Theodore Nott, the top of his class, the sharpest of his house, does not know how to fix it.

“Madam Pomfrey!” Theo shouts. Then, louder, because she does not turn. He had seen her moments ago, moving quickly, crouched beside one of the Gryffindor boys. Was it George? He cannot be sure. It doesn’t matter. She is here now. She would know what to do.

“Please, Madam Pomfrey,” he says, and then says it again, because the word feels like something he can still use. “Please. Please, please, please.”

Why is she not doing anything? Can’t she see you are hurting? He fumbles for his wand with hands that do not seem to belong to him anymore. He presses it to the place where you are bleeding; one of the places you were bleeding from, waiting for muscle memory to take over. Waiting for something simple. Something he has already learned.

Nothing happens.

There is a hand on his shoulder.

Theo looks up. Madam Pomfrey is there now. She does not say anything. She only shakes her head, small and final, her eyes already shining with tears he does not recognize.

Theo looks back down at you. There is still too much blood. He cannot work out where it is all coming from, or why it will not stop. He thinks, distantly, that he should know how to fix this. He had promised you, that he would always look after you, protect you. Why then-

His thoughts are cut off as a shadow falls across him. For a second, Theo thinks perhaps Madam Pomfrey has come back.

He looks up.

It isn’t her.

This man is already smiling.

“Looks like you found the art I left for you,” he says, glancing down at you like he’s admiring a finished piece. “Almost a crime, let me tell you. A pretty one, at that.”

Theo watches his mouth move. The words are not really registering. But Theo still does not lift his wand. He does not feel the absence of it in his hand. There is nothing here worth fighting for anymore.

The man tilts his head, amused.

“By the way, your father said hello, Nott.”

The words land strangely, like they are meant for someone else. Theo doesn’t move. He doesn’t reach for his wand. He is still holding you, still trying to remember what comes next.

The smile widens. Ugly. Satisfied.

The curse comes from the side this time; sudden, blinding. Green light tears through the space between them. The man drops to the floor, writhing in pain as blood and bile choke his throat; even before Theo can make sense of what he’s seeing.

“Theo.”

Mattheo’s voice cuts through the noise. He’s breathing hard, wand still raised, eyes sweeping the grounds like he’s counting threats Theo cannot see.

“Go,” he says. Then again, louder. “Theo, go. Take her and go!”

Theo blinks at him.

He looks down at you.

“I can’t, Y/n needs me.” he thinks, or maybe he says it. He isn’t sure.

Mattheo swears under his breath and grabs Theo’s shoulder, firmer this time, grounding.

“Move,” he says. “Please,” the mask slips and the first crack appears, “I’ll handle this. Just take y/n and go.”

Theo doesn’t understand where go is meant to be. But then, Mattheo’s grip on Theo loosens for just a second.

He steps closer, drops to a knee without thinking, and presses a kiss to your hair; careful, reverent, like he’s afraid even that might be too much. His hand follows, smoothing over your head the way he’s done a hundred times before, gentle despite the blood soaking through his sleeve.

“We’ll win this for you,” he murmurs, low and fierce. “I love you, y/n.”

Theo watches it happen as if through glass.

He notes the way Mattheo’s hand shakes when he pulls away. The way his jaw tightens, like grief is something he’s physically holding back. Theo thinks, distantly, that he should feel something about this. Why is he not.

Nothing comes.

Mattheo is already on his feet again, mask snapping back into place, soldier once more.

“Go, Theo. GO!” he says, and this time it isn’t a plea. It’s an order.

Theodore Nott was no hero.

He was not the Golden Boy, never the one stories bent around. He did not care for the world to be saved when his lay right here beneath him, warm and impossibly still. He would have burned the world for you; cities, histories, every righteous cause reduced to nothing but smoke. But you are not here anymore, and he does not care if the world burns to a crisp, ashes choking in his lungs, seeping the life out of him ever so slowly. That is exactly what he feels to be happening now anyway.

So, he did the only thing his mind let him.

He picked up his heart from the floor, in a bridal manner he knows always made you giggle, the weight of you both too light and unbearably heavy in his arms. He lifts you up in careful reverence, as though holding you wrong might be the final thing that breaks what little remains of him.

And he walks back to the Weeping Willow tree near the Black Lake, the one where you held his hand the first time, fingers trembling, shy and certain all at once, and he had thought that the world had stopped.

It still had.

Just not in the way he had hoped.

The sounds of the battle seem distant from here; muted, warped, as though they belong to another world entirely. Theo cannot tell how much time has passed between one step and the next, only that his legs eventually give in to the pull of the earth.

He sits down in a crisscross manner, back pressed to the rough bark, and pulls your head gently into his lap.

The bark scratches faintly through his clothes, grounding him in a way nothing else can. Your weight shifts, unfamiliar now, and he adjusts instinctively, murmuring something he doesn’t realize he’s saying. His knees ache. He welcomes it. For the pain feels like proof that something in him is still responding.

He looks down at you. His y/n. His beautiful y/n.

The words surface uninvited, reflexive, like a truth his mind reaches for when everything else slips.

God—

why is there blood on your face?

The cold seeps into his legs first. He doesn’t remember when the ground began to ache against him, only that it does now; sharp in his ankles, dull in his knees. His fingers feel wrong, clumsy and distant, like they belong to someone else entirely. He flexes them once, watching the movement as if from far away. His hands shake as he tries, in vain, to rub the blood stains from your face, as if persistence alone might undo what has already been decided.

It doesn’t work.

He resorts to stroking your hair, slow and absent-minded, the way he always did when words failed him. Theo was never a man of a lot of words and he loved how you never held it against him. On your bad days, when the world would feel heavy and feelings would overwhelmingly surge through you, this is what he would do. Put your head on his chest and stroke your hair as he murmured sweet nothingness into your ears. Sometimes he would hum your favourite tune. You had always said how much it relaxed you, so that is exactly what he resorts to doing now. Maybe, that will help you? Maybe you will get up? And… and kiss his Adams apple, like you always did, making him blush profusely? So, that is what he does.

Theo hums your favorite songs under his breath, soft, broken notes, melodies meant for kitchens and late nights, not for war-soaked grounds and quiet endings. He leans his head back against the trunk and stares ahead, eyes unfocused, watching a world that continues without permission. So, he does all he can right now.

He hums until his throat hurts. Until the song loses its shape and becomes nothing more than breath and vibration. He doesn’t stop when his voice cracks. He doesn’t stop when it fades into silence either.

At some point, he realizes he is rocking the both of you, a slow, almost imperceptible motion. He stills at once. Maybe, if he stays very still, if he keeps you close, maybe the world will correct itself. Maybe this is a mistake it will notice.

It doesn’t.

Somewhere behind him, spells crack and shout and tear through the night. Victory is being decided in places Theo is no longer part of. He runs his fingers up and down your sides, running soothing circles on your arm, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“I’m here, amore. Apri gli occhi, tesoro” he murmurs.

His words fall uselessly into the space between breaths that no longer come. He waits anyway. For your lashes to flutter. For irritation, for laughter, for you to tell him he’s being dramatic. But there you lay, so still it almost feels intentional, at peace in a way that leaves him stranded outside it.

Your last words come back to him then, uninvited.

You are deserving of everything beautiful the world has to offer, my love. Promise me you will seek it. Thank you for making life feel… like a… dream. I love you, Teddy.

Theo swallows. His throat hurts.

He thinks, suddenly, of something he once read; some half-remembered theory about death. About the final moments stretching, about the brain clinging to memory as the body shuts down. About seven seconds.

Seven seconds.

He wonders who they belong to.

The one who physically dies—

or the one left behind, watching their own life end with them?

He wonders what your seven seconds were filled with.

Light, maybe. Relief. Hope. He hopes it was hope. He hopes you weren’t afraid. He hopes you didn’t feel the pain for long.

And then the thought turns inward, so sharp, he physically gasps to catch a breath.

If he were given seven seconds—

they would be you.

Not him. Not the war. Not the end of the world.

Just you.

Your laugh. Your hands. The way you said his name like it was something soft, something that deserved warmth and love and promises.

Theo presses his forehead lightly against yours.

Seven seconds would never be enough.

But they would be yours.

Seven Seconds, he thought. As if.

One.

“Hi, I am Y/n. Y/n Y/l/n. Is this seat taken?” you had asked with a bright smile. You had stumbled into the first somewhat of an empty coach with only a broody little boy sitting in. But this was your first year and you were so excited to be making great friends with everyone.

Theo did not even look up properly. Just tilted his head, eyes flicking to the empty seat.

“…Do you see someone sitting there,” he had drawled,

“or should I start worrying that you can see things I can’t?”

A pause. Then, finally, he looks at you, expecting you to scoff at him or roughly slide the coach door in his face, as a lot of people had in the past. Exactly how he had managed to snag an empty compartment in a very busy Hogwarts Express.

But all you do is plop down in the seat opposite to him. Grin at him and say, “No, but I thought I’d check before sitting on your imaginary friend over here. Scared, little kids do that sometimes, you have that look going on for you, don’t worry though. Now that I am here, I will protect you, always. What’s your name?”

And in that moment, Theodore Nott thought you were one crazy girl, but atleast you matched him in wits. This might just be interesting.

Two

“And then! She has the audacity to tell me— I shouldn’t be sitting here because apparently, it’s ‘reserved for the serious students.’”

Theo had glanced up from the notes he had been trying to focus on for the past hour. There is no demotivating his best friend. He had tried to ignore her for the past half hour but Salazar save him, this girl is unstoppable. Her hands flutter like she’s conducting an orchestra of complaints, voice climbing over the scratching of quills and the teacher droning on at the front.

“…and can you believe that? Me? Not a serious student? I have been studying so well! I even revised the potion ingredients last night!”

Just then, Theo smirks. As far as he could remember, you were sleeping in the library and he was the one revising the notes, so he could get you up to speed the next day during breakfast.

“And yet,” you continue, oblivious to his inner monologue, “she gave my seat away anyway. Who does that? …and then she—” you pause, catching his eye with a sharp look, “—oh, forget it, you wouldn’t understand!”

Theo had then raised an eyebrow. “Don’t insult my EQ, Y/l/n. Although…” he starts, “I would agree EQs are for better understanding humans and seeing that you are an absolute heathen…” And that was the first time in his life, the pressure of the world felt taken off of his shoulders and Theodore Nott had grinned; like just an average, happy thirteen-year-old boy. And as you felt it, Theo felt it too; for the first time, a little lighter, a little happier and what was that stupid thing pooling on his stomach… warmth?

Three

“Do you wanna do that bus thingie, Theo?”

You had exclaimed half-hanging, half laying on your back from his bed, looking up at the ceiling, like it was the most natural idea in the world, like you hadn’t just suggested willingly stepping into chaos on wheels. Theo had barely looked up from the book in his hands, as he scoffed softly and said, “If you mean the Knight Bus, then no; absolutely not. And if you mean the regular one, like a muggle, I would rather jump off the Astronomy Tower.”

You laughed at that, waving a hand dismissively as you said, “Always so dramatic. You lot are unbearable sometimes. And hey, Harry had taken it this year and survived. Barely traumatized, even” she added, as if that was meant to reassure him.

Theo finally turned to look at you then, from his spot from the foot of his bed, unimpressed. He told you, rather flatly, “Harry Potter also has a habit of attracting near-death experiences, and I have no interest in borrowing that particular curse.”

“Coward.” You had muttered under your breath.

“I am a realist, Bella. And let’s not forget how I have also been the one keeping you alive for the past two years. Remember when you thought it would also be a great idea to go Basilic shopping? … Yeah.”

But you had turned around then, rolling your way to where he was sitting, leaned closer to his ear and whispered, “vigliacco.”

“Plus,” you added further as you moved away from him, “You are not gonna die, I am going to protect you, like I always do. And if you get hurt, I will take care of you later, like I always do.” eyes bright with the same reckless confidence you’d had for the past two year.

Something about that made him pause.

He remembered how you’d said the same thing to him on the train your first year. And you had delivered on that promise, you had lied to professors for him, got him out of fights Mattheo dragged him to and had lovingly tended to every one of his bruises. You had promised to always be there with him, why would he believe that you would not?

So, very slowly, he starts, “Where do you find this stupid bus?”

Four

Fourth year had been… kind to Theo Nott.

That was the polite way to put it.  The honest way to put it would be how girls lingered now. They laughed too loudly at things he didn’t mean to be funny. They leaned into his space, fingers brushing his arm as they complimented his hair, his shoulders, his height, Merlin, especially his height. Theo let them. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it.

By October, half of Hogwarts had already asked him to the Yule Ball.

He hadn’t said yes to any of them. Not because he was waiting for someone, he told himself, but because he was done choosing.

And then he heard.

Some random Slytherin boy, forgettable, loud, easy, Theo muttered, had asked you.

Theo had not remembered deciding to go to your dormitory corridor. He only knew he was suddenly there, breath sharp, irritation buzzing under his skin like a curse gone wrong. He knocked before simply letting himself in. You were on your back, reading a book when you looked up and saw him standing behind you.

“Theo?” you said. “What are you—”

“You’re not going with him,” Theo said immediately, voice tight and angry and entirely too honest.

You blinked. Once. Then twice. Kept your book to the side and looked up.

“I’m sorry?” you asked.

“You heard me,” he snapped. “You’re not going to the Yule Ball with him.”

You folded your arms slowly, expression cooling. “And why exactly do you think you get to decide that?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” Theo shot back. “And because,” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Because you can do better.”

You laughed. Actually laughed. “That’s rich,” you said. “Coming from someone who’s been enjoying being half of Hogwarts’ public property.”

Theo’s eyes darkened. “That’s not the same.”

“Oh?” you challenged. “How?”

“They don’t matter,” he said without thinking.

You stared at him then, something sharp flashing behind your eyes. “And I do?”

The hallway felt suddenly too narrow. Too quiet.

“You always have,” Theo said, softer now, though the edge was still there. “You just—Merlin, you don’t see it.”

You shook your head, incredulous. “No, Theo. Maybe because you have done a shit job of showing it over the past year. There is only so much waiting outside your class for you to come out while you had already left and were feeding someone else your lunch and cancelling out on our Hogsmeade days or Muggle arcades because you had a date, I could take and I am done.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Why him?”

You laughed then, a humourless incredulous laugh. “Because he asked,” you said plainly. “And because he looked at me like I was the only person in the room.”

Theo hesitated then, four years of friendship boils down to this moment.

Then he shook his head once, sharp, like he was done letting himself flinch.

“That's bullshit. You think he’s the one who looks at you like there’s no one else in the room?” Theo said, voice low, uneven. “Don’t make me laugh, mia cara. I look at you like that. I have for the past two years.”

You stiffened.

“I have,” he went on, stepping closer now, words spilling faster, rougher. “Every time you rant passionately about things that excite you. Every time you fight with people for some Slytherin comment they made towards me. Every time you walk into a room and don’t even realize you’ve changed it.”

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t stop.

“And you did a brilliant job pretending you didn’t see it,” he said bitterly. “So I took the hint. I told myself you didn’t want it. That you didn’t want me.”

His voice cracked then, but just barely.

“I could have handled it better,” he admitted. “I didn’t. I was angry. I was upset. And I let my pride do the talking when it should’ve been me.”

Silence pressed in around them.

“You know how I feel about you,” he said quietly. “And you ignored it. You promised you wouldn’t leave me, but you did. You just… stepped back.”

Your throat tightened.

“It wasn’t like that,” you whispered.

“It was,” Theo replied softly. “Because when you’re used to standing next to someone, even one step away feels like abandonment.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and his dishehevled hair, ragged breaths, his hurt eyes that somehow always reminds you of an ocean, angry and stormy and that made your breath hitch.

“This is a big gamble, Theo,” you said. “You’re my best friend.”

Something in his expression gentled at that.

“I know,” he whispered. “That’s why it terrifies me.”

He reached out, not touching you yet. Like he was asking permission.

“But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want more,” he said. “And I can’t watch you go with someone else just because I was too proud to say it first.”

You swallowed hard. “And if this ruins us?”

Theo didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was steady, resolved.

“How could it? I am crazy about you. I know every little of your ticks. Every little thing that makes you happy, If you let me, I will lay the world at your feet, you just need to trust me.”

A long pause.

Then you exhaled, shaky, and said, “Oh, you Slytherin boys, always so dramatic.” voice warm now, affection slipping through. “Always so dramatic.”

Before he could respond, you rose onto your toes.

Theo barely had time to inhale before his hands came up instinctively, steadying you by the waist. You took that opportunity to snake your arms around his neck and pulling him to you in a soft, hesitant kiss. It did not stay that for long as two years of feelings bubbled to your surface and you pulled him towards him, for more. Theo only obliged, he was going to let you take this in whatever pace you were comfortable. Moreover he is pretty sure that he is seeing stars, at this point, and theodore nott had always been a starry night kind of boy.

When you pulled back, breathless, foreheads brushing, Theo was smiling.

It was the same grin from two years ago; the one that always made the weight lift off just a little when you were near him.

“I’m guessing,” he said lightly, voice still uneven, “that’s a yes to the Yule Ball?”

You smiled back, unmistakably pleased, nudging him as he backed into his door, refusing to give him more space than necessary.

“You bet your pretty arse it is, Nott.”

His laugh was quiet, disbelieving, happy. You smiled as he gently leaned into you against the door panel.

“Good,” he said.

Five

“Come on, Teddy.”

Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing as he turned toward you. “I am not a teddy bear,” he said loftily. “I am a serpent, bella. Careful, or I might just sink my teeth into you.”

“Theo?”

He chuckled at the way you said his name, low and indulgent. “Yes, bella?”

“You were cuddling me two seconds ago,” you said, matter-of-factly. “And you were the small spoon, you big, bad Slytherin.”

“That is slander,” he replied immediately.

“You had your arm around me,” you insisted. “Your face was buried in my shoulder.”

“That was strategic positioning.”

“You fell asleep.”

He shifted, rolling onto his side with a dramatic huff, one arm still slung loosely over your waist. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, voice quieter now, “the serpent had a bad day today.”

You softened instantly.

“Awh, my poor baby,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair. “You should’ve led with that.”

He didn’t answer right away, just pressed closer, forehead resting against your collarbone like it belonged there. When he finally spoke, it was muffled.

“Don’t get used to it,” he murmured. “I’m still terrifying.”

You smiled, kissing the top of his head. “Of course you are, Teddy.”

But neither of you moved.

And as the so-called serpent, curled into you, falling asleep like a baby, you softly smiled into his hair as you run soothing circles down his back. You breathed into his hair and pulled him closer to you.

Six

“Theo Nott,” you had announced dramatically, staring up at the fairy lights strung across your dorm ceiling, “I want to husband you up right NOW. You are ridiculously cute.”

He froze mid-step.

Slowly, he turned to look at you. The chocolates and the bouquets frozen in his hand as he now struggled to put them down.

“…I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” you said easily, grinning, taking slow steps towards him, almost like a predator playing around with its prey. “This? The lights? The flowers? The fact that do this for our anniversary?” You gestured wildly around you, the lights, flowers, all your favourite snacks from muggle shops across your hometown. The impromptu projector he had set up to watch your favourite 00s romcoms. “Unacceptable levels of adorable.”

Theo pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew,” he said darkly, “that I should have hidden the lights.”

“I’m serious,” you continued, walking towards him. “I’m going to take care of you forever. Feed you. Make sure you sleep. Protect you from your own moods.”

He stared at you in horror as he kept on stepping back till the foot of your bed hit his legs. “You are unwell.”

“You’re the one who turned his dorm into a home. I am a woman who knows what she wants and I want you, Theodore.” You whispered the last bit almost menacingly as you pushed him back onto your bed and climbed on top of him, straddling him.

“I—” He stopped, glanced up at the ceiling, then back at you. “…Salazar save me.”

You smiled at him, bolder now. “Call him all you want Nott, I am going to still husband you up someday, YOU ARE SO CUTE. I AM GONA PUT BABIES IN YOU AND TAKE CARE OF YOU AS YOU ARE PREGNANT.”

Your boyfriend of two years truly stared at you scared then, “What is wrong with you, you sicko? Who hurt you?”

You laugh then, a genuine belly laugh. “Don’t believe it. It is happening” You say in a sing-song voice before attempting to climb off of him.

That’s when it happens. He rolls you both over so quickly, you are not even aware as he flips you over and hovers on top of you now.

“What was that about making a baby happen?” He asked with a smirk.

“Theodore Nott, whatever are you insinuating?”

You had both laughed then before you took his face in his hand, brushing your thumbs softly against his cheekbones, “Thank you for doing all of this. Thank you for always keeping me so, so happy. So content. Thank you for being the reason I am thankful to the universe every second. I love you, Theo.” You had said it with so much affection, like a prayer, like a promise that Theo felt all his breath leaving his body.

“I love you too, Bella. Thank you for being the reason I am not angry at the world anymore. You are my light, my prayer, you keep me sane.”

And then as your cheeks warmed up and your eyes brimmed with tears, you pulled him into you and kissed him; messy, desperate and needy.

Seven

The abandoned washroom was cold in the way forgotten places always were; stone damp with history, air heavy with things that had once been said here and never forgiven. The faint hum of the Room of Requirement bled through the wall like a held breath.

Theo sat on the floor, back against the sinks, wand loose in his hand. He hadn’t realised he was shaking until you took his fingers in yours.

“They’re serious,” he said finally, voice low. “The Ministry. They’re actually serious about protecting us.”

You nodded. “They are.”

“That doesn’t make it safer,” he replied. His jaw tightened. “It just makes it… official.”

You leaned closer, shoulder brushing his. He didn’t pull away.

“I stood in a room today,” Theo went on, staring at the cracked tile in front of him, “and said out loud that what my father believes is wrong. That what he’s done is wrong.” He let out a breath that bordered on a laugh. “I’ve never done that. Not like this. Not where it can’t be taken back.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I know,” you said softly.

His voice dropped. “He’ll hear about it.”

“Yes.”

“And when he does-“  Theo swallowed. Hard. “He won’t come for me first.”

That was the part he couldn’t say without his voice breaking.

You shifted, turning fully toward him now. You cupped his face gently, forcing him to look at you.

“Hey,” you said. “Look at me.”

He did not. Could not. So you gently brushed back his curls out of his eyes and took his face in your hands, soft and warm and grounding.

“Baby, look at me. Please.” You added softly, he looked up then.

“I am not your punishment,” you said firmly. “And you are not responsible for the choices your father makes.”

His eyes were glassy now, furious and afraid all at once. “But if something happens to you because of me—”

“Nothing will,” you interrupted. “Because we’re not doing this alone. Not anymore.”

You paused, pressing your forehead to his, voice steady and sure.

“You don’t need to be afraid anymore,” you whispered. “Let go, Theo. We’re going to get out of this. Alive. With a home.”

Theo’s breath hitched.

“I stood in that room today,” he said again, quieter now, “and chose something that might cost me everything.”

“And one day,” you said gently, “it’s going to give us everything instead.”

A long silence followed. Not empty. Just full.

Finally, Theo whispered, “My worst nightmare is losing you.. I can't sleep, Y/n.”

You smiled sadly. “Mine is you thinking you have to carry this alone., I will be fine, baby. We will be okay.”

He let out a shaky breath. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“If this goes wrong, if things get ugly, you run.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. And then softly, “No.”

“Don’t—”

“I’m not leaving,” you said quietly. “Not because I’m reckless. Because I choose you. Same way you chose what was right today.”

He searched your face, like he always did when he was trying to memorise something.

Then he nodded. Once.

“Alright,” he said.

You smiled, soft and fierce. “Good.”

And in a forgotten washroom near the Room of Requirement, Theo Nott held onto you like the future might finally let him.

After a moment, you added lightly, just to break the weight, “So, how many kids are we having?”

Theo let out a startled, breathless laugh. “Seven, right?” he replied with a smirk.

“Go ask your other wives, Nott.” you finished, laughing.

He shook his head, pressing his forehead to yours again. “Too late for that. I signed up for a crazy for life. I want my crazy.”

And his hands tightened around yours, promising himself, he would do whatever it takes to protect you. And maybe for the first time in his life, Theodore Nott truly let himself hope.

And Hope had killed Theodore Nott.

The war had ended in fragments.

Not with cheers, not with relief, but with the sound of boots scraping stone and voices breaking as they called names into the wreckage, hoping their loved ones somewhere would call back. Theo heard it all as if from underwater. Running footsteps echoed past him, then slowed. Then stopped.

Someone screamed.

Pansy’s voice cut through the haze; sharp, panicked, raw.

“Y/N!”

Theo saw her stumble, her knees buckling before she even finished calling your name, and Enzo was there instantly, arms steady, expression too calm in the way that meant he was holding himself together by force. Pansy collapsed against him, sobbing into Enzo’s shoulder, fingers curling into pale fabric like she might fall apart if she let go.

A moment later, she wrenched herself free.

“Theo, look at me!” Pansy demanded, frantic, eyes wild as she took in for the first time, Theo’s eyes. There was no anger there. No tears. No devastation yet. They were… empty; open, unblinking, fixed on nothing at all. Just the hollow pause before something irreversible. The kind of look people get right before the world catches up with them. He held onto you like the last proof that he had ever existed at all, like if he let go, there would be nothing left to grieve. He held onto you like a man who knew the fall was coming and had already decided not to survive it.

Pansy rushed forward, skidding to her knees in front of him. “Theo,” she said again, softer now, pleading. “Theo, please look at me.”

He didn’t.

A few feet away, Hermione had both hands on Draco, gripping his robes like an anchor. He had gone frighteningly still, face bloodless, eyes unfocused. His hair looked almost luminous against how grey he’d become. He swayed once, and Hermione tightened her hold, murmuring something Theo couldn’t hear.

You would have noticed that.

You would have made fun of it, Draco thought. How he wished you would make fun of him right now if you were here.

If you were here.

If you were here, you would have held onto Mattheo, who dropped down to the ground hard with nothing breaking his fall, like his legs had simply given up on him. He sat with his back hunched, one hand pressed to his head, breathing uneven and shallow. His wand lay forgotten beside him. For a moment, he just stared.

Then for the first time, he too looked at Theo.

“No,” Mattheo said hoarsely. “No, no—”

He crawled the short distance between them, stopping just shy of touching you. His hands hovered uselessly in the air, trembling, before he dragged them back into fists.

“Theo,” he tried, voice cracking. “Mate. Say something.”

Theo didn’t respond.

Mattheo swallowed hard. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut us out.”

People had begun to slow when they saw you.

They didn’t rush past anymore. They stopped. One by one, they came closer, forming a loose, uncertain circle around where Theo sat on the ground with you cradled against him. No one spoke at first. They didn’t know how. No one wanted to be the first to acknowledge it out loud.

Pansy reached out, fingers brushing Theo’s sleeve. “Theo,” she whispered this time, tears streaking her face. “You’re hurting her. You’re holding her too tight.”

He loosened his grip by the barest fraction.

Not because he heard her—

but because his arms had begun to ache.

“Y/n…” someone had whispered. Maybe Pansy again. Maybe Hermione. Theo didn’t know. He didn’t look up.

He didn’t need to.

He felt them there in the way the air changed, in the way the noise dimmed, in the way grief settled like ash. Someone knelt nearby. Someone else stood with their hands clenched at their sides. Quiet sobbing broke through the silence, more than one voice.

Victory was being decided somewhere else. Orders were being shouted. Someone laughed hysterically. Someone else cried in relief. Theo could not bring himself to care.

The war could have been lost. The war could have burned the world to the ground. It wouldn’t have mattered. None of it mattered without you. The cost was too high, and he refused to pretend otherwise.

He pressed his forehead to your hair, arms tightening around you instinctively, as if someone might try to take you away. As if letting go would mean admitting that this was real. It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be. These people need to leave, why are they here. You were fine. You are fine.

People stood around him some in their own mourning, some hovering close to Theo in wordless allegiance. They bore witness to a man who had chosen you over survival, who had given up everything to remain where you fell. A man for whom victory had arrived far too late. A man who had lost the war no matter how it ended.

This was what survived the war.

Not triumph.

Not justice.

Just this quiet, unbearable aftermath.

And Theo did the only thing he had ever known how to do when the world broke beyond recognition.

He held on to you; his hope, his lifeline, his whole world.

And he did not let go.

Your funeral had already passed.

Hogwarts held another one after; smaller, quieter, meant for the names that had blurred together in the aftermath of the war, for the people the castle itself seemed to grieve. Candles lined the Great Hall. Your name was spoken carefully, reverently, as though saying it too loudly might shatter something fragile still clinging to life.

People spoke about you.

Your kindness. Your courage. Your laugh.

How young you were. How unfair it all was.

Theodore Nott did not cry.

He stood where he was told to stand, hands folded neatly at his sides, spine straight, face carved from stone. He listened as though through glass. Every word reached him a second too late, distorted, dulled. When someone mentioned the way you smiled at him, how you had softened him, he did not react. When someone said you had loved fiercely, he did not blink.

Grief had not found him yet.

It circled like a predator, reveling in the knowledge that its prey has nowhere to run. It waited.

The evening of your last rites came quietly.

There were no speeches then. No audience. Just the weight of finality settling into his bones as the sun dipped below the horizon, taking something with it that would never return. When it was over, when there was nothing left to say, no ritual left to perform, Theo returned to his room with the unsettling certainty that there was now nothing left holding him upright.

Nothing left to brace against.

He moved mechanically, as if following instructions written long ago, like he had for the past few weeks. From the depths of his belongings, buried beneath years of avoidance, he pulled out the blade.

He had taken it up once before.

Fifth year.

His father’s voice had been relentless then; cold, insistent, promising legacy and punishment in the same breath. The Dark Mark loomed like an inevitability. Theo had been sixteen and terrified and desperate to feel like he still owned something of himself.

But you had found out. And you had cried for three days.

Your quiet, broken sobs haunted him to this day, way more than his father’s shouts ever could. You had begged him, hands shaking, lips trembling, eyes red and swollen, as though his pain was something you could carry for him if only, he would let you.

He had put the blade away then.

For you.

Tonight, there was no one left to find out.

He needed to feel something. Anything.

The cut was small at first. Hesitant. A question rather than a decision. On his right hand, shallow enough to doubt itself. Blood welled slowly, bright against his skin, startling in its reality.

It mirrored yours.

The thought cracked something open.

He pressed harder.

Cut deeper.

Pain bloomed, sharp, undeniable, and for the first time since the war ended, sensation flooded back into his body. It was nothing compared to the ache in his chest, nothing close to the cavernous absence where your presence had once lived, but it was something. It grounded him. Anchored him.

The room tilted and dizziness followed, then lightness, as though he were drifting away from himself, from the weight of being Theodore Nott without you. His breath slowed. His vision blurred.

And then—

You were there.

So achingly real it stole what little breath he had left.

You stood before him, angelic, beautiful, untouched by war or death or time. His bella. Tears streamed down your face as you rushed to him, pressing your hands to his wounds as though you could undo them, as though you had always been able to fix him simply by touching him.

“My love,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Why?”

You cupped his face with one hand, brushing away sweat and tears, your thumb tracing familiar paths. Your eyes searched his, desperate, devastated.

“You promised me,” you said softly.

“Yeah?” Theo breathed, dizzy, hollow. “So did you, bella.”

His voice cracked. “You promised you would never leave me. But you did.”

He swallowed. “It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re here now.” His lips trembled. “We’ll be okay, cara.”

You smiled through tears, heartbreakingly gentle. “I love you, Theo. You are my life; you need to live. There’s a beautiful future you deserve. It’s there. I will always love you, Teddy. I- ”

The door burst open.

A scream tore through the room.

Spells flew, panicked, shouted, overlapping. Mattheo was suddenly there, hands glowing with magic, voice breaking as he worked frantically. He would not let his words fail him this time, not stand dumbfounded when the curse had hit you from your back as you were rescuing a few younger kids from a pile of rubble. Mattheo worked fast, a human, cut. There was no magic, he can fix this.

The wound closed. The pain dulled. The dizziness vanished.

But then, so did you.

Theo jolted upright, breath tearing from his lungs as he searched the empty space where you had been. His heart thundered violently in his chest. He frantically looked around as his eyes landed on Mattheo for the first time.

“Why did you do that?” he demanded, wild-eyed.

Mattheo froze. “What?”

“She was here,” Theo said, disoriented, desperate. “Y/n was here. I was holding her again.”

Confusion flickered across Mattheo’s face. “Theo—”

“She was in my arms,” Theo insisted, staggering to his feet. “Why did you take her away?”

And then, he swung. Rage. Grief-fuelled. Blinding. Uncontrolled.

Mattheo caught him, restraining him as gently as he could. “Theo, please. Stop.”

Theo didn’t hear him.

“She told me she loved me,” he sobbed. “I can’t live without her, Matt. She was here; I need her.”

And then something finally broke.

The first sob ripped out of Theodore Nott’s chest; raw, animal, devastating. His legs gave out beneath him as he collapsed to the floor, hands fisting into the fabric of Mattheo’s shirt.

That day, for the first time, since you were gone, he cried. Through the night. And the nights that followed.

His soul ached for you with a hunger that never eased.

.

The films lie to you when they show grief as something that explodes all at once.

Loss is slower than that. Crueler.

First comes numbness; stone-cold, impenetrable numbness. Then, without warning, the pain arrives. Excruciating, suffocating. Theo wanted to reach inside himself and rip out his heart from its socket if only it might make the hurting stop.

But it didn’t stop. It never stops.

He hit breaking point, and then another, and another still. And just when he was naïve again to think that he might gather the pieces of himself; carefully cradled in the arms of people who loved him, grief finds new ways in.

Your favourite book in a shop window.

The scarf he was going to give you for your birthday.

The "His and Hers", cheesy mugs you had bought for the two of you as a joke on Valentine’s Day, that he had pulled from the cupboard without thinking.

He sinks to the kitchen floor, “Hers” in hand as sob after sob tears through his body, violent and uncontrollable, because if he doesn’t let it out, it will rot inside him.

The grief claws at his ribs, demands release, and he gives in, shaking, breaking, coming apart.

The tears don’t stop. They keep coming until there is nothing left in him to give, until his chest aches and his throat burn and even crying feels like work. He lies sprawled on the cold tiles, staring at nothing, eyes unfocused, breath uneven. "Y/n" was all he could whisper. "Come back to me, please. It hurts. Gods, It Hurts."

He hopes, in the quiet that follows, that death might be kinder than sleep. That it might take him before morning comes. Before he has to wake up and live through another sunrise without the person he promised; without the one he had planned to see every sunrise with.

Epilogue

Twelve Years Later

“Daddy, come fast! Mommy’s waiting for us. Let’s gooo!”

A little girl of about seven darts ahead, a Slytherin scarf wrapped messily around her neck, dark hair flying as she laughs. Theo follows behind her, breathless but smiling, a large picnic basket hooked over one arm and a three-year-old boy balanced on his other hip.

“Alessandra Fiorella Nott,” he calls, voice fondly exasperated, “will you slow down? There is only so much I can carry; with your enormous picnic basket and your brother.”

She giggles but doesn’t slow, feet carrying her toward the familiar quiet corner beneath the desert willow tree.

Theo finally reaches it and lowers the basket carefully beside your gravestone. The stone is smooth now, well-kept, your name etched with reverence rather and love. He adjusts the flowers he brought earlier, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

Behind him, Mattheo arrives with two picnic mats slung over his shoulder and another basket in his hands. The Nott family, it seemed, had inherited at least one tradition intact.

“Well,” Mattheo says lightly as he sets everything down, “hey, beautiful," he whispers softly as you reaches you. Then louder, adds, "Radiant as ever, I see. Good to know you don’t let anything take that glow.”

Theo shoots him a warning look sharp enough to kill.

Mattheo lifts his hands in surrender, softly smiling. “Too soon. Got it.”

“Alright, kids,” Mattheo continues, crouching down. “Give your dad a moment with your mum.”

“We’ll be back soon, Mommy!” Alessandra announces brightly. “We’re gonna get you flowers; from the saps Daddy planted for you.”

And with that, she takes off again.

Mattheo takes Dante from Theo’s arms, settling the boy easily on his hip. He watches the children for a second, then mutters, almost to himself, “I know she’s adopted, but Merlin! Your daughter is a carbon copy of Y/n. Flying to flowers like a bee.”

Theo’s glare is his second murderous one of the day.

Mattheo chuckles. “I’m going to go spend some time with my godchildren before you actually hex me.”

He leaves Theo alone beneath the willow.

Theo exhales slowly and kneels in front of your grave.

“Hi, bella,” he says, voice warm, familiar; still carrying the same tenderness it always had for you. “I have missed you, angel.”

The wind stirs then, gentle, deliberate. Willow blossoms loosen and drift down, settling into his lap like a quiet blessing.

Theo freezes.

He huffs out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Y/n Nott… you totally have a crush on me.”

1995

The house is all commotion the next day. Most of the kids wake up late and this sends Mrs Weasley into a tizzy as she hurries from place to place gathering trunks and belongings and throwing them downstairs in front of the door. You place your own trunk in front of the door, scratching Dubh’s ears as she leaps into your arms and digs her claws into your jumper to hold herself against your chest.

Moody stands at the doorway, both hands on his staff as his magical eye swivels from room to room upstairs. He glances at his watch. “Where is Podmore? We can't leave without him, we’ll be one short.” He taps his foot impatiently.

Mrs Weasley looks up the stairway and clears her throat before bellowing, “WILL YOU LOT GET DOWN HERE NOW, PLEASE!”

At once, Walburga Black’s portrait starts screaming and shouting, but no one bothers to close the curtains on her. The noise in the hall will only continue to wake her.

Sirius appears beside you and slips his hand into the back pocket of your jeans, kissing your cheek. “All set?”

You hum, turning to face him. “Hope so. I’m going to miss you so much, you know that?”

He smiles lovingly at you. “I’ll miss you too — I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Talk to Kreacher a lot more, I guess?” You smile cheekily at him.

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Don’t even joke about that, it would be hell.”

Ron, Harry, and Hermione come hurrying down the stairs, their footsteps drowned out by Walburga Black’s screeches.

“Harry, you're to come with me and Molly,” you yell at Harry over your mother-in-law's portrait.

“Leave your trunk and your owl, Alastor’s going to deal with the luggage,” Mrs Weasley explains. “...Oh, for heaven's sake, Sirius, Dumbledore said no!”

Sirius’ hand leaves your pocket and he turns into his dog form, following you as you clamber over the trunks.

“Oh, honestly…” Mrs Weasley says despairingly, “well, on your own head be it!”

She wrenches open the front door and you step out into the morning sunlight, followed by Harry and Sirius. You descend the front steps of number 12 and they vanish the moment you reach the pavement.

You glance at your watch. “We’d better hurry up, Molly.”

“I know, I know,” she groans, lengthening her stride, “but Mad-Eye wanted us to wait for Sturgis…if only Arthur could have got us cars from the Ministry again…but Fudge wouldn’t let him borrow so much as an empty ink bottle these days…How Muggles can stand travelling without magic…”

Sirius, on the other hand, seems delighted. He gives a joyful bark and runs around you, snapping at pigeons and chasing his own tail. Harry laughs and you can’t help but smile. He’s been trapped inside for far too long.

Mrs Weasley purses her lips disapprovingly.

Dubh keeps her gaze laser-focused on the dog, watching him closely and swishing her tail agitatedly when he comes too close, digging her claws tighter into the fabric of your jumper.

On platform nine and three quarters, students and families bustle from place to place carrying their heavy trunks, owls hooting from their cages.

“I hope the others make it in time,” Mrs Weasley says anxiously, staring behind her at the arch through which new arrivals come.

“Nice dog, Harry!” calls Lee Jordan, waving at Harry.

“Thanks, Lee,” says Harry, grinning, as Sirius wags his tail frantically.

“Oh, good,” Mrs Weasley says with a sigh of relief, “here’s Alastor with the luggage, look…”

With a cap pulled low over his eyes, Moody limps through the archway pushing a cart full of trunks.

“All okay,” he mutters to you. “Don’t think we were followed…”

Seconds later, Mr Weasley emerges onto the platform with Ron and Hermione. You start to help unloading the trunks from the cart and nearly have them all off when Remus turns up with Ginny and the twins.

“No trouble?” growls Moody.

“Nothing,” Remus replies, dusting off the front of his jacket.

“I’ll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore,” Moody says lowly. “That’s the second time he’s not turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus.”

“Well, look after yourselves,” Remus says, shaking hands all round.

You beam at him when he reaches you and pull him in for a tight hug, laughing. “See ya, Moony.”

“Keep your head down and your eyes peeled,” Moody says to Harry, shaking Harry’s hand too. “And don’t forget, all of you — careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don’t put it in a letter at all.”

“If you need to pass anything on, tell me,” you say as the warning whistle for the train sounds and the students still on the platform start to hurry onto the train. Sirius nudges your hand with his head and you gently scratch the top of his head, smiling. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Quick, quick,” says Mrs Weasley distractedly, hugging everyone at random. “Write…be good…if you’ve forgotten anything we’ll send it on…onto the train now, hurry…”

Bewitching your trunk to fly in the air behind you, you hurry onto the train and make your way past the throes of students greeting you in the corridor, down to your usual compartment in the prefects’ carriage. You set Dubh down on the seat beside you and as you sit down, you feel something in your back pocket and curious, you pull out a slip of parchment and unfold it.

I love you

Tell Snape he looks like a gargoyle

You chuckle appreciatively, putting the paper back in your pocket and feeling your heart warm.

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

February, 1977

“Transfiguring something of a larger stature, however, can prove to be more difficult,” Professor McGonagall says, the chalk in her fingers scratching against the blackboard as she writes instructions. “It takes a lot more concentration and practice, so I suggest you use your free time wisely and —”

Sirius sighs in boredom, eyes skimming around the room until he finds the person he's looking for. Across the room, sitting as far away from James as possible, is Lily, and right beside her, you.

You lean over to whisper something to Lily, who chuckles, and Sirius finds himself following your every movement, tracing the line of your jaw with his eyes, the curve of your neck, the way you're swinging your legs under the chair absent-mindedly…

“And then, you put the charm on the ties and I'll keep look-out — hey!”

James slaps Sirius across the back of his head angrily.

“Ow! What was that for?!”

“You're not even listening!”

Sirius snaps out of his daze and looks back at his best friend’s angry face, scrunched up beneath his circular glasses.

“Sorry, Prongs, what were you saying?”

James scoffs, folding his arms dramatically. “You were staring at her again, weren't you?” He makes a noise with his mouth like the cracking of a whip, rolling his eyes. “Pathetic.”

“In my defense, she is very pretty — “

“I don't want to hear it!” James snaps. “Y’know, I liked you better before you got a girlfriend. You were more fun.”

“Oh, shut up, James — you're just jealous ‘cause Lily would rather go out with a toad than with you — “

“That's not true — !”

Someone clears their throat loudly and the boys look up to find McGonagall glaring at them from behind her spectacles, clearly unimpressed.

“Yes, Potter, Black — we’ll all just wait for you to finish your very important conversation and then I can get back to teaching.”

Quiet sniggers ripple through the room. Lily rolls her eyes as her best friend giggles.

“Sirius was distracting me, miss —”

“James won't stop talking —”

“Enough.” Professor McGonagall pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Pay attention or it's detention for the both of you.”

“Yes, miss.”

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

“Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” says Dumbledore after he gets to feet for his start-of-year speech. “First years ought to know that the forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students — and a few of our older students ought to know by now too.”

You glance down the Great Hall, skimming your eyes around at all your students.

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch’s office door. We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

There is a round of polite applause. You crane your neck to look at the new hire of Professor Umbridge: a small woman wearing a fluffy pink cardigan with mousy brown hair and a pair of small, beady eyes. She has her lips pursed and her hands folded in on the table as she looks out at the student body.

“Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the —”

“Ahem.”

Dumbledore breaks off and looks surprisingly at Professor Umbridge, who has gotten to her feet (though it is hard to tell the difference between her height while standing and while sitting), and clearly wants to make a speech.

Minerva glances at you for half a second, her mouth a thin, disapproving line as she turns back to focus her attention on Umbridge.

Her interruption irks you — no one has ever interrupted Dumbledore in the middle of his speech before. It feels quite disrespectful, though Dumbledore doesn't seem to mind as he sits down and gives Umbridge his utmost attention.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” she starts, her voice sickeningly squeaky, “for those kind words of welcome.”

She clears her throat again, that same little ‘ahem’. “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces smiling back at me!”

You raise your eyebrows, noticing how the faces looking back at Umbridge seem quite far from happy — they actually look highly affronted at the childish tone that she has taken on.

“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I'm sure we’ll be very good friends!”

Nobody seems too keen on that idea.

She clears her throat again, but this time her tone becomes more business-like and official. “The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”

She clears her throat again and Minerva’s face tightens as she exchanges a glance with you, her distaste clear on her face.

“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. Then again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation…because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

Finally, she sits down, looking expectantly at her audience. Dumbledore claps. You and the rest of the staff start to join in, though you bring your hands together once, maybe twice, before stopping completely.

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” Dumbledore says as he stands, bowing to her. “Now, as I was saying — Quidditch tryouts will be held…”

“I suspect we’ll be having an interesting year with her here,” you say to Minerva in a low voice, moving your lips as subtly as possible while keeping your eyes on Dumbledore.

A breath of air whistles out of her nose. “Interesting indeed. The Ministry loves to poke their nose into things.”

You hum in agreement. “You can say that again.”

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

“Now as you all know, next June you will be sitting your O.W.L. examinations,” you say, leaning against your desk and flicking your gaze from student to student in your classroom. “They are, of course, important — failing certain classes may mean you are unable to continue those classes at N.E.W.T. level next year — but they are nothing to get stressed about. Study well and do your best and you will be absolutely fine, there is no need to panic. Exams are not the be-all and end-all.”

Hermione’s brow furrows as though this notion is completely inconceivable to her. You notice the way she has her parchment neatly laid out on her desk at the ready, her book perched at the top, and her quills perfectly aligned with each other beside it.

Beside her, however, Ron and Harry have absolutely nothing on their desks.

“Those who are interested in taking N.E.W.T. level Astronomy in sixth year, I accept anyone with at least a passing grade in my class. I must warn you, though, that the work and curriculum is increasingly hard and quite a jump from O.W.L. level.”

The students look quite bored.

“I'm guessing you've heard all that before?”

There is scattered murmurs of agreements and nodding.

You sigh. “I’ll be honest with you all — you will be sick and tired of hearing about those exams in no time. Have your classes been hard so far?”

They glance at each other, and you hear Dean Thomas snort and mutter to Seamus Finnegan, “Not Defense Against the Dark Arts, anyway.”

Your ears prick up at this and you raise your eyebrows. “Not in Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“Professor Umbridge refuses to let us use defensive spells in class,” Hermione says, frowning.

“What?”

“She's only teaching us theory,” Harry confirms, scowling. “We don't even get to practice the ones we need for the exam.”

“And she called Professor Lupin an ‘extremely dangerous half-breed!” Dean pops up angrily.

This seems to set off the rest of the class, and all at once they start voicing their complaints with vigour.

“What's the point of having a Defense Against the Dark Arts class if we’re not even learning how to defend ourselves in it?”

“You can't learn spells just by reading about them!”

“She's not even a real teacher —”

You wait patiently until everyone has let out their anger before you take a deep breath.

“That’s…ridiculous.”

You pick up your textbook, thumbing through it absent-mindedly as you think of what to say next. “But…if this is what your teacher wants you to do, I should tell you to listen to her.”

Uproar, again — and you hold up an authoritative hand to quiet your agitated students.

“I will tell you to listen to her, but that's not to say you're definitely going to listen to me,” you say with a shrug of your shoulders. “You should listen to me, but not everyone likes to follow the rules…I will tell you not to practice these defensive spells in the privacy of your own dorms because Professor Umbridge does not want you to be performing these spells at all. I will also tell you not to be so open in complaining of your new teacher — you will get into trouble.”

You sigh dramatically, flipping the pages of your book to the first chapter as the students pass mischievous glances around at each other. “Now, let's get started, shall we?”

⁠After a long day of classes, back-to-school paperwork, and meetings, you relax into your comfy armchair in your office, listening as Minerva talks about how her week went. Your mug of hot tea warms your hands as the typical Scottish rain patters against the castle windows, and Dubh sleeps contentedly on a stack of papers lying haphazardly on your desk.

“I don’t trust that Dolores Umbridge,” Minerva says with a tight-lipped frown. “She sent Potter to my office on Tuesday, for running his mouth.”

You hum. “About her theory-only classes? Yes, I heard several complaints already.”

“Not just about that,” she says. “He told her He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back, which did not go down well, of course.”

“Like talking to a brick wall, I’d say.”

She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “He’d do well to keep his head down and out of sight after her speech at the start-of-term feast…” She casts a glance at you from behind her spectacles. “As would you.”

You laugh humourlessly. “Believe me, I am. I’ve been avoiding that woman like the plague — thankfully she’s easy to spot from a mile away with those horrible cardigans.”

As though she doesn’t mean to, Minerva lets out a cat-like giggle, before clearing her throat and regaining her composure.

You smile knowingly at her over the rim of your cup, resisting the urge to laugh.

She yawns, adjusting herself in her seat. “I suppose I best be off, I have a few essays to grade for tomorrow…”

She sets her cup down on the table, standing up. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” you answer honestly, smiling at her. “Night, Minnie.”

She opens the door to leave. “Goodnight.”

You've never liked that Dolores Umbridge, not since she drafted some anti-werewolf legislation a few years ago that made it impossible for Remus to find a job. You remember the stress it gave Remus, he had very little money and was reluctant to accept any help from you — despite the large sum of gold sitting in your bank, practically untouched.

When you settle down to sleep that night, your mind turns to Sirius: alone in Grimmauld Place, listening to the screams and screeches of his mother’s portrait. The moment you got on the Hogwarts Express you regretted letting him persuade you to come back to school and leaving him, right after you had just found him.

As if she senses your worry, Dubh pads along your covers before settling into the bed beside your chest, purring contentedly and bringing you significant comfort just by being there.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

The next morning you wake for breakfast, sitting as far away from Dolores Umbridge as possible, making absolutely sure to avoid all eye contact with the woman. The last thing you need is a Ministry mole rooting around your business when you are technically harbouring a fugitive in your house.

While you poke and prod at your breakfast, thinking about nothing in particular, owls begin to filter in through the windows bearing the morning’s post. A barn owl makes it way over to you and drops off your usual delivery of the Daily Prophet.

“You’re still reading that?” Minerva asks in surprise as you tuck a few coins into the small sack tied to the owl’s leg as payment.

You hum, undoing the twine wrapped around the paper. “Good to know what the enemy is putting out there, right?” As you unfold the newspaper, your heart drops and you let out a small gasp.

“What is it?” Minerva asks, and you wordlessly hold the paper between you so you can both read the headline article.

BLACK SPOTTED IN LONDON

The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer who killed thirteen people, is currently hiding in London. The Ministry warns the wizarding community that Black is very dangerous and to be vigilant. Anyone with information of his whereabouts must come forward and alert the Ministry immediately.

You look up at Minerva, feeling dread sink down through your body.

“I knew he shouldn’t have came with us,” you whisper, swallowing thickly.

Minerva looks at the article again, her mouth thin. “He will just have to stay in the house from now on.”

You frown. “It’ll kill him.” You glance down the table at Dumbledore, currently talking to Professor Flitwick animatedly. “Maybe I can ask Dumbledore if I can go home, just for the weekend — I can’t bear the thought of him alone —”

Minerva looks at you sharply, her expression serious.

“And how do you think that will look to Umbridge? Sirius Black’s wife leaving without any explanation the weekend after he is spotted in London?”

“I’ll just say I’m going to my parents’ or something, I don’t know —”

“They will not believe you,” she hisses. “They have never believed you before, they will not believe you now. Do you wish to end up in Azkaban?”

You look back at her, biting your lip before breathing a long, defeated sigh. 

Minerva gently pulls the newspaper from your grip, flicking through the pages with mild interest. You push your plate away from you, feeling nauseous and without any appetite. Why didn’t you push more for him to stay at the house that day? You were selfish, letting him come with you because you wanted to drag out your time with him as much as possible and putting him in danger. Where is Kingsley? He’s supposed to be staying on top of this, feeding the Ministry fake information and keeping Sirius out of the headlines. 

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

->-> read chapter twenty-nine here!

-> all kinds of interaction appreciated ♡

hi everyone, im really sorry for the huge wait!! I know how annoying it can be sometimes to have to wait long periods of time for a writer to post the next chapter, so I really am sorry for that :( I honestly don't really have an excuse, other than writer's block and a busy schedule. You all are the absolute best for your constant patience and support, i love everyone sm <3 Kisses!

a really huge thank you to my taglist loves ♡ :