#harry x lestrange!reader

[slytherinsimp12]

₊˚⊹♡ 𝓞𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓫𝔂 𝓝𝓪𝓶𝓮₊˚⊹♡

Pairing: Harry Potter x Lestrange!reader

Summary: Y/N spent her entire life at beauxbatons. Her whole world turned upside down when her mother she never met escaped Azkaban, forcing her to transfer to Hogwarts in her 5th year for her safety. Harry knows he should stay away. She’s a Lestrange, the daughter of the woman who destroyed part of his world. But the more he sees of Y/N, the harder it becomes to believe that blood decides who we are.

Author’s note: Hey cuties! I wrote this fic in a moment of creativity when I decided I wanted to put my A- levels in english to use. This is kinda different from my usual writing style- it’s more bookish vibes ig. I’m also currently working on the entire story- including Y/n’s point of view- from when she finds out about the transfer to living in Malfoy manor till falling for Harry. Let me know if you guys would be interested in reading that. Happy reading xx.

Update- Wrote a sequel

He noticed her the moment she walked in.

She wore the red and gold like it didn’t quite belong to her yet. Her head was high, her gaze unreadable, but not cold. Observant. Detached. Controlled, almost. She sat at the far end of the table, away from the usual clusters of fifth years. Her plate was untouched.

“Who is that?” Harry asked, squinting slightly. Hermione’s head snapped up like she’d been waiting for the question.

“That,” she said, voice low but intense, “is Y/N Lestrange.”

Harry frowned. “Lestrange?”

“As in Bellatrix Lestrange,” Hermione hissed, like the name might hex the table. “She transferred from Beauxbatons. A week ago. After her mother escaped. Apparently Dumbledore had to step in personally to get her in. No other school would take her.”

Harry blinked. “She’s in Gryffindor?”

“Yes!” Hermione waved her fork like it was part of the argument. “No one knows how the hat made that decision, but people are saying stuff about her… you tell him Ron.”

Ron leaned in with a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Total nutter, mate. Looks normal, but I heard she hexed a portrait on her first night because it looked at her funny.”

“Ron,” Hermione snapped. “That’s a rumor.”

“Still. Her mum tortured Neville’s parents. She’s bound to be a bit cracked.”

Harry didn’t answer. He was still watching her.

She didn’t look like someone dangerous. Or unhinged. She didn’t carry herself like someone craving attention, or trying to prove anything. She just… was. Quiet. She didn’t laugh when the first years made a mess. She didn’t even look uncomfortable sitting alone.

She looked up suddenly- maybe sensing eyes on her and her gaze met his. Harry froze. It wasn’t cold. Or hostile. It wasn’t even particularly curious. It was just… calm. Like she’d already figured something out about him, and wasn’t surprised.

He dropped his gaze first.

He felt Hermione watching him and shook his head. “She doesn’t seem like—”

“She’s her daughter, Harry,” Hermione whispered. “That doesn’t just go away.”

Harry frowned, but said nothing.

Because something told him this girl was nothing like the story they were trying to write for her.And whether he liked it or not, he wanted to know why.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Harry rounded the corner toward the Fat Lady’s portrait and nearly bumped into someone already standing there.

Y/N Lestrange.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder at him, arms folded. “Why won’t she bloody let me in…” She mumbled under her breath.

Harry blinked. “Um… you have to tell her the password.”

“Password?” A puzzled look spread across her face.

“It’s snargaluff root.” Harry said.

The Fat Lady sniffed. “Well finally. I was beginning to think she was just decorating the corridor.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry… first the staircases try to throw me down three times, and now I need to impress a talking portrait to get to bed. What’s next, a hallway that quizzes me on wand theory or eats my shoes if I get it wrong?”

Harry smiled,surprised; he didn’t expect her to be funny.

The portrait swung open with a dramatic sigh. They stepped into the common room together. It was late. The low crackle of the fire filled the room.

Y/N stretched out her hand,

“I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N Lestrange….” Harry continued, shaking her hand.

“Sorry- I’m Harry.”

“Harry Potter.” She finished.

Harry had seen Bellatrix Lestrange’s face before—smeared across wanted posters, screaming from the memory in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, twisted with madness and cruelty. And yet, no matter how much he stared at Y/N, he couldn’t find even a trace of that face in hers. Her features were softer, steadier. Her eyes weren’t wild; they were soft and kind. There was no madness in her smile. No chaos in the way she was. If anything, she carried herself like someone trying not to be noticed.

Harry glanced at her, curious. “So… you settling in alright?”

Y/N gave a small shrug. “As well as someone with a homicidal mother and a French accent can in a room full of people who think I sleep with a dagger under my pillow.”

Harry blinked, caught between concern and trying not to laugh. “Do you?”

She smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He grinned despite himself. “Only a little.”

“Goodnight, Potter,” she said, already halfway to the stairs.

“Night,” he said, still watching her go.

He sat down on the nearest couch and stared into the fire, frowning.

He didn’t know what was happening.

But he was pretty sure it had just started.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The classroom smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and something burning—probably the result of Neville’s most recent attempt at a Shield Charm. Harry slid into his usual seat in the back corner of Charms, only to realize Ron and Hermione were already mid-whispered conversation across the row.

“He’s doing it again,” Ron muttered, eyes flicking toward the door.

“Of course he is,” Hermione said, sighing. “Three months ago, he barely noticed she existed, and now—”

Harry looked up just as Y/N walked in.

She didn’t make a show of anything. She never did. She just nodded to Professor Flitwick, scanned the room, and made her way toward the empty seat next to him without hesitation.

“Potter,” she said, dropping her bag onto the desk with a small smirk.

He grinned. “Lestrange.”

She arched a brow. “Still not scared of me? You’re losing your touch.”

“Terrified, actually. I’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”

She gave a quiet, sarcastic laugh as she pulled out her wand. Harry caught himself staring again—not at anything in particular, just her. The way her hair fell forward when she leaned over her notes, how her quill moved fast and messy but confident, how she always seemed like she was both in the room and somewhere far away.

Three months ago, she was a stranger with a reputation.

Now, she was… something else.

Class ended too quickly.

As they packed up, Y/N turned to him and said, “Try not to miss me until next period, yeah?”

“You assume I will,” he shot back.

“You always do,” she said with a wink, then disappeared into the hallway crowd.

Harry was still grinning when Ron and Hermione flanked him on both sides.

Hermione didn’t waste time. “You’ve gotten close to her.”

Harry blinked. “Yeah? So?”

Ron frowned. “Mate, we’re not saying you can’t talk to her. Just—don’t forget who her family is.”

“Right,” Hermione added quickly. “We know she’s in Gryffindor, and we’re not saying she’s her mother—but Bellatrix Lestrange isn’t just a name, Harry. She tortured people. She killed people.”

Harry exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I know who her mum is. Believe me. But Y/N’s not like her. She’s—”

“What?” Ron asked, folding his arms. “Different? Misunderstood? The ‘funny, cool’ kind of Lestrange?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. The thing was, he didn’t have a clear reason. Just… a feeling. A pull. When he was around her, the world quieted down. She didn’t treat him like the Chosen One. She didn’t flinch at his past or parade hers. She was just real.

“I don’t know what she is,” he said honestly. “But she’s not her mother. And I’m not going to treat her like she is.”

Hermione sighed, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press further.

As they walked to their next class, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about that last look Y/N gave him.

The way she smiled—not sweet, not soft, but like she saw him and didn’t care who he was supposed to be.

And maybe that’s what scared him most.

Because every time he looked at her, he felt himself slipping.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The library was quiet. A few students sat hunched over textbooks, and Madam Pince watched them all like they might steal the shelves. Harry hadn’t planned on staying long. He came in looking for notes on their DADA essay, but he hadn’t made much progress—mostly because Y/N was sitting across from him.

She was reading, her quill tucked behind her ear, hair falling slightly over one eye as she leaned over her book. She made a face—half confused, half annoyed—and Harry caught himself smiling.Then she looked up.

He dropped his gaze to his own book too quickly. Definitely too obvious.

“You’ve been on the same sentence for twenty minutes,” she said.

Harry looked up slowly. “Just… taking it in.”

She smirked. “That parchment must be very moving.”

He let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. The writer really captured the emotional arc of ‘Wand Movements: A Historical Analysis.’”

Y/N tilted her head. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Harry leaned back in his chair. “And you’re surprisingly good at reading people.”

She looked at him for a second. Not teasing. Not sarcastic. Just… quiet.

“I’ve had practice,” she said softly.

He wasn’t sure what made him ask, but the words came out before he could stop them. “Do you miss it? Beauxbatons?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. She looked down at her hands, turning her quill between her fingers.

“Sometimes. It was cold, the rules were insane, and the food was too pretty to eat… but no one looked at me like I was a walking headline.”

Harry nodded slowly. “We’re good at that here.”

“Yeah.” She gave a dry laugh.

Harry’s gaze didn’t leave her face. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

She looked up again, and this time, she didn’t look away. Her voice was quiet, but steady.

“You don’t believe I’m like her, do you?”

Harry didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure he could. Because everything in his life- every reason, every scar, every instinct, should’ve told him to run.

But instead, he said, “No. I don’t.”

Something shifted then. Barely a breath. But it was there. It was there in the way her eyes softened with relief. The way her lips parted slightly, like she might say something else, but didn’t.

Harry’s heart was beating faster than it should have been.

She looked away first this time. “Good. Because I’m tired of pretending I’m not afraid I might be.”

“Then I’ll remind you,” he said.

Y/N looked back up at him, startled.

“Whenever you forget who you are,” Harry said, voice low, “I’ll remind you.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Hogsmeade in winter was something out of a postcard—snow lining the rooftops, warm butterbeer fogging up frosted windows, students crunching along the path in thick scarves. For once, Harry wasn’t thinking about the cold, or even the war.

He was thinking about her.

Y/N walked beside him, her gloved hands buried in her coat pockets, cheeks flushed from the wind. She was quiet—but not in the withdrawn way she got around others. It was the kind of quiet that felt easy, like she didn’t need to fill the silence. Like just walking next to him was enough.It was.

They were just passing Honeydukes when the voice came from behind.

“Well, well,” drawled Draco Malfoy. “Didn’t think I’d find a Lestrange slumming it with Potter.”

Y/N stopped, jaw tightening

Draco stepped forward, his smirk already venomous. “Your mum would be so proud. First Gryffindor, now roaming with a half-blood. You’re practically a Weasley in disguise.”

Y/N’s face didn’t move, but her hands curled slightly at her sides.

Draco kept going. “What do you think she’d say if she saw you now? Holding hands with the ‘Chosen one’, cozying up to the very people she wanted dead? Guess blood doesn’t mean much when you’re desperate to belong.”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry said sharply.

Draco snorted. “What, going to defend your little project? You think she’s some tragic misunderstood soul? She’s just like the rest of her family. She’ll break the second you trust her.”

Harry didn’t think. He just drew his wand.

A second later, Draco was knocked flat on the icy path, skidding backward like someone had yanked the floor out from under him.

He groaned, sitting up and glaring. “You’re going to regret that—”

“Keep talking and I’ll make sure your tongue sticks to the next stone wall,” Harry snapped.

Draco scrambled to his feet and stalked off, muttering curses and clutching his side.

Harry turned back to Y/N. A single tear trickled down her cheeks

“Hey,” Harry said softly, stepping closer. “He’s wrong. All of it.”

They ended up at the Three Broomsticks, a quiet corner table, where no one could see them. Two mugs of butterbeer sat untouched between them, steam curling in the golden light.

Y/N leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t have to hex him.”

“Felt good though,” he said, and she gave a small laugh. There was a pause. And then,

“Thank you…” Y/N whispered.

They sat in silence for a long moment, the steam from their butterbeer curling between them. Her eyes were still a little glassy, cheeks still flushed from anger, from cold, from everything. Harry couldn’t stop looking at her.

Before he could change his mind, Harry leaned across the table, slow but certain, one hand reaching out to brush her hair gently behind her ear. Her breath caught. Her eyes didn’t leave his.And then, he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. Not completely. It was hungry, like the tension between them had finally snapped and neither of them cared what happened next. Her hand came up to his collar, gripping the edge of his scarf, pulling him closer like she’d been holding that impulse in for weeks. Months. She kissed him like she was daring him to regret it.

And he kissed her like he already knew he never would.

When they broke apart, barely a breath between them, her forehead rested against his, her voice low and unsteady.

“You really are reckless, Potter.”

Harry’s lips brushed a smile against hers. “Takes one to know one.”

She laughed quietly, nervous and thrilled all at once, and Harry realized his heart hadn’t slowed down since the second their lips met.

Then, almost a whisper, he said, “You know… they can say whatever they want. About who you are, who she was. But you’re not her. Not even close.”

He tilted his head, brushing her knuckles with his fingers.

“But I’m still a Lestrange…” Y/N trailed off.

“Only by Name.” Harry smiled, pulling her into a tight embrace.

[yasministration]

I think I've seen this film before - ron weasley, family!sirius black

summary: when sirius found out that bellatrix lestrange was having a daughter, he did everything in his power to protect her. he never met her until one day she showed up at his doorstep the same way he had at the potters. wc: 1.3k+

Sirius had seen this film before. Or rather, he had lived through it. A hesitant figure in the doorway, standing in the freezing cold with dried blood coating their clothes.

Despite your injured and tired state, having run for miles without stopping — too afraid to stop, never stopping — you were hesitant that your promised safe haven wouldn’t welcome you.

Sirius recognised you by your hair. It had always been a staple in the family. He had it, so did his brother and his cousins. Your mother’s cousin had never met you, but from the moment you were born, he knew you were another victim of the Black family. He looked at your destructed state: dead eyes with tear stained cheeks, face painted with exhaustion, expensive gown torn and dirty in areas from the way you’d run through the woods, losing your unconventional heels in the process.

Sirius was glad he sent you those letters. One letter a month during all twelve years of his stay in azkaban sent to you with a single address “N°12 Grimmauld Place”, just in case you needed it, and finally, you took his silent advice. It was worth it, and seeing you now, Sirius knew that he hadn't wasted his only permitted letters out of the prison. Sirius moved out of the doorway, the air knocked out of his chest at the sight of you; he was literally looking back at himself. You stepped inside, tears silently running down your face, the lack of expression on your features worrying Sirius as he caught sight of your bloody feet, cut up by rocks and twigs, painted with mud.

You froze in the entryway at the sound of loud voices down the hall, shoulders tensing up. Sirius sighed.

Unfortunately for you, you had an audience.

“Sirius, who is it?” A familiar voice called out, footsteps following her words, and you immediately spun around, ready to walk back out of the house, but Sirius gently caught you by the arms, a reassuring look on his face. Sirius let go of you, nodding his head towards the inside of the house. When you turned around, you met Professor McGonagall’s worried gaze. The woman stood in front of you with an anxious expression, her arms uncrossing in front of her to put a comforting arm on your shoulder.

In the kitchen, the Order of the Phoenix meeting came to a stop, all the adults keeping an ear out for any commotion happening, revealing hints of the narrative outside. You winced as you stepped deeper into the house, the adrenaline that had allowed you to travel so far now wearing off, causing you to feel the consequences of your escape. Sirius didn’t ask you what happened, only sitting you down in the living room and letting you embrace the silence.

Sirius hesitated.

When he had run away to the Potters, he was held. Held as he cried, held as he shared his story. Held even as the Potters healed him. But Sirius didn’t know if he should hold you. After all, Sirius had never even met you.

But as the silence was interrupted, loud voices breaking the tension in the room, your eyes finally left the floor, a look of panic settling on your face as you recognised the familiar instrument of your boyfriend's voice. Sirius furrowed his eyebrows, quickly looking at the teenagers exchanging jokes as they rushed down the staircase. Sirius made an uncomfortable noise in his throat, but McGonagall was quickly taking care of it, approaching the teenagers and spreading her arms wide to stop them from entering the living room. All the jokes immediately subsided, and Sirius instantly assumed that the deputy headmistress held her signature glare.

Sirius looked back at you, watching as the tears sped down your cheeks, your face finally projecting all the different emotions you’d felt all night as you caught sight of the person whose comfort you so desperately sought. Finally, a loud sob wracked your chest, and Sirius felt his own lungs constricting him from taking a deep breath. “Mr. Weasley, give her some space!” professor McGonagall’s words died down as Ron Weasley pushed past her, speeding his pace up to run up to you, immediately falling to his knees in front of you when he reached you.

“Sweetheart?”

Sirius’s head snapped towards McGonagall as Ron uttered those words, eyes going wide in shock. He felt like he was going to throw up, watching Ron eagerly push himself up to sit on the couch next to you, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you closer to him.

You desperately clung onto Ron, gripping his jumper as you sobbed into his chest, hiding your face from him and the rest of your audience. Professor McGonagall ushered the watchful teenagers into the kitchen with the rest of the Order members, leaving you alone with your boyfriend and Sirius. Sirius stood up on shaky legs, walking to stand near the exit of the room. He didn’t want to leave the two of you alone in case something happened, but he wanted to give you the impression of privacy. “My love,” Ron muttered into your hair, voice shaking, caressing a hand over your back to soothe you. “Do you want to talk about it?” You didn’t reply, pulling away to wipe your cheeks aggressively before wincing at your own force, a familiar ache from the building bruise on your face.

“I, she-” You were interrupted by your own hiccup. “They tried making get the dark mark. I couldn't-” Ron swallowed thickly as you cut yourself off with a heartbreaking sob. You had given him little enough explanation to leave your punishment open to the imagination, but if it was rough enough to finally drive you away from your abusive home, he knew it had to be bad.

Ron had seen you come back to Hogwarts after holidays in the past, wearing heavier makeup than usual. He’d always think you looked gorgeous, ready to kiss the makeup off your skin, before remembering the occasions on which you’d wear such a mask. He’d come into your room, searching for kisses from his girlfriend to find you bear-faced, bruises littered across your skin. Over the next year, he’d learned not to say anything, instead pressing soft kisses on your skin, his arms wrapped around you as you laid in bed, serenading you into the first comfortable sleep you’d had in weeks.

Now, holding you in his arms as you sobbed, Ron wasn’t sure he’d be capable of lulling you into any kind of sleep. You never entertained the idea of running away, of breaking away from the dark side. But you had seen your opportunity for a better life, and took it. After all, your whole family would be distracted at tonight's gala with all the guests, and you had slipped away after all the introductions.

They wouldn't notice your absence for hours.

Ron loosened his arms from around your torso as you tried pulling away from him, looking straight at him with a melancholic look on your face, as though taking in every single one of his handsome features. You used your grip on Ron’s jumper to pull him closer to you, locking lips with him. You sighed in satisfaction, leaning into Ron’s touch as he cupped one of your cheeks, pulling away and mumbling “Lets get you changed, yeah?” You nodded wordlessly, letting Ron firmly wrap an arm around your waist to help you limp across the room, pausing in the doorway as your eyes lingered on Sirius, offering him a silent ‘thank you’ as your eyes watered gratefully.

“Welcome home.” Sirius muttered to you quietly, and you finally turned away from him for Ron to help you up the stairs. He shut the door behind you, running his hands down your back before reaching for the zipper of your dress and tugging down slightly. “Can I?” You nodded, holding your dress to your chest as Ron undid your zipper, disappearing into the bathroom to fetch you a towel. You wrapped the towel around your body, letting your dress fall to the floor as you followed Ron back into the bathroom. Your boyfriend averted his gaze as you unravelled the towel from your body, stepping into the bathtub and letting the tub fill up with water, the warm liquid engulfing your body. Ron sat on the floor on the other side of the tub, one hand caressing your frizzy hair, but he didn’t seem to mind, mumbling words like “You’re safe here” and “I love you so much.” It was only as you were finally dozing off that you heard Ron mutter. “Come on sweetheart, don’t want you to get sick.”

Half-asleep, you wore the clothes Ron gave you, climbing into the mysterious bed with him by your side and falling into a gentle sleep, the worried furrow between your brow never subsiding. When Sirius finally gathered the courage to come upstairs and knock on the door, he found you with Ron carefully holding your arm up, running his fingers over the scabs that would leave a scar on your arm with the word ‘traitor’ etched into your skin.

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes

[btsbabe7]

Safe Haven

Word Count: 6.9k

Pairing: Lucius Malfoy x reader, Draco Malfoy x reader

Warnings!: 18+, unprotected, age gap, intoxication, infidelity

Synopsis: After a long night out with friends, things take a drastic turn when you show up unexpectedly at the Malfoy Manor and your best friend isn’t the one who lets you in.

You find yourself on the doorstep of the Malfoy manor, lightheaded and nauseous, clothes soaked in rain, liver swimming in poison, and entirely too nervous and embarrassed to knock. You curse yourself for not sending for Draco, your best friend of a solid decade, to come rescue you from your recklessness. You’d insisted to your other friends that you could make it safely, that you knew your way home. And while you did arrive safely, you can’t bring yourself to lift your fist to ask for permission to enter.

The Malfoy Manor has always been a safe place for you throughout your childhood and granted you the same safety as an adult. You’d practically grown up here under the care of the house elf, Dobby, and the companionship of Draco Malfoy. Narcissa saw to things like taking you shopping for clothes and catering to your other womanly needs as you grew older. On the other hand, Lucius Malfoy was hardly present. He remained the breadwinner of the home and that came with the sacrifice of working long days and nights at the Ministry, and in his spare time, he’d used it to meet with friends.

When he was at home, he could be quite demanding. He constantly lectured Draco about slipping grades and the importance of putting his best foot forward instead of indulging in useless shenanigans.

One night, after his wife and son had long trailed off to bed, Lucius had stayed in the entertainment room with you to finish a movie. The both of you remained long after the movie ended, speaking about school, work, and life. He confided in you just as you had with him. You’d always known Lucius Malfoy to lack nothing, not of confidence, not of power, and certainly not control. Yet, that night he’d told you that he didn’t want Draco stuck at the Ministry like himself. He wanted a powerful son that would be able to take his place if the situation ever arose, to be prepared for anything, and be able to step up when his family needed him the most. Most of all, he just wanted someone, something that came from him, to be proud of.

You’d spent several years listening to Draco’s complaints about his father over breaks and in the courtyard at Hogwarts when you two would sneak out to meet late in the night. Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to spill Lucius’ wishes. It felt as if you were overstepping every time his words echoed in your mind: someone to be proud of. When you were around, Lucius was a completely different man—tolerant, caring, even nice at times, and you knew Lucius needed to be the one to tell Draco himself.

Now, as an adult, you can recall the moments where he tried caring for Draco in the best way he knew how. You realized that being tough had become his default to shield himself from disappointment, to keep Draco on track. He’d tried to raise him to become a man of power with nothing but confidence and control in his arsenal. He hadn’t failed, but he also hadn’t let his guard down, never liberated himself from the need of being in control.

And part of being in control meant Lucius always remained aware of anything going on inside of and around the Malfoy property, so it’s no surprise that he’s the one that opens the door to your shivering body without you lifting a single finger.

“Look what the storm washed in,” he muses and motions you inside to take shelter from the pouring rain and lightening rolling in through distant black clouds. “You’ve been drinking.”

He doesn’t ask, just states it matter-of-factly.

Anyone with a nose can smell the bitterness seeping off your clothes, your body, your mouth. You smell of whisky and sweat and body odor that isn’t yours. You aren’t sure what you were attempting to drink away, but perhaps it was the searing that burns in your chest when his eyes meet yours.

The look is one you’ve seen him give many, but never to you, and it’s now spread over his hardened features. Disappointment is what lingers in those angry pale grey eyes.

“I… I came to s— I came to see D-drac—“ You let out a scoff, now utterly disappointed in yourself as you slur and stumble over the raised threshold. It’s truly a miracle that you’d made it here at all.

Had you truly allowed yourself to get this wasted?

That answer comes when Lucius uses his own body to shield you from tumbling onto the frigid tiles of the foyer. You cling to the silky sleeve of his robe as he hisses something vulgar under his breath.

“You can’t possibly be this drunk,” he snorts and locks the front door behind you both in a fury. “Who’ve you been with? You graduated years ago and this is how you choose to live? The life of a—a drunk? I expected more from a brilliant witch like yourself. I thought you incapable of falling this low. Does your father know you’re here?”

You rub into the sultry velvet and focus on the way it clings to his body. It’s a black so deep against his pale skin that it makes your eyes feel as if you’re staring into a void.

You hiccup and a soft smile plays at the corners of your mouth as you take in the tart apple and spicy woodsy scent that only the Malfoy men have. It reminds you of all the nights you’d sneak into Draco’s room as a kid and cuddle against his side when you couldn’t sleep, and in your current drunken state, it’s completely intoxicating.

“What’re you doing, Y/n?” Lucius demands as your hand travels up the length of his arm.

You give his biceps a squeeze and chuckle in response. He has such a strong body and he’s adorned it in such a delicious feeling fabric. One you can’t seem to keep your hands off of and want to crawl into.

The truth is that you don’t know what you’re doing and with every blink of your weary eyes, you see Draco’s iced silver ones in waves. You see glimpses of blonde hair in your grasp, lush, silky and soft. You imagined it countless times in the past, pale white hips rutting against your backside while you both watch in the silver ornate mirror that hangs over his dresser just beside his bed. You’d wished it happened as it had in the privacy of your dreams and daydreams.

You see flashes of books in Lucius’ study. The two of you would sneak inside while his father and mother were out and the elves were busy. You’d make out there near the fireplace. Other times, you’d be propped up on the desk with Draco’s erection pressed hard against the delicate folds of your clothed, aching sex.

You lean back on the familiar desk, wet ass gliding against the smooth mahogany. Lucius led you here into the study, which means you’ve truly fucked up.

The study is just the way you remember it. The backside is filled from floor to ceiling with books and skulls and trinkets, all meaning something to Lucius, or simply nothing at all. Lucius’ desk remains in the center, facing the fireplace, and placed firmly on a fancy rug with a huge velvet chair behind it. He has other knickknacks here and there, but the study remains fairly simple and serves its purpose.

You turn to your right and see a family photo nestled in a silver gilded frame. Draco stands in the middle, posed with his chin up, his parents stand as far away as they possibly can with their hands resting on either side of his shoulders. No one smiled, save for the small tug at the corners of Narcissa’s lips, though it didn’t meet her dim eyes.

When you’d snuck down here with Draco, he’d turn it face down on the desk before delving into you. It sits upright now, yet piles of marked scrolls threaten to bury it. A box of limited edition quill inks sit in a box beside them and a semi-wet quill lies on an open scroll just beside you. You come to the conclusion that he must have been working when he sensed someone’s presence, your presence, outside.

Lucky for him.

It’s so late that you begin to wonder where Narcissa might be, where Draco might be since you’d come for him. Asleep upstairs maybe. Or perhaps somewhere else entirely. As for Narcissa, you’d noted her absence shortly after graduation and she only seemed to grow more distant now that you and Draco are of proper age. Draco himself had always remained distant and found solitude in being alone when you weren’t around to keep him company. Just like his mother, his interest in his father had diminished over the years while yours had grown.

Lucius huffs and the springs in the chair squeak lightly underneath his weight. The sound pulls you away from your memories and the weight of your own thoughts settle in the center of your core with a wave of nostalgia. The chair had made the same noise in all those times Draco plopped down there and it knocks you back to a time many years ago.

Draco’s mother had left with her sister, Bellatrix, and you both knew his father would be out later. Narcissa had left you both to the mercy of the house elves, who treated you with much more respect than you cared for.

When silence had fallen over the manor, Draco had waltzed down the hallway and placed a knock on your door. You’d been half asleep in the room given to you since the moment you’d decided this home suited you more than your own. The door had squeaked open, sending golden light cascading over the bright yellow walls they’d let you paint.

You’d hissed at Draco for interrupting your sleep, but somehow he’d managed to coax you out of bed and down into his father’s study. You remember the taste of his lips, so sweet and delicate against yours after the door had been closed. Somehow that had led to him splaying your legs wide and planting your feet firmly on the sturdy wooden surface of his father’s desk.

All you remember afterwards is the fire roaring to life and warming your entire being as Draco pumped you hard with his skilled fingers for the very first time.

You bite into your lip and let out a soft moan as your brain caresses and savors every inch of that memory.

“Y/n!” Lucius demands.

“Lucius,” you mewl softly in a taunting, singsong tone that sends his eyes rolling.

He groans as you kick your muddy heels off and clicks his tongue in disgust when they clatter on his rug.

He curses himself for not remembering to make you take them off at the door. Though, he reminds himself that you don’t usually show up in such a pathetic state where your manners are long forgotten. He also reminds himself that he’s not usually in a position underneath your taunting gaze. You sit there like a queen on her throne. Unfortunately for him, the throne just so happens to be his desk.

Lucius fights the urge to take control of the situation, though his body aches for him to do so. He wants you off his desk, off your ass, sobered up, and sinking down his cock. He caresses his chin and bites into his bottom lip before flinching away from that final realization, away from you and the way your nipples grow hard against the thin fabric of that skimpy dress you’d slipped on hours ago to meet with friends in. Had he been here, he wouldn’t have let you step a foot outside in such scandalous attire. He curses your father for being so absentminded and so uninvolved in your life.

Despite that truth, Lucius had watched you bloom into a brilliant witch and beautiful woman. Over the years, he’d listened to Narcissa’s comments on the way your body had practically become a woman’s overnight—large breasts and curves that had been flaunted too well in your robes and skirts. Lucius forked over more money for your new robes and uniform without hesitation. He couldn’t stand the idea of boys at Hogwarts gawking at you, targeting you with their useless, impure minds. And selfishly, he’d always seen you more fit for a Malfoy, even though you went against everything they stood for.

You have half-blood friends, you were sorted into a house other than Slytherin, you were curious about muggles. Lucius had pushed all those details to the back of his mind when he took you in. You were strong, opinionated even when he disagreed with you, and best of all, you never backed down from a challenge. You weren’t weak and he appreciated that quality about you.

Now, you appear stronger than ever, though your judgement is obviously skewed.

“I’m disappointed in you,” he begins. He knows he has to scold you like a child, but he also knows you’ll do it again if he doesn’t. He hates that he has to be the one to do it. “I think y—“

“Deserve to be punished, don’t I?” You whimper and pick at your nails with a firm pout of your pink lips.

Lucius rolls his eyes and ignores the ache daring to tear him apart at the seam if he allows you to open your mouth again. He comes off the chair and turns to face the endlessly shelving of books. He crosses his arms and stares mindlessly at the first row that meets his eyes, far away from you.

Sickness, much like bile, collects at the base of his throat and he swallows it down. He knows he cannot touch you, it’d be crossing the line on so many levels. Worst, it’d go against his morals. He’s married. His son is one of your better best friends. He’s friends with your useless excuse of a father, he’s looked your mother in the eyes over countless meetings decades ago where he vowed to take care of you to the best of his ability before he took you in for good. Yet, every civilized thought escapes his mind when he hears your breathing hitch behind him. A soft shuffling follows and he swallows dryly. He knows the sound all too well—wet clothes being removed, peeling away from damp skin, and plopping against the floor.

You’re a sopping mess in the neatness of his study. His rug will suffer, but so will he.

He clenches his teeth and sneers as he whips his wand out and sends a charm towards his study door. It closes and locks quietly, but the nearly silent sound still echoes loudly in his eardrums.

You let out a soft whimper as you bristle against the cool rush of the closing door. You knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. The men of this manor never could, and with the close of his door, you’d just become Lucius Malfoy’s seductress.

You roll your head back and stare at the way the ceiling curves to a point above the desk. You’ve stared at it many times when Draco pleased you while he remained completely oblivious to your true desires. Thoughts of Lucius had plagued your mind while Draco’s fingers and mouth did all the work. His father’s name had clung to the edge of your tongue while you forced Draco’s out with careful skill. You knew it was wrong, but it’d almost become a game during those long nights. You’d always wondered if you’d slip up and what Draco would do if you did.

You splay your thighs wide and run your feet along the arms of the emerald green chair. With heavy eyes, you watch the fabric’s color distort slightly from light emerald to a darker shade of the same color with each stroke of your flesh. While you do this, you take notice that Lucius hasn’t turned around since he’s left the chair. Denying his own primal needs as a male, you’re sure. You’d just waltzed, well, stumbled right in and threatened all order, seized all his control with minimal effort, and he hates it. You know he does. Yet, your own need for warmth begins to overtake your own motives and you shiver against the cool air circulating in the darkened room.

“C-could you start up a fire?” You blurt through clenched teeth as you hug into your shivering body.

Lucius’ head snaps back as if he’s been in a trance the entire time. His senses slowly return and he follows the needy plead of your voice. He regrets it the very moment your nude body comes into view. Your lacy black underwear are all that remain of the clothes you’d stripped off and Lucius is suffering indeed.

Hardened grey eyes glaze over the length of your being. He takes in the way your dark hair is now chopped at your shoulders, the length of your short, delicate limbs, the perfect curvature of your breasts and hips. It’s all more proportional and more appealing than he cares to admit.

His eyes snap away from your shivering body and he forces himself to focus on the dead fireplace alongside the wall. The door is sealed shut behind you, beyond you. He should open it, the door. He should summon Draco or call for an elf to help you, cloth you. If you’re this comfortable around him, daring really, then he has no doubt that his son has seen you just the same and would have no qualms about helping.

Cunning as you are, you should have been sorted into Slytherin during your school years. A true shame that the Slytherin house missed out on such brilliance due to a wrinkly old hat and a fool of a headmaster.

He thinks to himself.

Lucius kindles the firewood in the fireplace with a sharp snap of his fingers and watches the fire spark. As the wood crackles, the flame catches another piece and begins dancing to life as he attempts to choose his next words as carefully as he can.

“How long?”

You cannot admit that your liking for Lucius had begun at the ripe age of fifteen. You were young, impressionable, and Lucius had shown you how real men care for their families. While Draco complained about his father, you saw a hardworking man who needed to put food on the table for his family, a provider. You seen him as the man who’d step in when your real father chose not, and you admired that too.

You swallow and keep your eyes on your fingertips which are coming more and more into focus with each pick of your nails.

“It’s been awhile,” is all you manage.

Lucius continues staring into the fire, still upset with himself for closing the door while trying to work out how long a while consists of. His heart races with both fear and excitement, but he isn’t sure which one will win this battle.

After a while, Lucius brings a blanket over from the corner of the room. He dusts it off and wraps it around your warming body. He doesn’t dare look you over again. He can’t. Not when your eyes watch his every move, from his pacing to the way he strokes his chin across the room when he’s deep in thought. He hadn’t planned for you to show up like this and hadn’t planned for you to strip everything off and be so confidently naked in front of him.

He stares at another book on the shelf, hardly registering the title as he slips a delicate stripe down the spine. He needs something else to focus on, but he isn’t prepared for the sound that comes out of you next. A sound that ripples through his very being and has him on edge like a wild beast.

The fingertips of your right hand run down the plain of your belly, relishing the feeling of your warming body before slipping underneath the hem of your lace. The blanket shifts off your shoulders as you spread your legs wide and allow your fingertips to trickle just below the dampened folds. The thought of Lucius, as always, overtakes your senses, and you graze right between the folds with a low moan. You tease your arousal before bringing it back up to the little protrusion between your lips. You give your clitoris a generous rub and you melt right where you sit.

Lucius’ head whips in your direction and all color leaves his face. His body goes still like a statue.

“You… Y—“

His name finally slips off your tongue and it tastes absolutely delicious. You’re exhausted with holding back, holding it in. You’d spent years doing so and you weren’t going to give up this opportunity that’s presented itself. It was supposed to be Draco that let you in, that came to your rescue as always, but when the long, white-haired Malfoy, the patriarch of this manor opened that door, you knew the stars had aligned that very moment.

“I command you to stop,” Lucius orders, but you shake your head in protest and circle harder.

Lucius feels as if he’s the one that’s been drinking. The way your moans and soft pants make his head spin is intoxicating. He can’t help the way his cock twitches underneath his pajama pants. He’s glad the robe does the job of covering the sudden reaction. He doesn’t want you to have the satisfaction of knowing what you do to him.

He bites into his lip once more and shuts his eyes. No, he reopens them because the memory of you naked is now engrained behind his eyes and also right in front of him. You’re everywhere he looks, your moans are all he can hear. He cannot escape you. Perhaps if he just opened the damned door. But he’s sealed it shut with a charm not even his own son could get through on the other side. It sealed off all sound and no one would come bothering the two of you. He knows this, even with the sickness rising in his throat again.

Lucius’ eyes cower towards you, watching the way your hips rock softly against your circling fingers. You hadn’t slipped inside yourself, just gathered your arousal enough to keep the rubbing lubricated. His cock aches and he cannot remember the last time he had sex, let alone the last time a female had graced him with such vulgar imagery. He turns away from you and wishes for the pulsing in his veins to stop. He wishes away the heat centering between his legs, but it remains. Your panting grows louder and he fears he will erupt right where he stands. So, what would be the harm if he were standing in front of you instead? What would be the harm if he simply gave in? Stopped fighting and resisting?

He lets out a shaky breath and faces you. You watch determination settle in his eyes and you let out a squeaky moan. Lucius makes his way towards the desk and kicks the chair to the right side. When he finally faces you, his face goes pale. He flinches at the sight of you spread open and so beautifully aroused. He’d missed the fact that you’d now removed the lace, which he’d hardly call underwear as they’d probably hid nothing from the skimpy look of them on his rug. But now, your sex is glistening at the folds, reddened and swollen with heat, and he almost collapses.

“Help me, Lucius,” you hum and trace your wet fingers upwards in a smooth motion.

His grey eyes follow the wet trail up to your navel, over the soft skin of your belly, over your sternum, and now the way you lazily circle around each of your nipples. His chest tightens, but he can no longer force himself to look away. This entire situation is scandalous and if he were to take this risk, how would anyone other than the two of you know? He knows you brilliant enough to keep your mouth shut about something like this. It would ruin you just as much as himself if word got around.

Lucius whips his robe open and your eyes go wide in amusement. Creamy white skin with dark hairs cover the expanse of his chest and navel before leading a trail underneath the hem of his velvet pajama pants. You cock your head and smile weakly at the protrusion in the center. He’d been hiding it, the way you turn him on, and a deep satisfaction steeps in your belly.

You place your palm on your sex. Excited by the sight of him hardened for you, you feel the need to release yourself; however, Lucius quickly throws a wrench in those plans. He takes your sopping fingers and tosses them away from your mound, and you watch as he kneels on the floor in front of you and pushes your legs further apart.

You can’t hide the amazement in your eyes as he pulls you to the very edge of the desk.

Lucius Malfoy kneeling.

Your mouth waters. So does his.

His eyes devour the glistening between your thighs and his heartbeat quickens with each passing breath. If he does this, there’s no going back. If he doesn’t do this, you’ll both be completely unsatisfied and the awkwardness would linger in the air much longer than the realization of your actions if he were to give in. With your eyes plastered on him, he can’t stop himself from licking his lips. Your body is so intriguing, so divine, and he wants to explore every inch. With quivering lips and unsure thoughts, Lucius’ breath shutters against your warmth before licking a stripe up the wet folds of your cunt. Your head falls back and a rumbling moan escapes your throat. You know this will be so much better than anything you’ve ever experienced in this room.

Your fingers caress his scalp and gingerly gather his long platinum hair into your fists. Your hips buck forward to meet each flip of his tongue. You feel hot all over. Your head, your cheeks, your throat, chest and belly, your thighs and ass pressed hard against the wood, and your very core. Lucius suckles at your clit and it almost sends you overboard. You attempt to pull him away, but he clamps hard enough to earn a yelp before settling back. He lets out a rough chuckle and toys his thumb over the reddened protrusion before slipping down and pressing through your entrance.

You fall back on your elbows and shut your eyes to the ceiling.

“Lucius…”

Remarkable. Is all that come to mind at the way your cunt squeezes around his thumb. With the sound of your ravenous moans in response to this little action, he can hardly imagine what you’d sound like with his cock buried inside of you.

“Fuck me,” you snarl. “Please fuck me, Lucius.”

He knows he can’t ignore your commands any longer. He will go mad if he does. He stands to attention, slipping right out of his garments as he does. His cock pulses as he sucks your juices off his thumb, then uses the same hand to stroke his own ache. He sighs in relief and you watch him align himself. He wastes no time thrusting through your folds and you howl in pain and pleasure.

Perhaps you should have warned him of the truth, but it’s much too late. His cock is tight inside of you, running along the fresh, untouched walls with so much precision. Your breasts ache and your chests burns. Your entrance burns, but you don’t care. You’ve needed this for years, craved it, and now you’ll relish every inch of him.

Something flickers in his eyes when they find yours, shame and lust reflect in them. He can’t believe he’s inside of you, can’t believe he gave in so easily. He hadn’t bothered asking of your prior experience. Truthfully, he didn’t want to know how many men had buried themselves inside this glorious, tight hole of yours. The ridges of your walls had swallowed him whole and he didn’t need to think of any competition because he was already determined to be your best.

Lucius watches you like a hawk, catching the way your hand finds your curls and massage into your scalp. He watches the way your breasts jiggle with each movement of your body against his. He closes his eyes, hoping it’s just a dream. When he opens them again, you’re still there like the delectable woman he now knows you to be.

It’s not long before your chest begins to tighten and the squeeze in your core contracts softly. You know this feeling all too well, Draco had taught you all you knew about the feelings of an orgasm, and you won’t last much longer. Not with Lucius hitting all the right spots and his rutting cock buried so deep inside your very core. Your head spins and the point on the ceiling distorts as you falter back onto your elbows. You feel as if you’re floating and he feels like perfection.

Lucius tries to avoid your eyes, your low and seductive features that have his mind reeling and tethering on the edge of reality. He knows he shouldn’t have given in and that he’ll pay for it every time he sees you going forward. He’ll think about it when his wife returns home, whenever she returns home. He’ll think about it when he sees his son and he’ll scowl at idea that he may have had you in this very position before but never had the balls to go any further. Or maybe he has and Lucius should’ve triple-guessed before delving balls deep into your tight little cunt.

He snarls at the thought and at the sight of your arousal glistening under the golden light along his full length with every pull of his hips. He’s growing sloppier in his thrusts, failing miserably in keeping his groans and grunts at bay as he wished. He can’t have you thinking he’s enjoying himself or that he will be allowing this to happen again. He can’t allow you to bring out this side of him again, messy and bending at your will. Yet, if this will be the last time, he plans to make it memorable for the both of you.

Lucius glides his hand over the plain of your stomach and watches the way your breasts bounce to the rhythm of his thrusting. He’d give anything to be properly buried there, right in the softness of your skin, but he knows this is wrong. But how can it be wrong when his name slipping off your lips sounds as if an angel is calling out for him?

He sneers and squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to imagine a time when his wife loved him enough for this, not from a place of dedication or duty, but just a desperate need to be touched by him. A need for hot, raging, glorious sex. And he almost goes limp at the thought of her.

He opens his eyes and yours are right there, hungry and focused solely on him. Whatever alcohol had dared to poison your liver, dared to overtake your senses has vanished very quickly. Though, he knows you’ve been aware from the moment you’d grasped his robe in the entryway. He knows from the way something like golden fire sparkled in your eyes in all the times you’ve glanced at him when no one was watching over the years.

Something flutters deep in Lucius’ core and he pants loudly at that realization. It drives himself to take a fistful of your hair without thinking it over, and he almost melts when you flash a bright smile that sends him swooning.

Fuck me, Lucius.

The line rings like an echo in his mind.

“Lucius… Kiss me.”

Lucius’ eyes blaze and he rushes his mouth against your plump pink lips on command. Your tongue sweeps over his and his eyes grow wide as yours flutter to a close. The bitterness of whisky and the sweetness of butterscotch that lingers after too many Butterbeers is heavy on your tongue, but you taste just as sweet against him like strawberries underneath. He imagines you downing goblets, tossing them back like a champ. Perhaps the sway of your hips if music were playing throughout the tavern. He knew you to be confident in that way, somehow always socially adept and always the center of attention, even though you denied it.

You sweep your arms around his neck and pull him closer, and just as his thrusts begin to falter, you bring your heels up to his muscled cheeks and drive him in further. A shakily groan floods into the cavern of your mouth and his eyes glow with something you’ve never seen before. Desire? Lust? You don’t know. All you know is that you don’t want him stopping until your orgasm is pulsing all around his long, slender length. You want to feel his warm seed coating your inner thighs and stomach. And as much as you wish to feel him spilling inside of you, his milky semen dripping out of you and growing sticky between your thighs as the night grows to day, you know you can’t allow that. Not now.

With your lips hot against his, Lucius can hardly contain himself. His grip in your curls tighten as he holds your lips to his, swallowing each of your pressing moans whole. He gives you the satisfaction of guiding him deeper until he’s had enough. When he does, he withdraws entirely.

He could explode from the way you appear in front of him, eyes blown, pussy swollen and glimmering at the folds, breasts supple and nipples harder than his cock. Your arousal is all over his length and groin and he can’t take it easy anymore. He grasps your arm and yanks you off the desk. You yelp as he twists you around in one quick motion and ropes one of your knees in his hands to press up against the desk.

A chill runs down your spine and your nipples ache against the coolness of the wood. They’re begging to be relieved, but neither of you can be bothered to do so when the pleasure of Lucius’ cock being buried inside you is much more vital.

He knows the fireplace had done nothing to warm the desk and he relishes the sight of you shivering against the chill. He watches the way goosebumps prickle over your skin and the way your ass has become discolored from being pressed against his desk for so long. He gives it a firm smack, which earns yet another whimper from your lips.

He smirks while collecting himself and driving back into you.

With a deafening grunt, he takes your hair back into his fist and places the other on your hip. His own plow against your ass and you whine at the new depths of his cock.

Your cheeks burn at the thought of how wet you are in front of him, for him. Unbelievably pathetic.

Knowing this will end soon feels like absolutely torture and Lucius struggles with that reality with each contraction of your walls. His thrusts remain erratic, but he stopped caring. His hand loosens in your hair and squeezes harder against your hip when your back arches. He catches you taking glimpses of him over your shoulder and chuckles at your desperation. Though, his is just as bad. He’s never known how desperately he needed this from you.

“Perhaps I should’ve left you on your ass.”

“Maybe,” you pant nonchalantly. “At least I would’ve been granted the pleasure of seeing your face when you release.”

He tugs at you closer and uses the chair to prop his own leg up before dropping his hand from your hair entirely and lowering it to your jawline. He grasps it hard and you groan against the touch.

“You want to see my face when I release?” He laughs coldly. “Well, here I am.”

He stares into your lidded eyes and smirks at how fucked out and beautiful you look taking his cock.

“You’re good at this, aren’t you?”

It’s a backhanded compliment, but he lets you let it out an exasperated giggle. It rumbles in your throat underneath his hand and drives him mad.

“How many cocks have you taken?”

You blink blankly, surprised by the question, the forwardness. You’re prepared to force out an answer, but his hand tightens around the base of your throat, squeezing just enough to cut off air.

“The truth,” he adds. “Only the truth.”

He loosens his grip a smidge and you gasp the words, “Only yours.”

Lucius’ eyes go grim and he squeezes your throat again. Your cheeks burn hot in embarrassment.

“The truth, Y/n!”

Your core aches at the sound of your name rolling off his tongue and you shiver against him.

“Just yours, Lucius.”

His heartbeat quickens and he draws your lips back to his, forcing himself deeper with the twist. You squirm under the pressure and grasp the edge of the desk for stability as your back arches with each thrust of his hips and his breathing draws shakily against your mouth.

“Y/n,” he grunts. “I… You—your first?”

His eyebrows twitch and his body shivers. A low hum leaves your mouth, completely in tune with the way his body quivers against yours. You focus on the way your own heart begins to race in your chest, a deep thrumming that has you gasping with the tightening inside your core. Your core burns as you hold back your orgasm. You know he’s earned it, but he isn’t there just yet.

Lucius squeezes tighter and you rock your hips back to meet his. His eyes go wide, then roll with a hiss slipping from his mouth simultaneously.

“Shit!”

“Lucius…”

He sneers and slips behind you again, completely withdrawing from your view. He can’t look you in the eyes right now or his load will be buried so deep inside of you that he’ll have a new set of problems on his plate. His wife, his son. He already feels that he isn’t a good enough husband or father. His job at the Ministry is demanding, and you… Merlin, you are going to be the absolute end of him.

He ruts his hips forward in long, hard motions until the only noises filling the study are the sounds of your ass clapping against his groin, the sloppiness of your arousal sticking to his shaft, and your moans drowning out his own. He thrusts and thrusts and thrusts, sinking you down to his balls with each sweep. And your cries…

“Fuck,” he whimpers and shakes at the knees.

He plants both hands on your hips and stares at anything else but your body leaned over his desk, obeying his every command, and rewarding him with its own sweetness.

“Cum for me,” he growls lowly.

Your moans are so loud that you can barely hear the order. You’ve been teetering on the edge for minutes now, barely able to hold your own release back any longer.

“Cum for me now,” he demands. “Or I-I’ll…”

You rock your hips and Lucius lets out a deafening groan that sends you overboard. Your walls tense around him and your body flushes hot as you milk him dry. He sputters and grasps your ass, your hips, your waist, then with agonizing discipline, he slips out of your squelching warmth and explodes all over you with a roar. Warmth explodes all over your backside, your thighs, your ass, and you collapse on your arms against the desk. Your legs shake terribly and you aren’t sure you’ll be able to stand much longer.

Lucius’s groans stifle into breathy pants and the familiar squeaking of chair behind you fills your ears as he pulls you down into his lap. Your legs almost give out with the action and his eyes are full of nothing but hot rage. He splays your legs apart and clamps his hand over your cunt, feeling the stickiness of your own orgasm between your thighs. He watches you intently, studies you and the way your body shutters softly with the touch. Then, his own need for control returns, washing over him in a powerful wave.

He swirls his fingers just as he’d watched you do, just the way you like it. Your head snaps back, nipples peaking once more and your moan filling his ears with that sweet melody he’ll never forget. He hates how pretty you look when you cry, but he loves how responsive your body is to his every touch.

“Lucius… please…” you pant softly, eyes already rolling.

“I don’t recall saying we were done,” he muses.

His fingers run between your trembling folds and you jerk forward with a breathy howl.

You catch sight of his vile smile as you tremble in overstimulating pleasure and you bite back a demanding moan knowing this is now his own form of torture.

Lucius’ brows raise as he watches you struggle to regain your own control. Just when you think you have it, he lets out a soft sigh. Something along the lines of, “Happy Christmas,” fills your ears in a deep groan just before he plunges his fingers into your needy cunt and takes you all over again, completely reminding you who is always, truly in control.

Please be sure to check out my other latest fanfics:

⚡︎ Keep Me (In the Shadows) (m.) - Draco Malfoy x reader

⚡︎ Lost Love (m.) - Lucien Vanserra x Rhysand x reader

⚡︎ Rain Does Not Fall on One Roof Alone (m.) - Ominis Gaunt x Sebastian Sallow x reader

⚡︎ Perfect Storm (m.) - Ominis Gaunt x reader

⚡︎ Untitled (m.) - Sebastian Sallow x Ominis Gaunt x reader

⚡︎ Coffee (Love You a Latte) - Sebastian Sallow x reader

⚡︎ Golden - Sebastian Sallow x reader

~ Navi: masterlist (all fandoms)

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction, but please don’t copy! Written purely for fun :) Please only repost to other socials w/my permission and credit! Reblogging w/credit is fine. Thank you! ♡

December 2024

[miryum]

A Green and Silver Ring (Mattheo Riddle x Reader)

An arranged marriage between you and Mattheo, one that might lead to something beautiful

Word Count: 10.3k

I know I haven't posted in a long time but I have a plan trust the process. Also, this is me coming out and saying that I love Mattheo Riddle and he's amazing

Warnings: Swearing, bad and manipulative parenting from both Mattheo and reader’s parents, a lot of misogyny (a bit from Mattheo but he gets better by a lot and it’s not that bad), arguments, Tom isn’t Mattheo’s brother and Tom is a creep, arranged marriage, one bed trope, enemies to lovers, greek mythology reference, talk of kids, needing kids to carry on family lines, and kids. Mistress is the feminine term for master (so reader isn’t Mattheo’s side piece when I refer to her as mistress), old timey talk a bit, reader is a bookworm

From the desk of Ginevra

My dearest friend,

My parents have informed me of your engagement. I was ecstatic, yet surprised, when I heard the news. I was of the assumption that your parents were allowing you to choose your husband as your family line is secure in your brother and his wife. Yet, once I learned who your husband-to-be is, I was trepidatious. 

My thoughts are with you, my darling friend, and I pray for you to write to me the moment you get my letter. 

I hate to break the news, but you and your fiancé are the talk of high society. Never before have two such families been intertwined. Even I have had to scold my brothers for their gossip. They seem to forget that our families are close friends. 

I do not ask why your parents have made such a decision. I know they are intelligent adults and surely must have a motive, but I admit that I am blind in that regard. Your engagement seems sudden and unwarranted to me. When questioned, my mother sighed and said I would understand when I grew older. My mother continues to baffle me. I have borne two children and a third on the way! If I am not mature now, I better gain some knowledge quickly. 

Always remember that I am by your side. If you ever need anything, my door is always open to you. I am sure Harry will agree. 

I love you, my friend.

Ginny

From the office of Lorenzo

Miss. L/n,

I believe we’ve never been formally introduced. I’m saddened to say that this letter is as formal as we’ll get - at least until your wedding. I am sure you must be taciturn and mercurial as of now. My father has told me much about you and I believe we’ll make excellent friends and confidants in our hectic world. 

You’re to be my new half-sister, aren’t you? My relatives and friends are petulant to meet you. 

Before any rumours (either about myself or your fiancé) hit your ears, I’ll put a rest to them. Bellatrix, your fiancé’s mother, had an affair with my father. They produced me and in return, I have the privilege of being your fiancé’s half-brother. 

Being a bastard child, I’m no stranger to being ostracised and ridiculed. To be blunt, I’m sure that you will be ostracised alongside me and I believe that is one reason we can connect. 

For rumours of my half-brother, I simply say this: do not fear him. He relishes in the consternation he places in other people, yet when he heard he was to marry you, I saw panic in his eyes like no other. It seems the tables have turned. He is hesitant to be wed, but you are not the problem. He simply doesn’t want to have the responsibility of another’s life on his. Your fiancé is used to belittling people - not supporting them as a husband should.

Any questions you have about your fiancé and my half-brother (whom in case I didn’t make clear, are one and the same), refer to me without any qualms. I am eager to meet you and hopefully make your transition into the Riddle family smoother.

I am well aware you have also lived your life in the upper echelons of society. But, as I’m sure you know, there are multiple circles in our complicated community. The L/ns, the Weasleys, and the Potters, for example, have grown their fortunes truthfully and innocently. They have earned the respect of their people and those whom they employ. The Riddles, Blacks, and Berkshires, on the other hand, have climbed the ranks in unconventional means and by skipping a few rungs on the ladder. They thrive and make their living on the terror and duress they cause those under them.

I’m looking forward to making your acquaintance.

Lorenzo Berkshire

P.S. I hope I haven’t scared you off.

From the office of L/n

Daughter,

You’ll be pleased to hear the engagement has gone through. Your mother and I met your fiancé last night. He seems like a nice man. He will be able to provide for you. His family is influential.

We will return home late tomorrow evening. You will depart for Riddle Estate in a week. Begin packing. 

Your father

From the desk of Ginevra

Y/n,

You worry me with your lack of communication. Usually, you can’t wait to gossip with me. We have such fun at dinners and balls, yet with the most important aspect of yourself, you don’t respond. I’m simply worried, my friend. Are you alright? I can envision you curled in your bed, not letting anyone, even your nursemaid, into your room. Please do not let your impending marriage affect your state of health. It will turn out alright. Everyone I know (even me!) had apprehensions about their marriage. And with everyone I know, it turned out alright. 

Misters Sirius and Remus visited Harry and I the day before last. They came to see James and Albus, but I know there was a hidden reason as well. They know of our friendship and came to ask if the rumours are true. As much as my husband adores them, Sirius in particular can be prone to gossip. The pair tittered and tsked when I told them of your fiancé. Sirius wishes to distance himself from his family, and I know he has pre-existing thoughts of the Black family, and by extension, the Riddles.

Sometimes I take a moment to gaze at the family tree upon my drawing room wall. It is full of interconnected lines and squiggles that sometimes, it makes my head hurt! The web of family ties is complicated and if we’re not somehow related already, I know that we will be once your marriage takes place. It seems the Black family spreads its roots into the Weasley family and the Riddle family- the latter of which you’ll soon be synonymous with.

Give yourself some grace. Your fiancé falls far from the tree; I am sure of it.

Please write to me. I need to make sure my closest friend is doing well. 

Best wishes, 

Ginny

P.S. Hermione wishes to inform you that, from what she’s heard, your Mr. Riddle is quite attractive. I have yet to hear any of the rumours  myself, but at least your husband will be pleasing to the eye. Perhaps it will make the marriage more bearable. 

***

Mattheo strode leisurely through Riddle Manor. It was one of the many estates his family owned, and it was soon to be officially his. Just as soon as he married the L/n girl.

The manor was spacious, which Mattheo couldn’t help but detest. How was he and a wife supposed to fill this void of empty rooms and dark halls? He knew servants and cooks would move in, but they wouldn’t occupy the dozens of upper rooms that were vacated. 

For a brief moment, Mattheo couldn’t help but envision a set of children running around the halls. One of the children would run up to him, shouting, “Papa! Papa!” Mattheo would scoop the child up, grinning, and would carry them to their room. The room would be bright and cheerful, and maybe, just maybe, you would be sitting on a settee, cradling a newborn or helping an older child with their school work.

But for now, the room was dark and uninviting and he had yet to meet his future wife. He had seen a portrait of the L/n family and while they were in lavish, colourful clothing, Mr. and Mrs. L/n seemed cold and stoic - just like his parents. The children, an older son and younger daughter (whom he presumed to be you), seemed kinder and by their body language, Mattheo could tell that the two siblings were close. 

Mattheo slowly made his way down the hall. There were three wings of the manor; two were residential and the other was designed for taking guests. The East Wing - in which he and Miss. L/n would stay - was also fit with an office for him. He was expected to take over half of the family business once he got married. The West Wing would remain empty for now, sans for a large library and the furniture in the bedrooms. 

The boy knew that his bride was to arrive later that day. She would stay at Riddle Estate until the end of the week. Just three short days before they were to be wed in name. Mattheo would move into Riddle Manor tonight, giving servants time to wipe the dust off of tables, shine the silverware, and fluff the pillows. 

Mattheo walked the halls of his new home. His mind was devoid of any thoughts. Perhaps it was simply because he was always numb. Even when he heard of his engagement, Mattheo didn’t make a fuss. He didn’t remember thinking anything. Nothing such as ‘Oh, I can’t wait to meet her!’ or even, ‘I can’t believe mother and father are arranging my marriage! She better be obedient.’ 

No, Mattheo had thought nothing of the sort. He had spent his childhood quietly observing his father and mother, noticing the amount of fear they could inflict on people just by silence. You didn’t have to be loud and dramatic to be powerful. You simply couldn’t be afraid to follow up on your promises - however deadly they were. 

The only question Mattheo had asked when Bellatrix informed him of his engagement was, “and what do we gain from the L/n’s?”

Bellatrix had shot him an callous and apathetic look. “Do not ask questions you needn’t the answers to, boy.” 

Mattheo had glowered, but shut his mouth. 

As he neared the foyer, Mattheo couldn’t help but think how marriage was a component in all aspects of his life. When he got married to the L/n girl, he would inherit a portion of his father’s estates, company, and wealth. Mattheo chucked to himself. Maybe he should’ve gotten married sooner.

***

“Pray tell, why weren’t you here when she arrived?” Bellatrix snarled as she gripped Mattheo’s arm. Her nails dug into his suit as she dragged him towards the drawing room.

“I was busy,” Mattheo replied harshly. Love was not a thing that came instinctively to his family. 

“Doing what? Planning your suidide?” Bellatrix scoffed. “I would march to the Underworld and choke Hades to bring you back.” Mattheo glanced down at his mother, hesitantly surprised. But he knew better than to raise his hopes and dreams. “We need this contract with the L/n’s,” Bellatrix continued and Mattheo’s jaw ticked. Of course. She didn’t love him; she never had. Her son was purely business. He should’ve known better.

“Maybe if you would tell me what the L/n’s provide for us,” Mattheo pulled Bellatrix back before she threw open the door to where you were. “Then I would be more complacent.”

Bellatrix sneered. “You think you’re smart, boy. You think you have everything figured out in that pretty little head of yours. But remember: you’re nothing without the Riddle family name backing you up.” She paused and licked her lips. “But if you must know,” Bellatrix sighed, giving into Mattheo. “The L/n’s just came into some very… lucrative land that we could gain from if you marry Miss. Y/n L/n.”

Mattheo’s eyes flickered to the drawing room door. After a moment, he asked, “is that her name? Y/n?” 

Bellatrix stared at him, aghast. “You didn’t bother to learn her name?!” She scoffed. “With a son like you…” 

She pushed open the drawing room doors and Mattheo trudged after her, muttering, “at least I know her name now.”

You had been waiting for seven minutes and thirty nine seconds in the drawing room of Riddle Estate, the trackage of time dependent on the old grandfather clock standing ominously in the corner. Its pendulum swung back and forth continuously as its second hand ticked by. Mrs. Riddle had left seven minutes and thirty nine seconds ago to fetch her son. 

While the room was perfectly clean, not a speck of dust on even the highest chandelier, it was still a cold and morose room, yet oddly epochal. The wood was the darkest mahogany you had ever seen and the lights cast odd shadows on the dark green wallpaper that had inlays of gold.

Your teacup that you were trying to hold steady was filled with a sad excuse for tea. There was a ring of gold around the mouth of the teacup. On the table beside you, a notch that looked as if someone dug a knife into the surface caught your attention. It was the little things like this that you noticed when you had nothing else to do. Your mind was trying to distract you.

The door then swung open and there stood your fiancé, his stare daring you to oppose him.

“Uh,” you stood, your teacup and saucer still in hand. You quickly placed them on the table, right over the knife nick. “Y/n L/n,” you introduced yourself. You bowed your head in an informal curtsy. 

Mattheo’s eyes flickered over your face. “Mattheo Riddle,” he said coldly. His voice was practically velvet. You didn’t mean to look him up and down, but you couldn’t help it. He was to be your husband, after all.

Mattheo’s hair coiled at the end and his eyes were just as dark as his curls. His nose had a scarred cut on it that looked as if it was just beginning to heal. Your fiancés cheekbones were practically sculpted from marble and for a moment, you believed that the gods had simply breathed life into a statue. Did this make you Pygmalion and Mattheo Galatea?

If it weren’t for their lethal eyes and stern posture, perhaps more would be friendly to the Riddles.

Mattheo spoke, “you’re to be my fiancée.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes.” You had the urge to add ‘sir’ at the end, but you bit your tongue. 

Bellatrix hissed something to Mattheo and thrust a small object into his hands. Mattheo rolled his eyes and stalked towards you. “My family ring,” he grumbled. He held out an intricate silver ring with three bands interweaving. A green jewel cut into a thin diamond shape sat steadily in the middle. “It has been in the Riddle family for generations. It’s tradition to pass it down to the wife of the firstborn son. And now that is you…” 

He trailed off and handed the ring to you, it laying flat on his palm. You took it from him, trying to minimise contact with Mattheo. You nodded in thanks and slid it into your ring finger. 

It seemed too concrete to fathom.

Mattheo stared at the ring on your finger. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “My… wife,” he murmured halfheartedly.

***

Three weeks had passed since the wedding and it was as if you had never gotten married in the first place. Yes, it was unsettling to wake up in a bed that wasn’t your own next to a man that you were supposed to call your own. But other than necessary, Mattheo had hardly uttered a word to you.

In the three weeks you had stayed there, you had seen Mattheo a total of twenty eight times, including mornings and nights when you were forced to sleep in the same bed. 

Your mornings, afternoons, and nights were all incredibly boring. You took long meals, pushing your food around. Sometimes you just sat by the window and watched the wind blow bits of grass and dirt past the window. The servants were still extracting the dust between the couch cushions and you tried to stay out of the way, but it only made you feel more isolated.

Mattheo was holed up in his office day in and day out. He had now inherited a large portion of his father’s company and Mattheo was determined to uphold the honour bestowed upon him. He had drafted contracts, sold and bought land, and even hosted a few dinner parties for his associates. 

You detested the dinner parties. Thankfully, Mattheo had yet to invite you to one - hell, he had yet to speak to you about the dinner parties. You had learned of the first dinner party when you had wandered downstairs one late evening because you were thirsty. You had stared at the group of strangers, all dressed in elegance, as they stared back at you in your night clothes. Not saying a word, you had sighed and returned upstairs.

You hadn’t been eager for the marriage, but wouldn't it befit Mattheo to show some affection? Or at least acknowledge your presence?

While you had continuously tried to get your husband to open up to you, his answers had been short and venomous.

It had been a long, monotonous day for you. You had returned to the master bedroom about two hours earlier than you normally would have if you were at home.

With the wealth that you came from, the opulence was sure to be evident, but you had underestimated the Riddle family’s prestige. When Mattheo had first shown you your shared bedroom, you had to allow a flicker of surprise break through your facade. The bedroom was larger than any room in your old home and had a large bed in the middle. The lamps on the bedside table were always dimly lit and the design of the room was the same as the rest of the house - dark and bereft of love and care. 

Your hair had been brushed enough, but you kept brushing simply for something to do while Mattheo finished up in the bathroom. Mattheo walked out of the ensuite with a towel wrapped around his waist. His curls were plastered to his forehead and a bead of water ran down his sternum.

Your eyes flickered to his figure through the mirror, taking in the dips and curves of Mattheo’s muscles as he silently got ready for bed. You tore your gaze away, berating yourself.

You built up your courage and tried to think of a conversation starter. You commented, “my parents wrote to me today.” After no reply from Mattheo, you continued, “they asked me when we would give them grandchildren.” You set your hairbrush down and stared at Mattheo through the mirror, looking for some sort of reaction.

Mattheo hummed noncommittally and put on some sleep pants. He used his towel to begin drying his hair. “It would be behoove us to produce some heirs,” he spoke. His tone was dismissive, as if children were nothing more than an obligation or duty to fulfil.

“Right,” you muttered, knowing that an uninterested reaction was all you were going to get out of him. 

You stood and moved towards the bed. “Goodnight,” you whispered, turning off the bedside lamp and tucking yourself into bed. Mattheo was still putting on his nightclothes and had yet to get into bed.

As you turned off the light and got into bed, Mattheo finished drying himself off and slid into his own pyjamas. He sat down beside you, but didn't bother turning off his own lamp. Instead, he laid against the headboard, reading a book. "Goodnight," he finally mumbled, not even looking at you.

You curled into your blanket. After a moment, you asked quietly, “what book are you reading?”

He looked at you over the top of his book. "None of your business," he replied curtly.

You simply uttered, “okay.” 

Mattheo felt an unwanted and unusual feeling root itself deep in his stomach. He scoffed and said sarcastically, "fine. Go ahead and keep asking questions all night long if it amuses you so." He opened his book again and pretended to read.

A longing and lonely pang resonated in your chest at his harsh words. You didn’t respond and instead turned your face into your pillow. You had known that your marriage was to be loveless, but it still hurt at every unspoken word. Perhaps, if you had been five years younger when you married Mattheo, your spirit would still be alive with the juvenile belief that you could stand up to him.

Mattheo huffed and his gaze turned up to stare at the wall ahead of him. “If you’re so miserable, then why don’t you just leave?” he snapped, not even bothering to hide his bitterness. “I am sure your family would simply love to have you back.” He flipped another page in his book, not even bothering to look at the printed words.

“I never said I was miserable,” you answered quietly, even though Mattheo knew it wasn’t true. Perhaps, though, you believed it to be true. You took a steadying breath, closing your eyes.

Your husband smirked and leaned against the headboard. “What do you call your attitude, then? Why are you so downtrodden and defeated? Surely, you can’t blame me for being frustrated by it.” He knew that he should be taking account of making you feel this way, but he still tried to justify his behaviour. 

“Goodnight,” you reiterated. 

Mattheo sighed dramatically. “Whatever,” he grunted. He closed his book, threw it on the nightstand, and turned off his lamp. The room was encased in darkness except for the dim moonlight coming through the window. He shifted towards the edge of the bed, making sure a noticeable gap was between the two of you. 

He thought back to your conversation. “Why don’t you just leave?” 

It was too late now to apologise.

***

Mattheo let the door swing shut behind him, returning to Riddle Manor after an outing with friends. He glanced around, waiting for a servant to take his coat, but no one answered. An eyebrow cocked, Mattheo slowly walked up the stairs, hearing you instruct the servants on something, every other sentence of yours either containing, ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. Up on the landing, he found you directing a servant who was pulling a rack of your clothing. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “Have you lost your damn mind? Are you trying to send a message or something?” 

“You’ve made it perfectly clear that you have no interest in me, so I’m trying to make this marriage as civilised as possible,” you said diplomatically. “I believe that if I move to the West Wing and leave you in the East Wing, it will benefit our marriage.”

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish with this piteous attempt at attention?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you think it’ll make me want you more?” He stuck his tongue in his cheek, grinning incredulously. “You’re delusional if you think that’s even remotely possible.” He stepped closer to you, towering over you with anger in his eyes. “This is not some game, L/n. This is marriage. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.” 

“I’m aware that we’re married, Riddle,” you retorted. “And don’t refer to me by L/n anymore. I am now a Riddle - just like you. However, I am not going to live in a state of constant sorrow and dejection. Having a wing of the mansion to myself may help.” 

Mattheo’s jaw tightened as he stared at you, irritated by your resistance. “Fine,” he growled. “But don’t expect me to come running after you when you decide you want attention. You’re on your own now.” He turned away from you and walked into his now solo bedroom. “Just remember - this is your choice.” 

You felt your anger inflate. “I thought you would like this!” Your voice rose and you tugged a hand through your hair. It was the first time in your marriage that you had fought back. “I have done everything I can to please you, yet nothing is enough for you!” Your voice turned desperate. “What do you want from me?”

He stopped in his tracks, turning around with surprise and disgust on his face. “Dammit, Y/n! Don’t yell at me like that!” His voice thundered, stepping towards you. “I never asked for any of this! I didn’t ask for a wife or for you to try so hard to please me! All of this is ridiculous.” His hand slashed through the air to make a point. “All I want is some space. Space to figure out what the hell I want. But let’s make one thing clear: I don’t care about you.”

“Am I not giving you space?” Your fists clenched at your sides. “I am moving out of the bedroom and out of your way. Yet, you erupt at me and get angry over nothing! You send me mixed messages and I don’t know what to do.”

Mattheo took a breath, trying to regain control over his emotions. “I am not erupting! Lord, you are so sensitive!” he snapped, running a hand over his face. “Can’t you listen for once? I am not sending you mixed signals. I am trying to figure out my place in this unorthodox situation we’re in.”

After a beat of silence, you asked firmly, “did you talk about me?” After seeing a flicker of confusion on his face, you clarified, “when you were out with your friends, did you talk about me? Did you rant about how annoying I was? Did you complain about marriage?”

His lips parted before taking a breath. “Yes, I talked about you,” he admitted begrudgingly. “I complained about how frustrating I find you and how frustrated I am with my parents for arranging this senseless marriage.”

“What did they say?” you insisted. “Did they sympathise? Did they laugh at me? Did they add fuel to your fire by commenting about how… how ‘needy’ and ‘sensitive’ I am?”

Mattheo made a low sound in his chest and rubbed his temples, frustrated by your persistence. “They agreed with me, yes. A few believed that you are too emotionally attached and sentimental. Others chalked it up to the pains of an average marriage.”

Your anger flared up and you said, “Let me tell you this: I never wanted marriage either. But I at least tried. I tried to be a nice and loving wife and a kind human.” You turned on your heel, marching out of the bedroom and towards the West Wing.

Mattheo watched you go, an unwanted feeling of guilt washing over him. He sighed and walked over to the window. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “Why is everything so damn complicated?”

For the next couple of weeks, you stayed true to your word. You avoided Mattheo and his office and stayed in your wing of the mansion. After a week or two, you decided to explore the mansion, stumbling upon a magnificent library. You inhaled in veneration when someone cleared their throat. Mattheo stood behind you, raising an brow. After a silence, you said recalcitrantly, “you never told me that Riddle Manor had a library.”

He smirked at your thinly veiled hatred, amused despite himself. “Well, now you know,” he said dryly. “It’s a perk of living in a Riddle household.” He walked over to a bookshelf and began browsing for a book he required for a contract that was being drafting. He showed no sign of embarrassment or discomfort at your presence. “You may use it whenever you want. But don’t expect me to join a book club or anything juvenile.”

“I would never dream of it,” you said sarcastically. You step further into the library and can’t help but gape at the vastness. You trailed your fingers over the book spines, breathing in the smell of old books. You crouched down to examine a series of poetry titles. “I can read any of these?” you asked hesitantly.

He nodded and leaned against the shelf behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Feel free to read whatever you would like. They’re here for the entire household. Well, the servants don’t have time to read books, so in a Riddle household, the parents and children use the library the most.” Your hand faltered over the titles. “If you find something that catches your eye, go ahead and take it. I won’t stop you.” There was a hint of curiosity in his voice, as if he wished to know what topics and books piqued your interest. You hummed quietly, not fully acknowledging his words. You were already picking up a book and leafing through it. Mattheo watched you for a moment, his eyes softening briefly.

Everyday, you returned to the library. It was an escape from the walls of your room and the walls that Mattheo had put up around his heart.

Eventually, the servants recognised your routine and began to start a fire in the fireplace to keep you warm. They moved a loveseat in front of the fire that you gratefully used. You devoured the poetry collection, including Shakespeare and Edgar Allen Poe, and started on the classics. Every once in a while, Mattheo would come into the library, but he wouldn’t talk. He simply took a book and returned to his study. Sometimes, you wondered if he remembered you lived in the mansion with him. 

Mattheo found himself frequenting the library more often, looking for books he had never needed before. A swell of pride filled him whenever he saw you by the fire, knowing that something in his home brought you such comfort. He still refused to speak to you, maintaining distance and ignoring your existence, but he found himself increasingly drawn to your presence. 

One day, on a whim, he decided to take a risk and left a stack of his favourite books on the table next to your chair. That afternoon, you found the stack of books. You smiled despite yourself, though you didn't make any comment to Mattheo. You picked up the first book, sat down in the chair, and began to read.

A week later, Mattheo was hosting a dinner party for his associates. He didn’t say a word about it to you, though you heard the servants preparing for it. You decided not to go, opting to stay in your safe haven of the library. 

After an hour or so of faint music, you heard the door to the library squeak open and your head whipped up. You saw one of Mattheo’s friends, Tom, enter and look around. He spotted you and his lips curled up into a smirk. “So you’re the wife we’ve heard so much about?” 

Your stomach clenched and you replied, “I guess so.”

Tom’s smirk grew wider as he took in your terse response, enjoying your obvious discomfort. He approached you with a lecherous gaze in his eyes before asking, “and how do you find life as Mrs. Riddle? Are you enjoying your… arrangement?” His words dripped with sarcasm, not believing for a moment that you and Mattheo were married for love.

You stared at him. “It has its perks,” you said simply.

Tom laughed derisively at your response, not convinced by your nonchalance. “And what are those perks?” he asked, moving closer to you. “Extravagant gifts? Luxurious vacations? Or simply the privilege of being married to such a powerful man?”

You squared your shoulders. “I am powerful without a man,” you said sharply. “I do not need a man to determine my worth and prowess.”

Tom scoffed. “Really? How exactly did you become powerful on your own?” he asked, challenging you. “I find it hard to believe that you could ever achieve anything significant without the backing of a powerful husband behind you.” He leaned in closer, grinning.

You closed your book with a snap. “The L/n family,” you said, talking of your maiden lineage, “has had control over many estates and affairs for decades. Without Mattheo Riddle, I would’ve inherited half of it, second only to my brother. I would’ve had four auspicious companies at my ready disposal, capable of doing most anything. So, yes, sir, I would have been momentous without him.”

Tom’s smirk faded as he recognised your family name. He remained undeterred, however, stating, “that explains why your husband was so eager to marry you. He must see you as a valuable asset to his business empire.”

As you opened your mouth to retort, the door banged open and Mattheo strode into the library.

Mattheo had noticed Tom’s absence from his party, but when it became too long to be excused as a restroom break, Mattheo had asked his brother, Enzo, if he had seen where he had gone. Enzo had smiled a small smile and whispered, “Tom went to the library. Where your darling wife stays hidden.”

Mattheo saw red. 

He barged into the library, a deadly, lethal, and borderline possessive look deep in his eyes. When he saw Tom flanking you, Mattheo’s expression darkened and his hands clenched into a ready fist. “What the hell are you doing here?” Mattheo demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “This is a private wing of my home - not some place for you to bother my wife.” 

Mattheo moved closer to you, placing himself between you and Tom as if to protect you from further harm. 

Tom quickly stepped back and placed a confident demeanour on his face. “I was simply having a conversation with your lovely wife here,” Tom gritted his teeth.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, showing clearly that Tom was lying and intruding. You saw Mattheo’s eyes flicker down to you, his eyes softening reassuringly before snapping back to Tom, malice in his gaze. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Mattheo snapped at Tom. “There’s no need for any sort of interaction or conversation with my wife unless I am present.” Mattheo placed a hand on the top of your chair, his fingers gripping it and his bicep flexing slightly to warn Tom.

Tom’s eyes flicked with something you hadn’t seen before: fear. Fear commonly associated with the Riddle name. He adjusted his collar and straightened his posture. “Of course, Mr. Riddle,” he said bitterly.

You raised a brow. “I think it’s time for you to go now,” you said, your face stoic. Tom bowed his head slightly before exiting the library. You didn’t look up to meet Mattheo’s eye. You murmured, “you didn’t have to do that. I had it covered.”

Mattheo watched Tom until he completely left the room before turning to look down on you. His voice was threatening, “you may have been able to handle Tom, but I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting or harassing you while you’re under my roof. Consider this a warning - if anyone tries to cross you again, they will regret it.” 

“Perhaps you should tell your coworkers that. Not me,” you replied. 

Mattheo’s expression was cold. “Fine. I will,” he growled. “I will not sit idly by and allow anyone to disrespect my wife.” He let go of your chair and adjusted the cuffs of his suit. As if in a business meeting, he said, “And consider this another warning: if you continue to act so stubbornly, I won’t hesitate to remind you of your place in this marriage.”

“My place in this marriage is your wife!” you cried out, finally standing up. “Your equal! Something you seem to forget until it’s convenient for you. Or until another man threatens your… your property! I doubt you see me any differently than this house or your assets.”

Mattheo grabbed onto your arm tightly, pulling you close and leaning down so his face was inches from yours. “Do not ever speak to me like that. You are not my equal - you are my wife and I decide what is best for both of us. If you cannot accept that, then you should reconsider your place in this marriage.” He released your arm and turned away from you, striding towards the door. “I suggest you reflect on your behaviour,” he added icily, leaving the room without looking back.

After he left the library, you let out a scream of frustration. You shoved the pile of books that Mattheo had carefully curated to the floor. They tumbled down, book after book, covers opening and pages bending. Tears pricked at your eyes as you examined the scene. 

You slumped into your chair, the fire in front of your crackling softly, emitting a calming warmth.

Eventually, you fell asleep in the chair, tear stains on your cheeks. In the morning, you woke to the serene morning light filtering into the room - a vast contrast to your mood. The fire had dissolved into crackling embers. Tucked on top of you was a thick blanket and the stack of books that you had pushed over had been re-piled and stood majestically atop the table.

You sighed, knowing you should thank the servants for taking care of you and cleaning up. 

After you walked to the kitchen, your footfalls heavy, you thanked the servants, who were finishing preparing breakfast. They exchanged glances and one piped up, “Ma’am, while we appreciate the sentiment, we didn’t do that. We weren’t aware that you were still in the library. We believed you had retired to bed before the social last night.” They paused and then added, “however, Mr. Riddle didn’t go to bed. He was in his study until morning light.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. You bid them an awkward goodbye before entering the dining hall. 

Mattheo was already seated at the head of the table, his expression exhausted and distant. He didn’t acknowledge you when you approached, focusing instead on the uneaten plate of food in front of him. 

You sat down opposite him and muttered, “the servants informed me that you blanketed me last night and cleaned up the books.” You hesitated and finally said, “thank you.”

Mattheo looked up briefly, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t respond directly. “It was necessary,” he said simply. “You should not be cold and uncomfortable in your own home.” He doesn’t make any effort to engage in conversation beyond that. Something was weighing heavily on his mind and he seemed preoccupied by it.

You hummed in response. Eventually, you stood and whispered to your husband before walking out, “you are not as cold as you want to seem. You needn’t keep the facade up with me.”

Mattheo looked up briefly before returning to his food. His expression relaxed, but he didn’t respond.

***

Later that day, Mattheo sat in his study as he always did. A knock came from the door and he glanced at the clock. It was a bit early for lunch to be delivered, but he announced, “come in.”

The door creaked open and your head peeked into the room. Mattheo’s brows furrowed - not with malice, but with scrutiny. You entered and sat in one of the two seats next to his fireplace. Silently, you cracked open a book you had brought and began to read. 

Mattheo watched you intently, his gaze never wavering as he took in every detail of your face. He tried to find any acrimonious intent behind your actions, but you looked so peaceful. He found himself noticing the details of your face and your beauty as the fire cast warm highlights on your eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked eventually, his voice holding an armour of needed suspicion.

“Reading,” you said simply. 

Mattheo frowned, not convinced by your answer. Why would you read in his study after the way he had been treating you? He leaned back in his chair, his work forgotten. “Isn’t there something more important that you could be occupying your time with?” he challenged.

“Not particularly,” you responded. “You’re in charge of the companies and estates. I have nothing to do. I thought I would accompany you. You must get lonely in a study by yourself.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes, but ultimately nodded slowly. “Alright,” he agreed after a moment. “But don’t think I will stop working simply because my wife is here.” His posture grew taut as he began looking over documents again. “This is still my office and I expect you to behave accordingly.”

“I’m simply reading,” you murmured, a smile inching its way up your lips.

Henceforth, a routine was established. Every morning, you would knock on Mattheo’s study door, usually an hour or so after he began working. There was rarely conversation, the silence being broken by Mattheo’s scratch of a quill or you turning pages, occasionally being disrupted by the loud crack of a log in the fire.

One day, you had finished your book (it was an excellent book, one from the pile Mattheo had recommended) and stood to go retrieve another one. At the sound of your footsteps leaving his office, Mattheo’s head darted up and he suddenly asked, “where are you going?” 

You paused and turned back to him. “I’m to get a new book. Unfortunately, as wonderful as this one was, it had an ending like all books do.”

Mattheo frowned and a hint of vulnerability broke through his exterior. “Get a servant to do it,” he offered. 

“Well, I don’t know which one I want,” you counted, raising a brow in a smirk.

He huffed and shook his head, returning his eyes to his documents. He grumbled, “I will commission the servants to build you a small bookshelf for my office. You can keep your books there.” You stood, watching him for a moment, admiring him until his gaze snapped up. “Well, go get your book,” he said sharply. “… but hurry back,” he added in a mumble. 

You finally smiled at him before exiting and Mattheo gazed at the place you once stood, trying to memorise how your lips curled up and your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

He rather liked it when you smiled.

***

“Are you alright?”

You sniffed and laughed. “Yes, yes. I’m being foolish.” You wiped some tears from your eyes. “My book is very good.”

Mattheo chuckled lowly. “And what made you cry, hm?”

“A daughter and father interaction,” you replied quietly. 

“Was the father cruel to the daughter?” Mattheo laughed tersely, shaking his head at his documents. “Are your feelings not strong enough to withstand their wrath?”

You frowned at Mattheo, setting the book down. “No,” you corrected slowly. “The father was being kind to his daughter. He was supporting her and loving her; as a father should.” There was a pause as Mattheo looked up at you. “I know that the Riddles are a harsher family - I’ve known ever since I knew I was to marry you. But… but are you alright?” 

You felt absurd asking the question. Yet, when Mattheo couldn’t meet your eye, a wistful sadness blanketing the room, you felt as if you should’ve asked the simple question weeks earlier.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then Mattheo turned in his chair so his back was facing you. "I'm fine," he finally answered, his voice rough and strained. "I am used to dealing with it, I suppose." Despite his insistence that he didn't need anyone's pity or concern, your words seem to have affected him more deeply than he wanted to admit. 

“May I ask a question?” you asked softly.

Mattheo hesitated for a moment before nodding, his eyes never leaving the window as he spoke. "Ask away," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He then cleared his throat and said, "but I won’t give a warm and fuzzy answer." 

There was a pregnant pause in the air as you gathered your courage up and suddenly thrust your fears upon your husband. “If we ever have children, which we’re somewhat expected to,” you added hurriedly. “I don’t want them to grow up in a household where they feel as if they have to vie for love or attention. And I don’t want me to be the only one giving them attention.” Mattheo turned his head so his face was angled toward you, but his eyes could still stray to the window if need be. “If we have kids, can you promise that you’ll love them? Even if you don’t love me?” 

Even though your voice was steady, Mattheo knew of the vulnerability deeply rooted within you.

He nodded cautiously, his expression serious. "I promise," he said firmly. "I may not love you, but I will love our children unconditionally. They will never have to compete for my affection or feel neglected. I may not be a fond father, but I will provide for them and protect them as best I can." A protectiveness filled his veins just at the thought of something happening to his future children. 

You nodded once, a sad smile on your face. “Perhaps we’ll have a big family. Enough children to start a sports team.” You smiled at the thought, laughing lightly.

Mattheo smiled, despite himself, imagining a large brood of children running around the manor. It was an oddly appealing idea, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud. "We'll see," he said noncommittally. "I'd rather have lots of sons; they'll carry on the family name and ensure my legacy continues." He turned back around and attempted to focus on his work.

“And daughters too.” You frowned, staring at your husband, even if he wouldn’t spare you a glance. “Daughters can carry on the family name just as well as sons.” A muscle in your jaw ticked.

Mattheo scowled at your defiance, his eyes narrowing slightly. Why hadn’t you just fallen into line? "Fine, daughters too," he reluctantly agrees. "But make no mistake, they will be raised to be strong and capable like their brothers. The Riddle name demands nothing less." 

“And the sons can be soft and caring and sensitive,” you said firmly, crossing your arms. “I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have to vie for affection. I thought we agreed that they wouldn’t have needless competition in their life. I don’t want them to grow up… like, well… you.” You finally uttered the words that had been hanging off your tongue dangerously. 

Mattheo’s expression hardened as he clenched his fist tightly. "Fine!" he snapped. "They can be whatever the hell you want them to be! But don't expect me to sit back and watch while they become weaklings and failures. We need to teach them to be strong and ruthless like I am." He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair in the process.

You jump up after him, crossing towards him. You whirled to a stop in front of him, jabbing a finger towards his chest. “Listen here, Riddle. Just because someone is kind and vulnerable doesn’t mean they’re weak!” You growled, “and just because you grew up like that, does not mean that’s the type of household I am going to have.”

Mattheo stepped forward and his hand flew up to grip your wrist. His eyes blazed with anger, but then something changed in his expression and he took a step back, looking surprised at his own reaction. "You're right," he admitted begrudgingly. "I shouldn't have assumed that being vulnerable meant being weak." He ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassed, yet resolute in his decision. "But don't expect me to be a pushover either. I'll still teach them to be strong and independent."

“Strong and independent are good qualities,” you conceded. “Both for the boys and girls.”

"Agreed," he said. Mattheo straightened his cuffs and cleared his throat. "Our children will be taught to be strong and independent, regardless of gender. They will know that they are loved and valued by both of us, equally." He held out his hand to you, indicating that the argument was over - for now at least. "Deal?" 

“Deal.” You shook his hand defiantly. It was a business deal, but a good deal at least.

Mattheo exhaled and brushed past you. “I’m to a meeting,” he informed you. It was a simple comment , one that was an offhand remark, but to you, Mattheo had just let you into his life. It was something he had never done before. Even if it was just a response to where he was off to, it was a window into his life. A life that now may have enough room to hold you. 

Mattheo paused when he reached the door. “I never knew the way I grew up was wrong until I saw other families. I saw the parents bending down to listen to their children instead of hushing them. I saw parents comforting their children after scraped knees, not pushing them to the kitchen for some rubbing alcohol. I saw parents beaming when their child could plunk out the simplest of tunes on the piano. No one else got berated for being out of rhythm or playing a D instead of an E. I never saw another child get slapped by their parents or scolded as harshly as I was. It was around then I realised that something was wrong. But what was I to do about it?”

Words dried in your throat. You wanted to cry at his words, but you felt dried out. How could someone treat their child like that? It explained so much… 

Your husband was a fragile man, you were just realising. And he was trying to pick up the pieces and present them to you in the only way he knew how. 

"The stars remind me of you,” he said quietly, the change in conversation sudden. “I mean that in the best possible way.” His voice was the softest and most tender as you had ever heard it. You hoped he would keep speaking the melodies that made your heart sing in tune. 

“How so?” you asked, afraid to break the plane of existence that you and Mattheo were carefully standing on.

"They are so beautiful, yet so far away. I may see them, but I can never touch them."

***

The servants didn’t know what to do. The master and mistress, Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, seemed to be at a ceasefire. The cooks lamented at how they had seemed to be doing so well. The maids thought they were destined to doom from the start. The butlers gossiped about Mr. Riddle’s letters to a Mr. Tom, terminating their long-term partnership. The scullery maid still had hope that the husband and wife would come to their senses and live a happy life.

It perplexed the servants when the mistress requested to move her belongings back into the master bedroom and the master looked on, a soft smile on his lips. It confused the servants when the Mr and Mrs began taking meals together and talking in hushed tones late into the night. And it bamboozled the servants when, one summer afternoon, the Lord of the household stood from his desk, cautiously moved to his Lady that was reading by the open window, and asked her to accompany him on a walk. She had accepted. 

There was to be a dinner party, this time hosted at Mr. Draco Malfoy’s manor, that Mr. Riddle was expected to attend. Per usual, the master didn’t invite the mistress, but she was content to stay home. A maid briefly heard the madam whisper to her husband, “hurry home, please? I don’t like it when you’re away.” The maid had scurried away before she could hear the reply.

Mattheo returned home that night, just before the sun was setting. He climbed the steps, unbuttoning his cuffs and loosening his tie. The soft glow of light was still shining under your shared bedroom - something he still hadn’t gotten used to - and Mattheo couldn’t help but smile.

“Why are you still up?” he asked quietly when he entered the room.

“You promised to be home early and I wanted to see you before I go to bed,” you reminded him, a small book in your hands.

“Right, right.” Mattheo chuckled and shook his head, slinging off his tie and jacket.

“How was the dinner?”

Mattheo hummed noncommittally. “Not the worst. A couple of my good friends, Theo and Pansy, were there to help alleviate the pain of socialising. But… I found something odd happening.”

“And what was that, husband?” Mattheo took a moment to relish in the way that word curled off your tongue effortlessly.

“I found myself wishing you were there. Nay,” he quickly corrected himself. “I wished I was here with you.”

“Oh?” Your eyes flickered up towards Mattheo, a slight blush coming to your cheeks. “Why… what do you mean by that?”

Mattheo began to unbutton his shirt and moved towards his closet. “Well,” he admitted, mumbling to himself. “I simply mean that instead of having to socialise with people who are too tightly wound and whose only intent is to take my money,” he chucked his belt into his closet and rolled up his sleeves, “I would rather be at home with my darling wife.”

A smile inched up your lips. “Really? Tell me more about this darling wife of yours.”

Mattheo hummed, stepping towards the bed. He crawled down on the bed, leaning on his forearms to lean up towards you. “My wife… I’ve come to care deeply about her. She is a beautiful, elegant woman, one who has a fiery tongue about her and an intelligent brain that even I cannot rival. She always seems to get her way, even when I try to fight back. It’s as if my wife has a command over me that I have willingly submitted to. And I am not ashamed to say so.” He lightly caressed your arm, sending a trail of goosebumps up your skin. 

“You must be careful, Mattheo,” you uttered. “That sounds an awful lot like love.” 

Mattheo brought his eyes up to meet yours, the sting of tears building up behind them. His voice cracked as he said, “that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name, Y/n.”

Your lips parted in shock. “I- I didn’t realise. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Mattheo demanded before reaching up to pull you into a kiss. 

His lips were soft and meaningful against yours, hungrily trying to gather every ounce of love from you. His kisses were feverish at first, his strong hand coming up to cup your jawline, his fingers just teasing behind your ear, before his lips slowed. Mattheo was a starved man and he wouldn’t let anyone take away his only solace. He shifted so he could be closer to you, gently taking the book from your hands as you surrendered yourself to him. Your hands found his silk shirt, gripping it in your fists. He placed the book on the nightstand and moved so he was hovering over you, never once letting a second go by without feeling your skin against his. 

Mattheo slowly, achingly pulled away from you and his eyes fluttered open to meet yours. “My darling, my love, my life,��� he murmured, dragging a knuckle down your cheek. “I apologise for everything I have ever done or said that made you feel inferior. I would be happy to kneel for you in front of my associates and family members - just to show them how much power you have over me.” He took a breath before persisting, “I was foolish. I was incompetent. I didn’t realise how much love I held for you. It is, and always will be, only you. I will promise you this: you will be the only woman I ever touch, the only voice I ever want to hear, the only skin I will ever caress, and the only eyes I ever want to see. I will wake and fall, every morning and night, thinking of you. You are the other half of my heart, for it is you who I love. I will place the galaxies and stars in the night sky for you. If you are ever unhappy, my love, I will not rest until I see you smile again. If you are ever mad, my love, I shall smite whatever upsets you, even if it is I. And I would die a happy man if you could give me only an ounce of what I give you.”

Your breath shook and you swore Mattheo had injected ambrosia into your veins for you were sure your blood was singing with the love that was filling your soul. “I wrote a letter to your mother today,” you offered quietly, as if your mere words could ever compare to the love poem Mattheo had just gifted to you. “And I thanked her.” Mattheo’s eyes flashed with confusion. You continued, “I thanked her for birthing such a wonderful husband and for raising him. I know you u wish to renounce your family, but as of now, I want to thank them with all my heart. Mattheo, I love you.”

“And I you,” Mattheo whispered, bringing his forehead down to rest on yours. His nose bumped against your cheek and he couldn’t contain his grin anymore. “How did I ever get so lucky?” he mumbled.

You laughed lightly. “Luck? Fate?”

Mattheo shook his head and his nose brushed light curves over your skin. “No, my wife. Simply love. Pure, unconditional love.”

***

The house was bright, the curtains pulled as far open as they could be. Some servants scuttled around, holding laundry or preparing for dinner. Meanwhile, Mattheo strode leisurely through the halls, smiling lovingly as his nephews chased each other through the halls. “What do I say, boys?” he called after them.

“Have fun, be safe, and don’t get caught!” they yelled back before running around a corner.

Enzo jogged after them and grumbled to Mattheo, “it’s not your duty to rule them up.”

“As their favourite uncle, yes, it is.”

“Your wife is in Andromeda’s room,” Enzo told his brother before sprinting off after his sons. Enzo wasn’t usually at Riddle Manor, but today was a special day. It was Orion’s birthday.

Mattheo chuckled to himself before Orion raced up the steps, panting. “Papa! Papa!” 

Mattheo grinned widely and scooped Orion up. “Are you alright, hm? What’ve you been up to?”

“Aunt Pansy’s carriage just pulled up!” Orion bounced in Mattheo’s arms, beaming.

“And you’re not even dressed,” Mattheo stared at Orion, pretending to be stunned. “Where’s your mother, Ori?”

“She’s helping Andy get dressed,” Orion announced. Mattheo nodded and carried his son to his daughter’s room. “Mum!” Orion cried out, seeing Y/n standing behind Andromeda, knotting her hair into a braid. 

“Oh, my darling,” Y/n tied Andy’s hair up before crossing to Mattheo and taking Orion from his arms. “Are you excited for your birthday?”

Orion hummed excitedly and wiggled down from Y/n’s arms. He darted to Andromeda and wrapped himself around her in a tight hug. Andromeda grumbled, but allowed him to cling to her as she finished her hair and rouge.

Mattheo took Y/n’s hand and pulled her back toward him, nudging his nose against hers. “Look at that,” he murmured, reaching down to play with the silver and green ring on your finger. “Mine.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. Slowly, as to not arouse suspicion from your children, he backed you up and caged you against the wall in his arms. “Seven years with you and two beautiful children to show for it.”

“Hey, mum? Where’s my- eugh!” Andromeda turned around and reeled back from the scene in front of her. “For the love of Salazar, please get a room!”

“We are in a room.” Mattheo smirked, glancing up from the crook of your neck. 

“Aren’t you two, if I'm doing my calculations correctly, nearing thirty years old?” Andromeda tsked and rolled her eyes. 

“You believe that simply because we’re getting older, I’m going to stop loving your mother?”  Mattheo chuckled before pressing a light kiss to your jawline. 

You shivered and tucked your face into your husband’s chest. “Matty, spare the poor children,” you chastised lightly. “What do you need, darling?” you turned towards Andromeda.

“You used to call me that,” Mattheo whined. He stepped back from you, letting you out of his embrace.

Andromeda sighed and asked, “where is my white shawl? It’ll go well with the dress I’m planning to wear to Orion’s party.”

“Why does it matter what you wear to Orion’s party?” Mattheo asked, puzzled. 

“Because Albus Potter is going to be here,” you said as if it were obvious.

“Harry Potter’s son?” Mattheo asked incredulously. “That scumbag?”

Both you and Andromeda ignored Mattheo and Orion left the room at the sound of Aunt Pansy entering the foyer and shouting out for her favourite nephew.

“Your shawl should be in the library,” you answered. “Ori was using it as a blanket yesterday.”

Andromeda sighed and turned towards the door. “He needs to stop taking my things. Just last week he stole my candelabra so he could read in the dark. Perhaps you should accelerate his schooling. He’s getting bored, you know.”

“We’ll raise our own son, thank you, Andromeda,” Mattheo raised a brow. Andy huffed and and flicked her dress out behind her dramatically, exiting the room. Mattheo turned to you and said, “they get that from you. The love of reading.”

“Yes, but they get their flair for the dramatics from you. And lest us not forget, you keep fuelling our love of literature by buying more books and expanding our library,” you countered.

Mattheo hummed. “‘Tis true. But how could I live without spoiling my wife and children?” He whirled you around in his arms and pressed a long kiss to your lips. “Speaking of children, what would you think of expanding our family?”

You let out a laugh. “You simply like the act of making a bigger family.”

“I love my children too,” Mattheo defended.

You reached up and brushed some of his hair away from his face. “Yes you do,” you smiled up at him. “You love your family very much.”

“Always.”

[evermoreness]

secrets | regulus black - barty crouch jr.

pairing: regulus black x barty crouch jr. x reader

summary: you are working undercover for the order of the phoenix but things take a turn when your boyfriends, proud death eaters, discover how much danger you're in.

obs: this is a continuation, please read part one before this.

warnings: angsty, sad, torture, blood, mentions of death, swearing.

masterlist

Regulus looked at Barty.

Barty looked at Regulus.

Neither of them said a word, but they didn’t need to.

They had spent enough time together, fought side by side enough times to understand each other with just a glance. The flicker of determination in Regulus’ silver eyes, the way Barty’s fingers twitched against the restraints—this was it. Their only chance.

Regulus inhaled sharply, tilting his head toward Bellatrix. "Fine," he said, voice hoarse. "I’ll talk."

The room went silent.

Bellatrix turned to him, intrigued. "Oh?" She crouched back down, gripping his chin roughly. "And here I thought you’d rather die than betray her."

Regulus forced himself to look at you. Your wide, panicked eyes burned into his soul, but he didn’t waver. "There’s no point in all of us dying, is there?" His voice was empty, indifferent. "She’s already broken."

Your breath hitched.

Bellatrix’s lips curled. "Oh, cousin. I always knew you’d come to your senses." She turned to the Death Eaters restraining him. "Let him go."

They hesitated.

"You heard me," Bellatrix snapped, rising to her full height. "Let. Him. Go."

The moment they released him, Regulus staggered slightly, shaking out his sore wrists. Bellatrix smirked, waiting. "Well?" she purred. "Speak."

Regulus glanced at Barty one last time.

Now.

Barty moved.

In one fluid motion, he yanked himself free from the distracted Death Eaters, twisting his body violently. Before they could react, he lunged at Bellatrix, knocking her down with a brutal force.

The impact was harsh, the sound of her body slamming against the cold floor echoing through the room.

"Barty!" you gasped, but he wasn’t listening.

He was moving on pure, unfiltered rage.

Bellatrix tried to curse him, but Barty was faster. His fists crashed into her face with vicious strength—once, twice—until she was momentarily stunned.

And that was all he needed.

With a sharp, calculated move, he grabbed her wand.

The entire room froze.

Barty rose to his full height, standing over Bellatrix’s stunned form, her wand steady in his grip. Blood dripped from his mouth, but he was grinning, his wild eyes burning with something unhinged. "Now," he breathed, turning the wand toward the others, "let’s try this again."

The Death Eaters stiffened.

None of them moved.

Because they knew the truth.

They needed Barty alive.

"That’s right," Barty sneered, taking a slow step forward, the tip of Bellatrix’s wand crackling with barely restrained power. "You can’t fucking kill me, can you?" His smile widened, teeth flashing. "But I can kill you."

A flick of his wrist, and one of the Death Eaters was sent flying against the wall. Another twitch of his fingers, and another was slammed to the floor, gasping in pain.

"Expelliarmus!" Regulus snarled, and suddenly, a second wand went flying into his waiting hand.

Now they were both armed.

And the Death Eaters knew they had lost control.

Bellatrix groaned, struggling to sit up. "You little—"

Barty didn’t give her the chance to finish.

"Crucio."

Bellatrix screamed.

Barty didn’t stop.

"Barty!" Regulus shouted.

Barty’s breathing was ragged, his entire body trembling, but he finally—finally—let go. Bellatrix collapsed, gasping, twitching, her face contorted in agony.

Regulus didn’t waste another second.

He ran to you, cutting the restraints binding your wrists. "Are you okay?" he breathed, eyes scanning your face frantically.

You nodded weakly, but your body was still too heavy, too numb from everything that had happened.

Barty crouched beside you, his free hand gripping yours tightly. "We’re getting you out of here," he said, voice shaking with leftover fury.

Regulus stood, turning the wand toward the remaining Death Eaters. "Nobody moves."

"Let’s go," Barty muttered, slipping an arm under you, helping you stand.

Your legs almost gave out, but he held you firmly.

"Reg, get us out of here," Barty ordered.

Regulus nodded sharply, and then—

A loud crash from the hallway.

More Death Eaters were coming.

"Shit," Barty cursed.

Regulus took a step forward, jaw clenched. "Hold on to me."

Barty gripped your waist tighter, pressing you against his side.

Regulus flicked his wand.

And then, the world disappeared.

Darkness. Screams. The taste of blood in the air.

Regulus and Barty fought like madmen. There was no hesitation, no restraint—just pure, desperate survival. They had their wands back now, which evened the odds, but the Death Eaters kept coming.

Regulus shot a hex over his shoulder, sending one flying into the stone wall. Barty spun on his heel, stunning another before ducking a curse aimed straight at his head. He gritted his teeth. "How many more of these fuckers are there?"

"Too many," Regulus panted, adjusting his grip on your limp body. You had fainted somewhere between the torture and the escape, your body finally giving out from the pain and exhaustion. Regulus held you tightly, making sure not to jostle you as he fired another curse at the nearest masked figure.

Barty’s eyes flickered to you, jaw clenching. He had been keeping his fury in check ever since they found you, but it was burning inside him, white-hot. "We’re running out of time," he growled, stepping closer to Regulus. "They’ll have reinforcements soon."

"I know," Regulus said sharply. His mind was working, searching for an opening. He shifted you in his arms, adjusting your weight. "We need to Apparate. Now."

Barty scowled. "We can’t Apparate in here, you know that. Anti-Disapparition wards."

Regulus’s silver eyes were steely. "Then we fight our way out."

Barty exhaled through his nose. "Fine. But I’m carrying her now."

Regulus opened his mouth to argue, but Barty was already moving. He grabbed you carefully, pulling you against his chest. "I’ve got her. You cover us."

Regulus hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. "Stay close to me."

The next few minutes were chaos.

Regulus led the way, his wand moving in sharp, precise motions, deflecting curses and sending hexes that dropped Death Eaters left and right. Barty followed, keeping his grip tight on you, dodging spells as he moved.

The exit was in sight.

"Almost there!" Regulus called.

A bright green jet of light whizzed past Barty’s face, narrowly missing him. He snarled, twisting his body to shield you from any more stray spells. "Move faster!"

Regulus didn’t bother answering. He sent a powerful blast behind them, throwing back the last wave of Death Eaters just as they burst through the final set of doors.

The cold night air hit them like a slap.

"Now!" Regulus shouted.

Without hesitation, Barty clutched you tighter and grabbed Regulus’s arm. The moment his fingers curled around the fabric of his sleeve—

They Disapparated.

The world twisted and snapped back into place with a loud crack.

They stumbled into the familiar walls of the safe house, breathless and bloodied.

It was over.

For now.

Barty immediately sank to his knees, still clutching you. "Fuck," he breathed, lowering you carefully onto the floor. "She’s burning up."

Regulus knelt beside you, pushing the damp hair from your face. His hands were shaking. "She’s lost too much blood."

Barty swore under his breath. He pressed a hand against his ribs, grimacing when he felt the warm stickiness of his own blood seeping through his shirt. "You’re worse off," he muttered, giving Regulus a sharp look. "You’re barely standing."

"Doesn’t matter," Regulus snapped. He pulled out his wand, pointing it at your wounds. "We need to stop the bleeding."

Barty let out a shaky breath, rubbing a hand down his face. "They’ll come looking for us, you know."

Regulus didn’t look up. "I know."

Barty leaned back against the wall, staring at you. "She nearly died today." His voice was quieter now, rough with something that sounded dangerously close to fear. "We almost lost her."

Regulus’s hands trembled slightly as he continued healing you. "I know."

Silence.

Then, softly—

"We can’t let this happen again."

Regulus finally met Barty’s eyes.

And in that moment, they both understood.

It was just the beginning.

Regulus wasted no time, he pulled out his wand, flicking it toward the door.

"Protego Totalum. Muffliato. Salvio Hexia."

One after another, layers of protective spells sealed the house from outside threats. Only then did he allow himself to breathe, turning back to where Barty was kneeling beside you.

You still weren’t waking up.

Regulus felt something sharp twist in his chest. He had seen you bleeding, limp in their arms, but now, lying on the floor, too pale, too still— Fuck.

"She should have woken up by now," Barty muttered, voice strained. He was cradling your head, brushing hair from your face with hands that weren’t quite steady. "Why isn’t she waking up?"

Regulus dropped to his knees beside him, his own breathing uneven. "It could be from the pain, the exhaustion…" He swallowed, glancing at your closed eyes. "Or the curses. I don’t know what Bellatrix used on her."

Barty’s grip on you tightened. His knuckles were white. "That bitch."

Regulus didn’t respond. Instead, he pressed his fingers to your wrist, checking your pulse. It was there—weak but steady. He let out a quiet breath. "She’s alive."

Barty let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, fucking barely."

"Help me get her onto the bed."

Together, they lifted you carefully, as if you might shatter at any moment. Regulus adjusted the pillows while Barty laid you down, brushing a stray tear off your cheek before he stepped back.

Regulus pulled out his wand. "I’ll handle her wounds. You need to sit down before you collapse."

Barty scowled. "I’m fine."

"You’re bleeding all over the floor," Regulus shot back, not even looking up as he muttered a healing spell over your arm. "So sit down and let me fix her."

Barty clenched his jaw but obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the bed, watching you closely.

Regulus worked in silence. Cleaning the wounds, sealing cuts, muttering healing charms under his breath. Every so often, he’d pause, waiting, hoping you’d stir. But you didn’t.

It was only when he was satisfied that you were stable that he let out a shaky breath, leaning back on his heels. His head was pounding. His body ached. But you were safe, and that was all that mattered.

"You’re next," he said, looking at Barty.

Barty raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were dying of exhaustion."

Regulus exhaled sharply. "So are you. Shirt off. Now."

Barty smirked faintly. "You could’ve just asked nicely." But he obeyed, wincing as he peeled off his bloodstained shirt.

Regulus barely reacted. He simply examined the wounds, muttering more spells, pressing his palm against a deep gash on Barty’s ribs.

Barty hissed. "Merlin, you have no bedside manner."

"Shut up and let me heal you."

Barty sighed, tilting his head back. His body relaxed slightly as the pain dulled under Regulus’s spells. "Thanks," he murmured, voice quieter now.

Regulus gave a small nod. "Don’t make me do it again anytime soon."

Barty snorted, eyes flicking toward you. "No promises."

A pause. Then—

"Your turn."

Regulus frowned. "I’m fine."

Barty scoffed. "You’re bleeding."

Regulus opened his mouth, but Barty was already moving, grabbing his wand. "Sit down, Black. Don’t make me hex you."

Regulus sighed but didn’t fight it. He allowed Barty to take his arm, watching as he concentrated on healing the deep cut across his forearm.

Barty wasn’t as gentle as Regulus, but he was quick, efficient. They worked in silence, both too drained to say much more.

By the time Barty finished, Regulus barely had the strength to sit up. His vision blurred slightly at the edges, exhaustion crashing over him all at once.

Barty ran a hand through his hair, then glanced toward you again. "She’s going to be okay, right?"

Regulus hesitated before nodding. "She has to be."

Neither of them spoke after that. They were both too tired, too sore, too wrecked to do anything except stay close, watching over you in silence.

By your side.

Hours had passed, the room was dimly lit, only the soft glow of candlelight flickering against the walls. The air was thick with exhaustion, tension, and something else—something unspoken but deeply understood between the three of them.

Regulus sat on one side of the bed, head resting against the headboard, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His wand was still in his lap, fingers loosely curled around it, as if he expected another attack at any moment.

Barty was on the other side, sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed with his arms folded across it, his head resting on his forearm. His breathing was slow, deep—he was asleep, but lightly.

And then, finally—

A small, pained noise escaped your lips as consciousness crept in.

Regulus was instantly awake, straightening in his seat. Barty jolted, eyes flying open, immediately looking up.

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, unfocused at first. Everything ached. Your body felt heavy, sore, like you’d been crushed under the weight of something enormous.

You groaned, blinking sluggishly, trying to make sense of where you were.

Regulus exhaled sharply. "You're awake." His voice was low, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid that saying it aloud would somehow make it untrue.

Barty was already moving, pushing himself up onto his knees, cupping your face gently. His fingers brushed over your cheek, as if needing to feel you, to make sure you were real. "How do you feel?" he asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked at them, trying to process. "I—" Your throat was dry. Your body screamed in protest when you tried to sit up, and both boys immediately reached for you.

Regulus pressed a hand to your shoulder, easing you back down. "Don’t move too much. You’re still healing."

Barty’s hands hovered over you, as if he wanted to touch you more but was afraid he’d make it worse. "You scared the shit out of us." His voice was quieter than usual, but the frustration was still there. "Next time, don’t get yourself caught."

You let out a weak, breathy laugh. "Yeah, I’ll try my best."

Regulus rolled his eyes, but there was relief hidden behind it. "You were unconscious for hours. We weren’t sure—" He swallowed hard, looking away. "We weren’t sure if you were going to wake up."

Your chest tightened at that. You could see it now, in their faces—the exhaustion, the worry, the pain they’d been through just waiting for you to open your eyes.

Your heart clenched.

This was your fault.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. "I’m sorry."

Barty frowned. "What?"

"I’m sorry," you whispered again, looking between them. "You’re hurt. You were almost killed. And it’s because of me."

Regulus’s expression darkened instantly. "Don’t."

You shook your head. "No, you don’t understand—"

"I understand perfectly," Regulus interrupted, voice sharp. "And I’m telling you to stop."

Barty scowled. "Are you actually trying to take responsibility for the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange is a psychopath? Because that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

"But I dragged you into this—"

"You didn’t drag us anywhere," Regulus snapped. "We chose to be here."

"You were supposed to be safe—"

"We were never safe," Barty said flatly. "Not in this fucking war. Not before you. Not after you. And if you think for one second that we’d let you do this alone, then you’re even more of an idiot than I thought."

Your breath hitched, guilt and something deeper, something warmer twisting inside you.

Regulus let out a slow breath, his anger fading slightly. He reached for your hand, squeezing it. "We’re with you. No matter what."

Barty huffed, but he nodded. "Yeah. You’re stuck with us."

You blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears.

Regulus smirked slightly. "You’re not going to cry, are you?"

You laughed, even as a tear slipped down your cheek. "Shut up."

Barty rolled his eyes but reached up, brushing it away with his thumb. "Idiot," he murmured.

You squeezed both of their hands, the weight of everything settling over you—but for the first time in days, maybe even weeks, you felt safe.

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that wrapped around the three of you, intimate and unspoken, filled with everything none of you were saying.

Regulus was still holding your hand, his thumb absently brushing over your knuckles. Barty, on the other hand, was staring at you, his sharp blue eyes tracing over every inch of your face, like he was memorizing the fact that you were still here.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat refusing to disappear. "I don’t deserve you two," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Barty scoffed, his lips curling into something that was half a smirk, half a frown. "Damn right you don’t."

Regulus shot him a look, but you laughed softly, your ribs aching with the motion.

Barty’s expression softened immediately. "Careful," he muttered, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You’re still hurting."

"You’re both hurt too," you pointed out. "But you’re sitting here, taking care of me."

Regulus smirked slightly. "We’d do it again."

Barty nodded, his usual cocky demeanor subdued. "Without question."

Your breath hitched, warmth spreading through your chest despite the pain.

Regulus leaned in slightly, his stormy gray eyes locked onto yours. "You scared the shit out of us," he admitted, his voice softer now, more vulnerable than he usually allowed himself to be. "I thought we were going to lose you."

You squeezed his hand tighter. "I thought I was going to lose you too."

Barty made an irritated noise. "Alright, that’s enough emotional bullshit." But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he reached for your other hand, his grip warm and grounding. "You’re here. We’re here. That’s what matters."

You smiled, exhaustion pulling at your features, but it was genuine. "Yeah. That’s what matters."

Regulus exhaled, running a hand through his messy dark hair before leaning down, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. His lips were soft, his touch lingering as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go too soon.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the warmth of it, your body relaxing for the first time in days.

Barty made a noise in the back of his throat. "Oh, for fuck’s sake," he muttered before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your cheek.

Your eyes snapped open, surprised, and Barty rolled his eyes. "What? You think I’d let Regulus be the only dramatic bastard in the room?"

Regulus smirked. "Jealous, Crouch?"

Barty scoffed. "Shut up, Black."

You chuckled weakly, squeezing both their hands. "I love you both, you know."

That caught them off guard.

Regulus blinked at you, his usual cool demeanor slipping for a second.

Barty’s mouth opened slightly before he quickly closed it, clearing his throat.

It wasn’t something the three of you ever really said out loud. It was always there, lingering in every glance, every reckless act of protection, every night spent together like this. But saying it aloud made it feel more real, more dangerous.

Regulus was the first to speak. His voice was steady, but his grip on your hand tightened. "We know."

Barty swallowed, his fingers brushing over your knuckles. "Yeah," he muttered, his voice quieter than usual. "We know."

They didn’t need to say it back. You could see it in the way Regulus looked at you, the way Barty refused to let go of your hand even though he’d rather die than admit he was being soft.

You smiled, closing your eyes again. "Good," you murmured. "Because it’s true."

Regulus let out a soft breath before leaning down again, pressing another lingering kiss to your forehead.

Barty sighed dramatically but didn’t protest when he shifted closer, resting his head on the edge of the bed near your shoulder. "Get some sleep," he mumbled. "You look like shit."

You huffed a laugh. "Love you too, Barty."

Regulus chuckled quietly, his fingers brushing against your hair. "We’ll be here when you wake up."

The hours passed in a blur of exhaustion and pain, but the three of you stayed together. The room was dimly lit, the only sound being the occasional rustling of fabric and the steady breathing of your boys beside you.

Regulus was the first to stir, pushing himself up with a wince. His gray eyes flickered toward you, still curled between them, and he frowned. You were still covered in dried blood, and not just yours.

"You need a bath," he murmured, his voice rough from sleep.

Barty groaned beside you. "We all do," he muttered, blinking his blue eyes open. He grimaced as he shifted, pressing a hand to his side. "Fuck, everything hurts."

You let out a weak chuckle, but even that sent a jolt of pain through your ribs. "No shit."

Regulus sighed, running a hand through his tangled dark hair. "Alright. Come on."

You barely had the energy to move, let alone bathe, but you knew they were right. You could still feel the grime on your skin, the dried blood stiff on your clothes. Still, the idea of standing under warm water, washing it all away, felt… impossible. You felt too heavy, too drained.

Regulus must have noticed your hesitation because he placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch gentle despite the fact that he was just as beaten as you. "We’ll help," he said softly.

Barty scoffed. "That’s going to be a disaster. We can barely move, let alone help her without fucking collapsing."

You exhaled slowly, your voice quiet but firm. "Then get in with me."

A moment of silence stretched between you, heavy with exhaustion, hesitation, and something unspoken.

Then, Regulus nodded. "Alright."

Barty groaned dramatically, pushing himself up. "Fucking hell. Fine. But if either of you faints and I have to carry your pathetic asses, I’m leaving you there."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "You’re the one most likely to faint."

"Fuck off, Black."

Despite the soreness, despite everything, you laughed softly.

Regulus helped you sit up slowly, his touch careful as if you were made of glass. Barty, still grumbling under his breath, moved to the other side, making sure you didn’t topple over. Every movement hurt, but with them there, supporting you, it was bearable.

The three of you stumbled into the bathroom together, leaning on each other for support. The room was warm, steam already curling in the air as Regulus turned on the water.

Barty eyed the tub. "This is going to be a disaster."

You smirked weakly. "Then stop complaining and get in."

Regulus helped you undress first, his fingers careful as he worked through the tattered fabric. His touch was familiar, steady, though his lips were pressed into a thin line as he took in the bruises littering your skin. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes darkened.

Barty, for once, kept his mouth shut.

When you stepped into the tub, the warm water hit your wounds, making you hiss through your teeth. Regulus was right there, steadying you as you sank into the warmth, your body immediately feeling lighter.

Then, with a resigned sigh, Barty and Regulus stripped down and climbed in as well.

There was no awkwardness, no hesitation, just the three of you, exhausted and broken, pressed against each other as the water slowly washed the blood away.

Regulus reached for the soap first, his movements slow as he lathered it between his hands. "Turn around," he murmured.

You did, and he started washing the dried blood from your back, his touch gentle but thorough. Barty was next to you, his fingers combing through your tangled hair, helping to rinse out the grime.

It was quiet, peaceful even, the only sound being the water trickling around you.

"You scared the shit out of me," Barty muttered after a while, his fingers still working through your hair.

Regulus hummed in agreement. "Never again," he said, his voice low but firm.

You let out a breath, leaning against them. "I’ll try."

Barty scoffed. "Try harder."

Regulus finished rinsing the soap from your skin before grabbing a cloth and pressing it to one of Barty’s wounds. Barty let out a sharp hiss. "Fucking hell, Reg."

"Stay still," Regulus said dryly.

You chuckled, despite the ache in your ribs.

The three of you took turns, slowly working through the dirt, the blood, the exhaustion. It wasn’t perfect. The water stung, the pain lingered, but it was… something.

By the time you finally climbed out, all of you were still hurting, still exhausted, but a little lighter.

Regulus wrapped a towel around you, his fingers lingering on your wrist. "Bed," he murmured.

Barty nodded, grabbing another towel and rubbing at his wet hair. "Yeah. And if you try to sneak out again, I swear to Merlin—"

You smirked tiredly. "You’ll what? Carry me back?"

Barty narrowed his eyes. "Yes. And then tie you to the fucking bed."

Regulus smirked. "Kinky."

Barty threw his towel at him.

You laughed, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t hurt as much.

Regulus was the one who insisted on taking care of you and Barty first, despite the fact that he was barely holding himself together. His hands were steady, but his face was pale, lips pressed into a thin line as he grabbed the potion vials from the small wooden cabinet near the bed.

"You should sit down," you murmured, watching him through half-lidded eyes as you sat wrapped in blankets on the bed. "You're barely standing, Reg."

"I'm fine," he said shortly, not even looking at you as he poured a thick, dark red potion into a glass. He turned to you and held it out. "Drink."

Barty, sitting beside you, raised an eyebrow. "If she's drinking that shit, you are too. You look like you're about to fucking collapse."

Regulus shot him a glare. "I'll take mine after."

Barty scoffed. "Right. Because that's not exactly what you said before the bath, and look where we are."

You sighed, reaching for the potion. "Let's just get this over with."

The moment the bitter liquid touched your tongue, you grimaced, barely managing to swallow it down. "Bloody hell, that tastes like death."

Barty smirked. "And you’d know what that tastes like, huh?"

You shot him a weak glare. "Sod off, Crouch."

Regulus ignored both of you, already reaching for a fresh bandage. "Let me see your ribs," he said quietly.

You hesitated for a moment but eventually let the blanket slide down enough to expose your side. His fingers were gentle as they traced over the bruised skin, his touch cold but soothing. His jaw clenched. "You’re going to need another dose in a few hours. The pain relief won’t last long."

Barty huffed, crossing his arms. "Yeah, well, neither will you if you don’t sit your arse down and let me take care of you after this."

Regulus ignored him again, focusing on rewrapping your ribs with careful precision. He worked in silence, and despite your exhaustion, despite everything, there was something so grounding about his touch—like he was holding you together, piece by piece.

Once he finished with you, he turned to Barty. "Your turn."

Barty groaned. "Fuck’s sake. Fine." He tugged his shirt over his head, wincing as he did so. His torso was littered with bruises and cuts, some deeper than others. "Try not to be a sadist, Black."

Regulus smirked faintly. "No promises."

He worked just as carefully on Barty as he did with you, dabbing antiseptic potions over his wounds, wrapping the worst of them in bandages. Barty, despite his usual dramatics, sat still for most of it, only letting out the occasional grunt of pain.

"You’ve done this before," Barty muttered as Regulus finished tying off a bandage around his shoulder.

Regulus didn’t look up. "I had to learn."

You shared a glance with Barty. It was no secret that Regulus had gone through hell in his own way. The Black family wasn’t exactly known for their kindness.

"Alright," Regulus said finally, leaning back and exhaling. "That should do it."

Barty rolled his shoulders, testing the bandages. "Not bad, Black. Maybe you should quit being a Death Eater and become a fucking healer."

Regulus shot him a dry look. "I’d rather die."

Barty smirked. "Well, you’re halfway there, aren’t you?"

You nudged Barty, suppressing a small smile. "Be nice."

Regulus, however, didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. His body was swaying slightly, his exhaustion finally catching up to him.

Barty narrowed his eyes. "Alright, that’s it."

Before Regulus could react, Barty grabbed him by the arm and practically forced him to sit down on the bed. Regulus let out a sharp breath, clearly too tired to fight.

Barty knelt in front of him, his expression uncharacteristically serious as he reached for the healing supplies. "Your turn, Black."

Regulus sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I can do it myself."

Barty scoffed. "Yeah, and you’ll probably fuck it up."

You shifted closer, watching as Barty carefully started cleaning the worst of Regulus's wounds. He wasn’t as gentle as Regulus had been, but there was something about the way he worked—quick, efficient, but not unkind.

"You always have to play the fucking martyr," Barty muttered as he pressed a damp cloth to a cut on Regulus’s temple. "It’s annoying."

Regulus smirked weakly. "Someone has to take care of you two."

Barty rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, next time, try not to fucking die in the process, alright?"

Regulus didn’t reply, just let Barty continue patching him up.

After a while, you shifted again, reaching for Regulus’s hand, squeezing it lightly. "You scared us, you know," you murmured.

Regulus’s fingers curled around yours, his grip weak but steady. "I know."

Barty, finishing the last of the bandages, sat back with a sigh. "Alright. We’re officially the most pathetic bunch of idiots in the entire wizarding world."

You let out a breathy laugh. "Probably."

Regulus gave a faint smirk. "But we’re alive."

Barty huffed. "For now."

Despite the pain, despite everything, the three of you sat there in the dim candlelight, tangled in each other’s presence, holding on to the only thing that mattered—you were still here. Together.

The exhaustion was finally catching up to all of you. The pain potions dulled some of the worst aches, but the weight of everything—the fear, the fight, the near loss—still clung to the air around you like a thick fog.

Regulus was the first to shift, his body instinctively leaning into yours as if his muscles could no longer keep him upright. Barty was slumped against the bedpost, arms crossed, watching both of you with a tired but amused expression.

"You two look like a fucking mess," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. "Like, actually pathetic."

You let out a weak laugh. "Look who's talking, Crouch. You’re barely holding yourself up."

Barty smirked, but it was softer than usual. "Yeah, well. Someone has to make sure you both don’t die in your sleep."

Regulus hummed, his voice barely above a whisper. "If you’re volunteering to stay awake all night, be my guest."

Barty groaned. "Fuck that. I’d rather risk all of us dying."

You smiled, shifting slightly so you could lay back against the pillows. The bed was small, not meant for three people, but none of you cared. There was no way any of you were sleeping alone tonight.

Regulus exhaled slowly and slid down beside you, his head resting just near your shoulder. His breath was warm against your skin, slow and steady despite the pain he was undoubtedly feeling.

"You’re warm," he murmured, eyes already half-closed.

You smirked. "I think that’s just the fever talking."

Barty snorted. "Great. You’re both dying, and I have to deal with it."

You rolled your eyes. "Just shut up and get in here, Barty."

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You’re inviting me into bed now? How scandalous."

Regulus let out a quiet chuckle. "I will hex you in my sleep, Crouch."

Barty grinned but didn’t argue. He moved down beside you on the other side, letting out a deep sigh as he finally let his body relax. For a long moment, none of you spoke. The only sound was the slow, steady breaths of three people who had barely survived the night.

Barty turned his head slightly, looking at you in the dim light. "You know, I was right about you."

You frowned sleepily. "Right about what?"

He smirked. "Trouble. You’re nothing but trouble."

You huffed a laugh. "And yet here you are."

Barty scoffed. "Yeah, well, someone has to keep an eye on you."

Regulus shifted beside you, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. "We’re not letting you go through this alone," he murmured.

You swallowed hard, glancing between the two of them. They looked just as exhausted, just as battered, just as broken. And yet, they were here. They had stayed.

"Thank you," you whispered.

Barty groaned dramatically. "If you start getting emotional, I swear to Merlin—"

You elbowed him lightly, making him let out a small grunt of protest. "Shut up, Barty."

Regulus smiled faintly, already half-asleep. "Go to sleep, both of you."

You sighed, closing your eyes, feeling the warmth of them on either side of you. It was reckless. It was dangerous. But for now, you were safe.

And for tonight, that was enough.

The morning light streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the tangled mess of limbs and blankets. For the first time in what felt like forever, the three of you had slept deeply, exhaustion finally overtaking the pain.

You woke first, stirring slightly as you took in the slow rise and fall of Regulus’s breathing beside you, the way Barty’s arm was draped lazily over your waist. For a moment, it almost felt normal—like there wasn’t a war waiting just outside these walls.

But the dull ache in your body reminded you that normal had never been an option.

Carefully, you untangled yourself from them, wincing slightly as you moved. Your muscles protested every step, but you ignored it, determined to do something for them.

The kitchen was quiet as you moved around, pulling out whatever ingredients you could find. It wasn’t much—just some bread, eggs, and tea—but it would do. You worked slowly, methodically, letting the simple task distract you.

It didn’t take long before you heard the shuffling of footsteps behind you.

"You’re supposed to be resting," Regulus’s voice was thick with sleep as he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled from sleep, and yet, he still looked effortlessly composed.

You smirked. "Good morning to you too."

Barty groaned as he appeared behind Regulus, rubbing a hand over his face. "What the fuck are you doing up? You almost died last night."

You rolled your eyes, setting down a plate in front of them. "I’m making breakfast. Because you two are absolute disasters, and someone has to take care of you."

Regulus sighed but didn’t argue, instead sliding into a chair with a tired expression. Barty just grumbled as he sat down, rubbing at a bruise on his arm.

You placed a cup of tea in front of each of them before sitting down between them. "See? I’m fine. And now, you two are eating, no complaints."

Barty snorted, picking up a piece of bread. "Bossy."

Regulus smirked slightly, taking a slow sip of tea. "She’s always been like this."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the smile forming on your lips.

For a while, it was peaceful. Just the three of you, eating in comfortable silence, stealing small glances at each other. It was almost easy to pretend that everything was fine.

But that feeling was still there. That nagging, suffocating weight in the back of your minds.

They were coming for you.

Regulus was the first to break the silence. "We need to figure out what we’re going to do."

Barty groaned, resting his head against his hand. "I vote we just keep running."

You shook your head. "We can’t. They’ll find us eventually."

Regulus’s fingers drummed against the table, his expression unreadable. "Then we fight."

You exhaled slowly, glancing between the two of them. "Are we ready for that?"

Barty let out a dry chuckle. "Are we ready to die? No. But we don’t really have a choice, do we?"

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling in your chest.

Regulus reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. "Whatever happens, we stay together."

Barty’s usual smirk softened as he reached out, squeezing your other hand. "Yeah. Together."

You looked at them—really looked at them. At Regulus, with his quiet, determined strength. At Barty, with his reckless, unwavering loyalty.

You had brought them into this. And yet, they had stayed.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Regulus’s knuckles before turning to Barty, brushing your lips against his cheek. "Then we make the most of whatever time we have left."

Barty smirked, but there was something sad in his eyes. "Well, if we’re gonna die soon, might as well spend our last days kissing and cuddling."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "You’re insufferable."

"You love me," Barty shot back, grinning.

Regulus sighed, but he didn’t let go of either of your hands. "Unfortunately, I do."

You laughed softly, resting your head against Barty’s shoulder. "Then let’s not waste time."

Because deep down, you all knew.

The end was coming.

For now, you just wanted to feel them.

You pulled Barty closer, tangling your fingers in his hair as you kissed him softly. He let out a quiet hum, his usual cocky demeanor melting away as he deepened the kiss, like he was trying to memorize the way your lips felt against his.

Regulus watched you both, his expression unreadable, but there was something burning in his eyes—something soft, something vulnerable. You reached for him, tugging him closer, and he obeyed without hesitation.

Barty pulled away slightly, pressing his forehead against yours. "You taste like tea."

You let out a small laugh, brushing your fingers against his jaw. "That’s because I actually drank my tea instead of just complaining about how hot it was."

Regulus snorted. "She’s right, you do that every time."

Barty rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned to Regulus, smirking slightly. "Your turn, Reggie."

Regulus huffed, but the way his gaze softened when he looked at you made your heart ache. He leaned in, brushing his lips against yours so gently it sent shivers down your spine. His kisses were different from Barty’s—slower, more delicate, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he wasn’t careful.

You sighed against him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours. "I don’t want to lose you."

Your throat tightened. "You won’t."

Barty scoffed. "Liar."

For a long time, none of you spoke.

Regulus was the first to break the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like? If things were different?"

Barty let out a quiet chuckle, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah. All the time."

You closed your eyes. "If things were different… we wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t have met like this. And I don’t regret it."

Regulus’s fingers brushed against your cheek, tilting your face up so he could kiss you again. It was slow, aching, like he was pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. When he pulled back, his voice was barely a whisper. "I don’t regret it either."

Barty let out a dramatic sigh. "Well, since we’re being all emotional—" you turned your head so you were facing him now, his lips brushing against yours before he kissed you deeply, desperately. "—I love you, and I’m never saying that again, so don’t expect it."

Regulus chuckled softly. "Noted."

You smiled against Barty’s lips, your fingers brushing against his cheek. "I love you too."

Regulus’s hand found yours again, squeezing gently. "Me too."

None of you said it out loud, but you all knew the truth.

This was it.

The last peaceful moment before everything fell apart

The air inside the house turned frigid in an instant. A slow, crawling dread settled over you as the protective wards shattered like glass, a silent but undeniable omen that he had arrived.

Regulus stiffened against you, his entire body going rigid before he was on his feet in a flash. "Run," he commanded, his voice sharp, urgent. "Now. Both of you—"

Before he could even finish, the front door creaked open.

The figure that stepped inside was more shadow than man, his presence making the very walls of the house feel suffocating. Lord Voldemort.

His red eyes gleamed with amusement as they flickered across the three of you. "Ah," he mused, stepping further inside as if he had all the time in the world. "How quaint. The lost Black, the foolish Crouch, and their… little pet."

Barty had already moved before Voldemort could take another step, his wand pressed right against the Dark Lord’s throat, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.

"You talk too much," Barty spat, his voice dripping with venom.

Regulus was beside him in an instant, his own wand raised, though you could see the tension in his jaw, the barely masked fear in his eyes.

Voldemort merely chuckled. "Do you truly believe you could kill me, Barty?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, unconcerned. "Tell me, what do you think your father would say if he saw you now?"

Barty's grip on his wand tightened, but he said nothing.

Voldemort exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. "I am not here to kill you." His gaze slid to Regulus. "Nor you, my dear boy. Though I must admit, I am disappointed. You had such potential."

Regulus didn't waver, his wand still pointed directly at Voldemort's heart. "I don't care what you think."

The Dark Lord's lips curled in amusement. "No. I imagine you don't."

Then his gaze landed on you, and something dark flickered across his features. "But her," he mused, voice soft, almost thoughtful. "She is the true traitor, is she not?"

You swallowed, but you refused to look away. "I did what was right."

Voldemort laughed at that, shaking his head. "What a foolish notion."

Barty took a step forward, pressing the wand harder against Voldemort’s throat. "You said you came to talk," he growled. "So talk."

The Dark Lord regarded him for a moment before slowly stepping back, allowing just enough distance to ease the immediate tension.

"As I said," Voldemort began, "I do not intend to kill you." His gaze flickered to you again. "Yet."

Regulus let out a breath through his nose, his grip still firm on his wand. "Then why are you here?"

Voldemort smiled. "I wanted to see the three of you with my own eyes before I leave for Godric’s Hollow. You see, tonight is a night that will be remembered for generations to come. The night I rid the world of the so-called savior. But before that… I wanted to witness the ones who turned against me. To understand why two of my most promising followers would throw away everything for the sake of…" His eyes darkened as they rested on you. "Her."

Barty bared his teeth in something close to a snarl. "She’s worth more than you ever were."

Voldemort's smile was razor-sharp. "Oh, Barty. So full of rage, so desperate to prove yourself. And for what? For love?" His gaze flickered between him and Regulus. "For a cause that will die with you?"

Silence stretched between them for a moment before Voldemort took a slow step back.

"Make no mistake," he murmured, his voice now as cold as the air in the room. "This is not mercy. This is a warning."

Regulus's jaw clenched. "We don’t need your mercy."

The tension in the air was suffocating, thick enough to drown in. Voldemort stood before you, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips, his red eyes gleaming with something close to amusement.

"Of all my followers," he murmured, tilting his head as he studied you, "I must admit, I did not expect you to be the traitor." His voice was almost soft, like a whisper in the dark, but laced with something venomous. "It’s almost… disappointing."

Barty let out a scoff, his grip on his wand tightening until his knuckles turned white. "Oh, I’m so sorry she didn’t live up to your expectations."

Voldemort ignored him, stepping forward slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. "But perhaps I was wrong to expect anything less. You were always… fascinating." He raised a hand as if he was about to touch your face, but before he could, Regulus stepped between you, his wand digging into Voldemort’s ribs.

"Don't," Regulus hissed, his voice deadly quiet.

Voldemort chuckled darkly. "Protective, aren’t we?" He shifted his gaze to Barty, who looked ready to murder him on the spot. "Both of you." His smirk widened. "How amusing."

Barty took a dangerous step forward, his entire body trembling with barely restrained fury. "Shut. The. Hell. Up."

Voldemort barely glanced at him, instead turning back to you, his expression unreadable. "Tell me," he murmured, his voice like silk, "why did you betray me?"

You met his gaze without hesitation, refusing to let him see any fear. "Because you’re a monster."

Voldemort let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "And yet," he mused, stepping closer, "you were once drawn to me, were you not?" His voice dipped lower, almost intimate. "You admired me. You wanted me."

Regulus and Barty both tensed, their hands gripping their wands so tightly it was a miracle they didn’t snap in half.

"Don’t flatter yourself," Barty spat, his voice shaking with rage.

Voldemort ignored him, his gaze locked onto yours. "Tell me," he whispered, his voice carrying an almost dangerous curiosity, "did you ever truly love them? Or was it all just… rebellion?"

The words should have made you sick. Should have filled you with nothing but disgust. But instead, an idea formed in your mind, so sudden and reckless that it almost made you dizzy. You inhaled sharply, forcing your body to relax, forcing your expression to soften. You had to make this believable.

"Maybe you’re right," you murmured, lowering your gaze just enough to seem hesitant. "Maybe I was… foolish."

Barty’s breath hitched. "What?"

Regulus turned to you sharply, his brows furrowed in disbelief.

But you didn’t look at them. You stepped closer to Voldemort instead, tilting your chin up, your expression carefully crafted into something vulnerable. "Maybe I was running from something I didn’t understand."

Voldemort's eyes gleamed with interest. "Oh?"

You swallowed, willing yourself to keep going. "I thought I was fighting for something better," you whispered. "But what if I was wrong?" You took another step, so close now that you could see the faintest flicker of amusement in his gaze. "What if… I belonged to you all along?"

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Regulus and Barty were frozen, their eyes wide with barely concealed horror.

Voldemort, however, merely smirked. "Now that is interesting."

You could feel Regulus and Barty’s stares burning into you, but you didn’t dare look at them. If you did, they would see through it. They would see the truth.

"Perhaps," Voldemort mused, reaching out as if to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You are smarter than I gave you credit for."

Barty let out a sharp, shuddering breath, his hands trembling at his sides. He looked ready to kill him, to tear him apart limb by limb.

Regulus, on the other hand, had gone eerily silent, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. But then—he met your gaze. And in that split second, you saw understanding flicker across his face.

He knew.

Knew you were lying.

Knew this was a game.

A game to buy time.

But that didn’t mean he liked it.

Voldemort’s lips curled into something sinister. "So," he mused, "you would rather stand beside me than against me?"

You forced yourself to smile—soft, hesitant, convincing. "I think I made a mistake," you whispered. "Maybe it’s not too late to fix it."

Voldemort hummed, considering your words. "Perhaps not." He studied you for a long moment before finally stepping back, looking over the three of you with a faint smirk. "I will give you time to think, then."

He turned, his dark robes billowing behind him as he walked toward the door. But before he left, he glanced back, his gaze lingering on you.

"Don’t disappoint me again."

And then—he was gone.

The second he disappeared, the tension in the room snapped like a breaking bone.

Barty turned to you first, his entire body shaking with rage. "WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?"

You exhaled sharply, finally letting yourself breathe. "I bought us time."

Regulus let out a heavy breath, running a hand down his face. "I knew you were lying, but Merlin, that was—" He paused, inhaling deeply. "That was dangerous."

Barty, however, was not calm. "You—" He pointed a shaking finger at you. "You flirted with him!"

You frowned. "It wasn’t real—"

"It was disgusting!" Barty cut in, his face twisted in fury. "I was this close to setting the whole place on fire just to shut him up!"

Regulus, despite himself, let out a dry chuckle. "I almost stabbed him. And I wouldn’t have regretted it."

Barty threw his hands up. "Do you know how hard it was for me not to hex him into oblivion when he was looking at you like that? Like you belonged to him?" He let out a sharp breath, his voice shaking. "I wanted to kill him with my bare hands."

You sighed, reaching out to touch his arm. "Barty—"

"No." He grabbed your face in both hands, his expression desperate. "You don’t belong to him. You never did."

Regulus stepped closer, his gaze dark, unreadable. "We know that," he murmured. "But he doesn’t."

You exhaled, leaning into Barty’s touch. "It’s just a game," you whispered. "Just long enough for us to find a way to end this."

Barty swallowed hard, his fingers trembling against your skin. "Fine," he muttered. "But the second this plan is over, I am killing him."

Regulus nodded, his voice like steel. "We all are."

The room was still thick with the weight of what had just happened. Voldemort was gone—for now—but his presence still lingered like a curse, clawing at the back of their minds.

Regulus was the first to speak, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “We have to go after him.”

Barty snapped his head toward him, eyes wide. “Are you insane?”

Regulus ignored him, turning to you instead. “He’s going after the Potters.” His voice was urgent, filled with something close to desperation. “He’s going to kill their baby—Harry.”

Your heart pounded. You had known this moment was coming, but hearing it out loud made it real. “We have to stop him.”

Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, sure. Let’s go throw ourselves in front of the Dark Lord again after barely surviving the first time. Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.”

Regulus’ jaw tightened. “We’re all dead anyway, Barty. We know he’s coming back for us.” His voice softened just slightly. “If we’re going to die, at least let it mean something.”

Barty dragged a hand down his face, pacing furiously. “We just got away. Just barely. And now you want to run toward him?” He turned to you, expression desperate. “Tell me you don’t actually agree with this madness.”

You swallowed hard. “I do.”

Barty stared at you like you had just ripped his heart out. “No. No.” He shook his head, his hands trembling. “This is a suicide mission. We’ll all die.”

Regulus looked at him, his grey eyes dark with something deep, something final. “Then let’s make sure we don’t die for nothing.”

Barty clenched his jaw, looking between the two of you, his breath unsteady. “You’re serious about this.”

You stepped closer to him, placing a hand on his arm. “Barty, he’s a baby. He hasn’t even had a chance to live yet.” Your voice cracked slightly. “We have to try.”

Barty let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his hair. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, his mind clearly screaming at him to refuse, to run, to grab both of you and force you to escape instead.

But then he saw the look in your eyes. The same look in Regulus’—a quiet, unwavering determination.

And just like that, he knew there was no changing your minds.

“Merlin,” Barty muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. Then, with a groan of defeat, he opened them again, filled with reluctant resolve. “Fine. Fine. But when we all die in a spectacularly stupid way, I will be saying ‘I told you so’ in the afterlife.”

Regulus let out a breath, nodding. “Then let’s go.”

The moment you apparated into Godric’s Hollow, the smell of fire and destruction hit them like a curse. The small house was barely standing, cracks running through its walls, smoke curling into the air. And then—

A voice. His voice.

“You can’t fight me forever, James Potter.”

Voldemort.

James.

Your stomach twisted. Without thinking, the three of you sprinted toward the house, your bodies screaming in protest from your previous injuries. But none of that mattered now.

The front door was blasted open.

Inside, James Potter stood at the base of the staircase, his wand pointed at Voldemort. His breathing was heavy, his eyes burning with fury and desperation.

“I won’t let you touch them,” James spat, tightening his grip on his wand.

Voldemort simply smiled, his red eyes glinting with something dark. “Brave words for a dead man.”

“James!” You yelled, running inside.

His head snapped toward you, eyes widening in shock. “What—what are you guys doing here?”

Barty let out a breathless, humorless laugh. “You’re welcome for showing up, by the way.”

Voldemort’s gaze flickered over to you, Barty, and Regulus, something amused dancing in his expression. “Ah,” he said, his voice smooth. “The traitors.”

Voldemort flicked his wand, and a jet of green light shot toward James.

James barely dodged, throwing a curse of his own. “Expelliarmus!”

The spell shot toward Voldemort, but he deflected it effortlessly.

Regulus was already moving. “Reducto!”

The curse hit the ground near Voldemort, sending debris flying, forcing him to step back.

Barty took the chance. “Confringo!”

Fire exploded around Voldemort, but he moved through it like a shadow, his movements smooth, calculated.

“You think this will stop me?” Voldemort hissed, flicking his wand. A blast of dark magic sent all of you flying backward.

You hit the wall hard, pain shooting through your ribs. But you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t stop.

James was still standing. Still fighting.

“Lily!” James called up the stairs. “Take Harry and run!”

You saw a flash of red hair at the top of the stairs—Lily, clutching Harry in her arms.

Voldemort turned his gaze toward her.

James saw it. His eyes widened. “No—”

A flash of green light.

James fell.

The world stopped.

You felt a scream rip through your throat. “James—”

But there was no time.

Lily was running. Running with everything she had, her breath ragged.

Voldemort didn’t even hesitate. He started up the stairs.

Regulus shot another curse at him, but Voldemort deflected it with a lazy flick of his wand.

Barty tried to lunge at him, but Voldemort sent him crashing into the wall with a silent spell.

You forced yourself up, pain screaming in your bones. “STOP!”

Voldemort reached the top of the stairs.

Lily’s voice was desperate. “Please— not Harry. Not my son.”

Voldemort merely tilted his head. “Step aside, girl.”

Lily shook her head, standing in front of Harry’s crib, shielding him with her body. “No. Please. Take me instead. Just—just don’t hurt him.”

Voldemort sighed. “Foolish girl.”

And then—

Lily collapsed.

Your breath hitched. “No—”

Regulus was trying to get up, Barty was struggling to move, but none of you could reach him in time.

Voldemort turned to the crib.

The world blurred around you. You tried to push yourself forward, tried to grab your wand, tried to do something, but your body was too weak, too slow.

Voldemort raised his wand.

“Avada Kedavra.”

A flash of green.

A deafening silence.

The Dark Lord was gone.

The air was still heavy, thick with something unexplainable.

Barty let out a breathless laugh, his voice shaking. “What… what the hell just happened?”

Regulus was the first to move. He rushed over, peering into the crib. His breath hitched. “He’s alive.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "He’s alive.”

Barty let out something close to a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “How?”

Regulus reached down, carefully lifting the baby into his arms. Harry was small, so small, his tiny face scrunched up as he continued to cry.

Then—you saw it.

A lightning-shaped cut on his forehead.

Your stomach twisted. “Voldemort’s spell…”

Regulus’ hands were trembling. “It didn’t kill him.”

Barty let out a hollow laugh. “But it killed him.”

You turned to him sharply. “What?”

Barty’s eyes were wide, his breath uneven. “Voldemort. He’s gone.”

The words hit the air like a storm.

Regulus stared at him. “That’s not possible.”

But Barty shook his head, stepping closer. “No, think. He cast the Killing Curse. And he’s not here. He didn’t just leave, he vanished.”

Your heart pounded. “Then that means—”

“Harry survived the Killing Curse,” Regulus whispered, his gaze flickering down to the baby in his arms. “And it destroyed him instead.”

Silence.

Then, Barty let out a slow, breathless laugh. "Merlin’s bloody beard. The Dark Lord was taken out by a baby."

You let out a breath, stepping closer to Regulus and looking down at Harry. His tiny fingers curled slightly, his face still scrunched up in distress.

Regulus cradled him gently, staring at him in awe. “He’s the reason Voldemort is gone.”

You swallowed hard. "He’s the reason we’re still alive."

Barty smirked, though there was something softer beneath it. “Well, kid,” he muttered, glancing at Harry, “you might’ve just saved the entire world.”

Regulus met your gaze, something unreadable in his expression. “What do we do now?”

You swallowed hard. “We keep him safe.”

Barty crossed his arms, still staring at the empty space where Voldemort had once stood. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Because something tells me this isn’t over.”

—— ☄️ ——

A note from the author:

Hello people!

This was one of my best works till now, and i really hope you guys like it!

Thank you for the comments and reblogs, you always make my day with them! 🤍

See you soon!

[piastappies]

📸 END UP HERE

synopsis. when a guy keeps harassing his best mate’s cousin, there’s not a single thought on his mind that would make theo feel bad about wanting to beat the shit out of him.

theo nott x lestrange!reader. PLEASE. request more things for theo or mattheo. i’m literally in need.

theo couldn’t remember the exact moment, when his mind filled the urge to hit cormac mclaggen as hard as possible. on second thought, he definitely could.

theo’s been watching you ever since the party started. you were standing in the corner of the room, trying to get as little attention as possible — you wouldn’t even been there if amelia didn’t beg you to be her emotional support, so considering you were the best roommate (and friend) she could imagine, you said yes. maybe it was just the start of mistakes you were supposed to make that night, or so you thought.

you had a tight, dark red dress on you that hugged all your curves in the places it should. your make up just made you stand out from all the girls there, that’s what theo thought when he saw you. of course, you didn’t want to be there, but you couldn’t just pass on an occasion to dress up a bit, since you were going anyway. maybe your clothing choice was another of those mistakes.

nott’s attention was fully on you — a girl tried to hit him up? too bad, because she wasn’t even half as pretty as you were, and he knew you didn’t even try. it became obvious to all his friends that you were… quite a distraction. he would engage in a conversation, trying hard to have his focus on his friends, but then you would do something, and he felt obligated to look at you, but you were clearly oblivious to his gaze averting and coming back every once in a while.

“can you stop eye-fucking my cousin?” draco groaned, leaning on the wall behind them, bringing a cup to his lips, taking a small sip of alcohol. “it’s disgusting.” he added.

draco malfoy was the only reason that kept theodore from getting his hands on you, at least that’s what he would always tell people he bluntly ignored, when you walked into the room he was in. just because draco treated you like a sister, people thought nott would get a hold of his hormones.

but how could he, when you always looked so gorgeous?

“i’m not eye-fucking her, i’m a cultured man.” he said, getting lots of mocking laughs from mattheo and lorenzo (“you? a cultured man? never heard that much bullshit in my life.”). “i’m admir— ouch, c’mon, malfoy.” his fingers massaged the place that the blonde boy punched.

it all happened later that night, when nott was already a little lightheaded from a blunt he was smoking with mattheo. even if he didn’t want to concentrate on you, it was pointless, so he just watched you, shamelessly, being teased for it by his friend at the same time.

he noticed that cormac fucking mclaggen cornered you, and you had no possible chance to run away from him, your eyes scanning the room, looking for help until your gaze landed on theodore’s face, and he knew immediately. you watched him get up from the couchy, mumbling something to riddle before he made his way towards the corner you stood in.

he didn’t even say a thing, the discomfort in your eyes was enough to assume everything. he tapped the gryffindor’s shoulder, quickly throwing his fist forward, and you could’ve swore to god that you had heard bones crushing. theo just grinned mischievously as cormac looked at him a confussed expression, brushing his lip with his thumb.

but nott didn’t stop himself there, starting a fight. while mclaggen’s friends tried to pull the poor gryffindor away from theo, mattheo and enzo just stood behind him, with wide, prideful grins on their faces, shouting once in a while to encourage theo to “crush his skull”. if it wasn’t for blaise, who finally appeared (with amelia right beside him), the fight would go for probably even longer until one of the teachers didn’t interfere.

“stay the fuck away from her, mclaggen.” dark-haired spat at his opponent, the adrenaline running through his veins, so the bruises didn’t hurt at all. not until he was sat by the edge of the bathtub by you, when he realized that his face was throbbing with pain.

“theo.” you whispered, stading right between his legs, trying so hard to focus on patching him up more than the burning sensation of his hand on her hip. hearing the way you said his name almost made him groan — you were so perfect in his eyes that if he manned up, his hands would be everywhere, not just your hip. “could you please lift your head for me?”

there was something so incredibly intimate about that moment. he just fought for you, and instead of getting mad, you were right next to him, cleaning his face and hands off the blood, speaking so softly and touching him with such a gentle manner that theodore thought he died and woke up in heaven.

“i thought you said you wouldn’t be fighting random guys anymore.” you began, brushing his hair back, so you could press the wet towel to his forehead. “was he making you uncomfortable?” he asked, his tone a little raspy.

“well, yeah but–”

“then it wasn’t random.” theo shrugged, and if you two were in different circumstances now, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from crashing your lips into his. “he should’ve known that you’re my girl.” he mumbled as his hand slipped down on your thigh, his fingers digging into your soft flesh.

“you looked so good tonight.” he muttered after a minute of silence as you kept trying to concentrate on helping him first. a sigh left his lips as he pulled you a little closer. “i want to rip that dress off you, jesus. what are you doing to me?”

it took him one more swift pull to get you to straddle him. his fingers traced soft circles on your outer thighs as you were silently finishing up your job. your entire body was burning. unfortunately, your face was revealing the effect he had on you, and you hated it, because theo always made it his mission to make you blush as hard as possible.

the thing between you two was… indescribable. you weren’t a couple, but you acted like one, you weren’t friends with benefits, but you weren’t just friends. there were feelings involved and neither of you denied. there were mutual attraction, desire, urgency and neither of you could see themselves with someone else. if soulmates existed, then theodore faustus nott was yours and no one else’s.

“alright.” now, it’s your turn to sigh. you put the towel aside, cupping his cheeks, scanning his face for more bruises to patch up. when you were sure that you treated every single one, you let yourself relax, getting a soft chuckle from theodore. “you worried me, theo.”

he mumbled something under his breath, but you couldn’t pinpoint what it was, since he found his face nuzzling in your neck, leaving small kisses in the spots that he knew would make you shiver. he inhaled the sweet scent of your shampoo and perfume. oh, and did it drive him crazy.

he picked you up, your legs wrapped around his hips as he walked the two of you to his bed, merlin help how weak he felt, but carrying you around was something he did every single time you were at his dorm. theo put you down, letting you get comfortable in his sheets (he bought them, just because you said it looked pretty — so now he had floral themed sheets). on the other hand, he was searching for some clothes you always wear, so you wouldn’t suffer in a tight dress.

maybe he never directly said he loved you, but his actions and behaviour towards you was enough to tell you he did.

you’ve changed into clothes he gave you, allowing your… situationship to help you unzip your bra, and you fell down on his bed. it took you a brief moment to realise that you were still in your goddamn makeup. a long sigh escaped from between your lips. theo’s face lit up with confusion, although he understood why you were lazily getting up from his bed.

“you don’t have to go back.” he smirked, looking you up and down, admiring how gorgeous you looked in his shirt, pictures of him ripping it off you started playing in his head. god, the things he’d like to do to you right now. “i hated how you complained about your makeup stuff. bottom drawer is all yours. everything you need.”

and to be honest, you almost cried upon seeing what he prepared for you. any possible kinds of makeup remover (creams, lotions, gels), tissues, pads and tampons, cotton balls, all those products that he noticed you used for your hair and skin-care essentials, he even stocked your favourite shampoo that you told him wasn’t produced anymore. there were even the same exact products you used to put on your makeup, perfect matched foundation shade, all kinds of eyeshadow palettes you liked, lipsticks, chapsticks, lipglosses, even the glitter and gems you used for yule ball once.

“theodore faustus nott, you are so incredibly pussy whipped, i’m shocked it’s possible.” your laughs filled his chamber, when you got back from the bathroom. “at the same time, it’s so attractive that you bought all of that for me.”

“shut up, lestrange.” he rolled his eyes, his hand wrapping around your leg, pulling you onto him. “i would kill for you if you asked.” he mumbled against your skin, leaving a trail of kisses from your jawline down to collarbone.

[iridecsense]

nepenthe - m.

⊰ 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴                   𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳                       𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 ⊱

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⤷ summary: Proceeding the encounter with Grindelwald in Paris, Newt goes seaward on a secret mission for Dumbledore when his ship is caught in a storm...

✧ word count: 4.2k ✧ pairing: newt scamander | siren!reader ✧ genre: romance, slow burn, angst, adventure ✧ warnings: depictions of death and trauma ✧ author’s note:  New chapter whooo! You're finally in it! Feel free to comment or send me feedback via my ask box, I love hearing from you all. That being said, I hope you enjoy!

             ──── ⋅ ⍤ ⋅⊰⋅∘ 〄 ∘⋅⊱⋅ ⍤ ⋅ ────

If he had to guess, Newt would say drowning is possibly the worst way to die. Granted, he hadn’t had much experience with dying. He’d had close calls, to be sure. He’s stared down the jowls and talons of many beasts in his lifetime and felt the quickening of his heart inside his chest. He’s felt the pain of teeth sinking into his skin, claws slicing at his flesh, and venoms burning through his nervous system. But a near death experience, he realized, is something he never truly ventured. That is, until now. 

With new knowledge found, he’d prefer the killing toxins of a nundu, the quick burn of dragonfyre, the fangs of an acromantula, or the eyes of a basilisk. Now, even the instant death of the killing curse seemed a mercy. Anything else would be a sweeter fate than the constant, petty, futile fight for air. Drowning is slow. That’s the issue of it. After a while, you catch yourself thinking, ‘When is it going to end?’  It gives you time to beg for death. To yearn it. To embrace it with gospel like praise. 

Drowning is the silent, sadomasochistic master of death, relishing in the domination of its suffering slave. It watches as you strangle yourself, doing everything you can to keep air in your lungs. Your own body betrays you, convulsing, trying its hardest to save you, but simultaneously killing you in its instinctual attempts to get oxygen back into your body. You feel it all. Water rushing down your throat and into your lungs. The spasming coughs that mean to expel it all out but only incite more gulps—in through your nose, your mouth, even your ears—you begin to fill up full of the stuff. Everything suddenly feels so tight, as if you’ll explode. It’s excruciating. All the while, you’re still fighting to swim up, to break your head through the surface and take that painful but liberating breath of air. It isn’t until the cells in your brain start to die that you feel a sense of peace. You stop struggling. You lose consciousness. Suddenly, there is no pain, and you feel glad…ecstatic even, because the whole affair is over. You can die now.  

The only thing worse than drowning was, perhaps, the surviving of it. A sharp, painful breath is what woke Newt from his death-like slumber. It was a feeling akin to a thousand needles poking his lungs and chest from the inside out. Water sputtered from his mouth, and he turned on his side to reject the contents of his stomach: salt water, algae, and stomach acid. The regurgitated seawater burned his already raw throat and nose. Tears spilled from his eyes from all the varying sensations of pain: from his swollen throat, his bruised lungs, and fractured bones, to the ringing in his head, and his clogged eardrums. Newt’s fingers ran over the earth beneath him. Rocks. Hard, wet rocks and pebbled sand slipped between his slender digits. Blinding light scorched his mossy irises as he pried back his heavy eyelids. 

It took several blinks and more effort than he expected to keep his eyes open and focused. All around him, there were rocks—thousands of them, weathered and worn, stretching toward towering, jagged stone formations that enclosed the shoreline. Above, the sky was a vast, cloudless blue. Waves crashed against his legs and lower back, drenching him.

His body felt heavy as lead. Each attempt he made at moving was harder than the last. He writhed about for a while, pain shooting up his sides and shoulder. The rocks beneath him dug into his flesh, grinding against his torso and knees as he managed to crawl forward a couple feet onto dryer rock. The pathetic act summoned an intense ringing in his ears and a throbbing ache at his temples. His frustrated groans ebbed into wheezing breaths, and tears welled in his eyes. It even hurt to cry. He felt humbled in this moment. Infantile. Like a newborn—unable to stand, unable to walk—easily overwhelmed and frustrated by the limpness of its body and the uncomfortable awareness that, despite being content in a floating edge of nothingness, it is now forced to live and breathe as a sentient being in an unfathomable world. Thus, amidst his solemn mournful cries, he had the fleeting surmise that he did indeed die in those waters, and, like the phoenix, was resurrected—reborn as something else. Someone different. Of one thing he was for certain: whatever pulled him from the sea did not save the same man who fell into it. 

“Newt!”

Distant, muffled, calls of his name sent a wave of relief washing over his catatonic frame. Newt closed his eyes in silent gratitude, blinking away more tears that slipped over the bridge of his nose and the swell of his freckled cheeks. 

“Newt!” Jacob’s desperate drawl drew in closer. 

Newt wanted to yell back, to call Jacob to him, but when he opened his mouth to speak, only a weak, gravelly, aspirated garble came out. The act alone strained his throat, and he winced at the foul ache. He could just make out the sound of heavy footsteps, thumping and shifting loose sediment. 

“Newt!” Their pace quickened, heading straight for him. Jacob called Newt’s name in beholden affection as he dropped to his side and pulled him into his lap. 

“Hey, buddy. Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay,” Jacob coddled, as though saying it multiple times would somehow make it true. 

Jacob propped Newt up, tightly holding onto his arm. The act caused another wave of nausea, and Newt spewed more seawater from his stomach. He went into another violent coughing fit, and in an attempt to help and ease his overworking lungs, Jacob slapped Newt’s bruised and battered back with a firm hand. Newt recoiled from Jacob’s touch, and his face scrunched in pain. His raspy yell sent Jacob’s hand flying high above his head. 

“What—what, did that hurt?” Jacob nervously sputtered. 

Newt motioned weakly for Jacob to lift up his shirt, and he obliged. Carefully, Jacob unclipped Newt’s suspenders and pulled up his dress shirt and undershirt that were still tightly tucked into his trousers to reveal his bare back. 

“Oh my God…” The woeful expression escaped Jacob’s mouth before he could stop it. 

The expanse of Newt’s back was covered in fresh violet bruises in varying shades. The greater portion of it was on his left side, encompassing his ribs. It spread to his spine and crossed to his right shoulder blade. Jacob pulled Newt’s shirt back down. 

“I don’t know what to do,” muttered Jacob. He sat for a moment, intently looking over Newt, who was still composing himself. Then, his face lit up, and he looked at the briefcase sitting a foot away on his left. “I got your case!” 

He grabbed the case and set it up in front of Newt. “I held on tight to this baby the whole night. Your seahorse brought me here—he’s in there, too! I made sure to get him back in. You got stuff in here, don’t ya? Magic stuff that’ll fix you up?” Newt nodded weakly. “I knew it,” Jacob clapped. “C’mon, let’s get you up.” 

Jacob hooked an arm around Newt’s waist and pulled him up to his feet. He lifted Newt with surprising ease, despite him being nearly dead weight. Jacob was strong enough to keep him stable as they stepped down the case. What would usually be a ladder had become a set of rickety stairs. The magic of Newt’s case never ceased to amaze. Once inside, Jacob sat Newt on the cot. He looked around the shed, still in disarray from the events of the night before.

“Alright, uh…” He turned to the work bench, recalling the many times Newt had pulled mysterious herbs, vials, and salves from it to heal any ailments he had. “There’s gotta be something in here, right?” He looked at Newt. 

Newt was using his left hand to unbutton his shirt. Shrugging it off his shoulders, he looked up at Jacob and then his workbench. He gestured to a drawer that was slightly ajar. Jacob followed his gaze and opened it. Inside was a notebook, some empty vials, and a skeletal-looking bottle. Jacob frowned and held the bottle up for Newt. Newt held his hand out to take it. He placed the bottle between his legs and used his left hand to pull the top off. A foul stench permeated from the bottle, and Newt hesitated bringing it to his mouth. With a quick swig, he drank the rancid potion, letting it burn his already sore throat on its way down.

It didn’t take long for him to feel it take effect. Particularly, he felt the effect in his chest and ribs. Whatever fractures or breaks he had would be healed by morning, though he would not enjoy the process. It was a consistent scraping feeling under his skin, which grew more irritating and painful the more he focused on it. He handed the Skele-Gro bottle back to Jacob for him to put away. He looked at his right shoulder to see the protruding bone poking at his skin. Newt had dislocated his shoulder before when a graphorn hand bunted him several feet onto hard ground. He knew a spell to set it back in place—but his wand. He was missing his wand. 

The faint memory of his wand sinking into the depths of the sea crossed his mind, and an aching feeling bubbled in his stomach and chest. A wizard’s wand is an extension of his self, and though wands could break and change allegiance, and new wands could be acquired, losing your wand felt similar to losing a limb. Without it, he was virtually powerless. A spell was of no use to him now. Newt never wished he had the talent for wandless magic more than he did in this moment. It would make what he was about to do much easier.

Straightening his back, Newt carefully raised his dislocated arm and outstretched it in front of him. He breathed deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying not to focus on the pain. With his other hand, he grabbed his wrist tight. Jacob watched him closely, his face screwed up in a tight grimace. In one swift motion, Newt gave a sharp tug to his dislocated shoulder. A disgusting popping sound grated against Jacob’s ears as he watched Newt’s shoulder twist and pop back into place. Newt’s jaw clenched, and he tucked his right arm into his chest, doubling over from the sudden adjustment. 

“Jeez...” Jacob sighed and moved to sit by Newt’s side. Taking Newt’s dress shirt, Jacob fashioned a makeshift sling, tying the sleeves together over Newt’s left shoulder and nestling his arm inside its hammock. 

“Thank you, Jacob,” Newt’s gravely voice managed to push out. 

“Don’t thank me,” Jacob dismissed. “I should be thanking you. You saved my life.”

The right corner of Newt’s lips twitched upwards into a timid ghost of a smirk. “Well, actually, it was the kelpie.”

“Newt,” Jacob cuts in, serious. Newt faltered as he met Jacob’s woeful eyes. 

“I thought you died,” He frets. “I watched the ship split in half. It went up in flames—and the screams. So many people…I should have stayed with you, I should’ve helped!”

Newt shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t have that.”

“But I could have—“

“There is nothing you could have done,” Newt tried to comfort. “We were outnumbered.”

The air between them grew heavy as unwelcome memories of the night resurfaced. Jacob sighed and muttered a small habitual prayer for lives lost. Newt, upon finding the strength, sat up and walked to his workbench. His foot stepped on something fragile—glass—and it broke under his weight. Lifting his foot, he looked down and saw the cracked portrait of Leta smiling up at him. He carefully bent down and picked up the broken picture frame. He put it flat on the workbench to deal with later. He winced when a particular sharp pain shot up his ribcage, tightly gripping the edge of the bench counter. 

“Maybe you should lie down,” Jacob suggested. 

Newt shook his head. “No. The faster we get to the seer, the better.” He took a vial of green liquid from a rack and downed it like a shot of fire whiskey. His pains subsided quickly, much of it numbing while more severe pains dulled to a manageable ache. He told Jacob they would leave the case once he checked on all his creatures, ensuring each one wasn’t hurt, especially the kelpie. Jacob, deciding it was useless to argue, nodded and stayed in the shack while Newt gathered a pail and his wand on his way out. 

                                     ⁎ ⊹                                   ⁂ ˚ ✧ ⁂                                     ⊹ ＊ 

Much to Newt’s relief, most of his creatures weren’t harmed. Some were more anxious than usual, others seemed completely unbothered. Some enclosures were in disarray, but Newt manually repaired them to the best of his ability. The kelpie seemed happy to see him when he walked to the edge of its enclosure. It had sustained some minor injuries but nothing worth causing worry. After ensuring each creature was fed and cared for, Newt returned to Jacob in the shack. When he entered, a once-sleeping Jacob startled awake.

“Sorry,” Newt croaked out. 

Every time Newt spoke, Jacob had to keep himself from cringing. The gravelly nature of his voice sounded painful, and he couldn’t help but sympathize. He cleared his throat and sat up in the cot, explaining that he wasn’t asleep, only resting his eyes. Newt fished around inside a nearby cupboard for clean, non-seasoaked clothes. He tossed some to Jacob, who had lost his suitcase to the sea. 

“Uh, I don’t think these’ll fit,” said Jacob. 

“They will,” Newt assured, picking an outfit for himself. 

As they dressed, Jacob marveled at how the clothes Newt had shared with him slipped over his larger frame with ease, adjusting to his size. Newt stared at himself in the mirror attached to the cupboard door. He stood half-naked, intently taking in the strange reflection. His slender frame was painted black, purple, blue, and yellow-green. His hollowed eyes stared emotionless back at him, accompanied by dark grey circles. Any warm color that had given his skin a healthy, youthful glow had disappeared, and he looked almost ghoulish. Newt looked away from the mirror and continued to clothe himself in a simple white quarter-sleeve cotton shirt with a deep open collar. He wore brown slacks attached to matching suspenders. He found a long sliver of blue fabric on a shelf, perhaps an underused cravat he forgot about. It worked well enough to fashion into a sling.

Once finished, he turned to Jacob. “Ready?”

Jacob finished tucking his tie and nodded. Wordlessly, they both stalked up the case stairs and opened the hatch. Again, they stepped back onto the beach. It was late afternoon, from what Newt could tell by the sky. The tide had begun rolling in, and the edge of the sea was much closer than it once was. Turning his back to the sea, Newt studied the surrounding land. Rocky and steep, the beach they stood on was a cove sloping beneath a vegetated mountainside. A direct path etched upward to the mountaintop. There seemed to be no visible signs of human life, which silently worried Newt. The cooling sea breeze rippled his shirt and caressed his hot skin. 

“We should walk up to the top of the mountain,” said Newt. Jacob looked up the steep mountainside and deflated. The Mediterranean summer sun already had sweat beading at his hairline; a hike up a rocky mountain was a dreadful thought. 

“If we’re lucky, we will find a village or someone to give us directions,” Newt continued as he collected his case. 

“Luck and us ain’t exactly friends, though, are we?” Jacob grumbled aside. 

“Perhaps not.”

Jacob looked out to the sea. From where he stood, he found it hard to believe the enticing, calm, blue waters in front of him were the same waters he watched swallow a steamboat full of people. “You don’t think they’ll be coming after us again?” He frowned. 

Newt thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. Not for a while, at least. For now, they have every right to believe we’re dead. Though I’m sure once they realize we are not, they’ll be back for the relic.”

“What relic?” Jacob asked. 

“I don’t know. But clearly it is something they do not want me to have—something they don’t want Dumbledore to have. Inevitably, I must have it, whatever it is.” Newt turned to Jacob almost excitedly. “He reacted too quickly. He must have had a vision of me with this relic and got scared.”

Jacob scoffed. “Grindelwald scared?”

“That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Whatever relic Grindelwald thinks I have must be a threat. Why else would he prematurely send his acolytes? This seer Dumbledore is bread-crumbing us to must know something about it.” 

“I guess so. I just don’t understand why Dumbledore couldn’t tell you straight out—JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?”

The men’s eyes set upon the half-submerged figure bobbing far out in the water. The sun hung low behind it, covering its face in shadow, but it was unmistakable by the soft slope of its neck and shoulders and the outline of long, wet hair, that it was a woman. 

“Could she be a survivor?” Jacob wondered. “HELLO! MISS ARE YOU OKAY?” 

The woman’s figure stayed silent and still, aside from the periodic rise and fall of waves rolling into her. Jacob continued calling out to her, hoping to get a response. Newt, however, only stared, brows slightly furrowed. He couldn’t see their features, and yet, he could feel it: the unmistakable bore of eyes on him. It was unnerving. A shiver tickled down his neck and spine, and his heart skipped every other beat. 

“Jacob,” said Newt distantly. Jacob stopped calling out and turned to Newt, whose eyes were fixed on the bobbing woman, as if in a trance. “She’s not a survivor.”

Jacob looked back to the strange figure in the sea. He frowned, eyes squinting to get a better look. Newt stepped closer to the shoreline, and almost in tandem, the shadowy woman swam backward. Newt stopped immediately, not wanting to scare her off. He thought he imagined it. That it was one last hallucination before his consciousness slipped away. It was shameful how easily he accepted such a lame excuse. He never gave it a second thought until now. The feeling of arms hooking underneath his and pulling him through the water. The faint shimmering detail of a large iridescent fish tail swishing between his limp legs. It had been real. Not often is Newt astonished by the many inexplicable wonders of the world, having traversed it well, but this was something so entirely mystical, something so intangible, he felt weightless and overcome. 

Newt slowly and gently placed his case on the ground. Using the tactics he often utilized with beasts, he held up his unbound hand in a non-threatening manner and crouched his large frame to appear smaller and less threatening. “I mean no harm,” he called out to her. Jacob watched his friend curiously but kept from interrupting. He, too, mimicked Newt’s behavior and bent over in a crouched manner. 

The figure stared at them for a moment longer, silently wading in the water. “Lower your head,” Newt instructed his friend beside him. Nodding, Jacob bowed his head along with Newt, staring at the rocky shore beneath them. The tide inched closer to the tips of their shoes as waves crashed over the slippery rocks. They silently waited—for what, they were unsure, but they stayed crouched over for so long their leg and core muscles stared to burn. Newt stayed hovering, unyielding despite the increasing burning pain and soreness of his injuries. Only the sound of wind and sea lapping at the shore and nearby rock accompanied the occasional seagull squawk. 

“How long we gotta stand here like this?” Jacob strained after a while. 

A sinking feeling rose in Newt’s chest. Was she still there bobbing in the waves? Did she swim away when they weren’t looking? The thought grieved him. Slowly, Newt lifted his head, expecting to see nothing but empty, open sea. His soft, sudden gasp caused Jacob to finally lift his head. When he did, he yelped, jumping and falling back hard onto the hard ground. He stared wordlessly in disbelief and fear, whereas Newt stood firm, still bowed before the daunting figure before them. 

Less than a foot in front of them, laid upon the rocks of the shallow sea edge, was a beautiful woman with long, drenched locks that hung around her face and stuck to her glistening skin. She had the most tantalizing eyes, decorated with long, thick lashes that watched them with both child-like curiosity and wary uncertainty. Her focus seemed to predominately be on Newt, who was now the closest to her. She was naked. Her bare breasts were partially covered by her hair. The most striking detail of her was not her beauty, nor her apparent nakedness, but rather the fact that instead of bare hips, legs, and feet, she possessed a thick, lengthy, fish-like tail. The unblemished skin of her back and waist seamlessly transitioned into milky-white scales. Along the backside of her tail were spiked anterior and posterior dorsal fins and finlets. At her hips, flowing pectoral fins, and at her tail’s end, a large, matching, biconcave, lunate fluke. In the sun, her scales shimmered hues of purple, green, orange, and blue, like an iridescent pearl. She was, for a lack of better words, stunning. 

Her eyes locked with Newt’s, unrelenting in their piercing gaze. He could feel himself growing nervous, almost bashful. Her neatly kept brows knit closer together as she tilted her head to the side, seemingly studying him as he was studying her. 

“Can you speak?” He asked softly, so as to not startle her. 

She stared blankly at him with no hint of understanding. Newt hesitated, then took a cautious step forward. The moment he moved, she recoiled, pushing herself further into the water. “I’m sorry!” Newt blurted out, freezing in place. 

The magnificent creature stilled, and her eyes locked on him. She was practically predicting his every move. Wordlessly, she clutched something at her chest. Newt hadn’t noticed it before, but around her torso was a woven work of kelp and an old fishing net. After giving one last look, she broke their gaze to look down at her side where the strap of her intwined kelp and net turned into a deep pocket. It functioned exactly like a satchel, and from it, she pulled out a wooden square picture frame and placed it at his feet. Tina. 

His eyes flew up to see her eyeing him expectingly. Without a word, she reached into the satchel again and pulled out a long, pointed stick, placing it beside Tina’s picture. His wand. She found his wand! Newt’s heart jumped excitedly in his chest. A wave of gratitude rushed over him, easing the sinking feeling he felt in the pit of his stomach. When he met the creature's eyes, his words escaped him. Such a radiant creature should not exist, and yet, there she was, staring doe-eyed and querying. 

Every detail of her fascinated and beguiled, as is the nature of such an entity. He found himself savoring the image of her, from the arch of her brow to the curve of her lips. The way her hair framed her face and how the shadows contoured her cheekbones. He scanned the whole of her, committing to her memory. His gaze glossed over the curve of her shoulders, noting the smoothness of her skin, when he noticed the one and only blemish that scathed the crook of her neck and left shoulder. Burns, by the look of them. The exposed pink of her flesh and blisters that presumably continued to her shoulder were undoubtedly painful, though she showed no signs of it. Without a second thought, Newt reached his hand to push her hair out of the way so he could examine it further, but the moment his fingertips brushed her lustrous locks, she reeled back into the sea. 

“Wait! I’m sorry!” He called after her, but she moved with such agility and speed; she was already diving her head back under the water. Her tail flicked over the surface until she reached deeper waters; her shining, shimmering tail flapped one last time before disappearing beneath the waves. 

The two men left ashore remained dumbfounded, staring distantly at the open waters. Jacob, who hadn’t dared to speak from the moment the creature crawled onto shore, was the one to break their awestricken silence. 

“You saw what I saw, right?”

Newt nodded. “Yes,” he said faintly.

A sudden exclaiming laugh burst from Jacob that quickly turned into a joyous fit of laughter. “I can’t believe it!” He shouted as he stumbled to his feet. “That was amazing! Did you see her? She was beautiful, oh my god! Newt, did we really just see a—”

“A siren.” Newt’s eyes stared longingly at the sea, the lilt of pure astonishment inflecting his tone. “She’s a siren.”

[heavenlybodies333]

too much ecstasy - T.R.

!warnings! mature content, drug use, adult themes

pairing: tom riddle x you

summary: Hogsmeade’s notorious burlesque club, The Velvet Serpent, thrums with sin and seduction. A night out with friends, a haze of pills and drinks—the club’s atmosphere becomes intoxicating and so does the tension between you and Tom. 

tonight, it’s not just about what you see, but who’s watching

The Velvet Serpent was more than just a burlesque club—it was the underground heartbeat of wizarding depravity, a place where the drinks were strong, the smoke was thick, and sin dripped from the velvet-draped walls like honey. Slytherins ran the place in every way that mattered, and tonight was no different.

You sat in a dimly lit booth, the air laced with the scent of cigars, perfume, and something sweeter—the afterglow of the little pills you'd all swallowed earlier. X. Molly. Whatever you wanted to call it, the high was pure bliss, rolling through your veins, making every touch, every sound, every glance electric.

Avery Lestrange had his arm draped over a waitress’s waist, whispering something against her ear that made her giggle. Mulciber cutting up the rest of the coke he had into an array of thin white lines on the table, his movements meticulous despite the haze of intoxication settling over them all. Theo had returned, a lazy grin on his face as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes bloodshot red as he offered the joint to Tom.

Tom didn’t even glance at the joint, his focus entirely elsewhere. His fingers tapped an idle rhythm against his thigh, his demeanor composed yet coiled tight, like a predator biding its time.

“You know he doesn’t indulge, Theo,” Avery drawled, smirking as he pulled the waitress onto his lap, her giggle drowned out by the pulsing bass of the club.

Theo just shrugged, taking another slow drag before turning his attention back to the stage.

You felt the pulse of the molly in your veins, emboldening you, making the club lights glow a little brighter, the music sink a little deeper into your skin.

You were so high.

The burlesque stage is cleared, the last dancer stepping off with a teasing wink to the crowd. A new group of girls is ushered up, but the MC’s voice cuts through the music, playful and coaxing.

“Well, well, we’ve got a wild crowd tonight. Who’s got the guts to get up here?”

Laughter ripples through the room. The idea is absurd—getting up there, stripping under the heat of the lights, letting strangers devour you with their eyes.

You scoff, tipping your drink back before smirking. “I should go up there.”

Tom lets out a low chuckle, tilting his head toward you. “You?” His tone is rich with amusement, like he’s indulging the thought for his own entertainment. “No, you wouldn’t.”

You arch a brow at him. “You really think I won’t?”

Tom’s lips curve into something smug, something knowing. “Oh, I know you won’t.”

And that does it.

Because he thinks he knows you. Thinks he has you figured out, like you’re some predictable little thing that exists just within the boundaries he’s drawn for you.

But that molly is hitting now. Hard.

The club lights are nothing but a blur of red and gold as you stand, your pulse thudding in time with the bass. Your confidence is liquid fire in your veins. You feel untouchable.

And the moment you start walking toward the stage, the laughter at the table dies down.

Avery and Mulciber hoot, nudging each other, not believing their eyes. Theo lighting another joint, a lazy grin curling his lips.

But Tom—Tom isn’t laughing anymore.

His gaze sharpens, cutting through the dim haze of the club. You don’t have to look at him to feel the shift, the heat in his stare.

You step onto the stage, fingers skimming the cool metal of the pole, the heat of the lights washing over you. The music changes, something slow and dark, dripping with sin.

And then—you move.

Deliberate. Controlled.

A slow roll of your hips, a teasing tilt of your head, fingers trailing along the curve of your neck as you sink into the music.

Tom is staring.

His jaw tight, fingers curled against his glass, tension coiled in every inch of him.

The silk of your dress pools at your feet, slipping off your shoulders like a whisper, leaving you in the lace bodice beneath. Gasps and whistles ripple through the crowd, but you don’t hear them.

Because you’re looking at him.

His expression doesn’t shift, not in the way you expect it to. No clenched fists, no furrowed brows, no sharp exhale of frustration.

No, Tom Riddle doesn’t react like a man caught off guard.

He reacts like a man who’s watching. Calculating. Deciding.

The moment your eyes lock, the air between you tightens, humming with something dark—something that makes your skin prickle with awareness, makes your breath catch in your throat.

And then, the corner of his mouth twitches. Just barely. Just enough to make your stomach drop.

Your friends are still laughing, still cheering you on, but their voices are distant, mere echoes lost beneath the slow, deliberate way Tom sets down his glass.

He tilts his head, eyes dragging over you with a weight that makes your knees feel unsteady. It’s not lust, not exactly. It’s something sharper. Darker.

Approval.

As if he knew you had it in you. As if he’s been waiting for you to show him.

And fuck, the way he’s looking at you now—like you’ve finally done something worthy of his attention—makes the heat pooling in your stomach burn just a little hotter.

Still, he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t call you over.

Doesn’t have to.

Because now, it’s your move.

The moment your feet hit the floor, you step off the stage, chin high, gaze steady. A challenge in the way you move, in the way you weave through the crowd without sparing anyone else a glance.

Your friends are still talking—laughing, throwing arms around your shoulders, singing your praises—but none of it matters.

You don’t stop until you reach him, until the space between you is too close and not close enough, the scent of his cologne filling your lungs, that unnerving stillness of his presence wrapping around you.

His gaze flicks down—just once, just a slow drag over your body before meeting your eyes again.

“Enjoy yourself?” His voice is smooth, quiet.

A shiver rolls through you.

But you smile. A little breathless, a little too bold. “I think you did.”

Something flickers in his eyes, dark amusement curling at the edges.

He leans forward, just slightly, enough that his breath ghosts against your cheek, enough that no one else notices the way his fingers press, just slightly, against your thigh—deliberate, calculated.

His voice drops, quiet enough that only you can hear—just for you.

"You do love an audience," he murmurs, voice a dark thread of amusement curling around your spine.

Your breath catches, but you refuse to let him see it. Instead, you tilt your chin, let your smile play at the edges of your lips. "And you love to watch."

He leans back, as though nothing happened at all, lifting his drink to his lips, gaze sliding to Theo as the conversation shifts.

In the weight of his silence, in the way his eyes flick back to you—brief, knowing—before he takes another sip of his drink.

A private acknowledgment.

A silent well done.

Your lips curl as you trace the rim of your glass with one fingertip, letting the moment stretch between you, secret and thrilling.

Because Riddle may think he’s the only one who plays this game.

But tonight, you made the first move.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a/n: ive been rewatching gossip girl again and its SOO good such a comfort show, I took inspo from the first szn when Blair dances for Charles so hot oml

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴇᴅ: @ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀɢʀᴀᴘʜɪᴄꜱ !!! check them out

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Why Couldn't It Be Us

James Potter x Lestrange!Reader

AN: This is a sneak peak but you can read this alone, without having to read the full fic.

Summary: James grappled with the reality of loosing the love of his life.

WC:3.4k

CW: So much yearning and spiralling. So much angst no comfort what so ever, Marilily, drunk!James, one night stands, drunken hook ups, reader is married

The pub smelled of stale beer, wood polish, and the faint tang of smoke from the fireplace in the corner. The walls were covered with faded photographs, posters for live music, and layers of peeling paint that hinted at decades of stories. It wasn’t the kind of place where magical folk usually gathered, but Sirius insisted it had character. 

James took a long pull from his pint, leaning back against the booth, his glasses slightly fogged from the warmth of the room. Remus sat across from him, nursing a whiskey, while Peter sipped a cloudy gin and tonic. Marlene and Dorcas were at the bar ordering another round, and Sirius was at the jukebox, shuffling through the selection with the same intensity he’d use for a chess match.  

Lily slid into the seat beside James, her cheeks flushed from the cold outside. “I don’t know why I let Sirius drag us here,” She huffed, pulling her scarf off and stuffing it into her bag.  

“You’re here because you’d follow me anywhere, Evans,” Sirius called without looking up, a smirk tugging at his lips.  

Lily rolled her eyes, but her fondness was obvious. “He’s insufferable.”  

“Absolutely,” Remus nodded, chuckling when Sirius threw a random crumpled up paper at his head.

Dorcas and Marlene returned with drinks in hand, sliding them onto the table. Dorcas clapped James on the shoulder as she sat. “How’s our Golden Boy, then? Had a good day bringing shame to daddy’s potion business?”

James chuckled. “Pops’ got nothing for me anymore. I’m a free man now- no professors, no detentions, no overtime, just… endless possibilities.”  

“And endless parties,” Sirius added, finally joining them with a triumphant look. “Found Bowie. You’re welcome.”  

The opening chords of Suffragette City began to hum through the bar, and Sirius raised his glass. “To living dangerously and looking damn good while doing it.”  

“To the Order,” Lily said suddenly, raising her drink. Her voice was steady, but there was a weight behind it.  

A ripple of silence passed over the group. The Order of the Phoenix wasn’t a light topic, but it was always lurking at the edge of their conversations these days. The war was brewing- closer and darker every day- and none of them were naïve enough to think they could avoid it forever.  

“To the Order,” James echoed, his voice quieter.  

They clinked glasses, the sound almost lost under the music and the hum of conversation around them.  

“You reckon we’re ready for it?” Peter asked after a moment, his voice uncertain- but his eyes held a determined fury that was a tad bit over shadowed by his flushed chubby cheeks.

“No one’s ready for war,” Remus said. “Not really. But what’s the alternative? We let You-Know-Who run the world while we sit back and do nothing?”  

“He’s got a point,” Dorcas said, her dark eyes flashing. “We can’t just… hide. If there’s a fight, we’ve got to be in it.”  

“I don’t want to hide,” Marlene said, staring into her glass. “I’m not afraid of them.”  

“We should be afraid,” Lily said softly. “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t fight.”  

James reached over and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “We’ll fight. And we’ll win. That’s what we do.”  

“And if we don’t?” Peter asked, his voice small.  

Sirius leaned forward, his grin sharp and defiant. “We will. Because we have to. And because they don’t know what’s coming for them.”  

For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of their shared resolve hung heavy in the air. Then Marlene broke the tension with a wicked grin.  

“Enough of this gloom,” she said, standing and dragging Dorcas with her. “Someone say something worthwhile before I lose it.”

“Worthwhile, huh?” a familiar voice teased, light and playful, cutting through the hum of music and conversation.  

James turned to see Mary Macdonald leaning against the booth, a crooked grin on her face and her eyes sparkling with warmth. She was bundled in a long coat, her gloves tucked into one pocket, and her hair slightly damp from the winter drizzle outside.  

“Speak of the devil,” Marlene said, smirking as she dropped back into her seat. “And she shall appear.”  

Mary raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “Was I summoned for something specific, or are you all just this predictable?”  

“Predictable? Us?” Sirius scoffed, his grin widening as he stood and slid out of the booth to make room for her. “Mary, darling, you wound me. I’m nothing if not a mystery wrapped in leather and charm.”  

“And bad decisions,” Remus muttered into his glass, earning a bark of laughter from Marlene.  

Mary ignored Sirius’s antics and slid into the booth beside Lily, who shifted to make space. Her smile softened as she leaned closer to Lily, her hand brushing against hers. “Sorry I’m late.”  

“Worth the wait,” Lily replied softly, her cheeks flushing.  

James felt his stomach drop.  

Mary cleared her throat, sitting up straight. “Actually, I had a reason for being late.”  

Lily’s hand slipped into hers, and James immediately felt the shift in the air. The kind of shift that made your heart pound, even when you didn’t know why.  

“We have news,” Lily began, her voice steady but her green eyes bright with emotion. She glanced at Mary, a shy smile tugging at her lips.  

Mary took over, her grin widening. “We’re getting married.”  

There was a stunned silence, like the universe had paused just long enough for everyone to process her words.  

Then the booth erupted in cheers.  

Dorcas was the first to leap up, nearly knocking over her drink as she threw her arms around both women. Marlene was right behind her, practically pulling them into a group hug as Sirius whooped loudly.  

“Bloody brilliant!” Sirius crowed, his grin wide and uncontainable. “Knew it’d happen eventually. You two are disgustingly perfect.”  

“Disgusting,” Remus agreed with a smirk, though his tone was warm as he raised his glass. “To Mary and Lily. Congratulations.”  

Peter echoed the toast, his round face flushed with excitement.  

James raised his glass too, plastering a wide grin on his face as the others cheered. He even managed to laugh when Sirius made some terrible joke about Lily finally having a chance to wear something “outrageously frilly.”  

But inside, he was breaking.  

That should be us.

The thought was sharp and unrelenting, carving through the noise and the laughter like a knife. He was happy for her- of course, he was. Lily deserved the kind of love that lit her up from the inside, and Mary was dynamite. He could see it in the way they looked at eachother, in the way their cheeks dimpled when she smiled.  

But it didn’t stop the ache in his chest, the hollow feeling that spread with every laugh and every toast.  

The music shifted, Bowie giving way to something heavier and rockin’. Marlene grabbed his hand, pulling him to his feet with a grin. “C’mon, Potter. Let’s see if you can actually dance.”  

James let himself be dragged to the tiny dance floor, forcing a laugh as Marlene twirled him dramatically. She was a whirlwind of energy, and her jokes kept him smiling, but his heart wasn’t in it.  

After a few songs, he excused himself, weaving through the crowd back to the bar.  

The bartender was wiping down glasses, and James slid onto a stool, ordering another pint. He stared at the wood grain of the counter, letting the noise of the pub wash over him.  

His drink arrived, and he took a long sip, trying to push down the emotions threatening to rise.  

It wasn’t about him, he reminded himself. 

But as he sat there, the laughter and celebration echoing behind him, he couldn’t help but wish- for just a moment- that things had been different. That he’d been enough. That he had more proof of your love, then just an apology and that last kiss.

James stared into the amber liquid in his glass, his fingers tightening around the cool surface. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses from his friends felt muted now, like he was watching the scene through a fogged-up window. He drained his pint in one long sip, setting it down with a dull thunk. The bartender raised an eyebrow at him, but James waved him off. 

He was fine. He was always fine.

“Hey, you alright?” 

The voice startled him, low and lilting, cutting through his thoughts like a blade. James turned to find a girl standing a few feet away. She was magnetic. Her hair shimmered under the dim lights, falling in waves she tucked behind her ear, and her eyes- curious and smoldering- seemed to pierce right through him. Something about her tugged at his chest, an ache that felt too familiar. 

She looked a hell of a lot like you.

James blinked, trying to shove the thought aside, but it dug its claws into his mind, stubborn and unyielding. It was in the way she held herself, confident and just a little aloof, her smile teasing at the corners like she already knew him. Like you used to look at him when you thought no one else was watching.

“Fine,” he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat and gave her a half-hearted smirk. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The girl tilted her head, unconvinced. “I don’t know. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world or something.” 

“Don’t we all?” He quipped, raising his empty glass. 

She chuckled, low and warm, sliding onto the stool beside him. “I suppose we do. But most people don’t drink alone at a table full of friends. What’s your excuse?”

James glanced over at his group. They were still laughing, huddled together like they didn’t have a care in the world. Lily was leaning into Mary, her hand resting casually on her knee. 

The sight made his stomach twist. He looked back at the girl, her expectant eyes waiting for him to answer. 

“Celebrating,” He lied. “Big day. Lots to toast to.”

Her smile widened, and she raised her glass. “Well, cheers to that.”

They talked, or rather, she talked, and he pretended to listen. He was too busy trying not to notice the curve of her lips or the way her laughter rang like a bell. Too busy trying not to let his mind wander to you and the way you used to laugh at his jokes, even the bad ones. Too busy pretending he didn’t feel like he was about to shatter into a thousand pieces. 

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You want to get out of here?”

James hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he thought about Lily and Mary’s announcement. He thought about your last words to him, the ones he’d tried so hard to forget. He thought about the weight in his chest that wouldn’t let him breathe.

And he said yes.

She smirked and gestured to the door. He stood up. He was a gentleman, grabbing her coat and helping her slide it on. He chuckled at a playful remark she made- he flipped off Sirius as he wolf whistled after them.

He felt normal.

Her flat was small but cozy, filled with mismatched furniture and the faint scent of vanilla. James barely noticed any of it. His focus was on her hands, the way they tugged at his jacket, the way her lips felt against his, the way her laughter sounded when she stumbled backward into her bed. 

He didn’t think about how her hair fanned out on the pillow like yours used to fan against the forest floor. He didn’t think about how her voice softened when she whispered his name. He didn’t think about the way she pulled him close, or how his heart twisted in his chest when he kissed her. 

He didn’t think about you.

It wasn’t until later, when the room was quiet and she was asleep beside him, that the weight in his chest returned. James stared at the ceiling, the darkness pressing down on him. The ache in his chest was unbearable now, raw and consuming. 

He slipped out of bed, pulling on his jeans and shirt in the dim light. The girl stirred, mumbling something he couldn’t make out, but she didn’t wake. James grabbed his jacket and left without a word, the cold air outside biting at his skin as he stepped into the night.

He didn’t remember the walk home, just the way his hands shook as he let himself into his flat. 

James stumbled into his flat, the door slamming behind him as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the floor. The room was spinning, the edges of his vision blurred from too many drinks and too many emotions he couldn’t name. His chest ached, hollow and heavy all at once, and his head buzzed with the echoes of your voice, the ghost of your touch.

He dropped onto the couch, his trembling fingers fumbling for the phone. It took him a moment to find it, buried under a stack of unopened letters and old newspapers. His mind raced as he flipped through the yellowing pages, the parchment glowing faintly under the dim light of his wand. He didn’t know what he was looking for until he found it.

Lestrange Manor.

His heart thundered in his chest as he punched in the number, the dial tone buzzing loudly in his ear. He didn’t think about what he would say or why he was calling. He just needed to hear your voice, to know you were still out there. Still you.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. 

“It's late.” The voice boomed in the distance before he heard a sigh against the receiver. “Lestrange Manor,” Your father’s voice. 

James froze, the words caught in his throat. His hand shook as he gripped the receiver, his knuckles turning white. For a moment, he thought about speaking, about demanding to know where you were, about apologizing for everything, about-

He slammed the phone down, his breath hitching in his chest. The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of his mistake settling heavily on his shoulders. He raked a hand through his hair, his heart pounding as he stared at the phone.

Then, slowly, he turned the pages again.

Avery Manor.

The name stared back at him, mocking him, taunting him with the reality he’d tried so hard to ignore. You weren’t just gone. You were married.

He dialed the number before he could think better of it, his hands trembling as he pressed the receiver to his ear. His chest tightened with every ring, the seconds dragging on like hours. He didn’t know what he would say. He didn’t know if he could even form words.

And then, it answered.

“Hello?” Your voice was soft, curious, and achingly familiar. It hit him like a punch to the gut, stealing the breath from his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hand gripping the phone so tightly it hurt.

“Hello?” You repeated, a note of concern creeping into your tone. “Is someone there?”

James opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His throat was dry, his heart hammering in his chest. He wanted to say your name, to tell you it was him, to tell you he was sorry, to tell you- everything.

But he couldn’t. 

“...James?” 

His breath caught at the sound of his name on your lips. The way you said it, so soft and familiar, like you knew it was him without even knowing. It broke something in him, something he didn’t know could still break.

"Hi." It was all James could manage. The word came out shaky, barely more than a whisper, and he winced as the silence on the other end stretched, thick and heavy. 

Then, he heard you take a small breath. That sound- soft, familiar- tore through him, a sharp ache in his chest. He closed his eyes, the ghost of your touch burning on his skin, memories flooding back with every beat of his heart.

That breath. He missed it. He missed the way you breathed against his ear, the quiet exhale that came when his lips brushed your neck. He missed the way you'd laugh and scold him, pushing at his chest, pretending to be annoyed. "James, stop it," you'd say, your voice sharp but your eyes warm. "You’re going to leave a mark." 

And then, you'd let him do it again.

“James,” your voice came again, quiet, tentative. His name on your lips felt like a lifeline, like it always had, but this time it hurt. This time it reminded him of everything he’d lost.

“I…” His throat felt tight, the words caught somewhere between his heart and his lips. 

“I didn’t know… Avery had a landline,” James said, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to sound casual, but the slur in his words betrayed him. He cursed himself inwardly, gripping the phone harder as if the pressure could steady him. He just needed anything- anything to keep you on the line, to hear your voice for a little longer.

There was a pause on your end, long enough to make his stomach twist. He could imagine you standing there, your lips parted in surprise, your brow furrowed as you processed his words. Then came your voice, soft but laced with confusion.

“James, are you- are you drunk?”

The concern in your tone made his heart ache, but it also made him feel exposed. Vulnerable. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to laugh, though it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “What gave me away? The fact that I’m calling you at- what time is it?”

You sighed, and he could picture the way you’d pinch the bridge of your nose, your lips pressing together as you tried to decide whether to scold him or let it go. “James, what are you doing?”

The question hit harder than it should have. What was he doing? Calling you in the middle of the night, knowing full well it was a mistake? Torturing himself with the sound of your voice, knowing it would only make the ache worse?

“I just…” He paused, running a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the mess of it. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

James swallowed hard, his voice trembling as he spoke, “I miss you.” The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered, as though they’d been clawing their way up his throat all night. “I miss you so much it feels like I can’t breathe without you.”

“James,” you whispered, your voice strained. It was the way you used to say his name when you were trying to reason with him, to pull him back from whatever reckless path he was on. But now, it sounded different- sharper, more distant, like you were trying to remind yourself of the boundaries you’d set.

“I-” James started, his words slurring together, “I wish it was me. That it was me next to you right now, not him. It should’ve been me, yeah? It was always supposed to be me…”

You didn’t answer immediately, and the silence was unbearable. He could hear faint noises in the background- a creak, a soft rustling- and then, Avery’s voice, distant but clear, calling your name.

James’s heart seized in his chest. “No- don’t go. Please.” His voice broke, desperation dripping from every word. “Just- stay on the line. Don’t hang up, don’t leave me. Please.”

“James,” you said again, but this time it was different. Your voice was firmer, tinged with something he couldn’t quite place- regret, maybe, or guilt. “You shouldn’t have called.”

“Wait!” James shouted, gripping the phone tighter as though he could hold you there. “Don’t- just, please. Don’t hang up. Please, I-”

“James!” a sharp voice cut through his spiral, and he turned to see Sirius standing in the doorway of the flat’s tiny kitchen. He was barefoot, wearing only a pair of boxers and a shirt that was unmistakably Remus’s, the sleeves too long for his arms. His dark hair was messy, and his brows were drawn together in concern.

Behind him, Remus appeared, his face etched with worry as he rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. “What the hell is going on?” He asked, his tone softer than Sirius’s but no less serious.

James didn’t answer. His eyes darted between his friends and the phone in his hand, his grip tightening as though it were the only thing tethering him to reality. He barely registered the sound of your voice on the other end, hurried and quiet, before it cut out completely.

You’d hung up.

[hotpinkboots]

Can you do Yandere Bellatrix Lestrange x very affectionate fem reader(like she always wants to give Bellatrix hugs and kisses) please.

~~~~~

~"ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ʟɪᴘꜱ"~

(Yandere!Bellatrix Lestrange x Fem!Affectionate!Reader Oneshot + Headcanons)

DARLING, I LOVE THIS REQUEST. I've always wanted to write a fic where the Reader is actually in love with her yandere rather than running away :> ty for the req!

Warning(s): Blood (like. eating it be careful if you're sensitive to this), Bellatrix murdered someone ofc, Bellatrix's knife, toxic relationship (but actually the most glorious evil lesbian power couple), yandere behavior (possessive, obsessive, all that stuff), Bellatrix herself is a warning, Minors DNI, Don't like it? Don't read it. You are responsible for your own content consumption.

~~~~~

𝕭𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖗𝖎𝖝 breathed deeply. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. The thrill of a triumphant chase filled her brain, her ego filling to the brim, on the brink of spilling out as an explosive burst of giggles and boasts. The stupid bastard who made eyes at you earlier was defeated. Her boots clicked on the ground quietly as she approached the body. She peeked over and nudged the person over with her foot. Bellatrix gave a disappointed mutter. They were already dead. She had hoped they might've still been alive long enough for her to see the expression on their face as they bled out.

The witch reached down and grabbed her dagger, tugging it a few times to tear it out of the flesh. A crooked grin grew on her lips as she examined the deep, thick crimson blood gleaming in the dim light. Bellatrix curiously dragged her finger down the blade. She stared at the blood that gathered under her nails and on her fingertips, before standing up and tilting her head to pop her fingers in her mouth to taste the iron flavor. It was hot and smooth on her tongue.

The sound of a heavy door being pulled open caused her to pause and glance over her shoulder. Her face suddenly lit up.

"Hello, love!" Bellatrix greeted in a sickeningly sweet tone, her eyes glazed over and absolutely enchanted by your mere existence.

You trotted up to your wife. "Hello," you returned sweetly. You paused and wrinkled your nose, your trot slowing to a reluctant walk, seeing Bellatrix's bloody hands and mouth. "Oh, you're a mess, my love," you frowned.

"No," Bellatrix retorted indignantly. She glanced down at herself. Her skirts were splattered with blood, her hands messy and stained red. "...Well..." She looked back up at you with a playful smile. "But you like it," Bellatrix added quickly. She knew you too well. You thought she was cute like this. You'd have to clean her up later because she'd refuse to do it herself. She'd kiss you and thank you for doing so. You'd end up cuddling one way or another. That's how nights like this always ended.

You huffed and approached her, lifting a hand to swipe the pad of your thumb across her bottom lip, picking up bits of splattered blood. You glanced down at the smeared blood on your thumb, before making eye contact with your beloved as you licked it off.

Bellatrix felt an excited thrill heat up her stomach as she watched your grotesque actions. Oh, she adored it when you played along with her insanity.

You lifted your hands to cup Bellatrix's cheeks. She murmured affectionately and puckered her lips for a kiss, to which you met her halfway.

~~~

~She ADORES you.

~Bellatrix loves having you sit on her lap, whether you're taller or shorter than she is.

~Not even in a sexual way, she just loves hugging you. She'll aggressively kiss your shoulder and snuggle into you.

~Just as affectionate as you are.

~Loves kisses and demands them often.

~When YOU demand them she gets so riled up and instantly grabs you to smother you.

~You catch her staring at her with the most lovesick stare possible.

~you also catch her staring at you in the most freakishly obsessed way possible 😳

~When Bella has the time, she likes to just hold you for hours and murmur to you how much she loves you, the things she would do for you (which are endless)

~She's very happy that you're so affectionate! She's just as affectionate as you are. It can annoy others, whether from jealousy or from Bellatrix cooing at you to show you off for everyone to see.

~~~~~

Request Guidelines!

~Love, HotPinkBoots

[edb954]

I Beg You Don’t Embarrass Me (Barty Crouch Jr. x Black!Reader)

(Summary: reader is part of the black family and everybody teases her about dating Barty but he doesn't embarrass her.)

Word count: 314

(Warnings: Not fullyproff read, Short & Sweet, fluff, teasing)

"Heartbreak is one thing my egos another I swear you don't embarrass me motherfucker.."

~~~

"It must be so embarrassing for you dating somebody like Junior.." Bellatrix cackled.

Ever since fifth year when Y/n started seeing Barty it was always the same thing.

"It must be so embarrassing to ever date that fool!" A student said, after Barty had caused a ruckus in the great hall.

"Sis I love you. I do but.. Crouch? Really?" Sirius/Padfoot teased.

"I'm going to have to agree with Sirius on this one.. even though Barty is a good friend of mine.." Regulus Agreed with Sirius. Y/n rolled her eyes as she saw Sirius smirk.

"Wait.. you're seriously dating him?" A Ravenclaw guy who had kept trying to ask her out asked.

Has lead to this very moment, to Barty realising maybe he is an embarrassment for her and that his father was right. Just like everyone else..

"Maybe this isn't meant to be.." Barty said, his eyes and head lowered.

One thing about Bartimus Crouch Junior is as much as he acted like he didn't care. He did.. it got to him like his father has multiple times. Which makes him second doubt.

"Hey look at me." Y/n said, lifting his head. Making him look at her.

"Heartbreak is one thing my egos another. I beg you don't embarrass me... Bartimus Crouch Junior." She declared placing a soft kiss on his lips. She pulled back giving him a small smile only for him to pull her back in.

"You have a way with words black." He said, smirking. Pressing a kiss to her jaw.

"Don't I know it, Crouch." She replied. He pulled her down flipping her onto the bed as she squealed and laughed.

[slytherinsimp12]

hi! love ur ‘only by name’ fic :) do you think you’ll make a part 2? x

𝓐 𝓟𝓸𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪 𝓛𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮

Author’s note: Heyy guyss. This is the sequel to Only by Name. I wasn’t going to write it at first, but since you guys liked the first part so much- here it is! This took me longer than usual, but I think it was worth it because this turned out pretttyy good. Should I start a taglist for anymore updates? Happy reading xx

Summary: Everything was different after hogsmade, but in the best way possible. For three months it was Y/N and Harry. No one knew, and they couldn’t ask for anything better. All that changed when people started to find out about their relationship- a Potter and a Lestrange?

Warnings: Harry being an absolute cutie and being overprotective asf to defend Y/N. Use of the word ‘dickhead’.

The following night after hogsmade they were on the Astronomy Tower, wind in their hair, the stars above them were mysteries to Y/N, even though her own mother was named after one. Her entire “family” to be exact. But there Harry was, explaining the stars to her with the utter most excitement. He took her hands and used them to point to the stars above. Naming them as they went.

“I don’t know what comes next,” Y/N whispered. Harry took the hint that they weren’t talking about stars anymore. He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

“Then we figure it out together.”

She leaned into his shoulder, and for the first time in a long time, the world felt quiet. Not because it had changed. But because she finally believed he wouldn’t leave when it didn’t.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It felt like a dream at first—surreal and untouched by reality. When no one knew, it was theirs alone. Everything was perfect. Harry and Y/N were perfect.

He brought her chocolate frogs after long days. Wrote little notes on scraps of parchment and charmed them to fold into paper roses that floated into her bag.

She painted lightning bolts on his arm in ink during boring History of Magic lectures. Called him “the Chosen One” with the most sarcastic smirk he’d ever seen.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊

3 months passed, keeping their relationship a secret, but one mistaken encounter at the astronomy tower and word spread like a hex- Harry Potter and a Lestrange. Together. No one knew the details, of course, but they didn’t need to. The rumor alone was enough to spark a wildfire.

In the days that followed, Y/N felt it everywhere. The stares. The whispers. The space people left between her and them in the corridors like her bloodline might be contagious. Like she might seduce them and infiltrate their brains like she did with Harry. And Harry—he felt it, too. Only he didn’t flinch from it. He stood closer, walked beside her with his head high, and dared anyone to say something to her face.

They didn’t. Not yet. But the looks were loud enough.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Gryffindor common room was unusually quiet when they entered together that evening. Conversations dipped. A third-year girl nudged her friend and whispered behind her hand. Even Seamus gave Harry a half-raised brow as he passed.

Y/N didn’t say anything. But Harry noticed how her shoulders tensed. How her fingers dug just a little too tightly into the strap of her bag.

Once they reached the couch, she dropped down with a sigh and stared into the fire. Harry watched her for a moment, then sat beside her and gently brushed her hair back behind her ear. Merlin, he was the sweetest.

“You okay?” He asked.

Y/N didn’t answer immediately. Her voice, when it came, was soft. “Do you think it’s always going to be like this?”

“What? Kids being dickheads?”

Y/N rolled her eyes jokingly

“No…People remembering who I’m related to. The chosen one and the deranged Lestrange! Look at us! A potter and Lestrange!!”

Harry hesitated trying to calm her from this mental breakdown she was clearly having. But, he reached for, took her hand in both of his, and squeezed. “They’re not remembering you. They’re clinging to a name. You scare them because you don’t fit the story.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “I am the story.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “You are not your mother. You are not her choices. And you’re not alone in this.” He paused. “You have me. Whether they like it or not.”

That made her look at him. Really look. Her eyes were glassy, like she was holding something back, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to feel this much and still be strong. She never in a million years imagined she would find someone who loves her for her.

“I don’t deserve you,” she whispered.

Harry leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then rested his own against hers.

“You don’t get to decide that,” he murmured. “I do. And I’m not going anywhere.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

A group of Slytherins cornered them in the corridor after Defense class.

“Well, if it isn’t the Dark Lord’s favorite lovechild,” sneered Pansy Parkinson. “Got the Chosen One wrapped around your wand, have you?”

Y/N didn’t flinch. She had gotten good at not reacting.

But Harry? He stepped in front of her before she could even take a breath.

“Say one more word,” he warned, voice low and sharp.

Crabbe muttered something that sounded like “traitor’s pet.” That was the final straw.

Harry didn’t even reach for his wand this time—he just moved. One shove had Crabbe pinned against the stone wall, breath knocked from his lungs. The corridor went dead silent.

“Next time you talk about her like that,” Harry said, his voice calm but furious, “you’ll wish I used a spell instead.”

Y/N never saw this side of Harry, was it bad that she loved it? Was it bad that she loved him…?

“Harry,” Y/N said quietly behind him, touching his shoulder. “Let it go.”

He didn’t move for a moment. Then, slowly, he stepped back. Crabbe slumped to the floor, wheezing.

Y/N didn’t say anything as they walked away, but Harry noticed her hand was shaking when it slipped into his.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The following night, Harry and Y/N made their way to the Room of Requirement, for some peace and quiet. They curled up together on a conjured couch surrounded by quiet candlelight and forgotten pillows.

She leaned into his side, silent for a long time, then finally said, “You didn’t have to defend me.”

Harry turned, brow furrowed. “I always will.”

“I’m not used to people standing up for me. Not like that.”

“Well…” he brushed a thumb over her cheek. “Get used to it then.”

She laughed softly, the sound muffled by his jumper.

“Why do you care so much about me, Potter?” Y/N smiled.

Harry looked down at her, serious now. “Because you make me feel like I don’t have to be anything other than who I am. Because when I’m with you, I’m not the Boy Who Lived. I’m just… Harry. And you’re not a Lestrange. You’re Y/N. My Y/N.”

My Y/N. No one had ever said that to her. She wanted to tell him. Tell him she loved him. She wanted to hold him tight and pull him closer and kiss him and tell him she loved him so so so much. But she didn’t.

She kissed him—slow, grateful, unguarded. Her fingers curled in the front of his sweater like she was holding onto something solid for the first time in years.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“I’m just saying,” Hermione said, arms crossed. “You’re risking your reputation AND her safety by being so public about this.”

Ron added, “Public? We are not even of age yet! I don’t think anyone beyond the walls of this godforsaken school cares! But point is- People are looking for something to go wrong, Harry. And if it does… they’ll blame her.”

Harry sat back in his chair in the common room, jaw tight.

“I don’t care,” he said simply.

“Harry—”

“No. I don’t care if they don’t like it. Or if it makes people uncomfortable. Because she matters. And I won’t let her be punished for something she didn’t choose.”

Hermione sighed. “I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

Harry looked toward the girls’ staircase where Y/N had just disappeared.

“She’s worth the risk,” he said quietly.

“And I think I’m in love with her….”

[yasministration]

summer solstice - mattheo riddle

summary: every year on the spring equinox, pureblooded parents begin plotting their newly adult children's marriage, and on the summer solstice, the engagements are announced. finally 18, you and your friends begin panicking, hoping for bearable fiancés. but those who have the power to turn the court in their favour decide to pull a few strings. wc: 3.7k cw: discussions of arranged marriages, discussions of power imbalances, Tom Riddle is alive but not in the voldemort way - no war au, mentions of r! coming from an important family.

The spring equinox marked a dreadful time of year for purebloods across the globe. Parents engaged with each other to arrange marriages between their children, only newly turned adults. Those who weren’t deemed worthy of marrying anyone faced the shameful consequences from their parents and were encouraged to find a partner for their own. It was a dream. It was also a nightmare. Grateful not to be married so young; horrified that no one had entertained the idea of betrothing their children.

As the earth did its last turn around the sun, you were all brought to your final year of freedom, the cages of marriage awaiting you after graduation. This spring, you and your friends were all wrenched away from the throes of freedom, thrown into the games known as family affairs, each of the sacred 28 fighting to have the purest, most successful bloodline.

It was easy to say that finally at the legal age to get married, you were all beginning to panic.

For years, your friend group had gathered together on the spring equinox, discussing every candidate you thought may be brought together as a result of wealthy parents’ business tactics, discussing who was right for which suitor. Three months of thrilling build-up, watching as heirs of successful families were flirted with by women they’d never spoken to before. Observing closely as daughters of powerful purebloods were approached by potential husbands for clandestine encounters in the corners of the castle.

It was funny to watch — women never had a choice in who they would marry, unlike their male counterparts, so unlike the businessmen, most of them had fun. You and Pansy had caught the discussions in the bathrooms from older students, exchanging details about the men who'd made moves on them. Good kisser, not enough for me to want to marry him though, someone would say.

Then, on the summer solstice, when all the engagements were officially announced, you would sit with your jaws on the floor at the odd pairings these parents had come up with. It was never too surprising once you thought about it – success never wandered too far off. You were grateful for that to a certain degree; at least your family status would ensure you didn’t end up with disappointments – with men you hadn’t met before at galas and countless events.

Now, as the winds around you collided to form masses of tension that followed you across the castle, into the common room, you had no choice but to stress until the announcements were made on the morning of the summer solstice, just over six fortnights away. Blaise kept you company in the empty common room, the tormenting thoughts roaming your disturbed minds gracing you with their strangling presence. Neither of you were ready to be betrothed to anyone you’d only made polite conversation with, turning away from the painful exchange to forget their names on the spot.

“This is utterly ridiculous. I can’t marry anyone but Pansy, I don’t know what I’d do.” Your loud laugh cut Blaise off, and he turned to glare at you furiously, a rage of heartbreak and betrayal gathering in his gut. “What, you think it’s funny? I’m in love with her! She’s your best friend, how could-”

“Blaise. I’m not laughing because you and Pansy are in love. Jesus, she’s my best friend. If I had to watch her get married to anyone else, I’d probably kill someone. I’m laughing because you’re stupid.”

Turning momentarily to stare into the fire, you sighed, the flames dancing in the irises of your eyes. Your voice was quiet, and despite the equality between you and Blaise, the fairness and challenge that had formed your friendship, your words still spoke volumes of where you stood in the social hierarchy.

“Blaise, you’re a man.”

Silence.

“You get a say in things. You could walk up to your mother and tell her you want to make a request to marry Pansy - and done! You guys are engaged!” Blaise’s mouth open and shut at the realisation that you were in fact right. He felt his face go hot at the prospect that he may actually get to marry the love of his life, but his joy was short lived. He was aware of what that meant for you.

“I’m not a man.” You continued, hugging your knees closer to you. “My parents can go talk me up to families and give them the idea that I would be the perfect wife, but that wouldn’t matter. If my name doesn’t strike attention, or my reputation isn’t strong enough, I will not be a candidate for anyone. But if my family is important enough and I’ve lived up to everything my parents have ever said of me, requests for my hand in marriage will be piling up from all sorts of families and I… I don’t know what would be worse, having to marry a man I hate or not being asked for my hand in marriage at all!”

Blaise put a hand on your shoulder, tugging you in closer to him so you could rest on your head on his shoulder. He knew the first option was out of the question; he’d seen the way parents huddled in corners of galas, trying not to point you out as you made conversation with others, laughing where polite, your manners impeccable. And your name? Well, it spoke for itself. But Blaise knew the second option scared you even more, so he opted away from trying to comfort you.

“It’ll be okay. As long as you don’t marry Pucey. Imagine having that last name.”

Over the next couple of weeks, the tensions in the friend group only increased. Even Pansy — who already had an invisible band encircling her ring with Zabini’s name on it — was stressing. What if the deal between their families didn’t work out? But while Theo, Draco and Mattheo let their parents take their marriages into their hands for them, occasionally discussing potential wives, you had to sit down in complete cluelessness, unaware of any details that would tie your future together.

Not a single owl kept you in the loop of your own life.

Boys in your year group whom you’d never spoken to came up and made small talk, and while you prayed none of them would be your future husbands, you smiled at them sweetly and took part in their conversations, placing a gentle hand on their arm, aware of the effect it had on them. But eyes lingered on you as you entertained conversations with these boys, none of which were worthy enough of marrying you.

At least, that’s what it seemed to the man who busied himself by studying you, keeping an eye on how you averted your gaze to your lap every time this same discussion was brought up again. How your throat bobbed slightly when the conversation became too difficult for you to bear, but you forced an unbothered expression on your face.

Mattheo Riddle couldn’t stop analysing you, whether he could help it or not. He just seemed to care too much about his friends. At least, that’s what he told those around him.

Unbeknown to you, one late night in their dorm, Mattheo told Theo, Draco and Blaise “I’m thinking of asking my father to put in a betrothal request to y/n’s parents.” The boys all stopped what they were doing at the confession, a silence overtaking the dark room as three pairs of eyes turned to stare at their friend. “Even if she doesn’t have a romantic interest in me, she’s one of my best friends, and I think we’d be happier married to each other than to random strangers.”

Theo pushed himself off on his bed, adding “Also, you have a massive crush on her.” Mattheo ignored his best friend’s comment, well aware that his repetitive excuses had never convinced Theo, so he averted his attention to his other two dorm mates. “Are you going to tell her, or just do it without saying anything?” Asked Draco, putting his book down on the bed beside him as he squinted his eyes in suspiciously.

“I’d tell her first. Well, ask her. If she doesn’t like the idea, I obviously won’t go along with it.”

“I think it’s a good idea.” Spoke Blaise, fingers twitching next to him to write to Pansy about the conversation. He had to tell her, but Mattheo would hate him if the information got to you from anyone other than him. Mattheo’s stare was desperate, eager, hopeful for Blaise to give him more information. “She was telling me how scared she was to marry someone she doesn’t know well. And that she’s worried that she can’t to anything about it. I think she’d be happy to be engaged to a friend. Someone she trusts.”

Mattheo nodded silently, trying to hide his smile by turning the attention back to Blaise. “So has the arrangement with Pansy been sorted?”

“Yeah. She doesn’t know yet though. I’m going to properly propose to her before the announcements are out. Y/n’s going to help me find a ring.”

Theo groaned in a mix of jealousy and frustration, digging his head into his pillow. “I can’t get married! I’m in my prime!” And the silence that greeted him told him exactly what he needed to know. Everyone agreed. They were all too young, they were all in their prime. None of them wanted to get married.

Well, aside from Blaise.

When Mattheo found you in the common room the next day, your essay was laid out on the table in front of you, left untouched. It was clear to him that you were stressing again, and he felt a pang of hurt in his chest for you. Mattheo stilled by the stairs to the dormitories, legs defying his will to move closer to you. He didn’t know why he was suddenly nervous to do this. Just twenty minutes ago, this had seemed like the most logical explanation. An offer you’d say yes to in a heartbeat. But now? Mattheo wasn’t so sure.

Mattheo Riddle was not one to handle rejection well, even in the guise of a plan to save yourselves from an unwritten prophecy. But Mattheo had made his decision, and he wouldn’t back down from the opportunity.

He made himself known by sitting down next to you on the rug, a dangerous silence only he could muster alerting you of his presence. You glanced at him, smiling softly. “Can I talk to you about something?” Nodding, you dropped your quill onto the blank parchment and closed your bottle of ink. At least now you had an excuse for not getting any work done.

“Are you okay?” Mattheo almost laughed at your question. If anyone should have been asked this question, it was you. “I’m okay, are you?” You gaze followed his arm, watching as he reached out to gently place it on your arm, caressing your soft skin.

“Yeah, considering.” Mattheo distracted himself by looking around, at the friends chattering in corners or even new couples, mingling at their parents’ demand. He glanced over at where the rest of your friend group stood hidden under a staircase whilst sharing a cigarette, pretending not to be staring at you. Well, apart from Pansy, who did so shamelessly.

“Uh, so I was thinking.” He began, and you raised your eyebrows at him with a teasing smile. His hand curled over your shoulder, just resting there, and he sighed, shutting his eyes momentarily to ready himself for rejection.

A quiet call of his name had him clearing his throat, looking back up at you. You reached out to cup his cheek, caressing his face with your thumb. His eyes threatened to close, and he leaned into your touch, trying to push out the thought that this interaction may destroy your friendship forever. “You may not like this idea,” He added, looking deeply into your eyes. “But I was thinking of telling my father I’m interested in marrying you.” With the hand Mattheo had on your shoulder, you were sure that he felt the way your breath hitched if he hadn’t already heard it.

“You know,” He continued, swallowing thickly. “You’re one of my best friends, and I know I’d rather marry you than anyone else. You obviously don’t have mmph-” Mattheo was interrupted by the breath being knocked out of his chest as you launched yourself onto him to wrap your arms over his shoulders. His shoulders tensed slightly before sagging in relief, bringing his arms around you to return your hug.

“You’d do that?” You asked weakly, finally finding your voice again. He nodded, hands resting on your lower back, his heart fluttering at you grateful you sounded. “Of course.” His voice suddenly shifted from the caring tone he had as he added a snide remark.

“I’m not doing this for you, you know.”

You dismissed his words as you dug your face into his neck, knowing he was getting defensive at the prospect of being thought of as kind, even to his best friend. Mattheo prayed you didn’t feel the way his pulse raced at the proximity between you, but he didn’t dare break away from the hug just yet, longing to keep you close even for one brief moment.

When you pulled away, staring at Mattheo with a relieved smile, you finally regained bits of your personality as you added teasingly “So what I’m hearing is you’ve just asked me to marry you.” Mattheo scoffed, pushing you away from him by the shoulder. He held himself back from making a comment that it might not happen anyway, but you both knew the truth; Riddles were the most reputable family in wizarding history. Anyone would jump at the opportunity to marry their daughters off to the heir of the Riddle empire. So instead, he smiled, pressing a friendly kiss to your forehead before leaving you alone in the common room.

From across the room, three boys broke away from their smoking session to follow Mattheo up the stairs, leaving Pansy to approach you until she took the spot on the couch behind you. When you finally found the courage to tell a knowing Pansy what had happened, she only responded with “Plus you’ve liked him forever, so...”

“I have not!” But she only rolled her eyes. “Well you better start, because you’re going to be marrying him.”

And start, you did.

Or, if Pansy was correct, you had already started a while ago. Nonetheless, it seemed that ever since you and Mattheo had agreed to marry each other, your dynamic had changed. Following every playful insult, or friendly banter, a silence overtook you, shy glances exchanged between you before one of you made a joke to break the silence. It continued for painful weeks, both of you unaware of the life changing day Tom Riddle approached your father, slipping his son’s name in conversation.

Blissfully blind that behind the scenes, your parents scrambled to get ready for a dinner with the Riddles, putting their best impression to talk you up to the Dark Lord. The most powerful man in the wizarding world. They weren’t aware that Tom Riddle had already made his choice, nor that he would slide an envelope across the table at the end of dinner, a rare smirk playing on his lips as your parents realised he had made his decision long before inviting them for dinner.

“We’ll find out tomorrow,” Started Draco on the night before the spring equinox, “If everything went to plan.”

He stared blankly at Pansy and Blaise, who were cuddled up on a love seat. Pansy already had beautiful ring around her finger, and she hummed mindlessly as she spun it around her finger with a small smile. She didn’t have a single worry in the world. She was already engaged. But for the rest of you?

Nothing was guaranteed.

Draco didn’t know if he would marry Astoria, the friendly, intelligent woman who shared most of his classes — the woman he had caught feelings for. Theo didn’t know if his parents would choose an attractive woman who would get along with you and Pansy, his best female friends. If they hadn't, he would refuse to marry her.

No one knew anything.

Mattheo squeezed your hand in his, and you let your head fall on his shoulder. You didn’t miss the pointed looks your friends shot you, but you ignored them, staring straight into the fire in front of you. The smitten boy beside you didn’t notice their expressions, too busy staring at you with hope in his eyes. He trusted his father, but he couldn’t help the worry that engulfed him.

Mattheo didn’t notice when their discussions and manifestations ended, nor that your friends filtered out of the common room, leaving you alone with him in a deafening silence. “Mattheo?” You finally spoke, many minutes later, causing the curly haired boy to turn his attention to you. His gaze flickered around, and only then did he notice the absence of your friends. That explained the lack of chatter around you.

Mattheo’s face was drowned in concern, worries that the arrangement between you may not work out reflecting on his face clearly. It seemed that his genetic Riddle arrogance was fading away at the possibility of you being stolen away from him to a cruel fate.

“Um, I want you to know that even if we end up betrothed to different people, I’ve-” Mattheo was staring at you so intensely that you had to gulp, taking a long pause between your words. He leaned in closer to hear you better, whispering so quietly in fear of the words that were coming out of your mouth. “I think I like you more than a friend. I think I have for a while.”

Mattheo cupped your face in one large hard, his other brushing stray stands of hair away from your face. He observed you for a long moment, taking his time to put himself together. His heart raced, and Mattheo had to inhale deeply before speaking so his words didn’t come out shaky. “I didn’t just ask you to marry me because you’re my best friend. I asked you because I wanted to marry someone I had romantic feelings for.”

You placed a hand over the one Mattheo had on your face, leaning into his touch as you inhaled deeply, eyes almost watering in relief. “I’m going to kiss you now.” He said confidently, pulling your face closer to his. Your eyes fluttered shut as he pressed his lips against yours, a satisfied sigh falling from your lips. Leaning in closer to Mattheo, you parted your lips, licking at his bottom lip desperately. Mattheo broke apart from the kiss, a smug smile on his face. The Riddle ego had come flooding back. You felt heat rush to your face in humiliation.

“I’ll give you a proper kiss when you’re guaranteed to be my wife.”

And somehow, that made you feel better. As though you were definitely getting married.

You and Mattheo sat in the same position the next morning in the great hall, hands clasped together underneath the table. The hall was tense with a sense of dread radiating off students, most of whom were sat alongside you at the slytherin table. Mattheo bumped his knee against yours as owls flew into the hall, envelopes of all colours representing each pureblooded family with their crest engraved in wax seal at its front.

You stared at your friends as envelopes dropped in front of all of you, an inexplicable sense of dread overwhelming you. Blaise nonchalantly opened his letter, Pansy looking over his shoulder as her cheek rested on her fiancé’s shoulder. At the subtle nod of Blaise’s head as he discarded the letter, you knew everything had gone to plan. But would that be the case for you? For all your friends?

“Are you going to open it?” Whispered Mattheo, looking at you intensely. Nodding, you lifted your shaky hands to open the envelope in front of you, chewing on your lip nervously. Mattheo mimicked your movements, reaching for his. You hadn’t told Pansy about the kiss you and Mattheo shared last night, in hopes not to jinx your chances. In some wild belief that everything would suddenly fall into place.

You glanced towards Mattheo once last night before averting your eyes to the long letter in front of you. Reading through the message from your parents, you let out a heavy sigh at the name revealed on the thick parchment, clasping one hand on your chest as you dropped the thick parchment into the plate in front of you.

‘Welcome to the Riddle family, the letter had been signed at the bottom.

Tom Riddle’

Mattheo’s reaction wasn’t as elaborate as yours, a soft smile tugging his lips upward, as though he already new this would happen. After all, who could say no to Riddles, the most powerful family in the wizarding world? A hand grasped your cheeks, quickly turning your face sharply to face Mattheo as he slammed his lips against yours. You squeaked quietly at the sudden movement, shutting your eyes and relaxing against him as he moved his arm to support your back, the other one resting on your cheek.

He kept his promise, forcing his tongue into your mouth and gliding it against yours in a prominent display of affection that had your cheeks going hot. When he parted from you, your eyes were wide and you were panting softly, eyes immediately drawn to the letter on the table, averting your gaze from any of the students around you who were clearly complaining about the affection at the breakfast table.

The rest of your friends seemed happy enough with their decisions, because the second Mattheo turned to look at them with a proud smile, he was met with wide grins and unhindered chuckles. When you gathered the courage to glance upwards, Pansy smiled cheekily, giving you a wink, and you assumed that somehow she already knew that you had both kissed last night. Clearing your throat, you watched as Mattheo shoved a parcel into his pocket, the size of a small, square box, nodding towards a girl at the end of the table who ran out of the great hall clutching a red envelope in her hand to distract you.

“Red,” Theo stated, grimacing, “That’s the Pucey colour.”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl, @juliet-017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @potterheadlovespotter, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots

[siriuslysmoking]

eeeeeee ok so i’ve been reading a lot of ur stuff and i was wondering if u could write more blaise stuff?? maybe smut if ur comfortable but really whatever is fine. ty!!

Tied Together

Summary: After Voldemort had won the war, everything felt uneasy, being forced into a marriage wasn't in the plan, but after a war, nothing goes according to it.

Pairing: Blaise Zabini x Reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Warning: Smut, breeding kink, pet names, forced marriage, name calling.], so many words, the summary sucks ASS, not edited cause I worked an 8 hr shift before I wrote this.

A/N: OFC BABES!! I spent all day trying to figure out what to write about! A classic trope with my own spin to it! This is a long one so buckle in.

Graduation was supposed to be exciting—a milestone filled with relief and hope. But instead, you sit stiffly at your assigned table in the Great Hall, your face carefully blank as the drone of Ministry officials announcing the newly mandated marriages fills the air. One by one, names are read aloud, paired off with cruel indifference.

You barely register the first half of the list, staring down at your clasped hands, the parchment crinkled beneath your fingertips. They go in alphabetical order, and as the names inch closer to your own, you feel your chest tighten. When they reach “X,” your name still hasn’t been called.

Then it happens.

“Blaise Zabini...” the official says, then finally it arrives, your name.

Your stomach drops.

Oh, fuck no.

Your head snaps up, unwilling to believe it, but there’s no denying the truth. Your eyes immediately find Blaise across the hall. He’s already looking at you, his sharp features unreadable save for the slight twitch in his lips—a subtle, disdainful reaction that speaks volumes.

Disgust. Of course.

After years of enduring his thinly veiled insults about your bloodline, his smirks whenever he edged you out for top marks, and the cold indifference he perfected whenever your paths crossed, this feels like the final humiliation. It could have been anyone else. Anyone. But fate—or, more likely, the twisted whims of the Ministry—had chosen Blaise Zabini.

You bite the inside of your cheek, determined not to let your emotions betray you. He, of course, looks as collected as ever, his face a mask of cool disinterest. But beneath it, you know he must be livid. No one in their right mind would want this, least of all him.

The thought offers little comfort as the reality of the situation settles over you. Graduation wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be your first step into freedom. Instead, it feels like the chains around you have only tightened.

The wedding was nothing like you’d imagined it would be.

Everything felt cold—the ancient stone walls of the ceremonial hall, the piercing stares of the pureblood guests seated behind you, and the delicate lace of your dress sticking uncomfortably to your damp skin. The enchanted candles floating above did nothing to dispel the oppressive atmosphere. Their soft glow felt harsh, illuminating every detail of this forced spectacle.

The officiant's droning voice blurred into the background as you stared straight ahead, refusing to meet Blaise Zabini’s gaze. He stood beside you, his posture perfect, his expression as unreadable as ever. If he was as horrified by this union as you were, he didn’t show it. His face was carved in cold indifference, as though this moment meant nothing to him.

You clenched your trembling hands together, the smooth lace gloves doing little to hide the anxiety coursing through you. The crowd’s eyes burned into your back, no doubt judging every move, every breath. Were they thrilled to see a half-blood like you bound to one of their own? Or were they disgusted by the pairing? You couldn’t tell, and you weren’t sure which possibility made you feel worse.

“Do you, Blaise Zabini, accept this bond as law dictates?” the officiant intoned, his voice sharp and unyielding.

There was a brief pause. You could feel Blaise shift slightly beside you.

“I do.” His voice was steady, emotionless.

The words felt like a knife, cutting away any hope you had that he might fight this, that he might object, that anyone might. But Blaise Zabini was no fool. He knew better than to challenge the Ministry.

“And do you," He spoke your name with no emotion, moving his eyes to you, "accept this bond as law dictates?”

Your throat tightened. The words felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until you forced the response from your lips.

“I do.”

The officiant raised his wand, the tip glowing as he muttered the incantation that would seal your fates. You felt the magic take hold, wrapping around your wrist like an invisible shackle before fading into nothingness. It was done.

“And now,” the officiant said, a note of finality in his tone, “to seal the bond with a kiss.”

Your stomach lurched. You hadn’t forgotten this part, but you’d desperately hoped it would be skipped—maybe Blaise would refuse, or some exception would be made. But no, tradition demanded it.

Blaise turned to you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of discomfort, or perhaps resentment. He leaned down, his movements slow and precise, giving you no time to brace yourself.

The kiss was brief, a mere press of lips against yours, cold and devoid of anything resembling affection. It felt more like a command than a gesture of unity. You fought the urge to flinch, standing rigidly until he pulled away.

As you parted, your lips tingled—not from passion, but from the bitter taste of obligation. You didn’t look at him, focusing instead on the floor as the crowd offered polite, stifled applause.

Blaise offered you his arm, as tradition dictated. You hesitated, staring at it as though it were a venomous snake. But with the weight of the crowd’s gaze pressing down on you, you relented, placing your gloved hand lightly atop his. His arm was rigid, his touch devoid of warmth.

As you walked back down the aisle together, the reality of your situation began to sink in. This wasn’t a wedding—it was a sentence. A chain around your neck that tied you to someone who didn’t want you, just as much as you didn’t want him.

And yet, as you glanced up at Blaise’s perfectly composed face, you couldn’t shake the thought that, behind his mask of indifference, he might feel just as trapped as you did.

The ceremony ended in a blur of cold stares and stifled applause. You and Blaise were whisked away to the government-mandated home—a pristine, lifeless manor nestled in the countryside. The house was grand and silent, its dark wood floors creaking underfoot, the high ceilings echoing every sound. The Ministry had spared no expense, making sure it was a perfect symbol of your forced union. But inside, the house felt empty, lifeless, like a cage waiting to trap you both.

The silence between you grew, stretching on for weeks. Blaise rarely spoke, his evenings spent reading by the fire or writing letters, while you kept yourself busy, avoiding him as best as you could. Meals were quiet, punctuated only by the clinking of silverware, your eyes avoiding each other at all costs. It was easier that way—no need to pretend things were normal when they were anything but.

But then, Blaise started to notice something.

You’d begun slipping out after dinner, your footsteps quiet on the wooden floors. At first, he didn’t think much of it, chalking it up to your desire for space. But after several nights, he grew curious. The rules were clear: infidelity, whether real or merely suspected, could be disastrous for both of you. He couldn’t afford for that to happen.

One night, he decided to follow you.

He trailed quietly behind you as you made your way out into the darkened streets, your silhouette framed by the flickering light of nearby lanterns. He kept a careful distance, just enough to not alert you, but close enough to see your every move. You stopped outside a small, hidden entrance, casting a quiet unlocking charm. Blaise hid behind a nearby wall, watching as you entered the building.

Inside, you were with a group of Muggle-borns—children, huddled together in fear. He saw you hand them food, speaking to them in soft, urgent tones. His chest tightened as he realized the danger you were putting yourself in. This wasn’t just reckless; it was beyond dangerous. If anyone found out, it wouldn’t just be you who suffered. He clenched his fists, his mind racing with thoughts of what could happen if this was exposed.

But he didn’t intervene. Instead, he silently backed away, leaving the scene without a word.

The next morning, Blaise said nothing. It would be easier that way. But something lingered in the air between you both—a silent acknowledgment that there was more to this union than either of you had anticipated.

The evening had dragged on longer than you'd anticipated, and with each passing minute, the weight of the silence between you and Blaise seemed to grow heavier. He’d been quiet for the most part, which was unusual for him, but you could feel his presence like a shadow at the edge of the room. You couldn’t focus on the book in your lap any longer, so you closed it with a soft snap and glanced at Blaise, who was lounging on the armrest of a chair, one leg hanging casually over the side, his eyes glinting with that signature arrogance.

“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” you said, trying to break the oppressive silence.

Blaise didn't look at you at first, his gaze still lazily fixed on the flickering fire. “Just trying to enjoy the peace and quiet, Mrs. Zabini.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, and you could practically hear the mocking smile in his words.

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to dignify the title with a response. "You know, it’s not that hard to act like a human being once in a while."

Blaise’s head tilted just slightly, and you could tell he was assessing you. “Oh? You’re one to talk. You’ve spent more time hiding in this room than doing anything remotely… social.” He smirked at you, the usual edge in his voice.

“I don’t need your commentary, Blaise,” you shot back, crossing your arms tightly. “I’m just fine without it.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your defensive tone. “Are you?” he asked, pushing himself off the armrest and taking a few steps toward you. “You don’t seem all that fine. Actually, you look more… miserable than usual.”

You stood up quickly, throwing the book on the nearby chair in frustration. "I’m perfectly fine, thanks for asking,” you bit out, voice sharp. “Not that I expect you to understand anything about personal space.”

He took another step forward, his eyes gleaming with that mix of amusement and challenge you were starting to despise. “Personal space?” He laughed, but it wasn’t a friendly sound—it was mocking, dismissive. “Are you really going to pretend like you’re not just avoiding me? You think I haven’t noticed?” He leaned in just a fraction, his face now inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re hiding, and it’s pathetic.”

You pushed him away, more out of irritation than actual force, but he didn’t budge. “I’m not hiding. I’m just... trying to deal with everything without tearing my hair out.”

He leaned back slightly, his posture still relaxed, but his gaze never wavered. “You’re so dramatic. It’s not like you’re the only one stuck in this mess.”

The words hit harder than you expected. “Don’t pretend like you’re not enjoying this,” you said, your voice lower, eyes narrowing. “I know you, Blaise. You thrive on this power.”

Blaise chuckled darkly, his lips curling into a smirk. “What, you think I enjoy being shackled to you? Please.” He stepped back, just enough to give you some space, but the mocking look never left his face. “You’re the one who can’t handle the fact that you’re stuck here with me, and it’s funny to watch.”

Your eyes flashed with anger, and before you could stop yourself, you snapped, “Funny? You think I’m enjoying this too? It’s not a bloody game, Blaise. I have other things to do, but no, instead, I’m stuck here with you and your... smug face. Every damn day.”

Blaise’s expression darkened slightly, but he quickly masked it with another smirk. “Is that so? You don’t like being stuck with me? I guess that’s a shame. I was just beginning to think maybe we weren’t so different after all.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, turning away from him as you grabbed the book off the chair again, though you had no intention of reading it. You just needed something to hold on to, something to distract yourself from the tension in the room.

But Blaise wasn’t done yet. He followed you, close enough that you could feel his presence like a weight on your back. “You know, if you weren’t so hell-bent on hating me, we might actually get along,” he teased, his voice low, almost too calm. “But no, you’ve got this chip on your shoulder, don’t you? I can’t imagine why.”

You spun around, finally losing your patience. “Maybe I have a chip on my shoulder because you have been the biggest pain in my arse for the past several years. You think I’m just supposed to sit here and pretend like everything’s fine?”

Blaise smirked, his posture still languid as he leaned against the doorframe, eyes flicking lazily over you. “You’ve got a temper, don’t you? I like it.”

Your jaw clenched, and you resisted the urge to lash out at him physically. Instead, you just glared at him. “What do you want, Zabini?”

He raised both hands in mock surrender, though the smirk never left his lips. “Nothing at all. I’m just trying to figure you out, that’s all. You’re so... prickly, it’s almost charming.” He looked at you as if you were some kind of puzzle to solve, his gaze calculating but with an edge of amusement.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable. I’m not one of your little games, Blaise.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you two, thick with the unspoken tension. Then, with one last glance, Blaise straightened and pushed off the doorframe, his lips still twitching with a smirk.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he said, turning to leave, but his words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. “You’ll get used to it, eventually.”

You stood there, fists clenched, watching him leave, knowing that every word he said stung a little more than you wanted to admit.

The ballroom was grand, the air thick with perfume and whispers, swirling with the clinking of glasses and the soft shuffle of shoes against polished floors. You stood at the edge, feeling every bit the outsider in this glittering sea of purebloods, all dressed in their finest, exchanging polite smiles and subtle glances.

And then there was Blaise Zabini.

He moved through the crowd like a shadow, effortlessly commanding attention. His dark suit seemed tailor-made for him, perfectly fitting, and yet somehow, he managed to look entirely unbothered by the extravagance of the event. He caught sight of you standing alone near the columns, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he sauntered over, a slight smirk on his lips.

“Enjoying yourself, love?” he asked, his voice low and laced with mockery. His dark eyes glinted, a subtle challenge in his gaze as he came to stand beside you.

You shot him a withering look. “Oh, absolutely,” you replied, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “I’ve always dreamed of this—trapped in a room full of people who wouldn’t spit on me if I were on fire.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your response. He leaned closer, just enough for his breath to tickle your ear. “Careful, darling. Someone might think you’re not as happy to be here as you should be.”

You stiffened, your jaw tightening. You hated how he seemed to know exactly how to needle you. “And why would that be, Blaise? You think I’m thrilled to be married to you?”

His smirk widened. “I can’t imagine why not. I’m quite the catch.” He spun on his heel, eyes scanning the room as if seeking someone else’s attention. “But I suppose you’d prefer to be alone, wouldn’t you? No one to witness your charming temper or—”

"Why don’t you keep that smug mouth shut for once?" you snapped, your patience thinning. "You’ve been making my life miserable for years, and I’m just supposed to stand here and pretend like everything’s fine?"

Blaise’s lips quirked upward again, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, I’m not making you miserable. You’re doing that all on your own, darling.”

A tight laugh escaped you. “How generous of you.”

He shrugged, feigning innocence. “It’s true, you know. You’ve always been a bit of a walking disaster, haven’t you?”

“Right,” you said, cutting him off before he could continue. “And I suppose I should thank you for pointing that out. Because nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like constant criticism.”

Blaise glanced down at his watch, as if toying with the idea of leaving. "Perhaps you should take a walk with me, then. Just to show me how 'miserable' you are," he said, his voice suddenly softer, but the teasing edge never quite leaving it.

You narrowed your eyes, unsure of his intention. "I’m sure I’d rather chew glass, but thank you for the offer."

He chuckled, clearly unbothered by your sarcasm. “You know, it’s almost cute how you think you have any control in this marriage."

“Control?” you scoffed. “You think I have control over this—this farce?” You looked around the room, where the pureblood elite swirled around you, pretending to be so important, so dignified. You leaned in slightly, keeping your voice low. “You’re just as stuck here as I am. So don’t act like you’re above me.”

Blaise studied you for a moment, his dark eyes piercing. “Oh, I’m not above you. But I know one thing,” he said, his voice a little quieter now. “You’re just as trapped as I am, and no amount of pretending will change that.”

You held his gaze, anger and something else bubbling just beneath the surface. “You’re right,” you muttered, swallowing hard. “But at least I’m not pretending to enjoy it.”

Blaise smirked again, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Oh, I’m enjoying it just fine.”

Before you could snap back, the music shifted, signaling a new dance. Blaise extended his hand to you, his fingers elegantly poised, his expression unreadable.

"Shall we?" he asked, his voice low and purposeful.

You hesitated for a moment, glancing around the ballroom. The gaze of everyone in the room felt oppressive, their judgment hovering just over your shoulder. Finally, you sighed, taking his hand begrudgingly.

The moment your hand touched his, you felt the shift in the air. It wasn’t the soft, graceful kind of dance you were used to; no, this was more like a carefully calculated battle. He led you into the center of the floor, his steps sure and steady, as you struggled to keep up with the quick pace he set.

“Not so good at this, are you?” Blaise teased, his lips curling into a smile that bordered on cruel. “I thought you were supposed to be the top student.”

You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to focus on the steps, trying to ignore the way his hand on your waist felt far too possessive. “I don’t see you dancing with anyone else, Zabini. So, what’s your excuse?”

“Oh, I have many,” he replied with a smirk, twirling you just a little too sharply, making you stumble for a moment before you regained your balance. “I think it’s just funny how you always act like you’re in control.”

“I am in control,” you snapped, meeting his gaze with as much venom as you could muster.

“Prove it,” he murmured, pulling you a little closer, his hand slipping just a little too low on your back. The move was calculated, deliberate, meant to make you uncomfortable. You couldn’t deny the rush of irritation that swirled through you, and the way your heart sped up—not from desire, but from the sheer frustration of being so close to him.

The music swirled around you, the other couples gliding effortlessly, while you and Blaise stumbled through every step, each move filled with tension and hostility.

“You know,” Blaise said with that infuriating smirk, “if you spent as much time trying to enjoy yourself as you do trying to be miserable, this wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” you retorted, voice tight, “if you weren’t so insufferable.”

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You’ll get used to me. You’re already halfway there, I can tell.”

You shivered, unwilling to admit he might be right. The dance continued—awkward, tense, filled with barely contained animosity, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew he was right.

As much as you hated it, you and Blaise were in this together. And no amount of mean teasing or cold shoulders would change that.

The dinner at the Zabini estate had begun like any other—polished silver gleaming under the soft light, crystal glasses catching the flicker of candle flames. You sat at the long, elegantly set table, Blaise beside you, his mother across, smiling as if she had rehearsed this moment in her mind for weeks. There was a quiet anticipation in the air, and you could feel it, even if nothing had been said yet.

Blaise’s mother—always so poised and calculating—wasn't one for pleasantries when it came to matters that truly mattered. She had a way of making the most innocuous conversations feel like high-stakes negotiations. Tonight, though, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, that this dinner was meant for more than just food and idle chatter.

Finally, after a few rounds of safe topics—politics, the harvest, and the state of the family business—she cleared her throat, setting her glass down carefully.

“I trust you both are well,” she began, her tone a bit too casual, almost as if testing the waters. “But there’s something we must discuss. It’s time we talk about the future, about the next generation.”

You exchanged a quick glance with Blaise, but his expression remained unreadable, as always. His mother had been hinting at this conversation for months, and you had a sinking feeling you knew where it was heading.

Her voice softened as she continued, a subtle but deliberate note of authority in her words. “As you know, the Zabini family is quite… traditional in some ways. One of those traditions, which we hold in the highest regard, is the continuation of our bloodline.”

You felt the hairs on the back of your neck rise. You could feel Blaise stiffen beside you, and the air in the room shifted, thick with the weight of what she was about to say.

“By law,” she continued, her eyes locking onto yours, “every couple of noble standing is required to have at least one child. It is not simply a preference. It’s a requirement.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You had been prepared for this, but the weight of her words hit you harder than you expected.

Blaise’s mother leaned back in her chair, watching you closely. “It’s the law of the land now. For families of status, it is a non-negotiable expectation. The bloodline must be preserved. It is your duty as a couple, as future heads of your respective houses, to ensure the continuation of that legacy.”

You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks. The idea that you—both of you—were being forced into such a decision was infuriating, and yet, you knew it was coming. This wasn’t just a suggestion. This was an ultimatum.

“I’m not having a child,” you said, your voice cool but steady, every word sharp with defiance. You looked at Blaise for support, but his expression remained unreadable. You could feel the tension building between you and his mother, but you refused to look away.

His mother’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it seemed to tighten, like a mask slipping into something more calculated.

“You misunderstand,” she said, her voice smooth but sharp. “This is not a choice, darling. The law is quite clear. You will have one child. You are obligated to, for the good of both families.”

Blaise shifted uncomfortably beside you, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t speak. His mother was an immovable force, and he was used to navigating these conversations. You, however, had never been good at swallowing injustice.

“You can’t force us to have a child,” you said firmly, trying to keep your voice steady. “This world is a prison. We can’t bring a life into it, not when it’s nothing but a chain around its neck. Not when—” you broke off, your voice rising in frustration. “This is insane.”

His mother’s smile remained, but the edge in her eyes darkened. “The law is the law,” she said, her tone final. “It is non-negotiable. And let’s be clear: failure to comply with the law has consequences. I’m sure you understand the weight of those consequences, dear.”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing. The truth was clear. Refusing to comply with the law meant more than just a personal choice—it meant rebellion. It meant a loss of status, a severing of ties with everything you had ever known. The weight of it pressed down on your chest, but your resolve didn’t waver.

“I’m not going to be forced into this,” you replied, trying to ignore the heavy thrum of your pulse in your ears. “I won’t be part of a system that treats life like a commodity.”

Her gaze never wavered, cold and calculating. “You may think you have a choice now,” she said quietly, her words like ice, “but soon you’ll realize there is no escaping this. Not for you. Not for Blaise.”

You turned to him, finally meeting his eyes, searching for some sign of agreement, some flicker of support. But he only looked tired, resigned. He knew the stakes, perhaps better than anyone.

“You don’t have to agree with it,” his mother continued, her smile returning, sharp as ever. “But you will comply. It’s for the family, for the legacy. For the future.”

The silence stretched for a long moment before Blaise spoke, his voice low. “We’ll do what we have to.”

But even as he said it, the bitterness hung in the air, heavy with the understanding that, in the end, there was no real choice. There was no escape. And as much as you wanted to fight it, you knew it wasn’t a battle you could win.

The law was clear. You would have to have a child. There was no way around it.

And the thought of it made your stomach churn.

When you both arrive at the house it feels cold, even with the fire lit it still doesn't feel like a home. You go to head to your seperate room, but you stop in the middle of the staircase. "We'll do what we have to do?"

You turn to look at him as he takes his coat off, "What did you want me to say?"

"I didn't want to speak for me." You huff, walking back down the stairs meeting him in the middle of the foyer.

"You are my wife, I am your husband, we speak for each other." He shakes his head, it feels almost demeaning.

"You do not speak for me."

"So what you want to get locked up? Them to make us have a child?"

"I'm not scared of them."

"You should be." He speaks softly, "I am. You don't know what they're capable of."

"I know! You think I don't! They killed my friends, forced me into marrying you under the threat of death!" You raise your voice.

"That's just the fucking start." He rubs his hands on the back of his neck. "Listen, I may not like you as much as I should with you being my wife and all, but that doesn't mean I want you to die."

"God, that's the sweetest thing someone has ever said to me." You roll your eyes. You turn to move back up the stairs.

"Where are you going? We're not done with this conversation." He follows you up the stairs.

"What you want, getting it over with." You enter your room as he still follows you. You start unzipping your dress, he makes a noise and you see him turn around.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He looks towards the door.

"You're gonna get me pregnant, so we don't die or whatever."

"Not like this." He sighs, holding his head in his hands.

"Jeez, Zabini, never seen a girl naked before?"

He just lets out a laugh, shaking his head. "Turn around." He shakes his head. You take a step towards him, your hands on his shoulders, "Blaise, look at me."

He reluctantly turns around, when he faces you he tries to keep his eyes on your face but he can't help but let his gaze trace your frame. You stand there only in your underwear, totally vulnerable in front of him. "This is doing what he have to do, Blaise."

You move your hand to his jaw, to guide his eyes back to your own. "This can't be why we do it."

"Then think of something else, someone else, it doesn't matter." You shrug, even through the thought of him thinking of someone else is gut wrenching to you.

"I can't." His plead sounds so desperate, so light. Suddenly you think you've crossed a line, something you can never come back from. You move back but his hands shoot back to you, holding your waist, pushing your body against his. "I can't think of anyone but the person I really want."

"Wha-" You go to speak, but he pulls you in for a bruising kiss.

He lifts you up in his arms, turning around so he can hold you up against the door. You start to unbutton his shirt as he moves his thumb back and forth on the back of your thighs. He turns around and crawls on his knees up the bed with you still in his arms, he sets you down softly, and crawls down your body with his lips.

"Fuck, you're beautiful." He murmurs into your skin, you groan and push your body into his lips. "Get it over with, my fucking ass. Imma take my time with you."

"Try not to take too long?"

"Oh? Are you feeling needy today?"

"Use your mouth for something better than talking." You grab the back of his neck and pull his back up to your lips. He laughs into you are he slowly- too slowly, taking off his clothes. "Blaise, I swear if you don't do something I will kick you out of my room."

He chuckles again and releases his cock out of the confines of his pants, "Already ready for me, Darlin? Such a good girl."

You moan into his mouth as you feel the tip of his cock toy with your entrance. You buck your hips in the air, making it slip into you even more, "You greedy lil' thing, huh?"

"Zabini." You growl, looking at him with heavy eyes.

"Yes?" He smirks up at you.

"Shut your mouth." You grab his jaw tightly.

"As you wish, princess."

He enters you with a force and a groan, you just lay there and feel every single inch, every single vein and curve. He sits inside of you without moving, letting you settle, but you decide that he's taking too long and you flip yourself over so you're sitting on top of him.

Blaise throws his head back at the site of you, you place your hands on his stomach as he places his on your hips, guiding you back and forth in a rocking motion. He leans up and puts his chest up to your front as he starts to whisper encouraging words in your ear, feeling you up and down, grabbing your ass, helping you move.

"Let go f'me, sweetheart." He sounds drunk on you, as you can. feel him letting go. "Gonna put a baby in you."

"Fuck, do it." You rest your head on his shoulder, kissing his neck. You feel his release inside of you and you finally let yourself go as well.

You both fall to your backs as Blaise uses his shirt to clean you up. Once he settles back into bed he finally speaks, "Wanna talk about it?"

"Tomorrow, I'm tired." Your falling asleep on his chest and he's completely content with that in this moment.

When Blaise wakes up he moves his arm to feel your body but all he feels a cold sheet next to him. He gets up and puts on his underwear to walk down to the kitchen, figuring you'd be there. Only to see dishes in the sink and an empty house. He knocks on the bathroom door, looking for you.

He turns the entire house upside down, looking for you, but with no luck he doesn't find you anywhere. He decides that maybe you went somewhere and forgot to leave him a note. He makes breakfast for himself, but there's a bad feeling in his gut, but he knows it's probably all in his head.

But when the clock turns to noon, then to three... when the sun goes down is when Blaise finally lets himself worry, he writes letters to everyone he knows. His last resort is those Muggles in town, when no one knows where you are he heads to the abandoned house. He doesn't know the incantation so he just desperately knocks, when he receives no answer, he heads pathetically back home.

On his walk back home he notices a tray of food on the ground. Then the bad feeling finally lands, something is wrong, something is so wrong.

When he arrives back home after looking all over the streets and alleys he finally walks inside to see a brown owl set on a perch.

He knows the code name, Draco and him have been using it for months, passing information back and forth from the ministry, keeping each other in the know.

He grab anything, he drops the letter and runs to the floo network.

He arrives at the Ministry after a sickening trip. He walks fast, but not too fast to be suspicious.

Blaise works his way to the elevator only to find a familiar face when he walks in. Rodolphus Lestrange sends him a sneer. Ever since the Zabini’s decided to be a neutral party during the war they don’t have too many friendly faces in the ministry.

“What brings you here, Zabini.” Rodolphus sounds accusing.

He doesn’t speak too quickly, not wanting to raise suspicion. “"I’m looking into some old family records in the Department of Magical Transportation. Family business, you understand, I’m sure."

“I do.” The rest of the ride is silent, just sneaky glances from Rodolphus to Blaise, he can tell the man doesn’t believe him, but at this moment he doesn’t care.

Once it lands on Rodolphus’ stop and the man slowly exits, Blaise can finally let out a breath.

He tries to calm his breathing as he walks out on level 2, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Blasie makes his way down a long, cold, dark hallway, trying to walk like he belongs here, which he absolutely does not. After turning a corner he sees one of the only friendly faces here.

"I can't go in with you." Blaise understands why Draco can't help him, he's already doing too much, he's jeopardizing so much just by letting him in. Blaise nods, giving him a look of gratitude. "78."

After opening the door, Draco walks the opposite direction of the door.

Blaise feels like he's walking for years, one number after another.

75...

76...

77...

78, he finally sees the number he's looking for. He tries to hear through the door, but he knows it would be no use. He just opens the door and what his eyes spot is something he couldn't even imagine. You are shackled from the ceiling, almost unconscious, he would think you were dead if he didn't here your laboured breathing.

His hands start to shake as he approaches you, he speaks your name softly, You try to lift your head, trying to look at him, but you can't smother the energy to do so. "I'm getting you out of here."

But he didn't think of a plan, he has no idea how he's going to do that

He uses the only spell he can think of to get the shackles off of you wrists, then he grabs you, wrapping your body around him. When he walks you out the door he hears echoing footsteps coming from behind him.

Instead of going the way he came he moves the other way, away from the entrance. He walks faster and faster as the footsteps get closer. He finds an office and hurriedly hides in there. God, luck is on his side today. There's a floo network in the office, he hurriedly floos back to your house, but he knows neither of you are safe there.

When he gets back to your house, he sees someone he hasn't seen in years sitting on his couch. Hermione Granger meets his eyes, "Granger, wha-"

"Draco sent me, I have a safe house for you." She stands and walks over to you both.

"I don't understand." Blaise shakes his head, looking to you.

"It's time you finally meet The Resistance."

-

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Reblogs and Likes are appreciated

[keanusbabydoll]

make up sex

paring: bellatrix lestrange x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ content, toxic relationship, smut, soft!bella, mentions of torture, fingering, slight overstimulation, cunnilingus, mommy kink, age gap relationship (reader is 18, bella is in her late 30s), softdom!bella

masterlist

——————

and again you’re sitting in your room at the malfoy manor, balling out your eyes because of her. bellatrix lestrange. your girlfriend.

by now you’re not only crying because you’re sad, no. it’s the frustration and anger you feel towards her already. this is the fourth time now she completely ignored, taunted and even hurt you during a meeting with the death eaters and the dark lord of course. you simply can’t describe how angry all that makes you, neither do you understand her sick behavior.

in your opinion she’s too blended by the dark lord. it doesn’t matter what he asks of her, she won’t spend a single thought before doing it immediately. she practically follows him around like a fucking dog. and today it definitely went too far.

you became a death eater a few weeks ago and that not by wish. you were forced and it not only broke you but also affects your mental health badly. however, the dark lord has given you a task, which required to murder your best friends, ron and hermione, because they’re destroying his plan to kill harry potter. and obviously he chose you to act out the deed as you’re still attending hogwarts and you’re the closest to them from all death eaters.

but of course you couldn’t do it. you didn’t have the heart to kill your best friends. they’re practically like siblings to you and if you would have done it, you would have never recovered from that.

so, you didn’t follow the dark lords commands, and of course you knew that he would find out about it very quickly and that this wouldn’t end good. every death eater that doesn’t oblige the dark lord’s wishes, serves a harsh punishment. and today you were the one.

you begged him for forgiveness, promised him that something like that would never happen again. but he didn’t show mercy. and to make it even worse for you, he chose bellatrix to be the one to torture you. unfortunately he knows about your relationship and he knew that it would hurt you even more if bellatrix punishes you.

and you can’t explain how you felt in that moment. the betrayal, angst, anger, everything just came crashing down. the tears that were prickling in your eyes when bella stood up from her seat, went over to you and roughly threw you on the floor and cursed you with the torture spell, crucio, in front of everyone. and all that without hesitation. even narcissa, her sister, was shocked and tried to talk her out of it. but nothing made her change her mind, not even your cry’s and begs.

that really broke you. merlin, she’s your own fucking girlfriend. and it’s not like she doesn’t know that you hate the way she behaves towards you when you’re around voldemort. you guys had multiple arguments about that topic, where you told her how you felt and what you expect from her. but it seems like she never really took it seriously and just didn’t give a fuck about your opinion.

soft sobs leave your mouth and you hug your thighs tighter. you really don’t want to continue this way. you can’t bear all that any longer.

a loud knock on your door, pulls you out of your thoughts and look up. “what?” you ask with a shaky but annoyed voice. you honestly just want to be alone right now.

“baby, it’s me. i’m really sorry, can i please come in?” the sound of your girlfriends voice rings through your ears.

“no bella, go away.” you mumble before you burry your face in your knees again.

a frustrated sigh slips past your lips when you hear your door open. what does she not understand? you do not have the power to see her or speak to her right now.

you lift your head and start to cry again when you see her standing in front of you.

“just leave bella. i don’t want to talk to you.” you whisper, eyes pleading her to just listen to you once. but of course she doesn’t give you this satisfaction.

as she sees your red puffy eyes and swollen trembling lips, she immediately walks over to your side of the bed, sitting down next to you. even if it doesn’t seem like it, but seeing you in such a state breaks her. bella loves you more than anything, even when she doesn’t act like it directly.

“y/n, listen, i’m so sorry. i shouldn’t have done that.” she states, sadness latching from her voice. you just look at her with a blank stare, a chuckle almost threatening to leave your mouth.

“that’s what you always say bella.”

“no y/n, i mean it. really.” she places her wand down and scoots closer to you but before she can touch you, you shift further away from her. bella frowns in reply and looks at you with soft eyes.

you shake your head in disbelief, wipe your tears forcefully away and sit up straight. does she actually think you’re stupid? it’s always the same. she hurts you in any way possible, then she crawls back to you, apologizing and you idiot always forgive her. and then everything starts again. but not this time. you can’t and won’t put up with that any longer, simply because of the sake of your mental health.

with gritted teeth and hate filled eyes you turn your head to look at her. “do you really think that i’ll continue like this? don’t you notice that it’s always the same? and merlin, what the fuck have you thought bella. torturing me in front of everyone without any hesitation? me, your girlfriend? do you have any idea how i’m feeling?” you hiss at her sharply, not being able to contain your anger and frustration anymore.

you catch her face dropping at your words, a sad expression covers it now. she nervously fiddles with her fingers and looks down to her lap.

as she remains silent you huff out and turn to face the wall next to you. “just as i thought.” you whisper.

your brows furrow when you hear quiet sniffs next you. once again you turn around and are almost shocked when you see bellatrix crying. this is the first time ever you witness her crying. she was never one to show her feelings or her soft side, not even in your presence.

but nevertheless, she shouldn’t be the one who’s crying. you didn’t hurt her in any way. it was just her who failed to be a good girlfriend.

her glossy eyes wander up to yours and she pouts. “please y/n i beg you. forgive me one more time. i promise you, i’ll never do something like that again. see, i talked with narcissa because i didn’t know what to do. i feel so fucking awful for how i treated you and i realize that all just now. how much you really mean to me. you’re the only person i ever truly loved and i hate myself for being such a bitch towards you. please, i’ll make it up to you.” the witch pours out her heart, completely vulnerable right now.

when you don’t reply she shoots up and grabs your hand before you can snatch it away.

“please say something baby. i love you.” her voice is barley above a whisper and you close your eyes for a second. seeing her in such a form and hearing her talking in that way kind of shocks you. as mentioned before, you never saw her in that manner before. and to be honest you think that she actually means it this time. or else she wouldn’t be acting like this.

“it’s okay bella, i get it. but please, don’t you ever do something like that again. i’m serious.” you finally answer her, voice much softer and understanding now.

bellatrix’s eyes lighten up in happiness and relief and she almost squeals out.

“thank you baby. i can’t tell you how sorry i am.” the witch pulls you into a hug and squeezes you tightly. you smile in reply and hug her back. doesn’t matter what she does, she’ll always make you happy and smile. she’s the woman you love.

bella pulls away from your embrace and stares at you with sparkling eyes. “but let me make it up to you. please.”

you smirk at her, knowing exactly what she’s referring to. “yes… mommy.” is all you have to say before she almost jumps on top of you and gets herself comfortable on your lap. she brushes a few strands of your hair behind your ears and puts her hands on your cheeks before smashing her lips on yours. your hands grip her waist as you return each of her kisses with equal favor. as a moan slips past your lips, bella doesn’t hesitate and sticks her tongue into your mouth, exploring every bit of it with her tongue.

the both of you fight for dominance, which bella wins with no question. a muffled whine comes from her as he starts to grind her hips against yours, your clothed clits rubbing against each other deliciously. your core starts to ache already, needing to feel more of her. with a moan you break the kiss and breath out. “i need you bella, please.”

she grins at you wickedly and leans over to grab her wand from the bedside table. with a wave of her wrist, all your clothes are gone in a blink of an eye. “whatever you want kitten.” she purrs before she tosses her wand away again and bends down to suck on your neck. you quietly whimper out as she licks on your soft skin. slowly, her lips wander down to your collarbone and to the swell of your breasts, leaving a trail of purple turning hickies. when her mouth finally wraps around your right nipple and her hands roam over your whole body, your heart skips a beat.

it doesn’t matter how many times you have sex, you always get excited at the thought of her pleasuring you and feeling her cold hands on you.

your fingers tangle in her hair and you slightly lift your hips trying to sign her that you need to feel her on your pussy. obviously she gets it, but she takes her time with you, worshipping your whole body. bella’s hands caress your curves, memorizing every inch of her beloved’s body.

the witch releases your hardened bud before she focuses her attention on your other one, gently licking it, then biting down on it harshly, eliciting a sharp hiss from you. “bellaaa! please.”

she pulls away from your nipple and looks up at you with a smirk. “my little impatient pet.” she chirps. her hands start to knead and squeeze your tits harshly while she gets off your lap and settles in right between your plush thighs. her tongue licks its way down your belly, loving the taste of your skin. her hands follow her tongue and they wrap around the inside of your thighs, pushing them open as wide as possible.

you let out a frustrated sigh and throw your head back. if she doesn’t fuck you now any minute you’ll go insane, your walls are already clenching around nothing, desperately wanting to feel her long fingers pushing them open.

without you knowing, bellatrix just read your thoughts and chuckles darkly to herself. before even completely realizing it -too lost in your own thoughts- , the witch lines up two of her fingers with your already wet dripping entrance and pushes them knuckle deep inside of you with ease. a surprised whine falls from your lips as you finally get to feel her. the world outside ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them and the overwhelming lust they're feeling.

“you’re so wet baby.” she almost groans out, as she scissors her fingers against your warm, velvety walls, just loving the feeling of them.

“just for you mommy.” you reply breathlessly and prop up on your elbows, making eye contact with your girlfriend.

without breaking your intense stare, bella begins to slowly pump her fingers in and out of your hole, not daring to give any attention to that special spot, intentionally teasing you. you huff out and throw your head back in annoyance. “i thought you wanted to make it up to me.”

“who said i didn’t?” she taunts you with an evil grin.

you look back down at her, opening your mouth to say something but before you are able to let out a single word, she suddenly curls up her fingers, pressing them hard into your sweet spot. your breathing stocks at the jolts of pleasure this is sending through your body and you whimper out.

bella smirks to herself proudly as she starts to roughly thrust up her fingers against that spot that makes you see stars. a loud whine rings in bella's ears, making her go just faster in reply. she looks up at you with hungry eyes, loosing herself completely as she watches you fall to pieces just because of her. there's nothing else she loves more than pleasing you and seeing you quiver under her. you are hers and only hers.

the squelching sounds and the intense smell of hot passionate sex that fills the room, makes your mind spinning, loosing yourself in the pleasure she's giving to you.

"look at you, taking it so good for mommy." your girlfriend moans out as she starts to kiss up and down the inside of your thigh, her aggressive pace never stopping. you barely nod your head in reply, as your eyes wander further down to where she's pounding your poor cunt in an inhuman way.

her face distances from your plush flesh and she sends you one last mischievous look before she dips down her head for her tongue to lick a slow strip up your folds to your sensitive bud with a small hum. that simple contact on your clit makes your whole body shudder and you have to lay back down. you feel her smile against your pussy because of your reaction and lets the tip of her tongue flick expertly over your small bundle of nerves. you press your eyes tightly shut and whimper out at the intense sensation.

with the intense thrusting of her fingers and the indescribable feeling on your clit, you can feel your orgasm slowly build up. bella notices this as well, simply because of your body language and how hard your walls are clamping down on her digits. your whines and cry’s rattle against the black colored moans and your left hand grips the duvets beneath you tightly, needing something to hold onto.

the witch lifts her head from your in spit glistening cunt and admires her work for a second. the loss of contact makes you look up to her and your breath stocks a for a moment when you see her spitting on your pussy, before capturing your clit again.

“oh my god, bella!” a scream leaves you mouth as you’re on the verge of cumming, your abdomen tickling deliciously. bella hums feverishly against your cunt in reply, sending shock waves through your whole body.

“i’m gonna cum!” you sharply spit out, arching your back off the bed in ecstasy. again, she hums approvingly and with her free hand, bellatrix holds one of your thighs spread open, before she suddenly starts to suck on your clit uncontrollably, sending you straight over the edge. a deafening noise falls from your lips as you feel your orgasm crash through your whole form.

your girlfriend fucks you roughly through your orgasm, letting you ride it out to its highest. you let out a string of whimpers in discomfort as bella continues to stimulate you, even after your orgasm already faded, the intense feeling being too much.

“please stop bella.” you choke out and begin to trash around uncomfortably.

she lets out a muffled chuckle before she finally pulls away from your shaking form, sliding her fingers out of you slowly.

you close your eyes, trying hard to catch your breath while you lay there completely still, body aching from your intense fuck.

“oh you did so good my little pet. so, so good.” bella praises you in a high pitched voice, planting kisses on your lower belly and thighs. you smile at her being such a sweetheart with you, usually she wouldn’t be that soft, but you’re her exception. only you.

bella removes herself from your thighs and crawls up to you, pressing her body to yours. you turn to your side to take a proper look at her, admiring her beautiful features.

you both lay there in comfortable silence, her hand caressing your exposed skin lovingly and she whispers sweet little nothings into your ear. "I love you y/n. I promise that we'll get through all this. together."

"I know. I love you too." you whisper, snuggling closer to her.

a soft hum leaves her, before the both of you drift off in a deep slumber.

[evermoreness]

meeting the family | regulus black

pairing: regulus black x reader!

summary: your boyfriend invites you to be his plus one in the wedding of his cousin, Narcissa, and now you have to meet the whole family.

obs: reader is james potter's sister!

masterlist

Meeting everyone

The day of the wedding arrived, and as you stood beside Regulus at the entrance to the sprawling Malfoy estate, your heart raced. The grandeur of the event was overwhelming. The massive, immaculately manicured yard stretched endlessly before them, lined with silk-draped tables, gold accents, and enchanted chandeliers floating in midair. Peacocks roamed the grounds, their iridescent feathers gleaming in the sunlight. It was ostentatious to a fault—just as one would expect from the Blacks and Malfoys.

Regulus, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit with a silver trim, placed a reassuring hand on the small of your back. You glanced up at him, your nervousness clear despite your polished exterior. You wore an elegant dark green gown, subtly matching his attire, with your hair styled neatly to showcase the delicate silver necklace he had gifted you months ago.

“You look breathtaking, ma chérie,” Regulus whispered as he leaned down slightly, his lips brushing your ear. “They’ll all be jealous.”

You managed a small smile, your voice barely above a whisper. “Reggie, they’ll all be judging. I’m a Potter, remember?”

Regulus smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Let them. None of them could ever dream of being as remarkable as you.”

His words steadied your nerves, and you straightened your posture, slipping your hand into his. Together, you walked onto the grounds, where the most elite members of the wizarding world mingled in clusters. Heads turned as you approached.

The first to notice them was Bellatrix Lestrange, her piercing dark eyes narrowing at the sight of you. She was clad in a flowing black gown, her wild curls framing her pale face like a chaotic halo. “Well, well,” she drawled, stepping closer. “Regulus, darling, I didn’t know you’d be bringing… company.”

“Bellatrix,” Regulus said coolly, his tone polite but distant. “This is y/n Potter, my girlfriend.”

You extended your hand, forcing yourself to smile despite the intensity of Bellatrix’s gaze. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Bellatrix didn’t take the hand. Instead, she smirked, her eyes scanning you from head to toe. “A Potter? How… unexpected. Tell me, Regulus, how did you manage to… tame one?”

Regulus’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, but his expression remained neutral. “She is unlike anyone you’ve ever met,” he said simply. “And she’s far from tame.”

You bit back a laugh at his subtle jab, and Bellatrix’s smirk faltered for a moment before she let out a low chuckle. “Interesting. Let’s hope she doesn’t disappoint.”

Before Bellatrix could say more, Narcissa Malfoy appeared, radiant in her bridal gown. Her platinum blonde hair was pinned up in an elegant twist, and her expression was far warmer than Bellatrix’s. “Regulus,” she greeted warmly, her sharp blue eyes flicking to you. “And you must be y/n. Lucius told me you’d be attending.”

You exhaled in relief, extending your hand again. This time, it was taken. “It’s lovely to meet you. Congratulations on your wedding, Narcissa.”

“Thank you,” Narcissa said, smiling faintly. “I must say, it’s… refreshing to see someone new among us. You carry yourself well.”

“She carries herself better than most,” Regulus said softly, his pride evident.

You continued to make their way around, meeting the extended Black family and their associates. You kept your composure, maintaining a perfect balance of politeness and confidence, though inside, your nerves were on fire. You were not being yourself, you knew that you had to maintain certain posture around the Black family. Each encounter was another test, another judgment, but Regulus stayed firmly by your side, his hand never leaving yours.

When you finally reached Lucius Malfoy, you were greeted with a calculating smile. Lucius, with his long blond hair and tailored silver robes, exuded the air of someone who always got what he wanted.

“Regulus,” Lucius said smoothly. “And Miss Potter. It’s an honor to meet you.”

You nodded, returning his smile with one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “The honor is mine.”

“Tell me,” Lucius continued, his tone laced with curiosity, “what’s it like, being a Potter in such… unique company?”

“It’s an adjustment,” You replied evenly. “But I’m fortunate to have someone like Regulus to guide me.”

Lucius glanced at Regulus, who met his gaze without flinching. “You’ve chosen well, cousin,” Lucius said finally.

As the conversation dwindled and the ceremony neared, Regulus led you to a quieter corner of the yard. He turned to you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders.

“You’re incredible, mon amour,” he said, his voice low and full of admiration.

You sighed, leaning into him. “I was terrified. Did I pass their tests?”

“You didn’t just pass—you outshone them all,” he replied, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

You smiled, your confidence returning. “Well, I do have an excellent coach.”

Regulus chuckled. “That you do, ma chérie.”

As you stood there, a moment of calm amidst the chaos, you realized just how much you loved him—not just for his quiet strength, but for the way he made you feel like you could conquer anything. And for Regulus, seeing you hold your own in the lion’s den of his family only deepened his admiration for you.

Regulus and you had just found a moment to yourselves, tucked in a quieter corner of the Malfoy’s grand yard, when the sound of familiar, measured footsteps made you both turn. Walburga and Orion Black approached, their presence immediately commanding attention. Both carried an air of stern elegance: Walburga in a dark green gown adorned with intricate silver embroidery, her expression sharp and calculating, and Orion in his traditional black robes, his face as impassive as stone.

Regulus subtly straightened his posture, his usual cool demeanor firmly in place, though you could feel the slight tension in the way his hand pressed against your back.

“Regulus,” Walburga greeted curtly, her piercing gaze sweeping over him before settling on you. “And this must be… the Potter girl.”

“Mother. Father,” Regulus said, his tone polite but distant. “This is y/n Potter. My girlfriend.”

You stepped forward, your heart racing but her expression composed. You extended your hand to Walburga first, offering a poised smile. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Black.”

Walburga’s lips curled into a faint, approving smile as she accepted the handshake, her grip surprisingly firm. “Hmm. You carry yourself well,” she remarked, her tone laced with curiosity. “Not what I expected from a Potter.”

Your smile didn’t falter. “I can imagine my family has quite the reputation, but I assure you, I value decorum and tradition as much as anyone here.”

Orion’s deep, gravelly voice cut in as he extended his hand to you. “And what of your brother? James Potter is hardly known for his… restraint.”

You shook his hand with the same composed grace. “James and I are quite different, Mr. Black. He’s bold and extroverted, whereas I’ve always preferred a quieter, more thoughtful approach. Perhaps that’s why Regulus and I understand each other so well.”

Orion’s dark eyes flicked to Regulus, who met his father’s gaze with a steady calm. “Indeed,” Orion said after a moment, his voice betraying a hint of approval.

Walburga tilted her head, her sharp eyes studying you as if searching for flaws. “And you both are from different houses. An unconventional match.”

You inclined your head slightly, your smile unwavering. “Perhaps, but I believe intelligence and ambition aren’t confined to any one house. Regulus and I complement each other.”

Regulus’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, his pride in her unmistakable. “She excels in everything she does,” he added, his tone carrying just enough warmth to soften his usual stoicism. “She’s the most brilliant person I know.”

You shot him a subtle, grateful glance before turning back to his parents. “Regulus has always spoken highly of you both,” she said smoothly. “He values his family deeply, and it’s clear where his refinement and discipline come from.” You never lied so much in such little time, but you were doing this for Regulus. He wanted his parents to approve you.

Walburga’s expression shifted, a hint of pride creeping into her features. “You’ve been taught well,” she said, almost grudgingly. “And you’re perceptive. A valuable trait.”

You inclined your head again, your smile just the right mix of humility and confidence. “Thank you, Mrs. Black.”

Orion nodded thoughtfully, his gaze shifting between you and Regulus. “It’s clear you’ve chosen wisely, Regulus. A woman who understands the importance of poise and intellect.”

Regulus’s voice was steady, but there was an underlying warmth as he responded, “I wouldn’t be with anyone less.”

Walburga regarded you for another long moment before finally saying, “Well, Miss Potter, I trust you’ll conduct yourself appropriately during tonight’s events. The Black family values appearances, and as someone… associated with us, your behavior reflects on Regulus.”

“Of course,” You replied smoothly, your tone respectful but firm. “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

Walburga gave a curt nod, seemingly satisfied. “Very well.”

Orion’s expression softened ever so slightly as he looked at you. “Enjoy the evening. And... welcome.”

As they walked away, Regulus exhaled quietly, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since the encounter began.

“You were perfect, mon amour,” he murmured, turning to you with a small, genuine smile.

You let out a soft laugh, relief flooding you. “I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest.”

Regulus chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You handled them better than most people ever could. I’ve never seen my mother warm up to someone so quickly.”

“Well,” You teased, leaning closer, “I had to impress them. You’re worth it.”

Regulus’s eyes softened, and he cupped your cheek gently. “You don’t have to try to impress anyone, ma chérie. You’re already more than enough.”

You smiled up at him, your hand resting lightly on his chest. “Thank you, love. But let’s just say I’m glad that’s over.”

“For now,” Regulus said, his voice laced with dry humor. “The rest of the night will likely be filled with more questions and judgmental stares.”

You laughed, squeezing his hand. “As long as you’re by my side, I can handle anything.”

“And I’ll always be by your side,” he promised softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

The two lingered for a moment, savoring the quiet victory of the encounter before returning to the bustling crowd, ready to face whatever the evening held—together.

After the ceremony

The grand dining hall of the Malfoy mansion was nothing short of spectacular. Long tables adorned with shimmering silver tablecloths stretched across the room, illuminated by floating crystal chandeliers. Plates were intricately decorated, and the posh food ranged from delicate appetizers to decadent main courses. Despite the grandeur, you felt at ease as long as you were with Regulus. You sat at a small table near the edge of the room, away from the center of attention, which suited you both perfectly.

Regulus, as usual, maintained his calm, composed demeanor, though you could sense his subtle pride as he glanced at you every now and then. You two were deeply engrossed in conversation, your quiet laughter and shared smiles creating a little bubble that seemed impenetrable.

“Regulus, you’re not going to try the duck confit?” You teased, pointing at the untouched dish on his plate. “It’s delicious.”

He smirked faintly, his fork idly pushing at the food. “I’ll take your word for it, mon amour. I’m more interested in hearing about the new book you started.”

Before you could respond, the sound of chairs shifting nearby caught their attention. Regulus’s cousins, Bellatrix and Andromeda, approached your table, their contrasting energies immediately filling the space. Bellatrix’s dark, piercing eyes locked onto yours with curiosity, while Andromeda’s softer gaze held a friendly warmth.

“Regulus,” Bellatrix drawled, her voice sharp and commanding as she took a seat uninvited. “And the infamous Potter.”

“Andromeda,” Regulus greeted coolly, his tone polite but distant. “Bellatrix.”

Thaís straightened in her seat, offering a poised smile. “It’s lovely to meet you both.”

Bellatrix tilted her head, her dark curls framing her intense expression. “A Potter at a Black family event. Now that’s a sight I never thought I’d see.”

Andromeda smiled kindly. “Don’t mind Bella; she’s always dramatic. Y/n, I’ve been curious about you. Reg speaks highly of you.”

You glanced at Regulus, whose expression remained unreadable, though you caught the faintest twitch of smile at the corner of his lips. “Well, I hope I live up to the expectations,” you said lightly, your tone disarming.

Bellatrix leaned forward, her sharp gaze fixed on you. “So, tell me, little Potter, what is it about my dear cousin that caught your attention? Surely you’ve noticed he’s not the most… forthcoming person.”

Regulus’s jaw tightened, but you placed a reassuring hand on his arm before responding with a gentle smile. “Regulus doesn’t need to be forthcoming. His actions speak volumes. He’s kind, intelligent, and steadfast, and I admire that deeply.”

Andromeda raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “You’re quite eloquent. I imagine that comes in handy with your family.”

You nodded, your smile never faltering. “It does. Growing up with James taught me how to handle strong personalities.”

Bellatrix smirked, leaning back in her chair. “You’re sharp, I’ll give you that. But tell me, how do you feel about the Black family’s… reputation?”

You met Bellatrix’s gaze head-on, your voice steady. “Reputations are just that—reputations. I believe in judging people based on my interactions with them. So far, I’ve found that Regulus and I share values that matter to us both.”

Bellatrix’s smirk softened into something almost approving. “Hmph. You’ve got nerve. I like that.”

Andromeda’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that. Regulus, I think you’ve found someone who can keep up with you.”

Regulus’s voice was calm as he responded, trying to hide a little smile “She is the only one who can, i think."

You looked at Regulus with a smile, Bellatrix rolled her eyes and just walked away. Bellatrix didn't have time for those romantic things.

Andromeda rolled her eyes but smiled at you. “It was lovely meeting you. If you ever tire of Bella’s dramatics, find me. I’d love to chat more.”

“Thank you, Andromeda,” you replied warmly, watching as she walked away.

As soon as they were out of earshot, you turned to Regulus, your expression a mix of amusement and relief. “Your family certainly knows how to put someone through their paces.”

Regulus smirked, his hand brushing yours under the table. “You handled them flawlessly, ma chérie. I’m proud of you.”

You leaned closer, your voice soft and teasing. “You know, love, if I can survive Bellatrix’s interrogation, I think I can handle anything.”

Regulus chuckled, his cold exterior melting away as he looked at you with pure affection. “I have no doubt, mon cœur. You’re extraordinary.”

You sat there for a moment longer, your little bubble intact once again, oblivious to the curious glances from the rest of the room. It didn’t matter what anyone thought—as long as you had each other, they were unstoppable.

The first dance

The grand hall transformed into a scene of elegance as the newlyweds took to the center of the floor. Narcissa and Lucius moved gracefully, their movements perfectly synchronized, and all eyes were on them. The orchestra played a soft waltz that echoed through the room, and soon the floor was open for the other guests to join in.

Regulus turned to you, his expression softening as the music filled the air. With a slight bow, he extended his hand to you, his movements impossibly graceful and refined. “Mon amour,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “May I have this dance?”

You blinked in surprise, glancing around nervously at the other couples already gliding across the floor. “Reggie, I don’t know how to—”

“I’ll teach you,” he interrupted, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Trust me, ma chérie. You’ll be perfect.”

You hesitated for a moment before slipping your hand into his, his warmth immediately soothing your nerves. “Alright,” you said with a small laugh. “Just don’t let me step on your toes.”

“Even if you do, I’d gladly endure it,” he teased, guiding you onto the dance floor.

As you found a spot among the other couples, Regulus positioned your hands carefully—one resting on his shoulder, the other clasped gently in his. His own hand settled lightly on your waist, and he looked down at you with an expression of calm assurance.

“Now,” he said softly, his voice low enough for only you to hear, “follow my lead. It’s all about trusting the rhythm and letting me guide you.”

You laughed nervously, glancing at your feet. “Easy for you to say. You’ve probably been doing this since you could walk.”

Regulus chuckled, his breath warm against your temple. “True, but that just means you’re learning from the best.”

With that, he began to move, taking slow, deliberate steps to match the music’s rhythm. You stumbled slightly at first, your movements awkward and uncertain, but Regulus steadied you each time with a firm yet gentle hold.

“You’re doing wonderfully, mon cœur,” he said, his tone encouraging.

“You’re just saying that because you love me,” you replied with a mock pout, though your cheeks were flushed with both effort and delight.

He smirked, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “That’s true. But it doesn’t make it any less genuine.”

As the song continued, you began to find your footing, your movements becoming more fluid with each step. Regulus’s guidance was unwavering, his focus entirely on you.

“You’re a natural,” he said after a moment, his voice filled with quiet pride.

You laughed, your eyes sparkling. “I wouldn’t go that far, but I’ll take the compliment.”

He spun you gently, your laughter ringing out as you twirled back into his arms. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” he asked, his tone teasing.

“I might be,” you admitted, smiling up at him. “You’re not a bad teacher, Reggie.”

He raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Not bad? I’ll have you know, I’m the best dance partner you’ll ever have.”

You grinned, leaning in closer as you swayed. “You might be right about that.”

You two moved in perfect harmony now, your steps light and effortless. The rest of the room seemed to fade away as you focused entirely on each other. You felt as though you were floating, your earlier nervousness replaced by a sense of pure joy.

As the song came to an end, Regulus dipped you gracefully, his dark eyes locking with yours. “See?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I told you you’d be perfect.”

Your heart swelled at the tenderness in his gaze, and you couldn’t help but smile. “Only because I have you.”

Straightening you up, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. “And you’ll always have me,” he promised.

The next song began, but neither of you noticed. You remained in their little bubble, completely absorbed in each other. Around you, members of the Black family exchanged glances, their curiosity and surprise evident. But Regulus didn’t care about anyone else. He had you, and that was all that mattered.

After the dance

Regulus and you sat on a small stone bench tucked away in the corner of the vast Malfoy estate gardens. The soft hum of the wedding festivities filled the air, but you were blissfully removed from the noise, your world narrowed down to just the two of you. You leaned back against the bench, a soft smile playing on your lips as you nudged Regulus playfully with your elbow.

"Two dances, Reggie. I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had such stamina," you teased, your brown eyes twinkling.

Regulus smirked, leaning slightly closer to you. “If you behave, I’ll let you see more of them.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “Behave? Have you met me?”

“Good point,” he replied, his voice tinged with amusement. “You’re lucky I adore your rebellious streak.”

Before you could respond, a soft voice interrupted you. “Well, don’t you two look cozy?”

You turned to see Narcissa standing before you, her elegant figure framed by the soft glow of the lanterns dotting the garden. Her silvery-blonde hair was styled to perfection, and her pale blue gown shimmered in the evening light. She smiled warmly at you, though there was an unmistakable glint of curiosity in her sharp eyes.

“Cissy,” Regulus greeted her politely, rising to his feet out of habit. He offered a slight nod before gesturing to the bench. “Would you like to join us?”

“I’d love to,” she said gracefully, taking the spot next to you. Her gaze flicked between the two of you, her expression thoughtful. “I wanted to thank you both for coming tonight. It means a great deal to me.”

You smiled, sitting up straighter. “Thank you for inviting us. It’s a beautiful wedding, truly.”

Narcissa’s lips curved into a small smile, though her eyes lingered on Regulus. “You know, tonight is the first time I’ve ever seen my dear cousin smile.”

You blinked in surprise, glancing at Regulus, whose expression remained unreadable. “Really?”

“Really,” Narcissa confirmed, her tone light but sincere. “In all his sixteen years, not once have I seen him look as content as he does tonight.” She tilted her head slightly, her sharp gaze softening as it landed on you. “And I think I know why.”

You felt your cheeks warm under the compliment, but you managed a small laugh. “Well, he doesn’t make it easy. I have to work for those smiles.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, though there was a hint of a smirk on his lips. “Don’t let her fool you, Cissy. She’s the one who’s impossible to resist.”

Narcissa’s smile widened, and she reached over to lightly squeeze your hand. “You’ve done something remarkable, y/n. Regulus has always been so...serious. And cold.” She paused, glancing at her cousin. “You’re still serious and cold, but not with her. She’s your exception, isn’t she?”

You glanced at Regulus, your heart swelling at the way he looked at you—soft and unguarded, his icy exterior melting in your presence.

“She is,” Regulus admitted quietly, his voice low but firm.

Narcissa’s expression softened, and she leaned back slightly. “I’m glad. You deserve someone like her, Regulus. Someone who makes you happy.”

There was a beat of silence before Narcissa added, her tone light and teasing, “I suppose I should start preparing for another wedding in a few years.”

You and Regulus both froze, exchanging a wide-eyed glance. You quickly recovered, laughing nervously. “That’s a bit ahead of schedule, don’t you think?”

Narcissa shrugged, a playful glint in her eyes. “Perhaps. But it’s clear to everyone here that you two are something special.”

Regulus cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “We’re taking things one step at a time, Cissy.”

Sensing his unease, you quickly shifted the conversation. “So, Cissy, do you want to have kids someday?”

Narcissa’s expression softened, and she smiled. “Yes, very much. I’ve always dreamed of having a family. Lucius and I are both excited about the idea.”

You nodded, your curiosity genuine. “I think you’d be a wonderful mother.”

“Thank you,” Narcissa said, her voice warm. She glanced at Regulus, her expression turning thoughtful. “You’ll make a wonderful father someday, too.”

Regulus stiffened slightly, but you reached over to squeeze his hand, grounding him. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” you said lightly, giving him a reassuring smile.

Narcissa chuckled, rising gracefully from the bench. “Fair enough. I’ll leave you two to enjoy the rest of the evening.” She gave them one last smile before walking away, her elegant figure disappearing into the crowd.

As soon as she was gone, you turned to Regulus, your eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well, that was...unexpected.”

Regulus sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Cissy means well, but sometimes she has a knack for making things uncomfortable.”

You laughed softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. “You handled it perfectly, Love.”

He glanced down at you, his expression softening. “You’re the only one who makes any of this bearable, mon amour.”

You smiled, your heart full as she looked up at him. “And you’re the only one who makes me feel this way, Reggie.”

For a moment, you sat in silence, your connection stronger than ever. Whatever challenges lay ahead, you knew you would face them together.

Regulus and you remained on the stone bench, the distant hum of the wedding festivities growing faint around you as you slipped deeper into their little world. You rested your head on Regulus’s shoulder, your fingers interlocked with his, and the peace of the moment wrapped around you like a warm blanket.

After a few moments of silence, you tilted your head up to look at him, your voice soft. “So...marriage and kids, huh? That’s a big topic for a wedding night.”

Regulus chuckled, a rare, quiet sound that made your heart flutter. “Blame Narcissa for bringing it up.” He turned to face you, his green eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Although...if it were up to me, I’d marry you right now.”

Your eyes widened, your lips parting in surprise. “Regulus!”

“I mean it,” he said, his tone unwavering. “If I could, I’d marry you tonight. Right here, right now.”

You stared at him, your heart racing. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.” He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch featherlight. "I can’t imagine a future without you in it. It doesn’t matter where we are, what’s happening around us...you’re the only constant I need.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, and you blinked rapidly to keep your tears at bay. “Reggie, I...I feel the same way. I can’t picture my life without you. But…” you hesitated, biting your lip. “Your family, this name—being a Black. It’s a lot to think about.”

Regulus’s gaze softened, and he cupped your cheek with one hand. “I know it’s overwhelming, mon cœur. But you��re not just marrying the name. You’d be marrying me.”

You leaned into his touch, your voice barely above a whisper. “That’s the only part I care about.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips. “Good. Because I don’t care about anything else, either.”

You chuckled softly, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, if your family’s anything to go by, I suppose we only have two years to prepare. Isn’t that the Black tradition? Get married as soon as you graduate?”

Regulus smirked, his hand slipping down to take yours again. “Probably. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re already planning the guest list.”

You laughed, though a nervous edge crept into your voice. “It’s a little terrifying, honestly. But also…” you glanced at him, your cheeks warming. “Kind of exciting?”

His smirk softened into a gentle smile. “I’ll make sure it’s everything you’ve ever wanted, y/n. I promise.”

You grinned, nudging him playfully. “Alright, future husband. Let’s talk about the other part of this—kids.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, a trace of amusement in his expression. “Kids, huh?”

“Mm-hmm,” You said, your tone teasing. “How many are we having, Reggie? Ten?”

He laughed softly, the sound rare and warm. “Ten? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

You shrugged, your eyes glinting with mischief. “I think we’d be great parents. Why not a big family?”

Regulus played along, leaning back slightly. “Fine. Ten it is. Whatever you want, ma chérie.”

You burst out laughing, swatting his arm lightly. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned, tilting his head to the side. “Alright, since we’re apparently having a brood, we’ll need names. Black family tradition dictates celestial names, of course.”

You giggled. “Of course. Can’t break tradition, can we?”

Regulus pretended to think deeply, his fingers drumming against his knee. “How about Cygnus? Or Lyra? Or Cassiopeia?”

You wrinkled your nose playfully. “Lyra's nice. Cassiopeia’s a bit much, though. What about something softer? Like Nova?”

Regulus nodded, his eyes lighting up. “Nova’s beautiful. What about Vega? Or Altair?”

You smiled, leaning closer to him. “I like Vega. Altair’s nice, too. You’re pretty good at this.”

He smirked, his gray eyes twinkling. “I’ll let you pick the names, mon cœur. As long as they make you happy, I’ll be happy.”

Your heart swelled, and you squeezed his hand. “Reggie...I never thought I’d be sitting here talking about baby names with you, but I love it. I love that you care about this, about us.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “I love you, y/n. And I’ll do whatever it takes to give us the future we deserve.”

You turned your head to look at him, your smile radiant. “I love you too, Reggie. More than anything.”

For the rest of the evening, you stayed in your little corner of the garden, dreaming about the future you would build together. Despite the challenges that lay ahead, you knew you could face anything as long as you had each other.