ivy

ivy | she/her | requests are open!

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🎞 by.ivy - my written works

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🎻 ivy.talks - misc thoughts n rambles

“aren’t you meant to be studying, weasley?” you say, giggling as he plants soft kisses on your jaw.

your arms are wrapped around george’s neck as you sit on his lap, letting him nip and kiss as he pleases. “shh, give me a break, darling,” he replies breathlessly.

he told you he was behind on homework, so of course you said yes to accompanying him in his dorm like the good girlfriend you are. you didn’t realise he’d prove to be so… unproductive with you around.

“maybe i should go, i’m clearly distracting you..” you murmur, already making a move to get up but his grip on your waist tightens frantically like a vice.

“you stay right here. i focus better with you near me,” he lies through his teeth. you part your lips in a laugh, knowing the truth as you settle back into him.

“liar.”

“pretty girl.”

chat i might start writing for non hp characters 😦😦 WHO AM I

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You don’t expect to see them again so soon.

But Slytherins are as unpredictable as they are arrogant, and you feel their presence hovering at the back of the library like vultures. You know their eyes are on you before you even look up. You don’t need to. Your sixth sense is never wrong.

Theodore approaches first, because of course he does. The others hang back, gossiping as if this is some event.

“You fucked up the potion,” he says flatly, glancing at Lorenzo, who’s making obnoxious kissing sounds, with that unmistakable glare.

“Did I?” You blink, innocently.

“You know you did.”

You shake off the façade. “Maybe, but I fixed it first. That’s what you call balance,” you click your tongue, grinning. “You’re welcome, by the way. Again.”

Theo opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, but Enzo steps forward, smoothly cutting in first. “Listen, we need help. Real help.”

Now that piques your interest. Theo’s arms are crossed, tapping his feet impatiently like this is the last thing he wants to be doing. “Oh, princes asking help from a peasant, huh? This is a first.”

“If you’re the peasant, then I’m seriously rethinking the monarchy,” Enzo quips, not missing a beat as he sizes you up. It earns him a low whistle from Mattheo behind him and a glare from Theo. You try not to smirk. He’s quick. You like that.

“We need another Confusing Draught. A working one. Snape’s threatening to get us banned from Quidditch if we don’t get it to him,” Enzo continues, his smug grin making way for puppy dog eyes. He’s good at it, you’ll give him that.

“And we’re not about to let that happen,” Theo says, begrudgingly.

You sigh dramatically, shutting your book as you lean against the chair lazily. “Fine, but I have conditions.”

“Of course you do,” Theo mutters lowly.

“One: I’m in charge. Two: I pick the meeting place,” you start, rattling them off. You lean in, lips brushing Theo’s ear. “Three: You owe me.” Your last condition is said with so much mischief it sends chills running down his spine as the boys watch intently.

Your smile is wicked. “Deal!” Lorenzo says easily, before Theo can protest.

“Great! Third floor, second door to the right tomorrow at noon.”

Mattheo frowns. “But that place is forbidden.”

“Exactly,” you wink.

And then you’re gone, leaving everyone bewildered and bested, the only trace of you being the flush on Theo’s cheeks.

Enzo hardly registers you disappear behind the shelves, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m scared of her.”

Theo exhales slowly, eyes still on the space you just occupied. “Good,” he breathes.

Mattheo claps him on the shoulder, chuckling. “You are so screwed, mate.”

You’re already waiting when they arrive, once again leaning against the stone wall like it’s yours, wand spinning lazily between your fingers. You don’t even glance up as they come around the corner.

Theo steps in first, expression taut and unreadable. As always. Lorenzo trails behind, his hands in his pockets, followed by the rest. You grin at their entrance.

“Took you long enough,” you say, flicking your wand to shut the door behind them with a soft click. “Hope no one saw you.”

“We had to bribe Peeves. Kept singing songs about Enzo’s love life. Git cost me ten pounds,” Mattheo says exasperatedly, dusting cobwebs off his sleeve.

You snicker. “What’s he gonna do with ten pounds?”

“Worth it!” Lorenzo says, looking around the dusty classroom. Or what used to be a classroom. “What’s all this?”

He struts across the room, grazing his hands over the lovingly dented cauldron and the worn desk. Blaise follows, narrowing his eyes at what seems to be just another day to you. “Done this before?” he asks.

“Here and there,” you say vaguely, preparing the ingredients.

“Are you gonna teach us something or what?” Theo mumbles impatiently, crossing his arms.

“Touchy,” you say. And then, more quietly, “As if you have places to be.” You know Theo hears that, because he rolls his eyes and steps forward to be closer to the desk.

The potion begins with reluctant cooperation. Mattheo does what he can, being mildly helpful along with Blaise and Draco bar for when he almost sets his sleeve on fire. Enzo proves annoyingly competent, following you around like a lost puppy, awaiting your direction. Theo… watches. A lot. Not just the potion, but you. Your hands, your frown when Mattheo adds too much scurvy grass, the tiny upturn of your lips when Enzo actually stirs at the correct speed.

You notice, of course. And you let him.

“You’re not going to help?” you ask him finally, once you feel he’s stolen enough glances. “You can wash your hands, you know,” you say, acting like you’re mistaking him for being posh.

“I’m observing.”

You hum, a high sound that all but knocks the wind out of his chest. “Right. Observing,” you say with too much emphasis. “That’s what we’re calling it.

Draco and Enzo exchange funny looks and Mattheo ribs Blaise. Theo goes quiet, like he isn’t already. He mutters something about checking the book, but he doesn’t stop staring.

Once the potion is an acceptable shade of emerald green, you hop up, loosening your tie with a smile. “Congratulations! A passable Confusing Draught. I’m shocked. Truly,” you deadpan.

“Are you going to sabotage it again?” Theo says incredulously.

You peer into the cauldron. “Tempting.” You smile.

“You owe us a working one.”

“And you owe me,” you counter, stepping closer. It makes his breath hitch.

“I know,” he whispers, forgetting the room around him. Enzo clears his throat before Theo can respond and tosses something your way— a wrapped box. Small, square, and suspiciously rattling.

“Fret not, Miss Potions Expert. We held up our end of the bargain.”

You raise a brow and unwrap it slowly. Inside was a vial holder, adorned with a small bottle of familiarly orange substance. Felix Felicis, you realise, scoffing at the thought. Then you see the note.

“For your next adventure,” it reads, written in expensive cursive.

Your smile falters for a second. Then you recover.

“Sentimental,” you say, slipping the vial into your pocket. “Dangerous. I like it.”

Theo finally speaks. “You never gave me your name.”

You flash him another grin. “That still depends.”

“On?”

“The same old thing— whether you’re going to thank me or not.”

He inhales. Takes a step forward, almost as if he’s challenging you. “Thank you,” he whispers, like it costs him something.

You freeze. Then you smirk. “Well, damn. Now I actually have to tell you.”

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The dungeon reeks of failure.

Theodore Nott stands over the simmering cauldron, his perfectly pressed robes now dusted in sneezewort.

“Is it meant to do that?” Draco raises a brow, staring into the concoction as it hisses and spits like an angry cat. Mattheo snickers.

“This is supposed to be emerald green. The book was very clear,” Theo mutters, frowning at the muddy blue mess before him.

“Yes, well, perhaps the book didn’t anticipate you foolishly adding scurvy grass before the lovage,” a voice drawls from the swung-open dungeon doorway.

Theo turns, irritation flaring, but his words die on his lips when he sees you.

You lean against the stone wall like you own the place, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips. Your robes are a tad frayed at the ends, sleeves rolled and hair messy in a way that says you’ve either come from detention or caused one.

“Oh, good,” he starts, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Miss Potions Expert has arrived.”

You saunter in without waiting for an invitation, peering into the cauldron with mild amusement. “You know this isn’t a Confusing Draught, right? What you’ve got here is dangerously close to… well, something explosive.”

The boys exchange glances you can’t quite understand.

“And I suppose you think you could do better?” Theo says coolly.

You shoot him a lopsided grin. “I know I can. Move.”

Theo doesn’t make any move to slide over. You huff and push him aside, kneeling beside the cauldron, muttering under your breath as you survey the damage of his silly mistakes. Mattheo and Lorenzo murmur to each other, something about how furious Theo looks.

You stir counterclockwise, slowly pouring in more lovage and a dash of lacewing flies. The potion immediately settles, morphing into a green that shimmers just right in the torchlight.

Theo’s eyes widen, his friends swapping looks between you and him, and then at each other.

“You’re welcome,” you say impatiently, waiting for a thank you that you know won’t come.

He scoffs, inspecting the brew from the ladle. “How did you do that?” he says, disregarding the expectant expression on your face.

“I’ve made like a hundred of these before. Good prank stuff.”

His brows furrow, staring at you like you’re an alien. He blinks twice. “You’ve used these on people?”

“Only those deserving,” you say sweetly, lacing your hands together as you sway.

For a moment, Theo’s face changes. His lips twitch, a laugh threatening to slip out and ruin his awfully aristocratic act. He mentally curses himself because he knows you’ve caught it.

“What’s your name?” he says, swallowing, his pride going down with the lump in his throat.

You raise your brow. “Depends.”

“On?”

“If you’re going to thank me or not.” He scoffs and you wonder how many times a day he does that. You take it as a no. You give him another chance, anticipating. He doesn’t crack. “Then it’s Have-Fun-Fixing-This,” you say quickly, tossing a purple liquid into the cauldron, effectively maddening the potion once again.

Theo’s jaw goes slack as you skip out of the room, not bothering to shut the door. The sound of your trainers pattering against the cold floor mixes with the sizzle of the ruined concoction, the faint scent of mischief trailing behind you like smoke.

Enzo’s hysterical laugh breaks the quiet. “She’s awesome.”

Mattheo joins in. “I might be in love with her.”

He shoots his friends a glare, like they’re saying something they shouldn’t be. Enzo takes notice. “Chill, she’s all yours.”

Theo’s harsh stare lingers a beat too long. “She is not—”

“Yours?” Mattheo finishes, grinning.

Theo doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs his wand and begins a cleaning spell over the cauldron, but the potion hisses louder, as if mocking him. The spell fails to do much of anything, other than deepen the green into an aggressive chartreuse.

Enzo whistles. “Yeah, that’s definitely explosive now.”

Theo exhales sharply through his nose, jaw clenched. But even as the cauldron bubbles over again, onto his expensive, perfectly polished shoes, his mind is elsewhere—on the swing of your skip as you left, on the sly grin you gave him before ruining his potion on purpose. On how you didn’t even bother giving your name.

“She’ll be back,” Enzo adds, like it’s comfort, leaning against the table.

Draco nods. “No way someone like that just walks in once and vanishes.”

Theo doesn’t say anything, but he can still smell the ghost of what could be your perfume, could be remnants of chaos. He knows they’re right.

People like you don’t just vanish.

You explode back into their lives exactly when they least expect it.

happy birthday to my husband and his hot twin

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It was late, too late, really, when you found him. Tom was sitting by the window of the library, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face. He looks something of an Adonis.

You smile when you see him. You always do. It’s been a little bit since you’d had any time to talk. Between Murphy, exams, and Camilla, you’ve been distracted. For a moment, as you look at him, staring into his pensive eyes, you dare to hope everything will turn out fine.

“Tom,” you whisper, his name slipping from your lips the way it always does. The way that reduces him to something so pathetic he scowls at the thought. Though this time, your call doesn’t seem to draw him in.

When he finally looks at you, there’s something different in his features. You soon realise there’s no contemplation on his face. Not anger or frustration either. It’s empty.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” you say, forcing a cheerful smile, but it falls weak in the heaviness of the air. You step forward.

“Have you?” His voice was flat, detached.

You nod, trying to settle the unease bubbling in your chest. “Of course I have. It’s not like you’ve been making it easy to find you lately,” you tease lightly, but his lips stay set in a tight line. There was no flicker of amusement. “What’s wrong?”

Tom’s gaze moves to the floor, fingers twitching against the edge of the table. A muscle in his jaw ticks and his eyes meet yours again, dark and unreadable.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, voice low, almost as if he’s speaking to himself.

"What did you do?” you say, accusingly.

The way he’s looks at you now, like he’s trying to memorise every detail of your face, twists your gut. You open your mouth to speak, to ask him again what was wrong, but he holds up a hand, silencing you.

“I never wanted this,” he whispers thickly.

You blink, confused, and your smile falters. "Wanted what?"

Tom stands slowly, with his every movement measured, deliberate. His eyes remain locked onto yours, and in this fleeting moment, you can almost see the boy behind that distant stare. The boy who sat with you under shaded trees, splitting your desserts and helping you with your homework like he didn’t have a million other things to occupy his time. But that’s a faint vision now.

"You were never meant to get this close," he says, chillingly cold. "I was gonna end it. But I couldn’t."

Your heart hammers. His words make no sense. He’s speaking to you as if you’re the cause of some great tragedy, but you could barely understand what he was saying.

“I was selfish,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “And you... you never should have been part of this.”

Your brows furrow. “Tom, what are you talking about?”

There was a flicker of something in his eyes—something raw, something desperate—but it disappears almost as quickly as it comes. "I killed him," he says flatly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "He was never meant to have you. You’re mine."

Your breath catches in your throat, confusion making way for something you can only describe as dread. The words don’t register at first, and then, like a punch to the stomach—it hits you. Murphy.

You think about it for a beat, the way Murphy held every door open for you like the chivalrous young gentleman he is. Or you suppose was. The way he laughed and his blond curls.

He’s dead.

And the sickening truth washes over you all at once. Your hands shake. “Tom,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You—what have you done?”

And then he catches it. It’s not fear in your eyes. It’s not the terror and disgust he prepared himself for. It was… pity. You pity him, like he’s some sad, lost cause.

“Tom...” you say quietly, steadily now. “Why?”

He turns away from you, his face tight, and for the first time in.. whatever this was, you saw the faintest chink in his armor.

“You should have stayed away from me,” he says, barely audible. “I killed him,” he adds, like he’s trying to drill it in your head. Make you understand the weight of what he’s done.

You understand just fine.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He destroyed someone else. And in his twisted, fucked-up impression of love and obsession, he destroyed you too. And in doing so, he’s taken a piece of your soul with him. Split his own even further. You’ve become a pawn in his game of immortality, and you’ll play your part well, he knows you will. You have to, so he can keep you alive.

And it’s now that you realise the horror of it all. You don’t even mind. You don’t care. You know logically you’re probably some fleeting thing, a casualty of his ambition, something to be used. You’ve given him something he’s never asked for—something that now makes you his captive.

For a second, you see something human in his expression. Something like guilt, or whatever version of it he could experience. Then he’s back to being Tom Riddle, statuesque and cold. Dark. He pushes you away in the name of his plans, and yet he can’t stop himself bringing you closer. He did this to you.

Everything screams wrong, but you don’t hear it anymore. It’s just you. And Tom Riddle, who murdered a boy for you. Or for himself— you can’t quite say.

“But I’m here.”

He takes a tentative step towards you, like he’s expecting you to flinch and run. Like you’re some figment of his imagination that will disappear if he’s not careful. But he reaches out and touches your face and you don’t look away once. His thumbs run over your cheeks, committing each freckle to memory. “I love you.”

There it was.

You freeze for a fraction of a second, but there’s no hesitation. “I love you too, Tom,” you say,

There is no sudden revelation of goodness. Some redemption that makes it all okay or a fairytale ending. Instead it’s a bond, that you can’t will yourself to break, twisted and irreversible, that binds you to him. You don’t pull away, because this, at least, is your choice.

You’ve sealed your fate.

The cost of living is death. Tom knows that, better than anyone else. He’s fixated on his demise since boyhood.

And he knows, better than anyone else, that it is inevitable and out of his control.

But this? The smell of your strawberry hair and the treacle tarts and the way you dot your I’s with hearts?

He can put his plans on hold. For now.

super random but Guys what if i continue my royal!james au w maid!reader… they’re so personal to me 😅🙏

happy halloween! or is it…

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Theodore Nott is very intelligent. Maybe he’s a slacker. Maybe he puts off homework until it’s being collected during class. Maybe he has a bad habit of poor time management. But what Theodore has never been is stupid.

So why is he still here, hopelessly barking up a fruitless tree?

“Please, I just want to be with you,” he’s slurring, drunk on too much whiskey and a side of love.

You cup his face in your hands, wondering how in Merlin’s name you have Slytherin’s smartest boy with his knees on your feet, fingers clinging onto yours. It’s truly senseless; for he knows the circumstance. He knows what will happen if this is taken further. He knows it cannot be.

And yet, his hands drop to your sides, running up and down as they ride up your dress. “It’s impossible, Theo,” you say, matter-of-factly. You’ve always been quite the objective.

You swear his eyes gloss over. “Bella— oh, God, I can’t. Why don’t we make this fucking real? Be my girlfriend already.”

A sigh escapes your plush lips, the smeared makeup on it looking much nicer to Theo knowing it’s he who ruined it.

“Don’t be difficult. For my sake.”

He throws his head down, grip tightening on your hips, “What about my sake? It hurts. It hurts so bad. I just need you.”

“You need sleep.”

Theodore will regret this all in the morning. He will come to his senses and remember all the reasons a relationship with you would be futile. But for now, he’s fallen at your feet, begging like only a fool would.

And it’s hard. So hard to keep your composure. To not pull him up and into your arms and avow him forever.

Your gaze darts away quickly. You’ve had your fair share of alcohol as well and your judgement is beginning to cloud. His face wouldn’t help anything.

“I am yours. I promise. If the issue is that you doubt my loyalty, you don’t have to. I’m devoted,” he drawls, searching your eyes for any sign of weakness. He finds none.

“Theodore, please, get up,” you urge, pulling on his fingers and willing him to stand— to make it all a little less painful.

He’s firm. “Not until we try and make this work. Not until you promise.”

To crumble sounds appealing. You’d rather be the pile of mush on one’s feet than the villain to resist. Your resolve is shattering, piece by piece, with every word that leaves his mouth.

“Theo, we’ve been over this.”

He tightens his grip on your hips. “I don’t fucking care what my father has to say about it! I’ll fucking kill him! I’ll do anything for you to consider me.”

Again, you pull him up, hoping he’ll stand. At first he’s resistant, and then he sees the look you’re giving him.

He’s finally upright, now towering over you and still you don’t feel any smaller. He’d give you control if you only parted your lips to say so.

You clash against him, pulling him in for a kiss he didn’t expect. He half-thought you’d turn him away but with your haphazard attempts at silencing him, he should’ve known. He’s always been quite the persuasive.

Theodore grabs your face, swishing his thumb over your cheek with adoration to rival Romeo’s with Juliet. He’s holding you as if you’re going to disappear.

You scoff at the thought, like you’d ever disappear on him. You’re in knee-deep, letting his right hand travel your back, sending shivers down your spine and heat to your stomach.

“I love you, Theo.”

And while it’s not a promise to try, the man takes what he can get.

GUYS IM ALIVE (very loose sense of the word) BUT STILL!!

can u guys hear me

send blurb requests plssss <33

working on a george weasley request rn!! i hopeeee to get it out by this week but no promises bc writers block is a total bummer :(