tone as if he was inspecting a failed task for a homework you hadn't been able to finish. "i can explain"

"i don't think you should" you muttered and you were doing your best to not let the look of helplessness that now entered his face break your heart any further. "i just think i speak for the both of us, when i say that it's over"

"y/n" theo pleaded, pushing against harry's hold to try and reach for you. you stepped back and harry pushed the tip of his wand deeper into theo's neck.

you shook your head, not having it in you to look at him, before you turned around. "do what you have to do" you left the two of them alone, knowing that harry was just waiting to punish theo for killing one of the most important people to him.

you couldn't muster up the courage to even care about what would happen to him. your anger at snape had evaporated as fast as it had come. theo had it in him to kill and snape's late arrival changed nothing about that.

the person you had loved died together with the headmaster.

everything had been lost the moment he had muttered the curse, leaving behind a hurricane of feelings in your heart, but no one left to love in this world.

you did not waste another thought for him, pushing his name so far away from your mind, you almost forgot about him completely.

but a three-year relationship wasn't just consisting of memories, but of habits too and you found yourself thinking about possibilities in the dead of night.

possibilities that you had thought to be endless before, but of which was only one left now.

what if theo hadn't killed dumbledore?

your friends were clearly worried about you. hermione and ginny never left you alone during your stay in the burrow or during the nights, which had to have been the most haunting. the time were you most experienced his loss, as nightmares were plaguing your mind and fear was taking over your senses, feeling like you had made a mistake with theo. even if your friends and the weasleys said something different.

it was the same restlessness that lead to you following hermione, ron and harry on an adventure that was trying to fulfill an impossible task.

but there was no hope left if you didn't at least try what had been asked of you and you were smart enough to realize that.

even though you were always together, the time you were on the road seemed to be the most lonely you had ever felt and you found yourself thinking more about theo than you had wanted to.

none of your friends dared to say anything to you the next morning, when you would call out his name in your dream, always asking yourself what had happened, and if he was even still alive.

your question was answered in a different way than you had liked, when your group was discovered by deatheaters and brought back to malfoy manor, where not only draco and the malfoys, but theo was staying too.

you hadn't seen him at first, down in the dungeon. but surely they had come to get hermione, bringing her back a few hours later, scarred and crying for mercy as she fell into ron's arms.

it took another hour to call for the other female friend of harry potter.

"the other?" you could draco's voice ask when you were dragged up the stairs and through the halls.

"what other?" it was theo's voice that was now speaking, fear and dread overweighing the curiosity.

the door flew open and five people turned around to gain a look at you.

narcissa and lucius malfoy were sitting in obnoxious chairs, spotting similiar looks of surprise and interest.

bellatrix was hanging over the back of narcissa's chair. her hands pressing down on her younger sister's shoulders, squeezing them as if she was excited.

narcissa suddenly seemed less content, as she heard the similar gasps coming from her sons and nephew's mouths.

draco and theo were staring at you wide-eyed. their faces pale and painfully twisted as they recalled what had happened with harry potter's other friend just hours before.

"oh" bellatrix quirked up when the unknown death eater threw you to the floor and theo and draco dashed forward at the same time to try and catch you, before they were held back by the black haired witch. "do you happen to know her?"

your eyes were fixated on the doors behind you, which fell close with a loud thud as the deatheater who had brought you disappeared.

"no" draco and theo mustered up to stutter at the same time.

you send a glare across the room. it meant nothing, those two were only shells of the boys you had once known. but the innocence had been drained from them like a well run dry in a relentless drought.

"what are we going to do with you?" bellatrix smiled, stepping away from the chair and walking around your body on the floor.

narcissa reached for theo's arm, when he was about to drag bellatrix away from you.

you averted your eyes. not giving her the satisfaction to see the fear in them.

bellatrix looked through your act immediately. "she's a tough one" she noted and her expression of admiration changed to a malicious grin as she saw theo close his eyes.

"you do it" she laughed excitedly, stepping forward and pulling theo into the middle of the room.

"bellatrix, please" narcissa said, not even bothering to stand up and stop her sister from her attempt.

"what, cissy?" bellatrix asked. "you don't think she should be punished for stealing?"

"stealing what?" your voice made bellatrix turn around dramatically.

"would you look at that!" she gushed "the girl can speak!"

"yes" you nodded "and the girl can even tell you that she stole nothing"

"lie" bellatrix giggled and you had to admire her persistence, while the playful tone in her voice kept you on edge, always waiting for the moment she would break into an insanely loud scream.

you had heard not only hermione's cries, but bellatrix' screams from the dungeon. that gave a measure to how loud she was able to scream. and how she could torture until there was nothing left of the person you had once been.

"atta boy!" bellatrix encouraged theo, as she pushed him closer, until he was standing just a few feet from your body.

you wouldn't beg for their mercy. you would die without feigning any regret. if bellatrix really thought you stole something from her, you were glad she was torturing you instead of harry, who was much more important for everything coming after.

you could afford to die so early into the war. you were of no importance for the safety of the wizarding world.

you looked up at theo. the blue of his eyes mixed together with the tears that were already spilling over the edges.

"it shouldn't be hard" you said, voice hoarse and strained. you had been apart for almost ten months and he was still creating a lump in your throat, he was standing for everything that had been lost.

theo exchanged a glance with draco, almost as if begging him to take his place.

"bellatrix, this is madness" narcissa said, a bit stricter now, as if her simple words could really change the mind of someone who had already decided to embrace the madness her sould had been corrupted by.

"oh, cissy" bellatrix giggled "how will he learn? just another step on the path he must take to be granted the honour of the dark lord"

"do it" you said to theo, ignoring what bellatrix was babbling about.

"i can't—“ theo looked back at narcissa, talking to her rather than you.

"do it!" you repeated, louder this time.

"she even wants him to" bellatrix noted, clear amusement in her voice. she was almost excited to find out more about the conflict between you and her nephew.

"she's a pureblooded witch" theo turned to bellatrix, now trying to convince her himself. "she's one of us"

"i'm not" you protested, but bellatrix ignored you, stepping forward and touching theo's cheek softly with the pocket knife that she had taken from her robes, dripping in blood. hermione's blood probably.

"i thought you didn't know her" bellatrix mused "but the knowledge about her blood status suggests otherwise" theo gulped and before he was ready to say something, bellatrix has dragged the weapon across his cheek with one quick gesture, leaving a bleeding cut.

theo looked down quickly, as if to hide his injury from you, but he hadn't missed the gasp of air you had taken, scared that the woman had planned to kill him.

bellatrix stepped back next to her sister. "go on boy, don't make auntie bella angry" she threatened, playing with the knife in her hand.

not even narcissa dared to say something.

"just kill me" you told theo, when he raised his eyes to look at you once more, wand still losely hanging to the side. "you know how to"

"y/n" theo muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

"it doesn't matter" you shook your head. "just do it" you closed your eyes, ready for the stream of the green curse to take over your body and future.

theo did not raise his wand.

"kill me" you said loudly, unforgiving, almost screaming. you opened your eyes to look at your tormentors. apart from bellatrix none of them looked like they were particularly enjoying what was happening.

bellatrix’s eyes gleamed with a twisted satisfaction as if she was savoring the power she held over theo. narcissa’s face was a portrait of conflicted emotions, torn between her loyalty to her sister and her love for her son and nephew. lucius’s gaze darted nervously between the scene unfolding before him, as if hoping for some resolution to the madness. draco was crying and trying to swallow the breaths that were tempting him to throw up right on his aunt's feet.

and theo? theo was rather keen on killing himself than doing you any harm.

you were less forgiving. "kill me like you killed dumbledore!" you screamed, tears falling on the floor in front of you, as your voice echoed off the cold stone walls. the anger in your voice was raw, pure, and unfiltered. theo flinched at the words, his face paling further, if that was even possible. the weight of your demand seemed to crush him, making it even harder for him to act.

you were so indescribably angry. but not at what he had done to you, but rather what he had done to himself. and that in it alone was the reason you would never forgive him.

he had ruined what you had loved. he had killed the person you had loved the most and you had nothing left to care about what would happen to you.

maybe it was his punishment that he had to be the one to kill or torture you.

theo’s grip on his wand faltered as he looked at you with a mixture of horror and heartbreak. he seemed to be struggling not just with what he was being asked to do, but with the shattered remnants of the person he used to be.

bellatrix’s patience wore thin, her frustration evident as she waved her wand dismissively. “enough of this pathetic display,” she sneered, her voice dripping with venom. “the boy is clearly too weak for this task.”

“no!” theo shouted, his voice cracking. “i can’t— i won’t—” his wand dropped to the floor, clattering against the stone with a finality that seemed to reverberate through the room.

the room erupted into chaos as bellatrix’s fury reached its peak. she turned on theo with a rage that was almost as palpable as your own pain. narcissa tried to intervene, her voice pleading, but it was clear that the darkness had already taken hold.

but before she was able to mutter a curse, to torture or kill theo right in front of your eyes, harry, ron and hermione came running in the room, wands raised they started firing spells.

it took you a moment longer to get up. you and theo held eye contact, the boy just a crumpled mess on the floor in front of you. you reached out your hand and took his wand, disarming bellatrix, who began screaming.

the fight was short and unforgiving as the malfoys were throwing spells. draco was struggling to keep up with harry's quick movements and theo did not even make an attempt to stand up. instead he kept his eyes trained on you.

dobby appeared suddenly, calling you to him to bring you to safety, after he had let a chandelier fall onto bellatrix who had held a knife to hermione's throat.

you stepped forward once more, kneeling in front of theo, who looked up at you with curiosity, just hoping you would be taking him with you.

"i will never forgive you" you muttered instead and all hope left his face and heart. you healed the cut on his cheek with a move of his own wand. "you should've killed me and maybe i could've been able to"

you did not look back again as you ran across the room to your friends. you just left him there, on the ground in malfoy manor, as you took dobby's hand and followed your friends into the uncertain.

one heart shattering realisation left with you that day.