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The air in the Great Hall, even with the enchanted ceiling swirling with grey, late-winter clouds, felt thick and suffocating with the saccharine scent of impending Valentine’s Day. Tiny pink and red hearts, some of them fluttering with feathery wings like miniature, confused Cupids, drifted down from the heavens, only to be promptly Vanished by the exasperated house-elves before they could land in the stew. Harry, hunched over a lukewarm cup of tea, found them profoundly irritating.
He caught Ron’s eye across the table. His best mate was holding Hermione’s hand under the table, a smug, dopey smile on his face that was only interrupted by the occasional, nervous wipe of his brow. Ron had, with Hermione’s help and a healthy dose of parental advice, finally figured out how to be in a stable relationship without either of them setting fire to a room. Harry was happy for them, truly. But it also left a gaping, aching hole where a person of his own should have been.
He’d lost so much during the war, but he’d also been given so much back. Sirius. A home that didn’t smell of mothballs and stale air. The chance to finish his education. The weight of the world was no longer solely on his shoulders, but the shift from constant action to quiet normalcy had left him feeling untethered.
He felt the loneliness not as an absence of people—he was constantly surrounded—but as an absence of a specific person. Someone who felt like a gravitational center. Someone he could simply be with.
He’d changed, too. The war had chiseled away at him, but living with Sirius, eating regular meals cooked by Kreacher with an almost-loving devotion, and having the constant presence of a family, had allowed him to fill out. He was still lean, but not gaunt. He had muscle, yes, but not the heavy, blocky kind of a bruiser; it was the sinewy, efficient strength of a runner. The kind of strength that came from endless practice on the Quidditch pitch and the instincts of a survivor. He was taller than most girls in his year and even a few of the boys, but he still felt small. It was a phantom feeling, a memory of a time when he had been truly starved, but it lingered, a quiet hum beneath his skin. He was told by Hermione and Sirius that he had a "decent backside" now, a comment that had made him flush a deep scarlet, but he'd caught his own reflection in the mirror and grudgingly agreed. The jeans and trousers he wore now fit differently, clinging in a way that felt foreign and a little… revealing.
He glanced up towards the Slytherin table, as he found himself doing at least a dozen times a day. He’d made a kind of truce with Draco after the war. The whole Wizengamot trial had been a farce, but Harry had spoken up, not for Lucius, but for Narcissa and Draco. He knew what it was like to make impossible choices under duress, and he hadn’t forgotten how Narcissa had lied to Voldemort for him. Their relationship was now one of mutual, distant respect. They didn't hang out, not really, but they didn’t snipe at each other. They'd nod in the corridors, and sometimes Draco would look at him with a strange, unreadable expression that Harry couldn’t parse.
But it wasn't Draco he was looking for.
It was Theodore Nott.
Theo was sitting three seats down from Draco, his long, dark hair falling into his eyes as he read a textbook, a cup of something steaming beside him. Unlike the sharp, angular physique of most Slytherins, Theo was built on a different scale. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with a quiet, powerful grace that Harry had never seen anyone else possess. He wasn't like a bulky weightlifter; he was more like a mountain that had been carved by the wind and rain over centuries. The kind of person who could stand in a raging storm and not be moved. He was solid. He was there .
Harry’s heart gave a little, traitorous thump. It had been doing that a lot lately. He remembered the first time he’d really seen Theo. It was during a particularly grueling Charms class back in sixth year, after Dumbledore had died and the world had started to feel like it was coming apart. Harry had been trying to get a complicated non-verbal charm to work, his mind a sieve of anxiety, and his wand hand had been shaking. He’d seen Theo a few tables over, his face a mask of serene concentration. Then, for a split second, Theo’s eyes had met his, a soft, understanding look in their depths, and the look had settled Harry’s frantic magic like a stone at the bottom of a fast-moving stream. He had completed the charm on the next try. It was a small, insignificant moment, but it had stayed with him. A single island of calm in a sea of chaos.
Another memory bubbled up, this one from a few months ago. It was late, and Harry had been studying in the library. He’d been trying to find a book on advanced Arithmancy, a subject that had always felt like trying to grab smoke. He’d finally located it on a high shelf, but he was just a little too short to reach. He’d stretched, his fingers brushing against the spine, when a hand reached over his shoulder and simply plucked the book down.
It was Theo. He hadn’t said a word, just handed the book to Harry, his fingers brushing against Harry’s knuckles for just a second too long. Harry had felt a jolt—not of recognition, but of pure, unadulterated sensation. He’d looked up, his eyes meeting Theo’s for a moment. Theo’s expression was unreadable as usual, but there was a flicker in his dark eyes that Harry couldn't interpret. A second later, it was gone, and Theo was walking away. But Harry had stood there for a full minute, the book held loosely in his hands, his blood thrumming with a heat that had nothing to do with the library's fireplace.
That was the moment it had solidified. The quiet, simmering curiosity he'd had for Theo had boiled over into a full-blown crush. A crush on the quiet Slytherin who rarely spoke, who seemed to carry a weight of his own, and who looked at Harry with an expression that Harry just couldn't read.
The problem was, Harry had no idea how to approach any of this. He was the hero. He was the one who was supposed to be in charge. He’d faced down the Dark Lord, Death Eaters, and Dementors. But when it came to a simple, human emotion like liking someone, he felt like a first-year again, completely lost. He couldn’t just walk up to Theo and say, “I think you’re nice to look at, and I feel all fluttery when you're near me.” That was a ridiculously Gryffindor thing to do, and he was quite sure Theo would simply stare at him with that blank face of his and walk away.
And Theo seemed just as closed off. He would occasionally offer a small nod in the corridors. He’d sit at the Gryffindor table for meals when Draco and Blaise would drag him over, their own truce with Harry's group surprisingly solid. But he never made eye contact, or at least, not prolonged eye contact.
Draco and Blaise, however, had seemed to figure things out. Their exasperation was palpable. Harry had been sitting in the library one evening, trying to work on his Transfiguration essay, when Draco had appeared out of nowhere, holding a thick, leather-bound volume.
“Potter,” he’d said, his voice a low hiss. “This is the only book in the entire library on advanced runes. Nott needs it. I’ll make you a deal: you go give it to him yourself, and I won’t tell anyone you still don’t know how to summon a decent Patronus.”
Harry had bristled instantly. "I can summon a Patronus perfectly well, thank you very much."
Draco just gave him a look. "An elephant. You summon a bloody elephant. It’s an embarrassment. Now go.”
Harry had walked the book over, his heart hammering. He’d been trying to find an excuse to talk to Theo for weeks. But when he handed him the book, Theo had simply said, “Thanks,” and turned back to his work. Harry had stood there, his tongue feeling thick and useless, before finally turning away, his cheeks burning.
The feeling of failure was a sharp sting.
A week later, Blaise had cornered him in the potions classroom. "Listen, Potter," he’d said, his voice quiet. "I’m going to be straight with you. Theo’s an idiot. And you’re an idiot. He thinks he needs to stay away from you because… well, because of the whole war thing. And because he thinks you don’t feel the same way. But he’s an idiot because he’s also painfully obvious about it.”
“What are you talking about?” Harry had asked, his voice coming out a little too high.
“Don’t play dumb. He’s in a mood all the time because he sees you talking to someone else. And the way he looks at you when you’re not looking? The boy is gone. He’s completely smitten. He just doesn’t know what to do with it.” Blaise had sighed, a dramatic sigh that rivaled Hermione's. "So for the love of Merlin, do something about it. I can't take the moodiness anymore."
The conversation had given Harry a tiny spark of hope, but he still had no idea what to do. His Gryffindor instincts were screaming at him to just go for it, to ask Theo to Hogsmeade or for a walk by the lake. But he was terrified. The thought of rejection, of losing even the quiet, fragile connection they had, felt worse than a thousand curses. So he had done what he did best: avoided the issue entirely, retreating into his books, his Quidditch practice, and the safe, comforting presence of Ron and Hermione.
The days crawled by, the air growing colder, and the Valentine’s Day decorations more aggressive. Harry found himself walking the corridors in a daze, his mind replaying every small interaction, every glance, every touch. He was so consumed by his thoughts that he didn’t notice the boy following him until it was too late.
It was after a particularly boring Defence Against the Dark Arts class. Harry had decided to take a longer route back to the common room, needing to clear his head. He'd cut through a series of seldom-used corridors on the seventh floor, the same ones he’d used countless times to avoid Peeves or Filch. The corridors were quiet, lined with dusty portraits that looked down on him with indifferent, painted eyes.
He rounded a corner and was suddenly stopped. A tall, sandy-haired boy from Durmstrang, a new arrival this year, was blocking his way. The boy, who Harry knew was named Anton, had an arrogant smirk on his face.
"Potter," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Heard you've made quite a name for yourself."
Harry’s hand went to his wand instinctively. "Can I help you?"
"Maybe. I've been watching you. You've got a nice little build on you now. The war was good to you, wasn't it?"
Harry’s stomach turned. He hated this kind of talk. Hated being looked at like he was a piece of meat. "Look, I’m not interested." He tried to sidestep him, but the boy, Anton, moved to block him again.
"Oh, come on, Potter. I’ve seen you with your little Slytherin friend. Don't tell me he's your type. He's so… intense. And so quiet. A little shy?" Anton’s eyes raked over Harry’s body in a way that made his skin crawl. "I, on the other hand, am very much not shy."
Harry felt his magic flare, a protective warmth, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, icy cold that spread from his gut. Anton’s eyes fell to Harry's backside, and a predatory glint appeared in them.
"I can tell you’ve put on some good weight," he murmured, and then, his hand was on Harry's arse, a solid, possessive squeeze.
Harry’s mind went blank with shock and rage. He was ready to curse the boy into next week, to turn him into a ferret, a hedgehog, anything. His wand was already in his hand. But before he could even utter a syllable, a voice, cold and sharp as splintered ice, cut through the tense silence.
"Take your hand off him."
It wasn’t a request. It was an order, delivered with a quiet fury that was more terrifying than any curse.
Harry's head snapped up. Theo Nott was standing at the end of the corridor, his face a mask of stone, his own wand held loosely, his knuckles white.
Anton’s smirk vanished. He let go of Harry, taking a step back. "Nott. What’s it to you?"
"It’s not for you to know," Theo said, his voice dropping another octave. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t shout, but every word felt like a death sentence. "The next time you even look at him, you will find yourself in the Hospital Wing, and you will not remember how you got there. Now, get out of my sight."
Anton, for all his arrogance, was no fool. He had clearly heard the rumors about Theo's private studies and his dark, unsettling family history. He looked from Theo to Harry, a flash of pure hatred in his eyes, before turning and fleeing down the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
The corridor was quiet again, the tension a living, breathing thing between them. Harry’s hand was still shaking, his wand held in a death grip. He looked at Theo, his heart pounding in his chest.
“I had it,” Harry said, his voice strained. “I was going to hex him.”
Theo took a slow step forward, his gaze fixed on Harry’s face. “I know you were.”
“Then why—”
“Because I saw him look at you, and I had to stop myself from wringing his neck,” Theo said, the words coming out in a rush, a low, guttural confession. He took another step, closing the distance between them. "I’ve seen him watching you all week. I knew he was going to try something. I just didn’t know where or when.”
Harry was stunned into silence. Theo looked… furious. His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes blazing with an emotion that was a mix of anger and something Harry didn’t dare name.
“I hate it,” Theo continued, his voice rough. “I hate that he touched you. I’ve been trying to stay away from you, trying to pretend that I don’t feel… this. But every time I see you talk to someone, every time I see someone look at you for too long, I want to hex them. I want to tell them to back off. Because you’re mine.”
The words hung in the air, a final, unshakeable declaration. Harry's brain seemed to short-circuit. You’re mine .
“I’m not… I’m not yours,” Harry managed, his voice a whisper. The words were a protest, but they sounded hollow even to his own ears. It was a reflex, the part of him that was used to fighting for every inch of his own life, his own space, his own autonomy. He didn’t want to be owned.
Theo took another step, so close now that Harry could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand, so large and steady, reached out and gently took Harry’s wand, tucking it back into his pocket. Harry let him. It was a small act of trust, a surrender of control he hadn’t known he was capable of.
"You are," Theo insisted, his voice soft but firm. "I know you are. I’ve been trying to convince myself otherwise for months. But it’s no use. I want you. I want you so much I can’t breathe.”
He reached for Harry, and for a moment, Harry tensed. He was about to protest, to tell Theo that he was a grown man, that he could handle his own fights, that he didn't need a protector. He'd been taught for so long to be independent, to be the one who saves everyone else. But as he looked into Theo's eyes, he saw something that wasn't about ownership. It was about fierce, quiet adoration. It was a silent plea, a promise that Theo would never take his autonomy, but that he would always be there.
Theo's hand came up, gently cupping Harry’s face. He leaned in, his lips just a breath away from Harry’s ear. “I tried to stay away,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I really tried. I thought… I thought you’d be better off without me. But I can't. Not anymore.”
Harry’s heart was hammering, a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt a wave of dizziness, of pure, unadulterated need. He’d been so lonely for so long, and here was someone, this quiet, terrifyingly intense boy, who saw him. Who wanted him.
“Is that… is that what you want?” Harry asked, the words barely audible. “You want me?”
Theo’s hand slid from Harry’s cheek, down his neck, and then—just like the harasser, but so, so different—came to rest on his arse. His grip was firm, possessive, but there was no malice in it. His thumb began to slowly, deliberately, massage the curve of Harry’s buttock. It was a bold, carnal gesture, but it was also a whisper of a promise, a claim that was both raw and unbelievably tender. Harry felt a shiver run through him, a jolt of pure pleasure that had him gasping.
“What I want,” Theo said, his voice a low rumble, “is to wring the neck of every person who has ever touched you, or who ever will. And I want to do this, because it’s a way of telling them, and you, that you’re mine now. But I need you to say yes.”
Harry’s breath hitched. Theo’s hand was still on him, kneading into the soft, muscular curve. It was a shocking, exhilarating feeling. A feeling of being seen, of being desired. It was so much more than what Anton had done. It was a claim, yes, but it was also a question. A plea.
He looked up at Theo, at the fire in his eyes, at the hope etched into the tense line of his mouth. And in that moment, all the Gryffindor bravado, all the years of fighting alone, melted away. He didn't want to fight this. He wanted to surrender to it. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be safe.
“Yes,” Harry said, his voice thick with emotion. “Yes, Theo. I’m yours.”
Theo’s face broke into a shaky smile, a small, triumphant, and achingly beautiful expression. He leaned in, his lips finally meeting Harry’s, a kiss that was both a promise and a beginning. It tasted of a quiet winter, of the scent of old books and magic, and of a raw, beautiful, and utterly undeniable connection. Theo’s hand tightened on Harry’s backside, and Harry leaned into it, an act of surrender he would never regret. He was no longer just the Boy Who Lived. He was also the boy who was found.
The End