#in the words of my astronomy professor

[earl-grey-crow]

a very respectable galaxy

[littlcdarlin]

Event Horizon

summary: When you start university to do your master’s in physics, you are more than surprised to meet your professor: Joel Miller, an old friend of your parents' who moved away years ago. word–count: 15k warnings: professor kink, power imbalance due to Joel being reader's professor, illegal relationship (overage & consenting), dbf!Joel, big fat age gap (unspecified but written with early 20s & mid 50s in mind), unprotected piv, just overall daddy issues (no use of the word daddy)

note: Okay, time to tell you I am a big nerd and studied physics in uni. Truth is, I quit to pursue a career in the arts, so my knowledge of masters level physics is...a little rusty. Please be lenient with me if I messed anything up. Also, I know most people hate physics, but I promise Joel makes it hot. Warning: explanation of the Dirac equation as foreplay. Also, I'm European and have no fucking clue how the American education system works but I don't care enough to do research. Enjoy <3333

event horizon noun ASTRONOMY a notional boundary around a black hole beyond which no light or other radiation can escape. a point of no return.

Uni felt different at eighteen, when everything was about moving out, drinking beer at frat parties, and kissing boys who didn’t grow up in the same town you did. It was an exciting time, the degree itself fading into the background of all sorts of new experiences, but now that you’re doing your masters, you plan on focusing on your your grades more than on partying.

You enrolled in a new university, farther away from home, with a better physics program, and although you’ve grown up considerably, you still feel that tingle of anxiety you did when you first walked to your dorm, fresh out of high school. This time you won’t have to share with another student, spending your saved money on a bit of privacy that is a single dorm room, but still, you wonder if you’ll make friends here, or if you’ll spend your night hauled up alone, watching trash TV and crying because you’re lonely.

The room is small, blank, but functional with a bathroom you share with another student and a small kitchenette, and immediately you dream of all the ways you could decorate it. You didn’t bring much, just a big suitcase and a few boxes your Dad dropped off earlier. You feel slightly guilty for leaving your parents behind, but the relief outweighs the guilt – you won’t have to come home every Sunday for dinner, visits will be scarce. You love you parents, but the distance is much needed.

You get to unpacking your clothes, reveling in the fact that you can listen to music without headphones in your very own space. You could do it in your underwear, or naked, you could sing and dance along, and nobody would be bothered by it. It’s going to be a tough two years, the program you chose more than challenging, but a childish sort of giddiness fills you – no roommate to be considerate of, no parents to visit and take care of every week. This time in your life is about you, and only you – your career, but also your well-being. You promise yourself to do what makes you happy, instead of looking out for everyone else all of the time, and you’ll start by ordering Thai food and watching the trashiest movie with the hottest actors you can find on the little flatscreen you brought with you.

***

Your first lecture is Computational Physics – the one you’re looking forward to the least. The reason you decided to study physics at all was the predictable logic behind each problem, but the more you studied, the more complex the problems got, until they were impossible to solve analytically. Now you get to solve fluid dynamic equations and simulate quantum systems on a Monday morning instead of having a peaceful cup of coffee and taking a walk around campus.

The lecture hall is big, and you pick a seat that is neither too far away to be able to read the professor’s notes, nor close enough to immediately be pinned as an over-eager teacher’s pet. In the end, you plop down next to a girl who’s sitting alone, something about her shaved head and countless earrings making you think she wouldn’t make fun of you even if you didn’t understand a single thing all lecture.

"Okay if I sit here?", you ask somewhat timidly, trying hard not to sound too much like an eleven year old Ron Weasley boarding the train to Hogwarts.

"Please," the girl answers, "I don’t know anybody here."

"Did you move here, too?"

"Yeah, I’m from New York."

"You look it," you say with a smile, eyes drifting over her clothes and jewelry.

"Thanks…I guess?", she answers, her grin revealing a charming gap between her front teeth. "I’m Alva."

You introduce yourself, thankful to have found someone you can stick to already. Throughout the lecture you find out that apart from being much cooler than everyone else in the room, Alva has a biting sense of humor, and a near endless knowledge of computational physics. You make a mental note to ask her to study together, her explanations much easier to understand than the professor’s.

The two of you spend your lunch break together, and you tell her a little bit about yourself, but way too soon it’s time to go already – you have Advanced Quantum Mechanics in a different lecture hall. This you find way more interesting, basic quantum mechanics was one of your favorite lectures during your bachelor’s degree. As Alva and you sit down, you find yourself hoping you’ll be able to help her out this time, or you’d feel like a leech for making her help you with Computational. She doesn’t seem bothered, though, and keeps babbling happily about a band she recently discovered.

"– Britpop, but they only put out two albums. I think they were like a student band or something? They’re wildly underrated, I’ll send you a song, their debut is called The Sun Is Often Out."

Your thoughts start to wander off a little, eyes drifting over the old-fashioned chalkboards, when the door at the front of the lecture hall opens, and a tall man walks in – a man you recognize.

"Holy shit," you whisper, interrupting Alva’s rant about the Longpigs, and she turns her head to look at what you’re staring at.

"Damn," she says with a grin, "if I wasn’t gay, I’d want a piece of that."

"No," you snort, "I know him. He’s my Dad’s friend."

Alva opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, Joel Miller steps forward, checking to see if the microphone is working, and introduces himself to the hundreds of students in front of him. His voice is deep, and as warm as you remember it, but that’s where the accuracy of your memories ends – your childish brain failed to register the tanned forearms and rolled up sleeves, the carelessly styled curls, the perfect side-profile. He’s got grey streaks in his hair now, which should send you into a crisis about time passing and your own little life being finite, but instead it makes your stomach swirl with something dangerous. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller, who organized backyard barbecues with your father and bought your favorite vegan sausages when your Dad rolled his eyes at you, who made strawberry lemonade instead of lemon, because he knew you preferred it, who helped you with your physics homework when you were graduating high school and didn’t rat you out when he caught you smoking at seventeen – he’s handsome.

There’s still a familiarity about him, the way he moves and talks, although it’s unsettling to see him in such a different environment. You’re used to band-tee-Joel, beer bottle and tongs in his hands, a breezy smile on his face. He looks different here, in a white button-down, with a stern expression on his face, as he’s reading the names on his list to check attendance. When he calls Alva’s name and she raises her hand, his eyes flicker upwards, but he doesn’t look at you. Still, your stomach lurches. If you listen carefully, you can detect that southern twang in his voice you’re sure most people would miss, and it fills you with satisfaction to know you’re the one who knows him best in this room – you’re sure half the lecture hall must see how attractive he is.

When he reads out your name, there’s a surprised lilt to his tone, and your heart threatens to skip a beat.

"Here."

Your eyes meet, and although his expression doesn’t change, he holds your eyecontact for a second too long. Alva nudges your side and grins.

Your plans about outshining Alva and returning the favor of helping with a lecture are quickly buried by Joel Miller’s beautiful hands – thick fingers holding a piece of chalk almost tenderly, twirling it around when he isn’t writing on the chalkboard. You vaguely register him introducing the Dirac equation, but as interesting as you would normally find it, your thoughts are stuck between memories of barbecues and the realization that you will have to call the man who taught you to drive Professor Miller.

If Alva notices your wandering mind, she doesn’t comment on it, which you’re thankful for. You do notice her throwing you a couple of knowing glances, as you copy down what Joel is writing down, mixing up gamma, delta, and the Dirac spinor.

"Alright, so you all know how Schrödinger’s equation works great for quantum mechanics, but it doesn’t play nicely with Einstein’s relativity, right? That’s a problem because electrons move fast, sometimes close to the speed of light, so we need an equation that respects both quantum mechanics and special relativity. That’s where Dirac steps in."

He’s still got that warm way of explaining things your Dad never managed when you needed help in high school, like he enjoys clearing things up for people. He’s a born teacher, patient when you panicked in the car because you confused the clutch and the break, persistent when you wanted to throw your physics book against a wall. Look, kid, think of it this way: Push harder, it moves faster. Make it heavier, it’s harder to move. If you apply a force F to an object with mass m, it will accelerate a. That’s why your Dad’s car takes longer to stop than your bike. Even now, he manages to make a far more complex equation than Newton’s second law tangible.

"Dirac's equation is like the grown-up version of Schrödinger’s equation. It explains how particles with spin-half, like electrons, behave when they move at relativistic speeds. The gamma mu matrices make sure the equation works in four-dimensional spacetime, meaning three space dimensions plus time. The psi is a spinor, which is just a fancy way of saying that an electron isn’t just a simple wave function, it actually has spin built into its nature. Now, can anyone think of a situation where we would need to use this equation instead of the regular Schrödinger equation?"

Nobody raises their hand, most people still busy with writing down Joel’s complicated notes, and as if on cue, his eyes are on yours when you look up from your notebook. He raises an eyebrow, and you see the corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. Then, he calls your last name, a formal Miss dripping off his tongue as if he hasn’t called you kiddo for most of your life. It’s almost like he’s making a joke only the two of you are able to understand, and the thought thrills you to your bone. Two can play this game – you smile back.

"Sure, Professor Miller. You’d use it for studying high-energy particles, like electrons in particle accelerators, because it accounts for relativistic speeds. It’s also needed for situations where particles are created or destroyed, which Schrödinger’s equation doesn’t cover."

Again, his eyes linger on yours, and his slightly amused smile turns into a more genuine one at your answer. You let out a relieved sigh.

"Exactly," Joel answers, his attention on the rest of the class again, "Someone payed attention during Basic Quantum Mechanics. Now, here’s where it gets wild. When Dirac wrote this down, he realized it naturally predicts antiparticles, meaning for every electron, there should be a mirror-image particle with opposite charge, which we now call the positron. That was a huge deal because it wasn’t something people were expecting, it just fell out of the math."

For the rest of the class, Joel doesn’t continue that little game between the two of you, but whenever he asks a question, his gaze flickers over you, and your stomach gives an embarrassing little jump. Alva grins whenever this happens, but for most of the class she’s busy following Joel’s explanations.

"I want you to read up on today’s lecture," Joel says at the end of the lecture, and writes down a few page numbers on the chalkboard, "and solve the problems I mentioned earlier. Attendance isn’t mandatory, we’re all adults here, but I urge you to come if you’re interested in graduating in the next three years. Trust me, it’s easier to just do the work here than in your dorms. Now, enjoy the weather, see you Monday."

You and Alva pack up your things, and before she can ask you which class you have next, you pick up your backpack.

"I’m gonna say hi to him," you tell her, nodding in Joel’s direction, "my Dad and him go way back."

"Sure," Alva says, a cheeky smile on her face, "it’d be rude not to."

"Meet you outside?"

"I’ll be at the vending machine. Go get him," she jokes, and you snort.

Joel is packing up his course materials when you make your way down the steps and to his desk, but he looks up when he hears you coming towards him, and immediately his face splits into a smile. If you were anywhere else and ten years younger, he’d probably ruffle your hair.

"Good lecture," you say, "Dad didn’t tell me you’re teaching again."

Joel puts his piece of chalk into a tin box and nods.

"I don’t think he knows. You know how it is, we never get around to callin’ and I haven’t been home in a while."

So this is a new development, perhaps even Joel’s first semester back at university, too.

"What about the contracting? Don’t you miss the…pipes?"

He chuckles at your lack in basic contracting knowledge, his eyes not moving from yours.

"Ah, that was always Tommy, he just needed a little help. Company’s doin’ well now, though, so he’ll manage without me."

You think you remember Tommy – a man good-naturedly chasing you and the rest of the giggling neighborhood kids with a harden hose – but the memory is too vague to be sure it’s really him.

"You’ve grown up," Joel says, almost accusingly, and you shrug and smile. "Doin’ your master’s already. How come you’re familiar with Dirac?"

His accent is much thicker now that it’s only the two of you, and you notice a hint of pride when he asks about your correct answer to his question during the lecture. The satisfied feeling it gives you is still the same as when he high-fived you after your drivers test, or when he patted your back after you solved a problem for school without his help.

"Summer reading," you admit, trying hard not to sound like a nerd, "Basic Quantum Mechanics was my favorite lecture as an undergrad."

Joel smiles at you, and puts his notes into his leather bag. He slings it across his shoulder, and nods towards the door.

"How would you like to grab a coffee and tell me all about what’s been goin’ on with you and your old man?"

Your eyes flicker briefly over his hand, gripping the strap of his bag, and you raise an eyebrow.

"What’s the policy for staff having coffee with their students, Professor?"

Joel holds your gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I’m actually not sure, Miss, I’ve never had to check before."

He’s playing along, and it feels dangerously blurry – yes, he’s your Dad’s old friend, your childhood neighbor, but it feels like more than just joking around.

"Does that mean I’m your first, then?", you ask, voice sweet and close to flirting now. The smile freezes on Joel’s face, and his gaze becomes almost calculating.

"Am I yours?" he asks you softly, and the double-meaning behind his question isn’t lost on you. You feel a thrilling pang in your stomach – Joel Miller is flirting with you.

***

You do end up getting coffee after you tell Alva you’ll meet her later, Joel reassuring you it won’t get him into trouble, and you’re fascinated to see he still drinks it black. What fascinates you even more is that you remember how he takes his coffee, and you wonder why your brain filed this fact away as important, not to be forgotten.

"So, when did you graduate? Sorry I missed it."

There’s honest regret in his voice, which surprises you. Joel was always a warm person, but you figured he cared for you as much as he would have for any kid living across the street.

"Last June," you tell him, dropping a sugar cube into your cappuccino. "I spent the summer working, and now I’m here."

"How d’you like it so far?"

You give a nervous chuckle, torn between the honest truth and pleasant small talk. You opt for the former – this is Joel, after all, not some stranger.

"To be honest with you, I oscillate between enjoying my freedom away from Mom and Dad, and being scared shitless by starting over somewhere new," you admit, looking at your coffee. You haven’t told people about your fear, and it feels good to finally admit it – the grip your parents have had on you makes your newfound freedom almost uncomfortable.

"What d’you mean, startin’ over?", Joel asks, his voice strikingly gentle. You sigh, and shrug.

"I know the distance is good for me, but it was comfortable, just doing what my parents expected of me. I had good grades, nice friends, and just the right amount of drunken nights for them not to worry about my social life too much," you explain, "and now it’s like…there’s so much room to be someone else, cause they won’t see it anyway."

You look up, embarrassed to have spilt your guts like this, but Joel looks thoughtful, his thumb moving along the handle of his coffee cup.

"Sorry," you mutter, "I know they’re your friends, but they can be…"

"Overbearing?"

You smile at him gratefully and he smiles back.

"Look, I know your parents pretty well. They love you to bits, but as an adult I imagine it must be stiflin’.“

"Yeah," you sigh, grateful for his understanding, "I feel like I don’t know who I am when I’m not…their kid."

Joel nods, and sips his coffee, apparently pondering what you said.

"I promised myself I would only do what makes me happy while I’m here," you tell him sheepishly, as if it’s a secret, and Joel laughs.

"Well, I’m not expectin’ you to hand in any homework, then."

You grin, too, and shake your head. It’s surreal, Joel being your professor, and you wearing your heart on your sleeve for him.

"Don’t worry, Professor Miller, I’m not dropping your class."

"You’d better not, it’d really hurt my feelings," Joel says, eyes trained on yours. Again, that blurriness set in motion by the change of his role in your life: neighbor to professor to – what?

"What about you, though? This your first semester here?"

"Second," he tells you, "but I still don’t feel at home. Once a Texan, always a Texan, I guess."

You cock your head and watch him drain the last of his coffee, the cup tiny in his hands.

"What?" he asks you, curiosity evident in his voice.

"You look so different," you say, and Joel scoffs.

"Well, that’s real nice. Know I’m not thirty anymore, but geez–"

"No," you say with a grin, "it’s not that. I don’t know, I’ve just never seen you teach before. Or dressed this nice – I remember you mowing the lawn in a Fleetwood Mac shirt, not checking attendance in a button down."

Joel’s cheeks go slightly pink, and he scoffs again.

"Well, I can’t show up here in a band tee, can I? Gotta dress the part," he mutters.

"I get it. You suit it," you tell him, if only to see that blush appear on his face again. He looks up at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds, then he shakes his head.

"What were the odds of us meetin’ like this, huh? I gotta call your father and tell him."

Something about that bothers you, you’d prefer for your parents not to know. You like sitting here with Joel, reminiscing the old times, without anybody getting a peek in.

"Or not," he says gently, seeing the expression on your face.

"Sorry," you say, "course you can tell him."

"You apologize a lot," he tells you, and you fight the urge to say sorry once again. "It’s okay, I’m not tellin’ anyone, kid. ’S just you n me."

That pang in your stomach again, and you nod.

"Alright," you answer, "just us."

You get a refill for the two of you, and a blueberry muffin to split, which feels strangely intimate, but Joel pats his stomach and jokes about keeping an eye on his figure, so you grin, and ask the barista to cut it in half. Joel asks you about your friends, and you tell him about Alva.

"Oh yes," he says and swallows a bite of the muffin, "that punky lookin’ kid who sits next to you?"

"Yeah, she’s nice. Haven’t really met anyone else."

"Geez, I’m not keepin’ you from findin’ frat boys to hook up with, am I?"

You laugh, the idea of sitting here with a twenty-something year old kid named Cole or Josh instead of him so absurd, you can’t help it.

"No," you tell him, "I’m honestly enjoying the fact that I don’t have to have someone else in my dorm anymore."

"Well, that’s a relief to hear," Joel says, "they’re all dipshits."

You remember him telling you something similar about the boys in high school, and it makes you smile. He’s still got that protective streak, then.

"To tell you the truth, I’m glad you’re here," you say quietly, "if I’m not making any friends, I can come crying to you."

Joel watches you for a couple of seconds, not laughing as you intended, but taking your words seriously.

"Course you’ll make friends. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll have forgotten all about physics cause you’ll be skippin’ classes left and right to hang out with people."

You don’t tell him, but you think it’s very unlikely you’ll skip any of his classes. Still, you appreciate his words and how confident he seems to be in your ability to open up to people.

"Well, will you give me the answers to your exams if I skip your class?"

"No way," he says with a cheeky smile, the crinkles around his eyes prominent. "I don’t do preferential treatment. You wanna split another blueberry muffin?"

You grin.

"Thought you were watching your waistline."

"I am, that’s why I’m only eating halves."

***

Your afternoon with Joel leaves you on a high for the rest of the day, feeling much less lonely now that you’ve had a conversation beyond the usual so how many siblings do you have? and where did you do your undergrad?

You start spending your lunch breaks with Alva and some friends she made in another lecture, all of whom are very nice. In the evenings you all go to see a movie or have dinner together in any of your dorm rooms, and although you walk around campus holding out one eye for Joel, you don’t see him for the rest of the week. There is always a nudge of disappointment in your stomach, when you glance in the direction of his office, and the door is closed, but you’re so busy, you don’t dwell on it too much. The days pass in a blur of new lectures, swapping music with Alva, and evenings spent as a group of six, and suddenly it’s Sunday again. You aren’t too sad the weekend is already over, and you know exactly why you’re looking forward to Monday, but you don’t allow yourself to think about Joel any more than you can help.

In the afternoon, while you’re doing Joel’s assignment for the next class, your mother calls, and you answer the phone with a mixture of feelings.

Hi, my darling, how are you doing?

"Hi, Mom. I’m good, just doing my work for tomorrow. How are you?"

Good, good. How was your first week? Did you meet anyone nice?

Hah, if she only knew. It feels deceptive, not telling her about Joel, but you like that for now, he’s just yours.

"Yes, this girl called Alva. We and some guys hang out a lot, there’s a cinema near by, but the lectures are pretty hard, so we only have the evenings off."

Well, I’m glad you found some nice people! Dad says hi, he’s making dinner. Anyway, baby, we miss you terribly. Do you know when you’ll be coming home?

"I just got here, Mom."

You sigh so quietly your mother can’t hear it, guilt already nagging at your heart. Sunday is the day you would usually be coming home for dinner, and you know it’s no coincidence your parents called you now.

Of course, you’re right. It’s just not easy for your Dad and me, you know? You’ve never been this far from home, and you’re our baby.

Yeah, you think, your adult baby. You sigh again.

"I don’t know if I’ll come this month, I’m still sort of settling in. But I’ll let you know if there’s a free weekend next month, alright?"

Sure, that sounds great. Will you send us some pictures of your friends, and your room?

"Sure," you say, but it bugs you that you’re giving in. Already, you’re breaking the promise you made yourself, and letting your parents further into your life here than you’re comfortable with.

"Mom, I gotta go, I’ve still got some problems to solve and I’m meeting Alva for dinner soon."

Okay, darling, enjoy your night! And make yourself heard. I love you!

"Love you, too! Talk soon."

Your kind, clingy mother, whose greatest pain is not knowing if you’re safe. In a way you miss her, and you feel guilty for being annoyed. Still, you know you have to gently nudge her away from you, or she’ll suffocate you one day. It makes you angry with yourself, because you know your Mom would have liked nothing more than to hear all about your week, but as soon as she asked you a question, you felt like your seventeen year old self again, getting yelled at because you stayed up past your curfew, and your parents didn’t know where you were.

Tears of frustration spring to your eyes – the mix of feelings too much for you to handle. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, breathe in shakily, and try to focus on your assignment again, but now you’re riled up, and the tears won’t stop.

It’s hard for you to deal with disappointing your parents, forcing them away when they would like nothing more than to know everything that’s going on in your life. So, instead of preparing for Joel’s lecture, you cry on your bed, feeling lonely and angry with yourself for hurting them. You know your reaction is disproportionate, but everything you kept buried while you lived close to your parents comes bubbling out of you.

You call Alva, tell her you have cramps because of your period and just want to stay in bed. She’s understanding, asks you if there’s anything she can do, even offers to bring you takeout or a hot water bottle, which makes you feel all the worse for lying to her. You decline her offer, tell her you’ll meet her Monday morning. In the evening, you regret not letting her bring over a real meal, eating cold pasta in your underwear, tears still running down your face and making your head pound.

***

On Monday, you feel slightly better, your headache is gone and your face isn’t as puffy as you expected it to be. Still, you’re in a solitary mood, and are glad to find Alva is able to keep up an entire conversation virtually by herself – you just grunt from time to time, or give noncommittal movements of your head in vague agreement. You hope if she notices your bad mood, she just thinks it has to do with your period.

Computational Physics is hell – you dislike it on the best of days, but guilt ridden and tired, you’re barely able to pay attention at all, and the professor’s handwriting is so bad, you end up copying down Alva’s notes instead. She’s kind about it, slides over her notebook at an angle that makes it easy to read, and you make a mental note to thank her for being so kind to you while you’re offering nothing but a scowling expression all day. Maybe you’ll cook for her, or make a mixtape of your favorite songs, just to show her you’re interested in being actual good friends.

Lunch passes easily, as always you sit with Alva and the guys, and there’s enough people for you to stare at your mashed potatoes and repeatedly stab them with your fork instead of eating them. They taste like flour mixed up with water, and you dream up your father’s Sunday dinner instead, but it does little to help with the taste.

"So, you lookin’ forward to flirting with Miller in front of the whole lecture hall again?" Alva asks you, as you’re making your way to said room. You glare at her, but can’t help the corners of your mouth twitching.

"Wasn’t flirting with him," you answer, kicking a pebble, "I grew up across the street from him, I’ve known him practically my whole life."

"Whatever you say, grumpy," Alva teases, nudging your shoulder with hers. You’re overcome with a rush of gratitude for the way she treats you, persistently kind and humorous. You chuckle, your mood lifting slightly.

"He’s probably been waiting for you to turn legal," she continues, and you groan.

"Gross, Alva, he’s not a creep."

"I’m just saying, if your little connection gets you the answers to his tests, you could sell them and become rich."

"I already asked him, he said no," you say darkly, thinking of the nights you’ll have to spend studying to pass his exam. This makes Alva laugh her brilliant laugh, and you can’t help but smile, too.

"Damn," she grins, "I’d try if he wasn’t a guy."

You snort.

"You try with Professor Carter, I need the answers to Computational," you suggest, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.

"You’re joking, but I bet once you get her out of her frumpy cardigans, she’s a real–"

"Okay, stop," you grown, the image of Professor Carter taking off her cardigans worse than her keeping them on – if possible. Alva giggles.

"I’ll help you with Computational," she says, "if you help me with Quantum Mechanics."

"You’re good at both," you argue, and Alva shrugs.

"Not like you, though. I spent like four hours doing Miller’s assignment last night."

You want to tell her you didn’t do it at all, but before you can open your mouth, she spots a friend in the crowd, grabs your arm and drags you over to him.

The three of you sit down together, closer to the front than the week before, which gives you a direct line of sight to Joel’s desk. When he walks in, your stomach jumps – he’s wearing a tie today, a dark burgundy or blue, you aren’t sure from this distance, flecked with specks of white. Again, his hair is styled in that carelessly disheveled look you like so much, and the image of him putting gel in it makes you smile. He gets out his materials for the lecture, and looks up, his eyes finding yours – you smile and he gives a small nod. Again you’re struck by how different he acts in front of the class, how serious he seems. You think of his laid back manner when you had coffee, and struggle to make the images align. Joel clears his throat, and the chatter around you stops.

"Quiet, please, everyone. Thank you. So, last week, we found out that Dirac’s equation predicts the existence of antiparticles. But instead of just accepting that, let’s think deeper—mathematically, what feature of the equation forces this conclusion?"

Joel jumps right into the lecture, and just like last week, nobody raises their hands – you curse the people around you for their lethargy, because sure enough, Joel’s eyes land on you. Before you can shake your head to signal to him not to ask you, he calls your name.

"If I remember correctly, you were already familiar with Dirac’s equation last week. What would you say, what does the existence of negative-energy solutions tell us, and why couldn’t we just ignore them?"

You wish you could answer him, know he asked you because he was sure you’d know the answer, perhaps hoped your enthusiasm for the subject would get the rest of the students to participate more, but you didn’t do the assignment, and you’ve already half forgotten his question. You swallow.

"Um…I…I’m not sure, Sir," you say, watching the way his brows furrow, and looking down at your notes. Alva shoots you a curious look, and when she sees your expression, she raises her hand. You’re thankful to have Joel’s attention diverted, feeling like a fool in front of hundreds of students you’re trying to make friends with.

"Dirac’s equation gives positive and negative energy solutions, and at first, the negative ones didn’t make sense. Dirac suggested they represent antiparticles, like the positron, which he predicted. The idea was that electrons could, like, jump into these negative-energy states, creating a hole that looks like a positron, which was later confirmed experimentally," Alva explains instead of you.

"You're close, but electrons don’t actually 'jump into' negative-energy states. Instead, Dirac proposed that these states are already filled, forming what he called the Dirac Sea. A positron isn’t an electron jumping down, it’s actually a 'hole' left when a negative-energy electron gets excited to a positive-energy state. That distinction is important because it explains why positrons have the opposite charge. Good answer, though, thank you Ms. Bennet."

Joel’s eyes flicker over to you again, but you show no reaction, and he continues with his lecture without asking you another question. Alva glances at you inquiringly, and you sigh.

"I wanted to do the assignment yesterday, but my cramps were really bad," you explain quietly, and she nods sympathetically.

"Call me next time, I’ll send you my answers," she whispers, and you smile gratefully. It seems you really hit the jackpot in friendship when you sat down next to Alva.

***

After Joel’s lecture, you and Alva make your way over to the vending machine, because it has the sour patches she likes, and in her own words she’ll combust if she doesn’t eat some right fucking now.

"Shit," she curses, "they’re stuck."

"Let me," a voice comes from a behind you, and when you turn around, Joel is smiling at the two of you. "Took me a while to figure this thing out, too."

Alva steps aside, and Joel bangs his palm against the side of machine. You jump, but the sour patches make their tumbling way down to the dispenser.

"Great! Thanks, Professor Miller," Alva says, ripping the bag open and offering it to the two of you. To your surprise, Joel takes her up on it, and Alva grins at you.

"You were quiet during today’s lecture," Joel says tentatively, when he’s swallowed his sour patch "everything alright?"

You glance at your shoes.

"Um, yeah. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, and I left your assignment for last, so…I didn’t do it."

Joel’s expression grows worried, and Alva glances between the two of you.

"Hey, I’m meeting Max for coffee," she tells you, "see you later?"

"Yeah," you answer, grateful she’s granting you this time alone with Joel, "see you, Alva."

When she’s gone, Joel is still looking at you with that worried look on his face, and you sigh.

"Sorry about the assignment," you say, "won’t happen again."

"I’m not worried about the assignment," Joel says earnestly, but then he turns his head, and you know he doesn’t want someone listening in. Sure, you can be seen chatting in the university cafe, but this conversation is rapidly blurring the lines between scholarly and – something else.

"I…have some materials in my office that might make it easier for you to catch up with the lectures again," Joel tells you, and you understand the underlying meaning. Let’s talk in my office.

"Thank you," you say, relieved, and Joel nods, eyes still glued to yours, brows still furrowed. You walk to his office making smalltalk about the lecture, which to anyone listening in would seem like a normal conversation between a professor and an interested student.

Joel opens the door to his office for you, and lets you step in first. It’s small, cramped bookshelves on the walls and a sturdy desk in the middle that is littered with notes, pencils, books, and a couple of old coffee mugs. You notice he put part of his books sideways onto the shelves, which you find weirdly endearing. This is the Joel you know – clutter and warmth.

He closes the door behind you, and you turn around to watch him drop his bag and walk over to the kettle in the corner of the room.

"Coffee?"

"Please," you sigh, "if you don’t have anything stronger."

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer, just turns on the already filled kettle, and gets two clean cups for the two of you.

"I only have drip coffee," he tells you, "I don’t drink that crap the machines brew up."

"That’s fine, I enjoy the medieval feel of it."

"Watch it," he answers, a smile tugging on his lips, "don’t insult my coffee filter in front of me."

You grin, and walk over to his bookshelf to have a look.

"So, what’s going on?" he asks you while pouring the boiling hot water over the coffee grounds. Again, the Joel you remember – empathetic, but unusually direct. You sigh, turn around and shrug.

"Mom and Dad called yesterday, and I could tell they missed me, but I just…I cut them off after two minutes."

Joel places the cups on his desk, and leans against it. His sleeves are rolled up again, and when he crosses his arms, you feel that familiar pang in your stomach.

"And now I…I don’t know, I feel so guilty, Joel. They’re not even being dicks about it, but I just know they’d prefer for me to check in with them more…and the worst thing is, I know it’s not a big deal. They’ll get over it, they’ve got a good life without me constantly in it, so I don’t know why my stupid brain can’t just let this go, you know? One I miss you, darling, and I’m reduced to this pathetic mess, instead of just, I don’t know, getting my shit together."

You shake your head and clench your teeth, once again embarrassed to come crying to Joel about your parental issues, but he’s the only one you can tell. Sure, Alva would probably listen, but you don’t feel like explaining your family to a near stranger. Joel just gets it. Joel knows you.

He’s looking at you, arms still crossed, and for a second you worry he might not want to hear about your little breakdown, but then he sighs.

"You have your shit together all of the fuckin’ time, kid, I think that might be the problem," he tells you quietly. "You’ve always been so hard on yourself."

He’s right, once again he sees what you struggle to show the world, and his words make tears spring to your eyes. You will your eyeballs to suck them back in, but of course, Joel sees.

"Hey now," he says, taking a tentative step towards you. One tear drops from the end of your lashes and down your cheek, and the dam is broken again – they come spilling in floods. Joel crosses the room in a second, and there is a slight moment of hesitation between the two of you, before you bury your face in his chest, and let your restraint fall. You cry quietly, feel him wrap his arms around you, as he rocks you back and forth.

"You’re alright," he tells you, "Shhh, it’s okay, you’re alright."

"S-s-sorry about the assignment," you manage, and Joel’s hand starts stroking your back.

"Jesus, kid, stop worryin’ about the fucking assignment," he tells you, voice low and worried. "You don’t gotta be so strict with yourself. You’re doin’ just fine."

He smells so much like home, you think you might never stop crying.

"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," you hiccup, "One week here and I’m a mess already."

You feel Joel rest his chin on your head, and his arms tighten around you.

"There’s nothin’ wrong with you, you hear me? You hold yourself to high standards. Creates pressure, kid."

As always, he’s right of course – you want to excel academically, you don’t want to hurt your parents, you want to stay true to yourself and do what makes you happy, you want to make friends without compromising your grades. It’s impossible.

You breathe in shakily, your eyes closed, face buried in Joel’s chest, and for a second he is all that exists – just Joel, all around you, pulling you to the earth. Slowly, your breathing calms, Joel still rocking you soothingly, holding you close.

"There we go," he mutters, when your chest stops shaking, "that’s good."

When you pull away from him, he puts his hands on your shoulders to really look at you, and although you’re embarrassed by your outburst, you’re glad he doesn’t shy away from you.

"I want you to start being a little more lenient with yourself, alright? You don’t need to worry about an assignment on top of everything."

His hands are rubbing your shoulders, his eyes are kind and warm.

"Maybe not about yours, but I have like five other lectures –"

"Okay, so try to stop worrying about my assignments, just mine. Won’t bite your head off if you don’t do them, and I’ll only ask you questions when you raise your hand, alright? In fact, for the rest of the term, I want you to hand them in late."

Despite yourself, your lips pull up in a small smile.

"That’s silly, Joel," you say softly, but he shakes his head.

"It’s not silly, it’s practice to get you out of your comfort zone."

You consider his words for a moment. You do keep a pretty tight reign on yourself, and just the thought of doing every assignment late makes your skin crawl with anxiety. But when will you get another chance to step out of your comfort zone as safely as now, with Joel? He’s offering you a way to try it without actually risking your grades. And who knows, perhaps it actually will take a little bit of pressure off of you.

"Okay," you answer, staring up at Joel with puffy cheeks and teary eyes. "Alright."

He smiles at you, but he still looks worried and you wish he’d pull you close to him again. It’s such a relief to have this sort of human contact with someone who really knows you.

"Feel better?"

You sigh, and nod.

"It’s just a lot, you know, uni and my parents, and every social interaction feels like such a chore, cause I don’t know people yet. I feel like I’m not even relaxed when I’m asleep."

Joel hesitates for a moment, before he speaks, but when he does, he sounds determined.

"Come over tonight, I’ll make us somethin’ to eat, and you don’t have to worry about talkin’ to anyone. We’ll watch whatever you’d like. You still enjoy those crappy horror movies?"

You smile at the shared memory – Joel letting you use his living room to watch slashers your parents didn’t want you to see. One summer, when the heat was so stifling you barely went outside, you practically lived at his place, and when you’d seen all the DVDs he owned, he got you more from the video store.

"I do," you say quietly, the fact that Joel remembers more important to you than his proposal to spend the evening together. You feel significantly less alone, all of a sudden.

"Alright, then. Be over at seven,“ Joel tells you, and you nod, wiping your wet face with the back of your hand.

"Thank you, Joel," you say, and hug him again, because you don’t know how to tell him in words what you’re feeling, and his big, warm body against yours feels more than soothing.

"Course, kid. Just don’t tell Alva, or they’ll fire me."

You smile, your arms still wrapped around his neck, as he holds you.

"But I don’t wanna get you in trouble, what if–"

"No," Joel interrupts you, "no what ifs. No worryin’. I forbid it."

And you accept it, leave it to Joel, because he tells you to – because you don’t have any room in your head for more worries, and because you trust Joel not to do anything reckless. You trust him, period.

***

You text Alva you’re having dinner alone, that your cramps are still acting up, and you do feel slightly bad for lying, but you would never risk Joel’s job. The idea of having dinner with him at his place should make you nervous after your change in feelings about him, but you’re just looking forward to having a meal with someone who knows you, and lets you be yourself.

Joel asked you to be there at seven, so you spend the rest of the afternoon in your dorm room, wondering if you should change your outfit or if it would seem desperate – in the end, you keep the jeans but change into a blouse instead of a sweater. The part of you that stares at Joel’s forearms during class now wants to look pretty for him, so that he’ll ask you over again. You know you’re being ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop you from putting on your nicest perfume.

You’re ten minutes early, so you sit in your little second hand car and try not to panic. You know Joel is merely trying to be a good…friend? Ex-neighbor, Dad’s best friend turned professor? There’s no real etiquette to cling to in this situation, for either of you, and although you’re positive Joel doesn’t have any ulterior motives with you despite his flirting, you know he could lose his job if someone finds out you went to his house. Even if you just watch slashers together the way you did ten years ago. It makes you anxious to know he’d risk something clearly important to him for just that – he moved to a different state, quit his old job, started over completely, and is now willing to endanger that new life just because you’re stressed. At the same time it seems ridiculous anyone could forbid the two of you to spend time together after having known each other your entire life. The thought is absurd, and still, you need to be careful.

You get out of the car before you start to hyperventilate, and ring Joel’s doorbell – it feels strange for him to live in a new house. He opens the door with a smile, and absurd relief floods your veins when you realize he’s wearing an old Led Zeppelin shirt and a pair of worn jeans. This is your Joel.

"I come bearing gifts," you announce, stepping into the house.

“Christ, where did you get this?”, Joel asks, taking the six pack of beer from you, so you can take off your jacket. “I didn’t know they sold Shiner Bock outside of Texas, I’ve been survivin’ on Bud”.

“Brought it with me,” you explain, “figured it’d help if I got homesick, you know, in multiple ways.”

You grin, and Joel shakes his head good-naturedly.

“Old enough to drink, well I’ll be damned. I remember when you begged your Dad to let you have a coke and he asked me if I thought the caffeine would stunt your growth.”

“Did it?”

“It might’ve,” Joel says with a chuckle, “but he didn’t let you have it.”

“Well, he isn’t here now, so let’s put those in the fridge.”

“No," Joel mutters, “no, he ain’t.”

While Joel puts the beer away, you take a look around his living room – despite your reservations about the new house, it reminds you of his old place. It’s got the same masculine and warm feel to it, dark wood, books all over the place, no bells and whistles. Joel is a practical man, and it’s charmingly etched into every part of his life – except for his new work-look. The room isn’t as cluttered as you remember Joel’s old house back in Texas, but you assume he hasn’t had time to accumulate clutter yet. No old newspapers are lying around, no birthday cards stacking up. You wonder if he’s lonely here, teaching all by himself, hundreds of miles away from the place he last grew roots in.

“Do you miss home?” you ask him, when he comes back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hands. He looks at ease, much more himself than back at university. His jeans are faded, his shirt a little too big on his already broad frame, and his hair is clean and curly the way you like it – no gel twisting it into all sorts of un-Joel-like styles. Warmth floods your chest at the sight of him taking a swig of his beer. His crowfeet are a little more pronounced, and his hair has more grey strands than it did back home, but he’s still got that distinctly warm, no-nonsense feel to him.

“Sometimes,” he answers, offering you the second bottle. Your hand brushes his when you take it from him. “But I’m pretty busy here, you know, got a whole lotta lectures to plan, papers to grade and that sort of stuff.”

You nod, and sip at your beer.

“Have you…you know, met people? Made friends here?”

Joel plops down on the couch, and smiles up at you.

“You worried about my social life?”

You shrug, and smile almost timidly.

“You know me, kid, I like bein’ by myself.”

That’s true, for as long as you’ve known Joel, he’s been alone. You know he has nieces and nephews who adore him, and your Dad mentioned a woman once, but it must have been at least twenty years since they were together. You wonder why Joel doesn’t seem to want that sort of a domestic life, surely many women would be happy to let him put a ring on them.

You walk over to the window, and watch a blackbird tug at a writhing worm.

“Have you met someone at uni you wanna be by yourself with?” you ask with a small grin, turning back to find Joel already watching you. “I heard Professor Carter’s still single.”

“She’s very intelligent,” Joel says earnestly. You give him credit for not laughing about his colleague, and suddenly you feel bad for calling her frumpy with Alva. “But I think I’ll leave her to her simulations. Why am I bein’ interrogated?”

“Sorry,” you mumble, and glance out of the window again, “just making conversation.”

“Your turn, then,” Joel answers, and takes another swig of beer. “Any frat boys catch your eye? Or frat girls?”

You glance at him, a smile on your lips, and raise your eyebrows.

“Hey, I don’t discriminate. I thought, maybe Alva…”

“No,” you answer, feeling fond of him for considering the possibility. “Alva’s a friend. The guys are…well, they’re frat boys.”

 Your voice carries enough disgust for Joel to laugh.

“Right,” he says, and his eyes are warm when they meet yours again. “Just us two loners, then."

“Cheers,” you say with a smile.

“Cheers.”

***

Joel’s cooking is a mystery to you – he loves to eat, and when he does cook, it’s always delicious, but he only ever makes one of five dishes. Again, that practicality shining through. Why try something new if you’ve perfected your routine? He made pasta for you, wasn’t sure if you’re still vegetarian and makin’ your Dad’s hair fall out, and you smile into the neck of your beer bottle, when you watch him drizzle dressing onto a carefully arranged side-salad. Throughout dinner, you tell him how much you love it at least five times, because you can tell he put effort into the meal. You know it’s not technically a date, but having a dinner he made just for you, in his home – it feels like one.

You steer the conversation away from heavy topics like your parents. Although Joel offered you this evening to make you feel better, you want to spend it with him rather than in your head, so you ask him about books and music, about his lectures, about Tommy and the kids. You like watching how his face lights up whenever he talks about something he particularly loves. Joel is a quiet man, but you found out years ago it isn’t shyness, but a disinterest in most mundane topics – he doesn’t like gossip or superficial small talk. When he tells you Tommy made him godfather of all of his children, the pride is evident in his voice, and you don’t have to fake your enthusiasm, although it amuses you, too – Tommy loving his big brother enough not to consider anyone else.

"She calls me uncle Joe," he tells you with a chuckle, "Can’t pronounce her Ls yet, but I’ve considered legally changing my name."

When you’re done eating, you help him clear the table, but when you reach for the sponge to do the dishes, Joel shakes his head.

"Let me do that later, kid. You wanna watch a movie?"

So the two of you plop down on the couch with a bag of M&Ms and another round of beer, and Joel hands you the remote.

"Go wild," he says, chuckling when you excitedly turn on he TV to open Netflix.

"Wow, a streaming service? I thought you’d just hoard DVDs for the rest of your life."

Joel huffs, and instead of answering, he leans forward, and reaches for something under his couch table. When he turns his head, he’s got glasses on his face, thick-rimmed and black, and so startlingly sexy, you almost drop the remote.

"You…you’ve got glasses?"

"Yeah," he answers, his eyes meeting yours, and you swallow. "When your eyesight deteriorates, that’s when you know you’re gettin’ old."

You hum but don’t answer, just hold his gaze for a second and look back to the screen. You try to ignore the familiar pang in your stomach at the sight of Joel in his new glasses, and skip through movie after movie, mumbling seen it, seen it, that one sucks, seen it, until Joel reaches over and snatches the remote from you.

"Hey–"

"I can’t read anything if you skip through them that quickly."

"You’re not supposed to read, you’re supposed to go with the vibe of the cover."

He glances at you with furrowed brows.

"Okay, sorry, didn’t know you’re a filmbro," you grumble, but it’s almost entirely fake – you couldn’t be annoyed with him, not when he pushes his glasses up his nose, and carefully considers which button to press on the remote.

"I don’t know what that means," he answers, and starts reading the description of a romantic comedy about Christmas.

"I’m not watching that."

"You don’t even know what it’s about."

"It’s September, Joel."

He huffs again, but finally reaches the horror movies. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take the two of you long to pick one, and the thought of two hours of brainless, scary entertainment on a couch with Joel makes you practically melt into his couch.

You can feel Joel’s eyes on you during the opening credits, so you glance over and he smiles.

"Comfy?" he asks, his voice hoarse from relaxation.

"Yeah," you answer, and smile when hands you a blanket. He’s not exactly close to you, but it still feels a little intimate when you spread the blanket out and offer him the other end. He moves over a little, so that the blanket covers his legs, and when you concentrate you can feel his body heat next to you, so you try hard not to – and instead get lost in the movie.

It’s not particularly good, but the story does get under your skin a little, and when there’s an unexpected shriek, you violently jump and instinctively move closer to Joel. He chuckles, but doesn’t give any reaction to your arm suddenly pressing against his. He doesn’t move away, either, so you don’t, fear suddenly not being the only thing bubbling up in your stomach.

"Jesus," you mumble, the creeping music making you anticipate another jumpscare. You’re right, it does come, but prepared though you are, you still wince, and turn away from the screen slightly. Out of sight, out of mind. Joel turns around, too, and when he sees your widened eyes, he grins.

"How’s that Christmas movie lookin’ now?"

"I’m not scared," you say, and there is some truth to it, "I’m just not good with jumpscares."

When the next one comes, you can’t help it, you clutch his arm next to you, your nails digging into his firm muscle, and Joel glances at you again.

"Sorry," you say quickly, letting go of his forearm now marked with five tiny crescent shapes. "Jesus, Joel, sorry."

"It’s fine," he says, and the amusement is evident in his voice, "you sure you’re into this? There might be some cartoons–"

He stops talking when you glare at him, but his mouth is twitching under his beard. You’re determined to watch the entire movie, and you try not to let any reaction show, wanting to prove Joel wrong.

There is one particularly scary scene – it’s not necessarily violent, but the music and shaky camera movements make your pulse race, and you turn your head slightly, so as to look at something else. Joel glances at you again, but he doesn’t laugh this time, just puts a heavy hand on your shoulder. It’s grounding, the warmth of it, how his thumb digs into your muscle and his fingers spread out over your back and neck.

"You don’t gotta force yourself to watch this, kid," Joel says gently, all teasing humor gone.

"No," you say stubbornly, but move even closer to him. His touch is a welcome distraction from the movie, and although you know it’s stupid and reckless, you lean into him, and Joel puts his arm around you. It’s closer than you’ve been to him except for hugging, and your heartbeat starts to quicken for all the wrong, non-horror reasons. When you flinch, Joel tugs you against his side, and it feels natural to hide your face in his shoulder.

He was never touchy with you, or anyone for that matter, so something must have changed. You wonder if he’s trying to comfort you, or if you might not be the only one who can feel that strange pull between the two of you.

When the movie ends, Joel regrettably removes his arm from around your shoulders to switch off the TV, and although you’re slightly disappointed, you scold yourself for expecting something else.

"Not bad," Joel says with a small smile, and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Very brave."

You scoff, but feel the corners of your mouth twitching, too.

"I used to be less of a wimp, but I guess you soften with age."

"You’re twenty-three," Joel argues, "that’s young."

Yeah, too young. Too young to lean over and kiss him, or climb into his lap, or expect anything other than paternal care when he’s got his arm around you. You look at your lap, all of a sudden feeling stupid and silly for having dreamed up an absurd fantasy about the man in front of you.

"Hey," Joel says gently, "what’s wrong?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, "nothing, I had a really great evening. Thanks, Joel."

You can tell you’ve confused him, but he nods, doesn’t question your sudden change of mood, and stands when you get up from the couch.

"Anytime, kid. You call me if you’re havin’ a bad time, alright? My door’s always open."

He’s so kind, so recklessly, stupidly, lovingly kind, and all of it is directed at you. You curse yourself for it, but again you feel that familiar burn in your eyes. Joel reaches out and easily pulls you towards his big body, hugging you the way he did in his office just this afternoon. He doesn’t ask you what brought on your tears, just lets you cry into his Led Zeppelin shirt that smells so much like home, like a childhood you won’t get back to. You remember whiffs of that smell when you were watching movies on his couch while he was at work, too pissed off at your parents to spend the summer at home. This scent was there when you attended a neighborhood barbecue after fighting with your father and Joel grilled some vegan sausages for you without comment or question. He’s always looked out for you like this, quietly, without demanding an explanation, just a solid, comforting presence in your life.

Your tears stop after a couple of minutes, and you take a step away from Joel, wiping your face. He looks so worried again, brows all furrowed and arms hanging limply at his side. Didn’t he flirt with you, though? Didn’t he prepare dinner for you the way a date would, ask you about your dating life, ask you to coffee? You don’t think you would be able to handle another evening like this one not knowing what Joel really thinks, so in a moment of hazy recklessness, you lean up.

His eyes meet yours, all warm and strangely unguarded, but before your lips brush his, a hand on your shoulder stops you. Without saying something, you move away from him, and nod to yourself, his reaction all the information you needed.

"Sorry," you say very quietly, not managing much else now that you’ve humiliated yourself in front of the only person you really know in a six hundred mile radius. Joel runs a hand through his soft hair, and inhales deeply.

"No," he says, his voice a little strained, "no, don’t be. I just…Jesus, kid."

He rubs his palm over his beard in such a familiar way, your chest aches a little. It’s ridiculous how much you want to touch his face, to feel him again, skin on skin. So you don’t turn and run the way your embarrassed heart is telling you to, just watch him collect his thoughts, standing in front of him like a wet and beaten dog.

"Look," he begins, "I won’t say I’m not flattered, but that’s…it’s a bad fuckin’ idea. It’s…it’s chaos, and on top of that most people would argue it’s wrong."

You swallow. You know all of this, have turned it over in your head ever since you stared at Joel’s rolled up sleeves for two hours on that first Monday, but hearing him say it makes your stomach churn.

"Yeah," you mutter, and trace Joel’s shadow with the very tip of your foot, "yeah, of course. Sorry I put you in that position, wasn’t right."

Your face still feels puffy, and you know you’re probably all red and pathetic looking, begging Joel for scraps of his attention, but all of a sudden, he lifts his hand up to your face, and cups it in his broad palm. His thumb strokes your cheek, and when you meet his eye, the expression on his face is tender.

"It’s alright," he tells you softly, "I can see you worryin’ at the speed of light in that pretty head of yours."

Something in your chest flutters at his words, at the rough and warm cadence of his voice. He reads you so easily, one turn of your head and he knows you’re lost to your thoughts.

"I shouldn’t have let myself toy with this idea," he continues, and your stomach flips. "I should’ve realized you’d pick up on it. It’s on me, alright? It’s on me not to start anythin’."

You can hear the implication – I’m the adult here. It’s not what you want to hear, but just the mention of Joel toying with this idea, as he put it, is enough to lift your spirits. So you weren’t crazy.

"I’m an adult," you say weakly, never having felt more like a child. Joel nods.

"You are, but I’m still in a position of power here. Be wrong, to abuse that."

His thumb is still moving over your cheek slowly, making it hard to think straight.

"So dinner and a movie doesn’t abuse it?"

You don’t want to argue, you don’t know why you keep disagreeing with him, and the way his face falls, you wish you hadn’t said it.

"No, it…it does, you’re right. Jesus, of course it does. I don’t blame ya for bein’ ang-"

"I’m not angry," you say softly, and tentatively turn your head in Joel’s hand. You press a kiss to his palm, his warm skin pressed right against your mouth. "I’m not your student, Joel. I mean, of course I am, but I know you. It’s different."

Joel’s eyes are glued to your face, and he looks so conflicted you wish he’d just throw you out of his house, if only to solve his dilemma.

"It’s still wrong," Joel mutters, his eyes glued to your lips since they brushed his skin "even if you take away the fact that I’m your fuckin’ professor. Your Dad…"

"My Dad is half a continent away and finds a way to be unhappy with whatever choices I make, so I might as well make the ones I want to."

The very first day, before you even met Joel, you decided to do what makes you happy while in university, and although this certainly wasn’t what you had in mind, you know it’s what you want. The only thing you want, in fact.

Joel sighs, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Joel, I’m not trying to…look, if I’m wrong about this, just tell me, but I feel…I just wanna be close to you all of the fucking time," you say quietly, "and it’s okay if you don’t, really. I just…I want you to know it’s not nothing to me."

Saying I don’t just want to hook up with you would feel too straight forward or crass, but you think Joel gets the gist of what you’re trying to say, and he closes his eyes briefly. You study his face behind his glasses, the wrinkles and freckles from years in the sun. You do feel anxious about his answer, but whatever it is, you’re glad you told him. It’s out in the world now, the way you feel when he holds you, and he can do with it what he pleases – you’ve handed him the reigns.

"I…I know what you mean. Me too," he says very quietly after a beat, his eyes open and looking directly into yours again.

A triumphant pang of affection pulses through you, and you put your hand over Joel’s, which is still resting on your cheek. He looks conflicted, but his other hand holds your waist now, and tugs your smaller body closer to his again. He’s solid as a brick wall in front of you, and you figure you’re allowed to touch, so you rest your hand on his shoulder.

"What am I gonna do with you?" Joel mutters, and strokes your lower lip with his thumb. If you had more guts, you’d let it slip into your mouth, but you’re still afraid he’ll pull back if you make a wrong move, so you just let him caress your mouth tenderly.

"Whatever you’d like," you answer just as quietly, and you know it sounds sexual, but you mean it in every way – if Joel wants to be nothing but your professor, you’d take it, and if he wants to keep you here in his house indefinitely, you’d let him. Joel keeps looking at you, taking you in as if he’s considering whether the risks outweigh whatever magnetic or gravitational pull the two of you have between you.

"Stay," he say after a while, and although his face looks slightly regretful, his voice is determined, "just…sleep here tonight. I like havin’ you here."

You want him to kiss you, to pull you onto his lap on the couch, to take you upstairs right now, but Joel seems to be restraining himself, so you just nod.

"Me too," you whisper, echoing his words back to him, and for just a second, his thumb digs into your lip a little harder, but then he pulls away.

"Testin’ my goddamn restraint," he mutters, and takes a step away from you. "I’ll get you something to sleep in."

***

Joel gets you one of his band tees you love so dearly, and just the idea of being enveloped by something that smells like him all night makes it a little easier when Joel tells you he’ll take the couch instead of inviting you to sleep with him in his bed.

"No," you say softly, "it’s fine, you just sleep in your bed, Joel. I’ll take the couch."

He looks critical, so you offer him a soft smile.

"I don’t know if your back could take it," you tease, and he seems torn up between laughing and frowning. In the end, he just shakes his head, mutters something that sounds a lot like bad fuckin’ idea, and gets you a blanket and pillow.

He brings you a clean toothbrush and towel, let’s you use his bathroom (you look at the shower the entire time you’re brushing your teeth, trying hard not to think about what Joel looks like using it in the mornings), and when you’re done changing, you unlock the door again.

He’s there, sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes trailing over your form in his much too big shirt. It’s long as a dress on you, coming down to your naked thighs. Joel visibly swallows and gets up from the bed.

"You got everythin’ you need?"

"Yes. Thank you, Joel."

There’s a beat of silence and you almost think Joel’s about to cross the room, but he just runs his palm over his beard the way he always does, and nods.

"Alright. Just shout if there’s…well, you know. I’ll be here."

"I will."

"Alright. Okay…goodnight, kid."

"Night," you almost whisper, voice soft, and right before you reach the door, Joel clears his throat.

"I…you were right about dinner and the movie. I wasn’t just tryin’ to be friendly," he says quietly, and your stomach swirls. Before you can walk over to Joel and do something about it, he sighs.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

***

You wake to the sound of something dripping, and when your eyes flutter open, you can see Joel’s back from the kitchen. He’s wearing his work outfit again, a white button down and dark pants, sleeves rolled up. It smells like coffee, and with a smile you realize he must be brewing his beloved coffee – no machine, just a filter. He looks broad, even from your spot on the couch, and you enjoy peeking in on him. You study his movements, the way he reaches for a cup, how his fingers absentmindedly drum on the kitchen counter while he waits.

When he turns around, his eyes find yours, and he smiles.

"Mornin’. Did I wake ya?"

"’S fine," you yawn, pulling the blanket up to your chin, not yet ready to get up. "I have classes at ten anyway."

"’S eight," Joel tells you, "Coffee?"

"Yes please," you answer, and stretch your limbs under the blanket.

Joel brings you a cup, complete with a little bit of milk and sugar, and you move your feet so he can sit down on the couch.

"Sleep well?"

You sip your coffee, let it burn your tongue and close your eyes at the taste. When you open them, Joel’s gaze lingers on your face.

"Yeah," you answer, "thank you for…you know."

He nods, takes a sip of his coffee, and looks at his lap. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s very quiet, and you feel anxiety bubbling up in your stomach.

"Joel, do you want me to leave? It’s fine if you do," you ask him softly, not wanting to make things awkward for him. It would be rational of him to ask you to leave, the smart and ethical thing to do.

"No," he answers quietly, still not looking at you, "I want you to stay."

Stay? On a Tuesday morning, after you almost kissed him and he told you he couldn’t do that, after you spent the night on his couch? When you have classes in two hours, haven’t showered yet, are half naked and wearing his clothes, on his couch under his blanket? When you’ve got friends wondering where you are and probably ten unanswered messages from Alva?

"Alright," you say, agreeing as easy as breathing.

Finally, he looks up, and his expression is so conflicted you reach out for him. Your hand finds his and you squeeze it. He keeps looking at you, his hand limp in your grasp, as if any movement of his muscles would incriminate him.

"You shouldn’t," he tells you earnestly. "Stay, I mean. You shouldn’t stay."

"I know."

You don’t let go of his hand. He doesn’t move his away.

"It’s a really, really bad idea," he adds, and you’re not sure who he is trying to talk out of whatever this is. "It’s risky. Could blow up both our lives."

"Yeah," you say, and watch him sip his coffee, "okay."

Then, a tentative flex of his fingers against yours, and finally, he’s squeezing your hand just as tightly, and before you can process what that means, Joel is leaning over you, dangerously close. Your breathing quickens, you register how soft his hair looks, how strong his hand is. He leans in further and you sit up a little, still cocooned in his blanket. His face is close to yours, his eyes fiery with something you can’t pinpoint, and you sigh, when he closes the gap between you.

He tastes of coffee and toothpaste, and you wish you’d gotten the chance to shower, but the thought disappears almost immediately when you hear Joel groan. His kisses you languidly, deeply, and your fingers come up to his beautiful arm, barely wrapping around half of his biceps. He cradles the side of your face, pulls you closer, makes your stomach clench with need. It feels inevitable, the way he touches you, like you only exist in a physical form to be touched by him.

His free hand peels the blanket off your body, lets it slide to the floor without ever stopping his the kiss, and you moan softly, when his hand touches your waist. The sound makes him break away, stare down at you, pupils blown wide.

"Fuck, you look good in my clothes," he mutters, nudging your jaw with his nose, and pressing a kiss there. "You should really, really go home."

Your head falls back slightly to give him better access to your neck, and he brushes his lips over your pulse point. Your heart skips a beat.

"I – I know," you breathe, fingers digging into his arm. His beard scratches your skin deliciously, and it takes everything in you not to whimper or beg. Joel’s hand slips under your shirt – his shirt – and instead of finding your waist again, he digs his thumb into your hip, stroking the fabric of your cotton panties. The fire in your stomach burns brighter, and you almost buck up into him. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller who until recently had a key to your childhood home, who lent it to you whenever you forgot yours inside – he’s sucking bruises into your skin, and toying with your panties. It’s dizzying, his familiar voice when he hums in satisfaction, even rougher than usually.

His fingers trace the waistband of your panties towards the front, until they find a small, silky bow, and Joel groans. He doesn’t take your underwear off, doesn’t even touch you where you need him the most, just keeps playing with the little bow, until your hips twitch without your permission. A little lower, and he would be able to feel how wet you are, how wet you have been all night. You didn’t do anything about it, not while you were a guest in his house. It would have felt wrong. You can’t imagine anything feeling more right than Joel’s mouth and hands on you, though.

"Jesus," Joel curses, "I should stop bef–"

"No," you whine, all dignity turned to hot air by Joel’s fingers, "please, Joel, please don’t stop."

He curses again, and moves his big body so that he’s not just hovering above you, but actually on top of you, your thighs falling open for him easily. At the movement, his shirt hikes up your thighs, and you know you’re basically on display for him, your soaked underwear leaving little to the imagination. He’s still fully clothed, his perfect button down all wrinkled now.

"Look at you," Joel breathes, lightheaded with desire, "this all for me?"

So he saw, when you moved to accommodate his broad form, saw how soaked you are, knows you ruined your panties just because he kissed you.

"Yes," you breathe, "yes, please–"

Before you can beg further, his finger presses down on your clit, and he watches your face contort in pleasure, as it shoots up your spine. You whimper, staring into his eyes, and he stares right back, as you start to grind your hips against his palm.

Your head feels blissfully empty, all worries about this relationship, uni, your parents, gone from you with a simple, practiced movement of his hand. The whimpers keep falling from your lips, and Joel curses.

"So beautiful," he mutters, "tell me what you need, angel."

It’s not a question, it’s an order.

"I – fuck, I need you i–inside," you groan, and Joel’s lips find yours again.

"Yeah? Need me to fuck you good, even though they’ll throw us both out?"

It shouldn’t turn you on. You’re jeopardizing both your own and Joel’s career, and he’s turning it into dirty talk. Still, your pussy doesn’t lie, and the way it throbs for him, aching to get him inside, makes all doubts disappear from your mind.

"Yes," you answer, unable to say much more as Joel keeps drawing tight circles into your clit.

Your hands drift from his arms towards his front, and Joel curses, when you paw at his belt buckle. It takes you a second, but then it’s open, the sound of the metal exciting you – it sounds like a promise.

Joel finally tugs your panties down, and for a second you’re self–conscious about not being clean shaven, but the second he sees you bare and glistening for him, his fingers dip into your folds, gathering your wetness with no hesitation.

"Fuck me," he groans, bringing his hand up to his face and tasting you, holding eye–contact the entire time, "prettiest pussy I’ve seen in my life."

You twitch under him, dragging your gaze away from his eyes and to his fingers. A moan escapes you, your hands have gone slack on his waistband, and Joel smiles down at you. Then, he does the same motion again, drags the tips of his thick fingers through your sticky arousal, but instead of sucking them clean himself, he holds them up to your mouth. His eyes burn, when you wrap your lips around them without a moments hesitation, and he feeds you your own slick.

"Taste so sweet, huh?"

You don’t answer, just swirl your tongue around his fingers, and suck on them. Joel watches your mouth intently, lets you take your time.

"Good girl," he praises you, and you clench around nothing, "so fuckin’ needy for me."

He drags his fingers from your mouth, and finally pushes into you, the stretch much tighter than with two of your own. Your head falls backwards, and Joel curls his fingers.

"No, baby, look down here," he orders, and immediately you lift your head again, and watch him pump two thick digits in and out of you. It’s dizzying to think it’s the same hand that waved to you from over his fence for years and years. You feel a coil building in your stomach, and you moan.

"Fuck, Joel," you moan, his name leaving a delicious aftertaste in your mouth. His beautiful forearm flexes with every movement, your slick is dripping down his fingers, and those damn sleeves are still perfectly rolled up.

With a few more curls of his fingers, you gush around him, barely having time to warn him, and he praises you, calls you his good girl, drags his fingers against that spongey spot inside of you until you see stars.

When he slips his fingers out of you and holds them up to your face again, you clean them up with your mouth as Joel watches with bright eyes. To think that he’s the same man who taught you Dirac not twenty-four hours ago – already, you want him inside again. When you’re done, he fumbles with his own clothes, and you watch him this time instead of helping.

"You look so good like this," you mumble, eyes raking over his broad form, "Professor."

His eyes snap up to yours, and you grin.

"Fuckin’ Christ, kid," he mutters, popping open the buttons on his shirt, "you can’t say shit like that."

"You don’t like it? You know, I watched you during your lectures and dreamed about…well, about this."

His expression is unreadable, but if you’re not mistaken, his hands move even faster now, and then he shrugs out of his shirt. You almost moan at the sight of his naked torso, so broad and solid.

"You need to pay attention in class," Joel answers, as he opens his pants. Your breathing grows a little shallow when he reveals his boxers underneath, his bulge huge.

"Can’t," you mumble, "not with you looking like this."

He chuckles at that, at the honesty and need in your answer.

"Don’t worry," he says softly, "I’ll fuck it outta you. Won’t be needing’ me in class, not if I’m still leakin’ out of you."

Your lips part, your pussy clenches – a smile tugs on the corners of Joel’s mouth at your reaction. He drags down his boxer shorts, and your eyes snap towards his cock, so thick and dripping in precum. You whimper, you can’t help it, and Joel’s smile widens.

"We’ll make it fit, baby," he says, reading your mind, and then bends down and kisses you again. You try to tug your shirt upwards, but Joel’s hands find your wrists and he holds them tight.

"No, want to fuck you in it," he breathes against your lips, and you press your hips upwards until he groans. He pumps his fist over his cock a couple of times, and aligns it with your entrance.

"Deep breath, baby," he mutters, and you obey, staring up at him as he starts pressing into you. It’s tight, much tighter than his two fingers, and your eyes glass over with pain, but Joel goes slow. His hand strokes your tummy, helps you relax, while he pushes on consistently. You feel like he’s punching the air from your lungs, eyes wide with the stretch of him, as he nips at your jaw and neck to distract you.

"Know it’s a lot, but you can take it, angel."

"Y-yes," you moan, and screw your eyes shut, "please don’t stop, Joel."

 Joel’s breathing is ragged with restraint, and suddenly his hips snap forwards – and he’s fully buried inside of your tight body, nestled right against your cervix.

"Back to Joel, are we?" he teases, and gives you a couple of seconds to get used to him. You whimper and claw at his arm.

"I – ah – I’ll call you Professor Miller ’f you want," you slur, as he starts dragging his cock out of you again. You tremble under him, the feeling almost more intense than when he pushed inside of you.

"Yeah? That get you off? Or – fuck–  is it the fact that I’m friends with your parents?"

It really, really should be a turn off, to be talking about your parents right now, but the way Joel says it, the way he points out just how debauched it is what you’re doing – you can’t help but moan. You blush, too, can feel the heat in your face, but you’re tired of being ashamed of wanting him the way you do.

"Both," you answer, and this time Joel groans, his hips snapping into you at a rougher pace. The head of his cock hits your spot every time, and you let out little sounds of pleasure with every drag of his cock, unable to form a coherent sentence. Joel’s hand finds your clit again, rubbing circles as his other one pressing down on your stomach.

"Feel that?" he asks you, and you do, you feel him all up in your guts, "you take it so well baby, take all ’f me."

"Yes," you answer, eyes glassy with pleasure, "want all of you, Joel."

He bites your shoulder, keeps rutting into you, and soon you feel another orgasm building.

"Close – ah – so close," you whimper, and Joel speeds up his thrusts just slightly. You clench around him, right on the edge.

"Come for me, angel, give it to me."

You do, your hips bucking, back arching.

"Ah – fuck, Joel, Prof–"

"Say it," Joel orders, fucking you through the waves of pleasure.

"Professor."

He comes, too, twitching deep inside of you and spilling rope after rope of come. It feels right, like you’re his. His groan is rough, his thrusts sloppy, and you feel your pussy spasm around him in a third, weaker orgasm, or maybe it’s just aftershocks from your second. You’re limp underneath him, letting him use your body how he needs to.

"Fuck," he curses, "did so good for me."

He slips out of you, and you can feel his spend drip out of you. You’re weak, soft like jelly, sweaty and entirely satisfied.

"Jesus," you breathe, when he falls down next to you, his couch mercifully being big enough.

"Yeah," he answers, "Jesus."

***

Turns out, Joel Miller is a dirty talking bastard during sex, and a big softie afterwards. He makes you tea, strokes your hair while you sip it, then carries you up to his shower and gently washes your body his his sponge. Throughout, he’s quiet, and you wonder if it was too much, the mention of him being your professor, of your parents, but you’re too afraid to ask. He brushes your forehead with his lips when he dries you off, and pulls another of his shirts over you head. Your panties are entirely ruined, it’s all you’re wearing.

When you’re clean again, and relaxed, Joel pulls you onto his bed, wrapping you up in his arms.

"Did you…was that too much?" he asks you softly fingertips tracing over your thigh lazily.

"It was just right," you answer quietly, and he hums.

"You didn’t feel like you…I mean when you called me Professor, you wanted to do that, right?"

You look up at him, and press a soft kiss against his jaw.

"Of course, Joel. Wanted everything we did, I promise."

He nods, but you can tell there’s still something bothering him.

"You know that’s not what you are to me, though, right?" Your voice is soft. "You’re just Joel."

He brushes the top of your head with his lips.

"I mean it," you press on when he doesn’t answer, "it’s like a costume, Joel. I know it’s your job, but it’s…I don’t think of you as like, an authority figure or something. I just thought you looked hot in that slutty shirt."

"Slutty–?" he sputters and you laugh.

"Sure, you know, with your sleeves rolled up, and that first button popped open."

"’S not slutty."

"You showed your forearms. Half the lecture hall felt like a victorian man seeing ankles for the first time."

Joel makes an exasperated sound, half amused and half offended.

"I mean it," you say again after beat, humor gone from your tone, "and it’s not just sex to me. You know that."

"Yeah," Joel answers slowly. "’S more to me, too."

It’s a hell of an admission.

"What are we gonna do?", you ask quietly, and Joel sighs.

"You’re gonna go to class," he says, voice dark, "and I’ll try very, very hard not to call your father and tell him I’m fallin’ for his daughter."

You bury your face in his chest. With anyone else, it would be too much, too fast, too intense. But this is Joel. It’s not fast if you’ve known him your whole life, is it? You kiss his chest, and he seems to understand.

"We’ll figure it out," Joel says quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair.

For a second you do want your parents to know, want them to see that someone does treat you like an adult, want to look them in the eye and say I’m with Joel now and there’s nothing you can do about it. I have my own life now and it includes this kind man. It’s childish, you know it is. You lean up, catch Joel’s mouth in a kiss.

"Yeah," you answer, “We’ll figure it out, Professor.”

[theodorenmyth]

Hi!!

Just wanted to start off by saying I love your writing and hope you're doing well! Also no pressure to write this fic!

I was wondering if you could do a fic where mattheo has a hufflepuff!sibling and no one really knows that they're related and when everyone finds out they're all like "WHAT!?!"

Secret Siblings

Pairings ; Mattheo Riddle & GN!reader (slight Cedric Diggory x GN!reader

Summary ; No one knew you were Mattheo Riddle’s sibling until he accidentally revealed it at breakfast. The entire school was shocked, with Pansy furious, Theo pointing out Mattheo’s protectiveness, and the professors struggling to restore order. Mattheo, however, found the chaos amusing while you were absolutely done with him.

A/N ; this was so funny in my head, enjoy :3

Warnings ; none

Word count ; 3.4k+

If there was one thing you prided yourself on, it was the fact that no one at Hogwarts knew you were Mattheo Riddle’s sibling.

You had spent years ensuring it stayed that way. It wasn’t that you were ashamed—well, maybe a little—but Mattheo had a reputation. The fights, the detentions, the way he and his Slytherin friends ruled the school like they were untouchable. Meanwhile, you were… well, you. A Hufflepuff through and through, more interested in helping first-years find their way around than getting into fights in the Astronomy Tower.

It wasn’t like you and Mattheo hated each other either. In fact, in private, you got along pretty well. He was protective in the way older brothers were, making sure no one messed with you while also respecting your need for space. It was an unspoken agreement—he did his thing, you did yours, and no one at Hogwarts needed to know you shared blood.

At least, that was the plan.

You remembered the first time you arrived at Hogwarts, sitting in the Great Hall as the Sorting Hat was placed on your head. You’d felt Mattheo’s eyes burning into you from the Slytherin table, silently willing you to join him. But when the hat cheerfully announced, "Hufflepuff!", the look on his face had been nothing short of hilarious.

Later that night, he had pulled you aside.

“Hufflepuff? Seriously?” he had asked, arms crossed.

You had shrugged. “What’s wrong with Hufflepuff?”

Mattheo groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not wrong, it’s just… unexpected.”

That was the first and last time you discussed it. From then on, it was an unspoken rule: in public, you weren’t related. You didn’t acknowledge each other unless necessary, and no one questioned it because—well, who would suspect that the hotheaded, sharp-tongued Slytherin had a sibling as patient and kind as you?

Sure, there had been close calls. That one time in your second year when Mattheo had hexed a Ravenclaw who had insulted you, or the time in fourth year when you’d patched him up after he got into a fight, and Theo Nott had almost walked in on you both.

But for five years, the secret had held.

Until today.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

It started at breakfast.

You were sitting with your usual group of Hufflepuffs, laughing about something Cedric Diggory had said, when a commotion at the Slytherin table caught your attention.

Mattheo was on his feet, eyes burning with fury as he grabbed a younger Slytherin by the collar.

“You think you can just talk about my family like that?” Mattheo growled, his voice carrying across the Great Hall.

The younger student stammered, clearly regretting whatever words had left his mouth. The entire room was now watching, intrigued by the outburst.

“Mattheo,” Draco muttered, placing a hand on his friend’s arm. “Let it go.”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened, but after a moment, he shoved the kid back into his seat. The tension slowly dissipated as people turned back to their breakfasts, whispering about what had just happened.

You, however, had frozen mid-bite.

He said ‘my family.’

You had a very, very bad feeling about this.

But maybe—just maybe—people wouldn’t notice. Maybe they’d assume he was talking about his parents, or some long-lost relative, or something entirely unrelated to you. You glanced around, scanning the students at your table. No one was looking at you weirdly. No one seemed to have connected the dots.

Yet.

“Damn,” one of your housemates muttered, eyes still flickering toward the Slytherin table. “Mattheo’s really got a temper.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” another Hufflepuff snorted. “I swear, that guy wakes up angry.”

“Did you hear what that kid said to him?” a third chimed in. “It must’ve been bad for him to go off like that.”

You kept your head down, focusing on your toast. Maybe if you acted normal, no one would—

“So,” Cedric’s voice broke through your thoughts, too casual for your liking, “who do you think Mattheo meant by ‘my family’?”

Your hand twitched.

“Probably his parents,” one of the Hufflepuff girls replied. “Everyone knows his dad’s—you know.”

You risked a glance toward the Slytherin table. Mattheo was still standing, breathing heavily, eyes flickering toward you for a split second before looking away.

He knew what he’d done.

You wanted to strangle him.

Cedric hummed, resting his chin on his hand. “Yeah, maybe. Or…” His gaze slid toward you, sharp and calculating. “Could be someone else.”

You gave him your best blank stare. “Why are you looking at me?”

“I don’t know,” Cedric said, smiling like he absolutely did know. “You just look suspicious.”

“I always look suspicious.”

“That’s true,” another Hufflepuff agreed, nodding. “You’ve got a very ‘secret double life’ kind of face.”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it, though?” Cedric grinned. “Because I think Mattheo just gave us something very interesting to think about.”

You groaned, shoving the rest of your toast into your mouth before standing up. “I’m leaving.”

“See?” Cedric laughed. “Suspicious behavior.”

You ignored him, walking as fast as you could out of the Great Hall.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

You were proven right about an hour later when you were leaving Charms and found yourself cornered by a group of curious Gryffindors.

Seamus Finnigan was the first to speak, eyes wide with disbelief. “Oi, Y/N, is it true?”

You blinked. “Is what true?”

Dean Thomas scoffed. “Oh, come on, don’t play dumb. We all heard Mattheo this morning.”

Your stomach dropped. “Uh…”

“Are you actually related to Mattheo Riddle?” Lavender Brown cut in, looking positively giddy.

You forced a nervous laugh. “You know, I suddenly remembered that I—uh—left my Potions essay in the common room. Gotta go—”

Before you could take a single step, Seamus grabbed your arm. “Oh no, you don’t! We need answers.”

Damn it.

You tried to keep a neutral expression. “Look, I don’t know where you’re getting these ridiculous ideas, but—”

“Mattheo literally said ‘my family,’” Dean interrupted. “And unless he considers some first-year a long-lost cousin, we can put two and two together.”

You swallowed hard. “I mean… family is a broad term, you know? Found family, distant family, metaphorical family—”

“Oh my Merlin,” Lavender gasped dramatically. “IT’S TRUE, ISN’T IT?”

“NO!” you said way too quickly. “I mean—no, as in, I really have to be somewhere. Right now. Urgent meeting. Important business. Secret mission. Goodbye!”

And before anyone could stop you, you spun on your heel and bolted down the corridor.

“GET BACK HERE!” Seamus yelled, but you didn’t dare slow down.

You turned a corner sharply, nearly knocking over a group of Ravenclaws.

“Hey, watch it—oh, wait, Y/N!” Anthony Goldstein called out. “You’re Mattheo Riddle’s sibling?!”

You let out a strangled noise that wasn’t quite a yes or a no and kept running.

You thought you were in the clear until you ran straight into Cedric near the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room.

“Whoa, slow down there!” Cedric steadied you, his eyebrows raised. “Where’s the fire?”

“No time—gotta go—” you huffed, trying to sidestep him.

Cedric squinted at you, then tilted his head. “Wait a second. Are the rumors true? About you and Mattheo?”

Your eyes darted around, searching for an escape. “What rumors? Who said that? I mean, what’s a rumor, really? A social construct? A—LOOK OVER THERE!”

You pointed dramatically in a random direction.

Cedric, being the nice, trusting Hufflepuff that he was, actually turned to look.

And you took off.

“Y/N!” Cedric called after you, but you were already sprinting toward the Grand Staircase.

You were nearly home free until—

“Y/N!”

Oh, for the love of—

You skidded to a stop as none other than Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini stepped in front of you, blocking your path.

“I thought I saw you running around like a lunatic,” Theodore drawled, looking mildly amused. “Tell me, why exactly is the entire school suddenly interested in you?”

Blaise crossed his arms. “Yeah, and why did I just hear a fourth-year say that Mattheo Riddle has a secret Hufflepuff sibling?”

Your face twitched. “...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow.

Theodore smirked. “You’re a terrible liar, Y/N.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “I hate this school.”

“Mm,” Blaise hummed. “That doesn’t answer the question, though.”

“I—uh—have to get to class.”

Theodore deadpanned. “It’s lunchtime.”

Damn it.

“Uh—detention?” you tried.

Blaise smirked. “With who?”

“Uh… Snape?”

Theodore chuckled. “Snape’s in his office right now. I just saw him.”

“I have to go… feed my bunny?”

“You don’t have an bunny.” Blaise pointed out.

You groaned. “FORGET IT, I’M LEAVING.”

You tried to run, but Theodore casually stuck out a foot and tripped you. You stumbled forward, cursing under your breath.

“Okay, okay!” you snapped, regaining your balance. “I just don’t want to talk about it, alright?”

Theodore and Blaise exchanged glances before Theodore shrugged. “Fair enough. But you do know Mattheo’s going to get an earful from us, right?”

You just groaned and stormed away from the duo.

Mattheo was gonna get a piece of your mind.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

By lunch, it felt like the entire school was staring at you.

Whispers followed you down the corridors, louder than usual, and students weren’t even trying to be subtle about it anymore.

“There’s no way—”

“A Riddle? In Hufflepuff? HOW?”

“Are they, like, adopted?”

“Maybe they were switched at birth.”

“WAIT. Maybe they’re, like, some undercover assassin for the Dark Lord.”

You groaned, pressing your fingers against your temples. It was getting worse.

After what felt like an eternity of being gawked at like some zoo animal, you finally found Mattheo leaning against a pillar in the courtyard, looking far too smug for someone who had just single-handedly ruined your peaceful existence.

“You absolute buffoon.” You stomped toward him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

Mattheo blinked innocently. “Me? Whatever do you mean?”

You gaped at him. “WHATEVER DO YOU MEAN?! THE WHOLE SCHOOL KNOWS, YOU MENACE. I CAN’T WALK TEN STEPS WITHOUT SOMEONE POINTING AT ME LIKE I’M A DAMN RARE CREATURE.”

He smirked. “Well, technically, you are rare. A Hufflepuff Riddle? That’s practically an anomaly.”

You threw your hands in the air dramatically. “I LIKED NOT BEING ASSOCIATED WITH YOU.”

Mattheo clutched his chest in mock heartbreak. “That wounds me, dearest sibling. Truly.”

You ignored his theatrics. “No, seriously, do you understand what you’ve done? I’ve spent years—YEARS—building a life here where I wasn’t known as Mattheo Riddle’s poor, unfortunate sibling, and you ruined it in under five seconds.”

Mattheo hummed, tilting his head. “Five seconds is quite impressive, really.”

You groaned, pacing in front of him. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Nooo,” he drawled, grinning. “You love me. I’m your amazing, handsome, overprotective, wonderful older brother, and you’re honored to be related to me.”

You inhaled sharply, pressing your fingers against your temples. “I’m going to commit a crime.”

Mattheo patted your head patronizingly. “Aw, you’re so cute when you’re mad.”

Before you could bite back a snarky response, a group of Ravenclaw students walked by, eyes narrowing in suspicion as they caught sight of you and Mattheo interacting.

“Wait a second,” one of them muttered, nudging their friend. “Are they actually—like, actually—siblings?”

The other student squinted. “There’s no way.”

A Gryffindor passing by heard this and immediately gasped. “Holy shit. They do look kind of alike. What if it’s true?”

“Shhh,” another hissed. “They’ll hear you.”

You plastered on the most forced, awkward smile in history and turned toward the suspicious group.

“Ha! Siblings? Us? What a—what a funny thought,” you said, voice unnaturally high. “Haha. Me and Mattheo Riddle? Pfft. Noooo. That’s crazy. What a—what a wild conspiracy theory. You guys should—uh—write a book about it. Haha.”

The Ravenclaws did not look convinced.

Mattheo, for his part, simply rolled his eyes at you, looking absolutely done with your existence.

“Real subtle,” he muttered under his breath.

You shot him a glare before turning back to the growing audience. “Uh—anyway! Gotta go! I left a—a cauldron burning in the potions classroom! Haha. Silly me!”

Then, grabbing Mattheo by the sleeve, you yanked him out of the courtyard before you could humiliate yourself further.

Once you were safely out of earshot, you whirled on him.

“DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT THIS MEANS?! NOW I HAVE TO DEAL WITH YOUR STUPID FRIENDS, AND THE GOSSIP, AND PEOPLE QUESTIONING MY ENTIRE EXISTENCE. IT’S GOING TO TAKE YEARS TO REPAIR THE DAMAGE YOU’VE DONE.”

Mattheo shrugged. “Or you could just embrace it.”

“Embrace it?” You let out a near-hysterical laugh. “EMBRACE IT?! DO I LOOK LIKE I WANT TO BE A PART OF WHATEVER THIS IS?” You waved vaguely in his direction.

“Come on, it’s not so bad,” he said, still entirely too relaxed.

You gasped dramatically. “NOT SO BAD?! WAIT TILL MUM AND DAD HEARS ABOUT THIS.”

For the first time, Mattheo’s smirk faltered.

“You wouldn’t.”

You grinned, hands on your hips. “Oh, I would. And I will. And do you know what’s going to happen? Mum’s going to lecture you for hours about how you should respect my privacy, and then Dad’s going to give you that look—you know the one—and you’re going to feel so guilty that you’ll regret ever opening your stupid mouth at breakfast today.”

Mattheo narrowed his eyes. “You fight dirty.”

You smirked. “I learned from the best.”

For a second, he studied you, weighing his options. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he held up his hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered. “I’ll try to make this whole thing less of a big deal.”

You eyed him suspiciously. “Define ‘less of a big deal."

“I’ll stop actively encouraging the chaos.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “That’s not nearly enough.”

“It’s the best you’re going to get.”

You groaned. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Nooo,” he said, ruffling your hair. “You loooove me.”

You batted his hand away, grumbling as he laughed.

The damage was already done, and you had no doubt that Hogwarts would still be reeling for weeks, but if nothing else, you had successfully put the fear of mum and dad into Mattheo.

And that, at least, was a small victory.

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

You should have known walking into the Great Hall with Mattheo was a mistake.

The second the two of you stepped through the doors—side by side, clearly together—the entire room went silent. Forks clattered, conversations died, and then—

“YOU’RE RELATED TO MATTHEO RIDDLE?!”

The voice echoed through the hall like someone had just announced Voldemort’s return.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” you muttered under your breath.

Suddenly, people were standing up, pointing at you like you were some newly discovered magical creature.

“No way!” a Gryffindor shouted.

“A Hufflepuff? A HUFFLEPUFF?” another voice shrieked from the Ravenclaw table.

“Wait, wait—how do we know this isn’t some elaborate prank?” Ernie Macmillan questioned, looking genuinely disturbed.

Across the room, the Gryffindor table was in utter chaos.

“Wait—hold on—WHAT?!” Ron Weasley nearly choked on his pumpkin juice, eyes bulging as he looked between you and Mattheo.

Harry Potter looked equally stunned, glasses slipping down his nose. “No—no way. You’re joking, right?”

Hermione Granger, for the first time in probably ever, was speechless. “This… this can’t be right,” she said, shaking her head as if that would make reality change. “There’s no way—”

“OH MY GOD, IT’S TRUE.” Ron grabbed Harry’s arm, gasping dramatically. “This is the biggest plot twist since we found out Scabbers was a middle-aged man.”

Pansy was the first to react from the Slytherin table, standing up so fast her goblet nearly toppled over. “MATTY, WHAT THE FUCK?” she screeched, rounding on Mattheo, who—shockingly—looked completely at ease, casually biting into an apple like this wasn’t the most shocking revelation since Dumbledore’s questionable sock obsession.

Mattheo merely raised a brow at her outburst. “What?”

Pansy gawked at him. “You—you—you’re telling me that for years, you’ve had a sibling at this school and you just forgot to mention it?”

Mattheo shrugged. “Didn’t forget. Just didn’t care to share.”

Pansy’s shriek of rage was so high-pitched that even the ghosts looked unsettled. “DIDN’T CARE TO SHARE?!”

Blaise was watching the chaos unfold with a smirk, lazily sipping his pumpkin juice. “This is hilarious.”

Draco, on the other hand, was rubbing his temples like he was getting a migraine. “Mattheo, why?”

“Why what?” Mattheo replied, unbothered. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?”

Lorenzo Berkshire repeated, eyes flickering between you and Mattheo. “You’ve been throwing punches at anyone who so much as looked at them funny, and you thought that wouldn’t raise questions?”

“I thought it was obvious,” Mattheo said.

You threw your hands up. “OBVIOUS?! OBVIOUS?! MATTY, I HAVE SPENT YEARS MAKING SURE NO ONE KNEW, AND YOU BLEW IT IN TEN SECONDS OVER BREAKFAST!”

Mattheo snorted, completely unapologetic. “I mean, it was bound to happen eventually.”

“Oh my God, I want to strangle you.”

“Sibling love,” he said smugly, tossing an arm around your shoulders.

The Great Hall exploded again.

“You two actually act like siblings—”

“How did we not see this?!”

“I feel like I’m living in an alternate universe,” muttered a Ravenclaw.

Across the room, Neville Longbottom was sitting completely frozen, still holding his fork mid-air. “I think I need to sit down.”

“You’re already sitting,” Seamus pointed out.

“Then I need to lie down.”

Dean looked at you, utterly baffled. “You mean to tell me that Hogwarts’ most violent menace has been related to the softest, most polite Hufflepuff this entire time?”

Mattheo scoffed. “Oi, don’t act like they’re innocent.” He turned to you. “Tell them about the time you hexed that fifth-year for insulting your friend.”

The entire Hufflepuff table gasped in betrayal.

“You WHAT?” Susan Bones shrieked, looking at you like you’d just confessed to murder.

You groaned. “Mattheo, shut up.”

Pansy still wasn’t over the betrayal. “I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU KEPT THIS FROM ME.”

“Why do you care so much?” Mattheo asked, unimpressed.

“BECAUSE I TELL YOU EVERYTHING, YOU ARSE.”

The professors were desperately trying to regain order, but it was not working. Even McGonagall looked exasperated, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was debating retirement.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, was chuckling into his goblet like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen in years.

Mattheo turned to you with an amused grin. “Well, now they know.”

You stared at him, seething. “You are the worst.”

He smirked. “Love you too, little sibling.”

──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ────

By the time lunch was over, you were exhausted. The whispers, the stares, the relentless questioning—it was too much. You barely managed to escape the Great Hall before someone else could interrogate you.

Unfortunately, your luck didn’t last long.

Before you could get far, a firm arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into a familiar warmth.

“For a Hufflepuff,” Cedric Diggory murmured next to your ear, his voice dripping with amusement, “you really had a dramatic reveal.”

You groaned. “Oh, not you too.”

Cedric grinned, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Come on, how could I not comment? The Great Hall was in shambles. I think I saw a first-year question their entire existence.”

You sighed, leaning into him slightly for comfort. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

“Oh?” Cedric raised a brow. “So you were planning to tell me at some point?”

“...No.”

He laughed, the sound vibrating against you. “Figured.” Then, in a much more mischievous tone, he added, “At least now we know why Mattheo always looked ready to hex me whenever I flirted with you.”

You stiffened.

Wait.

What?

Cedric pulled back slightly, watching as your brain short-circuited. “Oh? You didn’t know?”

You stared at him in horror. “Cedric. What the hell are you talking about?"

Cedric just smirked. “Mattheo glares a lot, but I always wondered why his hexing hand twitched whenever I got too close to you.”

Your soul left your body.

“Diggory,” you said slowly, dread pooling in your stomach. “How many times have you flirted with me in front of Mattheo?”

He hummed, pretending to think. “Dunno. Ten? Twenty? Maybe more?”

You buried your face on Cedric's shoulder. “Oh my God.”

Cedric chuckled, giving your waist one last playful squeeze before finally stepping away. “You should probably talk to him before he decides to challenge me to a duel.”

“Cedric,” you groaned, already feeling a headache coming.

But Cedric just winked and strolled off like he hadn’t just shattered your entire existence.

Meanwhile, across the courtyard, Mattheo was watching.

And judging by the way his jaw clenched when Cedric touched you, you were about to have a very long conversation with your brother.

[iitslera]

it was never hate ✶ mattheo riddle

english isn’t my first, enemies to lovers, angst, mutual pining

                              ──  ✦  ──

The first time Mattheo Riddle said your name, it was to challenge you to a duel.

You, a fiery Gryffindor with a sharp mind and sharper tongue, smiled like someone throwing a match into gasoline knowing damn well you might get burned, but craving the fire anyway. Since then, it became routine.

Fighting him. Arguing with him. Beating him... or letting him win, just to see that cocky smirk he gets when he thinks he’s outsmarted you.

And everyone at Hogwarts thinks you hate each other. That you can’t be in the same hallway without throwing hexes or insults.

But you know better. There’s something else. You don’t know what. But it’s there. Buzzing under your skin. Crackling in the air when he's near. Like static electricity. Like danger. Like... wanting.

Everything shifts the day Professor Binns pairs you up for a research project. "Ancient Magic and Its Connection to Human Emotion," the scroll says.

Mattheo groans.

You cross your arms. Binns floats off like he didn’t just sign both your emotional death sentences. “Perfect,” Mattheo mutters. “Teamed up with a Gryffindor with a savior complex.”

You shoot back, “And you’re a Slytherin with a tragic villain complex. Guess we’re even.”

Days pass. You’re stuck in the library together. Sharing candlelight and dusty pages. You argue, he rolls his eyes, you throw ink, he throws sarcasm.

But then… something starts to change.

The silences stretch out, the stares linger, your fingers brush his when you reach for the same book.

And his breathing gets heavier when you lean in too close. Until, one night, it finally happens.

It’s in the Astronomy Tower. Past midnight. You snuck up there because the library closed early, and you needed to finish translating a spell on soulbonding. “You don’t believe in this, do you?” you ask, pointing to the page.

“In what?”

“In unavoidable connections.”

He laughs, but there's no humor. Just… something bitter. “And you do?”

You nod slowly. “Sometimes I think… we don’t get to choose who we hate. Or who we want.” You words hang between you, thick in the air. And then he steps forward.

Too close.

His eyes are dark, wild, wrecked.

His voice barely a whisper: “I don’t hate you.”

“What…?”

“I don’t hate you, fuck—” His voice shakes. “I hate myself for what I feel for you. For thinking about you all the time. For wanting to kiss you every time we argue. And not knowing how to stop.”

Your heart practically stops. Your breath catches. And then you do the only thing that makes sense in that moment You kiss him first.

The kiss isn’t soft. It’s messy. Angry. Addictive. His hands are desperate. Your fingers tangle in his hair like a lifeline. It’s war turning into surrender. It’s silence turning into truth.

And for that one night, nothing else matters. Not the house rivalry. Not who he is. Not who you are. Just this. Just him. Just... you.

After the kiss… You don’t talk.

He left before the sun came up. And you walked back to Gryffindor Tower with trembling hands and swollen lips and a head full of chaos.

And since then? Mattheo Riddle hasn’t looked at you once.

Three days. Three fucking days. Nothing. No notes. No smirks. Not even a passing glare in class. Just silence.

And not the charged kind. The empty kind. The kind that screams: it meant nothing to him.

“I’m gonna kill him,” you mutter to Hermione in the library, practically snapping your quill in half.

“Who?”

“Who do you think?”

Hermione raises an eyebrows “Riddle? Again?”

You lie. Say it’s just the project. Say he’s annoying. Say you wish Binns had paired you with literally anyone else. But that night, alone in the Room of Requirement where you used to work on the project together…

You admit it. It hurts. Not the silence. 

But what the silence means. Until one night, you see him. Mattheo. Alone. In the courtyard, smoking. It’s 2 a.m. The moon makes him glow silver. His shirt’s half unbuttoned, hair a mess, like the night sky just tossed him here for you to deal with.

You weren’t going to stop. You were going to keep walking, pretend you didn’t see him. Pretend you don’t care. But then, he speaks. Without looking at you. “You gonna ignore me too?”

Your whole body freezes. You turn. “Excuse me? I’m ignoring you?”

Now he looks at you. And God, you hate how pretty he is. “I don’t know what you expected,” you snap. “You kiss me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive, and then you vanish. Like I was some mistake.”

His expression changes. Quiet. Wrecked. “You’re not a mistake,” he says. “I am.” You stand still. The wind cuts through the air. So do his words. “You know what’s worse than hating you?” he murmurs. “Liking you. Wanting you. Knowing I can’t have you without ruining you.”

“You’re not ruining me, Mattheo,” you whisper. “You ruin me by leaving.” He steps forward. And again. And again.

“I’m not scared of anyone,” he says. “But you? You fucking terrify me.”

“Why?”

“Because when I’m with you… I feel real.”

And then the silence returns. But it doesn’t hurt this time. Now it means something. Now it’s not avoidance. It’s a promise.

That no matter how much you try to fight it, you’ll always crash back into each other. Because this didn’t start with hate. It started with fire.

And fire always comes back.

“He’s not your enemy. He never was. He was just the perfect distraction to hide the fact that you felt too much for him to admit.”

You don’t kiss again. Not for a while, but ever since that night in the courtyard, everything changes. No more insults. No more sarcastic jabs. Something worse.

Stolen glances. Silent tension. Close proximity that feels like drowning. Professor McGonagall calls you two the most “efficient pair” in class.

If only she knew you spent 45 minutes in front of a book without reading a single word. You, pretending to take notes. Him, drawing random shapes in the corner of the parchment, right next to your hand.

And once, just once. When everyone left the classroom… he touched your wrist. His thumb brushed your skin. And you didn’t breathe for seven seconds.

The Room of Requirement becomes your secret routine. You never arrive together. But he’s always there first. Sitting in the same chair. One candle lit. A book open he never reads, because he’s too busy watching you.

Like you’re the only spell he can’t figure out. And you? You let him.

Then one night, it happens again. You’re pissed.  You saw him with Pansy Parkinson all day. Laughing. Standing too close.

“What is your deal?” you ask the moment you step into the room.

He doesn’t even look up. “What now?”

“Are you messing with me?”

He raises a brow. “Does it bother you?”

“Of course it bothers me! I’m not some game to you, Mattheo.”

He stands up, slow and steady. “You think you’re a game to me? After everything?”

“Then what am I?”

Silence.

But not the kind you run from. This one hurts. He breathes out.

“You’re my fucking weakness. That’s what you are.”

You freeze. He steps closer. Closer. Closer. “Everyone sees me as the threat. The son of the monster. And I became that. It was easier. Being feared. Untouchable.” His voice cracks barely.

“Then you came along. And you didn’t fear me. You saw me. And now I don’t know how to protect myself from you.”

So you kiss him. But this time, not out of impulse. Out of choice. Out of need. Out of something you’re both too scared to name.

And this time, he kisses you like he finally gets it. Like he wants to stay.

That night, for the first time, you fall asleep in the Room of Requirement. Together. Nothing else happens. Just you. His breath against your neck. His fingers laced with yours. There’s still a war waiting outside those walls.

But for tonight? There are no sides.

Just the two of you. On the edge of something beautiful. And terrifying.

And completely real.

[godricgryffinsnore]

Felix Felicis & Far Too Many Kisses ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x female!reader

summary : When Harry takes a dose of Felix Felicis, everything goes too right—including his relentless affection for the reader. With way too many kisses and a chaotic amount of charm, she’s left to handle a very lucky (and very annoying) boyfriend, all while trying not to fall even harder for him. Fluffy, funny, and filled with mischief.

warnings : Excessive fluff, Mild kissing (lots of it, actually), Light teasing/banter, Overwhelming amounts of Harry being too charming, Slight secondhand embarrassment, Golden Trio chaos. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. This is a drabble, i.e, an extremely short fiction.

word count : 0.6k

main master list <3

banners : @dollywons and @roseschoices

The day began with golden sunlight and a suspicious grin.

Harry Potter had taken Felix Felicis.

And you—you had made the fatal error of meeting him in the corridor between Transfiguration and Charms, where his lips were already pursed like he was about to give you a blessing. Or a headache. Or both.

“Darling,” he said, in that suspiciously sweet tone that usually preceded chaos, “Did you know the stars aligned today just for your smile?”

You blinked. “Harry. Did you take Felix?”

He grinned wider. “Maybe a little.”

“Oh, Merlin save me.”

You turned, ready to walk away before he could stick his luck to you like a stubborn spell—but you weren’t fast enough. He caught your wrist with that maddeningly boyish charm twinkling in his eyes.

“Wait, wait, just one kiss for luck!”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is today.”

Before you could retort, he leaned in, kissed your cheek, and then your nose, then your forehead, and finally your lips in a series of rapid-fire affections that left you sputtering.

“Harry!”

“I’m in love with the sound of you being flustered,” he murmured dramatically. “It’s almost as good as flying.”

“Honestly,” you muttered, cheeks on fire, “someone take this potion out of his system before I hex him into next week.”

── .✦

Later, in the Gryffindor Common Room…

Ron was trying not to laugh. It wasn’t working.

“Mate, you’re glowing,” he said through snorts. “He actually sparkled when he walked in, didn’t he, Hermione?”

Hermione, nose deep in Hogwarts: A History (abridged edition), huffed. “Felix Felicis does not cause bioluminescence, Ronald. That’s the charm of confidence radiating. Honestly.”

“Radiating like the bloody sun,” you grumbled, curled up in a red armchair while Harry attempted to fit next to you. You nudged him off. “Go be lucky somewhere else!”

But he only laughed, delight curling like sunlight on his tongue.

“You love me.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“You adore me.”

You pointed a finger at him. “Harry James Potter, if you kiss me one more time—”

He kissed you.

Again.

Right in front of Ron and Hermione.

It was warm and sweet, like honey dripping off late-summer bread, and he smiled so dreamily when he pulled away you almost forgot to be mad. Almost.

“Harry,” Hermione warned, “If you keep acting like this, Professor Slughorn will find out you’ve taken the potion.”

“I want him to find out,” Harry declared with a noble puff of his chest. “I’ll tell the whole castle I’m lucky and in love.”

Ron tossed a pillow at him. “Please don’t. Some of us are trying to keep our dinners down.”

── .✦

Much Later, as the sun set over the Astronomy Tower…

You finally dragged him up and out of the castle, hoping the fresh air would cool the golden madness burning in his veins. Instead, he spun you under starlight like the universe belonged to him and he was showing you your kingdom.

“Isn’t it glorious?” he whispered, staring at the sky like it owed him a favour.

“You’ve kissed me twenty-seven times today,” you said, arms folded. “Twenty-seven, Harry. I’ve counted.”

“I’m trying to break a record.”

You glared.

He leaned in with that dopey, dazzling grin. “Twenty-eight?”

You sighed. But there was no malice in it—just fondness blooming, soft and reluctant, like petals in springtime.

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m insufferably in love with you.”

He kissed you.

Twenty-eighth time.

You melted, just a little.

Fine. Maybe lucky potion Harry wasn’t that bad.

But Merlin help you if he ever took another dose.

── .✦

Bonus:

The next morning, Harry trudged into the common room looking like a damp sock. The luck had run out. The confidence was gone.

You smiled sweetly.

He blinked at you. “What… did I do yesterday?”

You raised your brow. “You kissed me twenty-eight times, compared my eyes to starlight, and tried to serenade me with a broomstick as a guitar. Twice.”

He groaned into his hands. “Kill me.”

You leaned in.

“Kiss me first.”

His head snapped up, wide-eyed.

“…Really?”

You smirked. “This one doesn’t count. You’re not lucky today.”

“Oh,” he whispered, pulling you in. “I am, actually. I’ve got you.”

And for once, no potion was needed.

[slytherinboysvip]

love letter.

the slytherin boys seem to have quite the crush, shame they’re too nervous to tell you face to face

mattheo riddle 𓆩𓆪 : you were sitting in class when professor snape told everyone to get their textbooks out, as you opened up the book a folded piece of parchment fell to your desk and you opened it suspiciously, smelling cologne sprayed lightly on the paper.

‘y/n, i genuinely don’t know why i can’t just approach you like i can anyone else, but i just want you to know you’re different. not in a bad way, in an intoxicating way; i want to know you, explore you. i see the way you carry yourself and it makes me want to lift you off your feet and show you how you should be treated like a queen. you’re absolutely stunning and all i ask is one chance to show you what you’re worth. -m.r’

𓆙

theodore nott ୨୧ : as you were walking into your dorm you noticed a crimson envelope laying on your bed next to a single rose, you were utterly confused as to who it could’ve been from and how they got into your dorm, yet you were intrigued. cautiously walking over to it and opening the letter.

‘cara mia, you’ve captivated me. your natural beauty is unmatched and simply seeing you focusing during potions is enough to make my day better. i swear my eyes are always on you any chance they can be and im tired of taking things slow. i want you to be mine y/n, my girl, i’ll be at your dorm tonight at seven; check your closet for your outfit. hoping you answer the door when i knock. - with admiration, theo n.’

𓆙

tom riddle 𓆘 : as you arrived at the library for your and tom’s study session; mandated by professor slughorn, you were confused as to why he wasn’t there because he was always on time. rather than seeing him, you noticed a small box on the table you usually sat at and walked over to open it up. you audibly gasped seeing a ring with the most gorgeous emerald as the stone, and opened up the letter that was under it.

‘im sure you’re quite confused and surprised as to where i am y/n, but im not good with words face to face. i find i need time to think on what to say to get my point across correctly. whether the feelings are reciprocated or not keep the ring, it’ll look lovely on your hand. as for the purpose, you..infatuate me y/n. captivate me? im honestly not too sure what my feelings are however for some reason you make me not want to ignore them. i dont say these things often or truly know and understand affection, but id be a mad man not to notice how gorgeous you are. meet me at the astronomy tower when you finish this letter. - tom riddle.’

𓆙

draco malfoy ☘︎ : as you entered the great hall you were greeted with whispering heads and smirking faces towards your direction, looking around with a confused face you slowly walked over to pansy and sat down next to her, whispering what everyone was staring at. she giggled and pointed towards the huge bouquet of your favorite flowers that held a note adorned with the malfoy family emblem. you looked at her surprised and opened the note.

‘y/n, sorry if this is too much, i honestly don’t think it’s enough but i don’t wish to bombard you with things too soon; though id do anything to make you happy. im sure you have an idea of who i am based on the emblem, but just hear me out. we’ve known one another for years and ive silently admired your beauty each on of them. i dont wish to stay silent and regret anything in the future for not giving it a chance. you’re stunning and im an asshole who’s working on things, give me a chance? owl me, love. - yours truly, draco malfoy’

𓆙

lorenzo berkshire ིྀ: it was a usual day for you until you got to quidditch practice, walking into the house tent and going to your locker, when a note fell from the inside as you opened it. it looked like simple parchment but the handwriting was almost perfect, noticing a pink tulip inside your locker as well.

‘i know this is sudden but i can’t hold back my feelings any longer y/n. i thought playing with you would just help me see you as a friend, but merlin does it only make me want you more. your beauty and agility excite me, you excite me. i find myself looking forward to seeing you any chance i get even if it’s not even bloody directly talking to you. you’re an angel y/n and i would feel lucky just to treat you to one date; and hopefully more. i hope you feel the same and if not ill change your mind darling. - your favorite quidditch player enzo’

this better not flop i put my slythussy into this

[ravenclaws-stuff]

Theodore Nott x reader

Tags: hurt/comfort, hurt in this part, established relationship, Theo makes a pros and cons list of dating you, reader avoids Theo like the Filch avoids a bath, reader is not in Slytherin

A/n: Never really wrote something this angsty before so please let me know if you like it

Part Two

Pros and Cons part one

I sigh, falling onto the bed. The aroma of ash and cedar floats around me. He is late. Theo was supposed to meet me in his dorm to study yet he is late. Theo and I have been dating for three months. I couldn’t believe it when he asked me out. I mean Theo is cold and shut off from the world except his small group of friends.

Fate introduced us, well in the shape of Slughorn. The potion’s professor assigned us as partners. First, he didn’t talk. Only answered in grunts and hums. Over time, he would chuckle at my remarks or correct me throughout our potions. We would study together in the library or the courtyard if I could convince him that he needed sunshine. Eventually, it evolved to late night talks in the astronomy tower where he asked me out.

Standing up, I look around the dorm. Not much in here. No personal touches. Books stacked neatly on his desk. I run my fingers along the desk, smiling to myself. No dirt. Theo is such a neat freak. My brow furrows as I spot a wad of paper sticking out from under the desk. I bend down to pick it up. Its probably just an old sheet of homework. I unfold it, my heart lodging in my throat as I read the words.

Pros and cons of Dating Y/n

Pros

Beautiful, so beautiful it hurt look at times

Smartm freakishly smart

Fantastic sense of humor

Kind, tutors the younger students

Loves to eat, I can't wait to cook her Nana’s special recipe

Never shies away from me

Cons

Different house

Sometimes too bubbly

Bossy

Wants a real relationship

The paper falls from my fingers, floating to the ground. Tears that I tried so hard to fight fall down my cheeks. I take an unsteady step back, shaking my head. Out. I need out. The door slams shut behind me. A real relationship? Is that not what he wants.

I managed to avoid Theo for three days before he cornered me. Well pulled me into an abandoned classroom. “Why are you avoiding me?” Theo asks, voice laced with exhaustion. The dark spots under his eyes tell me he hasn’t been getting any sleep. “I don’t know-” Theo shakes his head. “Please do not insult either of our intelligence by acting like you have no clue what I am talking about.” I gulp, walking around to sit on a dusty desk. “Amore please tell me what's wrong?” I shake my head, tears forming at the nickname. “Please?” Theo whispers, kneeling in front of me.

“I found the list you made.” Theo fliches as if I had slapped him. “W-what list?” The tears blur my vision as I will them not to fall. “The pros and cons list of dating me.”

The air between the two of us tense. “Amore please let me explain.” The sadness I have felt for the last three days turn into red hot anger. I laugh dryly. “What is there to explain? You had to make a list about me in order to figure out if you wanted to date me.” I stand up, crossing the room. I needed space from Theo. “Amore please you have to understand I was scared, terrified really. You make me feel things I have never felt before. Its not an excuse though. I should have never done it.” Theo says, standing off the ground. “Why did you?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounded. “I was so nervous about the way you made me feel. So Draco and Blaise suggested to make a list. A list of reason on what I like about you. Pansy told me it was a stupid idea.” I nod, my frown deepening. “What about wanting a real relationship? That was on the con list.” Theo tenses before before taking a step forward. “I’ve never done this before. Wasn't sure if I could handle a real relationship.” I glare at him, throwing my hands up in the air. “You asked me out remember. I am not forcing you.” Theo sighs, rubbing the crease in between his eyebrows. “Thats- that's not what I meant.” He takes another forward. “I want a relationship with you. I want this.” He says, pointing at the space between us. I nod, wiping my cheeks. “So do I but I need space. That list hurt me. You put my insecurities on a sheet a paper to not date me. Just, i'm sorry Theodore.” I say, rushing out of the classroom without sparing Theo a second glance. The sound of desks being shoved brings another round of tears to my eyes. “Fuck!” Theo roars from the classroom.

What do I do now?

[mingumis]

stupid idiot | kmg

he doesn’t care about anything, other than the slow, curling smile on your lips and the feeling of your soft fingertips, fluttering over the bruises on his knuckles. 

pairing: gryffindor kim mingyu x slytherin f!reader genre: fluff !! so much fluff! tags: little bit of blood, nothing graphic! just a load of mingyu in love being a dummy a/n: i was racing against the clock to finish this before midnight but it's still the sixth where i am, so happy birthday to our precious minguri who deserves the whole world and then some 🥹 wc: 3.0k

read mingyu and sparky's first fic here!

“I love her.”

“Oh, wonderful. You’ve finally figured it out.” 

Seokmin barely lifts his head from his desk, where he’s finishing up on a love letter to his own girlfriend, no doubt, based on the sheer amount of hearts he has scribbled onto the parchment. 

Mingyu scowls and has half a mind to march over and tear up the letter to shreds, but he actually likes the Hufflepuff that Seokmin has sickeningly dubbed his Lovey and he also knows that you have been friends with her since first year Astronomy class. 

You. Sparky. Right, there are more important matters at hand. 

“Well, then,” Seokmin pokes his tongue out in concentration as he carefully rolls up the paper and seals it with hot wax. “Enlighten me. What helped you get it into that thick skull of yours?” 

Mingyu drops his bag onto the floor and comes around to Seokmin’s side of their room, plopping himself onto the neatly made mattress. He holds out the stack of his returned and graded assignment, where the professor has notated a perfect grade in the top margin. 

His friend finally looks over to his offering, brow furrowing. “Con...gratulations? Dude, what?” 

Mingyu sighs, partly out of frustration, mostly out of defeat. “No, no,” he mumbles, rifling through the pages to land on the conclusion that he settled on that night in the library, with your help, “Just read this.” 

Seokmin gives him another dubious look but takes the essay into his hands and starts reading the words out loud. 

“To the average witch or wizard, this dilemma provides merely an opportunity to practice a simple Levicorpus spell. Being tied down to the tracks before an unstoppable force, seconds before certain death, is a trivial matter to those who hold the power to move the earth with a mere flourish of the wrist. 

“To Muggles, however, the decision and its outcomes cannot be easy. The choice of inaction might allow several people’s deaths but keep the blood off of one’s hands, while action condemns a single person to death but saves the greater many. To protect the life of a lover, one may have to grapple with the active choice of letting a stranger, a classmate, even a friend or multiple, die in their place. In the split second that exists between life and death, logic and ethics and morality fail, and all that remains is love.” 

Mingyu squirms a little as Seokmin’s voice lingers even after he finishes reading. It’s his heart, poured out onto the parchment in the neat, blocky handwriting that you’ve complimented him more than once before. His heart, that he hopes to be able to convey to you someday. It’s so obvious to him that he frowns when he notices Seokmin’s puzzled squint. 

“What?” 

“I’m still confused.”

He huffs loudly, yanking the paper back, and flops backwards onto Seokmin’s bed so that he doesn’t have to look at his friend as he declares, “I’m in love with Sparky, alright? Like, she’s my friend, but also, I think she’s incredible and smart and perfect and– I would let five people die if it means saving her!” Mingyu heaves a few quick breaths and receives no response, so he turns his head to the side, where Seokmin’s face has contorted into something crossed between a knowing grin and a disgusted gag. 

“Okay, wow. I could’ve done without the theatrics,” his friend quips, but there’s already an excited sparkle to his eyes. “Ooh, does this mean that we can go on double dates now? 

Mingyu’s heart flutters at the thought, before he realizes that he hasn’t even gone on a date with you, let alone asked you out, let alone confessed his feelings to you. Those should all come first, probably, before a double date with Seokmin and his Lovey. He turns over, shoving his face into the pillows and lamenting through a groan, “I haven’t even told her yet.”

Seokmin snorts, “Well, hop to it, Romeo.”

“Who the hell is Romeo?”

“You’ve got so much more to learn about the Muggle world, my young Padawan.”

“What is a ‘Padawan’?” 

–

You’re determined to make this extremely difficult for him, it seems. 

The first time Mingyu tries to talk to you, it’s a futile attempt to catch you as you leave your Arithmancy lecture. 

You’re traveling in a cluster within your newfound Slytherin protection squad, led by Jeonghan and flanked by Soonyoung and Jihoon. The arrangement had resulted, courtesy of Seungcheol, when Mingyu had shown up to practice late one too many times from walking you to classes to fend off the bullies. Fortunately, the three Slytherin upperclassmen had been all too happy to be given a reason to sneer at snot-nosed pureblood supremacists at the compensation rate of a Butterbeer per month. Unfortunately for Mingyu, they seem to take their jobs a bit too seriously, judging by the warning hiss that escapes Jeonghan’s gritted teeth as he approaches. 

“I’m her friend!” Mingyu protests, gaze leaping from Soonyoung, who grins, Jihoon, who shrugs, and you, who cackles into your scarf. “Also, I’m your friend!”

Jeonghan lifts a shoulder, eyes narrowing with scrutiny. “You are Seungcheol’s friend. We are, at best, classmates, and at worst, rivals on the pitch. Besides, we were told to make sure that Sparky gets to her classes in peace, without any distractions.” The Slytherin beater rakes his gaze up and down before his lips curl in disapproval. “You look like a distraction to me.” “Hear, hear!” Soonyoung pipes up, pointedly ignoring the scathing glare that Mingyu shoots his way. 

Jihoon leans into you, dipping to murmur something into your ear that makes you giggle. Giggle. 

Mingyu fears that he has unwittingly sent you straight into a den of tigers who have enlisted you as one of their own. As a last resort, he peeks his head around Jeonghan’s frame to you, pleading with a gaze that he hopes is pitiful enough for you to cave in.

You meet his eyes steadily, lips twitching into an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Gyu. We’re gonna be late to Divination. See you later?”

Dejected, Mingyu steps aside to let the group by, acting like he doesn’t see the way Jeonghan’s hardened glare eases into a languid smugness.

The next opportunity that he seizes comes in the library, during the midday tea and meditation session that you partake in with Minghao. 

Mingyu stalks his way over to the far corner where he knows he’ll find the two of you amidst the dusty stacks of Transfiguration textbooks. Sure enough, Minghao sits on a cushion on the floor, straight backed and eyes shut. You, however, have your knees to your chest and back against one of the shelves, with your nose buried into a book and sipping away at a giant mug. 

When Mingyu whistles a quick note to announce his arrival, you glance up in surprise, your eyebrows quirking curiously. Before you can say anything, the meditating Ravenclaw mutters, not even bothering to open his eyes, “Go away, Kim.” 

He startles, “How did you know it was me?”

“Of course it’s you. You’re the only one dumb enough to try and interrupt our meditation.” “Sparky’s not even meditating!” “Hey!” You growl, offended. He offers you an apologetic grin and notices you fight off your own. 

Minghao slides a single eye open, shooting the most threatening one-eyed glare he’s ever seen his way. “I know, but Sparky’s not distracting or annoying so she can stay. You, however.”

Mingyu sighs and tilts his head towards you, hoping that you’ll get the hint and follow him out of the library. Instead, you motion towards your book and tea with a sheepish shrug, leaving Mingyu to sulk. Just as he’s turning away to leave, he runs right into Wonwoo and Hansol, who have coincidentally arrived at the dark corner, matching in blue and bronze with empty mugs in hand. 

“Really?” He demands, twirling back around to Minghao, who has returned to his meditation again. 

Wonwoo rumbles out a laugh as he brushes past and takes up the cushion beside you, like it’s second nature. You pipe up a hello towards the older Ravenclaw, simpering when he pats your head to return the greeting. 

Mingyu’s stomach burns. 

Third time’s the charm, he tells himself, but the race for the Quidditch Cup ramps up and he’s being pulled into early-morning practices and late-night scrimmages. Mingyu swears he’s spent more time on a broom than on his own two legs for the past two weeks and seen more of Seungcheol, Seokmin, and Chan’s ugly mugs than your radiant face. It’s not right. 

The day of the tiebreaker Gryffindor-Slytherin match, the final chance they have for the title, they have to take breakfast before the rest of the students, so it’s a surprise when he sees you, shuffling into the Great Hall in your checkered pajama pants. You’re still rubbing sleep out of your eyes, but when you spot him, you march towards him with a conviction that doesn’t match your fuzzy slippers. 

“Mingyu.” You get right into business. “I overheard Hoon and his cronies last night, and they have something shady up their sleeves for the match today.” 

He blinks, hand halfway up in a wave, “Good morning to you too.” Mingyu finishes chewing on his mouthful of eggs as he contemplates your words. “What do you mean by ‘shady’?”

You come to sit on the bench across the table from him, tugging at the sleeves of your sweater, nipping at your lips nervously. “I’m not sure,” you mutter, wincing and leaning in closer when you notice the Slytherin Quidditch team stride into the Hall raucously, “I couldn’t get all of the words, but I feel weird. Like something bad’s going to happen.” 

Mingyu grins, shoveling more eggs and crooning through his chewing, “Aw, that's cute. Look, the Slytherins have been playing nasty for all of time. We’re used to them. But thanks for the head’s up, I appreciate it.”

A sleeved fist thumps against the wooden table, and he jumps at the dishes clattering against one another. Your forehead creases, the way that it does when you’re upset, and he falters, wondering if he’s said something wrong. 

“Just,” you seem like you force yourself to swallow down a million things you’d rather say, choosing to mutter out instead, “Be careful today, Mingyu. Please?”

“Yeah, of course. Anything for you, Sparks.”

–

Mingyu’s on fire today. 

He’s scored fifty points out of their hundred, Slytherin’s trailing back by thirty, and by the way Chan’s flitting here and there on the Snitch’s tail, the match is nearly theirs. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, victory already sweet on the tip of his tongue, he decides that today will be the day that he finally tells you that he loves you. 

As he chases the Quaffle past Seokmin, the Beater sends a particularly persistent Bludger off in the opposite direction. Mingyu flashes his friend a grateful grin and tucks into form neatly, getting ready to dive after the ball and add another goal to his name. The familiar lurch in his stomach as he drops heartens him for only a second, until he hears an unfamiliar whizzing by his ear. It only takes another passing moment to realize that the Snitch is right beside him, then another to understand that the force colliding straight into him is the SIytherin Seeker and that his broomstick has been knocked off kilter. 

Mingyu yelps, as he teeters from left to right on his seat. For a second, he’s able to grip his fingers around the handle firmly and he thinks that he’s going to be alright. Just as he lifts his head to find his bearings, another rush of green creeps up in his periphery and collides into his side. He fully loses his balance and topples over the side of his Firebolt, wind rushing up and around him violently as he hurtles towards the field. 

–

“Mingyu.”

He must’ve hit his head a bit too hard on the way down because when you appear through the flap of the medic’s tent, you’re glowing. An entourage of his friends follows closely behind, but he can only see you, making your approach towards him, brow furrowed and nose wrinkling. 

It looks like you might start crying. Mingyu has never seen you cry before, not even when you came quite close to it that one time that you received a less-than-perfect score on your Herbology practicum. He’ll be damned if he ends up being the cause behind your tears for something so trivial. 

“Sparky,” he soothes, reaching for you and wincing back when the motion earns him a twinge in his shoulder and a strict tut from the medic behind him. There’s a slight wobble to your mouth as you behold his battered state. Shit. He has to fix this right away, somehow. “Hey, I’m okay. Promise.” 

Blood from the cut that splits his bottom lip dribbles as he tries to speak, and Mingyu cringes a little at the taste of iron. Your gaze drops to his mouth and the crease in your forehead deepens. He’s thinking so hard to come up with something to say next, to ease your concern, to get rid of those tight anxious lines around your eyes, but you beat him to it. 

“Episkey.” 

His lip warms and then grows cold within a split second, and when he reaches up with his uninjured arm, the cut has faded, leaving only a smudge of blood against the back of his hand. Mingyu smiles dopily, pleased to have been on the receiving end of your spell, as warm and gentle as a sunshower. 

“Thanks–”

“I cannot believe you, Kim Mingyu.” You mutter, more to the ground than to him, but he can hear the strain in your throat as you try to keep the tears at bay. “I told you to be careful. I told you that they’re going to play dirty today.” There’s frustration, anger, fear in your voice, and despite his efforts to prevent it, a single tear falls from your lashes. 

Mingyu’s chest squeezes. His head, reeling as it is already, cannot keep up with his tongue, and before he realizes, he’s blabbing everything that’s been on his mind for days, everything that made him lose his concentration and fall in the first place. 

“I’m sorry. Please don’t cry. I love you, like, I like you so much that I’ve been trying to tell you, but my friends are such assholes sometimes and they made it so hard for me to talk to you. I’m sorry. I like you. I love you. Don’t cry, please.” 

Your face scrunches up entirely, which is the total opposite effect he was going for. Maybe he read the signs wrong, maybe you just see him as a good friend after all, maybe falling off of his broom in front of the entire student class in one of the most important matches for the Quidditch Cup has made him lose all potential chances he ever had with you. 

Mingyu withers as he quietly watches you work through his outburst. He watches as you hurriedly wipe at your teary eyes with quivering fists. He watches as you sniff loudly and stifle down the hiccups that have started up in your throat. He watches as you tilt your head back to blink rapidly at the lights overhead. He watches as you finally look straight at him since you’ve entered the tent, breath hitching ever so slightly as you dial up to say something. 

“You’re so ridiculous.” 

Yeah, he figured as much. Mingyu grimaces, desperately trying to swallow away the bitter taste that rises in his mouth, so that he can take this all in stride and pretend like he didn’t just bare his bleeding heart in front of not only you but his friends and the medic as well. He blinks hard, once, and when he can see again, you’ve come to a crouch before his chair, trembling hands grabbing at his, looking up at him with those pretty, albeit weepy, eyes.

“I love you too, stupid Gyu,” your voice tremors and escapes in a warble, as if you’re dazed to admit it out loud, “I’ve been in love with you since first year, stupid.” 

There’s an eruption of noise outside of the tent coming from the pitch and the bleachers, one of the Seekers must have caught the Snitch, but there’s nothing Mingyu can hear over the roaring in his ears. Blood rushes in every capillary in his head, it seems, as he feels rapid heat prickling up his neck, his cheeks, the damned tips of his ears.

He won’t ever admit it to anyone, but at this moment, he can’t be bothered to find out which of the teams outside has won the match. He doesn’t care that his stupidity might’ve singlehandedly yanked the Quidditch Cup from Gryffindor’s hands and placed it into Slytherin’s. He doesn’t care that Wonwoo and Minghao are standing just a few feet behind you, slapping Galleons into each other’s palms and snickering about it. 

He doesn’t care about anything, other than the slow, curling smile on your lips and the feeling of your soft fingertips, fluttering over the bruises on his knuckles. 

–

“And this year’s Inter-House Quidditch Cup goes to Gryffindor House!” 

The table explodes into cheers as Seungcheol lifts the trophy, gleaming and massive, above his head. Seokmin thumps Chan hard on the back until their youngest teammate chokes on his saliva and complains loudly. Mingyu throws his hands up as he celebrates, and immediately, his relocated shoulder twinges in protest. 

He cringes at the pain, gaze darting all the way across the Great Hall. At the Slytherin table which has broken out into jeers and hisses, his attention zeroes in on you, despite being flanked by a Jeonghan and Jihoon who look quite miffed about the loss. You’re already looking at him, eyes narrowed into slits. He knows you so well that he can imagine the disapproving click of your tongue, the way you would chide him for forgetting to keep his arm in its sling. 

Mingyu beams over what he hopes comes across as his most charming smile. He observes, and melts at, the way that your scowl barely lasts. Easy, open joy takes over your face, as you mouth out across four tables. 

Congrats, stupid.

[whizzing-fizzbee]

Okay hear me out, I thought of doing my own fic about this idea but I feel the world needs to hear this sooner and I’ve never done a fic so would be too long until this happens.

It’s an amortenia idea, but it’s like professor sharp has a personal vendetta that day. No one knows about the lesson plan and he’s got the pot sitting there brewing smelling all whatever it smells like. And like one by one students are trickling in questioning these strange scents and spilling their deepest darkest secrets and professor sharp is just sitting there with smug satisfaction reeling in the chaos he has created.

Some examples I thought of, someone who likes poppy complaining that it smells like she has been in the animal pen at beasts class all day (Jim from the office zoom to professor sharps face)

Ominis like asking the class hey wait is Anne here today? Coz he smells her perfume or something.

The classic mc and Sebastian smelling each other I’ll leave that idea to you.

Leander like smelling the greenhouse coz the loser has a crush on his teacher.

Someone who crushes on Gareth walking in thinking he has already exploded a potion.

And then there’s Amit smelling like books or something to do with astronomy coz that’s all he loves lol.

Please make this a reality 🥲🥲

Love your work btw 😍

Hi! So I love love LOVED this request. It was so fun to write these students trying not to spiral out during class, so thank you for this one!

Amortentia

Rating: PG (language) Words: ~2,500 Tags: 2nd person POV, multiple pairings, teen romance, secret crushes

Read below the cut.

Professor Sharp was a straight shooter. He valued hard work, self-discipline and intelligence. It showed in the way he ran his classroom. He expected students to be prompt, attentive and alert. He demanded effort and excellence. And he felt genuine satisfaction when his students succeeded – and impatience when they didn’t.

Sharp was a gruff, no-nonsense man. But every once and a while – or maybe just once a year – he couldn’t help but stir the pot… literally and figuratively speaking. 

Every April, Sharp chose one day to hold a special lesson for his unsuspecting seventh-year students. Perhaps it was a bit cheeky, maybe even diabolical, depending on who you asked, but Sharp couldn’t help but bask in the controlled chaos that consumed his classroom on this particular day each year.

Today was his annual Amortentia lesson. And nothing was more entertaining than watching a group of hormonal 17- and 18-year-olds fall victim to love’s sweet scent. 

Garreth Weasley was the first to enter class that day. No surprise there, Sharp thought as he watched the redhead find his usual work station. Garreth often arrived ahead of the other students to get a head start on his brews, which were often unsanctioned and illicit. Sharp knew this, but chose his battles wisely. Truth be told, he quietly appreciated Garreth’s enthusiasm for potion brewing, even when it was often accompanied by anarchy.

Garreth’s brow furrowed as he strolled into class, his nose audibly sniffing the air that wafted from the cauldron Professor Sharp had placed at the front of the classroom. 

“Why in Merlin’s name does it smell like hay in here?” Garreth asked as Leander Prewett entered the class behind him.

“Hay?” Leander blanched. “What are you on about? It smells like… soil and dirigible plums.”

“Huh? It smells like hay and corn… like the Beasts classroom,��� Garreth insisted. Professor Sharp blinked at the boys’ exchange.

“Oi!” came the sharp voice of Imelda Reyes as she tossed her books down at her work station. “Weasley, did you already blow up your brew? Why’s it smell like burning billywig stings?” 

“Oi, I haven’t done shit!” Garreth said indignantly. 

“Language, Mr. Weasley,” Professor Sharp sighed. He earned a sheepish grimace from Garreth, which drew a smirk from Imelda.

“Does it smell like the Herbology greenhouse in here?” Leander asked her. Imelda wrinkled her face at him.

“Herbology?” she repeated blankly. “Don’t tell me you’re already lusting after Professor Garlick first thing in the morning. Keep it in your pants, Prewett.”

“It smells like dirigible plums!” Leander said hotly.

“It smells like Weasley’s been concocting more of that forbidden fizzing whizzbee potion,” Imelda retorted.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Ominis Gaunt. His usual cool and calm features contorted the moment he approached, his hands feeling for the table as he found his work station.

“Was Anne here?” he asked eagerly. “Where’s Sebastian? He didn’t tell me Anne was visiting today.”

Imelda and Garreth swapped a glance. “Anne? Anne Sallow?” Imelda asked carefully.

“Yes,” Ominis replied excitedly, the glowing tip of his wand surveying the room in search of the source of the scent. “It smells like shrivelfig and dittany, like the pain management potion Anne takes. When was she here?”

“Er, she wasn’t mate,” Garreth said carefully. “It’s just been us and Professor Sharp here.”

“Ah, Sebastian, there you are!” Ominis said, ignoring the others as Sebastian Sallow approached. “When was Anne here? Why was Anne here?”

“Anne?” Sebastian repeated blankly. “Anne’s still at St. Mungo’s, Ominis. You know that. Why would she be here?”

“I can smell her,” Ominis insisted, his pale face turning pink. “She has a very distinct scent because of her potions.”

“She’s not here, Ominis,” Sebastian said seriously, his face forming a concerned scowl. “And besides, I think it smells like lavender and… is that cinnamon?”

“Cinnamon?” Ominis repeated blankly. “What in Merlin’s-”

“Good morning,” Natsai Onai said as she took the station next to Sebastian. “Why does it smell like the library in here?”

“The library?” Sebastian repeated.

“Yes, like old books,” Natsai said. The group of students shared a menagerie of confused glances when Amit Thakkar entered the room with you.

“Morning,” you said cheerily, stopping in your tracks at the familiar scent of smoke and licorice. You smiled at Sebastian, who was looking miffed about something.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, eyeing him carefully.

“Nothing,” Sebastian answered. “It’s just… Ominis thought Anne was here.”

“Anne? Here? I thought she was in-”

“London,” Sebastian finished. “Yes, she is. She’s still at St. Mungo’s for the medication trial with the alchemists.”

“Why did you think she was here, Ominis?” you asked, your stare shifting to the other third of your friendship trio.

“Because it smells like her,” Ominis said, looking exasperated. “I know it sounds mad, but it smells like her medicine in here.”

“Really?” you mused, your lips pursing to suppress a knowing smile. It was no secret to you that Ominis held a torch for Anne. You’d never mentioned it though, knowing damn well he’d be mortified if Sebastian found out.

“What’s that on your shirt?” Imelda cut in before you could tease Ominis about his secret crush. You glanced down at the front of your blouse and frowned.

“Oh, that’s just cinnamon,” you sighed as you tried to dust yourself off. “Must have spilled some on myself when I sprinkled it in my breakfast tea.”

“Cinnamon, huh?” Imelda mused. You watched in confusion as her eyes grew wide with slow, stunned realization. 

“What is it?” you demanded, but Imelda shook her head as she turned to Amit.

“Oi, Thakkar,” she said. “What’s it smell like in here to you?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“What do you smell?”

“I smell grass,” Amit answered. “Grass and leather.”

Imelda glanced at the leatherbound journal Natsai always carried around.

“Imelda, what’s this about?” you sighed.

Imelda ignored you. “Professor!” she called out with her hand raised. “What’s the assignment for today?”

Professor Sharp, who had been sitting in his usual chair at the table at the front of the classroom, sat back and stretched his legs out. It was a rare expression of casual nonchalance you weren’t used to seeing from him. 

He cleared his throat before his eyes scanned the room to confirm all students had arrived. “Class, gather around my table,” he instructed as he rose to his feet. You and Sebastian swapped a curious glance as you abandoned your work station to follow your classmates to the front of the room.

“Who can tell me what this is?” Professor Sharp asked as he motioned toward the large cauldron on the tabletop. It contained a bubbling brew that was a rich shade of magenta.

Your eyes darted around the room as you waited for one of your peers to answer. Imelda raised her hand and you couldn’t help but notice an alarming glint in her eye.

“That’s Amortentia,” she said matter-of-factly. A series of whispers rolled across the room.

“Correct,” Professor Sharp said. “Five points for Slytherin. And who can tell me what Amortentia does?”

You swallowed before raising your hand. “It’s a love potion,” you answered. “Or more like an obsession potion. It can’t actually create the true emotion of love, but it can create dangerous infatuation.”

“And?”

“And it’s said to smell different to everyone,” Imelda cut in smugly. “It smells like whatever they find most attractive.”

Your stomach twisted and you could hear Ominis swear under his breath next to you.

Eyes darted around the classroom as you and your classmates began to assess the inadvertent admissions many of you had made upon your arrival. You silently thanked the higher powers that you hadn't let slip what you had smelled.

“Say Imelda,” Leander mused. “Weren’t you saying it smelled like Garreth’s potions when you walked in?”

The satisfied smirk vanished from Imelda’s face. “Shut it, Prewett!” she snapped. “At least I didn’t walk in and get a hard-on for Professor Garlick.”

Sebastian snorted next to you. “Garreth and Imelda?” he muttered quietly in your ear, “Now there’s a match made in hell.”

“And what do you smell?” you asked casually, praying you didn’t seem too curious. 

“Nice try,” Sebastian replied with his signature half smirk as he crossed his arms. You were afraid to know the truth anyway.

Meanwhile, Ominis was looking even paler than usual. You smiled with a blend of sympathy and amusement while your eyes darted back and forth between him and Sebastian, wondering if Sebastian would realize the object of Ominis’ attraction.

“Hey Prewett,” you teased. “What’s this about you and Professor Garlick?”

You grinned as a crimson flush crept over Leander’s ears. 

“I merely find her to be a rather inspiring teacher,” he said indignantly. 

“More like you want to pull those braids,” Imelda said with a snicker.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Professor Sharp’s voice cut through the chatter. “Get to brewing. Recipe is on page 493.”

Meanwhile, Ominis looked hell-bent on busying himself with his potion.

“Need some help powdering your moonstone?” you asked kindly. Ominis seemed to sense your knowing smile.

“If you don’t mind,” he sighed. You couldn’t help but notice the way he was fidgeting with his peppermint leaves.

You eyed Sebastian for a moment, watching him tease Leander some more, to ensure he wasn’t listening.

“Perhaps you should write to Anne,” you offered softly. “I know she’d love to hear from you.”

“She doesn’t need any more stress in her life,” Ominis muttered quietly. 

“On the contrary, perhaps hearing from someone she cares for would help ease some of that stress,” you noted. Ominis seemed to mull your words over, but before he could respond, Imelda began pelting Leander with Ashwinder eggs.

It seems Leander had made a suggestive remark about Imelda fancying Garreth and was now facing the consequences.

At the front of the room, Professor Sharp sighed, though had anyone been paying him any attention, they might have noticed the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Still, he had appearances to keep up and strode briskly toward the sparring students just before Imelda could grab a fistful of Leander’s hair.

He gave Imelda and Leander detention and surveyed the remainder of the room before returning to his table up front. Natsai had busied herself with her brew, leaving her oblivious to the shifty glances she was receiving from Amit, who was looking much sweatier than usual.

Sebastian, who had been enjoying the chaos with outward glee, finally settled in front of his own cauldron to begin the assignment.

“So,” you said with careful deliberation in an attempt to appear casual. “You’re really not going to reveal what you smell?”

Sebastian offered you a pointed stare. “Can’t go telling you all my secrets, can I?” You responded with a dramatic eye roll. “Besides,” Sebastian continued, “I don’t see you revealing what you smell either.”

“Sallow, I thought you said you smelled lavender and cinnamon when you walked in,” Imelda, who had been eavesdropping, offered. She flashed an innocent smile at Sebastian, though you knew Imelda well enough to be sure it was facetious.

Sebastian’s freckled cheeks were flushed. His features tightened and you began to fear for Imelda’s safety.

“I said maybe cinnamon,” Sebastian lied. “I don’t really know what I smelled.”

“And what’s that on your shirt again?” Imelda asked you. Your stomach somersaulted no less than three times.

“It’s cinnamon,” you said carefully. “I always put it in my morning tea.”

“Oh, how interesting,” Imelda drawled as she smirked at you. “And what kind of perfume do you wear?”

“I… it’s… it’s a lavender perfume my mother gave me,” you answered.

“Lavender, you say? Hey Sallow, that’s quite a coincidence,” Imelda continued. Sebastian was looking positively distraught. You wanted to crawl under the table and hide, or find a secluded place to scream. Perhaps Professor Sharp had some poison on hand for a quick and painless death.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sebastian said simply. It was the wrong thing to say, because Imelda, when prompted, always pushed harder.

“I mean, you said you smell lavender and cinnamon in the Amortentia,” Imelda continued. “And it just so happens that your very best friend wears lavender perfume and puts cinnamon in her tea.”

“So what of it?” Sebastian snapped. You, unsure of what to make of these developments, remained quiet. What could you possibly say that wouldn't make both you and Sebastian feel like absolute and utter fools.

“Just think it’s an… interesting coincidence,” Imelda said simply before she returned to her potion.

You and Sebastian worked in excruciating silence for the remainder of the class, the scent of smoke and licorice assaulting your sense of smell as you completed your potion.

With 15 minutes remaining, Professor Sharp stalked around the classroom to observe his students’ progress. As he moved from table to table, he couldn’t help but pick up on the tension that emanated from each cluster of students.

He noticed Amit looking ill, possibly on the verge of passing out, while Natsai was locked in on her potion with alarming focus. Leander was scowling as he worked. Garreth was casting uneasy glances toward Imelda, who was still looking smug. Ominis was pretending to be hard at work, but it was clear his attention was elsewhere – like hundreds of miles south in London. 

And then there was you and Sebastian, working in silence though the tension you both carried in your jaws would have been concerning to Professor Sharp had it not been so entertaining. 

"Wait a minute," Sebastian said slowly as his head snapped up. His stare found Ominis and you shifted nervously from one foot to the other. "Ominis, didn't you say you smelled Anne's pain medication?" Sebastian asked sharply.

You held your breath as you watched the color drain from Ominis' face.

"Sebastian, look," Ominis started cautiously. "I'm not... I just- it's-"

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Sebastian demanded. An uneasy hush rolled over the entire room. All eyes in the classroom were on the Slytherin boys now.

"I'm sorry," Ominis blurted out. "I didn't know how. I didn't want you to get the wrong impression."

"But if you'd said something, I wouldn't have had to put up with listening to Anne's senseless pining," Sebastian continued.

"S-senseless pining?"

"Yes, you prat," Sebastian sighed. "Anne's had a thing for you since our third year."

Your jaw dropped. Professor Sharp fought to conceal a smile.

"Oh," was all Ominis could manage. Sebastian shook his head at his friend.

"Unbelievable," he muttered. "You really thought I'd be angry with you?"

"You do have a proclivity for irrational ire," Ominis noted. You snorted over your cauldron.

"You're my oldest friend, mate," Sebastian continued. "You're the only person I'd want to end up with my sister."

"Oh."

A sudden scuffle at the back of the room stole the attention from the Slytherins. You craned your neck, your eyes widening as you realized Andrew Larson had Duncan Hobhouse in a headlock.

"Think you're going to steal my girl?" Andrew shouted at Duncan. "Coffee and biscuits? I know you smelled her." His hold on Duncan tightened, causing the smaller boy to whimper. Andrew finally released him with a shove, sending Duncan toppling to the floor. "If I ever catch you anywhere near her, I'll curse you to Marunweem."

Professor Sharp, who had rushed toward the altercation, scolded Andrew and sent him from the classroom. Duncan, who you could swear had tears in his eyes, slunk back to his seat.

“Hey Professor,” Imelda asked suddenly, her hand raised. 

“Yes, Reyes?” Professor Sharp sighed.

“You didn’t tell us what you smell in the Amortentia.”

Professor Sharp blinked in an effort to suppress his shock. His eyes drifted over the classroom, and he was met by wide, curious gazes. He should’ve known his quiet, calculated scheming would try to catch up to him one day. He cleared his throat and retreated toward his office door. “And on that note, class dismissed.”

Sebastian gathered his books in record time, his eyes glued to the floor as he made a beeline for the door. But you were just as quick.

“Sebastian,” you said as you caught up to him. Your own eyes darted around, looking anywhere but at the boy beside you. “Do… do you still want to work on Confringo target practice in the Undercroft later?”

“Huh? Oh- right. Yes. Of course.”

“Okay. I’ll bring the snacks this time.”

“Alright.”

“I was thinking cauldron cakes and licorice snaps. I’ve been craving them.”

Sebastian finally turned to meet your gaze, his brow furrowed in a frown. “You hate licorice.”

“I know,” you agreed. “But I have a feeling I’ll have a hankering for it later. After all, that’s what I smelled in my Amortentia.”

[starryeyedwolves]

Acing It

“If I ace this exam, you have to go on a date with me.”

Remus didn’t look up from his notes. “Pads, you haven’t studied all term.”

“So that’s a no?”

Remus finally glanced up, eyes narrowed. Sirius was sprawled across the Gryffindor common room sofa like a bored cat, legs draped over the armrest, head tilted upside down off the edge. He looked ridiculous. And smug.

Remus snorted. “It’s not a no. It’s a statistical impossibility.”

Sirius grinned, rolling to his feet with the grace of someone who knew they looked good doing it. “Then what do you have to lose, Moony?”

Remus opened his mouth, then closed it. What did he have to lose? If Sirius failed, nothing changed. If—by some divine intervention—he passed with flying colors, Remus would have to… what? Go on one date with him?

He could survive that. Probably.

“You ace it,” Remus said carefully, “and I’ll go on one date with you.”

Sirius’ eyes sparkled. “Deal.”

Sirius did not, in fact, begin studying.

He did, however, become increasingly annoying.

Two days before the Transfiguration final, Remus caught him charming his textbook to float in front of him while he napped.

“That’s not how osmosis works,” Remus said dryly.

“Shh,” Sirius mumbled from the couch, eyes closed. “I’m absorbing it through my skin.”

The night before the exam, he showed up at the library with James in tow, both of them looking like they were being marched to the gallows.

“I’m here to study,” Sirius announced proudly, flinging himself into the chair across from Remus.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “The night before the exam?”

“I work best under pressure,” Sirius said. “Also, Evans said I can’t copy her notes, and I have no idea what the difference is between human and rabbit transfiguration.”

Remus sighed. “Do you even want to be an Auror?”

“Desperately. But I want to date you more.”

Remus blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Hmm?” Sirius said innocently, flipping open his book. “Pass me that quill?”

He didn’t think Sirius would actually do it.

But when Professor McGonagall handed back their exam parchments a week later, Sirius didn’t say a word. Just stared at the glowing red O at the top of his page.

Remus watched the expression on his face shift—from disbelief to amusement to something dangerously close to triumph.

“No,” Remus said immediately.

“You promised,” Sirius said, positively glowing now.

“You cheated.”

“I did not.”

“You’ve failed every practice essay this year.”

“I studied,” Sirius said, and Remus hated that he couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. “Just because I didn’t do it the Remus Lupin way—color-coded notes and caffeine-fueled all-nighters—doesn’t mean I didn’t try.”

Remus scowled. “You only did this for the date.”

Sirius shrugged. “Yeah. And I aced it.”

Remus stared at him, torn between admiration and sheer exasperation.

“Fine,” he muttered. “One date.”

Sirius beamed.

The date was… not what Remus expected.

He’d imagined Sirius dragging him to Hogsmeade, maybe to that café with the overpriced butterbeer and the velvet cushions. He thought it would be loud, and chaotic, and embarrassing.

Instead, Sirius brought him to the Astronomy Tower after curfew, a blanket tucked under one arm and a box of Honeydukes best chocolates in the other.

“This is technically a detention-worthy offense,” Remus said, looking around nervously.

Sirius grinned. “So live a little.”

They spread the blanket out and sat side by side, leaning against the stone wall as stars blinked into view overhead. The castle was quiet, and the sky was clear, and Remus kept sneaking glances at Sirius when he thought he wasn’t looking.

“So,” Sirius said, popping a chocolate in his mouth, “how am I doing?”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “At what?”

“The date. I’ve never been on one before.”

That surprised him. “Really?”

Sirius shrugged. “Not a real one. Just snogging behind statues and getting hexed by jealous boyfriends.”

Remus laughed despite himself. “Charming.”

“You’re my first real one,” Sirius said, suddenly serious. “So I wanted it to be good.”

Remus stared at him. “You planned this?”

“Course I did. You don’t woo a Moony without a strategy.”

“You studied for the exam, didn’t you?” Remus said suddenly.

Sirius looked sheepish. “Maybe.”

“For how long?”

“A week.”

“A whole week? You?”

“It was brutal,” Sirius said dramatically. “I barely survived. But I figured if I wanted to impress you, I couldn’t half-arse it.”

Remus felt something warm bloom in his chest.

“That’s… surprisingly thoughtful.”

Sirius bumped his shoulder. “Don’t let it get around. I’ve got a reputation.”

They sat in silence for a while, the sky stretching endlessly above them. Remus felt oddly content, like something had clicked into place.

Sirius shifted closer, just enough that their knees brushed. “So… would you go on another one?”

“Date?”

“Yeah.”

Remus hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yeah. I think I would.”

Sirius grinned. “Next time, I’ll let you pick the spot.”

“Next time, I’m choosing the study method.”

Sirius groaned. “Noooo. Not the color-coded notes.”

Remus laughed. “Deal with it, Sirius”

“Merlin help me,” Sirius muttered. But he was smiling.

Sirius had done many stupid things in his seventeen years.

He’d turned McGonagall’s desk into a trampoline. He’d dared James to fly through the Great Hall on a broomstick (during breakfast). He’d nearly gotten expelled for sneaking into the Slytherin dungeons with an enchanted goat.

But nothing — nothing — was as terrifying as sitting beside Remus Lupin and wondering if he could kiss him without ruining everything.

Remus was quiet, leaning back against the tower wall, his fingers curled loosely around a half-eaten chocolate truffle. The star light silvered his hair, and Sirius was fairly certain his heart was trying to climb out of his chest.

They'd already survived the first date. No explosions, no hexes, no awkward silences. Just chocolate, stars, and the occasional deadpan insult from Remus that Sirius suspected was his version of flirting.

The whole thing had felt… weirdly perfect.

Which meant Sirius had no idea what to do next.

“Are you going to keep staring at me until sunrise, or do you plan to say something?” Remus asked without looking at him.

Sirius startled. “I wasn’t staring.”

“You were.”

“Was not.”

Remus glanced sideways, one eyebrow raised in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “You’ve been making the same face you did when you realized you’d accidentally used hair gel instead of toothpaste.”

Sirius groaned. “Don’t bring that up.”

“It was last week.”

“I was sleep-deprived!”

“You had minty fresh bangs, Sirius.”

Sirius shoved him lightly. “You’re lucky I fancy you.”

Remus blinked.

Oh.

Oh.

Sirius felt the words hang between them, too soft, too vulnerable.

Remus tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Do you?”

“…Yeah,” Sirius said. Quietly. “A lot more than I expected.”

The silence stretched.

And then Remus reached over and laced their fingers together.

Sirius stared down at their hands, stupidly pleased. “So, is that a good sign?”

Remus rolled his eyes. “I’m holding your hand. In public. At night. While breaking school rules. What do you think, genius?”

“I think I want to kiss you.”

Remus flushed. “You’re impossible.”

“Is that a no?”

Remus didn’t answer — not with words. Instead, he leaned in and kissed Sirius square on the mouth.

Sirius, unsurprisingly, forgot how to breathe.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind.

Sirius didn’t realize how much of his time he already spent orbiting Remus until they started dating. Now it just came with extra perks — like sharing a blanket in the common room without pretending it was platonic, or sneaking notes during class that weren’t just about pranking Filch.

Remus, of course, was still Remus.

Sarcastic. Brilliant. Perpetually exasperated.

But he also smiled more now. Smiled at Sirius. Sometimes just because. Like Sirius himself was the punchline to a joke he wasn’t in on.

And Sirius? Sirius was gone.

He found himself doing the most absurd things just to see that smile — like sitting through an entire Arithmancy lecture just to walk Remus to the library. Or organizing his Transfiguration notes into neat little folders.

(“You made a color-coded system,” Remus had said, astonished.

Sirius sniffed. “Only because I ran out of black ink.”)

And kissing. So much kissing. Behind bookshelves, under the bleachers, once even during a thunderstorm because of course that’s when Remus finally admitted he liked dramatic timing.

They hadn’t told anyone yet, though James definitely suspected.

“You’ve been humming,” James had said one morning at breakfast.

“So?”

“You don’t hum, Pads.”

“I’m in a good mood.”

“You’re in love,” James corrected, grinning. “It’s disgusting.”

Sirius had thrown toast at him.

The next test came during the full moon.

Sirius had always known about Remus’ condition. Had helped, supported, snuck into the Shrieking Shack for moral support. But dating someone who disappeared into a werewolf every month came with its own kind of fear.

He hated how pale Remus looked afterward. Hated the way his hands shook and how he downplayed the pain like it was a stubbed toe instead of broken ribs and torn skin.

When Remus was released from the Hospital Wing, Sirius was already waiting with a blanket and three stolen Honeydukes bars.

“You didn’t have to come,” Remus said, voice rough.

Sirius tucked the blanket tighter around him. “You kidding? I missed you.”

“I look like I lost a fight with a bear.”

“You look hot.”

Remus groaned. “You’re the worst.”

“You’re my worst.”

And Remus exhausted, bandaged, achin still smiled.

A few nights later, curled up in the common room long after curfew, Sirius asked, “Why did you say yes?”

Remus blinked, bleary-eyed from reading.

“To the date,” Sirius clarified. “You didn’t have to. You always acted like I was a nuisance.”

“You are a nuisance.”

Sirius poked him in the side. “Rude.”

Remus sighed, then closed his book. “Because you surprised me.”

“How?”

“I didn’t think you’d actually try. For the exam.”

Sirius shrugged. “I wanted to prove you wrong.”

“No,” Remus said softly. “You wanted to prove you were serious.”

Sirius stared. “Was that a pun?”

“Maybe.”

“Remus.”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“You love me.”

Remus paused. “I’m not saying it first.”

“But you do.”

Remus bit his lip. “Yeah,” he said, just loud enough for Sirius to hear. “I do.”

And Sirius, heart full to the brim, kissed him like a promise.

Of course, nothing ever stayed perfect at Hogwarts for long.

A week before NEWTs, someone saw them holding hands near the Quidditch stands. Rumors spread fast.

By dinner, half the school was whispering.

Sirius was ready to hex half the castle.

But Remus… he just rolled his eyes.

“Let them talk,” he said, calm as ever. “It’s not like we were hiding.”

Sirius looked at him. “You sure?”

Remus nodded. “I spent seventeen years being afraid of what people would say. I’m tired of it.”

Sirius felt something fierce rise in his chest. Pride. Love. Awe.

He took Remus’ hand in front of the whole Great Hall.

Let them stare.

On the day of their final exam, Remus caught Sirius chewing his quill like it had personally offended him.

“Still nervous?” he asked, sliding into the seat beside him.

Sirius groaned. “It’s Charms. I don’t do Charms.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“You said that last time.”

“And you aced it.”

“Only because I was trying to impress you!”

Remus smiled. “Then pretend I’m still unimpressed.”

“Harsh, Lupin.”

“You love me.”

Sirius smiled. “Yeah. I really, really do.”

[theodorenmyth]

They have to end together🥹🥺🥹 but not without Theo literally begging for Reader's forgiveness and Reader being super mean to him 🥹🥺🥹

A Sky without You

Pairings ; Theodore Nott x M!reader

Summary ; You’re no longer the sweet, shining boy everyone knew. You shut down—silent, cold, and distant. The entire Gryffindor house and even professors worry as you isolate yourself, always disappearing to the Astronomy Tower with no light left in your eyes. Meanwhile, Theodore falls apart. He can’t sleep, can’t eat, and can’t pretend anymore. After a Transfiguration exam, he snaps—confronting his so-called friends for the cruel bet and finally admitting he loved you. To his shock, they feel the guilt too. All of them apologize, deeply, knowing they’ve broken something they can never fully fix.

A/N ; this is OFFICIALLY my longest fic yet.. ENJOY THOUGH :3 (if this flops I'm going back to writing 200 word fics.) I'll upload the continuation of this fic tomorrow because I'm actually so burnt out.

Warnings ; Emotional distress, guilt, lingering heartbreak, depression, isolation, emotional breakdowns, emotional confrontation, unresolved tension, lingering trauma, grief, guilt

Word count ; 7.3k+

It’s been weeks.

And not a single day passes where your name isn’t whispered like a fading ghost through the halls of Hogwarts. Once the boy everyone turned to—bright-eyed, always smiling, the sun in a red and gold tie—you’ve become a haunting. A memory people are too afraid to speak of too loudly.

You were the kind of person who remembered birthdays, even when others forgot their own. The kind who carried extra quills because “someone might need one,” who stayed up helping classmates study, who sat with crying first-years during meals and listened to them like their little fears mattered. You offered kindness like it cost you nothing. Because to you, it didn’t.

Now you walk the same corridors, but it’s like your footsteps don’t make a sound anymore.

You show up. You sit down. You leave.

That’s it.

No greeting.

No grin.

No helping hand when someone drops a quill or trips in the hallway.

You, who once walked slower just to keep a first-year company.

You, who once stayed behind after class to help erase the board for a tired professor.

You, who once twirled around in the snow just to see how many snowflakes you could catch on your lashes.

The portraits have stopped trying to greet you. The ones that used to cheer when you passed now fall quiet as you go by, like even they feel the weight pressing against your shoulders. The ghosts don't float near you anymore—not even the friendly ones. You don’t light up when you see friends. You don’t wave from across the library. You don’t laugh at Neville’s clumsy spills or Ginny’s sarcastic jokes.

You’re a shell. A hollow echo of the boy you used to be.

The castle feels colder.

Students murmur behind their hands, not with gossip but worry. “He hasn’t eaten in days,” someone whispers. “I saw him in the common room at four in the morning—just staring at the fire.”

Your name is now spoken with a frown. With hesitation.

“He used to help me with Herbology every Tuesday...”

“He gave me chocolate frogs once because I was homesick."

“He called the stars his best friends, remember that?”

“He hasn’t even looked at the sky.”

And it’s true. You haven’t.

You don’t go to the Astronomy Tower anymore. You don’t look up when the night sky reveals itself. You draw your curtains early and press your face into the pillow until it stops hurting—until it starts again the next morning.

Every smile you wore was carefully crafted, stitched from sincerity and softness. And it shattered so completely, no one even remembers what it looked like now.

You don’t cry. That’s the part that scares them the most. You don’t scream, don’t lash out, don’t even flinch.

You just exist.

Barely.

And the whole school feels the absence of your warmth like a cold draft no one can shut out.

You showed up to class, yes. Sat in your usual seat. Gave the right answers. Nodded at professors. But there was no life behind your eyes.

No spark.

No joy.

You didn’t greet anyone in the halls.

You didn’t smile.

You didn’t wave.

You didn’t exist—not in the way you used to.

Even Peeves, who used to adore pranking you because of how dramatically you’d react, had stopped. He floated quietly past you now, expression unreadable.

Because whatever happened to you,

It silenced even him.

“Have you eaten?” Draco asked, sharp but quiet, sitting on the armrest of the common room sofa.

Theodore didn’t respond.

He sat slumped into the far end of the couch like he was trying to disappear into it. His cheek rested against the back cushion, eyes fixed on the fireplace but unfocused—glassy and hollow, as if he weren’t really there. The room flickered with golden firelight, shadows dancing across his pale face, but he didn’t even blink. His jumper was rumpled and too thin for the cold, sleeves stretched and chewed from anxious fingers. The collar sagged. His hair was a mess. He looked like a memory wearing itself thin.

Draco frowned. “Seriously, Theo, you look like hell.”

No answer.

Blaise groaned, walking behind the couch to toss a blanket over him. “You can’t mope around like this forever—”

“Yes, I can,” Theodore rasped.

That made them all stop.

Pansy looked up from her book. Astoria stilled mid-sip of her tea. Mattheo straightened where he sat by the window.

It was the first thing he’d said in days.

“You—what?” Lorenzo asked, like he hadn’t heard him right.

“Yes,” Theodore repeated, barely above a whisper, “I can.”

His voice cracked on the second word. Not with emotion, not yet—but with disuse. Like it had been tucked away somewhere dark and cold and forgotten.

“I can rot here,” he continued, sinking deeper into the couch. “And I will.”

“Theo,” Blaise said, quieter now, gentler, “this isn’t—come on, you need to eat something. Or sleep. You’re barely human right now—”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ve been missing classes.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’ve been skipping meals.”

“I don’t care, Blaise!” Theodore snapped suddenly, sitting upright.

The outburst startled them all.

Pansy jumped. Astoria’s cup clinked against its saucer. Mattheo looked alarmed.

“I don’t care if I’m failing, I don't care if I look like a goddamn zombie, I don’t care if I die in this fucking room,” Theodore snarled, breathing hard. “Because at least if I die here, it won’t be out there, where he can see me.”

His voice cracked for real this time.

The room was silent. No one moved. No one dared.

He dragged a hand down his face. “You don’t get it,” he whispered. “I can’t even walk past the Astronomy Tower anymore without wanting to scream. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face when I—when I said those words. That moment. That exact second he realized…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t have to.

“He trusted me,” he said instead, voice shaking, “and I broke him. And for what? Six hundred fucking galleons? A laugh?”

The guilt rolled off him in waves, suffocating and bitter. He curled forward like he couldn’t hold the weight anymore.

“I haven’t seen him smile in weeks,” he croaked. “Not once. Not a flicker. I took the brightest thing in this school and I dimmed it. I killed it.”

Pansy covered her mouth. Astoria looked close to tears. Mattheo dropped his gaze.

“You should’ve seen him,” Theodore whispered. “Before me. Before the bet. He was like—like something out of a fairytale. He helped everyone. He’d stay up until four in the morning studying just so he could help a first-year through a test the next day. He knew the names of every constellation, every planet. He’d talk about the universe like it was magic. Like it was alive. And I…”

He finally broke.

The first tear slipped down his cheek silently.

“I told him I loved him under a sky full of stars and I lied.”

No one spoke.

Not even Draco.

Not even Mattheo, who was usually the first to crack a joke when things got too heavy.

“I haven’t been able to sleep since,” Theodore whispered, tears streaming down his face now. “Not when I know he probably cries alone every night and I—I did that. With my words. My mouth. My heartless—”

His voice choked off, and he slammed a fist into the arm of the sofa.

“I wish I’d never taken that fucking bet.”

Mattheo shifted uncomfortably, guilt etched into every line of his face. “We didn’t think it would… go this far. We thought you’d laugh it off. That he’d figure it out.”

“He loved me,” Theodore said, voice flat. “He loved me more than I’ve ever been loved in my life. And I crushed him. For all of you.”

None of them had anything to say to that.

Because he was right.

And they were just starting to realize how much it cost.

Across the castle, in Gryffindor Tower, things were just as broken—if not more.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting shadows that danced across the stone walls like memories refusing to fade. The chairs around the common room were half-occupied—students whispering quietly, watching you from the corners of their eyes but saying nothing. Not anymore.

You sat curled into your usual spot by the window, the one with the draft you used to complain about but secretly liked because it made the stars feel closer. You didn’t complain anymore. You didn’t speak. You barely moved. A blanket was draped around your shoulders, though you hadn’t pulled it there yourself. It was always there, every night—someone’s silent attempt to bring you comfort you couldn’t ask for.

“Please,” Hermione’s voice cracked. She knelt beside you, her hand hovering, not quite touching your knee. “Just one spoonful, love. Just one. You have to eat something. You haven’t even touched breakfast, and it’s nearly dinner.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t blink.

You hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of toast in days. And even those were forced down, dry and tasteless, with shaking hands and an empty stomach that didn’t growl anymore. It was as if even your body had stopped trying.

Ron sat on the floor behind Hermione, his brows drawn together, lips pressed in a tight line. “He’s not gonna answer, Hermione. He hasn’t said anything in days.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” she snapped, and then immediately softened, her gaze flickering back to you. “I just… I don’t know what to do.”

No one did.

Harry stood further back, near the stairs, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He hadn’t said much since that day. He was angry—but not at you. Never at you. Just at the situation. At the pain carved into your face. At himself, maybe, for not stopping it. For not being able to fix it. For not noticing that you were falling in love with someone who had only ever meant to break you.

You didn’t look at them.

You couldn’t.

Because if you did, you’d see the way their eyes shimmered. You’d see the way they looked at you like you were something fragile, something precious and cracked, and it would all become too real again.

So you kept your gaze on the sky, even though you didn’t see it anymore. Not really.

The stars—once your solace, your home, your peace—now felt like strangers. Cold and distant and cruel. You used to sit here for hours, naming constellations, tracing galaxies with your fingertip on the glass, yapping on about black holes and nebulae and planetary alignments until someone dragged you away.

Now your fingers were still.

Your mouth silent.

Your soul, lost.

It wasn’t just the heartbreak. It wasn’t just the betrayal. It was the humiliation. The cruelty of it all. The laughter that had echoed through the Great Hall still haunted your ears. The way his voice, the same voice that once whispered “I love you” under starlit skies, had gone sharp, cold, hollow as he dumped you in front of everyone like you were some failed potion.

A joke.

A bet.

Just a name on a list.

And somehow, despite all of that, you still missed him.

You missed him.

Not the version that had laughed with Mattheo and Draco while you fell apart.

Not the version that walked away without even flinching.

But the version that had held you close under blankets in the Astronomy Tower. The one who whispered stories about the stars with you. The one who let you talk for hours and never told you to stop. The one who kissed you like he meant it.

You missed the Theodore who ran his fingers through your hair just to watch you fall asleep in his lap.

You missed the feeling of his arms around you, strong and warm and protective in ways you didn’t know you needed. You missed the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles when you were anxious. The way he’d press his lips to your temple like a promise, so soft and lingering it felt like he was memorizing you.

You missed his touch.

But you never said it out loud.

Not even to yourself.

You couldn’t.

Because that would mean admitting you still wanted him.

That you still loved him.

And after everything, how could you?

You hated yourself for it. For the way your skin still itched with phantom memories. For the way your body leaned just slightly to the left sometimes, as if expecting him to be there. For the way you still dreamed about him, still woke up with his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks.

And yet, every night, without fail, you curled into that windowsill. You watched the sky. You waited for something—anything—to bring you peace.

But it never came.

Your dorm mates stopped asking if you were okay. Seamus had tried to make you laugh with one of his awful impressions of Snape, but when you didn’t even blink, he sat down and said nothing else. Dean left a chocolate frog on your bed one morning. You didn’t touch it.

Neville looked like he was going to cry every time you passed him.

Even Lavender, who usually only cared about gossip, had stopped talking about boys and started leaving little notes of encouragement near your books. You read them. You appreciated them. But they didn’t help.

Nothing did.

You moved through the castle like a ghost—quiet, present, but not alive.

The professors noticed too. McGonagall, strict as she was, gave you extra time on essays. Flitwick excused you from practicals. Even Snape, of all people, narrowed his eyes when you walked into Potions late one morning and just stared at you before silently returning to the board without his usual cruel remarks.

They all knew.

Because you weren’t you anymore.

You were the boy who used to light up when someone mentioned a meteor shower. The boy who believed in soulmates and kissed like love was the only thing keeping the world spinning. The boy who gave everything—and got nothing back.

Now you were the boy who sat in silence.

The boy who flinched when someone got too close.

The boy who hadn’t smiled in twenty-nine days.

The boy who whispered names of stars under his breath at night, not because he wanted to share them, but because he was afraid he’d forget.

Because the only time you still felt anything at all,

Was when you closed your eyes and pretended his hand was still wrapped in yours.

Professor McGonagall nearly lost her composure in the middle of the staff meeting.

“He’s failing Astronomy,” she whispered to Flitwick, her voice thin and frayed at the edges. “He adored that subject. He breathed it. He stayed after every class, even when he didn’t have to, just to help clean up the telescopes or talk about star formations no one else remembered. He used to smile so brightly when he pointed at the constellations—smile, Filius.”

Flitwick’s ears drooped slightly as he folded his hands in front of him. “I know,” he murmured. “He used to come to my classroom during breaks and ask questions about star-related charms. Said he wanted to see if stardust could be replicated magically. His curiosity was… infectious.”

Professor Sinistra, normally so composed, rubbed her arms and shook her head. “He was the only student who’d ask to stay after class just to keep looking at the sky. He told me once that the stars made him feel safe. That no matter what happened, the sky stayed the same, and that gave him hope.” Her voice broke slightly. “Now he doesn’t even look up.”

“I tried to give him an extension on the recent charting project,” she added, voice quieter. “He just left the parchment blank. When I asked if he needed help, he told me, ‘It doesn’t matter anymore.’ Then he walked out.”

McGonagall’s hands trembled on the table. “That boy has never—never—spoken to a professor like that before. Not even during his worst days. He apologized once for being late when he was ill. And now he’s failing?”

There was silence for a moment—thick, heavy silence.

Then Slughorn spoke, eyes sad behind his spectacles. “I had him in third year for Potions Club,” he said quietly. “Brilliant young man. Polite, thoughtful. He used to make these beautiful little memory vials with constellations etched into them—gave one to me after a particularly long week. Said it reminded him of his mother. Always thinking of others. And now…” His voice cracked. “He didn’t even show up for the last two club meetings.”

Snape sat across the table, arms crossed, face blank. But his eyes were hard and sharp. “He’s late to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Every day. I don’t deduct points anymore,” he said coolly, but the slightest furrow in his brow betrayed more than his tone. “He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t raise his hand. He simply exists.”

“You said he gave the correct counter-curse last week,” Flitwick offered gently, as if trying to find something good.

“Yes,” Snape replied slowly, “but he didn’t look at me once. Didn’t even react when the others applauded. It was like… it meant nothing.”

McGonagall leaned forward. “He doesn’t sit with anyone anymore. Not at meals, not in the common room. I found him asleep on a bench near the astronomy tower two nights ago. It was freezing. He’d been out there for hours.”

“That poor boy,” Professor Sprout murmured, dabbing her eyes. “He always helped my Hufflepuffs with Herbology, even when they didn’t ask. Always smiling, always kind.”

“I saw him in the corridor yesterday,” Hagrid added softly, his massive hands folded tightly on the table. “He didn’t even notice me. Just walked by like a ghost. I said his name—twice. Not even a flinch.”

Dumbledore had been silent this entire time, his hands steepled beneath his chin, expression unreadable.

Finally, he spoke, voice low but heavy with weight. “I spoke with Harry last evening. He’s tried everything. So has Miss Granger. So has Mr. Weasley. They said he doesn’t respond anymore. That he simply nods and walks away.”

There was a pause.

“Do you think… we should intervene more directly?” McGonagall asked, hesitant, as though even saying it was invasive.

Dumbledore’s gaze drifted toward the high window, where stars were just beginning to appear in the dusky sky. “There is a grief that burrows itself so deep into a person that no spell, no potion, and no lecture can reach it,” he said gently. “This is not just heartbreak. This is… loss of self.”

The staff exchanged solemn glances.

“Do we know what caused it?” Slughorn asked finally.

Snape’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

Everyone turned to him.

“Theodore Nott,” he said plainly. “It was him.”

“He broke up with Y/N in the Great Hall,” McGonagall said bitterly. “In front of everyone.”

“And it was part of a bet,” Snape added coldly. “Made by him and the other Slytherins.”

The room erupted in quiet gasps and soft curses.

Hagrid’s face turned red with anger. “A bet?! That poor lad gave that boy his heart—he was over the moon for him!”

“I believe,” Dumbledore said gently, “he still is.”

That silence came again—heavier this time. More suffocating.

“I should speak with Mr. Nott,” McGonagall said finally, standing.

Dumbledore raised a hand.

“No,” he said, voice grave. “He already knows what he’s done. He’s suffering in his own way.”

“So we just wait?” Flitwick asked softly.

“We wait,” Dumbledore said, “and hope the stars he once trusted so deeply… guide him back.”

Theodore stood outside the Astronomy Tower again that night.

Just like every night since the day he broke your heart.

Same hour. Same silence. Same ache that never dulled. He didn’t go inside—not anymore. He stood just outside the archway, where the wind howled through the corridor and the shadows swallowed him whole. The tower didn’t feel like his place anymore. It never truly had.

It was yours.

Yours, with your star charts and wide eyes. Yours, with your laughter that echoed like music between stone walls. Yours, with the way you’d twirl in the moonlight, pointing at constellations like you were introducing him to friends. The tower had felt warm once, enchanted even. Now it felt hollow. Like a tomb.

And yet, he came back.

Every. Damn. Night.

Maybe it was punishment. Maybe it was hope. Maybe he was chasing ghosts.

Maybe he just wanted to be close to you, even if only in memory.

The chill wind bit at his skin as he pulled your old star chart from his pocket. It was frayed at the edges, creased from his constant unfolding, but it still smelled faintly of you—like ink, old parchment, and peppermint. He clutched it like it was sacred.

He unfolded it slowly, fingers trembling.

The little doodles you'd drawn along the corners still made his heart twist. Tiny constellations with smiley faces, a stick figure labeled “Y/N,” one beside it labeled “Theo,” both lying under a cartoon sky filled with glittery stars. Your annotations were messy in places, but charming.

Beside the comet sketch, you had written:

“We’ll see this one together next winter. Promise me you’ll be there.”

He hadn’t even remembered the comet until now. It was due to pass overhead in December.

He wasn’t sure if he’d live to see it.

Not like this.

Every night he stayed in this spot, cold and hollow, his thoughts looping back to the same image:

Your face in the Great Hall.

When he’d said it. When he’d laughed. When he told you it was all a joke.

He saw it in every nightmare now—

Your bright smile faltering.

Your eyes going glassy.

The color draining from your face.

The way you didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even argue.

You just… looked at him like he’d killed something inside you.

Because he had.

And the others? His so-called friends? Mattheo, Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Astoria, Lorenzo… They’d laughed like it was nothing. Tossed their galleons on the table. Cheered like it was a victory.

But even they had stopped laughing now.

Because it was affecting him, too.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t joke. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t feel like himself.

He wasn’t.

He was just a shell—full of regret, sick with guilt, and haunted by the sound of your voice whispering star facts to him in the dark.

And even they were starting to see it.

Even Snape had given him a strange look in class, as if recognizing something deeper—something broken.

But Theodore didn’t care what they saw anymore.

He only cared about the one person who no longer looked at him at all.

He held the chart tighter to his chest, his breath shaky as he glanced up at the stars above the tower. They sparkled like they always had—but somehow felt dimmer. Distant. Cold.

You used to make them feel close. Like they could be touched.

Now, they were just reminders.

Of what he had.

And what he lost.

His lips parted as he whispered into the night, voice raw, shaking.

“I miss you.”

It cracked through the silence like thunder.

“I miss your voice… I miss how you talked about Mars like it was your best friend. I miss how you held my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. I miss how you looked at me like I mattered. Like I was someone worth loving.”

He stared down at the parchment again, eyes burning.

“You loved me like I was the stars, Y/N. And I loved you too. I was just too much of a coward to say it.”

A beat.

The wind whistled through the corridor.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the cold wall, letting his head fall against the stone.

“I ruined everything.”

His voice cracked.

“You gave me the universe… and I shattered it like it meant nothing.”

He paused—waiting. Hoping. Begging for a sign.

But there was nothing.

No sound.

No footsteps.

No familiar giggle from the stairway.

Just the cold, and the empty ache that he feared might never go away.

And the knowledge that he’d broken the only thing in his life that had ever truly been beautiful.

The Astronomy Tower stood the same, and that hurt more than anything.

Because everything else had changed.

You walked slowly, your hand brushing the familiar stone wall. You could feel the ghosts of what had once been—his hand clasping yours, your laughter echoing into the sky, the way the stars looked brighter just because he was beside you.

And now?

Now it felt like a tomb.

Your chest ached with every step. You hadn’t been back since that night. Since the night everything inside you died and turned to something quiet, cold, and bitter. It had taken every ounce of your remaining will to drag yourself up here again.

But something called to you.

Maybe it was foolish hope. Maybe it was grief.

Maybe it was the part of you that still whispered his name in the dark.

When you pushed open the heavy door, the wind hit you first—chilly, but familiar—and then the stars, blinking quietly, as if waiting for you to return.

You took a deep breath, stepping onto the balcony. The stone railing was cold under your fingertips, but grounding.

It was just you and the sky again.

You closed your eyes, lifting your face to the stars.

“Cassiopeia’s crooked again,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You always hated that.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I told you the stars didn’t care about symmetry. You told me I talked too much. But you never stopped listening.”

Your voice cracked. “Why didn’t you stop listening when it mattered?”

Silence answered you.

At least for a moment.

Because then—footsteps.

Soft. Careful. Familiar.

Your heart sank, and you didn’t even need to turn to know who it was.

He always walked like that around you—like he was trying not to wake you from a dream.

You didn’t move. You barely breathed.

“…Y/N?”

His voice hadn’t changed.

But you had.

You turned, slowly.

Your eyes met his—and for a moment, the world stopped spinning.

He looked…

“God,” you whispered without meaning to, “you look…”

You couldn’t finish.

Because he looked awful.

Theodore Nott had always been pale, sharp, elegant—but now he looked fragile. Like a single gust of wind would knock him over. His cheekbones were sharper, his eyes rimmed red. There were dark circles under them, the kind that didn’t come from lack of sleep alone. His robes hung looser on him. His hands were shaking, even though he tried to hide it.

And his eyes—those haunting, sea-glass eyes you used to love so much—looked empty.

“I didn’t think you’d come back here,” he said, voice rough.

“I didn’t mean to,” you replied softly, still shocked. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

He took a step closer, cautious.

You didn’t move away—but you didn’t get closer, either.

You couldn’t.

“Why do you look like that?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “What happened to you?”

He swallowed, eyes flicking away. “You.”

You flinched.

“Don’t say that,” you said harshly.

But it was too late.

You both knew it was true.

“You haven’t been eating,” you murmured, eyeing him. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

You stared at him for a long time. “Why?”

“Because I miss you,” he admitted, barely a whisper. “Because I hate myself. Because I keep hearing your voice in my head and it hurts more than anything else ever has.”

He took another step closer.

You let him. Barely.

The wind swirled around you both, tugging at your robes.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered. “I shouldn’t be looking at you. I shouldn’t care.”

“But you do,” he said quietly.

And gods help you—you did.

“Why are you here, Theodore?” you asked, voice shaking. “Why now?”

He blinked slowly, as if every word he was about to say was a struggle.

“Because I’m sorry.”

Your hands curled into fists.

“Too late.”

“I know.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because I never got to say it before,” he whispered. “Not when it mattered. Not when you were breaking. Not when I should’ve thrown the bet away and fallen to my knees in front of you.”

You stared at him, lips trembling.

“You want to say sorry now?” you asked, voice brittle. “After you made me a joke? After you humiliated me in front of the whole school? After you laughed with them like I was a fucking—toy?”

“I didn’t laugh,” he said, voice cracking. “I never laughed.”

You scoffed. “You didn’t stop them.”

“I should have,” he admitted. “I should’ve grabbed your hand and told them all to go to hell.”

“Then why didn’t you?!”

“Because I was stupid. And scared. And weak. I cared more about what they thought of me than I did about how I was hurting you.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to steady yourself.

“I told you about my parents,” you said, voice soft. “I told you about being alone. I told you how scared I was of being someone’s pity project. And you—you used that against me.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did.”

The silence between you grew sharp.

You took another step forward, now inches away.

“You killed something inside me, Theodore.”

He looked ready to break.

“And you know what’s worse?” you whispered. “I still love you. Even now. Even after everything. Even when I don’t want to.”

His lips parted, eyes wide.

You laughed bitterly. “Isn’t that pathetic?”

“No,” he said, voice urgent. “It’s not. It’s not pathetic, Y/N. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. And I—I ruined you.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “You did.”

He reached for you—slowly.

But you stepped back.

“I can’t forgive you,” you said, choking on the words. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”

He froze.

“I need you to understand something, Theo,” you said, voice breaking. “I would have given you everything. I did. I would’ve walked through fire for you.”

You looked up, eyes glassy.

“But you set the fire yourself.”

Then, quietly, “And you watched me burn.”

His breath hitched.

You stepped past him.

He didn’t stop you.

But this time, he turned too. He watched you walk away.

And when you looked back—just once—you saw it.

Tears. Real ones.

He collapsed against the balcony the second you disappeared down the stairs, shoulders trembling.

The stars above both of you blinked down in sorrow.

And neither of you noticed that the brightest one flickered out.

Theodore Nott was a haunted boy now.

There were nights he couldn’t sleep, so he just laid on his back in the cold green haze of the Slytherin dorms, watching the shadows from the Black Lake dance along the stone ceiling. His hands trembled. His thoughts did not.

Because every single thought was you.

Your voice. Your laugh. The way your eyes shimmered when you looked up at the sky and started yapping about Sirius or Mars or that little cluster of stars that supposedly looked like a cat you always insisted that one existed.

He would’ve laughed at you once. Thought you were ridiculous. Too bright for your own good.

But then you had kissed him.

And suddenly, stars had felt real.

────────────────

You weren’t laughing anymore.

You weren’t talking about constellations.

You weren’t… you.

Everyone noticed.

Gryffindor tower had turned somber. The usual energy was gone. No more jokes. No more harmless explosions from Fred and George. No more friendly morning bickering with Ron, or walking with Hermione to breakfast, or teasing Harry for being the “chosen one” with a crooked grin that made people smile just watching it.

Now?

Now you barely left your bed.

You stopped eating unless someone forced you to.

You didn’t go to Astronomy class anymore—your favorite class. Professor Sinistra even visited McGonagall personally to let her feelings out of her chest.

And she wasn’t the only one worried.

Even Snape asked.

He called on you once during Potions, something he rarely did, and when you didn’t respond—just stared blankly at the board with bloodshot eyes—he paused for a moment.

His voice wasn’t sharp. Not like usual.

“Mr. Y/L/N,” he said, quieter. “You’re excused for today. Leave your things. Go back to your common room.”

You didn’t argue. You just left.

The whole class went silent.

Because everyone had heard the rumors by now.

The whole school knew what Theodore had done. The bet. The humiliation. The way your face had cracked in front of every house like a mirror shattering in slow motion. You hadn’t said a single word to Theodore since that day.

But he hadn’t stopped looking for you.

───────────���────

“Where is he? I haven't seen him all fucking day.” Theodore snapped, slamming his hands on the table in the Slytherin common room.

The others flinched.

Blaise glanced up from his book. “Still being dramatic in Gryffindor tower, I imagine.”

“Don’t,” Theodore warned. His tone was darker than they’d heard in weeks. “Don’t you dare talk about him like that.”

Mattheo exchanged a glance with Draco. “Mate,” he said slowly, “we didn’t think—”

“Exactly,” Theodore snarled. “You didn’t think. None of us did.”

The common room went quiet again.

Theodore raked a hand through his hair, pacing.

“I—I thought he’d bounce back,” Lorenzo offered weakly. “He’s Gryffindor’s golden boy. Always so… cheerful.”

“He’s not,” Theodore said, voice hollow. “Not anymore.”

Astoria finally spoke, soft but sharp. “We did this.”

No one argued.

Because it was true.

And the worst part? It wasn’t just you that had changed.

Theodore was unraveling right alongside you.

He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. He skipped more classes than he attended. He carried your astronomy notebook around like a damn talisman, flipping through it every night like it would summon you back.

There were notes in the margins about him. Tiny doodles. Scribbled hearts. One page even had his name next to a constellation you made up—Theodon, the “prickly lion star.”

He had laughed when he saw that. Now it made his eyes burn.

He missed you so much it hurt to breathe.

────────────────

Back in Gryffindor tower, you sat curled in a blanket on the windowsill, journal unopened in your lap.

Harry watched you from across the room, arms folded.

“Talk to me,” he tried again. “Just a word. Anything.”

You blinked slowly, like you were underwater.

“Y/N,” Hermione whispered from behind you. “You’re scaring us.”

And you were.

Your hands didn’t tremble anymore.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t throw things.

You just… stared.

And that silence was worse.

Because you had never been silent.

You had always been the one to talk through your feelings, ramble about them. Even when things were hard, you lit up the room with useless facts about constellations or reminded people to breathe, smile, take care of themselves. You were light.

Now you were fading.

Hermione knelt beside your seat, placing a wrapped chocolate frog on your lap. “I saved this for you.”

You didn’t take it.

Ron shifted uncomfortably near the fireplace, staring at the floor. “He doesn’t deserve you, you know,” he mumbled. “Not after what he did.”

You flinched.

“He doesn’t,” Harry agreed.

“I know,” you finally whispered.

The three of them froze.

It was the first time you had spoken in two days.

You set the chocolate frog aside gently.

“Then why does it still hurt?” you asked, voice hollow. “Why does it feel like the stars stopped shining?”

Hermione’s eyes filled with tears.

Harry reached for your hand and squeezed. “Because you loved him.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing thickly. “Yeah,” you rasped. “I really did.”

────────────────

That night, you returned to the Astronomy Tower for the first time in weeks.

You didn’t tell anyone. You just climbed the steps quietly, hands shaking, heart aching. The door creaked open. The wind whispered like a ghost, cold and biting.

You stepped out into the night.

The stars greeted you like old friends.

You stood there for a long moment, just breathing, letting the wind whip through your robes. You remembered where you’d sat with him. Where he kissed you. Where he looked at you like you were the only thing he could see.

You knelt down and opened your journal.

Your quill trembled.

But you wrote.

You drew every star you could see. Every one you remembered. Every one he made you forget.

And for the first time in weeks…

You cried.

Not from heartbreak, but from relief.

You were still here.

The stars hadn’t gone anywhere.

And maybe—just maybe—you could find your way back to them.

────────────────

Far below, Theodore sat in the courtyard, your notebook pressed to his chest like a shield.

He stared up at the tower window, wondering if you were there. Wondering if the stars had taken you back.

Wondering if he’d ever be enough to stand beside you again.

And for the first time in his life, Theodore Nott felt like the loneliest boy in the universe.

The halls had grown quieter when you passed.

Not out of awkwardness. Out of worry.

Professors had stopped asking you questions directly. Neville tried to sit next to you in Herbology, but you barely acknowledged him. Even Lavender and Parvati, who once couldn’t stop teasing you about “your moody Slytherin boyfriend,” had learned to keep their distance. You were polite. Distant. Untouchable.

But slowly, you were reclaiming little pieces of yourself.

You returned to Astronomy class regularly, always sitting near the back. You still never spoke, but you were there. Present. Listening.

And you were writing again.

A few Gryffindors had noticed. Hermione peeked at your parchment once and saw it—pages and pages of stars, sky maps, invented constellations. She cried about it later in the common room, but didn’t let you see.

Even Professor Sinistra took notice.

She left you small things after class. A note. A paper star folded from map pages. A diagram of lunar phases that included your birthday marked with a tiny, golden moon. Her way of saying, I see you. You’re still here.

────────────────

Theodore had grown pale.

He still walked the halls with that same cool expression, that perfect posture, that quiet air—but he was hollow now. Glass-eyed. Slower. The shadows under his eyes had turned permanent.

He avoided his friends, the Slytherin common room, the Quidditch pitch.

He was grieving, even if he couldn’t admit it at first.

But guilt was a loud, living thing.

And it clawed at him every day.

────────────────

It all happened after a Transfiguration exam.

Theodore was the last to leave the classroom, trailing behind with his hands buried in his pockets and his head low. He hadn’t slept. Again. He was lingering behind while others rushed out into the corridor, buzzing about how hard the written section was or how McGonagall’s stern gaze could petrify you harder than any spell.

His footsteps echoed down the stone corridor, the usual hum of students long since faded. But then he heard them. Laughter. Familiar voices that made his stomach twist with guilt.

Mattheo. Draco. Blaise. Pansy. Astoria. Lorenzo.

They were leaning casually against the wall near the staircase, like nothing had changed, like they hadn’t shattered something unfixable. The laughter stopped when they noticed him. Mattheo's grin faltered and pushed off the wall.

“Theodore,” he called, catching his sleeve. “Oi—what’s got you in a mood? We haven’t seen you in weeks. Did the Gryffindor go all dramatic on you again?”

Theodore yanked his arm away, eyes flashing with something colder than anger.

And for once, he didn’t walk away.

He turned on his heel, slow and deliberate.

His voice was razor-sharp when it came. “What the fuck do you want?”

They stared at him.

Draco raised a brow, amused. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Theodore snapped. “Or has all that hair gel finally seeped into your ears?”

Mattheo laughed again, but it sounded forced this time. “Holy shit, what’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Theodore took a step forward, his voice a bitter cocktail of fury and heartbreak. “You’re all what’s wrong with me. You, this stupid bet, and every single time I let you make fun of him.”

Pansy blinked. “It was just a joke—”

“No, it wasn’t.” His voice cracked. “It was him. It was someone who trusted me. Someone who smiled like sunlight and helped every person he met—including you. And I let you turn him into a fucking punchline.”

The silence was crushing.

He was shaking now—shoulders tense, jaw clenched, hands curled into trembling fists.

“I loved him,” Theodore whispered, barely holding himself together. “And I destroyed him because I was too much of a coward to say no. You think I’m upset because the bet ended? No. I’m upset because I wake up every night wishing I’d never taken it. Because now he won’t even look at me. And he shouldn’t.”

His voice dropped even lower. “Because I don’t deserve it.”

None of them spoke.

And for the first time since the bet started, Theodore saw it—guilt. Real guilt. The kind that sinks into bone and never lets go.

“I can’t sleep,” Theodore said hoarsely. “I can’t breathe in our dorm because I hear him laugh. I walk through this school, and I can’t go ten fucking feet without remembering him. And you think this is funny?”

Mattheo’s smirk wavered. His usual bravado slipped away, bit by bit, as Theodore’s words hung in the air like poison.

No one had ever seen him like this. Broken. Raw. Honest.

Draco shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his shoes. Blaise’s arms were crossed over his chest, but his expression had gone pale. Pansy’s lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Finally, Astoria stepped forward.

“Theodore…” Her voice was soft. Guilty. “We didn’t think it would end like this.”

He scoffed bitterly. “What? That I’d actually care? That I’d fall in love with him?”

“We thought it was a crush,” Blaise muttered. “A laugh. A way to get under the Gryffindors’ skin.”

“You used him.”

Silence again.

Pansy cleared her throat, voice shaking now. “He used to help me in Potions. Every week, even when he had his own homework. He brought me Pepper-Up Potion when I was sick last winter.”

Theodore’s jaw clenched. “And you still watched me break him.”

“We didn’t know,” Mattheo said, quieter than he’d ever spoken before. “We didn’t know you were serious.”

“I wasn’t at first!” Theodore shouted. “That’s the worst part. I wasn’t. I was just like you. Laughing. Lying. Pretending it meant nothing. But then… then he started showing me stars. Telling me about the universe like it was a love letter. And I—” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I started seeing myself in the sky.”

No one spoke.

Until Pansy stepped forward, tears prickling at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “We’re all sorry. We didn’t just hurt him. We hurt you. We made you into someone you're not.”

Lorenzo nodded, voice hoarse. “We were cruel. And we deserve whatever comes from it.”

Draco’s lips pressed together tightly. He gave a single, solemn nod. “We were wrong, Theodore.”

Theodore stared at them, throat tight, chest aching.

“You don’t deserve forgiveness,” he said coldly. “But you can start by never mocking his name again. Ever. And if you really want to make it right… start by remembering the kind of person he is. Not the one we turned him into.”

Mattheo ran a hand down his face and let out a shaky breath. “You’re right.”

“We’re sorry,” Astoria repeated, voice almost too soft to hear.

Theodore didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Because the damage was already done.

But at least now, they knew it.

[syluslvrgirl]

lads men as professors

content: fluff, suggestive, think of the lads men as young professors!! notes: thank you to @sylusqt for inspiring this, particularly for professor caleb xia’s bit!! this is my first time writing anything for xavier and rafayel so please let me know if it’s alright! plus this was all word vomit so it's semi proof-read T-T i hope everyone enjoys ;) <333

PROFESSOR XAVIER SHEN

teaches astronomy with a special interest in stellar astronomy; absolutely enamoured about stars and will go on some beautifully voiced lectures about their life cycle, evolution and so much more!

not only that but the way he taught left you wanting to excel. he was lax but definitely worked hard on his lectures and carried an air of royalty around him. he came to class often wearing a white or cream button up paired with grey slacks and always carried the cutest star charm around his bag!!

however professor shen is definitely known for always sleeping before class. the poor man is usually buried under paperwork on his desks as the students roll in, wondering whose turn it is this time to wake him up.

this time you figure you might as well do it (not because you want to take a closer look at him at all!) and as you lean down to tap his shoulder, he stirs and turns his face in your direction, eyes slowly opening and you internally feel your heart skip a beat, because this man was gorgeous despite having been just woke up.

you let out a little 'sorry professor, it's nearly class time', before scurrying to your seat in the lecture hall, too stunned to say anything else and too taken aback by the way his sparkling blue eyes had bore into yours. you swear it’s just a tiny little crush but the way his eyes continue to find yours during his lecture make you crumble in the best way possible on the inside.

and then there was that other occasion, a small class trip to the local observatory where you had to learn how to find different constellations in the night sky. you were struggling with figuring out where to look, frustrated with your lack of constellations found until professor shen came by offering you help.

he adjusts your telescope before motioning for you to have a look inside, and there you see the beautiful cygnus staring right back at you. as you talking about how stunning it is, his hands seem a little too close to yours and so does his face. before you can say anything he's gone off to help another student, leaving you with the lingering feeling of his hand that was guiding yours to hold the telescope.

when your back in class again after that incident, you CANNOT tell what that man was thinking. the way he’s looking at you seems normal and it’s like he’s pretending that nothing happened, but you definitely felt something there! determined to get to the bottom of this case, you email him to see him during his office hours….

PROFESSOR RAFAYEL QI

who teaches fine arts and has a great interest in fine arts history, is ALWAYS going on rants about the greats, his favourite artists and who he thinks are the biggest flops of the centuries! he has some great takes and a majority of the time everyone is agreeing with him.

not to mention he himself has so much artwork that he’s produced, making him semi-famous on campus, whenever he holds an exhibition he’ll give free tickets to his class. however none of you can tell whether he’s joking or not when he says he’ll mark attendance at the exhibition and that he'll fail anyone who doesn't come....

has a great relationship with his students but is still quite stern, very critical of any artwork or essays you submit, this man does not hold back only because he wants the best for everyone and is determined to be the birthing ground for the artists of your century.

when he reviews your first piece of artwork you are absolutely terrified about hearing his critique, but when he gives you a “this one is amazing y/n, i can’t wait to see your hands produce more works of art” you almost cry of joy. a compliment from THE PROFESSOR QI, you’d treasure that until the day you die. you even write it down in your calendar as a way to commemorate it.

determined to get another compliment from him, you work day and night, often staying late in the art rooms just to adjust your sculpture, add a few more tweaks to your painting or typing up another essay on the reproduction of art or how art can be involved within political movements. you're normally coming home at late hours or sometimes turning up to his class with paint on your clothes!

and one night you stay back only to bump into…professor qi! he's there working on his latest piece and you can't help but stare in awe and marvel as he paints the strokes on the large canvas, that almost covers the whole wall of the room from left to right and top to bottom. it's almost like he's dancing with the canvas, the way he swirls the paintbrush about and moves from section to section.

he notices your presence and thus begins a long few nights of commenting on your work whilst you listen to him tell tales of his many exhibitions, how he gets his inspiration and much much more. you can't tell whether you're feelings for this man are blossoming or not, but something in you tells you this is much more than just admiration....

PROFESSOR ZAYNE LI

not only is he a renowned professor who has written several top notch research papers on the cardiovascular system and contributed to other medical research, but he himself has a reputation at your medical school as one of the youngest professors holding a doctorate title.

this not only makes him a tad intimidating because of his constant rbf but also a little awe-inspiring. like hello this man started young and even took half the time to gain a doctorate than a lot of other doctors have done?? he's either insane or super dedicated to his work, or even both. not to mention doctor/professor li is quite a legend at your medical school.

at first when you were in his class you WERE SCARED. you had barely scrapped by with your grades in college but had managed to successfully pass your exams in order to enter into akso medical school. you knew professor li was not only a harsh marker but he would only pass the best of the best, with many failing his classes and having to retake them.

determined to not fall behind you worked your ass off, not only on your essay assignments but on your practical work as well. studying day and night even pulling all nighters at some point. you excelled at your work even receiving a small smile from professor li as you rattle on in your presentation about the need for proper medical research on women experiencing different heart attack symptoms to men.

but those all nighters did come with a cost, not only was your energy draining but a lot of the times it was hard to stay awake in class despite the fact that you were downing at least two cups of coffee before heading in. several times you've dozed off within professor li's class, not because his voice is boring, moreso his voice had a calming effect on you.

oftentimes, professor li would end up having to wake you up, slightly tapping on your shoulders, murmuring your name. he would give you a little warning that "you should try your best in making sure you get enough sleep, because how are you going to save lives if you can’t take care of yourself." (what a gentleman!!)

it gets to a point where he does let you sleep a little longer after each class, not only because he knows you pour your heart and soul into his class and your work but because he worries a little about your lack of sleep and your wellbeing.

so when you wake up and it is almost dark outside the room you’re situated in, you scramble to grab your things, cussing at yourself for missing yet another class of professor li's. it's not until you look up that you notice he's also still in class, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

as you're trying to motion him awake, whispering his name, he wakes up and his hazel eyes behind his glasses just seem a little more handsome than you expected them to be. you apologise for falling asleep but professor li just nods. instead he asks "how about you help me with some research i've been doing on heart attack symptoms in women? i could use another expert on the case," and you can't help but feel your heart flutter just a bit at the grand opportunity he's offered you!

PROFESSOR SYLUS QIN

head professor of the international business course and also the most ruthless, mean and scariest professor on campus. not because of his killer looks and glare but because he absolutely loves to put his students through torture. you had heard the many horror stories and you were begging to anyone out there to let you survive the wrath of professor qin.

going into his class you were scared out of your wits and you really wanted to drop his class for something else, but unfortunately his class was a requirement for your course. you were determined to do your best and hopefully end up as top of the class. you had a good record with your grades and you weren't going to let that get ruined just because of one class!

it was just your luck that you ended up coming in late on your first class with him and so began professor qin's torment on little old you. at first it was making you answer questions in front of class, correcting your every little mistake with a smirk riddled on his lips as he pushed his glasses up on his hot evil face.

then it inflicted onto your grades, first it was getting a 65% on your report about how neoliberalism puts a dent on the international market and trade relations, which fair enough you hadn’t really put much work into that one. then on one of your major assignments there's big fat crosses everywhere and you can't tell if you're actually that bad or he just absolutely hates your guts!

you two are definitely the type to argue over things in class, not only is professor qin a big nerd, but you consider yourself an even bigger nerd who's read through ALL the readings including the optional extra reading material. so when he gives a lecture on a theory that you think differently about, you're raising your hand faster than you can say 'professor qin'.

it gets to the point where everyone else is betting in class on who would be winning the argument next. so far its been a tie between the two of you but everyone's hoping you end up on top because it's finally time for an underdog to defeat the big dog professor qin!

fast forward to another day in class and to everybody's surprise (not really, everyone's used to it now), you and professor qin are at it again!! but this time you're fuming and furious, only because you've had a bad couple of days....professor qin isn't making it any easier especially with his intellectually, lowkey sexy (but you won't admit it) sneering remarks. maybe it's your tired fuming brain talking but it doesn't take long until the words "you'd be hotter if you kept your mouth closed!" leave your mouth and you're absolutely flustered, slinking back down into your seat wishing the ground would swallow you up.

this only earns you a chuckle from professor qin who asks that you refrain from such comments in class, making you hid your face within you hands. you mumble a “sorry professor qin” before you try and pretend as though you hadn’t made the most embarrassing comment ever to your professor. no one was going to ever let you live this down and apparently that included professor qin, who had slipped you a note in your returned test to ‘see him in his office outside of his office hours’…

PROFESSOR CALEB XIA

not only is professor xia an amazing aerospace engineer professor, but he is super chill and friendly with his students. class is always welcoming, he's cracking a few jokes to ease tensions during exams and he's always prepping something super cool for each class to make learning fun!

he's got a boyish charm to him that has a lot of the girls swooning!! also probably has a little fanclub running for him too where all the people in there are trying to get at least one photo of him in his farspace fleet uniform. everyone knows he's been in the farspace fleet but he has yet to show anyone a photo or pull up to class in his actual uniform. (please professor xia, just spare the club one photo!!!)

as an aeroplane lover, you loved being in professor xia's class. not only because his way of teaching was so captivating but it was clear he loved doing his job and that made you enjoy the class even more. it did help a little that he was easy on the eyes. who wouldn't want a hot professor talking to you about the aerodynamics of the f-22 raptor fighter jet. and his hotness definitely helped you concentrate just a little better too!

however like many college students, you were broke and so the only way you were able to salvage yourself any bit of money was through your writing. writing was only a hobby for you but after submitting a simple but meaningful short story into a small writing contest, you soon found yourself under a publishing company with your very own editor and agent. at first you meddled in writing fantasy, a little poetry and some young adult work but your best-received work yet was, your erotica.

you were hesitant to write erotic novels. who in the world was going to read this?? however after seeing how well your first erotic novel did, you thought that it wouldn’t be too bad to give it a try. plus it paid the bills very well and it helped that you were writing it under a pen name so that your real identity wouldn’t be exposed. unfortunately with both college and writing, that meant that you were constantly hit with deadlines.

so one night, with an upcoming deadline for a draft of your latest erotic novel and an essay for professor xia’s class due, you were feeling hounded as you frantically worked on the both of them. you're making sure you've set up for the absolute hottest, thirstiest sex to end your novel, and that your essay is perfectly written in academic language and referenced. finally, at the early hours of 5am, you submit your essay and your draft novel despite barely being able to keep your eyes open.

crashing into bed, you’re happy and content after finishing both. until you wake up receiving a call from your editor wondering why on earth you’ve submitted to them an essay about how to effectively ensure wingspan of an aeroplane does not impact on its flight. you’re scrambling out of bed, checking your emails and an email from professor xia sits right at the top of your inbox. in said email, professor xia says he’d like to see you after class regarding the work you’ve submitted and that he’ll let it slide just this once if you let him correct a few things in your ending scene….

© syluslvrgirl 2025 | all rights reserved

[toruforuu]

gojo satoru x reader || hogwarts au (18+)

wonderwall ch.7 golden eulogies

✼pairing: hogwarts au - slytherin!gojo x ravenclaw!reader

✼summary: gojo satoru, the golden boy of a famous family lineage of wizards sets his sights on you, a half blood defying his pureblood morals. he makes it a goal in his life to make yours a living hell. years of endless pestering, teasing and rivalry stretching out. as times goes on, he finds himself thinking about you more than he isn’t while the world descends towards potential evil. he grows torn between his family’s beliefs and the forbidden ache tickling his chest whenever he sees you.

✼meaning: wonderwall - the person you cannot stop thinking about (song by oasis)

✼genre/tags: hogwarts au, female reader, strangers to enemies/sort of academic rivals to forbidden lovers, slow burn, angst, eventual smut, pining and yearning (mostly gojo), built up tension, teasing, bickering and pestering, jealousy, slightly spoiled gojo, obsessed and lovesick gojo, both are pretty oblivious to their feelings

✼warnings: hook ups, sexual topics, family pressure and trauma, mentions of injuries and violence, degradation, mentions of political views, escalating political situation, lgbtq representation, cheating

✼word count: 10.9k 

✼chapters: 7/?

a/n: what’s up guys:) this genuinely turned out to be one of my favs chapters i’ve ever written lmaoo. i looked forward to writing this one ever since i planned out the whole timeline, had to alter it a lot as my ideas kind of just come together as write. hopefully u don’t mind the longer chapters, lemme know if you’d prefer them shorter!

based on this // previous chapter // next chapter 

˚⟡˖ ࣪: link to playlist

˚⟡˖ ࣪: link to vision-board

Both of you agreed upon restricting your meetings and keeping them out of everyone’s sights. Throughout the next couple of weeks you act like the other doesn’t exist, but when the clock strikes midnight, you’re off to see each other. Every other night you’d meet at the very top of The Astronomy tower, because seeing each other at the edge of The Forbidden forest appeared to be far riskier and less accountable for. In those past weeks, you only went out to see the stag two times. Each time the same as the previous one, the magical being put together by mist patiently waiting and then disappearing into nothingness.

You discussed the possibility of the Patronus living on and wandering with your professor. The same one who offered you extra lessons. He confirmed that the owner of the Patronus truly would have to be dead in order for it to happen.

It provided you with no new information, but at least it felt like you were getting somewhere.

Overbearing hopes of solving the mystery behind the creature begin to decease as time went on, and the two of you remained unsuccessful in your mission. So many questions, so very few books written about it.

Could the appearance be connected to the Dementors floating around the school grounds?

Is it protecting something, or rather someone?

Frustration was swift to bloom due to the lack of answers.

“Sneaking off again?” a quiet voice asks sleepily in the darkness of your dorm-room just as your hand reaches for the handle. You stop in your tracks, heart pounding hard against your ribs as you’ve been caught by your best friend. You’ve shared the circumstances, not immediately, but you did as there’s nothing you can keep from here for too long. Arabella understood you chose to keep it a secret due to her state of mind.

That still doesn’t mean she approves of anything, quite the opposite actually.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually investing yourself into it,” Arabella goes on as you remain utterly silent, your back turned to her with head hanging low and your eyes glued to the wooden door. Her tone isn’t harsh nor meant to strike you, nonetheless, it irks you. Because you know she’s right to disagree with your choice.

“Didn’t your mom tell you to stay away?” her reminder stings, making you finally turn around to face her. Even if she can’t properly see you in the dead of the night — you yourself can barely map out her silhouette.

“Once we figure it out, it’s going back to normal,” you reassure her which causes her to let out a soft sigh, sounding defeated.

“A week ago you were here spiralling that he’s some evil mastermind, and now you’re helping him?” Arabella genuinely can’t see a single reason that turned you from a conspiracy lunatic to actually joining the suspicious outings, despite knowing the truth behind them.

“I told you what happened,” you mumble, tired of explaining of what she’s unable to grasp.

“I don’t want you to get into trouble. It’s still the same Gojo Satoru we’re talking about,” she exclaims, her tone suggesting protectiveness which you appreciate.

“It’s temporary,” you utter and it seems those two words change the course of the conversation towards the end.

Arabella blinks in the darkness, huffing out a sound of surrender.

“Be careful, okay?” is all she manages to come up with, no longer keeping you from going.

“Promise,” and with that you slip out of the door, tiptoeing your way through the common room and the empty corridors which give off sinister vibes under the blanket of the night.

As you reach your destination, you notice the ink-black sky, scattered with stars that feel just out of reach as you climb up the rough stone ledge of the Astronomy Tower. There’s only the light coming from your wand to guide you. A cool scrape of stone beneath your fingers as you hold for security, occasional flutterings of panic in your chest when you sense your foot slipping.

You swing your leg over the parapet, landing softly on the narrow ledge at the top of the stairs. The tower looms above the castle, still and ancient. The crispy wind rushes past like it’s trying to drag you over the railing, it sends shivers down your spine. Both the cold of the upcoming winter hanging in the air and the immense height of the building. You press yourself against the stone, catching your breath to realise you’re alone, he’s not here yet.

The courtyard below looks like a shadowy map, the sky above spread out along with the lake — limitless. You step forward slowly, boots leaping off the cold stone. Your hands reach for the railing, the metal cold.

You wait, arms crossed, heart beating with the thrill of the climb. It’s a completely different experience in the night.

Each minute stretches out like a thread, the silence around you stitched only with the distant hoot of an owl and the soft rustle of leaves. You glance back toward the entrance, half expecting him to appear out of nowhere like a ghost. At the heart of the tower is a massive orrery — a mechanical model of rings that orbit the solar system. It’s draped in a cloak of darkness, the outlook of it eerie. You sigh lightly and proceed to bend your body down to the level of the telescope, eyeing the constellations sprawled across the night sky.

You grow impatient and the chilly weather causes you to shake, which makes you pull your robe tighter against your body.

“Sorry, got held back for a little,” the white haired wizard makes his presence known, your body hitching a little at the unexpected sound. You straight your posture to glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze for acknowledgment.

“It’s okay, I didn’t find anything new anyway,” you shrug carelessly and crouch down to so sit by the railing. Legs dangling in the hollow space while the wintery breeze dances with the strands of your hair, tangling them together into knots.

“Yeah, me neither,” he agrees, stepping near the railing, leaning into it to observe the stars.

“I asked the professor during my additional lessons one more time, and he simply confirmed what we already knew,” your announcement makes him hum softly. You turn your head up to catch a glimpse of him, locks of his white hair curling due to the wind in a similar way.

“What of your extra lessons, doing any better?” with that his body motions to take a seat, throwing his legs over the edge as well. As if in response to that, you drape your arms over the metal bar of the railing and rest your chin on top of it.

“Still not able to conjure up the full form, getting there though,” you share your progress with him, regarding your Patronus. At first, you didn’t mean to tell him, but combing lies into it seemed stupid when the professor could’ve helped you on your hunt for answers. So you did mention your troubles to the Slytherin, expecting him to pester you about it. Surprisingly that never occurred, or at least it wasn’t spoken in between you.

“Good, assumed it would be easy for ya with some extra help,” he snickers with ease, orbs darting towards the sky. Mimicking your tracing of the constellations.

“And let me take a wild guess — you can,” you let out with embroidered irony, deducting the assumption from his effortless ways. You’d be shocked if he wouldn’t agree.

“Without a doubt,” he props himself onto his elbows as he speaks with his usual kind of natural confidence.

Of course he can.

You lightly chuckle, rolling your eyes even though it goes unnoticed by him.

“We’re not cracking it, are we?” you navigate the direction back to your original topic, peaking at him from the corner of your eyes. His eyes are shut as he leans back, trusting his elbows to hold him up — appearance hauntingly angelic under the gaze of the moon.

“I suppose not, but it was one hell of an adventure. You gotta admit it,” one of his orbs cracks open to look back at you while a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, pushing you to admit it was somewhat nice to step out of the circle of your comfort zone.

“It wasn’t bad,” you draw out with a short breath, not giving him the full satisfaction of a confession. Though it was rather thrilling. Having something meant to stay hidden, shared only with a handful of people. Lurking through the castle, meeting here at the tower late into the day had you in a magical chokehold. It smelled forbidden, and it tugs at your heartstrings that this is probably the end of the abnormality you two worked together for.

Satoru simply laughs out, finding your stubbornness amusing.

“I should go to bed, I have to get up early in the morning,” you voice out as the remains of his laughter ring through your ears, the chill of the night creeping onto you as you sit on the freezing rocky floor. You decide to carefully get up on your feet.

“L/N, wait,” his hand flies out, stopping in realisation few inches away from yours. It hovers in the air as his piercing orbs stare up at you, the action making you freeze in movement.

“Tell me another of your stories from the muggle world,” you blink down at him with confusion, wondering what it is that he’s hinting at with his words.

It comes to you a second later as his head cocks to the side, hand awkwardly moving back down.

The night before the attack at the world cup, when you told him the story behind the constellation’s name. That’s what he means.

“Please?” he coos mischievously before you manage to refuse him, and with that you can’t bring yourself to turn him down. You sit back down, doing as he intended which pleases him, but he keeps it to himself.

“Only one though, I wasn’t lying when I said I have a busy day tomorrow,” you mumble under your breath as you nestle your body to sit comfortably on the cold floor, already thinking of which story to tell. There’s so many, multiple of them come rushing to you.

“Get to it then,” he encourages.

“They’re not stories, by the way. They’re called myths or legend, and there’s hundreds of them,” you correct him mindlessly out of habit before you start telling him the history of one of the legends, and he’s okay with it.

“Okay, so The Trojan War is a legendary conflict that arose from a handful quarrels in between the Gods. The last drop was, when a youthful prince of Troy stole Helen of Sparta — the most beautiful of all women and made her fall in love with him. When her husband, also known as the Spartan king, realised Helen had left him for Paris of Troy, he called upon all the kings and princes of Greece to wage war upon Troy,” you kick off with the myth, the one that used to be your favourite when you were little. Your father had to repeat the story in great detail each night as you were about to drift off to sleep. It feels strangely comforting to be the one telling it now.

“He got his brother, Agamemnon, to lead a voyage to find her and get her back. Agamemnon was able to get other Greek heroes, such as Odysseus and Achilles to join him on this adventure. They have their own stories, but that’s for another time,” your eyes slide towards the Slytherin to reassure yourself he’s indeed listening and not doing this for laughs.

One peak at him and you could he’s serious.

“The Trojan War lasted for ten years and it was filled with loads of pointless battles and deaths. It finally ended when the Greeks retreated from camp and left behind a large wooden horse outside the gates of the city. Troyans debated on if they should bring the wooden horse in, and regardless of many warnings, they still brought it inside,” you sense the intensity of his attention, your eyes flickering in between the sky painted with starts and him.

“The wooden horse was a plan made by Odysseus to end the war. The wooden horse was designed to be hollow in the middle so that soldiers could hide inside. After the Trojan Horse was left at the gates, the Greeks sailed away, leaving someone behind. That someone was able to convince the Trojans that the Greeks had retreated from the war and that the horse was a gift that would ultimately give the Trojans a fortune. However, once nighttime fell, the horse opened up and the Greek soldiers came out. From the inside of the city, the Greeks were able to destroy the city of Troy and win the war,” you speak deliberately, carefully and slow enough to be sure he isn’t lost in your retelling.

“As I said the myth aligns with countless others,” you chuckle nervously, afraid you bored him even though he was the one to ask you to share another legend with him.

“I wonder how muggles came up with these stories. They’re good,” his head moves up and down in agreement, barely noticeable and perhaps unbeknownst to his acknowledgment. His curiousness brushes the anxiety off your chest and is quick to provide relief.

“Myths,” he corrects himself as he’s quick to recall your previous words.

“They created their own source of magic, is what my father always says,” you’re hesitant to share any more of you with him, however, you deem none of it could be turned against you and made into a weapon.

“Does he share a lot of these legends with you?” his brows arch up in wonder ever so slightly.

“He’s the reason I know them by heart,” you say while getting off the ground for good this time. The white haired wizard follows, heading towards the stairs leading down to the shadowy hallways.

“Last thing before we go,” he mumbles once you reach the end of the stairs.

“Yeah?” you question curiously, turning towards the corridor.

“Come to the Slytherin common room tomorrow. There’s gonna be a party to celebrate the start of the quidditch season,” he spills out, precisely when you reach the crossroad, each of the directions navigating you to your dormitories.

“You’re inviting me to one of your infamous parties?” you whisper into the silent hallway, expressing cross with mild shock.

“Every quidditch player is invited,” he replies simply, scanning your features illuminated by the shimmer of moonlight.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” you answer honestly, anxiety rising within your system as scenarios of getting caught here cross your mind.

“You can bring your friends,” Satoru suggests casually, hand sliding into the pocket of his greenish robe.

“I’ll think about it,” you nod.

“Yeah, do that,”

You step through the stone entrance along with the twins and Arabella as it slithers open, a whisper of magic brushing past your skin like a warning, or maybe a welcome. The wall slides shut behind you like a secret sealing itself shut, shutting you into the room. The Slytherin common room has been completely transformed. The usual dim and dignified glow is gone, replaced by flickering green flames that twist unnaturally along the carved stone walls, casting shadows that move like they’ve got minds of their own. The room feels alive. Buzzing with noise, energy and heat. Music thunders from a charmed gramophone in the corner, pulsing with a beat that drives straight through your spine.

The party isn’t for just anyone. Gojo didn’t lie, when he highlighted the fact his infamous parties are impossible to get into. People always whispers about them in the hallways as you circle through them, speculations of students who’ll never see the inside of this room.

You recognise familiar players from the field, their inner circles and of course, the Slytherins. No other exceptions. It’s a celebration of the season's beginning, and not a lot of students get an invitation. If it weren’t for quidditch, you probably wouldn’t see the inside of the room either and neither would your friends.

The fireplace is roaring, green and gold embers shooting high and crackling like they’re alive. The smell of fire-whisky lingers in the air as you move. There’s a certain glamour to it all, the kind of dangerous, sharp-edged beauty only Slytherin can pull off without trying. Players lounge like royalty on the velvet cushions, still half in uniform, cheeks flushed from the anticipation and whatever’s in their cups.

As you and your friends step fully into the space, eyes slide toward you — quick glances, smirks, raised glasses and small greetings. You're acknowledged by your fellow teammates. You somehow belong to this small circle of society, place earned due to playing for years, however, it doesn’t ease you down. And you still feel a sense of not fitting in, claiming your space elsewhere.

You feel the energy pulling you in though, tempting you to lose yourself in it for the night. No rules, no professors, no expectations — just the start of a season that promises everything. You exchange a glance with your friends, unsure of what to do and somehow instantly regret accepting this invitation.

“Girl, are you hundred percent sure you’ll be alright? You know that Margaret’s gonna be here,” the younger of the twins Beatrice carefully hints as you stand on the edge of the room with crowd of bodies moving to the rhythm of the music in the centre. Arabella has been warned the second you mentioned the invitation. Dorothy with Beatrice basically convinced you into going, they too wanted to experience the thrill of joining one of the infamous Slytherin parties before your time at Hogwarts comes to an end.

“Told you I’ll be fine,” Arabella responds with a slight shrug of her shoulders, to brush away your worries. Regardless of her reassurance, you’re not baffled by it. You know your friend all too well. It hasn’t been two whole weeks since they took their break, seeing her surely wouldn’t do her any good. And even though it’s not possible to not bump into her here, she demanded she’d go with you.

None of you doubt her words aloud, despite the looks shared between you and the twins.

Dorothy is the bravest out of you as she begins to crush through the crowd, shielding you and providing an easy path to join the others on the dance floor. If it can be called a dance floor. In reality, it’s just the space of the common room, couches and armchair hidden somewhere in the corner. The music is much louder as you reach the center, crowd thicker as well. Shoulder to shoulder with people you barely recognise, elbows brushing against someone’s robe and arms nudging you admits dancing. It’s all laughter, shouted greetings, some are already tipsy. A crunch cracks under your foot as you step onto cups thrown on the carpet, the dance floor looks half like a battlefield.

You grab Arabella’s hand to spin her without a warning, when you stop somewhere near the center, and she’s cracking a laugh before she even starts moving. The rhythm takes over her, making her forget the circumstance for a little while. The world outside doesn't matter. Right now, it’s just the music, the forest green glow and the fierce movement of bodies. Regardless of your previous caution and conspiracies to skip this one, you find yourself letting go of your baggage too.

The music swirls you into your own worlds, hips swaying to the rhythm while your hands float in the air. Both Beatrice and Dorothy are mindlessly enjoying themselves along with you, pulling dance moves together. However, it doesn’t go unnoticed how Arabella’s eyes fleet across the room in hopes of coming across a face she’s too keen to capture, the opposite of what she actually says. Your friend is too busy to be aware of the fact you’re following her gaze which is achingly scanning the bustling party for her one and only.

As you follow Arabella’s, your gaze picks on someone else instead. He’s standing a greater distance away from you, arms draped around the waist of his girlfriend. Their interlocked bodies pressed into one another and you can’t bring yourself to look away from his stupid ball of white fur. Your heart skips over a beat as his incandescent orbs lock in with yours. The maintenance of the contact is short lived, though those fractions felt much longer as you acknowledged each other’s presence over the sea of people.

When you redirect your curious gaze back to your friends, it’s easy to tell Arabella has already mapped out her target. And indeed, Margaret stands couple of feet away from the four of you. It’s strange how people can go to being strangers again, simply weeks ago you were all bathing in The Black lake and there she is now, avoiding looking in your direction. The corners of Arabella’s mouth twist downward and her movements die down, it causes you to gently grab her hand, which brings her attention back to you. One look passes between you and it’s enough.

You lean into her space, talking loudly near her ear so she could make out what you’re saying. You offer to fetch her a drink and at first she doesn’t look in favour of the idea, but eventually caves in as you agree to have one with her. Originally, you weren’t planning on having anything, yet seeing your friend so miserable changed your mind.

The table with all sorts of unknown liquors lays spread out near the fireplace, vast window right behind it. The glass is showered in droplets of water streaming down as the outside is nothing but darkness, lighting occasionally popping out. You hover above the table, cup already in hand, contemplating what to choose for you and Arabella, when a voice interrupts you all of a sudden.

“Want some help?” the sound of the masculine voice leaves you breathless for a second, so much that you don’t want to face him.

“No need,” you reply politely as your gaze still flickers in between the choices rather than at the person, pushing the moment when you must look up away.

“How are you holding up, preparing for the finals?” his hand reaches out for a bottle, dangerously close to you. You then gather up the courage to lift your gaze, immediately being met with a pair of tender amber eyes you’ve grown to love in the past. A little wave of nostalgia and hurt tugs at your heartstrings, the sight weakening you even all these years later.

“Pretty good, what about you?” you have no desire to drag out the interaction, your goal is to vanish from his peripheral vision, but you don’t have the heart to cut him and storm off. Therefore you push yourself to answer, questioning him in favour of your manners.

“Yeah, it’s alright,” the Gryffindor huffs out as he refills his cup, making you grab a bottle at random to finish what you came here for. You no longer wish to engage in anything with him, this situation makes you uncomfortable.

“Good,” you mumble, placing the cups on the wooden table and then pouring the inside of the bottle into it — smell heavy and musky.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you you’ve been on my mind these past few weeks,” his words feel like slap straight to your face. You place the bottle back at its place, scanning the cups as you’re too baffled to come up with an answer. Who does he think he’s?

“Have I?” your brows twitch, trying to hold back the irony lacing your voice.

“It’s like you had me drink the lovey dovey potion or sum,” he says without an ounce of shame and with that, the scenario of emptying the cups you pick up from the table at him rakes your mind. It doesn’t sound too bad.

“Okay, and the point?” this time, you’re unable to mask your surprise mixed in with disgust, brows furrowing in the process.

“I think we should maybe go out some time,” the sound of his voice is carefree, hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously. Then sliding into his blondish locks, tousling them into place.

“And I think not,” your response is immediate and you’re ready to bounce away.

“Come on, don’t be so uptight. We weren’t anything serious back then,” his laugh echoes in your ears like a punch to the gut, your vision spins and you’re left numb. Unsure whenever to come apart or laugh into his face.

“To you, maybe. Not to me,” your voice is low, barely audible in the busy environments, however there’s a bitter ring to it.

“You’re overthinking it now,” the tone of his voice doesn’t rise nor becomes unpleasant, yet you can see the change passing through his orbs.

“Gosh, leave me alone,” you finally snap which causes his features to falter further.

“Why can’t you-“

“You heard her, piss off, Gryffindor,” third person joins the conversation and upon a realisation who, your urge to disappear doubles. No, triples. The grip you have on the cups grows tighter and suddenly you feel overly insignificant, forgotten in between their frames.

“Since when did this become any of your concern, Gojo?” you don’t resist rolling your eyes at what your ex boyfriend has to say and as you try to slide your way back into the interaction, you’re cut off by the white haired menace who appeared out of nowhere.

“My party, my rules,” Satoru hisses, irritated as he cocks his head to the side. A clear signal for your ex partner to leave before things get ugly. Before he delivers his response, you already know his shallow ego won’t budge at the Slytherin’s demand.

“I’m not done talking to her,” your ex boyfriend exhales with confidence, posture straight. His eyes narrowed with annoyance fleet over to meet yours for a moment, which pushes you to breathe out and to firmly nod at him. Pleading to take his leave without much fuss.

“Fuck off before I break your jaw again,” Satoru declares with the most bragging smirk you’ve ever seen and you almost choke, reminded of their previous encounter. You watch your ex boyfriend’s face crinkle — anger and resentment. With a pitiful frown, he indeed listens and gets lost in the crowd. Leaving you two alone. And for the first time in eternity, you’re glad for Satoru Gojo’s presence. You’re aware the Gryffindor wouldn’t let you go easily, not when he had you right where he wanted to. Alone.

“Don’t you think you over did it a little?” you blink away your surprise, mouth slightly ajar as you go over what just happened. You’re so unbelievably in disbelief that you take a sip of the liquor you randomly picked as your ex boyfriend invaded your space.

“Nah, spoke the truth,” you can barely hear him due to the loud music, but you manage to make it out.

“I could’ve dealt with him on my own, you know,” your eyes peak down at your hand, holding the cups, as his blue coloured ones peep downward at you. You’re not mad at him for interfering, not at all. You wouldn’t say you’re entirely happy either, however, you’re at least glad you got ride of your ex boyfriend and meaningless encounter.

Though, you’re certain he will find you again.

“I’m sure you could, I simply made it easier for ya,” the white haired wizard winks at you, smugness and arrogance seeping out of him as always. Perhaps a tad more than normally as he’s overly intoxicated, alcohol flowing in his veins. You could tell he overdid it the moment he stumbled into the conversation. It’s pretty obvious when it comes to him.

“Whatever, Gojo,” you brush him off, not wanting to indulge in this interaction for long either since this is basically his territory and talking to the very starlet of the Slytherin house would definitely bring you unwanted attention. As a matter of fact, pairs of eyes are settling at you by now.

“Enjoy the party, precious,” his hand stretches out, bumping his cup into yours. A gesture symbolising simply what he said, yet the action leaves you thinking the moment was rather intimate. Your mind goes blank and by the time you’re ready to snap at him for using that godforsaken nickname, he’s long gone.

You lightly shake your head, balancing the cups in your hands to steady them before heading back into the crowd as well. Away from the crime scene.

“Did Satoru Gojo just save you?” Beatrice’s voice calls out, aligning with the tunes of the music. You silently hand Arabella one of the cups you’ve gone through hell for and drink a mouthful out of own.

“I wouldn’t use the word save,” you exhale lightly while shrugging your shoulders to appear nonchalant, despite the lingering sensation nestling heavily on your ribcage.

“We were about to go get you when the jerk started being too chatty, but before we could reach you, Gojo appeared,” Beatrice goes on with explaining how the situation went from their point of view.

“We thought we must be dreaming,” Dorothy adds, throwing her hands around and gesturing.

“It’s actually not so surprising, right, Y/N?” Arabella’s words take the air out of your lungs and you instantly want to dig a hole to hide in. She’s the only one who knows about your little adventures, you didn’t share your secrets with the Hufflepuff girls as you don’t deem it as reasonable nor necessary. And right now, you understand your roommate may be still quite upset with you for attending the secret outings, but you can’t help to not feel a tad betrayed.

“Arabella,” you plea but it’s too late, it’s been spoken out loud and the twins are now involved too.

“Gonna explain yourself?” both of the raven haired girls standing front of you cross their arms across their chest, awaiting your answer.

“Not here, later,” you breathe out in defeat, and with that the discussion ends. Part of you can’t glance straight into Arabella’s way, partially afraid and then also sort of irritated at her for spilling your secret which you entrusted her.

Without paying them much attention while your head spins with rising frustration, you excuse yourself and tell them you’ll find them later on. Before they can respond l, you’re nudging into the sea of people, carving your path out to catch a breather.

Your ex boyfriend, Gojo and now Arabella. What in the world is happening?

You find yourself a corner to hide in and lean back against the cold stone wall, arms crossed loosely. The bass of the music thrums through the floor, echoing in your ribs. Around you, the Slytherin common room is alive — drenched in flickering green lights, casting flashes of magic on the dancing people and their wild eyes, bodies moving like smoke in synchrony. They look untouchable. Laughter rises, spun with spells and something stronger in their drinks. If a professor was to barge in, the imagine would probably send them spiralling into having a heart attack.

You watch from your quiet corner, not really part of it, not really apart either. Just observing. Letting the scene blur into something unreal in front of you. It’s loud and beautiful in that reckless, untamed way that only Slytherins can pull off. And as they dance you feel like the only still thing in the room. A shadow with a heartbeat.

“Not having fun?” a familiar figure whose face you’re seeing a lot lately calls out as he drags himself in your direction, finding you once again. Shoulders slumped and a plastic cup filled with a bitter liquid in his left hand.

“It’s alright, but not my thing,” you shrug without any particular emotion as your back leans against the stone wall, hand gripping your own cup.

“What is your thing, that’s the real question,” he teases, hinting at the fact you find a way to complain about literally anything. But he means no real harm. His tone is visibly poking you. To which you merely snicker with an irritated under-layer before bringing the cup to your lips, taking another mouthful of the awfully tasting alcohol.

“Does he bother you often?” Satoru scoots over to you, leaning against the same wall handful of inches away from you, and then he nods towards the table with the punch and other sources of hard liquors. Your gaze slides in synchrony with his, landing on the guy you’ve been trying to avoid all night since the moment he approached you with such an audacity. Your ex boyfriend.

“You heard our conversation, I presume” you remark with a brows lightly lifted in curiosity, head rotating to peak at him. His flawless side profile to your display as he’s looking out into the crowd still, your eyes taking notice of his freshly trimmed undercut.

The emerald lighting paints him out to be painfully charming.

“Mostly, so does he? your head jerks away from him as the sound of his voice reminds you of your surroundings. It doesn’t surprise you that he did hear. You expected it since it’s him you’re talking about.

“Uh, no. Dunno what’s gotten into him,” you openly admit aloud, fingers dancing along the rim of the plastic cup. What you say is true, you weren’t in any contact from the moment he broke up with you and decided to go off dating the girl he was seeing at the same time as you.

Nothing serious, it angered you that’s what he thinks it was, because it for thousand percent was more than that to you.

“I think I do,” he lets out quietly after a set of silence, carefully searching the wave of bodies dancing across the room.

“You do?” you question, possible outcomes racing through your mind.

“I mean, yeah. It’s our last first semester and he’s realised what’s lost,”

“That sounds ridiculous,” you huff under your breath, your voice so muffled you for a moment think it was impossible for him to catch on.

You’re quickly proven otherwise.

“As as matter of fact, he’s watching us right now,”

“It doesn’t prove anything,” your head shakes a little in disbelief, refusing to put any trust in what he has to say.

“Watch what he does now,” his words escape his lips, barely registering them, but he’s already tilting his entire body your way. Taking steps to close the distance between your bodies. It happens too quickly, his movements reckless and hazy. One blink of your eyes and all of sudden, he’s barely inches away from you.

“Gojo- what are you-?” His eyes shine like sapphires glistening in the sunlight — big beautiful gems that watch your every move. However, they aren’t primarily focusing on your own set of orbs. No, much lower than that. You cannot stop your eyes from widening at the realisation, small gasp escaping your lips as you can’t resist peaking down at his lips either. And when he leans in even closer, narrowing the distance between you so much that your bodies nearly touch — he looks lyrical as he moves under the influence.

“Proving my point,” he nibs with a smirk stretching his mouth out, eyes still peaking down on you from his half hooded eyelids.

He’s drunk, you remind yourself as his close proximity causes an overwhelmingly nauseous sensation to take over you.

“Look at him, he’s so pathetic,” Satoru continues, demanding you look at your ex boyfriend with his charming way of words. Despite the acknowledgment of order, your eyes seem to not be able to peel away from his breathtaking appearance, you’ve never seen him up from this close. You don’t know where to look first, whenever at his porcelain skin or his iridescent globes. Strands of his locks are falling over his forehead, and you have to physically force yourself to tilt your gaze to the already mentioned direction. The sight of your ex boyfriend confirms the white haired wizard’s theory. He’s burning holes in your skull, yours and the Slytherin’s.

“I still don’t think this proves anything,” you shake your head a little, bringing yourself to reality as your mind is clouded with his aromatic scent —fresh like crispy winter morning.

He smells clean, bathed in peppermint.

Your resistance to admitting his suspicions urges are correct makes him lean in further. His shoulder brushes against yours and then he presses into you, definitely overcoming the unspoken set of boundaries between the two of you. You gather last bits of courage to glance upwards to meet his gaze, only discovering he’s still hypnotising you with that idiotic grin full of arrogance.

“Might not be obvious to you, but it sure is to everyone else,” he bends down to your level, head cocking towards your temple as he whispers into the shell of your ear, nose bumping into your skin. His warm breath prickling the side of your neck, the unfamiliarity of it causing your functions to cease at working. It reeks of alcohol. Your eyes once again slide towards your ex boyfriend while you swallow the bundle in your throat, anxious at the closeness you share with the white haired wizard. He’s indeed still watching the scene between you and Gojo playing out.

Your gaze maybe lingering on the Gryffindor, though your thoughts lie somewhere entirely else.

Your skin burns with his proximity as you can’t bring yourself to pull away. He doesn’t move either, he should’ve already but he isn’t budging.

His penetrating gaze slides over your features one last time, stopping at a certain part of your lower face before finally taking a step away. With that, you become highly aware of the world’s circumstances enveloping you again. Your gaze hardens, surveying the crowd as sets of orbs stare back in your way. It causes you to step away, the reality slowly enrolling back in your harbour.

It’s as if the white haired menace in front of you hops on the same wave as you, marching away and creating much appreciated distance. Neither of you speak, words dying on your tongue. Until he utters something under his nose, the words not audible. He nods towards the crowd which instantly causes you to turn to the dance floor, eyes landing on his girlfriend who’s a fellow member of his house. A cold sweat splashes at you, her firm expression certainly not meant as a joke. You attempt a smile. That only seems to worsen the situation.

And just like that, he’s slipping past you again.

Did you just imagine it?

You’re left standing in the shadow of green firelight again. Alone, drink in hand, pretending not to care, pretending not to look, but there he is. Sliding right back in the center of it all. Laughing like he owns the night. The room bends towards him like it usually does. Effortlessly, like he doesn’t even know what he does to people. Of course he does though. It’s in plastered in the way he smiles, slow and lazy, eyes half-lidded. Almost as if he’s bored of being adored, and yet still basking in it. He’s a flame, attracting all the moths.

And you hate it. God, you hate it. How he draws people in, how the crowd orbits around him like he’s the sun and everyone else is just lucky to catch a flicker of his light, fawning over his presence.

He doesn’t even try. That’s the worst part.

But still, your gaze sticks to him. You’re stuck in a current you didn’t see coming, not immune to his charming ways either. You try to tear your eyes away, pretend his presence doesn’t matter.

However, your eyes betray you.

You decide that looking for your friends and leaving the party would be the best, you pray they stuck around.

It’s nearly impossible to point them out in the crowd, so you wander around like a lost puppy.

As you make your way past the leather couches, turning in a smaller alley of the Slytherin common room, you catch a voice. It’s sharp, dismissive and familiar. Your friend’s name falling from their mouth.

“Satoru, you know I don’t want Margaret to clash with that ginger Ravenclaw girl she’s been talking to and you basically give her a free entry” Willoughby, Margaret’s older brother, speaks up which urges you to stop in your tracks, hiding behind the corner of the wall. You’re well aware this isn’t right, eavesdropping on them like that. Still, it concerns your friend and surely, she’d do the same thing. It doesn’t matter you’re mad at her right now.

“I invited L/N. She’s on the team, and I couldn’t specifically tell her to not bring her,” the sound of your last name sounds strange coming from Gojo’s lips, regardless of the fact you’ve heard him say it reasonable amount of times.

“Actually, you should’ve,” his friend states firmly, and it’s not the rather sweet boy who checked upon you and Arabella after the attack anymore. Was he thinking this way throughout the tournament as well?

Are they all doused with such a poison?

“Or you shouldn’t have invited her at all,” Robin joins in on the conversations as he was barely a sidekick to it till now. The entitlement lacing their voices boils your intoxicated blood.

“She’s on the team,” the white haired Slytherin tries to drags his point across one more time. You peak from the corner carefully.

“So what? She sympathises too much with the mudbloods in general, and never knows when to take her leave, or keep her mouth shut up,” Margaret’s brother spits out with venom. You retrieve your head back behind the corner, and as much as you’d like to say his words don’t mean a thing, you’d be lying. They shouldn’t, but they sting.

That cold, oily feeling slinks into your chest. You know you should step in and say something, demand they repeat it to your face. Instead, you stay hidden, listening, because this could tell you more than any confrontation.

“And she happens to tag along the girl your sister’s been dating, I get it. You’re annoyed, but stop lecturing me,” Satoru spills out mindlessly, cringing at himself as realisation pierces through the layer of the substance blurring his senses. Your breathing hitches.

No, this can’t be happening.

“The girl she’s been what?” Willoughby demands, pretending he didn’t hear right the first time only to hear the words one more time. For confirmation.

“Uh, what?” Gojo mumbles back, rambling over his own voice in an attempt to play it cool.

“Satoru, what the hell?” Robin states, fuming.

“You knew and didn’t tell me?” Willoughby comes at him again. Both of his friends now up against Gojo while he remains silent. You curiously poke your head from the corner one more time, the shadows that are provided by the surroundings keep you safe from being spotted.

One look at the white haired menace’s back and you can tell he’s conflicted.

“Why? For that girl you’ve been pestering since forever and her weird friends?” both of his friends keep on jumping him, the tension so thick it could be cut up with a knife. From your angle, the gesture of him tightening his fists doesn’t slip your attention. And just when you think he’s about to blow up, he replies calmly.

“I didn’t think it was that important,”

“Don’t lie to me,” he’s immediately cut off by Margaret’s brother, your body tenses and you can’t believe your own ears as a mixture of swirled emotions seizes you utterly.

“Seems like our boy Satoru here is defending her,” this time it’s Robin and he chooses words which seem to struck a nerve, making the attacked white haired wizard all that more defensive.

“The hell? Of course not, she’s a nobody,” he frowns, his tone the most obnoxious and arrogant you’ve heard in a while. The anger then fully devours you. You feel numb, no ache nor sadness. Only regret filling your dulled senses, you should’ve expected this kind of thing from him.

It’s nothing new after all.

“Then start acting like it, for Merlin’s sake,” you see his friend nudge his shoulder in a way that is meant to be a warning, a pleading to stop behaving the way he is.

“Put yourself together, we have a plan to follow,” you barely make out the words as they come in a hushed whisper, heart instantly dropping. A plan to follow. The declaration causes suspicion rise in your system, the same kind you’ve buried two weeks ago.

Could they have something to do with the Death eaters after all?

“Unbelievable,” one of them breaths out, soothing down the side of his face in frustration before he adds: “we’ll talk about this tomorrow, when we’re sober,”

They get a simple hum of agreement from Satoru, his functions too altered by the alcohol to form a better response.

When he finally thinks he’s off the hook, you step into the light.

“God, and here I was thinking you finally got over yourself and became somewhat tolerable,” your voice calls out from behind him, his body instantly turning to the source of sound. To you. Eyes depicting the depths of the ocean blink at you, widen with shock at seeing you. You maintain the eye contact, expression and body language merciless. Letting him know he’s screwed.

“You know damn well that option’s not on the list for me,” his voice is low and unbothered which takes you by a surprise, you hadn’t expected him to remain so cold about it. Perhaps you should’ve, however, part of you hoped he’d react differently to seeing you. You can’t tell why.

“Inviting me and my friends then degrading us in front yours is?” you rest your hands at your hips, offering him one more chance to account for his actions. You’re met with a shallow shrug of his shoulders, nearly making you gasp at his audacity.

“Guess so,” his face expression is hollow, impossible to read as he avoids portraying anything. His indifference makes you scoff sarcastically, you should’ve known this was nothing but a way to toy with you.

“Well, aren’t you simply the greatest thing to ever bloody exist?” your jaw clenches, voice embodying pure irony as your patience ran out long ago. You attack his sense of greatness, aware it’d hit some sorrow of a spot, at least.

“Don’t you dare to come to me again, Gojo,” you don’t bother to wait for his answer, if he’d manage to muster any. No, you’re already walking away by the time he takes in your words — rushing to collect your friends and leave the cursed area of the Slytherin common room.

A storm of conflict rages within you while you. Share the unfortunate news to Arabella or keep her blind?

If their relationship wasn’t done for before, it for sure must be now.

And as simply as that, you went three steps back in a matter of one single night.

The next day started out as any other day would in late autumn, winter already knocking softly at the door. The illusion of a normal wintery day shattered barely an hour after you woke up with the headmaster knocking at your dorm room, demanding you pack your necessary utilities and hurry with him. Your initial thoughts circled around your illicit outings after curfew with the white haired Slytherin, the ones regarding the mysterious stag. Anxiety crippled within you as sat down in the headmaster’s office, thinking of the ways you could be punished. Robbed of the Head girl label, kicked out of the Ravenclaw’s Quidditch team, or even worse.

Expelled.

Those thoughts vanished as an opened letter was placed in front of you, your mother’s handwriting the first thing you noticed. With receiving it, your gut was already alerted. The familiar pressure in your lower stomach suggested something’s wrong.

The headmaster wasted no time in bringing you to your mother, leaving with warm words displaying sympathy. By then, couple of scenarios poked through your mind. One worse than the other. Unfortunately, simple look at your mother’s teary eyes and all of your worst nightmares were confirmed. The grip on your bag loosened, causing it to drop on the floor of your childhood home. A ringing silence echoed through the house.

You wasted no time in quickly walking up to your mother, hiding yourself in her shaky embrace. Her hand nestled at the back of your head, whispering soft and low words of apologies. You held her back, dull and robbed of everything as she continued to spill her heavy tears into your shoulder.

At first you felt like a monster for not mourning out loud. For not letting the world meet your wrenching sorrows. You wondered if the people surrounding the shut casket silently judged you for your dry cheeks, because everyone else appeared to be on the brim of collapse. You couldn’t bear to properly lift your gaze and meet the crushed expressions of your close family and their friends.

The first wave of grief landed as you entered your house after the feast, the day of the funeral. You put away your shoes along with your coat, hanging it next to your father’s. You brushed your fingers against the fabric of his coat, the fabric rough with years of usage. Your chest tightened while your entire being burned. Hands hesitantly inched forward, bringing the old piece of clothing towards your nose. As soon as you inhaled, familiar scent of cigarettes and mint battled within your mouth. Your throat tightened and hands began to tremble and with no defence, you gave into to the urge and buried your face into it, nuzzling the clothing. You used to hate your father’s smoking and how the disgusting scent would linger on clothes and in the house. Sensing it in that moment felt addicting, like a douse of a drug. You cursed yourself for all of the complaints you threw around instead of treasuring each passing moment. You broke down with the realisation of loss, slid down the wall in the hallway of your strangely quiet home and tightly hugged the coat. Meanwhile your mother stood in the kitchen, listening to your sobs, however, she pretended to not heart and gave you your own space to mourn.

Arabella regretted what she’s done, or rather how she behaved towards you. By the time she gathered the courage to apologise, you were long gone. Nonetheless, she didn’t know that. She was confused as she entered your shared dorm room, finding an empty space with a scribbled note neatly layed out on her bedsheets.

And you indeed weren’t back by dinner time. Your friend Arabella grew immensely worried and couldn’t sleep the entire night, wondering what’s happened to you or if you’re in trouble. Her head spiralled with countless possibilities, including the white haired wizard in almost every single one. She thought of contacting Margaret, not for her sake, but for yours. Part of her hoped she’d provide her with at least a piece of information. Yet, she backed from the idea as she recalled the party and your subtle hints at what angered you so much the previous night. You never got to tell her what precisely occurred as you were so quick to be called off.

Arabella somehow slept throughout the night and when she reached The Great hall for breakfast next morning, she no longer had to be gutted about your whereabouts. Each table representing one of the four houses swirled with the new edition of The Daily Prophet. The twins ambushed Arabella immediately, pushing the newspapers into her chest and demanding she reads instantly. Her eyes glided over the main title and her heart cracked.

The Head Auror of Magical Law Enforcement department resigning

The title by itself was a death blow. As Arabella’s eyes skimmed further in between the bylines, it became worse. The article depicted your mother’s reasoning behind the decision as unknown, meaning she’d no longer be the Head Auror next term which starts in the spring. The authors gathering information for the insufferable newspaper dared to speculate it could be the death of your mother’s husband leading to her resignation. Letting the majority of the wizarding world know of your tragedy.

Arabella tried reaching out by writing you letters as she usually did during your breaks.

It did no good, all of her twenty one letters remained unanswered.

You vanished for two entire weeks. Your arrival back to the school grounds was just as unexpected as your departure. Expect, all could point out the vast gap in your behaviour. You now haunted the corridors with your ghastly appearance, drained of your lively personality. Numbed by the memory of your past life, knowing you can never have it back. The events occurring before the fated morning, when you received the plea to come home straight from your mother through a letter, dissolved. They now seem silly compared to what’s plaguing you right now. Arabella’s ignorance, your ex boyfriend’s snarky approach, Gojo’s hurtful comments and his audacity of spilling a secret which wasn’t his to tell — none of it matters. And it seems like you were living a completely different life only a few weeks ago.

That sort of calm before the storm, you took everything for granted.

And during those two weeks you were at home, much managed to change. Your headmaster who’s been teaching at the school for three decades has been asked to leave his position due to his antigovernment opinions and conspiracies about plans to put a stop to the rise of the conservatives, the anonymous report came with enough evidence to justify itself. Earning the headmaster an immediate dismissal. They were rather quick with the replacement, so as you came back, there was already a new headmaster.

Along with yet another set of rules.

Still, the worst thing is that everyone knows of your father’s death, and you’re getting sick of each pitiful gaze which lands on you. Their mushy condolences targeting the raw wound, the void within your chest. At each subtle mention of your father, you want to come undone and hide away from the rest of the world to sob until there’s nothing left to come.

You walk around the place with swollen eyes and a weight in your chest, invisible to all of the others. Time did ease the rawness of it, but far too little of it passed to actually take off the burden keeping you at rock bottom.

You continue to mould over one simple thought — you never got to say a proper goodbye.

Despite your friend’s efforts, you still avoid and withdraw yourself from your favourite activities while insisting you’re fine on your own. Your friends don’t like that, of course. The three of them nearly never leaving you alone, always bringing you out for walks to see how winter slowly keeps swallowing autumn, and to Quidditch games. The season has officially started, even without you.

Right, life goes on regardless of you remaining still.

The stadium is loud, cheering and chanting as you hover above in the air. Wind is howling past your ears, somehow it's the first time in weeks you’ve felt remotely alive. The sun above is cold as winter’s approaching, yet the sky is clear without any trace of clouds. You can almost forget the weight that’s been pressing down on you since it happened. Almost.

You hadn’t planned to be here. You'd told yourself you weren’t ready. But your friends were far too persistent, refusing to let you stay locked away in the common room.

It’s who you are, they said.

And now, here you are. Blue and bronze on your quidditch uniform, wind biting at your cheeks, and your heart finally racing for something other than grief. Seated safely on your broomstick, awaiting the start of the game. The pitch hums with anticipation as screams echo from the stands, scarves whipping in the wind. Your teammates remain still nearby, their voices are a blur of strategy and jokes. You only half listen, eyes slipping to the audience to point out your friends.

And there they are.

In the crowd, tucked between a group of giddy third-years and a professor trying very hard to pretend she isn’t amused. Your friends are laughing at something the other had said, eyes squinting in the bright evening light. The moment they notice you they begin to frantically wave at you with the kind of excitement that brings a soft smile upon your lips. Your attention slips away as you repeat the gesture.

A sight of artic hair tousling in the breeze like it has no sense of control making you take a double look into the crowd. You feel it like a jolt. Not the usual nerves before a match, but another feeling. He’s completely at ease. Eyes raking the field.

You turn back to your team, jaw set, trying to fully focus your attention on the game.

The match is fast the second its pronounced as started — Hufflepuff plays clean but relentless. You dive, swerve, breathe in the game like it’s the first breath you’ve taken in weeks. The tiny golden snitch casting a flicker of shine as you fiercely chase it. And for a minute, you believe your friends. You think maybe they were right. Maybe you're capable of doing this.

Then it happens.

You glance over your shoulder — just a second of distraction, and the hit comes from your blind spot. A shove, hard and ungraceful. It sends you flitting forward, losing control of the broom beneath you. Your stomach drops as fear consumes you, body being helplessly pulled down by gravity.

The fall isn’t long, the ground is cruel though. You hit it hard and your sense finally align, letting you know what’s happened. Pain spikes through you instantly like a sharp cut, breath knocked out of your lungs. You can’t bring yourself to move, scream nor react in any way. You barely sense the sheers faltering and whistles blowing. You’re on your back, blinking up at the sky that seemed so peaceful moments ago with your blurry eyed vision.

You bitterly think, maybe your friends were wrong in the end. And then your vision darkens, sending you off into an oblivious state.

The next time they open, you wake to the soft creak of wood, and that sterile smell unique to the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. As you adjust your tired orbs, you assume it’s at least an hour or two before the curfew. The dim flickering fire of the candle rested beside the hospital bed is casting thin gold bares across sheets pulled over you.

Pain makes itself present first. A deep, dull ache along your side. The kind that itches when you try to shift even slightly.

Right. The match. The fall. Your father.

You remember the wind rushing past, the snap of impact, the world spinning out beneath you. And then —pitch black.

Madam Pomfrey appears before you can sit up properly, arms crossed, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“You're lucky,” she says, adjusting the potion bottle on your bedside table, even though you’d never consider yourself that “could’ve been broken ribs, but you landed just awkwardly enough to only bruise them. Not that I recommend making a habit of falling from broomsticks.”

“Noted,” you breathe out, the action sending sharp pain through your left side. Madam Pomfrey offers you a sympathetic smile, rubbing your shoulder. Meant as a comforting gesture to remind you you’re gonna be alright, and that it could’ve been far worse.

A voice drifts in from somewhere nearby when she leaves — soft, familiar. You glance to the side and realize someone’s been waiting for you to wake up. Your senses are still pretty disoriented.

Maybe it’s one of your teammates.

“Thought I’d see how you’re doing, the fall looked pretty bad,” he looks up as you stir, and something in his face shifts. For a fraction of the moment, you think you must be dreaming and part of you wants to hide away under the covers, hoping that the cunning Slytherin would leave. It’d cause a significant amount of pain so you abandon the thought.

You look thinner, he notes to himself as his blue lagoons rake over your displayed form.

“The others are worried about you,” Satoru mentions the other players as he scoots closer to the hospital bed. The room is only bathed in the light of the small candles, casting a rather intimate atmosphere as the rain drops drum against the stained glass of the window behind you.

It’s your first interaction since the party and somehow, it appears as if thousand years stretched in between. Still, it doesn’t make you entirely forgive him for his choice of words, regardless of the fact, you can’t awaken any hint of anger.

You’re back to your usual douse of numbness, plus the physical ache in your ribs.

“How do you feel?” he bribes casually, not caring for the the lack of response coming from your side.

“I’m alive,” you mumble out of pity as he stands beside the bed, looking unlike himself.

“And out of the game till spring,” Satoru attempts to chuckle playfully, wondering if he can get any trace of your banter out of you. You look up at him, eyes painted with exhaustion as you lifelessly lay in stiff bedding, dressed in the pure white gown which almost feels unnatural against your body.

“I’m done,” you say, moving your dulled body to the side and it makes you scrunch your nose due to the overbearing wave of ache. His expression laces with concern as he watches you hiss out in pain.

“What do you mean done?” the white haired Slytherin mumbles, brows furrowing in confusion as he takes in your simple words.

“I’m not playing anymore,” you announce as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And you suppose it is now, even though you wouldn’t be able to phantom anything such as this merely a month ago. You’re nearly scared of how little you care about it.

Silly how quickly can things escalate.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re gonna be brand new for spring season,” his words serve as an encouragement, something you never expected to receive from him. Nevertheless, it doesn’t change anything going on in your mind. You can’t find an ounce of will to carry on with the sport.

“I don’t wanna play anymore,” you voice out neutrally, barely audible while you move your gaze to the ceiling. Unwilling to continue with the conversation.

“You’re being dead serious?” he’s not quick enough to hide his genuine dismay which you miss out on due to your averted gaze. Major part of him took joy in playing the sport, because it was the only way where the two of you clashed. Not in an aggressive way. More like, where the two polar opposites could meet, doing what they have in common without any consequences.

Likely, the only thing they both love.

He can’t imagine not having you on the field ever again. And he’s enveloped in a sentimental longing for a period in the past. If he had known back then, he would’ve cherished the last time you were matched against one another.

If only he had known it was the last time.

His mouth hangs open lightly, the words bitting his tongue as they beg to be let out, but they’re swallowed back into the abstract of his mind — forever unspoken — as he takes in your defeated and unresponsive form.

“Right. It’s up to you anyway,” is what he croaks out, nodding his hand to convince himself to keep his mouth shut. And when you remain unmoving, he weakly sighs and navigates his steps towards the exit.

A powerful impulse causes his body to halt, half in and half out of the room.

Satoru glances at you, turning back.

“I’m-“ he starts off, lips stopping in movement as his eyes bore into your figure on the hospital bed, tucked beneath the white covers, and suddenly he can’t bring himself to say what he meant.

A second time in a row.

“Get better soon,” he breathes out instead.

credits for dividers: [@steviebboi @cafekitsune]

taglist: [ @k-kkiana @cuffiescariche @sylustoru @hyori2 @ethereal-moonlit @crankyarchives @jjklover365daysayear @cailliz @kaisenkalogathia @urthem00n @katsukiseyebrows @poopooindamouf @heiejdhdh @tessasweet ]

[btsbabe7]

Perfect Storm

Word Count: 3k

Pairing: Ominis Gaunt x reader

Warnings!: 18+, unprotected sex

Synopsis: While Ominis grapples with his feelings, you embrace your own in full bloom.

Ominis sits in a complete daze, exactly three rows from the front of The History of Magic. In a class where sleep is prioritized over education, he finds himself wide awake and engulfed by his own thoughts.

At a young age, Ominis Gaunt had learned the mastery of concealing his disdain, his happiness, and all other emotions in between that may apprehend him. It was a skill he found himself most proud of, especially as a Slytherin, simply because it kept him safe from the consequences of raw emotions and how others may perceive them. But on this particular afternoon, an hour after your coffee brown feathered owl, Nora had chirped seven times through his windowsill, Ominis felt something arise.

A feeling he had long forgotten had begun to muddle up and settle in the hollowness of his chest as it would after a sip of freshly brewed Butterbeer or morning pumpkin juice on an empty stomach. He’d only felt this way twice in his entire life. Once, when he’d learned he’d been invited to attend Hogwarts and would finally be able to escape the harsh scrutiny and peculiar upbringing of his pureblooded parents. Secondly, when he’d been introduced to Sebastian and Anne Sallow during his first year of attending. However, he would have never guessed that he’d feel this way about you, his now, not-so-new best friend that he can’t seem to stop thinking of. Though, there is one thing Ominis knows for certain, and that is that he must stop his heart from becoming too attached. Otherwise, the feeling would fester and utterly consume him.

When Professor Binns dismissed class, a herd of yawning students stumbled out in the connecting hallway of The Bell Tower in pure delight. As they do, you scan the crowd over, student by student, looking for only one in particular.

Amit Thakkar. Eric Northcott. Lenora Everleigh. Natsai Onai, who stops at your side with a sly smirk.

“Next time you decide to skip Binns’ class, I beg you have Nora deliver a notice beforehand. As much as I appreciate a midday nap, I do cherish adventure even more.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you giggle, though you know Natsai wouldn’t have wanted to join in on the adventure that had pulled you away from class on this particular day.

The high of Sebastian’s presence that typically lingered long after the fact comes to a standstill at the thought of other’s putting the pieces together. Surely word would soon travel of you missing your History of Magic course and the coincidence of your best friend Sebastian missing his Astronomy one simultaneously. That thought alone is what steals your concentration from the leaving students and causes your mind to wander. A few seconds more and a small tap has you jolting as if you’ve seen a ghost for the first time.

“Ominis,” you breathe in relief.

“I could smell you,” he chuckles. “Well, you smell of Sebastian actually.”

“Oh, yeah… I, uh… We bumped into each other on the way to class and decided to ditch.”

Ominis is silent for a moment. He can always detect your hesitation when you lie, but it wasn’t a completely lie. You hope in your heart that he’ll buy it and not question any further, and in your favor, he chooses the latter.

“Nora stopped by before class,” he states. “She only chirped seven times. So you’re early, despite missing class.”

You rope your arm in Ominis’ and lead him downstairs and towards the doors which lead you out the castle.

“On my way over, I figured we could head to Hogsmeade early. We’re both done for the day and we don’t get much time alone without Seb. I tried to convince him to stay in tonight, but he was adamant about spending time with both of his best friends.”

Ominis hums in curiosity. Wondering what you’d bargained with Sebastian to get him to give you and him any time alone at all. Despite his curiosity, his own excitement wins the battle. He hadn’t had a moment alone with you since you’d met him, and with Sebastian out of the way, even for a short moment, he’d finally have you to himself.

“Do we have to go to The Three Broomsticks? If we aren’t due there until seven this evening, we can go elsewhere?”

You purse your lips as you both waltz through the doors and into the warm breeze of spring. The air smells of heavy rain. The type of rain that smells of earth and dew and brings the worms from their humble adobes in the soil.

“I suppose we could go wherever we please.”

Ominis smirks, but turns in the opposite direction in order to conceal it from you.

“Perhaps we could go to The Undercroft?”

You glance up towards the sky. Heavy, grey clouds settle in the distance, remnants of a storm while another dares to roll in at a moment’s notice. As much as you love a brilliant storm, you’d love to spend time alone with Ominis more. After all, many storms have hovered in the skies above the grounds of Hogwarts, but time alone with your Slytherin friend weren’t as frequent.

“The Undercroft,” you hum in agreement.

Careful to evade the nosiness of curious students and staff, you and Ominis slip into the concealment of The Undercroft with relieved sighs. You gaze over the darkened room, casting Confringo towards the four hanging lamp posts before continuing inside.

Abandoned furniture, rusting cauldrons, and dusty barrels are stacked high against the surrounding walls, making the room appear much smaller than it feels. The room itself smells of burnt embers, left behind from all the times you and the duo had practiced Confringo here on end. You smile at the memories before meeting Ominis in the center of the room enveloped between four hefty, ornate columns.

A rug sits there now, one you’d managed to buy over Christmas break and bring in from home with the help of an Extension Charm. The others hadn’t seen it yet since you’d just placed it today before meeting Sebastian in the secrecy of his empty dorm.

“Confringo truly warms up the room,” Ominis breathes sarcastically before settling down. His brows rise at the sudden change of surface and he allows his fingertips to mold themselves into the thick fibers of the woolen rug with a gentle breath. “A rug?”

“Don’t you and Seb get tired of sitting on frigid concrete?”

“I’ve known nothing else.”

You smile softly, happy that you’re allowing him to experience something new in his safe place.

With your own need to relax, you kick your shoes off and drop your robe before joining Ominis on the rug. He jolts up at the feeling of your knee pressing against his and tries to imagine your facial features in this moment, calm and soft.

“I wish we could enjoy the storm from here,” you whisper. “I’d love to hear the heaviness of the rain pitter pattering around us. The rumbling of thunder that comes with the rolling clouds.”

Ominis smiles. Taking in your words and imagining them in his head. The coolness of the rain prickling against your flesh and curls. What rolling clouds would look like when the thunder rumbles beneath your feet and lightning streaks through gray clouds. The way your lips curl into a grin and eyes close when you’re in a state of peace and tranquility only a storm can offer. You take your bottom lip in with a smile, laughing to yourself at the thought. It’s as if you and Ominis had shared the imagery telepathically.

“Y/n,” Ominis calls, though he has no words to say. After all, anything that would come out in this moment would come out as a stutter and surely you’d laugh in his face, even as his friend.

But you respond in the softest your voice has ever been around him, a simple yes, and he finds himself swooning. He falls silent, closes his eyes and takes in the smell of burning coals in the nearby lamps. It’s not the smell of wet earth, but it is familiar. As familiar as the fluttering in his stomach as he lies back in hopes to push them away, the butterflies. And much to his dismay, you replicate the action.

The smell of Sebastian has long worn away and your own smell of vanilla and worn book pages returns. The warmth of your body so close to his has him fighting to steady his breathing. He shuffles a bit in an attempt to create space, but ends up slapping his hand into yours instead. You smile at the feeling and allow your palm to clasp around his with a soft exhale.

A few moments of silence pass by and you drop Ominis’ hand to roll onto your side. With one hand propping up the side of your head, your eyes roam over your best friend. His robe is parted and his tie sits tightly around the ring of his crisp, white collar that’s nestled underneath his buttoned vest and open jacket. The hem of his button-up is still neatly tucked inside his belted, checkered grey trousers. His full length grey socks are pulled to the knee and stuffed inside his short boots. And when your eyes gaze up towards his face, a soft smile sits on his lips as if he’s deep inside a fantasy only he can see.

“What’re you thinking about?”

Ominis’ smile turns into a hoarse cough, almost a choke. You pat him gingerly on the chest until he heaves out one last cough and wipes away the tears.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Y-you didn’t,” he spats out. “I just didn’t know you were observing me.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? You’re the most interesting object in the room.”

His cheeks turn a cherry red and he gazes away nervously.

“I believe you to be more interesting,” he mutters.

You come up to your knees, allowing them to sink into the soft fibers of the rug.

“Prove it.”

You shock yourself and Ominis with that line, but it does the trick of pulling his reddened face back in your direction. Had this been Sebastian and you’d given him the chance, he wouldn’t have bat a lash before making a move, but Ominis has always been your greatest challenge. You know he won’t be the first to make the move even if the stone lies within his court. So, you find yourself climbing into his lap, straddling him as he attempts to find the words to say or expression to convey in response to your boldness.

“It’s alright,” you whisper.

“Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

Ominis’ trembling hands plant themselves against your jawline, thumbing over your soft cheeks, then the circumference of your lips. His mouth parts and your own need to feel him consumes you. You repeat the action of grasping his face and lean in closer until all that’s between you is a slither of air.

“Y/n,” Ominis speaks quickly. The call of your name propels his warmth against your lips. “This will change everything.”

“I know, Omi.”

He hesitates, then allows himself closer in consent. You settle down in his lap completely and draw your hands to the hairs at the nape of his neck, taking in the coarseness before your eyes flutter closed and your lips press gently into his.

Ominis’ body shutters underneath you as if he’s been set ablaze while yours kicks into overdrive. You help him slip off his robe and jacket, then mindlessly pluck the large, grey buttons from the holes of his vest. He shrugs out of it and clasps his arms around you, moaning as you both deepen the kiss and fall back on the rug. His hands travel over your waist, down your hips, then down your thighs on either side of him. He mentally takes in that you chose to wear a dress today, knowing he could use that to his advantage if you both chose to go any further.

You pull away breathlessly and in a daze, drinking Ominis’ relieved express in like cool water.

“Do you think we have time?” You ask aloud, not necessarily to him as you reach back to grab your pocket watch from the inner pocket of your own robe. Barely an hour before you’re set to meet Sebastian in Hogsmeade. It’s not nearly enough time, but with the pout on Ominis’ face, you can’t deny yourselves the pleasure. “We’ll be quick…”

Ominis chuckles at the shakiness of your voice before pulling your lips back to his. If he had to face an annoyed Sebastian because you both arrived late, he’d take that over missing this opportunity with you. And in agreement, you and Ominis strip down to your undergarments in no time. Once his hand brushes against your bare flesh, he squeezes his eyes shut and pulls you down against him.

“Have you done this before?”

He shakes his head.

“Have you?”

You fear being honest in a time like this, when you know he’s so vulnerable, but you also know Ominis would be able to read your lies easily. Besides, in a time like this where everything is sacred, lying seems cruel.

“Only once,” you reply shakily.

Ominis’ expression fades into something unreadable, then a smirk appears.

“Perhaps you can show me how it’s done then?”

You scoff nervously. It wasn’t the response you were expecting. In fact, you were thinking he’d nudge you off of himself and start to redress. That you’d end up wallowing in shame all night over Butterbeers at the embarrassment.

You waste no time grinding against him, getting a feel for his size as soft pleas slip from his lips. Your own lips gasp at the feeling of him growing hard beneath your warmth. A bit surprised by his size, you lift up just enough to work the hardened member from his briefs. With a purr, you rub down the length and move your own garments to the side. You grasp one of Ominis hands and position it between your legs, and you swear his eyes widen like the moon at the sensation.

“Touch me here for now,” you croon, already aching in anticipation of the pleasure you know he won’t deny you.

Ominis rubs down your length, taking in the number of folds it takes to get to the source of your warmth. He clamps his hand over the mound, then slips a single finger into your depths, which earns a moan from your throat. He seems to like it, the prize that comes from knowing he’s touching you correctly.

“Just like that, Omi,” you mewl seconds before he pulls his finger in and out of your arousal. You work your own hand over his full length with a coating of your own saliva. “Can’t wait to feel you inside my wet pussy.”

He stops short as if his brain hadn’t processed it beforehand. He could feel you even more, more than his finger. Skin to skin, body to body. Luckily, you can’t deny yourself the pleasure anymore, and knowing that time is ticking by, you climb back into his lap and take him back into your grasp before lining your entrance up with the tip of his erection. It only takes the feeling of the tip poking inside to pull a heavy groan from Ominis’ lips. It makes you smile, the sight of him already squirming as you slip down the rest of his length with a loud whimper.

“Fuck, Omi, your cock feels amazing.”

“Y/n,” he whines and grips your waist the moment you start gliding back and forth with the length of his cock stuffed inside. It almost slips out, then you skillfully retract it back in. He squirms every time it comes close to falling out, a pinch of panic at the idea of losing this feeling.

His eyes shut and his blunt nails burrow into your flesh as you find a steady pace and your palms rest against his sweaty chest. You knew Ominis would feel astronomical inside of you, but he never knew he’d quickly become addicted to the feeling of himself being buried deep inside your depths.

You toss your head back and move Ominis’ hands up to your chest. He massages your breasts softly and unskillfully, scared of squeezing too hard in fear of hurting you.

“Lick them? Please?” You squeak and falter towards him. “Suck them.”

He feels for one of your protruding nipples and laps his warm tongue over the left, which causes the right to ache painfully in neglect. You massage into it yourself while trying to keep your pace. He pulls the left between his teeth and sucks on it hard, causing you to squeal before he moves to the right. You ride him faster, too overtaken by your own pleasure to notice him trembling beneath you. His own pants intertwine with yours and his hands find your hips again, this time guiding you up and down his twitching length.

“Y/n, I think I—“ Ominis’ words get caught in a groan so deep, your eyes flutter open.

“Oh, Omi… I’m going t— Nngh!”

He thrusts his hips upwards and your words fade into a sharp scream that leaves you shaking and trembling against him. Your eyes roll back and he pulls out of you with tremors of his own. You feel a warm liquid spurting against your ass and you sigh in relief before collapsing on top of him. His chest heaves violently against yours. His, then yours until they fall back into a rhythmic pattern of normalcy.

Silence falls over the room once again and you trace lines down Ominis’ abdomen mindlessly. Yet, in his mind, he’s attempting to come to terms with the act you two just committed. He’s sure this will change absolutely everything.

Will he start bantering with Sebastian when he mindlessly flirts with you?

Will he slip up and curse one of the other students who brag about how hot the hero of Hogwarts is?

He would now know just how hot you can get after finally having you this way. Would that knowledge alone push him over the edge?

On the outside, he remains calm, but you sense that his mind is elsewhere. You trail a fingertip from the center of his forehead and down the bridge of his nose before leaning over him.

“What’s plaguing your mind, Ominis?”

He’s hesitant, but thinks better of. If he’s had you like this, in his most vulnerable state of nudity, then surely he can admit his feelings.

“I’m worried about the others… Sebastian…”

“What about them?”

“What they’ll think or say. About the lewd comments I overhear in class. And if we continue to do this, they’ll begin to notice we’re becoming more than friends.”

You ponder it over for a moment, but surely being perceived as more than friends wouldn’t be so preposterous.

“There are worst things out there, Ominis Gaunt, than our peers perceiving us as more than friends. Perhaps you wouldn’t be too worried if instead of being friends, w—”

“Instead of being friends?” Ominis sputters in confusion and panic.

You pat his chest gingerly.

“Yes, Omi. Instead of being friends, you consider being my boyfriend instead? And when they inquire, we’ll simply tell them we’re courting each other.”

His face turns as pale as Professor Binns’, a true ghost, and he sits straight up as if to prevent a choking fit again.

“You want to court me? You truly fancy me?”

“Of course. I thought that much was evident. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have spent the entire afternoon attempting to get Sebastian’s blessing of giving us time alone. And I surely wouldn’t be plastered against your body fully naked,” you snort.

Color fades back into his cheeks, but he remains flustered. That’s the reason you smelled of Sebastian, you’d been in his dorm all afternoon, and knowing Sebastian, convincing him would’ve taken a while. And now it made perfect sense that he’d granted you the time alone and hadn’t once wondered into The Undercroft with all the time that’s passed. It’s as if everything has finally clicked in his mind.

Ominis recognizes something else too, the feeling that had settled in his chest earlier in the day. It’s the very feeling he felt once he was granted freedom from the abuse of his parents, the feeling he felt when he’d met Sebastian and Anne, the feeling you grant him now and always have, is hope. A hope for something new and better in the midst of his own chaotic storms. And with that realization, Ominis caresses your cheek and presses his lips ever so slightly into yours.

And after a few deep kisses, he pulls back, leaving a sliver between you two to flash a brilliant smile before finally answering your burning question.

“Of course I’ll be yours. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Please be sure to check out my other latest fics:

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

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

⚡︎ Golden - Sebastian Sallow x reader

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

⚡︎ For You Always (m.) - Severus Snape x reader

⚡︎ HP: November Prompt Challenge (days 1-30)

~ 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! ♡

May 2024

[winterssecrett]

MIDNIGHT TALKS | THEODORE NOTT

ღ 02:00 a.m and the group of snakes was still on the astronomy tower, a place they had started to love when they discovered that professors and prefects never went to “guard” or check for students out of bed. Sleep was something hard to find with how dark and scary things had gotten in school and around the world, so their best option was to be together as a group and as a family.

Astoria was sitting on the floor with Draco’s head on her chest, playing with his blonde platinum hair. Besides her was Blaise, who had Pansy between his legs, hugging her by her waist. And the other three -Theo, Y/n, and Mattheo- were close to the balcony, finishing their cigarettes.

Y/n didn’t smoke much, not as much as her boyfriend, but it was exams week and the stress alongside her anxiety was too much, she needed to take it down a bit.

— I don’t wanna see a fucking book on the rest of my life — Pansy whined, letting out a huff

Draco rolled his eyes — If you pass, you won’t have to.

— can you believe it? In a few months, we won’t be here anymore — Y/n said with a bittersweet tone of voice

Theo nod a that, wrapping his arms around his girlfriend frame. For some reason, he was always looking for her warmth, and since it was so late and so cold, he loved having her close to his body.

— Does it matter? — Draco asked not waiting for an answer — It’s not like things are gonna change, or that we are gonna be able to escape the hell that our lives are.

Clearly the alcohol was working on the blonde, cause otherwise he would have never said something like that. Draco didn’t talk, and definitely not about how sad his life was back at home. All of them, including the whole house of Slytherin were living in the same hell that the dark lord brought, and that’s why no one talked about it, it was easier to pretend that everything was just fine.

— Well, it’s not a surprise. We have been marked and judged since we were kids, like it was our fault the last name that we carry, or the house that we are in — Theo responded with harshness, making her girlfriend frown

Mattheo let out a sigh — We better play our part, right?

He was the most fucked of the group, he was the son of the person that was trying to destroy the magical world for years on end. The silence invaded them and everyone started to get lost in their thoughts, Y/n turned around putting her arms around Theo’s neck.

— Well be fine, right? — she asked in almost a whisper, wondering how bad things were gonna be once they graduated

Theo caressed her cheek — Well be together, that’s all that matters, Bella.

Y/n smiled at him with sadness, they had just a month left of school and they were trying to enjoy as much of it as they could. For example having breakfast together everyday, even if they were dying to sleep a little bit more. Partying from Thursday to Sunday with not just their house, but also the other three. Swimming in the black lake at night, and then going to the kitchen to get cups of hot chocolate.

Just a lot of things to be happy in times of death, darkness, and cruelty.

— I love you, cara mía, you know that right? — He said with a small smile

Y/n smiled back at him — Of course I know, and I love you too, darling.

One of Theo’s hands went to the back of her head and brought her close to his lips, almost melting when he felt her warmth. God how he enjoyed kissing and touching her.

— Get a room you scandalous people!

Everyone laughed at Draco’s slurred words, he was gonna regret all of the fire whiskey he had drunk tomorrow morning.

[evans23]

Hello! May I request Severus Snape x female reader? He might be scolding her for something and even calling her stupid. But she doesn't pay attention and tells him that she thinks everything about him is beautiful...

Thank you 💖

(Sorry for my english)

You're handsome when you're angry

Pairing : Severus Snape x Reader OC

Summary : You are the assistant of Severus Snape. The man who lived. The sarcastic, cold angry Potions Master. And you think he his handsome. Even when he is angry.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : None.

A/N : Thank you for your request ! I'm not used to writing about Snape because, well we have plenty of stories about him and each time I have an idea for our favourite Potions Master, I have that feeling that it has already been done, therefore, I hope you'd like it !

Also read on AO3

Six months. Six months since you'd been his assistant. You'd have thought the war had mellowed him out. That surviving a giant snake had made him more... agreeable.

But no, he was still the same good old Severus Snape. And he was now the one they called the one who lived. His name had been cleared of all shame thanks to Harry Potter. Or Bloody Potter, as Snape regularly muttered.

The potions professor had hardly appreciated the fact that Harry, in order to allow him to be officially pardoned and even receive the Order of Merlin, had made his memories public. At the time, Snape was in a coma, and McGonagall had encouraged Harry to bring justice to Severus, the bravest man who had ever attended Hogwarts, according to her own words.

Needless to say, when he woke up from a six-month coma, Severus wanted more than ever to jump off the Astronomy Tower... but he didn't have the strength to get up; the venom had made him weak, and all he managed was fall out of bed, face down, while Mrs. Pomfrey came running in, scolding him like he was still eleven.

And when Harry came to see him to thank him for protecting him all these years, Severus didn't tell him he was sorry and that he should have let him drop out of his damn ballet in his first year. No, he just told him, with cold calm, that he could put the Order of Merlin in his dark side.

Harry left the hospital wing with a big smile. Severus Snape was in better shape. And he was still himself.

And against all odds, when Minerva had offered him his old job as potions professor and Head of Slytherin... he refused. He had sacrificed enough of himself and life to finally stop thinking about himself.

He had traveled a bit, tried to find his place elsewhere, opened a small healing potions shop in Paris, tamed the demons that haunted the Vatican basements, lived a quiet life in a remote Swedish village where he barely lasted two weeks once winter came, then returned to the UK and wrote to Minerva.

The truth was, he didn't know how to be anything other than a potions professor. After all, he had spent his entire youth being one, and now he wasn't really old, but his soul was, and he was worn down. Worn down by life and the endless suffering it had inflicted on him.

Minerva had immediately given him back his job, arguing that the current potions professor could have competed with Longbottom, given how much she'd had to rethink the cauldron budget.

And two years later, you arrived. You were 33 years old. Not a young beginner, not a dunderhead fresh out of school. No, just a somewhat lost woman who'd struggled to find herself. A woman with her own past and her own wounds, and a recent career change that, you hoped, would finally open the doors to fulfilment, and especially to your dream career: Potions Master.

Snape had of course grumbled, protested, threatened to quit his job, but Minerva had been adamant. Hogwarts was part of a program for young wizards looking for their bearing, a pompous name given by the Ministry to people who had taken a little time to find their way in a world too fast-paced for them, or to those who had had to reinvent themselves after the war, and above all, Severus couldn't quit his job; he had nowhere else to go.

His house in Spinner's End had been burned to the ground, probably by Death Eaters. Not that he missed that hovel full of painful memories, but from then, Hogwarts was truly his one and only home.

When told about you, he had expected a 19-year-old girl, a recent graduate of a school with questionable training, whom he would have to keep a close eye on now that he had stabilized the cauldron budget. Not to a 33-year-old woman, disillusioned but eager to learn, capable of listening, absorbing knowledge, and above all, above all, not talking more than necessary. Or at least, not anymore. After one week you knew better. 

He would never have said it to your face, but one evening when McGonagall asked him what she should write in the report she was to submit to Granger, who was heading this rehabilitation program, he replied that you were promising and that he had nothing negative to say. McGonagall, her eyes wide as saucers, wondered for a moment if he'd lost his mind, her, who had never heard him compliment anyone, but she had the wisdom to say nothing about it.

You immediately found him handsome. Intelligent. Broken. Of course, you knew his story. Everyone knew it. It had been heard all over the wizarding world. But as the days went by, you were able to see beyond the story. You saw the man. And one day, you woke up hoping he would see you for yourself. For the woman you were, not the assistant.

He was tough, but he never shouted. His anger was cold, and he always spoke in the same laconic tone. Yet, you could tell whether he was in a good mood or not by a simple raise of one of his eyebrow. And you knew that after a class with the Gryffindors, and especially with McIntyre, a somewhat dreamy young boy incapable of following instructions unless you were behind him at all times, ready to catch his hand before he threw slugs instead of leeches into a potion that was particularly toxic if the wrong ingredients were added, then he wasn't in a bad mood or angry... he was unbearable. Suffice to say, you watched over McIntyre like a lioness her cubs, because you were the one who then had to put up with Snape until bedtime.

You didn't talk much, always about work, but little by little, you were getting used to each other, and he was putting up with you. At least, that's what you thought until today.

Today had been hell. You'd woken up late, and the glare Severus had given you... you were certain that if you'd still been a student, he would have given you detention until the end of the year... except it wasn't you he gave detention, it was McIntyre for setting his eyebrows on fire. His own, thank goodness, not Snape's. If that had been the case, you're certain McIntyre would have nothing left but his eyes to cry with on the train back to King's Cross forever.

However, you were the one who had to deal with detentions, which meant you'd never have another afternoon free until the end of the year.

Then you had to clean up the mess left by a fourth-year student who, Merlin knows how, had managed to make it impossible to magically clean the classroom. Three hours of scrubbing by hand, hands that were now red and irritated.

And after supervising the detention of two first-year idiots who had thought it clever to slip a toad into Madam Pomfrey's satchel, two idiots you should have made scrub the classroom after a second thought, you now had to spend your evening working with Snape on a highly unstable but terribly necessary position to vaccinate the thestrals who were suffering from a kind of purulent chickenpox, fortunately not contagious to humans.

The laboratory was dark, smoky, and smelled of a mixture of thyme, wood, and... Snape. Snape, his raven hair blowing over his eyes, was hunched over a cauldron inside which a purple liquid was bubbling bigger than your head. Your potion didn't have the same intense purple colour, but after a skeptical glance, Severus had said that was normal; purple could be more or less intense depending on the personality of the person brewing it. So you could easily guess that tonight, he was in as bad a mood as Filch's cat.

You didn't dare speak much. Not because he impressed you, but because you'd arrived a minute and fifteen minutes late, once again after your morning lateness, which had earned you a perfectly plucked eyebrow raise and a:

"Thirty more seconds and you'd have had to find another Potions Master to make life difficult for."

You hadn't replied; your past attempts at humour had taught you that it was a character trait very, very disliked by this man you admired almost in spite of yourself.

The problem wasn't that you weren't good at potions, it was that you operated on instinct, while Snape was rigorous. At least, that's what he said; you'd seen that he too had a way of sensing potions, of embodying them... and of being instinctive. But when you told him, you thought his gaze could have been the first to cast an Avada Kedavra spell. Or that he was trying to get into your head. When, still a little clumsy, you asked him with a crooked smile if that was what he was trying to do, he coldly replied that he already knew your head was empty and didn't want to inflict the torture of confirming it by entering it only to encounter nothingness.

You were busy stirring your potion, lost in thought, when it started to form black bubbles that made the table vibrate. It was when a greenish cloud began to rise from the cauldron that you realized: you'd made a mistake. Instead of using a specter's tear, you'd used a tarantula's tear.

A quick glance at Snape reassured you; he hadn't noticed. You tried to make amends by throwing in some catnip, but it only made things worse. A bubble burst with a dull thud, almost burning your forearm.

In an instant, Severus was leaning over the cauldron, wand in hand, muttering a formula you haven't heard before, and within seconds, the potion had returned to its original consistency.

"You brainless fool, are you completely stupid ? You could have set this classroom on fire ! The castle !"

He wasn't shouting, but his dark eyes flashed, and his voice, cold and sharp, hurt more than any scream.

"Do you want to die ?! Are you stupid or are you pretending ?! I should have told Minerva you were too incompetent to work at Hogwarts from day one."

He went on like this, accusing you of not taking anything seriously, of not being serious enough to have not yet found your way at your age, of not being reliable...

You took a step back, surprised, but you didn't lower your eyes. You were almost... peaceful.

"You can have your little smile... perhaps you'd like me to applaud you for not killing yourself like a first-year freshman ? Idiot !"

He had shouted that last word. His only outburst. Now there was only silence. Heavy. You took a deep breath, then, quietly, without irony, you said to him,

"I think you're handsome."

Visibly taken aback, Snape looked at you as if you were growing a second head.

"Even when you're angry. Even when you're tough. I know it's because you can't bear to lose control. Because you never really had it. You were only given the illusion that you were in control. You lost something. Not a Lily. Freedom. The freedom to choose. The freedom to be yourself. But I admire you. I admire you for managing to get back up and fight every time, after every challenge."

Severus sighed deeply, and for the first time, you saw him remove his mask. Before you, you had the man, the real one, not the spy, not the professor, not the bat from the dungeons.

"It's dangerous... to see monsters as men," he murmured.

"I'm less afraid of monsters than of men," you replied with an enigmatic smile.

And in an instant, he understood. Understood that behind your smiles and your slightly awkward humour, there was a story. A story that was nothing like a fairy tale. Experiences, mistakes, back roads... a painful past. Maybe not as painful as his, but pain is pain, and yours was no less valid because you hadn't gone through the same ordeals as him. He knew better than anyone that you have no right to compare one person's suffering to another's. It wasn't fair. Every individual was unique, every suffering valid.

"Even the darkest potions have a light within them if you know how to look," you added without looking at him, already busy cleaning your work surface.

Severus froze, and for the first time in a long time, he didn't know what to say. He was dying to enter your mind, but he wouldn't. He saw no point in stealing someone's memories to get to know them better. In fact, Snape had never used his gift to get to know someone, because he'd never wanted to. But suddenly, you, he wanted to know you.

"No woman has ever told me I'm handsome," he said, before mentally slapping himself.

"Because they never looked properly," you shrugged.

You raised your head, a genuine smile on your lips.

"I see you. Not your story. Not your past. Just you."

It wasn't the first time he'd been offered this kind of philosophical statement, which he found a bit silly. Even Potter had said it to him, and it was after he had seen all his memories... well, him and three-quarters of the Ministry. But coming from you, it sounded true.

"I think you're even stupider than I thought," he said without any sarcasm.

"Oh, you have no idea. If you asked me out for a Butterbeer, I might well say yes."

"Even Professor Longbottom isn't that stupid," Severus added with a slight twitch of his lips.

"So, when are we going to drink this Butterbeer?" you asked, staring into his eyes.

He didn't need to use his magic to know what you were thinking. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like a man. For the first time in a long time, he no longer hoped. He knew. Yes, he knew that life was offering him a second chance to love and be loved.