#voldemort has no chill

[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

Harry wandered back from Dumbledore’s office in a daze. He continued to question what he could possibly learn about how to defeat Voldemort by taking a trip down memory lane, as he had since these meetings had started, but now he felt added stirrings of discomfort. Like his skin was a size too small or he’d walked through an invisible spiderweb.

Voldemort, back when he’d been Tom Riddle, was… very much like Harry. Dumbledore could say that their choices defined them and made them different or whatever, and maybe he was right. But seeing how Riddle was talked about by the matron, how Dumbledore treated him in that first meeting – it made Harry realise how very easily he could have been the evil outcast, if anyone had listened to the Dursleys’ lies, or found out about his parseltongue abilities, or if he hadn’t already been lauded as some hero since he’d been a baby. As much as he didn’t like the fame and the wild mood swings of the magical population’s attitude towards him, Harry knew those expectations had guided his path and moulded who he was becoming.

Dumbledore’s actions were… well, unkind was possibly the nicest way to put it. He had instantly judged an eleven-year old as irredeemable, pretended to light all his worldly possessions on fire, and didn’t seem to find anything wrong with how he’d acted even sixty years later. Yes, Riddle hadn’t exactly helped his case with that talk of hurting things, but Harry had seen that desperation for connection, for belonging, that he’d once felt.

And then there was the added fact that he was being shown private moments from Riddle’s history. Harry knew how he’d feel if someone was shown his memories of life at the Dursleys. He still hadn’t told anyone about the cupboard under the stairs, and the rest his friends only guessed at.

Maybe he was reading too far into things, or projecting his own situation. Maybe Ron and Hermione were right and his saving-people-thing was showing. After all, hadn’t Riddle grown up to be a megalomaniac who led a hate group that murdered and tortured muggles and muggleborns? Maybe there should be limits to Harry’s empathy.

But Harry’s secret power was love, according to Dumbledore. If caring was what differentiated him from Voldemort – and especially since he couldn’t seem to stop it even when it left him gutted, cold and alone – then dammit, Harry was going to care.

So, Harry did what he did best (?) and leapt headfirst without looking.

Ducking into a dusty, moonlit classroom, he leaned against a desk, pulled out a bit of parchment and quill, and started to write.

Voldemort,

So, on a scale of one to ten, how pissed would you be

Hope you haven’t murdered anyone lately oh wait it’s you

Hey. I wanted you to know that Dumbledore showed me the memory of you receiving your Hogwarts letter. At the orphanage. With the whole fire wardrobe thing. 

I feel like I should apologise. It definitely seems like an invasion of privacy and I didn’t want to know, but now I do, and I’m sorry?

Is this weird? This is weird.

Anyway, I also saw the matron talking about you, but I know that sometimes people lie for stupid reasons, so here’s a one-time opportunity of me asking for your side of the story. If you want.

You probably don’t care.

– Harry (Potter)

Before Ron or Hermione found out or he could think better of it, Harry snuck up to the owlery and tied the letter to a nondescript school owl. (Hedwig was incensed that he would use another bird and pecked at his head a few times before flying off to the rafters to give him the cold shoulder, but there was no way he’d send his beloved owl off to Voldemort. Sorry, school bird.)

He returned to the Gryffindor common room as soon as the owl flew off, putting the letter as far from his mind as possible. After all, it wasn’t like he’d receive a response.

(thus, friends absent speak)

[iamnmbr3]

crack au where in the beginning of book 3 when sirius comes to see harry in dog form he just...follows him onto the Knight Bus. and Harry's like 'well this is weird' but his life is weird. so whatever. and then the whole rest of the summer the dog just stays with him. since other people can see the dog he figures it's definitely not a Grim. And the dog seems pretty friendly. and well behaved. and he kinda likes. so harry's just shrugs and is like 'well this might as well happen' and when he meets up with his friends he tells them apparently he has a pet dog now.

can't decide if that would mean that book 3 still happens the same way as in canon or if peter takes one look at sirius and ditches and ron's always confused about why Scabbers ran away OR if Sirius eats Scabbers and consequently voldemort doesn't return and Harry has a very chill rest of his time at Hogwarts (except for the bit where he inevitably discovers that his dog is actually not a dog).

[sk1fanfiction]

I feel Voldemort torturing people for funsies is actually not super (book) canonical though, that's more Bella's thing.

Bellatrix: Potter's in the dungeon, may I torture him please My Lord?

Voldemort, looks up from his book/paperwork, waves hand dismissively : Sure, I don't care, go nuts

(but he would say it in a formal way obviously)

people saying i'm a "hard-core angst heavy hyper-realistic Harry being tortured at the hands of voldemort enthusiast" as if that isn't CANON. like bro have you even cracked open the books? or are you a fanon softboy simp voldemort enthusiast? you do realise the tomarrymort tags are for the CANON shippers, too, right?

[marauroon]

hello !!! can i request a right person, wrong time with siri? maybe they broke up because of the war... and the reason is because siri doesn't want to put the reader into danger and then they meet again, all grown up and they still have feelings for each other and Siri has to grovel to win reader back again? And it ends with a happy ending (please) (Siri was the one who broke the relationship and reader was really hurt) it's very long yet vauge 😅

A CALL TO ARMS — S.BLACK

sirius black was the love of your life, and you were his. but sometimes higher priorities—and deep-seeded anxiety—can get in the way. but the invisible string of fate always brings people back together.

cw — fem!reader, details of the first wizard of war, reader and sirius have a messy and complicated relationship, harsh arguments, character death mentions, happy ending

sirius black x reader || hurt/comfort || 6.2k || requests open!!

a/n — let’s just pretend sirius doesn’t get avada’d like three weeks after this fic ends

The war put a strain on everybody. Some people had to leave their families to join the fight, some had to hide away to protect themselves from the Death Eaters.

Some didn’t have a family, anyone to worry about them coming home at the end of the day.

They threw themselves into it the hardest.

Then there was you and Sirius, a pair of outcasts who found solitude in each other. A pair who paid no greater devotion than protecting the people that you cared about from the ravages of Voldemort’s uprising.

You were barely eighteen when you both joined the Order, fresh out of Hogwarts and straight into the line of fire after the group had been offered a spot in Voldemort’s army and refused, leaving every one of you with a target on your back.

By the time you were twenty it almost seemed fruitless, with James and Lily being sent into hiding to protect them and their son under Dumbledore’s direct orders under fear for their continued safety and a Fidelius Charm placed over them to keep them safe. Sirius denied being their secret keeper with the explanation of it being too obvious a choice. What a mistake that was.

Then order members started dying.

And it all began to fall apart.

The brass framed picture in the entrance of the Black family home offered Sirius no empathy as he escaped the bitterness that October was serving him, the laughing faces of his friends and self-proclaimed family only serving to make his already dwindling morale dampen further.

Twenty-two people in the picture. And how many remained? Fourteen. In the span of five months.

It was Dorcus and Marlene that really did him over, and he could barely so much as glance in the direction of their hopeful smiles without feeling like he was going to throw up.

The trudging of his feet up the wooden stairs was proof enough of his arrival for any present members of the Order to hear, too fatigued and all together bleak at the continued state he was living in to announce his presence verbally.

“Sirius, sweetheart, you’re home thank goodness,” Not even the warmth of your arms around him or the relief in your voice as you pulled his head into your shoulder could satiate him anymore.

You shouldn’t have to be relieved that he walked through the door.

You shouldn’t have to hug him like it’s your final goodbye every time he leaves.

Every time you leave.

You didn’t deserve that. And neither did he.

“Godric you’re freezing, come and sit down,” You pull Sirius into his childhood bedroom with all of the care of a feather floating on a pool of water, squeezing his hands in yours like you’re trying to transfer your own heat to him.

He follows you with no real resistance, though he doesn’t make any move by himself, and you have to push his shoulders down to get him to sit in front of the lit fireplace that would hopefully quell the chill echoing across his skin.

You help him remove his coat with a sigh, dark frown lines marking your features as you take a seat beside him and rest the side of your head against his shoulder, your hand gently tracing over his to capture his palm in your own. He doesn’t return the small squeeze of your fingers.

You can’t blame him for being so dismal, the situation was something that nobody could make it through without a gargantuan crack in their emotional shield, but seeing Sirius display his almost funereal sentiment so fervently without so much as a hint of a mask was devastating.

Displaying even the tiniest glimmer of hopefulness was what allowed the Order to survive for so long, and Sirius couldn’t even muster that.

“Harry said his first word today,” You try to keep the conversation positive, ignore the downfall of everything around you and keep focusing on the small wins. “Dada of course, apparently Lily was pretty miffed,” You punctuate your sentence with a small laugh, although it’s more pathetic than genuine and even you can tell you’re doing a horrible job of trying to uplift Sirius’ spirit.

“They sent over a picture, Remus has it if you’d like to see—”

“Just stop.” Sirius shakes his head sharply, pulling his hand from yours and standing with his back to you.

“Sirius—”

“I don’t know why you keep trying to pretend that everything’s okay, it’s not. Our friends are dying and you’re acting like its completely fine.” There’s more malice in his voice than he’s intending, and logically you know that he doesn’t really mean to get so angry at you. It wasn’t you that was the problem, it was the world in which you were living.

But logic can often times get overridden by other facets.

“I am trying to stop anyone else from dying.” Your words are more desperate than harsh, and they’re not laced in anger like Sirius’ are, but they carry just the same amount of conviction. “If we lose hope then we may as well just hand ourselves over…”

There’s a stuttered exhale as you trail off, and Sirius swears he hears your voice crack as you try to take his hand in yours again. “I can’t bear to see you like this…”

“You should leave the Order.”

You’re almost not sure you heard him.

“What?”

“You don’t belong here, you’re not fit for this,” He sounds almost resigned, and his shoulders drop just enough that you’re not sure he really believes what he’s saying. “You should leave before you get hurt.”

There’s a moment where all you can really do is let out a breath of astonishment, and then there’s an overwhelming need to defend yourself against Sirius’ accusation. “I am perfectly fit for this, Dumbledore agreed that—”

“Well I don’t agree with it!” He cuts you off harshly, turning around so that you can see the anguish that’s drenching his features. “People are dying, our friends are dying, and you are on the goddamn list of whose next.”

He takes your upper arms in his hand and shakes you like it’s going to make you see his point, practically shouting at you as he desperately tries to get you to see his point of view. “You are a brilliant witch, and you are in so much danger that it makes me want to rip my heart out so I don’t have to worry about you any more—”

His rant doesn’t stop once his hands halt, and they stay gripped uncomfortably tight around your biceps to the point where you’re sure it’ll bruise. “Dorcus died because she was brilliant, Marlene died because her father was a muggle, you are like the two of them wrapped up in a package practically serving yourself up to the Death Eaters every time you step out of this goddamn house and I cannot take it anymore.”

Sirius practically pants as his yelling comes to a halt, and he almost immediately regrets getting riled up as he sees the reflection of the fireplace in your glassed over eyes.

“I love you. I love you so much and I can’t live like this anymore.” His hands move from your arms to cup the sides of your face, and you flinch at the contact like you’re afraid he’s going to hurt you.

It breaks Sirius’ heart.

“The Order is falling apart love… I don’t want you to be here when it collapses,”

You pull his hands from your face with yours at his wrists, shaking your head as you blink through clouds of tears. “I’m not leaving the Order, Sirius. You really think I would abandon my friends like that? My family? You?”

“Then I’ll make one of the hard choices for you,” Sirius lets his hands fall to his sides on your prompting, taking a step back from you to hide them in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m breaking up with you.”

“What—” There’s nothing but absolute betrayal written across your face, and Sirius almost breaks down immediately. “Sirius—”

“If you want to stay here and watch shit hit the fan then be my guest, but I will not put myself through watching your downfall.” He doesn’t give you the courtesy of replying before opening and slamming the door behind him as he leaves, but you’re not sure you’d be able to articulate anything even if he did, your only response being the start of a sob that echoes off of the empty walls and back into your ears to amplify your own anguish.

You move your belongings out of his room that same evening, taking refuge under Remus’ open arms as you cried yourself into an uneasy slumber, so emotionally exhausted that you could barely formulate any sense of coherency.

Lily and James died two days later.

The news hit you like a truck when Dumbledore relayed it to you, and whilst most of the Order were left in a blanket of shock, Sirius took off in a rage before he could even finish his sentence.

It was enough for you to push the grief aside to not cost you any more.

“Sirius wait—” You weave your way through the others and past Dumbledore to rush after him, the first words either of you had spoken in the other’s direction since the argument. “Where on earth do you think you’re going the Death Eaters might still be there—”

“I hope they are.” Sirius’ tone drips with venom as he pulls his motorcycle helmet from the coat rack at the front door, and you just barely catch his wrist before he has the chance to leave.

“You’re going on a suicide mission—”

“They murdered my brother, I have nothing to lose.” He again leaves the conversation with a slammed door, and you don’t know whether the possibility of his death or the fact that he’d seemingly accepted it hurt you more.

He had nothing to lose.

It was the biggest insult he could’ve possibly left you with.

And it’s all he did leave you with.

For twelve years.

You grieved the loss of Sirius like you did James and Lily, like he too had entered into an early grave of which he would never return. Azkaban may as well have been.

You were angry at first, disgustingly loathing the thought of what those twelve poor muggles had to endure as their final moments. You were less empathetic towards Peter’s fate, although your grief for him was replaced with a deep-seeded betrayal that sunk into your muscles all the same.

Then it settled into an uneven weight in the bottom of your chest, something that you carried with you from that point onward.

You moved out of England soon after, with nothing but a silent vow to Remus that if Voldemort were to ever return, that you’d be there, a final standing against the allegiance that stole your life from you.

You couldn’t stay there anymore, every street of London reminded you of him, of them, of all the people that you lost and how the prime years of your young adulthood were unceremoniously ripped from you under the false belief that you could actually make a difference.

As weeks turned into months, and then into years, there were days that passed where you didn’t think of what happened, of how your previous life had fallen apart and left you as a shell of yourself, and eventually, you managed to pick up the pieces and live your life like it hadn’t happened.

Apart from a single shard of your heart that had lodged itself at 12 Grimmauld Place, underneath the black silk sheets you and Sirius once shared.

You were thirty three when a letter from R.J.Lupin was sent through the letterbox of your house, and it was like those twelve years of growth and acceptance disappeared in an instant.

—

‘I hope this letter finds you well, I know I promised to contact you only for something of the upmost urgence regarding the resurgence of you know who, but I believe this is appropriately important.

Wormtail is alive. He was the one who caused those muggles to die without reason. Which leaves no question of Padfoot’s innocence.

I don’t know if you have kept up with the wizarding news, but he escaped from Azkaban, and is in a safe and secure location known only by the Order.

I understand if this news is too much for you to digest, but he has asked me personally for your consideration in returning to the place where everything began.

Yours sincerely,

R.J.Lupin’

—

The aftermath of your reading was a mess of shallow breaths and an elevated heart rate.

Panic.

You hadn’t felt so horrible since the day that James and Lily had died, the day one of your closest friends betrayed you and the love of your life was taken away presumably to never be seen again.

And now he was just out there? You were just adjusting to living without him, and now he was being thrust back into your life by his own doing.

He threw you away right before your house of cards toppled, and now he was trying to worm his way back into your life?

It took you almost three weeks of staring at the sheet of parchment before you made a decision, and it ended with the letter going up in flames and you watching on with a sunken expression, no tears left to cry over the man who’d ruined you.

All of those months where you’d pondered, where you’d asked yourself over and over again what might’ve happened if you’d have just not spoken to Sirius that day, if you’d just let him rest like he’d obviously wanted rather than try pathetically to lift his mood.

If it might’ve meant he would regard you as something to live for and stop him from blindly running off to avenge James and Lily without a second thought.

All of it went straight down the drain. Because you could have him back if you wanted. But you didn’t. You didn’t want to go back and see him again because the minute his name invaded your mind all you could think about was that god awful argument and it’s aftermath.

And it ripped you apart every single time.

—

“She’s not coming Pads…” Remus’ hand on Sirius’ shoulder was almost apprehensive as he gave it a soft squeeze.

It was almost three months of having to watch Sirius treat the front door like it was his lifeline, his head turning at the smallest creak of the wood in the fruitless hope that when it opened you would be on the other side.

“I know…” Sirius lets out a small, pathetic laugh as he rakes his fingers through his hair, his facade of indifference threatening to break with every breath he took. “Can’t blame me for trying though right?” His voice betrays his devastation, tone wavering and quiet, cracking when he tries to push it to sound more convicting.

“Pads…”

“I’m fine,” Sirius shakes his head with a dismissive hand, clearing his throat and blinking away the starts of tears from the corners of his eyes. “I’m gonna go get some sleep, gonna need all I can get if we’re gonna fight these sons of bitches hey?” Sirius nudges Remus with his elbow as he plays a characature of his former self, although it’s poorly executed at best.

“Yeah…” Remus consciously suppresses a sympathetic sigh that tries to escape his mouth, pressing his lips together. “Goodnight Pads,”

“G’night Moony,”

—

There’s eighteen months of radio silence before another letter is slotted through your door, and you have half the mind to burn it on sight when the familiar red seal is left face up on your patio tiling, but the handwriting on the back wasn’t Remus’, and it was definitely not Sirius’ either.

The scrawl of your address was almost unmistakably Dumbledore’s, and you were left in an emotional state of uneven limbo as you debated why he of all people would be personally sending you a letter.

Logically, you already knew the reason, but your brain chose to ignore that logic as you ripped the envelope open, only for that denial to be thrown right back at your face once the seal of the Order inked itself into the folded parchment.

You didn’t even need to read the letter to know what was inside it.

Three words.

Invitatio ad arma.

A call to arms.

You barely remember packing your bags, leaving the sense of normalcy you’d built over the past fourteen years to throw yourself back into the line of fire and more devastatingly, right back to Sirius Black.

The train ride to England almost felt like a fever dream, your body left in a state of dissociation where you couldn’t discern whether your actions were real or just a part of some vivid nightmare that you couldn’t wake from no matter how much you tossed and turned.

And by the time you reached the front door of number 12 Grimmauld Place it felt like you were right back where you started, just barely twenty one thrust into a war that could leave you in your grave at any unfortunate minute.

It felt almost foreign to you as you entered, the hallways that once proved to be your substitute home reduced to unfamiliar sights covered in dust and peeling wallpaper. There was no brass lamps to warm the sight, no picture of your closest friends on the wall, not even the mirror that had been hung beside the door had survived, reduced to a half shattered mess that hadn’t been replaced under higher priorities.

“Oh—” The slightly surprised sentiment draws you away from your almost depressing nostalgia, drawn instead towards an almost perfect capture of teenage James Potter, down to the slanted circular glasses sat over his nose bridge.

It’s enough for you to genuinely consider for a second that you’d actually stepped back in time, right into your graduation year when you were all so young and full of hope.

But it couldn’t be James. As much as your heart desperately wished it was.

“You’re another member of the original Order of the Phoenix right?” The boy takes a few steps towards you, wonder still lingering in his eyes despite the film of knowledge that cloud them. Knowledge of just how unfortunately dark the world actually is. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m—”

”Harry…” Your interruption is barely more than a breath of air as you take in the sight of one of your closest friend’s child, a child that he never got to see grow into an almost perfect replica of himself. “You look just like your father…”

There’s a mix of shock and a small amount of sadness in his expression at your statement, and it’s enough for the glimpses of Lily to shine through in his demeanour. “Thank you,”

It’s enough for your eyes to well with tears, and you blink them away with a small clearing of your throat to regain your composure in front of the boy. He didn’t need to see you cry over the fact that he looked like one of your dead friends with the personality of another. That wasn’t fair.

“It’s nice to finally meet you Harry, properly,” You extend your hand almost hesitantly as you introduce yourself, and he takes it graciously in his own with a small sympathetic smile. Being proxy comforted by a teenager, how pathetic.

“It’s nice to meet you too, my parents have good friends,” You give the boy a small nod with a small, sad smile, and he mirrors it himself in turn.

“I’m so sorry, you didn’t deserve any of this,” You let your hand rest on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly in a terrible attempt at consoling the sadness riddling his expression. “You’re just a boy Harry,”

“I know,” He gives a small sigh and a more confident smile, sympathy lingering in the creases of his cheeks in a perfectly Lily fashion. “I’m sorry for your loss too, I know they probably meant a great deal to you,”

“They still do, that’s why I’m here,”

“Thank you,” He sounds more confident in his thanks this time, more determined, and the remnants of his parents continue to show on full display as his focus returns to the reason you’d arrived here in the first place. “We’re about to sit down for dinner, join us?”

“I’ll be there shortly,” You give Harry a small nod and another small squeeze of his shoulder before excusing yourself up the stairs to leave your belongings.

—

“Good evening everyone,” Your voice is taught and awkwardly flat as you push open the door to the dining room, and you stand there with your hands wrung together behind your back as your eyes flicker over the room.

There are so many people that the table is almost entirely too crowded, and a mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces in your presence, although those who do recognise you leave their seats almost immediately to greet you properly.

“It’s good to see you,” Remus reaches you first, wrapping you in a secure hug that you happily return with your own.

“It’s good to see you too, Remus, it’s been too long,”

“Welcome back, we need all of the human shields we can get,” Mad Eye’s reuinionative statement is much less heart felt, but you give him a small laugh and a “Thank you,” nonetheless.

Then there was Sirius. Stood at his chair, not daring to walk into your little bubble under fear of whatever consequences that might come from it.

He looked almost as you remembered him, but he was leaner, more gaunt, his hair more unruly and his skin even more paper-white than the almost impossibly pale complexion of his teenage years.

He was still Sirius, but he was different, and it took less than half a second of eye contact for him to realise that you were different too.

“Welcome back,” His voice is hesitant, almost catching in his throat as his brain catches up to the fact that you’re stood in front of him, less than ten feet away after all of those years he’d spent desperately dreaming of what it would feel like to have you in his arms again.

Now you were here. And you were a stranger.

“Thank you,”

Dinner progresses pretty much how you expected, a mix of awkwardly introducing yourself to the Order’s new members and horrifically failing at avoiding eye contact with Sirius from across the table.

Then the topic of interest moves to the Order’s plans, and things seem to spin into a downwards spiral all too quickly.

“We don’t have enough members to reliably be able to pull this off,” The argument was entirely valid from a logical standpoint, a weakness that quite a few of the Order seemed to have choice opinions about.

“Yeah well we’re not getting any new members are we?” Sirius leans back in his chair exasperatedly. “With the way Fudge is portraying Dumbledore and the lack of official credibility, we’re on our own here, there’s no use in waiting around,”

“I’m inclined to agree, we all know you know who isn’t going to waste any time,

“It’s reckless,” You shake your head with furrowed eyebrows. “We not ready to face something like that head on.”

“We’re never going to be ready,” Sirius shakes his head with a sigh. “We have to take action before he has the chance to build himself back to where he was all those years ago.”

“Sirius is right, we need to do something,” Sirius gestures towards Harry’s response like it’s the final nail in the coffin against your reasoning.

“Harry, sweetheart, I appreciate your enthusiasm but you don’t know the extent of what we’re dealing with,” Your voice is as gentle as it is assertive, not wanting to put him down too much but also wanting to make sure he understood the true extent of what was going on.

“He killed my friend in front of me—”

“And he’s killed dozens of ours,” You shake your head softly but firmly. “Jumping in without a plan is only going to make things worse, trust me.”

He seems more than a little shot down, but he gives you a small nod of understanding nonetheless as he backs down from his standing.

Sirius doesn’t pay you the same mind.

“So you’re suggesting we just wait in hiding for what, forever? We need to act,”

“The last time you ‘acted’, Sirius, you spent twelve years in Azkaban for it.” Your rebuttal holds none of the softness that was present when you were talking to Harry, and you can see it eroding the calcified shield behind Sirius’s eyes.

“That wasn’t my fault,” Sirius presses his teeth together to keep himself from raising his voice, his back straightening alongside his defensiveness. “At least I’m trying to do something, if you don’t want to contribute maybe you shouldn’t be a part of the Order at all,”

“I will not have this argument with you again Sirius!” His chastation seems to finally get under your skin as you rise yourself from your chair with your hands on the dining table, ignorantly ignoring the uncomfortable gazes of everyone else present as you’re forced back into that evening fourteen years go all over again.

“Okay, I think it’s time we called it a night,” Remus, seemingly the only normally functioning person at the table, rises from his chair slowly, taking your shoulders in his hands to guide you away from the group and calm you down.

“Yes right you are Remus,” Molly stands up with a nod that’s almost too enthusiastic clasping her hands together. “Off to bed, all of you,”

You can practically hear the lingering exasperation in Remus’ breathing as he leads you up the stairs and into the room he was staying in, and the second he shut the door behind you you knew what you were in for.

“You need to speak to him.”

“I know,”

“Properly.”

“I know,”

You’re sure the sigh you let out echoes across the house’s first floor, and it’s enough for Remus’ eyes to shift into displaying a concerning amount of sympathy in your direction.

“He misses you, you know,” Remus takes a seat on the edge of his bed with a soft sigh. “He said the thought of seeing you again was the only thing that got him through Azkaban,”

“Yeah well he wouldn’t’ve gone there in the first place if he hadn’t’ve been such a hot-headed twat,” You wouldn’t lie that Remus’ statement didn’t hit you a little where it hurt, but the lingering anger towards Sirius’ situation was clearly still more forefront in your mind.

“It’s a carried trait in all of us ’m‘fraid,” Remus tilts his head knowingly, and you have half the mind to roll your eyes at the clear implication of what he’s saying.

But he isn’t wrong, not really.

“You know where to find him,”

There’s a small moment of silence, then a sigh. “Do I have to?”

“The longer you wait the worse it’ll be,”

Sometimes you hate how logical Remus can be.

With another sigh and a loll of your head, you reluctantly stuff your hands in your pockets and turn towards the bedroom door, muttering a soft—and only half genuine—“thanks,” in his direction as you leave.

The wooden door that barricaded you from the former love of your life felt more like steel than anything else. Tall, dark, and intimidating to the point where you couldn’t even consciously lift your hand to knock against it under the blood rushing behind your ears from how fast your heart was pounding in your ribcage.

It really shouldn’t be so scary, you’d spent weeks, months in that room when you’d originally joined the Order, yet now it felt entirely foreign to you.

Maybe it was the fact that the wood was slowly rotting away with how unkept it was. Maybe it was the knowledge of what—who—was on the other side of it. Or maybe, your mind was just so completely and utterly fucked that the idea of confronting the consequences of your own actions was more nerve-wracking than the idea of standing face to face in a death match with Voldemort himself.

You stand there staring dumbly at the door for almost two minutes, and when it opens your eyes widen like it’s a new form of magic that you’d never encountered.

Sirius halts halfway out the door, arm stretched straight with the doorknob still in hand as his face seems to go through an insurmountable number of emotions in the half-second it takes for him to realise you’re there.

You don’t say anything as you make eye-contact, head immediately ducking downward and stepping aside so that he can leave without you blocking his path, but he just stays there, staring at you like you had been the door, and it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable by the second.

You clear your throat with a feigned cough, pursing your lips together with a muttered “excuse me,” as you turn around to leave, but Sirius catches your wrist in his hand before you even manage to take the first step.

“Wait—” He loosens his grasp almost immediately after he feels a resistance, but his eyes convey just how determined he was to keep you where you were. “Let’s talk, please?”

There’s a hint of desperation in his tone, and you almost crumble on that alone, but you manage to maintain your composure with a small shake of your head and a gentle pull of your wrist from his hand. “I don’t think it’s worth it Sirius, not anymore,”

“Don’t say that, we can fix this,” Sirius mirrors your head shake with his own. “You just need to talk to me,”

“I tried talking to you Sirius, and look where it got us,” You gesture between the two of you with exasperation in your tone.

There’s a small pause where the two of you share and almost identical mask of composure over your agony.

“It just wasn’t meant to be, that’s it,”

“That’s not true,” Sirius shakes his head again, more confidently this time, and his inky black curls bounce against his shoulders like they’re trying to torment you with the memories of your fingers raking through them. “We can fix this, us, we just have to try,”

“I don’t want to argue with you anymore,” You lower your gaze away from his so you don’t have to see the heartbreak in his irises. “Especially not over this…”

“Then don’t, let’s work this out properly, like adults,” He reaches out his hand cautiously towards yours, and you flinch away as your fingers make contact. “Please,”

“Sirius…”

“I’m sorry.” Sirius lets out a heavy, pathetic breath as he retreats his hand to run it through his hair. “I am so sorry. I made the biggest mistake of my life and it cost me the person that I love more than life and I have suffered the consequences of it every day for the last fourteen years.”

Sirius lets his hands fall to his side with a start, voice beginning to tremble under the strain of his emotions as he desperately tries to voice everything that he’d bottled up over the last decade and a half before you leave him to rot in his own depression again. “I spent every hour in Azkaban imagining what it would be like to see you again, to hear your voice, to hold you and tell you that you’re the one thing in this goddamn hell that we live in that actually makes anything worth fighting for,”

The breaths between his words are shallow and weak, and your expression starts to blur as his eyes glass over with the beginnings of tears. “I love you so much, and I’m so— sorry that you had to live through everything I forced on you and I just—“ He takes a sharp, stuttering breath in. “—I need you to know that I will spend the rest of my life devoted to you, to correcting what I’ve done even if you don’t so much as spare me a glance,”

He’s not sure when the tears started running over his eyelids, but he can feel them fall in drops to dapple the ivory skin of his fingers. “And if I die tomorrow, I’ll take whatever punishment hell has to give me so that you can rest easy,”

The end of his rant is echoed by laboured breathing and a horrific attempt at muffling a sob that leaves his throat, bouncing off the walls of the hallway to settle into your muscles as you stand stationary in an astonished silence.

You’re not sure what to say. You’re not sure there’s anything you can say. How on earth are you supposed to respond to something like that? Something so desperate and raw and real?

Sirius Black, after fourteen years of radio silence, still loved you like you’d never parted.

“Sirius…”

And you’d be absolutely damned if you weren’t the same.

“I forgive you…”

It’s like a tsunami of relief ravages Sirius’ body at your words, barely a whisper escaping your mouth but invading his ear canals like a nuclear explosion, and it’s enough for that sliver of composure remaining to erode under the waves of his tears until he’s sobbing into his hands, hunched over with trembling shoulders as he lets everything go all at once.

“I’m so sorry—“

His final apology is doused in so much heartbreak it might as well rip your heart right out of your chest, and your at his side almost immediately, gently pulling his hand from his face to pull his head into your shoulder with a soft shush of consolation.

He clings to you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance to, tears damping the shoulder of your shirt and his arms wrapped so tightly around your torso you’re not sure he intends to ever let go. You’re not sure you’d complain if he didn’t.

That familiar musky scent of cigarettes and faux leather hits your nose once he’s close enough, and that’s where you break too, silent tears streaming down your face as you bury your nose in his hair.

You’re eternally grateful that everyone on this floor of the house is already asleep, either that or just polite enough not to interrupt the two of you out in the hallway, because the state the both of you were in was definitely not meant to be seen by other people.

A desolate, broken side to the two of you only trusted in the company of the other.

“Stay with me tonight, please…” His plea is barely more than a mutter against your shoulder, and you’re sure he wouldn’t even have to ask to know what your answer would be.

And so you find yourself back where you started, tangled up underneath the silky black sheets of Sirius’ bed in the warmth of his embrace, that tiny shard of your heart finally recovered and back in it’s rightful place.

Right where you belong.

[my-castles-crumbling]

Shocked

Based on a request by chill anon! Requests are open!

Harry has faced Voldemort empty-handed and alone in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, and yet he doesn't think he's ever felt more nervous than right now.

Standing in front of Ron and Hermione, both of them looking at him hesitantly, Draco at his elbow, he feels like this is, truly, the moment he will die. But he says the words. A little because he wants to stop lying to his friends and mostly because he wants to prove to Draco once and for all that he really does care.

"We're dating," he chokes out, steeling himself for the anger. The betrayal. The ire.

But neither of his best friends says a word. Ron just sighs and rolls his eyes at Hermione's triumphant expression before digging a galleon out of his pocket and handing it to her.

"I told you so!" she grins, pecking him on the cheek.

"Right, right, I know," Ron sighs but he smiles at her bragging.

Harry, however, is too busy processing their reaction. "Aren't you surprised?" he asks, feeling almost let down by their lack of emotion.

"Shocked, mate," Ron answers sarcastically, rolling his eyes and clapping both him and Draco on the shoulder before walking with Hermione out of the room.

[maddybthorne]

One of my favorite things in the Harry Potter fandom is how we all *know* Lucius Malfoy is so fucking tired of hearing about Harry Potter.

It (of course) starts when Harry Potter defeated Voldemort, the gossip and hero worship (or hatred) he could not escape, he’s a well known public figure he needs to be able to socialize with the general population. It’s fine, he told himself, it will die down in a few years. Then I will be free of Potter.

Then comes his son’s first year. September 1st 1991 he gets a letter from his son. The first words are “Harry Potter refused to be my friend” nothing about the sorting besides a footnote. No he gets five paragraphs detailing his son’s interaction with Potter. It’s fine, he told himself, my son will eventually get over this (he never does). Then I will be free of Potter.

Then Voldemort is resurrected. And all he talks about is Harry Potter. Capturing him, torturing him, killing him. Doesn’t matter what the conversation starts as. It will always turn back to Harry Potter. It’s fine, he tells himself, my lord will eventually kill the boy. Then I will be free of Harry Potter.

The battle of Hogwarts. Harry Potter is dead. Lucius feels a deep sense of relief for the first time in roughly 8 years. His son can’t keep complaining about the boy, the dark lord has succeeded and the general public will surely be banned from speaking of the boy. He’s finally free.

And then. After being hit by a killing curse in front of his eyes. Harry Potter takes off his invisibility cloak and shows everyone he’s alive. And then he wins the war.

And Lucius dies a bit on the inside. Not because his lord is dead. Not because he will probably be locked away in Azkaban.

No. It’s because now more than ever, everyone will be talking about Harry Fucking Potter.

I’d like to believe it drove him to a mental breakdown.

(And then, post war he’s just chilling as a hermit or something, maybe in Azkaban, relieved that he can’t really talk to people so they can’t bring up Harry Potter. And his son walks in and says he wants to introduce his new boyfriend.

And it’s Harry. Fucking. Potter.

He tries to jump out a window.)

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Cat and Mouse

Dark!Dad!Barty Crouch Jr. x Mom!Reader

Wc: ~4k

Summary: The reader can never truly get away Barty, no matter how hard she tries. He'll always find his family.

CW: Dark!Possessive!Barty, AFAB!Reader, reader has a young daughter, themes of control and manipulation, being stalked, break in, a brief moment where the reader thinks her daughter is in danger, Invasion of personal space and autonomy

AN: Heavily inspired by this fic, 1000% recommend

Your daughter's giggles were always your favorite sound, especially so early in the morning. You could swear by it, it was better than any alarm clock.

Today was no exception. As you crawled out of your bed and got to your feet. You couldn't help but smile, wrapping yourself up in your silk robe and slipping on your slippers, following after the lovely sound to your daughters room. You put your hand on the doorknob and leaned down to bring your ear closer, smiling brighter as you heard her giggles persist.

“Is that funny?” You heard a deep voice coo. Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Suddenly, the bright sun of the morning chasing away all the dangers of the night felt like a fool’s tale. The shining walls and work you'd done to get here meant nothing. The summer heat that chased away the night chill did nothing to warm you as the feelings of dread overtook you.

You opened the door, trying to school your expression. Your eyes locked on your daughter who turned and smiled wide at you. “Momma! Momma, Daddy's home!”

She always looked so happy. Whenever he would come back, whenever he would find you, your daughter would look at you with those big delighted eyes. The same ones she shared with the man in front of her. You couldn't help but notice a bit of a breeze crawl up your back, not from the stare of the monster before you, but as you turned to discover, your hall window was open..

You don't know what was more terrifying, the fact he was able to get past your wards or the fact he was able to do it without waking you.

“Yeah, princess. Daddy's home.” Barty gushed to his little girl, finally getting you to turn and face him. His eyes were already locked on yours. His eyes said it all, he was challenging you, to say anything, to deny him, to push him over the edge. You had grown familiar with Barty’s looks.

In Hogwarts, he would use them to keep your quiet, remind you not to let people see you get too close to him, to keep you obedient and complacent in the web he meticulously crafted just for you. The web he still had you trapped in all these years later- you struggled, that's all you could do.

Because what could a muggleborn witch like you do to protect yourself from falling in love with a Crouch? To fall victim to his endless worship of you, just to turn around and scorn your blood in front of the people he craved to impress. It was for your protection, he guaranteed, that Voldemort would make an exception of you. That he knew your soul was destined for him and he would make it clear to everyone else that it was true.

“Darling, I'm just going to speak to mommy for a moment, alright?”

Your daughter pouted, holding up her tea cup and he laughed, waving his wand to show her the same thing you assumed he must have been showing her to make her giggle. His bloody magic. The magic you begged him not to expose her to. It wasn't safe, not for you. Certainly not for your daughter, a stain on his family tree.

When he finished he gave her a kiss to her temple, and ruffled her hair. Standing up and walking across the room to you. Quickly, you turned and grabbed your wand from your pocket. Muttering a quick spell on the window as you passed, on your way to the kitchen.

It was the same routine, everytime he found you. Fix whatever damages had been caused, close the blinds, he would dismiss your daughter so you two could talk. You knew Barty could never bring himself to hurt you, in no world would he let any harm come to you or his little girl, but that didn't mean you didn't fear his anger.

You learned what testing his limits could mean. When the war began and you found out you were pregnant, Barty was ecstatic. He bought a home in the Hogwarts highlands, he used you as his get away. He would fight in a war against who you were and come home to dote on you like you were some god. It worked, at first, you were so blinded by love you didn't stop to think about what he was doing.

It was the friends you had closed out that brought you back to reality. Sirius showed up when he knew Barty would be gone, begging you to see reason. He promised you he and Remus would be there when you came to your senses. It took a few days but eventually you packed a bag. When Barty came home you begged him to leave with you, to either join your friend's side of the war or leave it completely with you.

But Barty, he had a way about him. A way that made you foggy minded and willing to forget yourself for hours. When you woke up in his bed, alone again the next morning, you knew it was time.

You'd spent months on end trying to keep away from him. But no matter where you went, he always found you.

Your daughter's giggles echoed in your mind as you moved through the motions, trying to calm down. The warmth of the morning now felt suffocating, as if the very air had turned against you. Barty’s presence had that effect- stealing the light, replacing it with a cold dread that settled deep in your bones.

In the kitchen, you set your wand down on the counter, your hand shaking slightly. You didn’t bother with tea or the pretense of normalcy. There was no use in trying to act like this was just another visit. He always saw through that.

The sound of his footsteps was deliberate, slow and measured as he entered the kitchen behind you. You didn’t need to turn to know he was watching you, that smug sense of control radiating from him like a dark cloud.

“You’re getting better at hiding,” Barty said casually, leaning against the doorframe as if he belonged there, as if he hadn’t just broken into your home and stolen another morning of peace. “I almost didn’t find you this time.”

You tightened your grip on the counter but didn’t respond. Any words you said now would only fan the flames.

“Still,” He continued, his voice calm but with an edge that made your skin crawl, “you should know better by now. There’s no point in running. Not from me.”

“What do you want, Crouch?” You snapped, your voice sharp but low, desperate to keep your daughter blissfully unaware in her room. Your jaw tightened as your heart raced, every muscle in your body screaming at you to act, to escape, but you knew better.

“Ouch,” Barty murmured, the word drawn out like a mockery of your tone. He gave a low, familiar chuckle that made your skin crawl. “No ‘hello’? No ‘it’s good to see you’? Have I fallen so far in your affections, my love?”

Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you in a smooth stride. Your body stiffened as his hand slid over your arm, slow and deliberate, the other curling around your waist. Even as you resisted, he pulled you firmly back into his chest.

You felt his breath against your neck, warm and slow, the press of his nose grazing your skin as he inhaled deeply. “Still wearing that perfume I like,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, as though you were lovers reunited instead of prey cornered by a predator.

“Let go of me,” You hissed, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

He didn’t. Instead, he hummed softly, almost contentedly, as if he had all the time in the world. “You know,” He began, his voice silkier now, “I always miss this when you’re gone. The way you fit so perfectly here-” his hand pressed against your waist, possessive, “-like you were made for me.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch his cold, calculating eyes. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?” You shot back, forcing as much venom into your words as you could muster. “That this is love? That what you’ve done to me- to us- is anything but a twisted game now?”

Barty’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your waist just enough to remind you of his strength. The smile on his lips faded, replaced by something darker, something far more dangerous.

“Careful,” He warned, his voice dropping to a whisper, a quiet menace laced in his tone. “You’re upset. I’ll forgive it this time, but don’t mistake my patience for weakness. I’ve come too far, sacrificed too much, to lose you now.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay still. Reacting would only make things worse. He thrived on control, on watching you squirm under the weight of his presence. You couldn’t give him that satisfaction- not now.

“What do you want?” You asked again, your voice calmer this time, though the ice in your tone was unmistakable.

He tilted his head, a flash of amusement returning to his features. “You. Her. Us. Isn’t that obvious by now?”

“There is no us, Barty,” You said through clenched teeth, daring to step out of his grasp. This time, he let you, though his gaze never left you, sharp and predatory.

“You keep saying that,” He mused, leaning casually against the counter as if he belonged there. Watching as you stayed a foot or so away. As if he was unsatisfied with the distance, he reached forward and pulled you back to him.. “And yet, here we are. You, me, and our perfect little girl.” His smile returned, sinister and self-assured. “I hate fighting with you. You know what?” He mumbled, pressing lazy kisses up from your neck to your cheek. With all your fight you couldn't bring yourself to attempt to push him away again.

Because despite everything, he was still the man you loved more then life sometimes. The only person you'd ever care more for now- was the very person tying you to him.

It was the same game every time. Barty would find you, tearing through the fragile walls of peace you’d built, leaving only fragments of the life you’d tried to carve out without him. He’d remind you of who he was- not just with his suffocating eyes or possessive touches, but with the way he’d command your space, your air, your very existence. He loved you the way a bonfire devours kindling, bright and all-consuming, but he swore you were the creatures he warmed by his flames.

In truth, Barty was a forest fire. Unrelenting, destructive, impossible to escape. He touched every tree but left none standing. He created a cage of danger, an inescapable labyrinth of fear and passion that kept you tethered to him. And you- trapped between wanting to run and wanting to stay- played right into his hands every time.

The moment you found a new place to call home, he would be there, clawing his way back into your life as if he had every right to. He’d paw at you like a man starved, eyes ravenous, hands desperate to feel every inch of you again. He’d spoil your daughter rotten, making her laugh and smile in ways that made you both grateful and bitter all at once. And then, when he’d gotten what he wanted, he’d leave.

Every time. He’d leave.

To fight a war against the very thing he swore to love.

And yet, it wasn’t the war that broke you. It was the time in between- the stolen mornings, the whispered promises, the moments where you allowed yourself to believe he could change.

Because between the fights, between the harsh hands and the soft touches, you would melt. You would dissolve into the girl you once were, blinded by the love you still harbored for the boy he used to be. The boy who worshipped you with a ferocity that made you feel invincible. The boy who told you he would destroy anyone who dared to harm you, even as he slowly became the very thing you feared.

And somehow, in the fleeting moments of quiet, you still loved him.

The realization burned like a curse, hotter and sharper than any spell. Because even now, as you stood in the kitchen with his shadow still lingering in on the counter you clung to- as he continued to trial his lazy kisses across your skin, your heart betrayed you. It clung to the memory of his laugh, his touch, the way he’d hold you like you were his whole world.

Your heart ached with a contradiction you couldn’t reconcile, the tangled knot of love and fear twisting tighter with every lazy kiss Barty trailed along your neck. His lips were soft, familiar, stirring a warmth you hated yourself for feeling. Even as your mind screamed at you to pull away, to fight, to remind him that he had no place here, your body betrayed you, frozen under the weight of his presence.

He whispered something, too low for you to hear, his breath brushing against your ear. It didn’t matter what he said; the words were always the same. Sweet nothings designed to make you forget the darkness he carried, the danger he brought into your life.

Your hands gripped the counter tighter, your knuckles white as you tried to ground yourself. But his voice, his touch, the intoxicating familiarity of him- it was suffocating.

“I miss this,” Barty murmured, his tone deceptively gentle as his hand slid from your waist to rest against your hip. “I miss you.”

You closed your eyes, willing the tears threatening to spill to stay where they were. He didn’t deserve them. Not anymore.

“You don’t get to say that,” You whispered, your voice trembling despite your efforts to keep it steady. “You don’t get to miss me, Barty. Not after everything you’ve done.”

He paused for a moment, his lips hovering just above your skin. “Everything I’ve done,” he repeated slowly, as if the words themselves amused him. “Everything I’ve done has been for you. For us. For that perfect little girl you gave me- thank you.” He breathed, low and condescending, even as you felt his lips curl into that familiar sweet smile. “Thank you for her.”

“Fuck you.” You hissed, tears finally slipping past your eyes. “You don't get to thank me. How dare you-”

"Momma? Daddy?"

The small voice cut through the tension like a spell, making both of you freeze. Your daughter stood in the doorway, clutching her stuffed owl, her eyes wide with curiosity and a touch of worry.

Barty turned first, his entire demeanor softening in an instant. The dangerous glint in his eyes disappeared, replaced by warmth and affection so convincing it made your stomach churn.

"Hey, princess," he cooed, crouching to her level. "What are you doing out here? Didn't I tell you to keep practicing your tea party skills?"

Ophelia tilted her head, looking between the two of you. "You were shouting," she said simply, her tiny voice laced with innocence. "Are you and Mommy mad?"

Your throat tightened, and you struggled to find the words, but Barty was faster.

"Of course not, darling," he said, his tone dripping with sweetness as he reached out to her. She took his hand without hesitation, allowing him to pull her closer. "Mommy and I were just talking about grown-up things. Boring, silly stuff, nothing to worry about."

You wanted to scream. To contradict him.

You hated it. How well he treated her, how much of a father he could be. You knew it had to be some form of healing for him, wanting to give his daughter the father he never had. But it didn’t make it any easier for you to watch. It didn’t make it easier to stomach how easily he could shift from the storm that haunted your nights to the warm, doting father who seemed so perfect in her eyes.

"Mommy?" Ophelia’s voice pulled you back to the present, her wide, curious eyes locked on yours. She had Barty’s eyes, that same piercing gaze that could see straight through you. It was both beautiful and heart breaking, knowing what those eyes had seen before they became hers.

You forced yourself to smile, though it felt as fragile as glass- quickly brushing away your tears in hopes she didn't see them. "No, sweetheart," You cooed, your voice soft but tight. "Mommy and Daddy aren’t mad. Daddy’s just being… silly, as usual."

She giggled, the sound like bells in the tense air. Barty gave her a conspiratorial wink, as if the two of them shared some secret that didn’t include you. It made your skin crawl but your heart throb all the same. This wasn't fair.

"See, angel? Everythings alright.” Barty scooped her up effortlessly, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. His expression softened further, the love in his eyes so genuine it made your heart ache. “Mommy just worries too much sometimes,” He teased with a gentle laugh, brushing a stray curl out of Ophelia’s face. “But you don’t need to worry, do you? Daddy’s here to take care of everything.”

Ophelia rested her head against his shoulder, her small fingers clutching his collar. “Promise?” She asked softly, her innocent trust making your chest tighten.

“I promise,” He replied, his voice warm and soothing. His eyes flicked back to you, the unspoken challenge still lingering beneath his tenderness. “Daddy always keeps his promises, doesn’t he?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you swallowed the lump in your throat and turned away, busying yourself with the kettle on the counter. Anything to avoid the sight of them together, to ignore the knot of guilt and helplessness that twisted tighter in your chest with every word.

“Daddy,” Ophelia murmured, her voice muffled as she nuzzled into his neck. “Will you stay this time?”

Your breath hitched, your fingers trembling as you gripped the edge of the counter. You dared to glance over your shoulder, catching the way Barty’s expression softened further. For a fleeting moment, there was no malice in his eyes- only love, raw and unfiltered.

“For as long as I can, my little star,” He said softly, pressing a kiss to her hair.

She beamed at him, her giggles filling the room again as he twirled her around, the tension momentarily forgotten. But as you watched, the weight of reality settled heavily on your shoulders. This was the game he always played- pulling you in, wrapping you in the warmth of a family you desperately wanted to protect, only to remind you of how fragile it all was.

“Ophelia,” You called, your voice gentle and thick. “Are you hungry, baby?”

Ophelia perked up at the sound of your voice, turning her head just enough to look at you over Barty’s shoulder. “Yes, Mommy!” She chirped, her stuffed owl clutched tightly in one hand. “Can we have pancakes? The ones with the happy faces?”

You forced a smile, nodding as you stepped toward the pantry. “Of course, sweetheart. Go wash your hands first, okay? And don’t forget to set up your tea party things for later.”

She wriggled out of Barty’s arms with the unbridled energy only a child could have, her little feet padding across the floor as she darted out of the kitchen. Her laughter echoed down the hall, leaving a momentary warmth in its wake that quickly dissipated as you felt Barty’s gaze settle on you again.

You didn’t look at him. Instead, you busied yourself with gathering the ingredients for pancakes, focusing on the mundane task like it was the only thing tethering you to reality.

“She’s growing up so fast,” Barty murmured, his tone soft but pointed. “Every time I see her, she’s more like you. Stubborn, sharp, and so full of life.”

You bristled at his words but didn’t respond, your hands steady as you set a mixing bowl on the counter.

“But she has my eyes,” He continued, stepping closer, his voice lowering to that dangerous, familiar drawl. “Doesn’t she?”

You slammed the whisk down a little harder than intended, finally turning to face him. “What do you want, Barty?” you demanded a final time, your voice low and sharp. “You’ve played the loving father card. You’ve made your presence known. What’s next? What do you think this is going to accomplish?”

He tilted his head, studying you with that infuriating smirk that never quite reached his eyes. “Accomplish?” he echoed, as though the very word amused him. “Oh, love, this isn’t about accomplishing anything. This is about being where I belong. With my family.”

“This isn’t your family,” You shot back, the venom in your voice unmistakable. “You don’t get to waltz in and pretend you belong here, not after everything you’ve done.”

His expression darkened, the playful edge to his smirk hardening into something colder. Then, slowly, he smiled. That same boyish charming smile you always thought to be true. He stepped behind you, running his palms down your arms with a low sigh. “I really do hate fighting you, star.”

His hands slid down your arms, his touch deceptively gentle, but his grip firm enough to remind you of the power he held. You froze as Barty leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear.

"I hate it," he murmured, his voice soft, yet laced with something darker. "I hate how stubborn you are, how you make me work so hard to remind you of what we have."

You gritted your teeth, refusing to look at him, to meet those piercing eyes that could always see straight through you. “What we had,” you corrected coldly, though your voice trembled.

He chuckled, a low sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “You can say that as much as you want,” he said, his fingers trailing down your sides to your waist, holding you in place. “But we both know it’s not true. We still have it. You feel it every time I’m near, don’t you? Just like I do.”

“Let go of me,” you whispered, your voice breaking under the weight of his presence. You hated how weak you sounded, how easily he unraveled you.

But Barty didn’t let go. Instead, he turned you to face him, his hands settling on your hips as his stormy eyes bore into yours. "You’ve given me the best gift, love,” he said, his tone softening as his gaze flicked toward the hallway where Ophelia had disappeared. “Her. You. You’re my everything. Both of you. And you know that.”

Your throat tightened, tears threatening to spill as his words pierced through your defenses. “You don’t get to say that,” you choked out. “You don’t get to act like you’re some devoted father when you’re-” Your voice cracked, and you bit down hard on your lip, desperate to hold yourself together. “You’re the reason I had to run. The reason she’s in danger.”

“In danger?” Barty repeated, his voice sharp now, his hands tightening on your hips. “You think I’d ever let anything happen to either of you? Do you really believe I’d let anyone touch my family?”

“You’ve already put us in danger,” you shot back, your anger flaring despite the tears threatening to fall. “Your choices, your loyalty to him- you’ve made us targets, Barty. Don’t pretend you haven’t.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as he leaned in closer. “Everything I’ve done has been for you,” he said, his voice low and fierce. “For us. I took that mark to protect you. I fought for a place in his world so he wouldn’t touch you or her. Do you know what I’ve sacrificed to keep you safe?”

“You don’t get to use that as an excuse,” you hissed, tears streaming freely now. “You don’t get to justify everything you’ve done by pretending it was for me. You made your choices, Barty. You chose him over me. Over us.”

His hands moved to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears even as his grip felt possessive, inescapable. “I chose you,” he insisted, his voice trembling with a rare vulnerability. “Every single time, I chose you. And I’d do it again, star. I’d do anything for you.”

“Then let me go,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Let me live my life. Let me protect her.”

“I can’t do that,” He said, shaking his head as his forehead pressed against yours. “You’re mine. Both of you. And I won’t let you take her- or yourself- away from me again.”

The weight of his words settled heavily in the space between you, suffocating and undeniable. You hated how your heart ached at the raw desperation in his voice, how a part of you wanted to believe him, to give in like you always did.

“You always do this,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “You make me forget how much I hate you.”

He smiled faintly, his lips brushing against your temple in a touch so tender it made your chest ache. “That’s because you don’t hate me, love. You never have. And you never will.”

You wanted to scream, to push him away, but your body betrayed you, leaning into his touch as your tears soaked into his shirt. “This isn’t fair,” you choked out, your voice muffled against him.

“No,” he agreed, his arms wrapping around you as if to shield you from the very chaos he’d brought into your life. “But I’ll make it right, star. I��ll prove to you that this is where you’re meant to be. Where we’re meant to be.”

And as much as you wanted to fight, as much as you wanted to push him away and reclaim the life you’d fought so hard to build, a part of you- the part that had always belonged to him- knew he was right.

Because no matter how far you ran, no matter how hard you fought, Barty Crouch Jr. would always find his way back to you.

And you would always let him in.

[urfavfrenchgrl]

winter holidays part one

Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader ᥫ᭡ words: 5k ᥫ᭡ summary: your brother's best friend is spending the winter holidays at your family manor. ᥫ᭡ Notes: F!Reader and Theodore Nott's sister. Maybe the start of a one-shot in multiple parts. part two

Winter wraps its icy fingers around the Nott Manor, the cold air slipping through the cracks in the ancient stone walls. It smells of evergreen and wood smoke inside, a faint promise of warmth, but even the crackling fire in the grand hearth seems to struggle against the chill that settles into every corner. It always feels colder during the holidays, though you aren’t sure if it’s the air or the way the place feels hollow, no matter how many decorations hang from the banisters or how many gifts pile beneath the tree.

You’ve spent every Christmas here, in this sprawling, drafty house with its endless halls and locked doors. It should feel familiar by now, comforting even, but instead, it feels like a maze you’ll never fully escape. The only constants are your brother, Theodore.

After dinner, the warmth of the manor felt suffocating, so you slipped outside for some fresh air. The garden was blanketed in frost, the trees bare against the dark winter sky, and your breath came out in soft clouds. For a moment, the quiet felt like a relief—until the sharp scent of cigarette smoke drifted toward you, polluting the crisp air.

“I didn’t know you were here.”

Your voice broke the silence as you turned toward the source. There, sitting casually on the steps leading down to the garden, was Mattheo. The dim light spilling from the windows behind you cast just enough glow to illuminate his figure. He was leaning back against the step behind him, one knee bent with his arm draped lazily over it, a cigarette held between his fingers. Mattheo has been coming to the Nott Manor for Christmas since you were young enough to still feel shy around him, awkward and stumbling over your words in his presence. Years later, that awkwardness has gone away, but it’s taken on a sharper edge, one laced with awareness. You’re not blind to how other girls talk about him at Hogwarts, or the way he can make anyone—teacher, student, or stranger—freeze with a single glance.

He’s Mattheo Riddle, after all. The Dark Lord’s son. Even years after Voldemort’s fall, the name carries weight, and so does he—his presence like gravity, pulling people into his orbit. It doesn’t hurt that he’s devastatingly handsome in that rough-edged, careless way that seems entirely effortless. His reputation is a double-edged sword, but it doesn’t seem to bother him; if anything, he wears it like armor.

For you, though, Mattheo has always been something else entirely. He’s the boy who’s lounged on the manor’s sofas, spinning a glass of firewhisky between his fingers as he laughs with your brother. The one who makes sharp, sarcastic comments at dinner that leave your mother tutting and Theodore grinning. The one who’s always just out of reach, like a forbidden idea you can’t quite let go of.

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “Could say the same about you. Sit.” He gestured to the space next to him without looking, as if your compliance was a given.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking at his audacity. “Ask nicely, and maybe I will.”

That earned you a glance, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. He rolled them dramatically before smirking back. “Please, your majesty. Would you be so kind as to sit your ass down next to me?”

You laughed, shaking your head as you made your way down the steps and settled beside him. “See? When you want to, you can be polite.”

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he muttered, shaking his head, though the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed his annoyance. Leaning back against the step behind him again, he took another drag of his cigarette and exhaled slowly, the smoke mingling with the white cloud of his breath in the winter air.

For a few moments, neither of you said anything. The night was still except for the occasional rustle of the wind through the skeletal trees. The sharp cold seeped through your layers, but you found you didn’t mind. It was oddly peaceful, sitting next to Mattheo like this, even if the silence between you felt heavy with things unsaid.

“You don’t talk much at these things,” he said finally, breaking the quiet. His voice was casual, as though he wasn’t particularly invested in the answer, but you knew better. There was something in the way he glanced at you from the corner of his eye, like he was reading you even now.

You shrugged. “Maybe there’s not much worth saying.”

He chuckled softly again, the sound almost a hum. “Is that it? Or are you too busy pretending you’re not the smartest person in the room?”

The comment caught you off guard, and you turned to him, brows raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said, flicking the ash from his cigarette, “you sit there all quiet, watching everyone like you’re analyzing them for some bloody experiment. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Maybe I am,” you replied, trying to match his tone. “What makes you think you’re not part of it?”

That earned you a laugh, genuine this time, low and warm in a way that made your chest tighten. He tilted his head back, the edges of his dark curls catching the faint light. “I’d love to know what conclusions you’ve come to about me.”

You hesitated for just a moment, your breath visible in the cold air as you considered your response. “I think…” You tilted your head, mirroring his posture slightly. “You like to pretend you don’t care about anything, but you care about everything. And you’re better at hiding it than most people realize.”

His laughter faded, and his gaze sharpened, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “Not bad,” he murmured, tapping ash from his cigarette again. “But you missed something.”

“Oh?” you asked, intrigued. “And what’s that?”

He turned to face you fully now, his dark eyes holding yours with a weight that made your pulse quicken. “That you do the exact same thing.”

The words hung in the air between you, carried on the cold breeze. You wanted to say something, to deny it or challenge him, but the intensity of his gaze held you still, and for a moment, it felt like he could see right through you.

Without thinking, you reached for his cigarette, plucking it from his fingers. “You think you’ve got me all figured out?” you asked, raising it to your lips.

“Not yet,” he replied, leaning closer as you took a drag. “But I’m getting there.”

“Maybe I’m just too tired to talk,” you murmured, the harsh smoke hit your lungs, making you cough as you handed it back, your laugh mingling with his as he took it from your fingers.

“You definitely don’t look tired,” he said, smirking as he flicked the ash into the cold air. “You look as irritatingly hot as usual.” His tone was casual, but the weight of his words hung between you, sparking something in the silence.

You blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness, but he’d already turned his attention to the stars above, as if he hadn’t just said something that made your cheeks warm in the cold.

It was a beautiful night, the kind of stillness that made the world feel momentarily suspended. The frost-covered grounds glistened faintly under the moonlight, and the stars scattered across the sky like shattered glass. For a moment, you could almost forget where you were, or who you were sitting next to. The quiet stretched comfortably between you, the kind of silence that felt intentional, like neither of you wanted to break it.

But the moment didn’t last.

“Hey, you two! Get back inside!”

The familiar voice pierced the calm, shattering the peace you’d just begun to settle into. You sighed, turning your head toward the manor as the door creaked open, spilling warm light out onto the porch.

Theodore stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and a familiar scowl etched on his face. He didn’t like you being alone with Mattheo—he never had. Whether it was because he didn’t trust his best friend, or because he didn’t trust you, you couldn’t quite tell. Maybe he was worried Mattheo would try to charm his way into your good graces—or worse, that you’d let him.

Mattheo let out a low chuckle, leaning back on his elbows, utterly unbothered by your brother’s disapproving glare. “Relax, we’re just talking, mate.”

You rolled your eyes, suppressing a laugh as Theodore’s scowl deepened. “Inside. Now.” he barked mostly to you, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a sigh, you stood, brushing off the frost that had collected on your coat. “I’m freezing anyway,” you muttered softly, lying just enough to avoid any further argument. You knew better than to push Theo on this—he’d hate it if he ever knew your true feelings about Mattheo. That was why you kept them buried, why you’d never breathed a word of them to anyone.

Mattheo glanced toward the window, where Theodore stood watching, his posture tense, his eyes flicking between the two of you. Without a word, you turned and stepped back into the manor, the warm air wrapping around you like a suffocating reminder of the conversation you’d just left behind.

Theo stood waiting just inside the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but loaded with meaning. You arched an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “What?”

He stepped aside to let you pass, his gaze narrowing slightly as he glanced back out to the porch where Mattheo had lit another cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dark. “You’ve been out there a bit long, no?”

“And?” You scoffed, brushing past him. Your voice carried a slight edge now, the protective tone in his question grating against your already fragile nerves.

He huffed, his irritation evident. He hated when you were right, but even more so when you didn’t back down.

“He’s known me for ten years, Theo,” you snapped, turning to face him. “If you don’t want us to talk, then maybe don’t invite him for Christmas every bloody year.”

You turned to leave, your patience worn thin, but his hand shot out, grabbing your arm gently but firmly. “Hey,” he said, his voice softer now, “you forgot something.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes before giving in. Wrapping your arms around him, you let out a mock-annoyed grumble. “Asshole.”

He chuckled, patting your back lightly before giving your head a playful pinch. “Love you too, midget. Alright, go to bed, little brat. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Teddy,” you murmured, nudging him slightly as you pulled away.

With that, you turned and made your way up the grand staircase, the sound of your steps echoing faintly in the quiet of the manor. For a moment, you hesitated, your thoughts drifting back to Mattheo, still outside on the porch.

A few hours later, you still couldn’t sleep. The house was quiet, blanketed in a stillness that should have been comforting but instead felt suffocating. The clock on your bedside table ticked softly, marking every second of restlessness. Giving up, you stood and pulled on your robe, its warmth doing little to quell the chill in the air.

The floorboards creaked softly beneath your feet as you made your way downstairs. The kitchen was dark and still, save for the faint glow of moonlight streaming through the tall windows. You poured yourself a mug of hot cocoa, the rich scent filling the room as you stirred slowly. Without much thought, you stepped outside, drawn by the allure of the snow-covered grounds.

The night was beautiful, the kind of quiet only winter could bring. The world seemed softer somehow, muffled by the snow, each step crunching beneath your boots as you made your way to the old swing in the garden. You sat down, the cold wood biting through your layers, but you didn’t mind. This was your favorite time of year—the serenity, the beauty, the way everything seemed untouched, as though winter had a way of preserving perfection.

You took a sip of your cocoa, savoring the warmth that spread through you, when a voice broke the silence.

“You know, you’re supposed to be sleeping, princess.”

The low, familiar drawl made you jump, nearly spilling your drink. You turned quickly, your breath catching as you spotted Mattheo emerging from the shadows, his dark curls haloed by the faint moonlight.

“For fuck’s sake, Mattheo!” you snapped, clutching your chest as your heart raced.

He chuckled, the sound deep and dark, and a smirk tugged at his lips. He stopped just a few steps away, his boots crunching softly in the snow. “You’re a bit jumpy, aren’t you?” His eyes glinted with amusement, clearly pleased by your reaction.

“Well, it’s past midnight, and it’s dark outside,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “Anyone would have been scared.” Mattheo smirked, his sharp gaze lingering on your face. His tall figure seemed to loom over you, casting a shadow against the soft glow of the snow. His eyes flicked over your features, pausing just a fraction too long on your lips before meeting your eyes again. Another step brought him closer, the space between you shrinking to nothing.

“Why are you even out here, Y/N? It’s freezing outside.” His voice was low, almost teasing. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, sleeping soundly?”

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your hot chocolate as you began to rock gently on the swing. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He shrugged, watching you with a peculiar intensity that made your skin prickle. The way you moved, so effortlessly, so unguarded—it caught him off guard, though he’d never let it show. He stepped forward again, close enough now that his legs nearly brushed the sides of the swing, boxing you in. He smirked, clearly reveling in how easily he could dominate the space between you.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted casually. “So I went for a walk.”

“I see…” you murmured, your voice trailing off as you rocked a little more, the gentle motion filling the silence. It was rare to find yourself alone with Mattheo, rare to see him without Theo acting as an invisible barrier between you. The awkwardness settled in—not uncomfortable, but quiet, laced with a tension neither of you seemed willing to address.

Mattheo’s eyes roamed over you again, unrestrained in a way that felt both deliberate and involuntary. His smirk softened, but it didn’t fade entirely, as though he couldn’t quite help himself. The proximity, the stillness—it was doing something to him, muddling his usual sharp focus. His gaze lingered on the curves of your body, on the way the swing cradled you, before snapping back to your face, catching himself just in time.

“Are you going to sit on the other swing,” you asked, breaking the silence with a laugh, “or are you just going to stare at me like a psychopath?”

He huffed out a laugh, rolling his eyes. “I am not a psychopath, thank you very much.”

He paused, glancing down at the empty swing beside you. A smirk tugged at his lips as he dropped onto it with practiced ease, his body tilting slightly as he leaned on one of the ropes. His dark curls caught the faint moonlight, and for a moment, you were struck by how naturally he fit into the scene—as if the cold, quiet night belonged to him.

“There. Happy now?” he teased, tilting his head as he watched you take another sip of your drink.

“Delighted,” you replied dryly, but the corners of your mouth twitched upward despite yourself.

The quiet returned, but this time it felt less heavy, more companionable. The swings creaked softly under your weight, their rhythmic motion blending with the faint whisper of the wind through the trees. You felt his gaze on you again, steady but less intrusive, as though he was trying to figure you out without saying it aloud.

“You always liked the swing, didn’t you?” he asked suddenly, his voice softer now. “Even when we were kids. You’d come out here, no matter how bloody cold it was.”

You looked at him, surprised. “You remember that?”

“Of course.” He shrugged, his gaze dropping to the snow at his feet. “You used to follow us around when we were kids, always begging him to push you higher. Drove him mad.”

A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. “He hated it.”

Mattheo’s eyes flicked back up to yours, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t.”

The words hung between you, carried on the crisp winter air. You weren’t sure how to respond for the second time of the night, your heart skipping a beat at the way his gaze lingered, heavy and unreadable. You took another sip of your cocoa, more for something to do than anything else, the warmth doing little to calm the sudden flutter in your chest.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

You frowned, tilting your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening as he looked at you. The smirk was gone now, replaced by something quieter, something more vulnerable. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough. “I guess… I always thought you’d stay the same. That you’d always be Theo’s annoying little sister. But you’re not.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, you couldn’t find the words to respond. The weight of his gaze was almost too much, like he was seeing you for the first time, and the intensity of it made your pulse quicken.

“People grow up, Mattheo,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt. “Even me.”

A small, almost sad smile flickered across his face as he straightened, flicking his cigarette into the snow. “Yeah,” he murmured, rocking with you. “I’ve noticed.”

There weren’t any words for it, not really.

It was impossible not to notice how Mattheo had changed over the years. His brown eyes had darkened, holding a sharper, more dangerous edge now, like they had seen too much of the world too soon. Faint scars marked his face—one along his jawline, another faintly cutting through his brow—evidence of his penchant for fights he never backed down from. Yet somehow, the wild, boyish curls that framed his face remained untouched, softening the sharp lines of his features.

The little boy you had known—the one who used to tease you relentlessly, who would sneak sweets into your pockets to make you smile—was gone, replaced by someone almost unrecognizable. And yet, in the quiet moments like this, when his smirk softened and his eyes searched yours, you could still see traces of him. The ghost of that boy lingered beneath the surface, making the man he’d become all the more breathtaking.

You looked down, your fingers tightening around the mug in your hands. You had finished your hot cocoa a while ago, and the absence of its warmth was beginning to seep into your bones. You shivered slightly, the cold nipping at your skin through the thin fabric of your robe.

Mattheo kept his eyes on the sky, though you could feel his attention flicker to you in the silence. The proximity wasn’t helping either of you. His gaze shifted briefly from the stars to you, and his voice broke the stillness—low, quiet, almost raspy.

“Cold, princess?”

You shrugged, your breath forming faint clouds in the air. “Well… I probably should’ve grabbed something warmer than this robe.”

He rolled his eyes, his smirk returning. “You’re wearing a robe, Y/N. Of course you’re cold.” He muttered something under his breath, a mix of exasperation and amusement, before shrugging off his jacket in one swift motion. The fabric landed in his lap, and he glanced at you again, this time with something unspoken in his eyes.

“Come here.”

“Excuse me?” you asked, blinking at him.

He tilted his head, his smirk widening as though your cluelessness was both amusing and maddening. “Just get your sweet ass over here,” he huffed, patting his lap for emphasis.

You hesitated, but the cold won out. Slowly, you moved to sit on his lap, his hands guiding you with a gentle firmness. The heat of his body against yours was immediate, and you stayed silent, unsure of what to say. The size of his jacket engulfed you completely, and for the first time since stepping outside, you felt warm.

“But you’re going to get cold,” you murmured, glancing at his body only covered by a sweater.

Mattheo’s smirk widened, his gaze raking over you wrapped in his jacket. “You really think I care right now?” His hand moved from your chin to your thigh, his palm pressing against your skin with a possessive gentleness. His thumb began tracing slow circles, the movement both comforting and electrifying.

“Well… you should,” you whispered, leaning against him instinctively. Your head came to rest on his chest, and you felt the hitch in his breath at the contact.

He didn’t move for a moment, as if adjusting to the new closeness. Then, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. His grip on your thigh tightened slightly, as though he wanted to keep you there forever. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoed faintly in your ear, and you wondered if he could feel yours racing in return.

“You’re going to be sick,” you murmured, your voice soft against his chest.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through you. “Stop being so rational, Y/N. You’re ruining my moment of protecting you.”

You let out a sarcastic laugh, tilting your head to look up at him. “Since when do you even want to protect me, Riddle?”

He rolled his eyes at your remark, a huff of frustration escaping him. “Dammit, Y/N. Can’t you, for once in your life, just let me be sweet to you?”

Your teasing smile faltered at the sincerity in his voice. You looked up at him, your gaze meeting his. Snowflakes clung to his dark curls, softening the sharp angles of his face, and his expression held something that made your chest tighten. He wasn’t smirking anymore.

“Why?” you whispered, the word barely audible above the quiet rustle of the wind.

He hesitated, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find the right answer. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it, and it carried a weight that settled heavily between you.

“Because you deserve it,” he said simply, his thumb still tracing slow, deliberate circles on your thigh. “And because, for some reason, I can’t help myself.”

Your breath caught, and the snow seemed to fall slower, the night folding in around you both. You weren’t sure what to say, but the way his eyes lingered on you—like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—said more than words ever could.

Neither of you moved for a long moment, the weight of his words lingering in the frosted air. Mattheo’s gaze never wavered, and you felt as though he was searching for something in your expression—permission, maybe, or understanding. Whatever it was, you weren’t sure you could give it. Not when every inch of your body was hyper-aware of his hand resting on your thigh, his jacket wrapped around you like a cocoon, and the steady warmth of him against you.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable—it was heavy, charged, filled with things you both knew could never be spoken aloud. Not with Theodore asleep inside, unaware of the lines being blurred on the swing outside your home.

A soft flurry of snow began to fall, dusting Mattheo’s curls and the edges of his sweater. You glanced up, watching as the flakes floated down, catching on your lashes and melting against your skin. The quiet around you deepened, the world reduced to just the two of you and the snow.

Mattheo’s hand tightened slightly on your thigh, grounding you, before his other hand came up to brush a stray snowflake from your hair. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“You’re going to freeze,” you whispered, your voice breaking the silence.

“So are you,” he murmured back, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “But I guess you’ll just keep arguing with me about it instead of going inside.”

You laughed softly despite yourself, the sound warm in the cold night air. “Maybe.”

Mattheo’s gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before he shook his head slightly, pulling back just enough to create a breath of space between you. “We should go in,” he said, though the reluctance in his tone betrayed him.

You nodded, but neither of you moved right away. There was something about the moment—the quiet, the closeness, the unspoken weight of everything you couldn’t say—that made it hard to leave. It wasn’t just the snow keeping you rooted there; it was the impossible pull of Mattheo Riddle, the boy who had always been out of reach.

But the snow began falling harder, the wind picking up and sending chills through both of you. Mattheo sighed, his hand slipping from your thigh as he helped you to your feet. His jacket stayed draped around you, the warmth of it feeling like a faint echo of his touch.

You glanced back at him as he stood, brushing the snow from his curls with an almost frustrated huff. There was something in his expression—something raw, unguarded—that made your chest ache. Whatever Mattheo was feeling, he was fighting it, and you knew why. It was impossible, the two of you. It always had been. But that didn’t make it any easier to ignore.

“Come on,” he said, his voice softer now. “Before Theo wakes up and starts a bloody war.”

You laughed lightly, pulling the jacket tighter around you as the two of you made your way back to the manor. The snow muffled your steps, and for a moment, it felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting for something you both knew would never come.

The two of you climbed the stairs in silence, the kind that felt almost sacred, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. The manor seemed to hold its breath, its ancient walls groaning softly under the weight of the falling snow. Each step was careful, deliberate, a shared understanding that the stillness of the night was not to be disturbed.

When you reached your bedroom door, you stopped, your hand resting lightly on the worn brass handle. You turned to face him, the quiet settling between you like freshly fallen snow. His dark eyes found yours immediately, unwavering and unguarded in a way that made the air between you feel impossibly thin.

Neither of you spoke. There was no need to. The silence stretched, intimate and unbroken, as if the moment itself was afraid to shatter.

Mattheo’s hand lifted slowly, almost hesitantly, his movements uncharacteristically soft. His fingers brushed against your temple, tucking a strand of snow-dampened hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, warm and fleeting, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

For a second, his eyes roamed your face, not with the sharpness he usually carried, but with something quieter, something deeper. It wasn’t just a glance—it was as though he were committing every detail to memory: the curve of your lips, the faint rise of color on your cheeks, the way your lashes glistened faintly with melted snow.

He exhaled softly, his breath stirring the air between you. “You should get some sleep,” he said, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of something unspoken.

You nodded, unable to do much else, your throat tight and your heart pounding against your ribs. The faintest flicker of a smirk ghosted across his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was something about the way he looked at you that made the moment feel far too fragile, like one wrong move could shatter it entirely.

He stepped back, just slightly, as though the distance might make this easier for both of you. It didn’t.

“Goodnight, princess,” he murmured, the endearment softer now, gentler, almost reverent.

You hesitated, the door halfway open, and turned to glance back at him. He hadn’t moved, his eyes still on you, dark and searching. It felt like he was trying to say something, something neither of you could bring yourselves to admit.

You offered him a small, hesitant nod before slipping into your room, closing the door softly behind you. The quiet click of the latch felt deafening in the stillness.

Leaning back against the door, you pressed your hand to your chest, your breath coming unsteadily. The warmth of his touch still lingered on your skin, but it was the way he’d looked at you that stayed.

It was impossible. Whatever this was—whatever it might have been—it couldn’t exist beyond these secret fleeting moments. And yet, as you leaned back against the heavy wooden door, your pulse still racing, you knew you would never forget the way Mattheo Riddle had looked at you.

In the dim, flickering light of the Nott Manor hallway, his dark eyes had held something unspoken, something that felt achingly close to longing. It was as if, for that brief instant, the weight of the world he carried had vanished, and all that remained was you.

But the world would return. It always did.

You closed your eyes, willing the ache in your chest to fade, though you knew it wouldn’t. Some things weren’t meant to be, no matter how much you wanted them. How were you supposed to get through the rest of the holidays like this? With him here, so close yet so unattainable?

And somehow, that made wanting him feel all the more inevitable.

[theodorenmyth]

Hello, if requests are still open, can I ask a male!reader who comes from one of the founders' (i think it's how they are call in english) lines/family/house ?

Ignore it if you don't want to write it !

Have a good day !

Legacy of the Raven

Pairings ; Mattheo Riddle x M!Reader

Summary ; As Rowena Ravenclaw's heir, you’re used to expectations and assumptions—except from Mattheo Riddle, who sees the real you. Through sharp banter and shared vulnerabilities, his feelings come to light, leading to a heartfelt confession and a kiss that makes you realize destiny is about connection, not just legacy.

A/n ; enjoy hun!!

Warnings ; none!

Wordcount ; 1k+

The dungeons of Hogwarts always felt like home, with their dim lighting and the faint chill in the air. As a direct descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw, your connection to the castle was palpable. The very walls seemed to hum with recognition whenever you walked through them.

But with that legacy came expectations, ones you bore like an invisible weight. Everyone assumed you were destined for greatness, for power. It was exhausting. The only person who didn’t seem fazed by your lineage was Mattheo Riddle.

“Did you know,” Mattheo began, leaning against the stone pillar in the common room, “that half the school thinks you’re secretly building a huge library 2.0?”

You rolled your eyes, sitting on one of the emerald-green couches. “Let me guess—they also think I keep a pet raven under my bed?”

He smirked, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that infuriatingly attractive way. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“You’d be the first to know if I did,” you shot back.

Mattheo chuckled, dropping into the seat beside you. His proximity sent a jolt through you, though you masked it well. Being around Mattheo was always a strange mix of comfort and chaos. He had a way of disarming you with his humor, yet there was an undeniable intensity in his gaze that often left you speechless.

“Seriously, though,” he continued, “how do you deal with it? The whole ‘descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw’ thing?”

You shrugged, tracing the outline of the raven embroidered on a nearby pillow. “It’s not like I had a choice. People hear the name, and they decide who I am before I even say a word. Either they’re terrified or… weirdly fascinated.”

“And which one am I?” Mattheo asked, his voice softer now.

You glanced at him, meeting his dark eyes. “You? You’re just annoying.”

He grinned, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his expression. “Good. I’d hate to be predictable.”

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the crackling fire casting shadows across the room.

“I think it’s kind of cool, though,” Mattheo said suddenly.

“What is?”

“Your legacy. You’re literally connected to the foundation of this place. You’ve got a piece of history running through your veins.”

You snorted. “And what about you? You’re the son of Voldemort. Talk about historical significance.”

Mattheo’s smile faltered, and you instantly regretted your words. “Sorry,” you muttered. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, though his voice was tight. “It’s not exactly a legacy I’m proud of.”

You hesitated before reaching out, placing a hand on his arm. “For what it’s worth, you’re nothing like him. And anyone who knows you can see that.”

His gaze softened, and for a brief moment, he looked vulnerable in a way that was rare for him. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

The moment passed, and he was back to his usual self, leaning back with a smirk. “So, what does being a Ravenclaw descendant even get you? Secret passageways? Hidden artifacts? ”

“Ha, ha,” you deadpanned. “Mostly just a lot of awkward conversations and people asking if I can solve somethinh.”

“Can you?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want to find out?”

Mattheo’s grin widened. “Depends. Are you going to use it to order a snake to bite me?”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe.”

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in as well, the space between you shrinking to mere inches. His voice was low when he spoke again. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Your heart raced, but before you could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps shattered the moment.

“Oi, Riddle!” Blaise Zabini called as he entered the common room. “You coming to dinner or what?”

Mattheo pulled back, his mask of nonchalance slipping back into place. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute,” he replied, his tone casual.

Blaise raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of you, but didn’t comment. “Don’t take too long. Pansy’s already complaining about the pudding running out.”

As Blaise disappeared, Mattheo turned back to you. “You coming?”

You hesitated, still thrown off by the near-intimacy of the moment. “I think I’ll stay here for a bit.”

Mattheo nodded, standing up. “Suit yourself. But don’t hide down here all night, yeah? Even Ravenclaw descendants need to eat.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he walked away, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Mattheo Riddle was a puzzle you weren’t sure you’d ever solve, but you couldn’t deny that you wanted to try.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘₊✧──────✧₊∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Later that evening, as you wandered the castle’s corridors, you heard a familiar voice calling your name. Turning, you saw Mattheo jogging to catch up with you.

“Thought you were hiding in the dungeons,” he said, falling into step beside you.

“Changed my mind,” you replied.

“Good. I’d hate for you to miss out on all the fun.”

“What fun?”

“This.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed your hand and pulled you into a nearby alcove. Your back pressed against the cold stone wall as he stood in front of you, his expression unreadable.

“Mattheo, what—”

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he said, cutting you off.

Your eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

“You,” he said, his voice low and intense. “You walk around with this whole ‘Ravenclaw heir’ thing, acting like you don’t care, but I see through you. You’re more than that. You’re smart, and stubborn, and you make me want to be better just so I can keep up with you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out.

“And the worst part?” he continued, stepping closer. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The air between you was electric, and before you could overthink it, Mattheo leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both fierce and tender.

For a moment, all thoughts of legacies and expectations melted away. There was only him, and the way he fit so perfectly against you.

When he finally pulled back, his dark eyes searched yours. “Say something,” he murmured.

You smiled, your voice barely above a whisper. “You talk too much.”

He laughed, the sound rich and genuine, before pulling you in for another kiss.

For once, being a descendant of Rowena Ravenclaw didn’t feel like a burden. In that moment, it felt like destiny.

[rosesareredrosa]

The Strongest Weapon

Mattheo Riddle x reader

Summary: based on this ask <33

w/c: 1344

The cold wind whipped through the corridors of Hogwarts as you made your way to the Astronomy Tower, your heart heavy with worry. Mattheo Riddle, the boy you had come to love, had grown distant, a shadow of the person you once knew. His usual charm and warmth had been replaced by a chilling detachment, as though something dark was gnawing away at his soul.

You found him at the top of the tower, staring out at the night sky. The stars glittered like distant, unreachable hopes, casting an eerie light on Mattheo's tense features. His dark curls were tousled by the wind, but he didn't seem to notice. He was lost in thought, his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched. You could feel the weight of something terrible pressing down on him.

"Mattheo," you called softly, stepping closer. He didn’t turn to face you, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. "Please, talk to me. I’m worried about you."

He remained silent for a moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was cold and distant. "There’s nothing to talk about."

Your heart ached at his words. This wasn’t the Mattheo you knew—the boy who had once made you laugh until you cried, who had held your hand when you were scared, who had whispered sweet promises of a future together. This was someone else entirely, someone shaped by the darkness you feared.

"There is," you insisted, taking another step forward. "You’ve been distant, withdrawn. I can see that something’s wrong. Whatever it is, we can face it together."

Finally, he turned to you, his eyes dark and stormy, filled with an inner turmoil that sent a shiver down your spine. "You wouldn’t understand," he muttered, his voice laced with bitterness. "This isn’t your fight."

"Is it because of your father?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly. The very mention of Lord Voldemort made your blood run cold, but you couldn’t let fear stop you. "What has he done to you?"

Mattheo’s expression hardened at the mention of his father. "He’s given me a choice," he said quietly, his voice filled with a mix of anger and despair. "Join him, or suffer the consequences. There’s no escaping him. Not for me, and not for you if you stay with me."

The words hung heavy in the air, each one a knife to your heart. You had always known that Mattheo’s lineage was a curse he bore in silence, but you had never imagined it would come to this.

"You don’t have to follow him," you said desperately, reaching out to grasp his arm. "We can leave, Mattheo. We can run far away, somewhere he can’t find us. We’ll figure it out together."

He shook his head, pulling away from your touch, his eyes filled with a painful resignation. "You don’t understand. If I refuse him, he’ll kill me. And if he knows about us, he’ll kill you too. I won’t let that happen."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you saw the agony in his expression, the internal battle he was fighting between the person he wanted to be and the person his father was forcing him to become. "But what about you? What happens when you lose yourself to him? I can’t lose you to that darkness."

His eyes softened for a moment, and you saw a flicker of the Mattheo you knew and loved. But it was quickly replaced by a cold determination. "I’m doing this to protect you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I love you too much to let him take you away from me."

Before you could respond, a cold, sinister voice echoed through the tower, making your blood run cold.

"Ah, young love. So fragile, so naive."

You spun around to see the shadowy figure of Lord Voldemort himself emerging from the darkness, his serpentine face twisted into a cruel smile. His presence was suffocating, filling the room with an aura of pure evil.

"Father," Mattheo said, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance.

Voldemort’s cold, red eyes flickered to you, and his smile widened. "I see you’ve been distracted, my son. This… attachment is making you weak."

Mattheo stepped in front of you, shielding you with his body. "She’s not part of this," he said firmly. "Leave her out of it."

Voldemort chuckled, a sound that sent chills down your spine. "On the contrary, she’s very much part of this. You see, Mattheo, love is a weakness, and weaknesses must be eliminated."

Before you could react, Voldemort raised his wand, his movements quick and deliberate. "Crucio."

The curse hit you like a bolt of lightning, sending waves of excruciating pain coursing through your body. You screamed, collapsing to the ground as the agony ripped through you. It was as if your very nerves were on fire, burning away every thought, every hope, every dream.

Through the blinding pain, you heard Mattheo shout, his voice filled with desperation and rage. "No! Stop it! Please, stop!"

But Voldemort’s twisted smile only grew as he watched you writhe in agony. "Do you see now, Mattheo? This is what happens when you allow yourself to care. It makes you vulnerable, and vulnerability is death."

The curse lifted, leaving you gasping for breath, your body trembling violently. You felt Mattheo’s arms around you, holding you close, his hands shaking as he tried to comfort you.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice broken. "I’m so sorry…"

But Voldemort wasn’t finished. He stepped closer, his wand still raised, his eyes gleaming with malice. "You have a choice to make, Mattheo. Join me, and she will be spared. Refuse, and watch her die."

Mattheo’s breath hitched, and you could feel his internal struggle, the war raging inside him. He looked down at you, his eyes filled with pain, and you knew what he was thinking. If he joined Voldemort, he would be lost forever, consumed by the same darkness that had taken his father. But if he refused, you would pay the price.

"No," you whispered, your voice weak but determined. "Don’t do it, Mattheo. Don’t let him control you."

Tears welled up in his eyes as he cradled your face in his hands. "I can’t lose you," he said, his voice cracking.

"You won’t," you said, forcing yourself to smile through the pain. "We’ll find another way. We’ll fight this together."

But the decision was already made. Mattheo stood slowly, turning to face his father, his jaw set in a hard line. "I’ll join you," he said quietly, his voice filled with a bitter resolve. "But only if you spare her."

Voldemort’s smile widened, a cruel, triumphant expression that made your blood run cold. "Very well," he said, lowering his wand. "But remember, Mattheo, this is only the beginning. Love will not save you in the end. It will only destroy you."

With a flick of his wand, Voldemort disappeared into the shadows, leaving you and Mattheo alone in the tower, the echoes of his words lingering in the air.

Mattheo collapsed beside you, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. You reached out, your hand trembling as you gently touched his arm.

"It’s going to be okay," you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

But deep down, you knew that nothing would ever be the same. The darkness had claimed a part of Mattheo, and you didn’t know if you would ever be able to bring him back from it. But you would try. You would fight for him, for the love that still burned between you, even in the face of the overwhelming darkness.

As you held each other in the cold, empty tower, you made a silent vow to yourself: you wouldn’t let Voldemort win. No matter what it took, you would find a way to save Mattheo, to bring him back to the light.

Because love might be a weakness, but it was also the strongest weapon you had.

[myokk]

Hi! I'm still feral for these two, would you mind giving us some art of them in their later years together!?

Hello angel!!!!

Sorry it’s taken so long to respond🫶🫶 but I wanted to draw some new art for this ask💓

We have: Sebastian and Eloise trying out their new fancy camera with a selfie, pictures of them with their daughter, and finally…idk I just always felt like this drawing is when they’re a bit older💓

I want to take this ask as an opportunity as well to talk a little about how I imagine their future (I have no chill & you can ignore this and just enjoy the art if you want😇).

I am a COMPLETE pantser - I never know how a chapter’s going to end when I start writing it (I always just have a few scenes I know I need to include to keep the plot moving forward). Although I have different *big* scenes I’m always writing towards, and themes/plot elements I’m always foreshadowing (shout out to @elliecutte for catching *almost* all of my hints and appreciating my general no chill😆), IM STILL NOT 100% SURE HOW I WILL END THINGS !!! 😳 I have a lot of endings I see as possible, and I think soon it will become more clear to me what will work the best💓

HAPPY ENDING:

Eloise and Sebastian become Unspeakables. I have a LOT of thoughts on this profession that could be its OWN post, and I feel like Unspeakables are generally specialized in one or two departments, but as their interests/research change they also change.

Eloise becomes an Unspeakable in the Mind and Death departments, with the occasional foray into Time. Her ancient magic is connected with all of these things (my version of AM is NOT like the game) & the Department of Mysteries is one of the only places that gives her any useful information about these things. Plus she thinks too much (it IS her hobby after all😆💓) and is very introverted so a hermit job like this is a perfect fit.

Sebastian becomes an Unspeakable as well, but I feel like it takes him a long time to specialize in anything, if he ever does. I just feel like becoming an Unspeakable is the adult equivalent of sneaking into the Restricted Section🥹🫶

They grow old together (I won’t explain TOO much) & have a lovely little family🥹 at least one daughter that they both dote on. Sebastian had an amazing childhood (idyllic until it wasn’t), and wants to give his daughter the same, and Eloise works hard to make sure their daughter feels the love that she never had growing up🥺

When Sirius is burned off the family tree, Eloise and Sebastian take him in🥹🫶 (they’re like 100 years old but WIZARDS LIVE LONGER…) The same happened to her all those years ago, and she wants him to know that his whole family hasn’t abandoned him.

Eloise LOVED her nieces - Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa - when they were younger, but as Voldemort becomes more powerful & people realize WHAT he’s doing, she has to separate herself from them. Her heart breaks seeing Bellatrix go mad, and seeing Narcissa engaged to a Malfoy out of obligation😔 (iykyk)

I haven’t thought any more about happy ending but I think it’s fun to think about how their future story might weave in with the actual canon events, ESPECIALLY since Eloise is a Black🥹💓

SAD ENDING:

After Sebastian gets his hands on Slytherin’s relic, it really starts to consume him and makes him even MORE obsessive than his natural tendencies - I imagine it similarly “talking” to him like Slytherin’s locket/horcrux did in Deathly Hallows (😳)

Eloise is deathly afraid of the changes she’s seeing in Sebastian and steals it from him (he would never willingly give it to her ESPECIALLY if it starts to feel like a precious item to him)

BUT the relic triggers the latent Black Family Madness in her - the madness that afflicts almost every woman in her family since…🤭 - and she herself starts to lose touch with reality. Her body and soul are already destroying themselves between the curse and the ancient magic inside of her, and the relic is what triggers it in her.

Sebastian becomes an Unspeakable, focusing on the Mind, in a desperate attempt to find a cure for his Eloise🥺

He never gives up his research, and sometimes when he comes home she is lucid and they talk about his research - otherwise, he just loves and takes care of her.

(He’s never successful in finding a way to reverse what he feels he caused in the first place - his ambition and single-mindedness is, to him, the reason why all of this happened)

Honestly who knows if I end their story either of these ways😌 I just love thinking of AUs and different endings and I have a few others I’ve considered as well!!! And whatever endings I don’t write will be immortalized on this blog and in my art as well🙏

[georgeweasleyslostearhq]

THAT'S MY GIRLFRIEND?!

Pairings: George Weasley x Fem!reader Summary: you and George found Ron jerking off to you Warning: mention of jerking off. Note: requested by @lillisummers BASED IN OOTP

you sat between Fred and George at dinner as George poured you a cup of juice, he sat down and kissed your head before taking a sip of your cup

"ay, use your own cup" you whispered, trying to be quiet as the room fell silent

he smiled and looked forward, at harry, who's now holding the daily prophet

"he's been attacking dumbledore as well...fudge is using all his power, including his influence of the daily prophet to..smear anyone who claims the dark lord has returned" Sirius stated

your hold George's hand at the mention of the dark lord by instinct.

"why?" Harry asked

"the minister thinks dumbledore is after his job" Remus interjected, sitting in front of Harry

"but that's insane, no one in their right mind could believe that would of..." Harry began, being cut off by Remus

"exactly the point! fudge isn't in his right mind, it's been twisted and warped by fear" Remus nodded "now fear makes people do terrible things, Harry, the last time voldemort gained power, he almost destroyed everything we hold most dear..."

you looked over and George smiled sadly as he gave your hand a squeeze

you leaned into his side and closed your eyes, feeling his warmth

"now he's returned, and i'm afraid the minister will do almost everything to avoid facing that terrifying truth" Remus trailed off

"we think voldemort wants to build up his army again..fourteen years ago we had huge numbers at his command, and not just witches and wizards, but all manner of dark creatures. he's been recruiting heavily and we've been attempting to do the same, but gathering followers isn't the only thing interested in" Sirius explains

mad eye clears his throat, trying to make sirius stop talking, to which he doesn't

"we believe.." Sirius starts again, making Molly stop cutting the vegetables at the end of the table. you opened your eyes, feeling goosebumps form on your arms, having a chilling feeling

"voldemort may be after something" the long haired man said

"sirius" mad eye warned

"something he didn't have last time"

"you mean..like a weapon?" Harry questioned

Sirius opens his mouth to say more but Molly buts it

"no. that's enough, he's just a boy!" she exclaims, coming over to harry, taking the prophet away "say more and you might as well induct him into the oder straight away"

"good! i want to join. if voldemort's raising an army, then i want to fight!" Harry fought, making sirius clap his hands and lean back in his chair

"no, no, you've encouraged this sirius! it's not safe for him!" Molly scolded the Black

"is it just me or are you hungry too?" George whispered, taking your attention away from the adults

you looked at him and smiled "starving, what about you Fred? you hungry?" you looked over at Fred, who snickered

"why did mum bring us down for dinner when it wasn't even ready?" he wondered

"i was thinking the exact same thing" George huffed with a smile, throwing his arm over your shoulder before starting a conversation.

you looked at Fred but noticed Ron, sitting on the other side of him, staring at you.

though he didn't seem to notice you saw, as his eyes were focused a little lower. looking down at your chest.

you wouldn't say you were wearing a revealing shirt, but it did show a bit of cleavage

you raised your eyebrows at the boy as he finally looked up at your face

his eyes went wide as he realised you caught him and looked away, his face beet red

you shook your head and lifted the shirt up ever so slightly

Molly got fed up with Sirius and walked back to the food, ignoring him before angrily chopping the vegetables

"what did the broccoli do to her?" Fred joked quietly, making you and George snicker

George picked up your cup of juice and drank from it again making you sigh before slapping his chest

"drink from your own cup!" you sighed before leaning over taking his cup that has been left untouched but filled with juice and drinking from his cup

"oi don't drink from my cup" he huffed, trying to take it off you

"no, shove off, that's yours now, this is mine" you smile, moving the cup away, leaning away from him

"Fred get the juice off her" George pled, making Fred shake his head

"i'm not getting involved in your juice stealing" Fred leaned away

"ha!" you stuck your tongue out at George

"oh yeah? how about i pour the juice on you" he raised his eyebrow

you gasped and glared at him "you wouldn't!"

he smirked "i would"

he teasingly tipped his cup slightly, making you squeal

"shove off!" you giggled, leaning away, now leaning on Fred

"Fred help me!" you begged

"i'm not getting involved, but please don't get the juice on me" he chuckled

George leaned forward and teasingly tipped it again, messing with you "George, i swear to Merlin if you pour that on me" you squirmed as he wrapped his arm around you

"oh? what would you do?" he grinned

"i'll leave you" you stared at him warningy, but he didn't buy it one bit

"no you won't, you love me" he smiled innocently

"i do, but not right now" you whined

George gasped, faking hurt "wow"

"George, don't pour juice on her" Ron interjected

George leaned away from you and looked at his younger brother, sitting 3 down from him "aw, how sweet Y/n. ronikins here is looking out for you, he's on your side" George pouted at his brother, teasing him

you looked back at ron and found him staring at you again, making you feel weird, his eyes said something that made you feel a little..gross

--

you walked up the stairs hand in hand with George to talk to Harry, who had left the dinner table with Hermione ten minutes ago, probably to find Ron, who had left the dinner table well before them

"i think we just need to warn him s'all" George shrugged

"George, i think he already knows how dangerous it is, he's faced him before" you sighed, feeling sorry for Harry

"i know but he's still a kid" George huffed, walking to the first door to the left, Harry and Ron's room

"so are we" you tilted your head, not understanding his point

"but we're older, wiser" he smiled down at you

"oh you are anything but wise, George" you rolled your eyes, amused

"you're the best girlfriend, aren't you?"

"i like to think so" you grinned happily

George shook his head and opened the door, still holding your hand.

you looked up as George go ready to greet Harry- although, Harry wasn't there at all.

instead of the Potter boy, the youngest Weasley boy was sat on his bed, pants down to the knees as he pumped his cock at a fast pace, moaning as his head was thrown back in pleasure, clearly not noticing your presence

you quickly let go of George's hand and covered your eyes, turning around, trying to leave the room

"o-oh Y/n.." you heard Ron grunt, the sound of squelching getting louder

"what the hell?" George cursed in shock as you walked in to a wall on your way out, trying to get the image of a half naked Ron, jerking off

you heard Ron scream and shuffling of the covers

"what the hell! get out!?" ron yelled

you groaned in pain from headbutting a wall and turned around, reaching one hand for George, eyes still closed

George saw you reaching out and grabbed onto your waist, pulling you close to him

"were you seriously just jerking off to Y/n?" George asked, just as shocked as you were

"n-no" Ron stuttered

you peeked, seeing Ron fully covered by his blankets, his face as red as his hair

"We clearly heard you say her name" George frowned

"Whatever! Just leave!" Ron begged.

"You were wanking off to my girlfriend! That's your future sister in law dude! That's disgusting!" George exclaimed. Still in horror

Ron stayed silent. Feeling beyond embarrassed

"I mean come on. That's my girlfriend!" George scoffed

"I'm sorry!" Ron cried out.

You stood there in George's arms, Feeling a little uncomfortable

"Don't say sorry to me. Say sorry to her!"

Ron looked down. Not wanting to make eye contact with you

"I'm sorry" he sighed

"Now you're going to treat her with respect and if I catch you even looking at her the wrong way. Out come the spiders. Everywhere. I'm talking in your draws. Bed. Trunk, and on your face" George said sternly, making Ron nod vigorously. Still looking down

"Good" George scoffed before letting you go and taking you hand

"C'mon babe" he walks towards the door. Leading you out of the room

Once he shut the door. You looked at him and raised an eyebrow

"Future sister in law? What are you insinuating there, Weasley?" You smirked

"I think you know" he grins

"Oh yeah? It sounds like someone is planning on marrying me" you hugged him

"Oh shush. Now. Do you wanna go bleach your eyes?" He asked

"Oh yes please" you nodded happily

‐‐---------------------------------------------------------

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Another Note Regarding Harry's instinctive magic and ability to feel magic and Harry always being the Master of Death. I was rereading through GoF for fic research purposes, and Harry's response to the Killing Curse has fascinated me:

Moody raised his wand, and Harry felt a sudden thrill of foreboding. “Avada Kedavra!” Moody roared. There was a flash of blinding green light and a rushing sound, as though a vast, invisible something was soaring through the air — instantaneously the spider rolled over onto its back, unmarked, but unmistakably dead. Several of the students stifled cries; Ron had thrown himself backward and almost toppled off his seat as the spider skidded toward him. [...] So that was how his parents had died . . . exactly like that spider. Had they been unblemished and unmarked too? Had they simply seen the flash of green light and heard the rush of speeding death, before life was wiped from their bodies?

(GoF, 216)

Specifically, the "rush of speeding death", like, what is that? Harry can literally hear/feel death rushing forward to claim. And, like, the description, idk, it's chilling and I love it. Harry's entire narration throughout this class is great.

I just wanted to note it because I don't think AK having a sound/feeling to Harry is talked about enough (or at all). I wonder if other people hear/feel it too, since I mentioned in the past Harry's magic seems to be different.

So, I checked other scenes when the AK is used.

Voldemort's pov of the night he kills the Potters doesn't mention "the familiar sound of death" so, I assume he doesn't hear it:

“Avada Kedavra!” The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters glare like lightning rods, and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings were cut. . . .

(DH, 296)

Now, in other scenes in GoF and DH Harry doesn't mention the sound either, but usually, these are scenes where he has other things on his mind (Cedric dying, him dying, people dying in general) so I don't blame him for not focusing on the sound of the Killing Curse. But, it feels like another aspect of magic unique to Harry since no one mentions AK has a sound or a feeling of something rushing past them. I just find that description really interesting.

[cherryslyce]

Enclosed To You | Regulus Black

Synopsis: To cope with your lonely marriage to Regulus, you begin to pen letters to him without the intention of ever sending them. As you both grow closer, you decide to continue the hobby until the very end.

Pairing: Regulus Black x Reader

Notes: I got this idea just as I was about to fall asleep. This fic switches perspectives a bit, so I hope I blended it seamlessly.

Regulus Black prided himself in his innate ability to read through fake pleasantries, steel gaze rippling through any fool willing to throw in their chance at trying to deceive the young heir. 

With the sudden void torn into his life at his brother’s department from the family, Regulus found his heart crystallizing to preserve what little warmth he had left of his childhood. Gone were the sunny days spent in ignorance bliss, now marred by the ricochet of his brother’s insatiable foolhardy nature. 

Make perfect marks. The Noble House of Black will not be tainted by academic shortcomings 

Bring pride to your house and win the Quidditch Cup, but be vigilant on the field. There is no use for a cripple as the Black Lord—no, the House of Black will never face such ignominy. 

Never forget, there is no pity given for incompetence. Do well to remember the proper etiquette.

Condemn those who have turned against what we stand for—who have turned against our family. 

Do not bring up that vile brat’s name. 

Do better. 

We did not raise you to be so fallible. 

Toujours pur, Regulus. Do not forget yourself. 

Do not fail us, do not desecrate everything we have worked for. 

Be the perfect heir. 

His mother’s words were imprinted into his head, carving themselves into every fiber of his being until not even a modicum of imperfection was plausible.

He would become the perfect heir. 

He would ignore the burning ache in his chest that pried into his soul. He would squash the buds of hope that planted themselves into his head. He would sharpen his mind and hone his stone mask. He would dance with whoever his parents wanted, and he would pretend to care for what the other heirs had to say. 

He would be what his parents expected him to be. 

He would forget his dreams of being like his big brother. He would forget the needless longing for freedom. 

Which is why he allowed his mother to do as she pleased – even now, as she finalized the contracts of his marriage arrangement. 

It was a particularly bright day, the singing of birds drifted through the air and danced into the somber parlor. Regulus was intent on scanning through the paper in front of him as to avoid looking into his father’s expectant eyes, lips drawn together to hide his vexation. 

You were a familiar face, and Regulus vaguely recalls you as a classmate of his, a quiet and diligent student. He hadn’t even known you came from a prominent family, and he was surprised that his parents would agree to the pairing as it was apparent that your family was neutral and not dark-aligned. 

He almost allowed himself to frown; you looked unshaken by the arrangement. 

Yet, he was barely able to contain himself from walking out. He was far from thrilled.

He would fulfill his duties, no more and no less. 

He was not going to paint an illusion of love, and he hoped you would not be foolish enough to believe him desiring to provide as much.

With that resolve in mind, Regulus draws the quill into his hand and signs the contract. 

The months flush by in periods of chill and gloom, sunshine becoming a rarity as Voldemort continued to infiltrate and pollute sectors of Magical Britain with his influence. Despite how stressful his studies were, Regulus carved time to research the growing support behind Voldemort and the benefits to joining the movement. 

Regulus does not even wait until after graduation to be marked. It took a little nudge from his father to come to the decision, but Regulus has hope that perhaps Voldemort would be able to preserve the sanctity of blood purity and the immemorial wizarding traditions. 

You vehemently disapprove of his decision, but Regulus pays little mind to your opinion on the matter. He would ensure your safety, and keep you away from Voldemort if that was what you wished for, but he would not turn away from his desires because of your opinion. 

Inklings of hope for a warm relationship recede and wither by the sixth month of marriage. Regulus allows you freedom to wander about, granting you access to endless rows of grimoires, bottomless springs of galleons, tireless shipments of luxuries, and anything an aristocratic pureblood could dream of. 

He gives you everything you want, but one. His heart is hidden in the unrelenting walls he’s constructed, dangling in the darkness as you bat around futilely in search. 

It was only a few months after you and Regulus had graduated, and the marginal distance between you and the boy had hardly changed despite the fact that you were both living together now. Regulus threw himself into servitude under Voldemort, and he often was missing from the chilly manor. 

You find hobbies to distract yourself from the suffocating loneliness and dejection that trail you like a shadow. Deciding to pick up a childhood activity of yours, you begin to vent all your suppressed emotions onto paper.

Regulus is faintly aware of your newfound interest in journaling. He catches you more than a handful of times with your head buried in a worn journal, quill flying furiously across the pages as you furrow your brows in deep concentration. 

The heir is not sure when he started observing you so closely, but he is pleased by what he discerns. He admires your independence and proclivity for research, surprised by your ability to disappear for hours in a sea of books. 

Regulus begins to consider his options after realizing you wouldn’t try and force him to play the role of a doting husband. It would be counterproductive to continue putting a wedge between the both of you, and he wonders if a friendship is possible. 

He decides to spark up small conversations during your meals together to ease the tension.

At first, the chats are formulaic and polite, confusing you greatly as you observe the rigidness in the boy's frame. You weren’t sure what he was seeking to gain from your conversations since he seemed so stiff from just interacting with you. 

“Regulus, was there something you wanted from me?” You don’t lift your gaze from your plate as you bite the bullet, curiosity getting the better of you. 

The boy across from you tilts his head imperceptibly, “Not particularly.” 

Regulus had never asked anything of you before, and you had assumed that he simply felt uncomfortable with directly requesting you for something. As you peer up at his confused face, you are left breathless as his expression reflects his youth, mouth tugged in a boyish frown. 

You find yourself sitting up straighter, “Oh. Well, I’ve enjoyed our conversations thus far, so I just wanted to repay you.” Regulus’ eyes light up in realization at your remark, and you see him slowly consider his next words. 

“No worries. I figured that it would be beneficial to grow accustomed to each other despite how unconventional our situation may be.” His diplomatic words are paired with a small nod, and you find yourself leaning forward in interest. 

At the beginning of your marriage, you were deeply troubled by Regulus’ indifference towards pursuing a romantic connection, but as time passed, you grew to understand the situation. The marriage was solely for political reasons, and you could hardly complain since Regulus always treated you with respect and dignity. Secretly, you still held onto hope that he would warm up to you, but you knew how deeply affected he was by the disgracing of his brother. 

Nodding in agreement, you feel a small smile grace your face, “How unexpected. I’m in agreement.” 

From that moment onward, Regulus put forth an effort to get to know you, no longer barred by classes or personal reservations. The sudden feeling of companionship that warmed your body seemed to inspire energy into the dim manor, every room permeated with a newfound vitality. 

Your practice of writing down your thoughts in your journal soon shifted along with this change. The leather book in your hand quaked faintly as you finished up the last lines of your words. Craning back to reread the page, you almost want to vanish it as doubt takes root in your stomach. 

You had decided that you wanted to pen a small letter to Regulus, in part to express gratitude for his initiative, and also to perhaps become closer to him. As your eyes trail through the last line, you groan inaudibly as you feel your resolve crumble. 

Your ‘From, Y/N’ seemed to taunt you and you quickly shut the journal, deciding against sharing the letter with its intended. 

As the days waned by and summer dawned on Britain in rustles of wind and splinters of heat, you feel your friendship with Regulus slowly blooming like the azaleas in your garden. 

The day brought mercy on the world as capacious clouds masked the heat of the sun, generously casting verandas of shadows around your manor. Regulus had been faring decently among Voldemort’s forces as he fed you tidbits of his progress, telling you that he was perhaps even considered as a potential member of the man’s inner circle. 

You were heavily conflicted about Regulus‘ predicament, but you knew that there was nothing you could do to dissuade his goals. Regulus was mindful of your caution around the topic of Voldemort in general, and was careful to not let conversation stray too far into the topic of his duty. 

Instead of constantly recounting his varying missions and commands, Regulus often spoke to you about your future goals and plans together, and reminisced of your times at Hogwarts. 

“I was never invited to join it. I’m quite disappointed, it seemed like an interesting opportunity.” You reflect, keeping your steady pace as you stroll alongside Regulus. Since the day brought reprieve against the sun, you both decided to spend it outside in your gardens, admiring the hard work of your house elves. 

Regulus chuckles quietly, hands clasped behind his back as he kept his gaze downcast on his shoes, “Trust me, you were not missing out on much. The Slug Club was mainly just a gathering for people to peacock around.” 

Grinning widely, you avert your gaze to look over the treeline surrounding the perimeter of your grounds, “I see, and did you happen to flounce around and gloat as well?” 

Regulus playfully shoots you a narrowed look, “I have no need to debase myself in such a manner. Now, Lucius on the other hand…” 

Your laughter echoes around the garden, and you feel the stubborn glimmer of hope in your chest amplify. 

You find yourself sitting in your study hours later, left alone in your thoughts as Regulus sweeps off after being summoned unexpectedly. Eyeing the item in front of you, you sigh and give in. 

Summoning your quill and a pot of ink, you flip your journal to the next clean page, only briefly glancing at your abandoned letter to Regulus. Steadying your hand over the page, you begin to write. 

Regulus, 

Today we took a walk around the garden, and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life. I’m glad that you didn’t immediately reprimand me for my undignified actions, and I’m pleased that our chats are a regular thing nowadays. 

The flowers bloomed splendidly this season and I’m wondering if I should perhaps draw up some plans to remodel the abandoned wing of the manor. It gets boring when you are not around, and I swear I’ve already read everything in the library. 

Narcissa has been owling me more often as of late, and we are both surprisingly content with our arrangements. 

You’re currently off to meet your lord right now, but I hope you will return before nightfall. 

Gratefully, 

Y/N

Your third letter submission in your journal comes only a matter of days later. Regulus was slowly becoming more engrossed in his responsibilities, having officially been granted a spot in Voldemort’s inner circle. Luckily, he still found ways to make time with you and your friendship was growing stronger with every passing day. 

Regulus, 

Today you took me to the opera. I was quite surprised since I had only ever told Narcissa that I hoped to go again one day. I’m glad that the outing went well, even if you were bored half to death midway through (yes, I could tell). 

You’ve been gone for a few hours now, but I still feel the rush of our trip even as I write this. It seems that you will be busier in the following days, but I’m happy that you are working towards accomplishing your objectives. I can only hope that you are not tasked with something too daunting, though I have no doubt that you would manage to overcome it in the end. 

I haven’t told you the good news yet, but I received an owl yesterday from Gringotts that notified me that our request for the joint vault has been granted. 

Mother keeps pestering me to get a check up from our family’s personal healer, but I don’t understand the rush. She gets fussy every year about our family check ups, and father is positively worn out by it. 

Autumn is approaching, so cheers to many more seasons of friendship! 

Your friend, 

Y/N 

It was to be expected, but you couldn’t help but worry. Regulus was alight with joy as he strided across the parlor room, a glass of firewhiskey cradled to his chest. You were sitting on the velvet chaise lounge, mouth perking up at the boy’s gleeful expression. 

“So you accepted?” 

Regulus spins on his heel and moves to sit across from you on the complementary lounge, setting down his glass on the table between you both. 

“Of course. Kreacher will be delighted.” Regulus’ words are thick from the alcohol and he grins at your silent congratulatory expression. 

You were proud of Regulus’ strides in the group, happy that others could recognize his talents and cleverness. However, you couldn’t suppress the worry that bubbled over in your mind. The closer Regulus got to Voldemort, the more danger he was in. 

It was a narrow path he was venturing down, and you hoped that it wouldn’t push him out of your reach. 

You didn’t want to spoil the mood and bring up that concern amongst other things, so you decided to write out your thoughts in your journal once Regulus retired for the evening. 

Regulus, 

I am overjoyed by your happiness and accomplishments. Though, I still can’t help but worry, and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop worrying. But, I trust in your judgment and I know you would never throw yourself into the path of an oncoming blade. 

It is good to see your mind off of things that bring you so much sorrow. I know you didn’t notice, but I saw you burning letters from your mother a few dawns ago. I hope everything will be rectified on that front. 

I saw my family’s healer earlier today while you were called away. I understand why my mother was so paranoid with our health, but I will stop from spilling such concerns onto paper in hopes that it goes away. I will have to be put on a strict potions regime inconclusively, but I feel stronger than ever. 

I know you will be busy in the coming days, and I will pray for your safety from here. 

Sincerely, 

Y/N

Regulus is disoriented by the onslaught of emotions coursing through his body. At first, he attributed it to the joy of being initiated into his Lord’s inner circle, but he found that the feeling persisted even after then. 

He didn’t want to acknowledge them, but he knew where they stemmed from. 

You were much more of a force than he accounted for during the beginning of your marriage, and admittedly, he was too guarded to even consider befriending you until many moons circled by. 

He couldn’t pinpoint when his feelings morphed from platonic concern to more, but he allowed himself to bask in the feeling. Since he now had a firm standing in the death eater circle, he could protect you better, and so perhaps allowing himself to indulge in his romantic urges would be plausible. 

He knew you had concerns about his job, but he would never compromise your trust and wants by forcing you to follow his path. As he laid in bed, recalling your quiet chat in the parlor, he couldn’t tell if it was the thought of you or the firewhiskey that was causing his face to burn so fiercely. 

He found that he didn't mind all too much about which it may be.

The next few days were hectic for the both of you, and you barely managed to find time to eat together at least once a day.

It seemed so sudden. The shift in your relationship went unspoken, but exchanged glances and hidden smiles became the norm between you both. 

The tension of your blossoming feelings weighs heavy whenever you both lock eyes, the feeling of wires of electricity buzzing between your veins. 

The bud of hope that sprouted in your chest all those months ago bloomed on a particularly windy night after Regulus finished up some paperwork. You found yourself wandering into his study with a small smile and a glass of water. 

The boy shoots his head up to gaze at your approaching figure, eyes lighting up at your arrival. 

“Finished for the night?” Your words are light and cheerful and you have to ignore the twitch of your fingers as you take in Regulus’ disheveled appearance. A large part of you wanted to reach over and smooth out his curls, but you resisted and opted to pass over the glass to the tired boy. 

Regulus nods and twirls the glass appreciatively on his desk, “Fortunately, I am all caught up.” 

You hum and lean against the desk, turning your back to him as you scanned your eyes over all the decoration and furniture you’ve already imprinted into your memory. The warm pool stirring in your stomach consumed your thoughts, and all the worries of the world seemed to melt away. 

“Knut for your thoughts?” 

Peering over your shoulder, you smile teasingly at Regulus as he leans back in his chair. His gaze seemed to penetrate right through you, eyes dark from fatigue and an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. 

“It’s going to take a lot more than a knut.” Your playful words have him chuckling and shaking his head. 

You watch curiously as he pushes back his chair and rises from his seat, slowly rounding around his desk to stand in front of you. He quirks an eyebrow as you feel your face heating up at the close proximity, instinctively leaning back to peer into his eyes. 

“Oh? How much will it take then?” He breathes out. 

“Think you can afford it?” 

Your heart stutters as Regulus leans in towards you, “You’ll find that I have quite a bit to spare.” 

“I’m not swayed by money alone.” You retort quietly, desperately stopping your eyes from darting to his lips. 

“I have much more to offer than just money.” Regulus steps closer and places a hand on the desk, partially caging you in between him and the wooden piece of furniture. 

Tilting your head, you let your gaze drop down his face, “And here I thought you were a man of few words.” 

Regulus leans in closer and drops his other hand to your waist, eyes finding yours in search of something. He seems to be satisfied by what he sees and brings his face impossibly closer, pausing to silently ask for permission. 

When you don’t move away, he shifts to hold your waist tightly, “You’re right, I’m much more of a man of action.” 

Your brain short circuits as Regulus’ lips crash into yours, conveying the pent up emotions that he’s been keeping locked away. You move your hand to grip his neck, pulling him to your body as his hand begins to draw circles on your side. 

The world seemed to fade away as you spent the rest of the night in each other’s embrace, only breaking apart to share giddy laughter and loving smiles. 

Regulus, 

I suppose it has been a long time coming. I’ve never felt this way before, and frankly, it’s frightening. I think I understand what Narcissa means now when she says being around Lucius is like being enveloped in warmth, like stability and unrivaled fulfillment. 

It’s hard to put into words how much everything has changed overnight. I’m excited to see what our journey ahead will look like, and I’m already missing having you by my side. 

You’re not here today, and it’s given me some time to reflect. 

Just as you will do anything to ensure our happiness and safety, I will do the same. It is frightening and I know you will hardly understand when the time comes, but I have confidence that everything will be okay in the grand scheme of things. 

Love, 

Y/N 

A few days of bliss seem to drift by in honey-laced seconds, happiness and love drenching the manor’s atmosphere. You and Regulus were attached to the hip for many of those days, basking in each other’s arms and affection before you would both be separated by your tasks. 

Regulus was in fact a man of action, often choosing to linger around you as you paced around the manor in an effort to redecorate. Words did not need to be spoken, and you figured it was fitting in that way. 

You both never had to verbalize your feelings and intent to get the other to know. From the very beginning of your relationship to present time, it was always both of your individual actions that shone through. 

Unfortunately, Regulus had to attend to his duties soon after. With much hesitancy and lingering embraces, your husband left with Kreacher by his side. You were left to continue with your plans, and you hoped that Mother Magic would be merciful to you both. 

When Regulus returned in a storm of fury with an inconsolable, injured Kreacher by his side, you knew that something dire had occurred during his meeting with Voldemort. Your heart seemed to dunk into freezing water as Regulus shook in anger, barely containing himself as he told you what had happened. 

You knew that Regulus would move the entire world and beyond for those he loved, and Kreacher was no exception to your husband. Hearing about Voldemort’s deception and indifference to the elf’s life had you hardly surprised, but equally incensed. 

The day was marred by silent disbelief and anger, Regulus’ hurt at the betrayal palpable in the air even as dusk fell upon the manor in a sheet of grey. 

You supported Regulus as much as you could in the following days as he came to terms with the events. You also nursed Kreacher back to health as Regulus began to hatch his plans, stubbornly refusing to tell you more about what occurred, insisting that it was too dangerous for you to know. 

As soon as Kreacher was back on his feet again, Regulus asked for his help with his plans, leaving you to wander about. Deciding that lazing around was pointless, you decided to occupy yourself with your own plans as your husband locked himself away. 

It was currently nearing midnight, but unlike the previous week where you and Regulus would retire and go to sleep in each other’s arms, you were both awake on opposite ends of the manor. Realizing that Regulus was still closed off in his study, if the sliver of yellow light steadily peeking from under the door were to give any indication, you decide to sit and write another letter. 

Summoning a loose piece of parchment, you hastily race to write down your thoughts. 

Folding up the finished letter, you traverse back to your shared bedroom and carefully place it down on your pillow. 

Standing back to observe the paper, you hesitate to back away. A heavy stone seemed to weigh down your chest as you realize you need to draft up another letter, one that has you nearly hissing in displeasure. 

Making your way to your study, you fish out your journal from your desk and tentatively sit down. The quill in your hand seems to hang over the page for hours before the fog clears from your mind, and you’re able to formulate a satisfactory letter. As you sign your name, you let out a shaky exhale before summoning one of your house elves. 

“Bon, give this to Regulus if I don’t return by tomorrow evening.” 

The house elf carefully reaches for your journal, eyeing you with a knowing frown. Tucking the journal against his chest, the elf peers up at you with sad eyes, “Bon will do as you say.” 

Taking one last look at your bedroom and at your house elf, you make your way out of the manor, wand and cloak in hand. 

In the whistling of the wind, echoed by the rustling of tree leaves, you noiselessly apparate away without turning back. The moon gleams down on the darkened manor, and the stars seem to fade away from the inky sky. 

It takes Regulus five days after Kreacher’s near death experience to hatch a plan. His heart hangs heavy in his chest as doubt drills through his body like a fervent cramp. The door to his study cracks open with a noise of protest, and Regulus steps out for the first time in days. 

The house is quiet, the dim light serenely pouring through the windows indicating that it was near dawn. 

He needed to make a choice, one that he couldn’t go back on. 

But as he wanders through the desolate hallway, a muffled pop stops him in his tracks. 

“Bon? Where is Y/N?” 

The elf gazes at the boy with shiny eyes and wordlessly extends a journal, one that he recognizes to be yours, out to him. Before Regulus can question the small creature, Bon pops away just as quickly as he came. 

Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Regulus continues on his journey to your bedroom, intent on holding you in his arms to distract himself from the world. 

Regulus is hit with confusion when he sees your bed empty, sheets pulled neatly to emphasize its vacancy. Before Regulus can spin on his heel to track you down, his eyes are drawn to a piece of paper carefully folded on your pillow. 

The contents of the note has him shakily sitting down on the bed, hands hurrying to open your journal. 

Regulus, 

I didn’t realize how bad it was. The healers are saying there might be a chance, but if you’re reading this, I’m afraid it was futile. As my previous letters indicate, the blood curse didn’t present itself until recently, but it’s been degrading my soul quite rapidly for a long time. I know this isn’t the explanation you want–the explanation you deserve–but I know very little about it myself. 

I won’t lie to you. I’m scared. 

I hope you never have to read this. I hope I made my way back home, cured, and ready to assist you with your plans for Voldemort. 

But in case that doesn’t come to be, I want to make sure I leave something behind for you. 

Even now, I’m unsure how to write out my feelings, but I need you to know that there was nothing you could have done to stop this. I made this decision because I didn’t want you to worry or suffer. It was selfish to hide the truth, but I would do it again if I had to. 

But Reggie–Thank you for everything. Being with you was everything I hoped for it to be, and I’m so grateful that it was you I fell in love with. I know it wasn’t easy for either of us at the start, but you never made me feel inept or undeserving. Loving you has been the greatest privilege of my life, and I hope we can reunite one day. 

Do not worry about me, I will be by the seaside somewhere. I've always wanted to see the ocean with you, it just seems like I'll be the first to get there.

Let’s meet again one day, my man of action. 

Endlessly Yours, 

Y/N 

Regulus runs his thumb across the journal page one last time, eyes flickering across the swirl of words in front of him. 

Looking up from your journal, he wipes away a stray tear as he turns his gaze upward. The crashing of frenzied waves had mist swiping across his figure every so often, but he could hardly focus on the droplets clinging to his face. Rigidly standing by the cliffside, he hardened his resolve.

He would dance amongst the waves with you soon, death eater duty be damned. 

With a content stretch of his lips, Regulus enters the dark cave. 

He knows he will not breathe to see another moon, but he’s never felt so unbound. 

He was free. Free at last to walk away from his responsibilities and burdens. 

So he walks. 

masterlist

[almmoon006]

Period comfort headcanons (Voldemort's wife reader)

Tw: no; he's kinda far from canon character, I just needed his care really.

• Voldemort is far from the usual understanding of comfort, after all, from early childhood he was left to himself and did not feel the care, love, or even kindness of others. He's not even sure he's capable of love himself, considering he was conceived under a love potion. But when it came to you, it seemed like everything was different.

• You were the wife of the Dark Lord, and every time the Death Eaters wondered how it happened that such a beautiful and powerful witch was bound by magical bonds with the darkest wizard of the century. They didn't know that you remembered him as Tom when he was working after Hogwarts. And even if they had, they wouldn't have believed it, after all, you looked much younger than your years because of the peculiarities of your kind.

• He wasn't sure what he loved. No, it was like a desire to possess, an obsession, which is more typical of this dark wizard. But at the same time, he could be attentive and gentle to you when his mind was not filled with a red veil, and another unforgivable curse was not trembling at the end of the wand. He had a soft spot for you, damn Merlin. But it was a strangely pleasant feeling.

• You were the only one who was able to calm his frequent seizures and you didn't seem to be repelled by his snake-like appearance.

• Therefore, he was extremely angry at such moments of weakness. He was mad at you because, damn it, you (like other women damn it) have this Muggle thing, for himself that he couldn't completely rid you of those damn days, for the whole world that was always against you and him.

• He knew very little about female physiology. Of course, they didn't talk about this at the magic school, but he often saw and heard the older girls talking about something like this when he was a little boy at the orphanage. He also often asked Narcissa for advice, with whom you had such a good relationship.

• It was unpleasant to watch you lying on your big bed and squirming from another convulsion. He felt a chill all over his skin while your face writhed in discomfort like a damn Cruciatus. And it would be better if it really was a spell. At least the dark wizard would know what to do.

• Every month, he forced Snape to brew a potion to reduce pain and a potion to restore strength. Tom saw how pale and depressed you were during your period, so he often used some artifacts to try to improve your well-being.

• Nagini has always been the main outlet. The girl really loved you very much and accepted you as an equal to her master. She seemed to understand you as a woman during your period and was always there for you. The snake wrapped around your body, pressing on all the right places to ease the pain. Her cold, scaly skin felt good against your hot one. The big body was a pleasant weight on them from your stomach, gently pressing and reducing the pain. And the soft hissing soothed and lulled you to sleep.

• You used to sit at the table in the meeting room exactly on the right side, close to the Dark Lord. During your period, you spent all your time in the bedroom, and it was terribly unnerving. If on normal days you were the only one who had at least some control over the magician's anger, then when you weren't around, all the Death Eaters felt a tight tension in the room and were afraid to say too much, so as not to attract the wrath of their master. Voldemort wouldn't admit to being bored, no. No, he's not worried. It was just that your presence made everything bearable.

• He spoiled you. Any whim of yours, as on any other day, in principle, was instantly fulfilled. Voldemort brought you various sweets and delicious dishes just to make you feel better.

• Anyone who made you cry was instantly put under severe Cruciatus. It doesn't matter if something else upset you, and Lucius or Barty just happened to be there, they shouldn't have caused his wife any discomfort.

• You were the only person whose tears made Voldemort feel bad. That's why he tried to treat you kindly and tenderly, because he knew how painful you were feeling these days. Your tears made his heart (which he still had) contract painfully. He just pulled you into his arms and gently stroked your hair, soothing you and rocking you to sleep.

• He bought more and more blankets, fluffy blankets and soft pillows to make you feel comfortable and calm. Plush toys, hot water bottles, small trinkets. He even considered buying you a cat, but decided against it, deciding that sweet Nagini is doing a good job of this role.

• During your period, he tried to get off work as early as possible. A quick shower so that your sensitive nose won't be bothered by the persistent smell of blood, and clean, loose clothes. He would lie down on your bed and pull you as close as possible, wrapping you in a cocoon of his own hands and blankets. Nagini curled up on the other side, gently wrapping around your waist and habitually reducing the pain in your stomach. Voldemort gently stroked your hair, allowing you to snuggle against his chest and inhale his soothing, soap-scented scent.

[metalomagnetic]

I am spiraling into Sirius being a father again.

His relationship with his sons and harry are so interesting to me. Because it seems to me they all want to be his favorite child , even Marvolo who seems to like his mother better.

And we see a lot of glimpses of them being a little jealous of each other. So this makes me wonder , does Orion sometimes resent Harry for being the "favorite". Because Sirius gives Harry a lot of special treatment even if he doesn't realize it himself.

I imagine it would get worse after Voldemort comes back and wants to kill Harry , so it would be logical for Sirius to get even more protective of Harry.

But hey , maybe i'm reaching a little too far because i love angst too much.

All the boys want to be Sirius' favourite, of course.

You didn't reach too far at all. That 'your precious Harry' Orion let out shows there is some resentment there. Orion loves Harry, but one has to be blind not to notice Sirius treats them differently.

And children are jealous, generally. Especially so young. Especially when there are already expectations on Orion's shoulders to be the perfect Black Heir, meanwhile Harry can do whatever he likes with little to no repercussion. Of course, here is not just Sirius that puts pressure on Orion, but the entire family.

On the other side, even if Harry isn't at all jealous that he doesn't get smacked around by Sirius, Walburga and Arcturus (RIP), he, too has some insecurities about the entire Black/non-Black thing. But Harry is not only older, more chill, but also Sirius' devotion to him helps a lot, so Harry isn't resentful of the other boys, just sometimes insecure.

Poor Marvolo has it the worst (in his head) because there's Harry the Golden Child, Orion the Heir, and now Helix the baby that captures more attention, so he feels he has to compete extra hard; though, he's more resentful of Orion, not Harry,

They do all love the other, but sometimes brothers do get like that, even in normal families, let alone the most noble and ancient House of Black.

I do think Lucius was right, and Sirius should have treated them all the same, but Sirius doesn't want to 'steal' James' place as father, even if it's a fool's errand, since James has no place in Harry's life. But, for James' memory, he tries to raise Harry how James would have raised him, once again, an impossible task, because Harry is surrounded by values James wouldn't have exposed Harry to, anyway.

It would have been better if Sirius was ready for children, and if he wasn't so traumatised when he took Harry and then practically had Orion and Marvolo back to back. He really wasn't ready for all that, but well Harry had to be taken care of, and then his lovely family pushed him into marriage and here we are.

Mistakes were made.

Still, despite all that, they do have a loving family. All those children know they are loved fiercely. They just compete for the 'favourite' spot.