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obssessivethorn · 20 days ago

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love next door (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 15.9k (UM THESE JUST KEEP GETTING LONGER)

Summary: Your next-door neighbor in a London apartment… Mattheo Riddle? Yeah, didn’t see that coming either.

A/N: yall ik i say this for every fic but honest to god i do not like this fic it was really better in my head i swear😭

credits to @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

Most muggleborns spend their lives running toward magic.

After living without it for the first eleven years of their lives, they’re all too eager to lose themselves in a world of spells and enchantments. They trade in double-decker buses and arbitrary chores for castles full of ghosts and a life that feels, at first, like ease. Once you’ve flown a broomstick or charmed a kettle to sing, it’s hard to imagine settling for anything less.

The journey usually only goes one way — from the world of the ordinary to the world of the impossible. Usually.

You moved back to the muggle world shortly after the war ended, wanting to put a great deal of distance between yourself and everything magical. There were a multitude of reasons for that.

To begin with, you wanted to be closer to your family. The war had loomed like a shadow over everything for so long, and when you came so close to losing them, it made you realize just how much you’d taken them for granted. You lived with them in your childhood home for a few months before moving into your own apartment only a few streets over.

Second, you were tired — bone-deep and soul-sick. After witnessing so much destruction, you longed for quiet. The wizarding world, despite its victory, was in a state of chaos. The Ministry was being rebuilt from the ground up, and though they had claimed, with great sympathy, that it was unfair the weight of the world had fallen on such young shoulders, they had no issue asking you — along with Harry, Ron, and Hermione — to serve under Ministry officials and aid in the capture of the remaining Death Eaters.

You had all agreed on one thing: the Ministry was not to be trusted. And with that shared understanding, the four of you parted ways.

Lastly — and most frustratingly — the muggle world was the only place you could escape the insipid reporters who seemed determined to mine every moment of the Golden Quartet’s lives for public consumption. It was another point the four of you agreed on: you wanted no part of the circus.

Now, only your closest friends had your address. Which is why you could only conclude that this was a complete. And utter. Coincidence.

You came home that Tuesday evening with a grocery bag in one hand and your wand tucked safely into your boot. The hallway smelled faintly of burnt toast and lemon-scented floor cleaner, the kind your landlord swore by but never quite masked the damp. You rounded the corner toward your door and stopped short.

There he was.

Mattheo Riddle, standing in front of the apartment next to yours, two battered suitcases at his feet and a flat key dangling uselessly from his hand.

He looked up at the exact moment you did. His fingers froze on the key. Your hand stilled on the strap of your bag.

And for a long, suspended moment, the two of you just stared.

You hadn’t seen him in years — not since the war — and yet time didn’t seem to matter. Recognition crashed through the hallway like a thunderclap. His curls were longer, face more drawn, shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes. But it was him. It was undeniably him.

Mattheo Riddle.

In your building.

The silence dragged on until it became unbearable. You were the first to blink.

"...Hi." You said, a little breathless, a little stunned.

He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at you like he was trying to convince himself you weren’t real. You couldn’t blame him.

"...You."

You raised a brow, "Me."

A beat of silence. Then, softer, almost unsure, "I didn’t know you lived here."

You shifted your groceries in your arms, "I didn’t know you lived here."

Another beat passed, longer this time. The key in his hand twitched like he’d forgotten it was there.

"I don’t," He said finally, "I mean… I just got the place."

You glanced at the door behind him — your door. The one you’d walked through a hundred times without incident. Now it felt like the threshold to something else entirely.

"Next door, huh?" You said, voice light but heart thudding.

He nodded, "Yeah. Lucky me."

You couldn’t tell if he meant it sarcastically, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

There was another pause. Not uncomfortable exactly — just thick with the weight of everything unspoken. You cleared your throat and stepped toward your own door, shifting your keys into your hand.

"Well," You said, half-turning toward him, "If you need help with anything, you know where to find me."

Mattheo blinked, like he hadn’t expected that — kindness, or maybe familiarity. Something flickered behind his eyes. He nodded.

"...Thanks." He said quietly.

You gave him a small nod before unlocking your door and slipping inside, heart hammering as you leaned against the back of it.

Mattheo Riddle. Living next door. You hadn't even unpacked your milk yet, and already the past was knocking.

The morning started like most others — quiet, a little rushed. You always managed to convince yourself you'd dress plain or skip makeup, severely underestimating how long it actually took to get ready. The apartment was practically hell to walk around in — you liked to sleep with the air conditioner blasting, which made getting out of bed feel like leaving heaven. You locked your door with one hand and slung your bag over your shoulder with the other, moving on instinct, drinking down a yogurt smoothie.

The building was still waking up — murmurs behind closed doors, the distant clink of pipes, a cat meowing two floors down. You padded down the stairs toward the lobby, head bowed slightly as you adjusted your coat, not expecting anyone to be around.

But then the front door swung open, and Mattheo Riddle stepped inside.

You almost didn’t recognize him at first. His hoodie was tied around his waist, leaving him in nothing but joggers and a damp black T-shirt clinging to his chest. His curls stuck to his forehead, chest still heaving from the run.

And then — he grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it up to wipe the sweat from his face.

You froze mid-step.

Because, well. There were abs. Sharp, defined, very real abs. The kind you’d only read about in romance novels or seen in movies — not the kind you expected to run into before 8 a.m. The curve of his ribs, the sharp V of his hips, the abs that could definitely grate cheese, the faint scars vanishing beneath the waistband of his joggers — you saw all of it, burned into your retinas before you could blink it away.

And then he saw you.

His eyes widened, and the shirt dropped instantly back into place.

"Oh." He said, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

"Morning." You said, trying your best to sound noncommittal.

"Morning." He said, a bit too quickly.

He glanced toward the door like he might bolt.

Instead, he stepped aside and held it open for you.

"Thanks." You said, quietly.

He nodded, still flustered, eyes flicking down then back up like he wasn’t sure where to look.

You stepped into the sunlight and crossed the lot toward your car, trying hard not to think about the abs. Not to think about the sweat. Not to think about the way your heart had momentarily leapt into your throat like it had no business being there.

God, you were such a teenager sometimes.

Behind you, the door clicked shut.

You grabbed the mail like you always did — a quick swipe from the box in the lobby before you headed back upstairs. Most days it was bills, junk flyers, brochures. Nothing worth more than a glance.

But tonight, when you finally dumped the envelopes onto your kitchen counter, your fingers froze.

There, on top of the usual clutter, was a single letter that didn’t belong.

The paper was thick and creamy, the kind that whispered wealth and importance. The edges were hand-cut, the ink flowed in perfect, curling calligraphy, and the wax seal stamped firmly with the unmistakable Malfoy family crest glinted in the kitchen light.

You didn’t have to open it to know who it was for.

Your address was written there, clearly a mistake, but following it was the name Mattheo Riddle. Your fingers traced over the letters without realizing.

You stared at it, thumb brushing over the smooth paper as a knot twisted in your stomach.

Do you knock on his door? Drop it in the mail slot and pretend it was an accident? It felt like less work to just walk over and hand it to him — and honestly, less weird.

You grabbed your coat and stepped out, the letter folded carefully in your hand.

When you reached his door, your knuckles hovered for a moment before you finally rapped softly.

The door opened a crack almost immediately.

He was surprised to see you. Actually, it seemed like he wasn’t expecting any guests, considering the way he was clutching his wand with a grip that almost turned his knuckles white at his side. You tried not to hold it against him. After all, you had been exactly the same during the first couple months of living there. You had cast protection charms and wards over your parents’ house like a crazy lady. Even the slightest noise woke you, and you’d wake up in a cold sweat each night.

However, you definitely felt better the second he noticed it was you — the tension melted from his body.

You held out the letter, voice low.

“It was in my mail. Thought you should have it.”

He blinked, taking it with a slow nod.

“Thanks.” He said quietly.

You hesitated, then added, “Accident, I swear.”

He gave a small, dry chuckle.

“Don’t worry.” He said, lifting his eyes from the letter and back to you, "Thank you."

The door shut softly.

It happened three nights later.

You were curled up on the couch in mismatched pajamas, hoodie half-zipped and a blanket tangled around your legs. A sitcom rerun flickered on the TV, but you weren’t really watching — just letting it hum in the background while your tea cooled on the coffee table.

Then came the knock.

You paused mid-sip.

Another knock. Gentle, hesitant. Like whoever it was had seriously debated whether to even bother.

You padded to the door and opened it — just a crack — and, of course, there he was.

Mattheo.

Hair a mess in a way that still looked unfairly attractive, a tight compression shirt that honestly made you embarrassed on behalf of all womankind, and a bashful-but-trying-hard-to-look-nonchalant expression on his face. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. Shoulders slightly hunched, like he didn’t want to be there but had talked himself into it anyway.

"…Hey." He said, voice low, like it felt too loud in your quiet hallway.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised, "Hey."

"I, um…" He shifted awkwardly. One foot stepped back, then forward again, like he couldn’t decide whether to flee or stay. It was incredibly unlike him, to the point that it made you concerned, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure?" You said, cautiously.

A pause. He looked genuinely tortured.

Then, finally:

"How do I use the microwave?"

You stared at him.

He rushed to add, "I asked the landlord. I swear I did. There’s just… so many buttons. I don’t know what half of them do. This is the fifth time this week my meal is half cold and half hot and I don’t know what else to do because every time I use magic in that damned apartment, all the other technology freaks the fuck out."

You blinked.

That was… the most you’d ever heard him speak.

And not just speak — ramble. Rushed and impulsive, words tumbling out too fast for him to rein in. It felt squirrelly in a way that didn’t fit the boy you remembered from school. Back then, he always had that cocky, relaxed smile, the one that lingered too long and made people nervous. When it wasn’t that, it was fury — sharp and volatile. You’d seen enough of both expressions to find this new one strange.

A part of you almost felt bad. Clearly, the Muggle world wasn’t treating him kindly. And the fact that he was asking you for help — considering how often your friends used to butt heads with his back at Hogwarts — well. That had to sting his pride.

Still, you’d both been on the same side by the end of the war. So you supposed you could let bygones be bygones.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

You failed.

"Sorry," You said, half behind your hand, "It’s just—"

"No, no, go ahead." He said, dryly.

That only made it worse.

You opened the door wider, grabbing your keys and forgoing slippers since you were just walking a few feet to his place anyway, still smiling, "Alright. Lemme see."

His apartment looked almost identical to yours — same layout, same creaky floorboard just inside the threshold — but it felt different. Dimmer. Colder. Like someone was borrowing the space rather than living in it.

The walls were bare, not a single photo or poster in sight. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and something herbal, like spellwork left to linger. A wand lay carelessly on the coffee table, half-tucked beneath a rolled-up Daily Prophet. Books and scrolls were stacked beside it in frighteningly neat piles, next to a tea mug that had clearly gone cold.

You followed him into the kitchen, where the microwave sat perched on the counter like an unwanted guest.

“So,” You said, stuffing your hands into the pocket of your hoodie, “What are we microwaving?”

He reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a sad-looking cup of ramen. The cheap kind. The kind your dad used to stress about every time he caught you eating it — full of sodium, he'd complain, and then buy you another six-pack the next week because he knew you liked the chicken flavor.

“This.” he said, like it was obvious.

You stared at the cup. Then at him. Then back at the cup.

“…You know you’re supposed to make the water hot first before putting the noodles in, right?”

He blinked at you, genuinely confused, “...Am I?”

You stepped forward, peeled back the foil lid with practiced fingers, and pointed at the fine print along the rim.

“The instructions are written right here.”

“They’re in Korean.” He muttered.

You paused. Then looked down. Then back at him.

“…Right.”

“I don’t know how to translate it without using a spell.”

You tilted your head, “Can’t you use your phone?”

He went quiet, eyes drifting away — not defensive, just… quiet. You immediately regretted the question. Of course he couldn’t. The man barely knew how to use a microwave. What were you expecting?

You looked back down at the sad little noodle cup, steam starting to curl from under the foil lid. Then around his kitchen — barren shelves, a half-stocked fridge, one lonely fork sitting in the drying rack like it had never been part of a set.

“Is this what you’ve been eating all week?” You asked slowly, “Badly cooked noodles?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave a small shrug, like it wasn’t exactly the answer… but also kind of was.

“They’re not that bad.” He said, avoiding your eyes.

He was still quiet.

“If you’re gonna live off this stuff,” You said, softer now, “You should at least dress it up a little. Toss in an egg. Use bone broth instead of water. Add some greens. Carrots, spinach. Leftover meat, if you’ve got it.”

He tilted his head, brows drawing together slightly like you’d just introduced him to an entirely new concept.

“Right,” He said, “Of course. Bone broth.”

You squinted at him, “Have you… eaten anything not made in this cup since you moved in?”

He hesitated.

Which was answer enough.

You sighed, slow and through your nose, gaze drifting back to the microwave, then to him.

You shouldn’t push.

You knew that.

He hadn’t let you in for tea. He hadn’t sat you down and started talking about his life. He’d asked for help with one tiny thing — and even that probably took more effort than he’d admit. If you offered more… would he take it badly? Would he realize he’d already slipped up just by letting you in this far? Would he shut down, retreat, snap the door shut like none of this ever happened?

Maybe. Probably.

You wouldn’t risk it.

But gods, when you looked at that flavorless brick of noodles, and the silence that filled his apartment like a second layer of drywall, and that one fork drying on its own…

You just couldn’t help but feel bad.

“Next time you’re at the store,” You started, then paused — glanced again at the sad little cup on the counter, then back at him.

Actually… screw it.

“…Forget that,” You said instead, keeping your voice light, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, “I’ve got some stuff in my fridge. Eggs, some spinach, maybe a little leftover rotisserie chicken. Won’t take long.”

He looked at you. Not startled, exactly — but something flickered behind his eyes, like he hadn’t expected the offer. Like he wasn’t sure why you’d make it. Like maybe he didn’t think he deserved it.

“You don’t have to do that.” He said quickly, but it didn’t come out sharp. Just automatic. Defensive, out of habit.

You shrugged, already halfway to the door.

“Just give me a sec,” You said, throwing him a quick smile, “Stay here. Don’t burn the noodles.”

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t stop you, either.

And that, you figured, was enough.

You came back five minutes later, juggling a small pot containing a couple of eggs, a container of broth, a Ziploc bag of spinach, and a pair of chopsticks you’d swiped from your drawer on the way out. The pot knocked softly against your knee as you nudged the door open with your elbow.

Mattheo blinked at you from the kitchen, clearly still not convinced this was real.

“You really didn’t have to do that.” He said, stepping aside as you brushed past him.

“I know,” You said breezily, already unloading your arms onto the counter, “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He opened his mouth — probably to protest again — but you cut him off with a look. Not sharp, just firm.

“I’m not trying to invade your kitchen or anything,” You added, fiddling with the pot lid, “But that sad little cup deserves better. And you kind of looked like you were about to eat it dry.”

“I wasn’t.” He muttered.

You filled the pot with the bone broth and placed it on the stove, clicking the burner on with practiced ease, "Mm-hm.”

He exhaled a short, reluctant laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, “You’re really doing this?”

“If it helps, I’m not being nice,” You said, half-smiling, “I haven’t eaten dinner yet. So if you want to make it fair, give me a bowl too.”

That caught him off guard. He paused, then nodded once, slow and quiet.

“…Alright. Deal.”

You tried not to smile too much as he handed you another cup of ramen from the cabinet. It was chipped at the rim and slightly too small, but it would do. You emptied both noodle cakes into the pot, swapped the water for broth, and got to work, talking him through it as casually as you could.

“You wanna add the spinach last,” You explained, stirring gently, “It cooks fast. And I like cracking the egg straight in — makes the broth thicker. But if you’d rather boil it on the side and slice it, that works too.”

He watched you carefully — not just your hands, but your face, your posture, the way you moved around like you weren’t nervous to take up space in his kitchen. Like you belonged. Like you didn’t find this strange at all.

“Why are you helping me?” He asked quietly.

You looked up from the pot, letting the corner of your mouth tug up just slightly.

“Because,” You said, “I’m very hungry.”

That earned a real smile. Small. Barely there. But real.

“…Thanks.” He said after a beat.

You shrugged, “Don’t thank me till you taste it.”

When you finally passed him a bowl — warm, fragrant, with steam curling gently over the rim — he stared at it like it was more than just dinner. Like it meant something. Like maybe you did.

You sat beside him at the small kitchen table, your shoulder brushing his for a moment before you settled back.

Not quite friends. Not yet. But maybe something was beginning.

You stood in front of his door again, two days later, staring at the worn wood like it might open on its own and save you the trouble.

In your hands was a small Tupperware container — the clear kind, fogged at the edges from the warmth still trapped inside. A generous slice of cake sat inside, a little dented from the walk up and decorated with frankly ridiculous neon frosting. The plastic lid was smudged with your fingerprints from how tightly you’d been gripping it, like maybe it would give you some courage if you just held on long enough.

You’d already knocked three times in your head. Once with your actual hand. And still — no follow-through.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, mumbling under your breath like a lunatic, “Okay, just leave it at the door, ring the bell, run. Not that serious. Not weird. It’s cake. Everyone likes cake. It’s not a big deal. You’re not weird. This is normal. People bring food to people. People are nice. You’re being nice.”

Your fingers twitched toward the doorbell again — and then froze halfway.

“…Unless it’s weird. Maybe it’s weird. Maybe—”

“Can I help you?”

You jumped. Hard.

The container nearly slipped from your hands as you turned — and there he was. Mattheo. Just a few feet away, keys in hand, dark curls a little damp like he’d just come in from the rain. His brows were pulled slightly together, his voice caught somewhere between confusion and caution.

Not quite hostile. But not welcoming either.

“Oh—hi,” You said, voice a little too high, a little too bright, “I was just…”

He looked at you. Then at the Tupperware. Then back again.

You cleared your throat and held the container out between you like it might protect you both from what you weren’t saying. A peace offering. A bribe. A white flag covered in blue frosting.

“I thought you might like this.” You said, trying your best to sound casual, “It’s… cake.”

He didn’t take it.

His expression shifted — cooled, hardened, like a door slamming shut behind his eyes. His voice dropped, quiet and clipped.

“You don’t have to pity me.”

The words landed like a slap.

You blinked, “What?”

“I’m not some sad project,” He said, jaw tight, “You don’t have to keep showing up like this. I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your charity.”

It hit you then — not just what he said, but what he meant.

The defensiveness wasn’t about you. Not really. It was about the way he saw himself. The walls he'd spent years building around the idea that maybe he didn't deserve care. That if someone reached for him, they must want something in return — or worse, they must be trying to fix him. To mold him into something less complicated. Less dark. Less him.

You didn’t look away.

Your voice dropped to something softer. Something honest.

“Mattheo… it’s just cake. There are no strings.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you. Like he was trying to see through the frosting to the catch hidden underneath. You held his gaze anyway.

“I got it from work.” You added, gentler now, “And I don’t like eating dessert alone.”

That gave him pause. A flicker of something — uncertainty, maybe — passed across his face.

Then, finally, he let out a quiet sigh, brushing past you to the door.

“…Alright.” He muttered, unlocking it, “Fine. Come in.”

You followed him inside, your heart thudding in your chest like you’d just sprinted through a battlefield and not… offered someone cake.

The apartment was exactly as you remembered. Same dim lighting. Same scuffed floors. Same silence that felt like it had weight. You stepped into the small kitchen, placed the container gently on the table like it was something fragile, and cracked the lid open with a soft pop.

Blue frosting beamed up at you — cheerful and absurd — despite the fact that the image was slightly smushed from the walk. The cartoon dog grinning from the top of the cake looked like it had just burst into song, paws raised in eternal celebration.

Mattheo squinted at it like it was a piece of contemporary art meant to make him think deeper.

“…The fuck is that?”

You grinned, “That would be a talking dingo.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

You gestured to the cake, “From this Australian cartoon called Bluey. The kids are obsessed.”

His expression didn’t change, “You got this from… kids?”

“I work at a kindergarten/” You said, already crossing to the drying rack and pulling out two mismatched forks like you lived there, “One of the kids had a birthday today. He got Bluey — obviously. This is the leftover slice of Bluey’s mom. Or aunt. Or whatever. She didn’t make the cut.”

Mattheo blinked at you like you’d just casually confessed to smuggling illegal potions across the border.

“You work with children?”

“Yup.”

“…Why?”

You snorted, handing him a fork, “Gee, thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” He said, catching the fork with a nod of thanks, “I just— You could’ve done anything. Back at Hogwarts, you talked about becoming an Auror, didn’t you? Top of the class in Defense. You could’ve had your pick of the Ministry. What changed?”

Your smile faltered.

Your gaze lowered to the cake, the blue frosting suddenly too bright.

“A lot has changed, Mattheo.” You said quietly.

When you looked up again, your eyes met his — and something passed between you. Something that had the magic that was interwoven through every single fiber of his body begin to vibrate and reach for you.

It was lonely in muggle London. Finally, he had someone who understood. The war. The fallout. The ache in your bones that hadn’t quite gone away.

“You know that better than anyone.”

There was a moment where he looked at you differently. Like he was seeing you again for the first time. Not as the student he used to know. Not as his overly hospitable neighbour. But as someone scarred and soft in all the same places he was.

You didn’t touch him. But part of you wanted to. Wanted to reach across the space between you and tell him about yourself. Tell him everything.

Instead, you shrugged, trying to find your voice again.

“I’m not really qualified or anything.” You said, softer now, “But my mum used to teach there. She still has some connections. Put in a good word for me when I needed work. And apparently my talent for counter-curses means nothing next to my ability to recite Five Little Ducks from memory.”

He huffed out a laugh — quiet and unexpected — through his nose. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

You sat together at the small kitchen table, forks in hand, slowly dismantling the slice of cake like it might bite back. You felt a small pang of guilt as Bluey’s mom lost her frosted ears — may she rest in peace — but if there was one thing you’d learned about toddler birthday cakes, it was that they were criminally delicious.

Mattheo didn’t say much. Just watched you with careful eyes, taking small, cautious bites like he wasn’t used to sharing anything — not food, not silence, not company.

You didn’t fill the quiet. You let it settle.

It was nearly two in the morning when you heard it.

A dull thud, followed by the sharp crack of something hitting the floor — hard. Then silence. Then a low, ragged sound that didn’t sound like words at all.

You sat up in bed, heart already pounding.

Your apartment was quiet, cloaked in darkness and long, familiar shadows — but the noise hadn’t come from within your own space.

It had come from next door.

From Mattheo’s.

You hesitated, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold beneath your bare feet. You waited, listening, willing the silence to stay. But then it came again.

A heavy scrape. A crash. The sound of something shattering.

You didn’t think. You just grabbed your wand.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in the weak amber glow of the sconces that never quite worked right. His door was slightly ajar. Not wide — but not locked, either.

You raised your hand, knuckles grazing the wood.

“Mattheo?” You called softly.

No answer.

“Mattheo, it’s me—are you okay?”

Still nothing. Just the same jagged, uneven breathing. Fast. Erratic. Distant.

You glanced down at the doorknob.

“Alohomora.” You whispered, tapping the brass with the tip of your wand.

The latch clicked open.

You stepped inside quietly, careful not to make too much noise. The apartment was dark, save for the silver wash of streetlight spilling through the blinds. The glow cut harsh lines across the floor and furniture, shadow and light slicing the room in half.

And there — crouched beside the overturned coffee table — was Mattheo.

His back was to you. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat. His shoulders trembled with barely-contained tension. A mug lay shattered nearby, and his wand was discarded, half-buried under a scattered pile of scrolls. His hands were tangled in his hair, gripping at his scalp like he was trying to hold something in — or hold something out.

He didn’t see you come in.

“Hey,” You said gently, not stepping closer, “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

No response.

His whole body was wound tight, like a live wire — still in the middle of something he hadn’t escaped yet. Like he’d fallen asleep on a battlefield and hadn’t managed to wake up.

You didn’t cross the room. Not yet.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” You added, softer, “I just… heard something. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A long pause.

Then, slowly — like he was dragging himself back into his body inch by inch — Mattheo turned his head.

His eyes met yours.

At first, they were wild. Unfocused. Distant. Then came recognition — flickering and faint. And then, quickly after, the crash of shame.

He looked away.

“Shit,” He muttered, voice hoarse, “I’m fine. It’s fine. Sorry to wake you. You should go back.”

But you didn’t move.

You stepped forward — quietly, carefully — crouching just far enough away not to crowd him, but close enough to be within reach.

“Are you alright?” You asked, voice calm and low, “Were you asleep?”

He let out a bitter laugh — short and flat, “That wasn’t sleep.”

You waited.

His hands had fallen to his lap. You could see now that his knuckles were raw and red, scraped open from something — maybe the wall, maybe the floor, maybe just the way he fought his own mind.

You nodded toward the couch, “Do you want to sit down?”

He didn’t answer, but after a beat, he pushed himself to his feet. Stiff. Tired. Like his body had only just realized it could stop fighting.

You followed him.

He collapsed onto the cushions like his bones had turned to dust. You sat beside him, not touching, not speaking, not offering false comfort.

Just… there.

He dragged a hand down his face. Then again. Then let it fall, limp, into his lap.

“It’s not a big deal,” He muttered, “It happens. Has for years.”

You looked at him.

“I know,” You said quietly, “I get them too.”

He stilled.

His eyes flicked to you — surprised. Like he hadn’t expected that from you. Like he couldn’t quite picture it.

“Still doesn’t make it less shitty.” You added.

He let out a sound — half a breath, half a scoff. Not quite a laugh. But not nothing.

“I hate it,” He said, barely above a whisper, “I wake up and it’s like I’m still there. Like it never ended. The smoke, the screaming — I know it’s not real, but my body doesn’t. It reacts. It always reacts.”

He swallowed.

“It’s not even always the same dream. Sometimes it’s the castle. Sometimes it’s… worse. Places I don’t talk about. Places I’ve never told anyone about.”

His voice cracked at the end. You didn’t flinch.

You just curled your knees beneath you, watching your fingers.

“My first week here,” You said softly, “I didn’t sleep at all. I warded the apartment every night. Then I’d wake up at three in the morning and run to my parents’ house just to check their wards. I think I cast every protection charm in existence. I was so convinced… if I let my guard down, even for a second…”

You trailed off. The silence filled in the rest.

Mattheo stared at you. Not in judgment. Just… listening. Like he couldn’t believe someone else carried the same weight.

You — the girl from the Golden Quartet. The one who helped end it. Who came back. Who rebuilt.

But not unscathed.

He remembered what Bellatrix had done to you. What you’d endured. What you’d lost.

And he thought — maybe for the first time — that you’d suffered just as deeply. That you understood.

You glanced up at him again. He didn’t look away.

“Do you want me to set up a few wards?” You asked, “They won’t fix anything, but they help. And I can teach you how to maintain them. Though,” You added with a tired smile, “it’ll probably be harder for me to break in next time.”

That got the faintest twitch of his mouth.

Almost a smile. Almost.

Another long pause.

Then—

“…Just stay.”

The words were barely there. Soft. Uncertain.

But they were enough.

You nodded.

So you stayed.

The silence between you changed — not heavy anymore. Just quiet. Settling.

He leaned back against the cushions, body slowly unwinding, like his nervous system was finally catching up to the fact that he was safe. His eyes drifted halfway shut, breath finally starting to even out.

Eventually, his fingers brushed yours — faint, hesitant, barely even a touch.

You didn’t move.

And neither did he.

Mattheo had come down to check his mailbox like he always did on Saturday mornings—hood up, hair messy, hoodie zipped to his chin—when a voice stopped him mid-turn.

“Flat 2A, yeah?”

He looked up. There was a man squinting at the mailboxes, arms full of grocery bags, car keys dangling from his pinky. He looked vaguely familiar.

“…Yeah?” Mattheo said carefully.

The man nodded to the box beside his, “My daughter’s next door. Flat 2B.”

Mattheo straightened slightly, “Right. You must be Mr. (L/N).”

“You know her?”

“We went to school together,” Mattheo replied, keeping it vague in the safest way possible.

Mr. (L/N) gave him a long, assessing look—longer than was comfortable—then smiled, like he’d just figured something out.

“So you’re special. Like her.”

Mattheo froze, “…Sorry?”

“You know,” The man waved a hand loosely, “special. One of them. Don’t worry—I’ve known for years. Her mum cried when the letter came. I built her a wand stand once. Terrible thing. Lopsided.”

Mattheo blinked. Once. Twice.

Before he could plan an escape—

“Be a good lad,” Your father said cheerfully, already turning toward the exit, “and help me bring these upstairs. (Y/N)’s mum went overboard at the farmer’s market again. Wouldn’t be surprised if we had half of Surrey in the boot.”

“…What?”

“Come give us a hand, will you? These boxes aren’t gonna levitate themselves—ha! Kidding. Muggle joke. Don’t tell your lot I made it.”

Mattheo stood there, stunned, until your dad clapped him on the back like they were old mates, “You’ve got good arms. We’ll be done in no time.”

And then, without ceremony, your dad looped an arm through his and dragged him outside.

“So what do you do, son?” Your dad asked as they hauled bags back up the building stairs.

“Uh… I’m not really doing anything right now.”

“That’s what your twenties are for! Finding yourself. I worked two jobs at your age. One time, my mate Gary and I—ah, Gary, poor bastard, divorced now—anyway, we moved an entire washing machine up six flights with nothing but a strap and willpower.”

Mattheo, sweating slightly, nodded, “…Right.”

“Builds character.” Your dad said, with the authority of someone who’s definitely broken a toe doing that. Then, after a beat, “You know, life’s a lot like grocery shopping.”

Mattheo glanced down at the bag digging into his arm, “Is it.”

“You can make a list, plan every aisle, but there’s always something missing when you get home.”

“…Profound.”

“Exactly! You’re a good listener. Ever think about dating my daughter?”

Mattheo nearly dropped the watermelon.

“What?!”

“I’m just saying,” Your dad shrugged, utterly unbothered, “you’ve got kind eyes and steady hands. Plus you said you went to school together. Shared history’s a good foundation.”

You were halfway through folding laundry when the front door opened. You turned just in time to see your father stroll in, humming cheerfully—followed by Mattheo, who looked like he’d been inducted into a cult against his will.

You blinked, “What—? What is going on? Why is he here?”

“Hi.” Mattheo said, his voice flat with disbelief.

“He helped me carry the groceries,” Your dad said proudly, unloading bags onto the counter, “Nice boy. Good biceps.”

“…What?”

“Anyway,” Your dad continued, turning back to Mattheo, “You’re coming for dinner, obviously. I’ll ask her mum to make the lasagna. The lasagna. The one she makes when she likes someone.”

“That’s really not necessary.” Mattheo started, clearly panicked, but your dad was already on his phone. “She’ll be thrilled. You like cheese, don’t you?”

Mattheo looked at you helplessly. You just raised an eyebrow. “Well? Do you like cheese?”

“…I mean, yeah?”

“There you go.” Your dad clapped him on the back again, then started pushing jars toward him, “You should take some of these groceries, son. A growing boy needs nutrients.”

Your dad was saying, completely in earnest now as he sorted bags by category on your kitchen counter, “You eat enough protein? You look like you work out. What’s your egg intake?”

Mattheo opened his mouth, then shut it again. He glanced at you like please save me.

You looked up at the ceiling, eyes wide.

“Dad,” You said slowly, like approaching a landmine, “What is happening right now?”

“Nothing’s happening, sweetheart,” He said innocently, stacking apples with the precision of a man who’d definitely done this before, “Just making conversation. Mattheo here’s a lovely young man.”

“You’ve known him for twenty minutes.”

“And already I’ve seen enough. Polite, helpful, didn’t even grumble once when I handed him a forty-pound watermelon.”

Mattheo spoke up in a way that was far too timid for him, “I—kind of grumbled.”

“See?” Your dad grinned like he’d just won the lottery, “Humble, too. I want a son-in-law like that.”

“Dad!” You exclaimed, mortified.

Mattheo shifted awkwardly, cheeks flushed, feeling like he’d accidentally walked into a reality show.

“What? I’m not saying I want Mattheo to be my son-in-law, I’m saying I wouldn’t mind if I had a son-in-law like Mattheo. Two completely separate things, my dear.” Your dad said with mock innocence, flouncing around the room as he put away groceries, but kept two of everything right there on the counter instead of where they belonged.

“Now Mattheo, do you like red wine or white? I’ll make sure to have a bottle stocked for you when you come over.”

“Come over?” You echoed, cheeks heating up.

“Of course! He’s coming over for dinner tonight, are you not?”

Mattheo swallowed, clearly overwhelmed but trying to hide it behind a thin smile.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Mattheo said quickly, forcing a polite smile, “I was planning to meet my friends tonight.” A lie. A very hopeful lie.

Your dad didn’t miss a beat. “Then bring your friends as well! Oh, we’ll have a jolly good time—all these blokes under one roof. I’ll ask (Y/N)’s brother to bring a pack of beers, something to liven the old boys up.” He exclaimed, practically floating around the kitchen like a whirlwind of enthusiasm.

“Dad!” You finally exclaimed, trying to snap him out of his party-planning trance.

He stopped and turned, eyes twinkling as he looked at Mattheo’s uncomfortable face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear boy,” He said, voice suddenly gentle, “Do you not drink? Very good habit, you know.”

Mattheo swallowed, unsure how to respond.

“That’s okay,” Your dad went on, waving it off like it was no big deal, “My wife would much prefer a boy with good habits for our (Y/N), anyway.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, “Dad, please. Stop.”

Finally done messing about your kitchen, your dad began loading the pairs of items he’d left on the counter into one of the grocery boxes.

“There you go, son,” He said, handing the box to Mattheo with a warm, steady smile, “This should keep your fridge stocked for at least another week or two. If you don’t know what to do with any of it, just run down to my house. I’d be happy to whip up something for you to eat.”

Mattheo stared at the carton of food in his hands.

No one had ever offered him that before. Not like this. Not so openly, so simply, so… abundantly. His own father had been a distant shadow in his memories, a figure he’d learned to avoid rather than seek. There was no warmth, no easy kindness like this.

For a moment, something twisted quietly inside Mattheo — a mix of jealousy and something else, something heavier he didn’t quite want to name. You’d grown up with a dad who knew how to care, who showed it. He had thought once that having Muggle parents was the worst thing in the world, but now, holding that box, surrounded by your dad’s easy affection, he wasn’t so sure.

He looked up, meeting your dad’s hopeful gaze.

“Okay,” Mattheo said quietly, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I’ll come for dinner.”

Your dad’s grin widened, and you felt a little flutter in your chest as the moment settled between all of you—unexpected, but maybe exactly what was needed.

After what felt like hours of your dad chatting nonstop, finally, he was out the door, humming some old tune as he disappeared down the hallway. You shut the door behind him and let out a long breath, cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

Turning to Mattheo, you ran a hand through your hair nervously. “I’m really sorry about him,” You said quickly, eyes darting away, “He can be... a lot. You don’t have to come for dinner, honestly. He was just being nice—he does that with pretty much everyone, like some sort of overly friendly hostage negotiator.”

Mattheo shifted his weight, his expression unreadable but somehow softer than usual. “I’m aware.” He said dryly, voice calm and measured, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

You bit your lip, “Still, I don’t want you to feel like you have to. I know it’s kind of sudden and probably... weird.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and you caught a flicker in his eyes — something quieter, warmer, even if his face didn’t fully show it. “I don’t mind,” He said simply, voice low, “It’s… nice to be invited.”

You blinked, surprised, “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, but his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, “It’s rare. People don’t do that for me.”

There was a pause, the kind that stretches with unspoken things, and you realized that beneath all that aloofness, he wanted something like this. Something normal. Something warm.

You smiled gently, “Well, then. Dinner it is. And maybe next time you can teach my dad a thing or two about being subtle.”

Mattheo’s smirk finally turned into a half-smile, “Maybe.”

You felt your heart loosen just a bit, the awkwardness fading into something quieter, something real.

The hallway was still warm from dinner. You walked beside Mattheo, both of you quiet in that way people get after a full meal and too many emotions — like the silence itself had thickened into something gentle.

He had leftovers tucked under one arm, the lasagna carefully packed in a Tupperware with foil pressed down like your mum had sworn it would keep the flavour in, darling. He hadn’t said much since your dad’s final clap on the back and his booming, “Any friend of hers is a friend of mine, son!”

At his door, Mattheo hesitated, keys caught between his fingers.

You glanced at him.

He looked down at the container in his arms like it had grown heavier somehow, then back at you.

“…Your mum’s nice.”

You huffed a laugh, “Don’t get attached. She’s married to my dad.”

That pulled something from him — not one of those breathy, polite almost-laughs he gave people when they said something mildly amusing, but something real. Low and rough, surprised out of him like it had caught him off guard.

He shook his head, still smiling faintly, “Too bad.”

“She’s way out of your league, Riddle.” You replied easily.

“Speak for yourself — she’s the one who was trying to get me out of my pants.”

You choked, “Because she said you looked like you’d tripped over a kerb!”

“These,” He said, tugging lightly at the rip near his knee, “are meant to look like this.”

“There’s no harm in admitting you’re a bit clumsy, Matty.”

He let out a quiet snort, but still didn’t unlock the door. There was something tentative in the way he stood — like stepping inside would be an end to something soft he hadn’t realised he’d needed. Like he was holding on to the aftertaste of lasagna and warmth and your parents' terrible stories, trying to memorise what it felt like to belong.

The whole night, he hadn't felt like an outsider — not even like a guest. He’d just been there, part of the chaos. He’d argued with your brother over Quidditch stats, held up bits of your dad’s entertainment system while he hammered in the nails, and endured your mum fussing with the tear in his jeans. You’d realised halfway through that you could’ve used your wand to float the whole thing into place — but with Mattheo’s biceps straining against his sleeves, you’d decided to keep that to yourself.

Even now, you didn’t say anything. Just waited.

Finally, after a long pause, he shifted the Tupperware under one arm and turned the key, nudging the door open — but still not stepping through.

Then, like he hadn’t been debating it the entire walk up the stairs, he asked, casual as anything, “You wanna come in?”

You blinked, “Now?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly too aware of how the question had landed. “For a cuppa.” He added quickly. His voice cracked a little under the forced lightness.

You raised a brow, “Weren’t you just whining all the way up the stairs that you were too full to breathe?”

“It’s tea,” He said, trying for deadpan and failing miserably, “There’s always room for tea.”

You smiled softly, stepping past him into the familiar dimness of his flat, “I’d like that.”

He held the door a little longer to let you through — the smallest gesture, but deliberate. Inside, the flat smelled like warm laundry and whatever incense he’d been burning earlier — something herbal and clean that softened the edges of the silence.

You settled into the sofa, hands curled around a steaming mug. He passed you the sugar silently, like he already knew how you liked it.

“We have dinners like that every other week,” You said, voice low, relaxed, “You should come next time.”

Predictably, he started to refuse, “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I don’t want to impose—”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His face had changed since the war. Thinner, maybe. Older in the eyes. But steadier, too. Calmer. There were fewer sharp edges — and maybe that was good. Maybe growing up had done what time always promises to do: carved the pain into shape.

Still, something tugged at your chest.

You both had grown up too fast. Lost too much, too young. Your rebellious teen years had disappeared the second you realised just how quickly your family could be taken from you. You’d watched people like Harry — and Mattheo — walk through fire alone, and you’d never forgotten it.

The war was brutal. There were nights when survival felt like a punishment, not a gift. But sometimes — like tonight — you caught a glimpse of who you’d become, and thought maybe it had made you into someone good.

You looked at Mattheo, still fiddling with the teabag in his mug like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, and wondered if he felt the same about himself.

He had been impulsive, emotional, too quick to lash out. And now? Now he was quieter. Softer around the edges. But part of you missed the fire in him — the cocky confidence, the recklessness. The way he used to speak like the whole world should listen.

You came out of the war a hero.

He came out as the son of the world’s greatest villain.

You had a family who loved you. Who accepted your world and stitched it into their own.

He had parents who only cared how he could serve theirs.

And despite everything — despite the fact that you were perhaps one of the only people alive who truly understood — you hadn’t lived equal lives. You had a family that loved you unconditionally. He had… expectations. Burdens.

“You wouldn’t be,” You said quietly, “My parents would really like it if you came again. And so would I.”

Mattheo’s stirring stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just let the silence stretch — until it snapped.

“You don’t need to keep doing this, you know,” He said, voice tight, “I don’t know what you’re scared of, but I’m not going to off myself or host secret Death Eater meetings or whatever it is you think I’m doing alone up here.”

You blinked, caught off guard, “Mattheo—”

“Come on,” He said, rolling his eyes. “You keep checking in. Keep inviting me places. You think I don’t notice?”

You stared at him. And then, to his horror, you started to laugh. Soft and exasperated.

“Oh Godric. I wonder why I keep visiting my super attractive neighbour who’s been through the same traumas I have, who my parents clearly like and who actually laughs at my jokes. Truly a mystery.”

He froze, like you’d hit him with a hex, “Wait — you’re not saying you keep coming around because… because you like me?”

You blinked, smiling slowly, “Why? Can’t I?”

“You can’t,” He said immediately. Adamantly. Like it was law. “You should be with someone like Potter. Or Granger. Or — Merlin, even Weasley.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Harry’s basically my brother. Hermione’s dating Ron.”

“There’s more than one Weasley.” He offered, grasping at straws.

"Mattheo frankly I cannot think of anything worse than ending up related to Ron, Hermione and Harry."

Mattheo shrugged with faux innocence, swirling the teabag in his mug like he hadn’t just tried to sell you off to a different wizarding family, “I’m just saying… you could do better.”

You rolled your eyes, “Right. And what exactly would ‘better’ look like?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

You leaned forward, eyes glinting, “Go on. Tell me.”

Mattheo hesitated — the cocky response clearly right there on the tip of his tongue — but something in your expression stopped him short. Maybe it was the way you weren’t teasing anymore. Not really. You were waiting. Listening.

And when he spoke, his voice was low. Stripped bare.

“Someone like you. Someone who didn’t spend most of their life calling people like you a Mudblood,” He muttered, eyes fixed on the steam curling from his mug, “Someone who doesn’t make people reach for their wands the second they walk into a room.”

Your smile faded.

He didn’t look up, “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I was. You know what I’ve done. I picked sides. I picked wrong.”

There was a long, quiet beat. The kind that carries too much weight.

Then you set your mug down gently on the table and said, “You were just a child, Mattheo.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, uncertain. Wary. Like he wanted to believe you, but didn’t dare.

“A child,” You repeated, firmer this time, “And your father was bloody Voldemort. Of course you were twisted up inside. Of course you were scared. But you’re not that kid anymore.”

“But you—” He started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t,” You said softly, “I’m not some symbol of bravery or some war hero people should look up to. I left the wizarding world precisely because of that. I didn’t want to be paraded around, painted in gold, turned into a symbol of light just because I happened to survive.”

He swallowed hard. His brows were drawn tight.

“There were so many people caught in that war,” You continued, voice trembling now, “People who didn’t get to pick sides. People like you, who had to follow the only path left open to them.”

Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He looked away again, that familiar wall sliding into place — too fast, too familiar.

“Doesn’t change what I did,” He said, “Doesn’t mean I don’t deserve everything I get now.”

“You don’t,” You snapped, not angry at him — but at the world that had taught him to think like this, “And neither do they. Harry wouldn’t have survived if Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t lied to Voldemort, and now she’s rotting in Azkaban. Theo deflected a curse meant for McGonagall and he’s being shunned like a criminal. And me—”

You paused, eyes suddenly wet, voice quieter.

“I would’ve died that night in the manor,” You whispered, “if you hadn’t lied to Bellatrix.”

He flinched.

You stepped toward him, hands reaching up, gently cupping his cheeks. Forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Don’t you dare pretend like it didn’t matter,” You said, “I know what you’ve done. I know who you are.”

You swallowed, “The second you had the chance to choose, Mattheo, you chose right.”

Then you added, barely above a whisper, “And that’s why I like you.”

“Because I saved your life?”

You shook your head.

“No,” You breathed, “Because you’re not who they said you were. Because you’re a good man. Whether you believe it or not.”

Mattheo looked at you like he didn’t know whether to shatter or kiss you.

You cleared your throat, tried to pull yourself together. Tried not to let your voice break completely, “So… are you coming to dinner next week?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Really looked. Like the pieces of his past were still rearranging themselves in his mind — and for the first time, they weren’t sharp enough to cut.

“I want you there,” You said, softer now, “They do too. But mostly… I do.”

That undid something in him.

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed. The tension in his jaw eased. His eyes dropped for a second, and then met yours again.

And when he nodded — small, certain — it felt like something cracked open between you. Not in a way that broke, but in a way that finally let the light in.

“I’ll come.” He said.

You smiled and reached for his shirt, smoothing out imaginary creases as your fingers lingered just a second longer than they needed to.

“Good.” You murmured.

He caught your hand gently in his, eyes searching yours.

And for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel like someone clawing his way out of the darkness.

He felt seen. He felt chosen.

And maybe — just maybe — he was starting to believe he deserved that too.

Mattheo did come for dinner.

And then he came again. And again after that.

It wasn’t like you suddenly fell into each other’s arms or kissed under the kitchen light while your mum offered dessert. But something shifted — subtle, steady. Like a hinge finally oiled. Like the space between you both had always been there, and now you were finally choosing to fill it.

There were still jokes, still the sarcasm and dry glances and moments where he pretended not to be listening even though he definitely was. But the edges were softer. The glances lingered longer. The silences stopped feeling like things to be filled, and more like things to be shared.

You saw it in the way he sat closer to you now. The way his shoulder would brush yours and stay there. The way his laugh sounded warmer in your presence. The way he always saved you the last spoonful of something without having to be asked.

You hadn’t defined anything. But you were definitely getting closer.

Which is how, a few weeks later, you found yourself sprinting into his flat like you owned the place — because, well, you sort of had started to.

“Matty!” You called out breathlessly, not even glancing at the figure lounging on the sofa, “I need to borrow your leather jacket—where is it? Don’t say it’s in the laundry, I swear to Merlin—”

You didn’t wait for a response.

You kicked off your shoes, breezed past the living room, and charged straight for his bedroom, shouting, “Thanks, by the way! You’re the best!”

Already halfway through the hallway, you threw a hand up in vague acknowledgment and barrelled through the door.

Stopped dead in your tracks.

There he was.

Mattheo.

Fresh from the shower. Shirtless. Damp curls sticking to his forehead. A towel slung low on his hips. Drops of water still trailing down his chest, slow and traitorous.

You made a noise that might’ve been a word. Or a gasp. Or a whimper.

He blinked, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting company, holding a shirt in one hand like he’d frozen mid-movement.

“…Hi.” He said, entirely too casual for someone who was 90% naked.

You let out a squeak — an actual squeak — slapped a hand over your eyes, and spun around so fast you almost collided with the doorframe.

“Oh my Godric, I’m so sorry—I thought you were on the couch, you were on the couch two seconds ago, I swear, I just— I didn’t see anything—well, okay, I did, but I didn’t mean to—”

You opened the door.

Slammed it shut again.

Then leaned against it, face flaming, pulse racing.

And from the living room came a voice that was not Mattheo’s:

“Hi.”

You blinked. Turned slowly.

And there, entirely not naked, spoon in mouth and legs still kicked up on the sofa, was Theodore Nott — looking very amused.

He raised the spoon lazily, “Hey. You alright there?”

You blinked at him, brain rebooting, “Nott?”

“In the flesh,” He said, raising a spoon in salute, “Should I be offended you ran past me like I was invisible?”

“I—” You blinked, face aflame, “I thought you were Mattheo.”

“I gathered.” He went back to his cereal.

“I just needed to borrow his jacket!” You said quickly, heat still burning in your cheeks, “Maybe take outfit photos in his mirror.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, “You don’t have your own mirror?”

“My mirror has an antique bronze frame,” You replied flatly, “It doesn’t match the vibe.”

“Right,” He said, utterly unconvinced, returning to his cereal, “Didn’t realize you two were that close.”

You stilled.

You swallowed. How were you supposed to respond to that? Yes, you were close to Mattheo. Close enough to know just how he likes his tea. Close enough to keep biscuits in his cupboard that were only for you. But you'd never said anything out loud. There were no labels. No claims.

It would be kind of humiliating to say something only for Mattheo to come strolling out and be like, “Nah, she just lingers here like a stray cat I accidentally fed once.”

Before you could decide what to say, the bedroom door opened.

Mattheo stepped out, now mercifully dressed in faded black jeans and a plain white T-shirt — though you weren’t sure if that made things better or worse. He had your favourite leather jacket of his slung casually over one arm, and his damp curls clung to his forehead in soft, lazy waves. You were suddenly very grateful he'd decided to wear the jacket… if only so Theo wouldn’t catch you blatantly ogling his best mate’s biceps.

Mattheo just grinned and sauntered over, totally unbothered, and shook the jacket out with a single practiced flick before holding it open for you.

You slid your arms into the sleeves as he held it up, the worn leather warm and familiar, smelling faintly like his cologne — and maybe a little like that soap you'd seen in his shower that was inexplicably labelled dragon ash and sandalwood.

He adjusted the collar gently, his fingers brushing against the back of your neck for a beat longer than necessary, “Looks better on you anyway.”

You glanced up at him, and his eyes met yours — something unspoken passing between you, soft and real. Then, all at once, he stepped back, cleared his throat, and looked toward Theo.

Theo’s smile widened like a cat who’d found something much more interesting than his cereal. “So, just to clarify… what is this, then?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you, “Because if this isn’t dating, it’s the most suspiciously couple-y non-dating situation I’ve ever seen.”

Mattheo didn’t even hesitate, “It’s none of your business.”

“Ohhh,” Theo said, leaning back, “Which means yes.”

You flushed. Mattheo sighed like this was a discussion he’d already prepared for in his head and hated every second of.

Then, with the most casual tone imaginable, he said to you, “I’m heading out with the guys later. Might be home late.”

You nodded, adjusting the sleeves of the jacket, "Alright. Have fun. Stay safe."

He looked you over, your outfit clearly indicating that you were going out with your friends, "You too. Send me a Patronus when you get home."

You hummed, giving him a small smile, "I know the drill."

Theo raised a brow, “Right, definitely not dating.”

Mattheo gave him a lazy middle finger but didn't deny it and turned back to you, his tone softening just a touch, “You staying for a bit?”

“I just needed the jacket,” You said, trying not to smile, "My Uber's gonna be here any second."

"Right," He responded, raking his eyes over your figure, choosing to tuck your hair behind your ear, "Then I guess I'll see you later."

"I guess you will." You chuckled, before turning to his friend who was watching you both like it was his favourite show. Not that he would even know what a television was, "It was nice seeing you again, Theo. Let's have a drink one day and catch up."

He nodded, giving you a smirk that didn't drop until you had exited and he slid his eyes back to Mattheo, “So when’s the wedding?”

The pub was alive with the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional shout from the dartboard. Mattheo sat at the far end of the worn wooden table, surrounded by Draco, Theo, Enzo, and Blaise. Pints and half-empty bottles were scattered across the table like trophies from battles fought and survived.

“Mate,” Draco nudged him with an elbow, voice tinged with mock disbelief, “Why aren’t you drinking us under the table tonight? You usually drown whatever’s bothering you.”

Mattheo glanced at his nearly untouched glass of cider, fingers tapping restlessly on the rim. “Not in the mood.” He muttered, eyes flickering toward the window, where the night had deepened and the streetlights cast pools of gold on the pavement.

“Not like you,” Blaise teased, “Usually, you’d be three sheets to the wind by now.”

Enzo smirked, “Yeah, what gives? You okay, Riddle?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked toward the door, then the window, and back to the table, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the wood. He looked… distracted.

Theo, sitting next to Mattheo with a mischievous grin, leaned in, “Oh, it’s because our dear friend here is waiting on a Patronus.”

The others blinked. “Patronus?” Enzo repeated.

Theo nodded, barely able to keep a straight face, “Yes from his cute little neighbour. She’s supposed to send it when she gets home safe after a night out. Mattheo’s been scanning the streets like a bloodhound all evening.”

Theo leaned back with a sly grin, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “And the neighbour in question? Well, you’re all gonna love this—it's (L/N).”

Blaise nearly choked on his drink, “You’re joking.”

"In a classic tale of Romeo and Juliet, our dear Matty boy has found himself in love with the girl who literally killed his father."

"I'm not in love." Mattheo snapped but a car drove past, shining a light that looked too similar to a patronus and had his neck almost snapping in two in his effort to get a better look.

Enzo burst into laughter, "Oh, yeah, you're not in love, you absolute boob."

The knocking started faintly — not loud, but urgent. Sharp, clipped taps that cut through your dreams like a blade. You jolted upright, breath caught in your throat, blinking through the dark, tangled in your sheets like you’d been mid-battle instead of mid-dream.

It wasn’t that loud — but something in the rhythm of it pulled you from sleep like a hook behind the ribs.

You squinted at the clock. 03:17.

Groaning softly, you threw off the covers, feet hitting cold floorboards with a quiet thud. You reached for your wand automatically, the weight of it familiar in your palm, even as sleep still clung to you like cobwebs. The knocking came again — quicker now, more urgent.

You padded toward the front door, pulse starting to rise.

When you opened it — just a crack, just enough to see — the cold slammed into you. But it was nothing compared to what you saw standing there.

Theo Nott.

He looked like he’d run across London.

Hair wind-tossed. Chest heaving. Coat half-unbuttoned. His skin was pale, almost grey in the porchlight, and there was something feral in his eyes — panic, fury, fear, all twisted up into one tight, burning thread.

You stared, “Theo?”

His breath puffed in a sharp cloud, “It’s Mattheo.”

Your stomach dropped.

The door was open in seconds, and you grabbed his arm and yanked him inside before the words had even fully registered. It slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot.

“What happened?” You demanded, voice cracking now, “Is he hurt? Where is he?”

Theo didn’t answer immediately. He was pacing your living room like a caged thing, one hand knotted in his hair, the other clenched into a fist at his side.

“They arrested him.”

The air in the room turned cold.

Your voice came out as barely a whisper, “What?”

“Tonight. At the pub. We were all there — Blaise, Draco, Enzo. Just drinking. Laughing. Nothing serious. And then out of nowhere, the Aurors show up. Said there’d been reports. Wouldn’t say of what. Wouldn’t explain. They just—” His jaw tightened, “They just dragged him out.”

You stared, heart pounding, “For what?”

“Suspicion. Loitering. Someone said he ‘fit the description’ of a man acting odd in Knockturn Alley earlier that day — even though we’d been nowhere near there. One of the Aurors looked him dead in the face and said, ‘You know who you are.’ Like that was all the proof they needed.”

You sat down hard on the arm of your couch, breath punched from your lungs.

“He’s done nothing,” You said, “He hasn’t done anything—”

“They don’t care,” Theo snapped, suddenly furious again, “They see the name. They see the face. The bloody Mark. They don’t ask questions. They just act like he’s a ticking time bomb and they’re doing everyone a favour by locking him up before he explodes.”

You buried your face in your hands for a second, trying to breathe — trying to think, “Where is he now?”

“Ministry holding,” Theo said darkly, “They said they’ll process him in the morning. Until then, he’s ‘detained for questioning.’ Which we both know means they’ll keep him in a concrete cell all night and try to wear him down before anyone gets to him.”

You stood up suddenly, fury vibrating through your body.

Theo paused mid-pace to look at you.

“I know we’re not close,” He said, awkward again, “but I know you’re close to him. Closer than he lets on. And you—” He hesitated, “You’re friends with Potter. You’ve got… pull. People listen to you. I didn’t know who else to go to.”

But you were already pulling a jumper over your head, wand clenched in a white-knuckled grip. You barely heard him over the roar of your own blood in your ears.

“I’ll handle it,” You said, your voice low and shaking with rage, “But I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Go to him. Now. Stay with him. Don’t let them bully him. Don’t let him say anything to anyone without a lawyer present. No comment. No statements. Not even what his bloody name is. Got it?”

Theo nodded, grim, “Got it.”

You followed him, stepping into your boots, wand ready. You didn’t feel sleepy anymore. You didn’t feel anything but hot, burning, righteous fury.

Because Mattheo had spent years trying to claw his way out of the shadow of his past. Years trying to prove that he wasn’t like him. That he wasn’t like them.

And now they’d dragged him back in — without a charge, without a reason, without a second thought.

This was why you left the wizarding world. Why you’d turned your back on the Ministry and its post-war morality circus. You’d fought in the war, bled in it, lost friends in it — and still they hadn’t learned.

Still they saw people like Mattheo Riddle as enemies, not survivors. Not victims of the same fear and violence that had nearly destroyed them all.

At the end of the day, the truth didn’t matter. Not as long as they were able to cram you painfully into whatever predisposed ideas they had.

The two of you raised your wands.

And in two cracks of displaced air, you were gone — vanishing into the night.

Both headed to two separate locations.

You were about to officially return to the wizarding world. And rain hell upon them. You were going to make them listen. You were going to make them pay.

The Ministry’s grand chamber felt colder than usual — or maybe it was just the weight of what was about to happen. Mattheo stood quietly beside you, hands clenched at his sides, eyes sharp but guarded. Harry, Ron, and Hermione flanked you, each radiating the same burning frustration.

You moved through the Ministry of Magic’s atrium like a hurricane. Paper memos paused mid-flight. Aurors stepped aside. One man even dropped his coffee.

Security tried to stop you at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s doors.

They did not succeed.

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” You snapped, wand already glowing, “And I will.”

You shoved open the office doors of Minister Fudge so hard they banged against the walls. His aides leapt to their feet, startled. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t blink. Your eyes were locked on the man behind the desk — Cornelius Fudge, still wearing that smug little bowler hat, like he hadn’t spent the last decade proving he cared more about saving face than saving lives.

Fudge barely looked up, “Ah, the prodigal warriors return.”

You didn’t flinch. “Where is he?” You demanded, voice low but fierce, “Where is Mattheo Riddle?”

Fudge blinked, slightly surprised by your fury. Of course he wasn’t aware of just how close you both were — you could only assume he believed Mattheo wouldn’t be missed, or that those who did care about him wouldn’t have the power to do anything about it.

“He’s in custody. Being held for questioning. Suspicion of—”

Harry cut in, voice thick with disgust, “Suspicion of what, exactly? Because I saw the arrest report — and there’s absolutely nothing of value there.”

Hermione stepped forward, eyes blazing, “You hold a man without charge because of his name and history? That’s not justice — it’s persecution.”

Fudge arched a brow, calm, as you began to tremble with rage, “He’s being held for questioning. Surely even you understand the need for caution, considering his—”

“He defected,” Ron snapped, “He fought with us. He was on our side at the end of the war.”

“And how exactly would you know that?” Fudge folded his hands neatly, "You refused to give your account to the ministry after the war. Refused to cooperate with us."

You stared at him, disbelief rising like bile, “I fought in the war. I didn’t sit like a right old fart in an office and send children to do my job for me.”

That struck. His expression flickered. But he recovered quickly.

“You have no proof,” He said, “No statements. No witnesses. Nothing documented. Nothing official. Just your word, I suppose?”

Your jaw clenched.

And then, the heavy oak doors creaked open again behind you.

The final recipient of your frantic Patronus had arrived.

“I would hardly call my word ‘unofficial’.” Came a cool, clipped voice.

Every head turned.

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall stepped into the room like she owned it. Her tartan robes swirled around her ankles, her bun was tight, and her wand was already out — not drawn, just held. Like a promise.

“Headmistress.” Fudge said tightly.

“I am here,” She said, “because you are about to repeat the mistakes of your past. And I, for one, will not stand by and let it happen again.”

She turned to you with a brief, firm nod. Then addressed the room.

“Mattheo Riddle was present at the Battle of Hogwarts. He cast no Unforgivables. He struck down more Death Eaters than many fully trained Aurors. He aided in the evacuation of the Astronomy Tower. I can attest to this. I witnessed it myself.”

Fudge scoffed, “If you want to make a case, you need to conduct a hearing. Present evidence. Until then, Riddle remains in custody. This isn’t the proper procedure.”

“You’re right,” Hermione snapped, “Which is why you’ll release Mattheo now and arrange a hearing immediately — not weeks from now, not months. Until then, he walks free.”

You stepped forward, voice like steel, “I have a reporter from every major wizarding outlet standing outside this building. Do you know how long they’ve waited to see me after I disappeared for years? How eager they are for their long-awaited interview with all four of us?”

Fudge paled slightly.

“I can see the headlines now,” You said, voice dripping with venom, “Fudge Fudged Up. Yet again.”

Harry’s eyes were burning, “You think they’ll defend you after seeing how you handled Sirius Black? You locked him up on false charges. How many more lives are you willing to ruin?”

“I will make sure you never make another decision without the press crawling down your throat and breathing down your neck — second-guessing everything you say. Because if you think I won’t drag your entire office into the dirt for this, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Thick with tension. Even Harry looked vaguely stunned.

Fudge’s face had gone bone white, his knuckles gripping the edge of the desk.

“Very well,” He said finally, “Release him. No charges. Effective immediately.”

Headmistress McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Thank you, Minister.” She said, her tone measured but unmistakably pointed.

You didn’t hold back.

Without missing a beat, you shot over your shoulder, loud enough for Fudge to hear clearly, “I’m not thanking you for shit. Go fuck yourself.”

“A displeasure as always, Cornelius,” Ron added as he turned to leave, “Make sure to get off that fat arse every once in a while and do some actual work. Can’t let the children have all the fun.”

You didn’t look back.

None of you did.

But the echo of your words — and your fury — lingered in the halls long after you’d gone.

The iron doors of the holding chamber creaked open with a groan, and Mattheo stepped into the atrium — free at last.

The Ministry’s harsh lighting did nothing to dull the exhaustion written across his face or the tension that lingered in his shoulders. His shirt was rumpled, his hair a mess from running his hands through it one too many times. Flanked by Blaise, Theo, Draco, and Enzo — all equally sleep-deprived and stone-faced — he looked like a man still caught somewhere between disbelief and survival.

But the second he saw you sprinting across the floor toward him, something in his expression cracked wide open. The weight dropped from his shoulders.

He didn’t even get a breath in before you launched forward.

“Mattheo!”

His head snapped up just in time to catch you as you practically threw yourself into his arms. His hands rose on instinct, gripping your waist, steadying you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You pulled back just enough to grab his face, scanning every inch like you had to see for yourself that he was okay, “Are you alright? Did they hurt you? Did they—?”

“I’m okay,” He murmured, voice low and raw, eyes locked on yours, “You came for me.”

“Of course I did.” You whispered, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Behind you, Harry, Hermione, and Ron caught up at a far more leisurely pace. They stopped a few paces back, watching you with fond, amused expressions.

“She’s gone." Ron muttered, shaking his head fondly.

“Precisely,” Hermione said, lips twitching, “I haven’t seen her this taken with someone since your brother Bill visited in second year.”

Ron recoiled, “Why would you remind me of that?”

Hermione laughed.

Harry just smiled, arms crossed, “Good for her.”

Across the way, Blaise, Enzo, and Draco were watching the reunion unfold with similarly raised eyebrows and smirking mouths.

“Is it just me,” Enzo said, “or does that look a little more intense than casual neighbours?”

Draco arched a brow, “Considering she just threw herself into his arms? I’d say yeah.”

Theo didn’t even bother hiding his grin, “Told you.”

As pleasantries began to pass between the groups — polite nods, cautious glances, a few lingering tensions quickly diffused by Ron and Blaise’s sarcastic commentary — you and Mattheo found yourselves standing with Headmistress McGonagall, who approached with her usual purposeful stride.

She looked at Mattheo first, and while her expression was sharp as ever, her eyes were kind. “Mr. Riddle,” She said crisply, “What happened to you was shameful. Unacceptable. And not the kind of justice we fought for.”

Mattheo shifted slightly, unsure how to respond.

But McGonagall continued, voice dry, “And I must say… when your Patronus came hurtling into my chambers at three o’clock this morning, I was more than a little surprised. I haven’t seen her beg for anything since third year, when Peeves nicked her entire potions essay.”

You flushed, brushing a hand over your face, “It wasn’t begging.”

Mattheo turned to you, gaze soft and unreadable — something between gratitude, guilt, and something else deeper. Warmer.

“I was worried about him.” You admitted timidly.

McGonagall’s brow rose, “So it would seem.”

You let out a small laugh, breath finally loosening in your chest. Mattheo’s ears turned pink, and you didn’t miss the way he relaxed the longer you stood close.

The headmistress tilted her head slightly, “Truthfully, I hadn’t expected to hear from you again. Especially after how soundly you ignored my last offer.”

Mattheo blinked, “Offer?”

“She was offered the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” McGonagall said, turning to him, “At the time, I thought she’d be a good fit. Now I’m convinced she’s the best one.”

You hesitated, just like you always did.

But Mattheo didn’t give you the chance to fall silent again.

“You should take it,” He said, firm and certain, “Your grades were the best in our year. You literally teach now — and you’re brilliant at it. You’d make a great professor, (Y/N). Hogwarts would be lucky to have you.”

You blinked at him, startled, “You think?”

He nodded, voice softening, “I know.”

McGonagall watched the exchange with something suspiciously close to amusement, “Wise words, Mr. Riddle. You’d do well to listen to your boyfriend, Ms. (L/N).”

You both flushed scarlet.

But you couldn’t even bring yourself to be embarrassed.

Because for the first time in a long, long while — standing there, surrounded by the people who knew your heart and the boy who held it — everything felt right.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to come home.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to accept.” You said at last, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

Mattheo leaned toward you — and before you could turn away, his hand slid into yours. Not in a dramatic way. Not like he was making a scene. Just… quiet and sure. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles, grounding you.

You looked over at him — and the smile he gave you in return made something in your chest flip.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

You turned back to McGonagall, looking at your future boss with a smirk, “Drinks? To celebrate?”

McGonagall gave a long-suffering sigh — but her eyes sparkled, “I suppose one will do, for good will.”

Ron chimed in, already slinging an arm around Theo’s shoulders, “I say we make it a proper celebration. We’ve earned it.”

Hermione arched a brow, “Only you would be up for getting hammered at ten in the morning.”

Draco shared a look with Harry — who gave a subtle shrug, like, he’s got a point — and Blaise was already pulling out his wand to start listing nearby pubs.

You laughed — light and easy now — like the worst of it had passed, like something had finally cracked open in the best possible way.

Mattheo squeezed your hand again, just once.

And this time, you squeezed back.

The apartment building was quiet when you both got back.

The night had blurred into something golden — laughter echoing down cobblestone streets, half-empty pint glasses clinking on wooden tables, Theo and Harry nearly arm-wrestling over who paid the tab (they both lost), and McGonagall giving one tight-lipped smile before declaring she’d “had quite enough of rowdy children for one night” and Disapparating with a dramatic crack.

You were still smiling when you reached Mattheo's door, still glowing from the rush of everything.

Mattheo put his key into the lock—and then paused.

You turned to him, the adrenaline finally ebbing now that it was just the two of you, your pulse still not entirely steady — not after the last twenty-four hours, not after everything that had just happened.

You studied him in the dim light of the hallway. The bruised shadows under his eyes. The tight line of his jaw. The way he was looking at you — like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite figure out how.

There had been something building there, thick in the air between you. Something humid and suffocating since the moment you entered the bar. A part of you had wanted to leave, the lack of sleep beginning to weigh down on your limbs, but then you saw Lorenzo and Hermione clink their glasses in quiet solidarity — and you stayed. You leaned against Mattheo, your head on his shoulder, lulled by the quiet of the nearly empty pub, the alcohol making you soft and sleepy.

Mattheo turned to you, “Do you want to come in?”

You chuckled, “For a cuppa?”

He gave you a half smile, “Not this time.”

You let him lead you inside. Let him shut the door behind you and crowd you gently against it, looking at you with half-lidded eyes and a reverence that stole the breath from your lungs.

God, you wanted to kiss him. Wanted to mold your mouth to his, press your body against his, and lose yourself in the gravity of him.

“Thank you,” He said finally, voice low, nose a hair away from yours, “For today. For yesterday. For everything.”

You raised your eyes to his, still pressed between him and the door, trying to swallow the want pooling at the back of your throat like syrup, “It’s what you do for people you care about.”

He looked at you like you’d just said something sacred.

And then, softly — like the words hurt on the way out, “Do you?”

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah,” You whispered, “I do.”

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked at you, long and quiet — like he was memorizing the moment. Like he was waiting for something to shift.

You reached up and pressed your hand to his chest, fingers spread over the steady rhythm of his heart.

“Do you?”

His hand came up slowly, curling around yours, “I’ve been trying not to.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to have something good.” He dipped his head, eyes flicking to your lips, “But then you showed up. And now I don’t want anything else. I’ll do whatever I have to do to deserve you.”

You cupped his cheeks, brushing your thumbs gently over his cheekbones. “Come here.” You whispered.

And then you kissed him.

No fanfare. No fireworks. Just you and him — pressed together under the soft glow of the hallway light. Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, wrapping around his neck as you tilted your head, standing on your toes and pressing your body flush to his.

Mattheo kissed you back with quiet desperation, brows furrowed like he was feeling too much at once, like kissing you was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart. His hands cupped your face like he didn’t trust the world not to take you from him.

And you kissed him like you were trying to make up for every moment he thought he was unloved.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and tangled in each other, he rested his forehead against yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, softly:

"My dad is going to be thrilled."

Mattheo laughed against your mouth, "I can't say he's going to be too thrilled about what I'm about to do to his only daughter."

You shook your head, laughing — but you didn’t stop him. Not when he kissed you again, not when his hands found your waist, not when on this night, he finally, finally, became yours.

Bonus:

It hadn’t been that long since you walked these halls as a student. The scent of old stone and parchment still felt like home, and the echo of your laughter in the stairwells was barely faded.

Which is why it felt a little surreal, standing at the front of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom — your classroom now — watching twenty tired students blink at you, half-asleep, post-midterms.

You remembered this feeling too well. The post-exam lull. The I’d-rather-be-anywhere-but-in-class energy that leaked into the air like a sleeping draught.

So you did what any responsible professor would do.

Time for a little... intervention.

"Alright," You said, clapping your hands once, “Seeing as the lot of you look one Muffliato away from a nap, I brought a guest to help with today’s demonstration.”

The classroom door creaked open at just the right moment.

Boots echoed on stone. A shadow fell across the threshold.

And then in walked Mattheo Riddle — Auror robes fitted and dark, wand holstered, smug expression firmly in place.

The class lit up like you’d cast Lumos Maxima.

Half the class gasped.

The girls — no, scratch that, several students of all genders — squealed.

You actually had to bite back a laugh.

It was like déjà vu. For a moment, you were thirteen again, sitting in this very classroom, watching your friends clutch their chests over Gilderoy Lockhart like he was the second coming of Merlin.

Except now Lockhart was replaced by your fiancé. And your fiancé actually could duel.

You ignored the whispers, fighting a smile as Mattheo strolled in like he owned the castle. You could tell he was enjoying every second of the attention.

"Morning, class," Mattheo said with a smirk, scanning the room like he already knew the effect he had. His eyes finally landed on you, "Hope you're ready to learn something useful for once."

You rolled your eyes, "Don’t get cocky, Riddle.”

The students were wide-eyed now, completely awake, some whispering furiously. You let the tension build, then smiled sweetly.

You turned back to the class. “Since most of you seem to have forgotten how to hold a wand upright this week, Auror Riddle and I will be demonstrating live defensive magic.” You paused, “Via duel.”

The room exploded.

“You’re gonna duel him?!”

“IS THIS EVEN LEGAL?”

“Mister Riddle, PLEASE go easy on her—”

“She’s gonna mop the floor with him, are you kidding?!”

Mattheo tilted his head toward you, amused, "Your students seem confident in your skills. I’d hate to disappoint them when I win."

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him, "I hope you can still keep your job once I humiliate you, darling."

“Oh, it’s like that?” He asked, stepping onto the platform. His wand slid into his hand like it belonged there, “Want to make it interesting, sweetheart?”

"I'm listening."

His grin was wicked, “If I win, we move the wedding up. This winter.”

You blinked, caught off guard for half a second.

A chorus of gasps filled the room.

You raised a brow, “That’s all? I was expecting something scandalous.”

“Scandalous comes after,” He said, low enough only you could hear. Then louder: “Well, Professor, do we have a deal?”

You tipped your head, “Deal.”

The class whooped as you took your stance. Wands raised. Eyes locked.

It started playful — spells exchanged like inside jokes, your shields strong, your counters cheeky. You danced around each other, laughing, bickering like you always did.

“Getting slow in your old age.” You taunted.

“Still fast enough to catch you, sweetheart.” He replied, flicking your spell back with a grin.

You both fell into rhythm effortlessly, spells flying and deflecting with heat and precision. It was like dancing — a dance only the two of you knew the steps to. You hit him with a Flipendo that nearly knocked him on his ass; he responded with a Petrificus Partialis that froze your wand arm mid-jinx.

You countered just in time to send his disarming spell into the ceiling, and he laughed again, breathless, “Merlin, I forgot how annoying you are when you’re winning.”

"You're saying that as if I'm not always winning." You said, already flicking your wand again.

The class was on the edge of their seats. Screaming. Chanting. Cheering for both of you like it was the final match of the Triwizard Tournament.

But then — a flash of motion. A student near the edge tripped on their bag, almost falling off the bench. You turned instantly, wand snapping to cast a cushion charm.

And that was when Mattheo’s spell struck.

Not hard — a harmless stunner meant for flair — but it knocked you slightly off-balance.

The platform dimmed. The match was technically over.

Mattheo, smug as anything, raised his hands as he descended from the platform, walking toward you. “Victory,” He called, lowering his wand with a bow so smug you nearly hexed him right there, “Riddle for the win.”

You glared at him, but still let him wrap his arms around your waist as he lifted you down from the platform — an action that did not go unnoticed by your students, who began to squeal.

“I was distracted. I had you cornered until the end.”

“Still counts,” He said, grinning as he stepped closer, “Should’ve kept your eyes on the target, love.”

You narrowed your eyes, then tilted your head in thought. Loud enough for the class to hear, you said:

“Say I won, and I’ll marry you this weekend.”

The entire class collectively gasped.

“PROFESSOR—”

“WAIT THAT’S NOT FAIR—”

“THAT’S CHEATING!!”

“YOU CAN’T BRIBE HIM INTO LOSING—”

Mattheo laughed so hard he had to put a hand on the desk to steady himself, “You heard them, love. It’s not fair.”

You gave a little shrug, completely unbothered, “Life’s not fair.”

He stepped closer, wand twirling between his fingers, “So what you’re saying is... you’re too proud to admit you lost."

You smiled sweetly, “No. I’m saying you’re going to say I won. And I’ll be in white by Saturday.”

The class exploded.

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE ACTUALLY DOING IT—”

“WE’RE GOING TO A WEDDING???”

“I’M CRYING—”

"I’ll be Mrs. Riddle this time next week," You sang, "Going once, going twice—"

“The greatest duelist of all time,” Mattheo declared, loud enough for everyone to hear, “will be my wife by this time next week.”

The class lost it.

Cheers, whistles, someone even threw a quill in the air like confetti. You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm, and Mattheo just smirked, slipping his hand into yours as you both walked out past the chaos.

“Can’t wait to marry me, huh?” You teased, straightening out his robes, choosing not to kiss him — not with your audience so keenly watching.

He leaned in close, brushing his lips near your ear, “You kidding? I've been ready since the day you introduced me to that shitty Australian dingo."

You laughed softly.

Somewhere behind you, a student whispered, "Is he talking about Bluey?

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Harry Potter Taglist:

@downbad4reid

@revesephemeres

@catiwinky

Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

@redeemingvillains

@baekjeonheo-blog

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Slytherin Boys Taglist:

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obssessivethorn · 2 months ago

Text

AHHHH THIS IS SO GOOD!!

the one with the runaway bride

Pairing: Theodore Nott x Reader

Word Count: 12.1k (damn)

Summary: Sometimes running away from a wedding leads you exactly where you're meant to be — preferably into the arms of a much better guy.

A/N: These fics just keep getting longer and longer. again lowkey kinda hate this and i feel like i made theo heavily ooc but it is what it is ig

Theo hated churches.

He wasn’t particularly religious—never cared much for the belief in some higher power watching over them all. After all, if someone like that did exist, his mother—a devout, gentle woman—wouldn’t have been ripped from the earth so soon. It should’ve been his father, not her. At least, that’s what he’d thought as a boy.

Still, despite his aversion to anything even remotely sacred, he found himself sitting alone in the pews of a quiet chapel. The sun streamed through stained glass, washing the room in warm, fractured color. He didn’t believe in prayer, but he came here anyway. This had been his mother’s favorite place before she died, and somehow, being here made him feel closer to her—like she might hear him, if only faintly.

“Mamma,” He murmured, voice low, “sometimes I truly wonder what my future was meant to look like.”

The war was over, but the silence it left behind was deafening. He spent a lot of time now, wondering about his place in the world. He and the rest of his mates—Berkshire, Riddle, Malfoy, and Zabini—had played a crucial role, working as double agents under Dumbledore’s orders. But because their involvement had remained classified, carefully buried under the Ministry’s politics, they were still seen as Slytherins first. As former sympathizers. As a threat. Pariahs.

It stung. He had done the right thing, when it mattered most. And yet, he wondered if this cold reception was all he’d ever receive.

A few years ago, he hadn't even expected to live this long. His younger self had been certain he’d never survive the war—that he’d be killed for his betrayal of Voldemort and reunited with his mother much sooner than expected. But he had survived. And now, once again, he was adrift.

That’s why he came back here—hoping for clarity, for a sign. But as always, the silence answered him back.

He sighed softly, rising to his feet and tucking his hands into his coat pockets, ready to leave. His shoes echoed against the marble floor as he turned toward the exit.

But before he could cross the threshold, the chapel doors burst open with a loud bang.

Theo blinked.

A vision in white stumbled inside.

Satin, lace, curls escaping from a veil. Breathless. Flushed. A wild gleam in her eye.

His heart paused mid-beat as he recognized the chaos incarnate now standing in the aisle, clutching the skirt of her wedding dress like she’d just escaped a dragon, veil askew, bouquet long gone, and cheeks flushed pink like she’d run from hell itself.

His mouth opened before he could stop it.

“(L/N)?” The name left his mouth before he could stop it, soft and shocked and just a little bit disbelieving.

You looked up, startled — like you hadn’t expected to see another soul inside — and your eyes widened in delight.

“Theodore Nott!” You beamed, chest still rising and falling in heavy breaths, curls frizzing at the edges, voice giddy and strange, “Fancy seeing you here! Gosh, I haven't seen you since Hogwarts! How are you? And the others—Riddle, Berkshire, and the lot? All good, I hope.”

Theo stared at you in complete bewilderment as you keeled over to catch your breath, tugging off your veil and fanning yourself with it like some kind of deranged society lady.

“Merlin’s sweaty balls,” You gasped, dramatic as ever, “It’s impossible to breathe in this damn corset.”

“They’re good,” Theo said slowly, brow furrowed, “I’m sorry, are you in a wedding dress?”

You nodded, breathless, laughing like the question itself was hilarious, “Unfortunately, yes. Bit of a pity I didn’t realize I didn’t want to marry the sorry bloke thirty minutes ago. Would’ve made my escape a lot easier if I wasn’t drowning in fifty pounds of satin.”

He blinked at you, still speechless, hands deep in his coat pockets.

“I mean—” You barreled on, eyes wide and shining, “there I was, standing at the altar, looking at my so-called fiancé, and it just hit me: I cannot wake up to his sorry mug for the rest of my life. To hell with my parents. And society. I don’t want to be a Bulstrode. That name sounds like the arse-end of a toad, don’t you think?”

You paused, eyes narrowing playfully, “(Y/N) (L/N) sounds so much nicer, doesn’t it?”

Theo arched an unimpressed brow, “You know you can get married without changing your last name, right?”

At that, you absolutely lost it—doubling over in wheezing laughter, slapping your knee like he’d just told the funniest joke in history.

“You always were such a crack-up, Theodore!” You gasped between giggles, “Where are my manners? What brings you here today? Certainly not for the wedding, I hope—because, well—” You gestured at yourself, still panting in the middle of the cathedral, “you can probably tell that’s not happening.”

Before Theodore could get a word in, the sound of heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway. Your eyes went comically wide as you pressed yourself flat against the stone wall, wedged just behind the chapel door as it swung open with a bang.

In marched your father—red-faced, sweaty, and breathing like a charging Hippogriff. His eyes locked onto Theodore like he was a bloodhound catching a scent.

“Have you seen a girl in a wedding dress?” He barked.

Theo quirked a brow, gaze sliding—slowly, deliberately—to the right, where you were doing your best impression of a human statue. From where he stood, he could see you mouthing frantic no’s, shaking your head so violently he was almost certain you’d give yourself whiplash. Your hands were flying in wild, desperate gestures, pleading silently.

He turned back to your father, the picture of calm.

“No, sir.”

Your father squinted, suspicious—but apparently not enough to question it. “Well, if you do,” He huffed, already half-turning, “you tell her to march her sorry behind back into that hall and marry the boy, or she’ll be sorry.”

The door slammed shut behind him.

You clutched your chest like you’d just survived a curse, eyes squeezed shut as you slid bonelessly to the floor in your crumpled wedding dress.

“That,” You breathed, “was nerve-wracking.”

You peeked up at him with a grateful look, “You’re a good liar, Nott. Thank you.”

Theo looked down at the breathless, sweaty heap you’d become, still sprawled on the stone floor like a very distressed meringue. With an amused smirk, he cleared his throat, “Well… good luck with everything, (L/N). Let me know if you actually go through with becoming a Bulstrode. I’ll send a wedding gift.”

You gaped up at him in horror as he began to sidestep the tangled mass of satin and lace that was your gown, clearly preparing to leave the chapel and abandon you to your doom. Without thinking, you grabbed his calf—your perfectly manicured nails digging into his trousers, the massive engagement ring catching the light like a cursed artifact.

“What?! You can’t go now! You have to get me out of here!”

Theo arched a skeptical brow, “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

You pointed at him in outrage, still clutching his leg like a deranged bride octopus, “You just lied to my father! That makes you an accomplice. A—A conspirator! You're already implicated!”

Theo looked thoroughly unimpressed, “I could just tell him you were hiding behind the door like a terrified possum.”

You gasped, “You wouldn’t.”

He tilted his head, “Try me.”

Panic glittered in your eyes before you straightened your spine and went full Slytherin, “Fine. You want to play that game? I’ll tell everyone you’re my secret paramour. That you seduced me, took my virtue in the belfry, and that’s why I fled the altar.”

Theo’s mouth dropped open, scandalized, “I beg your pardon?”

You clasped your hands together, expression softening into exaggerated, pleading sweetness, “Please, Theodore. I’m not asking for your soul. Just… apparate me out of here. One quick jump and I’ll be out of your life forever.”

He stared at you. Then sighed.

“Merlin help me,” He muttered, “You’re even more unhinged than I remember.”

“So that’s a yes?”

He offered you a hand, “Only if you swear not to mention the word ‘virtue�� ever again.”

You grinned, already taking his hand, “Deal, my paramour.”

He groaned. Loudly.

Theo stepped closer, one hand sliding around your waist, tugging you flush against him. You blinked up at him, stunned into silence by the proximity. Up close, you finally understood why half the girls in your year had harbored crushes on him. He had that kind of face—the infuriatingly beautiful kind that made your stomach swoop before your brain could catch up.

Then—with a sharp crack—the world twisted out from under your feet.

You landed hard against him, fingers fisting the lapels of his jacket like your life depended on it. Which, to be fair, it had.

Warm sunlight spilled over your face, the bustling sounds of the street around you cutting through the fading disorientation. You blinked. Then smiled.

You were free.

Theo watched you quietly as your eyes danced over every detail—the streetlamp, the baker’s cart, a child chasing a butterfly. Everything ordinary now seemed extraordinary through your gaze. You looked like someone seeing the world for the first time.

“Are you good, (L/N)?” He asked, low and cautious.

You didn’t take your eyes off the street. “A new world’s waiting for me,” You said softly, “It’s… terrifying.”

He didn’t say anything, but his grip around your waist didn’t loosen.

You stood there, trembling fingers still tangled in the fabric of his coat, heart pounding like it was trying to sprint back to the cathedral.

Theodore’s sharp gaze softened as he took in your messy lipstick, sweat-dampened curls, and the way you clung to him like the world had just tipped sideways. You looked like a woman on the edge of disaster—or greatness. Maybe both.

"Where were you planning to go?" He asked quietly.

You blinked up at him, dumbly, your glassy eyes beginning to sting as the reality of what you’d just done crashed over you like cold water.

Oh Merlin.

What had you done?

You didn’t have a house. You didn’t have a job. You didn’t have money of your own. Your entire life had been orchestrated by your father—who’d been all too eager to sell you off to your so-called fiancé—and you’d just thrown a wrench in his perfect little plan.

"I... I hadn’t thought that far." You admitted, voice barely a whisper as your bottom lip began to tremble.

Theo sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, “Bloody hell.”

You started to stammer, trying to save face, “Look—I’ll figure it out. I just needed to get away. You don’t have to—”

“Don’t be dense,” He muttered, “Come on.”

You furrowed your brows, confused, “Come on where?”

“My home,” He said bluntly, “You’re clearly overwhelmed, and you need to breathe somewhere that isn’t a chapel or the middle of a bloody street. You can crash in the guest room. I’ll pour a cup of tea. Or Firewhisky, if you’re feeling rebellious.”

You stared at him, stunned silent, “You’d really do that for me?”

In all honesty, Theodore had no idea why he was doing this for you.

Maybe it was the way your eyes looked—raw and frightened—that struck something in him. He remembered that look. Back when his mother died. Back when he was stuck between two worlds, pretending to be loyal to the Death Eaters while secretly fighting for the other side. When the war ended, and he had no bloody idea who he was without it.

He knew helplessness like an old friend. And though he’d never admit it aloud, he also knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight if he walked away now—knowing you were out there, wandering the streets in a bloody wedding dress or dragged back to marry someone you didn’t love.

“Yeah,” He said finally, “I would.”

You exhaled shakily, blinking back tears, “Okay.”

“Okay.” He echoed.

He held your arm carefully—like you were a glass about to crack—and apparated you both away.

By the time your feet touched down again, you were standing in a warmly lit corridor outside a tall, modern-looking door. Theodore slid a key out of his coat pocket and unlocked it with a click.

“My flat.” He said simply, stepping aside to let you in.

You blinked, glancing around as you followed him, “Wait. Don’t you have a whole family manor somewhere?”

He raised a brow as he tossed his coat onto a sleek brass hook, “Not fancy enough for you, darling? Would you rather go to the five-star resort your family booked for your honeymoon instead?”

You gaped, then closed your mouth, then opened it again—only to come up short, “Touché.”

He chuckled, pushing open the door, “I live in a flat because the manor’s too bloody big for just me. I might move back in when I’m older, but right now? No one needs twenty-three bedrooms unless they’re running a boarding school.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping inside after him, “Just say you’re rich and move on,” you muttered.

You were mid-sigh when your eyes took in the space—and almost instantly, the tension in your shoulders loosened. His flat wasn’t enormous, but it was stunning. Dark hardwood floors, rich emerald and charcoal accents, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the London skyline like a painting. The air smelled faintly of pine, leather, and something warm—like spice and magic.

Books lined custom-built shelves along one wall, and a record player quietly spun something soft and jazzy in the corner. A massive velvet sofa sat in the center of the open-plan living area, flanked by brass sconces and a few well-kept plants.

Theo disappeared into a side room, leaving you standing awkwardly in your crumpled wedding dress in the middle of his living room. When he returned, he had a folded stack of clothes in his hands.

“I grabbed whatever looked closest to your size,” He said, handing them over with a half-shrug, “Might still be a bit big—but it’s cozy, at least.”

You unfolded the hoodie and held it up. It fell nearly to your knees.

“You’re joking.”

“Or you could stay in your wedding dress. Very sexy.”

You let out a laugh, “You got me again.”

You eyed the clothes, then glanced back up at him, “You sure none of your… lady friends left something behind? Something a bit more...appropriate?”

Theo smirked, unfazed, “I don’t keep a lost and found bin, sweetheart. But nice try.”

You grinned despite yourself, clutching the clothes to your chest.

“Go on,” He added, gesturing toward the hallway, “First door on the right—bathroom’s there. Take your time. Come out when you’re ready. I’ll sort dinner.”

“You cook?”

He looked at you, mock-offended, “I’m Italian.”

“That’s not a yes.”

Theo placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury, “Wow. So little faith.”

You laughed—a real one this time—as you padded off toward the bathroom, the ridiculous rustle of your wedding dress trailing behind you. Hoodie and sweats in hand, feet aching, heart still thudding from everything you’d run from.

But somehow, in the warmth of this space, with the sound of jazz humming in the background and Theo cooking up dinner—you started to feel something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe.

Maybe, just maybe… you were going to be okay.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, the last remnants of your old life had gone swirling down the drain—hairspray, waterproof mascara, and everything else that once held you together. You felt… lighter. Your skin was clean, your hair damp, and the oversized hoodie you wore—Theo’s—smelled faintly of cedar and citrus. It hung down to your thighs like a dress, and the joggers were barely hanging onto your waist.

The scent hit you first—garlic, tomatoes, fresh herbs—and your stomach let out a traitorous growl.

Theo looked up from the stove, giving you a once-over before turning back to stir the pot. “Look at you,” He said with a lopsided smirk, “Didn’t think my clothes would suit you that well.”

You gave him a smirk and did a twirl to show off the outfit—just in time for the joggers to fall right to your ankles. You both burst into laughter.

“The elastic’s useless and the drawstring’s just for decoration.” You said, tossing the offending trousers over the back of a chair.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I charmed the pants off a woman.” Theo replied smoothly.

You snorted, shaking your head.

He slid a bowl across the island toward you—tagliatelle with a thick, rich Bolognese sauce, steam curling up like it had its own mind.

You took one bite, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Oh my god,” You groaned, “This is… this is unreal.”

He gave a small shrug, “I told you.”

You were already shoveling in another forkful, “I haven’t eaten something that didn’t taste like sadness in months.”

Theo leaned against the counter, watching with amusement, “Easy, love. You keep going at that pace, you’ll make those giant joggers fit.”

You swallowed and let out a dramatic sigh, “Wedding diet. I’ve been living off steamed vegetables and heartbreak.”

He laughed, deep and full, “Well, lucky you. There’s more where that came from. And gelato in the freezer.”

Your head snapped up, “You’re kidding.”

“‘Chi mangia bene, vive bene,’” He said with a smirk, “‘Those who eat well, live well.’ My mamma drilled that into me.”

You blinked, then smiled, “Incredibly smart woman.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, your smile didn’t feel like something you had to fake or force. You sat there, in someone else’s hoodie, with sauce on your cheek and your hair still damp, in a flat that smelled like warmth and comfort and garlic.

Theo reached across the table, brushing his thumb gently against the corner of your mouth, “You’ve got a bit of sauce—right there.”

You blinked, startled by the tenderness of the gesture. His hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he pulled back.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” He asked, quieter now.

You gave him a half-smile, soft but guarded, “Sick of me already?”

His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious, “I just mean… are you sure you won’t regret this? People get cold feet. Panic at the altar. Happens all the time, or so I hear. And the longer you stay here—the more real this gets—the harder it’ll be to undo without fallout.”

You sat still for a moment, then set your fork down, appetite forgotten.

“It wasn’t cold feet,” You said, voice low, “I never wanted to get married.”

Theo didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

“My father did. Desperately. He’s been obsessed with bloodlines and alliances since before I could walk. Marrying into the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Like that still means anything in this world.” You let out a bitter laugh, “Somehow that old bastard managed to squirm his way out of Azkaban after the war. And now he’s back to doing what he does best—peddling blood purity and ruining my life.”

Theo’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

“I spent months shoving my feelings down, just trying to be the daughter he wanted. The obedient one. Because what choice did I have?” Your fingers curled around the fabric of his hoodie, “But when I was standing there—at the altar, staring down a future I didn’t choose—I realized something. Maybe I didn’t have choices before. But I could make one now.”

Silence stretched between you for a beat.

Then, softly, Theo said, “That was brave.”

You let out a watery laugh, swiping your sleeve beneath your eyes, “Please. Not like you, playing double agent for Dumbledore. Now that was brave.”

He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “That was reckless.”

“It was noble. Valiant,” You said, voice steadier now, “Really, the kind of madness only a true Slytherin could be ambitious enough to pull off.”

Theo arched a brow, “Flattery? From you?”

You gave him a crooked grin, “Don’t get used to it. Mine was just… selfish. Desperate.”

He looked at you, the warmth in his gaze soft but unwavering, “It’s good to be selfish sometimes.”

You held his gaze, breath catching slightly when his eyes didn’t waver. There was something weighty in the silence—something soft and unspoken stretching between you, tugging gently at the space that separated your bodies.

Theo’s fingers drummed once against the tabletop, then stilled. Neither of you moved.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your face, and for a second, just one second, you let yourself wonder what it would feel like to close the distance.

Then you blinked, cleared your throat, and reached for his plate. “Well. Since you think it’s good to be selfish,” You said, trying to sound casual, “I’m gonna eat the rest of your pasta.”

Theo let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or a sigh. Maybe both, “Oi—at least leave room for dessert.”

***

Loud, boisterous laughter was the first thing that dragged Theo out of a half-dream. He groaned, arm flinging over his eyes as the unmistakable sound of his front door swinging open—without ceremony—hit him like a freight train.

“What the—who the hell is making all that noise?” He muttered, voice hoarse as he blinked toward the ceiling.

The culprits were, predictably, already raiding his kitchen like starved hyenas: Draco, Lorenzo, Mattheo, and Blaise, helping themselves to his fresh bread and the groceries he’d actually gone out and picked himself—because unlike those degenerates, he cared about food quality.

He should’ve never given them spare keys.

“For emergencies,” He’d said. “Only if it’s important,” He’d said.

Idiotic. Clearly, their definition of ‘emergency’ included hungover brunches and unsolicited early morning gossip.

“Morning, sunshine,” Draco drawled with an infuriating smirk, already sprawled across Theo’s sofa, eating the hand-picked strawberries Theo had searched three markets to find, “You’re just in time for the morning news”

Theo groaned louder and face-planted into the cushions, “Could you shut up? Some of us are trying to sleep in our own damn flat.”

“Oh, come on,” Blaise said, smirking as he rifled through Theo’s cabinets, “You must’ve heard by now. (L/N). You remember her—Pansy's roommate. She left Bulstrode at the altar. Just ran right out.”

Lorenzo let out a low whistle, “Left Bulstrode standing there like an absolute mug. At the altar, mate. In front of everyone. Just turned and walked straight out mid-vows. I mean—iconic.”

Mattheo, chewing thoughtfully on a stolen slice of sourdough, shrugged, “Serves him right. No way Bulstrode was ever gonna bag a babe like (L/N). He’s got the charm of a wet napkin.”

“And get this,” Blaise said, lowering his voice into a tone of mock-conspiracy, eyes glinting, “Rumor is—she had a lover on the side. Secret romance, hidden rendezvous, the whole nine yards. Some bloke she’s apparently been in love with for ages. No one knows who, though.”

Theo, face still hidden by the couch cushions, flinched.

Blaise squinted at him, “You look... twitchy. Something you wanna share with the group?”

Before Theo could invent an excuse, a sound cut through the room—soft footsteps padding across the floorboards.

The guest bedroom door creaked open.

You stepped out, bleary-eyed, rubbing your face with the sleeve of Theo’s oversized hoodie—his hoodie that hung off your frame like it had been stitched for you. Your hair was tousled from sleep, legs bare, the joggers you’d worn the night before still draped over a chair in the corner, clearly forgotten.

Theo’s eyes flicked up to you for a moment—heart skipping a beat at the sight of your flushed cheeks and mussed hair—but he quickly masked the softness with a cool, unreadable glance.

Every sound in the room died on cue.

You blinked at the kitchen full of frozen Slytherins and offered a sheepish smile, “Um… morning?”

The silence that followed was nothing short of reverent.

Mattheo dropped his toast. Lorenzo’s jaw unhinged. Draco choked on a strawberry. Blaise turned—slowly, dramatically—to Theo with the grin of a man who had just unearthed a scandal.

And then—chaos.

“No bloody way,” Blaise said, pointing an accusatory finger, “You?! You’re the lover?!”

“No, no,” Theo said immediately, sitting up straighter, “She’s not—I mean, it’s not— It’s not like that.”

You nodded, “It’s really not what it looks like.”

“She’s not—” Theo added, standing abruptly.

“We’re not—” You said at the same time.

“Dating.” You both finished in unison.

The pause that followed was only broken by Blaise’s slow, disbelieving laugh, “You two seriously rehearsed that or something?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked from you, to the hoodie, to Theo’s bedhead and thoroughly disheveled state, “You sly, secretive little bastard.”

“You’re blushing,” Lorenzo cackled, pointing at Theo.

“I’m not blushing.”

“You’re so red your freckles are blending in.”

“You lot need to leave,” Theo growled, yanking the mug out of Draco’s hand.

“Oh, we’ll leave,” Mattheo said, standing with an exaggerated sigh, “Just as soon as we finish processing the greatest plot twist since Dumbledore kicked it.”

“I don’t know,” Lorenzo mused, “This might top it. Runaway bride finds solace in former classmate’s bed—”

“Spare room!” You and Theo barked at once.

“Oh right,” Blaise said, lazily gesturing to you, “Because that totally explains the no-pants situation.”

You threw up your hands, “He doesn’t have any trousers that fit me!”

Mattheo let out a low whistle, “Stars above, I wish I had popcorn.”

Theo’s jaw clenched, “She needed a place to stay. I offered. That’s it.”

“And I accepted. Platonically.” You stressed.

“And Theodore isn’t some adulterous whore,” You added with a sigh, “He’s just an unfortunate bloke with terrible timing who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The way your voice softened at the end made something twist in Theo’s chest.

“Well, you did good,” Lorenzo said, grabbing another slice of bread, “Bulstrode’s an ugly git anyway.”

You shared a glance with Theo who gave you a soft, barely there smile that was meant to reassure you in a way that conveyed, 'See? What you did wasn't so bad.'

“So what’s the plan now?” Blaise asked, eyeing the two of you over his coffee, “You two just gonna keep playing house?”

“Oi, ease up,” Theo said, casting him a warning look, “Don’t overwhelm her.”

He glanced at you briefly, then added, “We talked last night.”

“Ooo, pillow talk.” Mattheo smirked—earning himself a slap to the back of the head.

Theo rolled his eyes, “We were talking, and I offered to let her stay here. As long as she needs.”

You caught Theo’s eye and saw a softness there that only came out when he looked at you. In that moment, the chaos of friends and gossip faded away, leaving just the quiet promise of safety and belonging between you two.

***

You sat cross-legged on the floor, the open suitcase in front of you spilling out clothes, books, and a few small trinkets you’d brought from your old life. The boxes stacked neatly nearby were still untouched—silent reminders that this was real, that you were here now.

Getting your things back from your home had been easier than expected. You’d slipped in while your father was at work, your heart racing as you moved quietly through the familiar halls. The moment your hand wrapped around your wand—left behind for safekeeping during the wedding—it felt like you could finally breathe again. You packed up your life swiftly, shrinking and sending each box to Theo’s flat before you could second-guess yourself.

“It feels weird seeing all my stuff here.” You murmured, running your fingers over your old Slytherin scarf. A soft smile tugged at your lips as memories from Hogsmeade weekends and late-night gossip sessions filled your head. Back in school, your dormmates used to call dibs on the boys in your year—Pansy obviously claimed Draco, Daphne was hell-bent on Mattheo (she had a thing for bad boys, she used to say). The others squabbled over Blaise and Lorenzo, leaving you with Theo by default. You’d taken it in stride, because Merlin forbid you end up with Crabbe or Goyle. If only sixth-year you knew you’d one day be living with Theo Nott after bolting from your own wedding.

“Like this is really happening.” You said softly.

Theo leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite place. You let your eyes rake over him—how he somehow made jeans and a simple black long-sleeved tee look sinfully good without even trying.

“Don’t you want to unpack?” He asked after a moment, voice casual, “Make it feel a bit more like yours?”

You shook your head, teeth tugging at your lower lip, “I don’t want to get too comfortable. I need to move out soon, find my own place. Can’t just settle in someone else’s flat.”

Your eyes drifted to the empty dresser and the bare walls, imagining them filled with your perfume bottles, your shoes lined up in the closet, your keepsakes resting in quiet corners of the room. It felt… indulgent. And dangerous.

Theo pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room with that quiet confidence that always made your stomach flip. He crouched beside you, fingers brushing yours as he gently pulled the scarf from your hands.

“Don’t be so pressured,” He said softly, “Take your time.”

Your breath caught at the tenderness in his voice, so at odds with the sarcasm he usually deflected with. His gaze held yours—warm, steady, unflinching.

“What kind of fake adulterous whore would I be,” he added, smirking just a little, “if I didn’t give you a comfortable place to stay while you figure things out?”

You let out a shaky laugh, swatting his arm as your cheeks flushed. The warmth in his eyes made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. It felt... safe. For the first time in a long time.

He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering just a second too long. Your breath hitched. Your heart thudded. And before you could stop yourself, your gaze flicked to his mouth.

The moment hung there—suspended and fragile—until it broke like glass.

Theo cleared his throat and pulled back. You dropped your gaze and fanned your burning cheeks, pretending not to notice the way your entire body buzzed with unspoken tension.

He stood, casting a quick glance around the room before his eyes landed on a box labeled “Bathroom.” With a quiet smile, he bent to pick it up.

“I’ll go put this over there.” He said, voice gentler now even though you both were well aware he could've used his magic to charm the objects in its place.

You watched him go, heart fluttering wildly in your chest, feeling strangely steady for the first time in days.

Strangely at home.

***

Watching Theo get ready for work every morning had become your newest, most humbling routine. In the quiet hours before he left—hair perfectly styled, cufflinks glinting faintly in the sunlight—you were struck with the growing realization that your life was a blank page. And not in the hopeful, inspiring way. No, it felt like staring at an overdue assignment you had no idea how to finish.

When he was home, everything felt a little easier—light conversation over breakfast, quiet companionship in the evenings, his effortless presence filling the flat with a calm you hadn’t realized you craved. But once he was out the door, you were left with hours that stretched out like an endless, silent ache. And with that ache came the inevitable realization: you weren’t here to play house with Theodore Nott. You needed to get your life in order.

Which was why, this morning, you were dressed. Not just dressed—put together. A soft, Chanel-inspired ensemble hugged your form, elegant and mature, polished right down to the glossy sheen of your lips.

Across the table, Theo sat in his usual tailored suit and tie, sipping his coffee while reading the newspaper.

He was a dream roommate—unbothered, polite, attentive without being invasive. He cooked most mornings and evenings, and you handled lunch and dishes out of principle more than anything else. And yet, no matter how well you split the duties, you still felt like a freeloader in silk pajamas. He never asked you to contribute, never brought up rent or groceries or anything at all.

Which, ironically, only made the guilt settle heavier in your chest.

It was unbearable. So this newfound spark of motivation—this desire to prove you could stand on your own two feet again—burned fast and hot.

He was fixing his watch by the mirror beside the door, running gelled fingers through his hair, smoothing it back with that practiced grace. You stepped over, holding his coat in one hand and yours in the other, and offered it to him with a quiet, “Here.”

He murmured a small thanks as he slipped into it, but you didn’t step back.

Instead, you reached up to adjust his tie, fingers deft as you corrected the slight tilt in the knot. “I know you’re just going to mess it up the second you get to the office,” you said, smiling softly, “but it’s driving me crazy.”

You smoothed the tie down gently, fingertips brushing the lapels of his coat. When your eyes lifted, you caught him staring—not at your eyes, but your lips, still slick with gloss from your post-breakfast touch-up, and suddenly it felt like a mistake to stand this close, in this kind of silence, with him looking at you like that.

You met his gaze. Your heart stuttered.

Was he leaning in?

Or were you imagining it—some cruel trick your body played when it got too used to his scent, his proximity, the low hum of affection that vibrated just beneath the surface?

Before you could answer, he inhaled sharply and stepped back, the moment snapping like a taut string.

“Busy day today?” He asked, voice neutral, composed.

You cleared your throat, recovering quickly.

“Yeah,” You said, grabbing your purse and your coat, avoiding his eyes, “I’m visiting Slughorn at Hogwarts. I was always good at potions, and he used to favor me—mostly because I always showed up to those ridiculous Slug Club meetings.” You gave a faint chuckle.

“I heard he’s still teaching and struggling to keep up with his personal research. I was kind of his unofficial assistant in seventh year, so… I’m hoping he’ll consider taking me on. As an apprentice or something.”

You kept your tone light, casual, even though your pulse thudded in your throat. You avoided his eyes as you adjusted the strap of your purse.

Theo held the door open for you, and your heart flipped in your chest like it always did when he did things like that without thinking—like it was natural. Like you belonged here.

“Good luck, (Y/N).” He said simply, his voice low but earnest.

You turned your head slightly, offering him a small smile. The way he was looking at you made your steps falter for just a second.

“Thank you.” You said, voice barely above a whisper.

And then you walked on, heels clicking softly on the marble floor, heart fluttering like mad against your ribs.

***

You practically skipped down the stone steps of Hogwarts, the weight of your nervous anticipation completely lifted from your shoulders. The crisp air smelled of old parchment and damp moss, and for once, you didn’t mind. Your cheeks were flushed, your hands clutching the letter Slughorn had scrawled in excitement after your meeting: an official offer to join him as his private research assistant, with the intent of training you to become a certified Potions Master.

Your heart was hammering by the time you reached Theo’s flat, and you didn’t even knock—just flung the door open and stepped inside, calling his name like a storm announcing itself.

“Theo!”

He appeared from the hallway, towel slung over his shoulder, clearly mid-way through drying his hair, shirt sleeves rolled up, “What? Are you okay?”

You beamed so brightly you could’ve lit the whole room with just the force of it, “I got it—I got the position! I’m going to train with Slughorn! He’s taking me on!”

For a second, Theo just blinked at you, frozen in place. Then your words seemed to register fully and he opened his mouth to say something—but before he could, you launched yourself at him.

Your arms flung around his neck, and he caught you with a startled grunt, stumbling back half a step before wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, instinctively keeping you upright. You laughed, giddy and breathless against his shoulder, your legs kicking slightly off the ground.

“I knew you would.” He said against your temple, voice low and warm and slightly amused, though the hug he gave you was grounding, solid, and real.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes bright, “I’m going to be a Potions Master.”

Theo’s hands stayed on your waist, his lips twitching into a rare, open smile, “You’re going to be brilliant.”

You didn’t know what possessed you then—maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the way he was still holding you like you were something precious—but you leaned in without thinking and pressed a kiss to his cheek, quick and full of warmth.

Theo blinked, stunned.

You blinked, too, realizing what you just did.

He slowly set you down on your feet, clearing his throat, but the faintest shade of pink had crept up his neck.

"Thank you, Theo." You whispered, looking up at him like he hung the moon in the sky, "For everything."

***

You were halfway through folding the laundry while Theo showered when the door flew open with no warning, the sharp click of heels on hardwood echoing like the cue for a dramatic entrance.

“Surprise, darling!” Pansy announced grandly, stepping into the apartment with a flourish, a pastry box in one hand and designer sunglasses in the other, “I brought macarons from that place you liked in Paris—Theo, you better be decent!”

She strutted into the living room expecting to find her best friend brooding over black coffee, muttering about case files or the Ministry’s latest idiocy.

Instead, she found you.

Her heel halted mid-click. Her eyes went wide, lips parting in stunned recognition.

“(Y/N)?”

You blinked, holding a half-folded jumper, “Hi—?”

The pastry box slipped from her fingers, forgotten as she gasped.

“(Y/N)!”

Before you could react, she barreled across the room, arms wide, heels thudding across the floor. She crashed into you with a hug that nearly knocked you into the couch, her perfume wrapping around you like a familiar blanket as she squeezed you breathless.

You laughed, arms wrapping around her just as tightly, “Oh God, I’m so sorry I didn’t make it to the wedding! I couldn’t get a Portkey in time—I felt awful. I’ve missed you so much!”

Pansy pulled back to get a proper look at you, holding you at arm’s length like she needed to confirm you were real, “Oh, how’s newlywed life treating you? How’s your husband—” she started brightly, then trailed off.

Her eyes scanned your outfit—comfy shorts and an old Quidditch tee—and then flicked to the half-folded laundry scattered across the coffee table.

And that was precisely the moment Theo stepped out of the bathroom.

Shirtless. Damp. Joggers slung low on his hips. A towel around his neck, his hair still dripping.

Pansy blinked. You blinked. Theo froze like a deer in headlights.

Her eyes snapped between you and Theo. Once. Twice.

Her jaw dropped.

“No. Bloody. Way.”

You swallowed hard, “I, uh... I ran from the altar. I’ve been living here for a month. Surprise?”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“You absolute plonkers!” Pansy shouted, whirling around like a furious peacock as the front door opened again and the rest of the boys filtered in—Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, Enzo—all pausing mid-step at the scene.

Theo grimaced.

Pansy turned on Draco with fury, “You ranted to me for an hour last night about Potter’s work ethic, but you didn’t think to mention that one of my closest friends from school ran out of her own wedding and moved in with Theo?”

Draco’s eyes widened, “I thought you knew!”

“You lot are unbelievable.” She huffed, throwing her hands up.

Draco looked caught somewhere between amusement and panic. Blaise choked on a laugh. Mattheo raised his hands in mock innocence.

Pansy, eyes glittering with mischief, turned back to you with an exasperated scoff, “We’re getting drinks tonight. You and I are going to unpack every bloody bit of this madness. And if there’s any scandal you’re hiding from me, I swear to Merlin—”

You gave her a sheepish smile, heart fluttering with the kind of warmth that only old friendships could bring.

“I wish. But I can’t tonight. I’m working with Slughorn now—officially—and I’ve got my first full day tomorrow. Still need to study up a bit. I really don’t want to get fired before I even make it to lunch.”

Pansy’s features softened instantly. She stepped forward, cupping your cheeks with warm hands and smoothing your hair in a way that made your eyes sting.

“Slughorn?” She breathed, proud and a little misty, “You’re working with Slughorn? That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you.”

Your throat tightened, “Thanks, Pansy. God, I missed you. Let’s do a proper catch-up this weekend, yeah? I don’t want to keep you from your homecoming party—you should go have fun.”

She nodded and pulled you into one last tight hug. “This weekend,” she warned playfully, “or I swear I’ll come kidnap you from this flat myself.”

You laughed, hugging her back, “Deal.”

Just then, Theo reappeared in the living room, now fully dressed and slipping his watch onto his wrist. He reached for his coat, but you were already there, stepping behind him to help him shrug it on.

“Don’t you have to be up early tomorrow?” You asked gently, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve.

From behind you, Blaise gave a low whistle.

“Ooooh, listen to that,” Mattheo drawled with a teasing grin, “Wifey’s making sure the hubby gets to bed on time.”

Theo rolled his eyes, already used to these jokes and glanced down at you, a quiet smile pulling at his lips, “It’s just one drink.”

You sighed, half amused, half resigned, “Okay. Just… don’t come home completely smashed.”

“No promises.” He said with a wink, and the door shut behind them seconds later.

***

The bar buzzed with the low hum of chatter, clinking glasses, and a jazz cover of a Weird Sisters song playing over the speakers. The group had claimed a corner booth, drinks in hand, laughter spilling over every few minutes.

Theo nursed a firewhisky, sitting back with his usual composed expression which caught the attention of Mattheo, “Oh, don’t drink that too fast, Teddy boy. You don’t want to go back absolutely hammered to the missus.”

“You lot are ridiculous,” Theo muttered, though a hint of fondness softened his tone.

“Oh, come off it,” Blaise grinned, swirling his drink, “You like it. You’re practically glowing these days. It’s very unnerving.”

“Very domestic of you, Theo,” Enzo added, smirking, “Sharing a flat, cooking her breakfast, letting her steal your clothes—”

“She doesn’t steal my clothes.”

Mattheo grinned, “Mate, I saw her wearing your Chudley Cannons jumper yesterday.”

Theo looked away, clearly caught.

Pansy took a slow sip of her cocktail, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Honestly, I’m shocked you let her stay with you. You’re usually so…” She waved a perfectly manicured hand, “emotionally unavailable. Allergic to company, really.”

Blaise leaned in, eyes gleaming, “I mean hardly a surprise considering how badly gone he was for her back in school.”

Pansy froze mid-sip.

“Wait—what? Who was gone for who?!” she gasped, nearly slamming her glass on the table, voice sharp with disbelief.

The boys blinked in surprise.

“You didn’t know?” Draco asked, brows raised.

“You’re kidding,” Blaise said, laughing, “You always shoved them into group projects and made them sit together during dinners — we thought you were matchmaking!”

“I was!” Pansy snapped, whipping around to glare at Draco, “Because I wanted to go with you, and the other cows in our dorm had already called dibs on Enzo, Mattheo, and Blaise. Theo was just—left!”

She turned back to the table, eyes wide with the horror of missed opportunity, “Don’t you think if I’d known he fancied her, I would’ve shoved them into a broom cupboard and locked the door?”

Mattheo cackled, “That’s so on-brand for you.”

Pansy groaned, dramatically dropping her head onto Draco’s shoulder, “You absolute wankers. If one of you had opened your mouth years ago, that wedding she had a month ago? Could’ve been yours, Theo.”

Theo sipped his firewhisky quietly, hidden behind the rim of his glass. Flashes of you in a wedding dress and veil flickered behind his eyes, a soft blush spreading across his neck. None of them missed it.

Blaise nudged Mattheo, “He’s thinking about it now.”

“Oh, he’s been thinking about it.”

Theo threw his head back, downing the rest of his firewhiskey in one go, “I need another drink.”

***

The door flew open with a crash, nearly coming off its hinges.

“We have arrived!” Lorenzo declared, clearly drunk, arms wide, as if expecting applause.

Theo stumbled in between Blaise and Mattheo, arms slung over their shoulders like a war hero being carried off the battlefield. His shirt was half-untucked, hair a mess, and his eyes—when he managed to open them—were glassy and unfocused.

You poked your head out from the kitchen, arms crossed, “What happened to ‘just one drink’?”

“He drank.” Blaise said simply.

“Like a fish.” Mattheo added.

“Like a moron.” Draco corrected as he strolled in behind them, tossing Theo’s coat over a chair, “He’s your problem now.”

Theo blinked at the sound of your voice and perked up immediately. “Tesoro!” He slurred, trying to walk toward you but very nearly face-planting into the floor. You caught him under the arm just in time.

“Hi, Theo,” You said softly, “Oh gosh you smell like bad decisions.”

“You need to eat,” You added, “Something starchy. Or you’re going to feel like roadkill tomorrow.”

“He never eats when he’s like this,” Blaise said from where he was sprawled over a kitchen chair, “We’ve tried. It’s hopeless.”

“Chi mangia bene, vive bene, remember?” You said softly, probably butchering his mother's saying as you guided Theo toward the table.

That stopped him. His gaze sharpened just enough to find your eyes.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours with a quiet breath, “E chi ha te… ha tutto.”

Your heart skipped even though you hadn't a clue what he just said.

Mattheo made an exaggerated gagging noise, “Okay, Casanova, wrap it up.”

Draco, grinning, gave you a mock bow, “He’s all yours. Good luck with drunk Shakespeare.”

As the door shut behind them, Theo was still leaning on you, breathing you in like he needed your scent to stay upright.

“You smell like a distillery.” You said, amused.

“You smell like home.” He mumbled.

Your cheeks warmed, and you pushed the plate gently into his lap, “Eat your toast, Romeo.”

***

The bar was warm and golden, tucked away on a cobbled side street with velvet booths and enchanted candles flickering lazily overhead. You and Pansy had claimed a prime table by the window, cocktails already half-finished and a bowl of enchanted peanuts floating between you, occasionally popping like popcorn.

“I swear,” Pansy said, leaning in conspiratorially, “if Draco mentions his new wand polish one more time, I will hex him bald.”

You snorted into your drink, eyes gleaming, “You wouldn’t. You like running your hands through his hair too much.”

She grinned, “Touché. But I’d still threaten it. Keeps him humble.”

It was the first proper girls’ night out you’d had in what felt like forever, and Pansy — ever the scene-stealing, chaos-bringing goddess she was — made it feel like the war, the heartbreak, and everything in between had never happened.

“So,” She drawled, resting her chin on her palm with a wicked glint in her eye, “Tell me everything. Are you dating? Shagging? Secretly married? Come on, give me the details.”

You laughed, swirling the pink liquid in your glass — some fruity, glittering cocktail you hadn’t tasted since your Hogwarts days. It cooled your fingers while your cheeks burned hotter by the second.

You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back your smile, “It’s not like that, Pans. We’re just good friends. Honestly, I don’t think I’d have made it this far without him.”

“Oh darling,” She said with mock pity, “it’s always ‘not like that’ until you’re wearing his jumpers and catching feelings.”

You opened your mouth to object—but the words caught in your throat. You had worn his jumper. You were catching feelings.

Pansy’s eyes widened. She gasped, clutching her chest with dramatic flair, “No. No way. You like him.”

“I didn’t say that." You muttered.

“You didn’t have to!” She squealed, grabbing your hands across the table, “Oh, you poor lovesick thing. I knew it. I knew it!”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, “You are insufferable.”

“I’m right, though,” She sang smugly, taking another sip of her drink, “And I actually happen to know that our dear Teddy has been—”

“(Y/N).”

The voice cut through the air like a curse.

You froze.

Pansy’s glass paused halfway to her lips. Her smile vanished.

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t have to look to know who it was — that voice had once lived in your dreams. Now it only haunted your nightmares.

Slowly, you turned in your seat.

And saw your ex-fiancé standing at the edge of your table.

You stared up at him, heart thudding so hard it felt like it might crack your ribs. He looked mostly the same — slicked-back hair that tried too hard to look effortless, a coat more expensive than it was tasteful, and that same smirk he always wore like armor. His jaw was tighter now, clenched like he hadn’t unclenched it in months. His eyes were cold, sunken a little, and mean in a way they didn’t even bother to hide.

“I didn’t expect to find you here.” He said, voice low, razor-edged.

Pansy was on her feet before you could speak, stepping in front of you like a drawn wand. “And yet here you are,” She said, all sugar and venom, “Funny how you manage to show up where no one wants you.”

He didn’t even glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on you, “We need to talk.”

“No, we really don’t,” Pansy snapped, “Back off before I hex your bits so far inward you’ll need a St. Mungo’s specialist to find them.”

“Pansy,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against her sleeve. Your hand was shaking.

He took a step closer, “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

You rose slowly, pushing your chair back, jaw tight, “Fine. Five minutes. Nothing more.”

“Absolutely not—” Pansy began, but you shook your head.

“I’m okay.”

You weren’t. Not even remotely. But you needed this to end. To really end.

The night air was sharp against your skin, the hum of the city muffled as you stepped into the alley behind the bar. You folded your arms, more out of defense than cold.

“So this is what it takes to find you now?” He said, voice curling with disdain, “Are you selling yourself like a whore on street corners now?”

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your voice steady, “What do you want?”

He took a step forward, “I heard the rumors. People talk, you know. Especially when a bride vanishes in silk and ends up playing house with that filthy blood traitor Theodore Nott.”

Your lips parted in disbelief.

“I should’ve known,” he sneered, “You always acted so self-righteous. But look at you now — just another slag hopping into the next man’s bed. Must be nice not needing vows to spread your legs, yeah?”

The words hit like a slap, your stomach twisting with fury and disbelief.

“I’m done listening to this.”

You turned—and before you could even brace yourself, he yanked you sharply by the collar and slammed you hard against the brick wall. The air whooshed out of your lungs as your back hit the cold surface, the impact jarring your entire body.

His hands tightened suddenly around your throat, fingers digging into your skin in a cruel grip. You gasped for air, panic surging as darkness edged your vision.

“Don’t you dare think you can just walk away from me.” He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes wild and merciless.

You clawed at his hands, desperate to break free, but his strength was overwhelming, pressing down harder, choking the breath from you.

"Reducto!"

The spell hit him square in the chest, blasting him off you with bone-jarring force. He flew backward, crashing into the far wall of the alley with a sickening thud before collapsing in a heap, gasping and stunned.

Pansy didn’t hesitate.

She stormed toward him like a vengeful shadow, wand leveled between his eyes as he groaned and tried to sit up. Her voice was shaking—but only with rage.

“You filthy little coward,” she spat, every word laced with venom, “Touch her again, and I’ll break every bone in your body.”

He growled, trying to rise—Pansy kicked him flat in the chest, knocking him back to the ground with her heel, “Stay. Down.”

Your knees buckled, the sudden rush of oxygen burning your throat as you slid down the wall, coughing and trembling.

“Whoa—hey.” Pansy caught you, strong and certain, one arm steadying you as the other clutched her wand, “I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re going home.”

And this time, you let her carry the weight.

***

The world spun sharply as Pansy apparated, the crack of displaced air still echoing in your ears. The warmth of her body vanished the moment your feet hit solid ground—wood floors, familiar scents. You were in Theo’s flat.

Laughter and chatter from the living room fell to a jarring halt.

Five pairs of eyes turned in unison: Theo, Draco, Blaise, Mattheo, and Enzo—all frozen mid-conversation, drinks in hand. The moment they saw you, everything dropped.

“(Y/N)?”

Your name left Theo like a punch to the gut.

You were trembling, arms wrapped tight around your middle as if they could hold your ribs together. Pansy still held onto you, as if she wasn’t entirely sure you wouldn’t collapse, and even she looked rattled under the scrutiny of the room.

“That fucker,” She said through gritted teeth, “Grabbed her outside the bar. Slammed her into a wall. Tried to—” her voice faltered, thick with fury, “She couldn’t breathe.”

Theo moved.

Fast.

He crossed the room in three strides, gently brushing Pansy aside like she was made of smoke. Then he was in front of you, hands hovering for a split second before he cupped your face, cradling you like you were something fragile and sacred.

His eyes roamed over your features—your split lip, your glassy eyes, the bruising fingerprints beginning to bloom like violets around your throat—and something in him shattered.

His jaw clenched, fury crashing through him like a tidal wave. He looked like he could tear the world apart.

“I’m fine.” You rasped, voice barely more than a whisper.

You tried to smile—a brittle, curling thing, “I know that probably doesn’t help my case, but… trust me, I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Theo said softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, his voice hoarse and tight, “Don’t lie to me right now.”

Your breath hitched.

Draco hovered beside Pansy now, brushing her hair behind her ear as he muttered something only she could hear. She nodded once, giving her boyfriend a soft smile before turning her gaze back to you, eyes gleaming with steel.

Theo gently tugged you forward into his chest.

You didn’t resist.

You couldn’t.

Your limbs had surrendered somewhere between the alley and the flat, and he was warm, steady—home. Before you could stop it, a sob cracked loose from your chest, raw and shaking. Your hands fisted into his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

He held you tighter.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice trembling beneath the quiet, “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

The flat was eerily quiet now. One by one, the boys filtered out, their faces grim with the weight of what had just happened.

Mattheo lingered just long enough to press a firm, reassuring hand to your shoulder. His voice was low, steady, almost a promise, “You’re safe now. We’ll take care of everything from here.”

Blaise didn’t say a word. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod to Theo, then to you, his expression taut with barely restrained anger and resolve.

Enzo’s jaw clenched as he glanced at you one last time. “He’s a dead man,” he muttered under his breath before turning away and joining the others.

You barely noticed them leaving. Your world had shrunk to the steady rhythm of Theo’s heartbeat humming against your ear, the comforting warmth of his hand pressing into your back, and the ache lodged deep in your chest — a raw, stubborn pain that refused to fade.

“I want him arrested. Tonight.” Pansy’s voice cut through the silence like ice, cold and deadly calm but laced with a fury that made the room vibrate, “Draco, I’m serious. He attacked her in public. Slammed her against a wall. Choked her until she could barely breathe.”

Draco’s tone was clipped, measured, but the sharp edge of anger was unmistakable, “You have a name?”

“Graham Bulstrode.” Pansy replied without hesitation, her voice razor-sharp and unyielding.

Draco’s jaw tightened, “Consider it done, my love.”

Every word settled into your foggy mind — distant but painfully clear. The tremble in your hands hadn’t stopped, but Theo’s arms wrapped around you only tightened, as if willing to keep the danger at bay. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of your head, a quiet vow whispered without words.

When the door finally clicked shut behind the last of the others, the tension finally broke. The tears you had been holding back surged forward, hot and fierce, tumbling freely down your cheeks. You clung to him, the safety of his presence grounding you as the storm inside began to settle.

You buried your face in Theo’s chest, shoulders trembling as the sobs broke free, wracking your entire body with every breath. He held you through it, solid and steady, one hand gently combing through your hair like he could smooth away the terror still clinging to your skin.

“I’m so stupid,” You gasped, the words catching in your throat, “I’ve—I’ve thought about that moment for the past month. What I’d say. How I’d stand up for myself. I imagined throwing that stupid ring back in his smug face, saying something cutting, something final—but when it actually happened…”

Your voice cracked, guilt burning behind your ribs.

“I couldn’t even speak. I just froze. I have a wand but I couldn't cast a single spell. I let him say all that shit about me—about you—and I... I didn’t even defend you, Theo. I’m so sorry. I'm so useless.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just held you tighter, like your apology hurt more than anything else that had happened. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—gentle, but resolute.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His words rumbled in his chest, warm against your cheek.

“I don’t give a damn about what you said or didn’t say to him. You don’t owe me a defense—not ever.”

You looked up at him, blinking through the tears. His eyes found yours, fierce and heartbreakingly soft, like you were something sacred—something he’d never let break.

“And you’re not stupid, (Y/N), or useless,” He said, voice thick with emotion, “You’re incredible. Brave. Stronger than you even realize. And I’m so fucking proud of you.”

His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, grounding, safe.

“He’s not going to get away with this,” Theo whispered, “I promise you.”

You sighed, sinking deeper into him, like you could finally let go of everything you’d been holding in. His arms wrapped around you again, warm and sure.

“Come on,” he murmured, “Let’s treat that bruise. Get you something to eat.”

But you shook your head, face pressed tight against his chest.

“Don’t let me go.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore—it was tender, healing. You curled into him like you could disappear there, into the rhythm of his breathing and the thrum of his heart.

“I’m never going to let you go.”

And you believed him.

His heartbeat echoed beneath your ear, strong and unwavering. With every beat, the weight in your chest began to lift—slowly, steadily.

Safe. Loved. Finally, home.

***

A couple weeks later it was raining softly outside, the kind of slow, constant drizzle that blurred the windows and made the world feel far away. You and Theo were curled up on the couch, legs tangled, a blanket lazily thrown across your laps. A half-empty mug sat abandoned on the coffee table beside a crumpled takeout bag. The telly hummed faintly in the background, long forgotten.

“So then she goes, ‘I forgot to run the control,’” You said, exasperated, “and I swear to Merlin, I have never seen Slughorn that mad in his life.”

Theo snorted, one arm draped across your shoulders, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, “Serves her right for always nicking your freshly ground moonstone.”

“Right? And of course, the one day I’m not there to supervise her, she completely tanks it. It’s not like I was goofing off—I was at the Ministry signing off the paperwork for Bulstrode's trial.” You sighed, “Slughorn knew, so I didn’t get in trouble, but I still have to repeat all her damn trials for the next few weeks. As if I don’t already have enough on my plate.”

“What’s keeping you so busy, Bella?” Theo asked, smiling as he gently unraveled the curl and let it spring back into place, “Maybe I can help.”

“Well, I’ve been needing to check out some apartments. Can’t really leave that to you, now can I?” You yawned, “But if you want, we could go together?”

Theo stilled.

He pulled back just slightly, brows furrowed as he studied your face, “Apartment hunting?”

You blinked, “Yeah… I’ve been looking at places closer to work. Just something small. I mean, I don’t make much yet.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “Wait—(Y/N), are you planning to move out?”

You nodded slowly, suddenly self-conscious, “I mean—I’ve been here for a while now and I love it, obviously, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I figured—”

“You think you’re overstaying?” His voice cut gently but sharply through your words.

You faltered, “Well, I just—”

“You’re not,” Theo said, a little breathless now, like the words had been sitting on the edge of his tongue for too long, “You’re not overstaying. I want you here.”

Your breath hitched.

“I want to come home to you. Every day. Not to an empty flat. Not to a world where you’re somewhere else.”

His hand found yours, threading your fingers together like a lifeline. His voice dropped lower, steadier.

“Stay. Please.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and sure, “I want to come home knowing the woman I love is safe. Here. With me.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, the world narrowing to his hand in yours, the soft thunder of rain against the windows, the warmth of his words blooming in your chest like magic.

“What do you mean, the woman you love?”

Theo let out a quiet laugh, a little stunned you hadn’t realized it already. His smile turned lopsided, eyes shining.

“Are you daft, (Y/N)?” He said, voice thick, “I’m in love with you. I’ve been taken with you since we were kids, and I’m still—” He broke off for a breath, like the truth was catching up to him all at once. “Still completely gone for you.”

Your heart did something unsteady in your chest.

“Say it again.” You whispered.

He cupped your cheek with one hand, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stuttered. The words lingered in the air between you, delicate and heavy all at once—like the hush after a spell’s been cast.

You didn’t look away.

You couldn’t.

“I’ve loved you for a long time too, Theo,” You whispered, the confession trembling on your tongue, “I don’t even know when it started—when I began falling for you—but I did. And I fell hard. I mean, who wouldn’t?”

You smiled through the softness in your voice, “You’re the kindest, most patient man I’ve ever met… and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I met you on the day of my wedding.”

That pulled a laugh from him—warm, full, and brimming with disbelief. He tilted his head back slightly, grinning like you’d just handed him the entire sky.

You leaned in just a fraction, voice softer now, “I want to stay. Not just in the flat. In your life. With you.”

That did it.

Theo closed the distance, his hands cradling your face as his lips found yours in a kiss that felt like coming home. It was fierce and tender all at once—like a dam breaking, like every moment of yearning pouring out of him in one breathless, burning exhale.

You melted into him, arms winding around his neck, your body pressed close as the kiss deepened—hungry now, desperate. His fingers tangled in your hair, yours fisting in his shirt, both of you trying to memorize the moment, to feel every inch of it like it could make up for all the waiting.

Weeks—months—of unspoken words, of lingering touches and stolen glances, of intimate moments that always ended with breathless silences and aching restraint—crashed into a single breath.

Theo kissed you like you were his lifeline—like he’d been holding back a storm and had finally been given permission to let it break.

You gasped as his lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, your throat—reverent, hungry, like he was rediscovering you with every breath. “Tell me to stop,” He murmured, voice hoarse with restraint, “Say the word, and I will.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you tugged him closer, heart pounding under his palm as your fingers slid into his hair, voice trembling with a dangerous sort of affection, “If you stop, Theodore Nott, I’m sleeping at Pansy’s tonight.”

He let out a low, incredulous laugh—half-choked and fully wrecked—then kissed you again, deeper this time. Certain. Claiming. The rain tapped gently against the windows, forgotten behind the haze of fogged glass and the thrum of two hearts finally letting go.

And when he lifted you off the couch, carrying you down the hall with all the tenderness in the world and not an ounce of hesitation, the only thing either of you could think was:

About bloody time.

***

It was barely 9 a.m. when the front door to Theo’s flat creaked open—again, without so much as a knock.

Mattheo’s voice cut through the quiet, “I swear, if this idiot didn’t do the groceries and we hiked all the way here for his strawberries for nothing, I’m setting the place on fire.”

“I brought croissants.” Lorenzo offered brightly.

“You brought them from my kitchen,” Draco said flatly, “You literally stole them from my counter.”

Theo stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “Do none of you understand the concept of boundaries?”

He was mid-scowl when Blaise’s voice drifted in from the hallway, “Don't you imbeciles think it's too early to—”

And then they all fell silent.

You had just stepped out of the bedroom—the master bedroom this time, not the guest room—bleary-eyed and yawning, wearing nothing but Theo’s hoodie. Again. Hair a little messy, legs bare, looking entirely at home.

Draco blinked, “Déjà vu.”

Mattheo let out a dramatic sigh, “Alright, but like… why is it always the hoodie and no pants? Not that I’m complaining—it’s just, you know what, never mind.”

Blaise leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed, “So what’s the excuse this time? Sleepwalking? Laundry explosion? Sudden amnesia about how trousers work?”

You didn’t even flinch.

“We’re dating,” You said flatly, tugging the sleeve of Theo’s hoodie over your hand as you rubbed your eye, “And I’m not wearing pants because I had sex with your friend. Good morning.”

Silence.

Four pairs of stunned eyes stared at you.

Lorenzo made a choked noise, “I—okay.”

Mattheo sputtered, hands flailing, “You can’t just say that without warning!”

“You asked.” You replied dryly.

Draco took a long sip of coffee, muttering behind the rim of his mug, “I owe Pansy ten Galleons.”

***

Bonus:

Your heart pounded as you stared at the closed doors, the soft strains of the wedding march beginning to drift through the wood. Your palms were sweaty around the bouquet you carried, nerves and excitement swirling in your chest.

Then, the doors swung open, revealing you in a stunning white dress, your smile bright and genuine as you began your walk down the aisle. The hush of the ceremony wrapped around you like a warm embrace, the aisle stretching ahead lined with friends and family.

A memory flickered through your mind—just a couple of years ago, you had run away from a different wedding down the hall, only to find refuge in this very chapel. It was here that you met your to-be husband, the love of your life.

Your eyes locked onto the man standing across the room, looking impossibly handsome in his tailored suit. His gaze locked onto you immediately, and for a moment, all the noise and bustle melted away. It was just you and him.

Only a few feet separated you now, but something in your heart couldn’t wait. Before you realized what you were doing, you broke into a gentle run—this time towards the groom.

Theo’s face broke into a gentle smile—the kind reserved only for you—as he reached for you. Before you could even think twice, his arms closed around you, catching you effortlessly. Your feet lifted from the floor as he spun you gently, twirling you in a slow, perfect circle.

The world blurred—lights, faces, music—all faded into a whirl of warmth and happiness.

He pressed his forehead to yours, a slow smile curling on his lips as he whispered, "You just can't wait to marry me, can you?"

You laughed softly, breath warm against his skin, "I couldn’t run away—tried it before. Too much work."

His eyes sparkled with amusement and love as he pulled you closer, the world around you fading into nothing but this perfect, shared moment.

***

EXTRA BONUS BECAUSE I CAN HEHEHE:

Hogwarts, Year 6:

You glanced across the potions table, scanning the clutter of ingredients before turning slightly toward the Slytherin bench.

“Theodore?” You said cautiously, holding your crushed lacewing flies with gloved fingers, “Could I borrow the asphodel? Just for a sec.”

He looked up from his cauldron like you’d just asked for his wand. There was a pause. Not rude, not angry—just... blank. Then, wordlessly, he slid the jar toward you across the table. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest moment when you took it. Cold skin. A little spark. His hand recoiled like he’d been burned.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.” You murmured, blinking.

He just gave a short nod, already turning away, jaw tight as he went back to slicing his valerian root like it had offended him personally.

You blinked again, confused, then padded back over to your side of the room where Pansy was lounging against the workbench like it was a chaise lounge in the Slytherin common room.

She quirked an eyebrow, “What was that?”

You shrugged, a slight pout forming on your lips, “I don’t know. I guess he just really doesn’t like me.”

Pansy snorted, “Please. If Theo really didn’t like you, you’d know.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Theo was absolutely not concentrating on his potion anymore. He was staring blankly into the cauldron, stirring too fast, ears tinged pink.

Your hands just touched.

***