mydarlingsgirl

Started: 16/06/2025 Last Updated: 20/06/2025 Total Works: 6 Harry Potter Slytherin Boys: Mattheo Riddle Written In Ink You're Distracting, Love. Theodore Nott Coffee Stains and Closed Doors Undeniably Yours (Unfortunately) - Part Two to Coffee Stains and Closed Doors. Seconds Between us Nine Lives and One Very Confused Slytherin Draco Malfoy You Order's Ready Lorenzo Berkshire Whatever That Means Marvel Cinematic Universe Tony Stark Only Mine It's Time to Rest All Systems Off Not Another Rogers You Okay, Kid? Peter Parker *Will update by time and requests.* Steve Rogers *Will update by time and requests.* Twisted Series Alex Volkov Soft In The Silence Rhys Larsen *Will update by time and requests.* Josh Chen

Part One - The Deal Part Two: The Dark Mark Burns Hotter

Title: Black Tie, Red Blood Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Pureblood!Reader AU Setting: Post-War, Dark Marriage Contract AU Genre: Dark Romance, Political Intrigue, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn Word Count (Part Two): ~2.9k (more or less)

Warnings: Arranged marriage, emotional vulnerability, dark magic, Voldemort lives, mild fear, power imbalance, emotional tension, subtle obsession, post-war setting, forced loyalty, political pressure, slow burn, silence as control, unhealthy attachment themes.

Summary:

A few days after the engagement ball, the silence settles heavy. You haven’t left your wing. You haven’t seen Mattheo. And when the summons comes—from him—you’re not ready. But it isn’t about readiness. It’s about survival. Mattheo brings you to face the Dark Lord alone… and not even he knows what Voldemort truly wants from you.

They called it an alliance. You called it a surrender wrapped in silk.

The night of the ball still lingered in your body like smoke clinging to silk.

Days had passed, but you hadn’t been able to wash it out completely. Not from your hair, not from your skin, and especially not from your thoughts. The house had grown quieter since, though the silence was not mercy—it was expectation. Every whisper in the corridors, every measured glance from the servants, seemed to remind you that things had shifted.

Your room became both haven and prison. The drapes were drawn to keep out the late morning light, and you sat curled into the chair by the window, a book open but unread across your knees. You traced the same line over and over with your finger until the words blurred into nonsense.

It should have been comforting, to hide here. But comfort was a stranger lately.

The book slipped from your lap, forgotten the second the knock rattled your door. It wasn’t a polite sound—it was sharp, commanding, as if whoever stood outside had every right to interrupt you.

“Come in,” you muttered, your throat dry.

The door creaked open, and your mother glided in, a sweep of silk trailing behind her. Her eyes gleamed with a kind of triumphant glee that made your stomach knot.

“He’s here,” she announced, breathless with excitement. “Mattheo Riddle. He’s waiting for you downstairs.”

Your pulse faltered. “Already?”

“Yes, already. Did you expect the Dark Lord’s son to linger for your convenience?” She looked you over then, her gaze darting across your face, down your figure. Whatever she saw there made her smile falter.

Her brows pinched. “Why do you look so pale? You should be glowing, not… washed out like this.”

You blinked at her, stunned by the sting in her tone.

“Your cheeks,” she went on, brushing her fingers across them as if testing for color, “no warmth. Your eyes look heavy. Merlin, have you even tried? Do you want him to think you’re—” She stopped, her lips pursing, but the damage was done.

You straightened in your chair, your hands clenching against the armrest. “I didn’t realize I was supposed to glow on command.”

Her expression tightened. “Don’t start with me. This is important. Our future rests on how you present yourself.”

“Not yours,” you muttered, too low for her to catch—or maybe you hoped she wouldn’t.

But her eyes snapped up, sharp. “Both of ours. Remember that.”

For a moment, silence stretched, only the sound of her silk whispering as she smoothed the wrinkles in her gown. Then she clasped her hands, forcing brightness back into her voice.

“Come. He’s waiting.”

And before you could protest, she was at the door again, holding it open like there was no room left for hesitation. Your hand trailed along the banister as you made your way down, each step heavier than the last. The air felt different downstairs—thicker, charged, as though the walls themselves knew who stood waiting.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mattheo Riddle stood like a shadow cut into the room. He wasn’t pacing. He wasn’t fidgeting. He wasn’t even pretending to look around with curiosity. He was still—shoulders squared, dark eyes lifted lazily as you descended, as though the sight of you meant nothing.

No bow. No smile. No flicker of acknowledgment.

You had expected something—anything. Even the smallest polite gesture would have been a comfort. Instead, his gaze moved over you like a ledger line he was balancing, detached, impersonal.

Your mother’s voice broke the silence, bright and eager. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?” she said, her hands clasping together in forced delight. “A perfect bride.”

You froze for a second on the last step, waiting, foolishly, for him to agree. But he didn’t. His expression didn’t soften; he didn’t even glance at your mother.

He looked at you, and then past you, as if beauty or perfection were beneath his notice.

Something in your chest burned, equal parts humiliation and relief.

“Well,” you said quietly, forcing your voice steady, “are we going?”

That made his eyes flicker to you again—quick, unreadable, like the faintest shift of wind across still water. He gave a single nod. Nothing more.

Your mother, still desperate to patch the silence, chimed in again. “Try to smile, darling. You’ll look ghastly in the papers otherwise.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m not smiling for the Prophet.”

That earned you another glance from Mattheo. Not admiration, not irritation—just… acknowledgment, as though he were filing the words away somewhere you’d never see.

He extended his hand finally, not out of courtesy, but necessity. “We should leave,” he said, his voice low, even, carrying none of the warmth a suitor might muster.

And with that, the moment was over. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The world snapped back together with a force that nearly stole the breath from your chest. You stumbled, shoes scraping against damp stone as the pressure of apparition released you too suddenly. For a moment you thought the air itself would not come back, that you had left your lungs behind in the dark fold of magic.

When it did return, it carried the taste of earth and ash. Cold. Heavy. Unlike the clean perfume of your mother’s halls, this place breathed like something underground.

You lifted your head, blinking against the dimness. The corridor stretched long and bare, built from stone that looked as though it had never seen light. Torches guttered in iron brackets along the walls, each flame too small to banish the shadows that writhed between them. The air moved sluggishly, carrying the faint drip of water somewhere unseen, and a silence that made even your shallow breaths sound like trespass.

Mattheo’s hand dropped from yours with a casualness that felt like dismissal. The warmth was gone in an instant, leaving your palm cold as though the touch had never existed. He didn’t look at you, not once, only adjusted the sleeve of his dark coat, his shoulders squaring like this was simply another corridor he had walked a thousand times before.

The echo of your heartbeat filled the space louder than your steps. You swallowed, throat tight, but the question rose anyway, almost against your will. “Where… where are we?”

Your voice sounded smaller here, swallowed whole by the stone.

“Nott Manor,” Mattheo replied, the words clipped, stripped of any attempt to soothe. He kept walking, the shadow of his figure slicing long and straight ahead of you. After a breath, his tone dropped lower, almost unreadable. “The Dark Lord is waiting.”

Your feet felt rooted for a second too long, hesitation gluing you to the stone. The name shivered through you in a way the cold never could. The Dark Lord. You had never said it aloud, only heard it whispered in corners, sewn into the edges of conversations that stopped when you entered. Now it was a destination. A man waiting at the end of this corridor.

You forced yourself forward, footsteps echoing after his. The stone under your shoes was uneven, worn with age, and the walls seemed to lean closer the deeper you went, pressing in with their damp silence.

Mattheo didn’t slow. Didn’t glance back to see if you followed.

The corridor ended in a pair of doors. They rose far above your head, carved from black wood that gleamed faintly in the torchlight, veins of silver curling through the grain like something alive. They did not look like doors meant for people — more like monuments, guardians.

Mattheo stopped. His shoulders lifted with one deep breath, though he still did not look back at you. His hand reached, steady, for the iron ring that served as a handle.

Your own hands clenched at your sides, nails pressing into your palms. You thought suddenly, desperately, of turning back, of slipping into the shadows before the doors groaned open. But your body betrayed you, feet heavy as lead. The weight of expectation pressed down harder than the stone above.

The doors swung inward with a sound like a sigh — low, groaning, ancient.

Inside was a vast chamber, colder than the corridor, lit only by firelight spilling from braziers fixed along the walls. The flames burned too high, green licking at their edges, throwing warped shadows across the stone floor. A long table stretched through the center, empty save for a scattering of silver goblets.

At the far end of the room sat a figure.

You had seen his face before in moving photographs, crude sketches, whispered warnings. But none of them had prepared you for the reality.

Voldemort was thin to the point of inhuman, his skin pale as bone, stretched tight over sharp angles. His eyes — red, gleaming — fixed on you the moment you crossed the threshold. It was not the kind of gaze you could hide from. It pierced, dissected.

You froze, air locked in your chest.

Mattheo did not bow. Did not falter. He walked into the chamber with the same steady pace, his head held level, his expression as cold as the stone beneath your feet. You followed only because your body moved after him, pulled forward like a shadow.

The silence grew heavier the closer you came. Each step sounded too loud, your shoes striking against the floor as though announcing your presence with cruel clarity.

Finally, Mattheo stopped a few feet from the table. His voice, calm, even, cut through the quiet.

“My Lord.”

That was all. No flourish, no reverence.

Voldemort leaned back slightly in his chair, his long fingers curling against the armrest. His eyes shifted to you, sharp as a knife’s edge.

“And this,” he said, voice like silk dragged across stone, “is the girl.”

The words coiled around your throat like a hand.

You opened your mouth before you could stop yourself, your voice trembling though you tried to steady it. “Y/N… Y/N Y/L/N.”

The silence after your name echoed was unbearable. Voldemort’s gaze lingered on you, unblinking, dissecting, as if peeling you apart layer by layer without ever moving from his seat.

You had thought his voice was the most unsettling thing about him, but it was not. It was the way he waited. The way he let the weight of his attention sink into your skin until your breath stuttered.

“You are smaller than I expected,” he murmured at last, his tone light — almost conversational, though nothing about it felt harmless. “And pale. Your mother does not feed you enough, perhaps?”

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to come out though it wavered. “I… I eat enough, my Lord.”

The words tasted foreign on your tongue, but you could not bring yourself to omit the title. Not here. Not with those eyes fixed on you.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his thin lips curved in what might have been the ghost of a smile, sharp and mirthless. “Polite. Cautious. And frightened.”

Heat crept up your neck, shame prickling under your skin. He had named it so easily — fear. You felt suddenly exposed, stripped of every mask you thought you could wear.

Voldemort’s gaze flicked past you to Mattheo. “Leave us.”

The command was soft, but it carried such weight that the torches themselves seemed to bow in their flames.

Mattheo stiffened almost imperceptibly at your side. His eyes, for the first time since you had descended the staircase, moved to you. There was no comfort in them, no reassurance — only the cool calculation of someone measuring distance, deciding how much it mattered.

Then he turned, wordless, and walked out. The great doors groaned closed behind him, their echo sealing you into the chamber like the lid of a coffin.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to call after him, to protest, to say you should not be left alone — but the sound stuck.

Voldemort leaned forward, his long fingers folding together atop the table. “Do you know why you are here, child?”

The word child made your spine stiffen, though your voice betrayed you with its thinness. “To… to be engaged to Mattheo Riddle.”

He studied you for a long time, eyes narrowing slightly, as if testing how true your words felt to him. Then, softly, almost like a purr: “Engaged. A pretty word for a chain.”

Your stomach twisted.

I really love your stories. I discovered them last week and ever since then I started binge reading all your fics.

So, just a question, it's absolutely okay if you don't answer but, what's your type in men?

Hello,

Thank you so much, I am so glad you enjoy them.

My type in men?

Well, he definitely must have basic decency and have things called boundaries and consent, but this is is the bare minimum and I am pretty sure this is what every girl expects.

He should be understanding, caring, sweet, possessive with limits, and most of all, he should be able to comfort me when I overthink, especially seeing that I am a certified overthinker.

Part One: The Deal Part Two: The Dark Mark Burns Hotter

Title: Black Tie, Red Blood Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Pureblood!Reader AU Setting: Post-War, Dark Marriage Contract AU Genre: Dark Romance, Political Intrigue, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn Word Count (Part One): ~5.7k (more or less)

Warnings: Arranged marriage, power imbalance, subtle possessiveness, dark themes. manipulation, Voldemort lives (unfortunately), Slow emotional unraveling, sharp dialogue, cold tension, hints of obsession / quiet attraction.

Summary: In a world where the Dark Lord reigns and bloodlines rule, your marriage to Mattheo Riddle is a political contract inked in shadows, silence, and legacy. You are not a pawn. He is not a prince. And this is not a love story—not yet. They called it an alliance. You called it a surrender wrapped in silk.

The chandelier above the ballroom was a monstrous thing—crystal and gold, shaped like a crown, casting fractured light onto the polished marble floor below. It glittered like shattered starlight, reflecting off champagne flutes and diamond earrings, off the glossy lips of daughters bred for alliances and the cold smiles of sons taught to conquer.

You hated everything about it.

The dress, the lace gloves, the too-tight corset beneath fabric that shimmered faintly like spilled ink. You hated the guests, their eager, greedy stares, their too-smooth laughter that always sounded just a beat off from genuine joy. And most of all, you hated what this night meant.

An alliance. A merging of two powerful bloodlines. A political maneuver dressed in elegance and tradition.

Your marriage.

"Walk slowly," your mother murmured behind you as you stood at the top of the grand staircase. Her hand ghosted over your back, a gentle push that carried the weight of centuries. "And smile. As if you chose this."

You didn’t look at her. Your gaze was fixed on the floor below, where black-robed aristocrats sipped wine and whispered behind bejeweled masks of civility. The center of the ballroom had been cleared for your descent, a stage set for performance.

You stepped forward.

Each click of your heel echoed. The descent was slow, deliberate. Practiced. Your chin was lifted, your expression smooth—polished and pleasant, like marble. And inside, beneath the velvet and diamonds and centuries of noble blood, you burned.

He wasn’t there yet. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mattheo Riddle didn’t descend the stairs so much as claim them.

Slowly. Deliberately. Like the room had already bent to his presence before his foot hit the ground.

He wore black. Of course. But not the formal kind. His collar was loose. The buttons at his cuffs undone. No tie. No gloves. Like tradition didn’t touch him—and if it did, it wouldn’t survive it.

People parted without being asked.

You didn’t look away as he approached. Not when he smirked, not when his eyes did that slow, infuriating drag from your lips to your neckline to your waist. He was cataloguing you. Measuring.

He stopped in front of you.

Close enough that your families would call it appropriate. Far enough that it wasn’t.

"You’re late," you said quietly.

He didn’t blink. "You expected me to be on time?"

"I expected you to try."

"I don’t do that either."

The corner of your mouth tilted, not quite a smile. "Pity."

"I could say the same about your dress."

You held his stare. "You’ve already said more than I care to hear."

His mouth twitched like he was enjoying himself.

So you stepped back. Just half a pace. Just enough to show him you didn’t need to be near him to be in control.

"Shall we begin?" you asked, voice cool.

He offered his arm without speaking. You took it with fingers that barely touched his sleeve.

You hated the way the heat of him lingered against your skin even when he let go.

They called it a celebration, but it felt like a funeral.

Engagements were usually grand events, of course. Pureblood alliances required ceremony. Witnesses. A show of strength. But this was more than that.

This was the announcement of a consolidation of power. The binding of two houses that had once stayed separate out of pride, but now, in the world Voldemort had claimed, were too valuable to keep apart.

Your father had agreed months ago. Your mother, reluctantly. You? You’d been told.

The contract had been drawn in a room you weren’t invited to. Signed before you saw it.

And now, you were the prize handed to a boy you’d never spoken to.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The announcement was made by a man whose name you didn’t bother to remember. A Ministry official, low-ranking but well-dressed, with enough poise to pretend this wasn’t just another step in a larger game.

Words like legacy, future, honor, and unity were tossed around like confetti. The names of your families were spoken with reverence, and when yours was said, you heard the subtle murmur ripple through the crowd.

They hadn’t expected you.

They’d expected someone quieter. Someone more manageable.

And instead, they got you.

When Mattheo’s name followed yours, the room stilled. Not in fear—fear was too familiar. It was anticipation.

The engagement ring was presented in a black velvet box. Inside was a band of silver etched with runes you couldn’t decipher, cold and ancient. The stone in the center was a dark garnet, nearly black.

Mattheo didn’t take the ring.

So you did.

You slipped it onto your own finger without hesitation.

You felt his eyes on your hands. Not surprised. Not impressed.

Curious.

There was something in the way he looked at you.

Like he was measuring your ruin. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You didn’t dance.

It was tradition, but no one dared ask why it was skipped. Not when he hadn’t offered. Not when you hadn’t accepted. Not when the two of you stood at the center of the ballroom like matched daggers.

Instead, you left first. Without waiting for him.

He found you later on the upper balcony, overlooking the black gardens. The stars above were silver pinpricks in a bruised sky. Below, the party dripped on, laughter and music muffled by stained glass and distance.

You didn’t turn when you heard the door open.

"Why you?" you asked quietly.

He leaned against the stone railing beside you. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to be felt.

"Why not?"

You glanced at him. "Was this your idea?"

He didn’t lie.

"No."

"But you didn’t refuse."

"No."

The quiet stretched again. A different kind of silence than the one you shared downstairs. This one wasn’t about performance.

"Why not?" you asked.

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

"Because I don’t lose what’s mine."

You turned to face him fully.

The wind caught your dress, and a curl slipped free from your pinned hair. You didn’t brush it back. He didn’t reach for it.

"I don’t belong to anyone," you said, voice even.

He watched you.

"Not even yourself?"

You smiled, slow and dangerous. "Especially not me."

The line sat between you like a challenge.

And he didn’t answer.

He just looked at you a little too long.

Like he had no intention of forgetting that answer. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When you returned to your room that night, the ring still heavy on your hand, you found a note on your pillow.

No name. No seal. Just black ink, neatly folded.

If you’re planning to kill me, don’t poison the wine. I like that one.

You lit it on fire without a second thought.

But the smoke smelled like something you couldn’t quite forget.

"Black Ties, Red Blood"

Mattheo Riddle wants this marriage. Y/N doesn’t.

A contract binds them. Secrets and power threaten to destroy them both. Because loyalty isn't given. It's taken. Coming soon.

Pairing: Theodore Nott × Muggle!Reader Word Count: ~6.5k Setting: London, Modern AU, Art Gallery Warnings: Loss mentioned, Theo being quietly soft, mutual curiosity, slow-burn tension, fluff at the end ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He hadn’t meant to go in.

The gallery was one of those tucked-away London places—down an alley just wide enough for memory. A narrow stone building painted white, with a sign in handwritten serif: “vermilion.”

It was raining.

He needed somewhere to be that wasn’t home.

So he went in.

It smelled like lavender and old paint. There was music playing quietly from somewhere near the ceiling—piano, gentle and raw, like someone trying not to cry.

And you were there. In the corner.

Back to him. One hand tucked under your chin. The other folded in the sleeve of a sweater too big to belong to anyone but you.

You were looking at a painting.

Not just looking—seeing.

Theo stopped, unsure why.

There were maybe ten other people in the space, but something about you cut through all of it. You stood in front of an oil canvas: blurred faces, foggy skyline, brushstrokes like memory in motion. Sad and soft.

He felt the echo of it in his chest.

You turned slightly, just enough to notice him.

And smiled.

It wasn’t the kind of smile you gave strangers. It wasn’t flirty or forced or polite.

It was curious. Gentle.

Like you'd just remembered something good.

And Theo—who hadn't felt like something good in years—looked away before it could crush him ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He saw you again the next Thursday.

Same gallery.

This time, you were sketching. Notebook balanced on your knee. Fingers smudged with graphite. There was a quiet concentration in your brow, a softness in the way you tilted your head.

You didn't look up right away.

He moved toward the piece beside you, pretending to study it. It was a red-on-red abstract—jagged lines and dripping tension.

You glanced over and spoke first.

“Do you like it?”

Theo startled slightly. Then shrugged. “Not sure.”

You smiled again—barely. “That’s valid.”

“Do you?”

You considered. “I like that it’s honest. Ugly, maybe. But honest.”

He looked at you more fully then. Something in his chest shifted. You didn’t ask who he was. You didn’t fill the silence. You just let it breathe.

He didn't realize he'd missed that. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t give you a name that day.

You didn’t ask.

But every Thursday after, he showed up.

And so did you.

Sometimes you talked—about art, mostly, and strange street musicians, and the way London always smelled like wet stone in the winter. You never pried. He never offered too much.

But it was something.

Quiet. Growing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One evening, a month into this ritual, he found you in front of the painting again—the same one as the first day.

Fog. Faces. Brushstrokes like grief.

“You always come back to this one,” he murmured beside you.

You nodded. “Feels familiar.”

Theo looked at the canvas, then at you. “You’ve lost someone.”

You didn’t answer right away. “Yeah.”

He wanted to reach for your hand. Didn’t.

“And you?” you asked, voice soft.

“I lost both of them. My parents.”

You turned to face him fully, and your eyes—god, your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Theo hadn’t heard those words in a long time.

He just nodded.

Then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you said, “Want to go get tea?” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He didn’t know why he said yes.

Only that he wanted to keep standing next to you.

You walked to a café three streets over. You ordered something warm and floral. He got black tea and sugar, because it was all he knew.

You talked about everything but magic.

He told you about books. War poets. Old film photography.

You told him about your part-time job at a dusty used bookstore, your favorite dog who lived down the lane, and how you sometimes painted on your windows when it rained.

He was quiet most of the time. But his silences weren’t cold anymore.

You didn’t push. You didn’t fill. You just let him be. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He kissed you after six Thursdays.

It was raining. Again.

You stood under the gallery’s narrow awning, both of you damp with December air, and he looked at you like you were a painting that hadn’t stopped making sense since the first time he saw it.

“Can I?” he asked.

You nodded.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t fire.

It was peace.

Something inside him softened. Something inside you opened.

Neither of you said anything after.

You didn’t need to. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The truth came later.

Weeks after the first time he held your hand like it meant something.

You were sketching in your apartment, and he looked at your pencil and said, “That’s dragon hide.”

You blinked. “What?”

He stared at it. Then at you.

Shit.

You sat back slowly. “Theo…”

“I’m not—exactly what you think I am.”

You nodded. Waited.

“I’m not from this world,” he said, voice even. “At least… not all the way.”

And then he told you.

Magic.

Wands. Hogwarts. His past. The war.

All of it.

You listened.

When he was done, he waited for you to stand. To walk away.

You didn’t.

You reached over. Took his hand.

“So… you’re telling me I kissed a wizard.”

His breath caught.

Then—he laughed.

It wasn’t perfect after that. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some days, he flinched at loud sounds.

Some nights, you found him awake, eyes glassy, past pulling at his ribs.

But he let you in. Slowly.

You filled the cracks.

Not with light.

But with color. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He took you to Diagon Alley in March.

You painted the walls of his flat in April.

You said I love you in June.

He kissed the words into your mouth like they’d been waiting. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gallery is still there.

He goes alone sometimes, when you’re away. When he’s afraid of losing what he has.

He stands in front of that painting.

The fog. The grief. The blurred faces.

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

Not the way it used to.

Because now—when he turns his head—he can still smell lavender.

Pairing: Tony Stark × Sister!Reader Word count: ~3.2k Warnings: Sibling fluff, light injury mention, overprotective!Tony, big brother energy, sarcasm and softness, comfort scenes ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The mission had been simple. Supposed to be, anyway.

Until it wasn’t.

And now you were limping into the tower at two a.m., hoodie streaked with grime, shoulder throbbing, and your communicator buzzing with a dozen missed calls.

All from one person.

“Don’t freak out,” you muttered under your breath, stepping out of the elevator and bracing for it.

“Too late.”

You flinched.

Tony was already there, standing with arms crossed in the middle of the living room, dressed in joggers and a Black Sabbath tee, like he hadn’t been pacing the floor for an hour straight.

“Hey,” you tried.

“‘Hey’? Hey?” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve got blood on your sleeve. I’m guessing that’s yours?”

You looked down. “Oh. Yeah. Just a scratch—”

Tony was already moving.

He stepped closer, checking your face, your hands, the side of your ribcage like you were made of glass. “You didn’t answer your comm.”

“I dropped it.”

“And you didn’t pick it up because?”

“I was a little busy dodging literal fireballs?”

Tony stared at you. “You know what I like? Fireballs. Fireballs are predictable. You know what I don’t like? My little sister coming back from a mission looking like she wrestled a dragon.”

You gave him a crooked smile. “It wasn’t a dragon. It was a mutant with explosives.”

“Great. That’s so much better.”

The mission had been simple. Supposed to be, anyway.

Until it wasn’t.

And now you were limping into the tower at two a.m., hoodie streaked with grime, shoulder throbbing, and your communicator buzzing with a dozen missed calls.

All from one person.

“Don’t freak out,” you muttered under your breath, stepping out of the elevator and bracing for it.

“Too late.”

You flinched.

Tony was already there, standing with arms crossed in the middle of the living room, dressed in joggers and a Black Sabbath tee, like he hadn’t been pacing the floor for an hour straight.

“Hey,” you tried.

“‘Hey’? Hey?” His eyes narrowed. “You’ve got blood on your sleeve. I’m guessing that’s yours?”

You looked down. “Oh. Yeah. Just a scratch—”

Tony was already moving.

He stepped closer, checking your face, your hands, the side of your ribcage like you were made of glass. “You didn’t answer your comm.”

“I dropped it.”

“And you didn’t pick it up because?”

“I was a little busy dodging literal fireballs?”

Tony stared at you. “You know what I like? Fireballs. Fireballs are predictable. You know what I don’t like? My little sister coming back from a mission looking like she wrestled a dragon.”

You gave him a crooked smile. “It wasn’t a dragon. It was a mutant with explosives.”

“Great. That’s so much better.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He sat you on the edge of the kitchen island and started grabbing supplies from the cabinet like he didn’t do this at least once a week.

“Don’t be dramatic,” you said, wincing as he dabbed at the gash on your shoulder.

“I’m not being dramatic. You know what I am being? Reasonable. Rational. Maybe even a little traumatized.” He paused. “Actually, yeah. Let’s go with traumatized.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding and limping and trying to gaslight me into thinking that’s normal.”

“It kind of is normal around here.”

“Not for you,” he muttered.

You looked at him.

That’s the thing about Tony. He could make a room laugh in five seconds, crash a million-dollar suit into the ocean and call it strategy, flirt with the universe. But when it came to you—he went quiet.

Still.

Solid.

“You scared me,” he admitted finally, keeping his gaze fixed on your arm.

That made you blink. “I’m sorry.”

He sighed, set down the cloth, and finally looked up.

“You know I’d tear this place apart if anything happened to you, right?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I know.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After patching you up, he threw a blanket over your shoulders, handed you a hot chocolate, and plopped down beside you on the couch.

“You’re not going out with the team again this week,” he said.

“Tony—”

“Don’t fight me on this. I’ll call Steve and pull sibling rank if I have to.”

You snorted. “You don’t have sibling rank. You bought your way into it.”

“I pay for this tower. I make the rules.”

“Okay, Dad.”

He shot you a glare. “Low blow.”

You grinned into your cup. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

But then his hand found yours under the blanket. Warm. Protective.

Real.

“You really are the best thing I’ve ever built, y'know,” he murmured, barely audible.

You bumped your shoulder against his.

“And you’re the most dramatic.”

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Gryffindor!Animagus!Reader Setting: 6th year, Hogwarts Word Count: ~4.3k Warnings: Mild injury mention, slow-burn rivals-to-lovers energy, animagus mishap, fluffy ending, potion-making, Theo being quiet but painfully soft deep down ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You knew something was wrong the second your paws touched the floor.

You’d done the transformation a dozen times before—quick, clean, no fuss. It was your secret. Your rebellion. Animagus training had been private, hidden from the school, your friends, and especially from him.

But this time… something cracked.

You landed in your cat form—sleek, black, silent—and then tried to shift back.

Nothing.

No twitch of magic. No pull in your bones. Just whiskers. And a tail.

And rising panic.

You hissed softly, pacing in a slow circle. Your ears twitched.

This was bad.

You were stuck.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You should’ve stayed hidden.

In fact, if your Gryffindor impulse didn’t override basic logic every five minutes, you would have. But you were injured—limping from a fall near the Owlery, where your back paw had twisted on the wet stone—and wandering the castle for help, even as a cat, felt better than freezing to death alone.

That’s when you saw him.

Theodore Nott.

Alone, as always. Long robes, satchel slung carelessly over one shoulder, dark curls falling into his eyes. He was leaning against a hallway arch, half-reading some crumpled parchment and half-scowling like someone had personally offended his ancestors.

You paused in the shadows.

Anyone but him.

You debated. Turned around. Then turned back. Damn it.

Your paw landed on the tile wrong again, and you let out a weak meow—half pain, half frustration.

He looked up immediately.

His brow furrowed. “...The hell?”

You tried to run.

You made it two steps before stumbling again, paw skidding slightly.

“Wait,” he muttered, approaching.

You hissed, just once.

He ignored it.

“You’re limping,” he said, crouching slowly, like someone who’d never had a pet and was just guessing how to behave. “Lost?”

You didn’t move.

He exhaled through his nose. “...Fine. I’ll regret this, but... come on.”

He picked you up carefully—awkwardly, like you might explode—but he didn’t drop you. And he didn’t mock you, which was worse. He just held you close to his chest, mumbling something under his breath about “Gryffindor cats getting themselves killed.”

You couldn’t help it.

You leaned against him, just slightly.

He didn’t push you away.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke up the next morning on a couch.

Not just any couch—his couch. The one in the back corner of the Slytherin common room, tucked near the hearth with an old green blanket thrown over it.

You’d slept there before.

But as a cat.

And you were still a cat.

You cursed silently, curling tighter.

Theodore Nott walked in a minute later with a steaming mug and a tired scowl.

“Still here, then,” he muttered, setting the drink on the table.

You watched him pace, digging through books.

He’d brought you here last night. Set you down gently. Even conjured a little bowl of water. He hadn’t left your side—not once. You remembered him sitting there for hours, silently reading with one hand resting lightly on your back.

Like he cared.

(Which he didn’t. Right?)

Then he froze.

“...Wait.”

He looked at the clock.

“Shit.”

He turned toward the door, then paused. Blinked. And turned back to you.

“Gryffindor,” he said slowly. “The loud one. Always late. Always arguing.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Where were you this morning?”

You blinked.

He stared.

“...No.”

You tilted your head.

“No way.”

He took two steps back, like you’d physically slapped him.

“You’re—no. You can’t be—”

You meowed.

He groaned. “Fuck.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Theodore Nott had never moved so fast in his life.

He dug through his potions notes like a madman, muttering under his breath, pacing the room while you curled into a sad ball on the sofa.

“A reversal brew would work if I knew the exact spell that botched the transformation—except I don’t, because some idiot decided not to file their Animagus registration—”

You hissed.

“You are an idiot,” he snapped, still flipping pages. “What kind of person gets stuck as a cat and doesn’t immediately go to someone competent?”

You just glared.

He stopped. Met your eyes. His softened.

“...Sorry.”

You blinked.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Look. I’m not good at... people. But I’m good at potions. So just—give me a minute.”

You didn’t trust him. Not really.

But you wanted to.

So you waited.

Watched as he measured, crushed, stirred. His focus was razor-sharp, his hands careful. You’d never seen him this close for this long. Never seen the way his eyes went gold in certain light. Never realized how soft his voice could get when he wasn’t being defensive.

An hour passed.

He set the cauldron down, gently, and walked over.

“It’ll work,” he said quietly. “But it might sting.”

You stared up at him.

He offered his hand.

“Ready?”

You pawed at his fingers once, then nodded.

He poured the potion into a silver saucer, waited for you to drink.

You did.

And then everything burned.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke up gasping, tangled in the blanket on the couch, very much human and very much dizzy.

Theodore was hovering.

“You’re alive,” he said, like he wasn’t relieved at all.

You blinked at him. “You brewed a transformation reversal potion.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You also called me an idiot.”

“Still true.”

You laughed, then winced.

He handed you water. “Don’t get used to this.”

You took it.

“...Thank you,” you said, softly.

He shrugged. “Someone had to help you. And apparently, I’m the only one who doesn’t actively hate you.”

You grinned. “You’re not very good at compliments.”

“I’m excellent at insults.”

You leaned back on the couch, finally relaxed.

He didn’t move away.

And when your shoulder brushed his, he didn’t pull back.

Just whispered, “...You looked ridiculous as a cat.”

“You carried me around like I was royalty.”

He smirked. “You purred when I scratched your ears.”

“You fed me.”

“You nuzzled.”

You flushed.

He didn’t look away.

“Just promise me something,” he said, voice low.

“What?”

“Next time you get yourself stuck in an Animagus form…”

You raised an eyebrow. “There won’t be a next time.”

“Just—if there is,” he said, “don’t go to anyone else.”

You blinked.

“Come to me,” he said softly.

You didn’t answer.

Pairing: Theodore Nott × Pureblood!Female Reader Word Count: ~3.1k Warnings: mild language, light obsession with time magic, mentions of Ministry surveillance, clever!reader keeping Theo alive, tension you could cut with a blade ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time you stepped into the tattoo shop, the floor creaked like it was trying to warn you.

“Could’ve picked anywhere,” you muttered, eyeing the dust-covered sink and the cracked mirror across the wall. “An alley behind Borgin and Burkes. An actual ruin. Your mother’s drawing room. But no. You picked this.”

“I liked the vibe,” Theodore Nott said, not looking up.

He was crouched near the back, surrounded by parchment and thin gold chains and so many scattered brass components it looked like a mechanical owl had exploded.

“Did the vibe also include tetanus?” you asked.

Theo made a vague noise—something between a hum and a sigh—and held up a nearly-finished time-turner to the light. It caught in the sunbeam from the boarded-up window, glittering faintly.

You had to admit: it was beautiful. Even if it was completely illegal.

“Do you want to lecture me again?” he asked absently. “Because I’ve already pre-regretted everything.”

“I’m just saying,” you replied, crossing your arms. “If the Ministry catches you, I’m not testifying on your behalf. I’m too pretty for Azkaban.”

That made him look up—finally.

One eyebrow arched, lips twitching. “That’s your concern? Not the ethics of time manipulation, or the international ban on non-regulated devices?”

“I’m a Slytherin, Theo,” you said, stepping closer and plucking a loose gear from the floor. “My only concern is who’s watching.”

He smiled—barely—and went back to adjusting the sand chamber. You watched the way his fingers worked, deft and practiced. There was something obsessive in the way he handled them—something reverent.

Time was a religion to him. He just happened to be building the altar by hand.

“Have you eaten today?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

“Define eaten.”

You sighed and flicked your wand. A buttered sandwich appeared on a relatively clean corner of the table.

“Magic, Theo. Ever heard of it?”

“I was about to make one,” he muttered.

“With your hands, which are covered in brass dust and mild self-loathing.”

“I work better this way.”

“You’re going to work yourself into an early grave,” you muttered, but you sat next to him anyway, knee knocking gently against his. Not enough to distract. Just enough to remind him you were there. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By week three, you had your own workbench.

“You don’t have to stay,” he’d said the second night, when you were still in a proper cloak and perfume that cost more than this entire building.

“I know,” you’d replied. “But you’d blow yourself up without me.”

He hadn’t argued.

Now your cloak hung on the wall beside his, and your hair was usually pulled back in the same messy bun you’d teased him about the first night.

You wore boots instead of heels. Gloves instead of rings. And the space beside him had become... familiar.

You fell into a rhythm. He built. You enchanted. He paced. You filed Ministry alerts and reworked wards and told him—again—that no, he could not use dragon blood as a stabilizer unless he wanted to combust in real time.

Some days, you didn’t talk much. Some days, it was all bickering.

But every day, he listened to you more than anyone else.

Even when he pretended not to. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One afternoon, you walked in and found him levitating a series of hourglasses above the worktable, the chains gleaming like galaxies.

You watched for a moment.

“Pretty,” you said.

“They’re not stable,” he muttered. “The flow rate’s off by three milliseconds. I’ve recalibrated twice.”

You raised your wand. Flicked. Re-set the stasis charm.

They steadied immediately.

Theo stared at you. “How did you—?”

“Magic,” you said, deadpan. “It’s crazy, I know.”

He looked away, ears faintly pink.

You smiled. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes, when he got really into it—lost in theory, logic, impossibility—you’d catch him muttering under his breath in Latin.

Other times, he'd be so quiet you thought he'd disappeared.

But he was always there. Somewhere in the corner. Deep in the spiral of what time could be. What it had stolen. What he might one day take back.

You didn’t ask what he wanted them for. Not yet.

You weren’t sure he was ready to tell you.

But you stayed anyway.

Because maybe, deep down, you understood. Some people ran from time.

Theo wanted to tame it.

And you?