Chapter Text
Part I: Spark
1 February 2000
When he had signed up for Auror training immediately following the Final Battle of Hogwarts, he somehow hadn’t realized what, exactly, he was signing up for. Spending the better part of a year on the run, hunting down Horcruxes to defeat the greatest dark wizard of the age- possibly of all time - had led him to believe the life of an Auror would be similar, albeit with more resources, and back up, and training. He had been only partially correct in those assumptions. He was still chasing dark artifacts, the occasional dark wizard, and he did have some more training, but there was very little backup, and really, resources were almost as limited.
At the end of any given month, he could honestly say he spent most of his time on paperwork, arresting drunk idiots for minor offenses, and breaking up illegal (usually drunken) duels in every corner of England. His first month of being an official Auror had seen him haul in no fewer than 30 naked members of the wizarding community. ‘Inebriated and nude’ was usually the charge on the endless paperwork.
That being said, he occasionally did have real crime to investigate. Like tonight.
Harry followed his head of department up the gravel drive that led to a large, ornate iron gate, rolling his eyes at the inlaid silver ‘M’ denoting that this was, in fact, Malfoy Manor. He spared a glance at Ron, who looked less than enthusiastic about their current avenue of investigation. It had been nearly two years since Harry and Ron had seen their old school rival; perhaps a year in Azkaban and half a year on house arrest had done him some good?
The gates swung open when Robards approached, a stipulation of Malfoy’s probation and his mother’s house arrest: unfettered access by a handful of Ministry members. As they walked the long drive to the manor, Harry looked around for the rumored albino peacocks, but the crunch of gravel under their feet was the only disturbance on the eerie grounds.
They were half a quidditch pitch from the wide stone steps that led to the double front doors, when he heard a screech of…laughter, maybe…from above. His lip curled. Of all the dumb, rich people things. A rooftop party in February.
The double doors swung open much as the gates had as they clipped up granite steps, and a tiny, neatly dressed house elf greeted them with a low bow.
“Mipsy shall escort you to Master,” she squeaked, either understanding their business by their attire or demeanor, or perhaps hoping to end the ruckus above. She held out tiny, spindly hands.
“Thank you.”
Robards nodded stiffly, and the elf reached for them, pulling them out of the entry and reappearing in a dim hallway with a pop. They stood, three wizards and an elf, before a narrow set of stairs leading upwards to a single door.
“Mipsy does not like heights,” she explained, squeaky voice apologetic. “Master Draco does not allow Mipsy on the roof terrace. Mipsy waits here.”
They followed Robards up the creaking wooden steps, through the dark painted door, and onto the rooftop terrace of Malfoy Manor.
The peaks of the slate rooflines that made up the many wings of the manor house waivered in and out of focus in the gloom of the partially cloudy evening and the flicker of torchlight. A low, scrolling ironwork rail surrounded the entirety of the terrace, above which flaming sconces hovered. The unsteady light illuminated several small entertaining spaces, from what he could tell; The terrace was split by an overly large centered chimney, which currently blocked their view from the gathering beyond. It did not block the surprising, yet unmistakable, scent of muggle marijuana, or the lilting tinkle of a piano.
Ron looked over at him, eyebrows raised. He looked, well, bemused was a nice way of putting it. Harry didn’t blame him. The utter insanity. Who had a bloody piano on the roof? He shrugged back, gaze returning to the foreground as they skirted the chimney behind Robards.
Out of habit, their hands rested on the hilts of their wands and their eyes flicked around their newly expanded view. A few lounging type chairs, a couple of tables littered with glasses and empty vials, and a full grand piano filled the space. There was a small group of witches and wizards gathered on the other side of the piano, vague in the weak light, so they slid by the glossy instrument. Harry picked up a few lines of ‘Come Fly with Me’ sung by a vaguely familiar, smokey voice.
Ron and Harry exchanged another glance. Was this some sort of private concert? He knew that voice… He turned his focus to finding the origin of the song, but spotted the subject of their visit instead. Large, blonde and astride a broom hovering about a story over the heads of those gathered about 15 feet away, was Draco Lucius Malfoy. From the gestures and tone of voice of the only two witches in attendance, Draco Malfoy was in trouble. And then he was gone, existence marked only by an empty broom.
“Shit!” Harry hissed as they bolted towards the screaming witches: Pansy Parkinson and Tracey Davis. Robards reached the rail first, pulling the witches back. Ron had his wand out and aimed towards the easily recognizable Blaise Zabini, and it took Harry another second to realize Blaise had been just quick enough to halt Malfoy’s descent. Ron would bring him back up.
Harry turned to the last wizard, taking in his full muggle suit (what was with these purebloods, honestly?), messy curls and the pure terror on his face as he stared at the spot Malfoy had recently been. The last thing they needed was a second idiot attempting to fall to his death. Harry had placed a hand on either of his arms and forced him into a chair, before recognition hit him. Now, the singing made sense. It’d been almost a year since he’d seen him last, singing Karaoke in a muggle pub with Gin and Hermione… He looked like shit.
“Theodore Nott?” He prodded quietly, but the lanky wizard continued to stare at the empty air, usually handsome face sunken, dark smudges beneath his hooded eyes, body slightly taller and much thinner than he remembered, which was saying something. He looked broken as he sat there, frozen and hollowed out.
Harry glanced up towards Ron. What was taking so long? Did they not have him? Godric, the amount of paperwork that would require…
But there he was, suspended upside down by an ankle before being lowered to the rooftop with a surprising gentleness, considering his and Ron’s history with the Malfoy heir. A coughing gasp from the chaise brought Harry's attention back to Theodore, with his face in his hands, his entire body quaking.
Harry pushed his glasses up to his forehead to rub at his eyes. Was it too much to ask for the Slytherins to be sober, sitting at home reading or something equally normal on a bloody Tuesday night?
…
Wednesday 21 October 1998
He strode- faster than was strictly casual- through the chilled halls of the castle, determined to avoid the inevitable jeers and shoves as he made his way from class to class. He bit into the apple he had taken from breakfast as he walked, eyes flicking to doorways and alcoves as he passed. Tossing a glance over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps as he turned the corner at speed, he caught sight of a single black-robed figure-
“Shit,” he breathed out, dropping his apple upon impact with the smaller, softer form of Hannah Abbott. He reached his left arm out instinctively, to steady them both. “Sorry, Hannah-”
“Get your Death Eater hands off her!”
He released her quickly, shoulders inching up to his ears, as he tried to step back. He made it half a pace back before Seamus Finnigan, apparently significantly faster (and angrier) than him, grabbed the front of his robes and wrenched him into the middle of the corridor. The pain was secondary to his anxiety when he stumbled over his own two feet and landed hard on his knees. He couldn't very well fight back, even if he had been the type to do so (he wasn’t), what with the constant threat of expulsion and Azkaban. The others knew it. Seamus, apparently, knew it.
He remained on his knees, shoulders tense but level and eyes straight ahead as Zacharias Smith jeered, and Seamus cuffed the back of his head, causing his chin to slam to his chest.
“Seamus, it was an accident!” Hannah whispered tightly, or tried to, as Ernie Macmillan, pompous git that he was, spoke over her.
“Hannah, you of all people should realize that allowing these snakes to return to Hogwarts after last year reeks of Wizengamot corruption. Merlin knows what he’s up to, sneaking around the corridors alone.”
He said nothing, waiting, knees cold on stone, head down and body tensed for another hit. If they got bored, they usually moved on. He did his best to be boring. He had plenty of practice, and, honestly, it came naturally to him. He’d never been considered normal, or interesting, or even relatable; most of the time, he wasn’t considered at all. He’d become used to feeling like ‘the other’ while at school. It was better than anything he’d felt at the manor at any rate.
A second cuff to the back of his head, significantly harder, though not unmanageable, almost sent him face-first to the floor.
“What is going on?!”
He closed his eyes, stomach sinking. There would be no escaping professor notice with Hermione Granger involved. She would write them all up or drag them before the headmistress, and he would be packing his bags before dinner. With nowhere to go, he’d be back in Azkaban, homelessness being a violation of his probation-
His thoughts were interrupted by small puffs of air against his head and neck followed by Hannah Abbott’s squeak and deeper shouts of surprise. Suddenly, the corridor was empty, quickly fading footsteps the only indication any incident had occurred. He looked up slowly, no sudden movements.
“Are you okay?”
The press of a finger on his shoulder made him flinch, rather dramatically. He scrambled to his feet to put a wall to his back and some distance between Hermione Granger and him.
“Theodore Nott.” Her voice had hardened and his feet continued carrying him backwards down the hall on instinct. “Why was Seamus using you as a punching bag?” She took a step forward with each of his steps back and he faltered.
Theo’s voice crackled embarrassingly. “A what?”
An exasperated wave of a hand preceded her clarifying, “Why was he hitting you? Why were you on the ground?”
“I, er, bumped into Hannah Abbott.”
He couldn’t decide if answering her questions was helping him or not. Probably not, he decided, based on the intense frown she was sending his way, and the fact that her wand was still clutched in her hand.
“Purposefully?”
At least her wand was at her side, not pointed at him. He didn’t doubt she would be much more effective at any spell she cast than Crabbe had been, probably even the Carrows.
“No.”
He took a few more slow, backward steps, still clutching the straps of his bag over his shoulder, glad he hadn't dropped it in his momentary surprise. He hazed past the approaching witch quickly, scoping the hallway beyond. Lunch would be letting out soon and the corridors would be flooded with students…
Apparently satisfied, Granger slid her wand into her pocket with a sigh and strode quickly towards him. He jumped, tripped over his own feet again, and thumped into the wall with one shoulder.
“Honestly!” She exuded exasperation as she snapped, “I'm not going to attack you, Nott. You'd think I just wander the halls firing hexes willy-nilly with how much people flinch around me.”
Theo chose, wisely, not to point out that a small group of people he would have previously classified as her friends, had just been chased out of the corridor by- his eyes flicked to the solitary yellow bird still flitting about the high corridor ceiling- a flock of yellow canaries? Salazar, she's terrifying.
Terrifying and staring at him, gaze running over his likely disheveled appearance, then shooting back up to meet his eyes. With the air of approaching a skittish fawn, she slowed her forward steps, hands in easy view. This close, she had to look up. Really up, he realized, surprised.
“I don't remember you being so short,” he blurted, then winced, horrified with himself. He’d spent his entire life saying little, but as soon as he came face-to-face with a savior of the wizarding world, he couldn’t control his tongue?
She surprised him by huffing a laugh.
“I don't remember you being so tall,” She admitted. “Well, come on.”
She turned and started a slow stroll down the corridor. He followed her- what else could he do?- into the Ancient Runes classroom and not to the Headmistress’s office, to Theo's immense relief. Theo moved to take his usual seat, last row, chair closest to the door where no one would be behind him during the lecture, and everyone would hopefully forget him by the time it ended.
He ran his hand through his hair, and patted down his clothing before anyone else arrived (not that anyone typically looked at him during classes), and slid into his seat.
“Does that happen often?”
Salazar! He jerked, less dramatically this time at least, in his seat, and whipped his head to his right to see that Granger had foregone her usual front and center desk in favor of the one immediately next to him.
“Er- no, not too often.”
He watched her frown intensify, but she said nothing else, so he returned his attention to his desk and began unloading his class materials. He heaved a mental sigh as he pulled a broken quill out of his bag, flicked his wand in a silent repair-o, then set to calming himself. A difficult task, thanks to the burning stare of the scary witch beside him.
“I'm sorry about your family.”
Theo mumbled a reply, “I'm bloody not, they were terrible people,” uncomfortable with…well, talking, but specifically talking about that.
Hopefully that will be the end of it, he thought. He’d reached his daily word limit and it was only just after lunch; He would probably struggle the rest of the day.
“Well, yes, I suppose they were pretty awful.” She grinned. A moment of quiet just long enough to lull him into a false sense of peace. “But, that doesn't mean you don't miss them.”
He felt his scalp tingle and his shoulders tense, the cold fear he generally associated with any of his blood relatives flooding his veins. He breathed slowly and quietly, saying nothing for a while, but still she stared at him.
“I don't miss them,” he said, voice low, avoiding her gaze. She must have taken pity on him, because she pursed her lips and turned to ready her own workspace. His shoulders slumped briefly in relief before he pulled himself back together.
….
She felt the stirrings of pity as she looked at the lanky almost-man seated next to her. He could have been her half-brother, she thought with no small amount of surprise. His olive skin was several shades lighter than her own- likely due to a combination of genes, her proclivity for sunbathing over the summer, and his obvious lack of outdoor exposure. His dark brown curls were similar to her own, shorter but not-quite-tame, one particular lock falling repeatedly across his forehead and drawing her eyes down to his dark, symmetrical, barely arched brows. They quirked and his full mouth pursed into the smallest of frowns as he looked at his broken quill.
They never hold up after a repair-o, she thought, half her attention straying to the small group of early arrivals entering through the classroom door. It was a small class, not many invested in ancient written languages used primarily for complex spell work, ancient wards, and academic research.
She watched absently as Zabini and Parkinson glided across together, with Tracey Davis a more jaunty step behind. There was a brief hitch in Pansy's glide as she noticed Hermione next to Theodore Nott, but she recovered quickly and the group pressed to the back on the other side of the class. Hermione knew Daphne had elected not to return to Hogwarts, that Goyle hadn't had grades high enough since fifth year (and was in Azkaban at any rate), and that Millicent, while not quite on the same level as Goyle, hadn't attained the required OWLs either. Still, she realized, including Malfoy, the class was largely composed of Slytherins.
She groaned internally as her mind went to Draco Malfoy. Of all the cursed rewards she could have received as a ‘savior of the wizarding world,’ the position of educational pen pal to the currently incarcerated ex-Death Eater was not one she had anticipated.
She made a face, then returned her attention to the wizard next to her and his housemates. No one disturbed the silence of the class as the Slytherins settled in. She had noticed off hand that the Slytherins traveled in packs, though she hadn’t been bothered to consider why until today. Nor had she bothered to notice that Nott didn’t seem to be included in their travel protocols.
Her eyes returned to Nott and lingered. He was a vague figure in her memories; Always there but not, always competent, but never drawing attention to himself. She absent-mindedly rubbed her tongue along the back of her teeth until it burned while she studied him. He had certainly changed. While most of the boys had started stretching up and filling out around 4th and 5th year, she remembered Nott being small, slight, almost mousy, lagging far behind through sixth year. Now he was lanky-limbed, not quite tall, but definitely several inches taller than her own 5’3. He looked like a half-grown Dane puppy, all paws and legs and arms. And eyes. She thought about the time in third year she had overheard Hannah Abbott sighing about “his gorgeous blue eyes”. She supposed they were something, now that she'd noticed. A blue that bordered on green, large, a little heavy-lidded and lined with thick, long black lashes on both his upper and lower lids. If he wasn't so reclusive- and a Slytherin with a rotten family, she thought- he'd certainly be in demand with the female student body. She wondered when exactly he'd started changing from that small, mousy boy he'd been. Maybe he’d finally shot up last year while she had been hunting with Harry and Ron. She couldn’t remember hearing if he had been marked like Malfoy or left undrafted by the reigning dark wizards.
With a small sigh at herself for thinking of Malfoy yet again, she returned her attention to the front of the classroom in time to see Ernie, the Patil twins, Luna, and Susan Bones. Luna seemed to be informing a red-faced Ernie of the uses for specific types of bird droppings (such as the ones currently splattered about Ernie’s hair, face and robes) in deterring and attracting various fantastical creatures and pests…
Hermione failed to bite back her snort, eyes flicking to her neighbor. He had lifted his gaze, eyes only, at the commotion, a nearly imperceptible uptick in one corner of his mouth, and slight crinkle at the corner of the eye she could see. Her snort turned into a true chuckle, and she winked at Nott when he glanced at her, making him blush. With a big grin, she dug her hand into her bag; a minute twitch of her index finger sent a new quill floating discreetly towards Nott’s desk, as Professor Babbling called for attention.
Hermione walked him to the rest of that day's classes, parting with a “Later, Nott!” after entered through the double doors of the Great Hall. He hadn’t said a word to her the entire time, but she still felt a smile tug at her lips as he made for the end of the Slytherin table closest to the door, and she made for a spot between Ginny and Neville. He was quiet, reserved, clearly uncomfortable with her presence, but she rather thought she enjoyed his company.
Friday 30 October 1998
Hermione fidgeted with her bag, taking a transparently long time to slide her potions text, notes, and capped inkwell into its endless depths. She tapped a foot lightly as she fiddled with the contents once more, eyes on the group of Slytherins lingering in the corner near the door- Parkinson, Zabini, Tracey Davis, and Theodore Nott. She had been observing them all week, trying to understand the dynamics at play, and had come up with few answers.
The Slytherins traveled from classes and meals as a pack, all except Nott, who kept entirely to himself. Always. Besides the occasional word when partnered for an assignment, he never spoke to anyone, rarely met a gaze, and never smiled. He seemed to be entirely devoted to completing his coursework well while drawing as little notice to himself as humanly possible. It was no wonder she had barely taken notice of him over the years, despite the fact that he was just behind her in grades, and right in front of Malfoy, in every class they had in common.
Now, watching the three “social” Slytherins move toward the door with long, smooth strides, she wondered why he was so determined to be forgotten. The Slytherins didn’t appear to snub him, as she had first thought. Pansy in particular glanced towards him often, sometimes waiting an extra few seconds as if hoping he would join them for lunch, or walk to the greenhouses with them. Zabini watched him, too, silently observing during classes, nodding to him at the rare times Nott made it to the Great Hall. Tracey Davis even talked to him, or rather at him, in those rare moments he seemed unable to escape in time. Hermione had always been one to follow an intriguing line of inquiry; She simply couldn’t let it go.
When Nott himself strode out the door, she fell quickly into step beside him. His brief glance, straight, tense shoulders and carefully neutral face were all the acknowledgement she received. They remained silent as they clip clopped up the stone steps into the main entrance hall, Nott's face angled towards the floor approximately ten steps ahead of him at all times. He flicked another glance towards her before peeling off, clearly intending to skip lunch in favor of making his way to wherever he was going (usually Ancient Runes, but there were no afternoon classes today).
“Aren’t you going to eat lunch?” she asked, incredulous. He often didn't eat lunch, presumably because he wanted to avoid the crowds between classes, but there was nowhere to be today.
At her inquiry, Nott stopped, one foot on the first tread of the great staircase, hesitating but not turning around.
“I’m not hungry.”
She could barely hear him over the rumble and clatter from the Great Hall. When she was quiet for another 15 seconds, he lifted his other foot onto the staircase, paused, and then continued on in a rush, as if escaping while he could.
He was already halfway up when she called out, “Where are you going?”
He froze once more, and finally looked over one shoulder at her. He looked bemused, unsure.
“The library.”
And then he was gone. Harumphing, she strode quickly into the Great Hall, spotting Ginny’s red hair easily. Without sitting, she transfigured a cloth napkin into a sack and loaded it with rolls, an apple, and a hand pie. Grabbing a second hand pie for herself, she smiled at Ginny’s quirked brow, and strode off with a “library!” She ignored Ginny’s shouted complaint about having the afternoon off.
The halls were completely empty, everyone taking advantage of the first free afternoon since the start of the school year. It made the stroll a rather peaceful one.
Munching on the hand pie, she mentally outlined which items she would try to tick off her to-do list this afternoon. It was all well and good for Ginny to take the time, but Hermione had a full course load, various Ministry requests, and a surprising amount of correspondence to which she needed to attend. Not to mention the notes and assignments she had to compile before owling to Malfoy.
What had started as a very unwelcome task she had entirely guilted herself into taking on, had turned out to be… not so bad. The first few weeks had been stilted and compulsory, the successful completion of an 8th year via owl a requirement for the promise of shaving a year off Malfoy’s two year sentence in favor of an early parole. By the middle of October, she had decided that she kind of liked having an academic pen pal, especially when he began sending short, witty letters along with his completed assignments and mandatory questions. In particular, she enjoyed the compulsory addition of muggle studies, as it presented a lot of opportunity for her to write long, effusive notes that, summed up, were really giant ‘I told you so’s’.
She pushed into the silent library, making her way through the stacks until she found Nott- shockingly- tucked out of sight in the very back. She slid into a seat diagonal from him without a word, shoved the sack across the table towards him. A quiet notice-me-not would ensure he could eat un-accosted by Madam Pince. Then, she heaved her bag onto the chair next to her and accio-ed out all the materials she would need for Malfoy’s owl package, including his last letter and a fresh roll of parchment, quill, and ink. She set to work.
Thoroughly absorbed in the process of confirming that muggles had, in fact, managed to travel to the moon without magic, she missed Nott’s quiet “thank you” as he inhaled the sack of food. It wasn’t until she was scribbling her signature with a flourish, that she realized he was watching her.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” she asked, highly doubting that he had. He shook his head and turned back to his work. Now it was her turn to watch him.
He sat straight in his chair- not hunched “looking like a mad alchemist” as Ron often chided her for- his eyes focused on his work, except for the occasional instances where he would stiffen slightly and zip his eyes around the library. She realized, with a frown, that he sat in the only chair that backed against a wall. It was the final straw for her; she had to know. She opened her mouth, trying to come up with a tactful way to ask if he had had any more run-ins, when he looked up, eyes darting to the letter she had just finished.
“You are writing to Draco?” She couldn’t decide if it was a question or not, but she nodded. “Why?”
Hermione blinked, and shrugged.
“The Wizengamot sentenced him to two years in Azkaban,” she began. He nodded. “Harry and I testified at his hearing. And his mother’s,” she added as an after-thought. She felt exhausted just thinking about those months right after the battle. He nodded again, as if he was aware who had testified.
“In an effort to lower the sentencing, Professor McGonagall offered to provide a remote study option, with an in-depth muggle studies course headed by a muggle-born.” She lifted her hand in the air as if to introduce herself as said muggle-born. “If he successfully completes all coursework remotely and meets the requirements set for the muggle studies portion, they will release him from Azkaban after a year from the date of sentencing, rather than a full two years. Thus, I am writing to Malfoy, as the curriculum curator and resident expert on ‘in-depth muggle studies.’ And as the only person in the castle likely to agree to compiling materials and taking notes for his other classes, which, luckily or unluckily, we share.”
She knew there was a slight bite to her tone, even if she had grown content with the arrangement.
Theo studied her blankly, and she waited for several long moments. She had found that, sometimes, he would eventually speak if she exercised extreme patience.
She was rewarded when he asked, “So, you can get letters to him?” That surprised her. She tilted her head in question. “I mean, if I wrote a letter for him, could I send it with yours?”
She considered it. She had no knowledge of any rule against correspondence with Azkaban residents, at least those incarcerated for more “minor” crimes. No one had said anything specifically to her about it, at any rate. She shrugged.
“I’m honestly not sure if it’s permitted or not. I’d have to ask the headmistress, but if she has no concerns, I’ll be happy to send letters whenever.”
Theo nodded, reached into a bag and pulled out a well worn envelope. He slid it across to her, and she picked it up to examine the several ‘Return to sender’ and ‘Denied’ stamps across it. She flipped it over to find the wax seal untampered with.
“They denied it without even reading it first?” That irked her.
He shrugged, gesturing to himself as if to say, ‘Well, of course, what did you expect?’
“Hmph. Well, I’m sending this off shortly. I’ll stop in on the headmistress on my way to the owlery.” She read his hesitation in the shift of his seat. “Would you like to come with me? I could use the company, and then if she denies me, you can take the letter rather than it being confiscated.” He nodded again, and she smiled. “Excellent. I just need to duplicate these notes and organize everything, and then we can go?” Another nod from him, another smile from her.
As it turned out, students were allowed to write to Malfoy in Azkaban, with the letters from certain individuals to be read before being included with the academic materials as a precaution. While Hermione frowned, Theo seemed unsurprised. He sat quietly, having not spoken a word since entering the headmistress’s office, as she broke open the seal on his letter and read to herself. Her eyes flicked up in surprise once looking between her two students before returning to the parchment in hand. When she finished, she folded it, slid it into a new envelope, and sealed it with the Hogwarts seal and red wax. She tapped the envelope on her desk once, twice, three times, before speaking directly to Theo.
“Mr. N-er, Theodore,” she began, surprising Hermione by using his first name. “In future, you are welcome to send your letters directly through Ms. Granger.” She paused, lips pursed in an all to familiar fashion. “In order to further ensure…protections, I do suggest that she read them prior to sending. This isn’t a judgment upon you, or a sign of suspicion on my part.” She paused again, and Hermione fidgeted in her seat, her temper rising.
“Seeing as Ms. Granger is currently held in such high regard within the ministry, and across Wizarding Britain, and even abroad… Her reviewing your letters may prevent any instances of… Wizengamot agitation.” Hermion snorted at this, less amused and more insulted on Nott's behalf. “Quite.” McGonagall said, in dry acknowledgement of her obvious disdain, before turning back to the wizard with a small smile. “As I said, a suggestion. Ms. Granger has the unique position of being my most trusted student. Level-headed and intelligent, she also happens to be quite discreet.”
At this Nott looked dubious, before pulling his mask back into place. Hermione only laughed.
“Don’t worry, I promise not to read and tell. You’re now one of three students here that know I am administering Malfoy’s mandated studies. Ginny Weasley is the third, and only because she was present for the Wizengamot trial after being denied an opportunity to testify on his behalf.” He looked surprised at this. “Ginny would have testified at all of the trials of the seventh-year Slytherins, except Crabbe, if he’d been alive, and Goyle. She was denied based on a technicality, considered “underage” by one full day, therefore too young for something so arduous as testifying, even after fighting in a war.”
Her continued derision was clear, but there were no objections from the headmistress or any of the former heads whose portraits littered the walls.
Hermione started to her feet as the Headmistress nodded a dismissal to them, Nott following a second behind. They rode down the spiraling staircase in their usual silence, stepping into the corridor in still more silence.
Hermione held herself back as long as possible, and indeed, they had made it almost to the grand staircase before she blurted, a little too loudly, “Why does McGonagall call you Theodore?”
Theo almost tripped at her sudden outburst, and she winced an apology. She really was rubbish at minding her business.
“I think mostly because she knows I hate being referred to by my last name.” His statement was matter-of-fact.
“So, when I call you Nott…?” she asked, leading.
“I definitely hate it,” he agreed. “Though, I guess I never said as much.” He shrugged.
“Yes, you never do.” She’d never met someone that resembled a shadow so much as Theodore Nott. “Would you like to accompany me to the owlery?”
“I probably shouldn’t tempt fate…” He trailed off as she looked at him, one brow raised, expectant. “I’m not the most popular student. I prefer not to draw attention to myself.”
She huffed a little laugh at that. “Yes, I’ve noticed.” She stopped walking and turned fully to him. “You may be uncomfortable with me, and if that is the case, I do understand. However, I rather enjoy your company, Theodore.” With that, she smiled and continued on, leaving the decision to him.
Her smile grew tenfold when he fell into step with her once more.
“Theo,” he said.
“Hermione,” she replied, feeling something like joyful excitement swell against her diaphragm for the first time in a long time. She had good feelings about becoming friends with Theo.
Saturday 31 October 1998
Hermione cast a casual glance out over the Great Hall. It was early yet, especially for the morning after a free afternoon. Undoubtedly, most of the upper years would be abed until closer to noon having indulged in a bit too much of one thing or another the night before. Ginny, she noted, was present, barely, arms crossed on the table to cradle her head.
Hermione had interrupted no less than a dozen “intimate moments” as Professor Sinistra had put it, on her patrol last night, confiscated a veritable bar’s worth of Ogden’s, and stumbled into a very sloppy and ineffective duel between two fifth years. It appeared almost the entire student body, third year and up, had let loose. She was glad she wouldn’t be on duty tonight; The school would be back at it again after the Halloween feast, and she planned to unwind a bit herself. For one night, she’d leave the rule following to the youngsters, and perhaps Theo, she thought, watching as he padded quietly into the low hum of the Great Hall, hangover-free.
An injured groan from across the table brought her attention back to Ginny.
“I need a hangover potion,” she whimpered.
With a put-upon sigh, Hermione dug around in her bag for a moment before giving in and summoning one with her wand. She began to slide it across the nearly empty table, but was interrupted by a recognizably snide, “Passing out illicit potions, Granger? I’m shocked and appalled.”
Ginny snatched the vial from her and downed it quickly, obviously needing a clear head before acknowledging Pansy Parkinson this early in the morning.
“Oh, you beautiful, brilliant witch, Hermione. I adore you.” She sighed and lifted her head to face the Slytherin encroaching on Hermione’s personal space, face shifting from relief to disgust. “Parkinson, to what do we owe the…” She stopped, unwilling to speak the final word.
Pansy ignored her, speaking instead to the back of Hermione’s head.
“We’re celebrating Theo’s birthday tonight. Slytherin common room, 9 o’clock,” she stated, surprising Hermione into swinging her legs over the bench to face her.
The puggish-ness of her youth had faded into something a hair softer. Her nose was still slightly wider rather than sharp, slightly upturned at the tip. It didn’t detract from her looks, though. At least, as long as she wasn’t sneering.
“I wasn’t under the impression that you lot had anything to do with him,” Hermione said acidly.
Parkinson's flawless ivory face twitched, almost a flinch, before her eyes flicked across the room and back.
“It’s complicated. It’s not our choice,” she snapped, then walked away, sleek black bob swaying slightly with each controlled step.
“Well, that was bizarre.”
Turning back around, Hermione hummed, noncommittal, and watched Pansy slow as she passed Theo, who lifted a brief smile at the witch in return, before she continued at speed. She sat with her usual posse, Zabini, Davis, Bulstrode; two students a year or two younger left a large gap between them and the eighth years, as usual. Theo focused once more on the book resting against a jug of juice, sitting in his usual spot, at the very end of the table, closest to the door, back to the wall. She wanted to ask Ginny about the Slytherins but had seen enough of Ginny’s panic attacks and observed one-too-many drunken flashbacks to risk it. She rarely mentioned the previous year, and Hermione respected her desire to leave it in the past.
“So, are you going?” Ginny prompted, biting delicately into a slice of buttered toast, chewing with apprehension.
“Yeah, I think I will.” In response to Ginny’s surprise, she scoffed. “Honestly, Gin, you’ve seen me drink before. Why do you think I ever bothered to make a hangover potion?”
“It’s not that,” Ginny waved her toast in the air in dismissal. “I’m aware of your penchant for fruity muggle drinks. It’s more about you entering the snake pit, alone.” Hermione noticed she didn’t seem cautious or concerned, just honestly surprised.
“Not alone,” Hermione said, idea forming. “You’ll be coming with me.” She ignored Ginny's look of horror, knowing it was mostly feigned. “I think it will be both fun and informative, Gin.”
“This is a research project, then?” Ginny groaned into her cup of tea. “Such a swot.”
Hermione smiled to herself. Her companion may grumble and poke fun, but she knew come nine o’clock she'd be partying it up in the Slytherin common room. She never backed down from a challenge, or a party.
Sure enough, at 8:50, after only a few half-hearted attempts to change Hermione’s mind, the two left Gryffindor Tower in muggle denims and long sleeve jumpers, beaded and non-beaded bags loaded with peace offerings.
….
Theo shook his head as Tracey Davis herded what was essentially the entirety of Slytherin House out of the common room. Where her, “you don’t have to go to bed, but you’ll get the bloody fuck out of here if you know what’s good for you,“ uttered at an intimidating bellow wasn’t effective, the bat-bogey and stinging hexes were. This entire thing was unnecessary. None of them were particularly partial to celebrating their birthdays; they also knew the only person to ever really notice them, especially his, was Draco. In a way, it was nice that they were trying, but Theo had spent most of his time at Hogwarts on the periphery of Slytherin House by choice. He hated the attention he received as a Nott from all sides of the school; the pandering from Slytherin’s in awe of his father’s socio-economic status, and his position in Voldemort’s inner circle, had been even worse than the sneers and insults from the rest of the inhabitants of the castle. Until sixth year, and Draco’s “assignment”, he had moved through the years focused on schoolwork and on being invisible to all, sitting with Draco in the common room only rarely, and with the others only by extension.
He quite liked existing on the outskirts; it was easy. Far easier than the previous year had been, when he was thrust forearm first into forced servitude to the Dark Lord and had become a beacon of terror for those on the side of the light. And a source of violent disappointment for those on the side of darkness. He shuddered, suddenly nauseous, and took another sip from his bottle of Ogden’s.
He was breathing through the tightness in his chest and the flashes of hot and cold that struck his neck, not uncommon occurrences these last months, when the common room reverberated with the sound of a gong. It helped his distress not at all. He took another few swallows of firewhiskey, knowing it would eventually do the trick. It always did, which was the only reason he drank the disgusting liquid.
In the middle of a particularly large swallow, he caught sight of Pansy leading two muggles into the common room. His eyes widened when he realized it was Granger- Hermione- and Ginevra Weasley. In the Slytherin common room. With a reluctant Death Eater and Death Eater-adjacents. The firewhiskey caught in his throat and he hissed out a breath to keep from coughing.
He observed them as they looked around the common room, clearly less than impressed. He supposed it was rather cool and dark. He’d seen the Gryffindor common room over the summer while helping to rebuild sections of the castle after the final battle, all red velvet, wood, and golden finishes. The Slytherin common room was positively eerie by comparison. The only light come from sconces and the large fireplace, and a weak greenish glow from the lake. He couldn’t imagine what they were doing here… Ravenclaw House was throwing a party, open invitation, except to those obviously not invited (this small group of Slytherins being those obviously not invited). The two Gryffindors would never have been excluded; they certainly couldn’t be desperate enough to slink down to the dungeons.
His musings were interrupted by the full bottle of Ogden's that was shoved abrupt into his face. He took it on instinct, wide eyes rising to meet warm brown ones. Ones that softened slightly after a second, then winked. He felt himself blush, and nodded his thanks. He didn't release his breath until the red-head had turned towards the others, greeting them by last name. It was clear, to Theo at least, that the female Weasley had not been invited, but apparently Hermione had.
He shot a glare at Pansy, who looked equal parts apologetic and cruelly amused, before her expression turned into one of alarm as Hermione opened a beaded bag and summoned two small boxes. Serves her right, meddling where she wasn’t needed. With a second flick of her wand, Hermione enlarged both boxes.
Theo stared in bewilderment as Hermione produced an entire gramophone from the same bag, then turned to the Slytherins and asked, “What are you into?”
Silence. The crackling of the fire in the gigantic hearth. Weasley snorted and started fiddling in her own bag for something. It was Tracey who spoke first.
“Like, music?” she asked cautiously. Hermione nodded. “The Weird Sisters are okay, I guess.” Blaise was the only one to maintain a neutral face. Pansy and Tracey both looked coolly excited, Theo was…still confused. He knew the girls liked the famous wizarding band, which had played at the Ball during the Triwizard Tournament. A ball Theo had successfully avoided attending.
“Well, I have nothing by The Weird Sisters.” Hermione motioned to the two boxes, which Theo now noticed were full of very thin files. He decided if he stayed still enough, they’d all forget about him.
“Oh!” Tracey jumped up, and walked over, excited now. “Like Ella Fitzgerald and The Andrews Sisters? Muggle Music?” Theo blinked. He’d forgotten Tracey wasn’t a pureblood. It was a rarity in Slytherin House, or at least, open mixed heritage was a rarity. He doubted the entire House could be pureblood, otherwise they’d all be cousins at this point. But it was unheard of for any of them to admit knowledge of anything muggle within the common room.
Hermione laughed. “I do have Ella, but there is a wide world of muggle music. If you like the Weird Sisters…” She pulled a few files from each box. “You might like Pulp, The Cure…we can try Depeche Mode. Let's start there and work our way through.”
She slid a round, black disc from one cardstock sleeve, placed it on the gramophone as Tracey barely restrained a clap of excitement. Pansy looked like she might actually smile. Or die. Theo wasn’t sure. He took another long, hopefully discrete pull from his bottle of whiskey as he watched the unraveling of the last thing that still made sense in his life.
“This will help,” Weasley said, handing out a couple of small tubes of paper. Pansy took hers with an air of suspicion, Tracey with one of distraction, focused as she was on Hermione’s descriptions of various bands. Blaise just stared into Weasley’s face for a few moments, unmoving, unblinking. Like she had all the time in the world, the lean, freckled witch smirked back at him, tilted her head slowly to the side, and winked a challenge. Blaise finally accepted the paper, placed it into the corner of his mouth, and snapped his fingers to light it, inhaling until the tip glowed. He blew a few rings of smoke, then sucked the last back in, making the redhead chuckle before she turned Theo.
Exposed, he took another big gulp of whiskey, then placed the half-empty bottle on the floor, fingers finally starting to tingle pleasantly. He watched as Weasley placed a paper tube to her lips and lit it like Blaise had. She puffed once, twice, inhaling long and holding it before she exhaled a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. She passed the stick to him as a series of drumbeats sounded around the empty room, followed by upbeat guitar and horns of some kind.
“It’s a spliff,” She explained, as if he had any idea what that meant. “It’s like the muggle version of snakeweed mixed with pipe tobacco, rolled in paper. You’ll either love it or you’ll hate it.” Theo frowned internally, then shrugged. He watched Tracey and Pansy light their spliffs, and inhaled as they did. He coughed as they did, too.
“Thanks,” he said sarcastically, or at least tried to. His voice was gravel and smoke as she grinned down at him.
“The second time is better, I promise.”
As he watched, she lit two more spliffs, passing one to Hermione Granger, who inhaled deeply as the Slytherins observed, and flicked her wand to turn up the volume on the gramophone. Theo inhaled again, deeper this time, watching the ember glow flare at the tip, and didn't cough as he held his breath for a beat. He exhaled slowly. Something about it was soothing. He thought, perhaps, he didn’t hate it.
Before long, Theo felt himself relax back into the unforgiving stiffness of his chair, felt a lazy smile squish his cheeks as his head filled with a steady pressure and his eyes grew heavy with the effects of his Ogden’s and this…spliff.
Weaving in and out of contentment, he seemed to emerge from himself on one occasion to find Pansy and Tracey dancing. It was not the refined, choreographed dances of their upbringing, but something that reminded him vaguely of Luna Lovegood on the grounds at solstice. They twined around Ginny, arms up and out, bodies swaying and twirling. He was pretty sure Tracey actually giggled. He was definitely sure Pansy was smiling. He turned to Blaise with bemusement.
The most stoic and reserved of all Slytherins, which was saying something, truly, sat lazily observing the frolicking witches in the center of the room. And he was smiling. Theo squinted. Smiling, with teeth! He couldn’t remember Blaise ever smiling out of enjoyment or happiness… not without at least a small amount of disdain, cruel amusement, self-satisfaction… He should probably feel alarmed, but he didn’t. He decided he really was one of those wizards who did not hate spliffs. He also did not hate muggle music.
He looked to Hermione, sprawled on the floor next to the Gramophone, head on an emerald cushion, eyes closed and one hand weaving through the air in rhythm to the music. He definitely didn’t hate muggle-born Golden Girls, he thought, surprising himself again.
As he sat watching Harry Potter’s girlfriend and one third of the Golden Trio dance and laugh with three of the most hated people in Hogwarts, Theo felt… he wasn’t even sure. Confused at the very least.
When Theo emerged from another floaty bout of contentment to find Hermione Granger slumped and giggling next to him in his armchair, and talking about something called the Rat Pack and its less-than-savory dealings in the muggle music industry, he found himself fascinated enough to override his initial urge to bolt away from the physical contact. Finding herself in a position of knowledge with a captive audience, she let loose a flood of information, changing out the muggle records to reflect each subject change as Theo listened and floated.
Theodore Nott, unwilling Death Eater, sole surviving member of the hated House of Nott, and consummate loner, spent the night before his 18th birthday getting high and drunk with two of the most lauded Gryffindors of their generation, learning about Pulp, The Cure, Pink Floyd, the Rat Pack, and Billy Joel… and he didn't hate any of it. It may very well have been the best day of his life.
Friday 18 December 1998
The music drifting across the Gryffindor common room would have been immensely interesting to Theo, if not for the oppressive silence of the witches and wizards that currently stared at him with mixed expressions. He swallowed and looked reproachfully at Hermione. Apparently, Theo would allow the tiny, scary witch to lead him anywhere, including straight into the lion’s den like a lamb for slaughter. What an apt expression, really.
He could feel the exasperation radiating off her, but honestly, what had she expected, dragging him to the Gryffindor Christmas party?
Now, here he was, a lone snake surrounded by two dozen people who rightfully hated him, and standing next to one person who didn’t hate him (for whatever mad reason). He spied Seamus Finnigan, casting a dark look in their direction, and felt his anxiety spiking. He had gone several weeks without a run-in with Seamus, and he frankly liked it that way.
Going about the school without having to devote so much energy to shrinking himself into invisibility thanks to his newfound scary Granger privileges had been…nice. For the first time in his life, he felt like he had real friends in Hermione and Ginny, not forbidden, desperate cool friends as he was with Draco. He felt a little guilty at the thought, but he had bigger issues in the immediate.
The hairs on his neck prickled. He prepared to take a step backwards towards the porthole.
“Good Godric, who died?” The boisterous question floated down to them from a balcony above. Theo risked a glance up to see Ginny, waving at him. He didn’t wave back.
“No one yet.”
The cheerful reply from directly behind him. Theo, now even more tense, turned slowly -no sudden movements- coming face-to-face with Dean Thomas. Well face to chin.
Tall, skin not quite as dark as Blaise’s, sturdy if not muscular and known for his easy-going nature, Thomas was probably the least likely to attack unprovoked. Still, Theo flinched back a hair as Dean extended his hand.
“Nott,” he greeted politely, hand still extended.
Because he really would do anything for Hermione Granger, and also because he may be mad at this point, Theo reached out at a snail's pace and gripped the extended hand, trying to decide just how firmly to grasp. He felt callouses along the fingers that squeezed his palm without being overly tight, and returned the pressure as he watched for any signs of a surprise.
“Thomas.” His voice was lower and raspier than usual. He hoped no one noticed; they may scent fear in the air. He raised his eyes to Dean’s handsome features as they released hands, to find himself under a rather intense scrutiny, dark eyes traveling across Theo’s face in search of… something. He felt himself blush slightly, thoroughly uncomfortable with being under such blatant observation, and took a step back as Dean’s eyebrows raised, forming three horizontal lines on his high forehead.
“Seamus, get over here.”
It was then Theo realized, with a feeling like betrayal, that Hermione had left him alone with Dean Thomas, best friend to Seamus Finnigan. Seamus Finnigan, who was as notoriously not easy-going as he was opposed to Theo. He turned to watch Seamus approach, instinctively putting his back to the wall as he stepped away from Dean. Seamus’s wide, freckled face was set, his brown eyes hard on Theo as he stalked across the still terrifyingly silent room. While he was shorter than Theo, he seemed significantly sturdier than him, whether naturally or from his favorite pastime of beating people up in corridors. Resigned, Theo straightened his shoulders and leveled his eyes, spreading his feet apart to better balance himself.
“You’re skittish for a snake.”
Seamus’s matter-of-fact greeting surprised a response out of him. The words- “I wasn’t supposed to be a snake”- were out of his mouth before he could stop them. It was a side effect of befriending Hermione, he decided, mentally kicking himself. Once he opened his mouth to speak to one person, he had no control over who he might answer.
When both Seamus and Dean stared at him, he figured he may as well continue. “The hat tried to put me, well, here.” He grimaced at that. He would have made a shit Gryffindor. “Things would have been unpleasant for me with Tiberius. My father.” He wished he had made more of an effort at perfecting that cornerstone of Slytherin House: a decent sneer. Instead, he winced again.
“Is that why you never fight back?” Theo scented Ogden's as Seamus stepped closer, and nearly groaned aloud. A drunk Irish temper in a scrappy body was not his idea of a good night. “Misplaced loyalty?”
“Seamus.” Dean interjected calmly, but Theo felt fidgety at Seamus's words, as if he had his own words that needed to escape. He clenched his jaw to keep his tongue in check, just in case.
“I want to know why he never fights back. It’s barely any fun.”
Dean stepped closer to Theo, maybe to protect him, but Theo was too tired, and too annoyed with the Golden Girl for putting him in this situation. And he was honestly so sick of being a ‘punching bag’. Maybe this was another side effect of being friends with Hermione. He felt agitated and hot around his neck, reckless. Entirely unlike himself. He struggled with it for a moment, then, for the first time, he moved forward instead of back, until his toes rested against the shorter wizard's socked feet, forcing Seamus to look up. He kept his body loose, and his voice even, unsure how to deal with the feeling of heat in his bloodstream, the shaky feeling in his legs. He knew he wasn’t intimidating, but at least this way no one else would hear him when he spoke.
“Fight back, and then what? Get expelled, end up in Azkaban? That’s your goal, right?” He didn’t recognize the growl that appeared instead of his intended level tone. “I’ve got nowhere else to go, Finnigan. But I’ve been a punching bag since I could walk. That I can handle.”
He could see the moment Seamus realized what Theo meant, because he staggered back a step as if he'd been hexed. Theo shrugged his shoulders, trying to ease the reckless, antsy heat in his chest and back, and slid his hands into his pockets as he stepped back towards escape, ready to leave.
“Enjoy your night,” he said to a hard-faced Dean, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake exposing his back as he turned to go.
He made it through the porthole unscathed, looking around briefly before striding down the corridor. Maybe he’d sit up on the astronomy tower for a bit, cool his heated skin. Or maybe not. They were supposed to leave for Hermione’s parent’s house in just a few days, Theo having been granted special permission by his current guardian (McGonagall). He didn’t want to risk that by being caught ‘wandering suspiciously’.
He flexed his hands repeatedly, trying to find a place for that hot energy to go, taking deep breaths. He thrust his sleeves up, sweating, then he looked down at his left arm, at the graying Dark Mark. The sight of it cooled the prickly heat.
It got a little lighter every day; Maybe in time it would fade entirely. He'd never really considered being in a position where he'd have friends, or people he'd hoped to impress, who may take issue with his Mark. He’d never really considered the future at all, something he had come to realize over the last couple of weeks. It was hard not to think about the future when Hermione Granger overflowed with plans and strategies and questions about it. It made him uneasy, thinking about struggling against a tide of dislike in order to maintain his new friendships. It was quite possible he wasn’t built for friends, and that was why it had been so easy for him to be alone his whole life. He yanked his sleeves back down as he reached the staircase, stepped onto it just as it began to shift, making him grab for the rail. He continued to descend, still thinking about Hermione and Ginny, and why they would want to be friends with him at all.
A fleshy thud and an ‘oomph’ from behind sent him spinning, alarmed to see sandy-haired Seamus laying in a heap across several steps. Theo stared at him, both unsettled at the fact that Seamus had thought it a good idea to leap from an empty landing (in socks no less), and at the fact that Seamus had thought following Theo to be necessary at all. When the staircase settled in its new, temporary home, and Seamus still hadn’t moved, Theo approached with caution. If he died with Theo as the only witness…
“Not dead, then?” he asked the breathless and dazed wizard below him, hesitant.
“Not yet, though sometimes I think it may not be my worst idea,” he wheezed.
Surprised, Theo actually huffed a laugh. Perhaps it was the relief of not being labeled a murderer.
“It was almost, just now, your last idea, Finnigan. I know Gryffindors are brave and reckless, but isn’t there supposed to be some noble goal at which the recklessness is aimed?” When Seamus looked, if possible, more dazed, he amended, speaking slowly and clearly, “That was mad. Why did you do it?”
The lines of Seamus’s face smoothed, and he grabbed the rail to raise himself into a sitting position on the fourth step from the top. Theo shifted back.
“Too much firewhiskey, I ‘spect.” His accent was heavier than normal. “Still bloody hurt.” Theo snorted and Seamus smiled at him, sheepish now. “I came to, er, ’pologize.” Now Theo felt dazed. “ Dean says I’ve been a ‘menace and a bully’. He’s right, of course.”
He sat next to Seamus and said nothing for a while. Then the question he’d been holding back burst free.
“Did you hit your head?”
Seamus let loose a surprised laugh, his face completely transformed.
“Maybe.” He brushed his hand back and forth over the top of his sandy hair. “You should come back, though. Dean’s been waitin’ all week for this. For you, I mean.”
Theo wasn’t sure what he meant by that exactly, but the way Dean had looked at him earlier…
“Not like that,” Seamus assured him, noting Theo’s blush, “Leastwise, I don’t think…” He frowned now, and they both shifted uncomfortably. “Besides, Hermione will jinx me if I don’t bring you back, and Ginny will do much worse.”
Theo was even less inclined to subject himself to the Gryffindors now than he had been earlier, but they made their way- the long way having no idea when the staircase would elect to move again- back to Gryffindor Tower, pausing only while Seamus provided the password to the scowling lady in pink. He followed the unsteady Gryffindor through the porthole and straightened to a cloud of-
“Thank Merlin,” sighed Theo, accepting the joint from Ginny. “Where have you been?”
She laughed, her eyes heavy and a little red, smile wide.
“I was right behind Seamus when he jumped. When it became obvious he wasn’t going to try to kill you, or die himself, I came back here. Figured you needed to talk it out.”
As she spoke, Theo looked around the room to see who else had ventured into the lion's den, still not sure he’d made the right decision in returning. He was relieved to hear chatter and see people mingling rather than staring at him. He smiled slightly at Luna as she swayed dreamily next to the music player- not a gramophone he realized- she had on her Spectrespecs, which he hadn't seen in a while.
Nearby, Longbottom chatted with a few younger Gryffindors, blowing his own bright purple plumes of smoke into the air. There was Hannah Abbott next to Susan Bones, both looking a little uncomfortable watching Luna dance closer and closer as they tried to speak with Parvati, Padma (who smiled at him when he nodded to her) and Lavender Brown. Theo puffed, watching the blond witch sway dreamily. He’d always liked Luna, despite her penchant for noticing him when he didn’t want to be noticed. Something about the way she lived on another level of being, but still managed to flit in and out of everyone else’s planes with no ill effects. She’d even started dragging him down to the forest to feed the Thestral herd several times a week over the last month, something he both hated and appreciated.
“He apologized, then?” Ginny asked suddenly, drawing his attention from Luna.
“Yeah, he did. Mostly, I was a little worried he'd hit his head and would die of a brain bleed with only me to blame,” he said honestly. “Didn't want to risk it…”
She laughed and Theo felt himself relaxing enough to chuckle, too. He spotted Hermione, striding towards him, steps in rhythm to the music and head bobbing. She carried two pink and yellow drinks, each giving off the occasional spark.
“What is that?” he asked, rightfully apprehensive at this point, as she shoved one into his hand and stole the joint from his lips with a quick pluck. She inhaled, head bobbing all the while, before blowing a stream of smoke towards the ceiling and handing the joint back to him.
“It's delicious, and as of yet, unnamed. Seamus made it. You can tell because it may catch fire any moment,” she said drily. He shifted on his feet as he looked in surprise towards Seamus, talking quietly to a nodding Dean while the taller wizard looked out at the mingling people. When his dark eyes coasted over Theo and paused, Theo took a sip of his drink. It was good, sweet and burning at the same time. Worlds above the cinnamon and chili pepper heat of Ogden’s.
“Hermione, why did Seamus say Dean was waiting for me?”
He felt himself blush again; a nasty habit he couldn't remember having before the two witches had adopted him. Ginny giggled until Hermione shushed her. He waited, pulling from the joint and then sipping quietly.
“Dean leant me a box of albums for your birthday.” Theo moved the joint to his lips again, not inhaling until he got an answer. “When I told him how much you enjoyed it, he was pretty excited to see if you might be…” Hermione frowned, “what did he say, Gin?”
“Oh, I don't remember. He basically wants you to learn to play with him.” Theo choked and moved the rolled paper away. Hermione elbowed her friend, rolling her eyes in exasperation.
“Honestly, Ginny! You’re worse than all of your brothers combined.” He finished his drink, feeling extremely uncomfortable and no less confused.
“Right.” He said, finally. “Play…what, exactly?” He finally inhaled deeply, figuring he was going to need it if this conversation went on much longer, and held the smoke in his lungs.
“Guitar,” was the smooth reply, from behind him again. Theo smiled over his shoulder on his exhale.
Two more hazardous beverages later, Theo sprawled across half a leather sofa experiencing what could only be described as a surreal turn of events. Dean and Seamus sat on the sofa opposite him, Dean with a guitar in his lap trying to figure out the song Theo had requested.
“So, it's a muggle religious song?” he asked, tilting his head.
Theo nodded. After a few tossed out names, Theo let out a frustrated sigh. “It's the one that goes, ‘I heard there was a secret chord that David played-'” He stopped when Dean’s eyes lit up.
“‘Hallelujah’. That’s-.” He played a few cords and Theo nodded while Seamus laughed at him. Yes, he supposed that was rather an obvious title, thinking on it. “I'm not much of a singer though, I warn you. Seamus is even worse.”
“Oi!” Was the only disagreement Seamus offered, and Theo actually chuckled at him. He quieted when Dean began to play in earnest, singing quietly. Theo was singing, too, before long. He knew the song by heart; something about it made him feel human in a way he never had before, and he’d had Hermione play it so many times that she’d leant him a little music player with a headpiece for him to listen without having to subject herself to it any longer. Theo closed his eyes to focus on the strum of the guitar rather than the chatter around them or the music from the player on the other side of the room. His entire body tingled pleasantly from the drinks, and his limbs felt heavy as he sang along with Dean.
As always, he felt slightly out of breath by the end, but he smiled and opened his eyes. It was his favorite. His contentment was replaced by a foggy sort of alarm at finding a whole group had gathered around their two sofas and were staring at him. His face felt hot and his scalp felt cold as his gaze skittered about before landing on a grinning Dean and bemused Seamus.
“Do you know any 50s stuff?” Theo turned to see a 7th Ravenclaw girl…Penelope? Poppy?
“Er–”
“How about Foo Fighters?” Asked a Hufflepuff.
“I-” he had no idea what a foo fighter was. He looked at Dean, who was still grinning.
“He knows some older stuff, Etta James and Frank Sinatra.” He looked around for Hermione at the sound of her voice, but couldn’t see her. “He’s a big fan of The Smiths, and … oh, Dean, do House of the Rising sun!”
“Yeah? Alright! This is bloody fantastic,” he said to a still baffled Seamus. Theo didn't feel fantastic, he felt like he might be sick. He looked, fully panicking now, to Seamus of all people.
“You could’ve bloody well said you could sing,” The Irishman grumbled, side-eyeing Dean with a sigh.
“Everyone can sing,” Theo rasped. He’d thought Dean had sounded just fine when he sang, Hermione and Ginny sang often. Luna hummed to herself near constantly.
“Ha! Not like you can, mate.” He looked somehow cheerfully resigned about it. “When you learn some Irish ditties, let me know.” And then he grinned wickedly at Theo before shooing everyone away. “Clear out!”
Finally, when they were alone in their section of the common room, and Hermione had plopped onto his sofa and plunked her slippered feet into his lap, Dean plucking almost randomly at his strings, Theo relaxed. He let the tingly flood his senses once more, pinching stray fuzz from the slippers on his lap, distracted enough to join Dean’s acoustic rendition of ‘House of the Rising Sun’ when he started playing, quietly at first, and then fully when no one paid him any mind. He felt content once more, fuzzy slippers on his lap, eyes closed, music playing and alcohol flowing through his veins.
During what was likely the new best night of his life, Theodore Nott learned he could sing, and that he did not hate it, as long as no one was watching him. Hours later, as he lay sprawled on “his” sofa in the Gryffindor common room hovering on the edge of sleep and Seamus snored from his spot on the opposite sofa, Theo wondered if this was what it felt like to be normal.
Tuesday 22 December 1998
“Oh, that's a big flame!” Hermione half-shrieked, one restraining hand on Theo's arm as she waved her wand to smother the fire on the cooktop across the kitchen. Theo waved his own wand to open the windows once the fire was extinguished, hoping to air out the acrid smell of the melted utensil he had left in the pan, not understanding it might melt, or burst into flame.
“Goodness,” she breathed. “Are you alright?”
“I’m sorry. I didn't realize… that would happen,” He explained, ignoring her question. His left hand stung a bit from the burns he'd gotten trying to remove the melted, smoking spatula from the pan just before it became, well… fire. He was much more concerned that she might be upset with him.
“No, of course you didn't. I don’t think I've ever seen a plastic utensil in the wizarding world now that I think on it,” She replied, dubious. “It's no matter; I have other pans.” At Theo's terrified look, she smiled. “Though maybe we'll stick to takeaway.”
He nodded. He did not hate takeaway. It was delicious, there was no restaurant chatter, scraping house elves, or surprise fires. He glanced at her sheepishly and she burst into laughter.
“God, Theo. I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have left you alone with it. I just… when you said the house elves didn't cook your meals at the manor, I assumed it meant you cooked them.”
“Oh, no. Absolutely not,” he said, smiling at her in relief; She wasn’t angry with him for nearly burning her house down. “When I said that, I meant that I didn't eat at the manor, unless my father did, in which case the house elves made the meals. The rest of the time I just ate what I could find or didn’t.”
She stopped laughing abruptly and tilted her head at him. It was his first indication that he had opened up another conversation he hadn’t intended to have.
“Merlin, just when I think I have my head wrapped around your childhood, I learn something new,” she muttered, pulling him into a hug.
He did better this time, wrapping his arms around her in return instead of “turning into a petrified slab of wood” as he had the last few times she'd attempted one. Worlds better than the first time, during which he had entered the first stages of a familiar tight-chested unease that she had deemed a panic attack.
“Do you think that's why you were always so small?” she asked, voice muffled against his chest. He thought, maybe, he could grow to like them. Hugs, that is.
“Hmm… Maybe? I never really thought about it.” He shrugged against her and she pulled back to look at his face. Up at his face.
“Well, you grew about twenty feet this past year, so I'm willing to bet an extended time without starvation and lower stress has been helpful.”
She exaggerated, of course. He had grown a handful of inches since the end of sixth year, and only an inch or two since the beginning of this academic year, having reached a very respectable 5’9. She knew this, of course, because she had measured him, much to his embarrassment. He was still “skinny, though not as skeletal” but she had thankfully stopped herself from tracking his weight gain over the last couple of months as well.
“Not all of us are unreasonably short or unreasonably tall, some of us are just average,” he teased, referring to her own 5’3 height, the same as Seamus (who was hostile about it), and her want-to-be-boyfriend's gargantuan 6’3 stature. He hadn't actually seen Weasley since the end of 6th year, but she talked enough about him that he'd learned all kinds of things he could have done without, including the fact that he was not much shorter than Zabini, who was a giant.
She stuck her tongue out at him and pulled a paper menu from the menu and pencil drawer in the kitchen.
“Let's get Nepalese, then?” He shrugged. They did this every night, her picking a menu, then picking his food because he had no idea what any of it was like, and him enjoying it all anyway.
As expected, she ordered over the telephone- he watched her with endless fascination- something called Dal Bhat, three types of steamed momos, vegetable chow mein, and Chicken Biryani. He had no idea what any of it was (except he’d had chow mein from a different takeaway place and decided it was, perhaps his favorite), and when she’d apparated there and back ten minutes later, Theo ate everything with enthusiasm.
Afterwards, they sprawled, her on the sofa and him on the floor, listening to the flamboyant musical genius that was Elton John and his musical partner Bernie Taupin, while Hermione read some tomb. As he listened, Theo read all the album inserts…
“Are there books about them?” He asked suddenly, making Hermione look up in confusion. Taking in the records scattered all over the floor with some surprise, she chuckled.
“About Elton John?”
“Yes, and-” He lifted the insert for ‘Madman Across the Water’, showing her the picture of two blokes. “Bernie Tauplin.” The man that wrote the words.
“Oh, I imagine so…” She frowned at him. “Though I haven’t looked honestly. Maybe we’ll take a trip to the bookstore… Yes. We’ll do that,” she added when he grinned at her.
He gathered the inserts and started to return everything to its proper folder, satisfied that she would help him locate a more substantial source of information. He’d never been to a muggle bookstore, only the bookseller stall at the market… Salazar, it was hard to believe there was still so much more he hadn’t done or seen in the muggle world. He was tired just thinking about it.
He changed out the record when ‘Madman Across the Water’ came to an end, Hermione so focused on her reading that she didn’t even look up when the first song on (he smirked) ‘Honky Château’ began. Merlin, what a name, he thought, sprawling now on the section of sofa not occupied by the reading Golden Girl. Theo mulled sleepily over the last few days as he listened to the lively piano tune that opened the album. It had been…unreal. He felt like he'd lived more in the three days he’d stayed with Hermione than he had in the first 15 years of his existence.
From the moment they had apparated to her parent’s home from Hogsmeade, his life had changed. Besides the obvious fact that it was a muggle house, with muggle things, Hermione’s home had felt so different from the manors and occasional castles of his youth. Nott Manor had been a cold, dark, frightful place to grow up; Malfoy Manor had been better, but still cold, still oversized and echoing and filled with sneering portraits of unhappy dead Malfoys; the few other places he’d visited had been the same or worse. The Carrows’ seat in Edinburg had been the most terrifying place he’d ever stepped foot into.
But Hermione’s house felt different, like a quiet, tiny version of Hogwarts, or maybe more like a bigger version of Hagrid’s hut on the grounds. No screaming portraits or ghosts, no dark objects, no lingering coldness from dark magic; just rooms, with regular things, happy pictures of unmoving people on the walls, a still painting of a sunset on a beach. A small yard with (dead) grass, and a fence, and a deck. A box that showed moving pictures and plays depending on what buttons were pressed on its accompanying controller. A shower that ran out of hot water and replaced it instantly with very cold water. It was wonderful, and he’d said so, earning a very tight, very anxiety-inducing hug. His first in living memory, the one that had nearly sent him into the identified panic attack, which had somehow earned him another hug- which didn’t help the panic attack- and cups of homemade hot cocoa. And also, one of their increasingly frequent “talks” about life and what it meant to have one. That had just been day one.
As if Hermione’s home wasn’t marvelous enough, and her talks uncomfortable enough, she had taken him to the muggle Christmas Market the next day. It had taken him several minutes of observing the bustle of what seemed like hundreds of people- shopping and laughing, and drinking from paper cups, and gliding around on a makeshift lake (ice skating, like he’d seen some reckless souls do on the Black Lake), children throwing balls of snow at each other, and people (muggles!) standing around playing music and singing- before he could move, or even talk. But eventually she led him through the stalls, teaching him about muggle money and handing him a wad of paper bills, taking his sack of galleons before he could mistakenly pay with them.
Then she had let him loose, and he had bought things, so many things he’d never seen before. She had laughed outright at him when he’d come back with his arms loaded with stuff. She had been happy to help him pick up more muggle denims, socks, jumpers and the best muggle clothing item: T-shirts, with the names of bands on them, and sometimes artworks from album covers. The nice muggle woman who ran the stall with the band-ts had thought them siblings, and had called Hermione his mini-him, which he’d become very partial to. Then they’d listened to the street performers while drinking paper cups of hot chocolate. She’d only had to drag him away from one musician, a man who played a saxophone, twice. The low, velvety smooth notes had ricocheted down his chest into his stomach, making him shiver, and he’d been tempted to give the man all the galleons that had been confiscated from him. Hermione had refused, of course, telling him a muggle wouldn’t know what to do with an entire sack of weird gold coins.
After that, they browsed bookstalls, where he had found gifts for his new people, including something for Seamus. Then a stall with hand-knitted goods, in which he’d gotten something for Hermione. He had been sure to purchase a bouquet of flowers for Dean’s mother, because they had invited him for a visit over the holiday and it was the only appropriate thing to do, a lesson he had learned from Narcissa Malfoy at the ripe age of five, and never forgotten.
He’d brought his load of goods home, to Hermione’s, and she had ordered Indian curry takeaway. It was nothing like the curry he had eaten at the manor or Hogwarts. There were so many flavors that his body seemed to establish a structure in which to recognize them. He had eaten enough to give himself stomach pains, then asked if he could eat the leftovers for breakfast the next day if they were kept in the ice box. It was the best breakfast he’d ever had, and one that he had worked off walking in the nearby park with Hermione, and then nearly setting her kitchen on fire in an attempt to cook.
He was honestly afraid of what revelations the next few days would bring…
“Are you ready to go to Dean's?” Hermione asked, as if sensing his apprehension despite being enthralled in… Magical Marks Demystified? He was sure he didn’t want to know why she was reading that, so he refocused on thinking about her question.
When an owl had arrived from McGonagall giving him permission to visit the Thomas Residence in Muggle London for two days after Christmas, he'd been immediately opposed. What a dangerous idea. But apparently, Dean had informed the headmistress of his interest in muggle music, and she thought the more muggle exposure the better. Theo wasn’t so sure, but Dean had promised lessons in the accompanying letter, explaining that all of his family members played at least one instrument. He couldn’t even fathom, since Dean had three sisters, a mother and a step-father… Which was also part of the problem. He shrugged finally, but she kept waiting. She did that a lot, waited patiently for him to find his words; He was pretty sure she used up her entire allotment of patience on him.
“No,” he said. She waited some more, as Elton sang about his black-eyed girl, and he chuckled, making her frown. “Sorry. Sometimes, even though I really like it, your patience is amusing.” She frowned further, and he rushed to clarify. “I mean, I appreciate it, but I feel like you use all the patience you've been allotted for this lifetime on me.” That made her smile back at him, at least.
“For some reason, I find I have infinitely more patience available for you than anyone else,” She said, then pointedly waited for him to answer her previous question. He sighed. There was a lot tumbling around in his head…
“I am excited to learn to play a muggle instrument. I’m happy to see Dean and maybe even Seamus. I'm nervous about the muggles. And about, well, the amount of… stuff that will happen.” Signature Hermione head tilt. “I… am not like you, or anyone. I've lived a mostly solitary existence, and since you've adopted me, I feel completely… Like someone snatched the giant squid out of the lake and told her to live in the forest.” He decided that was the best analogy.
“Her?” He smiled as she sat upright, intrigued. That would be what she focused on, of course.
“Yes, the giant squid is female,” He confirmed.
“Fascinating…” Hermione sighed at herself and refocused. “As to the rest… you are a person just like all us humans, Theo. You've only been made to feel like you're not by your upbringing and the lack of support provided to you. The older I get, the more I abhor the sorting process Hogwarts employs. Honestly-” She stopped herself again, before she got into the full swing of an impassioned monologue. She was getting quite good at stopping herself, Ginny would be very proud.
“Never mind. What I mean is, I think you've been alone so long you don't know what life is supposed to be like. It will take time. You're essentially learning how to be a part of the world years later than most people. Of course it's uncomfortable, but I do think it's worth it. Now, why are you afraid of the muggles?” She asked, as if it made no sense to her.
“I'm not afraid of the muggles, Minnie,” he said, using the nickname that had just two days ago made its way into his vocabulary: Mini-me. He'd never referred to anyone by a sobriquet before, and he smiled when she smiled. He really didn’t hate it.
“You won't hurt them, Theo. Luna says you close your eyes when you feed the Thestrals, for Merlin's sake. I'm starting to wonder how you made it through half of Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures...” She sounded, as she often did, exasperated.
“Draco, usually…” Theo shrugged. He had made a pretty awful Death Eater’s heir. It's not that he felt bad for the creatures they fed to the Thestrals, or the flesh eating plants, it just made his stomach sick and his throat ache. Draco had never balked at it, and had taken on the role of offing beasts for him without so much as acknowledging him in the process. That cold feeling that used to saturate his life reemerged in his chest at the thought of Draco. Hermione would get to see him this week; he couldn’t help feeling envious. Not that thinking about that would help him now.
“I know I won't try to hurt them, but what if I… I don't know, set their cooking appliance on fire?” He asked plaintively. There was also that whole bit about having to interact with Dean and his entire family. Him, Theodore Nott.
“I will write to Dean and tell him not to allow you to use muggle appliances.” She said, chuckling. “But honestly, Theo-”
The flash of green from the fireplace startled them both into standing, Hermione with her wand out and pointed directly at Ginny Weasley as she hopped merrily out of the floo.
“Oh, did my owl not make it?” She asked, halting mid-hop, looking equal parts alarmed and apologetic at being held at wand point. “Better than last time I surprised you, though,” She added as a sort of twisted congratulatory praise, plunking a carton of butterbeers onto the coffee table in front them. “Now what were we talking about?”
Theo glanced nervously at Hermione as she huffed an irritated breath. He touched her shoulder gently with one finger until he felt her tension ease. The Gryffindors were a very jumpy bunch; it had taken no time at all for Theo, who'd spent his whole life not reacting to surprises, or at least reacting in a nonthreatening manner, to begin leaping to his feet with his wand in hand. He'd never once attacked anyone though, unlike… everybody else. Ginny had been at the receiving end of a very strong stunning spell just last week, after bursting too enthusiastically into Hermione's dormitory.
Even Luna had accidentally leviosa-ed Theo during one of their Thestral-feeding adventures, forgetting he'd accompanied her. He still smiled at the memory because she had apologized by telling him that ‘the ruler of the night sky flew beneath his skin’ as he’d remained hanging upside down and entirely docile in the middle of a clearing in the forbidden forest, surrounded by meat-eating, skeletal flying horses. He often thought about bottling the memory so he'd never forget it.
The crack of a butterbeer being opened brought him back to the present. Another thing he was unused to: forays into the past to dwell on what had happened. He generally let the past stay there, as was almost always best. Yet, it was becoming almost common for him to willingly and fondly think of things that had happened to him. He accepted a bottle from Ginny, took a sip and resettled into the sofa, a witch on either side of him now. He almost smiled again.
“As I was saying,” Hermione continued as if never interrupted, and both Theo and Ginny snorted. “You won't hurt the muggles, Theo.”
“You? Godric, Theodore, you couldn’t harm someone when you were held at wand-point!” Ginny exclaimed. He shrugged. That was true, but that didn’t really mean anything. “And if a wizard existing in a muggle household was so inherently dangerous, do you really think Dean, a muggle-born, would bring you or Seamus I-Have-A-Temper-And-Accidently-Blow-Things-Up Finnigan, into his home?” He chuckled as he looked at Ginny and shook his head. He supposed not. Dean was barely reckless as Gryffindor’s went, so he must feel pretty secure if he would have Seamus around. Theo was an entirely different story, though. Why any of the Thomas household would want to have him there… Theo felt his smile fade.
“What did you say?” He asked suddenly. “About Dean’s blood status?”
“What, that he’s muggle-born?” Theo stared at Ginny for a moment.
“But he’s not. Dean's… half-blood.” Both girls frowned at him and he hesitated again, mouth open.
“No,” Hermione insisted. “He's muggle-born. That's why he went on the run in 7th year.”
“Actually,” Ginny hedged. “Dean never met his father. But his mother wasn't aware of him being a wizard. They just assumed he was muggle-born when he got his letter. His mum remarried long before he started at Hogwarts, it's where his three sisters came from, they’re his half-sisters.” Ginny said. He supposed she would know, having dated him at some point, but the knowledge didn’t ease the pooling unease in his chest.
“He doesn’t know what happened to his father?” Theo clarified, just to be sure. Ginny shook her head. He felt cold and hot and cold all over. Dean, the world's most easy-going, forgiving individual, had no idea who his father had been. Which meant he had no idea what had happened to his father. Theo felt nausea swirl and put his butterbeer onto the coffee table. That meant Dean had not been forgiving, because he hadn't known this whole time…
“Why? Do you know who his father is?” Ginny asked him sharply, studying his face. He must have paled or something. “Do you know where he is?”
“I do. I-” He stopped, rubbing his clammy palms on his new denims. As was their habit, they waited for him to find the words. His leg started to bounce and he stopped it in favor of tapping his fingers against his thigh. Yet more things he had never done in the past, knee bouncing and finger tapping. He looked at Hermione, uncertain. He felt a hand on his right knee and realized he was bouncing his leg again.
“You know what happened to Dean's dad.” Hermione stated. A prompt for him to pick up. He nodded.
“He’s dead,” Theo admitted. When they continued to watch him, both with apprehension in their eyes, he went on. “He was killed for refusing to join the cause.” Theo shuddered, falling silent again. The cause, Voldemort’s cause, the cause that had essentially destroyed generations of wizarding Britain, and apparently some muggles, too. He didn’t know what to say next.
“When?” Ginny was out of patience. He was glad, though, because at least he could answer such a direct question.
“The same day Neville's parents…” Ginny’s eyes went wide and he trailed off.
“Bellatrix killed Dean's-” He shook his head, meeting her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t have to say it out loud. He could tell she understood when leapt to her feet abruptly and walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, no…” Hermione's voice was quiet. Theo sank back into the sofa, silent. “Theo…”
He said nothing. What was there to say, really? He should have known better. He had known better, and had listened to that knowledge for years before Hermione Granger dug her claws into his life. He wasn't the type of wizard who should be interacting with good witches and wizards, and certainly not with muggles.
They sat there for a long time before Ginny padded back into the living room, giving him plenty of time to dwell on just how terrible the idea of him being in an innocent muggle household was. He observed her through his lashes, chin tucked in his uncertainty. Her body, lean and always seeming about to leap onto a broomstick or spring into a backflip or something else unexpected, was even more tense than usual, her arms crossed and weight resting balanced on both hips, her feet flexed so her heels were lifted slightly.
“He has no idea, Theo,” she said, finally shifting her weight over one hip, her bare feet buried in the light blue pile of the carpet now. He nodded. That was obvious now, yes. “You have to tell him.”
His head jerked up to her face at that. She wasn't angry as he'd expected; she didn't hate him. Warm, honey brown eyes drooping slightly at the outside corners, freckles standing out more than usual on her pale face… her mouth was soft though, no brackets of judgment or anger. She didn’t hate him, she was just sad. He nodded slowly. He was now the only one alive with the details, or at least the only one who would care to share them, and these Gryffindor’s were all about the truth and feelings and righteous goodness. He supposed he would have to tell him.
“What happened?” Hermione asked. The barely peach color of the walls and the white of the built-in bookcases seemed too warm a color palette for this conversation. And that thought seemed too ridiculous for any conversation. He rubbed it out of his head with the first two fingers of his left hand. He really would do anything for her, including ruminate on the awful person who'd sired him, apparently. He sighed, licked dry lips, prepared to speak a lot of words he didn’t want to.
“All this time I just thought he was the most forgiving wizard in existence, and that Seamus had been trying to enact revenge for him in small ways.” He rubbed his nose with a sweaty palm and grimaced. “I wasn't alive yet, I don't think, when it started. But my father and Yaxley were… friends.” It seemed the wrong word now, faced with Hermione and Ginny. “They would get together and drink and tell stories about the glory days.” He added, to clarify what kind of friends. He didn’t honestly think his father had been capable of a true friendship, now that he had an idea of what that entailed. He paused, trying to recall details he's actively tried to forget.
“Dean's dad, I think his name was David Armello. He was a relative of the Blacks, like most pureblood families are. The son of a Black and a mixed-blood wizard. Not wealthy or of sufficient purity, but they wanted him to join the cause anyway.”
He groaned aloud at his own words, at the roiling in his stomach, regretting takeaway. The concepts of blood purity had never really made sense to him; he had just existed alongside them and done his best to stay in his tiny bubble. It felt wrong to talk about them now as if they had any merit whatsoever.
“My father sent Yaxley to recruit him, but Armello refused. It would have been okay, maybe, but then he solidified the insult to my father, to Voldemort, by joining the Order.” He swallowed thickly. “I used to hear this story over dinner every holiday. My father enjoyed reliving the day he, Yaxley, and Bellatrix and her husband attacked a group of Order members. Bellatrix tortured Neville's parents to insanity, and her husband killed one of Susan Bone’s relatives, an aunt I think. And Tiberius killed Dean's father. Crucio-ed him, tortured him, then Avada-ed him when the rest of the Order arrived and they had to flee.” It came out in a rush once he’d started, and he prayed he wouldn’t have to repeat any of it.
There was an awful silence. Theo's throat was painfully tight, like something was lodged in it, and he tried to clear it. He rubbed his socked toe against the carpet. He really enjoyed regular cotton socks, muggle denims, and T-shirts, just like he'd enjoyed the Christmas Market, and takeaway, and having Hermione and Ginny in his life. They made him feel fuller, helped balance out the things that used to make up the totality of his existence: fear, worry about Draco, pain… He jumped when Ginny grabbed his hand from where it had been plucking at his shirt and brought it to rest in her lap.
“That’s… a lot to absorb, Theo.” She said on a sigh. “I can understand why you’d want to avoid going there.” Theo shook his head. He didn’t want to avoid Dean or his family, exactly. He just didn’t want to face them, or hurt them, or be rejected, he realized.
“I think I have to go now, to tell them,” He whispered, clearly surprising the witches. “If my father had disappeared, it would have been a boon. But I don’t think that’s how Dean would feel about his father.” This was coming out wrong. “What I mean is… The truth is important. Especially for you people, you care about knowing the truth.”
“They think he skipped out on his mom because she became pregnant with him,” Ginny said quietly. “I think it would be good for them to know that's not the case.” He bit his lip.
“Do you think they'll hate me? That Dean will?” It was a selfish thought, but he was a Slytherin raised at this point.
“I don't know, Theo.” Hermione said. “It's a big thing to learn your biological father was killed over a decade ago by the father of your newest friend. He might need time to just absorb it. I can stay with you, while you tell them. We can leave if that's what they want.” He nodded.
“You know,” He whispered. “Life is a lot more complicated since you two adopted me. More colorful and loud and bigger, but definitely more complicated. Exhausting.” They squeezed him between them, and Ginny pressed his butterbeer back into his hands.
“It’s all the emotion,” She intoned wisely. “It is exhausting. It took me a while, even after growing up with all boys, to realize they’re mostly dim when it comes to emotions until they reach adulthood, and even then sometimes. And you… well, you’re essentially an emotional infant.” He frowned at her, unsure if he should be insulted or not. “Honestly, Theodore, how long did it take you to realize Seamus made you angry at the beginning of the Gryffindor Christmas party? Anger is one of the first emotions adolescent boys grasp, in my experience.” He flushed, remembering the hot, reckless, agitation that had overcome him. He was very familiar with anger when it was radiating from someone else, it had only been confusing when it was radiating from himself. He rolled his eyes. Salazar, he was an idiot.
“About now, actually.” He admitted, fatigued further by this train of thought. She smiled at him, though.
“I won’t even get started on the last time you cried.” She teased.
“I will!” Said Hermione, agitated herself now. “I demand to know the last time you cried, Theo. If you say what you said when I asked about hugs, I’ll cry!” He winced. He hated it when she cried. Sometimes it felt like she spent half her time crying.
“I’d rather not talk about it. I don’t like it when you cry.” He was not above begging. “Maybe we can watch that play you like on the box instead?” Ginny smiled sadly at his pathetic attempt to change the subject, and he shrugged again, helpless. “You're asking a lot, you know, Minnie.” He said honestly. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried. Like most things, he hadn’t thought much about it until they had pulled him into their lives.
Thursday 24 December 1998, Christmas Eve Day
“Harry, you look exhausted.”
“Hermione, lovely to see you, too.” He smiled at her, despite her lack of appropriate greeting, and pulled her into a hug. He had missed her, and her harping, and her knowledge vomiting, and her hugs. He wished, often, that she had wanted to become an Auror rather than finish Hogwarts and pursue a ministry career, not only because she was talented in a way none of them in the training program were, but because he just liked having her with him. He knew Ron felt the same.
“Sorry, Harry. It is lovely to see you. I’ve missed you,” she said, giving him a glassy-eyed smile back. “However, you really do look exhausted.”
He grimaced at that. He knew he wasn’t fresh-faced. The department was extremely short-staffed and he and Ron were being fast-tracked through training to try to fill some of the gaps left by the deaths, retirements, injuries, and disappearances that had occurred during Voldemort's second rise and subsequent fall. It meant full days of training, and nights and weekends of back-up shift work. Honestly, he didn’t mind the exhausting pace; it helped to keep the nightmares and the panic attacks at bay. He did recognize how it made him look, though.
He reached next for Ginny, who slid onto the sofa behind him. He settled on the floor, back resting against the sofa between her calves, and Hermione sat cross-legged on the floor next to him.
“How’s your houseguest?” He asked her, wrapping a palm around Ginny’s ankle. He’d never had much to do with Theodore Nott; as far as he could remember, no one had. Gin had told him in her letters, and over the last couple of days, some of what had happened so far this year, Hermione adopting a poorly-fitting snake into Gryffindor House. It seemed… well, entirely unsurprising. It was Hermione Granger, after all, protector and champion of all lost causes.
“He’s good. Sleeping,” she said, and Gin snorted behind him. He tilted his head backwards into her light-washed denim-clad lap to look up at her, and couldn’t help his smile. He felt relieved every time he laid eyes on her, which wasn’t often enough in his opinion.
“He’s emotionally exhausted because Hermione keeps prodding at wounds the poor boy doesn’t even realize he has yet.” She explained, running her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes in contentment.
“What does that even mean?” He dared to ask. Risky, probably, but he was a risk taker.
“It means, Harry, that his upbringing makes the Dursley’s look like Molly and Arthur,” Hermione said sharply. “You’re no stranger to neglect, I know, but Theo’s story would make you balk. I can’t understand how Dumb-”
“Nope! Not today, please?” Begged Ginny, voice tight. “We can get angry and upset, and probably have a good long cry over his years of abuse and neglect and the fact that he has been so isolated that he couldn’t identify what anger and happiness were, tomorrow.”
Harry opened his eyes at Ginny’s terse tone of voice, slid his palm from her ankle up her calf and squeezed it gently.
“I’m sorry I asked.”
It was hard to imagine a guardian worse than the Dursley's; he certainly didn't balk at much, especially after the last few years. It wasn't unlike Hermione to exaggerate slightly about mistreatment, but it was entirely unlikely Gin. She was far too pragmatic to be this upset about anything less than severe. He massaged her calf again.
“No, don’t be. Theo really is great, Harry, you’d like him a lot I think. He’s just been so mistreated by everyone, and I mean everyone, that he’s just now learning how to be a human being. And it's exhausting for him.” She pushed his head forward so she could play with his hair, and he kissed the inside of her knee. “Are you working tonight?” Her change of subject was noted by all parties.
“Just on-call. I'll get a patronus if they need me. Ron is on patrol though, poor bloke. It's going to be a nightmare.” He sighed.
“You should come and we'll watch that movie Hermione likes, we can introduce you to Theo.” He smiled at her again.
“I'll go wherever you want me,” he admitted, and she huffed and tugged at his hair. At this time last year, he'd honestly expected for one, if not all of them, to be dead. He'd take advantage of every opportunity to remind himself that they were still here. At least most of them. He peeked towards the kitchen, knowing full well that Molly Weasley was likely bawling just out of sight, into Arthur's sweater.
No one had seen George yet, today. He kissed Gin’s knee again, determined to enjoy this little slice of stolen peace and safety as the girls chatted with Fleur, and Bill and Charlie made faces at baby Victoire, and Ron asked Charlie about the dragons. When Percy arrived, apologizing for his tardiness -”There was a last minute addition to the docket,” whatever the hell that meant- the chatter moved on to quidditch, the Hogwarts teams for the year, and Ginny’s prospects for being scouted in the spring. No one mentioned George or his absence.
He arrived just before dinner, and just a hair less than sloshed, and was pinned into his seat by Hermione on one side and Harry on the other. Harry watched Hermione, rather impressed with her sleight of hand, spike George's Ogden's with Sober-up potion. He imagined it was like bailing out a boat with a cannon ball-sized hole in the hull, but her efforts were appreciated. Even George, once he caught onto her tricks around dessert, gave her a fondly annoyed look and a long hug.
He certainly couldn’t fault George for his method of coping less than a year after losing his other half. Merlin, when Ron had told him about George removing every mirror in his flat, unable to bear the repeated disappointment of realizing his reflection was just that...
Harry's eyes burned suddenly and he looked quickly away from George and Hermione's ongoing hug, blinking away the possibility of tears before he could start a cascading waterfall. Ron caught his attention, widening his eyes in alarm, desperately shaking his head and Harry bit back a watery chuckle. It would be a disaster. He mastered himself as quickly as he could, taking a long drink of water and shoving some treacle into his mouth and Ron sighed gustily in relief. Harry smiled thinly at him, part of him aching to leave and the other part desperate to stay, and all of him relieved not to have been the cause of a flood of Weasley tears.
The cascading waterfall happened anyway, just after Harry and Ginny finished washing and Hermione and Ron drying the dishes so that Molly could sit and hold little Victoire, born on the day Fred had died, and now almost eight months old. When the golden-haired angelic looking ball of chub reached for Fred's favorite cookie, it was Fleur, surprisingly, who burst into tears.
Before long, Victoire, looking around with wide blue eyes, was the only person not in tears for a good, long while.
When Ron left for his shift, George vanished and Percey and Charlie went after him, the rest of the children finished cleanup while swiping at their faces. Molly had to be led to bed by Arthur, giving each of them hugs along the way, and the party dispersed quickly from there.
The three were red-eyed and red-nosed when they tripped through the floo to Hermione's living room. Harry could barely breathe without opening his mouth, the girls were possibly worse off. He kissed Ginny’s damp cheek and cast a quick cooling charm on his face in desperation before he made for the kitchen to start tea and coffee, pausing at the sudden burst of song echoing through the tiled room. He shot a glance at Gin, who was grinning now, eyes still wet, and fanning her red splotchy face furiously, before he shrugged and walked into the room. He stopped again at the sight of a male backside in muggle denims, tilting his head in confusion. He waited, not wanting to startle someone who appeared to have their head in an oven. Godric, it wasn't on was it?
The someone, who must be Theodore Nott, was humming along to the unmistakable voice of the vocalist for The Smiths, and fiddling with his wand around the interior of the oven. Harry sidled over to the coffee pot, the reservoir already filled and grounds already in the filter -bless Hermione- and pressed the button. The wizard didn't seem to notice until the first gurgle from the brewer sounded.
He leapt back in alarm, looking expectantly at the oven as if prepared for, and entirely accepting of, a pending attack. Harry couldn't help it. He laughed, and the wizard turned to him in alarm now, wand still in hand at his side. The smile faded from Harry's face as he watched the wand twitch in the young man's hand before disappearing into his pocket. He looked to Nott’s face next, trying to get a read on him, uncomfortably alert all of a sudden.
The wizard was thin, skinny really, as if he'd been stretched lengthwise over night at the expense of his girth, and an inch or so taller than he was. His hair looked a lot like Hermione's, he realized, though significantly shorter. He had dark, arched brows, currently attempting to disappear into his curls, and huge blue eyes surrounded by unreasonably long lashes. He looked like a kid, like a fifth year boy and not at all like the 18 year old son of a murderer, or a marked Death Eater. If Harry hadn’t been staring at that mark just above the wrist on his left side, bony forearms exposed by the short sleeves of his Smiths T-shirt, he wouldn’t have believed it.
The boy was blushing under his scrutiny, and Harry blinked. Godric, he recognized him now as that tiny, Creevey-sized Slytherin that was always in the background of every memory. He'd barely made it onto the stool for the sorting, he remembered. Flying lessons, potions classes, endless nights in the library with Hermione, the tiny Slytherin had been hovering about the edges in all of them. He'd finally grown apparently, at least in height. But he was still just a kid. It was sobering to think they were the same age, and yet Harry felt years, decades older. Surely he looked it, too.
There was a noise at the opening to the living room and Hermione asked cautiously, “Everything alright?” She was eyeing Theo, the open oven, and Harry in turn.
“Yes, Minnie.” His voice was far deeper than expected, smooth with the barest hint of a rasp like velvet. “I was trying to…” He pointed at the open oven, and Harry noticed a sheet with plops of cookie dough sitting in the center of the middle rack, then the open recipe book on a stand on the counter. Merlin, just a kid wizard trying to muggle. Harry smiled at him, and reached over to take the sheet out of the cold oven. Nott grabbed his arm to stop him, giving him a look that clearly called him an idiot, and Hermione laughed.
“Oh, Theo! Let Harry go, he'll show you what to do.” She turned around and headed back to the living room, giggling. Harry felt Nott's hands trembling on his arm and fought to hold back his own amusement. He seemed terrified.
“It's cold. I'll be fine.” He pulled the sheet out, placed it on the top of the white appliance, and closed the oven door. “You have to heat it before you put anything in.” He showed him how to heat it, then watched him do it. “When it reaches temperature it will beep. Then it'll be hot, so you use those.” He pointed to the quilted red mitts hanging from the side of the refrigerator. The wizard nodded. “You'll put the sheet in, and set the timer for…?”
“Twelve to 15 minutes.” The rasp was gone now, maybe a sign of his earlier nerves, but his voice was still oddly deep. Not quite a bass like Zabini and Shacklebolt, which rumbled the bones, but a low baritone disproportionate to his frail-looking frame.
“I'm going to make tea.” He lit the open burner of the stove top and looked up as Nott backed up two quick steps. Harry raised his brows at him, still fighting back a smile. He was blushing again, chin tucked a little in embarrassment. His blue eyes flicked up to meet his own and Harry felt his stomach squirm. “It's alright,” he said, trying to soothe him.
“Hm.” He clearly didn't believe him. Harry went about boiling water, smiling only when his back was to the nervous bloke, as the coffee maker finished brewing. He waved his wand to gather the tray and cups and tea bags. The oven beeped, and he watched Nott reach for the oven mitts.
“Wait.”
Nott froze, left hand about to slide into the mitt.
“What happened to your hand?” The wizard looked down, confused. “Your fingers,” Harry clarified. The fingers of his left hand, from tips to palm were raw, hot red, nearly oozing.
“Oh. I melted a plastics spatula trying to make dinner yesterday. I tried to pick it up, but it… became flame.” He looked exasperated with himself and pulled the mitt on, grabbing the sheet with it and opening the door with his right hand. Harry watched him set the timer, take the mitt off and hang it back up.
“Hermione can heal that,” Harry pointed out. Nott pulled his wand out of his pocket and waved it at his own hand, sealing the red raw flesh in pinkish new skin almost instantly. Impressive.
“I just forgot about it.” He shrugged. Harry raised his brows, but said nothing as he turned back to get sugar and milk from the fridge. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Nott tapped his fingers on one thigh, humming absently to the music playing from the little radio on the counter. He poured the water into the teapot for Hermione, and turned to find Nott watching him. He blushed heavily at being caught, eyes shifting to the side quickly. Harry felt the beginnings of his own flush in the back of his neck and cleared his throat.
“Tea or coffee?” He asked.
“I'll have what Hermione is having.”
“Tea, then.” He grabbed another cup and tea bag and put it on the tray, then peaked at the cookies through the glass. Almost done. “I'll be back.” He brought the drinks out to the coffee table, finding the girls whispering to each other. He eyed them for a second, Ginny looking sly and Hermione looking doubtful.
“I am almost positive that I don't want to know,” he said when they opened their mouths in unison, before turning back to the kitchen. Nott was removing the brown-edged cookies from the oven.
“Why are they wet?” He muttered to himself, head tilting to the side, before consulting the cook book. “Ah.” He crossed his thin arms and watched the cookies settle and cool, while Harry watched him, infinitely amused. Then Nott picked up a spatula, stared at it, put it back into the holder and opted for a metal one. Harry snorted, and Nott sent him a sheepish look over his shoulder. He was adorable in a lost puppy kind of way. No wonder Mione had adopted him. He grabbed a plate and slid it along the counter to the wizard for him to place the cookies on. Then they headed to the living room. Harry biting his lip to keep his smile in check the entire time.
“Are we watching-” Nott began, but Hermione cut him off.
“No, we are not watching ‘The Nightmare Before Christmas’ again. I refuse. We are watching ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’” Harry hid his grimace. Ginny sighed. Nott looked anxious.
“Are you going to cry?” He half-whispered.
Harry felt his grimace spread into a grin as Ginny threw her head back and laughed until she cried. Hermione glared at Nott, and he shifted uncomfortably on his feet, then sighed, shoulders slumping. He plopped onto the couch, wiggling exactly like a puppy until comfortable, then opened his arms and waited. Harry watched, amazed, as Hermione started her VHS tape and cuddled up to the lanky wizard. Ron would be pissed. He shot Ginny look and she shook her head, patting the spot next to her on the couch. He sat as commanded, still eyeing her. She knew just as well as he did what Ron was like when it came to Hermione. She shook her head again, leaning into his ear.
“Honestly, Harry, they're like me and Bill and Charlie,” she whispered, and the hairs on his neck prickled as he sighed. It didn’t matter what their relationship was, Ron would still lose it. But they both smirked when Nott shifted, retrieved his wand and summoned a box of tissue to sit next to Hermione on the sofa, then levitated his plate of cookies for them.
“Oh, these came out good, Theo!” The witch half on his lap praised. Like she would a puppy. Christ.
“Maybe as a reward we can watch something that doesn't make you cry?” His deep voice was dry as parchment, and Harry started to chuckle.
“You were right, he's not so bad.” He told Ginny, quietly. “I think I rather like him.” He kept chuckling through the pillow Hermione flung in his face.