oneshots & reacts; slytherin boys

T.N. | Home

no warnings for this one really, maybe just mentions of the war and how bad azkaban treats its prisoners

that being said it is vanilla sex!

Today is the 6th July 2003.

Five years. Two months. One week. Three days. Four hours. Thirty four minutes. Twenty seven seconds. And counting.

That is how long you have gone without him.

Five years of waking up day and day without a warm body by your side after nightmares. Not after Pansy moved out, at least.

Five years of mindlessly walking through the streets you would run through, laughing with him, because you couldn't stand the memories when he wasn't there.

Five years of missing him like your very ribs have been extracted, your battered heart out for the world to hurt.

You abandon your tooth brush back on the ledge of the sink, knuckles rubbing the sleepy crust from your eyes as you run the water warm.

The curl of your back aches as you lean forwards, splashing water on your features before gently scrubbing your hands over your skin to get rid of the drowsiness.

You'd dreamt of Theo, again.

Not the sunken, frail version you had to watch him be on that one, singular visit to his cell four years ago.

No, Theo in his prime.

With beautiful mousy brown hair that shone unfiltered gold in the sunlight. His face that never betrayed his secrets to strangers, yet would morph to tell the most beautiful story to you. Eyes of aquatic beauty, intense with the warmth of love filled words.

Back when he wasn't a criminal. Back when you were allowed to love him without the restraint of bars between you, and chains shackling him to a wall.

You straighten up, water dripping down the curve of your chin to follow the trace of your jugular into your large t-shirt.

The dreams don't help the ache settle between your ribs, curling and coiling something awful whenever the world dares to remind you of him.

Which, in a manner both unfortunate and fortunate, is all the time.

You love that you aren't granted the ignorance of forgetting your lover, but the ache is a hefty price to pay; you'll pay it anyways.

Slowly, you dry your face off, before abandoning the towel and leaving your bathroom.

The Nott mansion is spacious and luxurious, the house elves working hard to keep it in a good state despite you being the only one living here.

Since Theodore's father died, his son made sure that any and all fortunes were accessible to you, with the message to spend his inherited money at will.

He can't spend it much himself, since he's locked away behind bars.

With a muffled groan, you scratch your hand up your bare thigh, traversing the barren halls lined with portraits that are proof of Theo's lineage. The same, identical blue eyes stare from multiple faces; so different yet so much the same, that unmistakeable hidden tang of Nott hidden in the many features.

The one and only portrait you actually take the time to inspect and look at is the only family portrayal of Theo and his parents, with the dark oil paints doing little justice to what sense of family there actually was.