Chapter 1: Paint it, Black
Chapter Text
Theodore Nott was released from Azkaban on May 17th, 2003. At least, that’s what the rather wormy-faced Auror who escorted him from his cell told him when he asked for the date.
“I think the conversation is what I’ll miss most about this place,” Theo mused as his surly escort dragged him through the dark corridors of the prison he’d called home for the last five years.
Sergeant Sunshine, as Theo fondly referred to him, was unamused. And rather heavy-handed. They all were, really.
The walk from his cell to the apparition checkpoint was as bleak and draughty as ever—damp stone underfoot, torchlight flickering off mildew-streaked walls, and the occasional echo of someone screaming into the void, just for variety’s sake. The Ministry might’ve swapped out the Dementors for human guards after the war, but in Theo’s professional opinion, they’d simply exchanged one breed of misery for another.
Sergeant Sunshine said nothing until they reached the wrought-iron gates, where another Auror waited—this one only marginally less miserable-looking.
“This is where we part ways,” Sunshine grunted. “Enjoy your freedom, Nott. While it lasts.”
“Touched,” Theo said dryly. “Got a guestbook I can sign? Where shall I collect my farewell bouquet?”
Sunshine ignored him. The other Auror—shorter, balding, and visibly irritated to be working overtime—stepped forward, holding a sealed folder. Theo wasn’t familiar with this gentleman, surprisingly. What a shame , he thought. We’ve only just met .
“Theodore Nott,” he said briskly, “you are being released under the Revised Sentencing clause of the Reintegration Act of 2003. In accordance with current policy, your prior charges have been dropped due to insufficient evidence, lack of due process at the time of conviction, and time already served. However, as outlined here—” he held up the folder as though Theo might try to snag it like some kind of rabid animal, “—your freedom is contingent upon strict adherence to the terms of your probation.”
Theo raised a brow. “Which are?”
“You are to remain within designated zones as outlined by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” the Auror continued, not looking up. “No international travel. No use of Unforgivable Curses. No contact with known Death Eaters or affiliates thereof. You will attend bi-weekly check-ins at the Ministry for a minimum of twelve months, submit to wand inspections as requested, and you are not to engage in any form of vigilante justice, dark experimentation, or unsanctioned dueling.”
“So no fun at all, then.”
Once again, his wit was wasted on this particular audience.
“Violating any of these terms will result in immediate re-sentencing and your return to Azkaban,” the Auror droned on. “You are, in effect, on magical parole.”
Theo accepted the parchment with a slight bow, the gesture just short of mocking. He clapped his hands together theatrically. “You make it all sound so romantic.”
The Auror gave him a tight-lipped glare, then offered his arm. “Ready?”
Theo raised a brow. “Side-Along? How intimate.”
The Auror scowled at him. “Are you coming? Or would you rather extend your sentence?”
He took Baldy’s wrist. “Fingers crossed for splinching. I’ve so missed the feeling of being torn in half.”
Half a second later, the world yanked itself sideways in a rush of cold, crushing darkness.
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Theo stumbled slightly as his feet hit polished stone. The dim, grim chill of Azkaban was replaced by the sterile brightness of the Ministry’s Atrium, all golden tiles and enchanted banners, fluttering despite the lack of breeze. His arms were still bound—standard protocol, apparently, even when your name had been cleared by half a dozen committees.
Baldy appeared beside him a beat later, still looking as though someone had forced him to swallow a lemon whole. A suited Ministry official approached with a clipboard and the practiced indifference of someone who’d already processed more than her fair share of ex-prisoners. Theo wondered who else had made it out thus far.
“Theodore Nott?” she asked without looking up.
“At your service,” he quipped.
She didn’t react, just flicked her wand to summon a glowing scroll that hovered beside her. “You were charged with the following: One—Failure to Register as a Dark Affiliate, per Section IV of the Magical Allegiance Registration Act. Two—Conspiracy to Breach Magical Security Protocols. Three—Unlawful Use of Dark Magic, specifically Aggravated Torture of Detained Persons under wartime protections. As you know, you were sentenced to a minimum of seven years at Azkaban prison.”
She looked up at him then, her expression tepid. “Per the recommendations of the Department of Legislative Affairs and under the terms of the Revised Sentencing and Reintegration Act as well as the Post-War Reconciliation Act,” she began, monotone, “you are hereby released from Azkaban.”
“That’s quite a tongue-twister,” he said under his breath.
She ignored him. “At this time, you are not considered a threat to public safety. Should that change, you’ll be returned to Azkaban. Have the terms of your parole already been explained to you?”
“Yes ma’am,” he said with a salute.
The witch pursed her lips. “Very well, then. Your next check-in with your assigned parole officer will be on–” she glanced down, “May thirtieth. Please report to the Magical Law Enforcement Subdivision, Probation and Parole Services on Level Two at nine o’clock on the specified date. Any questions?”
Theo gave a slow blink. “Just the one,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a real gift for hospitality?”
She didn’t bother replying. Instead, she flicked her wand once, lazily—almost dismissively—and the magical restraints binding his wrists shimmered and fell away with a faint clink of iron against stone, then disappeared altogether.
“You’re free to go,” she said, already turning back toward her clipboard.
Just like that.
Theo stood still for a moment, flexing his fingers as if testing whether they really belonged to him. The skin beneath the manacles was raw and pale, but the real strangeness was internal—an ache behind his ribs, something brittle and unfamiliar. Baldy vanished from behind him with a soft pop .
He swallowed. “Right,” he said, hoping his voice wasn’t trembling. “And… where exactly am I supposed to go?”
The witch didn’t look up. “I’m afraid that falls outside the scope of my responsibilities.” Without so much as another glance in his direction, she turned and walked into an office, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Theo looked around the intake chamber—bare walls, flickering torches, a crooked Ministry seal stamped above the door like a warning. He felt lightheaded. Disoriented. The edges of everything were too sharp, too loud, too bright. The silence was enormous, the space entirely too open. His legs moved on instinct, carrying him out through the door and into the open hallway.
He barely even registered the figure leaning against the wall just outside the doors until it straightened and approached him.
“Theo.”
For a second, Theo thought he might be hallucinating. But then Blaise Zabini stood in front of him, looking the way he always looked. expensive, unbothered, and dressed like he was late for a board meeting in Milan.
“Theo?”
He blinked as Blaise’s voice cut cleanly through the noise in his head. Then, Blaise placed a hand on Theo’s shoulder, his expression concerned.
“Hey, mate,” Theo managed, the words coming out hoarse, strange-sounding.
Blaise gave him a quick once-over—worn robes, hollowed cheeks, the unmistakable mark of someone just released from Azkaban—and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Fucking hell,” he murmured. “You look like a ghost.”
Theo tried to muster a smirk, but it felt lopsided. “Really? I’ve never felt better, honestly.”
Blaise snorted. “I see you’re still the same sarcastic bastard you’ve always been. I suppose some things never change.”
Theo shrugged. “Well, I figured if I lost my winning personality too, I’d really be screwed.”
Blaise smiled, then drew his wand without fanfare and flicked it once, transfiguring Theo’s threadbare prison robes into a clean set of clothes– dark slacks and a soft gray jumper. The material felt like the softest thing he’d ever touched. He swallowed hard.
“There,” Blaise said. “Loads better.”
Then, without another word, Blaise stepped forward and pulled him into a hug—solid and warm, arms firm around his back like they weren’t going to let go unless he said so. Theo stiffened in surprise. His chest tightened as something inside him seemed to short-circuit, like a muscle that hadn’t been used in years trying to remember how to move. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hugged.
Blaise pulled back. “You alright, mate?”
Theo opened his mouth to say something dry and witty, but for some reason, his brain wouldn’t comply. “Um. I dunno,” he said instead.
Blaise’s jaw tightened. “That’s understandable. You will be, though. Eventually. Shall we?”
Theo fell into step beside him. “Where are we going?”
“Right now? To go get your wand. After that, maybe lunch if you’re up for it? Or to my flat. Whatever you’d prefer.”
“Your… flat. Right. You have a flat now?”
Blaise smirked. “Several, actually. The one I’m referring to is in Muggle London, so you won’t need to worry about being recognized. Should give you some peace and quiet.”
“Oh,” he managed in response. They reached the lift, and the doors slid open with a soft whoosh. As Theo stepped inside, he caught his reflection in the polished metal. He hadn’t had a proper look at himself in five years, he realized. He scarcely recognized the person staring back at him.
His wavy brown hair had grown wild and unkempt, falling past his ears and curling in loose tangles. No beard to speak of—something he’d never managed to grow, no matter how much they’d teased him before– “babyface,” his friends used to call him. But now the boyish roundness of his face was gone, replaced by sharp angles and hollowed cheeks, like time had chipped away the boy he once was. Haunted, somehow.
He frowned at the stranger in the glass. “I look like I’ve been dragged through hell,” he muttered.
Blaise didn’t laugh. “I mean, you sort of have,” he said, his voice quiet.
“Right,” Theo mumbled.
The lift dinged and the doors slid open onto a bustling Ministry corridor. Theo’s eyes darted around — witches and wizards in sharp robes, busy with their errands, completely unaware of the ghost freshly freed from Azkaban. His heart raced, but he did his best to appear unaffected.
Blaise led him through the crowd toward a small office with a sign that read “Property and Personal Effects — Wand Retrieval.”
Inside, after he managed to stammer out his name, a curt clerk handed Theo a plain, dark blue box. Theo’s fingers closed around the familiar weight of his wand. It felt like an old friend he hadn’t touched in years. His magic—distant, buried, caged for years—came rushing back like breath after drowning. It spilled into his limbs, unfurling slowly, carefully, as if relearning the shape of him. His chest hummed and he let out an involuntary shiver.
Blaise was watching him, grinning knowingly. After a beat, Theo turned to him, his face flushed with something he couldn’t quite put to words. He tried to regain some composure, clearing his throat. “Where to now, Mr. Zabini?”
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A sit-down lunch, as it turned out, was a bit more than Theo was equipped to handle at present. Instead, they settled on takeaway from an Indian place that was apparently just around the corner from Blaise’s flat.
Which was quite posh, Theo discovered upon entering.
Not the cold, ancient, evil villain kind of posh he’d grown up with, where every hallway echoed and every heirloom had a curse attached—but in the sleek, modern, suspiciously expensive kind of way. Glass and stainless steel and leather. Tall windows. Neutral tones. Furniture that looked like it had been purchased all at once by an assistant with an unlimited budget at their disposal.
It was stylish but impersonal, like a trendy, expensive hotel suite.
Theo stood awkwardly in the entryway, takeaway bag in hand, feeling out of place and rather dirty. “You said you had several flats. Is this your main place?” he asked, just to have something to say.
“Nah,” Blaise said, tossing his keys onto a marble counter and shrugging off his coat. “Just something I keep in the city for work. Or when I can’t be bothered to Apparate home.”
“Of course,” Theo said dryly, stepping further in. “Why have one overpriced flat when you could have two?”
Truthfully, Theo didn’t know if it was normal to own multiple flats at their age. He imagined it would’ve been a possibility for him, had things transpired differently. If he hadn’t been dragged into a war he didn’t have any particular stock in, aside from the unfortunate fact that he’d been born the son of a Death Eater. He didn’t really know what was normal at this point– he felt like a missing link in the chain of things. Theo took his shoes off, then hesitated—should he put them near the door? Was there a system? He glanced around, then lined them up next to Blaise’s, one toe awkwardly overlapping the other. The gesture felt both childlike and performative, as if he was acting out the role of a Guest , hoping that if he followed enough of the script, someone would eventually believe he belonged there.
Blaise smirked at his comment. “You say that as if you weren’t raised in a manor with its own ballroom and two drawing rooms no one ever used.”
“And dungeons,” Theo added. “Don’t forget the dungeons.”
He winced at his own words, bracing for an unpleasant memory to surface. For a split second, the polished floor wasn’t polished—it was stone, wet and dark, echoing with someone else’s screams. The scent of iron caught in his throat. The flashback came and went in a blink, leaving a cold trace behind it. Theo shook his head, dragging himself back to the present.
If Blaise noticed, he didn’t comment. “Hungry?” He asked, pulling two plates from a cabinet in the kitchen.
“I suppose I could eat,” Theo joked weakly, settling into a chair at the round dining room table.
Blaise set a plate in front of him, heaped with food Theo barely remembered selecting back at the restaurant. The smell alone was enough to make his eyes sting. Rich spices, something buttery, something sharp and tangy. It was overwhelming, and he wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad thing. Theo picked up a fork and took a bite of the saag paneer.
And nearly groaned.
It was—Salazar, it was good. Too good. The warmth, the flavor, the texture—after five years of grey porridge and whatever passed for stew in Azkaban, it was like being hit in the chest with pure sunlight. It felt like too much but not enough at the same time– like his body was both repulsed by the onslaught of flavor but also desperate for something besides the bland food it had grown accustomed to. His hand moved before he could stop it, already shoveling another bite into his mouth.
“Easy,” Blaise said mildly. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
Theo grunted in response. Apparently, the food was so good it had reduced him to a mere caveman.
Once they were finished, Theo’s stomach uncomfortably full, he leaned back in his chair. “So,” he said, unsure of what exactly he wanted to say afterwards.
“So,” Blaise echoed, looking somewhat amused. “How are you feeling?”
“Honestly?” Theo asked, not really waiting for an answer. “Fucking exhausted. And rather dirty,” he wrinkled his nose as he glanced down at his grimy fingernails.
“Of course,” Blaise said. “Make yourself at home, Theo. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. Really." He leveled Theo with a look. "I barely use this place as it is. It’s yours as long as you need it.”
Theo felt a strange lump in his throat. “Oh,” he said quietly, fumbling awkwardly for the proper words. “That’s– thank you, Blaise. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say you’ll stay out of trouble. A tall order for you, I know.”
Theo smirked, grateful for the reprieve from the rather uncomfortable emotions Blaise’s previous words had brought up. “Yeah, well. No promises,” he winked. “What about you? Am I to believe you managed to achieve all of this–” he gestured around the flat, “without doing anything nefarious? Not even a minor extortion charge? Blaise Zabini, I’m shocked.”
Blaise gave a lazy shrug, standing to collect their empty plates. “I know. I’ve gone terribly soft. These days, my greatest act of subterfuge is convincing foreign investors that goblins make reliable partners.”
Theo blinked. “Wait—what? Goblins?”
“I do international consultancy work,” Blaise explained, flicking his wand to clean the plates in the sink. “Mostly cross-border negotiations, trade agreements, magical resource brokering. It's very dull and very lucrative, which is sort of the point.”
“‘Magical resource brokering,’” Theo repeated, his brow raised. “That sounds fake.”
“I assure you, it’s very real. People like their potions ingredients sourced ethically these days. War changed the markets, among other things.” He glanced over, looking slightly guilty. “Speaking of which, I really tried to get out of this trip, but I’ve got to be in Singapore tomorrow. Two weeks, maybe three.”
Theo leaned back in his chair, absorbing. “You’ve got a flat in London, a proper career, and international obligations. Next you’re going to tell me you’re betrothed to a Duchess.”
Blaise smirked. “Not exactly,” he said. “But I am seeing someone. It’s rather new, but serious, I’d say.”
“You? Serious? With an actual person?” Theo narrowed his eyes. “You’re taking the piss. I may be fresh out of prison, but I’m not a complete berk.”
Blaise laughed. “Believe it or not, I’ve decided to put my philandering days behind me.”
“Who is she?” Theo asked, leaning forward.
“That’s the interesting part, I suppose,” Blaise said, grinning slyly. “It’s Ginny Weasley.”
Theo blinked. “You're joking.”
“I’m not.”
“As in The Ginny Weasley? Sister of Weasel-King, Gryffindor goddess, girlfriend of Potter, since basically birth?”
Blaise snorted. “The very one.”
“Does Potter know?”
“Of course he knows, you dolt,” Blaise said, grabbing a bottle of something from a bar cart and pouring them each a drink. “He’s the one who set us up, technically.”
“Come again?”
Blaise handed Theo his glass. “Potter came out shortly after the war. He and Ginny are still good friends, and he’s been dating a bloke from America for… two, maybe three years now. Name’s Spencer. Decent fellow. I’m sure you’ll meet him eventually.”
Theo closed his mouth, realizing it had been hanging open. “Sorry, just give me a moment to process all this. Potter’s gay. You’re friends with Potter? And dating Potter’s ex-girlfriend? Are you like, a bonus member of the Golden Trio nowadays?”
Blaise gave him a wry smile. “Hardly. More like an occasional plus-one. But Potter’s not bad, honestly. Not as much of a tosser as we were led to believe. We get on rather well, believe it or not.”
Theo arched a brow. “And the Weasel? Don’t tell me you’ve taken a shine to him, too?”
“Eh, Weasley’s not so bad once you get to know him. Bit of a hothead sometimes, but mostly harmless. He reopened that joke shop with his brother, George, a few years back.”
“I suppose if he is going to be your future brother-in-law, you ought to be cordial at the very least,” Theo relented, ignoring the scathing look Blaise sent his way. “What about Granger, then? Still doing charity work by allowing Weaselsworth into her pants?”
“Don’t be a twat,” Blaise said. Theo raised his eyebrows at his defensiveness, but Blaise continued, undeterred. “She’s probably the main reason you’re a free man, you know. And no, Granger and Weasley are no longer together, as far as I know.”
“Interesting,” Theo said, taking a long sip from his drink. Firewhisky, he realized. It burned, in the best way possible. “Why, exactly, is Granger the main reason I’m a free man?”
“You know the Revised Sentencing and Reintegration Act? The one that allowed you to be released before your sentence was up?”
“I mean, I can’t say I’ve had a chance to familiarize myself with the finer points of modern wizarding legislation,” Theo said dryly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I’ve been a bit preoccupied, what with the imprisonment and general social exile.”
Blaise didn’t crack a smile. “Well, you should. Granger spearheaded both acts. Drafted the language herself, fought every committee, even went up against the Wizengamot when they tried to block the clause on early release,” Blaise said. “As I remember it, she argued that justice without restoration isn’t justice at all .” He said the words dramatically, gesturing with his hands to mimic a headline. “Made a few enemies doing it, but in the end, no one could out-debate her.”
Theo gave a low whistle. “I see she’s still determined to surpass everyone’s expectations, then. But out of all the bleeding-heart causes in the world, she picked this one? What, elf rights weren’t sexy enough? Magical education reform too dull? She looked at a bunch of disgraced former Death Eater kids and thought—yes, that’s the hill I’ll die on?”
Blaise shrugged lightly. “I won’t pretend to understand Granger’s motivations for doing anything, really. From what I understand, though, it’s about justice across the board. She’s always liked an underdog. Even you should know that.”
“Fair enough,” Theo said, tilting his head. “And I certainly am a grateful underdog. But there are plenty of others who didn’t bully her in school, or whose parents didn’t try to murder her and her best friends, aren’t there? People more deserving of her… efforts?”
“Sure,” Blaise said, pouring them both another drink. “And she’s fought for them, too. But over the last few years, since she was promoted within the DMLE, she’s taken it upon herself to push for the kind of reform that actually prevents another war. Not just mops up after one. She thinks if we choose to lock up every kid who got dragged into the Dark Lord’s mess, they’re just planting seeds for the next uprising. Better to rehabilitate than radicalize.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of... respect for her.”
“I do,” Blaise said, giving him with a look as if daring him to push back. “It would’ve been easy for her to carry on with her own life and leave the rest of us to fend for ourselves. And no one could fault her for it, either. As much as we used to make fun of her back in school, she certainly earned the right to hate us.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “It takes a lot of nerve to go up against a government who wants to bury what happened during the war. The Wizengamot wanted to throw anyone who so much as associated themselves with Voldemort,” Theo flinched involuntarily at the name, “into Azkaban and forget they existed. Granger wouldn’t let them. She forced them to look.”
Theo didn’t respond right away, mulling over Blaise’s words. He just couldn’t make the puzzle pieces fit together in a way that fit his understanding of the world. Or rather, what the world had been before he’d crawled into a hole for five years. The idea that Hermione Granger—of all people— could look at someone like him and see anything other than a waste of space, a stain on society, or a liability at the very best was… absurd. Laughable, even. And the fact that his friend, Blaise Zabini, posh prince of Slytherin, was championing her cause, dating someone in her inner circle… it made Theo feel like he’d lost touch with reality.
Blaise had been lucky– his mother’s dual citizenship had allowed the two of them to carefully extract themselves from either side of the war. She’d pulled Blaise out of Hogwarts halfway through their seventh year, when things with the Carrows began to grow out of control. He’d spent the rest of the war in Portugal, far away from the Dark Lord’s reach. Theo didn’t resent him for it, not really. He was glad his friend had managed to escape with his hands still clean. Blaise had always been the best of them– he never behaved as if he were morally superior, just uninterested in blood politics, in house rivalries or the relentless bullying Draco, Vince, Greg and even Pansy used to subject the Chosen One and his posse to. It was always evident to Theo that Blaise had found it juvenile, boring, even.
Theo himself had never gone out of his way to be cruel to Granger or her friends—not like some of his housemates—but he hadn’t exactly been kind, either. He’d kept his head down, let the insults fly past him like debris in a storm, laughed when it felt like it was expected of him. It had been easier, in those days, to blend in. To act indifferent. To pretend neutrality was the same as innocence.
And then, when the war had started in earnest, he’d found himself on the wrong side. He knew that now– hell, he’d known it then, too. But what was he supposed to do? Tell his sadistic father, thanks but no thanks? Politely decline the Dark Lord’s demands?
As it went, he scuttled off to do his father’s bidding in the dark corners of Nottinghamshire, passing along information, sabotaging protective enchantments, and helping capture those who resisted. He’d been involved in dark interrogations, torture, even– used curses that left permanent scars. Not because he believed in it, necessarily, but because refusing wasn’t an option. And while he was off being his father’s errand boy and ruining whatever scrap of honor he might’ve had left, Hermione Granger had been on the run with Potter and Weasley, dodging curses, breaking into government buildings and destroying Horcruxes. She’d fought in the war as a child. She’d nearly died in it. He’d been on the side that almost made that happen. If things had gone down differently, Granger might be dead by now, or in a cell somewhere like he’d been. He was glad things had gone in the opposite direction. Theo had never wanted the Dark Lord to win, he just hadn’t done anything to stop him from trying.
And now she was writing legislation to pardon people like him. It made him feel uncomfortable, wrong, somehow. Like he’d been scraped open and left hollow, exposed and defensive. Guilt curled low in his gut, sour and familiar.
Bloody Gryffindors.
“Everything alright there, Nott?” Blaise was looking at him curiously.
He blinked. “Sorry. Just trying to wrap my mind around all this.” Theo sighed, running his hands through his hair as he leaned back in his chair. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be out. The last five years were… not particularly pleasant, as you can probably imagine.” He cringed, not liking the way the words had come out– whinging, self-pitying, so he quickly added, “I deserved every bit of it, of course. I know that. I’m just still not sure how I feel about being indebted to Hermione Granger, of all people.”
Blaise made a quiet sound—somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “Yeah, I don’t really believe that to be true. That you deserved what happened to you.”
Theo squirmed, not wanting to meet his friend’s eyes. “C'mon. Blaise, we really don’t need to–”
“You weren’t even of age when you joined, Theo. You were a child doing what he thought he had to do to survive. We all remember what your father was like. I’m not saying that excuses everything, but don’t act like you masterminded the bloody war.”
Theo shook his head, staring angrily into his glass.
“And as for Granger,” Blaise continued, “I don’t think she sees it as a debt you owe her. That’s not how she operates. If she believed you were a lost cause, you’d still be rotting in Azkaban.”
Theo gave a humorless huff. “How annoyingly noble of her.” He frowned. “What about Draco? Greg? Pansy?”
Blaise cleared his throat. “Draco’s sentence was longer than yours, as you might recall. He was sentenced to ten years, so I think Granger’s hoping to have him released in the next year, hopefully sooner. Greg was the first one released once the acts were passed– he didn’t do much besides go along with Draco’s plans, really. And Pansy– she served six months of house arrest. A slap on the wrist.” He chuckled. “She’s doing well now. Actually– you’ll really get a kick out of this one– she’s engaged. And you’ll never guess to whom.”
Theo gave a low snort. “Engaged? Let me guess—some minor Viscount with a thinning hairline and a vault full of goblin bonds?”
Blaise grinned. “Close. Actually, not close at all. It’s Longbottom.”
Theo stared at him, blinked once. “ Neville Longbottom?”
“Do you know another Longbottom?” Blaise looked entirely too delighted with himself for being able to drop this news on Theo.
Theo stared at Blaise in disbelief for a moment, trying to process the information. “And her parents are fine with that? I can’t imagine Paulina Parkinson accepting a blood-traitor into the fold easily.”
Blaise’s smile dropped. “Things are… complicated between them. They wanted to marry her off to some Pureblood heir somewhere in France. As you can imagine, it didn’t go over well with our girl Pansy.”
Theo chuckled. “No, I’m certainly not surprised by that. So how’d she end up betrothed to Longbottom of all people, then?”
“Mm,” Blaise said, sipping his drink. “I’m not entirely sure, honestly. She kept it a secret for awhile, I think maybe until she knew it was serious. From what I understand, they crossed paths and Longbottom kept asking her out until she agreed.”
Theo whistled. “Didn’t know the bloke had it in him. Pansy can be rather…”
“Terrifying? Yeah. Took some bollocks for sure, chasing after her like that. But it paid off, obviously, because she agreed to marry him.”
Theo shook his head, trying to picture it. “And she’s happy?”
“Happier than I’ve ever seen her,” he affirmed. “He’s good for her. You’ll see.”
There was a long pause. “For fuck’s sake,” Theo muttered eventually, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve been gone five years and the whole bloody world’s turned upside down.”
His friend nodded sympathetically. “You’ll get used to it, mate.”
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Theo stood in the shower that evening, letting the hot water beat down on his back without bothering to adjust the temperature. It was scalding, but he barely noticed. Steam curled thick around him, fogging the mirror and his thoughts alike, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, rooted in place, watching the grime swirl down the drain in little grey ribbons.
It was the first proper shower he’d had in years. Azkaban didn’t offer anything so civilized, of course. Instead, he was Scourgifyed roughly once a week– and when the prisoners began to smell really ripe, they were the lucky winners of a good old-fashioned hosedown. The temperature of the water was painful enough in itself, but coupled with the ridiculously high pressure of the hose, it was one of the things Theo had come to dread most over the last five years. Not to mention the utter humiliation of being stark naked and huddled against a wall while being blasted with freezing water.
But this was different. This was heat that made his bones sigh in relief. This was lavender soap that didn’t smell like damp stone and mold. This was freedom, however temporary, and while it felt wonderful, it also filled him with unease. Like any moment the door would burst open, Aurors pointing wands at him, and he’d be dragged back to his cell to rot. Because surely, this had all been a mistake. A mix-up of some sort. He scrubbed harder than he needed to—half out of habit, half out of something else. Like maybe if he scoured long enough, he could peel off the years. The memories. The shame.
Even still, the luxury of the shower certainly wasn’t wasted on Theo– he stayed until he felt lightheaded, until his fingers and toes pruned. He even considered having a wank, just for old times’ sake, maybe to take his mind off things. His heart wasn’t in it, though. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d reached for his own cock– probably over a year now. Something about the cacophony of distant screaming, the mildew-soaked, paper-thin mattress, and the ever-present scent of piss didn’t exactly set the mood. Azkaban wasn’t big on romance. One’s libido tended to die somewhere between the third mealtime of gruel and your cellmate sobbing into the wall.
When he finally stepped out and wiped the fog from the mirror, he still saw himself staring back. Gaunt. Older. Unrecognizable. He needed to do something about his hair. Before all this, he’d always prided himself on his appearance. He’d always been too skinny—lanky, his friends used to say, all legs and angles—but he’d made it work. He kept his hair trimmed, his shoes shined, his collars pressed. His wardrobe at Hogwarts had been immaculate, even if it was just school robes, and he’d always smelled nice, expensive.
He’d never been a proper ladies’ man—too quiet, too sardonic, too off-putting in a way that didn’t quite read as mysterious—but he hadn’t been hopeless, either. He’d done alright at Hogwarts. Gotten under a few skirts. Been on the receiving end of a snog or two in the Restricted section. Exchanged flirtatious notes with a pretty Ravenclaw a year below him, even took her out to Fortescue’s for Saint Valentine’s. Lost his virginity during sixth year, and slept around a bit, here and there. He had enough experience to know what it was like to be wanted. Or at the very least, noticed. No one had ever properly fallen for him– not that he would’ve let them, really, but he must’ve been attractive enough to turn a few heads.
Now he just looked wrong. Like a reanimated corpse, or someone halfway through a particularly nasty bout of dragon pox. Pale in a way that didn’t look aristocratic so much as anemic. Sickly. His skin clung too tightly to his bones in some places and sagged in others, stretched thin like parchment left out in the rain. Like a poor imitation of himself, carved from wax and left too close to the fire. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes ringed with the kind of gray that didn’t fade with rest. There was a new tightness around his mouth he didn’t recognize.
He could barely stand to look at himself. He couldn’t imagine that anyone else would want to, either. He looked grotesque. Like something you’d glance at once, then politely look away from. The thought of someone else wanting him, touching him– it was laughable, almost. There wasn’t anything left to want. He was hollowed out, a ghost among the living.
Sleep didn’t come easily that night.
Theo lay in the guest bed, one of those absurd, plush things that now felt too grand for someone like him. The blankets were soft, the pillows fluffed. Nothing creaked or groaned or reeked of damp stone. It felt too soft, almost uncomfortable. The air smelled too clean, the walls were too far apart. After two hours of tossing and turning, he gave up. He padded barefoot through the flat, his footsteps silent. The place was clean and quiet, all sharp lines and rich wood and low lighting. A well-curated life Blaise had carved out for himself—charming and polished, just like the man himself.
One of his many homes.
For Salazar’s sake.
Theo wandered past the windows but didn’t bother to look out. The idea of the city at night, all glittering lights and endless movement, made his chest tighten. The idea of being out there, among people who didn’t know what he’d done, or worse— did —was enough to make him feel queasy. He ended up in front of Blaise’s bedroom door, for some reason. The light was off inside. Silent.
Blaise had always slept like the dead. They used to tease him for wearing an eye mask to sleep, for using expensive cream on his face as part of his nightly routine. ‘Zabini can’t function without his nine hours of beauty rest,’ they used to say. Clearly, nothing had changed.
He felt like a creep, standing in front of his friend’s bedroom door. He wondered what Blaise would say if he opened it and saw Theo standing there, looking like something out of a horror novel. Knowing Blaise, he’d probably laugh, or say something to make Theo feel less awkward about all of it. He was a good friend. A really, really good friend. One he didn’t deserve.
Theo swallowed. He hated how much he didn’t want Blaise to leave tomorrow. Singapore. A conference. Something sleek and important that Theo couldn’t begin to understand anymore.
He’d nodded when Blaise mentioned it earlier. Said it was fine. Of course, go ahead. I’ll be alright .
But now, with the hallway so still and the flat stretched quietly around him, he felt the lie of it like a lump in his throat.
He felt needy. Pathetic. Like a foal just learning to stand — all trembling legs and no clue what to do with them. He didn’t know how to navigate this world—not anymore. He didn’t even know where Blaise kept the tea. Where to go once he ran out of food, how he would even pay for it if he ever did manage to make it to the shop. Perhaps he’d just stand her, in this very place, until Blaise came back from his trip and reminded him how to function again. Every hour felt like something vast and impossible yawning open before him, and the thought of facing even one full day alone—with no structure, no instructions, just his own head—was almost unbearable. He’d grown accustomed to it in Azkaban, but somehow, this felt different. Wrong, unfamiliar.
And Blaise’s kindness, while welcome, was also almost unbearable. Stay here as long as you need , he’d said. Theo knew he meant it– if he took up residence here for the rest of his miserable life, Blaise would probably accept it without so much as a qualm. It’s not like there were many alternatives– or any, really. Nott Manor was certainly out of the question– even if he’d been able to bring himself to set foot there, he’d heard the Ministry had seized all of his father’s properties after the war, anyways. He supposed he could try to find his own place, but where would he get the money? Did he even have an existing vault at Gringotts anymore, or had all of that been seized, too?
Blaise had already been there to drag his sorry arse out of the Ministry, had already opened his home to him. He couldn’t burden him any further with mundane, pathetic questions like ‘Do I need a job to rent a flat?’ or ‘What do normal people eat for breakfast?’
Shaking his head in self-disgust, he turned away and padded back down the hall, the floor cool beneath his feet. The sheets were rumpled where he’d left them. He climbed back in, pulled the covers up to his chest, and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
He didn’t move. Didn’t think. Just lay there, hollow and still, as the hours slipped by unnoticed.
Eventually, sunlight began to creep in through the blinds, pale and indifferent. He barely noticed.
---------------------
I've seen people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a newborn baby, It just happens everyday
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door, I must have it painted black
Maybe then, I'll fade away and not have to face the facts
It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black
-The Rolling Stones
Chapter 2: Liability
Notes:
This fic will switch back and forth between Theo and Hermione's POV every chapter. However, this Hermione chapter turned out to be a behemoth so it has been split into two. So this chapter and the next will be from Hermione's POV. Enjoy!!!
Chapter Text
Hermione woke to the glorious weight of Crookshanks on her chest, as she did every morning.
“Good morning, Crooks,” she crooned, scratching him under his chin. His favorite spot.
He purred deeply at first, a raspy little motor in his throat, stretching one paw out to knead at her collarbone with mild menace. But after a few indulgent seconds, he leaned back just enough to fix her with a flat, unimpressed glare.
“Yes, yes, I know,” she sighed, already pushing back the duvet. “You’re absolutely famished and moments from death.”
She patted his sizeable belly, causing him to grumble quite menacingly. He leapt off her chest with a grunt and trotted toward the kitchen like he hadn’t been fed less than twelve hours ago.
Hermione padded after him, tugging her robe tightly around her waist. The flat was still and quiet—just the gentle hum of the enchanted clock on the wall and Crookshanks’s impatient mewling. She filled his dish, nudged it toward him, and watched him dig in with the enthusiasm of a cat who’d spent the night scavenging on the streets rather than on her duvet.
She smiled like a proud mother. Which she was, after all. With him sorted, she turned to her own routine—wrangling her lion’s mane into something halfway presentable, brushing her teeth (the Muggle way, of course), and dressing in a crisp white blouse and a tailored navy blazer with matching trousers. There was a stack of files waiting on her desk at the Ministry, an inbox full of memos, and at least one meeting she was already dreading. She reached for her magical ledger, flicking through her to-do list for the day.
Sign off on several urgent decrees related to magical creature rights as part of ongoing law reforms.
Prepare talking points for a briefing Kingsley would give later this week.
Meet with the Magical Legal Enforcement Squad to coordinate upcoming amnesty hearings.
Follow up on potential social services for recently released detainees.
Among other things.
Hermione rubbed her temples. Today would be a three-cup-of-coffee day, she decided. Maybe even four. Just as she was reaching for the tin of coffee grounds, a knock at the door made her jump. She grabbed her wand from the counter and cautiously cracked the door open (force of habit) – only to find none other than Blaise Zabini standing there, looking far too suave for half past eight in the morning.
“Morning,” he said brightly.
Hermione blinked. “Erm, good morning?”
She was still getting used to Blaise Zabini’s semi-regular appearances. Since he and Ginny had started dating, it wasn’t unusual for him to show up on their doorstep at various times of the day– or night, more often.
“I brought coffee,” Blaise said, holding up a takeaway tray with three cups. “Vanilla latte with an extra shot, right?”
Hermione grinned. “I can’t believe you remembered. Thanks, Blaise. You’re a lifesaver.” She took a sip, closing her eyes and sighing dramatically. “Work’s going to be brutal today. This will help.”
“That bad, huh?” he offered sympathetically, taking a seat at the table.
Hermione hummed in response, sitting down across from him. With coffee out of the way, she could spare a few minutes before she’d need to rush off to work. Crookshanks leapt onto the table, glowering at their visitor. Blaise nodded in his direction. “Morning to you too, Beast.”
“Things have been extra busy lately, as you can imagine. I’m thrilled we managed to get everything pushed through the Wizengamot, but the battle’s far from over. There are lots of loose ends to tie up, lots of people who are still angry about what we’re doing,” she sipped her coffee again. “Speaking of which, Theodore was released yesterday, wasn’t he? Were you able to connect with him?”
Blaise smirked at her formalities. “ Theodore and I connected, yes. He’s staying at my flat over in Richmond, actually. Quiet, not terribly far from the Ministry, and a good spot to keep a low profile.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You keep a flat in Muggle London?”
“Of course,” Blaise said, as if it should’ve been obvious.
“Right,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “How’s he doing, all things considered?”
Blaise took a slow sip of his coffee before answering. “Honestly, I’m not really sure. In some ways, he seems alright—trying to find his footing again. But there’s a lot he won’t talk about. He tends to use humor, self-deprecation… that kind of thing as a cover-up. He’s always been that way.”
Then, he frowned slightly. “I am a bit worried about leaving him to his own devices while I’m away on this blasted business trip. I couldn’t reschedule it, unfortunately, as much as I tried to.”
“Oh,” Hermione said, furrowing her brow. “How long will you be gone?”
Blaise hesitated. “I’m not sure. It all depends how things go once I’m there– could be anywhere from two to four weeks. I can try to Portkey home a few times while I’m gone just to check up on him, but the timing is quite unfortunate.”
“Indeed,” Hermione said contemplatively. She sighed. “I’ve been working with a few organisations to try to set up some services for recent releases– help with employment, Mind Healers, housing support. I’ve had trouble getting funding secured, though.”
“Sodding bureaucrats,” Blaise said commiseratingly.
She smiled, then there was a pause. Hermione cleared her throat. “If you want, I could drop by to see how he’s doing. I don’t know him well, but I wouldn’t feel right about leaving him all alone so soon after he’s been released.”
Blaise winced.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I know you feel bad about having to leave him right now, and honestly, I’m perfectly happy to help out however I can. If you think he’d be okay with it, I’m more than willing to check in with him. It’s sort of my job, anyways, right?”
“It’s hardly your job, Hermione,” he said with a smile. “I think it falls outside your scope, but I appreciate it nonetheless.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll let him know you might drop by while I’m gone. I’ve asked my house-elf, Dilly, to make herself available should he need anything. Three square meals a day, washing and tidying, that sort of thing,” Blaise said. Hermione opened her mouth to argue. “She’s got an employment contract and everything, Granger, before you start in on me. Benefits and everything.”
“Fair enough.” Hermione smiled faintly, feeling the weight of the day settle back on her shoulders. She smoothed her trousers, draining her coffee. “I should get going. Meetings won’t wait, unfortunately.”
“Good luck,” Blaise said. “Ginny still asleep?” He asked, already heading towards her room.
“You know the answer to that question already,” she said fondly as she stepped into the Floo.
Ginny kept odd hours between Quidditch and her refusal to rise before noon, but their rhythm worked somehow. Hermione liked coming home to someone who made the flat feel alive, even if they barely saw each other some days. Someone to split takeaway with, someone to pour her a glass of wine after a long day at work. Someone who understood where she’d been, who had seen her at her most broken-down and vulnerable. Ginny was a good friend, solid and dependable. Consistent, unwavering.
There was comfort in the familiarity. And it kept the loneliness at bay– most days, anyway. It wasn’t something Hermione liked to dwell on, but some silences still felt heavier than others. It helped to keep busy with work, or to sit with Ginny watching rubbish Muggle shows on the telly.
Distraction wasn’t healing, but it was certainly better than silence.
------------------
The Ministry was already buzzing when she arrived, fireplaces flaring green and owls circling the atrium like a chaotic ballet. Hermione barely made it to her office before the first scroll of the day smacked her squarely in the chest.
Urgent was scrawled across the seal. They always were, really.
Her magical ledger hovered beside her desk, pages flipping frantically as if even it was overwhelmed. She muttered a charm to pin it still and scanned her to-do list. There was the departmental review with the Committee on Magical Rehabilitation in thirty minutes, followed by an interdepartmental hearing on misuse of post-war legislation, then a meeting with the goblins about reparations frameworks that was almost guaranteed to go poorly.
Before she could even sit, a junior clerk knocked with a stack of parchment nearly as tall as he was. “For Undersecretary Granger,” he muttered. “Addendum to the Reintegration Act filings. Just arrived a few minutes ago.”
She waved him in distractedly, already halfway through scribbling a note on her calendar.
“Thanks, John,” she muttered without looking up.
“Of course. Can I bring you a coffee?”
“Please,” she said emphatically.
One meeting bled into the next, her notes piling up as fast as the tension behind her eyes. By the time she glanced at the clock again, it was nearly three. How on earth had that happened?
She blinked. She’d missed lunch. Again.
Her stomach gave a weak protest, but there wasn’t time—there was never time. The best she could do was a few sips of cold coffee and half a ginger biscuit from her desk drawer before her next appointment began. A diplomatic briefing with the Department of International Magical Cooperation was already queuing outside her door. By five o’clock, her voice was hoarse and her head throbbed. The day had been a blur of firecalls, committee minutes, and carefully measured words. She hadn’t even had a moment to respond to the owl from the Wizengamot clerk, let alone take a breath.
By the time she stepped out of the Floo into her living room, she was practically swaying on her feet with exhaustion. She wondered if she could talk Ginny into takeaway– there was no way she was setting foot in the kitchen tonight.
She barely had time to take a breath before Ginny appeared, brandishing a charcuterie board like a weapon and promptly shoving a brie-smeared cracker into Hermione’s mouth.
Hermione blinked, caught completely off guard. “Wh–?”
“Blaise told me you had a busy day, so I figured you’d skip lunch again. Eat.”
Obediently, Hermione chewed. “Yum,” she said. “Charcuterie? What’s the occasion?”
Ginny stared her down, a hand on her hip. “Don’t tell me you forgot.” She popped a grape into Hermione’s mouth without waiting for an answer. “It’s Girls’ Night.”
Hermione groaned around the food in her mouth. “Bugger. That’s tonight?”
“Every other Wednesday,” Ginny sing-songed, turning back to the kitchen and tossing a handful of almonds into a bowl. “And it’s our turn to host. We even made the rota together, remember? Colour-coded and everything. You were so smug about it.”
“I am smug about it,” Hermione muttered, sinking onto the couch as she chewed. “I just forgot this particular Wednesday existed.”
Ginny handed her a glass of wine with a sympathetic look. “Rough day?”
Hermione sighed, nodding. “Is it too late to cancel?”
Ginny glared at her. “Of course it is. And even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t let you back out. We missed the last one because of my match in Dublin, and I’m visiting Blaise in Singapore for the next. I know you wouldn’t deign to attend without me, so don’t even bother trying to argue that you’d go.”
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again with a weary huff. Ginny wasn’t wrong. As much as she grumbled about it, Girls’ Night was one of the few things that managed to pry her out of work mode. Aside from her weekly dinners with Harry and Ron, Ginny was the main reason she kept any kind of social calendar at all these days.
“Fine,” she said, sipping her wine. “But I reserve the right to fall asleep on the sofa halfway through.”
Ginny raised her glass in mock salute. “That’s the spirit.”
Just then, a knock sounded at the door, followed by another in quick succession.
“I’ll get it,” Ginny said, already heading for the front hall. A moment later, the flat was filled with warm voices and the shuffle of shoes and bags.
Susan Bones was the first to arrive, cheeks flushed from the mild Spring air. She handed Hermione a box of homemade fudge and pecked her on the cheek.
Padma followed close behind, tucking her hair behind one ear as she slipped off her denim jacket. “I brought those little hazelnut tarts from the bakery on Portobello Road—thought they might pair well with wine and mild emotional spiraling.”
Hermione let out a low laugh, already feeling some of the day melt away.
Luna stepped in after them, a lavender crown perched atop her head. “I brought a deck of star charts,” she said, holding up a little velvet pouch. “Just in case anyone needs help making a decision. Or finding emotional clarity. Oh, and also elf-made wine.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow. “What kind of decisions are we making tonight?”
Luna shrugged, serene as ever. “You never know.”
And then came Pansy– the newest addition to Girls’ Night– effortlessly composed as always, wearing a soft cream blazer and carrying a glossy gift bag full of what looked like skincare samples. “I’m trialing vendors for the gala next month,” she said, setting the bag on the counter. “Tell me what gives you hives.”
“Charming,” Ginny muttered, but she was grinning.
Hermione settled into the sofa again as the living room filled around her—voices, laughter, the uncorking of wine. These nights had started off as something casual, mostly driven by Ginny and Susan, but they’d become a rhythm she looked forward to—a rare moment of stillness. As exhausted as she was, there was something infectious about being surrounded by the group of women she called friends.
“So,” Susan said, settling onto a floor cushion. “How’s the whole Zabini situation, Gin?”
Ginny narrowed her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “It’s not really a situation anymore. You know that. But it’s… good. Really good, actually.”
“Just the sex? Or all of it?” Pansy asked, sipping her wine casually.
“Both,” Ginny deadpanned. “But the sex is really, really good.”
Pansy smirked. “Well I knew that . What about everything else?”
Ginny gave her a playful shove. “Everything else is pretty incredible, honestly. He buys me flowers, shows up when he says he will, remembers my favourite wine, makes me laugh, and is genuinely interested in basically everything I have to say.”
Susan whistled. “Sounds like you won the boyfriend lottery.”
Pansy looked genuinely surprised. “I’ll say. I’ve known Blaise a long time, and I’ve never known him to act like… that. He must be serious about you.”
Ginny shrugged as she popped a cheese and cracker into her mouth. “I’m serious about him, too. Who would’ve thought?”
Ginny’s face practically glowed when she talked about her beau. It suited her. Hermione couldn’t ever remember seeing her friend this smitten, even with Harry. She’d been shocked when Ginny crawled into bed with her a few months ago, whispering that Blaise Zabini was the fittest man she’d ever laid eyes on. Apparently, Neville had mentioned to Pansy that Ginny was single, and Pansy had worked her magic, casually inviting Blaise to a night out at the pub. The rest was history, as they say.
Hermione took a sip of her wine, eyes on the rim of her glass as the others murmured approvingly. She was genuinely happy for her—Ginny deserved this, especially after the last couple years—but there was something about the way her friend beamed when she talked about Blaise that made a quiet ache settle in Hermione’s chest. That familiar pang she’d long ago learned not to examine too closely.
She had her work. She had her friends. She had routine and purpose. But sometimes, when the flat was too quiet and she’d gone too many days without meaningful touch, it hit her in unexpected ways—how deeply she missed being seen. Although, she wasn’t sure anyone had ever truly seen her before. Not that she ever let anyone close enough to actually do so, she thought miserably.
“Now,” Padma said, as if reading her mind. “What about Ron, Hermione? Anything new on that front?”
“Ugh,” Hermione groaned, covering her face with her arm. “Don’t remind me.”
Padma raised an eyebrow. “So… have you seen him lately?”
Hermione groaned, dragging a cushion into her lap and hiding behind it. “Define seen .”
Pansy snorted. “That’s not a no.”
Hermione peeked over the top of the cushion with a sheepish look. “We had dinner with Harry last week. Like we always do. I saw him then.”
“That’s not what she meant and you know it,” Ginny said, arching a brow.
Hermione sighed, sinking deeper into the couch. “Yes. Okay? Yes. He stayed over. Again. Ginny was at Blaise’s and I just… wanted the company.”
Susan gave her a soft, sympathetic look. “Oh, Hermione…”
“I know,” she said quickly, waving her hand like she could brush it all away. “I know. I’m terrible. I know! It’s just—he’s comfortable. Familiar. And he always says the right thing at exactly the wrong moment, and I end up…” She trailed off, then finished flatly, “regretting it.”
“You love him,” Luna said gently, “just not in the way he’d like.”
Hermione nodded. “Exactly. And I’ve told him that. So many times. But he still… hopes. And then I feel like the villain for trying to set boundaries that he doesn’t want to hear.”
“And he manages to talk you out of them,” Ginny said. “Godric, my brother is a real prick sometimes.”
“He’s not,” Hermione said quickly, defensively. “I mean yes, he does talk me out of things, but I go along with it. That makes me just as guilty– if not more.”
“You’ve got to cut him loose, Granger,” Pansy said, her tone gentler than usual.
Hermione sighed. “I really do, I know. But it’s nice to be… wanted sometimes. Not that it’s an excuse, but–”
“I get it,” Susan said, squeezing her hand. “You don’t need to make excuses. You’ve known eachother forever. It’s safe, it’s comfortable. And it helps that he worships the ground you walk on.”
Hermione groaned. “I don’t even think it’s about him anymore. That’s the sad part.” She drank deeply from her glass. “I think I’ve just started to realize I might actually end up alone. And maybe I deserve that.”
She was surprised at the vulnerability of her own words, almost as if someone else had pulled them out of her mouth without her knowledge. She blinked. Had she had too much wine? Or was she just overtired?
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pansy said sharply, topping Hermione’s wine off. “You’re the whole package, Granger. And also, deeply annoying when you spiral.”
The girls laughed, and Hermione managed a real smile.
“Thanks,” she said dryly. “Really warming to be emotionally slapped by someone in five-inch heels.”
“I’m wearing four-inch, thank you very much,” Pansy said primly, crossing her legs.
And just like that, the heaviness began to lift, laughter smoothing out the edges again.
-------------------
That night, though, Hermione lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Rain battered the windows in sheets, and thunder growled low over the rooftops, distant but creeping closer. Hermione lay in bed staring at the ceiling, covers pulled up to her chin, every flash of lightning strobing the room in pale, ghostly white. The wine had worn off hours ago, but the ache in her chest hadn’t. It rarely did anymore, especially at night. Her flat creaked softly with every shift of wind outside, and she tracked the storm like she used to as a child—counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder, listening for the space to shrink.
She missed her mum.
The thought came unbidden, soft and sudden, like a whisper from another life. When she was small, storms had scared her enough to climb into bed with her parents. Her mum would lift the duvet wordlessly and let her curl up beside her. Sometimes, she would hum under her breath, a tune Hermione never knew the name of but still remembered. Hermione often thought to herself that those nights tucked between her parents was probably the safest she’d ever felt. The most loved, the most secure.
Now, although she had friends who loved her, she was alone in a different way. Not unloved, but untethered. No one’s daughter, no one’s partner. There were no other Grangers, no one who cared about the monotony of her day the way a mother would. No one who had held her and nursed her and soothed her when she cried. No one who remembered teaching her to ride a bike, or playing her her very first record, no one who’d kept all of her drawings from primary school.
She was just herself now. Just Hermione, just drifting.
A crack of thunder snapped across the sky, closer now. Hermione flinched. She turned on her side, pressing her cheek into the pillow. If she stayed still enough, if she breathed just right, she could almost convince herself that someone was there.
Sometimes, in moments like this, her mind drifted to Ron. Who she used to laugh with in common rooms or cling to during battle. Who had once fit into her life like a piece of something she thought she needed. The one who shared toothpaste and lazy Sundays, who kissed her temple in the mornings and made her tea. There had been comfort, familiarity. Heat. There had been a sweetness to it, once. A sense of safety. But eventually, even that had worn thin.
She’d come home animated, rambling about a new case or a tricky precedent in magical creature law, and Ron’s eyes would glaze over—not unkindly, but unmistakably. He’d nod and smile, say something supportive, but she could feel it: the way her excitement dimmed under his quiet boredom. The way her voice trailed off, embarrassed, like she was back in first year again, talking too much, boring her friends.
So she’d started holding things back. Not because he asked her to, but because she didn’t want to feel foolish. She didn’t want to see that flicker of distance in his face. She didn’t want to be too much. So Hermione had begun to shrink herself to keep him close. He never saw it that way– he still seemed to believe they were meant for each other, oddly enough. She couldn’t understand it. How he could look at what they had—polite dinners, tepid conversations, her quiet self-erasure—and still call it happiness.
It didn’t make sense. She didn’t feel like she made him truly happy, not the way he deserved. Not in the way she deserved. Their intimacy had quietly shifted somewhere along the way, too. The eagerness he once showed felt like a distant memory, replaced by something… routine. She found herself making excuses more often than not—tired, busy, distracted, anything to turn him down when he’d come onto her. When they did come together, it was less a meeting of two people and more like going through the motions.
He barely even tried to make her come anymore. He’d stopped asking what she liked, stopped paying attention to her body. And she stopped bothering to fake it.
If he noticed, he never said anything.
And yet, he had acted devastated when she’d finally ended things. Blindsided, even. He fought her on it, begged her to stay, cried , even. She’d honestly thought he was as miserable as she was. In the end, she had to move out of their flat, find her own place. Thank Merlin for Ginny, who had recently broken up with Harry and needed a flatmate just as much as she did. It was a relief she didn’t hold the breakup against Hermione, that she understood why she’d needed to end things, even though she had broken Ron’s heart, allegedly.
But even after all that, sometimes she’d find herself back in his bed. Or he’d end up in hers. Either way, it never ended well. She’d lie there hollow, the silence louder than any words. She’d wonder, again and again, why she kept doing this—why she let herself fall into that familiar emptiness, that ghost of what once was. It didn’t even feel good physically, not really. It wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t connection. It was just something to fill the ache of being alone, even if for a moment. A warm body in her bed. And she hated herself for it.
If a friend told her this story, she knew exactly what she’d say: you’re better than this. You deserve better. Stop settling for the scraps of a relationship that’s already ended.
She thought about what Pansy had said– ‘ you’ve got to cut him loose, Granger .’ She’d been right. What was she doing? Maybe it was time to stop feeling sorry for herself. Time to stop letting old patterns dictate her worth. She wasn’t a failure because she stumbled. She wasn’t broken beyond repair. She just needed to start choosing herself — truly, fully.
Hermione didn’t know exactly what that entailed, but she knew she could start with not jumping back into bed with her ex. Baby steps, she thought. That was something she could handle.
------------------------
The truth is I am a toy that people enjoy
'Til all of the tricks don't work anymore
And then they are bored of me
I know that it's exciting running through the night, but
Every perfect summer's eating me alive until you're gone
Better on my own
They say, "You're a little much for me
You're a liability
You're a little much for me"
So they pull back, make other plans
I understand, I'm a liability
-Lorde
Chapter 3: Edge of Desire
Notes:
Part II of Hermione's POV! Things are heating up, slowly but surely ;)
Chapter Text
By the time Friday rolled around, Hermione was running on fumes. Her shoulders ached from hunching over her desk all week, her eyes burned from too many hours squinting at paperwork, and she was fairly certain she’d consumed more coffee than actual food. But despite the exhaustion, there was a quiet sense of pride humming beneath it all. Beyond just what she’d accomplished at the DMLE, which was still new for her.
She’d been firm with Ron the night before— really firm.
After dinner with Harry, as always, the three of them had lingered outside the pub too long, laughing and swapping stories like they were still eighteen. But when Harry finally Apparated home to Spencer, Ron lingered. He always lingered.
“I’ll walk you back,” he said, already turning to match her stride.
Hermione hesitated. “Ron—”
“It’s fine,” he cut in quickly. “I don’t mind at all.”
“I know,” she pressed. “But I do. It’s not going to happen tonight. I’m sor–” she shook her head and she stopped herself from apologizing. “We’ve talked about this. It’s not healthy, and we’re both miserable afterwards. I’m putting my foot down, and I need you to respect that.”
He stared at her, brow furrowed.
“Please,” she added.
He looked away. “I just... I like walking you home. That’s all. It’s not—”
“I know,” she said quietly. “Maybe I’ll see you this weekend.”
Ron looked surprised, almost hopeful. “You’re coming to the Burrow?”
She cringed. “Erm, I was thinking about it,” she said. She wasn’t, though.
It had felt awful, rejecting him, but it was better than the alternative. Better than giving into that strange blend of nostalgia and loneliness. That had to count for something. Now, as she sat at her desk late Friday afternoon, absently rubbing her temple, her eyes drifted to the note pinned to the corner of her bulletin board.
Check on Theo , she’d scribbled, hoping that putting it into her direct line of vision would be enough to make it stick in her brain. Obviously, that hadn’t been the case. Her stomach sank. It had been three days, and she hadn’t even sent an owl. Not because she didn’t care—she did. She just... hadn’t had the energy for anyone else’s needs, not this week.
Still, the guilt gnawed at her.
Hermione glanced at the time. Nearly six. If she left now, she could grab takeaway and swing by. Nothing dramatic. Just dinner and a check-in. Just making sure he was eating, sleeping, breathing. Maybe he wouldn’t even want visitors, she thought. She could leave the food with him and go, if things were too uncomfortable.
By the time she reached Blaise’s building in Richmond, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the quiet street. The neighborhood was clean and charming in that distinctly expensive way — manicured hedges, polished brass numbers on white-painted townhouses, and not a trace of litter in sight. Hermione adjusted the takeaway bag in her arms and approached the sleek black door. She pressed the buzzer labeled Zabini and waited, suddenly unsure of herself. Was he even expecting her?
A beat passed. Then another. She was just about to turn away when the intercom crackled, and a voice — low, quiet, unmistakably male — came through. “Hello?”
“It’s Hermione,” she said, suddenly aware of how awkward this was. “Granger. I told Blaise I’d stop by.”
There was a pause. Then a soft click, and the door unlocked.
The lobby was all clean lines and marble, with a modern lift that smelled faintly of lemon and whatever cologne Blaise had no doubt charmed the walls to emit. She stepped inside, trying not to feel like an intruder. The flat was on the top floor, and when the lift opened, she was greeted by a glass-paneled hallway bathed in golden light from the setting sun.
She knocked gently.
The door opened, and there he was. Theodore Nott looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Even lankier than he had been back at school, if that was even possible. Taller, which was also surprising– he’d been well over six feet by the time they were sixth years. His hair was long, but not in an intentional way– in the way that someone who hadn’t had access to basic hygiene might be sporting. He was dressed in soft clothes that looked borrowed and too big for his frame.
And yet, there was still something undeniably magnetic about him — a certain gravity she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t his appearance, exactly, though he was still handsome in a strange, angular way, all sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. It was something else. The stillness of him. The way he looked at her like he saw more than she meant to show. Like he was cataloguing her down to the last thought she’d had and doing it without judgment. Even now, hollowed out and silent, there was an intensity to him, something unreadable behind those blue-green eyes that made her skin prickle.
“Hi,” she said awkwardly, breaking the silence. “I hope it’s alright that I stopped by. I brought dinner.” She lifted the takeaway bag.
He blinked at her. “You–” he shook his head, as if reminding himself of his manners. “Come in.” He opened the door wider, and she stepped inside.
The flat was gorgeous — all modern décor and large windows, with high ceilings and tasteful artwork on the walls. Of course it was. It was Blaise's. Everything looked like it had been professionally arranged, from the espresso machine on the counter to the stack of untouched design magazines on the coffee table.
Theo didn’t say anything as she followed him into the open-plan kitchen.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just got a mix of everything,” she said, just to fill the silence. “It’s Thai– I hope that’s alright with you.”
“Please, Granger,” he said dryly. “As if I’d turn my nose up at anything you pulled out of that bag. Unless it’s gruel– I’ve grown rather tired of that, for some reason.”
She snorted, then reddened. He was funny. Blaise had mentioned that.
They settled on opposite ends of the couch with their paper cartons and wooden chopsticks, the quiet between them filled by the distant hum of traffic outside and the soft clink of containers being opened.
It was awkward, at first. Hermione didn’t know where to look. Theo didn’t seem inclined to fill the space with pleasantries, sort of picking at his food and staring at his feet. But eventually, the silence stopped feeling like something to fix. It was just quiet. And oddly peaceful.
He didn’t rush through his food, but he didn’t ignore it altogether, either. That was good. He was at least interested in eating. She’d read that many ex-prisoners couldn’t stomach real food for weeks after being released. She caught him eyeing the peanut sauce with interest, and nudged the container closer to him without a word.
When she reached for the remote, she hesitated. “Do you, um… want to put something on the telly? Might make the silence less suffocating.”
Theo blinked once. “What’s telly ?”
Hermione looked up sharply. “You’re joking.”
He stared back, completely serious.
“You’ve been here three days and you still don’t know what the telly is?” She pointed at the large flat-screen in front of them.
“I assumed that was some kind of appliance,” he said mildly. “Didn’t feel like poking around. I’ve been a bit preoccupied with not losing my mind.”
She shook her head, incredulous. “So you’ve just been sitting here in silence this whole time?”
He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “Sometimes I listen to the upstairs neighbors yell at each other. It’s oddly soothing.”
Hermione huffed a laugh. “You’re lucky I came, then.”
“I’m beginning to think so,” he murmured.
She paused, chopsticks hovering mid-air. But when she glanced over, he was looking down at his food again, his expression unreadable.
A laugh bubbled out of her of its own accord at the absurdity of the situation. “This is tragic,” she said. “Move over.”
He did, reluctantly, and watched her with guarded curiosity as she clicked the power button.
The screen lit up, suddenly full of bright colors and motion and sound—a commercial for shampoo blasting with absurd enthusiasm.
Theo flinched. “What the—?”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” she said quickly, lowering the volume. “The telly, it’s sort of like… moving photographs, but with sound. Programmed stories, news, entertainment. It’s not alive.” She glanced over at him again. “It’s a Muggle invention.”
He narrowed his eyes at the screen, watching a woman toss her hair in slow motion. “Are you sure they aren’t watching us? This feels oddly… sentient.”
She laughed, adjusting the volume again. “I promise. It’s purely for entertainment. No one in there can see you.”
He tilted his head. “So this is what Muggles do in their spare time? Just… sit and stare at this thing?”
“Well, yes. But it’s not as bleak as it sounds. There are shows, stories. Films. You can learn things. Escape things. It’s not just mindless noise.”
Theo considered this. “And they made all this without magic?”
“Yes,” she said, grinning in earnest now. “Isn’t that kind of amazing?”
His expression flickered– something she couldn’t quite decipher passing behind his eyes. He nodded once, then leaned back slowly into the cushions, still watching the screen like it might sprout legs and run.
“What’s this one about?” he asked, gesturing vaguely.
Hermione glanced up. “It’s a drama. They call it a “soap.” It’s called EastEnders . Mostly about people being terrible to each other, but with nice lighting and good clothes.”
He snorted. “So kind of like Hogwarts, then.”
She laughed, relaxing beside him. “You’re not far off.”
And just like that, the awkwardness melted a little more. The episode rolled on, a dizzying carousel of shouting matches, slammed doors, and pints poured in moody silence. Hermione passed him a box of spring rolls without thinking, and to her surprise, Theo took one without hesitation.
“Is everyone in this show cheating on each other?” he asked, watching as a character stormed out of the Queen Vic for the third time in ten minutes.
“Pretty much. Or scheming. Or dying dramatically.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And most Muggles like… this sort of thing?”
She grinned. “It’s oddly comforting. Predictable, in a chaotic sort of way.”
Another argument broke out onscreen, a man yelling, “I know what you did, Denise!” while pointing with so much conviction Theo actually flinched.
“She looks like she’s about to hex him,” he murmured.
Hermione smirked. “No magic in this show, remember?”
“Right.” Theo huffed a laugh through his nose, leaning back against the cushions.
His shoulders, which had been stiff and hunched when she arrived, now seemed marginally less guarded. She saw him turn to look at her a few times, even opening and closing his mouth like he wanted to say something, but she didn’t want to push, so she pretended not to notice. Finally, after a few more minutes of silence, he cleared his throat.
“Granger,” he said quietly, facing her fully. “You don’t have to stay, you know.”
Hermione felt an odd, inexplicable rush of disappointment. “Oh– I’m so sorry. I wasn’t even thinking– I’ve just made myself right at home and intruded on your evening, haven’t I?”
Theo’s eyes widened. “No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, clumsily. He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward again. “You’re Hermione Granger. I guess I figured you had about a thousand better things to do on a Friday night than watch Muggle telly with an ex-convict.”
She blinked, then gave a small, disbelieving laugh. “I don’t, actually.”
He tilted his head, frowning. She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.
“I mean, I have work,” she said. “And friends, sure. I guess I have things I could be doing. But I spend most nights like this. Takeaway and something mildly ridiculous on the telly.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The first thing you mentioned was work when I asked if you had better things to do on a Friday night. That can’t be a good sign.”
She surprised herself by laughing. “You’re probably right. I’m a bit of a workaholic, honestly. Even I can admit as much.”
Theo gave a soft snort, but it wasn’t unkind. “Somehow I’m not shocked.”
Hermione smiled faintly. “Yeah, well. I like to keep busy. Keeps my mind from wandering to things I’d rather not dwell on.” She wondered why she’d just admitted that to him.
He glanced at her, something flickering behind his eyes. “That why you came tonight? Distraction? Guilt? Or was I just another thing on your to-do list?”
She felt a bit as if he’d slapped her across the face. She must’ve looked as shocked as she felt, because he sighed and rubbed his temples. “I’m sorry. That was incredibly rude. I’m a bit out of practice with this whole human connection thing.”
Hermione felt herself soften a bit. “It’s alright,” she said cautiously. “I get it. Me showing up here out of the blue must feel a bit strange. But if I wanted a distraction, there are plenty of ways I could do that without traipsing across town to Blaise’s posh flat.”
Theo’s face softened a bit, and he nodded. “Anyways, Granger. What do you do when you’re not babysitting strays, watching telly or eating takeaway?”
She looked over, surprised, but there was no malice in his tone—just dry humor and maybe a flicker of interest. “I work at the Ministry,” she said slowly. “Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Mostly policy work. It’s… a lot of paperwork and a lot of politics.”
“Well I knew that,” Theo said. He swallowed, staring down at his hands. “I know what you did to help people like me. I won’t pretend to understand it, but I… appreciate it. So thanks.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” she said, but she could almost see his walls going back up as she spoke. He was uncomfortable. She pivoted. “It’s not all noble, you know. Most days I’m buried in subcommittee reports about cauldron import tariffs or wand registration loopholes. Lately I’ve been working on this proposed reintegration framework—trying to build support for former inmates to get access to basic things like housing, jobs, education. It’s slow going. Everyone wants to say the war’s over, but nobody wants to deal with the aftermath.”
Theo looked at her again, more closely this time. “So you're still trying to save the world. Just with more bureaucracy.”
“Something like that,” she smiled. “It’s not very glamorous. Half the time I feel like I’m just bashing my head against a desk while a room full of old men try to out-condescend each other. But… it feels worth doing. And I like the idea that something might actually change. Even if it’s just one policy, or one person. Plus if I don’t push for it, I’m afraid no one will.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “You really are a Gryffindor through-and-through, aren’t you?”
“Is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?”
He shrugged. “Could be either. But in this case, I mean it as a compliment.”
She felt a flush spreading to her cheeks.
He averted his eyes. “Do you want something to drink?” he asked suddenly.
Hermione stared at him for a moment.
His eyes darted around nervously. “Unless you’ve got to go– I don’t mean to–”
“A drink would be nice,” she said. “What’ve you got?”
“Oh, I’m glad you asked,” Theo grinned properly for the first time since she’d arrived, walking towards the kitchen, gesturing for her to follow.
The change in him was startling. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased—his jaw relaxed, and the guarded squint in his eyes softened. The smile curved naturally, wide and easy, and it brightened his whole face, smoothing out the sharp lines that tiredness had etched there. He looked… handsome. More like the Theo Nott she remembered from school.
She blinked, quickly looking away before she stared too long. “Should I be concerned?”
“Possibly,” he said with mock solemnity. “Come see for yourself.”
He led her down a short hallway, past a tidy study and a bedroom that looked suspiciously like it had never been used. They stopped at what appeared to be a broom cupboard.
Theo glanced over his shoulder with a wry smile. “Blaise insists this is what separates us from the savages.” Then he opened the door.
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up.
The “cupboard” was, in fact, a temperature-controlled walk-in wine cave, its sleek, enchanted glass doors glowing faintly with preservation charms. Bottles lined every inch of the space—French reds, obscure Transylvanian whites, even a handful of rosés with handwritten tags in Blaise’s looping script.
“Merlin,” Hermione murmured. “Does Ginny know about this? If so, she’s been holding back on me.”
Theo snorted. “Perhaps she wanted to keep it all to herself. Besides, this is only his extra flat. Imagine what kind of setup he’s got at his primary home.”
Hermione shook her head slowly, knowing he was probably right. She stepped inside, gazing at the absurd array. “This is ridiculous.”
“It is,” he agreed, plucking a bottle off the middle shelf to examine it before carefully putting it back. “And wildly unnecessary. But also… kind of impressive?”
“Definitely impressive,” she said, eyes scanning the labels.
“Go ahead, Granger,” Theo said, casually leaning against the door. “Take your pick. The world is your oyster.”
Hermione took her time scanning the room, then reached for a bottle near the center—something Italian, deep red, with a label she couldn't read and a wax seal that looked unnecessarily regal. “This one, I think,” she said, holding it up for Theo’s approval.
He took it from her, tilted it toward the light, and read the label aloud in smooth, fluent Italian: “Brunello di Montalcino, Riserva 1994.” His voice lingered just slightly on the syllables, his accent unhurried and precise.
Hermione raised her eyebrows. “You sound like an Italian.”
Theo gave a faint, crooked smile. “I am. Half, at least.”
She was genuinely surprised. Not that she’d known anything about Theo to begin with, but she’d always assumed his family was old English money, like most of his fellow Hogwarts Purebloods. “On which side?” she asked curiously.
“My mother’s.We used to spend summers in Siena when I was small. I had a tutor who insisted I speak properly—said I’d disgrace the bloodline if I mangled the subjunctive.” He smirked.
Hermione tilted her head, following him out of the room and back to the kitchen. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything about your mother,” she admitted.
Theo was quiet for a beat as he retrieved two glasses and the corkscrew from a drawer. Then, almost offhandedly, he said, “She died when I was thirteen.”
“Oh,” Hermione said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
He gave a small shrug, not quite meeting her eyes. “It was a long time ago.”
There was no bitterness in his voice, but there was something else—something quieter, older, tucked deep into the spaces between his words. Hermione didn’t press.
“Excellent choice, by the way,” Theo said, handing her a glass. “This one’ll knock you off your feet.”
“Perfect,” Hermione said, stepping out of the wine cave. “I’ve been upright far too long this week.”
-----------------
Theo chuckled as they made their way back to the couch. The first sip was rich and dark and velvety, and the night stretched out ahead of them, warm and unexpectedly easy.
And then, they talked—about everything and nothing. Muggle television, the absurdity of wizarding bureaucracy, the time Theo accidentally set fire to a broom shed in third year. She told him stories about the ridiculous things her, Harry, and Ron had gotten into during their time at Hogwarts, and he was appropriately shocked. Particularly when he learned just how much time they’d spent in the Forbidden Forest. In turn, he told her about the pranks him and Blaise pulled on Malfoy, including a time they’d charmed his hair to turn bright pink every time he said the words ‘ my father. ’
“It took him a week to figure out how to get rid of it,” Theo said, his eyes bright.
“Is that why he wore that awful hat so much back in fourth year?”
“Good memory, Granger.”
Hermione found herself laughing more than she ever would’ve expected to. Not the polite kind, but real, unrestrained laughter, the sort that made her shoulders drop and her cheeks ache. Theo was sharp and dry and funnier than she’d remembered—although, she realized she’d rarely heard him speak back at school. He didn’t dominate the conversation the way some men did. Instead, he listened. Asked her questions. Surprised her with odd, thoughtful observations. She hadn’t meant to stay so long, hadn’t planned on enjoying herself this much.
Halfway through the second bottle, her legs were curled beneath her on the couch, glass resting loosely in her hand, and the usual tight coil of tension in her spine had all but disappeared.
“So,” she said, her tone light despite the heaviness of the question, “can I ask you something you probably don’t want to answer?”
Theo raised a brow. “Mm. My favorite kinds of questions always start that way.”
She smirked. “If you don’t want to talk about it, just say so. I’ll completely understand, and we can move on to more cheerful topics.”
He looked at her for a beat, almost as if he knew what was coming. “Alright. Ask.”
She hesitated. “Azkaban. What was it like?”
He didn’t answer right away. The quiet stretched, and the air shifted, just a little. Hermione wondered if it had been a mistake, bringing it up. Things had been rather light until now, but she was curious– not just about the prison itself, but about him. He was like a puzzle she wanted to solve, a book she wanted to keep on reading.
Theo drained his glass and refilled it before answering. “Well,” he said finally, his tone carefully flippant, “it wasn’t a spa, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Hermione gave him a look, patient but not pushing.
Theo exhaled through his nose. “It was… bleak. Predictably so. Grey. Cold. Nothing to do but think. Which, as it turns out, is a terrible pastime when you’ve got a list of regrets long enough to hang yourself with.”
His tone was flippant, but the edge underneath it was unmistakable.
He smirked wryly. “The Dementors have all fucked off, of course, but you can still almost feel them there. Guess the Ministry forgot to fumigate,” he said, huffing a laugh. Then, his expression sombered, swirling his wine around. “You sort of just stop feeling like a person. I can’t even tell you how strange it was to wake up one day in there and go to bed… here,” he gestured around. “Feels like I’m still in a dream sometimes. Like any day I’ll open my eyes and be back in my cell.”
Hermione’s heart twisted. “I’m sorry,” she said, knowing it wasn’t the right thing to say. “It sounds… awful. I can’t even imagine.”
“Don’t be,” he said, almost sharply. “Don’t be sorry, I mean. I deserved every bit of it and more.”
Hermione didn’t look away. “I don’t believe that.”
“Of course you don’t,” Theo scoffed. “You probably believe Bellatrix Lestrange just needed a little love and a firm hand. Maybe a self care regimen, and she’d be good as new.”
Hermione’s stomach sank and her smile vanished. “No,” she said quietly. “I don’t. There are some people who are beyond redemption.”
“Fuck,” Theo said, dropping his face into his hands. “I didn’t think about– I’m sorry, Granger.”
Ah . So he’d heard about her run-in with Bellatrix. Wonderful.
She took a deep breath. “It’s alright,” Hermione said. “You’re allowed to say her name. I’m not fragile.”
He looked at her for a beat, eyes sharp with something like regret. “I can tell you aren’t.” Something about the way he said it made her stomach do something funny. “Still. That was… stupid of me.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. But it does bring me to the point I was trying to make, which is that there’s a difference between people like her and people like you. A massive one.”
Theo let out a short, disbelieving laugh and tipped back what was left in his glass. “That a fact?”
“It is,” she said. “You made mistakes. Big ones, maybe. But you were a child, and from what I’ve heard, you didn’t have choices—not really. She chose cruelty, over and over. In fact, she reveled in it. You did not.”
Theo was quiet for a moment. “So what have you heard, then? About me?”
She hesitated. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
He rolled his eyes. “Please, Granger. I’ve been cooped up here for three days, talking to no one but the walls. At this point, even your grim little gossip roundup sounds like entertainment.”
She gave him a look but didn’t rise to the bait. “Alright. You want the shortlist?”
Theo gestured with his glass. “Give me the hits.”
Hermione folded her arms, looking him in the eye. “Your father was a Death Eater. You took the Mark right around the same time Draco Malfoy did. You were charged with breaking protective wards– some on safehouses the Order had set up. One in Oxford, another in East Sussex. You helped them breach a warded sanctuary in Leeds that was sheltering Muggle-born families.”
She hesitated, watching Theo’s face closely. His eyes dimmed almost imperceptibly, but he nodded for her to continue. She took a deep breath. “You were also accused of helping to cast anti-Apparition spells to trap people inside before they could flee. And you were named by two survivors held at Nott Manor as one of the people who used the Cruciatus Curse. Although you weren’t directly responsible for any deaths–”
“I still have blood on my hands,” he finished, staring at the wall behind her.
Hermione didn’t speak right away. She watched him closely– the way he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes, the way he fidgeted with the tassels of the blanket behind him. “You were barely seventeen,” she said quietly. “And you did it under duress. Your father was–”
“Don’t,” he cut in softly, still not looking at her. “Don’t talk about him like he’s the reason. He didn’t make my choices for me.”
“You were a teenager, Theo.” It was the first time she’d used his first name, and it felt strange coming out of her mouth.
“I was old enough to know right from wrong.” His lip curled with self-disgust. “And I knew. I knew the minute I stepped over the threshold of that house in Leeds. I knew when I watched a mother throw herself in front of her child, and I didn’t lower my wand. I knew when I watched a Muggle-born scream on the floor in front of me the first time I cast a successful Cruciatus –” He broke off, jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter what my father did. What matters is that I let him. I let all of it happen.”
Hermione’s stomach churned. She didn’t know how to feel– part of her wanted to absolve him of his guilt, to reach for his hand and tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t have to carry it alone. But another part recoiled. A colder, sharper part that flinched at the image he’d painted: a mother shielding her child, a girl writhing on the ground at his feet. It made her feel nauseated. Ashamed of herself, even, for wanting to offer him comfort. It was one thing to read it on paper, in a removed, almost clinical manner, but to hear him talk about it like this– it was chilling. Gut-wrenching.
Because no matter how decent he seemed now, no matter how haunted his eyes looked, Hermione knew, she knew —she could never have done those things. Not even with a wand at her back. Not even if it meant dying herself.
And yet… she’d never had to make that choice, had she?
She’d never known what it was like to grow up in a house like his, to live under the thumb of a man who saw mercy as weakness and obedience as survival. She’d never had to weigh someone else’s pain against her own life, or wonder what horrors would befall her if she refused.
Hermione’s throat felt tight. “I–” she started, then stopped, her voice catching. She was not going to cry. “I don’t think I can understand what that was like,” she said finally, her voice quiet. “And I don’t know what I would’ve done in your place. I want to say I’d have chosen differently, but maybe that’s easy to say when I was never in that position.”
Theo shook his head. “You wouldn’t, though. You were the same age as me when you risked your life to save the bloody wizarding world, Granger. You had a choice, and you chose to fight. I had one too, and I didn’t. Simple as that.”
Hermione looked at him, her chest tight. “It’s not, though, is it?”
“I don’t follow,” Theo said, his expression grim. He still wouldn’t meet her eye.
“Theo. Look at me,” she said. Reluctantly, he did, and she could feel her pulse thrumming in her ears. “I know you’re not proud of the choices you’ve made. I can see that, and I’ve only really known you for a few hours, since we never spoke at school. And I also know all of this, being released and dropped back into the world– is a bit of a shock to the system. But it’s not too late to live the kind of life you might’ve imagined for yourself. You’re young. You have your whole future ahead of you– it doesn’t have to be like this.”
Theo let out a quiet, disbelieving breath, still staring at her, almost like he was afraid to look away. “You say that like people will just forget what I’ve done.”
“No,” Hermione said gently. “But maybe they can forgive. If you let them.”
He blinked, his jaw shifting like he wanted to argue—but couldn’t quite find the energy. “You really believe that?”
She nodded. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“You’re here because Blaise asked you to.”
“I came because Blaise asked me to, yes. I stayed because I wanted to,” she clarified.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean, Granger,” he said, and for some reason, it made her heart stutter for a moment.
“I never do,” she said.
And it was the truth.
---------------------
Young and full of running
Tell me where is that taking me?
Just a great figure eight or a tiny infinity?
Love is really nothing
But a dream that keeps waking me
For all of my trying, we still end up dying
How can it be?
Don't say a word
Just come over and lie here with me
'Cause I'm just about to set fire to everything I see
I want you so bad I'll go back on the things I believe
There I just said it, I'm scared you'll forget about me
-John Mayer
Chapter 4: Slow Show
Notes:
We are back to Theo's POV! Our sweet little simp. There is a content warning for this chapter- if you need a heads up, please check the end for notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The first three days after Theo’s release had passed in a kind of grey blur.
He had wandered Blaise’s flat like a ghost—haunting the halls, drifting between the sofa and the kitchen and back again, unable to settle, unable to sleep. Unable to get too comfortable, feeling like his mere presence was sullying the impeccable interior of the flat. He was just passing through. A temporary shadow in someone else’s space. He hadn’t read, hadn’t done anything remotely productive or stimulating. Had barely eaten, despite the meals Blaise’s house-elf Dilly left out for him. She’d appear to collect the dishes and tut at him disapprovingly for the untouched food, muttering under her breath about “thin-boned wizards who don’t know how to take care of themselves.”
She wasn’t wrong.
He’d drank too much Firewhisky, stared out the windows too long. Watching the unsuspecting Muggles on the streets outside, he felt like a caged thing—pressed up against the glass while the rest of the world carried on, oblivious. They had no idea. About the war, the wreckage it left behind, the strange man who barely knew how to be a person watching them from above. They were just living. Buying coffee, walking their dogs. Meeting friends. Holding hands, even.
It made something hot and bitter settle under his ribs, even beneath the aching loneliness.
He didn’t want their lives– he didn’t think so, at least. He just envied them for the simplicity of it all. The way they moved down the streets with ease, with a lightness he couldn’t recall ever feeling. Maybe as a child. Maybe .
He hadn’t even done magic in three days, despite getting his wand back. He wondered if anyone kept tabs on that– he knew the Ministry would know if he cast a Dark spell, but would they notice if he just stopped casting spells altogether? Probably not, he thought. Because why would it matter? He was out. Case closed. Sentence served. A name checked off a list. He’d been eighteen when he walked into his cell, convincing himself seven years wasn’t really all that long. That he’d find ways to keep his mind occupied, to keep himself from going mad. That he’d emerge from this a better man, someone who’d done his penance and was ready to contribute something good to society for the first time in his life.
How naïve he’d been.
He was twenty-three now, older, but not grown. Free, but not really. Not clean. He wasn’t even bitter anymore– that was a phase that had come and gone around halfway through his sentence. Now he was just numb. Not a son. Not a friend. Not a Death Eater, not anymore. Just a person who slept in a borrowed bed, wearing someone else’s clothes, living on pity and polite silence. He didn’t have a thing to his name– no money, no home, no job. Not even a bloody pair of shoes that weren’t prison-issued. He wondered how long it would take for someone to notice if he just disappeared. Or ended it all. Weeks, probably.
Blaise would come home from his business trip, probably go see She-Weasel (he really ought to stop calling her that), and then remember the stray ex-Death Eater he was housing in one of his extra homes. Would he care? Or would he just be resentful about the mess he’d need to clean up?
That was a nasty thing to think , Theo chastised himself. Of course Blaise would care. He was Theo’s friend. Right? Or maybe Blaise had just done what decent people do—scooped up the wreckage, given it a roof. A favor to an old housemate who had no one else left.
He stood in the silence, watching the sun sink lower in the sky and thought—not idly, not abstractly—about how he might do it. No one would be surprised if an ex-Death Eater turned up dead. No one would question it, ask what had driven him to this point. No one would say ‘oh, but he had so much to live for!’
There were ways. Clean. Quick. Quiet. Something that wouldn’t make a mess. Something that wouldn’t make Dilly cry when she found him. It would be poetic justice, almost, that the very wand that he’d used to torture innocents would be the one he’d use to take his own life.
And then, just as he began to seriously entertain the idea, a sharp, tinny sound echoed through the flat like something out of a dream.
At first, he thought he was imagining it. The sound was so foreign it didn’t register as real. But it kept going. A mechanical trill, coming from somewhere near the kitchen wall. He followed it, sluggish and uncertain, until he found the buzzer. Blaise had mentioned something about the call box, demonstrated the buttons to push to let someone in, but Theo hadn’t expected to actually make use of it.
Was this a hallucination? Truthfully, it would make sense– he hadn’t slept more than four hours over the last three days. It wouldn’t surprise him if his mind began playing tricks on him. He stared at the receiver suspiciously, but it kept ringing. And ringing. He lifted it, slowly.
“Hello?” he said uncertainly, after a beat.
Then a voice—cautious, uncertain: “It’s Hermione,” she said. “Granger. I told Blaise I’d stop by.”
Now this was a very strange hallucination. Not sure what else to do, he buzzed her in. Then set the receiver back down and stood very still. And then, mere minutes later, she was standing on the doorstep.
Granger looked like sunlight—like something warm and golden that didn’t belong in the dim, grey corners of his world. He’d only ever seen her in Hogwarts robes, he realized. Maybe trousers and a jumper at Hogsmeade, but nothing like this. She wore a smart-looking skirt that hugged her hips, hitting just above her knees, and a soft white blouse patterned with tiny red and blue flowers, unbuttoned just enough to show her collarbones. Her hair was pulled back in some kind of complicated-looking plait, and her cheeks were flushed from the outdoor air. Granger’s nose was dotted with tiny freckles, and he absently wondered if she’d always had them. He couldn’t recall being close enough to her to notice. She clutched a bag in one arm, strands of her hair catching the hallway light like threads of amber.
Then she smiled– hesitant, polite. Almost nervous. “Hi,” she said. “I hope it’s alright that I stopped by. I brought dinner.”
He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He could only stand and stare, feeling disoriented by the sheer contrast of her—this golden, glowing thing—in the hollowed-out shell of his reality. She looked too alive for this place. Too soft. Too kind. And him—he hadn’t spoken out loud to another person in days. He probably looked feral.
But she didn’t look disgusted. She didn’t recoil at the sight of him, only tilted her head and bit her lip anxiously. He blinked. What was he doing?
“Come in,” he said, his voice sounding strange, like someone else was speaking through him.
As she passed by him, he caught a whiff of her perfume– something light and fruity, with a trace of warm spice beneath it. Undeniably feminine, soft. It made something in him stir.
And then, by some bizarre miracle, she had stayed. Made herself comfortable, curled her legs underneath herself on the couch. Spread out an array of food that looked so appealing, Theo felt his stomach growl for the first time in days.
He sat across from her, stiff and uncertain, like he was a guest in his own skin. Every movement felt jagged, ill-timed. He kept watching her out of the corner of his eye, convinced the spell would break at any moment—that she’d realize what a mistake this was, come to her senses, and leave. She made polite conversation, showed him how to use the telly. He tried to be cool, tried to act like he wasn’t completely floored by her presence, like he’d had plenty of visitors. He was failing miserably, he knew.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said eventually, forcing the words out. They came out flatter than he intended. He didn’t know why he said them– he wanted her to stay, desperately, almost. Then he’d mumbled something about her having better things to do, something that ended up sounding whiny and obnoxious.
She looked up, startled. “I don’t,” she said. And something flickered across her face—disappointment? Hurt?
Of course. Because he was doing this wrong. And then he’d gone and made it worse by saying something nasty about her being here out of guilt or obligation, because he was an idiot. But for some reason, she’d accepted his apology without so much as a second thought. Something he knew he didn’t deserve, but fuck , it felt nice. Theo would’ve been lying if he said Hermione Granger never crossed his mind over the last five years. He’d noticed her in school, because of course he had. Because he’d have to be blind not to. So sometimes, in the cold quiet of his cell, he’d recall her face. Rehash some of his schoolboy fantasies about pushing her up against a desk and kissing her. It had always felt like something unsavory and forbidden, to think about her that way. And now, somehow, he was the closest he’d ever been to her. Alone with her on the couch.
So he’d tried to make it last. Anything to keep her talking, to keep her sitting near him, smiling at him that way. Kept refilling her wine glass. Laughed more than he normally would have. Asked questions just to hear her voice. Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, the words started tumbling out of his own mouth. Confessing. Oversharing. And then, because he was a glutton for punishment– ‘what have you heard about me?’
She’d hesitated, but then, slowly, she’d told him. Not every sordid detail, but enough. Enough to make his insides twist, enough to make him want to crawl out of his own skin. It scalded going down—every word she spoke like broken glass, slicing through the paper-thin membrane he’d wrapped around himself just to make it through the day. She wasn’t cruel about it, not intentionally. But it felt like a strange, sweet kind of punishment– hearing his sins spill from her lips like scripture, spoken soft and steady, almost as if hearing her name them might sanctify the pain. As if dragging them into the light might cleanse him somehow, even as it burned while it happened.
And Salazar, she was beautiful. Even more so than he remembered. Hermione Granger had grown into a woman– self-assured and effortless in a way that made everything about her seem more striking. Beautiful in a way that made him forget how to breathe, made him feel clumsy and overwhelmed everytime she looked at him. Maybe it was a combination of things– his own social ineptitude after almost no human interaction for the last five years, and her disarming, undeniable sexiness. Theo didn’t know how to be cool around her. He didn’t know how to pull out the flirty, self-assured mannerisms he used to rely on when talking to girls. He felt like she could see straight into his soul, and it was somehow both exhilarating and horrifying.
He lay in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling like it might offer some kind of clarity, but all it gave him was her. The sound of her laugh echoing in his head, the way her nose scrunched when she smiled, the curve of her mouth as she sipped her wine. The scent of her still lingered in the flat, light and warm.
Something inside him stirred, low and electric, unfamiliar in its gentleness. It wasn’t just want—it was something more dangerous. The ache of it startled him. Because there was absolutely no way she would ever even consider– No. He cut the thought off before it could take root.
She was kind. That was all. Kind, and maybe a little lonely too, as unfathomable as that seemed to him. It didn’t mean anything. Didn’t mean she saw him the way he saw her. She was Hermione Granger—brilliant and principled and infuriatingly good —and he was… whatever he was now. Nothing. Nobody. Scum. He rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow, shame settling over him like a second skin. He was pathetic. Starved enough for warmth that he’d latched onto the first person who didn’t flinch at the sight of him. And it didn’t help that this person happened to be her . Of course he wanted Granger. Of course he ached for something he’d never deserved.
He swallowed hard, shifting under the covers, unsettled by the flush blooming in his chest, his throat, lower. Not just from arousal—though that was there too, inevitable and humiliating—but also the faint stirrings of hope. Something he hadn’t felt in years– long before he’d even set foot in Azkaban, really. But it was dangerous, he knew. To feel so attached after one night, after something that probably wasn’t even at the forefront of her mind anymore. If she knew– if she had even the faintest idea what he was thinking about right now, she’d be repulsed. He was sure of it. She would never come back, regardless of her sense of duty or obligation to Blaise. And somehow, that possibility was worse than anything else.
So he swallowed it down. Buried it deep. Told himself he was lucky just to be in her presence, to have her company. It would have to be enough, although he felt greedy for more, desperate to do something, anything to be close to her again. He wondered what it would be like to touch her– what her hair would feel like. Her skin looked impossibly soft, her mouth was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Fuck.
He needed to stop. Needed to pull himself together. He got up and wandered into the living room, poured himself another drink.
-------------------
The next morning, sunlight crept through the gaps in the curtains, pale and uninvited. Theo lay still for a long time, listening to the quiet hum of Muggle London outside the windows, the distant sound of traffic, a dog barking somewhere.
Then came the soft pop of apparition in the kitchen, and the familiar clink of dishware. Dilly. He waited for her to leave, then reluctantly made his way over. He almost didn’t get up, almost fell back into the routine he’d followed for days now, but something about last night made him reconsider. At the table, he sat down in front of his breakfast– eggs, toast, tea. A bit of fruit.
And he ate. It was good, more than just edible. He almost enjoyed it. And when Dilly returned to clear his plate and found him still sitting at the table with his plate cleared, she blinked at him in surprise. “Master Nott has eaten,” she said, stunned.
He nodded, self-conscious. “Yes. Thank you, Dilly.”
Her eyes went wide, and she looked like she might burst into tears. “Oh, Dilly is so happy to see this. Dilly has been worrying about Master Zabini’s very skinny friend, yes she has.”
Later that morning, an owl tapped at the window with a short, efficient rap. He recognized the writing on the parchment immediately– Blaise.
Just checking in. Please tell me you haven’t jumped off the balcony or hexed a neighbor? Looks like I won’t make it back for at least another two weeks. Sorry. Has Hermione stopped by? Forgot to mention she might do that. Oops.
-B.
P.S. The owl won’t leave unless you write back. So write back.
Theo smiled despite himself, rolling his eyes. He managed to locate some parchment and a quill and scribbled something back– no, he hadn’t jumped off the balcony or hexed a neighbor. Although he’d strongly considered one of those things (no, he wouldn’t specify which). Yes, Granger had stopped by. And then Theo told him to take his time– he didn’t mind the solitude (he did).
He turned on the telly, the way Granger had shown him. The screen buzzed to life, flooding the room with color and motion. It made him feel less lonely, somehow. He flipped through the channels until he found a cooking show, mundane and inoffensive. After a while, feeling slightly buoyed, he took a shower. His first one since Blaise had left. Hot water sluiced over his shoulders and down his spine, washing the stale sweat and dust from his skin. He stayed there longer than he meant to, letting the steam fog the mirror and soften the hard lines of his reflection.
And then, when he stepped out, he didn’t go straight to bed. He dressed in clean clothes (Blaise’s, of course), and headed back to the living room. Almost cautiously, he approached his wand. Picked it up, flexed his fingers around it. Let the magic buzz through his body again, the feeling just as strange and unfamiliar as it had been four days prior, back at the Ministry. Just to see if he still could, he cast a Lumos . Light spilled from the tip of his wand. He felt a little more like a person.
He didn’t do anything remarkable that day, not really. He milled around the flat like a ghost still learning how to haunt properly—wandering from room to room, picking things up, setting them down. Folding and refolding the same shirt. Running the tap just to hear it. Watching the light move across the floor. Flipping channels on the telly.
But something was different.
He wasn’t pacing in that frantic, aimless way he had before. He wasn’t counting tiles or holding his breath without meaning to. The silence didn’t seem quite so loud.
So he let the telly play. Dramas, game shows, a baking competition he didn’t entirely understand but watched anyway. And he thought about Granger. Wondered what she was doing now, how she was spending her Saturday. Once the sun started to go down, he poured himself a firewhisky. Then a second. He was contemplating a third when he heard the unmistakable sound of the buzzer.
He froze. It couldn’t be.
But then, there it was again– steady, insistent. He stood and crossed to the receiver, flicking it on with his heart in his throat.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” she said. “Hermione. Can I–”
He buzzed her in, not even waiting for her to finish the sentence. She’d come back. He expected she might stop by again in a few days, maybe . If he was lucky. But it had been less than twenty-four hours. That strange, stupid hope lit up inside him like a flare.
He opened the door once he heard a knock– tried to give it a few seconds so she couldn’t tell he’d been waiting behind it like an overeager child. She stood there, looking almost sheepish, smiling shyly.
She was dressed down this time— instead of work clothes, she wore some kind of black, spandex-looking bottoms that hugged her legs and hips in the most unfair way, leaving little to the imagination, and his brain nearly short-circuited trying not to stare. Her pale blue sweatshirt slouched off one shoulder, collar stretched and worn, like it had been loved for years. Her hair was loose around her face, all tumbling curls and flyaways. She looked… ridiculously beautiful. Effortlessly so. Once again, like sunshine in human form, dropped into the gray corner of his world once more, by some strange miracle.
“I know I just saw you,” she said, lifting a bottle in one hand, “but I figured… maybe you wouldn’t mind some company.”
He swallowed hard, already shaking his head. “No—I mean, yes. I mean, I don’t mind. Not at all.”
She smiled wider and stepped inside. “I brought wine– not as good as Blaise’s, of course. And dinner, if you’re hungry?”
He stepped aside, still trying to collect the pieces of his sanity from the floor. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She bent over, toeing off her shoes like she’d done it a hundred times before. He had to force his eyes away from her alarmingly perfect arse. “I know,” she said, turning to smile at him over her shoulder. “I wanted to.”
Oh.
Those three words did something to him. He wanted to pocket them. Press them into a book and keep them there forever, like some fragile, dried flower. She moved through the flat with ease now, like it wasn’t strange to be here, like he wasn’t strange to be around. She dropped her bag by the couch and padded into the kitchen to retrieve two glasses, poured them both a generous glass of wine and handed one to him. Then she grabbed two plates.
They settled onto the couch again, food unwrapped, glasses full. It was Italian– a few different pasta dishes, rich and hearty. A salad, too. He stared at it. She dished him up– something that felt strangely intimate. He tried not to overthink it. Instead, he turned on the telly, preparing to flip through channels aimlessly as he’d been doing for the last few hours.
“Oh!” She said, suddenly straightening. “I almost forgot.” She reached for her bag. “I brought some films, in case you wanted to watch them.” Her cheeks pinked slightly.
“Films?”
“Like shows, but longer. More like… a novel. A full story, if that makes sense.” He nodded, even though he wasn’t sure it did.
She spread the films out on the coffee table– thin, sleek cases, each no bigger than a small book. He blinked at them, puzzled.
“They’re called DVDs,” she explained. “Each one has a little disc inside—like a shiny, flat coin—that stores the film. You put it into a special machine and it plays on the telly.”
He reached out and picked one up, turning it over in his hands curiously. The front had a glossy image printed on it—people mid-action, dramatic fonts, strange Muggle taglines. The back was covered in more pictures, little summaries in tiny print, and odd symbols he didn’t recognize.
“That one’s called Pride and Prejudice ,” she said, smiling a little sheepishly. “It’s an adaptation of the Jane Austen novel. A bit slow at first, but beautiful. And very… erm, romantic.” She reddened.
She glanced down at the rest of the stack and began pointing them out. “ Dirty Dancing —iconic. Kind of my guilty pleasure. The Dead Poets Society —sad, but brilliant. Maybe not the best choice for tonight, come to think of it. The Talented Mr. Ripley —beautiful and a little unsettling. Matilda– kind of a children’s movie, but it’s… magical in its own way.”
His eyes roamed over each of the covers, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “And these are films you’ve already watched?”
She nodded. “All of my favourites,” she said. Then, biting her lip and looking down– “I thought maybe you’d like them too.”
Something like fondness– warmth, rushed through him. “I’d love to watch one,” he stumbled over the words, rushing to get them out. “Do you have a preference?” He added, more composed.
She shook her head. “I haven’t watched any of them in ages. Maybe you could pick?”
His fingers hovered over the stack, suddenly stupidly anxious. What if this was some sort of test, and he failed by picking the wrong one? She hadn’t seemed too keen on Dead Poets Society , and he didn’t want to watch something heavy or sad, anyways. He wasn’t sure he could handle a romance, either, like Pride and Prejudice —he didn’t trust himself not to read into every glance, every moment. Not with her sitting so close.
But then his gaze caught on Dirty Dancing again. The cover was loud, bright, slightly ridiculous. The way she’d said “guilty pleasure” had stuck with him—soft and a little mischievous, like an invitation.
He picked it up. “This one,” he said, holding it up between two fingers.
Granger laughed, delighted. “Excellent choice. Prepare yourself for some truly impressive dance montages.”
She showed him how to slide the disc into the machine, how to use the remote to play it. He was still mildly suspicious of the whole thing, but undeniably curious as well. Then, she settled back onto the couch beside him, folding her legs beneath her and pulling the blanket into her lap. He sat with his drink in hand, trying very hard not to overanalyze the fact that their knees were nearly touching.
The film started with some kind of dramatic opening sequence—voiceover, warm hues, old music. “I already regret this,” he said flatly, swirling his glass. He didn’t, though. He’d watch an endless loop of Professor Binns’ lectures if she asked him to.
Hermione laughed. “You haven’t even seen anything yet.”
He made a small sound of protest but kept watching. Or, tried to. His gaze kept snagging on her instead—how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she laughed, or how her eyes sparkled when she recited certain lines under her breath.
“Is this meant to be romantic?” he asked at one point, brow raised as the main character tripped over her own feet in front of the impossibly confident dance instructor.
Hermione shot him a look. “It’s iconic, remember? And yes. Very romantic.”
“Hmm.” He took a slow sip. “He looks like he’s thirty-five.”
“He’s twenty-four.”
Theo tilted his head. “Still too old to be pulling teenagers out of corners and teaching them to dirty dance .”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m observant.”
He was beginning to feel a bit quicker on the uptake. More comfortable around her, more capable of banter. But the longer the film went on, the quieter he grew. Not because he was captivated by the story—though it was strangely hypnotic—but because the air between them was starting to buzz. Every time she shifted slightly closer, every time their elbows brushed, every time she tucked her curls behind her ear and turned to look at him during a particularly cheesy moment, something warm and dangerous flickered in his chest.
At one point, she laughed aloud—head tilted back, eyes closed—and he couldn’t look away. She looked so alive in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Like color in a world that had only just begun to bloom again.
He didn’t realize the film was ending until she whispered, “This is the lift.”
He blinked, tearing his eyes away from her. “The what?”
She just nodded at the screen. “ The lift. Just watch.”
He watched as the girl ran toward the man— Johnny , apparently—and launched herself into the air. The crowd erupted into applause. The music swelled. Theo’s brow furrowed slightly.
“Bit theatrical,” he muttered.
She elbowed him lightly. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m just saying. If I tried that with you, we’d both end up concussed.” He didn’t know where it came from, how it would be received, but then she laughed—soft, warm, real. The sound lodged somewhere deep in his chest.
By the time the credits rolled, the light in the room had dimmed. The bottle of wine was nearly empty. Neither of them moved. Silently, he prayed she wouldn’t take it as a sign to go home. He needed her to stay. Would it be too much to ask her to move in permanently? Perhaps.
She shifted suddenly, turning to face him fully. Her knee brushed his thigh. He froze. Her hand lifted before he could process it, and then—soft fingers slid into his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He stopped breathing.
“Do you like it long like this?” she asked, voice light but curious. She twisted a bit of hair at the ends, watching it fall between her fingers.
He blinked at her stupidly. “Er—no.”
Her eyebrows lifted, amused. “No?”
“I look like I should be clutching a handwritten manifesto and muttering on the Knight bus.”
She laughed, dropping her hand to his shoulder, and he tried not to flinch. “You do not.”
He swallowed, trying to sound casual, unaffected. “I’ve seen a mirror, Granger. It’s not pretty.”
She smiled, then reached up and toyed with a piece near his ear. “I could cut it for you, if you’d like,” she said softly.
He turned to look at her. He’d always gotten it cut where his father went– The Stag & Wand. Probably the most pretentious, posh place in the world. He wouldn’t have known how to cut it himself even if he hadn’t spent the last five years in prison. “You know how to cut hair?”
She shrugged. “I mean, I cut my own sometimes. And I cut Harry and Ron’s when we were… erm, living in a tent. It’s not very hard.”
He stared at her, at the way her fingers lingered just behind his ear, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His heartbeat thudded dully in his throat.
“I’d let you shave my hair clean off if you just asked nicely,” he said dryly, trying to mask the way his whole body had gone rigid with awareness. Oh fuck. He sounded desperate. “I’ve got nothing to lose at this point,” he added, trying to recover quickly.
She grinned, eyes glinting. “That could be arranged.”
He huffed a laugh—weak, shaky. “Please don’t.”
Her hand dropped back to her lap, and he felt the ghost of her touch like a brand. “I wouldn’t butcher it,” she added after a moment, as if trying to reassure him. “You’d look… dashing.”
He shot her a look. “You’ve clearly had more wine than I realized if you think that’s anywhere in the realm of possibilities.”
Granger gave sort of a mischievous smirk. “Maybe. But I do.” Before he could even process her words, she spoke again. “I think it might make you feel better. Lighter, you know?”
He blinked stupidly. Was she offering to do it right now? Cut his hair?
She nudged his knee with hers, tentative. “Let me?”
He didn’t even have to think about it. “Okay.”
----------------------
I wanna hurry home to you
Put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up
So you can put a blue ribbon on my brain
God, I'm very, very frightened, I’ll overdo it
Looking for somewhere to stand and stay
I leaned on the wall and the wall leaned away
Can I get a minute of not being nervous
And not thinking of my dick?
-The National
Notes:
cw: suicidal ideations
Chapter 5: A Case of You
Notes:
We are back to Hermione's POV (I won't do this for the rest of the fic haha, just giving a reminder since we are still getting in the swing of things). This was one of my favorite chapters to write for some reason. I hope you all love it too!
Chapter Text
Hermione was getting ahead of herself. She knew it. She needed to pump the brakes. Take a breath. Be sensible. But she didn’t want to—not when it felt like this. Not when the wine was warm in her veins and the light was soft and Theo was watching her like she was something gentle and good.
She kept catching herself watching him back. Letting her gaze linger too long. Letting her thoughts drift into dangerous, tender places. He seemed so hungry , raw in a way that made her ache. Like the layers had been stripped away, like he’d forgotten how to guard himself, or never learned how in the first place. There was a tentative openness to him, the kind that could shatter if met with anything careless. He wasn’t asking her for anything—but the wanting was still there, plain as day. Not lust, not even romance exactly. Hope, maybe. A quiet, desperate hope.
It frightened her a little.
Because Hermione didn’t want to leave. Ginny was already gone, off visiting Blaise in Singapore, and she didn’t want to go back to her empty flat. Didn’t want to crawl into her cold bed, lay awake for hours or mindlessly use the telly to keep her thoughts from straying to terrifying places. She wanted to be here, with Theo. She wanted to keep laughing with him, watching stupid Muggle films with him. Getting drunk off cheap wine with him. Cutting his hair.
But underneath it, something else gnawed at her. A guilt she couldn’t quite name. Was she being unfair? Was she confusing him? Using him for comfort when he was still so fragile, so cautious with the world?
“You having second thoughts, Granger?” Theo asked from the kitchen chair in front of her, interrupting her rapid-fire thoughts.
She blinked at him. He was sitting patiently, shoulders tense, legs slightly apart, braced for whatever she was about to do.
“No,” she said quickly– maybe too quickly. “Just trying to figure out where to cut.”
He gave a faint, crooked smile. “Ah. That’s comforting.”
Wordlessly, she transfigured a wooden spoon into the sleek, familiar blades of a pair of hair-cutting scissors. Theo raised a brow. “Impressive.”
She smiled nervously. “Ready?”
He nodded, and she was about to make the first snip, scissors grazing his temple. He tensed, pulling away just slightly. “Do you want me to stop?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. Just getting used to it. I trust you.”
His voice was low. Sincere.
That only made it worse—how easily the words fell out of him. How much they meant coming from someone who had every reason not to trust anyone. She moved behind him and combed her fingers through his hair first, trying to map out what she planned to do. It was soft—softer than it looked—and a little uneven in the back.
The silence settled again. Comfortable, but crackling underneath. Her fingers brushed the shell of his ear as she worked. The back of his neck. He didn't flinch. He was completely still, like he was afraid to move and shatter the moment.
She swallowed. Tried to ignore the warmth building in her chest.
It didn’t take long. Just some careful snips, smoothing out the rough edges, shaping it enough that his face was no longer hidden behind overgrown curls. When she was finished, she stepped around to face him, brushing stray hair gently from the nape of his neck, moving it off his forehead a bit. Her fingers lingered.
“There,” she muttered. “Dashing. Just like I thought.”
He looked up at her then, and her heart accelerated. Something passed between them, heavy and silent. She should’ve stepped back, should’ve looked away. Should’ve set a boundary, politely excused herself and gone home. But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned forward.
And he met her halfway.
The kiss was soft. Hesitant. Just the press of mouths, like a question neither of them had the courage to ask out loud. His hand moved, tentative—to her waist. She didn’t stop him. He pulled back for a moment and looked at her, and her stomach dropped.
Theo’s eyes were soft, almost dazed, his expression unguarded, boyish, painfully sincere– he was looking at her like he was in love with her. It made her want to recoil. What was she doing ?
He was still recovering, still raw, still trying to piece himself together. And here she was, kissing him on a whim after too much wine. After showing up on his doorstep for the second night in a row, just so she wouldn’t have to be alone. His eyes searched her face.
“Are you– do you regret that?” he asked quietly.
Hermione hesitated. She stared at him, heart pounding, mind racing. She wouldn’t be able to come back from this if it went any further– she couldn’t flip flop. It wouldn’t be right.
Did she regret it?
She’d let the moment carry her, let the wine blur the edges of everything she didn’t want to look at too closely. But now, under the weight of his gaze—hopeful, open, aching—she couldn’t hide from it. The part of her that wanted to run was loud. It always had been. But the part that wanted to stay—the part that had laughed with him all night, that had watched the lines in his face soften when she touched him, the part of her that wanted to touch him again— was louder.
She took a deep breath. Met his eyes. “No,” she said steadily. “Do you?”
He let out a soft laugh, disbelieving. “Are you mad?” he murmured. “Of course I don’t.”
He searched her face again, almost like he was still looking for signs of regret. “Granger, are you sure? Because I’d understand if it was just a moment of weakness. I can’t imagine why you’d want to…” he trailed off, ducking his head.
It was as if his words caused something in her to snap. The vulnerability in his voice, the way he kept offering her an out with those wide, aching eyes. And before she could talk herself out of it, she stepped between his legs, dropping to her knees. She reached for him, both hands lifting to frame his face, her fingers threading into the soft, freshly-cut hair at the nape of his neck. His eyes widened a fraction, lips parting in shock—and she kissed him.
It wasn’t soft this time. It wasn’t hesitant. She kissed him like she meant it. Like she’d wanted to all night. Like something had broken loose inside her and there was no stopping it now.
Theo made a small, startled sound against her mouth, and then his hands found her waist, dragging her closer to his body. She melted into him. He tasted like cheap wine and spearmint toothpaste, slightly sweet and sharp all at once, and he smelled like laundry powder and the faintest trace of whatever soap he'd used in the shower—something clean and herbal that clung to his skin, maybe lavender and something else.
He was all sharp edges beneath her hands, all collarbones and ribs and angles. Too thin. But warm, and alive, and trembling slightly under her touch, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. Hermione slid her fingers into his hair, freshly shorn and soft against her palms, and kissed him again, slower this time, anchored, deliberate. One of his hands slipped up her back, hesitant, like he was afraid to press too hard, afraid to ask for too much.
He made a soft, involuntary noise when her fingers brushed against the bare skin beneath his collar. His hand moved from her waist to the small of her back, tentative but sure, pulling her closer. She didn’t stop him. She didn’t want to.
“Granger,” he murmured, his voice low and almost desperate, “I—”
Hermione kissed him again, rising from the floor. He didn’t finish the thought. His hands pressed harder against her back, less cautious now, and she let him pull her all the way into his lap. Her knees hooked over his thighs, and he made another small, incredulous sound into her mouth, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening. She pulled back.
“Call me Hermione,” she said breathlessly.
He blinked. “Hermione,” he said, his breath ghosting across her cheek. For some reason, hearing him say it made her shiver.
They stayed like that for a long time, mouths crashing and hands exploring and hearts hammering beneath their chests — a frantic, bruising push and pull of mouths and tongues and need. It was nothing like the practiced, familiar way she and Ron had moved together. This was something else, something wild and consuming, something that left marks and tasted like teeth and felt like drowning and surfacing all at once. Theo’s pulse pounded beneath her hands, her lips, and she kissed him until they were both breathless and dizzy, until his voice slipped out the way she’d wanted it to all night: hoarse and wrecked and wanting.
“Would you—” he swallowed, his eyes dark. “Do you want to stay?”
A sharp crack of thunder split the sky outside, rattling the windows. Both of them jumped.
Hermione's breath caught, her body still curled against his. Rain started against the windows a second later—heavy, insistent, sheets of it—and something about it snapped her fully back into herself, into the present. But it wasn’t the kind of awareness that made her want to pull away. Instead, she leaned into it– the warmth of his hands on her back, the tremble in his chest, the scent of him still clinging to her skin.
She looked at him. “Yes,” she said. “I want to stay.”
His face flushed, and he ducked his head. A rare, genuine smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. The room felt charged, full of something she couldn’t name. It could’ve been awkward, the shift between kissing and moving. But it wasn’t. She just didn’t want to be apart from him. Not even for a minute. Not with the storm growing louder by the second.
“Okay,” he said. “Alright. Good.”
She climbed off him and he stood, taking her hand and leading her down the hall.
She climbed into the bed without thinking, fully clothed, still a little breathless. The wind howled through the alley just outside his window. Another crash of thunder made her flinch—and then he was beside her, sliding under the covers, pulling her into him without a word.
She clung to him—fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, forehead pressed to his shoulder. His hands were so gentle. Reverent. He touched her like she was something holy, his palms skimming over her waist, her back, her arms. His mouth found hers again, slower this time, coaxing. And when she kissed him back, when her fingers slid beneath the hem of his shirt to find warm skin, he shivered.
They didn’t undress. Didn’t push past the fragile edge of want. They just kissed. Touched. Learned each other.
He cupped her face in his hands, pulling back to look at her. His eyes searched hers, slow and aching and full of something that made her stomach twist. He looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth remembering—like he was trying to memorize every inch of her face, every freckle and flicker of thought behind her eyes. His thumbs brushed gently over her cheekbones, his breath catching like she’d stunned him just by being there.
No one had ever looked at her like that. It stole the air from her lungs. Hermione didn’t know what to do with it—didn’t know how to be seen like that, held like that, cherished like this. She tore her eyes away, tucked her head under his chin, wrapped her arms around his waist. The silence settled again, interrupted only by the sound of rain and their thumping heartbeats. She could feel him trembling under her touch, his chest rising and falling.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
Theo hesitated. “I don’t do great with storms, honestly.”
She pressed closer, held him tighter. “Neither do I,” she said.
His arms tightened around her, too. “I’m glad you stayed.” He swallowed. “Hermione.”
“Me too,” she whispered.
Eventually, she heard his breathing slow, even out. Sleep came for her naturally—soft, warm, full of the scent of him: soap and wine and something worn-in and familiar she couldn’t name. It was the first time in ages she hadn’t tossed and turned, hadn’t taken hours to finally drift off. Just blissful, comforting sleep.
------------------
Sometime in the middle of the night, hours later, she thought groggily– she was awoken by movement. A sharp twitch beneath her, then another. It took her a moment to adjust to her surroundings, to remember where she was. The storm had quieted, though rain still pattered against the windows in soft, steady waves. The bedroom was dark, save for the occasional flash of distant lightning. Her cheek was pressed against Theo’s chest, and she lifted her head, looking around in confusion.
Theo twitched again. His arm, slung loosely around her waist, jerked as if in response to something unseen. His breath came faster now—shallow, fractured. A soft, broken noise escaped him, and she froze.
Nightmare.
Hermione stayed still for a moment, watching him through the dark. His brow was drawn, jaw clenched tight, lips parted slightly. He let out a soft, choked noise, and her heart lurched. His whole body was tense, locked in some memory she couldn’t see.
Her stomach clenched. He looked so small like this. So young.
Another flash of lightning lit the room for a split second, and in that breath of illumination, she could see the panic in his face, even with his eyes closed. The pain. The vulnerability.
“Theo,” she whispered, touching his shoulder. “Hey—Theo.”
His eyes flew open all at once, wild and unseeing, his body flinching beneath her touch. For a beat, he looked past her like she wasn’t even there. Then his gaze locked on hers, and something in him crumpled.
“Sorry,” he rasped, dragging a hand over his face. “Fuck. Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You were having a nightmare,” she said gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You don’t have to apologize.”
He blinked at her, still breathing fast, still a little out of it. Then, slowly, his eyes softened. He reached up, almost cautiously, and touched her cheek—like he needed proof she was real.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he murmured, barely audible. “I keep thinking I imagined it.”
Hermione swallowed, her throat thick. He was looking at her again with that same unbearable tenderness, like she was some miracle he hadn’t expected to deserve. It lit something up in her and hollowed her out at the same time.
Oh fuck.
What had she gotten herself into? And yet, no part of her wanted to run right now. She was drawn to him like a current—helpless, inevitable. So she leaned in, kissed his temple. “You didn’t. I’m here,” she said.
Then, she laid back down, pulling the blanket around both of them, her face still pressed to his. She threaded a hand through his hair, stroking softly, over and over. She kept her fingers moving, slow and rhythmic, brushing through the soft, uneven strands. He was still trembling faintly, but his body began to relax, each breath less ragged than the last.
And finally, sleep found her again too.
-------------------
The next morning, Hermione woke to the unmistakable sound of someone moving around outside the bedroom. She turned to look at Theo, who was still asleep beside her, breaths even, face softened with sleep. She frowned. Had Blaise come home early?
Tip-toeing out of the room and into the kitchen, she found… not Blaise, but a tiny, elderly house-elf standing on a stool by the counter, arranging toast and fruit onto a plate beside a steaming mug of tea. The elf was humming softly to herself, her enormous ears twitching with each motion. Hermione blinked, startled.
The elf noticed her a beat later and let out a small shriek, nearly dropping the spoon she’d been using to stir the porridge.
“Oh, Miss! Oh, I didn’t realize Master Theodore had a visitor!” she gasped, wringing her hands in horror. “Oh, Dilly only brought breakfast for one, oh dear, Dilly is so sorry—”
“It’s alright,” Hermione said quickly, lowering her wand and holding her hands up. “Really, it’s okay. I was just about to head home anyway.”
Dilly looked distraught. “But Miss must be hungry! Dilly can make more right away, just a moment, Miss—”
“Granger?” came a voice from behind her, low and hoarse with sleep.
Hermione turned to see Theo standing in the doorway, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled from where she’d clung to it all night. His eyes were still heavy-lidded, but there was a flicker of something else in them—disappointment, maybe. He looked… adorably disheveled. Her stomach flipped
“You’re leaving?” he asked softly.
Hermione hesitated. “I was just going to feed my cat,” she said, trying for lightness. “Crookshanks is probably tearing the place apart.”
Theo let out a breath of something like relief, but before he could answer, Dilly let out another small gasp. Her eyes widened like saucers. “Are you… are you Miss Hermione Granger?”
Hermione blinked. “Er. Yes?”
Dilly immediately dropped into a deep, awkward bow that nearly knocked the tea off the counter. “Oh! Miss Granger, it is an honor, truly—Dilly has heard so many stories. Master Blaise says you saved the world.”
Hermione reddened. “Oh, you don’t need to bow to me, Dilly. I think that’s a bit of a stretch– saving the world, I mean. And besides, I didn’t do any of it alone.”
Dilly beamed at her like she’d just met Merlin himself. “It’s an honor, Miss Granger. Dilly is honored to have met you. Dilly hopes to be seeing you again soon?” Hermione didn’t miss the way the little elf glanced over at Theo, looking almost mischievous.
“Oh,” Hermione said, still blushing. “Yes. I hope so too, Dilly.”
Theo gave a little cough, turning a shade of red that likely mirrored her own.
“Miss Granger, spending the evening with Master Blaise’s skinny guest!” Dilly muttered to herself, shaking her head in awe.
“Erm, Dilly,” Theo said patiently, still flushing.
“Apologies, Master Theodore! Goodbye, Miss Granger.” She gave a flustered curtsy, disappearing with a pop .
Hermione turned back to Theo, who was watching her with a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Well,” he said dryly, “I suppose I’m in the presence of a war heroine. Now I feel even worse for nearly hexing your beastly cat on the Hogwarts Express.”
Hermione scowled at him. “You did not .”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “It was self-defense! Your cat is a menace, I’m afraid.”
She smiled. “He’s my little menace, though.”
Theo snorted, then his face sombered. “So you really have to go?”
She nodded. “Just for a little while. He gets anxious when I’m away too long.”
His mouth twitched downward, like he was trying not to look disappointed, but she could see it in the crease between his brows, the way his hands slid into his pockets.
He hesitated for a moment, fidgeting with his hands. “Will you… would you like to come back, maybe? When you’re done?”
Hermione chewed her lip. “Or maybe you could come with me? To my flat?”
He looked surprised. And then something passed over his face—quick and subtle, but not quite masked. He looked down. “I… yeah. Maybe.”
She tilted her head, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”
He hesitated, looking out the window like it was a cliff’s edge. He opened his mouth then closed it. She could see the thoughts chasing each other behind his eyes—want tangled with fear, shame biting at the edges.
“I…” He exhaled, rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I haven’t really left since—since I got here.”
“I know.”
“It’s only been five days. That’s pathetic, isn’t it?” His voice sharpened with something that wasn’t quite anger, more like disgust. “I used to do worse things before breakfast. Now I can’t even walk out the bloody door.”
She touched his arm. “It’s alright if you–”
“I want to,” he said, his eyes pleading with her. “I really want to. I just—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s embarrassing.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said softly. “You’ve been through something… huge. And horrible. Your brain is still trying to convince your body that you’re safe now. That takes time.”
He gave a humorless little laugh. “I’m not exactly known for my patience.”
She offered him a small smile. “Then you could try today. With me,” she said. “The stakes are low. If it feels like too much, we’ll turn right back around. We can even Apparate there, if it feels like too much to walk.”
Theo hesitated. His lips parted like he was about to argue, then pressed shut again. He nodded, tighter this time. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Apparating might be better.”
Hermione toed on her shoes, grabbing her bag from beside the couch. She took his hand carefully, threading her fingers through his, anchoring him. His palm was cold. His shoulders were drawn tight with tension, like his whole body was preparing for a fight.
“It’s just a flat,” she murmured. “Just me. And a grumpy half-Kneazle who hates everyone but me.”
Theo relaxed just a bit. “Honestly, the cat alone is enough to make anyone want to barricade themselves in their flat,” he said under his breath.
She elbowed him, ignoring the jab at Crookshanks. “Ready?”
He gave a quick nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I just… I don’t want to freak out and make an idiot of myself.”
She surprised herself by standing on her tip-toes and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Even if you do,” she said, “I’d still want to do that.”
He blinked at her, stunned into silence for a beat—then his mouth curved into a crooked, tentative grin. “Okay,” he said, voice quiet but sure. “Let’s do it.”
His fingers curled around hers, tight but not crushing. And then, with a soft crack, they vanished.
----------------------
Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh, I would still be on my feet
Oh, I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid
-Joni Mitchell
Chapter 6: Wild Horses
Chapter Text
Chapter Six: Wild Horses
Hermione’s flat was almost exactly as Theo would have pictured it. Clean and tidy, but far from sterile. It had the kind of warmth that came from a place being truly lived in. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with books arranged not by genre or title, but by some internal logic he wouldn’t dare question. Candles, tall, stubby, half-burned—rested on nearly every available surface, their subtle scents blending into the air. The room smelled like her. That same scent he’d once struggled to describe: light, fruity, with a spicy undertone—unmistakably feminine. He imagined the scent lingered on the throw blankets, in the pages of books, as if she’d steeped the whole place in it just by living there.
There were soft things everywhere—blankets folded neatly over armchairs, cushions tucked into corners, a quilt draped over the back of the worn but handsome sofa. Everything felt chosen, as if it had been loved before it rrived here. A few pieces, framed photographs, a delicate vase of dried wildflowers, an old grandfather clock with a slow, thoughtful tick- looked like they might have come from her parents. There were small touches that just seemed quintessentially Hermione to him– mismatched mugs, an antique lamp with a flickering shade, a stack of records beside a battered Muggle player. Not that he knew her well enough to say that yet. But for some reason, he felt like he did.
Other touches were unmistakably Weasley. That he was certain of. A Holyhead Harpies banner hung proudly above the kitchen doorway, and a set of green Quidditch gloves, scuffed and clearly well-worn, were tossed on the sideboard. A pair of boots by the door looked a bit too bold to belong to Hermione. And yet, it was Hermione’s place. Undeniably. Every corner seemed infused with her—her calm, her purpose, her quiet intensity. It was the kind of home that invited you to stay. And he wanted to.
“Coffee?” She asked once he’d found his footing, beginning to adjust to the stark contrast between Blaise’s flat and hers.
He raised a brow. “You drink coffee?”
She smiled, then shrugged. “A habit I can’t seem to break. I have tea, too, if you’d prefer.”
Theo perched awkwardly on an armchair. “Coffee sounds great.”
It didn’t, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. He’d drink a steaming mug of troll piss so long as Hermione Granger was the one to offer it to him.
Hermione busied herself in the kitchen, pouring some sort of coffee grounds mixture into a strange, clunky contraption he didn’t recognize. She twisted it into the machine and it whirred to life with a low hum, then sputtered and hissed aggressively. Theo blinked.
“You have a Muggle machine for coffee?” he asked, watching steam curl from the spout with some trepidation.
She glanced over her shoulder, amused. “Espresso machine. And yes. Blaise has one too, if you can believe it—he’s the one who convinced me to get this model. Said it would change my life.”
Theo let out a breath of a laugh, still eyeing the thing like it might bite. “Of course he did.”
She poured milk into a silver pitcher and set it under a separate wand-like spout, adding some kind of syrup in a glass bottle. It hissed again as she frothed it, the smell of warm vanilla suddenly thick in the air. The whole process was strangely calming to watch—methodical, quiet, precise. Every motion she made had purpose, from the way she measured the milk to the way she wiped the counter down afterward.
Theo didn’t realize he was staring until she turned and handed him a mug. “You’re like a professional,” he said, raising an eyebrow at the delicately frothed milk on top.
Hermione’s cheeks flushed a bit. “Yes, well. Like I said, a habit I can’t seem to break. When you’re making three to four of these a day, it becomes muscle memory, I suppose.”
Theo raised his eyebrows. “Four a day? I’m no expert, clearly, but that seems like an alarming amount of caffeine, no?”
“It is,” Hermione sighed, turning back to the machine to make her own drink. “I need to cut back, I know. It’s what gets me through the workday, though.”
Theo frowned, but didn’t say anything. It wasn't his business, anyway.
“One vanilla latte,” she said, a faint flush in her cheeks. “It’s my personal favourite, but no pressure to like it.”
He drank from it mostly to keep his hands busy, expecting something bitter and unpalatable, like he’d experienced the one and only other time he’d tasted coffee. But the first sip was surprisingly good—sweet, but not cloying. The warmth spread down his throat and settled somewhere in his chest.
“This is… actually rather good,” he said, a little dumbfounded.
Her smile widened. “Told you.”
He took another sip, slower this time. “If I’d known coffee could taste like this, I might’ve started drinking it years ago.”
She looked at him blankly.
“They had an espresso machine in Azkaban too, of course. I just preferred the tea.”
Hermione laughed, tossing her head back. It made his chest feel warm.
“So,” he said after a beat. “You going to give me the grand tour?”
She snorted. “It’s a flat, not a manor. But sure.”
Theo followed her down the hallway, latte still in hand. His nerves hadn’t completely settled— he still felt oddly aware of his body, like he might trip or say something strange, but she moved with such ease around him that some of it bled away.
She gestured to the first door they passed, which was closed. “That one’s Ginny’s."
“She’s never here long enough to properly unpack, but she always manages to leave a trail of destruction wherever she goes,” she said with an off-handed, long-suffering sort of affection of a best friend. “Half her wardrobe’s on the floor, last I checked.”
He hadn’t even considered the possibility that someone else might be here right now. “Is she asleep?” He tried not to sound nervous.
Hermione shook her head. “She’s in Singapore with Blaise, actually. He didn’t tell you?”
Theo nodded, pretending not to feel relieved that he wouldn’t need to face another person. Hermione pushed open the next door. “Bathroom’s here. Shared, which was… a bit of an adjustment at first. But we manage.”
Theo leaned in slightly. It was small but clean, full of soft towels and more potions bottles than he could count. There were two toothbrushes in the cup, a tiny plant on the windowsill, and a woven basket full of bath products in careful rows. He spotted something vaguely floral and pink with glitter and looked away politely.
“And then—this is me,” she said, opening the door at the end of the hall.
Her bedroom was calm, golden with morning light, and exactly what he’d imagined—bookish, neat, and cozy. The bed was made with mismatched, crisp linens, a pile of pillows in warm colors, a pink and green gingham quilt with some sort of flowery sheet folded over the top. There was a stack of novels on her nightstand and even more scented candles beside them. The room smelled like the rest of her flat, only stronger. He tried not to stare. Or breathe too deeply. Or imagine her in the bed.
Or himself in the bed with her.
There were french doors that opened to a little balcony, and she pushed them open. It was small but lovely—just enough room for two chairs, a little table, and a few potted herbs lined along the railing. The city stretched out beyond them, rooftops and chimneys and drifting owl posts in the distance. He could see the faint shimmer of wardlines hovering like mirages between buildings.
“I like to sit out here when I can’t sleep,” she said quietly, folding her arms over the railing. “Or to read. Or to have my coffee.” She laughed. “Really anytime.”
Theo realized, with a quiet jolt, that it was the first time he’d breathed in real, fresh air since the day he was released. And before that— Gods, it had been years, maybe. There had been “recreation time” at one point, back at Azkaban. Twenty minutes in a patch of gray courtyard under the watchful eyes of guards. But after a massive thunderstorm cracked the concrete and tore through part of the fencing, even that had been deemed too risky.
But here, standing on Hermione’s balcony with a warm vanilla latte in hand and the morning breeze brushing his face, the air didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like something he could actually breathe. Like something that might let him come back to life, one lungful at a time. The breeze ruffled his shirt, soft and warm with the promise of an approaching summer. Somewhere below, the city stirred awake—birdsong, the distant hum of traffic, a dog barking. The air smelled faintly of blooming jasmine from a window box nearby, and the stone beneath his bare feet was still cool from the night before.
Theo took another sip of the latte, slower this time, letting the warmth curl through him. He stared out at the slanted rooftops and the flicker of sunlight glinting off a neighbor’s window.
Hermione was watching him closely, something like care or concern on her face. “Is this alright? Being here?” She asked gently.
He glanced at her, then looked back out over the city. “Yeah,” he said, after a long pause. His voice was low, a bit hoarse. “It’s nice. Really.”
She nodded, crossing her arms like she didn’t know what to do with herself. “You don’t have to pretend if it’s not. I just thought… the air might feel nice.”
“It does,” he said. And then, after a beat, “it’s strange. Everything’s so loud. And bright. But not in a bad way. Just different.”
She gave a small, understanding smile. “It’s May. The world’s starting to bloom again.”
He looked at her then, felt something soft pass between them. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Feels like it.”
They stood in silence for a moment longer, the wind rustling her hair, the sleeve of her sweatshirt brushing against his arm. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned the tiniest bit closer.
“We should eat,” she said suddenly. “ You should eat.”
She reached out and pinched his ribs lightly, startling a huff of laughter from him. “Merlin,” he muttered, grinning faintly. “You’re violent when you’re hungry.”
“I can make eggs,” she offered. “If that sounds good?”
He straightened a little, something in his face softening. “It does. Can I help?”
Hermione shook her head, already moving toward the door. “It’s fine. Stay out here if you want. Take it in a bit longer.”
Theo hesitated, then nodded. “Alright.”
When she disappeared inside, he settled into one of the chairs, fingers still wrapped around the warm ceramic of his mug. He read the faded lettering on it– Granger & Granger Dentistry .
The city sounds drifted up around him—buses, birds, the faint hum of someone’s radio through an open window. Everything smelled like sun-warmed brick and dew and distant flowers. He let his eyes close for a moment, head tipped back toward the sky. It wasn’t prison. It wasn’t a cell. It wasn’t Blaise’s empty, well-curated flat. It wasn’t sterile or cold or silent. It was just a Sunday morning on a Gryffindor girl’s balcony, with coffee in his hand and a patch of sun on his chest.
When she came back out a few minutes later, she was balancing two mismatched plates with sunny-side up eggs, buttered toast, and a sliced apple. “I added fruit,” she said as she passed him a plate. “So you don’t get Scurvy.”
He snorted.
They sat side by side on the small wooden bench, knees brushing occasionally, eating quietly as the morning stretched around them. The sky was blue and blinding, and the world, for once, didn’t feel like it was pressing in.
“So,” Hermione said eventually. “What would you like to do today?”
Theo glanced at her, caught off guard. The question seemed simple enough—casual, harmless—but it made something in his chest go tight. Of course she’d want to actually do something. She was a normal, functioning person who didn’t want to spend her entire weekend cooped up inside a flat. He looked down at his plate, suddenly unsure if he was even still hungry.
“I hadn’t really thought that far ahead,” he said. He tried for light, for neutral, but the words came out thinner than he meant them to.
She hummed softly in response, chewing a bite of toast, not pressing. But his mind had already started racing.
What did she expect from him—today, tomorrow, at all? Did she want to go somewhere? Did she want him to take her out, go for a walk or visit some bloody market stall? His stomach twisted. The idea of being around other people made his skin feel too tight. He didn’t even have proper clothes for that kind of thing. He didn’t have money to buy her dinner, or even a coffee. He hadn’t left Blaise’s flat in five days. And now he was here, in hers, drinking her coffee and eating her food and taking up space in her life like he belonged there.
Gods. He was a burden.
He could barely keep his hands from shaking most of the time, woke from nightmares almost every night. He hadn’t even managed to leave the flat on his own. How the fuck would he ever be someone she could actually want? What kind of boyfriend would he be?
Pathetic, probably. Clingy. Moody. He’d flinch in crowds and shut down during loud noises and forget how to breathe on the bad days. She deserved someone solid. Someone who could take her out to dinner and laugh with her friends and not crumble at the sight of a thundercloud.
And what the fuck, he thought, raking a hand through his hair. Who said she even wants you to be her boyfriend, you tosser?
Theo forced himself to take another bite of toast, chewing mechanically. He felt light-headed and out of place. She wasn’t his. She’d kissed him, yes, and stayed the night, slept with her head on his chest, stroked his hair when he woke with a nightmare—but that didn’t mean anything. Not necessarily. Not in the way his brain wanted it to.
She was kind. She was lonely. Maybe this was just… comfort. A distraction.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” Hermione said suddenly, and he realized he must have gone quiet for too long. Her voice was soft, like she’d noticed the shift in him. “I just thought I’d ask. We can stay in. We can do nothing. Or if you want—if you feel up to it—we could walk to the shop later and pick up something for dinner.” She smiled kindly at him, warm and radiant. “But only if you want,” she added again.
Theo’s heart lifted. “You want me to stay for dinner?”
She bit her lip. Merlin, she was beautiful. It was unfathomable that she seemed to like him, that she wanted him around, that she enjoyed his company as much as he did hers. “You don’t have to, of course,” she said, sounding a bit shy. “But I’d love it if you did.”
How was he supposed to feel when she said things like that? When she was smiling nervously at him, face full of hope, looking like that —hair in a messy bun, yesterday’s clothes rumpled and hanging off one shoulder, her face scrubbed clean?
“Of course I’ll stay,” he said, pretending like the smile she gave him in return wasn’t enough to set every nerve in his body alight.
----------------------
They were lying on the couch, stretched out in the quiet comfort of early afternoon, a soft breeze slipping in through the cracked balcony door. Hermione’s head rested on Theo’s chest, her fingers absently tracing patterns along the sleeve of his shirt. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so still.
And yet, the question had been lingering since breakfast, and he was too curious not to ask it.
“Granger & Granger Dentistry, ” he said suddenly. His voice was quiet, but it broke the silence all the same.
Hermione stirred slightly, tilting her head to look up at him. “Hm?”
He looked down at her. “The mug I used this morning. That’s what it said on the side. What’s… ‘dentistry’? ”
She blinked, then gave a tired little laugh. “Oh. Right. Muggle thing. Dentists are people who take care of your teeth—clean them, fix them, that sort of thing.”
He was vaguely horrified. “There are entire jobs just for that?”
“Yes,” she said patiently. “And before you make a joke, it’s very important.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said, amused. “So Granger & Granger… are those your parents? Are they teeth people?”
“Teeth people,” she repeated dryly. “Yes. They had a small practice in Hampstead. Granger & Granger. It was just the two of them.”
“Was?” He asked. “They don’t own it anymore?”
He felt her tense. “No,” she said quietly. “Not anymore.”
She paused, and he waited, rubbing circles on her back, because he didn’t know what else to do, and because he wanted to keep touching her.
Hermione shifted to sit up a bit, pulling the blanket around her legs. She wasn’t looking at him, and her mouth was set, a little downturned. “During the war, I wiped their memories,” she said, her tone practiced, almost matter-of-fact, like she’d said it too many times to feel any sadness from the words. “Sent them away. Different names, new lives. I thought it was the only way to keep them safe.”
He felt something inside him twist, but still, he said nothing.
“I went to find them after the war,” she continued. “Tried to reverse it. But it didn’t work. They didn’t remember me.”
He stared at her, unsure what to say.
“They’re happy. Or at least, they seemed to be.” She gave a brittle smile. “I haven’t checked in, really, since I came back.”
Theo sat very still beside her. Her voice had gone quiet, but it echoed in his chest. Wiping her parents’ memories. Sending them away. And then losing them anyway. He turned toward her slowly.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. “That you had to do that. That you lost them in that way. That you have to... carry it by yourself.”
Hermione averted her eyes. Her jaw tensed. She gave a small shrug, her fingers twisting the hem of the blanket in her lap.
“I’m not by myself,” she said quickly, too quickly. “I live with Ginny, remember? I see Harry and Ron all the time. The Weasleys are still like family to me, although I don’t go round as much as I should. And I’ve got Luna, and Susan, and—” She cut herself off with a shrug. “I have friends.”
Theo nodded, though he wasn’t sure what to say to that. He could hear the hollowness in her words. Like she was reciting a list, ticking boxes to reassure herself more than him.
“Of course you do,” he said. Then, after a beat, he added awkwardly, “Do you… talk to them? Your friends, I mean. About your parents?”
Her throat bobbed, but she didn’t speak right away. Just kept her eyes on the blanket, her expression frozen. “Sometimes,” she mumbled.
Theo shifted beside her. Rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Hermione,” he said, his voice rougher now. “I didn’t mean to dredge up something that’s going to upset you. I just—” He blew out a breath, frustrated with himself for not knowing the right thing to say. “I figured it must be lonely, is all.”
He could feel the words tripping over themselves on the way out. It wasn’t right. None of it was right. He wasn’t good at this– comfort or connection or soft places to land. He barely knew how to hold himself together most days, let alone someone else. But for whatever reason, his words seemed to mean something to her. Her breath hitched, just once, but it seemed to crack her open, somehow. She blinked fast, as if trying to will the sting away, but it was no use. One tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.
Theo froze. Not only because he didn’t know what to do— but because he couldn’t quite believe it was happening.
She was crying.
Not the loud, dramatic kind. Not the kind that demanded anything from him. She looked like she was trying not to, if anything—back straight, mouth tight, blinking hard against the tears like she could will them back if she just focused hard enough.
He’d seen Hermione Granger in battle, dried blood on her face, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Harry Potter. He'd seen her in debates. In classrooms, waving her hand in the air, bubbling over with excitement. In the library, multiple books spread open in front of her, eyes scanning the pages frenetically. He'd seen her crackling with magic, with energy. He'd even seen her eyes soften when she leaned in to kiss him last night. He'd seen her face relaxed with sleep as she sprawled across his chest. But this—this was something else entirely. This was raw. Quiet. Private. Something she clearly wasn’t used to sharing. Not even with the people closest to her, it seemed.
And somehow, she was sharing it with him .
That was what truly wrecked him. The thought that she'd tried to hold it in. Tried to seem okay. Like she always did, probably. Because she was the one who fixed things, wasn’t she? The one who held the rest of the world together. Gods, no wonder she kept walls around herself. No wonder she carried herself like she had to earn space just to feel. And somehow, even when she was falling apart right in front of him, she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, like she was trying to pull herself together. And he realized he’d just been sitting there staring at her. Idiot.
He hesitated, heart pounding, then leaned forward, pulling her to his chest.
“I don't know where this is coming fr-” she was starting to say, then she froze when he touched her. At first, she was stiff as a board, and he wondered if he’d done the wrong thing. She just sat there, rigid, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to accept it, like touch might make it worse. And then, with a sound so soft it barely registered, she folded.
Her arms came around his waist, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt. Her forehead pressed to his collarbone, her whole body trembling as the sobs broke loose—quiet at first, then wrecking. The kind that came from deep inside, pulled up from somewhere she usually kept hidden. He could feel her breath on his neck, her tears soaking into his shirt.
Theo said nothing. He just held her through it, his fingers moving gently through her hair, his other hand tracing quiet, grounding circles against her back. Her breathing stuttered against his chest, slowed, stuttered again. And finally, it started to even out. She didn’t pull away when it was over, just shifted in his arms until she could look up at him, her face flushed and damp, her lashes spiked together. Her mouth parted slightly like she meant to say something but couldn’t quite decide what.
“I’m sor–”
“It’s okay,” Theo said quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re allowed to cry, Hermione. Please don’t apologize.”
Hermione nodded, wiping away the leftover tears. She leaned back onto his shoulder. The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. She didn’t stray far from him. Didn’t say much, but didn’t leave the room either. They made tea at some point. He let her pick another film and only half watched it, more attuned to the soft cadence of her breathing, the weight of her tucked up next to him on the couch.
Finally, once the light outside began to turn gold, she stretched. “I should take a shower,” she said. “And then I was thinking dinner? I don’t have much here, so we’d either need to go get takeaway or go out to the shop. Would that be okay?”
Theo’s heart beat faster. The thought of stepping back out into the world still made his skin crawl—but the idea of doing it with her softened the edges. He hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“Let’s try.”
------------------------
The flat was warm when they stepped back inside, the last gold streaks of daylight slanting across the floorboards. Theo exhaled as the door shut behind him, trying to shake the tight coil of tension that had followed him all the way to the shop and back. He hadn’t let go of her hand once.
She hadn’t let him.
Now, Hermione was padding around the kitchen barefoot, sleeves shoved up, her curls still damp from the shower. She’d changed into soft cotton lounge pants and a threadbare, long sleeved t-shirt that clung to her in the worst possible way for a man trying not to stare. He didn't think she was wearing a bra. Why had he noticed that? He needed to relax. Her hair was down, wet curls drying against the curve of her neck, and he could smell her again—clean skin, softly sweet with a sultry edge, the faintest trace of citrus shampoo.
She was showing him how to make pasta—real pasta, from scratch, apparently— which he’d privately thought was far too much effort until he realized how nice it felt to stand next to her while she explained it. Animated, focused, occasionally brushing flour from her hands onto a tea towel slung over her shoulder.
He couldn’t stop looking at her.
He tried. Truly. But every time he glanced away, his gaze would find her again—her hands, her mouth, the damp curls stuck to her cheek. And the worst part was, it wasn’t even about sex. Well, not completely. That was something he couldn’t allow his mind to explore, not while she was standing a foot away in an old t-shirt with her hair still wet, lest his body betray him in some humiliating, irreversible way.
He just wanted to be close to her. To press his mouth to the warm hollow of her neck, or trace the freckles on her shoulder with his fingers. He wanted to memorize her. He felt like a desperate, lust-filled teenager, hopelessly aware of every inch of space between them. He almost ached with it. Ached to touch her. Ached to be seen by her. Ached to be worthy of her attention the way she already had all of his.
Their walk to the shop had been as uncomfortable as he would’ve expected. His skin prickled, his breath caught, his heart beat too loud in his ears. Only, Hermione had been there, steadying him, soothing him without making him feel embarrassed. She’d threaded her fingers through his and leaned into him, smiling up at him as she walked. And somehow, that had made it all bearable.
Now she was here, just a few inches away, barefoot on the tile floor, swaying slightly to the music playing low from a record player tucked in the living room. Something old and warm-sounding, Fleetwood Mac , she’d called it. She hummed along as she measured something into a pot, frowning slightly in concentration. And Theo watched her.
“Do I have something on my face?” she asked suddenly, catching him mid-stare.
He blinked. “What?”
“You keep looking at me,” she said, not accusing, almost amused.
Theo cleared his throat, feeling his ears heat. “Oh. No, you don't have anything- sorry. I just-” He exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it uselessly to his side. “I keep thinking about kissing you.” He couldn’t believe the words had actually left his mouth.
She smiled, a little surprised, but not displeased. “You’ve already kissed me, silly.”
“Well,” he said, a little sheepishly, “you kissed me .”
She raised a brow. “Is that not two sides of the same coin?”
“Sort of,” he said, feeling embarrassed for having even brought it up. “It’s just– I didn’t used to be like this. So… awkward. With girls. Before all this, I mean.”
Her face softened. “You just spent five years in Azkaban, Theo,” she said patiently, stirring the pasta. “I think it’s perfectly understandable that you might not be as suave as you once were.”
Theo gave a low laugh. “Yeah, fair enough. Except– I don’t think it’s just that.”
She paused, looked at him quizzically over her shoulder.
“I think it’s you,” he said quietly.
Hermione stilled. Then she stepped closer, placing the spoon down and turning into him fully. “Me?”
He nodded, eyes meeting hers. She was so close to him now. “You just make it hard to think. You always sort of have.”
She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “It was impossible not to notice you, even back at school. Top of every class. Constantly saving the bloody day. You were brave. And brilliant. And pretty, too—though I don’t think I was allowed to notice that out loud.”
Hermione blinked. “You thought about me then?”
“Of course I did. Half the school did, Hermione. Not that I ever thought you’d get anywhere near me. But now, thanks to some... strange twist of fate, here you are. And somehow, you’re… even better than I would’ve imagined.”
She stared at him like she didn’t quite know what to say.
He swallowed hard. “Which is, frankly, terrifying.”
Hermione glanced down, a flush spreading to her cheeks. He could see her biting back a smile. “You don’t need to be terrified,” she said quietly.
Gathering any semblance of courage he had left, he spoke again. “Hermione.” She met his eyes. He swallowed. “I'd really like to kiss you. But not if you don’t want me to.”
There was almost no hesitation in her answer. “Then kiss me,” she said. “I want you to.”
So he did.
-----------------------
Graceless lady you know who I am
You know I can't let you slide through my hands
Wild horses couldn't drag me away
Wild, wild horses, couldn't drag me away
I watched you suffer a dull aching pain
Now you decided to show me the same
No sweeping exits or offstage lines
Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind
-The Rolling Stones
Chapter 7: Cinnamon Girl
Notes:
Back with another update! Things are getting steaaamy. Thank you for the comments and kudos! I say it all the time but I just love writing these two together, brings me such joy!!! Enjoy this chapter and expect another one in the next few days <3
Chapter Text
Hermione lay in her bed, wrapped in the sheets, staring at Theo.
He was asleep beside her, one arm slung haphazardly over his stomach, the other curled near his head. His face, in sleep, had lost all its sharpness. The hollows under his eyes seemed softer now, the tension in his jaw gone slack. There was something boyish about him like this– unguarded and peaceful in a way he never was while awake. His lashes were dark and thick against his cheekbones, and his mouth, usually curled into a wry line, was parted slightly, his breathing deep and steady. He really was handsome, she thought to herself. Unnervingly so, and she didn’t want to stop looking at him.
She should have been asleep, too. But instead, she watched him.
The room was dim, the only light filtering in from the window. It was quiet except for the slow, steady pulse of rain against the glass and the occasional passing sound from outside. She should have felt at peace. Safe, even. That’s how she’d begun to feel over the last few days– contended, glowing from within with an unfamiliar, happy sort of buzz. But tonight, instead, something restless churned in her chest.
Tomorrow she’d go back to work. To the Ministry. Like she did after every weekend. Back to her to-do lists and meetings and cases stacked high on her desk. Tomorrow, this little world she’d carved out with Theo would fracture. Reality would press back in. And she wasn’t ready. She felt like she’d been living in a snow globe all weekend– suspended in warmth and stillness, protected by a fragile barrier she was terrified of shattering. She was caught up in this, caught up in him. What had started out as a friendly drop-in, a bloody welfare check, even– had spiraled into something almost unfathomable. Something she was still trying to make sense of.
It scared her. Because the feelings were too big, too fast, and she wasn’t sure she had anywhere to put them.
She hadn’t wanted to be alone in her flat. She’d enjoyed his company, and had been curious about him. She’d told herself it was just comfort for both of them, that maybe they were both just lonely or bored or a combination of the two. But it was undeniable now– it was more than that. Hermione had the oddest pit of dread in her stomach, a feeling that she’d be severing herself in two just by stepping out the door and going to work tomorrow. What was wrong with her? How had she let this get so out of control?
Her fingers twitched where they rested against the sheets. She wanted to touch him. To wake him. To feel him reach for her again, just to know this hadn’t all been some spell she’d cast on herself.
Hermione’s heart ached with how much she wanted him. Not just his body, though that want burned hot in her belly—but all of him. The soft way he spoke to her when he forgot to be guarded. The dry wit he tried to hide behind. The vulnerability she doubted he showed anyone else. The way he looked at her when she cut his hair, when she first leaned in to kiss him– utter disbelief, undisguised yearning . Hermione had never met anyone like him, and she felt a pull towards him so strong, she didn’t trust herself enough to hold back. It was all too much.
She shifted closer, barely breathing, then reached out, her fingers brushing the curve of his jaw, featherlight. He stirred but didn’t wake.
She hesitated, then leaned in slowly, pressing her mouth to his. Just a whisper of a kiss. Barely there. But it was enough. His brow furrowed slightly, his mouth twitching under hers. And then his eyes opened—slow and sleepy, a little unfocused.
“Hermione?” he murmured.
She hovered just above him, her lips still brushing his. “Hi,” she whispered, her voice shaky.
He blinked up at her, disoriented, then he smiled sleepily, just the smallest lift of his mouth. “Did I miss something?”
“No,” she said. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”
He hesitated then reached up, his palm cradling the side of her face. “You okay?”
She nodded. “I am. It’s just– I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m just really going to miss you tomorrow. When I go to work.” Godric, it sounded so juvenile and silly saying it out loud. She buried her face in her hands.
Theo was still for a moment. Then he sat up, slowly, propping himself on one elbow. He gently tugged her hands away from her face.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep. “Don’t do that.”
Hermione’s eyes flicked up to meet his, wide and uncertain. He gave a breath of a laugh, low and quiet. “You’re going to miss me?”
She nodded, suddenly shy. “I know it sounds ridiculous. It’s been… what, three days?”
He shook his head. “No. Not ridiculous. Just… sort of amazing.”
She swallowed. “Oh. It doesn’t feel amazing,” she whispered.
Theo tilted his head. “Why not?”
“Because it sort of… frightens me? Makes me feel a bit out of control. It’s just so sudden, and I’m not used to moving so quickly.” She bit her lip nervously, her words tripping over each other.
Theo studied her for a beat, his expression unreadable in the low light. Then he reached up again, brushed a stray curl from her cheek, his fingers featherlight.
“Do you want to slow down? This– whatever it is?” he asked, his voice soft. There was no edge to it, no wounded pride, no bitterness. Just quiet honesty. “Because I’ll follow your lead, Granger. Whatever you need.”
Hermione’s breath caught. She searched his face— his eyes wide and patient, still a little sleepy, like all of this was some fragile dream he didn’t want to wake from. “I…” she trailed off, glancing down. She could feel her heart pounding in her own ears.
“Is it too much? All of this? I understand if–” Theo began
And then she shook her head, cutting him off. “No,” she said, the word leaving her in a breath. “No, it’s not… too much. And I don’t think I want to slow down.”
He was silent, watching her closely, so she leaned in and kissed him, a little more insistently this time. And he kissed her back without hesitation, his hand sliding into her hair.
The kiss deepened– no longer tentative or exploratory, but full of something hot and aching and undeniable. Theo groaned softly against her mouth, shifting to pull her into his lap. She went easily, her legs folding around him, grabbing at his shirt.
He lay back against the pillow, pulling her with him, and she let out a soft, involuntary sound as her hips pressed flush against his. She could feel him hard beneath her, and the want in her belly flared bright and insistent.
“Hermione,” he murmured, his voice catching at the end of her name.
His hands moved over her waist, her hips, her thighs, squeezing gently, his fingers brushing the bare skin behind her knees. There was nothing careful about this. Nothing neat or measured. Certainly not in the quiet gasp she let out when his teeth grazed her lower lip, the way she could feel his heart hammering under her. Not in the way his breath hitched as she rocked against him, slow and instinctive, chasing something neither of them was ready to name.
He gripped her tighter, his hands greedy now, desperate.
She dipped her head, kissing him again, deeper this time, her teeth catching on his lip as he groaned into her mouth. His hips bucked slightly beneath her, reflexive, and the friction made her gasp.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and it was half prayer, half apology. “S-sorry. You’re going to be the death of me, Granger.”
Hermione smiled faintly, but it was dazed, hazy with want. “Don’t apologize,” she whispered. She reached for the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his ribs, and he let her, breathless as her hands skimmed his skin.
Then he stilled her, just a little, his palms flat against her thighs, grounding them both. “We don’t have to,” he rasped. “Not tonight. Not if you’re not sure.”
She looked down at him—his hair mussed from sleep, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from kissing, eyes dark and blown wide. And despite how wrecked he looked, there was something unbearably gentle in his expression.
Hermione leaned down and kissed his cheek. Then his jaw. Then his mouth, soft and sure. He just stared up at her, chest heaving, his face raw with longing.
“I know,” she whispered. “But I want to. Do you?”
Theo’s fingers tightened on her hips, and he made an almost pained sound– like he couldn’t believe this was happening. And maybe it was happening too fast, maybe it was something she should’ve slowed down and thought more about. But she didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts, her doubts, her fears. She wanted this. She wanted him– warm and steady, alive and real beneath her, banishing the rest of the world for as long as she could hold it at bay.
He drew in a shaky breath, dragging his hands up her waist. “Okay,” he said, his voice raw. “I mean– hell yes, Hermione. I want to.”
She carded her fingers through his hair, kissing him with all the urgency she felt. He flipped them so he was above her, the movement surprisingly fluid. His hips ground into hers, and she let out a soft curse, her legs wrapping around him instinctively. She pushed his shirt up past his chest, splaying her hands across the flat of his stomach. His skin was hot, almost feverish, and impossibly soft under her palms despite how gaunt he was– she could feel the edge of every rib, the gentle dip of his navel, the surprising firmness of his torso. When she flattened her hand there, she felt the tremor that ran through him; the way he shivered at her touch, breath catching with such naked need it made her own lungs tighten.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, breathless and intense, his eyes locking with hers. “You’re sure?”
She nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.
His mouth crashed back into hers. He kissed her like she was the air he’d been starving for, like he was determined to take all of it in before he ran out of time. His hands found the hem of her shirt, and she arched her back, letting him pull it over her head. She heard his breath catch as he took her in, her hair spilling over her shoulders, her skin flushed.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he swore, his hands moving over her ribs, across her stomach, ghosting over her breasts. “Need you," he muttered, almost to himself. "Need to feel you."
She tugged at his shirt again, impatient, and he lifted himself just enough to pull it over his head, tossing it to the floor. She stared up at him, breathless, and her hands moved over his chest, his stomach, every sharp line of him. He shivered under her fingertips, his eyes darkening.
His mouth moved to her neck, her collarbone, and she gasped when he kissed the swell of her breast, hot and open-mouthed. There was no hesitation now. No shyness. He was sure and steady, the pace building between them, the want so sharp she could taste it. He kissed his way down her stomach, his hair brushing her skin. She arched into him, feeling the rough scratch of stubble, the wet heat of his mouth. When his fingers caught the band of her leggings, she shivered. He paused, looking up at her from beneath dark lashes, his breath coming fast.
“Off,” he said, almost a command, and she obeyed, pulling them down her hips, her thighs, until she was bare beneath him. She didn’t feel self-conscious. Only exposed in the best way, raw and alive and desperate.
She sucked in a breath as his mouth moved lower, lower, lower.
When his lips brushed the inside of her thigh, she gasped. And when he kissed her there , warm and so bold, she let out a soft, startled moan. He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate. He held her thighs apart, his fingers pressing into her skin, and she could feel him smile against her.
“Gods,” she whimpered, her back arching. “Theo—”
He didn’t respond. Just flicked his tongue, exact and deliberate, and the shock of it made her cry out. Her fingers knotted in his hair, and he groaned, low and ragged, like he loved the sounds she made. It reverberated through her, and she bucked up into his mouth, breathless and unguarded. He was relentless, his hands gripping her thighs, his tongue circling and teasing and driving her mad until she was almost sobbing.
His mouth was hot and insistent and everywhere, and she was unraveling faster than she could catch herself. The world pared down to this: his tongue against her, his hands all over her skin, the rough scrape of stubble on her inner thigh. The softness of his hair in her hands, the scent of him that seemed to envelop her. She was coming undone– shaking, gasping, unable to stop herself. And then, with a soft cry, she shattered.
He didn’t stop. Not until she was pulling him up, breathless and trembling, until her mouth found his again, frantic, grateful and full of intent. She rolled them both, dragging her hips over his, feeling him hard and ready beneath her. He was still wearing his joggers, the fabric soft against her bare legs.
Hermione wanted everything off, nothing between them.
She gripped the waistband, dragging it down, and he lifted his hips to help her, the movement almost instinctive. She felt the weight of him against her, and a shiver ran through her entire body. They both stilled for a moment, naked and breathless and wide-eyed. The room was dim around them, the air thick with the scent of sweat and heat and the electric hum of want.
“Fuck,” he whispered, low and ragged. “Are you su–”
She cut him off, pulling him up to her, her hands greedy on his skin. His mouth moved over hers, his hips rocking against her, and she could feel him, hard and hot and exactly what she needed. She shifted against him, her back arching, and he let out a desperate sound when she rolled her hips, still slick against him from where his mouth had been.
“Please,” she breathed, her fingers digging into his back.
His breath hitched. “Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice unsteady.
“You,” she gasped. “Want you.”
She raised her hips slightly and he positioned himself at her entrance. Theo shuddered and thrust into her, his eyes dark with something like disbelief. “Fuck, Hermione,” he groaned, his voice breaking. “Fuck. You feel incredible.”
She gasped, full and breathless, the stretch of him perfect and overwhelming all at once. He buried himself to the hilt, shivering as she clenched around him, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Look at me,” she whispered, her voice catching.
His eyes snapped open, locking with hers, and he held her gaze as she rolled her hips again, his own rhythm deep and urgent. Hermione moaned, feeling him everywhere, her entire body taut with sensation.
He pulled back slightly, his hand tangling in her hair, his breath hot against her mouth. “Don’t stop looking at me,” he said, almost pleadingly, and the rawness in his voice made her shiver.
She didn’t. She couldn’t. She met his eyes as he moved inside her, their pace insistent and wild, and the look he gave her—like she was saving him, like he was drowning and reaching for her and alive—made her heart twist almost painfully. She clung to him, her hands tight in his hair, and he was everywhere, filling her, pushing her closer to the edge until all she could feel was him, inside and out, the heat of his skin, his mouth on her neck, his eyes trained on hers.
Her hips moved with his, every thrust tightening the coil in her belly and pushing her closer, faster than she was ready for. She moaned, her breath catching, and he was there, his body hard and desperate and entirely hers. He shifted, pulling her up and over him, her thighs straddling his as she sank down again, and the angle made her gasp—deep and raw and so intense it felt like freefalling.
The pace was staggering now, and she rode him without holding back, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her breath coming in quick, breathless gasps. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her down harder, deeper, and she felt herself falling apart. Her name was a low chant on his lips, and the sound of it was enough to make her cry out.
She rocked against him, her entire body shaking, and she was coming undone, the world narrowing to this moment, to Theo . Her release hit like a tidal wave—hot and staggering, crashing through her so fast she couldn’t breathe. Her whole body tensed, bowed against him, her mouth falling open around a broken gasp. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her thighs trembling around his hips. His name tore from her lips like prayer, like surrender, and for one suspended moment, it felt like the entire world tilted on its axis.
Theo held her through it– arms locked tight around her waist, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged as he whispered soft, breathless curses against her skin. She grabbed his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. His eyes went dark and wide, like he could see nothing else— like nothing else existed, and he followed her over the edge moments later, with a quiet, stuttering moan, his body shuddering beneath hers.
When it passed—when the world slowly stitched itself back together— Hermione collapsed against his chest, still panting. Her cheek rested over his heart, and she felt the rapid staccato of it gradually begin to slow. His arms didn’t loosen. He held her like he couldn’t let go. He was still inside her, but she wasn’t ready for him to not be anymore.
Neither of them spoke.
She felt his fingers moving through her hair, slow and reverent, and the sensation made something bloom and ache inside her chest. Her body was still trembling slightly, but it wasn’t from aftershocks now. It was from the quiet intensity of the way he touched her. Like she was something delicate. Like he wasn’t sure she’d still be here when he woke up.
Eventually, they shifted, just enough to slide beneath the covers, the world outside the bedroom still dim and quiet. Their limbs tangled instinctively, his chest pressed to her back, his arm slung low over her waist. He pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder.
Neither of them said anything. There was too much to say, and all of it felt too soon.
Hermione stared into the dark, her fingers brushing the back of his hand where it rested on her stomach. Her thoughts were loud, buzzing with everything she didn’t understand, everything she wasn’t ready to admit.
Instead, she tried to focus on the weight of his arm around her. The steady rhythm of his breath against her shoulder. The warmth of his skin pressed to hers. And when he murmured her name in his sleep—barely audible, like a thought he didn’t mean to speak aloud, she closed her eyes.
And let herself pretend, just for now, that she was exactly where she belonged.
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The Ministry was loud on Mondays. Too loud.
Hermione had barely stepped through the atrium before she was bombarded with memos, requests, and two different people asking if she could review their draft legislation before lunch. By the time she made it to her office, she’d already spilled half her coffee on her blouse and somehow lost track of the latest revision schedule for the Magical Species Rights Initiative.
She dropped her bag and sighed, scanning the towering stack of parchment on her desk. The familiarity of it all— the quiet panic, the sense of never quite being caught up should have settled her. But instead, her stomach twisted.
She thought of Theo.
He’d still been there when she woke up, still asleep and wrapped around her like a cocoon. She’d overslept, heart pounding when she saw the time, and had scrambled out of bed in a rush of apology and tangled blankets, jumping into the shower and skipping breakfast. Theo had propped himself up in bed, smiling sleepily at her. Told her to breathe. Said he could Apparate home on his own, that he’d be fine. That he wanted her to go, to not be late.
And she’d believed him. She’d kissed him, a little breathless and a lot reluctant, and then she’d left.
But now, sitting at her desk with a quill in hand and half a dozen policy proposals to review, she couldn’t stop wondering if he’d really been… fine. If the Apparition had gone smoothly. If he’d panicked after she stepped into the Floo and waved goodbye. If he’d stepped back into Blaise’s flat and felt the quiet settle around him like a weight. If he was already pulling back into himself, the way people did when the world became too much.
She pushed the thought away and forced herself to reread the memo in front of her. It didn’t work. Every time her mind stilled, it slipped right back to him. His hands on her waist. The way he’d looked at her in the morning, half asleep and smiling. The velvety feeling of his skin, the way he’d watch her shyly from across the room. The feel of his fingers twined with hers. The feeling of him inside her.
Merlin, she needed to pull it together.
She reached for her quill, then set it down again.
It was ridiculous. She knew that. She’d spent barely three days with him, and now she felt, what? Attached? Entangled? Something else entirely? It made no sense. It wasn’t practical.
And yet.
She rubbed her temples.
He’d Apparated home on his own. That was good. It was progress. She told herself once, twice, then again with more force: h e’ll get there eventually. He just needs time.
But another part of her—the part that whispered sharply in her own voice, the one she often used with others when they were being foolish—asked: How realistic is this?
Are you really going to start something serious with someone who’s still terrified to walk outside alone?
Hermione frowned at that. Because it wasn’t fair. She of all people knew how trauma lingered. How long it took to rewire the fear in your bones. She needed to be patient, understanding. The fact that he was even eating, showering, watching films with her, that he’d gone to the shops with her this weekend– was more than many people would’ve been able to do after five years behind bars.
But that didn’t mean it didn’t raise concerns. That didn’t mean he was ready for something as serious as… this. For something as serious as the way she felt about him, she realized with some alarm.
She jumped slightly at the sharp knock on her door, interrupting her thoughts, then froze when it opened.
“Harry!” She jumped up.
He smiled, stepping inside holding a paper bag and a takeaway coffee. "I figured you'd forget to eat."
Hermione blinked, and for the first time since she’d arrived at work, she smiled, too. "You're a lifesaver."
Harry had accepted the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts three years ago. To Hermione’s quiet relief, he’d really taken to it, despite his early dreams of becoming an Auror. It wouldn’t have been right for him– she’d always thought it, but had never voiced it to him. Hogwarts had always been home to him, and it made perfect sense that he’d end up back there eventually. The school had grounded him— given him a rhythm, a purpose, a way to guide students without the constant weight of saving the world on his shoulders. He’d grown into the role with surprising ease, and he always came back from the castle with plenty of stories. His partner, Spencer, had opened a coffee shop in Hogsmeade, and the two of them lived in a sweet little cottage near the village.
He handed her the bag, then settled into the chair across from her desk. "How was your weekend?"
She paused. The moment stretched. She could feel the words building at the back of her throat. I saw Theo Nott. I stayed with him. I think I might be falling into something I can’t name.
But instead, she just said– "Quiet. I stayed in mostly. Slept in. Read."
Immediately, she felt the leaden guilt settle in her stomach. Why had she lied? Was she ashamed? It’s not like Harry would’ve judged her or said anything unkind. If anything, he’d be understanding and probably thrilled she was opening up to him. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She turned back to face him, hoping he couldn’t see the shame on her face as she clumsily attempted to change the subject.
“Hang on,” she said, frowning as she took a sip of the coffee he’d brought. “Why aren’t you at work right now?”
Harry leaned back in his chair. “I’m on Spring Break this week, remember? Figured if I wanted to see you, best bet was showing up here. Since your flat was empty Saturday evening. Your Floo was open, so I stopped by, but no one but Crookshanks was there to greet me." He raised a brow.
Hermione’s pulse spiked. She forced a sip of her own drink to buy a moment. “Oh—right. Sorry. I went out. Needed to clear my head.”
Harry didn’t push. He never did, not unless something was truly wrong. But he gave her that soft, familiar look. The one that seemed to say– Nice try, but I know you well enough to realize when you’re lying.
Still, he let it drop. “Well, I’m glad I caught you today. You look like you needed a break.”
“I did,” she admitted. “Thank you.”
And she meant it. But the guilt still itched just beneath her skin. She tried to shove it to the back of her mind. “How’s Spencer?”
Harry’s face lit up. “He’s great. Did I tell you his Mum and Dad are looking for a house here? I think they finally realized Spence was here for good and decided to settle in the UK as well.”
Hermione smiled. Harry had met Spencer at a pub while the former was here on a trip with a group of friends after graduating from University. Harry had invited him to a Quidditch match the following day, and the two had pretty much been inseparable ever since.
Spencer was nothing like Harry on the surface— bright and expressive, quick to laugh, and prone to telling long-winded stories that often ended in dramatic reenactments, whether you wanted them or not. Harry could be broody, known to fixate on something and overthink himself into the ground. He was loyal but reckless, and Hermione used to worry that without the constant pull of danger he’d gotten so accustomed to, he might throw himself into something stupid just for the adrenaline. But Spencer steadied Harry in a way Hermione had rarely seen people do, even Ginny, back when they were together. He reminded Harry to eat, pulled him into conversation when he got too quiet, smoothed over his sharp edges with warmth and affection. He gave Harry the kind of soft, persistent care Hermione knew he’d never gotten as a child.
He was also a wizard, also an only child—Muggle-born, raised in America and charmingly unbothered by most British magical formalities. They were polar opposites in so many ways, including appearances– Spencer had sandy blonde hair, freckles on his nose, and he was tall and muscular. He had a loud but stylish wardrobe and a louder laugh, and his freckles always seemed to multiply in the sun.
“They’re thinking somewhere in Surrey,” Harry continued. “Near enough that we can Apparate over for dinner but not so close that Spencer’s mum can pop by every time we forget to do the washing up.”
Hermione grinned, the ache in her chest easing just a bit. “He’d never let that happen. Not doing the washing up, I mean.”
“No,” Harry agreed, and there was something fond and unshakable in his voice. “He wouldn’t.” Then, he looked at her more seriously. “How are you, ‘Mione? You seemed a bit off at dinner last week, and Ron says he hasn’t heard from you since. Everything okay?”
She opened her mouth to insist she was fine, but then bit her lip, hesitating.
Hermione didn’t know why she kept people at arms’ length, why she reflexively said the same words to anyone who asked– everything’s fine, I’m fine, just busy with work . It’s something she’d done since the war, some kind of strange symptom of survival, maybe. An instinct to protect herself by never showing too much, never burdening anyone. As if talking about the hard things might make them more real. As if keeping them tucked away made her stronger.
She’d even tried seeing a Mind Healer for a while, at Ron’s insistence, and the woman had told her as much– holding your trauma in doesn’t make you stronger, it makes you more fragile, Hermione.
Hermione had stopped seeing her after a handful of sessions.
It was easier to pretend nothing was wrong, to pack her schedule to the brim, to attribute her frayed nerves to exhaustion rather than confront the things she kept buried deep inside. Her friends worried about her, she knew that. Ginny was the most insistent of all of them– for instance, quite literally forcing Hermione to leave work early on a Friday to go and get their nails done, strong-arming her into taking the occasional mental health day, forcing food down her throat when she forgot to eat.
She once again thought, for some reason, of Theo– his voice rough with sleep and panic as he woke from a nightmare, his hands shaking in hers. The way he’d looked at her when she finally broke down and cried in front of him, like she had given him some kind of irreplaceable gift just by being honest with him. And what he’d said, so gently– it must get lonely sometimes.
It did. It was lonely. But she didn’t know how to explain that to Harry—not without unraveling completely. Not without opening a door she might not be able to close again.
So instead, she gave him a smile. Not fake, exactly, but practiced. Familiar.
“I’m okay. Just tired and busy, as usual.”
Harry gave her a look. “Really?”
“Really, Harry. If something was wrong, you’d be the first to know, I promise. I’m just busy with work.” She smiled again, and felt her face twitch in an odd way.
He didn’t believe a word of it and they both knew it. He nodded, smiling through the disappointment she could easily read on his face. She knew him well enough to recognize it. “If you say so, Hermione. But if you need to talk, I’m always here. Really.”
She patted his hand. “Thank you. And thanks for the sandwich. You were right, I did need it.”
“Anytime. By the way… you can tell me to sod off, but are you seeing anyone?”
She blinked. He continued, “because if not, Spence and I met someone you might actually like. He plays on one of the rec Quidditch teams with Spencer—Chudley B-side, I think? Anyways, we were all out for drinks after a match last week, and he mentioned he’d like to meet someone, find something serious. Bloody smart bloke. Works in Magical Artefacts. Bit of a swot, honestly.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Harry nodded enthusiastically, apparently unaware of the smear of mayo near his mouth. “We can set you two up– no pressure, though. Only if you’re interested.”
Hermione smiled thinly. “Thanks, Harry. I’ll think about it.”
She wouldn’t.
Instead, her thoughts drifted back to Theo once again – the quiet hope in his eyes, the way he looked at her like she was something extraordinary. The way he made her feel, like she was freefalling and finding her footing all at once. Last night had only deepened it—that slow, tender ache of closeness she hadn’t expected, hadn’t even known she’d been craving. It left her feeling exposed in the gentlest way. Raw and healed at the same time. Like something inside her had shifted. And still, she’d started missing him the moment she walked away.
She couldn’t tell Harry all that. Not yet. Whatever this was between her and Theo, it was still forming, still fragile. Like something delicate spun from light and breath—too new to be named, too precious to be prodded at. Too big for her to make sense of herself, let alone explain to another person.
So instead, she nodded along, let Harry ramble, finished her sandwich, and pretended like the world outside this office was still the same one she’d known before Friday night.
But it wasn’t. And part of her already knew—there’d be no going back.
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Kerosene in my hands
You make me mad, on fire again
All the pills that you take
Violet, blue, green, red to keep me at arm's length don't work
There's things I wanna say to you, but I'll just let you live
Like if you hold me without hurting me
You'll be the first who ever did
There's things I wanna talk about, but better not to give
But if you hold me without hurting me
You'll be the first who ever did
-Lana Del Ray
Chapter 8: From Eden
Notes:
Back with another chapter featuring our beloved simp, Theo Nott. As always thank you so much for the comments and kudos. Enjoy!
Chapter Text
Theo stood in the middle of Blaise’s flat, blinking as he tried to regain his balance, both physically and mentally. The sudden stillness felt jarring after the warmth of Hermione’s flat, after her touch, her voice, the quiet intimacy of the past few days. His heart was still pounding from the Apparition– too sharp, too fast, and for a moment, he just stayed planted there, trying to remember how to breathe properly.
He’d lingered in Hermione’s flat for longer than he should have after she left– a combination of wanting to be in her vicinity for as long as possible (even if she wasn’t actually there) and dreading the task of Apparating home by himself. But finally, after a particularly uncomfortable staring contest with Crookshanks, he decided he’d overstayed his welcome.
And now, everything here was still and colorless. The faint hum of the refrigerator, the soft ticking of the clock on the wall– mundane sounds that somehow made the silence louder. Without her, the place felt colder, and so did he. Emptier. Like he'd imagined the whole weekend. Her laughter. Her hands on his skin. The feel of her breath in the dark. Even her frantic goodbye this morning, the way she’d hopped on one foot, trying to shove a shoe on whilst brushing her teeth at the same time. The way she’d stopped to kiss him goodbye even as she rushed off into the fireplace. Everything she did was magnetic, beautiful, a film reel Theo never wanted to look away from.
He felt cracked open. Exposed in a way he hadn’t known was possible.
And somehow, despite all this, he was lonelier now than he’d ever been before. Because in Azkaban, he hadn’t known what he was missing. There’d been no sunlight filtering through soft curtains, no warmth in the press of another body, no freckles dusting the bridge of a perfect little nose he couldn’t stop staring at. No hands in his hair, no lips pressed to his skin, no whispered laughter in the dark. No sweet perfume, no one to soothe his nightmares and stare into his fucking soul as he came inside of her.
There had been no Hermione then. Besides the version of her in his head, the one who had crossed his mind more than he would’ve liked to admit. And now that he knew—now that he’d felt what it could be like to be wanted by her, to be touched with such care, everything else felt hollow by comparison.
His own company was a miserable replacement for hers. But really, what had he expected? That she’d quit her job, abandon her life, and become his full-time emotional support person? Girlfriend? Caretaker? Wife? Spend every waking second with him, shagging each other senseless five times a day?
“I mean, is that really so much to ask?” Theo said aloud, to nobody. Then he added, “probably too soon to start ring shopping. Right?” His voice echoed through the empty flat.
Merlin, he needed to pull himself together.
He was aware he had obsessive tendencies. Always had. It came with the territory—growing up on edge, never knowing which version of his father would be waiting when he got home. You learned to fixate, to control what you could. As a child, he’d obsessed over his belongings, meticulously organizing his toys and triple-checking to be sure no one touched them. As a teenager, he’d obsessed over his appearance just a bit more than his friends, had even been hyperfocused on his marks. Which was ironic, because he’d pissed all that away when he took the sodding Dark Mark and signed over his future to Lord Voldemort himself.
Whoops.
Girls, though, had always been a different flavor of fixation. Not that he’d ever let himself fall for anyone; the thought of being vulnerable, of actually needing someone, had always filled him with something like dread. He hadn’t been a true womanizer, though. He’d never had the confidence for that, the necessary edge of cruelty or self-forgetting. Even so, he’d been fascinated by girls from the start. It was a kind of clinical fascination, at first- he liked watching them, talking to them, learning their faces and voices, the way they moved through space together, the secret codes and rivalries and alliances. He liked feeling that he could understand them, that he could predict what they’d do next the same way he could predict his father’s moods, the weather, the questions on an exam he knew he’d get an ‘O’ on.
He’d wanted girls to see him, to put him under the same high-powered microscope with which he regarded them. He wanted to be the answer to some private question they hadn’t told anyone they were wondering about. He wanted to be the inside joke, the shared secret. He wanted to be the thing they wrote about in their journals, the thing their mothers warned them to avoid. Theo liked being looked at. Just not too closely.
But Hermione Granger was a different study altogether. He’d noticed her from the beginning—not just because she was beautiful (because he hadn't paid that much mind until puberty hit), but because she was, in every possible sense, fundamentally different from anyone else. She was incandescent, a burning filament in the dull machinery of Hogwarts. She’d been a constant presence in the background of his school years, a meteor streaking across every classroom, every corridor, a beacon of light across the Great Hall, her head thrown back laughing with Potter and Weasley or nose-deep in a book.
He’d always felt a bit like a different species from her, like if she were to look at him directly, her eyes wouldn’t even register his presence, like he was some kind of mundane object blending into the background. Theo had wanted her, of course. Who didn’t? But the idea of actually pursuing her had always felt laughable. Even if she wasn’t out of his league– which she very much was, he was the son of a Death Eater, the close friend and housemate of Draco Malfoy, who seemed to go out of his way to make her miserable. If she had ever given Theo a single fragment of attention– if she’d smiled at him, said hello to him- for fuck’s sake, even if she’d insulted him– he would’ve fallen for her. He knew it with perfect clarity, for some inexplicable reason.
And now, here he was, spiraling over her once again, when she had been out of his sight for precisely three hours.
But really, what else could he do but spiral? Obsess?
She’d spent the whole weekend with him, by choice. She’d cooked him breakfast. Cut his bloody hair. Laughed at his jokes like she actually found them funny. And then, in the middle of the night, she'd woken him up with a kiss, whispered that she was going to miss him when she went to work, and promptly given him the best shag of his entire life.
So yes, maybe he was getting a little carried away. But really, who wouldn’t? How could he not get carried away?
And still– beneath the heady thrum of infatuation, beneath the raw, aching want for her, there was something sharper. A weight pressing in on his ribs. He couldn’t be deadweight. Not to her. He couldn’t just keep floating around, sleeping in someone else’s flat, doing nothing, being nothing. If he wanted to keep her—really keep her—he had to start figuring out what the hell came next.
He looked around the flat, at the clean countertops and the stack of Blaise’s business magazines. His wand was on the table. His parole paperwork was in the folder by the door.
Right. Step one: don’t be a useless sodding lump.
Step two: figure out how to become the kind of man who might actually deserve Hermione Granger.
Both tall orders for the likes of him, Theo thought to himself. But it was worth a try, right?
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By the end of the day, Theo had come to a few grim conclusions.
First, he needed to figure out if he still had access to his Gringotts vault. It had been in his name alone— his one small act of rebellion, years ago, insisting on a separate account his father couldn’t touch. But after five years in prison, he had no idea what kind of strings the Ministry might have pulled. They could’ve funneled the funds into some memorial fund for the “rebuilding of magical society,” or rerouted it to a victims’ relief fund or new wing at St. Mungo’s. And honestly, he wouldn’t even be cross about that. Not really. However, it would be… inconvenient.
Then there was the matter of clothes. He needed some. Ones that actually belonged to him, not Blaise. Ones that actually fit him, that didn’t remind him of how pathetic he felt borrowing everything– space, soap, shirts, socks– from someone else’s life. He needed to look like a person again. Feel like one.
And eventually, the thought he’d been avoiding would have to be addressed: work. A job.
Before all this, before the war and the whole pledging himself to the Dark Lord business, Theo hadn’t expected to ever need to work. It was something most respectable Purebloods just didn’t do. So he certainly hadn’t planned for this situation. He had no clue what he’d even be qualified for at this point, aside from being chronically haunted and marginally well-read. Who the hell was going to hire a former Death Eater with a trauma disorder and no references?
Unless Azkaban started issuing letters of recommendation. That was a thought. Perhaps his old pal Sergeant Sunshine would be willing to attest to his impeccable character.
He couldn’t stay in limbo forever. Not if he wanted to get his own flat eventually, not if he wanted to do something with his days besides sit around and wait by the door for Hermione. Speaking of which, he’d also come to the conclusion that he really ought to ask her on a proper date at some point. One where she didn’t provide the wine. And the food. And everything else, really. She deserved to be with someone who took her to fine restaurants, swept her away to tropical vacations, bought her nice things. And right now, he was a very far cry from… that.
And in order to do any of those things, Theo would need to stop being so bloody terrified of leaving the flat. That was the most humiliating part—the way his chest clenched and his fingers shook whenever he even thought about going outside alone. And what kind of woman wanted to be with a man like that? A man who could barely step into the street without feeling like the world might swallow him whole? A man who had to cling to her to keep from disintegrating into a full-blown panic attack in the middle of the dairy aisle at the grocery shop?
Theo dragged a hand through his hair and leaned his head back against the couch. The ceiling stared back at him, blank and indifferent.
---------------------
Theo glanced at the clock. Five forty-two.
She’d be off work by now. Probably heading home. Maybe she had plans—dinner with a friend, some errand she’d put off all weekend. Maybe she was expecting him to show up at her flat. Should he get dressed and go? Maybe she was expecting him. Or maybe she was doing exactly what he should’ve been doing: giving them both a little space. A moment to breathe. A moment to think.
But that didn’t stop the quiet, ugly voice from whispering: Or maybe she’s already regretting it.
She hadn’t sent an owl. No message. No call on the bloody Muggle phone Blaise kept by the door. And Theo told himself that was fine. He was fine. He didn’t need constant reassurance. He wasn’t needy.
Except, fuck, he kind of was.
He sat on the couch with a blanket over his legs and the telly on low, not really watching. Every creak from the hallway made his pulse jump. At six twenty, he checked the buzzer. Just to make sure it hadn’t broken. At six fifty-three, he went into the kitchen and stared at the pantry like it might offer him an answer. At seven, he picked at the meal Dilly left him, his appetite nonexistent. By seven fifteen, he’d opened one of Blaise’s nicer bottles of Firewhisky and was drinking it far too fast for the way his insides twisted.
She wasn’t coming.
He told himself that was fine. That it didn’t mean anything. That it was probably better this way, although the pit in his stomach said otherwise.
So when the buzzer rang at four past eight, he nearly dropped the glass.
He crossed the room in three strides, pressed the button. “Hello?”
A pause. Then: “It’s me.”
He didn’t say anything. Just buzzed her in and yanked open the door.
When she stepped into the hallway, his heart damn near stopped. She was in soft clothes now— leggings and an oversized jumper, hair down and curling slightly at the ends like it had dried in a hurry. Her cheeks were pink from the walk, and she looked at him like she didn’t quite know how to start.
“I tried to stay away,” Hermione said, voice low and a little breathless. “I did. I went home. Ate dinner. Washed dishes. Lit a candle, had a shower. Got into bed. Tried to read. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Theo didn’t breathe.
“I missed you,” she added, almost shyly. “Is that ridiculous?”
He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a rough, stunned laugh. “I thought it was just me,” he murmured.
Hermione smiled, and something about the curve of it—soft and a little unsure—just undid him. He reached for her without thinking, his hand slipping around her waist, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that tasted like relief. She kissed him back with equal urgency, arms winding around his neck, and for a long, quiet moment, the hallway felt like the center of the universe.
When they broke apart, breathless, she looked up at him, a little pink in the cheeks. “Er, can I come in?”
Theo practically tripped over his own feet as he led her inside. He made her a cup of tea and they settled on the couch, Hermione raised an eyebrow at the half-empty bottle of Firewhisky that sat on the coffee table.
“Having yourself a night, yeah?”
He reddened. “Something like that,” he muttered.
She smiled. “I, um… brought an overnight bag.”
Theo blinked. “You did?”
“I hope that’s not presumptuous.”
He stared at her, then huffed a soft laugh. “Granger, if it were up to me, you’d move in here permanently.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he winced. “Shit. I mean—not that I’m trying to rush anything. Obviously. That’s… not—I mean, I am more than happy with how things are going. I just—”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Are you panicking?”
“A little.”
She smiled. “Relax.”
“I’m trying,” he said, rubbing his temples. “You’re very disarming, you know.”
Hermione gave a small laugh and nudged him gently with her shoulder. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s terrifying,” he said flatly, but his mouth was twitching. “You show up looking like that, saying you missed me, with a bloody overnight bag like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and I’m just supposed to—what? Not spiral?”
“You’re spiraling?”
“Only a little,” he said, swirling his Firewhisky. “And I definitely wasn’t spiraling before you got here, either. So don’t worry about that,” he added dryly.
She leaned into him a little, her hand brushing his. “Well, for what it’s worth, I wasn’t entirely calm either. I walked around my flat for a full hour trying to decide if coming here again was unhinged.”
“And?”
“And I decided it was. But I came anyway.”
Theo smiled faintly, eyes flicking down to where her fingers rested against his. “I’m glad you did.”
They sat in silence for a moment, not quite awkward, but charged. Hermione sipped her tea. Theo’s thumb traced an idle pattern along the side of his glass. Outside, the streetlights flickered to life one by one.
“I kept thinking about you,” she said, her voice low. “All day. Which is… not ideal for productivity.”
“That makes two of us,” Theo muttered. “I did absolutely nothing today. Just stared at the ceiling and tried to figure out whether or not I’d made you up.”
Hermione glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Did you come to a conclusion?”
He smirked faintly. “Undecided. I can’t decide if the fact that you’re here right now makes it more or less likely.”
She laughed under her breath and leaned back against the cushions, folding one leg beneath her. He watched her move, how easily she settled in like she belonged here, with him—like maybe she did . The thought made his stomach flip.
After another beat, he drained his drink and set it down then turned to her, his heart in his throat.
“Okay, but… seriously,” he said, voice softer now. “I hope I’m not about to make myself look like a prick, but I have to ask because it’s driving me mad. What are we doing, Hermione? Like, what is this?”
She blinked at him, startled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” He hesitated, rubbed the back of his neck. “Are we– are we just… spending time together? Sleeping together? Keeping each other company? Are we…” He trailed off, then added with a half-laugh, “Should I not have said the thing about you moving in? Because I’m really regretting that.”
Hermione tilted her head, looking at him. Really looking. Then, slowly, she reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.
“I don’t know exactly what this is yet,” she said. “But I know I want to be here. With you. I’m not just—using you for comfort, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Theo exhaled, his shoulders dipping slightly. He’d been bracing for something worse, truthfully. “Okay,” he said. “That’s… good to hear.”
He hesitated, clearing his throat. “And I realize I’m not… bringing a lot to the table right now.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. “No, let me just— say this. I know I’m a bit of a mess at the moment. I’m staying in someone else’s flat, I don’t own a single shirt that actually belongs to me, I haven’t figured out what the hell I’m doing with my life, and I’m still grappling with the fact that going outside makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.”
“Theo,” she said softly, reaching for his hand.
“All of that to say– I know I’m not in the best place yet,” he said, carefully. “But I’m trying. I want to be someone who can… actually give you something. Someone who deserves to be with you.”
That made her go quiet. Not cold, but tense in a way he couldn’t quite read.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he added quickly. “You don’t owe me a commitment or an answer or—I don’t know, a label. I just… I needed to say it out loud. For me.”
She nodded, but her mouth was tight.
His mouth was dry. “I’m sorry. Was that too much? I’m feeling a bit out of my depth here–”
“No,” she said quickly, frowning. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just not always good at… serious. Or maybe I am, but I overthink. I pull back, I guess.”
He nodded, waiting for her to continue.
She took a breath, nervously twisting a curl around her finger. “I haven’t really been in anything real since Ron. We broke up a while ago, but I still kept… going back to him, for a long time. Not because I loved him, but because he was there. Because it was easier than being alone. I’m not proud of that.”
Theo felt a flicker of something bitter, but he tamped it down. She was here now.
“Have you, erm… since we started this?” he asked, hating how needy the words sounded.
Her head shot up. “No. Of course not. Not even close.” Her expression softened. “Theo. I would never.”
He swallowed. “Okay.”
She chewed her lip, looking as if she was having some kind of internal debate. “In case it wasn’t clear… I really, really fancy you, Theo. This isn’t a casual thing to me. And I’m not interested in seeing anyone else. I just don’t know exactly what I’m ready for yet, if that makes sense.”
It did make sense. Too much sense, maybe. Theo nodded slowly, tried to steady the sudden rush of something that felt like relief—but underneath it, something frantic pulsed just as loud.
He really, really fancied her too.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Because the way she looked at him—earnest and flushed, like even saying this much had cost her— he knew it was all real. She wasn’t lying. She wasn’t toying with him. She wanted this. Wanted him.
But then, she could walk away. Change her mind. Decide tomorrow she needed space, or that she wasn’t ready, or that it had all been a fluke of loneliness and wine and proximity. She could just decide to stop showing up without even telling him. And he had nothing to counter with. No job. No flat. No sense of a future beyond her. He had never wanted something so much, and still felt like it could be taken from him at any moment.
Theo gave a small, careful smile. “It makes sense,” he said. “I mean, the rational part of me understands.”
She gave him a searching look. “But?”
“But the other part—the stupid part—is completely obsessed with you and wants to know if I should just wait by the door like a dog every time you leave, or if I should try to play it cool and pretend like I’m not panicking when I don’t hear from you for a day.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Theo—”
“I’m joking,” he said quickly, though he wasn’t. “Mostly. It’s just…” He trailed off, then shrugged. “I like you. A lot. And I think maybe I’m more… in this than you are.”
She opened her mouth then closed it. Then she slid a little closer on the couch, their knees brushing. “I like you a lot too. I just don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. And I don’t want to hurt you.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“I’m figuring this out in real time.”
“I know,” he said again.
She hesitated. Then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his cheek—soft and warm and fleeting. He closed his eyes. Let himself feel it. The sweetness. The danger of it. How little control he had.
And how, despite everything, he’d still let her come back. Every time.
--------------------------
Babe, There's something lonesome about you
Something so wholesome about you
Get closer to me
No tired sighs, no rolling eyes, no irony
No 'who cares', no vacant stares, no time for me
Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago
Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword
Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know
I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door
-Hozier
Chapter 9: Shelter
Notes:
Hihi, we are back with a Hermione chapter. I am loving all the comments about her- I know she's VERY much in her own head right now and holding back from our poor Theo, but give our girl time. She'll get there eventually.
As you may have noticed, each of these chapters is named after a song and I've included a snippet of lyrics at the end of each one. I've been very intentional about choosing every one of these songs, and the lyrics are ones that really resonate with me for each chapter. I will share a link to a playlist soon if anyone is interested :)
Hope you are all enjoying! Tysm for the comments and kudos. You are all the very best.
Chapter Text
Chapter Nine: Shelter
Irresponsible. Reckless. Selfish.
The words echoed in Hermione’s mind as she stared at her reflection in the mirror of the Ministry washroom. Her lipstick had faded. Her curls were slipping out of their pins. She looked flushed, distracted. Like someone she didn’t quite recognize. She adjusted hair hair, reapplied her lipstick. Tried to make sense of the person staring back at her. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t use those particular words to describe herself. But everything was all mixed up now, wasn’t it?
Three nights.
Three nights in a row at Theo’s this week. She’d told herself it was temporary, just until he was more settled, just until the nightmares calmed down, just until the weather got better, just until Ginny came home, just until. But yesterday she’d brought Crookshanks over so she wouldn’t have to stop by her flat first. A toothbrush. A change of clothes. A novel she was halfway through.
Just until.
She adjusted the collar of her jumper, took a steadying breath, and walked into the corridor. Made small talk with coworkers, politely declined after-work drinks as she always did. Skipped the Floo and walked straight out of the Ministry, prepared to Apparate. Ten minutes later, she was standing outside his flat.
Theo answered on the first knock, barefoot and blinking like he hadn’t expected her. But he smiled, slow and warm, like the sun had just cracked through the clouds. "You're here."
“I'm here. I missed you,” she blurted, before she could change her mind.
His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said shyly.
He grinned and lifted her off her feet, wrapping her in his arms.
She let out a startled shriek and laughed against his lips. He kissed her, letting the door fall shut behind them, and she was weightless, breathless. His hands were warm on her back, and she curled into him, her heart tripping over itself.
Irresponsible. Reckless. Selfish.
She was going to ruin this, but Godric, she couldn’t bring herself to care right now. She wanted it all.
He carried her to the couch, laying her down like something precious, and the tenderness of it made her chest ache in the best way. His mouth brushed hers, her jaw, the curve of her neck, and she let out a soft, shuddering breath, her fingers tangling in his hair. Her clothes were still on, but that didn’t stop her from shivering at his touch. He was so warm, and there was quiet reverence in the way he touched her.
Theo’s hands skimmed her sides, her waist, as if relearning her all over again. He kissed her like it was an art form, already out of breath, like he'd been waiting all day for this. There was no hesitation, no slow burn— just heat, all-consuming and urgent. She kissed him back hard, her fingers fisting in the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer. Her legs parted so he could settle between them, the fabric of her work pants rough against his joggers, the pressure between them sparking something electric.
His mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, every brush of his lips full of purpose. Hermione gasped softly, arching into him, her pulse thudding in her ears. All she cared about in this moment was getting as close to him as possible, quieting the persistent ache that came whenever she wasn’t near him. She let him undress her, let him pull back and stare at her body, drinking in the sight. And then she let him touch her everywhere, let herself get lost in the feeling of his hands all over her body. It was sweet and slow and blazing hot, and it felt a lot like making love. Hermione ignored the alarm bells in her mind as the thought surfaced.
Afterwards, they lay together on the couch, limbs still entangled. Somehow, she’d ended up with his t-shirt on, and he lay shirtless in his briefs. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, fingers skimming over his bare chest. “How was your day?”
He smiled lazily. “It’s certainly looking up now,” he said. “But it was fine. I actually… erm, went for a walk.”
Hermione sat up, turning to face him, opening her mouth in surprise.
“Please don’t say you’re proud of me or something,” he mumbled. “I’m nearly twenty-four years old and just now learning how to walk outside without having a full-blown existential crisis. Rather pathetic.”
She smiled. “Alright, I won’t say it.” He raised an eyebrow, and she giggled. “I’ll just think it, really loudly, ” she added.
Theo groaned. “Please stop. How about you, though? How was your day?”
“It was exhausting, as always. Busy, stressful, so on and so forth.”
“Tell me about it,” he pressed, looking at her earnestly.
“Seriously?”
He nodded.
“Okay,” she said slowly, settling against him, her hand still tracing a slow line over his chest. “Mostly just a lot of policy review today. We’re trying to finalize this massive reform proposal—something that would adjust sentencing standards and open up release eligibility for certain categories of magical offenders.”
Theo tilted his head, intrigued. “Categories like… me?”
She gave a small smile. “Yes. Like you. But you’re not the only one. Your release set a precedent— it’s giving us a real shot at arguing for systemic change.”
He blinked. “So I’m your test case?”
“Well,” she said, arching a brow, “you’re my favourite test case.”
He laughed under his breath. “Brilliant. No pressure, then.”
She smiled but didn’t answer right away. Then, thoughtfully, she added, “I think we’ll be able to get Malfoy out within the next few months, actually.”
Theo turned his head slightly, surprised. “Draco?”
She raised an eyebrow. “No, Lucius,” she deadpanned.
Theo snorted. “Okay. Point taken. Really, though? You actually think it’ll happen?”
“I’ve been reviewing his case file again,” she said. “There’s more than enough to argue for a conditional release. His cooperation, his age at the time, the fact that he turned over intel through legal counsel post-war. It should have been enough from the start. Just as it should’ve been for you.”
Theo’s jaw worked for a moment. “You really think they’ll go for it?”
“I think the tide is turning,” she said. “People– well, some people– are starting to realize the point of the system has to be justice, not just punishment. And I think… I think they’re beginning to understand what Azkaban really does to people. That the whole place needs to be reformed.”
She felt Theo tense under her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “We can talk about other things. I thought you might like to know about Malfoy, though. You two were close, weren’t you?” She asked the question carefully, trying to gauge his reaction.
Theo paused. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I mean, yes and no. Draco was… is, I should say, a complicated bloke. But he’s always been a good mate to me.”
Hermione lifted her head just slightly, watching his face.
Theo played absently with a strand of her hair. “He looked out for me, as much as he could, I guess. He tried to help me get out of taking the Mark—made some noise with his father about how I was too weak, too soft. Thought maybe if they believed that, they'd leave me out of it.”
Hermione felt her heart clench. They hadn’t ever discussed any of this, not really. She pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder and waited for him to continue.
“Obviously, my father won that argument, in the end,” he smirked bitterly. Then he frowned, and clarified, “I mean, he didn’t hold me down or anything. I knew what I was doing.”
He shook his head, as if shaking off the memory. “But anyways, despite all that, we didn’t always see eye to eye. Draco and I. I didn’t have much patience for the way he acted at school– prancing around like a sniveling little prick, thinking he was better than everyone else just because Lucius told him he was. Salazar, he was a prat,” he snorted. He took on an overly posh, whinging voice. “ My father will hear about this ,” he quoted.
Hermione gave a thin little laugh. “Yeah. He definitely was a prat,” she said. “I never realized you thought so, though.”
Theo pressed his lips together. “You wouldn’t have,” he said, his jaw tight. “Because I never did anything about it, due to being a sodding coward. And I’m sorry for that, Hermione.” He looked at her earnestly, facing her fully. “But yeah, he was absolutely a little shit. The dramatics were insufferable. But he was also… I don’t know. There were moments. He wasn’t all bad.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t your responsibility to correct your friend’s bigotry. Besides, I’m not sure there was much you could’ve done anyways.”
“I could’ve done something, ” he said, exhaling in frustration. “I mean, I think I told him to lay off once or twice, but he’d just tell me to go fuck myself. I always hated the way he talked to you in particular, though.”
“Really?”
“I mean, yeah. Because you didn’t do a thing to deserve it, aside from being smarter than him and associating with Potter. Y’know, they’d kind of antagonize each other. Draco and Potter. Weasley too, really. But he always went after you, for some reason. It wasn’t fair.”
Hermione shrugged, squirming slightly. “He was nasty, you’re right. It’s… fine though. I don’t hold onto anger from it anymore. We were kids, and he was a bit of a bully. Doesn’t mean he deserves to be in prison.”
Theo looked at her for a long moment, like he was trying to make sense of something. “You’re something else, Granger.”
Hermione blushed. “You said Draco looked out for you,” she prompted, sensing there was more to the story.
Theo hesitated. “Yeah. I probably owe him a few life debts, if we’re being technical.”
Hermione sat up a little more, curious now. “What do you mean?”
He grimaced. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Theo.”
He glanced at her. “It’s not a good story, Granger.”
“I’m not asking for a good story.”
He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then said, “Third year, after winter hols. My father lost his temper, broke my wrist before I got on the train. Draco didn’t say anything. Just— walked with me to the infirmary when we got to school. Told Madame Pomfrey I fell. Then he charmed the bed curtains closed so no one else could see me and stayed with me until I fell asleep.”
Hermione blinked, stunned by the image.
“And during seventh year,” Theo added, quieter now, “when the Carrows started pushing me harder, threatening me if I didn’t take part in their little... torture sessions—” he grimaced. “He covered for me. Took the punishment instead. Said I was doing recon for Snape.”
Hermione felt her chest tighten. She didn’t know what to do with that, how to rationalize these stories with her own memories of Draco Malfoy. But mainly, her heart hurt for Theo. For how torn he must’ve felt, the impossible choices he’d had to make, for the painful childhood he’d only hinted at.
“And in Azkaban…” Theo added hesitantly, “I think he’s the only reason I didn’t lose my mind completely. He sent me books. Just a few here and there, smuggled them through whatever channels he could get his solicitor to agree to. Didn’t matter that we weren’t allowed contact—he made it happen.”
Hermione swallowed, her throat tight. “That was… kind of him.”
Theo nodded once, not looking at her. “Yeah. He won’t let anyone know it, of course. Keeps up the whole aloof, self-important thing. But he has his moments.”
She reached for his hand without thinking, threading her fingers through his. “You’ve never said any of this before.”
“There’s a lot I haven’t said,” he murmured. “To anyone.”
“You can say it,” she said, nearly a whisper. “To me. If you want.”
“Can I, though?” He turned on his side to look at her as rain began to tap softly against the windows. “I’m afraid you’ll go running for the hills, Hermione.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. Her first instinct was to promise she wouldn’t. To tell him nothing he could say would change the way she felt. But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? Not because she was scared of him– of what he’d done– but because she was scared of herself. Of how much she already cared. Of how deeply he was burrowing into her, beneath all the careful walls she’d spent years building.
So instead, she leaned in and kissed him. “We should eat,” she said, grabbing a sweatshirt out of her overnight bag. “Are you hungry?”
He studied her, something flickering behind his eyes– disappointment, maybe, but so quickly buried she almost missed it. He didn’t press, didn’t sigh or frown or ask her to stay in the moment with him. Just offered a small, practiced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Sure,” he said quietly. “Dinner sounds good.”
Hermione hesitated. Guilt pricked at her chest, sharp and sudden. She didn’t know what he’d been about to say, what piece of himself he might’ve handed over if she’d asked for it. And she hated how easily he let her redirect, how used to it he must be— people turning away when things got too heavy. Carrying it all by himself, never fully opening himself up to anyone.
But she wasn’t ready to hold all of that for him– or at least, that’s what she told herself. This wasn’t fair, she knew it. She was being cruel. To give Theo only part of herself, to reach for him in the quiet moments and pull away when things got too sharp, too real. To curl into him at night and pull away in the morning. To kiss him like she meant it and then pretend not to notice when he asked for something deeper from her. It made the guilt pool in her stomach, thick, unpleasant, and oily. Because life had not been kind to Theo. He’d been through more than she could ever properly wrap her head around, had been utterly alone for so long, and yet here he was– trying to open himself up to her, showing her things he likely hadn’t shared with anyone else. But it was her who was holding back. Because that was what she did, wasn’t it? Presented a carefully crafted version of herself, kept the ugly things buried deep where no one could see them.
She told herself it was fine. That he understood. That he didn’t expect more. That they were taking things slowly, not jumping into anything she couldn’t walk away from if things got too messy.
And if something inside her twisted every time he looked at her like she was the whole damn sky—well, she ignored it. Pushed it down. Got up, made tea, asked about his day like everything was simple. She wasn’t sure who she was protecting– herself, or him, but she kept doing it anyway. One omission after another, one more night spent in his arms, one day after another of telling herself she had things under control.
----------------------
They sat at the dining room table tonight, not bothering to move the meal Dilly had left (two plates– she didn’t even bother asking if “Miss Granger” would be joining “Master Theodore” for dinner anymore). Hermione speared an asparagus with her fork but didn’t bother lifting it to her mouth. She didn’t have much of an appetite tonight.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to come over tomorrow night,” she said, breaking the silence.
Theo tilted his head, his face not revealing a thing. “Oh?”
She nodded, staring at her napkin in her lap. “I’ve got this thing– er, a weekly dinner. With Harry and Ron.”
Theo went still. He nodded once, slowly, like he was trying to pretend it didn’t matter. “Right. Of course.”
Hermione finally looked up. His expression was mild, too mild. That was the thing she’d begun to notice with Theo—when he was upset, he didn’t explode. He just… withdrew. It was so different than Ron, and she wasn’t sure how to handle it.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
He gave a small shrug. “It’s fine. Just didn’t realize you still did those. With Weasley.”
“I mean, he’s still my friend, Theo. And Harry’s there. It’s just dinner– nothing serious.” She sounded defensive. She hated that.
“I know,” he said, his expression guarded. “But I also know you two have a complicated history. And…” He hesitated. “That you kept sleeping with him long after you’d broken up.”
She winced, nodding. “I know. And I’m not proud of that. But it’s over.”
Theo toyed with the edge of his plate. “You think he knows that?”
“What do you mean?” she asked nervously.
“I mean– do you think Weasley’s really let you go? Or do you think he still believes there’s something between you?”
“Of course not,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I mean, I’ve made it clear I won’t go there with him again. I don’t know exactly how he feels, but I’ve set boundaries with him.”
Theo didn’t speak right away. Just nodded like he was absorbing it. Trying not to let it get under his skin. But she could see the shift in him. The way he folded inward.
“Are you going to tell them?” he asked eventually, not meeting her eyes. “About me?”
Her lips parted, but nothing came out at first. “I– I don’t know, Theo. Not yet. It’s not that I don’t want to. I just… I’m not ready for that conversation.”
He nodded again, slower this time. Dropped his gaze to his plate, pushed a bit of fish around with his fork. “Have you told anyone?” he asked, voice even quieter.
Hermione opened her mouth, but the answer caught in her throat. She hated the look in his eyes already, how small it made her feel to admit it. “No,” she said softly. “Not yet.”
Theo’s jaw worked, and he nodded, as if he’d been expecting the answer. “Right. Okay.”
Hermione suddenly felt like crying. “Theo,” she said, almost a whisper. “It’s not that I–”
“I don’t want to upset you,” he said quickly, almost panicked as he took in the expression on her face. “Or push for more than you’re ready for. But it’s hard not to feel like I’m this… thing you’re keeping separate from your real life. Like you show up here when it’s convenient, and then vanish back into a world where I don’t exist.”
Her stomach sank. He was surprisingly intuitive, had a way of putting things so succinctly, disarming her when she least expected it. Because what he’d said– that was exactly what she was doing, and it was shameful. What was wrong with her?
“It’s not that I expect you to announce us to everyone,” he continued. “But it’s not a great feeling. Knowing you’re not proud of this. That you feel like you need to keep me from your friends. I mean, I get it. I wouldn’t be either. But y’know, just not great for a bloke’s ego,” he added, a weak attempt at lightening the moment.
She didn’t say anything right away. Just stared at him, blinking too fast, her chest tightening like a vice.
“It’s not that I’m not proud,” she said finally, the words breaking as they came. “Gods, Theo, of course I’m proud of you. Of what you’ve survived. Of what you’re trying to become. It’s not about you– it’s me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Maybe nothing’s wrong with you,” he said quietly, still not looking at her. “Maybe I just got ahead of myself.”
“No,” she said quickly. “You didn’t. You didn’t. I think about you all the time. I care about you so much—too much, maybe. And that’s the problem.”
He frowned. “That’s a problem?”
“It is when I don’t know what I’m doing with it,” she said, her voice shaking. “I keep thinking I’ll ruin it. Or hurt you. Or hurt myself.” She watched him closely as she spoke, tracing the lines of his face with her eyes. “And so I keep it to myself. I’m trying to sort it all out without hurting anyone, but I don’t think I’m doing a very good job.”
Theo looked up at her finally, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Are you ashamed of me, Hermione?”
Hermione felt the question like a slap. Her mouth opened, but the words didn’t come– not right away. Because the truth was complicated. She wasn’t ashamed of him. But she was scared.
She was scared of what it meant– to be with someone who had lived through what he had. Who had done things she couldn’t quite bring herself to think about. Who couldn’t leave the flat on his own most of the time. Who carried a past so dark it made people’s faces change when they heard his name. Who she had helped to free, publicly. Who she’d defended in front of the Wizengamot with her voice steady and her heart in her throat.
Who she had then gone on to kiss. Sleep with. Want.
And what did that say about her? It was an ugly thought, but no less insistent.
She swallowed thickly, her fingers twisting in the hem of her jumper. Her thoughts scattered– images of press leaks, of Harry’s worried frown, of Ron’s furious silence. Of Theo flinching in his sleep. Of the way he looked at her when she showed up on his doorstep every day, like she was something good. Something safe.
It wasn’t shame that she felt, not exactly. But it wasn’t nothing .
She realized she’d let the silence sit for too long, and he was waiting for an answer. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m not ashamed of you, Theo. Please don’t think that. It’s just… complicated. Trying to figure out how all of this fits into my life. I don’t know what people would say, or what it would look like to the world.” She swallowed. “I don’t want that to matter. I just– you’re not what I planned for.”
Hermione saw the hurt blooming on his face, and it made her feel panicky. “I don’t mean that in a bad way, either. And it doesn’t mean I don’t want you. I do . So much. I think about you constantly. And not just… this,” she gestured vaguely between them, “but you. The way you are. How thoughtful you are, how you listen so closely. Your sense of humor, the way you choose your words carefully, the way you make me feel so safe. How smart you are, how you’ve been through so much but you refuse to blame the world, how you’re not jaded even though you’d have every right to be.”
Theo’s expression faltered just slightly.
“I feel more like myself around you than I have in a long time. With anyone else, really,” she whispered. “And I don’t know what to do with that.”
He shook his head, still not meeting her eyes. “I don’t know what to tell you, Hermione. I know exactly how I feel about you, where I’d like this to go– unrealistic as it is. I don’t know how to sort out your feelings for you.”
She sighed, the smallest bit of frustration blooming. “And I don’t expect you to. This may come as a surprise,” she said, lightly sarcastic, “but I’m a fairly private person, Theo. I don’t open up to my friends about a lot of things. So if I don’t tell Harry and Ron about something I’m still trying to figure out myself, it’s not because I’m ashamed of you. Can you understand that?”
His expression softened, and he rubbed the back of his neck, nodding. “Yes. I can. Of course I can. I don’t mean to pressure you, Hermione. And I don’t want to ask for more than you give.”
Hermione felt the knot in her chest loosen slightly. “I don’t plan on going anywhere. I just need time to make sense of all this.” She reached for his hand. “I can come over after dinner tomorrow?”
He didn’t pull away. “You don’t have to. I don’t want this to feel like an obligation to you.”
“It’s not,” she said quickly– not defensively, but because she really meant it. “I know I don’t have to. But I want to. I’d miss you too much.”
Theo smiled and pulled her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to it. “Okay. Sounds good. I’m sorry, Hermione. I don’t mean to be so… needy.”
“You’re not needy,” she said quickly, and he gave her a look. “I mean, if you are, then so am I. Why else would I show up here every day? I can’t seem to stay away.” She smiled at him, trying to convey how much she meant it.
He returned the smile shyly. “Then don’t.”
She pushed her plate away and curled into him. “Okay. I won’t.”
--------------------
I find shelter in this way
Under cover hideaway
Can you hear when I say
"I have never felt this way"?
Maybe I had said something that was wrong
Can I make it better with the lights turned on?
Maybe I had said something that was wrong
Can I make it better with the lights turned on?
Could I be, was I there?
It felt so crystal in the air
I still want to drown whenever you leave
Please teach me gently how to breathe
-The xx
Chapter 10: War of My Life
Notes:
HELLOOO we have a weekend update ladies and gents! There is something so special about writing Theo to me. I really love his chapters, especially as we get to learn more about his past and see his confidence start to peak through little by little. This one was fun for me to write, and I hope you all enjoy it too!
thank you for the wonderful comments, even if I don't get a chance to respond every time, they truly make my day! <33
Chapter Text
“Hello, Beast,” Theo said mildly, his voice still rough with sleep.
Crookshanks had leapt onto the bed not two minutes ago, landing squarely on Theo’s stomach like he was testing the structural integrity of his organs. Now he sat, tail flicking, golden eyes narrowed in judgmental silence.
They’d been cohabitating– uneasily– for the last few days while Hermione was at work. And while Theo was technically the human in charge, it had become increasingly clear that Crookshanks was the one running the household.
Theo had done his best to stay on the creature’s good side in the form of giving him plenty of space and presenting him with various peace offerings. He’d requested some tinned fish when Dilly popped in to drop off breakfast yesterday (‘the expensive kind, if it pleases His Highness,’ he’d suggested). He’d even gone to the trouble of transfiguring one of Blaise’s magazines into a proper window seat, complete with a tartan blanket Hermione had brought over. For good measure, he’d cast a long-lasting Warming charm on the seat so it would stay cozy throughout the afternoon. It had taken almost an entire afternoon and more magic than he’d used in years, but it’s not as if he had better things to be doing at the moment.
And in return, the Beast had mostly ignored him, which Theo was grateful for.
Until this morning, apparently. The half-Kneazle was now not only tolerating Theo’s presence—he was standing on his chest, staring at him like he was making some kind of important political decision. Then, without warning, Crookshanks leaned forward and headbutted Theo’s chin.
Theo blinked. “Are we… are we doing this?”
Crookshanks headbutted him again, more insistently this time. And then, as if he hadn’t just fundamentally changed the nature of their relationship, he curled into a loaf on Theo’s sternum and began to purr.
“Fantastic,” he mumbled, although he didn’t entirely hate the feeling. “Your mother will be absolutely chuffed.”
He lay there for a while, one hand hovering uncertainly before daring to scratch gently behind Crookshanks’s ears. The animal didn’t claw his eyes out, so that was a good sign. Feeling bolder, he reached down and scratched under his chin, like he’d often seen Hermione do. The purring deepened, like the rumble of distant thunder. Theo, absurdly, felt sort of honored.
He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Hermione would still be at work, probably up to her neck in paperwork or arguing some high-profile case. She’d kissed his forehead before she left that morning and called him “sleepyhead,” then vanished in a whirl of perfume and sensible shoes.
And now he was here. Bonding with her cat. Perhaps he could become a permanent stay-at-home cat father. Somehow, he wasn’t sure that would fly with Hermione. Although Crookshanks might be pleased with the arrangement.
The sound of the buzzer interrupted his introspections, and Crookshanks scrambled off his chest, a painful blur of orange fur and claws that left him wincing. Theo padded into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he frowned suspiciously at the receiver. It was the middle of the day– Hermione was not one to leave work early, unless maybe the Ministry was under siege. And since Blaise had left, she’d been his one and only visitor. Cautiously, he pressed the button.
“Hello?” he asked uncertainly.
“Theodore?! Is that you? Let me in, you oaf! ” A rather shrill voice rang out.
His heart dropped into his stomach. “Pansy?”
“Obviously. Now buzz me up before I set the whole lobby on fire.”
Theo’s thumb hit the unlock button before his brain could catch up. He backed away from the door slowly, as though expecting a blast wave. And when the knock came moments later—sharp, urgent, and unmistakably Pansy—he opened it with a resigned sigh.
She burst through like a hurricane in patent leather boots.
“You absolute bastard ,” she said, launching herself at him. “You get out of Azkaban and don’t even bloody owl me? I had to hear it from Lovegood, who heard it from Ginny, who heard it from Blaise. I’m going to hex him to next Tuesday, by the way. I’ve been looking for you everywhere, and he didn’t think to mention you’d been living in his spare flat?! ”
Theo, too stunned to respond, was then nearly knocked over by the force of her hug. She wrapped her arms around him, bone-crushing and emotional, and didn’t let go for a long moment. He returned the embrace tentatively, patting her back awkwardly. When she finally pulled back, her hands came up to cradle his face like a mother checking her small child for scratches.
“You idiot,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “You’re so thin. You look like shite.”
“I mean, I was in prison,” he muttered.
She swatted his arm, then pressed her forehead to his. “You’re a bloody nightmare, Theodore Nott.”
He smirked. “I’ve been called worse.” After a moment, he stepped back, sheepish.
Pansy looked the same in some ways, but different in others. She still had the same sharp, dark eyes, her hair was the same deep brown color, almost black, but it was cut differently than she’d worn it in school. She was unmistakably elegant, mature, refined. No longer the schoolgirl who’d pined over Draco, but a full-blown woman. Warmth flooded his chest. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed her until she was standing in front of him. He also felt a bit overwhelmed, as he always had with Pansy.
“It’s good to see you, Pans. Really good. And I’m sorry I didn’t owl you.” He met her eyes.
Her expression softened, and if he didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn he saw a few tears gathering in her eyes. “Yeah. I’ve been so worried about you, Theo. I wish I could’ve visited you in–”
“It’s fine,” he said reflexively. “They didn’t allow anyone besides solicitors.” He stared at the floor, rifling through his mind for a way to turn the conversation away from Azkaban. “Do you want something? Tea? Water? I could make you a latte–”
Pansy didn’t push about the subject change, bless her. Instead, she narrowed her eyes. “Since when do you drink lattes ?”
“I don’t,” he said quickly. “Just… been trying new things.”
Her gaze slid to the espresso machine. Then to the suspiciously half-used bottle of vanilla syrup beside it. Her mouth opened to say something, but then she clamped it shut, eyes narrowing further.
“I’ll take a tea,” she said primly. Then, as she disappeared down the hallway, “Going to use your loo to freshen up, if you don’t mind. Be prepared to catch me up on the last five years of your life when I get back.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered.
It was just like Pansy to come barreling back into his life and then excuse herself to the loo the moment she started to feel a bit sentimental. Merlin, she’d always been a force to be reckoned with, hadn’t she? Something about her presence was incredibly comforting, though. Like muscle memory, like he was a bit more of a human than he’d been twenty minutes ago. He thought back to the way she used to look after him at Hogwarts, and the way he’d (begrudgingly) come to rely on it. Pansy always had a way of understanding exactly what he was going through without him needing to explain. It’s not that he ever poured his heart out to her– he didn’t do that with anyone, really– but she was sharp enough to put the pieces together about what was going on at home.
She never forced him to open up, never pushed for details, but she had this knack for recognizing when things weren’t right. When the weight of everything was starting to drag him down, when the silence at home was just too much to bear, Pansy would appear, slipping into his life without warning. Sometimes it was with a well-timed comment that cut straight through his defenses, a little mocking but affectionate jab that made him laugh and for a moment, forget the tension gnawing at him. Other times, it was simply her quiet presence, sitting next to him without saying a word, letting him stew in his thoughts while she read or wrote letters or– more often than not, mocked his inability to do anything with his life. But it was never cruel.
When his mother had died, it was Pansy and Draco who had silently stood by his side at her funeral. Pansy who had wordlessly slipped her hand into his, not forcing him to talk about it, not offering platitudes, but just being there. Solid. The truth was, Theo had been left to his own devices from a very young age. No one worried about his whereabouts, for the most part, no one helped him pack his trunk for school, no one made sure he was getting enough to eat. He’d grown up learning when to keep his head down and wait out a mood, or how to make himself invisible in a room, which was a skill he mostly perfected by fifth year. But Pansy had seen him anyway. She didn’t need him to be strong or put together, didn’t expect him to be anything other than what he was. She had an uncanny ability to sense when he was on the verge of falling apart, and when that happened, she would show up, no questions asked. It wasn’t grand gestures or heartfelt speeches; it was just that quiet, unwavering understanding. It was sometimes tough love, a refusal to let him feel sorry for himself or isolate himself from the rest of the world. He’d always been prone to that, and Pansy had always been the one to drag him out of it when the self-loathing and self-sabotage consumed him.
He set the kettle to boil and fidgeted uselessly with the teabags until he heard her voice echo from the bathroom. “Theo?”
“Yeah?”
“Whose face cream is this?”
He froze. “Blaise’s, probably,” he called back.
A pause. “It’s pink and smells like rosewater.”
“He’s evolved.”
There was another silence, then he heard her footsteps as she returned to the kitchen. She leaned against the island, her makeup back to looking impeccable. She crossed her arms and scrutinized him. “And does Blaise also use curl-defining shampoo, nowadays?”
“Like I said,” Theo muttered. “He’s evolved. Besides, he’s always been a bit of a diva. Remember the silk sleep mask?”
“Hm,” Pansy said, accepting the steaming mug of tea he handed her. “I’m not daft, Theodore. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were–”
Just then, Crookshanks strolled into the kitchen like a king making his daily rounds of the castle– tail high, golden eyes as full of judgement as ever.
Theo groaned and turned back to the stove at the same moment that Pansy gasped. “Oh. My. GODS! ”
He elected not to turn around, staring intently at the tea kettle instead. “Have I introduced you to Blaise’s cat?”
“Nice try. Theodore,” she said, voice rising with scandalized delight. “I’d recognize that monster anywhere. Are you… dating her? You’re dating Hermione Granger?! ”
He sighed, letting his head thunk against the cabinet. “Not… technically. ”
“Oh, we are talking about this,” she said, practically vibrating. He could feel it from across the room. “You. Her. This. Everything. Start explaining.”
“Must we, though?” he protested uselessly as she dragged him to the couch.
“Absolutely. How did it even happen? I’m going to kill her for keeping this from me!”
Theo blinked. “I didn’t realize you two were close.”
Pansy frowned. “She didn’t tell you? Figures. That girl keeps everything close to the chest.” She sighed. “Yes, we are… fairly close. An unfortunate side effect of being engaged to a Gryffindor.”
“Why don’t we talk about that? ” Theo smirked. “You and Longbottom, ey? I’m just wondering how you let him get close enough to ask you out without hexing his bollocks off.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Another valiant effort at evading the topic. I’ll be happy to fill you in about Neville as soon as you tell me why the hell Granger is leaving her shower products here and her cat is your new roommate.” She crossed her legs and rested her chin on her fist, waiting impatiently.
Theo dragged a hand through his hair, slouching deeper into the couch. “Fine. Blaise jetted off to Singapore for work the day after I got out, the tosser. Granger showed up with dinner a few days later because apparently she’d told Blaise she’d check in on me ,” he said.
Pansy snorted. “Like you’re a bloody Labrador.”
Theo smirked. “Exactly. We sort of just hung out. Talked. I thought that was the end of it, but she showed up the next night, too. And ended up… erm, staying over. Then it just sort of… kept happening.”
Pansy tilted her head, still watching him like a hawk. “You fancy her.”
Theo gave her a look. “Did the vanilla syrup not tip you off?”
“A bit,” Pansy said. “But it’s mostly how red your face is right now that’s really giving you away.”
Theo grimaced. “Yeah, I’ve got to work on the art of subtlety when it comes to her, I suppose.”
Pansy’s expression softened slightly. “So you’re serious about her, then.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I am.”
“And she’s serious about you?”
That made something twist in his chest. He looked away. “I think so.”
She frowned. “But?”
Theo shrugged. “It’s complicated. She has a lot more to lose than I do. A career, friends, a flat, her status as Brightest Witch of our Age,” he smirked. “Not that she cares much about that part. But I dunno. It’s still new, like, very new. And I know she likes me, but she hasn’t told anyone else. Makes me feel a bit like her dirty little secret. It’s all very clandestine. Forbidden romance and all that bosh,” he said, trying to sound unaffected.
Of course, Pansy wasn’t fooled. “I’m sorry, Theo.” She sighed, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Granger is… complex.”
Theo raised his eyebrows. “An understatement, actually.”
Pansy shrugged. “Yeah. I like her, honestly. Which is maddening, because I was very prepared to hate her forever. But she’s got a good heart, you know? She’s feisty as hell, loyal, and sharper than half the Ministry combined.”
She paused, picking at a loose thread on the armrest. “But emotionally? Getting her to open up is like pulling teeth. She’s close with people, sure– Potter, Weasley, Ginny– but even they don’t really know what’s going on in that brilliant little head of hers most of the time. She’s the kind of person who always knows what you need, and never says a word about what she needs. She’d bleed out quietly before she’d ever ask anyone to patch her up.”
“That sounds about right,” Theo said. It was strangely comforting– to hear someone who knew Hermione well confirm the things he’d noticed. To know that her involvement with him wasn’t the only thing she kept from people.
Pansy patted his knee. “She’s quite guarded, Theo. The fact that she’s gotten comfortable enough with you to stay the night– to leave her precious orange monstrosity with you– is indicative of the fact that she must really like you.”
Theo huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I’m just flattered Crookshanks has deemed me tolerable.”
She gave him a look. “I’m being serious.”
“I know,” he said. And he did. “I can tell she doesn’t… open up to people often. And she’s been erm, letting me in, bit by bit. I’m grateful for that, I really am. I’ve never met anyone like Granger. I never thought she’d even consider any of this, y’know, with me. It’s just… not fun sometimes. Feeling like I’m at her mercy. Because really, all of this is up to her. I just sort of follow her lead.”
Pansy frowned. “It doesn’t have to be that way, though. You’re allowed to call some of the shots. She can’t hold all the power in your relationship. She’s not doing you some kind of favor by dating you.”
He gave a weak shrug. “Isn’t she, though? It’s not like I’ve got much to offer right now. No job, no money, no plan. I’m lucky she wants anything to do with me at all.”
“Oh Theo,” Pansy groaned, rubbing her temples. “You sound like a bloody martyr. You think she’s showing up here every night because she feels sorry for you? To pity-shag you? She’s a grown woman. She knows what she’s doing, and obviously you’re bringing something to the table.”
Theo opened his mouth, and Pansy held up a hand to silence him. “And for the love of Merlin, please don’t say anything about your prick.” He promptly shut it.
“Well, aside from that ,” he grinned, “I’m not entirely sure what she sees in me. And it sort of feels like she’s just figuring that out and I’m just… waiting around until she does.”
Pansy tilted her head. “So stop waiting. Start doing.”
“Doing what?” he asked, incredulous.
“Something. Anything. Whatever you can manage. That’s how it starts, Theo. You want to feel like you’ve got control? Take some. Even if it’s small.”
He wrinkled his nose. “You sound like a self-help pamphlet.”
“I’m serious.” She softened a little. “Start with something you’ve been avoiding. One thing. Let’s hear it.”
He hesitated, picking at the seam of the cushion beside him. “I need to go to Gringotts,” he admitted. “Figure out if I still have access to my vault. See if there’s anything left.”
“Perfect.” Pansy leaned back, satisfied. “That’s a start.”
“Yeah, except the idea of going there makes me want to vomit,” he said lightly.
Pansy shrugged. “Going on a date with Neville made me want to vomit, too. But I still did it. And now look at me!” She held her hand in the air dramatically, showing off the giant diamond on her finger.
Theo raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying if I drag my sorry arse to Gringotts, maybe Granger will propose to me with a massive rock?”
Pansy snorted. “You wish.” He nodded in agreement, and she rolled her eyes. “It would, at least, make you feel like less of a pathetic lump. So it’s settled then– we’re going to Gringotts.”
He blinked. “We?”
“Yes, you absolute cabbage. You think I’m letting you bumble your way through Diagon Alley alone, possibly hyperventilating into your sleeve in front of a goblin? No. I’m coming with you.” She stood up, dusting imaginary lint from her skirt.
“Wait, like right now?”
Pansy sighed. “Unless you’ve got other plans?”
Theo frowned. He didn’t, obviously. He opened his mouth to protest, but Pansy was already shooing him into his room. “Go put on something decent,” she demanded. “I won’t be seen with you looking like an underdressed teenager.”
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Twenty minutes later, Theo found himself standing just outside the wrought iron gates of Gringotts, heart hammering like he was about to face trial all over again.
He hadn’t stepped foot in Diagon Alley since before the war. The familiar cobblestones beneath his boots felt oddly tilted, like the whole world had shifted half a step to the left while he’d been locked away. He took a slow breath, eyes flicking over the crowd, bracing himself for someone to notice him—to whisper, to point. But no one did. At least, not at the moment.
“You’re doing great,” Pansy murmured beside him, linking her arm through his. “And by ‘great,’ I mean not actively bolting, so that’s progress.”
Inside, Gringotts was just as intimidating as he remembered. The goblins hadn’t changed. Tiny, cold, sharp-eyed, and deeply unimpressed.
“I’m going to be sick, Pans,” he whispered.
“Fine. Just aim away from my shoes, please.”
He groaned as she dragged him up to the queue, gripping his arm tighter like she knew he might stage an escape any moment now.
“We’re next,” she whispered, patting his hand.
Theo cleared his throat as they stepped up to the front counter, but the words caught in his throat. The goblin stared at him expectantly, beady eyes darting around his face impatiently.
“Good afternoon,” Pansy said smoothly, stepping in. “We need access to a vault under the name of Theodore Nott. He was recently released from Azkaban and would like to confirm the contents of his personal vault.”
The goblin didn’t blink. “Wand?”
Theo fumbled for it in his pocket then handed it over with shaking fingers. The goblin scanned it, then nodded. “Very well. Follow me.”
Theo shot Pansy a wide-eyed glance, and she gave his wrist a brief squeeze. “Breathe,” she mouthed.
They were led to one of the old carts—the kind Theo had once ridden as a child, drunk on the thrill of speed and danger. Now it just made his stomach turn. By the time they reached the vault, his knuckles were white. Pansy had the unaffected air of someone whose visits to Gringotts were as frequent as a trip to the grocer, simply smoothing down her hair and stepping gracefully out of the cart.
The goblin inserted a key and the massive stone door creaked open. Theo stepped forward. And then froze.
There was gold. Lots of it. Not as much as his father’s vault had once contained, but plenty. More than enough. He stared at it in awe, waiting for it to disappear like a mirage. Then he turned back to Pansy.
He’d never seen her smile so widely. “Look at you. A man of means, once again.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I can… get a flat. And clothes.”
It was an odd feeling, really. Growing up in wealthy pureblood society, money was something no one thought twice about. It was just… there. As sure as the sun would rise in the sky each day, there would be a seemingly unlimited supply of funds. Theo had grown to expect it, to not even register the act of purchasing as anything significant. The summer estates, the sprawling house in Nottinghamshire, the holidays to Italy before his mother had passed, the wine cellars, eight-course meals, and tailored robes and the string of tutors — all of it was just air and water. Normal. The Nott inheritance was as much a part of him as his bones and his blood.
Theo had grown up in wealth, but it hadn’t always felt like the privilege it should have. When he was young, his childhood was indulgent, full of whimsy, and he barely remembered his father even being around. It was his mother who had been his world—the one who'd spoiled him with affection and gave him the freedom to live in a fantasy of endless possibility. His memories of childhood were colored with soft sunlight, lazy afternoons in the garden, and her warm, calming presence. The Manor had even been different then– more natural light, less cold and oppressive. Like his mother was doing her best to keep the darkness at bay. There had been no pressure back then, just a comforting sense of security in the wealth that surrounded him. Money was a tool, but not something to fear or even think about at all.
But that all changed when his mother died. Her death marked the beginning of a shift that he hadn't been able to put into words until much later. Before she passed, Theo had always just expected that he would inherit everything—his father's wealth, the estates, the power that came with being part of one of the oldest Pureblood families. He was the heir. It was a simple fact, one that never really seemed in doubt. Even at a young age, he understood what that meant: choices, freedom, the ability to shape his own future. Wealth was his birthright.
But when she was gone, it was like the weight of that privilege had shifted in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Suddenly, it wasn’t just about what he had– it was about the price of it. The money, the house, the estate; it all came with conditions. His father, who had never been particularly interested in him, now had control over everything. Theo had to ask for every single thing. Nothing was freely given anymore. He could almost feel his father’s eyes on him, waiting for the moment he needed something, just so he could remind Theo of the strings attached. The sense of entitlement Theo had carried through his childhood crumbled when he realized how little his father truly cared, and how much he relished control. Everything he asked for felt like a favor, and every favor came with an invisible price.
Theo hated that. He hated the way his father held his wealth over him, as if every penny spent came at the cost of his dignity. If he wanted something, if he wanted to live any part of his life the way he wanted to, it meant compromising in ways that felt degrading. It wasn’t that money was ever discussed– that would’ve been gauche, of course. It was the way he was constantly reminded that every new set of robes, every shiny pair of dragon-hide boots, every textbook– came with the expectation that when it came time for Theo to do his duty, whatever that may be, he’d have no choice but to obey. The inheritance Theo had once assumed would be his to do with as he pleased now felt like a shackle. Every bit of it carried the weight of a thousand ugly, twisted expectations.
He had softened the blows by telling himself one day, he would have full control of everything. One day, he'd finally be able to take the reins and do what he wanted with his inheritance– free from his father’s influence. His father would die, and Theo would no longer be under his thumb. But then, the Dark Lord had returned, and there it was, the moment his father had been waiting for– the time for him to follow in his footsteps, to carry out his duties and serve the cause. So Theo had done things that made his own stomach churn to remember, had made choices that came with consequences far greater than anything he’d experienced before.
And then, he’d sat in Azkaban for five years– where money didn’t exist, where the only hierarchy was between guards and prisoners. Money had suddenly begun to feel… irrelevant. It didn’t matter if he was rich or poor in that hellhole, not when he had no control over his circumstances, not when the one thing he longed for– freedom– was something no amount of gold could buy. So now, as he stood there in front of his vault, something shifted. It wasn’t awe that washed over him, but a strange, unexpected sense of peace. And it wasn’t just because he knew a majority of this money had come from his mother rather than his father– it was a feeling of control . Once he named it, everything sort of clicked into place in his mind. Because the true empowerment wasn’t in buying anything, indulging himself in the same ways he had been indulged when he was younger, living in excess. It was the control over his own life that this money afforded him—the ability to finally make decisions for himself without worrying about strings being pulled behind the scenes, without his father hovering over him, reminding him of the price for every choice he made. And while there were still things in his way, he finally had the space to live on his own terms.
He realized with sudden clarity that this was the first time in his life he’d felt in control of his own choices. His own future, his own circumstances. It was a humbling realization, but somehow, that didn’t diminish the poignancy of the moment. And it lit another feeling inside of him, one he’d come to know more and more recently– hope.
Pansy elbowed him, the light nudge snapping him out of his thoughts. “So? How do you feel?”
Theo blinked a few times, still feeling the weight of the moment pressing against him. His fingers absently traced the leather of the pouch in his pocket, now full of Galleons. He glanced at Pansy as they climbed into the cart, unsure of how to put it into words.
“Better than I should, honestly,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t expecting this... relief, I suppose. It’s not even about the money, not really. It’s—” He paused, searching for the right phrasing, his thoughts tangled in a mess of emotions. “I think it’s just what it represents. The fact that I can finally make some of my own decisions, you know? I’ve never had that kind of… freedom.”
The cart lurched forward and he tensed. Pansy chuckled and linked her arm through his. “I get it,” she said quietly. “I mean, I don’t, exactly. Because we’ve led very different lives for the last… decade, right? But there’s freedom in disentangling yourself from your family. I still have access to my inheritance, but I’ve realized that even if my parents decided to cut me off tomorrow, I wouldn’t care.”
Theo regarded her carefully, or as carefully as he could as they were careening down a creaky metal track. “Really?”
Pansy nodded. “Yeah, really. I mean, it would be an adjustment, sure. But I’ve made my peace with my choices, Theo. I’ve realized I don’t need them to validate me anymore. I’ve got my own life, my own path, and if they want to keep holding on to their expectations, fine. But it’s my life. Not theirs.”
She met his eyes then. “Those Pureblood expectations are no joke, and it’s not easy to… extricate yourself. But I did it. And you’re doing it too, as we speak. You’ve always had a knack for survival. And now you get to do more than just get by– you can stand on your own two feet. You can make decisions without anyone else’s voice in your ear. It feels good, doesn’t it?”
Theo absorbed her words slowly, the weight of them settling into his chest like a small, steady comfort. It was something he hadn’t realized he needed to hear, but now that it was said, it felt like a piece of the puzzle was finally clicking into place. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. Then he cleared his throat, averting his eyes. “It does. And for what it’s worth, not that you need to hear this, but I’m proud of you, Pans. You look… erm, you seem really happy.”
Pansy’s eyes widened a fraction, and for a terrifying moment, he thought she might cry. But then the cart came to a harsh stop, lurching them both forward, and she blinked away any sign of tears. They stepped out, Theo’s legs wobbling under him, and she hooked her arm through his again.
“I am happy. Especially now that you’re around again. No more disappearing on me, yeah?”
He snorted. “Next time the Ministry tries to come after me, I’ll tell them to take it up with you.”
“You do that.”
After opening a new account for daily expenses, he turned to Pansy, right before they exited the bank, running a nervous hand through his hair. “Thank you, Pans. For showing up, and for dragging me out of the house. Seriously.”
“Don’t get all sappy on me, Nott,” she said breezily, but she patted his hand. “So where to next? Shall we go buy you a lucratively expensive pair of cufflinks?”
Theo smiled. “Maybe a drink instead?”
Pansy hummed in agreement. “I know just the place.”
-----------------------
Pansy and Longbottom’s townhouse was exactly what someone might’ve expected– sleek and sharply elegant, with gleaming dark wood floors, tall windows, and walls painted in rich, moody tones that made the whole place feel like a high-end apothecary. The furniture was modern and curated, all clean lines and brass accents, but softened by the warmth of something more lived-in: stacks of books, framed photos, a soft throw blanket on the couch.
And plants. Gods, so many plants .
Trailing vines curled around floating shelves. Ferns spilled from wall-mounted planters. Some sort of flowering bush bloomed cheerfully in a sun-drenched corner of the sitting room. There was a massive fiddle-leaf fig in the dining nook, and something that looked vaguely carnivorous guarding the fireplace.
Pansy caught him staring. “Yes, yes, it’s a jungle,” she said dryly, tossing her bag onto a bench by the door. “Believe it or not, this is after I talked Neville into downsizing his collection.”
Theo smirked. “Seems like they’ve taken over.”
“Fully,” she agreed. “He talks to them. Sometimes I think they talk back.”
She waved him toward a tall bar cart nestled beside the fireplace. “Sit. I’m making you a drink.”
He obeyed, lowering himself onto the sleek charcoal-gray sofa while she rummaged through clinking bottles and colorful tinctures. She worked quickly and efficiently, her wand flicking ingredients into a glass with flair. The end result was a pale green concoction in a cut crystal tumbler, garnished with a sprig of rosemary and a twist of lemon.
He took a sip and blinked. “That’s dangerously good.”
“I know,” she said smugly, settling into the armchair across from him with her own drink. “It’s a gin gimlet with a bit of basil and pear. You’re welcome.”
They talked, mostly light conversation at first, which Theo was grateful for. She kept the tone easy, circling around the heavier topics from earlier, giving him space without making him feel fragile, just as she always did. He asked her about Neville, about work, about what she’d been up to for the last five years. It had always been easy for him to talk to Pansy– she still had a way of putting him at ease that most others didn’t. The drink helped. So did the warmth of her flat, the quiet rustle of plants shifting in the breeze from an open window, the soft thump of music playing from a speaker somewhere.
Sometime later, he heard the jangle of keys, and the front door creaked open.
Theo stiffened a little, but Pansy just called, “We’re in the lounge, darling!”
Longbottom appeared a moment later, a bag slung over one shoulder, hair wind-mussed. He was taller than Theo remembered him, more muscular. He even had a well-sculpted beard, which Theo was instantly jealous of. Honestly, the bloke had really grown out of his awkward phase. He was rather good-looking now, even Theo could admit.
He blinked at Theo in surprise, then smiled warmly. “Well hello, mate,” he said, offering his hand. “Didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
“Sorry,” Theo said, standing awkwardly and shaking his hand. “Pans sort of dragged me over. I don’t want to intrude–”
“You’re always welcome. Any friend of Pansy’s is a friend of mine,” Neville said firmly. “It’s really good to see you, Theo.”
Theo was surprised, but before he could respond, Neville turned to Pansy, who promptly melted. “Hello, darling,” Neville said. “You look lovely, as always.” He tilted her chin up and kissed her, and Theo politely averted his eyes, turning to his now-empty glass.
When he glanced back a second later, Pansy was still gazing up at Neville like he’d just invented the moon. She touched his arm, smoothing the crease in his sleeve as if it had personally offended her. If he didn’t know better, Theo would’ve thought he’d set foot in some kind of alternate universe. Pansy Parkinson acting all doe-eyed over Neville bloody Longbottom. Merlin.
“Are you staying for dinner, Theo?” Neville asked casually, as if Pansy’s old Slytherin housemates turned up for dinner all the time. Perhaps they did. “I’m making mushroom risotto and asparagus,” he added.
Theo blinked. “You’re making… that?”
Neville chuckled, already heading for the kitchen. “Well, unless you want Pansy to try her hand at it. Last time she used the stove, we nearly had to evacuate the house.”
Pansy flipped him off without looking, although she was smiling. “That was one time. Besides, I can’t be good at everything , can I?”
Neville only laughed again and disappeared behind the kitchen archway. The sounds of chopping and then oil hitting a hot pan started almost immediately, mingled with the low hum of whatever record he’d flipped on. It sounded like something jazzy– cool, easy, old.
Theo turned to Pansy, brow arched. “ Wild mushroom risotto? ”
She shrugged, not bothering to hide her smirk. “He grows half of it himself in the back garden. He’s a vegetarian.” She flopped backward onto the couch dramatically. “It can’t be helped, unfortunately.”
Moments later, Neville reappeared– shirt sleeves rolled, an apron tied around his waist– carrying a cutting board with crostini and some kind of whipped goat cheese and fig jam situation artfully arranged. In his other hand, he carried a bottle of wine.
“Thought we’d start with something light,” he said, setting everything down on the coffee table like it was nothing. “And this is the bottle of Pinot Blanc I brought back from Alsace last year. Should pair well.” Then he poured them each a glass and returned to the kitchen.
Pansy smiled dreamily.
Theo snorted into his drink. “Damn, Pans. When did you start embracing domesticity?”
Pansy raised her glass. “When I stopped shagging emotionally unavailable men and started letting someone adore me properly.”
Theo scoffed. “So that’s what love looks like. All these years, and I thought it was just volatile bickering and emotional repression.”
“You were raised by a Death Eater. Your expectations were always going to be skewed.”
Theo raised his glass in return. “Cheers to that.”
“But seriously,” Pansy said, leaning forward. “Granger. She’s… decent to you, right? Not that I’d expect her to be cruel,” she added quickly. “I just need to do my due diligence as your friend.”
Theo let his glass rest against his lips for a moment, letting the question linger for longer than it should have. “She is,” he said quietly. “Too decent, probably.”
Pansy sipped her wine. “Examples,” she demanded.
“What is this, an audit?”
“Yes. Now answer the question.”
He rolled his eyes.”I dunno. She makes sure I’ve eaten. Cooks for me, leaves me lattes when she goes to work in the mornings. Brings over books she thinks I’d like. And she’s just… really understanding about everything.” He hesitated. “The first time she ever spent the night, I had a nightmare. She woke me up and calmed me down. Helps me get out of my flat, holds my hand the whole time. You get the idea,” he mumbled, reddening.
Pansy raised her eyebrows. “Salazar. She does fancy you.”
“Apparently.”
“And what about you, darling? What do you do for her?”
“Not nearly as much as I’d like to,” Theo admitted. “Turns out, when you have no money and are terrified to leave your flat, you’re a bit limited in the grand romantic gestures department," he finished dryly.
Pansy scoffed. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. She leaves you coffee and her cat. You’re practically married.”
Theo rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“But,” Pansy said, pointing her wine glass at him, “if you really want to do something– something , you should think about how you can show her what she means to you. In your own way.”
Theo frowned. “What, like transfigure a magazine into flowers? Plan a picnic in the middle of the bloody living room because I can’t leave the house without going into cardiac arrest?”
He hated the thought that he couldn’t woo Hermione properly. He wished he could do this right, that he didn’t feel so utterly limited. This wasn’t the kind of courting he’d imagined, the kind of treatment Hermione Granger deserved.
“Yes,” Pansy said, completely unfazed. “Exactly like that. You’re clever. Thoughtful. You notice things. Use that. She’s clearly doing what she can to meet you where you are– so meet her there, too. Just… make it known.”
He was quiet for a beat, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I want to.”
“Then do it.” Pansy leaned forward, nudging his shin with her foot. “You don’t have to sweep her off her feet, Nott. Just show her how you feel. Do something extra thoughtful for her.”
“Yeah,” Theo said. “You’re right. I can manage that.”
-----------------------
I'm not running
And I'm not scared
I am waiting and well prepared
I'm in the war of my life
At the door of my life
Out of time and there's nowhere to run
I've got a hammer
And a heart of glass
I got to know right now
Which walls to smash
I got a pocket
Got no pills
If fear hasn't killed me yet
Then nothing will
-John Mayer
Chapter 11: Love Is An Accident
Notes:
I know it's only been two days, but I couldn't resist another update! Had to give the people what they want- another healthy dose of our girl Pansy Parkinson. She's a real one. This chapter was one of my favorites so far, for a few reasons. Eager to hear what you all think of it :)
Enjoy! loving the comments, thanks so much <3
Chapter Text
Hermione’s head was swimming as she buzzed up to Theo’s flat, a mix of exhaustion and confusion weighing her down. It had been a long, draining day, but what was really eating at her was the strange undercurrent of tension that had hung over dinner with Harry and Ron. On top of that, work had been even more chaotic than usual– nonstop meetings, a massive pile of paperwork, and she’d skipped lunch again. Truthfully, she was in a rather foul mood.
After a stilted and uncomfortable meal, Harry had extricated himself quickly with a peck on Hermione's cheek and a pat on Ron's shoulder. Once they'd stepped outside, Ron had offered to walk her home, as he always did, and she’d refused. Again. He hadn’t pushed, but the hurt in his eyes was palpable, and for a moment, it made her question everything. The thing was, she couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t keep falling back into the same rhythm with him, especially not now.
It was code, of course– making sure she got home safe . They both knew what he meant. It was the same old rhythm they’d fallen into for far too long. A walk home, a pause in the stairwell, a quiet moment that turned into something heavier, lonelier, messier. Something she always regretted the next morning. He’d ask her how she was really doing, tell her she seemed lonely. Say if she needed company, he could come up for a nightcap. And even though his lips always felt wrong against hers, even though she felt almost numb every time he touched her, she’d let it happen again and again.
It was easier than saying no, somehow. Easier than watching his face fall. It was easier, even, than walking up the stairs alone, hearing the echo of her footsteps in the hall and the way her own door clicked hollowly behind her. She told herself it didn’t matter, that it was just a body in the dark, a warm weight beside her. She told herself it was practical– human touch, a known quantity, a kindness for both of them. But the truth was, it made her feel lonelier. It was a hollow comfort, a little tragedy they carried out with almost ritual precision, and she hated it. Hated the way she felt afterwards– empty and guilty and almost nauseous with regret. And not to mention that she knew, deep down, how wrong it was. Because Ron was more than just an ex– he was her friend, one of her best friends, really. And that fact alone made things so much messier, so much more twisted and painful.
But she’d said no this time, just as she’d done last week. Gently, but firmly. He hadn’t pushed much, but she could see the confused hurt in his face. It made her want to scream. She was so tired of feeling guilty all the time. And the worst part was, she knew she’d keep turning Ron down– even if he were to keep pushing, week after week. Because things were different now, and she didn’t know how to feel about that. Different in a way she hadn’t anticipated, different in a way that had nothing to do with novelty or simple distraction.
Hermione had been with other men– not many, but enough to know that desire wasn’t enough to keep her from backsliding into the old routines, the safe and well-trodden patterns. She’d been on other dates, kissed other lips– she’d even slept with a few of them, trying desperately to spark something new, anything that could break the cycle. Every time, the novelty burned away in an instant, and she found herself right back there, standing in front of Ron’s battered blue door, or else letting him walk her home from dinner, or else letting him kiss her in a pub toilet, her heart pounding a little too fast in her chest and always hating herself for it afterwards. She always came back, always said yes, and always felt the same: hollow, tired, and ashamed. It was a bitter, worn-out game, and she’d only realized how utterly done with it she was when she’d spent one sodding evening with Theo Nott.
She didn’t want to admit it, but Theo had shaken her world in the best, most electrifying way possible. There were no demands, no unspoken expectations– just understanding. Theo saw her in a way no one had for a long time, and it was almost unsettling. Because it wasn’t just that he kept the loneliness at bay—he made her feel full , made everything seem easier, even when things were complicated and difficult.
But that realization came with its own set of complications. As much as she cherished the way Theo made her feel, it also filled her with guilt—guilt for feeling something more than what she’d had with Ron, guilt for moving forward without truly pausing to consider the wreckage she might have left behind. She’d loved Ron at one point, of course she had, but it had never felt like this . It had been safe, comforting, familiar. Her heart had never thumped out of her chest, she’d never felt like Ron was seeing into her soul the way Theo seemed to. Hermione didn’t know how to rationalize that, and she hated it. She hated the fact that something this profound couldn’t be neatly sorted into a logical puzzle, something she could break apart and understand with her usual clarity.
By the time she reached Theo’s floor, she felt wrung out– emotionally knotted, her clothes sticking uncomfortably to her skin, her jaw clenched too tight. Part of her wondered if she should just go home. Let Theo rest. Let herself cool off.
But then the door opened, and Theo stood there barefoot in a soft grey jumper, hair slightly messy like he’d just nervously run his hands through it, and she just softened at the sight of him.
His expression shifted the moment he saw her– from cautious to soft, from waiting to welcoming. “Hello. You look like you’ve had quite the day,” he said, lips twitching. There was no bite in the words. There never was.
Hermione didn’t even pretend to be offended. “I feel like hell.” She tried to fight the sudden lump in her throat. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and never let go.
Wait, what? Where had that come from?
Without another word, he stepped aside to let her in. The flat was warm, quiet. Smelled faintly of citrus and lavender. She dropped her bag by the door and toed off her shoes, sighing through her nose.
“Come with me,” Theo said, voice low.
Hermione raised an eyebrow but followed him down the hall. “Are you going to murder me in the loo?”
Theo’s lips quirked. “Not tonight,” he said, pushing the bathroom door open.
She blinked.
The bath was full, soft steam curling in the air. A few candles hovered near the edge, casting golden light over the tiles. A fluffy towel was folded neatly on a stool. The whole room smelled incredible– lavender, with something warmer underneath. So that was what she’d smelled when she’d walked in the door.
She turned to him, speechless.
Theo gave a sheepish shrug. “You’ve had a long day, right?”
“Theo…” she began, then stopped, unsure what to say.
“Go on. I’ve got tea waiting when you’re done. Or wine, if it’s been that kind of day.” He kissed her forehead and shut the door behind him.
Hermione turned back to the bath, momentarily stunned by the care behind it. The attentiveness, without any expectations attached. The way he hadn’t asked what was wrong, hadn’t demanded answers about her dinner out with her ex-boyfriend, for Merlin’s sake. The way he’d just… made space for her. Especially when she knew how it must’ve made him feel, knowing even a fraction of her and Ron’s history.
She undressed slowly, her mind still spinning from everything the evening had brought her. Ron’s wounded silence. Theo’s thoughtfulness. Her never-ending to-do list at work. The tension she carried constantly, regardless of what had happened that day. But as she sank into the water, surrounded by warmth and the scent of lavender and something distinctly him , the tightness in her shoulders began to ease.
She closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the tub. The warm water curled around her like a blanket. It soaked into her limbs, loosened the knots in her spine, softened the jagged edges of her thoughts. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been wound until now, until she had nothing to do but breathe. She stayed like that for a long while, letting the candlelight flicker across her closed eyelids, her mind drifting. Her thoughts wandered to the usual suspects– work, friendships she might be neglecting, her complicated situation with Ron. The ache of guilt still pressed at her ribs, even though she knew she’d done nothing wrong– at least, not tonight.
But mostly, she thought of Theo.
Of the way he always seemed to notice when she was holding something back, the way he looked at her with such adoration. It had been less than two weeks, she reminded herself. A week and some change, and she felt like she was tailspinning into something massive, entirely out of her control. It scared her a little. How deeply he seemed to see her. How safe he made her feel. How much she wanted to lean into that safety and never look back. And honestly, what would be so bad about that? What was wrong with just… giving into it completely? The temptation was growing stronger every day, and she was running out of reasons to keep holding back.
By the time she stepped out and wrapped herself in the towel, the air in the bathroom had gone cool. She dried off slowly, then pulled on the soft sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt she’d started keeping here, that he’d left sitting on the sink. The shirt smelled like Theo now– warm, worn cotton and something distinctly him underneath. He’d washed it for her. She smiled.
When she padded into the living room, Theo was curled up on the couch with a book on his lap and a blanket thrown across his legs. Crookshanks, to her surprise, was wedged in the spot between the cushion and Theo’s legs. He was absently scratching her cat’s favorite spot under his chin when he noticed her.
Theo looked up at her. His eyes softened. “Hey,” he said, quietly.
“Crookshanks has taken a liking to you,” she said, eyebrows raised.
“It would seem so,” he said, trying and failing to hide a smile.
“That’s… different,” she said, walking towards him. “He’s never let anyone but me pet him, actually. You should take it as a massive compliment.”
“Oh believe me, I do.”
She smiled, her heart pinching at the sight of the two of them– Crookshanks purring against Theo’s hand, Theo looking so content it made something warm spread through her chest. Without another word, she crossed the room and eased onto the couch beside him. He shifted without prompting, lifting the blanket so she could slip beneath it. She curled into his side, her head resting against his shoulder, her bare legs brushing his.
Theo pressed a kiss to her temple. “Feel any better?”
Hermione exhaled. “Much.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the sound of rain still soft against the windows, Crookshanks grumbling a little before settling again. Theo’s fingers began tracing idle shapes on her thigh through the blanket.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“For what?”
“For this,” she said simply. “For the bath. For… knowing I wouldn’t want to talk about things right away. For just being here.”
He hummed softly, his hand still moving. “You don’t have to thank me. You take care of everyone else, Hermione. Let someone take care of you for a change.”
She tilted her head to look up at him. His face was lit only by the faint lamplight, casting shadows across his cheekbones, softening the sharpness in his jaw. His eyes were tired, but calm. Steady. Always steady with her.
“Okay,” she said, closing her eyes. “I’ll try my best.”
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Friday was marginally better than Thursday, at least in terms of work. Hermione forced herself to take breaks, breathe when she was feeling overwhelmed. She even left the office for lunch, sitting outside on a park bench and enjoying her third coffee and a salad. But upon her return, she dove headfirst into the paperwork she’d been avoiding for the last few hours. She’d need to make some headway before the day was over.
Three hours later, Hermione was halfway through a memo when she heard the sharp tap of heels outside her office, followed by the unmistakable click of her door swinging open.
She didn’t even look up, irritated that John hadn’t knocked. “I’m in the middle of something, if it’s not—”
“Does John wear stilettos, too?” a familiar voice asked. She looked up and there was Pansy, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a single manicured brow raised.
“Pansy?” Hermione squinted, wondering if this was some kind of stress-induced hallucination.
“In the flesh,” Pansy said dryly.
Nope, definitely real. “ What are you doing here?”
“ We are going for drinks, Granger. Grab your things. Pip pip.” She tapped her foot impatiently.
“I–I can’t. I have to–”
“What? Rush home and shag Theodore Nott senseless?” Pansy smirked. “He can wait. He looked very cozy with your cat the last I saw.”
Hermione blanched. “I–”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Pansy said breezily. “He tried to keep it from me, too. Which was adorable, frankly. Like I wouldn’t notice the vanilla syrup, the lingering scent of Gryffindor, or the bloody menace you call a pet that’s taken up residence with him.”
Hermione set her pen down slowly. “He let you in?”
“He didn’t have much of a choice,” Pansy said, waving her hand. “I buzzed up until he thought the building might collapse. Now grab your bag. You look like you haven’t blinked in six hours.”
“I have actual work to do, Pansy!” Hermione protested weakly, still stunned.
“And we have actual gin to drink, Granger. It’s a Friday at four thirty. Get your priorities in order.” She tilted her head. “Unless you’re afraid to talk to me about our dear Theo?”
Hermione stood up stiffly. “Of course I’m not… afraid.”
“Brilliant,” Pansy said with a grin, already turning on her heel. “Then let’s get pissed and emotionally vulnerable.”
“Those are… not my favorite activities,” Hermione muttered as she shuffled papers together, grabbing her jacket from her desk chair.
“I know,” Pansy said sweetly, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “And that’s why you have me!”
The bar Pansy brought her to was sleek and dimly lit, full of velvet chairs and warm lighting, and more expensive than Hermione typically preferred. But the cocktails were excellent, the music was low and pleasant, and Pansy– despite her dramatic entrance, prying nature, and insufferable jokes about Hermione’s sex life– was surprisingly good company. She didn’t spend much one-on-one time with Pansy, truthfully. They saw each other for Girl’s Night, of course, and occasionally she’d come by for drinks with her and Ginny. Or when there were larger group gatherings, she’d accompany Neville. But Hermione couldn’t recall another time they’d gotten together just the two of them.
Three drinks in, Hermione’s shoulders had dropped an inch. By drink four, she was laughing more easily, cheeks warm, her eyes unfocused in that pleasant, blurry way that made it hard to hold onto the day’s stress. Pansy had ordered for her, something with floral notes and far too much gin. But it tasted good and it was working to loosen her muscles, so Hermione didn’t complain. She’d sent an owl to Theo, letting him know she’d be a couple hours late coming over tonight.
“...and then he looked at me all wide-eyed and asked ‘ do you regret that? ’” Hermione said, her voice rising with disbelief. “And I swear to Merlin, I almost burst into tears because– because he was being so earnest , like he was worried he’d done something wrong, when all I wanted him to do was keep kissing me.”
Pansy blinked once, then twice. “Wow, Granger,” she said. “You are so bloody gone for him.”
Hermione flushed but didn’t deny it. She twirled the cocktail straw absently between her fingers. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she muttered, but the words held no real conviction.
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Pansy said quickly, firmly. “He’s wonderful.”
“He is,” Hermione agreed, staring into her drink, cheeks still flushed. “I just hate feeling like I’m going to break him. Like he’s just trying so hard not to want too much from me. Or like he’s afraid I’m going to run away.”
Pansy leaned back, watching her carefully. “That’s exactly what he’s doing,” she said without hesitation. “That’s Theo. He’s never been someone who assumes he gets to keep things. Even as a kid– before the war, before Azkaban– he was always like that. Quiet. Careful. Like if he took up too much space, someone would come and rip the floor out from under him. Comes with the territory of a dead mum and an absolute monster for a father. Theo’s quite… stoic. Doesn’t like to get too attached, usually. Don’t get me wrong, he could be a smug, sarcastic little bastard, but it was all a front. Just a means of self-preservation.”
Hermione blinked. Something about that landed in her chest too heavily.
“And now?” Pansy swirled her drink. “Now it’s worse. He’s come out of prison with all that softness still inside him, but now it’s wrapped in panic and guilt and self-loathing. He doesn’t think he deserves anything good. He’s not used to being chosen, Hermione. So if he looks at you like you hung the bloody moon, it’s because you’re the only person who’s ever made him feel safe.”
Hermione swallowed hard.
“I’ve never seen him like this,” Pansy added, more gently now. “Not with anyone. Not even close. He was far from an angel, back at Hogwarts,” she said with a smirk. “He dated plenty before, you know? Certainly had his fair share of girls fancying him. But this? He’s in it with you. Properly.”
“I know,” Hermione said softly, her voice a little hoarse.
“Does that scare you, Granger?” There was an unspoken challenge in the question, and Hermione tried not to shrink from Pansy’s sharp eyes.
Hermione chewed her lip, mulling the question over. “A bit? I’m just being honest,” she said, raising her hands in surrender. “Don’t hex me, Pansy. Because I’m not scared of him, or his past, or anything like that. I think it’s more about… me.”
“ Ah. ”
“I really, really like him,” Hermione said, staring at the ice as it melted in her drink. “More than I think I’ve ever liked anyone, maybe? And that’s just… overwhelming. It’s only been a few weeks! I’m not usually so impulsive, you know?”
Pansy regarded her carefully, some of the suspicion leaving her eyes. “I get it,” she said softly, more so than Hermione was used to from her. “It’s scary, falling for someone. Especially when you’ve never let yourself be taken care of properly.”
There was a heavy pause for a moment, Pansy tapping her deep green nails against the tabletop.
Hermione finally broke the silence. “Is this how it felt with Neville?”
“Terrifying? Merlin, yes . I tried to talk myself out of it more times than I could count. But then I realized I was only talking myself out of my own happiness, you know? Because why on earth would I run away from something that made me feel better than I’d felt in my entire life?”
Hermione stared at Pansy, taking in her words, and for the first time, the realization began to settle deep inside her. The woman sitting across from her now, confident and wise, was so vastly different from the one she remembered from school. The girl who had once mocked her, who’d been part of a group that had tried to bring Harry down, who’d sneered at the Gryffindors at every turn– now sat before her offering the kind of advice only someone who had been forced to question everything could give. Pansy had never been kind, never shown a hint of vulnerability back then. But now, the very same Pansy Parkinson, who had once been so rooted in the ideology of blood purity and the fight for her own status, had somehow come out of the other side a changed person. A person who had learned to open up, who now used her sharp wit not to tear others down but to build them up.
“You know how he feels about you, Granger. So really, the question is,” Pansy’s eyes narrowed, although not unkindly. “What are you going to do about it?”
Hermione didn’t answer right away. But she reached for her glass again, heart fluttering as she thought about the boy with warm hands and cautious hope in his eyes, who made her tea and let her cat claim his lap. Who ran her baths and touched her like she was something holy.
“I’m going to figure it out,” she said finally. “Because I think I might be… in it, too.”
Pansy watched her carefully. “Don’t string him along, Granger. I know it’s new and you don’t want to move too quickly, and that’s fine. But don’t say things you don’t mean, and don’t make promises you can’t keep. Alright?”
Hermione nodded. “Yeah. Alright.”
“Cheers,” Pansy said, raising her glass. “To Theo.” Then, her face turned serious. “And to you, being loved properly and doing what makes you happy.”
Hermione giggled. “To Theo.” Pansy gave her a look. “And to… me,” she muttered, but she couldn’t stop the smile from spreading.
----------------------
She was still feeling quite giggly when she buzzed into Theo’s, the warm feeling in her chest still lingering. It was a stark contrast to the way she’d felt when she stood in this exact same spot yesterday evening after dinner with Harry and Ron.
It wasn’t just the gin– Hermione hadn’t realized how nice it would feel to talk to someone about Theo. To let it out, say his name aloud, to gush about him and share the little things he did that she loved. She was nearly giddy with it.
“Hello, handsome,” she said when he opened the door.
Theo blinked. “Well, hello,” he said slowly, brow lifting. “You’re in a… mood.”
Hermione grinned up at him, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. “I had drinks with Pansy.”
His eyebrows shot up in immediate understanding. “Oh gods.”
“Relax,” she said, stepping inside and pressing a kiss to his cheek as she passed. “It was lovely. She dragged me out of the Ministry and fed me gin and demanded to know all about you.”
Theo shut the door and followed her in, watching her toss her coat over a chair and kick off her shoes like she lived here. “And you… told her?”
“I may have gushed.” She turned, lips twitching, and stepped closer to him again. “A lot.”
Theo’s expression flickered with something unsure. “So… you’re not mad she knows?”
Hermione’s smile faltered, just for a beat. “Mad? No,” she said quickly. “Gods, Theo, I never meant to give you that impression. This isn’t some big secret, and she’s your friend too. Of course you can talk to her about us.”
Us, she thought. There was an us. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but the thought didn’t scare her nearly as much as it had a few days ago.
“Okay,” he said, shoulders relaxing slightly. “So you had fun?”
She nodded. “Yes. Lots of fun.” She stepped closer, sliding her arms around his waist. “But I missed you.”
“You keep saying that.” But he was smiling.
“Because I keep missing you.” She kissed him on one cheek, then the other. For good measure.
Theo let out a stunned breath of laughter. “You’re a bit handsy tonight. Er, not that I’m complaining.” He ducked his head, a flush traveling up his neck. “And… I missed you, too. Obviously.”
She leaned up to kiss him full on the mouth, slow and warm and a little sloppy. “Have I mentioned how much I fancy you?”
She felt him smile against her lips. “You may have mentioned it,” he murmured. “Although, I learn through repetition.”
Hermione raised a brow. “Oh?” Then, feeling bold, “what about through… other ways?”
Theo blinked, like she’d caught him off guard. “Other ways?” he asked, his voice low.
She nodded, sinking to her knees. “Like this, for starters?” Her fingers hooked in the waistband of his joggers, pulling them down. He made a soft, startled sound.
“Fuck,” he groaned, looking down at her with wide eyes. “Hermione, I–”
She didn’t give him a chance to overthink it. She took him in her mouth, slow and deliberate, still not breaking eye contact.
He sucked in a breath, his hand flying to her hair. “Fucking Salazar,” he breathed. “I– you– fuck. ”
He was incoherent, his pulse frantic beneath his skin. She hollowed her cheeks, pulling back just enough to flick her tongue over the head of his cock. He made a broken sound in his throat, his grip on her head tightening, like he was trying to hold himself back. She did it again, and he let out a shuddering moan.
He felt huge in her mouth, thick and heavy and hot. She wanted to ruin him, and he was already coming undone. His hips bucked into her then, reflexive and desperate.
“Holy fuck,” he rasped, his voice catching. “Are you sure you– shit, Hermione.”
She let out a soft hum around him, taking him deeper. His breathing hitched, and she felt him pulse against her tongue. She loved this—the taste of him, the way he shivered, the way his eyes were wide and stunned and dark. He was losing it, his hand fisting in her hair. She could feel him unraveling, and she wanted more. She wanted all of it.
“Fuck,” he said again, his voice wrecked and hoarse. “You’re going to make me—fuck, I’m gonna come. ” He tried to pull back, but she wouldn’t let him.
He came with a low, broken groan, shuddering beneath her hands. She swallowed every last bit of it, feeling reckless and powerful and almost enchanted with him.
Theo stood frozen, his hands still tangled in her hair, eyes glazed and stunned.
Hermione pulled back slowly, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. When she looked up at him, he was staring down like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.
“Are you alright?” she asked, lips quirking.
He huffed out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as he leaned against the wall, pulling her up by the hand. “I– no,” he said hoarsely. “I’m absolutely not. That was… you can’t just do that to a bloke, Hermione.”
Her grin widened, and she shrugged. “You sure seemed to like it.”
“Well, yeah ,” he said, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. “Of course I did. It was bloody brilliant. You’re going to be the end of me, Granger.”
She leaned in closer, pressing a kiss to his jaw, feeling pleasantly drunk on power and gin and affection. Theo caught her wrist before she could step away.
“Hey,” he said, voice still a little wrecked. “Seriously.”
Hermione looked down at him, surprised by the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “But I’m trying really hard not to fuck it up.”
Hermione reached up and cupped his face. “You’re not fucking it up,” she said quietly. “Not even close.”
He stared at her like she was something to be studied. Worshipped. Then he leaned in and kissed her, soft, sweet, and slow. “Can I return the favor?” He looked hopeful.
Hermione considered. “Later tonight? After a shower?”
Theo scowled playfully. “Fine. But I’m holding you to it.”
“I hope so,” Hermione said, pressing a kiss to the side of his hand.
“Oh! Erm… I have to tell you something,” he said. Her eyes widened nervously, and he quickly added– “no, it’s good news, I promise.”
“Okay,” she said, still nervous, for some reason.
He steered her towards the couch and kissed her again, quickly, like punctuation. “So I went to Gringotts yesterday,” he said.
Hermione blinked. “You what?”
“Not by myself,” he added. “Pansy dragged me out of the house. Said it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself, basically.”
Hermione let out a laugh, equal parts amused and touched. “That sounds like Pansy.”
“Yeah,” Theo said, smiling. “She practically frog-marched me into the lobby. Did most of the talking, too, practically demanded they let me into my vault.”
“Theo,” Hermione said, squeezing his hand. “That’s huge. I’m so proud of you.”
The tips of his ears reddened, and he stared at his hands, although clearly pleased. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “It was mostly Pans, though. I was just sort of along for the ride.”
She shook her head, brushing it off. “No! You just needed someone to get you moving. You did this, Theo.” She leaned forward. “So? How did it go?”
He paused, eyes crinkling slightly. “Turns out, the Ministry didn’t touch my vault.”
Her brows lifted. “Really?”
“Really. Everything left in there is still mine. I think it’s because nearly all of it came from my mother– it was under her maiden name, Corsiari, initially. My father wanted to combine it into the family vault, but she made me promise I wouldn’t let him, added my name to it so only I could access it when I came of age. Which means…” He hesitated again, then continued, “I have enough to erm… get by. To get my own flat. To buy my own things. Start figuring things out.”
Hermione stared at him, stunned. “Theo. That’s amazing.”
“It feels that way,” he said, and she could see how much it meant to him—how much lighter he looked, like a weight had been lifted. “It’s stupid, but I feel like I can breathe a little easier now. Like maybe I don’t have to be… a burden.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head gently.
“I know you’d never say that, and maybe that’s not how you see me. But it’s how I’ve felt. And it’s just nice to know that I have… options.”
Hermione kissed his cheek, feeling like she could almost burst with happiness, pride, and something else she wasn’t quite ready to name.
----------------------
The weekend passed in a blur, which was new to Hermione. Before she met Theo, they always seemed to drag on. Especially after Ginny had started dating Blaise– back then, Hermione had started to almost dread the solitude, the quiet, the unstructured hours. She would fill the time with errands, tidy shelves that didn’t need tidying, reread old case files. There was a loneliness to it she tried not to name. Even time with Harry and Ron, comforting in its familiarity—often ended with her walking home alone in the dark, wondering if this was just how it would always be. Or worse, giving in to Ron and spending the night together, always hating herself in the morning.
But things were different now.
Now, she found herself clinging to every minute. Her Friday night with Theo bled into Saturday, then Sunday morning, and suddenly it was the end of the weekend and she was staring at the clock, irrationally bitter that it insisted on moving forward.
She’d never looked forward to weekends like this before. Not in this way that made her stomach flutter with anticipation. And it wasn’t just the physical part—though, Merlin, that was good too. It was the mornings she wake up tangled around him, his breath warm against her neck. It was the way he’d taken to waking early and making her morning latte, often bringing it to her in bed. It was the way the day stretched out in front of them, the sound of his voice as he read aloud to her. The way they’d make dinner together, how interested he was in learning about Muggle cooking.
And now that he was getting more comfortable going outside—now that she could see the way his confidence had started to return, how he was carrying himself a little taller, Hermione began to feel a strange kind of hope. She started to daydream about an actual future, now that it actually felt within reach. A flat. A dinner party. A Sunday morning at the market. Theo at her side, his hand tucked into hers.
For the first time in years, Hermione didn’t want the weekend to end. For all of those reasons, of course, but there was something else niggling at her on this particular evening.
“What’s wrong?” Theo asked, glancing up from the carrots he was chopping– or, rather, attempting to chop.
Hermione blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
Theo shrugged. “You’re quiet. That usually means you’re either mulling something big over, or you’re sad.”
She smiled faintly and leaned back against the counter, watching him fumble with the knife. “You’re getting frighteningly good at reading me, you know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So, which is it?”
Hermione hesitated, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “It’s nothing bad, really. It’s just… Ginny’s coming home tonight. From Singapore. And I just…” She trailed off, letting out a breath. “I haven’t told her about you yet. About us.”
Theo set the knife down, careful and precise. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Is that something you want to do?”
She crossed her arms, suddenly feeling a bit defensive. “Yes. I mean, of course I do. I don’t want to sneak around. There’s no reason to. But I’m just—nervous. Ginny’s not just my flatmate, she’s like a sister. She’s… very protective. And Blaise is your best mate. I don’t want them to feel weird about it. Or like we’ve been hiding something from them.”
Theo’s face softened. “You can tell her whenever you’re ready, Hermione. There’s no pressure. Do you think it’s something she might have… an issue with?”
Hermione frowned. “Why would she?”
Theo ran a hand through his hair. “I dunno. Because I’m an unemployed squatter with a criminal record, maybe?” Hermione glared at him, and he sighed. “I’m just saying, I don’t know if I’d want my best friend to be seeing me. And also… you dated her brother for a billion years, right? Do you think she’s hoping you two will end up back together?”
Hermione stifled a laugh. “She most certainly does not want us to get back together. In fact, I think she’d kill me if we did.” She bit her lip. “And no, truthfully, I don’t think Ginny would have an issue with you. She’s not very judgemental. I think she just wants to see me happy, ultimately.”
“And you are? Happy?”
“Of course I am,” she said, stepping closer to him. “Happier than I’ve been in… quite some time.”
Theo gave her a small smile, his ears reddening. “So then, what’s the problem?”
Hermione sighed. “I’m not sure,” she murmured. “I’m just… skittish, or something. I’m afraid once I tell people, things will start to fall apart. I know it’s irrational.”
Theo didn’t say anything right away. Just leaned his hip against the counter, watching her closely. “Doesn’t sound irrational to me,” he said after a beat. “Sounds like someone who’s had to carry a lot on her own for a long time.”
His words made something tighten in her chest. “Maybe,” she said quietly.
“I get it,” he said. “I really do. You tell people, and suddenly it’s real. Or it gets all mucked up. Judged. Whatever you want to call it.”
She swallowed. “Exactly.”
He gave a small nod. “But I think we’re already past the part where we pretend it’s not real,” he said, almost cautiously.
That made her smile, a small, crooked thing. “You’re surprisingly wise for someone who nearly sliced off his thumb trying to julienne a carrot.”
“Life’s all about balance,” he said, deadpan, then nudged the cutting board farther away like it had personally offended him. “Do you want me to be there? When you tell her?”
Hermione’s head snapped up. “Seriously? You’d do that?”
“I mean, no,” he said immediately. “I’d rather set myself on fire. But yes, I would. For you.”
That made her laugh, the sound soft and warm. “Thank you. But I think I’d better do it on my own.”
“Oh, thank Merlin,” Theo said, breathing out an exaggerated sigh of relief. She stuck her tongue out at him. “Just kidding. But you’ll tell me how it goes? And owl me if she hexes you or accuses you of being Imperius ed?”
She rolled her eyes, trying to appear more blasé than she felt. “I doubt it’ll be that dramatic. But yes, I’ll let you know how it goes. Of course I will.”
------------------------
The next morning, the smell of espresso and toasted sourdough filled the flat. Hermione sat at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the wood, fingers curled around a warm mug. The sun had begun to creep in through the window, casting long slants of gold across the floor. It was earlier than her friend would normally be awake, but Hermione was hoping jet-lag was on her side. On the counter sat a bowl of scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, a tiny pot of raspberry jam, and exactly two buttered slices of toast. She’d even set the table with Ginny’s favorite mug, a chipped old Gryffindor one. She forced herself not to pace, trying to make her eyes focus on the copy of the Prophet in front of her.
Then, the bedroom door creaked open down the hall.
Ginny appeared a moment later, hair sleep-mussed, wearing her usual attire– a Harpies sweatshirt and a look of suspicion. She rubbed one eye and blinked at Hermione. Then blinked again.
“Why are you still here?”
“Good morning to you, too. Welcome back!” She said, rather shrilly.
Ginny’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at the clock. “No, really. Why are you still here? And why does it smell like a B&B?”
“Work can wait. I told them I’d be in late today,” Hermione said, voice light. “Thought I’d make us breakfast so we could catch up a bit.”
Ginny looked from the food to Hermione and back again. “Okay,” she said slowly. “Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?”
Hermione laughed, gesturing to the chair across from her. “Just sit down. Come have a chat.”
“Right,” Ginny muttered, pulling out the chair and flopping into it. “Is this an intervention? Are you pregnant? Wait—did you get back together with Ron? Because if you did, I’m walking straight back into my room and jumping out the window.”
“No!” Hermione said quickly, nearly choking on her sip of coffee. “Gods, no.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Okay then. I’m listening.”
Hermione hesitated. “How was Singapore?”
“Nice try. First your news, then Singapore,” Ginny said, taking a long sip of her coffee.
Hermione hesitated. Then, with a quiet breath, “I’m seeing someone.”
Ginny stilled, then waited, one eyebrow raised.
Hermione continued. “I’ve been spending time with… someone. Since you’ve been gone. It’s moved… sort of quickly, and it’s gotten fairly serious. I really like him.”
“I swear to Merlin, Hermione, if it’s another one of my brothers…”
“No,” Hermione laughed. “Definitely not a Weasley. About as far from it as you can get, actually,” she mumbled.
“Hmm… you’re dating Lucius Malfoy?”
“Ginny!”
“Okay, no. So Draco, then?”
“Merlin, Gin. No. ” Hermione exhaled. “It’s Theo. Theo Nott.”
Ginny blinked once. Twice. “ What? ”
Hermione cringed. “I know it sounds slightly mad.”
“No, no,” Ginny said, shaking her head slowly. “It doesn’t sound mad. It just… sounds very unlike you. That’s all.”
“I know,” Hermione said. “But he’s actually really lovely, Gin.”
“Aside from all the ex-Death Eater business?” Ginny asked.
Hermione winced. “Yeah. He’s not… proud of his past, obviously. And he doesn’t make excuses for it. But at least from where I’m standing, he really didn’t have much of a choice. I mean, you remember who his father is, right?”
Ginny let out a low whistle, grabbing a piece of toast. “That’s right, his father. Of course I do. The one who was Lucius Malfoy’s partner in crime? The one who you hexed at the Department of Ministries?” She paused to chew her toast. “Seems like a nice bloke to me. A wonderful future father-in-law.”
Hermione reached forward and gave her shoulder a shove. “Oh, shut up.”
Ginny grinned at her. “Okay, so Theo Nott. That’s… unexpected. But not bad, I guess? I mean, if anyone could fall for an emotionally repressed ex-Death Eater and make it work, it’s definitely you.”
Hermione gave her a look. “Thanks.”
Ginny grinned. “No, really. I mean that. I’m surprised, sure, but I’m not horrified. You look…” She tilted her head, studying her. “Weirdly glowy. Soft, almost. Like someone who’s finally been laid properly.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed.
“So.” Ginny leaned in conspiratorially. “Is he fit? How is he in bed?”
Hermione made a face. “Ginny.”
“What? I need details. You can’t just drop Theodore Nott on my kitchen table and expect me to focus on my eggs.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, he’s fit.”
Ginny nodded solemnly. “But bad in bed?”
“ Ginny!”
“So is that a yes?”
“No, he’s not bad in bed. Now will you drop it?” Hermione scowled.
Ginny smiled mischievously. “Fine. For now.” She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “Theo Nott. Blaise is going to lose his sodding mind.”
Hermione groaned. “Merlin, you’re right.” She exhaled. “Anyways, I should be off to work now,” she said, standing and straightening her dress.
“If you must,” Ginny sighed. “Wait. When are you going to bring him round? I’d like to meet this gentleman.”
Hermione rubbed her temples. “Right. Erm, let me ask him. I’ll let you know. And Ginny?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Could you maybe… hold off on telling Blaise? Just until Theo can do it himself? They’re quite close and I don’t want it to be a whole… thing.”
Ginny gave a long-suffering sigh, as if Hermione had just asked her to swim the Thames. “Fine. But if he takes too long to spill the beans, I reserve the right to drop the news. I want to see his face when he finds out,” she said wickedly.
Hermione rolled her eyes as she stepped into the Floo, feeling much lighter than she had earlier that morning.
“Hermione!” Ginny called as she grabbed a handful of green powder. “I’m happy for you, by the way. Really.”
She beamed. “Thanks, Gin.”
------------------------
Lay a mattress on the floor
Secure the ground beneath your feet
'Cause love is an accident waiting to happen
To me and to you
Love is an accident waiting to happen
So bite your lip and hold your tongue
And be so careful what you say
Play the beat with muffled drum
And send the party guests away
-Flyte
Chapter 12: Bleed to Love Her
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Theo glanced in the mirror one last time. “What do you think, Beast? Do I look like a respectable member of society, or more like someone who might have a flask tucked into his sock?”
Crookshanks, sprawled on the bed and utterly unimpressed, blinked at him in slow judgment.
“Noted,” Theo said dryly, straightening the collar of his shirt anyway. “You’re right. No one’s ever trusted a man who can’t grow a beard.”
He stepped back and ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Got quite the day ahead of me, Beast. Off to be evaluated by the Ministry. You know, just the average Friday. Parole check-in, making sure I’m not brewing anything illegal or plotting my own villain arc.”
He bent down and scratched beneath Crookshanks’ chin. “And then I get to have dinner with your mother and her rather formidable, redheaded enforcer. So if you could refrain from leaving any visible scratch marks between now and then, that would be grand.”
Crookshanks yawned.
Theo grabbed his coat and wand, nerves tightening with every step toward the door. It wasn’t just the parole meeting—it was leaving the house alone. Again. He’d gone for the odd walk around the neighborhood. He’d ventured outside of his current one-mile radius with Pansy a few times now, and once with Hermione this weekend– and it had helped, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard today. The idea of walking through wizarding London, of being recognized, of some stranger sneering his name– all of it made his pulse thrum unpleasantly.
Still, he Apparated just outside the Ministry, walking in with what he hoped was an air of confidence. He took the lift to level two, as instructed, stopping outside a door that read Probation and Parole Services . By the time a young wizard at the reception desk gave him a polite nod and pointed him to Room 3B, his palms were damp and his throat felt tight.
Theo knocked, cleared his throat, and stepped inside when he heard someone say “come in.”
The office wasn’t what he expected. Bright windows, sunlight pouring in. Plants on the sill. A coffee mug with a cartoon Phoenix on it. And behind the desk sat a woman in her late thirties with ink-stained fingers, a crooked nose, and warm eyes.
“Theodore Nott,” she said, standing to shake his hand. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Marlowe Bell. I’ll be your parole liaison.”
He blinked at her hand. “Hello,” he said, remembering himself and shaking her hand. “Sorry, hands are a bit sweaty,” he mumbled. “Nice to meet you too, Ms. Bell.”
“Please, call me Marlowe.”
Marlowe gave a warm, lopsided smile and squeezed his hand anyway. “I’d be more concerned if they weren’t a bit sweaty. Nervous means you care. Come in then, have a seat.”
Theo sat cautiously, his eyes scanning the room—bookshelves stuffed to the brim, a framed photograph of a small, squishy looking dog on the desk, and a stack of parchment that looked only marginally threatening.
“I know this isn’t exactly anyone’s idea of a fun morning,” she said, settling behind her desk and flipping open a folder with his name written neatly across the top. “But let’s keep it simple, yeah? I’m not here to trap you or trip you up.”
“Right,” Theo nodded stiffly.
Marlowe flipped a few pages in his file, scanning quickly before pausing with a faint smirk. “You didn’t exactly get glowing reviews from the Azkaban staff, did you?”
Theo tensed. “No,” he said warily. “I wasn’t... their favorite.”
“‘ Insubordinate. Dry. Excessively sarcastic. Lacks basic respect for authority, ’” she quoted, one brow raised. “A few of the guards seemed deeply offended by your sense of humor.”
Theo felt very self-conscious, suddenly. “Seems a bit stupid now, doesn’t it,” he muttered. “It kept things interesting, I guess.”
Marlowe shook her head with a little smile. “But no incidents. No altercations. No behavioral strikes. You kept your head down. That’s rare.”
Theo shrugged. “That’s never really been my style. Erm, inciting violence, I mean. ”
She gave a quiet nod, flipping to another page. “And I see here that Undersecretary Granger petitioned for your release– wrote formal statements. Submitted character evaluations. Even contacted former professors.” She raised a brow.
Theo was momentarily stunned. “I, um, I didn’t realize she’d done all that. Very… generous of her.”
Marlowe closed the file and folded her hands. “It’s clear to me you weren’t just thrown a second chance—you earned it. And if someone like Hermione Granger is willing to bet her reputation on you, that tells me there’s more to you than what’s in this file.”
Theo smiled weakly. “Maybe.”
They spent the next thirty minutes reviewing basic expectations– no wand use without permission, no leaving the country for a year, monthly check-ins– and then moved on to longer-term goals.
“So,” Marlowe said, “Theodore. Tell me– what do you hope to do next, now that you’re a free man?”
“Leave my flat without having a panic attack, maybe,” Theo replied dryly.
Marlowe let out a soft laugh, the kind that didn’t feel mocking. “That’s a start,” she said. “And, frankly, a reasonable one. We don’t expect anyone to come out of Azkaban ready to dive straight into a nine-to-five.”
Theo blinked, surprised by the ease in her tone. “You don’t?”
“Of course not. Azkaban isn’t just a prison– it’s trauma, unfortunately,” she said plainly. “Some of us are working to change that. But the point is, no one’s expecting you to outrun that outright. And I’m here to help you start over, one step at a time.”
Theo nodded, eyes on the stack of papers she’d just organized. “Right. Okay.”
Marlowe leaned forward slightly. “So. Aside from surviving trips to the grocer and avoiding unsolicited eye contact with strangers—what kind of future do you want for yourself?”
He hesitated. “That’s… a bit murky at the moment.”
“Fair,” she said easily. “But when it starts to feel a little less murky, I want you to know there are options. We’ve got a handful of employers who’ve signed on to a reintegration initiative. Some are more public-facing, some aren’t. There are programs for vocational training, if you’re interested. Even housing assistance, should you need it.”
Theo raised his eyebrows. “That’s… a lot more support than I expected.”
“We’re trying to do things differently,” she said. “It’s far from being reformed, and I wish there was even more support in place, but we’ve made some progress. You have Undersecretary Granger to thank, in large part.”
“You have no idea,” he mumbled.
“Hm?” Marlowe asked, but he just shook his head, ducking so she wouldn’t notice his cheeks redden.
“Do you have somewhere stable to live, Theodore?”
“Yes,” he said. “For now. I’m staying at my friend’s place. It’s temporary, but it’s safe.”
“Good,” she said. “We’ll look at flats in a few months, then. See what you can afford once we line up some employment options.”
He blinked. “So you really think I’ll be… employable?”
Marlowe leaned forward, her expression earnest. “Yes, Theodore. I do. But more importantly—do you?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “I’d like to try.”
“That’s all I ask.” She smiled at him. “Well then,” she said, scribbling something on some parchment in front of her and then stamping it. “Looks like we’re about done here. I’ll see you again in… two weeks. Same time, same place.”
“It’s a date,” Theo replied cheekily.
She raised an eyebrow. “I see where the guards were coming from, now.” She smirked, then shook his hand again. “It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Nott. I look forward to seeing what you’ll do next.”
------------------------
Theo left the appointment feeling much lighter. It had gone significantly better than he’d expected, and it was nice to not feel like a complete tosser for the first time in months. Or years, really. Who was counting? The feeling lasted until precisely fifteen minutes before he was due at Hermione’s for dinner.
Once again, Crookshanks watched him pace, offering absolutely no helpful insight and looking terribly unimpressed.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Theo muttered, pulling a jumper over his head and inspecting himself in the mirror, only to rip it off again. “This one makes me look like Draco sodding Malfoy.” He threw it on the bed, where it landed next to three other discarded shirts. “And this one’s too tight. That one’s too wrinkled. And this one—” he pointed accusingly at a maroon button-down Pansy had insisted on buying him during their trip to that overpriced boutique in Soho, “—makes me look like I’m trying to sell artisanal perfumes on the streets.”
Crookshanks stretched then blinked at him as if to say, get on with it, you absolute mess .
In the end, Theo settled on a dark green jumper and black trousers—simple, non-threatening, and blessedly free of Pansy’s designer meddling. Still, he stood in front of the mirror for a moment, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeves, before finally giving up with a groan.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
He grabbed his coat, then glanced into the kitchen hesitantly. The flowers sat innocently on the counter—lavender and white hyacinths, because that’s what the shop witch said would “ suit her best.” Theo wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but the bouquet did smell nice. He just felt rather idiotic holding them.
“Romantic gesture,” he muttered to himself, trying to bolster his own confidence. “Not embarrassing. Not pathetic. Completely normal behavior.”
He picked up the flowers. Crookshanks leapt down from the windowsill with an aggrieved noise, landing with a soft thud at Theo’s feet, and Theo scooped him up.
Then he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror: tousled hair, flushed face, awkwardly clutching a bunch of flowers in one hand and a fat orange cat in the other. He blinked.
“Fucking hell, Beast. This is tragic, even for me.”
Crookshanks meowed in agreement, his tail flicking as Theo sighed and grabbed his wand.
“Let’s go ruin my last shred of dignity, shall we?” he muttered—and Apparated.
When Theo landed just outside Hermione’s building, Crookshanks gave a disgruntled little mph in his arms, clearly not thrilled about the experience. “Yeah, well, something tells me you would’ve chosen this over walking,” Theo muttered, nudging the door open with his elbow.
He climbed the winding stairs, his pulse steadily climbing with each step. This was a terrible idea. He should’ve just Owled his regrets and stayed home in shame.
But it was too late now—he’d already knocked. Blast it.
The door swung open, and there stood Ginny Weasley in loose joggers and an oversized Harpies hoodie, her hair up in a messy knot and a brow arched in immediate suspicion.
He watched her give him the once-over, her gaze dropping from his face… to the flowers… to Crookshanks tucked under one arm like a furry, mildly homicidal briefcase.
She cackled. Loudly.
“Oh my Godric , this is better than I ever could’ve possibly imagined.”
Theo grimaced. “Lovely to meet you too, Ginevra.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Ginny said, still wiping tears of laughter. “Don’t ever call me that again.”
She leaned against the doorframe, trying to catch her breath. “You’re really committing to the bit, ey? Flowers and her cat? What’s next, serenading her on the balcony?” Before he could answer, the door opened wider, and she waved him inside. “Come on in, Romeo.”
Hermione was plating dinner in the kitchen, and her face lit up when she saw him. It made something in his chest warm. She looked beautiful, like she always did—hair tied up loosely, dressed in a soft blue jumper and those damned leggings, sleeves pushed to her elbows, a faint smudge of flour on her nose.
“Hi! You’re here,” she beamed, then reached out and scratched under Crookshanks’ chin. “And you brought my Crooks.”
“He was none too pleased about it,” Theo said, dropping the half-Kneazle onto the ground.
Hermione surprised him by kissing him on the cheek. “Flowers! Are these for me?”
“They are,” he said, awkward again. “Unless you don’t like them. In which case… they’re for Ginevra.”
“Watch it, Nott,” Ginny said from across the kitchen, but she was watching them with a small smile on her face.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as she took the bouquet. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
Dinner went surprisingly well.
Ginny did most of the talking at first, keeping things light and funny, tossing Theo enough questions to make him feel included without putting him on display. And weirdly, Theo found himself relaxing. The wine probably helped. So did Hermione’s hand, brushing his under the table. Crookshanks had taken up residence in his lap again, clearly having made his allegiances known. And Ginny was easy to like— dry and witty, but also kind and deeply observant.
“Alright, Nott,” Ginny said, pouring another generous glass of wine. “Let’s make this official. Speed round.” She pointed the neck of the bottle directly at him. “You answer quick, or you have to drink.”
Theo blinked. “Is this some kind of Weasley blood rite?”
“Correct. Initiation. Hermione, you’re timekeeper.”
Hermione grinned into her glass. “Ready when you are.”
“Seriously?” Theo asked.
Ginny ignored him. “Do you like to read?”
“That’s a silly question. It’s like asking someone if they enjoy breathing. Come on, Weasley, you can do better than that.”
Hermione smiled at him so broadly you’d have thought Theo had just found a cure for dragon-pox.
Ginny groaned. “Merlin, you’re just as bad as Hermione. Next question. Can you cook?”
“Erm.” Theo pulled at his collar nervously. “I’m working on it.”
Ginny looked rather unimpressed. “That’s what they all say. Men, I mean.”
“Ginny, you can’t cook either,” Hermione said patiently.
“Irrelevant. Is it actually a work in progress or is that your way of saying Hermione’s your private chef?” There was no bite to her words, and Theo could tell it was mostly playful. Mostly.
“I’d never cooked anything, ever until I met Hermione,” Theo said honestly.
“Right,” Ginny said, leaning over to refill his drink. “I suppose you never had much need for that at your manor .”
“Gin,” Hermione warned.
“It’s alright,” Theo said, shrugging. “You’re not wrong. I did, indeed, grow up in a manor. But for what it’s worth, I’d take being taught how to chop vegetables by Hermione Granger over living in that place and being served my meals any day. I really would.”
Ginny looked momentarily taken aback by his honesty, and Hermione pressed her lips together and smiled down at her plate, her cheeks reddening.
“Okay, that was… alarmingly sweet, Nott. Very charming. You’re not off the hook quite yet, though. Alright, this one’s a bit more serious. What’s your favorite thing about Hermione?”
Hermione’s face turned an even deeper shade of red, and she opened her mouth to protest. Ginny promptly shushed her before she got the chance. There was an extensive pause.
“Well? Anything?” Ginny prompted him.
“Don’t be daft, Weasley. You think it’s easy to narrow it down to one thing when it comes to Hermione?” He paused for a moment, his gaze flicking to Hermione, who was trying to make herself as small as possible, her face a perfect shade of crimson.
“I suppose I could say the fact that she’s brilliant, like properly brilliant, but everyone knows that. I mean, I’ve known that since we were what, eleven? Or there’s the fact that she’s got this relentless sense of justice, even when it’s complicated or easier to just let things go. She doesn’t back down, ever. Even if it means ruffling a few feathers. Or going toe-to-toe with men twice her age.”
Theo smiled at her briefly, fully aware that the words were tumbling out of his mouth now– he didn’t think he could stop if he tried. He didn’t give himself time to feel embarrassed before he continued.
“She’s ridiculously kind and forgiving, but not enough to let people walk all over her. She’s understanding and patient– far too patient, in my humble opinion. Or there’s the fact that she’s always right, but she never makes you feel bad about it. And that I’ve never met anyone else who I could spend all day debating over something as minor as pizza toppings, because talking to her is just so bloody fun , you know? She’s also funnier than she gives herself credit for– in this dry, almost blink-and-you-miss-it sort of way. Like she slips a joke in and then pretends she didn’t, so you have to actually pay attention.” He shook his head, feeling his face begin to heat.
“I could go on and on, as you can probably tell,” he muttered bashfully. “But really there’s just—no one like her. You’ve given me an impossible task, Ginevra, I hope you realize that. I can’t possibly choose just one thing— you have to know that, as her best friend.”
In the silence that followed, Theo felt the sudden urge to bolt out of the room. He’d gone and made a complete arse out of himself, he was sure of it. He shifted awkwardly, his cheeks burning as he glanced at Hermione then Ginny, dropping his gaze to his lap to avoid eye contact.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “That was probably too much.”
“Don’t apologize,” Hermione said, and when he looked up at her, she wasn’t looking at him with judgement or even amusement.
Hermione’s expression was soft, her lips curved into the kind of smile that made his heart stutter in his chest. There was something in her eyes that made him feel like he'd just done something important. He couldn’t quite decipher it, but it made him want to freeze time and bask in the moment forever.
“That was really sweet, Theo,” she said quietly, reaching for his hand under the table.
He felt like he was suffering from heart palpitations.
Ginny was watching them with an unreadable look, like she was putting together some puzzle she hadn’t known she was meant to be working on until tonight. Eventually, she sat back in her chair and tilted her wine glass lazily in Hermione’s direction. “Alright, fine,” she said, sighing. “I get it.”
Theo raised a brow. “Get what?”
“You. Her. All this.” She gestured vaguely. “And surprisingly, I think I approve.”
“Oh. Erm, thanks?” Theo managed.
Hermione grinned. “Honestly, it’s high praise coming from Ginny.”
Ginny nodded somberly. “She’s right. I didn’t even approve of my own brother dating her. And besides,” she added, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You’re clearly obsessed with her.”
“I–” Theo closed his mouth, deciding it wasn’t worth it to deny something that he probably couldn’t hide even if he tried. “Yeah, you got me there, Ginevra .”
--------------------
Later that evening, after many glasses of wine and one particularly terrible Muggle rom-com, as Ginny called it, Theo was precisely where he’d hoped to end up– in Hermione’s bed.
The flat was quiet now, Ginny long gone to her own room with a mumbled goodnight and a wink that Theo was still trying to decipher. Crookshanks had claimed the foot of the bed, curled into a warm lump of fur, occasionally twitching his tail against Theo’s ankle. The room smelled faintly of Hermione’s perfume and the lavender oil she kept by the bedside.
Theo lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other curled around Hermione’s shoulder. She was draped over his chest, fingers tracing idle shapes along his ribs, her hair tickling his collarbone.
“I’m really happy, Theo,” she said softly, breaking the quiet.
He looked down at her, surprised by the simplicity of it. The honesty. “Yeah?”
She nodded against him. “I didn’t think I’d be able to say that and mean it. Not for a long time. But tonight was… really nice.”
Theo smiled. “It was,” he agreed.
“You were really sweet, what you said about me earlier.”
He shrugged. “It was a bit embarrassing– I didn’t mean to go on and on like that. But it was all true, you know.”
“No one’s ever talked about me like that. It sort of… blew me away.”
“Like, in a good way? Or a ‘ wow, this bloke might be a stalker’ type of way?”
She laughed, light and carefree. “Definitely in a good way. And for what it’s worth, I think I could go on and on about you like that too.”
Theo scoffed.
“I mean it! Do you need proof?”
Before he could respond, she was rattling things off. “One, you’re brilliant, too. And in the most quiet, unassuming way, really. You’re thoughtful and you remember things– I think it’s because you’re such a good listener. I’ll say something offhandedly– like the time I mentioned my feet get cold at night and you bought me a whole drawer full of woolly socks. You pay attention in a way no one else does. And you’re funny. Hilarious, actually. You make me laugh harder than I have in years, probably.”
She ran her fingers up his arm, watching a trail of goosebumps rise. “I feel like I can tell you about anything and you’d never make me feel stupid or judge me for it. You’re just so… quietly understanding. There’s no one like you either, Theo.”
He couldn’t stop the smile that pulled at his mouth. “Hermione,” he said quietly, looking anywhere but her. No one had ever talked about him this way either, and he didn’t quite know how to handle the praise.
Hermione reached up and poked at the side of his face. “And I like your dimples,” she said.
Theo smiled wider. “Thank you. I like your… erm, everything, actually.”
They lay there for a while longer, quiet except for the occasional hum of traffic outside and Crookshanks snoring. Then Hermione shifted, propping her chin on his chest to look at him properly.
“Would you ever want to… go somewhere with me?” she asked, almost shyly.
He raised an eyebrow. “Go somewhere?”
“Like a trip,” she clarified. “Just for a weekend. Somewhere quiet.”
Theo blinked again, slower this time, like his brain was trying to make sure he’d heard her right. “Granger, are you asking to whisk me away on a holiday?”
She grinned, a little sheepish. “I suppose I am. I mean, we don’t have to. But I was just thinking… maybe some little cottage somewhere? Fresh air, books, you and me, and no one else. You’ve been doing so well lately, and I thought… it might be nice to get out of the city. Just us.”
Theo stared at her, momentarily floored. Not because it was a huge thing, but because it was… real. Something couples did. Something people in relationships did. She wanted to spend more time with him—not hidden away in borrowed flats or late-night shadows, but out in the world.
“I think I’d really like that,” he said finally, voice quiet but sure.
Hermione beamed, her face breaking into that full, bright smile that always knocked the breath out of him.
“Good,” she said, leaning in to kiss him. “I’ll start looking at places.”
“And I’ll… panic in silence,” Theo muttered against her mouth.
She laughed, warm and soft, and he felt it down to his bones.
----------------------
Theo was vaguely horrified to find Blaise Zabini sitting at Hermione’s kitchen table on Sunday morning.
He froze in the doorway, one hand still tangled in his hair from where he’d been attempting to flatten it. “What,” Theo said slowly, “are you doing here?”
Blaise raised an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same question.” He sipped his coffee, gesturing for Theo to sit. “Besides, my girlfriend lives here, remember?”
“Right,” Theo muttered. Crookshanks, glowering at Blaise across the kitchen, chose that moment to yawn and stand—only to immediately pad over and leap up onto Theo’s lap with all the affection of a cat who clearly had favorites. He butted his head under Theo’s chin, purring like a motor.
Blaise pointed at him, scandalized. “Okay, first of all, fucking rude . I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes trying to bribe that beast with salmon. He hissed at me. Twice. ”
Theo scratched behind Crookshanks’s ears then under his chin. “He has excellent judgment.”
“I hope he claws your face,” Blaise muttered. “That thing hates me, and I’ve been trying to win him over for months.”
“Like I said, excellent judgement,” Theo smirked. “But seriously. Are you here to see Ginevra? Or are you stalking me now?”
Blaise sipped his coffee with exaggerated calm. “First off, she’d hex you for calling her that. Secondly, no, I’m not stalking you, Theodore. I got back yesterday. Thought I’d check on you— as a good friend does —and imagine my surprise when I walk into a very empty flat. No note. No owl. I thought maybe you’d finally jumped into the Thames.”
“I wasn’t–”
“So now, imagine my continued surprise when Dilly arrived after I summoned her all panicked and whatnot, and hinted that I might find you spending the night with the Wonderful Miss Granger .”
“Erm.”
“And then, once pressed, she let it slip that Miss Granger has practically taken up a second residence in the flat with you.”
Theo sighed. “I was going to tell you, obviously. It’s just… it’s complicated.”
Blaise looked unimpressed. “Doesn’t look complicated to me. You’re wearing a Gryffindor shirt and cuddling her traitorous cat. So. Anything you’d like to share with the class?”
Theo glanced down, and realized he was, in fact, wearing a Gryffindor shirt. That’s what he got for getting dressed in the dark. “Fuck,” he said under his breath.
“I’m not judging,” Blaise added. “Although, I wish it wasn’t quite so short.” He glanced disapprovingly at Theo’s exposed midriff.
“I am , however, requiring details. Immediately. Preferably with a pastry to accompany.” He glanced toward the counter. “Did Granger make those scones?”
Theo made a vague grumbling sound, which Blaise took as confirmation and summoned the plate over.
“Well,” Blaise said brightly, leaning back in his chair, scone in hand. “This morning just got very interesting. Start talking, Nott. And don’t you dare skimp on the parts where you somehow managed to seduce her with your tortured soul act.”
“It’s not an act,” Theo said defensively. “Fine. Hang on though. I’ve got to make her a coffee.”
He stood up and began measuring out espresso, pulling out her favorite mug and adding two pumps of vanilla syrup. Blaise watched him with undisguised amusement. “Merlin’s balls,” he said. “She’s got you good , Nott. Next you’re going to tell me you have to go deliver it to her in bed.”
Theo just threw him what he hoped was a scathing look as he headed towards Hermione’s bedroom.
Blaise’s eyes widened, and he burst out laughing. “This is too fucking good.”
-----------------------
Once again she steals away
Then she reaches out to kiss me
And how she takes my breath away
Pretending that she don't miss me
Ooh, I would bleed to love her
Ooh, bleed to love her
Ooh, I would bleed to love her
And once again she calls to me
Then she vanishes in thin air
And how she takes my breath away
Pretending that she's not there
-Fleetwood Mac
Notes:
Fun fact, the image of Theo with Crookshanks and a bouquet showing up on Hermione's door was actually one of the first scenes I imagined when I started dreaming up this fic. It took me awhile to figure out where it could fit, but I knew I wanted to include it because....come on. Adorable. He's so endearing you almost forget he's an ex-Death Eater, right?? Because same.
Next up... romantic getaway for these two. Enjoy!
Chapter 13: Lovers Do
Notes:
Hellloo my lovely friends! First off, thank you so much for the comments on the last chapter.
Now, for chapter 13! I have been so excited to share this one with you all and had so much fun writing it. I hope you all love it too <3
Extra big thank you to the amazing Joycelimaks for being an endless source of inspiration AND giving me the idea for this chapter- a change of scenery, a getaway, a way to shake things up a bit. If you haven't already read it, go check out her Theomione WIP called "The Notts." It's fantastic!
Enjoy the bonus moodboard at the end that I made for this chapter, because I have no life and creativity struck. Tell me you see the vision, please. Listening to the titular song helps as well. Hehe :)
Chapter Text
As she watched Theo walk towards the rental car, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Hermione felt a little shiver of anticipation.
Three days, just the two of them.
Three days of quiet. Of no work. Of waking up next to him without the rush of a weekday morning. Of watching him read in a sun-drenched room. Of wine at night, possibly a fire, of possibly… she flushed, glancing at her bag in the backseat, where she’d discreetly tucked the lingerie Ginny had forced her to buy. Three days of that , too, hopefully.
She stepped out of the car, smoothing her palms down her jeans, her stomach fluttering with something both nervous and thrilled. She wasn’t even sure why she felt anxious– it wasn’t as though they hadn’t spent weekends together before. But something about the planning of this, the intention of it, made the whole thing feel… real. Grown-up. Like the start of something.
And she’d planned it. Booked the cottage, coordinated time off, carefully packed clothes that she knew she looked good in, even her nicest pyjamas. Had packed wine, bits to nibble on, snacks she knew Theo liked.
She thought about how stunned he’d seemed when she first proposed the idea, and even more so when she’d Owled him to let him know she’d booked a place she knew he’d love. Like he didn’t quite believe someone would go to that kind of trouble just for him, like it was shocking that she’d willingly spend her weekend tucked away in the middle of nowhere with him.
Theo was standing a few feet from the car now, looking at it like it might transform into a dragon and eat him. She bit back a smile.
“I take it you’ve never been in a car?” Just for fun, she pressed the unlock button again with a beep that made him jump.
“That noise was unnecessary,” he grumbled. “And no, I haven’t.” He eyed it warily. “You’re quite sure you know how to operate this thing?”
“Yes, I know how to operate it.” She grabbed his bag and threw it in the backseat, sliding into the driver’s seat. “You’ll be just fine. I promise to drive carefully,” she said, flashing what she hoped was a dazzling smile.
He smirked, then opened the passenger side and ducked inside, sitting far too stiffly, as though the seat might eject him. “This entire thing runs without magic?” he asked, suspiciously poking the air vent.
“Correct.”
“That seems… dangerous.”
Hermione grinned as she buckled her seatbelt. “I swear I’m an excellent driver.”
He stared at the dashboard. “You’ve got pedals and levers to contend with. What if it gets confused? Or you do something to make it cross with you?”
“It’s not a Hippogriff, Theo. It doesn’t have… emotions.”
“Not that we know of,” Theo grumbled.
As the city began to disappear in the rearview mirror, Theo began to relax bit by bit. She could see him glance over at her every so often, like he was working up the nerve to do something. Eventually, he reached over and took her hand. She looked over at him, feeling oddly surprised by the gesture, and he smiled at her sort of boyishly.
She felt her heartbeat quicken.
“Shall we listen to some music?” She reached over and handed him her CD case. “I’m honestly not sure what’s even in there, but feel free to pick something that looks good.”
Theo opened the case with the sort of reverence usually reserved for spellbooks or cursed artifacts. “Alright,” he said, pulling out the first CD. “What’s Fleetwood Mac ?” Then he paused. “Wait, I know this. You’ve played them before, right?”
“That’s right!” Hermione said excitedly. “They’re the best.”
Theo balanced the case on his lap, flipping through the plastic sleeves with a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.
“Right, what do we have here…” he muttered, pulling one out at random. “ ABBA Gold. ” He raised a questioning brow.
Hermione gave him a look out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t knock it.”
“I’m not knocking anything. I’m just… observing that it appears your taste is very… sparkly.”
“ABBA is timeless,” she said, smirking.
He flipped to the next one. “ The Beatles. Okay, I’ve at least heard of them.”
“Thank Merlin.”
“What’s this— Spice Girls ?” He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Also a bit of a classic, at least in my book. It’s from my teenage years!” She said defensively.
He continued rattling off names– Simon & Garfunkel , David Bowie , Carole King , The Rolling Stones . He kept flipping, slower now, more thoughtful. There were a few mix CDs with Ginny’s loopy handwriting. One labeled Girls’ Night. Another one labeled Drunk Hermione: Vol. 2 .
“Oh, I’d pay to hear this one,” Theo said with a grin.
“Don’t you dare.”
He smirked then slid it back in. “Okay, what about… Hermione’s Mix? Love –” He winced. “Maybe another one.”
Hermione glanced over, her expression shifting. She felt her smile falter just a bit.
“Right,” she said quietly. “My dad made that for me when I was eleven. Right before I started at Hogwarts. It was on a tape back then– he converted it to a CD for me as soon as he figured out the technology behind it.”
Theo hesitated. “Should we skip it? I’ll admit I’m intrigued, but I don’t want to upset you if it’s–”
She chewed her lip for a moment, her stomach swooping. “No,” she said, before he could finish. “It’s… I want you to hear it. If that’s okay?”
He looked momentarily surprised, then nodded and slid the CD into the player. The crackle of old audio came through the speakers, followed by the soft opening notes of “The Boxer” by Simon & Garfunkel.
Theo stared at the road ahead, eyes unfocused. “This is nice. He has good taste.”
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “He used to wake me up in the mornings by playing this one. And if the song alone didn’t wake me, he’d sing it at the top of his lungs until I begged him to stop.” She smiled at the memory.
“Was he a good singer, at least?”
She snorted. “Not at all.”
Next came Brown-Eyed Girl. She felt herself getting a little choked up as it played– it had been so long since she’d allowed herself to listen to it. Theo was watching her closely, hand still clasped in hers. “He used to sing this to me when I was a little girl,” she said. “Terrible voice and all.”
If she thought that was rough, she was wholly unprepared for when Vienna came on.
She’d never forget driving to Kings’ Cross with her parents for the first time, sitting in the backseat with her knees pulled up as the mixtape he’d made for her just the day before crackled through the speakers. They pulled into the station just as the song began to pick up, and after he put the car in park, her dad reached back and squeezed her knee. ‘We’ve got a few minutes before we need to be on the platform. Let’s finish the song.’
She’d taken his hand and held on, even as her throat tightened. Then her mum opened the door and climbed in beside her, holding her close. She was eleven years old and already homesick. But beneath the ache, there had been something else too– a quiet shift, like a door unlocking inside her. She didn’t know it then, but that was the first time she ever truly felt it– the sharp, terrifying thrill of becoming who she was meant to be. Her dad seemed to know that. Emotions had never been his cup of tea, but music was, and she’d always felt like that song was his way of communicating something to her.
“Oh no,” she said, tears beginning to blur her eyes as the memory resurfaced. “Maybe skip this one, Theo.”
Theo didn’t say anything. Just reached forward and carefully tapped the “next” button, letting the CD roll on. The new track picked up with a light guitar riff, more upbeat in tone— “In My Life” by The Beatles. One of her favorites.
Hermione exhaled shakily, wiping under her eyes. “Thanks.”
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Anytime.”
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new…
They drove in silence for a while, aside from her humming along, the countryside beginning to open up around them. The city was long behind them now, replaced by the soft, rolling green of the outer districts. Hermione kept her eyes on the road, but she could feel Theo watching her out of the corner of his eye, always glancing between her and the scenery.
“I like this one,” he said when "For No One” started playing. “Lots of Beatles songs on here, yeah?”
She nodded. “He loved this album. Said Paul McCartney wrote better sad songs than anyone else alive. Mum always hated it, though. She’d roll her eyes and say he was being melodramatic. Him and McCartney.”
Theo cracked a smile. “Sounds like they balanced each other out.”
“They did,” Hermione said fondly. “She liked the upbeat stuff. My dad liked the melancholy. I got a healthy dose of both.”
Theo turned back to the road, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The next track began— “Silver Springs,” hazy and wistful, with Stevie Nicks crooning through the speakers.
“Kind of eerie sounding.”
“Yeah,” Hermione agreed. “There’s actually quite a story behind this song. Stevie Nicks wrote it during the Rumours era. Fleetwood Mac was basically imploding while making that album. She wrote Silver Springs about Lindsey Buckingham– her ex, who was also in the band– after they broke up. But the band didn’t put it on the record. Too long, or too personal, depending on who you ask.”
Theo glanced sideways. “That’s cold.”
Hermione huffed a soft laugh. “Well, the real kicker is that Lindsey wrote a song for the album too. Go Your Own Way . Also about their breakup. But his version made the cut while hers got pushed to the B-side of a single.”
“Damn,” Theo muttered. “Seems a bit… imbalanced.”
“She said it felt like having her voice taken away. So years later, when they performed together again for the first time in forever, she insisted on singing Silver Springs. Live. Staring right at him. It was kind of… iconic.”
“Iconic? Sounds bloody terrifying to me.” Theo let out a low whistle. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
Hermione grinned. “I’m not nearly as dramatic. Or talented.”
“I beg to differ. About both, actually.”
She elbowed him lightly. “Anyway, it’s become sort of a legendary breakup song. Spiteful and sad and kind of devastating.”
Theo nodded, and she could almost hear the gears turning in his head as he listened to the lyrics. “I like it. Genuinely.”
“Oh! And some people think Stevie Nicks is a witch.”
He looked over sharply. “Like an actual witch?”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You’re a wizard, Theo. You can’t be that skeptical.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Well what do you think? Is she a witch or not?”
“I’m not sure,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “She’s always had this mystical vibe– flowing dresses, cryptic lyrics, moon rituals, that sort of thing. When I was little, I thought she was the coolest woman on earth. I still kind of do.”
Theo smiled, eyes back on the road. “Figures you'd idolize a possibly-magical woman who hexed her ex through music.”
Hermione leaned her head back against the seat. “What can I say? Some girls had Britney. I had Stevie.”
Theo smiled absently. “I don’t know who that is either. But whatever you say, gorgeous.”
Her heart did something funny at that.
----------------------
The cottage was nestled at the edge of a sleepy village, the kind of place that appeared as a dot on Muggle maps. They’d driven past rolling fields and thick woods, past a little farm shop and a crumbling stone church, before pulling off onto a winding gravel drive shaded by trees.
It came into view just as the sun began to dip low– small and inviting, with honey-colored stone and ivy creeping up the sides. The roof was slate, a little uneven, and the windows glowed soft and golden from within. A neatly stacked pile of firewood sat beside the front door, and beyond that, a narrow path led to a small stone patio out back, where a firepit stood surrounded by wooden chairs. A hot tub steamed gently just beside it, tucked into a secluded corner beneath a wooden pergola strung with fairy lights.
Inside, the cottage was even better. Low beamed ceilings, wood floors worn smooth, and an old-fashioned hearth fireplace. The kitchen was charmingly rustic, with open shelves, a big farmhouse sink, and mismatched mugs hanging from hooks. A small welcome basket waited on the table, full of local cheeses and jam, a fresh loaf of bread, and a handwritten note from the owner.
The bedroom was cozy, with an enormous bed draped in soft linens, a handmade quilt and too many pillows, and windows that looked out over the hills beyond. There were shelves full of books, a pair of walking sticks by the door, and a well-worn map of local hiking trails tacked to the fridge with a daisy-shaped magnet. Hermione flicked her wand and the fireplace roared to life, making the place immediately feel warmer.
Theo stepped fully inside and let out a low whistle. “Alright, Granger,” he said, glancing around like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch anything. “You’ve really… outdone yourself.”
Hermione turned to look at him, her smile a little hesitant. “It seemed like a good place to get away.”
He nodded, slowly, his eyes sweeping over the worn floorboards, the low beams, the fire already crackling in the hearth. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s–” He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s perfect.”
Hermione watched him for a beat. He looked slightly overwhelmed, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself now that they were here.
She stepped closer, bumping his shoulder.
“You okay?”
Theo shrugged. “Just waiting for the part where you realize this was a terrible idea and drive us back to London.”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s no way that’s happening.”
“Right,” he said, giving a small, nervous smile. “So, what now?”
“You,” she said, leaning up to kiss his cheek, “are going to sit down and try to relax for five minutes. I’ll be right back.”
She ducked into the bedroom to change, pulling on a comfortable pair of leggings and one of his new jumpers she'd sort of claimed, tying her hair back into a haphazard bun. When she came back out, she found him still standing near the window like someone trying to blend in with the furniture.
Smiling to herself, she detoured into the kitchenette and poured them both a very full glass of wine. “Here,” she said, handing him one. “You look like you’re about to be interrogated.”
“I feel like I’m about to be interrogated,” he muttered, but took the glass with a grateful nod.
Hermione gestured toward the fire. “Come on. Let’s get properly cozy.” She headed towards the couch, then paused. She glanced at the fire crackling inside the hearth, then toward the darkened windows and the stretch of quiet woods just beyond. “Actually… want to go outside?”
Theo blinked. “Outside?”
“There’s a fire pit,” she said, getting to her feet and reaching for their wine glasses. “It’s not terribly cold tonight, and it feels like a waste not to use it.”
He hesitated, then nodded, standing a little stiffly. “Sure. Change of scenery. Maybe I’ll panic less under the stars.”
She snorted. “Excellent. Let’s bring the wine.”
They stepped outside into the crisp night air, the cottage behind them glowing warm and golden. A fire pit sat just beyond the porch, surrounded by a low ring of stones and two worn Adirondack chairs. Once again, Hermione flicked her wand, and the fire began to stir, crackling to life in warm orange and gold. A few blankets were draped over the chairs, and she handed one to Theo before wrapping herself in another.
They both stared at the fire awhile, letting the quiet settle. Hermione took a slow sip of wine, then said, “We could play a game.”
Theo gave her a skeptical look. “What kind of game?”
“One for one,” she said with a shrug. “You ask a question, I ask a question. If you don’t want to answer, you have to drink.”
He arched a brow. “That’s it? That’s the whole game? Is that not the same exact one your frightening flatmate subjected me to the other night?”
“Mm,” she said in confirmation. “Or, if you’re really brave, you can take a naked lap around the cottage instead.”
Theo snorted. “Those are wildly different stakes, Granger.”
“Life is full of choices.”
He shook his head, but his mouth was twitching at the corners. “Alright. You’re on.”
“Brilliant,” she said, raising her glass. “You start.”
He scowled at her, then contemplated for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “What’s something you want for yourself but would never say out loud?”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been talking to Ginny too much.”
He gave her a dry look. “Granger. I’m not blind. You’d rather choke on your own tongue than admit to needing something.”
She snorted. “Says the man who pretends to enjoy coffee just so he doesn’t offend me?”
“I do enjoy coffee,” he insisted. “But only when you make it.”
“Sure,” she said, smirking. She took a sip of wine, then shrugged. “Fine. I want… something simple, I guess. Peace and quiet. Some control over my life. Maybe a flat without a pile of case files on every surface.”
Theo blinked. “Wow. Riveting.”
“Shut up.”
“That’s it? The most you can dream up is quiet and a decreased workload?”
Hermione stuck her tongue out at him.
He smirked. “Your turn. Fire away, Granger.”
She chewed her lip. “What’s your first memory?”
Theo turned to look at her, his face impassive. “Um.” He rubbed his neck. “Probably something with my mum.”
Hermione waited, watching him carefully. “You’ve still never told me much about her,” she said.
Theo fidgeted with his hands, staring down at them. “She liked the beach,” he said finally. “Which… surprised everyone, I think.”
Hermione tilted her head. “Why?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “She was pureblood Italian, from an old family. Spoke six languages, wore silk robes to breakfast, never went anywhere without lipstick and freshly painted nails and toes. That kind of woman. But she loved the sea.” He paused. “Her family had a house in Siena we used to go to every summer, I think I’ve mentioned that to you before.”
Hermione stayed quiet, watching him closely as he went on.
“So I think that’s where my first memory was. I was small– maybe three, so I don’t remember much, just impressions. Sand in my mouth. The sound of her bangles when she reached into her bag. She always wore too much jewelry for the beach. For everywhere, really.” His mouth quirked slightly at the corner.
“She used to make me collect shells. Not because she cared about the shells. I think she just wanted me busy while she read her magazines. But I remember once, I brought her one and then realized it was cracked, and I started to throw it away. She stopped me.”
He glanced at Hermione, his expression unreadable. “She said, ‘ No, Tesoro. Just because it’s broken doesn’t mean it’s not beautiful .’”
Hermione’s chest ached. “ Oh. That’s–”
He cleared his throat. “I’m not saying she was some kind of visionary or whatever. I think she forgot she said it five seconds later. But for some reason it stuck. I think it was the only time she ever let me climb into her chair with her– she didn’t like when I got sand all over her, usually. But I sat on her lap and she read aloud from some ridiculous French novel while I fell asleep.”
“That’s a lovely memory, Theo.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you for letting me know it, too.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, dryly, he glanced down at his shirt. “She’d have told me to button my shirt in your presence.”
Hermione nudged his side. “And I’d have unbuttoned it again the moment she left the room.”
He laughed, cheeks flushing. “Alright. My turn.” He leaned forward and refilled his wine glass, then hers, although it wasn’t empty. “What was your impression of me at Hogwarts? Honest answer. And don’t worry, you’re allowed to say– I never thought of you once, you pathetic loser .”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Give it a rest. You know that wasn’t the case.”
Theo gave her a skeptical look, one brow raised. “Do I? Come on. I was awkward as hell. I had a permanent scowl, and I hung around with people who made your life miserable. I’d have avoided me.”
She twisted the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, her smile turning thoughtful. “You hung around with Draco and his lot, yeah. But I always sort of… separated you from them in my head. You were different. Or at least, you seemed different to me.”
“Different how?”
“Well, for starters, you never called me a Mudblood.”
He winced at her casual use of the word. “Low bar, but okay.”
“You didn’t talk much, but I always thought you seemed clever. You got high marks, didn’t you?”
Theo shrugged modestly. “Wasn’t terribly hard if you actually read the books.”
Hermione gave him a pointed look. “Not everyone did, you know.”
He smirked. “Oh believe me, I remember.”
“I used to see you in the library sometimes. Sitting by yourself. You always looked so focused. Sometimes I wondered what you were working on.”
He looked genuinely surprised. “I never knew you even looked at me,” then hesitantly, he added “I watched you, too.”
She smiled. “And then I remember once, I think it was our second year– we were supposed to partner up for Herbology. Ron and Harry paired off, of course,” she rolled her eyes. “And you were standing sort of close to me. You turned and looked at me and opened your mouth like you were about to say something, but then you sort of shook your head and turned around to ask Goyle to be your partner. I was always curious about what you were going to say to me.”
Theo’s eyes widened slightly, like she’d reached back into some long-forgotten memory and plucked it clean from the vault. His mouth twitched, just barely. “You remember that?”
Hermione nodded. “Of course I do. I thought about it for weeks afterward.”
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Gods. That is… embarrassing.”
Her brows lifted. “Why?”
“I was going to ask if you wanted to be my partner,” he admitted, grimacing. “But I panicked. I thought there was no way you’d say yes, and I didn’t feel like being laughed at in front of the class. Also, I was a prat– I was afraid of what my friends would say. So I bailed.”
“You asked Goyle over me.”
“Yeah. I bloody well deserved to fail that assignment. Which we did, by the way.”
Hermione laughed, leaning into him. “I would’ve said yes, you know.”
“No you wouldn't have.”
“I would, though. You would’ve made a good partner. Better than getting stuck with Seamus– which is what happened, by the way.” She bit her lip. “I always thought you were sort of… intriguing. And honestly, kind of cute. For a Slytherin, of course.”
He openly gaped at her. “You’re having a laugh.”
“Honestly!”
His cheeks reddened. “I spent seven years thinking you barely knew I existed. No, actually– more than that. Most of my adulthood too.”
“I definitely knew.”
He looked at her for a long time, eyes a little wide. “That’s wildly unfair,” he said finally. “I had a completely unrequited crush on you for years. Sixth year was when I had it the worst, though.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You did not.”
He nodded, solemn. “I absolutely did. It was a problem.”
“You never even spoke to me!”
“ Because I had a crush on you. I’m not a complete idiot.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Merlin, you’re ridiculous.”
He shrugged, deadpan. “You were terrifying. I didn’t have a death wish.”
“You should’ve talked to me. Like I said, I thought you were cute.”
“I still find that hard to believe,” he mumbled.
Hermione smiled. “My turn again.” She took a big sip of her wine and a deep breath. “What turns you on?”
Theo almost dropped the stick he’d been playing with into the fire. “ Oh. We’re pivoting, then?”
“Clearly. You’re becoming too introspective.”
He gave her a suspicious look. “You’re trying to throw me off.”
“Is it working?”
“A bit,” he admitted, his cheeks still pink. She wasn’t sure if it was from the questions, the cold, the wine, or a bit of everything.
She smiled into her wine glass, waiting.
“Fine. Um. Enthusiasm?”
Hermione’s brows shot up. “ Enthusiasm? ”
“Don’t mock me, it’s a vulnerable moment.” He glanced over at her, then away, clearing his throat. “Like that day you came over all tipsy and practically yanked my trousers down to suck me off– that might’ve been the most turned on I’ve ever been.”
Hermione felt something hot stir low in her belly. "Well," she said, shifting closer, “I feel very enthusiastic about being alone with you out here.” Her voice dipped lower. “And about your shirt being unbuttoned.” She leaned over and ran her fingers along his collarbone, feeling him tense underneath her.
He blinked, his eyes dark. “Fucking hell, Granger.”
She laughed softly. “What about you?”
“What about me?” His voice was a little unsteady.
“Are you feeling enthusiastic, too?”
Theo let out a shaky breath. “Gods,” he said. “You have no idea.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against her ear. It sent goosebumps down her spine.
“So what’s your biggest turn-on, then?” He pulled back, his gaze steady and intent.
Hermione tilted her head, watching him carefully, the way his breathing had gone shallow, the way his eyes lingered on her mouth like he couldn’t quite help it.
“I think…” she said slowly, brushing her fingers along the edge of his jaw, “it’s when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
“Like you can’t quite believe I’m touching you,” she said softly, trailing her fingers down his chest. “Like you’re trying to stay composed, but you’re completely undone anyway.”
Theo exhaled, sharp and unsteady.
“I like that I can do that to you,” she added, voice low. “That someone like you– clever, dry, stoic, looks at me like he’s about to lose his mind.”
She leaned forward and kissed along his jawline, letting her breath tickle his neck. Theo made a soft, strangled noise in the back of his throat.
She smiled. “That face. That’s the one.”
Theo swore under his breath. “I can’t believe how fucking uncool I am around you,” he muttered. “Any semblance of dignity and self-control just goes out the window as soon as you walk in the room.”
“Mm,” Hermione leaned over and ran her fingers through his hair. “I think it’s very dignified, actually. Sexy, even. Completely losing your mind over me. I mean, what more could a girl ask for?”
Theo huffed a laugh, eyes fluttering shut at her touch. “You’re a menace.”
“And you love it,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his temple.
“I really fucking do,” he admitted, voice rough.
He leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm– their glasses forgotten, the fire casting flickers of gold across his face– and something deep in her stirred, quiet and unfamiliar, but impossible to ignore.
“How do you feel about hot tubs?”
He blinked slowly, like the kiss had left him hazy. “Hm?”
“Hot tubs,” she repeated, already yanking off her jumper and padding towards the pergola, wine glass still in hand.
The hot tub was nestled away in a way that made her feel bold, like there was no chance of anyone but Theo seeing her, shrouded in fairy lights and misty with steam. Hermione set her glass on the edge, shivering as the night air cut through the thin fabric of her leggings.
“Come on,” she called over her shoulder, tugging them off and folding them with an odd sense of ceremony.
Her bra followed, and she told herself it was because she didn’t want it to get wet. Logical, of course. She’d foregone knickers altogether, leaving her completely bare. She caught Theo watching her, his jaw slack, eyes wide and hungry in the orange flicker of firelight.
“Are you getting in, or are you just going to stare at me like a pervert?” she teased, dipping a toe into the water.
It was heaven– hot, almost scalding, and she hissed through her teeth as she waded in, letting the heat soak through her skin and chase away the last of her nerves.
He fumbled with his shirt buttons, then just tugged it over his head, crossing the patio in three strides. And then he was naked too, sliding in beside her, the heat making his skin pink almost instantly. Hermione sank lower, letting her head fall back, and the stars above stretched impossibly bright in the rural darkness. The world felt small, just the two of them, hidden away and shrinking into the hazy glow.
“You’re beautiful like this, you know,” he murmured.
Then he reached for her under the water, hand settling at her waist. She shivered, not from cold but from the way he was suddenly all around her, the way his touch made the rest of the world drop away. She moved closer, knees nudging his thigh, and he pulled her into his lap so easily she almost laughed at herself for being coy. She hooked her arms around his neck, leaning back to look at the stars again and pretending not to notice the way he blatantly stared at her breasts.
Hermione felt his hands reach up and cup her face, bringing it down so she’d meet his eyes. They kissed, open-mouthed and a little clumsy, teeth knocking once before they started laughing. Hermione gasped as his hands slid up her back under the water, fingers tracing her spine, and she bit his lip, just to feel him shudder against her. The heat and the wine and the privacy made her feel utterly unselfconscious. She wanted to touch all of him, wanted to see just how far she could push him, how many times she could make him say her name before he unraveled completely.
For a long time, they stayed there in the water, kissing and touching and exploring. But eventually, breathless and flushed from the heat, they moved inside. Theo laid down a blanket in front of the fireplace and drew her down onto it, the fire blazing close enough to make her skin tingle. She let him guide her, let him settle her gently on her back, his hands moving over her with the same careful reverence she’d learned to expect from him. The kind that left her feeling open and cherished.
He kissed her slow, tracing the line of her jaw, the hollow of her neck, the softest curve of her collarbone. When he slid inside her, slow and careful, she gasped at the heat of him, the pressure, the dizzying intimacy of being laid bare in every sense. She found herself tangled up in the long lines of his arms, his torso trembling above her, his mouth finding hers over and over again like it was the only point of gravity left in the world. Then, she wrapped her legs tighter around his hips, drawing him in deeper, and his eyes met hers– so green and raw and open that for a moment she thought she might come apart from it alone. Theo’s hand smoothed over her hair, cradling her head, and he slowed the rhythm, leaning in to brush kisses everywhere he could reach.
It was an agonizingly perfect feeling, slow and unhurried, her hips rising to meet his with every thrust. Their hands and lips were all over each other, but not in a rushed, frantic way. It felt like making love, and Hermione didn’t know how else she could describe what was happening. She tightened her arms around him, digging her heels into the backs of his thighs, and let herself go. The pleasure built in slow waves, cresting higher with every roll of his hips, every whispered word that spilled from his lips.
Hermione gasped, arched, and let herself break apart, clinging to him as her body arched and shuddered, the world dimming down to nothing but this. He followed almost instantly, gasping into her shoulder, his whole body trembling as he emptied inside her in sharp, helpless pulses.
They lay tangled on the blanket, Theo’s heartbeat wild against her chest, the crackle of the fire close and bright. She buried her face in his neck and let out a breathless laugh, her body humming pleasantly with exhaustion and warmth. Neither of them spoke for a long time after that, and Hermione wasn’t even aware she’d drifted off to sleep until she felt herself being lifted off the ground. Blinking up at him, she opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a kiss.
He laid down beside her in the bed, pulling her close as soon as his body hit the mattress. Sleep found her again almost immediately.
-----------------------
Let's watch emerald trees dance in the breeze
As we lay on soft pillows and swim in the sheets
With you
There's nothing that I'd rather do
Than lay here inside this room for two
And do what lovers do
What lovers do
Now I'm sinking in deep a sea of green eyes
Feel your lips on my cheek and taste the red wine
On you there's nothing that I'd rather do
Than lay here inside this room for two
And do what lovers do
-The Brummies
Chapter 14: Second Chances
Notes:
Hello again, lovelies! We are back with another chapter, this one from Theo's POV. For those of you who are new here, I try to update twice a week (sometimes more, if I have the time). Generally, the chapters will switch from Theo to Hermione's POV, although there are a few exceptions. There are some content warnings associated with this chapter- check the notes at the end if you feel it necessary, and take care of yourself <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Waking up next to Hermione Granger who was dressed in nothing but his t-shirt, secluded in some sort of romantic cottage getaway felt like something out of sixteen-year-old Theo’s wildest, most far-fetched fantasies. She was curled into his side, her legs tangled with his beneath the blanket, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. The morning light crept in through the windows, painting the room in soft gold. It smelled like the woods, faintly smoky from the night before.
Her hair was a mess. His shirt was slipping off one of her shoulders. She looked perfect.
He stared at her like a man starved. Like someone who wasn’t sure if any of this was real. It made his chest hurt. Because the longer he looked at her, the more he felt it– this low, persistent ache blooming beneath his ribs. A quiet kind of knowing. The beginning of something dangerous.
It had barely even been a month. At first, part of him had wondered if the things he felt towards her were a byproduct of the loneliness, of being so touch-starved that he’d fallen head over heels for the first warm-blooded woman who showed him an ounce of kindness. But that theory didn’t hold much weight anymore. Not when she was drooling slightly on his arm and he still felt like his ribs might crack from how much he wanted her. Not when the thought of ever having to start over with someone else made his stomach twist.
Fucking hell. He was in love with her. There was no point in trying to deny it to himself anymore.
The realization hit him like a sucker punch. He stared up at the wooden beams above the bed and tried not to panic about it. He didn’t say the word, not even in his head. But it pressed up against his chest, insistent. Daring him to look it in the eye.
He shifted carefully, watching the rise and fall of her breath. She looked soft and peaceful, as if there was nothing in the world she needed to be wary of. As if she hadn’t unknowingly tethered herself to someone who’d once stood in a room full of Death Eaters, who’d witnessed things he couldn’t even think about without feeling nauseous. Who had done things himself that made the shame twist in his gut like a knife.
The memories crept in like they always did– slow and quiet but heavy. He tried to breathe through it. He tried to be present, to stay here in this bed, in this warm room, with her. But the past had teeth, and it sank them in deep.
This particular memory came back to him quickly, like it had always been lurking under the surface. It was so vivid, he would’ve sworn he was still there if he hadn’t felt Hermione’s hand on his chest. The cold stone of the cellar floor. The damp, the stench of mold, piss, sweat, blood, filth. He remembered the way the torches crackled along the walls. How the shadows looked like they moved on their own. He’d been just barely seventeen at the time– the winter holidays.
They were keeping prisoners at Nott Manor by then. Most at the Malfoys, but a few unlucky ones had been taken in by his father. Muggleborns, blood traitors, anyone who’d been stupid enough to get caught. They were kept in the basement like animals– drugged, half-starved, some of them barely conscious. Theo tried to sneak them food and water whenever he could, but he was always terrified he’d be caught. Weak, cowardly about it.
His father had started hosting gatherings by then– hoards of cloaked men, whispering strategy and superiority over Firewhisky, doing things to the prisoners that made Theo cover his ears in abject horror. Some he knew– Crabbe Sr., Yaxley, Rookwood, Macnair, Rodolphus Lestrange, to name a few. His father brought him down there one night, hand clamped around the back of his neck like he was a dog on a lead. Said it was time. That he needed to prove his loyalty.
“ How?” Theo had tried to keep his voice from trembling.
“Don’t be foolish, boy. Crucio. Now. Teach our prisoner a lesson about being defiant.”
Theo had stood there, wand trembling, facing a man barely older than him, tied to a chair. The man had already been beaten. He could barely lift his head. Still, his eyes had been clear. Defiant.
His father’s hand was still clamped around his neck as Theo stared at the prisoner. He couldn’t keep his hands from shaking, couldn’t imagine possibly going through with it– raising his wand and watching the man writhe and scream underneath him. You have to mean it, Draco had told him once. It won’t work if you don’t mean it, and then they’ll think you’re weak.
But Theo was weak. Either that, or he still had some semblance of a moral compass– it was impossible to discern the two at this point. They were interchangeable according to his father.
He could feel the eyes of his father’s associates – fucking hell, he might as well lump himself in with them at this point now, too, he’d realized. He was a Death Eater. The grotesque mark on his arm left no room for doubt anymore. His father hissed something in his ear, although he couldn’t make out exactly what he’d said. But the implication was clear– do it, or you’ll be sorry.
Hand still shaking, he raised his wand. “ Crucio ,” he’d whispered. Nothing happened. The prisoner barely twitched.
“ Again. ”
“ Father, I don’t think it’s going to– ”
His father struck him in the back of the head, causing him to stumble forward. The man looked at him again, and Theo swore he saw pity in his eyes. But that didn’t make sense.
“Don’t embarrass me, boy,” his father hissed, his voice dangerously low.
Theo swallowed, glancing at the door. Maybe he could just make a break for it, he thought.
And go where?
There was nowhere else. There was nothing but this– misery, decay, a twisted version of himself that he could barely recognize. One who did his father’s bidding and tortured people for sport.
Again, his father shoved him. He almost landed on top of the prisoner, bracing himself on the arms of the chair to stop the fall. Theo was close enough to smell the stench of the man now, and he turned away in discomfort. Pushing himself upwards, Theo met his eyes. He was taken aback by the resolve he found in them, the acceptance.
Do it , the man mouthed.
Theo blinked, then pointed his wand. “ Crucio. ”
The man convulsed. Screamed. It didn’t last long– Theo barely held the spell for a second before he dropped his wand like it had burned him.
He’d stumbled backward and vomited in the corner. His whole body had gone cold. His vision had blurred. His father didn’t speak, just looked down at him with something like revulsion. He heard a few of the other men laugh.
That was the first time Theo tortured someone.
-----------------------
His breaths were coming too quickly. He could still feel the slick of sweat on his palms, the rancid scent of damp and blood in his nose, the sound of that scream echoing in his ears. His stomach turned. The blankets were too warm, the walls felt too close. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, but the images kept flashing behind them like some cursed reel. He didn’t even hear Hermione stir until she spoke.
“Theo?”
Her voice was thick with sleep, cutting through the fog. Gentle. Confused. Grounding. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt too tight.
He felt her hand soft against his shoulder. “Hey. What’s wrong? Nightmare?”
He tried to speak, but it felt like someone had shoved cotton in his throat. He managed a single, unconvincing word: “Fine.”
She frowned, sitting up beside him. “You’re not fine. You’re shaking.”
He couldn’t meet her eyes. He was sure if he did, she’d see everything that had just played in his mind, that she’d realize what he was and turn away. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to put all of that into words. And he was afraid if he did, she’d never look at him the same. How could she possibly? So he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to bury the memory deep, tried to force himself to breathe.
Hermione studied him, her face softening. “It’s okay,” she muttered, laying back down beside him. She wrapped herself around him again, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We don’t have to talk about it. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
That made something behind his ribs twist. Because it wasn’t fear of danger that had him panicking. It was her . It was the knowledge that no matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to atone, he’d never truly be good enough for her. It was waking up every day knowing there were parts of him he could never show her, because if he did, she’d be disgusted.
Hermione’s hand moved in slow, steady circles along his back. He focused on the rhythm. The quiet hush of her breath. The way she didn’t press.
But eventually, her voice came again, gentle but deliberate. “Do you want to tell me what it was about?”
Theo swallowed hard. His eyes stayed fixed on the dark beams above them. “No.”
She waited, didn’t push. And still, something in her silence made him want to fill it. “No, I really don’t,” he rasped. “But I probably should.”
Hermione shifted slightly to look at him. He felt the weight of her gaze, even though he couldn’t meet it.
“It wasn’t really a nightmare,” he said. “I mean, I was awake. I was just thinking about–” he cut himself off, his stomach churning.
Was he really doing this? Laying it out for her? What the fuck was wrong with him? He exhaled.
“Just about what I did. What I’ve done. But it doesn’t really matter– the end result’s the same.”
“The end result?”
Theo’s chest constricted. “Yeah. The part where you realize all of this was a massive mistake and go back to your real life.”
“Don’t do that,” she said quietly. “Don’t assume what I’m thinking or what I’ll do next.”
He closed his eyes. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” She touched his hand, and he wanted to pull away, wanted to recoil, because it felt so wrong to be comforted by her right now. “I just… got in my own head, I guess.”
She touched his face then, gently. “What brought it on?”
Theo hesitated. “I’m not sure. I was just lying there, thinking about how lucky I am to be here. How good this feels. Because it feels better than anything, ever. And then I started thinking about all the things I’ve done, and how… how I have no business being here. With you.”
His voice cracked slightly. “How are you ever going to be okay with the fact that I’ve hurt people, Granger? That I’ve—” He cut himself off. “I hate what I did. But that fact alone doesn’t undo it, does it? And I just keep thinking… how can I ever be someone who’s good enough for you?”
Hermione sighed. “Theo, that’s not–”
“Seriously. I know we’ve… talked about it. Sort of. But I don’t think you understand what it actually means, Hermione. What I’ve done.”
She stayed quiet.
He turned his head, stared up at the ceiling like the words would come easier if he didn’t have to see her face. “I wasn’t some shadow in the background. I didn’t just… inherit a name and the Mark and stay out of it. I did things . Awful, unforgivable things. There was a man– a boy, really. Tied to a chair in our cellar. I tortured him.” Hermione winced, but he continued.
“I barely held the curse for a second and then I threw up all over the floor like a pathetic coward, and my father looked at me like I was some weak stain on the family name. That’s what I was thinking about just now, when you were asleep. That man. I don’t even know if he survived.”
“I know what you’ve done,” she said quietly. “You don’t need to tell me again. I know.”
“Yeah, but do you understand what it means, Hermione? How it feels to wake up every day with that… shame hanging over me? To know that I’m responsible for people’s suffering?”
Hermione brushed her fingers through his hair. “Maybe not exactly. But I know what it is to carry guilt. To live with things you wish you’d done differently. And I know that what you did, the choices you made– they don’t cancel out the man you are now.”
Theo stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. “It should though,” he said.
Hermione didn’t respond right away. When she did, her voice was soft. Careful. “When I was helping with your case,” she said slowly, “when I was gathering evidence for the appeal… I had to listen to a lot of witness testimony. From the war. From the prisoners.”
Theo stilled, his whole body tensed.
“You knew that, right?” she asked quietly.
He shrugged. “I assumed you’d read my file. I didn’t realize you’d actually…” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Go on.”
She nodded. “So, I heard things. From people who were kept as prisoners at Nott Manor. What your father did. What… what you did.”
Theo turned his head away from her. He didn’t want to hear this part. He already knew what she was going to say– he could feel the rejection winding up in her chest, waiting to be thrown, and he tried to brace himself for the impact.
“One of them stuck out to me the most, and it ended up being a key testimony in getting you released. There was a man– I’m not sure if it’s the same one you mentioned– a Muggleborn wizard, maybe late twenties when he came to us. He said you used the Cruciatus on him, “ she hesitated, chewing her lip. “But that you kept mouthing– I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry .”
Theo cringed. “That doesn’t change the fact that I did it.”
“Let me finish, Theo,” Hermione said patiently. “No, it doesn’t. But even he could recognize that it wasn’t something you wanted to do. That you weren’t taking pleasure in it, the way– the way others did, the way your father did. He said you came back a few days later and tried to heal a wound he had on his arm. That you brought him food and water.”
Theo said nothing, shaking his head.
Hermione swallowed. “And he wasn’t the only one. There were others who said similar things– that you smuggled food. That you healed small injuries. That you didn’t talk much, but when you did, you were kind. Or at least… as kind as someone in your position could be.”
Theo shut his eyes.
“You were a child,” she said, her voice small. “None of this excuses what happened. You know that. I know that. But I think– and I really do believe this– that you tried. And I know you feel so much guilt about it, and that you wish you could have done things differently. Not because you had to deal with the consequences of your actions, but because you know it was wrong. And Theo, I know what kind of person that makes you.”
He finally looked at her, and it hurt. Physically. Because her eyes weren’t full of judgment, disgust, or even pity. Just sadness. And something like belief. Trust. What looked like understanding. And he didn’t know what to do with that.
“People are going to judge you,” he said finally, because he didn’t know what else to say. “For being with me. If– if that’s what you decide, I mean. They won’t be as understanding as you are, believe me.”
Hermione nodded, as if this was something she’d already considered. “I think that scared me a little at first– what people might think. But I also think I’ve spent a long time trying to measure up to peoples’ expectations. To be perfect, even though I couldn’t be further from that. So I sort of just started keeping things to myself.” She tugged at a loose thread on the blanket. “I don’t talk about… difficult things. Not even with Ginny, or Harry, or Ron– even when we were together.”
She paused, looking up at him. She looked so vulnerable, so unsure of herself that it made him want to reach for her. “But for some reason, you make me feel like I want to. Like I can tell you the things I try not to talk to anyone about, like I don’t have to be anything more than what I already am.” She hesitated. “I wasn’t expecting any of this. I wasn’t looking for it. But I like being around you. I like who I am around you. Even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it’s a little scary.”
He felt his chest tighten. “Hermione,” he muttered. “I wasn’t trying to–”
“I’m not going to pretend like I have it all figured out, or that none of this feels overwhelming or uncertain.” Her eyes were tearing up now, and he didn’t know what to say or do to make it better. Her voice was shaky as she continued. “But I’m not… I’m not scared enough to walk away. And I think– I think that I really want this.”
Before he could respond, she shook her head, frowning. “No, I know I want this. I want it to be real.” She bit her lip, taking a deep breath and meeting his eyes.
He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. “You do?”
She nodded. “If that’s okay?” she added, her voice small.
“Fuck,” he swore, trying to temper the massive flutter of hope in his chest. “Of course it’s okay. You want to be with me? Like, actually be with me?”
She laughed then, a watery one. “How many times are you going to make me say it? Do I need to write it in the sky?”
He pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I certainly wouldn’t complain,” he teased, although his heart was beating out of his chest. “Bloody hell. So what does this mean?”
“What do you want it to mean?”
He considered. “Truly? I mean, I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to be with you too, for real.”
She smiled up at him. “Okay.”
The tentative hope bloomed into something vast and golden, something that felt too big for his chest. He felt stupidly, impossibly lucky, like the world had tilted just slightly in his favor and finally let the sun hit him straight on.
Theo couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t keep still. He fidgeted, looking down at her to make sure she wasn’t a figment of his imagination. “So this is real, then? You’re… my girlfriend?” He felt impossibly juvenile and foolish asking the question, but he couldn’t help himself. He just needed to be certain.
He could practically feel her roll her eyes, although he couldn’t see her face fully. “Yes, Theodore. Are you going to carve it into a desk now? Maybe ask me to the Yule Ball?” she teased.
He groaned. “I wish. I think that’s when my crush on you started, actually.” She turned to look at him, wide-eyed. “Me and half the school, really,” he added.
“Shut up!” She elbowed him. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“It’s not flattery if it’s the truth,” he mumbled, trailing kisses down her neck.
She giggled, leaning into him. “But seriously,” she pulled away, resting her hand on his cheek. Her brown eyes were endless pools of burnt honey, of warmth. He wanted to fall into them. “I want you to understand that I wouldn’t make this choice if I wasn’t confident about it. Am I nervous? Of course. But I want to be with you, Theo. Not in spite of who you are, but because of who you are. And I mean that.”
Theo stared at her like she’d just handed him something fragile and breakable and told him not to drop it. His throat felt tight. All he could manage was a rough, stunned, “Okay. Yeah, okay.”
But something in him shifted. Quietly, irrevocably. Like maybe for the first time, he didn’t have to keep bracing for impact. Like life might actually be handing him a second chance. He just prayed he didn’t find a way to fuck it up.
He loved her. He was terrified. He kissed her.
-----------------------
Once Theo got out of his own head a bit, he found himself relaxing and enjoying the trip more than he’d expected. They did some of the things they always did on weekends– coffee on the couch, reading together, lay-ins that lasted far longer than they should. But something about being away from the city, isolated in a way that didn’t feel lonely– made Theo more adventurous, looser, somehow.
They went on long walks through the hills behind the cottage, following narrow trails that led them through groves of ash and pine. Theo wasn’t used to the silence of nature, the way it wrapped around them like a thick wool blanket, but he liked it.
He liked the way Hermione would reach for his hand just because. He liked watching her try to identify plants along the path, muttering Latin names under her breath. He liked watching her get ready, pulling on thick socks and boots, braiding her hair, smiling at him when she met his eyes in the mirror. He liked the childish way she squealed and squeezed his hand when they found a pasture of horses grazing quietly, and he liked watching her click her tongue at them, the way her eyes lit up when one of them nosed against her shoulder.
On Saturday afternoon, they ventured into the nearest village– a Muggle one, tiny and old-fashioned, with a crooked high street and a single pub. Theo had been visibly tense walking in, eyes scanning for someone who might recognize him, but Hermione kept a steady hand on his arm.
They ordered pints of warm Muggle ale, got a corner booth, and she slid in right next to him instead of across. He stared at her like she’d done something outrageous, and she just smirked, cozying up with her arm hooked through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re allowed to relax, you know,” she said, nudging his thigh with hers.
“I’m working on it,” he muttered, then took a long sip of his pint.
A few drinks helped. So did the food– surprisingly decent fish and chips and a flaky vegetable pie Hermione made him try. And by the time she was laughing over something in the village paper and stealing bites off his plate, he realized he wasn’t really panicking anymore.
There was also the fact that apparently, making things official had made Hermione extra… randy.
They came back from the pub that afternoon full, a little tipsy, and sleepy. They’d curled up in bed and dozed off for a while. He woke up to her mouth on his, her hips straddling his waist. She kissed him deeply, grinding against him, and he groaned, already hard beneath her.
“Bloody hell,” he managed, as she yanked her shirt off, her curls falling wild around her face.
And then, things got even better, because then she was sitting on top of him in a lacy black bra, biting her lip nervously. “Do you like it?”
“ Yes. ” He reached up and ran his fingers along the bra, and she arched her back. “You have no idea what you do to me, Granger,” he muttered.
“I wore it just for you,” she said, her cheeks flushed. Then, she leaned in closer, her breath tickling his ear. “The matching knickers as well.”
As she shimmied out of her pyjama shorts, he thought he might have died and gone to heaven in that moment. No feeling could ever top this, he was certain.
“Take them off me?”
For Merlin’s sake . He was going to stop breathing. Obediently, he slid the knickers down her thighs, then reached back and unfastened her bra, marveling at the sight of her.
Then she rocked her hips, her hands slipping under his shirt, and he sucked in a sharp breath. He rolled them so she was beneath him, but she pulled back, breathless. “No,” she said, her voice low. “Me on top.”
She pushed him off her and onto his back, her eyes glinting. She straddled him again, her hands pinning his wrists to the bed. He let out a strangled curse, and she smirked. “You like this?” she teased. “You like it when I take charge?”
His voice was rough, barely above a breath. “Fuck, Hermione. You know I do.”
Hermione moved his hands to her hips, urging him to grip them tighter. He did, feeling the curve of her waist, the warmth of her skin. She leaned down, her mouth brushing his ear. “Show me,” she whispered. “Show me how much you like it.”
She took his hand, guiding it between her legs, and he shivered, felt his cock harden. She was so wet, so warm, so ready. He groaned, his fingers slipping over where she was slick. She rocked against them, her breath catching, her mouth falling open.
“Like this?” he asked, breathless, watching her move against his fingers. She was all flushed skin and wild curls, all soft moans and curves. “You like this?” He teased her, rubbing circles on her clit, watching her mouth fall open.
Hermione gasped as his fingers pushed inside her, grinding against them. “Theo,” she said, breathless. “I need more.”
He didn’t stop. “More?”
“Please,” she panted. “Need you inside me.”
He felt something catch in his chest, even with all of his blood pumping towards his cock.
She wanted him. She wanted this. She was glowing, grinding against his hand, and his blood burned hot and insistent in his veins. Her knees pressed into his sides, her hips moving of their own accord, and all he could think was yes, yes, yes .
She let out a soft sound, her fingers dragging through his hair, and he felt like he’d come undone. He had to be inside her– that was the only thing that would keep him from losing his mind, from splintering into a thousand pieces. He dragged his hand along her thigh, squeezing gently, then reached for his cock, guiding it between her legs. She was so wet, so slick, and he let out an involuntary groan when she sank down onto him, taking him all the way in.
Theo had never been in love before.
He’d had crushes, infatuations. Relationships. He’d liked girls a lot, actually– liked kissing them, liked being wanted, liked the chase. He remembered the way it felt to sit too close in the common room, the thrill of a hand on his thigh during lessons, sneaking off to corridors where Prefects wouldn’t catch them. He’d fucked girls before, had lost his virginity to a Ravenclaw– Libby, who was, objectively speaking, way out of his league. After Libby, he’d slept around– shagged Daphne Greengrass for awhile, carried on a pseudo-relationship with a Ravenclaw a year below him and a Slytherin a year above him, Genevieve something-or-other.
But nothing had ever come close to this. Nothing had ever felt like her.
Because this– Hermione– was something entirely different. She wasn’t just in his bed. She was everywhere . Under his skin. In his mouth. Filling his lungs with every breath. She rolled her hips and he felt like he’d just fallen through the floor beneath him, because fuck, it was like she’d rewritten the way pleasure worked in his body. He couldn’t look anywhere else. Couldn’t think of anything else. She was warm, soft, and utterly relentless, and he let her take whatever she wanted. He wanted her to take it. She could strip him clean to the bone and he’d let her– he’d be begging her for more.
She held his gaze, unflinching, even when he felt like he might come apart from how much he needed her.
I love you. I love you. The words lingered on the tip of his tongue as he came, like some kind of force of their own, insistent and overwhelming. He clamped his mouth down over them, stifling the sentence that could shatter everything if it was said aloud.
And then she came with him, crying out as she clenched around him.
I love you .
He knew it with a kind of bone-deep certainty that terrified him. He buried his face in her neck, trying to breathe through the weight of it, the ache of wanting her so much it almost hurt.
She stroked his hair gently, kissed his shoulder. Whispered something gentle, something sweet he didn’t quite hear. He just held her tighter, like maybe if he didn’t let go, the feeling might stay a little longer.
I love you.
He could never tell her, but that didn’t make it any less of a fact.
-----------------------
My hands they were strangers lost in the night
Oh they're waving around in the dusty light
I'm waiting in the wings while the trees undress
Cupping my ear to hear the wind confess
I'm a ghost in the garden
Scaring the crows
If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone
I'm running from nothing, no thoughts in my mind
Oh my heart was all black
But I saw something shine
Thought that part was yours, but it might just be mine
I could share it with you, if you gave me the time
I'm all bloody knuckles, longing for home
If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone
-Gregory Alan Isakov
Notes:
content warnings: child abuse, depictions of torture, PTSD
Chapter 15: Landslide
Notes:
Happy Sunday!
Look... I tried my best to avoid using this song because come on, it's Landslide. But it just felt so right for this chapter and I couldn't resist. Tell me you know what I mean, please? Anyways, hope you all enjoy! Thank you as always for the comments, they mean the world, truly. <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Everything around Hermione felt light and hazy, almost dreamlike in its quality. And yet, the closer they got to London, the heavier her heart felt.
It was ridiculous, really, how intoxicating a few quiet days away with Theo could be. How easy it had been to fall into him. His dry wit, the sidelong glances he thought she didn’t notice, the way he listened so closely when she spoke. Being around him made her feel unguarded in a way she hadn’t allowed herself to be in… well, maybe ever. She felt like her skin fit differently when he was near. Like some tightly wound part of her had finally started to loosen.
She kept replaying little moments in her head– the way he’d held her hand under the table at the pub, the shy way his face had flushed when her eyes met his across the fire pit, or the way he’d buried his face in her neck after they’d made love, clinging to her like she was the only solid thing in the world.
Gods, she thought, she was in deep . And frankly, she had no desire to come up for air.
Unfortunately, she had to, because life couldn’t wait. London couldn’t wait, and going back to London meant reality. It meant friends, and responsibilities, and complications that weren’t so easy to ignore.
Complications like Ron, for example.
Technically speaking, things had been over between them for a long time now. But realistically speaking, over the last few years, their situation had become murky, unspoken, stitched together by history and habit more than any kind of real romantic future. And she still cared about him. Deeply. Enough that the thought of hurting him made her stomach twist, almost physically painful.
And she was going to have to tell him at some point. That she was seeing someone, that it wasn’t casual. The longer she waited, the more insistent the feeling became, like a wound that refused to scab over until she finally treated it.
She’d been avoiding him, and it wasn’t just because she was withdrawing or on some kind of self-improvement kick– which were likely the reasons she’d pulled away from him in the past. Part of it was because things were serious with Theo now. Perhaps they’d always been, and she’d been too afraid to accept that until this weekend. But part of it, too, was that being with Theo had made her feel awake in her own body somehow, like she could no longer pretend or compartmentalize the way she used to. Being with Ron– sleeping with him, dating him, doing… whatever it was they’d been doing– it didn’t make her happy. In fact, it drained her, and she had to face that, regardless of the uncomfortable feelings that surfaced when she did.
She bit her lip, stealing a glance at the man beside her as she drove. He looked out the window, lost in thought, one hand resting loosely on her knee. So open. So present. So completely unaware that dread was blooming in her chest. She didn’t know how to explain it to him– that Ron still lingered in the corners of her life like smoke, that their tangled, half-finished ending hadn’t been sorted yet. That part of her was afraid Theo would take that the wrong way, that he’d think it meant she was still unsure about him.
Which she wasn’t, not even a little. Something had settled in her this weekend, a strange peace as she realized she had no interest in denying herself something that felt so damned good. She just didn’t know how to navigate the wreckage she’d left behind. For the first time in a long time, Hermione felt like she needed to talk to someone. Someone who would understand– who knew her better than most, who knew the full history and wouldn’t judge her for not having everything figured out.
She needed Harry, of course.
The thought struck her with sudden clarity, like her mind had been nudging her toward it all day. She needed her best friend. The best friend who she’d been keeping at arm’s length for months– no, years, really. Today was Monday, which meant she had three more days until her weekly dinner with him and Ron. Which she’d canceled on last week, claiming she didn’t feel well. The truth was, she couldn’t bring herself to see Ron.
Not when things between them were still so muddy. Not when she felt so raw, like the armor she’d carefully constructed over the years had begun to fall apart under Theo’s hands. Hermione knew she couldn’t keep pretending like everything was normal, like there was nothing she was hiding. But she didn’t know how to look Ron in the eyes and tell him she was falling for someone else when, less than two months ago, he’d been in her bed. That she’d found someone who she could open herself up to in a way she’d never been able to with him.
But Harry was different. He was so patient, so understanding, even when she refused to stray from the safe topics. They’d talk about work, about Hogwarts, about Spencer, the café, the house renovations, what books they were reading. But she never really let him in anymore.
She was always more than happy to help him sort through things– she’d sat beside him and held his hand when he and Ginny had broken up, letting him cry on her shoulder. She’d been the first person he came out to, his hands shaking and his words slurred after he’d drank too much Firewhisky, like maybe the alcohol would numb him to the frightening feeling of facing parts of himself he’d spent years trying to deny. When he met Spencer and pretended for weeks like he didn’t feel something more than friendship towards him, Hermione had patiently sat up with him and told him it was okay to fall for someone, that Spencer was wonderful and clearly felt just as strongly as Harry did.
But somewhere along the line, she’d stopped telling him the hard things about herself. About her parents. About Ron. About the way she sometimes felt like she was fading from her own life. About the guilt that lingered in her like smoke, no matter how hard she worked to try to absolve herself of it.
Out of all of her friends, she was probably the closest with Ginny. But that wasn’t by her own choice– Ginny was relentless. She never interrogated her, exactly, but the proximity of living together made it harder to hide things from her. But still, no one had the full picture of everything going on in Hermione’s head. Not even Harry, who she’d been through hell and back with, who had stood beside her for so many years, who was her family in every possible sense.
And it was only now that she realized how wrong she’d been to shut him out. Suddenly, not talking to Harry– really talking– felt impossible. Unbearable.
“I think I’ll go to Hogsmeade tonight,” she said suddenly, breaking the peaceful silence.
Theo tilted his head. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Hogsmeade. What’s in Hogsmeade?”
“Lots of things,” Hermione said, and he gave her a look. “But mainly, Harry. I think I should go visit him.”
Theo gave her a curious look, one brow arched. “Everything alright?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I just… I want him to know about you.”
His expression flickered– surprise, warmth, something unreadable, and she pushed on before she lost her nerve.
“I’ve been sort of… distant from him for awhile now. I’ve kept a lot to myself, and that’s not fair. I think I’d like to fix that. And Harry– he’s my best friend. He should know this part of my life, too.”
Theo was quiet for a moment. “Yeah. If you’re sure. You should go. That sounds like… a good idea.”
She tilted her head. “Are you sure? I could wait until later this week–”
“Hermione,” he said, shaking his head. “Go. I’ll survive one night without you.” He smiled at her, then muttered under his breath– “I’ll just lie in bed with Crookshanks and smell your perfume all evening.”
She laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”
---------------------
She Disapparated just past dusk, the sun bleeding out behind the hills, casting Hogsmeade in shades of gold and violet. The village was quiet, most of the shops closed for the evening, smoke curling from chimneys as lamps flickered to life in the windows. She walked quickly up the path toward the little stone cottage near the edge of town– the one Harry had moved into two years ago with Spencer.
It was tidy and charming, with a vibrant garden Spencer tended to daily. She could see light in the front windows and the familiar shadow of his bookshelf through the curtain. Her heart thudded unexpectedly hard in her chest. She never felt nervous about seeing Harry, but something about tonight was different.
She took a steadying breath and knocked. The door swung open a moment later to reveal Harry, barefoot and wearing a faded Falmouth Falcons t-shirt.
“Hermione!” he said, surprised, but immediately stepping aside to let her in. He glanced around outside, like it might provide a clue as to why she was here. “I thought we weren’t seeing each other until Thursday?”
“I know,” she said, brushing hair out of her face as she stepped inside. “I– er, sorry. I should have sent an owl. This was sort of a last-minute decision.”
He waved her off. “You know you’re always welcome.” Then he studied her for a beat. “Everything okay? You never show up unannounced like this.”
Hermione let out a small laugh. “Nothing’s wrong. I just… I missed you.”
He smiled, putting an arm around her. “Okay… I missed you too, Hermione. I always do.”
A lump formed in her throat. “I wanted to talk to you about something, too.”
Harry’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t press. He nodded once and motioned to the couch. “Come in. Spencer’s out with friends tonight, you’ve got me all to yourself. Tea or wine?”
“Wine, please,” she said, sinking into the sofa. Her voice was a little smaller than she meant it to be. “Definitely wine.”
“Are you hungry?” he called from the kitchen.
“I already ate,” she replied, nervously fiddling with a blanket beside her. “Thanks though.”
A few minutes later, he returned with two glasses of white wine and handed one to her. He sat beside her, curling one leg up under himself. “Alright,” he said gently, “tell me everything.”
Hermione stared down at her glass, swirling it a little before she spoke. “First of all, I feel like I might owe you an apology.”
He frowned. “For what?”
“For how I’ve treated you the last few years. I know I’ve been a bit… distant.”
He didn’t say anything right away, which made her stomach twist. She rushed on.
“Not physically. I know we still see each other, but– I haven’t been honest with you about… a number of things. I’ve sort of started to realize I don’t really talk about anything real anymore, not with anyone. My own problems, I mean. Not since… well. For a long time. And you’ve always been there, and I’ve just… I don’t know. I think I convinced myself that I had to be fine, or at least look like I was. And if I started talking about the messy stuff, then I’d fall apart. And I didn’t want anyone to see me like that. Not even you.”
Hermione took a deep breath, picking at her nails. “And I’ve also started to realize how lonely I’ve been. How unfair it was to you– to make you feel like I didn’t trust you enough to properly talk to you. You’re my best friend, Harry.” She could feel the tears threatening to spill out. “And I haven’t been a very good one to you.”
Harry was quiet for a moment, and she dragged her eyes upwards, bracing herself for whatever expression he’d be wearing. But he didn’t look angry. He looked a little sad, but gentle. Understanding. Harry had changed so much, Hermione realized in that moment. Part of it was just growing up, not living in constant fear anymore, but she was certain a great deal of it had to do with Spencer. She’d seen it firsthand– how Spencer had helped Harry open up, little by little, becoming someone who actually talked about things like feelings, trauma, and grief.
“Hermione,” he sighed. “Let’s just clear this up– you’ve always been a good friend to me. You show up, you listen, you somehow remember all the weird little details about my life that even I forget. You’ve saved me more times than I can count. Literally. I’ve tried to keep track.”
That pulled a weak laugh from her, and he smiled.
“But,” he went on, a little more carefully, “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed you… pulling away. And that it didn’t, erm… hurt, not being someone you could come to. I mean– I get it, I do. I’m not always the easiest person to talk to. And I didn’t want to make things worse by pushing. I just figured… if you wanted to talk, you would. And if you didn’t, then maybe you needed space.”
Hermione felt her chin tremble as she began to cry in earnest. Harry placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve worried about you, you know. For a long time. You really… carry a lot, and you never ask for help. I just–” he gave an awkward little shrug, like he didn’t quite know how to say what he meant. “I wish you’d let someone look after you, the way you look after the rest of us.”
She laughed then, a strange, hiccuping sound. He looked puzzled.
“It’s funny you should say that,” she said slowly. “Because that’s sort of what brought all this on. I’ve been seeing someone. And it’s made me… reconsider some things, I guess you could say.”
Harry blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Wait, you’ve been seeing someone?”
Her cheeks flushed. “Yeah. For a few weeks now.”
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again, then finally said, “And… is it serious?”
“I think so. It’s been a bit… intense. But in a good way.”
Harry’s brows knit together, something like cautious hope flickering across his face. “Well, okay, that sounds… sort of wonderful, actually. Who is it?”
Hermione bit her lip. “That’s the part you might not like.”
He ran a hand through his hair, making it look even more disheveled than it already had. “Don’t tell me it’s McLaggen. Anyone but him.”
Hermione made a gagging noise. “Of course not. I would never.”
Harry gave her a long, patient look. “Okay. Just rip the bandage off, then.”
She took a breath. “It’s Theo Nott.”
Harry stared at her.
“Theo Nott,” he repeated, blinking.
She nodded.
“Theodore Nott?” he said it slowly, like he had to make sure there wasn’t a second one running around with the same name.
“Yes, Harry. The very one.”
“Erm. Wow.”
There was a long beat of silence.
“Is that really all you’re going to say?”
“No,” Harry said quickly. “Sorry. I’m just… digesting.” He shook his head slowly. “Theo Nott. Okay. This is… interesting. I’m not sure how to– erm, how exactly did that come about, then?”
Hermione huffed out a breath, half-laughing, half-embarrassed. “It’s a long story.”
Harry gave her a look. “I’ve got time.” He leaned over and refilled both of their glasses, and she accepted hers gratefully.
“Alright. It started off innocent enough. He was recently released, as you probably know. He was staying with Blaise, who had to leave the country for work. He was concerned about leaving Theo to… his own devices, so soon after getting out. I offered to check up on him while Blaise was gone, just to see if he needed anything. Seemed like the right thing to do.”
Harry nodded. “Yeah, sounds like something you’d do. Go check on the ex-Death Eater in your spare time.”
She elbowed him but continued. “And when I got there he was just so… broken, Harry. Like he just didn’t even know what to do with himself. So I ended up staying longer than I’d planned, and we just sort of talked. It was nice. I was lonely, he was lonely– so I came back the next night, too.” She bit her lip, hesitating. “That’s when things sort of… spiraled.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Did he do something?”
“No, no,” she rushed out. “If anything, it was me. I kissed him first. I knew it was a little… irresponsible, but I just felt this sort of pull towards him, and I couldn’t ignore it. You know I’m not usually so impulsive, but something just sort of came over me, you know? I tried to stay away after that, but I couldn’t. And I told myself we would take it slow, that I wasn’t ready for anything serious.”
Harry snorted gently into his glass. “Seems like that didn’t last very long though, did it?”
Hermione shot him a withering look, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Alright, yes, I may have gotten a little ahead of myself. But it doesn’t feel reckless anymore. It feels kind of… perfect, actually.” She glanced down at her glass, suddenly feeling shy.
His expression sobered, and he watched her carefully. “That’s… great, Hermione. Really. You sound happy.”
She narrowed her eyes, bracing herself. “Go ahead. I can tell there’s more you’d like to say.”
He exhaled roughly. “I mean, I think I’d be a shite friend if I didn’t remind you of what he did.” She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand. “That’s not to say that he’s beyond redemption. Believe it or not, I do believe in second chances. I know he was a kid, just like we were when all that happened. And I’m sure you’ve considered all this, being the logical, level-headed person you are. I just… I had to put it out there, I guess.”
Hermione sipped her wine, mulling it over. “Yeah,” she said eventually. “You’re looking out for me, and I appreciate it. And you don’t have to believe that he’s not who we might’ve thought he was back then– at least, until you get to know him yourself. But trust me, Harry. I know who he is.” She met his eyes, her voice firm, certain. “I know what he did, probably better than most. I’ve read every file, every testimony, sat across from people he hurt. Talked about all of it with him, the difficult, ugly bits. And I’ve also seen the way he carries it. The way it haunts him. It’s not performative, or convenient guilt.”
Her voice didn’t waver as she continued. “And somehow, somehow – he doesn’t hold any anger or bitterness towards anyone– besides maybe his father, although that’s a whole different issue. He truly believes he deserved to be punished to the extent that he was. I think he’d given up on redemption, or even happiness.”
Harry tilted his head, letting her words sink in. He was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “I believe you. I always thought his sentencing was a bit harsh, honestly. I never gave him much thought, although even back at school, he didn’t seem nearly as bad as Malfoy and some of the others. But Hermione…”
He hesitated, and she nodded for him to go on. “I just– it sounds like a lot,” he said gently. “To carry, I mean. Being with someone who’s still working through all that. Who sees himself the way you say he does.” He looked at her, not unkindly, but with the kind of concern only someone who knew her deeply could wear. “You’ve already spent so much of your life holding things together for everyone. Me. Ron. The whole bloody world, at one point. I just want to make sure he’s someone that can be there for you , too.”
Hermione blinked quickly, trying to clear the sting in her eyes. “I know it’s a lot,” she said. “I won’t pretend it isn’t. But it doesn’t feel heavy when I’m with him. He doesn’t make me feel like I have to carry any of it for him.”
Harry watched her quietly as she went on.
“And I think that’s part of what’s so strange about this– what’s made it feel different. Because I’ve gotten so used to keeping everything inside. Handling it myself. I’ve been so afraid of burdening people that I just stopped talking. Even to Ginny, to Ron. To you.”
Harry’s face flickered with something soft and painful, but he didn’t interrupt.
“But with Theo…” she shook her head a little, trying to find the right words. “He doesn’t ask for it. He never pushes. But somehow, when I’m with him, it just… comes out. Things about my mum and dad. How lonely I feel sometimes. About my relationship with Ron, even. And he really listens.”
She paused, chewing her lip. “It’s not just that I take care of him,” she added. “It feels like we’re taking care of each other.”
Harry’s face softened. “That’s… that’s great, Hermione. I’m really happy you told me, and I’m also really happy you came.”
“Me too,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry– I know we’ve been talking about me this whole time. You’ll have to fill me in on–”
“Oh, stop it,” Harry interrupted. “Are you kidding? This is loads more interesting than anything I have to tell you. You’re in a forbidden love affair with the pureblood son of one of Voldemort’s most notorious followers. I’m… let’s see– last week, one of my third-years accidentally hexed his own eyebrows off. And then this weekend, Spence and I spent an entire morning reorganizing the spice cabinet, because apparently I needed to ‘learn how his system works’ .”
Hermione snorted into her glass.
Harry grinned, leaning back into the couch. “See? Nowhere near as interesting or scandalous. Now please, continue telling me about your whirlwind romance with Theodore Nott. I live for this, really.”
She rolled her eyes. “Point taken. I mean, there’s not much more to tell. We spend a lot of time at each others’ flats, watching telly, reading, cooking. Nothing too exciting or scandalous . Oh, and Crookshanks adores him.”
Harry nearly choked on his wine. “You’re kidding.”
She shook her head, smiling. “I’m not. Almost as much as Crooks loves me. They’re a bit codependent, actually.”
Harry shook his head in disbelief. “That cat’s never let me get within a foot of it. You’re sure he’s not dosing him with Amortentia? Or you, for that matter?”
She shot him a look.
“ Fine, I’ll suspend my disbelief for now. I’m happy for you, ‘Mione. Really. Did I already say that?”
Hermione grinned. “You did, yes. Ginny’s met him, actually– she seems to approve.”
That seemed to mean something to Harry, who raised his eyebrows then nodded slowly, like he was letting the idea settle.
She hesitated. “But Harry, there is one other thing I could use your advice on. And that’s–”
“How you’re going to break it to Ron?”
“Exactly.”
Harry sighed. “Yeah. That’s… tough. First off, you should know that you haven’t done anything wrong, Hermione. You didn’t cheat on him. You didn’t do this to hurt him.”
“I know, but it’s–”
“Complicated,” he said, smiling sadly at her. “I know. Trust me. I know.”
“ How? ”
“I mean, you think it’s not obvious that you two were going home together every Thursday night?” She flushed, but he continued. “Even if it wasn’t, you know Ron can’t keep anything to himself. Don’t worry– it’s nothing… er, he’s respectful about it, of course. But I know he’s been hung up on you, and that things never properly ended between you. Is that how you’d describe it?”
Hermione nodded slowly, her mouth suddenly dry. “Essentially, yeah. I just feel so ashamed, Harry. I knew we weren’t right for each other, but I kept letting things… continue, even after we broke up. All because I was lonely, and he was there. What kind of person does that make me?”
“I dunno, Hermione. Human, maybe.” He said gently. “Look, I think you’re putting way too much of this on yourself.”
She looked at him sharply. “But I’m the one who ended things. I’m the one who hurt him.”
Harry shook his head. “You ended things because they needed to end. That doesn’t make you the villain. And yeah, Ron got hurt, but let’s not pretend he didn’t have a say in any of this.”
Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You told him where you stood, more than once. You tried to draw lines. And he just kept– what? Showing up? Pushing the boundary a little further every time until it didn’t really exist anymore?” He gave her a look. “That was wrong of him. Breakups are messy, especially with the history between you two. It’s easy to get pulled back in, especially when one person is still as… invested as Ron is. The point is, it’s not all on you. You were both vulnerable. You were hurting too.”
She stared down at her near-empty glass. “But he still loved me. That’s what he said. And I didn’t, not in that way, but I… I let him believe maybe there was a future there.”
Harry exhaled, slow and steady. “Maybe. But I think he let himself believe it, too. Because it was easier than facing the truth. And– look, I love him, you know I do. But I also think he took advantage of your guilt. Maybe not intentionally. But still.” He frowned. “He hasn’t been very respectful, Hermione. And I’ve told him this loads of times, too. He just chooses not to listen, the stubborn git.”
She stared at him, stunned.
“You’re so quick to take responsibility for everything, Hermione. It’s like you can’t help but cast yourself as the one who needs to atone. But I think you need to stop seeing Ron as the only one who got hurt here. And I’m saying that as his best mate.”
Her eyes welled up again, but she nodded.
Harry leaned in and bumped her shoulder. “You made mistakes, like we all do. You got caught in something messy with someone you loved for a long time. That doesn’t make you cruel. It just makes you human. And frankly, I think it’s time you gave yourself a little more grace.”
Hermione let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “When did you get so good at this? Are you reading self-help books?”
“Something like that,” he mumbled. “Spencer’s got me going to a Mind Healer, actually. It’s been… helpful.”
Her eyebrows jumped. “Wow, Harry. That’s… great. Good for you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “Don’t make a big thing of it. I still get hives if someone says the word ‘journaling’ out loud.”
Hermione snorted. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She leaned into his shoulder. “Thanks, Harry. For being so patient with me. And for being such a good friend. Even when I made it… difficult.”
Harry leaned his head against hers. “Love you, you know.”
Hermione smiled. “Love you, too.”
He nudged her with his elbow. “And you’d better bring Nott around soon. I need to verify this whole ‘reformed dark prince’ thing for myself.”
---------------------
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Mmm
Well, I've been 'fraid of changin'
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm gettin' older, too
-Fleetwood Mac
Notes:
Ahhh we love a supportive, emotionally literate Harry. Just wait until you guys meet his beau... he's the best. Get ready because in the next chapter, things are gonna heat up! I will likely post in 2 more days, so be on the lookout :)
Chapter 16: A Face To Call Home
Notes:
Okkk guys BUCKLE UP!
This chapter switches POVs halfway through, beginning with Theo and switching to Hermione. I'm quite proud of this one, and I hope you love it too.
Happy reading <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Theo
“Firewhisky?” Theo offered, already pouring himself a (second) glass.
Blaise raised an eyebrow. “It’s two o’clock on a Thursday, mate.”
Theo turned around and stared at him blankly. “And yet, here I am.”
Stepping fully into the flat, Blaise gave Theo a scrutinizing look before closing the door behind him. “Fuck it. Sure, I’ll have one,” he relented, dropping onto the sofa.
Theo handed him a glass and sat heavily in the armchair across from him.
“What are we drinking to?” Blaise asked.
Theo stared into his glass. “To emotional instability and deeply irrational jealousy, apparently.”
Blaise gave him a flat look. “Ah. So this is Granger-related drinking.”
“Ding ding.” Theo tipped his glass toward him.
“What harmless thing has she done now to send you spiraling?”
“I wouldn’t call it harmless. She’s having dinner with Weasley,” Theo muttered, throwing back his drink like it was water.
Blaise blinked, then summoned the bottle and refilled Theo’s glass. “Wait. As in, Ron Weasley?”
“No, as in Arthur,” he deadpanned. “Yes, you dolt. In the next few hours, she’ll be dining with the one and only Weasel-King.”
Blaise raised both hands in surrender. “Right. Okay. But– aren’t they, like, done? For ages now? Could just be a friendly dinner, yeah?”
Theo rubbed his temples. “Yes. They are indeed… done. She’s told me that. Repeatedly. She’s even planning to tell him about me, allegedly. Set a boundary with him, whatever that means.”
“Okay… that sounds like a good thing, mate.” Blaise took a slow sip of his whisky. “And yet, here you are. Drowning your feelings at midday like a Victorian widow.”
Theo groaned. “Yeah, well. Melodrama has always been my specialty.”
“What are you so worried about?”
“It’s complicated. I’m not entirely sure. I trust her, of course. But–”
“You don’t trust him,” Blaise finished evenly.
Theo nodded miserably. “He’s still in love with her. And she’s going there alone, and they’ve got history, and– fuck, Blaise, he was in her bed two months ago. Forgive me if I’m not feeling very secure at the moment.”
Blaise winced. “Alright. That part I didn’t know.”
Theo rubbed his temples. “I’m surprised Ginevra didn’t already spill the beans to you. But yeah, apparently even after she ended things, they’d still end up sleeping together. Not since we started… whatever this is, but still. It wasn’t that long ago, and I’d bet my entire vault that he’s still hung up on her.”
Blaise let out a low whistle. “Quite the Gryffindor love triangle you’ve found yourself in.” Theo glared at him, and he gave him a look. “Nott. Please don’t tell me you’re actually worried she’ll go back to him.”
“No,” Theo said quickly. “No, I don’t think she would do that. But the thought of him trying to talk her out of… this, or guilt her, or just… reminding her of all that time and history they had– how am I supposed to compete with that?”
Blaise let out a breath. “You’re not competing, mate. That’s the whole point. She picked you.”
Theo laughed bitterly. “I still find that pretty fucking hard to believe most days.”
“Oh, stop,” Blaise said. “Enough with the self-pity. You think that woman has time for bullshit? She rewrote British magical law at age twenty-one. If she didn’t want this, you’d bloody well know.”
“Maybe,” Theo muttered darkly. He needed to get it together. Hermione absolutely could not witness him like this. “For fuck’s sake, Zabini,” he groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.
“You know,” Blaise said thoughtfully, “I’ve seen you with a lot of girls, back at school. And I’ve seen you after things ended. You never looked like this.”
Theo raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“A bloody mess. Like someone who gives a shite,” Blaise said, and knocked back the rest of his drink. “It’s revolting. I love it.”
Theo exhaled through a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a twat, you know that?”
“Seriously. You remember when you messed around with Daphne in fifth year?” Blaise went on. “That girl was obsessed with you. Like, refused to sit anywhere else in class, wrote your initials on her bloody parchment margins. And you still dumped her right before Saint Valentine’s.”
Theo grimaced. “That wasn’t my finest moment, I’ll admit.”
Blaise smirked. “I’ve known you since we were what? Ten? You’ve dated plenty. You got with… what, most of the Slytherin girls in our year? And a not-insignificant number of Ravenclaws, if memory serves. But I’ve never seen you like this. You used to get bored in a week. You used to sabotage anything that felt remotely serious.”
Theo was silent. He took a slow swallow of whisky, feeling the burn settle somewhere beneath his ribs. There was a time he would have denied all of it– he would have laughed it off, made a biting joke and let it die between them. But lately, he didn’t see the point. There was no way to feign indifference now, not when the mere thought of Hermione with another man made him feel like someone had just poured a bucket of ice water all over his body.
The truth was, Blaise was right. There had been other girls, sure– crushes that lasted a season, a kiss under the stands, a hand up a skirt at a party, or the slow, doomed flutter of something that never quite lived up to the build-up. Even when he genuinely tried, even when he thought he wanted to be someone who could commit, it always ended the same. He got bored, or distracted, or panicked at the first sign of actual intimacy and found a way to extricate himself before things got messy.
That was the thing about Hermione, though. He had never, not in all his pre-Azkaban years of fumbling through social rituals or skirting the perimeter of relationships, been this utterly unraveled. From the start, he’d been so painfully aware of how easily she could break him in two, how she didn’t even seem to realize she was capable of it. Because she wasn’t manipulative or calculated, and she didn’t say things to make him squirm on purpose or lead him on for the fun of it. Everything she did felt shockingly earnest, like she had no choice but to be perfectly genuine all the time because it was just… who she was.
It was new, this feeling, the vulnerability of it, the way he sometimes had to stop himself from blurting out things that would make him look soft and needy. With Hermione, he wanted to be good, wanted to be honest, wanted to try– just to see if, for once, he could do it. If he could be enough for her.
“And now,” Blaise went on, as if reading his mind, “you’re the bloke drinking Firewhisky at noon because your girlfriend is having a friendly dinner with an ex . Do you have any idea how soft you’ve gone?”
“Does all this have a fucking point, Zabini?” Theo snapped.
“Yeah,” Blaise said, cool as ever. “The point is– you’re completely and pathetically gone for her.”
“Obviously I’m bloody aware of that, you tosser,” Theo said. “Aren’t you meant to be making me feel better?”
“I am,” Blaise said, deadpan. “This is me being comforting.”
Theo scoffed. “You’ve got the emotional sensitivity of a brick.”
“Maybe. But I’m not wrong.” Blaise sipped his drink, then fixed Theo with a look. “Listen, mate. You wouldn’t be this fucked up over it if things weren’t real between you two. You know that, right? Even you can’t be that daft.”
Theo scowled at him, but didn’t respond.
“I mean, come on,” Blaise went on. “She spends practically every waking second with you, outside of work. You’re clearly the first person she wants to see at the end of the day. Didn’t she just drag you off to the countryside to shag you senseless for three days? Then immediately afterwards, rushed off to tell Potter about you?”
He sipped his drink as he continued. “Who, by the way, is probably the person whose opinion means more to her than anyone else’s. He’s her best friend. And she still wanted to tell him. About you . That’s not casual, Theo. That’s not someone keeping their options open.”
Theo dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Okay. Yeah, fair enough. I see your point.”
Blaise smirked. “See? Told you I was good at this.” He reached across the coffee table and snatched the Firewhisky from Theo’s hands. “No more of that for you. Better calm the fuck down and sober up before she gets back, yeah?”
Blaise stuck around, to Theo’s surprise, for the rest of the afternoon. He didn’t say as much, but it was obvious he had no intention of leaving Theo alone with his own thoughts and a bottle of Firewhisky. They played chess, because that’s what they always did when there was nothing else to do.
Theo lost the first two games. He’d always been decent at chess, but his mind kept drifting– his eyes following the sweep of the clock’s minute hand, the way the late light inched forward, the way time seemed to crawl by at an agonizing pace. What if Hermione’s dinner turned into a long, meandering evening? What if Weasley, emboldened by two or three pints, finally said all the things Theo knew he must be thinking? What if he managed to make her laugh in that offhand way, the way only someone with that much ancient, shared trauma could?
Or what if, worse– he apologized for the way he’d handled things, enough to make Hermione reconsider her decision? What if there, in the warm glow of the pub, she remembered all the reasons she’d ever loved Weasley and fell back into his arms?
What if Weasley was angry enough to make Hermione feel guilty or embarrassed for ever letting Theo into her bed in the first place? What if his words were enough to drive a wedge between them, for her to finally snap out of whatever delusion she’d been suffering from and realize all of this had been one massive mistake, a fleeting experiment she had no further interest in? He was being ridiculous, he knew it. Hermione wasn’t thoughtless or reckless– at least, he didn’t think she was. She fancies you, he reminded himself, over and over again. She broke up with Weasley for a reason. But an insistent, gnawing part of him couldn’t stop asking himself– who could possibly compete with the legend of a first love? How could anyone live up to a decade of shared jokes, first kisses, and that familiar, worn-in comfort they must have had with each other?
He forced himself to focus on the board, the comfortable click of pieces, the smell of Blaise’s slightly overpowering cologne, the warm weight of Crookshanks’ body kneading the throw blanket beside him. He tried to remember the certainty of Hermione’s hand clutching his, the way she smiled at him, the way it felt to look into her big brown eyes. He tried to recall the way his stomach had flipped when she’d told him– ‘ I want this to be real.’
But as the hours trickled by and the shadows in the flat grew long, Blaise having bid him goodnight and ran off to Merlin-knows-where, Theo found himself glancing at the clock every few minutes, heart thumping and stomach sinking a little more each time. By the time dusk slipped in through the windows, he’d managed to convince himself that maybe this kind of easy joy wasn’t meant for him after all.
He poured himself another, smaller drink and tried not to think about what he'd do if she didn't come back.
-----------------------
Hermione
For perhaps the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes, Hermione fiddled with the loose thread on the sleeve of her blouse. Then, she drained her glass of Pinot Grigio and flagged the waiter down for another.
Ron was late. Of course he was. He was always late.
But today of all days, it felt especially inconsiderate. She checked the time again, jaw clenched. She’d gone back and forth about a dozen times about whether to do this in person. It would’ve been easier to write a letter, send an owl. But that wasn’t fair. Despite everything, Ron was her friend above all else, and she owed him a face-to-face conversation. Even if he didn’t show her the same courtesy with punctuality.
By the time he finally walked into the pub– tousled, apologetic, face flushed from the June air, she’d almost talked herself into just asking for the check and leaving.
“Sorry,” he said breathlessly as he slid into the seat across from her. “So sorry, ‘Mione. Got caught up with George at the shop. Time got away from me.”
She offered a tight smile. “It’s alright.”
He looked at her carefully, like he was trying to read her expression. “You look nice,” he said after a beat.
“Thanks.”
They ordered drinks. Small talk. He told her a story about a new line of joke sweets they were launching, something about turning your spit into confetti. She laughed politely, but she could feel him watching her, maybe more closely than usual.
“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” he said eventually. “When you asked to meet. I mean– not like this. Just us.”
Hermione considered him carefully. He looked the same in all the ways that mattered—same freckled skin, same slightly wrinkled button-down, same too-long fringe falling in his eyes. He was already wearing the look, actually, the one she remembered from Hogwarts. The look that said– ' I’m trying to be brave, but if you wound me right now, I may never recover.' It was hard to see it on Ron as an adult, but it was also indistinguishable from the boy she’d known. She was struck by the sudden memory of him as a thirteen year old, the way his face would redden so easily, the way he’d go out of his way to impress her, bumbling and sweet. Even now, there was something so boyish about him– an earnestness that had always made her want to forgive him for any trespass, to reach out and reassure him. It wasn’t love, not in a romantic way. He didn’t make her heartbeat quicken or her face flush, but there was a deep sort of care for him that felt like it lived in her very bones. Perhaps it always would.
There was something achingly familiar about Ron, like a well-worn jumper she no longer wore but still kept folded in the back of her wardrobe. It hit her then, all at once, how much of her life had been shaped by knowing him. Laughing with him. Fighting with him. Loving him. Being his friend.
Hermione folded her hands in her lap, meeting his eyes with a half-smile. “I know. It’s been awhile since we did this.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I was glad, though. I thought maybe—” He hesitated, smiling sheepishly. “I dunno. I guess I thought maybe you were missing me.”
Hermione blinked, throat tightening. “Ron…”
The smile on his face faltered. He knew that tone. He leaned back in his chair, the hope in his eyes beginning to dim.
“I wanted to talk to you,” she said gently. “Because I’ve started seeing someone. And I know things have been… complicated between us. And I care about you, Ron. So I wanted you to hear it from me, and not anyone else.”
Ron went still. It wasn’t a dramatic reaction– not a slammed fist or a string of curses, but something in his face shifted all at once. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, and for a second, he just stared at her, like she’d spoken in a language he didn’t understand.
“You’re… what?” he said finally, voice low.
Hermione’s chest ached. “I’m seeing someone,” she repeated softly. “It’s new, but it’s serious.”
His eyes searched her face, and then his expression shifted to something like hurt confusion, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he didn’t really want to solve.
“Who?”
She reached for her wand, casting a Silencing charm on the booth. Just in case.
She swallowed. “Theo Nott.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Ron practically recoiled. “Wait. Nott? Ex-Death Eater, the one you spent over a year fighting to get released?”
She nodded, biting her lip anxiously.
Ron shook his head in slow disbelief. “You were at every hearing, every Ministry meeting about his parole. You nearly got yourself sacked trying to get him out of Azkaban– and now you’re with him? Like, properly… with him?”
Hermione exhaled. “Yes. I didn’t plan it, trust me. It just sort of… happened.”
He was still looking at her as if she’d slapped him across the face. “Right. Okay. So you’re dating… Theodore Nott.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I don’t understand. I don’t get how you moved on like this. I thought— fuck, Hermione.”
He dropped his head into his hands for a painfully quiet moment, then dragged his eyes up to meet hers. He looked so gutted that it made her stomach twist. “I mean, things weren’t great between us towards the end of our relationship, I know. But I thought that was something we were going to work through,” he said finally.
Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Ron, things weren’t just not great . We were unhappy. We were stuck in something neither of us really wanted to be in.”
“That’s not true,” he said quickly. “Maybe toward the end, but I thought it was just… I dunno. I thought it was something you were going through. I thought you just needed time. I kept telling myself to give you space. I didn’t know you were giving up. That you’d end up with someone else.” He swallowed hard, like he was holding back tears.
“We’ve been broken up for almost two years now. If we were going to get back together… I think we already would have.” She bit her lip. “I wasn’t happy, Ron,” she said again, softly. “You weren’t, either.”
“That’s not–” He stopped, inhaling like he was trying to steady himself. “That’s not fair. I tried, Hermione. I really tried.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I know I wasn’t perfect, but I loved you so much. I still do. And I would’ve done anything for you. But you just kept… pulling away. Like you didn’t want me to see what was going on with you.”
“I didn’t mean to pull away,” she said miserably. “I just didn’t know how to talk about things. With anyone.”
“But I asked,” he said. “Again and again. I practically begged you to let me in, and you never did. After your trip to Australia, you just shut me out completely. And then it was years of that, Hermione. Years of you pushing me away and pretending nothing happened with your parents.”
She winced. “Ron, I really don’t want to–”
“Talk about it. Yeah, I know,” he said, his jaw tight. “You never did. I knew you were hurting, and you insisted you were fine. Buried yourself in work and kept pushing me away.”
She didn’t respond. Her nails dug into her palm under the table.
He continued, as if the dam had broken and there was no stopping what was coming out of his mouth now. “I had to piece it together on my own– what happened in Australia, and I still don’t even know the full truth. You barely told me a thing about it, just that it didn’t work out . Remember how I had to bloody force you to go see a Mind Healer? And you went to two sessions and quit?” He exhaled roughly.
“I know you were lonely, Hermione. I know you were sad. But so was I. You think it didn’t kill me? Loving someone who only gave me pieces of herself?”
Hermione’s eyes were burning. She felt cracked open, like he had just excavated everything she had buried years ago, dragging it into the light and forcing her to look at it head-on.
His voice was softer when he spoke again. “I wanted to be the person for you. I wanted to help. But you never let me in. And maybe I should’ve walked away sooner. But I thought you were it for me. I really did.”
She swallowed thickly, her voice low. “I’m sorry.”
Ron shook his head, eyes red. “No… just– stop.” He dragged a hand over his face. “You don’t need to apologize, Hermione. I’m not angry. Just… it just hurts. I guess I was a bit delusional, thinking this was just temporary. That we’d find our way back to each other.”
Her words stuck in her mouth, and she stared down at the table numbly. She wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. She tried to take deep, steadying breaths, willing herself not to break down in front of him.
Ron stood suddenly, easing into the booth beside her. “Hey,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have– that wasn’t fair of me, to go off on you like that. I just… I didn’t know I still had that much sitting in me until it all came out.”
Hermione didn’t look at him. Her fingers traced a small scratch in the table’s surface, her throat tight.
“I’m not proud of it,” he said. “I didn’t say all that to guilt you, I swear. I just– I think I needed to say it, you know? For me. Because I’ve been carrying it around like a bloody extension of my own body.” He let out a bitter little laugh. “It’s like I was so busy hoping you’d come back, I never let myself admit that maybe you’d already moved on.”
Hermione’s eyes prickled. She nodded once, still unable to speak. She could feel his shirt brushing against hers, could smell his familiar smell– a faint linen scent, like clean laundry, his spearmint toothpaste, his aftershave.
“I love you, Hermione,” he said, and she felt like her heart could split in two. “I think a part of me always will. But you’re right, that I need to let you go. And I’m glad you’re doing what’s right for you. Standing up for yourself,” he said with a sad smile. “You deserve to be happy. Even if it’s with a Slytherin.” He nudged her gently, almost playfully.
Hermione let out a little, sad laugh. Then she finally looked at him then and saw all of it– the ache, the resignation, the years of friendship and almosts and could-have-beens folded between them.
“Thank you,” she said softly. Her voice was raw. “For saying all of that. And for being honest with me.”
Ron gave a small nod, his eyes still a little red. “Yeah. Well. You were always the brave one between the two of us. Figured it was my turn.”
She let out a weak chuckle, and for a second, they just sat there in the quiet hum of the pub, shoulder to shoulder.
“I think you’re going to make someone really happy, Ron,” she said quietly. “She’ll be lucky to have you, whoever she is.”
“Thanks,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I hope so. Someday.” He hesitated for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure he should ask. “Erm– Nott. He makes you happy? He’s good to you?”
She nodded. “He does. And he is.”
Ron nodded, slow and stiff, like he was making peace with a truth he didn’t want to swallow. “Good. That’s– that’s really good.” He stood, hovering awkwardly for a moment. Then he looked down at her with something between resignation and affection. “We’ll be okay, you know. Eventually.”
She nodded again, because it was the only thing she could manage.
Then he gave her a sad sort of smile. “You were right, by the way. About us not being happy. I just… really wanted to be.” He reached into his pocket and laid a few coins down on the table. “Don’t worry about the bill. I’ll see you around, ‘Mione.”
Hermione touched his arm gently. “Take care of yourself, Ron.”
“You too,” he said, his voice catching slightly. Then he offered her a crooked smile– soft, sad, and familiar, and turned to go.
She watched him disappear into the crowd before stepping outside, the night air sharp and cool against her skin.
---------------------
Hermione strongly considered just going back to her flat and crawling into bed, letting the exhaustion and heaviness of the evening swallow her up. But strangely, she realized, she didn’t want to.
She wanted to see Theo.
She wanted to lay fresh eyes on him, to look at him now that she’d finally done something that had weighed so heavily on her conscience for so long. She wanted to look into his eyes and make sure the pull was still there, that all of this hadn’t been some strange figment of her imagination.
She took a steadying breath and Disapparated, landing just outside Blaise’s building a moment later. The windows were dark except for the soft glow of the living room, and when she let herself in with the spare key he’d insisted she take, she found him exactly where she expected– sitting cross-legged on the couch, thumbing through one of the books she’d left behind, Crookshanks curled against him like an emotional support blanket.
He looked up the second the door opened, his eyes flicking to her face like he was trying to read the whole evening in an instant.
“You’re back,” he said, quiet, almost cautious.
“I am,” she said, managing a tired smile as she shut the door behind her.
Theo closed the book and set it on the coffee table, but he didn’t stand. He just watched her carefully, still searching her face for some sort of clue as to what she was thinking.
She dropped her bag by the door and crossed the room slowly. He looked calm, but she could feel the nervous energy rolling off of him, like he’d been pacing for hours before finally collapsing onto the sofa to wait.
He didn’t press. Just tilted his head, still studying her. “You look… sad.”
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “A little. But I’m also relieved. And maybe some other emotions that I don’t quite know how to decipher at the moment.”
Theo nodded once, slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. He didn’t speak right away. Just watched her with that quiet intensity of his, like he was taking stock of every inch of her, trying to figure out what she needed. Then, after a beat, his shoulders eased the slightest bit, and he opened his arms, tilting his head.
A question. An invitation.
Hermione didn’t hesitate. She crossed the last few steps and folded herself into him, sinking down into his lap as if she belonged there. His arms came around her instinctively, pulling her to his chest as she let out a breath she felt like she’d been holding all day.
And then, without warning, her eyes burned, and the tears just came. She didn’t even know she’d needed to cry until she saw him, until he’d reached for her. He held her without a word, his hands moving slowly across her back, his presence a steady anchor in the swirling mess of her emotions. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer platitudes. He just stayed with her, letting her crumble in the safety of his arms.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know I was going to–”
“Don’t apologize, Hermione,” he said quietly. “You never need to apologize for falling apart with me.”
She exhaled, a shaky sound against his skin, then sat back, wiping her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” he said, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Was it– do you want to talk about it?”
Hermione took a deep breath. “Yeah. I do. I think I need to.”
Theo’s eyes searched hers, cautious but open. “You don’t have to force it.”
“I’m not,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “I want to. I think I’ve been… holding onto a lot. For a long time. And tonight sort of brought up some things I didn’t expect.”
He didn’t speak. Just gave the smallest of nods, and she could feel how hard he was trying not to lean in too much, not to crowd her. Just giving her space. But staying right there, not pulling away either.
Hermione shifted slightly in his lap, picking at her fingernails. “Ron said some things tonight that I wasn’t ready for. Things I hadn’t really let myself think about.” She swallowed. “I was prepared for him to be hurt. Angry, even. I wasn’t prepared for him to be right about some of it.”
Theo’s brow furrowed, but he stayed quiet.
“I think I told myself a version of the story that was easier to live with,” she admitted, her voice small.
“That I’d tried my best, but he couldn’t give me what I needed. That I’d outgrown the relationship. And that was true, in part. But there were pieces I left out. Things I sort of… misunderstood. Like– how I’d come home from work, full of energy, wanting to talk about everything I’d done that day, and I’d see him sort of… check out. Disengage. I used to think it was because he didn’t care. That he wasn’t interested in the things that mattered to me.”
She drew in a slow breath, her eyes stinging again. “But when he was talking tonight, I realized he hadn’t been disinterested. He was trying. And he was hurt. Because while I was going on about my work, I was refusing to talk about any of the painful things. I buried myself in it. I didn’t want to deal with anything else. Especially what happened with my parents.”
Theo’s arms tightened around her, but he didn’t speak.
“I never told anyone. Not even Harry, not even Ginny. I honestly don’t know why.” She took a deep, steadying breath.
“I went to Australia to find them just over a year after the war. By myself. I had already waited so long because I was tracking them down, doing research about Memory charms, but also because… I was scared. I ended up finding them in Perth. They were living under new names, new jobs, new memories, just like I’d arranged.”
She could feel his heart beating beneath her cheek as she went on. “I went all the way there thinking I could fix it, you know? With just a flick of my wand.” She let out a humorless laugh. “That I could restore everything, that we could just go back to normal. I brought every book I could find, every legal document I’d need. I was so sure that if I just did it right, if I said the spell with the proper intent, it would all come back.”
She drew in a sharp, wet breath. “It didn’t work. Or it did, but not all the way. My dad– he didn’t recognize me at all. Just looked sort of lost and confused. My mum… she remembered me, I think. But she was terrified. She didn’t want anything to do with me. I tried to explain, I begged them to let me fix it, but she just screamed at me. She was… hysterical. It was awful.”
Her hands were shaking now, because this was more than she’d told anyone. The first time she’d said any of these words aloud, the first time she let these memories resurface willingly. “I was panicking at that point– I had no idea what else to do, so I reversed it and just… left. I came back here and I told everyone it went fine, but we had issues to work through, that they wanted to stay in Australia. I couldn’t lie to Ron, even though I tried. So I just said it didn’t work out. Nothing more.”
Theo’s hand kept moving over her back.
“I lied to everyone, Theo. I was so ashamed– I just kept thinking– what kind of person does that? What kind of daughter makes a decision like that without asking anyone for help? I was sixteen when I tampered with their memories. I thought I could handle it. I thought I was doing the right thing. But I ruined their lives. I stole everything from them.”
She stifled a rising sob. “And for what? Some half-baked plan I didn’t even know how to reverse?” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I just keep thinking– if I’d talked to McGonagall, or even Kingsley, maybe someone could’ve helped me do it properly. Or maybe if I’d tried to talk to my mum and dad about what was happening, if I begged them to go into hiding, maybe they’d understand and go along with it. But I didn’t. I just… made the decision for them. Like I knew what was best.”
Theo finally spoke, his voice rough. “You were sixteen, Hermione.”
“I know,” she said, bitterly. “That’s the problem.”
“No, that’s the context,” he said, more firmly. “You were sixteen, the world was ending, and you were being hunted. Really, truly hunted. Of course you didn’t ask for help. There was no one to help you. You think the adults that let you and two other teenagers carry the whole bloody war on your backs were suddenly going to step in and save the day? You were already doing more than anyone should’ve had to at that age. You made an impossible choice, and yeah, it didn’t work out how you wanted. But you didn’t ruin their lives. You saved them.”
She looked up at him, her throat thick with tears.
“I mean it,” he said. “You think The Dark L– Voldemort– wouldn’t have sent his people after them? Your parents had a massive target on their backs. You were Harry Potter’s Muggle-born best friend, arguably the fucking brains of the whole operation– your parents would’ve been captured before you could even blink. Trust me, I would know.”
She felt a chill run down her spine, but said nothing as he continued. “You erased their memories because you loved them. Because you were trying to protect them. That doesn’t make you reckless. That makes you brave.”
Hermione’s mouth trembled. “But I didn’t fix it.”
“No,” he said gently. “But maybe that’s because you were doing it on your own, once again. Maybe you need to start asking for help, Hermione. You can’t fix everything by yourself. No one can, right?”
Hermione sat in silence for a long moment, her head still pressed against his shoulder. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse.
“I never realized how much I was hurting Ron by keeping all of that in. I thought it was better to just handle it on my own, that I was being noble or brave or something. But I was just shutting him out.”
She felt Theo still under her.
“I don’t regret ending things,” she added quickly. “Not for a second. We weren’t right for each other. We never will be. But I think I made it worse by pretending I was fine all the time. By only giving him parts of myself, and holding back the rest.”
She pulled back and looked at him, her eyes searching. “I just– I really don’t want to do that anymore. Not with you.”
Theo’s brow furrowed and his lips parted like he wanted to speak, but wasn’t sure of the right words. “Okay,” he said finally. “I don’t… want you to do that either.”
“Are you in this, Theo? Like really? You’re serious about me?” She asked, her heart pounding.
“Hermione,” he said, breathless. “Are you kidding? I’ve been in this since the moment you showed up at my front door. I’m so in this it’s laughable, actually.”
She gave him a watery smile. “Okay. Because I don’t want you to hold back with me either. Don’t shut me out. Don’t keep things from me because you think I’ll look at you differently. I don’t want half of you.”
He was still staring at her, like he didn’t quite know how she got here in front of him. Like he was trying to memorize everything– her face, her voice, the way she was looking at him. His eyes dropped down to her lips, then followed the pattern of her tears back up to her eyes.
“Because I’m already yours, you know,” she said quietly. “Really. And I know it probably scares you, but I want you to let me in. The things you wanted to tell me but you thought they’d make me run? I want to know them. I want to know it all.”
“Yeah?” Theo said softly. “Okay. Yeah. Time for honesty, then.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck, I’m nervous.”
Hermione tilted her head in confusion, but he continued, his pupils blown wide, his chest rising and falling beneath her hand. “You don’t want me to hold back? Alright.”
“I love you, Hermione.”
Her lips parted in surprise, but he didn’t stop. “I’m in love with you. I am. And… you terrify me. But not in a bad way. You just–” He stopped, laughing once, almost bitterly. “You wreck me. You came out of nowhere and just… upended everything I thought I understood about myself. About what I deserved.”
She felt like the world was tilting out from underneath her– and then, the unmistakable feeling of butterflies in her stomach. Like she was a teenager again.
Theo swallowed, trying to find the words. “When I got out of Azkaban, I wasn’t really planning on living. Not properly. I didn’t think I deserved to– that I had anything to look forward to, you know? I didn’t think I’d find a job, or friends, and definitely not… this. You.”
He blinked down at their hands, his thumb brushing over hers. “And then you came to check on me. Just to be kind. And I didn’t know what the fuck to do with that. I still don’t, half the time. You’re so kind. And clever. And overwhelming in every way. You make people want to be better. You made me want to be better. And for the first time in a long time, I started thinking maybe I wasn’t too far gone.”
His voice was rough now, his words quieter. “You make me feel like maybe I could be someone worth loving. And I know I’ve got a lot of shit to work through. I know I don’t always get it right. But I want to try. And I know it’s probably too fast, and the worst possible time to say all this. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t fucking love you. And if you’re giving me all of you– then I’m giving you everything back. I hope that’s okay.”
Hermione didn’t speak at first.
She felt it in her chest before she could name it– like a rush of wind through an open door she hadn’t realized was closed. Something tender and ancient and brand new all at once. The words sat heavy on the air between them, and she just let them hang there for a moment. Let herself sit in them.
Because he’d just said he loved her. And now he was staring at her with wide-eyed panic, like he’d just blown up his whole life, like he was free-falling without any idea where he’d land.
And she knew, somewhere beneath all the ache in her chest and the buzz in her limbs, with a quiet certainty– that she loved him too. She had for a while. She’d just been afraid to believe it, to accept that was what was happening to her. Afraid of how quickly it had happened. Afraid of what it might mean to hand over something as sacred as her heart, when she’d spent so long protecting it.
But now, hearing it from him, not perfectly, not neatly, but honestly– something inside her just… settled.
Hermione let out a breath and met his eyes. “I love you, too.”
Theo blinked. Like he fully hadn’t expected her to say it back. Like maybe part of him still didn’t believe he deserved it.
She gave a small, helpless laugh and went on. “I think I’ve known it for awhile, but I was afraid to admit it at first. Because it’s fast, and it’s terrifying, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before. But it’s true. I’m in love with you, Theo.”
He stared at her for a moment, and then, the corner of his mouth twitched. It was barely there at first, like he didn’t quite trust it. Like if he smiled too much, she might take it back. But the longer he looked at her, the more it grew– boyish, incredulous, and completely unguarded. And then, just as quickly, he dipped his head and looked down at his hands, as if the full force of what she’d said was too much to meet head-on. His smile was still tugging at the corners of his mouth, though, like he couldn’t stop it no matter how hard he tried.
Hermione’s chest pulled tight. “You keep doing that,” she said softly.
He glanced up. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you don’t believe me.”
Theo let out a breath, part laugh, part exhale of something too big for words. “I want to. It’s just… hard to wrap my head around.”
Hermione shifted closer, bringing her hand to his cheek, forcing him to meet her gaze again.
“Do you want to know why I love you?” she asked.
“Oh.” His brows pulled together. “You don’t have to–”
“I want to,” she interrupted gently. “I love you because you’re good, even when you think you’re not. Because you listen so carefully. Because you’re curious and witty and you make me laugh. Because you always make space for me, even when you’re hurting.”
She smiled faintly. “Because you say things like ‘you never have to apologize for falling apart with me’ and mean them. Because I came here to check up on you as a favor to Blaise, and I ended up staying because it felt so good to be around you. And since then, I haven’t wanted to be anywhere else. You make me feel safe, and comfortable, and valued. No one has ever seen me the way you do.”
Theo’s throat bobbed, and he looked like he might actually come undone right there.
Hermione traced his jaw with her fingertips. “I love you. I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it.”
He met her eyes, his chest rising and falling. And then, without saying anything else, he kissed her. Almost like he was discovering it in real time. Like the words she’d just said had shattered something open in him and he needed to find solid ground again. His lips brushed hers with an aching care that made her breath catch– soft, reverent, unsure at first, like he was afraid she might disappear if he got it wrong.
But then she kissed him back without hesitation, without fear– and something in him gave. His hand came up to cup her jaw, and the kiss deepened, slow and steady and full of quiet, burning intensity, like he wanted to pour everything he couldn’t say into that single moment.
It wasn’t rushed or desperate. It was all feeling. All trust. Like the floodgates had opened and they were free to do this forever.
When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes still closed like he was trying to memorize the way it felt to be that close to her. And then, just barely above a whisper, he said, “Say it again?”
-------------------------
I am an architect
Of days that haven't happened yet
I can't believe a month is all it's been
You know my paper heart
The one I fill with pencil marks
I think I might have gone and inked you in
Little by little, inch by inch
We built a yard
With a garden in the middle of it
It ain't much, but it's a start
You got me swaying right along
To the song in your heart
And a face to call home
A face to call home
You got a face to call home
-John Mayer
Notes:
And the crowd is....? What do we think, y'all?
One thing I won't do is over-the-top Ron bashing. Was he kind of a brat in canon sometimes? Yes. Could he be immature and insecure? Absolutely! But just like so many other characters have gotten their redemption arc in fanfic, I've always thought Ron deserves one too. It's entirely plausible to me that he would have emotionally matured and grown into a better person than he was as an adolescent, and I refuse to do him as a character the disservice of writing him off as a villain in Hermione's story. Not gonna lie, I actually teared up a little bit writing the pub scene. If you're like me and have been in relationships that you outgrew or fell out of love with someone at some point, I hope this resonates with you.
But moving on to Theo... ahhh our boy finally got the validation and love he's been craving! Hermione came to her senses at last and stopped hiding from the truth. *cue the chorus of Happy Xmas (War Is Over)*
Chapter 17: Big Black Car
Notes:
Hello lovelies! There are a few content warnings for this chapter, so please check the end notes if needed and take care of yourselves.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Don’t be nervous,” Hermione said, her hands slipping around Theo’s waist as he stood in front of the mirror, trying– and failing– to get the buttons on his shirt to line up straight.
“I’m not,” he grumbled.
She gave him a look in the mirror.
He exhaled. “Fine. I’m mildly… tense.”
She laughed, then reached up and fixed his buttons, straightening his collar. “It’s just dinner.”
“It’s dinner with The Chosen One. And his boyfriend, in their charming little Hogsmeade cottage,” he huffed.
Hermione pinched him.
“Ouch!”
“First off, if you want to make a good impression you ought to stop calling him that.”
Theo grumbled something that came out sounding particularly caveman-like. Merlin, here he was, twenty-three years old and requiring a pep talk in order to break bread with Harry Potter. Fifteen year old Theo would’ve been appalled.
She smiled then, smoothing his collar down again. “And besides, Blaise will be there. And so will Ginny. They both already love you.”
Theo made a face at himself in the mirror. “Blaise has known me since we were practically in nappies. He doesn’t count, he’s biased. And as for Ginevra… I think she just finds me mildly amusing. Like watching a dog chase its own tail, or something equally as tragic.”
Hermione smiled and tugged him gently away from the mirror. “Well… I love you. And that’s a bit more relevant, isn’t it?”
Theo stilled, and his pulse skyrocketed. He was still getting used to this– Hermione Granger saying she loved him, as casually as she might mention that evening’s weather.
He swallowed and turned to face her. She was wearing a soft, simple dress in a pale peach color that made her skin glow, her curls pinned half-up, effortlessly, like she’d barely tried. She had some kind of sheer shimmery business on her lips that somehow made them look even more irresistible than usual, and a simple gold pendant hung around her neck.
“You look beautiful,” he blurted out earnestly. “Like– stupidly beautiful. I don’t have the words for it.”
Her eyes softened, and she leaned up to kiss him. “Thank you.”
“And I… love you too, by the way. More than I know how to tell you.”
She beamed, radiant and genuine. “Then show me?” she whispered, her breath tickling his ear.
Theo didn’t need to be told twice.
His hand found the back of her neck, fingers threading through her curls as he pulled her in, kissing her like it was the only way he knew how to speak. It was unhurried but deep, anchored in the certainty that he could kiss her for the rest of his life and still not get enough. Her hands slid up his chest, gripping his shirt as she leaned into him, warm and real and entirely his– something he still couldn’t quite fathom.
He pushed her back against the wall, lips brushing her neck, her collarbone. She sighed, her body melting into his. Just then, they were interrupted by a quick knock , followed by the door opening.
“If you two are snogging, I want in,” Ginny called, striding in without a trace of shame. “Been ages since I had a proper pre-dinner shag.”
Hermione let out a mortified squeak and all but leapt out of Theo’s arms. He groaned and dropped his head back against the wall, muttering something nonsensical about boundaries and roommates and Weasleys.
Ginny leaned against the doorway, completely unbothered. “Honestly, I only came because Blaise was getting impatient. We were due there twenty minutes ago, you know. Rather un-Hermione-like of you to be late,” she raised an eyebrow. “But now I see why. Can’t say I blame you, really. If I’d known Nott cleaned up this well, I might’ve made a move first.” She grinned wickedly.
Hermione turned about six shades of red. “Honestly, Ginny!”
Theo snorted. “Don’t worry, there’s still time, Ginevra,” he said smoothly. “Although, fair warning– you may have to duel Hermione for me. And frankly, I don’t like your odds.”
Hermione batted him on the arm, and Ginny smirked. “Fair enough. You’re right, that one’s a bit feisty. Seriously though, let’s go before I bring Blaise in here and propose a foursome,” she added, followed by a cackle that was frankly frightening.
“For fuck’s sake,” Theo said, but he was laughing.
Ginny strolled out of the room and Hermione turned to him, kissing him once more, quick and soft. “Come on, Mr. Nott. Let’s go win over Harry Potter.”
----------------------------
Overall, dinner turned out to be far less unpleasant than Theo had anticipated. Potter was significantly more laid-back and normal than he remembered, and his partner, Spencer, was warm and friendly– quick with jokes, generous with wine refills, and not at all what Theo expected from the bloke dating the Chosen One.
Initially, Theo was rather stunned that Potter and Ginny (who he’d once assumed would be married with at least six red-haired children by now), now dined together amicably with their respective partners. But he had to admit, she and Blaise were a good buffer, breaking any potential tension with their easy banter and shameless flirtation. And Potter and Ginny seemed to be very close friends, without any hint of awkwardness that Theo could detect.
“Alright, Babyface?” Blaise asked as they were about to sit down, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
“Never better,” Theo mumbled.
“You’ll be fine. Just be your regular sarcastic arsehole of a self.”
He rolled his eyes, sliding into the chair next to Hermione and accepting the glass of wine Ginny handed him, perhaps a bit too eagerly. As always, the wine helped to smooth his nervous edges, as did Hermione’s hand in his, resting casually between their chairs under the table, her thumb occasionally tracing slow, grounding circles along his skin.
“So, Theo,” Spencer said, after a few minutes of general chaos and banter. “Hermione tells us you’ve been adjusting to civilian life. How’s that going?”
Theo nearly choked on his sip of wine, but Hermione squeezed his hand once– steady, reassuring, and he recovered quickly. “Erm, yeah. It’s… an ongoing process.”
Spencer nodded, unfazed. “I imagine so. You doing okay with everything?”
Theo hesitated. His instinct was to deflect, to say he was fine and change the subject. But Hermione was still holding his hand, and something about Spencer’s tone– open, nonjudgmental– made it feel safe to be honest. Or at least, semi- honest.
“I’ve had easier transitions,” he admitted, managing a wry smile.
Spencer nodded sympathetically. “Perfectly understandable,” he said. “The UK has a lot of work to do in that department– criminal justice reform, rehabilitation, reintegration, that sort of thing. I wish there were more supports for people reentering society, although I know Hermione’s been hard at work on that.” He glanced over at her in undisguised admiration.
Hermione smiled warmly at Spencer, then frowned. “You’re right. It’s terrible, really. We just throw people into prison and once they get out, we expect them to just… adjust. I’m hopeful things will change.”
Theo stared at his hands, unsure how to contribute to the conversation. Spencer cleared his throat. “Harry tells me you’d thought about finding a job, Theo?”
“Harry!” Hermione said. “That wasn’t meant to–”
Potter cringed visibly.
Theo patted her hand. “It’s alright. Not a big secret that my days are rather aimless. Yeah, I’d like to find something. Just no idea what I’d do… or who would want to hire me at the moment,” he added with a grimace.
“Well…” Spencer said, placing his fork down thoughtfully, “I know it’s not glamorous, but if you ever want something to do while you’re figuring things out… I run a little café down in the village. Could always use an extra pair of hands.”
Theo blinked. “A café,” he echoed dumbly.
“Yeah,” Spencer said. “Like I said, nothing glamorous, just making lattes and baking muffins, maybe some book balancing. But if you’re interested, I’d welcome the help, truly.”
“Theo makes a pretty decent latte, actually,” Hermione said.
“I can attest to that,” Blaise said with a lazy smirk.
“She’s exaggerating,” Theo said. “They both are. I just don’t burn them anymore.”
Ginny snorted. “I didn’t even know you could burn coffee.”
“Apparently, you can,” Theo said. Then he turned to Spencer, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I– uh, thanks for the offer. Really. I’ll think about it, if that’s okay?”
“Of course,” Spencer said. “Oh! And let me know if you’d like the name for a great Mind Healer. I’m not sure if you’re already seeing one, but I’d highly recommend it.”
Once again, Theo almost choked on his wine. Hermione patted his back patiently like a mum might do to a child just learning how to eat and drink properly. Wonderful.
Potter cleared his throat. “You’ll have to excuse him, Nott. He’s American. Grew up in a family that actually talks about their problems.”
Theo managed a smile. “How very un-British.”
“Oh, wildly inappropriate, Spencer, mate,” Blaise chimed in, swirling his wine. “Imagine expressing feelings at the dinner table. My mother would be appalled.”
Ginny snorted into her drink. “Truly barbaric.”
Potter chuckled. “Spence, if you’re going to live here you’ve got to learn to do things the way we do– repress everything until it manifests in a stress-related ulcer, or something.”
“A nervous breakdown, perhaps,” Ginny added thoughtfully.
Harry and Theo nodded solemnly.
“Oh yes,” Blaise added smoothly. “It’s practically an art form. In Pureblood circles, we don’t just bury feelings– we entomb them. Velvet-lined coffins. Golden plaques. Ceremony and everything.”
Theo nodded, deadpan. “Too right, mate.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “You lot are ridiculous. Don’t listen to them, Spencer, they’re exaggerating. We’re not that repressed as a society.”
Blaise smirked. “Please, Granger. I think the last time I cried I was promptly enrolled in fencing lessons.”
Ginny raised a brow in disbelief. “Fencing? Really?”
He shrugged, sipping his wine. “What can I say, I was raised to believe emotions were gauche.”
“Well I was raised to believe any difficult emotion could be sorted by doing an absurd amount of baking,” Ginny said primly.
Hermione clinked her glass against Ginny’s. “Now that I can get behind.”
Theo shook his head, amused. But beneath the humor, something about Spencer’s offer lingered– thoughtful, genuine, and wholly unexpected. The conversation turned to other things– Ginny’s most recent match, Blaise’s trip to Singapore and his next one to France, Shacklebolt’s most recent statement on the regulation of magical creatures following an incident with a rogue Kelpie last week. He even found himself participating here and there, jumping in to make a sarcastic remark or ask a question, surprising even himself.
Somehow, he felt far more relaxed than he expected to, in a room full of Hermione’s friends.
----------------------
Of course, that state of relaxation didn’t last very long. After dinner, Ginny and Blaise insisted on doing the washing-up– which Theo sincerely hoped wasn’t a ploy to snog each other senseless in the kitchen. Hermione then asked Spencer for a tour of his garden (which Theo was certain she’d already seen before).
Unfortunately, this left Theo and Potter alone in the living room. Theo wasn’t sure if it should make him feel more or less uncomfortable that The Chosen One seemed to find the arrangement as awkward as he did.
“More wine?” Potter asked, already opening a bottle of red.
“Please,” Theo said, trying not to sound too eager. He’d definitely need something to ease the tension in his body.
Potter poured generously and handed him the glass, then dropped into the armchair across from Theo with a sigh. “They weren’t exactly subtle, were they?”
Theo snorted. “No, they weren’t. How long do you think she’ll hold him hostage out there?”
“You know, I think it’s a mutual hostage situation,” Potter said with a laugh.
Theo took a sip, then glanced toward the window, where he could just make out Hermione laughing with Spencer in the garden, her hair catching the last of the sunlight.
Potter’s eyes darted around the room awkwardly, clearly grappling for a safe topic of conversation. He fidgeted with his sleeve and cleared his throat, but still didn’t say anything. Merlin, it was like the blind leading the blind, wasn’t it?
Theo took a deep, steely breath and a generous sip of wine then turned to face him. “So,” he said. “What’s it like, teaching?”
Harry blinked. “Hm?”
“At Hogwarts,” Theo said slowly. “You’re still teaching Defense, yeah?”
“Oh. Yeah. I am,” Harry replied, clearly surprised. “It’s… good, actually. Not what I thought I’d end up doing, but I like it. The kids are chaotic, but smart. They keep me on my toes.”
Theo huffed a breath. “I dunno how you do it. I barely survived the kids in our year, honestly.”
“Really?” Potter asked with a frown. “I don’t remember you getting into much trouble– in fact, I always remember you as sort of keeping your head down. I think you were the only Slytherin bloke I didn’t end up dueling, one way or another.”
“That’s only because I had no interest in dying,” Theo deadpanned. “Or in drawing attention to myself, for that matter.”
“Smart move,” Potter said. Then he cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something… er, sort of personal? And a bit random, maybe?”
“Alright,” Theo said cautiously.
“Fifth year,” Potter said. “In our Care of Magical Creatures class– you said you could see the Thestrals.”
“Ah,” Theo said, the memory of the day resurfacing. “Yeah. It was my mum, before you ask. The reason I could see them.”
Potter nodded slowly, frowning. “Oh.” He ran a hand through his comically askew hair. “There were only a small handful of us that could– I saw them too. Obviously.”
“Right.”
There was a tense beat of silence before Potter broke it.
“It wasn’t my parents, though,” he said, swirling his wine around. “That’s probably what most people would assume. But from what Hagrid told me later, you can’t see Thestrals unless you’re sort of forced to realize the… permanence of death. Until you experience it firsthand, watch someone die.” He winced. “So really, it was Cedric. He’s the real reason I could see them, I think.”
Theo swallowed. “I remember that,” he said quietly. “Diggory. Fucking awful. He was a nice bloke– smart, friendly. It was senseless, really.”
“Yeah,” Potter said, staring at a spot on the rug. “It was. One second he was alive, yelling at me to run and then he was just… dead.”
There was a beat of silence, then he spoke again. “Sorry for asking– about the Thestrals, I mean. I just– I was always curious.”
“It’s alright, mate,” Theo said, shrugging. Then, for some reason, he added “I was thirteen when she died. My mum.”
Potter nodded, then hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you…”
“Saw it. Yeah,” Theo sighed, wondering how in Merlin’s name they’d ended up talking about this , of all things. “It wasn’t murder, or anything. Not… deliberate. But he caused it.”
Potter’s brow furrowed. “Your father?”
“Yeah,” Theo laughed dryly. “Sorry. Should’ve clarified. The infamous Nott patriarch. He didn’t kill her, not exactly. But he pushed her to the edge, and then acted surprised when she went over it.”
Potter leaned forward, clearly interested, but not wanting to press. Theo told him anyways– he wasn’t sure why.
“My dad was older than her. By quite a few years. They had nothing in common– it was an arranged marriage. I think she was… lonely. Her family was mainly in Italy– that’s where she grew up, and I don’t think she ever really adjusted to the whole pureblood scene in Britain. My father was… not a kind man, as I’m sure you know.”
“He’s in Azkaban now, right?”
Theo nodded. “And good riddance.”
He cleared his throat, suddenly conscious of how much he was revealing– to Harry bloody Potter, no less. Somehow, though, it felt almost natural. Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it was the fact that Potter wasn’t looking at him with pity or shock, just the quiet understanding of someone who’d seen his fair share of unspeakable tragedy.
“She wasn’t dead when I found her,” Theo said after a moment. His voice was lower now, rough around the edges. “She’d taken something. A lot of… something. I didn’t even know what at the time, just that she wasn’t waking up. Her lips were sort of… blue,” he said.
He’d never actually spoken to anyone aloud about this, aside from Hermione. It was almost surreal. “I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen anything like that before. I thought she was already gone.” He paused. “I just remember, er… screaming. I didn’t think I was capable of it, but I screamed and screamed until the elves came. They called for a Healer, but it was too late.”
He cleared his throat. “She died before they got there. In our library, on that awful green sofa she always hated.”
Theo swirled the wine in his glass, watching the way the light caught the deep purple of it. “My father barely spoke to me afterwards. We just sort of… coexisted. Well, for awhile. Until he needed my services.” He laughed humorlessly.
Potter was quiet for a long beat. “That’s… I’m so sorry.”
Theo gave a faint shrug, eyes still fixed on the glass. “It was a long time ago.”
They sat in silence for a while. Not the awkward kind anymore, just sort of full. Heavy with the weight of what had been shared.
Then Theo let out a breath. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”
Potter laughed quietly. “S’alright. It gives me some… perspective. I always thought I had the worst childhood in the castle. Not that it was a competition, but, you know.”
Theo snorted. “You still would have won, probably.” He glanced up, studying the man across from him for a moment. “Don’t let this go to your head, Potter, but you turned out… shockingly well-adjusted.”
Harry raised his glass in a lazy toast. “Thanks. Trauma builds character, or something like that.”
Theo clinked his glass against his. “Is that what it does?” he asked, but he was smiling. “Cheers, Potter.”
“You can call me Harry, y’know.”
Theo snorted. “It’ll be a bit of an adjustment, but I’ll do my best.” He tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair. “If you don’t mind, I prefer Theo, actually. For… obvious reasons.”
“Right. Of course. No problem.”
There was another beat of silence, this one more comfortable than the last.
“So,” Potter said, fidgeting with the stem of his wine glass, “things are going well, then. With you and Hermione.”
Theo blinked. “Was that a question?”
“Er, yes? I mean, clearly things are going well. I guess I was just wondering– erm, what you thought,” he finished lamely, his eyes averted.
Theo chuckled. Somehow, Potter’s awkwardness almost made him feel like they were on even playing fields. It was disarming in a way Theo hadn’t expected. They had just discussed perhaps their most traumatic memories, and yet, Potter had turned several shades of red while asking about his best friend’s relationship.
He smirked, then answered. “It’s going… great. Better than I ever expected.”
Harry nodded, swirling his wine a little. “Yeah. I can tell.”
Theo looked at him, one brow raised.
He shrugged. “She seems more… at ease. I dunno, I’ve known Hermione a long time. Even when things were good with Ron, she always had this sort of… edge to her. Like she couldn’t quite relax. Always thinking five steps ahead.”
Theo smiled faintly, not entirely sure where this was going.
“She’s not like that with you,” Harry said, glancing over at the window where her silhouette was still visible, laughing about something in the garden. “Or at least, not as much. It’s like she finally learned how to let go a little bit.”
Theo nodded slowly, sipping his wine.
Harry went on, careful, but candid. “You know– you’ll have to forgive me for bringing this up, but everyone sort of assumed Hermione and Ron would end up together. Like, married and whatnot. They had this… thing. History. Stubbornness. And I love Ron– he’s my best mate, but part of me always thought it felt a bit like… trying to make something fit just because it was there.”
Theo scratched his chin absently. “You think she was forcing it?”
“I think she wanted it to work at the time,” Harry said. “We all did, probably. But I don’t think she ever really let herself be… erm… known, I guess? Not the way she is now. She never talked to him– or any of us, actually– about her parents, about the war… any of it.” He turned and watched her through the window again, his expression caught somewhere between sadness and affection. “Me, Ginny, Ron– we all tried to get her to open up, but she was determined to carry it all by herself.”
Theo sighed. “Yeah, sounds about right.”
“But she’s different,” Harry said, watching him carefully. “With you. I dunno what it is, but she’s more relaxed. Happier. She talks to me about things now, more than she has in years.”
Theo didn’t answer at first. He was too busy trying to work through the strange twist in his chest—something like surprise, something like awe. For so long, he’d thought of being with Hermione as some sort of impossibly undeserved gift. She was the miracle. The light. The change in him.
It had never occurred to him that in some bizarre way, he might be something like that for her.
He took another slow sip of wine, thinking it through. Then he gave a small huff of disbelief. “That’s… mental.”
Potter frowned. “What is?”
Theo gestured vaguely toward the window. “That I could be having any sort of effect on her. I mean—she’s Hermione Granger. She’s been out here single-handedly running the bloody world since she was fifteen. In my mind, I’ve just been trying not to muck this whole thing up.”
Harry huffed a laugh. “I mean, you wouldn’t be only one she’s dragged out of a downward spiral.” Then he glanced over at Theo, meeting his eyes. “But no, I don’t think you’re mucking it up. She’s obviously quite… taken with you. And not that you need my approval or anything, but you seem alright to me.”
Theo snorted. “Hermione Granger, savior of lost causes.”
“Cheers to that,” Harry said, raising his glass once again.
Theo did the same. “Thanks, though. I know she… values your opinion quite a bit. So thanks. For being so… open-minded.” He cleared his throat. “And er– you’re alright too, I suppose. For a national treasure.”
They both turned back toward the kitchen as laughter rang out—Ginny’s voice, then Hermione’s again, familiar and warm and unguarded. Theo smiled to himself at the sound of it.
“Hi,” Hermione said, sweeping into the room. She perched on Theo’s lap and kissed his cheek, catching him off guard. Potter averted his eyes, still red as could be.
“Hi,” he grinned, pulling her closer, relishing in the fact that it was something he could actually do now. “How was your garden tour?”
“It was lovely,” Hermione gushed. “What about you two? What have you been discussing in my absence?”
“Y’know,” Harry said absently, messing with a coaster. “Just the usual lighthearted small talk– death, trauma, the irreversible passage of time.”
Hermione blinked. “Sorry?”
“You heard him,” Theo said, twirling one of her curls around his finger. “As it turns out Potter and I have got quite a bit in common, actually. Dead parents, an inexplicable love of Thestrals… the list goes on and on.”
Harry smirked at him, and Hermione’s mouth opened and closed a few times, her brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and concern. “Okay…” she said, glancing between the two of them. “I’m entirely unsure how to interpret that, but it seems you two are getting on alright, so suppose I’ll take it.”
“Dessert is ready!” Spencer called from the kitchen.
“Thank Merlin,” Theo muttered. “I was running out of childhood trauma to offer up.”
Harry barked a laugh and stood, stretching. “Don’t worry, I’ve got enough to get us through pudding, and then some.”
Hermione gave them another strange look. “I really don’t understand this,” she muttered.
“Hey,” Theo said, standing and offering her his hand. “You picked the guest list, Granger.”
She laced her fingers through his. “And I don’t regret it one bit.”
The three of them filed into the kitchen where Spencer was spooning some sort of whipped topping into an array of bowls with a colorful medley of fruit.
Ginny, leaning against the counter watching, raised an eyebrow as they entered. “Don’t tell me you two were off snogging again.” She glanced between them and Harry, then grinned. “And you got Harry in on it? The more the merrier.”
“Shut up, Gin,” Hermione gave her a playful smack on the arm.
“You’re one to talk, Ginevra. I heard some sounds from the kitchen that sounded suspiciously like snogging,” Theo teased.
Neither she nor Blaise had the decency to look even slightly embarrassed. Ginny shrugged. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”
Blaise came and stood behind her, pressed a kiss to the crook of her neck unashamedly. “Mm,” he agreed. “You certainly are.”
Harry looked deeply disturbed. “Gross,” he declared.
“Get a room, you two,” Hermione added, but she was smiling.
Theo just snorted and slid into the seat beside Hermione. He had no idea how this had become his life– odd dinner parties, inappropriate Weasleys, wine-soaked chats with Harry Potter of all people– but strangely, it didn’t feel half bad. Especially with Hermione’s hand still in his. He certainly wasn’t complaining.
---------------------------
Later that night, after Theo had taken Hermione’s dress off and taken her apart with his hands and mouth, when she was finally boneless and sleepy and pressed up against his side, they both lay there watching the ceiling turn from blue to silver.
The whole night still felt a bit like a dream to him– the normalcy of it all, sitting around the dinner table, having a bloody heart-to-heart with Harry Potter, the feeling of Hermione’s fingers laced through his as she leaned against him in the living room. The pure fact that at the end of the night, he’d gotten to take her home and kiss her and touch her. That she loved him, and that she told him so when he was inside her, her honey-brown eyes pooling with desire.
He felt her looking at him and tilted his head down to meet her eyes. She smiled but didn’t speak, just reached up and grazed his face with her fingertips, mapping his jaw, the bridge of his nose, the dip above his lip. Her hand wandered, slow and idle, across the stubble of his cheek, the knot of his throat, the slope of his collarbone. Her palm was warm, but her fingertips were cool, and it shivered him. Her fingers mapped the shallow dip below his throat, skimming over the faint scar there—he couldn’t even remember how he earned that one—and then down, flat against his sternum, following the curve of his rib.
He wanted to laugh at how clinical she was, how methodical, like an experiment she’d gotten unexpectedly invested in. But there was nothing scientific about the way she looked at him– it was part hunger, part tenderness, part wonder, and it made his breath catch. Because what had he done to deserve that look?
And then her hand slipped lower, tracing the edge of his bicep, then down, down, until the pads of her fingers hovered, hesitant– over the inside of his left forearm. Her thumb circled the spot just below the soft crook of his elbow, and he tensed before she even touched it. She felt it, of course. Hermione was so perceptive, so attuned to his reactions, so he tried to force himself to relax, even as everything in his head was screaming that he should yank his arm out of her grasp. Her fingers traced the edges of the Mark, featherlight and curious, like she could unpick its history with touch alone. She didn’t flinch or look away.
Instead, she met his eyes and said, softly, “Did it hurt?”
Theo couldn’t help it. The room was starting to feel too small, like the walls were closing in. He shook his head, staring up at the ceiling instead of at her. “Not really.”
“No?”
“Nah. Actually, it felt nice. Like a warm hug.”
“Seriously?”
Immediately, he wanted to take it back– the cheap, shitty joke, but her hand didn’t move. It just rested there, thumb stroking the dark sprawl of it. He sighed. “No. I’m sorry. I’m being an arse.”
She didn’t let go, didn’t fill the silence with anything pitying or false. She just waited, patient as ever.
He tried to laugh, but it came out rougher than he meant. “It was the worst pain I’d ever felt, actually. Like someone set my bones on fire and then stitched the skin on with barbed wire.”
He flexed his arm, remembering the way the Mark had shimmered, black and oily and so alive it felt like it had a pulse of its own. Even now, with The Dark Lord long gone, looking at it still made him feel nauseous and unclean, giving him the strange urge to go scrub his skin raw.
He cleared his throat. “You want to know something funny?” She looked at him expectantly, so he continued. “Afterwards, my father told me he was proud of me. It was the one time in my life he ever said it.”
He hadn’t meant to say it, but there it was, hanging in the air like a curse. Hermione’s hand didn’t move from his arm. She looked at the Mark, then up at him, her brow furrowed. Then she reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned over him, bracing herself on her elbows so their faces were almost touching. She kissed his forehead, soft and deliberate, and then each of his cheeks in turn, and then, with a gentle reverence, she traced the outline of the Mark again. Her lips followed her thumb, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where the lines curled and twisted over his skin.
He made a sound, half-strangled, and turned his head away, blinking hard. “Don’t,” he said, but it came out sounding like a plea. “You shouldn’t.”
She didn’t listen, though. She just kept kissing the inside of his arm, softer and softer, until some impossible knot inside him loosened, and he let her have it– let her hold him, let her touch the ugliest part of him without looking away.
When she finally looked up, her eyes were shining but steady. “I love you, you know. Every part of you.”
He was not a man accustomed to being loved for all his parts. He certainly wasn’t sure he believed it, even now. But something about the way she said it, the reverence in the way she touched him– made something in him crack open, and he realized with a sudden, humiliating moment of clarity that he was about to cry. He pulled her down, wrapped his arms tight around her, and buried his face in her hair.
It wasn’t a sob. He was not sobbing. But his throat was closing and his eyes were hot and wet, and the more he tried to stop it, the worse it got. Hermione just held him. She didn’t say a word, just let him clutch her so tight it probably hurt, breathing him through the storm. She stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head and didn’t seem at all put off by the fact that he was unraveling in her arms.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had held him like this, and maybe that was why he couldn’t stop shaking.
--------------------------
Well, you were a dancer and I was a rag
The song in my head, it was all that I had
Hope was a letter I never could send
Well, love was a country we couldn't defend
Through the carnival we watch them go round and round
All we knew of home was just a sunset and some clowns
Well, you were a magazine, I was a Plain Jane
Just walking the sidewalks and covered in rain
Love to just get into some of your stories
Me, all of my Plain Jane glory
Just me and all of my Plain Jane glory
-Gregory Alan Isakov
Notes:
cw: discussion of suicide/overdose, death
Ahh I loved writing this chapter so much, especially the conversation between Theo and Harry. That was another scene I dreamed up before I had even really started writing this story, and I'm quite happy with how it turned out. Also, so much fun to write Spencer as an OC- he's so good for Harry and it brings me so much joy :)
Anyways, hope you all enjoyed! Be on the lookout for another update likely Sunday or Monday.
xoxoxo
Chapter 18: peace
Notes:
Hellooo lovelies! A couple things to note about this chapter: there is a time jump, so take note of that (it's mentioned at the beginning but just in case you miss it), and it is also very narrative-heavy without a ton of dialogue. This is a glimpse into Hermione's mind, so much of it will be sort of her internal monologue and thoughts. It's also a bit longer than the others. Please see the end notes for a content warning if you feel the need.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Three Months Later
While there were countless unexpectedly wonderful things about opening yourself up after years of pretending you didn’t need to, Hermione was learning– sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once– that it was rarely easy.
There were the good things, of course. The simple, beautiful things. Since she and Theo had made that promise to each other– no holding back– it had begun to change her in ways she hadn’t anticipated. And not just with him, either.
Hermione laughed more freely with Ginny, told her things she’d normally keep to herself. She popped by Pansy and Neville’s just to say hello and stayed for several of Pansy’s fancy gin-based drinks. After girl’s night, she ended up sitting up with Susan until nearly two o’clock in the morning talking about her own breakup with Ron and Susan’s frustrations with dating. She started answering Harry’s questions honestly– not with facts, not with practiced words, but with real, genuine feelings.
She wasn’t keeping her friends at arm’s length anymore. At least, not completely.
But honesty had a price. It meant not drowning herself in work until the memories stopped clawing at her. It meant actually thinking about her parents, about that awful trip to Australia and what she’d lost. It meant saying the painful things out loud, even when it made her throat close and her hands shake. There were days when she wanted to disappear into herself again, when she missed the comfort of avoidance. When trying to stay soft felt like trying to hold onto water with her bare hands.
The difference now was Theo. Because in those moments of uncertainty and grief, he was there, strong and solid. He didn’t always know what to say, didn’t always know how to respond when she cried or went quiet or spiraled, but he was always there. That part mattered more than anything.
He wasn’t perfect– he still had his own shadows, his own insecurities, little things that five years of isolation had etched into his character. And of course, there were deeper wounds from his childhood that Hermione was still trying to untangle.
He hated crowded spaces. He double-checked the front door every night before bed, sometimes twice. He flinched at sudden noises and couldn’t sleep with his back to the room. Some mornings, she caught him already dressed and pacing the kitchen like he’d been up for hours, even though he’d never say why. He hated thunderstorms– they both did. Theo was almost obsessive about his hygiene now– he had to shower daily, had to have his towel hung just right, his clothes folded in exact piles, his toothbrush turned a certain way in the holder. If things were moved, even slightly, she could feel the tension ripple through him, subtle but immediate. She didn’t think it was about vanity. It was about control. About having something that was his, after years of having nothing. He hated closed doors at night. He always left the bedroom door cracked open, and she’d long since stopped trying to close it.
Theo never talked about his father if he could help it. Once or twice, in a rare, wine-softened moment, he’d let slip a phrase or a look that made Hermione’s heart ache. She pieced it together from fragments, from the way his voice always got tight when anyone mentioned legacy. She wondered if that was the most lasting wound– growing up in a house filled with expensive furniture and rare magical artefacts, walls lined with books older than some countries, but nobody to tell you where to hang your scarf or what time to be home for supper. Theo had essentially raised himself, the house-elves more attentive than his father, his mother already fading from the world by the time he was eleven. She wondered if he’d ever stop being so cautious, so afraid that Hermione would wake up one day and abruptly stop loving him.
None of it changed the way she felt about him. If anything, it only deepened it. Because for all of his edges, Theo was hers. Fiercely, devotedly, almost foolishly hers. And that devotion– quiet, enduring, occasionally awkward– was what she clung to when things got hard.
When she woke up from nightmares, breath caught in her throat and sweat cooling on her back, it was the feeling of his arms pulling her closer that made everything okay again. Theo was always there, his voice low and sleepy, pulling her into his chest, murmuring that it was alright, that she was safe. And when he woke up from whatever memories haunted him– sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wild like he didn’t know where he was– she was the one who pulled him back, one hand pressed gently to his chest, whispering that he was home, that he was safe, that he wasn’t alone anymore.
Hermione’s relationship with Theo was different from the one she’d had with Ron for a million different reasons. But if she could narrow it down to one thing, it would be this– he was her rock, but she was his too. With Ron, she’d always felt like she was holding up the ceiling for them both. He’d wanted so badly to be her protector, her rescuer, but in the end, he’d never understood just how much she needed to be rescued from herself. The comfort she found in his arms was always tinged with the dread of what would happen if she let her guard down for a second.
Her and Ron had certainly had their moments, of course– they’d had years of laughter, of camaraderie, of heat and care– but there was always a gulf between what she showed him and what she kept hidden, even from herself. Sometimes she wondered if it had ever been fair to him, loving him with only part of her heart, holding the other part in reserve for something (or someone) she couldn’t even name.
Sometimes, too, she tried to imagine what life would have looked like if she’d never met Theo. Maybe she would have tried to make it work with Ron, grown more brittle and tired, resigned herself to the kind of love that was safe but never transcendent. Or maybe she would have thrown herself into her work until she was nothing but a husk– brilliant and ambitious, but completely alone. Sometimes she wondered how close she’d come to that fate, how many times she’d narrowly missed it by the smallest of margins.
But the thing with Theo– what had snuck up on her, what scared her even as it lifted her– was how quietly and completely he fit into her life. She’d been so concerned that letting herself be with him would mean upending everything, that it would alter her life, that she’d have to make space for him in ways that would change everything. But that hadn’t been the case. It was little things, shifts she barely noticed at first– the way he remembered when she had particularly big meetings and showed up at her flat with takeaway and questions about how it had gone; the way he’d cast a warming charm on her favorite blanket before she sat down on the couch to use it; how he brought her lattes in bed each morning without question and kept her favorite snacks at his flat. She never had to ask, never had to explain– he just watched her quietly, learning her like a particularly fascinating book.
The two of them had spent a lot of time discussing Theo’s living situation. Blaise had lobbied hard for him to stay in his spare flat permanently– even offered to sell it to him, if that would make it feel less like “best mate charity,” as Theo put it. It was comfortable, familiar, safe. She’d always assumed that if Theo ever moved, it’d be because she’d cajoled him into it, or because Blaise’s gentle ribbing finally wore him down until he could no longer take the idea of living in someone else’s home. But it was neither of those things. One night, over dinner, Theo just set his fork down and announced that he wanted something new.
“I want to do it myself,” he said, eyes bright and determined. “I want to buy my own bookshelves, stock my own kitchen– I think I’d like something that’s just mine.”
He said it like a dare, and Hermione recognized the look in his eyes– the same stubborn, wild hope he’d worn the night he confessed he loved her.
So after some hunting and a bit of help from Marlowe, his Ministry liaison, he bought a flat of his own, in a quiet but well-kept building in the Muggle neighborhood of Islington, not terribly far from Hermione and Ginny’s place in wizarding Clerkenwell. Hermione had helped him paint the kitchen a lovely sage green color, and he’d hung her favorite mug on a hook above the espresso machine.
Although she still lived with Ginny, it was beginning to feel more and more like a formality. Ginny was often gone– either at Blaise’s flat, joining him on some international business trip, or away at a match. And more days than she could count, Hermione would head straight from work to Theo’s, where he and Crooks were already waiting. They spent nearly every night together– aside from every other Wednesday (Girls’ Night was still sacred). Her Thursday dinners with Harry and Ron hadn’t resumed yet, although she saw Harry at least once a week.
Still, despite all their progress– despite all Theo’s progress, his world still seemed remarkably… small.
He worked part-time at Spencer’s café in Hogsmeade—mostly morning shifts, three days a week. It was quiet, well-paced, and Spencer made a point to never overwhelm him, which Hermione appreciated more than she could say. But beyond that, Theo didn’t really go out. He rarely made plans, didn’t venture into Diagon Alley unless absolutely necessary, and seemed actively allergic to the idea of larger gatherings. If it was important to Hermione, he’d tag along, but she knew he never particularly enjoyed himself. The only time he saw his friends was when Blaise or Pansy initiated the plans– turning up at his flat unannounced or dragging him somewhere he likely didn’t want to go.
Hermione knew he was trying. She knew he was still adjusting to life outside Azkaban, that he was healing wounds she could never fully understand. But still, it worried her sometimes.
Not in the way it might’ve a year ago, when she still viewed people’s capacity through the lens of productivity and purpose. But there were moments when it gnawed at her a bit– when she’d return from a long day of meetings or Ministry work to find him exactly where she’d left him, hair still damp from his second shower, same cup of tea grown cold on the table beside him. Sometimes, she’d come home to find him just sitting on the couch, the telly not on, maybe a book open in front of him that he wasn’t reading. Just waiting for her. And even though it was never anything he said– never possessive or petulant– there was a certain clinginess to it. An ever-present, quiet need. As if his days didn’t really begin until she stepped through the door.
Theo was, truthfully, quite needy. Although, she very rarely minded, because she was rather needy when it came to him, too.
He didn’t make demands. He didn’t sulk or throw passive-aggressive comments. He just wanted to be near her. To be held. To be reassured. To be loved, and reminded that he hadn’t somehow dreamed the whole thing.
And he never actually asked for any of it, but she knew him now like a favorite song—so ingrained she could hum it in her sleep, every subtle shift in note second nature to her. One that lingered long after it ended, threading itself through her days until silence felt wrong without it. Soft and steady, wrapping around her without fanfare, as constant as her own pulse. Not because he was predictable, but because she’d learned him, too.
The anxious way he lingered in the doorway when she had to leave– how she knew it meant he needed a little extra reassurance. So she’d give it: a kiss, a promise she loved him, that she’d be back soon, that she’d be thinking of him.
The way he’d subconsciously stand close to her when they were out in public, how he’d flinch and pull her behind him subtly when there was a loud or unexpected noise. He didn’t like to be out in the world for too long– too many eyes, too many unknowns. Crowded spaces made him skittish, loud voices put him on edge. He hated the sensation of being watched. Sometimes even Floo calls made him sweat.
Hermione understood, or at least, she tried to. And she never pushed him. But there were moments when the contrast between their lives– hers full and bustling and chaotic at times, his small and quiet and so deeply tethered to hers– gave her pause. She didn’t want to be his entire world, didn’t want him to feel like he didn’t have an identity outside of being her boyfriend.
And yet, a part of her liked it. There was a sweetness in being the person he sought out, the one who could quiet his fears with a single touch. It didn’t feel heavy or confining. It wasn’t a chain, but a tether– gentle, grounding. He was her constant in his own quiet way, and she was his.
----------------------------
Hermione sat at her desk, the cluttered piles of parchment stacked in front of her, a mess of case files and legal documents. The DMLE’s corridors had long gone quiet, most of her coworkers likely already home by now. The flickering candlelight cast shadows on the walls of her cluttered office, papers scattered everywhere. She ran her fingers over her temple, trying to focus, but the work was unrelenting. Her eyes skimmed over the report she was reading for the fifth time, trying to ensure every detail was in place.
Draco Malfoy’s release paperwork was complicated– far more complicated than Goyle, Pucey, or even Theo’s had been. She’d been working on his case specifically for months now, and things were officially down to the wire.
Her mind buzzed with all the steps left to complete. She still needed statements from several more victims who had agreed to testify about his role during the war, including one from a family member of a fallen Auror. Then there were the necessary conditions for his parole; community service, regular check-ins with an assigned Ministry liaison, and a non-negotiable commitment to aiding in the investigation of remaining Death Eaters. Most of the same conditions of Theo’s release, with a few more restrictions. It was more difficult to argue that Draco, a boy who’d let Death Eaters into the castle, almost murdered Albus Dumbledore, was a known rival of Harry Potter’s, and used blood purity rhetoric proudly for years– was worthy of a second chance.
The legislation she’d rewritten– allowing children of Death Eaters to serve reduced sentences in exchange for their cooperation and rehabilitation, had become more than just a policy shift. It had become her personal project.
Hermione shifted the stack of parchment and reached for the next file. Draco’s release wasn’t official yet, but everything hinged on these documents. Her hands moved mechanically, scribbling down notes, revising sections, making sure every witness statement was in order. She paused for a moment, rubbing her eyes. She had lost track of the hours, caught up in the bureaucracy of it all.
She glanced at the clock– almost eight.
Shit .
She hadn’t even sent Theo an owl to say she’d likely be working late tonight. She made a quick to-do list for tomorrow and then practically ran out of her office.
Theo’s flat came into view, the warm glow from inside spilling onto the stone steps as she hurried up. As expected, he was sitting on the couch, his usual spot. Crooks was curled up beside him, but Theo himself wasn’t reading, despite the book on his lap. His hands were resting lightly on his knees, but his eyes were fixed on the floor, the faintest tension in his posture. The door clicked shut behind her, and he didn’t look up immediately. She knew he was trying not to show the slight disappointment creeping in. He had become so accustomed to her presence, the predictability of her schedule. It had become a part of his routine.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t owl,” she said, dropping her bag by the door and coming to sit beside him. “I completely lost track of time. I hope you weren’t worried.”
His gaze lifted then, his eyes meeting hers, but there was no sharp edge to his expression, no anger. Almost resigned, but still with that undercurrent of warmth that always melted her heart.
“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, his voice low and soft, as though he didn’t want to put any weight on the words. “I know how busy you are.”
Hermione felt a pang in her chest. He never asked for much, and yet, there were moments like this when she could sense his yearning for her presence, his desire to feel important.
“I know I should’ve kept better track of the time,” Hermione said quickly. “You must’ve been waiting for hours, and I didn’t even–”
“Hermione,” he said, sighing. “Seriously. You really don’t need to apologize every time you’re late. It’s not like I’m sitting here twiddling my thumbs, waiting for you to rescue me. You’ve got things to do.” He gave a small shrug, leaning back against the couch. “I’m fine. Really. Crooks and I have been very busy.”
Hermione frowned, the quiet frustration in his words not lost on her. He wasn’t angry at her– but maybe himself, for some reason. She could tell he was downplaying it, trying to make light of it, but she knew he hated feeling like a burden.
“You seem upset,” she said carefully.
“I’m not.”
Hermione rubbed at her temples. “Why won’t you just tell me if something is bothering you, Theo?” she asked, her voice sharper than she meant. She caught herself and softened her tone. “My work is a priority, of course, but so are you. And you’re allowed to be honest with me and tell me if I’ve done something to upset you. That’s how relationships are meant to work.”
Theo’s gaze flickered to hers, but he didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he shifted, sitting up straighter as if the words she’d just said had put him on edge.
“I don’t–” He hesitated, and the words came out quieter than he intended, as if the admission itself was painful. “I don’t want to be the reason you feel… weighed down. You’ve got enough on your plate already.”
He stared at the ground. “You shouldn’t have to rush home and apologize because you got caught up at work for a few extra hours. Any normal boyfriend wouldn’t have an issue with that.”
Hermione watched him carefully. “But you do?” she asked softly.
“No,” Theo said quickly. “I’m not saying that. I feel like– fuck.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I feel like I’m not handling this right. I’m sorry.”
“You’re doing fine, Theo,” she said, scooting a bit closer to him. “I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong for feeling a certain way. This is still new– our relationship, work, communicating– we have time to figure it out. But you’ve got to be honest with me. I need that from you.”
“Right,” he said, still not meeting her eyes. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”
“Look at me,” she said softly. She could see the shame plain as day in his eyes, the vulnerability he was trying so hard not to show. “I love you. Everything about you. You’re never too much for me. Alright?”
“I still don’t see how that’s possible,” he muttered, and she gave him a look. She hated it when he did that– acted like he was unworthy of her love, like she was settling for something that was so far beneath her by choosing to be with him.
“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “Okay. I get it. Yeah, I was worried. I tend to assume the worst, as you’ve probably noticed.” He smiled thinly. “I don’t like being so bloody needy, Hermione. It’s pathetic, I’m well aware.”
“It’s not,” she said sharply. “It’s just you being human. Needing someone isn’t pathetic, Theo. It’s normal . And if you can’t let me in when you’re feeling like this, we’re not going to get anywhere.”
She took a deep breath, trying to rein in the frustration in her voice. “You think it’s weak, but it’s not. I might have a busier schedule than you at the moment, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you too. That doesn’t mean I’m not counting down the seconds until I can be with you again. You’re the best part of my day too. You know that, right?”
She saw the beginnings of a smile begin to tug at his mouth. “That’s… nice to hear.” He looked her in the eyes again. “I’ll work on it– being more honest with you. I promise. And I know I need to– erm, get a life. I’m trying.”
“I know you’re trying,” Hermione said. “You haven’t even been out of Azkaban for a year, Theo. You’ve made more progress than loads of people could have. I’m proud of where you are, but I also know it’s not permanent. Change takes time. You’ve got to remember that and be a bit more patient with yourself.”
“Easier said than done,” he said quietly, then quickly added, “Yes, okay. I get it. Have I told you tonight that you look beautiful, by the way?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I look like I’ve been hit by a tram. Don’t try to distract me with compliments.” But she couldn’t help the smile from spreading across her face.
“Whatever you say, gorgeous.” He grinned at her, and she melted a bit. “Have you eaten today, by the way?”
She shook her head sheepishly. “I meant to– I just got so busy with paperwork. We’re so close to getting Draco released, and I didn’t want to stop and lose steam.”
“I figured as much,” he said, standing and heading to the kitchen. “I might’ve… attempted dinner.”
Hermione stood and followed him. “You did?”
She wasn’t surprised, necessarily– they cooked together almost every night, but aside from scrambled eggs and cheese toasties, he hadn’t really attempted an entire meal on his own.
Theo pulled two plates out of the microwave where they’d been keeping warm– under a Stasis charm too, by the looks of it. Pasta with asparagus on the side.
She raised her eyebrows. “Is that homemade pasta?”
He shrugged, bashful. “I learned from the best.”
“It looks delicious,” she said, carrying her plate back to the couch. “I can’t believe you made it from scratch.”
He chuckled from the kitchen. “I’m full of surprises, I suppose.”
“That you are.”
He handed her a glass of Pinot Noir then settled down beside her and flicked on the telly. “Feel like some EastEnders?”
She grinned at him “Always.”
They ate in silence for a while, the sound of the telly and the clinking of their forks the only sound. “Oh,” Hermione said suddenly. “Erm, I’m sorry for springing this on you, but Pansy’s asked us to dinner tomorrow. What do you think?”
Theo pulled a face. “Ugh.”
Hermione gave him a look. “Theo! She’s one of your best friends.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m kidding. Mostly,” he gave her a crooked smile. “Do you want to go?”
“I’d like to,” Hermione admitted. “It’ll just be the four of us. I haven’t seen Neville in ages. And dinners at their place are always so much fun. They make a great team— between his cooking, and her cocktails, it’s like a mini five-star experience every time we’re there. You know what I mean?”
“I do,” Theo said, smiling. “Yeah, let’s go. Of course we should go.”
Hermione turned back to her pasta, pleased. Then, a thought gave her pause. “Wait. We were out of Semolina last I checked. Did you go out to the shops on your own?”
Theo’s cheeks reddened a bit, but he rolled his eyes. “Merlin, Hermione. I’m a felon, not a bloody housecat. I can leave the flat on my own from time to time.”
“I know, I know! You’ve been doing so much better, too. It’s just– I feel awful for keeping you waiting so long when you went to all this trouble.” She bit her lip, guilt churning in her stomach.
“Please don’t feel awful,” he said earnestly. “It really wasn’t that much trouble. You were working overtime to try and free one of my best mates from prison. Dinner’s the least I can do.”
Hermione sighed in resignation. “It really is good. Thank you again, love.” She took another bite, frowning in thought. “Have you thought about that at all, by the way? What things will be like when Draco’s released?”
Theo raised his eyebrows. “You sound so certain you’ll get him out.”
“I am,” Hermione said immediately. “I’m not saying that to be arrogant. I just don’t plan to give up until he’s freed.” She shrugged nonchalantly.
Theo shook his head slowly, a small smile on his face. “You really are a force to be reckoned with, Granger.”
Then he paused, leaning back against the couch, his expression thoughtful. “To answer your question, though, I dunno. I suppose I’ve thought about it some, but it’s hard to imagine. He has Narcissa still– last I heard, she was living in one of their estates in France that the Ministry hadn’t seized. Maybe she’ll move back to help… erm, rehabilitate him.”
Hermione nodded. “That would be wise, I think. Were you close with her at all? You spent some time at their home, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Theo said. “At one point, I might’ve said Narcissa was the closest thing I had to a parent. She looked after me after my mother died– invited me for Christmas, always included sweets and things for me whenever she sent parcels to Hogwarts for Draco. I think she knew how things were with my father, and although she never said anything about it, she was fairly… protective.”
“I’m glad you had her, then,” Hermione said quietly.
She’d never known exactly what to make of the Malfoy matriarch. She had always appeared cold and aloof, standing dutifully beside her husband and sneering at anything and anyone who wasn’t a Pureblood. But she’d also saved Harry’s life, something he had reminded her of when he chose to testify for her at her trial. And although neither her nor Draco had done anything to stop Bellatrix’s torture that awful night at Malfoy Manor, Hermione would never forget the horrified expression on Narcissa’s face, which she had only ever seen as carefully blank before then. It didn’t look like one of disgust at the sight of a Mudblood soiling her drawing room floor, or cruel indifference like the expression her husband had worn– but genuine distress.
“I don’t know how much worse things would’ve been without Narcissa,” Theo said. “I’d prefer not to think about it, actually. I’m grateful to her for that.”
“It sounds like there’s a but coming next,” Hermione said, setting her glass down and scooting closer to him.
Theo smirked thinly. “Yeah. I guess I’m not really sure where she stands now. It can’t have been easy– both her husband and her son in Azkaban, having to navigate everything on her own for the first time in probably her whole life. I just hope she’s well enough to be there for Draco.”
“Me too,” Hermione said, absently stroking Theo’s forearm. “Will you be there for him, do you think? Blaise and Pansy, too?”
Theo paused, his eyes flickering to the side, and for a moment, he seemed lost in thought. “As best I can, yeah,” he said quietly. “I mean, I’m kind of a fucking mess myself, but I’ll do what I can. I always will, for Draco.”
“You’re not a mess,” she corrected him. “I get what you’re saying, though.” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Do you think he’ll… have a problem? With you and I?”
Theo looked vaguely horrified at the suggestion. “He bloody well better not,” he said. “I can’t imagine he’s still carrying around any of that blood purity nonsense. I dunno that he ever actually believed it. Especially with you around to remind him how baseless it all was.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
He scoffed. “Draco was taught his whole life that Muggles and Muggle-borns were primitive, stupid, beneath him. So imagine how much it turned his worldview upside down when you pranced into Hogwarts– a brilliant, lovely Muggle-born witch who disproved all of that.”
Hermione flushed. “You’re biased, Theo. He thought I was scum. He hated me.”
“He didn’t,” Theo said quickly. “He hated that you made him feel inferior. He hated having to go home and explain to Lucius why he was competing for first in our year with a Muggle-born.”
“But he wasn’t really competing with me,” Hermione said, frowning. “You and I were always top of the class. Draco was third, except for when you two beat me out in Potions.” She made a sour face at the thought.
Theo chuckled. “You can’t still be feeling competitive over marks, Hermione.”
She scowled at him in response, and he pulled her closer. “Honestly, though. I think you and I being together will be the least of Draco’s concerns when he gets out. And if he does have an issue, I’ll handle it. I don’t want you to worry about that. Okay?”
Hermione nodded, feeling her shoulders relax. “Okay.”
“You look exhausted,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Want me to run you a bath before bed?”
She nodded gratefully. “Please.”
----------------------
It would’ve been nice to say that Hermione slept well that night, after the day she’d had– but that wasn’t the case. Around one o’clock, according to the clock, she woke in a cold sweat, her heart pounding relentlessly. Maybe it was the discussion of blood purity, or maybe some unwelcome part of her subconscious had dredged up one of the few memories she had of Narcissa Malfoy.
Either way, Hermione woke herself up screaming from a nightmare of Bellatrix Lestrange standing above her, cackling with delight as she tortured Hermione. For a terrifying moment, she was still there– cold stone under her cheek, pain burning through all of her limbs, the humiliating sensation of wetting herself from sheer panic and agony.
The sensation was so vivid, so real, she clawed at herself madly, half-convinced she was still lying there in Malfoy Manor, that she could still hear Ron’s screams–
“Hey. Hey, Hermione,” Theo’s voice, close and desperate, his hands already on her shoulders, pulling her upright. She fought him, wild and blind, heart stuttering against the cage of her bones. He said her name again and again, until it became the only thing she could hear:
Hermione, Hermione, it’s me, it’s alright, you’re safe, you’re safe.
She could feel herself shaking, wet-faced and gasping as Theo wrapped her up in his arms, her name still spilling from his lips in a frantic litany. She was shaking so hard her teeth rattled. Even after her eyes adjusted, even after she managed to recognize the familiar dark of Theo’s bedroom, the suffocating terror clung to her, heavy as a sodden blanket.
And she couldn’t stop shaking. She couldn’t stop .
Theo just held her against his chest, rocking her like a child, letting her soak his shirt with tears and snot. For a long time, it was all she could do to cling to his shirt, the fabric balled and damp in her fists. She couldn’t form words. She couldn’t make her mouth move, couldn’t even open her eyes for more than a second or two before the darkness behind her eyelids shoved her back under.
Then when she finally could, she reeled back and looked at him and he looked so wild-eyed with worry, more rattled than she’d ever seen him– that it made her start to sob all over again. “I- I’m so sorry,” she choked out.
“Don’t be sorry, love,” he whispered, pressing kisses anywhere he could find on her face. “What can I do, Hermione? How can I help you?”
“I don’t know,” she managed. “I– I can’t,” she tried to breathe in, tried to steady her pulse. “I can’t– calm down.”
“Okay, okay,” he soothed. “Can I make you a cup of tea? Do you need another bath?”
“No!” she clutched at his shirt. “Don’t leave me, please.”
“I won’t,” he said quickly. “I’m right here.”
He held her for what felt like hours, until the hiccuping sobs slowed, until her breathing returned to something more normal. He didn't let go until she went slack in his arms, and even then, he only shifted his grip to stroke her hair, to press her gently back against the pillows, to lay a hand on her chest as if to keep her heart from escaping. He was quiet, which she was grateful for; she could feel the questions trembling in him, but he didn't ask.
Maybe he already knew. Maybe he just couldn't bear to make her say it.
He conjured a glass and with a whispered Aguamenti, filled it with water and pressed it insistently into her hands. She sipped mechanically, swallowing around the tightness in her throat. She felt raw, like the night air had scraped all the skin off her nerves. When she finally spoke, her voice didn’t sound like her own, thick and scratchy.
“I know that was probably… a lot,” she said, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
Theo shook his head, cradling her face so she had to meet his eyes. Her face felt itchy from tears, her eyes puffy and her lips chapped, but he looked at her like she was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. “You could never scare me. Never.”
She shook her head, despite the way his words seemed to hit her square in the chest. “You shouldn’t have to… deal with this,” she murmured into his neck. “You shouldn’t have to fix me.”
He pulled her back again to face him, gently but firmly. “Don’t,” he said, so fiercely it almost startled her. “I don’t want to fix you, Hermione. I just want you. I don’t care about anything else.”
“Oh,” she said, her voice small. Because it was humbling, the way he seemed to feel about her. She’d never been loved this way, and it would’ve overwhelmed her if she didn’t feel the exact same way about him.
He didn't say anything else, just gathered her up again and held her so tightly that the trembling in her bones faded, the memory of pain replaced by the slow, constant thudding of his heart under her ear. He pressed kisses to her forehead, to her cheek, the crown of her head– anywhere his lips could find purchase, and she felt the warmth of it seeping back into her body. She found herself drifting, his voice a steady murmur against her hair, promising that she was safe, that this was real, that he wasn't going anywhere.
In all her years of projecting an image of strength, of stability and self-sufficiency, she had never allowed herself this– someone else's certainty, someone else's warmth. Hermione hadn’t allowed herself to fall apart completely in someone’s arms, hadn’t let herself cling to another person desperately. Not since she was small, since her mum had held her after a nightmare or she fell and got herself scraped up climbing trees.
But she let it happen now, let herself be held until her eyes closed and her breathing evened, until the darkness behind her eyelids was just darkness– nothing more.
----------------------
When Hermione woke again, it was five o’clock, and she was excessively thirsty. Quietly reaching for the glass of water Theo had left on the nightstand, she drained the whole thing, letting it soothe her sore throat.
Theo was still asleep, face turned toward her, one arm tossed up, soft brown curls spilling across his forehead. He looked young this way, peaceful and vulnerable, like the version of him she sometimes glimpsed in moments when his guard slipped. The early morning light made a pale stripe across his pillow, catching on his lashes and in the faint scar at his temple. If she reached out now, she could touch him. She could trace the lazy arc of his eyebrow, rest her fingers at the hollow of his throat, lie here until all the hours and years and pain between them faded, and all that was left was the steady warmth of his body in bed with hers.
Hermione rolled onto her side, watching him breathe, the gentle rise and fall of his back. He was a light sleeper, but now and then he’d fall into a sleep so deep she could study him without him waking. She liked to look at him like this, catch the unguarded softness of him when he wasn’t worried about being perceived. It was dizzying, sometimes, to think of how much had changed. Not just in her daily routine, or her priorities, or how she spent her weekends, but in her very sense of herself.
She’d never been someone who depended on others, not truly. Not for the difficult things, the painful things. She’d learned to operate in self-contained circles, to keep her dependencies few and her promises ironclad. It was the only way she’d survived those awful years, the only way she’d kept from disappearing inside the grief that threatened to undo her every time she stopped to feel it. Wake up. Sit in her office and work herself until she was bone-weary. Come home and find something to keep her mind busy until the dreaded, lonely nights came and sleep eventually claimed her. And then do it all over again.
She used to think the trick to survival was in holding everything at arm’s length, in constructing a perfectly logical rationale for every pang of guilt, every flash of anger, every ache of loneliness. That the remedy for those feelings was to work, work, work– for her friends, for strangers, for magical creatures, for her parents, for anything that wasn’t herself. Like she could absolve herself of guilt by serving others and ignoring her own needs. It wasn’t as selfless as it sounded, she thought– more self-flagellating, really. An excuse not to try for anything better, not to risk the embarrassment of wanting things she might not get to keep. For asking for help and the inevitable humiliation of someone realizing just how broken she really was.
It was easier to believe she was atoning for something, that she was less a person and more a set of obligations. She’d always hated the idea of being some tragic figure– some noble, martyred girl who bore things for the sake of it. The Golden Girl . It left a bad taste in her mouth. She didn’t care for that narrative, not when she was the one still lying awake at night hating herself for the decisions she made as a child. But the truth was, it was almost comforting to measure her wounds by the size of her responsibilities. They were things she could control. She could work more hours, write more legislation, appear in more headlines that made people wonder ‘where does she find the energy?’ Prove to everyone that she was strong and capable and self-sufficient. Not just “for a Muggle-born witch,” but someone who surpassed everyone’s expectations and kept going and going even when she knew she needed a break. She’d built her whole identity around being the one who could handle anything.
And she’d lived that way for years, walking a tightrope over a terrifying pit of feeling. Until Theo had come along and upended everything. Not in a dramatic, revelatory way, but in the quiet, persistent way that moss overtakes stone, that little roots pry their way into cracks and make themselves at home. At first, she’d thought it was Theo’s need for her that had made her softer, more vulnerable. That it was his loneliness, his fractured sense of self, that called to hers in a way she found both irresistible and exhausting. She’d let herself believe– maybe arrogantly, maybe just naively– that it was she who was rescuing him, who was teaching him how to love and be loved again, how to reenter the world.
But that wasn’t it– at least, it wasn’t the whole picture. Hermione had cared for many people, had stitched up more than her fair share of battered souls. None of them made her want to be softer. None of them made her reach for them in moments of sadness and pour her heart out in ways she’d no longer believed herself capable of. He never asked her to be strong for him. He never put her on a pedestal or expected her to be perfect, or even good. If anything, Theo had a knack for meeting her at her sharpest– her most bristly, her most anxious– and simply letting it be. He didn’t mollify or enable or agree with her just for the sake of pleasing her. He’d make sarcastic little jokes when she was being a terror, never cruel or snide, but enough to make her laugh at herself.
It struck her how many things about herself she’d discovered only because he reflected them back to her– not in the way a mirror did, but more like a lens, bending the light to reveal something previously hidden. He’d taught her the value of idleness, of stillness, of sitting in silence with a cup of tea and letting the world pass unremarked. Theo reveled in the chance to sit and watch the city come awake, to memorize the way the sun looked as it rose in the sky, to stretch out and take a sun-soaked nap on a Sunday just because. They were things he hadn’t been able to do in years, and the way he found joy in the mundane, slow parts of their day was somehow contagious.
He was full of contradictions, an anomaly in every way that mattered. He could be dry, even cold at first glance, so acerbic and blunt that it made her want to hex him sometimes. But he was also a dedicated friend, loyal to a fault, and gentle in unexpected ways. He had a soft spot for animals, especially Crooks, but he also bought a bird feeder just to watch the birds land on his balcony and rescued spiders to release them outside. Sometimes she wondered how it was possible that someone with such a gentle soul could’ve endured the things he did– that somehow, despite everything, he still gave love to her so readily.
Theo had taught her about pleasure, too. There had been a time in her life– most of her life, if she was honest– when sex was a transaction, a pleasant enough release, something that occupied a necessary place in the architecture of intimacy but never transcended it. She didn’t mean to sound clinical, but it was true; for years, her body had been a site of negotiation. She learned the rules young, from books and from the way her friends talked about it. She’d always been good at learning rules, at mastering expectations, and so sex became another discipline to be conquered. With Ron, the mechanics were fine, sometimes even pleasant, but it rarely set her on fire. Most of the time, it felt more like a demonstration of goodwill, a checkmark on a list of “Things Adult Couples Ought To Do.”
With Theo it was… sometimes she struggled to even put words to it properly. Not because it was thrilling, or risky, or somehow illicit (though there had been a wild thrill, especially in the beginning), but as if the world fell away every time he touched her. It sounded dramatic, but it was the truth– like every cell in her body was waiting for his hands, his mouth, the hot, trembling hush of his breath in her ear. Sometimes it was frantic and greedy, sometimes slow enough to make her ache, but always it felt like a conversation, a dialogue with no words. He learned her so quickly, her needs and her moods, every shiver and gasp and the stubborn, secret places she’d never let herself show anyone before.
There were times she swore she left her body altogether, the pleasure so intense it verged on pain, or maybe it was the other way around.
This, then, was the real magic– not the spells or the cleverness or the paperwork, but the way a person could take root in you and become as necessary as breath or blood. She didn’t believe in fate, but she believed in this– the way Theo had slipped into her life and, with an absurd amount of patience, quietly rearranged all her internal furniture. And strangely, she’d never felt resentful about it, had never felt like it was a loss of independence. In fact, she’d begun to crave it, these daily reminders that she was no longer alone, that there was now an axis, a gravitational north, around which her life quietly spun.
Hermione propped herself up on one elbow, careful not to wake him. There was a soft band of light across his shoulders where the curtain had slipped open. She watched the slow rhythm of his breathing and felt her own chest rise and fall in time, and absently thought to herself how tempting it was to stay here all morning, to forego her meetings and appointments and to-do lists for the day in favor of being folded against him beneath cotton and sunlight.
Her own heart was unhurried now, the panic of the night washed out by this: the certainty of another day with him. It struck her, as she watched the slow expansion of his lungs, that this was the closest she’d ever come to peace– not the loud, public peace of treaties and headlines, but the private kind, the one that seeped into your bones and settled there, persistent and quiet.
Because once the day had passed in a blur of memos and tension headaches half-drunk cups of coffee, Hermione would come home to this. To him.
---------------------------
But I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm
If your cascade, ocean wave blues come
All these people think love's for show
But I would die for you in secret
The devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me
Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?
-Taylor Swift
Notes:
cw: mentions of torture, PTSD
Like I said, lots of Hermione's thoughts in this chapter, ha. But it felt important to me to show where her head was at this point in the relationship. We will be hearing from Theo soon as well :)
Also even if you aren't a Taylor Swift fan please listen to this song! It just encompasses this whole chapter for me and I truly think it's one of her most beautiful songs.
Chapter 19: Foreigner's God
Notes:
Ach, more content warnings. This chapter is a bit dark, apologies. See the end notes if needed.
On a lighter note, I have a playlist for this fic to share! I will continue to add to it as new chapters are posted, so check back for new songs if you're interested: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1iyZ2DFLWcAxuGcJ0jSOTN?si=05410b06ed1b45a1
Happy reading!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Dinner at Pansy and Neville’s was lovely, as Theo would’ve expected it to be. He was still getting used to the differences in his Slytherin friend, now that she was betrothed to Longbottom. Although he hadn’t thought much of the bloke back at school, Theo couldn’t deny that Neville had a way of putting people at ease, of making a person feel welcome. He seemed to smooth out Pansy’s sharp edges, to bring out a warmth in her that frankly, he hadn’t realized existed.
She served several different varieties of gin cocktails (her specialty, of course), including an elderflower collins Hermione had loved and a citrus and sage fizz Theo had been partial to. Neville made something called sweet potato gnocchi– a dish Theo had never heard of, but after one bite, he’d decided it was one of the best things he’d ever tasted.
As they ate, the conversation naturally drifted to wedding planning, and Pansy’s voice took on a familiar, dramatic edge.
“Honestly, it’s been a nightmare dealing with the caterers,” she’d said, rubbing her temples. “I’ve got half a mind to forget the whole thing and just bloody elope.”
They all knew she didn’t mean that.
Hermione had chimed in, offering suggestions and feedback, most of which Theo was sure would be disregarded by his aggressively Type-A friend.
They reminisced on their Hogwarts days, Pansy teasing Neville good-naturedly for his awkwardness– and in return, he threw a few jabs of his own about how insufferable she’d been. Theo toed the line between joining in on Neville's ribbing and defending his dark-haired friend. He wasn’t quite close enough with the bloke to make any jokes at his expense quite yet.
Hermione even regaled the group with a story of when Neville had tried to stop her, Harry, and Weasley from sneaking into the underground chamber to retrieve the Sorcerer’s Stone, way back in first year (Merlin, the life this witch had led). She described Longbottom raising his fists to them and proclaiming “I’ll fight you!”
Theo was shocked as Neville then recounted how upset he’d been when he came to and realized Hermione had placed him in a Full-Body Bind.
Hermione turned crimson. “How many times do I need to apologize for that, Nev?” she moaned.
Her fellow Gryffindor just laughed. Clearly, he’d forgiven her long ago.
Overall, Theo had enjoyed himself. Which really shouldn’t have been a surprise– after all, he’d been seated next to Hermione Granger, glowing in a cream-colored blouse, holding his hand throughout the meal and smiling warmly at him whenever he caught her eye. And Neville was good-natured, quick to laugh, friendly and warm towards Theo. Pansy was… Pansy. One of the few constants throughout his life, steadfast and loyal, sharp-tongued but fiercely caring. The evening had been lighthearted and fun, something both he and Hermione needed.
And yet, as he lay in bed that night, the witch of his dreams tucked under his arm with her head on his chest, he couldn’t help the strange, sinking feeling in his stomach.
His relationship with Hermione had always felt a bit like a delicate thread. When she was there beside him, warm, so familiar, the thread felt strong. He could almost imagine it as unbreakable. But when she wasn’t, when she was out in the world somewhere, doing something else with someone else who wasn’t him, even for just a few hours, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe it was unraveling. That the thread would slip through his clumsy fingers.
Since the other night, when she’d gotten caught up at work and returned, breathless and apologetic– it had felt frayed, like he was holding on so tight it was deteriorating slowly in his hands. And then after her nightmare, he’d felt thrown, discombobulated and almost frantic. Like he wanted to fasten her to his body and never let her out of his sight again.
He hated himself for the panic that began to claw at him whenever she wasn’t there when she said she would be, when she mixed up the times they were meant to meet. She was patient with him, never showed it if she felt any annoyance with his behavior. But he knew it was needy, pathetic, childish. Unattractive.
He didn’t want her to see it, the cracks in the fabric. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to be in a relationship with a man who spiraled over something as small as getting caught up at work. It should be enough, that it was him who she turned to when she woke up panicked and sobbing from a nightmare, that he was the one who knew the bits of her she kept hidden, the things she never let anyone else see. That he was the one who got to kiss her lips and touch her body, take her home with him and undress her.
And yet, even when he’d sat next to her tonight, laughing and talking with their friends, the feeling had remained, duller but still just as insistent and ugly.
He needed to stop being so dependent on her. He needed to stop pacing around his flat, waiting for her to show up.
Things were so good between them right now. Hermione loved him. They saw each other nearly every day, she told him things she didn’t tell anyone else. He was her person, the one she depended on.
But the cloying feeling of inadequacy was too potent to ignore. Some days it was less heavy, less noticeable, but tonight it was all he could think about.
She was sleeping in his bed, curled against him, warm and soft and real, but it wasn’t enough to stop the spiraling. He was going to ruin this– the one bloody good thing he’d ever had. His chest tightened again, breath uneven. He shifted, trying to settle into the mattress, but the bed felt too large, too cold even with her there, with her head tucked into his chest, with her breathing slow and steady. His hand tightened into a fist by his side, restless, anxious.
It was a while before he finally drifted into sleep, the heaviness in his chest still there.
The dream that came shortly after he’d fallen asleep was somehow both familiar and new. The setting was the same– it often was. His nightmares fluctuated from the dungeons and halls of Nott Manor to the prison cell he’d lived in for the last five years. This time, it was the latter.
Tonight, the stone walls of Azkaban were cold and suffocating, pressing in on him as though the very air was thick with despair. The flickering, dim light from the single, high-up window cast long, crooked shadows, twisting the cell into something more nightmarish than it already was. The manacles around his wrists chafed, the magical restraints pulling at him in a way that made his body feel both heavy and weightless at the same time. His breathing was slow, almost labored. The silence felt like it was pressing down on him, urging him to forget everything, to let the weight of isolation bury him alive.
A shadowed figure appeared in the doorway, and although their features were indiscernible, Theo somehow knew who it was instinctively.
“Father,” he said, attempting to sit taller.
Tiberius Nott laughed cruelly, the top of his lip curling in disgust at the sight of Theo. Then, wordlessly, he pointed to a window– if you could call it that. A small cutout in the stone, overlooking the gray expanse of the island. The world outside stretched out, endless and full of shadows. Theo’s eyes followed the gesture, heart pounding in his chest.
And there, far below, on the jagged rocks beneath the tower, he saw her.
Hermione.
Her body was crumpled on the cold ground, barely moving. Blood stained the dirt around her, her clothes torn in places. She didn’t look up at him. She just lay there, silent and broken.
A sickening coldness curled in Theo’s stomach, and the world around him warped, his chest tightening as his breath became shallow. He wanted to move, wanted to shout her name, but his body was locked in place, just like it always was in these dreams. His father’s voice rang out sharply, a cruel whisper in the darkness.
"Look what we did to her,” he said. “And you let us. Why didn’t you do anything to help?”
The chains on his wrists tightened again, pulling him forward, dragging him downwards simultaneously. His hands were slick with sweat as he tried to push against the floor, but the cold stone was unyielding.
“It’s because you’re weak, Theodore.”
His body burned with the urgency to save her, but the weight of his own helplessness was crushing. And the whole time, his father just stood above him, watching him struggle with cruel indifference and a hint of disgust.
And then finally, mercifully, when he thought he would actually suffocate, he was back in his room. Theo’s body reacted before his mind could catch up, a twisted mix of panic, guilt, and horror. His stomach twisted violently. He had no control over it anymore– the terror that flooded his chest.
He lurched forward, pulling the covers with him, gasping for air.
He leaned over the side of the bed, and before he could stop it, he was vomiting– harsh, uncontrollable, the taste of bile thick in his mouth. His body shook violently as he heaved, his skin covered in a sheen of cold sweat.
And then he heard her voice– soft, concerned, pulling him back to the present. “Theo?”
He could barely respond, still gasping for air, still choking on the remnants of the nightmare. He felt her hand on his back, gentle and warm, but it felt so far away, like he couldn’t quite touch it.
“Theo, baby,” she said again, her voice more urgent, fingers brushing his damp hair back from his face. She never called him that. She must be terribly concerned. “Hey, are you with me?”
It was enough to cut through the fog of his panic. He nodded, his chest still tight, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like a heavy fog. Hermione’s voice was steady, soothing, her hand still gently rubbing his back, offering some kind of grounding.
“Look at me, Theo,” she whispered, her tone insistent but not harsh. “You’re safe. It’s just a dream. Breathe for me, yeah?”
Theo’s body betrayed him again, his breaths too quick, too shallow, his chest too tight to allow for relief. It took a moment, maybe more– before the shaking began to subside, but when it did, he realized his hand had found hers, holding it desperately.
Hermione didn’t pull away. She just kept talking, soft words meant to calm him, her hand steady in his, waiting for him to find the ground again.
She let him work through it, and for a moment, he wanted to tell her everything, to let it all spill out– the guilt, the fear, the suffocating knowledge that he’d never be a full person. That all of this mess would cling to him like a second skin, and she’d eventually be repulsed. Turn away. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled up in his shame, the deep-rooted belief that he didn’t deserve her comfort.
“Sorry” he said finally. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m okay.” He laid back on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling, exhaling heavily. His throat burned, acidic and stinging.
He heard her mutter a Scourgify at the floor where he’d been sick, which only made the humiliation curdle more persistently in his chest. Hermione sighed, and he felt the mattress shift as she moved closer. Just as he had done for her a few nights ago, she handed him a glass of water insistently.
She was quiet for a beat before she spoke again. “Do you want to talk about the nightmare? Or why you’ve been so on edge these last few days?”
He stiffened. “How about neither?” His voice was raspy, gravelly.
“Theo,” she said patiently, still stroking his arm. “No holding back. You promised.”
“Right,” he mumbled. “Beginning to regret that one.”
She didn’t say anything, but he could tell she was waiting for him to speak.
“It was just a nasty dream about Azkaban. You were in it, though,” he said quietly, still staring upwards. He couldn’t meet her eyes.
There was a beat of silence, and then– “I was in it?”
Theo sighed. “Yeah. Trust me, I know it doesn’t make any fucking sense, but you were. It was… awful. I really don’t want to go into any more details.”
“Okay,” she said softly. “You don’t have to talk about it anymore.”
“Okay.”
Another moment of quiet passed, and of course, he gave in. He couldn’t deny her this, even if it made his insides twist uncomfortably to talk about. “And my father was there, too.”
She frowned. “In Azkaban?”
“Yes. But it was… different. He wasn’t a prisoner, I don’t think. He was just walking around freely and standing over me in my cell.”
Hermione tilted her head. “Did he… say anything?”
Theo clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes. Just that I… that I let them hurt you.” His voice broke.
“Them?”
“Yeah. I dunno. An abstract concept, I suppose. But other than that, just the usual stuff.”
Hermione regarded him carefully. “What’s the usual stuff?”
He really didn’t want to tell her. It made his skin prickle with humiliation to even think about, but she was so wide-eyed and earnest and concerned. He exhaled roughly. “That I’m a disappointment, that I’m weak, that he’s ashamed to call me his blood. All the hits,” he joked weakly.
He saw her lower lip tremble infinitesimally. “Oh, Theo,” she whispered.
He blinked rapidly. He didn’t want to see her pity. This was bad enough as it is. But she didn’t say ‘I’m so sorry,’ or any other sort of empty words. Hermione’s face went hard, the way he imagined it did in court or when she was about to eviscerate a political opponent with facts. But her hand on his shoulder was light, gentle.
“He was wrong. ” Her voice was so steady, so calm, it almost startled him out of the spiral.
“You’ve never been weak a day in your life. And I don’t care if you want to argue with me about that, Theo, I won’t have it.” She blinked, and her jaw clenched in a way that made her look almost angry. “Honestly, I’d like to go back in time and hex him. I’d like to make him see what he missed out on.”
He smiled weakly. “Yeah. I’d pay to see that, actually.” Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I appreciate that, Hermione. But it’s not like he would listen. If he saw me right now– if he saw what I’ve become, he’d be disgusted.”
“What you’ve become,” she said firmly, “is a man who’s beginning to live life on his own terms. A man who rejected everything he tried to force onto you, who has more kindness and compassion in one fingernail than your father has in his whole entire body.”
He couldn’t deny the way her words landed, like they were soothing some long-forgotten wound inside of him. Like maybe he’d been waiting his whole life to hear them, to have someone truly know him and still somehow believe that he was good, that he was worthy of love.
She must’ve seen something in his face, because she moved closer, fingers brushing along his cheek. “And the best part is, he’ll never get to see how wonderful you are, because he’ll spend the rest of his life sitting in a cell with nothing but his own sins as company.”
He stared at her. It was the harshness of it– that edge of true, cold satisfaction in her voice as she outlined his father’s misery. There was no moralizing, no attempt to see the other side, no “but he was your dad” in the subtext. Just a simple, irrevocable justice. She pronounced it with a sort of surgical precision. He realized, almost with a sense of awe, that she hated the man. Hated him on Theo’s behalf.
And that hatred was wrapped in something thicker and sweeter than anything he’d ever tasted– loyalty. Love.
It was strange, really, because he hadn’t known anger and love could exist in the same breath. He’d thought of them as two entirely separate emotions, two feelings on opposite plains. Because all he’d ever known from his father was anger, and he knew enough to understand that hadn’t been anywhere close to love. But here she was, living proof of the fact that loving someone could make you angry– for them, on their behalf, at those who had hurt them. And he knew then that Hermione Granger had yet again taught him something new about love, another layer and depth to it he hadn’t understood until now.
He studied her. Her eyes were still burning with the kind of protective fury he’d never seen directed at him before. She wasn’t just angry on his behalf. She was furious .
“I don’t know how to be the person you think I am, Hermione,” he said finally.
She tilted her head. “You already are that person. That’s why I love you.”
He shook his head. “No. But I want to be. I want to be good for you, Hermione.”
He knew she wanted to argue. He could see her jaw working, her brows pulling together, her mouth fighting the urge to say– ‘ but you are good.’ Instead, she took a deep breath, brushing his hair back. “You don’t have to earn my love, Theo. It’s not a reward. It’s yours.”
Theo stilled. He wished he could bottle those words up and listen to them every day on a loop. Drink them and absorb them into his body.
Hermione spoke again, this time more nervous, quiet. “Maybe this isn’t the time to ask, but is everything… alright?” She hesitated. “Are we alright?”
Theo’s head snapped towards her then, horrified. “What?”
“–because ever since I came home late the other night, you’ve seemed a bit off,” she continued, her voice small. “Maybe it’s just me, or maybe you’ve been going through some of this and keeping it to yourself. But then I had that awful nightmare, and I’m afraid I’ve gone and scared you off. It’s nothing major, but I can’t help but feel like you’re pulling away.”
“Fuck,” Theo hissed, rubbing at his eyes in frustration. “I’m an idiot. It never occurred to me you’d think I was–” he sighed, forcing himself to turn and meet her eyes, to give her the reassurance she so clearly needed.
“No. No, Hermione, it’s nothing you’ve done. You’re perfect. It’s just my own bloody insecurities. I hate how this is going to sound. I really do. But I can’t shake the feeling that you’re going to end this. I just feel so fucking pathetic sometimes, like my whole life revolves around you. And you’re always having to reassure me like this– like, constantly. I can’t imagine how… unappealing that is to someone like you. It must be exhausting.”
The words hung in the air between them, a raw honesty that seemed too big, too much to bear. Theo’s breath was still heavy, and the shame of what he had just admitted was like a stone lodged in his chest. He averted his eyes again, afraid that if he looked at her, he’d see the disgust, the disappointment.
And he did hate how often she had to reassure him. Most of the time, she was perceptive enough to notice his insecurity herself, offering comfort he didn’t deserve. It was a whole different thing to voice it out loud, to ask for more when Hermione already gave him so bloody much.
He hadn’t realized she was sitting up now, watching him closely. She seemed to be choosing her words carefully, trying to gauge what he needed to hear. She reached for him, lifting his hand in both of hers and pressing it to her mouth. She just held it there for a moment, the kiss more of a benediction than anything else, her eyes closed and her brow furrowed like she was praying something into his skin.
“I need you to listen to me,” she said, soft but fierce. “Just for a minute, okay? And I need you to do your best not to argue, or talk yourself out of it, or make a joke. Can you try?”
He nodded, because what else could he do? How could he say no to this witch?
Hermione squeezed his hand, so tight it almost hurt. “I’ve never been with anyone like you before. And I don’t mean because of your past, or the war, or any of that. I mean… I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who cares as deeply as you do. You’re so convinced you’re too much, that you’re broken, but all I see is how much you’re trying. How far you’ve come.”
She met his eyes then, and he almost looked away because he’d never seen something so earnest, so unguarded. “You think I’m just going to wake up one day and realize I don’t want this anymore?” She let out a small, humorless little breath of laughter. “Theo. That’s so far from the truth. I literally can’t imagine a world where you aren’t… here. With me. You think you’re the only one afraid of things falling apart? Of losing this? I’m so in love with you. Truly. This isn’t the kind of thing I just walk away from.”
He tried to commit the words to memory, tried to let them sink into his skin and erase the panic, the desperation.
“I believe you,” he said, almost a whisper. “I do. Rationally, I know you’re not on the verge of dumping me. And I’m sorry I’m such a wreck. I just– it’s hard to shut it out sometimes. The fucking voice in my head that tells me you’re far too good for me, you know? I don’t know what I would do if I lost you, Hermione.”
Hermione’s eyes shone, and she brought his hand to her cheek, holding it there, letting his palm cradle the heat of her skin. She didn’t rush in to reassure him, didn’t try to dismiss it as nonsense, the way people might do when faced with the ugly truth of another person’s need.
Instead, she closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, like she was letting herself feel the breadth of his insecurity, the weight and the ache, before she spoke. He’d always loved how she did that– how she took empathy a step further and turned someone else’s pain over and over in her head, trying to make sense of it from every angle. She never assumed the worst of people, never dismissed the struggle of another just because it was different from her own.
He used to think compassion was a soft thing, a luxury for people who’d never been forced to make hard choices, but Hermione was proof of how untrue that was. She was someone whose life had been filled with life-or-deaths, grief, and trauma, and she still managed to tackle his pain head-on.
It was so fucking rare, he thought, to be met like this. How lucky he was.
“You never need to apologize for falling apart with me,” she said quietly. “Remember when you said that to me? It goes both ways, Theo. You’re allowed to feel insecure. You’re allowed to ask for things that you need from me in this relationship. It’s perfectly reasonable for you to say you want me to communicate with you when I’m running late, or be more mindful of the time, or whatever it is. You don’t need to walk on eggshells. If I’ve hurt you, then you tell me, and we work through it. Being honest with me will never push me away. Okay?”
Theo’s heart stuttered in his chest. He felt like the right words were on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach, but he couldn’t form them. He couldn’t tell her how badly he needed to believe her, how desperately he wanted to stop carrying around the weight of his own inadequacy.
“Okay,” he managed weakly. “I hate that I made you think my… insecurities were your fault. Like you’ve done something wrong. I fucking hate that.”
She shook her head. “It was probably partially my own insecurities talking, too.”
He shook his head in self-disgust. “You need to know that what happened the other night– when you had your nightmare– I meant it when I said you could never scare me. I love you so much it’s… frightening, frankly . That’s the only thing that scares me about this. Please don’t ever think you could… just, no, Hermione.”
“Okay, okay,” she placed a hand on his arm, soothing him. She took a deep breath, nervously picking at her nails. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he said, frowning.
“Would you ever want to– erm… I know it’s soon, but I feel like we’ve always done things that way. And it’s not because of this conversation,” she added quickly. “It’s just something that’s been on my mind. You can tell me if it’s too much, or you’re not ready, or–”
“Hermione,” he said, resting a hand on her thigh, though his heart was racing.
Her cheeks pinked. “Sorry, I’m rambling. Nervous habit. I just– what do you think about me… er… giving up my flat?”
Theo looked at her blankly. “Giving up your flat?” He frowned. “Then where would you live?”
Hermione giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, sorry. Erm, I dunno. I was sort of thinking… here?”
“Oh.”
“Unless you think it’s too much or you don’t want–”
“Yes.”
She blinked at him. “Yes?”
“Absolutely. Yes, please. Move in with me,” he said, pushing himself up to sit in front of her. “Are you kidding me? You would’ve moved in with me after the first night we spent together if it were up to me. Hermione. Is this really what you want? You’re not just saying it to… appease me?”
“Of course not,” she said. “Not at all. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks now. It’s a bit silly, us just going back and forth between our flats. I’ll need to talk to Gin about it, but I think she’ll understand. She’s barely ever there as it is, and I’d reckon her and Blaise have talked about it by now too.”
She smiled shyly at him. “I love it here, and so does Crooks. I sleep so much better with you, and I miss you when I’m away. And if it assuages any of your doubts, then that’s just an added bonus.”
Theo nodded, a sense of relief flooding through him. He leaned in and kissed her forehead gently, a soft, tender gesture that held more meaning than words ever could. “I love you,” he said.
Hermione beamed at him. “I love you, too. Very much. Now, let’s try and get some sleep, yeah? We’ve both got work in the morning.”
---------------------------
“Morning,” Theo said as he entered the café, grabbing an apron off the hooks and tying it around his waist.
“Morning!” Spencer practically chirped. He turned to face Theo, then raised an eyebrow. “You look like hell, buddy. Rough night?”
“Thanks,” Theo grumbled. “You always know just what to say, don’t you?”
Spencer smirked. “Seriously though, you alright? Everything good with Hermione?”
“Everything’s fine,” Theo said reflexively. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, nothing’s wrong, exactly. I did have a rough night, but it ended on a better note.”
“Do tell,” Spencer said, handing him a freshly made latte.
“Thanks,” Theo said, accepting the mug gratefully. “Just had a particularly nasty nightmare that ended up waking Hermione. So naturally, we needed to sit up and work through it .”
Spencer didn’t miss the hesitation in his voice. The way he attempted flippancy and sarcasm to cover up the discomfort. The wizard was entirely too perceptive for his own good. Theo pretended not to notice him leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms, eyes narrowed with that familiar, knowing look.
“Sounds rough. You want to talk about it? Or are you gonna bury it for a while and pretend it doesn’t bother you?”
A mix of irritation and anxiety flared in Theo’s chest. He didn’t want to talk about it, not even a little bit. But Spencer, as usual, wasn’t going to let him sidestep it.
“Not sure I’m ready to dive into it,” he mumbled. “It was just one of those things that kept me up all night. But, yeah, Hermione and I talked. She’s perfect. We’re okay.”
Spencer nodded, as if he’d been expecting this answer. “Understandable. Well, if you change your mind, I’m always here to listen.”
“Thanks, mate,” Theo said, the sharp spike of annoyance quickly fading.
Spencer really was a good bloke.
They’d grown fairly close over the last few months– spending several hours a day together would do that. Plus, Spencer had been determined to befriend him, it seemed. He was friendly, genuine, and honest in a way that never felt unkind, although sometimes a bit off-putting in its directness. He seemed to understand Theo’s quirks, his dislike for being in large crowds, his skittishness with talking to new people– things of that nature.
Spencer was flexible with his hours, letting him choose his own schedule, and did most of the people-facing parts of the job himself while Theo prepared orders, handled inventory, occasionally did the ledgers. Conversation flowed naturally between them, and Spencer had been privy to details of his life he wouldn’t normally share with his other friends.
“You said things ended on a good note,” Spencer said after a long pause, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “Tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it does?”
Theo reddened. “ No, that’s not what it means. For fuck’s sake, Spence. Get your head out of the gutter.”
Spencer smirked, shrugging. “So? What happened, then?”
“Erm,” Theo said, hesitating.
Would Hermione mind him sharing the news? What if she wasn’t ready to tell people yet? He shook the thought off, reminding himself that their relationship wasn’t a secret. That she wasn’t ashamed to be with him, despite the ugly voice in his head that insisted she was.
“She wants to– well, we’ve decided she’s moving in with me.”
Spencer’s eyebrows shot up, a grin spreading across his face. “Well, well, well. Look at you! That’s a big step, man. I’m glad to hear it. I can tell you’re happy, even if you’re trying to act like you’re not.”
“I am happy,” Theo agreed. “Just do me a favor– keep it to yourself for now, yeah? I want Hermione to be able to tell Harry herself.”
Spencer nodded. “Of course. So you’re feeling good about it, then? Feels like the right time and everything?”
“Yeah,” Theo said quickly. “I think so?”
“You think so?” Spencer repeated the phrase without judgement, but Theo bristled anyway.
“I mean, yes , it feels like the right time to me. I’m not a very good judge of these things, Spence. You know that.”
“Gotcha,” Spencer said. “Just so I’m clear about the sequence of events– you had an awful nightmare, woke Hermione up with it, and then… you two decided to move in together?”
Theo glared at him. “Something like that,” he mumbled, then sighed. “I dunno. I’m thrilled about it, don’t get me wrong. And even though I believe she genuinely wants to take this step with me, a part of me can’t help but feel like she might’ve offered it up to sort of… reassure me.”
“Do you really think that’s why?”
“No,” Theo said, draining his latte and placing it in the washing-up bin. “I mean, not really. Maybe it’s a part of it. I just don’t want her to move in and then get frustrated at me for being such a needy fucking mess.”
“It’s not like she wouldn’t have noticed that before, though,” Spencer offered, never one to sugarcoat things.
Theo smirked. “Thanks a lot, mate.”
Spencer rolled his eyes as he continued cleaning out the espresso machine. “I’m not saying you’re a needy mess, Theo. I’m just saying, it’s not like she’d see a whole different side of you just because she moves all her clothes over and adds her name to the title. The two of you spend almost all your time together already. She knows who you are, and she’s choosing to live with you because she loves you.”
Theo opened his mouth to respond, but just then, their first customer of the day arrived. Spencer turned to them with a smile, just as Theo turned away and began preparing the machine. After they’d gone, coffee in hand, Spencer turned back and gave him an expectant look.
“I meant what I said before. Hermione didn’t just accidentally stumble into this relationship with you. You realize that, right?”
“Sure,” Theo assented, wiping down the counters for what was likely the tenth time that morning.
“They’re clean, Theo,” Spencer said gently. “Look, promise not to hex me for bringing it up again, but have you given any thought to the Mind Healer thing?”
Theo froze for a moment, the warmth of the café around him suddenly feeling cooler. “Not really,” he admitted, trying not to clench his jaw. “I know I should. It just feels like a rather unpleasant, intimidating task at the bottom of my to-do list.”
Spencer snorted, leaning back against the counter. “Yeah, well, it’s not going to do itself. You should at least give it a shot. No harm in talking to someone. It’s not as awful as it sounds, I promise.”
Theo narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. “Easy for you to say, mate. You’ve got a thing for this ‘talk it out’ approach. You’ve got a Mind Healer tucked inside your back pocket as we speak, probably.”
Spencer grinned then gave a small shrug. “You’re not wrong, I do value talking things through. But there’s a reason for that– it’s because it works . The wizarding world is really behind when it comes to that kind of thing, but my parents were therapists– er, Mind Healers back in the States, and I’ve seen firsthand how many people it’s helped. Hell, it’s even helped Harry.”
“That’s right,” Theo mumbled. “I forgot you’d roped him into it, too. And you really think it’s… helped him?”
“Oh, without a doubt,” Spencer said. “He’s had his fair share of childhood trauma, as you know. Much of it he’d just sort of… buried. Or carried around. But he’s working through a lot, and he’s so much happier than he was before. Just like, lighter, you know? Better at communicating, not so prone to sulking and brooding.” He smiled fondly. “I loved him even before he started therapy, but it’s made our relationship a hell of a lot better. More functional, healthier, somehow.”
Theo was quiet for a moment, his mind turning the thought over. He couldn’t deny that the mention of how it benefited Harry was a compelling argument. Spencer’s words were starting to sink in, but there was still that nagging resistance. The fear of facing everything, of unearthing parts of himself he wasn’t sure he was ready to confront.
“Alright,” he said slowly, finally meeting Spencer’s eyes. “I’ll give it a shot. I’ll see a bloody Mind Healer. But don’t start throwing a party yet. This isn’t exactly something I’m looking forward to.”
“You don’t have to be,” Spencer said plainly. “You’ve just got to do it anyway.”
---------------------
Hermione moved her things in the following weekend. By Monday morning, Theo’s flat looked completely different. It was subtle, at first, barely perceptible changes in the shape of a room or the way the light warmed a wall. But then, all at once, it was everywhere. Her books spilled across every available surface, forming neat towers on the coffee table and haphazard pyramids on every shelf. Crookshanks’ basket was now by the radiator, a position Ginny had once called the “prime real estate” of the flat. There was a second toothbrush in his bathroom– not just her spare one anymore– an assortment of hair things he’d never even known existed accumulating in a jar by the mirror, her perfumes and lotions in a little tray on the dresser.
On the third morning after she’d fully moved in, Theo awoke to find Hermione’s slippers next to his at the foot of the bed. For some reason, the sight made him smile. They looked, for lack of a better word, like a pair.
He watched her sleep for a minute, hair a wild halo on the pillow, before climbing out to make coffee. As he walked through the flat, he noticed the way her scarf was draped over the arm of the sofa, her mug still half-full of chamomile on his desk, her notebook splayed open on the table, a fountain pen tucked between two pages. It was as though her presence had crept into all the cracks and corners of the place, the way sunlight forced itself through the cloudy London mornings– golden, determined, unashamed.
He’d never imagined himself in a home like this. Not one where sunlight soaked every surface, where a fat orange cat slept contentedly on the windowsill, where a pretty girl lay tangled in a quilt– sure to wake later and greet him with a kiss and accept the steaming mug he’d hand her. The kind of home where birds sat at the feeder, chirping happily, where friends would come over unannounced and throw themselves on the couch, making themselves at home.
It was nothing like Nott Manor. Of course, he’d made sure of that.
His childhood home had always been quiet– filled with silence that swallowed sound whole and left him terrified to disturb it. The walls had been lined with portraits that didn’t smile, watching him like wardens, and even the air had smelled cold– polish, stone, and the faint metallic tang of magic old enough to outlast generations.
He’d learned early to keep himself small there. To move softly, to speak less, to disappear into corners so he wouldn’t be in the way. His toys stayed on high shelves more often than in his hands; his books were read quietly, hidden behind closed doors. All of his belongings had to be meticulously organized, anything that looked out of place hidden where no one could see it. Even his bedroom had always felt temporary, like he’d been borrowing it until someone better suited came along.
And now, this.
Here, he was meant to take up space. Here, Hermione wanted him to be unguarded and free, to leave his things sitting out and not worry about the consequences. Slowly, she was teaching him that the world wouldn’t collapse if he left a cup in the sink or forgot to put away his shoes. That he could hang art that he liked on the walls, even if it clashed with the others. That she wasn’t going to flinch if he spoke too loudly or knocked something over by accident. She’d kiss him when he apologized for things that didn’t need apologies, tilting her head like she was baffled he’d ever think he should.
He was learning he didn’t have to move through his own home like a guest. Learning that voices could rise without consequence, that laughter didn’t have to be swallowed, that silence could be companionable instead of punishing and oppressive.
It gutted him, sometimes, how easily she did that. How she’d walked straight into the quietest, loneliest parts of him and lit the lamps without even asking if she could.
As he made her coffee, Theo glanced back toward the bedroom door, quiet except for the soft sound of her breathing. He didn’t understand how someone like him– a man who’d grown up learning not to speak too loudly in cavernous rooms, who’d trained himself to be small and unobtrusive– could share a home with someone who carried her own weather with her. Someone who refused to shrink herself, who let color and books and joy overflow the edges of wherever she lived until it remade the space entirely.
And she’d chosen to do that here. With him.
He could sit and watch her do anything for hours– Hermione was endlessly fascinating to him.
The ritualized way she would choose a different record to turn on every night, standing in front of the record player muttering to herself before selecting something that fit her mood.
The way she’d frown in concentration when she wrote in that neat, looping script of hers, brow furrowed and bottom lip caught between her teeth until she finally sighed and set the quill down.
The practiced, gentle way she brushed her hair after a shower, like she’d done it so many times, it was muscle memory at this point.
How she’d absently grab his wrist or sleeve when she was talking about something she was particularly animated about, like she needed him to physically feel her excitement.
He’d catch himself staring in those moments– when she was doing nothing remarkable at all, just existing– and feel that same quiet disbelief bloom in his chest. That she was here every day, padding barefoot across his kitchen floor, pulling his jumper over her head and blowing the loose strands of hair out of her face. Sometimes, when she caught him watching her, she’d tilt her head and smile at him like she could see every thought in his head. He’d only shake his head, unable to explain it without sounding absurd. How could he tell her that he was mesmerized by the way she folded laundry, or tucked her hair behind her ear, or scolded Crookshanks for stealing a piece of toast?
Hermione loved him, he knew. She told him so every day, often more than once. But how could she possibly love him in the same way he loved her? Surely, not like this. Not with this ache in his chest that felt equal parts wonder and terror, like holding something precious in hands far too clumsy to deserve it.
To her, love might be steady and sure, like the sun rising every morning without fail. To him, it was staggering. Every morning, it nearly knocked the breath out of him when he realized it was his.
It was the warm press of her knee against his on the sofa. The smell of her shampoo clinging to his pillow. The sound of her voice calling his name in that soft, distracted way when she found a passage in a book she wanted to read aloud to him. He knew it wasn’t normal– the bone-deep intensity, the utter desperation to be near her that he wore like a second skin now. He knew he was obsessive. It wasn’t healthy, surely, this all-consuming pull he felt toward her, this constant need to be in her presence in order to keep breathing.
And yet he couldn’t help it. He’d spent so many years emptying himself out just to survive that now, with her, it felt like he couldn’t stop drinking her in, terrified of ever feeling hollow again.
Theo leaned against the doorway, watching her sleep. Her hair spilled across the pillow in a wild tangle, his shirt she liked to sleep in bunching up and showing a sliver of skin. He wanted this forever– to wake up to her, to make her coffee and kiss her lips. He wanted it with a ferocity that scared him. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? This was everything he’d ever wanted, and if he wasn’t careful, he was going to ruin it.
He thought about Spencer’s words earlier that week, when he’d mentioned how seeing a Mind Healer had helped Potter. ‘I loved him even before he started therapy, but it’s made our relationship a hell of a lot better. More functional, healthier.’
Theo had nodded along at the time, swallowing down his discomfort. Even told Spencer he’d go talk to someone. But standing here now, staring at Hermione’s sleeping form bathed in soft morning light, he understood exactly why his friend had mentioned it. Why he needed to just fucking do it.
He wasn’t blind to his own patterns. He could feel the way he clung to her too tightly, how every small absence left his chest hollow, how the fear of losing her sat like a physical weight against his ribs. He hated it, that sharp edge of panic buried beneath his love, but he didn’t know how to dull it. No one had ever taught him how. He’d been starved of softness for so long that hers felt like sunlight, warm and blinding and almost painful to touch.
He couldn’t lose it. He wouldn’t survive losing it.
And maybe that was precisely why he needed help. Not because Hermione had asked him to– she hadn’t, and probably never would– but because he wanted to be better for her.
If this was something he was going to hold onto, then he couldn’t keep living inside his own head like this. He’d have to somehow manage to unlearn the fear that told him love was fragile, that the smallest mistake would send it all collapsing.
Theo exhaled slowly and crossed the room, slipping back into bed beside her, placing her latte carefully on the bedside table under a Stasis charm. She stirred, instinctively curling toward him, her hand finding his chest even in sleep. He pressed a kiss to her hair and closed his eyes. He’d ask Spencer for the name of that Mind Healer. And he’d go and talk and face the ugly parts of himself, even if it filled him with dread. Because if this– her, this home, this impossible, dizzying happiness– was what his life could be now, then he’d do whatever it took to keep it.
--------------------
She moves with shameless wonder
The perfect creature rarely seen
Since some liar brought the thunder
When the land was godless and free
Her eyes look sharp and steady
Into the empty parts of me
But still my heart is heavy
With the hate of some other man's beliefs
Always a well dressed fraud
Who wouldn't spare the rod
Never for me
I've no language left to say it
But all I do is quake to her
Breaking if I try convey it
The broken love I make to her
All that I've been taught
And every word I've got
Is foreign to me
-Hozier
Notes:
cw: graphic imagery, PTSD, flashbacks
Whew, okay- like I said, this one felt pretty dark to me. Originally, I had written Hermione's nightmare in the previous chapter somewhere else, but it ended up fitting better in Eighteen. The back-to-back nightmares bother me for some reason, but I tend to be nit-picky about that sort of thing. I also realize most people's nightmares and trauma doesn't follow a schedule and it's certainly not outside the realm of possibilities that two deeply traumatized people would experience them consecutively like that.
Anyways, enough rambling! The next chapter is a bit lighter- something to look forward to. Also, I'm manifesting a friend like Spencer for all of you (and myself, lol). Because he's just a gem, imo.
Also, if you haven't already read it, I wrote a fun little one-shot about our Pansy and Neville and how they got together in the first place- "On the Alarmingly Persistent Appeal of Neville Longbottom (and Other Botanical Offenses)." Check it out if you feel so inclined.
Next chapter in the next few days :)
Chapter 20: Apple Pie
Chapter Text
“So really, I just have to act as aloof as possible until he decides I’m mysterious and irresistible,” Susan was saying as she poured herself another glass of wine. “Right?”
She was regaling the girls with the tale of her last date– a financial advisor four years older than her and, according to Susan, a proper, mature man. Whatever that meant.
Hermione opened her mouth to respond to her question, but Pansy interjected, huffing dramatically. “Don’t bother asking Granger for advice on being mysterious. She’s madly in love, remember?”
“So are you!” Hermione sputtered, crossing her arms.
Pansy smirked. “True, but I haven’t lost my edge. I still know how to make a man grovel for it.”
“Hermione’s practically got Theo eating out of her hand,” Ginny said lazily, popping a grape into her mouth. “Clearly, she hasn’t lost hers, either.”
Hermione felt a flush creep up her neck, unsure if she should argue or take it as a compliment. “I’ve never really been the aloof type, anyways,” she murmured.
“Obviously,” Pansy drawled, patting her hand. “Subtlety’s not your strong suit, Granger. That’s what makes it all the more tragic for darling Theodore. He’s a goner.”
Luna, who had been quietly sipping her drink, tilted her head thoughtfully. “Theo is very much like a star,” she said, with that dreamy expression she got when she spoke about anything she found fascinating. “He mostly watches from afar, but Hermione’s the gravity that pulls him closer.”
“Right,” Pansy deadpanned, blinking at Luna. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
Susan giggled.
“Oh, she pulls him closer alright,” Ginny said, a wicked smile on her face. “Close enough that I can hear them even through a bloody Silencing charm whenever they spend the night here.”
Hermione’s mouth opened in protest. “That’s absolutely not true–”
“Didn’t know you had it in you, Granger. I suppose you are a lioness, though,” Pansy smirked.
“You’ll have to give me some tips,” Susan said, elbowing her. “On the art of seduction.” Hermione groaned. “I hate you all.”
“No you don’t,” Pansy deadpanned. “You adore us.”
“Y’know, I’ve always wondered,” Ginny said absently, swirling her wine around. “How is our dear Theo in bed, anyway? I’ve never managed to get a straight answer out of you.”
“Ooh, now I’m curious too,” Susan said, shifting to face her fully.
Hermione felt her face burn at the question, and she nearly choked on her wine. "Ginny, for the love of–”
"Come on," Ginny teased, her smile wide and mischievous. "You’ve been together for long enough now– you’ve got to tell us! He’s got that whole dark, mysterious vibe. I bet he’s amazing."
Hermione could only manage a strangled noise. "I... I’m not answering that."
“Why not?” Luna asked dreamily. “You’re obviously being satisfied sexually. I can sense it in your aura.”
Pansy studied her closely. “Hm,” she said thoughtfully. “You’re right, Lovegood. She does have a very sexually satisfied aura.”
“You know I’d be on your side normally, Hermione, but I’ve got to admit I’m a bit curious now, too,” Padma grinned, nudging her playfully with her socked foot.
Hermione shot them all a look. “I don’t want– er, it’s private ,” she said, trying to hold her ground, but her voice wavered just a bit. She was fighting a losing battle, she knew it. Instead of continuing to argue, she drained her wine glass.
“Private my arse,” Ginny said, immediately snatching her glass and refilling it. "Come on, we all know he's good in bed. The broody ones always are. And let's be real, you two are practically joined at the hip. He’s got to be doing something to keep you coming back like that."
“Ugh,” Hermione groaned, setting her glass down with a thud. "I hate that this is happening. I am not discussing Theo’s... well, anything with you lot."
Susan, clearly enjoying the drama unfolding, leaned forward, her eyes glinting with curiosity. “Oh, come on, just one little detail! What’s his best quality? Is he a gentleman? A pleaser, if you catch my drift?”
Hermione covered her face with a pillow, powerless to stop the onslaught of questions that continued.
“You two are living together now,” Pansy said. “I bet you’ve christened every room in that flat.”
Hermione groaned, tossing the pillow at the Slytherin. It narrowly missed her wine glass. “I swear to Merlin, you’re all impossible. Fine, fine – he’s... attentive. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Happy now? ”
Pansy leaned back, clearly impressed. “Good for you, Nott. Always knew he had it in him. Then again, he did manage to get around a fair bit back at school.”
“Shut up,” Hermione said instinctively. Then she glanced at her, a thought suddenly occurring to her. “Wait, you didn’t sleep with him, did you?”
Pansy recoiled. “For fuck’s sake, Granger. He’s like a brother to me.”
“You say that about Draco too,” Hermione muttered. “And you slept with him.”
The dark-haired witch’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Ugh, don’t remind me.” Then she gave Hermione a firm look. “Theodore and I have always been strictly platonic. You have my word, darling.”
Padma raised her eyebrows, looking between the two of them. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Hermione.”
“No,” Hermione said, a little too quickly. “I’d just… prefer not to think of him with other women.”
Pansy leaned forward, placing a well-manicured hand on her knee. “Granger. Trust me, as someone who’s known him since before he hit puberty– those ‘other women’ didn’t even come close to this. Theo thinks the sun rises and sets on you. He’s very much devoted to you. Anyone with half a brain can see that.”
Hermione reddened for probably the twentieth time that evening. “I know,” she said. “I just– it’s stupid, but I wish I’d known him then. I mean, I suppose I did know him, but I wish I’d talked to him. I dunno.”
“I think it’s sweet,” Luna said. “Your souls are connected. Of course you’d want to go back and entwine them earlier on.”
“Right,” Hermione mumbled awkwardly. She never knew what to say when Luna got like this.
“But really,” Luna continued, “you met each other at exactly the right time. Things like this are never random, Hermione. You’ll see. There’s more to it than what we’re aware of.”
Hermione blinked, momentarily taken aback by the weight of Luna’s words. There was something unsettlingly intuitive in the way she spoke, as if she had known something Hermione hadn’t even realized herself. But then again, it was Luna– always cryptic, always deep in her own world. She had to admit, there was something that resonated with her about meeting each other at exactly the right time. It had felt a little bit like fate, pulling her towards him.
She absently wondered how his “whisky night” with Blaise and Neville was going. Hopefully he wasn’t being grilled about how she was in bed. She shuddered at the thought. No, Neville was far too respectable for that. Blaise, on the other hand…
She nodded slowly, blinking the thought away. “Thanks, Luna. Things are… quite good. I’m very happy. Now, can we please talk about something, anything else?”
“Well,” Susan began, clearly enjoying Hermione's discomfort but acquiescing, “since we’re on the topic of relationships, how are things with Blaise, Gin?”
Ginny didn’t bother to hide her grin. “Still great. Even better than before, actually.”
Padma clapped her hands together. “I can’t even lie, the two of you are ridiculously sweet together.”
“Despite the atrocious displays of public affection you two are prone to, I actually happen to agree, Weasley,” Pansy drawled, examining her nails.
“Thanks,” Ginny said, still beaming, apparently taking Pansy’s comment as a compliment as well. “It’s been fun traveling all over the place together, but honestly… I think I’m going to move in with him, too.”
Hermione stared at her. “Gin! You didn’t tell me!”
Ginny shrugged. “It’s new. He asked me two nights ago, and I said I’d think about it.” She took a sip of her wine. “But I’ve already made up my mind. Just have to keep on his toes, y’know?”
“Cheers to that,” Pansy said, raising her glass. “And cheers to Bones meeting the man of her dreams any day now.”
“And what, I’m just destined to be an old spinster?” Padma teased.
“I mean, you never even talk about dating. I wasn’t aware you were interested in finding Mr. Right,” Pansy retorted, arching a brow.
Padma smiled, shrugging nonchalantly. “I’m not not looking for someone,” she said. “I’m fairly content where I am in life. And St. Mungo’s certainly doesn’t give us much time for anything, let alone dating. But if someone perfect came along, I certainly wouldn’t say no.”
“Interesting,” Pansy said. “I’ll have to see who I can plant in your path accidentally , then.”
Padma rolled her eyes. “Please, no matchmaking attempts.”
Pansy smirked. “No promises.”
“As long as no one decides to start skipping out on Girls’ Night to spend time with a man, I’ll be good with whatever happens,” Susan said.
The group muttered in agreement.
“Of course not,” Hermione said, pretending to be deeply offended. “Girls’ Night is sacred.”
“Cheers to that ,” Padma said, raising her glass.
Hermione clinked glasses with her friends, feeling warm and content, the unique kind of full-hearted comfort that only came from spending time with her girlfriends. No matter what else was going on in her life, this was her constant– Wednesday Girls’ Night. Six women who she’d known– in some capacity or other– since she was eleven years old. Who lifted her up when she needed it, who brought her back down to earth when she flew too far, who knew how to wind her up a bit when she needed to laugh at herself.
She thought back to something her mum used to say, back when she was small and would come home crying because the girls in primary school left her out. “You don’t need a lot of friends, Hermione, just the ones who make you feel at home in your own skin. And you’ll find them one day, love. I know you will.”
And she had.
-------------------------
That Saturday, Hermione roused herself from sleep, feeling like she’d just woken from the dead. It had been an incredibly busy week at work– nonstop meetings, a never-ending stack of paperwork, and countless hours spent on projects that seemed to multiply the minute she ticked something off her list. The good news was, Draco was set to be released in the next few weeks. But it had been an exhausting work week that had included many nights working overtime at her desk, dragging herself home and practically collapsing into bed.
She turned over, finding Theo’s side of the bed empty. This wasn’t unusual, of course– he always woke before her and was most often showered and dressed for the day, reading a book at the kitchen table by the time she crawled out of bed. Although, there was no latte on the bedside table this morning.
As she padded toward the kitchen, the smell of something sweet and comforting reached her nose.
Hermione paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of Theo flipping pancakes, his back to her. It made her smile to see him this way, so relaxed and domestic, humming along under his breath as he carefully flipped a pancake. He’d taken to the Eagles in recent weeks, playing their records often enough that she sometimes caught him quietly singing a lyric or two when he thought she wasn’t listening.
The record spun, soft and easy as she watched him move about the kitchen.
So put me on a highway
Show me a sign
Take it to the limit
One more time
She loved moments like this– these small, ordinary glimpses of him not as someone burdened by his past, but as someone curious, playful, carefree. It was as though she was watching him discover himself in real time– the things he liked, the sounds and tastes and little pleasures he’d never been free to explore before. Theo hadn’t grown up in a world that allowed for indulgence or exploration. Everything about his childhood had been rigid and austere, his likes and dislikes molded to fit expectation rather than genuine choice.
Now, though, she got to see him process the world around him bit by bit.
The way he lingered in the Science Fiction aisle of the Muggle bookstore she took him to, awestruck by the sheer number of books about aliens, something he’d never even heard of until recently.
Or the way he looked at himself in the mirror when she bought him his first pair of denims, his mouth lifting at the corner, brow furrowed like he didn’t quite recognize himself.
The quiet fascination in his eyes when he figured out how to work the kettle without magic, as if he’d unlocked a secret only Muggles knew.
It was in all these little things– the way he’d taken to her record player like it was a toy, how he’d asked endless questions about her fountain pens and insisted on trying each one, his childish delight the first time he tasted sugary cereal.
Hermione leaned against the doorframe, just watching him. There was something deeply tender about it– seeing him in his softest moments, watching preferences bloom where there had once been restraint.
“Good morning,” she said eventually, and his head snapped up.
“You’re awake! I didn’t even hear you. Good morning,” he said, grinning at her. “Happy birthday!”
She blinked, stunned. “Is it really today? I honestly forgot.”
“You forgot your own birthday?” He frowned at her. “If that’s not a sign you’ve been working yourself too hard, I dunno what is.” He pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit, planting a kiss on her cheek.
“Is there coffee?” she asked hopefully.
Theo gave her a look as if to say– of course , and handed her a latte in her Granger & Granger mug, finished with a heart. He’d become quite good at latte art since working at Spencer’s café.
“Mmm,” she sighed contentedly, the warmth of the drink swirling pleasantly in her belly. “Thank you. And yes, you’re probably right. It’s been a busy week. But next week should be a bit better.”
“Sure. But you’re still not getting out of celebrating your birthday, Granger,” he teased.
She groaned exaggeratedly. “Must we? All I really want is to lay in bed all day with you and Crooks.”
Theo raised his eyebrows. “Is that what you want? Because it’s your day, birthday girl. We can spend it however you’d like. Although, I think your friends might object to that.”
He flipped another pancake onto the growing stack and turned, wiping his hands on a towel. “I got you something, by the way,” he added, almost shyly.
Hermione set down her mug, her curiosity piqued. “You didn’t have to get me anything,” she said.
“I’d be a rubbish boyfriend if I didn’t, though,” he replied, reaching into his pocket and handing her a small wrapped box, midnight blue paper with foiled leaf detailing.
She tore the paper open and pulled the lid off, revealing a delicate necklace– a simple gold chain with a small pendant shaped like a sun. It was adorned with tiny gold and burgundy jewels.
Hermione’s fingers traced every detail of the necklace, her heart catching as she studied it. It was understated but perfect, exactly her taste.
She looked up at him, a smile pulling at her lips. “This is beautiful, Theo. Thank you.”
Theo’s eyes flicked away, a slight flush creeping up his neck. He shifted on his feet, suddenly unsure. “I wanted to get you something that… you know, meant something,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Something that reminded you of what you do for me. Because you brought light back into my life, you know. And the first time I saw you– that day you showed up at Blaise’s, that’s exactly what I thought. That you were pure sunshine, in the form of a person.”
His cheeks were crimson. It was bloody adorable.
She almost laughed, because it was such a sincere, perfectly Theo thing to say, and because it was so much more earnest than she’d ever been in her entire life. “Theodore,” she said, grinning, “that is the cheesiest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
He winced, looking away. “Sorry, I know–”
She grabbed his hand. “No,” she said. “Don’t take it back.” She pressed her lips to the back of his knuckles. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten. I love it. You’re so good to me, Theo.”
He ducked his head, smiling. “I’m glad you like it,” he said quietly. “Can I put it on you?”
She nodded, and he came around behind her, lifting her hair to fasten the clasp shut. Then he turned back to the stove, switching off the burner and carefully plating a stack of pancakes.
He placed it in front of her, then pushed a candle into it. “Make a wish?”
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, laughing as he used his wand to light it. “I don’t know what else I could possibly wish for, though,” she added.
As soon as she said the words, she realized how untrue they were. Of course there was something she wished for, more than anything in the world. For as long as she lived, she knew there would always be an ache, a hole in her heart that never went away.
Because as happy as she was, celebrating her birthday with the man she loved, Eileen and Richard Granger were halfway across the world, unaware that she’d even been born.
As she stared at the small flicker of the candle, a strange emptiness settled over her. She had spent so many birthdays without them, but it never got easier.
She wondered, briefly, if her mother’s body still held the memory of carrying her, of the time spent growing her, giving birth to her. Was there still a lingering warmth there, some invisible imprint, even though she’d been erased from her mind for years?
The thought made her whole body ache in a way she couldn’t describe.
It had been almost six years, but she could still feel it acutely every time, like the loss had just happened. The way her mother would pull her close at every possible chance, like holding her daughter was enough to bring her peace. Like she couldn’t get enough of her. Her father’s easy grin, his out-of-tune singing, the way he’d twirl her around the kitchen until her sides ached with laughter.
They’d never seen her grow into the person she was now, and somehow, every year on her birthday, it felt as though she had just lost them, as if it was a fresh wound each time, no matter how long it had been.
She remembered the quiet birthdays they used to spend together, the three of them. How her mother would bake a cake– always chocolate with raspberry jam– and her father would set the table with the special plates they only used for birthdays. It wasn’t extravagant, just the small things, the way her mother would leave a new book at her place at the table for her to wake up to, how her father would tell her to make a wish, no matter how old she was. She thought about how their laughter would echo through the house, filling the corners with warmth.
And then, once she’d gone away to school, they’d send the cake via owl– Hermione didn’t understand how they’d even managed it, but they did. Each year, they’d send new novels for her to read, a new jumper, and “something pretty,” as her mother always said– a pair of earrings, a lovely trinket for her desk, a silky headband. Something like that.
“Every girl deserves something pretty on her birthday,” Eileen would say, tucking a curl behind Hermione’s ear.
She reached down and fingered the necklace from Theo, a lump forming in her throat. Her “something pretty.” Her mother would’ve been thrilled.
Hermione could almost feel them then, a soft pull in her chest, and for a brief moment, it was as though they were still there, standing just behind her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push it away.
“Hermione?” Theo’s gentle voice broke through her reverie, and she tried to swallow through it.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice breaking a little. “Just got lost in my thoughts for a moment.”
She turned to look at him, absorbing the quiet concern in his expression. He took her hand, rubbing circles on the back of it. “Australia?”
She nodded, biting her lip. It was the way he often referred to it– whenever she found herself swept into that overwhelming sadness, when she wanted to curl in on herself and sob for her mum, he’d tilt his head, murmuring– ‘Australia?’
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. This is lovely, and I’m so happy. I really am. I just miss them a little extra on my birthday.”
“Of course you do,” he said, quietly extinguishing the candle. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, love.”
“Thank you for understanding,” she said, nearly a whisper.
“Hermione,” he said gently, taking her hands. “There is– there’s something else. It’s not a gift, not exactly, more of an… idea.”
She tilted her head at him. “An idea?”
Theo nodded. “Obviously, it couldn’t happen yet, because I’m not allowed to leave the country. And the answer might be a firm no, which I’d completely understand. It would be… a lot, for both of us. But I think we should try.”
“Try what?”
“Going back to Australia,” Theo said, meeting her eyes.
Hermione blinked at him, her heart stuttering. “Back to Australia?” she whispered. “Why?”
Theo looked down at their hands, his expression shifting to something a bit more serious. “Because I think you should try again, and not by yourself this time. I want to help– I want to be there for you.”
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “Where is this coming from?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but truthfully, I think it really started to take shape after I started seeing Healer Brown. I know I’m far from being all… fixed up, but she keeps talking about facing things head-on, about not being so afraid of confronting things. And I just– I’d like to help you do that. If you’d let me.”
She was quiet for a moment, taking in everything he’d just said. Emotions swirled in her chest, a multitude of reactions. “I don’t know what to say,” she admitted.
He nodded, his green eyes fixed on her. “That’s okay. You don’t need to say anything now– you can think about it, of course. We could take our time, plan everything out, consult experts, do research. Whatever you need. Just tell me you’ll consider it?”
She nodded slowly. “Okay. Yes, I’ll consider it.”
His brow furrowed. “I’m sorry if it upset you. Maybe I should’ve waited until–”
“No,” she said quickly, pressing her hands to his cheeks. “No, I’m just taking it in. I’m not upset, I promise. It’s– it’s really thoughtful, Theo. Thank you.”
“I love you, Hermione,” he said, his expression heartbreakingly open. “I’d do anything for you. And I mean that.”
It landed like a stone in Hermione’s chest, the magnitude of what he was offering. Not just the trip– though that was enormous, the logistical, emotional, magical impossibility of it– but the way he was trying. Despite everything he was working through himself, despite the pain he wore like a second skin, he was solid for her. Dependable. Strong.
It was the way he was willing to walk straight into the heart of her deepest pain just to be there with her when it hurt most. It was, truthfully, so much more than she’d ever let herself ask for from anyone. She stared at him, the gold morning light catching the edge of his jaw. She reached out and traced the line of it, watched his eyes flutter and close at the touch.
“I love you too,” she murmured. “More than I could ever say. And I’m so proud of you, Theo. I feel lucky to be with you. I really do.”
She reached for his face, cradling it in both hands, and when she kissed him it was not careful, not measured or shy– just full and immediate, her lips pressed tight to his like she could pour every wordless feeling directly into his mouth.
He made a soft, startled noise against her lips, and when he pulled her into his lap, the chair scraped backwards and nearly tipped over, but neither of them cared.
She laughed into his mouth, and he laughed too, the sound bright and breathless, and then his hands were under her thighs, guiding her to straddle him right there at the kitchen table.
Her legs fell open for him like it was a reflex, like she was built for the space between his hips. His hands roamed under the old t-shirt she wore– his, of course– fingertips drawing electric lines over her ribs, her waist, the soft curve at her hipbones. She broke the kiss just long enough to catch her breath, to look at him in the mid-morning light, and she felt her heart twist at the sight— his damp hair mussed from running his fingers through it, lips parted and slightly swollen from kissing her, eyes wide and so, so green.
She dragged her fingers through his hair, eyes trained on his. “So handsome,” she murmured, leaning in and brushing her lips along his jawline, the space below his ear.
He sucked in a breath, and she felt his hips jerk instinctively against her. She pressed her body down, feeling the hard evidence of his want for her through his joggers. He groaned, the sound low and helpless, and she nipped at his earlobe, delighting in the way his hands tightened on her thighs. His lips found her neck, teeth grazing the softest part just below her jaw, and she gasped, rolling her hips against his.
The friction was maddening, dizzying. Her legs slid open wider, and she could feel herself growing wet and wanting, every nerve ending tuned to the space between them.
Theo’s hands slipped under her shirt, sliding up the bare skin of her back and dragging her closer. She arched into him, her chest pressing to his, and he groaned again, the sound vibrating against her neck as he mouthed his way along her skin. When he reached the hollow of her throat, he sucked gently, and she felt her whole body shudder in response.
“Feels good,” she whispered against his ear.
“Shit, Hermione,” he practically growled. “I’m going to have to fuck you right here if you don’t stop me.”
She smiled coyly at him, and in one movement she tugged her shorts down and off, tossing them somewhere behind her. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Theo’s eyes widened then darkened.
“Fucking hell,” he whispered, like it was either prayer or sacrilege, voice gone hoarse.
She shifted, guiding him out of his joggers with a single, deft pull, and then she was straddling him– bare, hungry, greedy for him. He dug his fingers into her hips, jaw clenched tight, every muscle in his arms straining with the effort not to lose it in a second. She dragged herself along the length of him, slow and teasing, and then– one smooth motion, she sank down onto him, the fullness and heat making her gasp.
Theo’s head fell back and he swore again, knuckles white against her skin, the sound of it echoing through the kitchen.
He started to move, but her hands stilled his hips. “Wait,” she said, her breath ragged. “Just– look at me, for a second.” He froze, his chest rising and falling, mouth parted. “I love you,” she whispered. “So much.”
He let out a shuddering breath, looking up at her in wonder. “I love you too, Granger,” he said. “You’re fucking magical, you know. Pure magic.”
She rolled her hips and he slid deeper, and they both gasped at the burn of it. The kitchen was washed in soft gold, everything hyperreal– the thud of the table against his knees, the tremble in her thighs, the heat of his hands splayed at her waist. She felt made of light, the sun from the window casting her in gold, and then him— her Theo, looking up at her like she had conjured the world from scratch just for him.
He surged up to kiss her, his mouth claiming hers, desperate and open. His hands pulled her down, impaling her on him with bruising force. She gasped, the sharp pleasure shooting through her body, and she rocked her hips, a rhythm building instantly– a frantic, greedy pace, like she couldn’t get enough of him, like they were both starving and this was the only way to survive.
Her hands tangled in his hair, yanking his head back to bare his throat, and impulsively, she bit him there, sucking a mark into his skin.
He hissed, hands tightening on her arse, fingers leaving crescent moons in her flesh. She rode him, the slap of skin and the scrape of the kitchen chair loud in the early morning quiet.
The neighbors could’ve peered across and seen them at any moment now.
Somewhere in the next room, Crookshanks uttered an offended yowl before padding away, and neither of them cared.
Nothing else existed.
Theo’s hands felt like magic, too, as they moved over her skin, alternately reverent and greedy. He palmed her breasts through the t-shirt, thumbs rubbing circles over her nipples until she whimpered, grounding herself against his chest. She bit his lip, hard enough to taste the iron of it, and he groaned, surging up into her, deeper and deeper, until her voice caught in her throat.
She clung to his shoulders, anchoring herself as she flexed around him.
It built between them with terrifying speed, a tension that stretched thinner and thinner with every thrust, every gasp, every rolling wave of pleasure.
She felt herself opening, unraveling, everything else falling away until it was only this– her body, his, the dizzying sense of being completely unmoored. Theo’s hands gripped her hips, hard enough to bruise, and he growled something hoarse and incoherent into her mouth.
Hermione gave herself over to it, let him drive up into her, let herself ride the rhythm until the edges of her vision went soft and bright. She was right there, teetering on the edge, and she could feel her whole body tensing, every muscle quivering with anticipation. Theo’s jaw was clenched, eyes wild, the green of them blown dark and huge as he watched her ride the crest, watched her come apart.
His hands were splayed at her hips, holding her steady, but it was his voice, low and urgent, reverent like prayer, that finally undid her.
“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he rasped. “Hermione– fuck– please, I need–” but the words dissolved as she clenched around him, and everything else vanished.
It shattered in her all at once– her pleasure and his, the swirl of want and warmth and every impossible emotion blooming in her chest. Her release wasn’t just physical, it was electric, something elemental.
It rippled outward, white-hot, and in that moment she felt undeniably connected to him. Like her magic was reaching for his, like they were woven together by some invisible thread, pulling them tighter and deeper into something she couldn’t have articulated even if she tried.
As they both came back down, breathing heavily, their foreheads touching, they stayed still for a moment, taking in the quiet after the storm.
The room felt warmer, softer somehow. Theo reached up to gently brush a strand of hair from her face, his fingers trembling slightly.
His voice was low, awestruck. “That was–” he broke off, shaking his head in disbelief. “That felt like– fuck, I don’t even know how to describe it.”
“I know,” she murmured. “I felt it too.”
By the time they finished the pancakes, the sunlight was high and golden, spilling across the kitchen and making the world feel wider and kinder than either of them remembered it. Hermione perched on his lap as she sipped the dregs of her coffee, her head tucked into the warm crook of his neck, and Theo traced lazy circles on her bare thigh with the back of his knuckle.
She felt settled in a way she rarely had before.
After breakfast, the rest of the day unfolded lazily, comfortably. They spent hours sprawled on the couch in the living room, Theo’s arm around her shoulders, as they watched her favorite films– some of which he’d already seen, others he hadn’t.
She got to watch Pride and Prejudice through his eyes, something she found surprisingly delightful. Theo, ever the dry one, scoffed at the romantic parts, though Hermione could see the soft smile tugging at his lips as he watched her react to the scenes.
Eventually, as the sun sank lower in the sky, they called for Chinese takeaway and ate it on the couch, perched on pillows, Crookshanks curled between them.
Later, after they'd eaten, Hermione pulled Theo into the bathroom with her, a mischievous grin on her face. The bath was filled with lavender-scented bubbles, and they took their time. There was no rush.
They made love again, soft and slow, finding a rhythm that worked for both of them.
Later, clean and exhausted, they fell into bed. Crooks joined them, curling at their feet. The room was peaceful now, with nothing left to do but relax. Tomorrow, her friends would drag her to brunch and she’d be forced into being the center of attention– something she typically loathed. But it felt like more of a gift this year. She felt like a different version of herself, lighter and more unspooled in the best way possible.
Hermione rested her head on Theo’s chest, the rhythm of his breathing like a lullaby in the quiet of the room. She realized then, quietly, without any dramatic revelation, that this was the best birthday she’d had in recent memory. She smiled to herself at the thought.
Theo kissed her forehead, pulling her closer. “Happy birthday, Hermione.”
She slept better than she had in weeks.
----------------------
Some days I'm lonely
And some days I'm not
Some days I am only
A little bit sad, not a lot
How do you?
How do you make a home?
What to do?
'Cause I never stay too long
Every house looks the same in my dreams
Every house feels like home for a couple weeks
I've been running 'round tryna find a place where I can breathe
But me, oh, my
I found you under an April sky
And you feel like
City life, apple pie baked just right
Home is wherever you are tonight
-Lizzy McAlpine
Notes:
A bit shorter than the last few, and honestly not my favorite chapter I've ever written but hopefully it's a bit of a reprieve from all the angst. The next one should be up within the next two days- I will likely not be posting quite as often in the coming weeks as I am (sadly) going back to work after summer break. But I will still do my best to post as frequently as possible.
Hope you all enjoyed this one, thank you as always for the kudos, comments, etc- they really and truly make my day every time! <3
Chapter 21: NFWMB
Chapter Text
Theo was feeling unusually buoyant as he prepared to head into Hogsmeade for his shift at the café, walking towards the Apparition point. He’d just finished his check-in with Marlowe, something that he’d always expected to dread, but had somehow come to look forward to. Marlowe was a no-bullshit kind of person, which Theo appreciated. She didn’t sugarcoat things, but she had a way of putting them into perspective and reminding him how much worse things could be going, in retrospect.
As he made his way out of the Ministry, his steps were light, more unburdened than usual. He was usually more on guard in Diagon Alley, but today felt different.
Today, they’d discussed employment, and Theo was feeling strangely hopeful about the future. He didn’t necessarily need to work– his vault at Gringotts had more than enough to cover his mortgage along with anything else he might choose to spend his money on. But the thought of building something with purpose, of finding a way to contribute in a meaningful way, felt like something he needed.
The thought of getting up and going to work every day, having his own career, instead of sitting around waiting for Hermione to come home– it gave him a spark of optimism he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Marlowe encouraged him to explore employment options that didn’t just fill time, but gave him a sense of purpose. They’d talked about his best subjects in school– Potions, Transfiguration, and Care of Magical Creatures, and she’d suggested looking into areas like magical Herbology or even joining a team at the Ministry, helping develop better care programs for magical creatures.
He wasn’t sure that was even a possibility for him, but Marlowe had seemed certain it was, so he’d allowed himself to entertain the idea. He wondered what Hermione would think when he shared the news with her tonight– he assumed she’d be encouraging. She always was. He could come home and tell her he’d decided he wanted to pursue a career in knitting tea towels and she’d probably be absolutely chuffed for him.
He smirked at the thought.
In the middle of his reverie, however, he began to feel a sudden unease, the prickling sensation of being watched. His shoulders stiffened, and he instinctively lowered his head, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground beneath his feet. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt people staring at him out in public. It was inevitable, at least sometimes, but he’d mostly managed to fly under the radar. Today, though, the weight of it was heavier, less abstract. When he looked up– just for a moment, to check the time on the clock above Quality Quidditch Supplies, he caught a group of witches clustered by the steps, their eyes fixed on him with blank and open curiosity. One of them nudged her friend, who turned to stare with a mixture of horror and fascination. Theo kept his head down, picking up his pace.
He focused on the rhythm of his stride, the steps left to the Apparition point, the inhale and exhale of his breathing. Just as his new Mind Healer had taught him to do when he felt the beginnings of a panic attack coming on.
He was only a few paces away from the point when he saw it– a flash of something familiar on the stand just across the alleyway. For a split second, he thought it was nothing, a hallucination conjured by his nerves. But as he drew closer, the sensation sharpened, and it was impossible to ignore– his own face, staring out from the front page of The Daily Prophet.
The headline screamed out at him in bold, black letters– “Hero or Hypocrite? Golden Girl’s Disturbing Relationship with Ex-Death Eater Theodore Nott.”
Beneath it, a lurid picture of Theo– his mug shot from his arrest, with his face drawn and haunted, eyes hollow. The photo made his stomach turn.
And beside it, a grainy picture of Hermione at the Wizengamot, mid-speech, passionate and fierce as she advocated for the new Revised Sentencing and Reintegration Act– the legislation she’d worked tirelessly on, the one that had been the catalyst for his eventual release.
For a brief moment, he felt dizzy, like the floor was falling out from beneath him. It was too much. Too real. Everyone was looking. Everyone would know.
He wasn’t just in the papers. Hermione was, too.
Their relationship, their lives, were being dragged through the mud by people who didn’t know him, who would cast aspersions on her for associating herself with him. Who would call into question her motives, her entire career. His mind buzzed.
The panic started slowly, a simmering pressure in his chest, then it picked up speed, rapidly growing into something worse. He could feel the judgment of every single person around him, regardless of whether they’d seen the article or not. He was certain they were all staring.
He needed to move, to get out of the middle of the sidewalk. He briefly considered Disapparating, just going home, but he couldn’t catch his breath, and the thought of Splinching himself made him reconsider. He turned, his heart pounding in his throat, and walked toward the alleyway, hand on the brick wall to steady himself.
Then, as he walked, someone behind him called– “Nott!”
He ignored them, his vision blurring, his breathing shallow.
“Nott?” The voice called again.
He kept walking. He was almost there, at the alley, and then the voice got closer.
“Oi! Theo!”
He turned, stomach churning, steeling himself to face whatever confrontation would follow. But he froze when he realized who it was.
“Weasley?”
“Yeah,” Ron said, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything. I was on my way back from my lunch break. I just– I saw the Prophet,” he said in a low voice. “And then I saw you reading it at the newsstand over there. And you sort of looked like you were panicking, so I figured you hadn’t seen it until now.”
“Oh,” Theo said. “Yeah. Er– thanks.” He didn’t know what he was thanking him for, exactly, but it felt like the right thing to say.
Ron gave him a wary, almost apologetic look. “Alright there, mate? I mean, you look a bit… peaky.”
Theo rubbed his eyes, feeling a little foolish. He’d been so wrapped up in his head, his panic spiraling, that he’d barely noticed anything around him. “Yeah,” he said, forcing a breath out, trying to straighten his posture. “Just... a bit of a shock, that’s all.”
Ron nodded, glancing over at the newsstand where the Prophet still lay, its headline burning like a beacon in the corner of Theo’s vision. “I get it. That’s Skeeter for you– she’s never played fair.”
Theo managed to nod, unsure of what to say. Frankly, he was beginning to worry he might pass out right then and there.
Weasley’s eyes flicked back over to Theo, and he seemed to hesitate. “Erm– are you headed someplace? Because if not, I’ve got somewhere you can go for a minute. Just to… collect yourself.”
Theo hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”
Merlin, this day had taken a very strange turn.
Ron led him through the crowd, his pace quick and efficient, steering him toward the familiar storefront. The sign for Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes swung gently in the breeze.
When they stepped through the door, there was no one inside, save for the other Weasley at the front desk. One of the twins, Theo thought– the one that wasn’t… dead. He couldn’t remember which one.
“It’s our lunch break,” Ron explained, giving a nod to Fred-or-George. “We close up for an hour midday.”
Theo followed him to the back and into a small but cozy-looking office. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a few hanging lanterns casting a warm amber light over the worn furniture. The walls were plastered with various posters and promotional materials for the joke shop, some humorous, some a bit cheeky. Theo barely looked at them.
The desk was cluttered with half-finished paperwork, product samples, and a few empty mugs. It was clear that it wasn’t a space used for business meetings, but rather for moments of respite away from the chaos of running a bustling store.
Wordlessly, Ron made his way to a small, rickety cabinet beside the desk, opening it with a creak and pulling out a bottle of Firewhisky. He poured a generous measure into two glasses and handed one to Theo.
“Thanks.” Theo took the glass without hesitation, appreciating the warmth that began to spread through him as soon as the amber liquid hit his throat. It was a welcome distraction, but not enough to push away the storm still brewing in his chest.
“Cheers,” Ron said, lifting his own glass, before taking a sip.
“Cheers,” Theo murmured.
Again, what the fuck?
Ron gestured to the two armchairs in the middle of the room, and Theo took a seat. Ron leaned back in his chair, his posture casual but his expression full of a quiet, uncomfortable understanding.
“So... this is awkward, I know.” He cleared his throat, eyes meeting Theo’s. “Do you want to– er, talk about it? The article?”
Theo ran a hand through his hair, feeling his head begin to pound with the beginnings of a headache. He didn’t, in fact, want to talk about it. Particularly not with Ron Weasley. More than anything, he wanted to drop through the crack in the sofa and vanish, or at least have the awkward grace to joke about it and move on.
Neither of those options were looking very realistic at this point, though.
As if reading his mind, Ron cleared his throat. “You don’t have to, obviously. But if you’re worried I’m going to be weird about it, don’t be. I promise not to hex you.”
Theo huffed a laugh. “Appreciate it, mate.” He stared at the floor for a moment. “I mean, what is there to say, really? It’s not like it’s untrue. I was a Death Eater. I did time. Hermione is… Hermione.” He turned the glass in his hand, watching the way the light warped through the gold liquid.
The redhead nodded slowly. “True. But that’s not the whole story, is it? In my experience, nothing’s that black and white.”
“You sound like Hermione,” Theo mumbled.
Then he cringed. Merlin, this was awkward. But Weasley didn’t seem to think so. He wasn’t looking at him with judgement or distaste, just a distant curiosity and maybe even a bit of concern.
He sighed. “Honestly, I don’t fucking care what they write about me. Skeeter can have herself a field day at my expense if that’s what pays the bloody bills. But I wish she’d leave Hermione out of it. I don’t want any of this to affect her more than it already has. She doesn’t deserve it.”
Ron’s face softened, his tone still cautious. “I hear you. But Hermione’s… tough when it comes to that kind of thing. This would be far from the first time her name’s been on the front page of the Prophet, and the stories don’t always paint her in a great light. She’s got thick skin. You’d be surprised.”
Theo took another swallow of the Firewhisky, but it didn’t do much to ease the tightness in his chest. “I guess so. But all she’s done is try to help people, and now they’re calling her character into question. Like she might’ve done all this for the wrong reasons.” He shook his head in disgust.
“Right,” Ron said. “But it’s not like everyone is going to believe that, right?”
“I hope not,” Theo muttered.
Ron hesitated, eyes darting around. “I mean, have you two talked about this? The possibility of it getting out in this… way?”
Theo nodded, draining his glass. Without asking if he wanted more, Ron refilled it. “A bit, yeah,” Theo replied. “She never seemed too worried about it. Said there would be rumors, that people would have plenty to say. I dunno if she considered how it could affect her career, though.”
“I’m sure she has,” Ron said quickly. “It’s Hermione. She’s considered everything.”
“You’re probably right,” Theo said with a slight smirk.
“I’d be willing to bet she’s had contingency plans for this for ages. And who knows if it’ll actually affect her career? She’s the Golden Girl, remember?” Ron gave a small smile, saying the nickname with exaggerated flair.
“Believe me, I’ve never forgotten that.”
Ron studied him for a moment. “You know,” he said cautiously. “For what it’s worth– I don’t think you deserve what they’re saying about you. I realize we don’t really know each other, but I do know Hermione. She’s brilliant, level-headed, and a bloody excellent judge of character. She wouldn’t be with you if you weren’t a good person.”
Theo’s glass froze halfway to his mouth and he blinked, unsure how to respond. “That’s– erm, thanks, Weasley.”
“Ron,” he said.
“Right. Thanks, Ron.”
“Don’t mention it.”
There was a beat of silence, this one less awkward and loaded than the last. Theo was the one to break it this time. “You think she’s alright? Hermione?”
Ron raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure she’s fine, mate. But if it makes you feel better– here, let’s make sure.” He stood and raised his wand, muttering something under his breath. A small, scruffy dog, silvery and almost ghost-like, shot out of the tip of his wand.
Ron spoke quickly to the Patronus. “Go find Hermione and make sure she’s okay, yeah? And tell her I’ve got Nott– er, Theo with me, and he’s fine.”
The Jack Russell terrier Patronus yipped happily and darted off into the air, its tail wagging as it bounded off in the direction of wherever Hermione was. Theo watched it, eyebrows raised.
“Pretty impressive,” he said.
“What, the Patronus?” Ron looked slightly confused, as if he must be talking about something else.
“Yeah,” Theo said ruefully. “I’ve never been able to cast one. I didn’t know they could do that– carry messages, or whatever.”
“You can’t cast a Patronus?”
“Nope.” Theo felt his face heat in embarrassment. “Embarrassing, I know. Potter would have my head. He’s like, the king of those, right?”
Ron snorted and nodded. “But why not?” he asked curiously. “Why can’t you cast one?”
Theo shrugged. “I dunno. I mean, I haven’t tried in years, for obvious reasons. I remember trying a bunch during sixth year when everyone was whispering about Potter’s, but I just couldn’t.”
“You’re supposed to think of your most positive memory,” Ron offered. “A time where you remember feeling really happy.”
Theo smiled thinly. “Ah,” he said. “That would explain why I couldn’t cast. Not a lot of those– at least, not back then.”
Briefly, Theo thought back to sixth year. It was the year he’d started noticing Hermione– really noticing her, beyond just being mildly impressed and intimidated by her.
Sixth year was also when he’d first started sleeping with Libby Thorne, a Ravenclaw from the year above. She was smart, a bit of a challenge, and, crucially, not at all interested in anything more than a few weeks’ worth of clandestine trysts in empty classrooms or the Astronomy Tower. Which was exactly what Theo wanted– or at least, that’s what he’d told himself.
Libby would run her hands through his hair, twist herself around his body, exhale into his neck as if trying to mark him with her breath. It should’ve been enough, and sometimes it almost was. But other times, he’d close his eyes while he was kissing her and feel a strange, dull ache in his chest. An odd sort of loneliness. He’d try to lose himself in Libby, in her hands and her mouth, but sometimes in the dark, when he couldn’t see her face, he’d imagine it was Hermione Granger instead.
Imagine what it would feel like to kiss her, to have her hair in his hands, her clever tongue pressed between his teeth. He’d conjure that impossible scenario– Granger, of all people, wanting him– and it would burn through him, both sickening and thrilling at the same time. Maybe that’s what he should’ve been thinking about when he was trying to cast a Patronus.
She’d never even spoken to him, not back then. Barely looked his way. Not that he’d expect her to, of course.
And the next day, Libby would pass him in the hallway with a nod, likely already moved on to her next fling. And Theo would skulk off to class, glancing sidelong at Hermione as she laughed or argued with Potter or Weasley, or scribbled notes in the margins of her textbooks, brow furrowed in concentration. It was a silly little fantasy, an unrequited crush. And yet, here he was, head over heels in love with her. Waiting for her to come home every day like a bloody Golden Retriever.
Perhaps he’d always been hopeless when it came to Hermione Granger.
Ron studied him, almost as if he could read his thoughts. “No happy memories? And what about now?”
Theo glanced down at the ground, swirling his whisky around. “I’ve got some now,” he said quietly. “Thanks to Hermione.”
There was another stretch of silence, and he glanced up to see Ron watching him with an undecipherable expression. He opened his mouth to say something, but just then, a silky, silvery little otter appeared out of thin air, bright and fluid. It circled the room once before stopping in front of Ron.
The otter spoke, soft but clear, and Theo recognized Hermione’s voice in an instant. “Can you tell him I’m fine, and I’m finishing up work early? I’ll meet him at home. Thank you, Ron.” And with that, it vanished into the air like a trail of mist.
Theo sank back into the chair with a sigh of relief, feeling slightly less heavy than before. “Alright,” he said, mostly to himself. “That’s good.”
“So you two are living together, then?” Ron asked.
“Oh. Erm, yeah. Just as of recently, though.”
Ron leaned back in his chair, taking another sip of his Firewhisky, eyes scanning Theo with a more thoughtful expression. “I didn’t realize,” he said finally. “How’s it going, then?”
Theo hesitated for a moment, considering the question. It was strange, talking about his relationship with Hermione with her ex, someone who had shared such a long history with her. But he could tell Ron wasn’t asking to stir anything up– it seemed like he genuinely wanted to know.
“It’s… good,” Theo said slowly. “I mean, it’s an adjustment for both of us, obviously. But it’s nice. I still don’t really understand how it happened, but I’m grateful it did.”
Ron nodded, though there was a tightness around his mouth, like he was thinking about something else. It was obvious to Theo that Weasley cared about Hermione– even if he hadn’t heard it from her, it was evident now.
“It didn’t make a lot of sense to me at first, I’ll admit,” Ron said, his tone measured. “It seemed strange, honestly. But I just want her to be happy, you know? I really do.”
Theo was quiet for a moment, trying to decide what to say. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I can tell. She is happy, I think. I know she misses your friendship, though.”
Ron gave him a brief nod, though there was something almost wistful in his expression. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he said, almost bashful. “I know. I’ve been keeping my distance. It’s not permanent, though. I’ll always be her friend.”
Theo nodded. “I think she knows that.”
“Good,” Ron said, his face still a bit red. “Just– erm, take care of her. She’s been through enough, and I know you know that. I just… I don’t want her to end up hurt again.”
If it were anyone else, or had it been a time before he’d actually sat and talked with Ron, the comment might’ve gotten under Theo’s skin. But there was something genuine about the way he’d said it, and something disarming about his kindness– how quickly he’d jumped in and helped when he noticed Theo dissolving into a panic attack in the middle of Diagon Alley. It didn’t add up with the Ron Weasley he remembered from school– hot-headed, impulsive, irrational, even. Truthfully, the understanding Ron was extending him was more than Theo would’ve been capable of, had the situation been reversed.
“I get it,” Theo said finally. “I know you care about her. And I have no intention of hurting her. You’ve got my word, Weas– Ron.”
“Alright then, mate,” Ron said with a crooked smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Theo set his empty glass down and pushed himself up from the chair, the conversation having reached its natural end.
“I’d better head out,” Theo said, giving a half-smile. “Thanks for the drink, and the… well, everything. If you hadn’t jumped in and made me sit down for a minute, I would’ve– er, I dunno what I would’ve done, really. So thank you. Again.”
Ron gave him a slight nod, his expression softening. “Anytime, mate. Maybe I’ll see you two around sometime.”
“Yeah,” Theo said. “That’d be good.”
He stepped out of the office and Disapparated, back to his and Hermione’s flat.
-----------------------
Theo’s feet had scarcely touched the ground before Hermione was practically launching herself at him, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck. He didn’t even have a chance to react before she pulled back slightly to look him over, her eyes wide with a mix of confusion and worry.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice filled with urgency.
Her gaze scanned him from head to toe, looking for any sign that something was wrong. It made his heart ache, the way she was looking at him, trying to read him like an open book.
Theo nodded quickly, trying to reassure her, though he felt anything but calm. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”
She frowned at him, then exhaled deeply. “Gods, what a disaster. I’m so sorry. What happened? How did you end up with Ron of all people?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but then she spoke again, tugging him into the living room. “Here, come sit. Let’s talk on the couch.”
Once they were seated, Theo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, trying to find the words to explain everything that had happened. “I was leaving the Ministry after my meeting with Marlowe,” he said. “I just happened to walk past a newsstand, and I sort of… er, freaked out.”
“Oh, Theo,” she said softly, taking his hand.
“It’s alright,” he said quickly. “I was getting ready to just run or something, but Weasley saw me and talked me into following him to the joke shop, had me sit down awhile, gave me something to drink.”
Hermione blinked. “Wow,” she said. “That was… good of him.”
“Yeah,” Theo said. “Turns out he’s a decent bloke.” He turned to her, frowning. “What about you though? Are you okay? What happened at work?”
Hermione gave him a small, tight smile, squeezing his hand. "I'm fine," she said. “Just a bit of blowback, nothing I wouldn’t have expected.”
Theo’s eyes searched hers. “But you had to leave work early,” he said. “You never do that.”
She sighed. “Yeah. Brightstone wants me to lay low– just keep my head down for awhile until some of this blows over.”
He frowned again. “What does that mean? You can’t go into work?”
“No, no,” she said quickly. “Nothing like that. He trusts me. Just with the Reintegration Act being so new, we have to think about optics. I’ll probably work from home some of the time, only go into the office when I really have to.” She smiled reassuringly. “It’s fine, Theo. Really. No big deal, just a bit of gossip.”
Guilt pooled in his stomach, heavy and unrelenting. He could hear the weight of her words– reassuring, calm, logical. But it didn’t stop the knot from tightening in his chest. This wasn’t just gossip or a bit of blowback . Hermione was bending over backwards for him. She was making compromises, putting her career at risk, her reputation, all because of his past, his mistakes. Now that their relationship was out in the open for anyone to pick apart and judge, he suddenly couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that he was deadweight, dragging her down.
He could see it in the way she was trying to keep everything so normal, so calm, even though he could feel the tension radiating off her. It was like an unspoken truth between them, this quiet burden he carried– the knowledge that by simply being with him, she was bearing a cost.
Theo looked at her, his gaze falling to their intertwined hands. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice low, barely audible.
Without missing a beat, she squeezed his hand tighter. “Hey,” she said quietly. “Don’t do that.”
Fuck , she knew him far too well. He shook his head. “None of this would be happening if you didn’t choose to be with me. I’m bringing you down, Hermione, and I can’t live with–”
“Stop it,” she said, her voice firm. She shook her head, her fingers brushing his cheek in a tender, almost soothing motion. “I knew what the consequences might be when I made this choice. Nobody knows our relationship like we do. No one knows you like I do. And it’s not their place to judge.”
“But they will anyway,” Theo scoffed.
“What, like that’s new to me? Theo, I’ve been in the bloody spotlight since I was fourteen years old. I’m no stranger to being picked apart by Rita Skeeter or the whole wizarding world, for that matter. I know what I’m signing up for.”
“That’s exactly what Weasley said,” he muttered.
She smiled then. “Well, he would know, wouldn’t he?”
Theo ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose he would.” He met her eyes, his chest still tight with emotion. “I just hate this for you. It should be easy, being with someone. You shouldn’t have to put up with all this.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to be with anyone else. I want you,” she said plainly, like there was no room for argument.
His chest tightened again, but this time, it wasn’t just guilt. It was something more raw, protective. “Hermione,” he said, his voice low. “You’d tell me if you ever felt… unsafe, right?”
She looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Like if this ever got to be too much. If anyone ever tried to like… hurt you, or something. Or threatened you. Really, if they even looked at you wrong.”
She scoffed. “Theo, I hardly think anyone would–”
“Seriously,” he interrupted, giving her a hard look. “It’s not impossible. And I swear, if anyone tries to hurt you–” he cut himself off, shaking his head. “I mean it when I said I’d do anything for you. And I’ve done worse for less.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed in surprise, her hand still resting on his face, and she flinched at the intensity of his tone. “Theo, don’t say it like that.” Her voice was quiet, but it had an edge he recognized. “It’s hard for me to even picture you like that. The version of you who’s... violent.” She said the word as though it was a foreign language, and for a moment he thought she might actually be repulsed.
Which, if he was honest, would be fair.
“It’s not something I’d ever willingly go back to,” he said, his heart beating wildly. “But I’d do it if I had to. If anyone hurt you, I’d hurt them back. Simple as that.”
It was her eyes, the slight widening, the way she recalibrated her opinion of him right there on the sofa. He recognized the flicker– a wariness he’d seen a thousand times, the moment someone realized that under his sharp tongue and clever hands there might actually be something dangerous. The funny thing was, he’d never wanted to be that person. He’d spent years folding away every sharp edge so he wouldn’t become his father. And yet, presented with the idea of someone hurting Hermione– he was sure he could become something unrecognizable.
She let go of his jaw, her hand recoiling just slightly as she folded her arms across her chest. “You say that like it’s some sort of… badge of honor,” she said, eyes narrowed and searching his face for a sign of a joke. “Theo, I don’t need you to be a… a vigilante. It’s not like Hogwarts, or the war. I can look after myself.”
He flexed his jaw, his skin missing the contact immediately. “I know that,” he said, letting out a humorless laugh.
“For fuck’s sake, of course I know that. Are you kidding? Hermione, what you’ve done in twenty three years would put grown men to shame. You’re a force to be reckoned with. This isn’t about me believing you need my… protection. It’s about wanting you to have a life where you’re not always looking over your shoulder. You’ve done nothing wrong– ever. Not since the day you were born, I’d wager. You shouldn’t have to pay for my choices, or for anyone else’s. You shouldn’t even have to think about it.”
The words sounded childish out loud, like he was pitching a fit about fairness, but he couldn’t help it. He felt it so deeply, this need to shield her from the kind of darkness he’d inherited, from the hunger people seemed to have to take anything good and ruin it. If Hermione Granger couldn’t exist in the world without being picked to pieces, what hope was there for anyone else?
He tried to say more, but the words clumped together in his throat, a tangle of frustration and helpless affection. Hermione, for her part, just regarded him, her brow furrowed and her eyes distant and sharp, like she was putting together a puzzle.
“I’m not just a bystander in all this,” she said eventually, her voice quiet.
“What do you–”
“I mean that I didn’t just fall into this relationship with you by accident. I know who you are, I know what you’ve done, and I’m choosing you. I’m not– I don’t want you to put me on a pedestal, Theo.”
“That’s not what this is about,” he said quickly. “It’s just– none of this would be happening if I hadn’t made the choices I did. I’m the reason we’re in this bloody situation. There’s no one else to blame here, Hermione. So if anything ever happened to you, it would be because of me. Of course I’d fucking… you expect me to just stand by and watch them pick you apart?”
She drew a slow breath, eyes fixed on him, and he could almost see the gears turning, her impulse to analyze, to categorize, to break his words apart and look for their logical core. But instead of launching into a counterargument, she just dipped her head, rubbing the bridge of her nose like she did when she was at her limit.
“Theo,” she said, voice careful, “I know you think you're being noble, but you’re not listening. I’m not some innocent thing that wandered blindly into your orbit. I knew exactly what I was doing when I chose to be with you. I thought about every possible scenario, including ones far worse than this. So before you go signing yourself up for some grand act of atonement on my behalf, just—don’t.”
Theo exhaled a sharp breath, his shoulders relaxing as she spoke, but the heaviness of everything– the headline, the guilt, the fear for her– still hung heavy in the air between them. “I don’t think you get it,” he muttered, his voice rough. “It’s not about nobility. Not even close. I have nothing to lose but you. And you’re just… you’re everything. If anything ever happened to you–”
“You’re not going to lose me,” she said quickly, fiercely. “I’m not going anywhere. None of this is anything I can’t handle. Anything we can’t handle. We’ve been through so much already. This? This is just noise.”
He closed his eyes, trying to absorb her words. Trying to believe them. “If this ever starts to feel like too much, promise you’ll let me–”
“It won’t be too much,” she said. “There are things we can do to mitigate this, Theo. I already have some ideas, should it come to that. But I want you to stop placing all this blame on yourself. Stop telling yourself you’re bringing me down. All you’ve ever done is lift me up– make me better, happier, stronger.”
He reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Okay,” he said finally. “I hear you.”
Hermione smiled at him, bright and warm. “Good,” she said simply.
There was a long pause, and he found himself afraid to look at her. He was sure she’d see him differently, that he’d find disgust or some other kind of shift in her eyes. But when he finally looked up, he saw not horror or revulsion, but a different kind of intensity– a curiosity, almost, the corners of her mouth twitching up like she was about to say something she wasn’t sure she should.
He blinked, wary. "What?"
Hermione hesitated, then let out a short, nervous laugh, the sound high and awkward in her throat. "I… well, I suppose I shouldn’t admit this, but–" her cheeks flushed, eyes darting away for the briefest moment, "—when you said you’d hurt anyone who tried to hurt me, I… I didn’t hate it. In fact, it was sort of…" she paused, clearly weighing whether to finish the sentence, then pressed on, "—strangely attractive."
She gnawed her lower lip, and for an instant she looked ten years younger, a girl caught out daydreaming in class.
He gawked at her. “Seriously?”
She flushed even redder. “Oh, shut up!” She shrugged, the barest lift of her shoulder. “I know, it’s not very… feminist of me, is it? I never thought I’d actually… oh, God. I’d better stop while I’m ahead.”
Theo felt his brain stutter. “You’re joking,” he said, not quite sure if he wanted her to be. This was such an odd twist to the conversation, and he didn’t know how he was meant to respond.
Hermione, for her part, looked embarrassed enough to sink through the floor, but she held his gaze with a stubborn determination, almost daring him to laugh at her.
“I’m not,” she said. “I know it’s weird. It’s just – it’s not what I expect from you, is all.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head slightly, her curls bouncing. “You’re so gentle with me, Theo. All of the time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even raise your voice unless you’re quoting Wilde. So when you say something like that– that you’d do anything for me, it’s…” She trailed off, searching for the words, frowning slightly. “Sort of… sexy?”
“Sexy?” He repeated dumbly, his last few brain cells firing madly.
“Yes,” she mumbled, her cheeks still pink.
He couldn't help it; he laughed. “I’m not laughing at you,” he said quickly. “I just– it’s hard to explain.”
For a moment, he let himself imagine it– not the violence, not the mess of blood and bone he’d sworn to leave behind, but the idea that someone could want all of him. That someone could find his darkness not just tolerable, but desirable. For a heartbeat, it was almost liberating.
“I didn’t even mean to say any of that,” he said finally. “It all just sort of came out. And I thought you’d be disgusted, or something. But now you’re looking at me like that and I just– it feels good. I don’t know how else to say it.”
He felt absurdly lightheaded, like he might float up off the sofa, especially when she scooted closer, taking his hand, letting their knees touch, and cupped his jaw with one hand.
“You know what I think?” she said, her voice warm and steady. “I think it feels good to be loved for every part of yourself. I think it’s freeing to finally let yourself believe you don’t need to hide anything.”
She slid her hand up, catching his wrist. She didn’t let go, but instead began rolling up the loose sleeve of his jumper, exposing his forearm, the place where dark ink tangled into something he spent every day trying to keep hidden, trying to forget. She studied the Mark for a long moment, her touch featherlight. It wasn’t the first time she’d done it, but something about this moment felt loaded, like if he breathed too loud it might shatter.
She traced the edge of the serpent, following the sinuous wind of its body down to where it tapered into shadow. Her thumb lingered on the place where the head met his skin, where the mouth opened– ready to strike or to speak, he could never decide.
She brought his forearm closer, studying the Mark with an intensity he’d never seen in her before. Her thumb was an orbit, circling the head of the skull, pressing into the hollow, and then she looked up at him, gaze unreadable but so, so present. For a second, he thought she might say something– another speech about forgiveness, or how she didn’t see it when she looked at him, or some other gentle fiction. But she didn’t.
Instead, she dipped her head and pressed her lips to the Mark.
But not like before.
Hermione had kissed it before, in moments of quiet, aching tenderness– the way you’d touch a wound on someone you loved, as if your gentleness could erase history. But this was not that. The way her mouth lingered, the delicious pressure of her lips, the deliberate slide of tongue along the serpent’s curve: it was not comfort, but a challenge. A declaration.
It was Hermione Granger, determined in the way that only she could be, taking the thing he most hated about himself and laying claim to it with the same mouth she used to argue legal precedent and bite his shoulder in bed and murmur I love you against his pulse. He forgot how to breathe for a moment. He forgot how to be anything but a nervous system, a trembling conduit for sensation.
She pulled back, her thumb tracing lazy circles over the Mark, her gaze steady and full of something he’d never had a name for. It was neither pity nor adulation, but something more terrifying– recognition. A kind of homecoming. He could not look away. He didn’t want to.
“Sorry,” she said, her lips quirking. “I don’t know what came over me.”
His lips parted, but no sound came out. He just stared at her.
He wanted to say something clever, something worthy of the moment– maybe a joke, maybe a line from a poem, something to show her that he wasn’t just some slack-jawed wanker whose entire brain had been short-circuited by something like this.
But still, all he could do was stare, the words stacking up uselessly behind his teeth.
It amazed him, honestly, how she had this power over him. He’d always been so adept at keeping his feelings under wraps, at living several layers beneath the surface, only letting select things show. But Hermione had peeled him open, cell by cell, until there was nothing left to hide. He wanted to resent her for it, this relentless, embarrassing vulnerability– but she made it impossible. She made him feel like it was a badge of honor, to be broken and to let her see it. She made him feel like every jagged piece of him was a rare, precious artefact that she’d worked tirelessly to uncover and display proudly, something for her to marvel at.
He was not a violent man by nature. He’d always prided himself on being clever enough to avoid brute force, to settle things with wit or manipulation or, failing that, resignation. In Azkaban, violence was the currency of the desperate and the stupid; he’d survived by keeping his head down and his tongue sharp, only fighting when there was no other option, and even then, always in self-defense.
But the version of himself that would have bled out for her, splintered every bone in his body, torn through mountains barehanded– was as real and terrifying as the pulse in his wrist under her thumb. He wanted her to see that part, too. He wanted her to know every ugly weapon he’d built inside himself, and still choose him. He wanted it so bad it almost physically hurt.
He’d heard people talk about soulmates. Scoffed, disregarded it with the nonchalance of someone who assumed he either wouldn’t make it past age twenty-five or would end up married to a Pureblooded princess who looked at him with disinterest on the very best days.
He’d been humbled by Hermione, though. Deeply so. Because maybe it was true that he had always been waiting for someone to claim him like this. Not to redeem him, but to ground him, to see the whole ugly architecture of his soul and decide he was worth loving anyway. That even the darkness in him could be met, could be held, could be wanted.
He watched her, this witch who made chaos into comfort, who pressed her mouth to the worst thing in his life and set his whole body on fire in the best way possible. All the words he’d gathered– every apology, every promise, every desperate hope– evaporated on his tongue. The words failed him, once again.
He leaned in, unable to hold it back another moment, and kissed her like a man drowning. Like if he didn’t, he’d dissolve into nothing.
Because with bone-deep certainty, he knew it– this was everything. She was everything. He was hers, and he always would be.
-----------------------
Give your heart and soul to charity
'Cause the rest of you
The best of you
Honey, belongs to me
Ain't it a gentle sound, the rollin' in the graves?
Ain't it like thunder under earth, the sound it makes?
Ain't it exciting you, the rumble where you lay?
Ain't you my baby? ain't you my baby?
Nothing fucks with my baby
Nothing can get a look in on my baby
Nothing fucks with my baby
Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing
If I was born as a blackthorn tree
I'd wanna be felled by you
Held by you
Fuel the pyre of your enemies
-Hozier
Notes:
Whewww what a whirlwind of a chapter! So many things happening- from the headline, to his run-in with Ron, to the big talk with Hermione. Curious to hear your thoughts! Personally, I love a bit of darkness in Theo... and clearly, Hermione does too ;)
If you haven't already, check out the playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1iyZ2DFLWcAxuGcJ0jSOTN?si=32a3f7cdae2a45f4
Hope you all enjoyed this one, and thank you as always for the comments and kudos. You're all the very best!
Chapter 22: Strawberry Swing
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione chewed on the end of her quill, a nervous habit she’d never quite been able to break. She glanced at the papers spread across her desk, groaning inwardly at the mess. She hadn’t quite developed a good system for staying organized while working from home yet.
It would need to involve keeping Crookshanks locked out of the study, she thought sourly. The half-kneazle had a bad habit of napping on important documents. She brushed a tuft of orange fur off a Ministry Directive, sighing.
The Floo in the corner roared to life suddenly, and she startled, eyes darting to the hearth. She’d only just connected their flat to the Floo network days ago, so it was an adjustment to actually use it.
Kingsley’s head appeared in the green flames, his familiar, calm demeanor evident even through the green flames.
“Kingsley,” she said, straightening in her chair. “I wasn’t expecting you. Is everything alright?”
Kingsley smiled warmly. “Hello, Hermione. I apologize for the sudden drop-in. Do you have a moment?”
“Of course,” she said, moving to stand in front of the fireplace.
He nodded once. “I should have reached out sooner. Brightstone has been keeping me updated on the whole situation, but I wanted to check in personally to ensure you’re holding up well. The article... I can only imagine how difficult that must be. It’s been a rough few days for you, I’m sure."
Hermione gave a small, forced smile. "I’m fine, really. Just... dealing with it. Trying to manage everything, I suppose."
Kingsley’s gaze softened, though his tone remained measured. "I understand. But I wanted to make sure you have everything you need. If there’s anything at all you want to discuss or need assistance with, don’t hesitate to reach out. We’re all here to support you."
“I appreciate that. I’m hoping all this will blow over soon, and I can return to work.”
He gave a tight-lipped smile. “Yes, that’s my hope as well. I’m sure you’ve noticed the security detail around your flat, and if I know you at all, you’re none too pleased about it. I hope you understand why it’s necessary.”
She sighed. “You’re correct that I’m not particularly pleased about it,” she admitted. “A misuse of the DMLE’s budget, if you ask me. But yes, I understand.”
He gave her a pointed look. “Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page, then. Your safety is a priority to me, Hermione.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, trying not to roll her eyes. Then she hesitated, biting her lip, before finally asking the question that had been lingering in the back of her mind for days. “Kingsley– can I ask you something? And will you give me your honest opinion?”
He inclined his head, indicating she should go on.
She took a deep breath. “In regards to my position as well as the Reintegration Act… do you think the public nature of my relationship with Theodore Nott will pose any issues?”
Kingsley’s gaze didn’t falter. "Your work remains invaluable, Hermione. I don’t doubt that you’ll continue to have an immense impact. Brightstone trusts you– so do I. That goes without saying.”
“But that being said, this is a delicate situation, of course. The optics, especially with something as significant as the Reintegration Act, are… complex. I’m sure you’re aware that your relationship with Mr. Nott will inevitably raise some eyebrows.”
Her chest tightened, but he continued. “That being said, it’s my personal belief that it speaks to the integrity of the work you’ve done with the Reintegration Act.”
She froze. “Really?”
“Absolutely. If a former Death Eater can be granted a chance at redemption, and if he finds such redemption with someone as morally sound and well-respected as yourself, then the system clearly works. That, Hermione, speaks volumes about the power of forgiveness, and the capacity for people to change."
He paused for emphasis. "Your actions, your support for him, only highlight the need for such reform– and the truth behind it."
Hermione exhaled slowly, feeling some of the tension ebbing from her body. "I appreciate that, Kingsley," she said.
“But truthfully, I can’t help but worry about the implications. It’s not just about me, or even just about Theo. It’s also about people we’ve worked so hard to help– Draco Malfoy, for example. He’s still set to be released in the next few weeks, and I fear the negative attention surrounding my relationship could affect the terms of his release, or even his safety."
Kingsley’s eyes darkened slightly, and he gave a slight nod of understanding. "That’s a very valid concern. We’ve been monitoring the situation closely, of course, especially with the article stirring up such a public reaction.”
He sighed. “Draco Malfoy, for all his history, is a product of the system we’ve worked to reform. I’ve already spoken with his Ministry liaison and his solicitor, and we’re arranging for extra security measures for him as well. I’ll be keeping close tabs on his transition. But if you think additional oversight is necessary, I can certainly work something out."
Bit by bit, she felt her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as the weight of her worries lifted just a little. "Thank you, Kingsley. It means a lot to me. I realize this could be– I could become a liability to the DMLE and the Ministry as a whole because of this, and I apologize that I didn’t get ahead of it sooner. I should have issued my own statement early on, I should’ve clarified–”
“Hermione,” Kingsley said, gently interrupting her. “You are far from a liability. The work you’ve done at the DMLE is invaluable, as I’ve said, and even aside from that– you’re partially responsible for bringing down Voldemort and subsequently ending the war. The wizarding world owes you a debt of gratitude. Your personal life should have no bearing on your career.”
She swallowed. “But it does, doesn’t it?”
Kingsley was silent for a beat, and when he spoke again, he seemed to hesitate. “Might I offer a suggestion? Of course, it’s your decision whether or not to heed it– but I believe it might be beneficial for you and Theodore to get ahead of the public perception.”
“Alright.”
“You could offer Skeeter an exclusive interview—one where you both lay out your story, make your positions clear. A controlled narrative, if you will. Make it clear that your relationship isn’t something to be used against either of you, and certainly not against the work you’ve done.”
Hermione bit her lip, trying not to scrunch her face up in distaste. “It’s something I’ve considered, actually. Sort of a last resort, though.”
Kingsley nodded. “It might seem counterintuitive, I understand. But Skeeter thrives on twisting the truth. By offering her an exclusive, you’d be dictating the terms of the narrative. You could even include a clause in the contract that ensures she prints exactly what you both say– no alterations, no embellishments. The Ministry could assist with coaching you both on what to say to keep things focused, to prevent her from manipulating the situation further.”
Hermione massaged the bridge of her nose, mulling it over. She hated the idea of having to engage with Skeeter, but at the same time, it was a pragmatic move. It might help nip the media circus in the bud before it spiraled out of control.
“It’s certainly something to consider. You may be right that it’s the only way to control the narrative, as much as I loathe Skeeter,” she gave in to her battle of keeping her face neutral and wrinkled her nose at the thought.
“Of course,” Kingsley agreed, his tone patient. “Skeeter has been a… problem for some time now. And while I understand your hesitation, consider this: if the public can see that you and Nott are in control of your own story, it could lend you both an air of legitimacy. If anyone deserves redemption, it’s someone who has the courage to face the scrutiny head-on. The work you’ve done is significant, Hermione. You’ve made enormous strides in reform, and I believe that will be recognized, even if it takes some time.”
“Thank you, Kingsley,” she said softly. “I’d like to speak with Theo about it first, maybe think on it a bit.”
“There’s no rush,” he said, his tone reassuring. “But do keep me informed. And know that, despite the noise, you’ve got support. Not just from me, but from everyone at the Ministry who understands what you’re doing.”
Hermione gave him a small smile. “I appreciate that. And... thank you for helping keep things in perspective.”
Kingsley’s gaze softened. “It’s my job, Hermione. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything else. I’m confident this will blow over. And in the meantime, we’ll continue to protect you and Theodore, and Draco as well.”
With that, Kingsley’s head started to recede from the Floo. “Take care, Hermione. We’ll talk soon.”
---------------------------
That evening, Hermione picked at her dinner, her mind elsewhere. The sun was sinking low in the sky, casting the whole flat in a pinkish hue, and a Simon & Garfunkel record played softly in the background– one of her dad’s favorites.
April, come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain
May, she will stay
Resting in my arms again
June, she'll change her tune…
“Not hungry?”
She blinked at Theo, and he tilted his head, looking at her with concern. Sighing, she shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s delicious. I’m just a bit distracted.”
“Oh,” he said. “Everything alright? Well, aside from everything that’s… er, not alright?”
Hermione smiled. “Everything’s fine,” she said slowly. “They confirmed that Draco will be released in the next two weeks.”
“Right,” Theo nodded. “Good. I mean, that is good, right?”
“Of course,” Hermione said quickly. “I’m a bit nervous that all of this will have some kind of impact on him, but Kingsley assures me the Ministry will be looking out for him.”
“Kingsley? You spoke to Shacklebolt?”
“Of course,” she said. “He’s my boss. Well, sort of– Brightstone is my direct supervisor, but I report to Kingsley as well.”
“Right,” Theo said, running a hand through his hair. “I knew that . I just didn’t realize you were on a first name basis with the Minister for Magic.”
Hermione smirked. “I mean, we did sort of fight in a war together,” she explained. “He’s been a bit of a mentor for me. He’s helped me a lot over the years– all three of us, really. But he’s the one that urged me to apply for the Undersecretary position.”
“That’s good of him,” Theo said thoughtfully. “He always seemed like a decent bloke. Loads more trustworthy than his predecessors.”
Hermione snorted. “That goes without saying.” She tilted her head, choosing her words carefully. “He gave me some… helpful perspective on this whole situation.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “He reminded me that he trusts me, which is nice to hear. And he’s not worried that the article will interfere with my work, or anything.”
“Really?”
She hummed in confirmation. “He did make one suggestion that I’ve been… turning over in my mind. I don’t like it, and neither will you, but I understand where he’s coming from by bringing it up.”
Theo visibly tensed. “What did he suggest?” he asked quietly.
Hermione could almost see him retreating inwards, steeling himself for something painful. “No, Theo, it’s nothing like that. Nothing bad,” she said quickly. “I mean, it’s not good , but–” she sighed. “Sorry. I’m rambling. He suggested we sit down with Skeeter and give her an exclusive interview.”
Theo gawked at her. “Sorry?”
She put her fork down, finally giving up on actually eating anything. “I know. It sounds mad. But if we did it, we could make her sign a contract– something that would force her to only print exactly what we say, no embellishments, no bending the truth. It would allow us to take control of the narrative, you know?”
Theo sat back in his chair, looking at her in disbelief. “That’s your solution? You want to give Rita Skeeter, of all people, an exclusive? I know she’s a journalist , but that’s an awfully generous use of the term.”
Hermione clenched her jaw. “I know.”
“So you’re actually considering this, then?”
Hermione sighed and leaned back in her chair, eyes briefly closing as she tried to collect her thoughts. "I don't like it either," she said, her voice quiet, but steady. "But honestly, what other option do we have? The article’s not going away, and I can’t keep hiding from it. People are going to have questions, and it’s not going to stop until we address it. Skeeter’s going to write what she wants regardless. At least if we’re part of the conversation, we can make sure she doesn’t twist our words or—"
“But then we’d be giving her exactly what she wants. Playing into her hands. How do we know she’d even honor the terms of the contract? What’s stopping her from going rogue? She’s not exactly known for her integrity, Hermione.”
Hermione felt a flicker of impatience stir inside her, but she kept her tone even. He had every right to object to this plan, she reminded herself.
“Which is why the Ministry would be involved. We can have them draw up a contract, maybe.”
Theo scoffed. “Do you really think Rita Skeeter cares about ethics? Have you seen some of the things she’s printed about you?”
“Of course I have. They’re awful,” she snapped.
She sighed, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling of unease. None of this felt right to her, but she couldn’t deny how appealing it felt to knock Skeeter down a peg by backing her into a journalistic corner, to be able to give her side of the story, to set the record straight about Theo. But Theo also had a point that the witch had a history of skirting around the rules when she saw fit, of putting her own spin on things if she thought that’s what would sell.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snap at you. I’m just frustrated,” she said miserably.
Theo looked away for a moment, clearly wrestling with his own feelings on the matter.
“I dunno. I really wish I could give you what you want and just say yes. But the thought of putting our relationship out in the open like that– of opening you up to even more judgement than you’ve already been dealing with–” he broke off, scrubbing a hand across his face. “I don’t like it. I really don’t.”
Hermione watched him carefully, knowing she’d need to tread lightly. “I get it,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the frustration creeping up inside her. “I truly do. But I’m already open to criticism, Theo. You know that. People have been judging me, and you, for that matter– for years. And they’ll keep doing it.”
“But that doesn’t mean we need to–”
She held up a hand. “Just let me finish, please. We can either keep our heads down and hope it blows over, or we can show them we have nothing to hide or be ashamed of when it comes to our relationship.”
Theo was quiet for what felt like minutes, his eyes downcast. “Okay. I hear you, Hermione.”
She waited, knowing he had more to say. Theo was always so intentional with his words– it was something she loved about him. She watched him, the way the gears turned behind his eyes, the steady, methodical way he weighed out every syllable before it left his mouth. Theo never said things he didn’t mean. He was cautious, almost reverent, in how he measured her feelings– never careless, never flippant, not even in their worst rows.
Once, ages ago, Hermione’s mother had told her that the hardest part about being married was not learning how to argue, but how to listen when you were certain you were right. She wondered what her mother would make of Theo– how his pauses, his carefulness, might be one of the best things about him.
They sat quietly, the clock ticking, Crookshanks snoring under the radiator, until Theo finally turned to her with the exhausted dignity of someone who’d just run an internal marathon.
“I hate how this is affecting you,” he said solemnly, his gaze steady on her. “I know it must be frustrating, being stuck at home, not being able to work. I want to make this easier for you– I don’t want to be the thing that stands in the way of you getting on with your life. I just– is it okay if I think about it? Just for a day or two?”
She reached for his hand, her heart aching. “Of course,” she said quickly. “Take all the time you need. I don’t want to pressure you. I want to be clear with you that if you really don’t want to do this, I won’t force you. You have just as much of a say in this as I do. Okay?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
She smiled sadly, stroking the back of his hand. “And for the record– yes, I’d prefer if all of this wasn’t happening, but there are much worse things than being here with you and Crooks. Turns out I don’t mind working from home all that much when I have a fit boyfriend bringing me lattes and snacks all day long,” she teased.
Then she leaned in closer. “And who I can shag whenever I want to.”
A smile pulled at his mouth, subtle, but there nonetheless. “If you say so. I’m sorry, Hermione. About all of this. I wish it wasn’t so–”
Hermione leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, silencing him. “You’re not allowed to apologize for this anymore. None of this is your fault, and nothing will change how I feel about you. This is a bump in the road, okay? We’ll get through it, one way or another.”
Theo didn’t respond right away, instead staring at her with an intensity that made her stomach flutter. Finally, he exhaled, a long, exhausted breath that seemed to carry the weight of all his emotions. “Okay. We can do it. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this easier for you.”
“Are you sure? I thought you wanted to think about it.”
Theo shook his head. “No. It’s fine. I trust you. Let’s do it.”
Hermione leaned back in her chair, chewing her lip thoughtfully. “Alright then,” she said after a beat. “But I think I know a better way.”
“A better way?”
She nodded. “It just came to me, actually. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. But you’re going to have to trust me, okay?”
------------------------
Four Days Later
“It’s here!” Pansy jumped up from her seat on the couch, rushing to the window. She yanked it open just in time for a large brown barn owl to deposit a copy of the newspaper onto the sill. She fell silent, her eyes scanned the front page.
Hermione paused her pacing, turning to Pansy impatiently. “Well?”
She made her way over, ready to snatch it from her hands, but Pansy pulled it out of Hermione’s reach, rolling her eyes.
“Sit down, you nutter.” Pansy cleared her throat, and her voice rang out loudly. “Let’s see what Miss Lovegood has to say, why don’t we?”
“Read it out loud, Pans,” Blaise whined from the sofa.
Pansy glared at him. “That’s what I’m trying to do, if you lot would just pipe down for a single second.”
Theo said nothing, wedged between Ginny and Neville. He stared at his hands, his face unreadable. Hermione crossed the room and dropped onto the floor, leaning against the sofa next to him.
She reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze– both to reassure him and to ground herself. “Alright,” she said. “Go ahead, Pans.”
Pansy cleared her throat. “ The Power of Redemption: Hermione Granger and Theodore Nott Speak Out on the Reintegration Act, Love, and Second Chances. ”
“Ooh, I like that. Makes you two sound like proper celebrities,” Ginny said with a cheeky smile.
Hermione ignored her, heart still hammering in her chest. “Keep going,” she urged.
Pansy continued, her tone taking on a thoughtful, almost reverent quality.
“In an exclusive interview with The Quibbler , Undersecretary Hermione Granger and Theodore Nott share the story of their journey—one marked by love and healing, a chance at redemption in a world that often feels beyond forgiveness. The couple, once positioned on opposite sides of a war, now find themselves united, speaking candidly about their shared past, their present challenges, and the future they’re building together. It’s a story of transformation, not just of themselves, but of the very system Miss Granger has worked tirelessly to change.”
She let the words hang in the air for a moment, the room suddenly silent as everyone processed them. Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Pansy glanced at her, and she nodded for her to go on.
“Granger, known for her tenacity and unyielding conviction to justice, hopes to set the record straight about the Reintegration Act and her relationship with Theodore Nott.”
“And then she gives a quote from you: 'I didn’t choose this line of work because it was easy or popular,' Granger explains. 'I chose it because we were all thrust into a war we didn’t start, a war that took so much from all of us. Some may find this perspective controversial, but I believe that most children of Death Eaters did not have a choice in the roles they played, just as none of us did. I believe the future isn’t about pretending that past wrongs didn’t happen. It’s about rebuilding in a way that ensures history doesn’t repeat itself. Offering second chances, and creating opportunities for rehabilitation, education, and support– that’s the foundation of what we need to rebuild.’"
Ginny reached over and squeezed her hand, smiling approvingly at her.
Pansy continued. “‘The Reintegration Act is not about excusing the past,’ Granger adds firmly. 'It’s about understanding that people can change, that everyone has the potential to learn from their mistakes, given the right support. That includes education, therapy– or as we know it, Mind Healing– and the tools to rebuild a life that isn’t defined by the sins of one’s past. If we continue to let people rot in a cycle of punishment and isolation, then we’re not really giving them a chance at redemption. That’s not what my friends and I fought for, and it’s certainly not the world I want to live in.’"
Hermione glanced around the room, eyes flickering over her friends. She could feel their support, but she could also feel the weight of the world outside. The judgement that waited just outside their window. She looked over at Theo, who had remained silent through most of the morning. He was leaning against the back of the couch, his brow furrowed, and his fingers drumming softly on the armrest.
She met his gaze and saw the tension still etched into his features, the anxiety that never quite left him. The words were out there now, part of the public conversation, and she had done everything she could to ensure that they reflected what she truly believed. But the hardest part was knowing that some people would never hear her message, or worse, would choose to twist it or disregard it.
As if reading her thoughts, Pansy gave a rare, reassuring smile before she went on, her voice softer than before.
“As for her relationship with Nott, Granger is clear:
‘While it’s not anyone’s place to dictate who I choose to spend my time with in my personal life, I am not ashamed of my relationship with Theodore Nott. Although he may have made mistakes in the past, they do not define who he is now– which is a man who has spent every day working through his past, facing his own demons, and constantly striving to be better. He is someone who has changed, someone who has earned the right to move forward, just as we all deserve to. My relationship with him is a testament to the person that he is today, the content of his character, and the power of second chances.’”
“Undersecretary Granger also wants to clarify that prior to his release, she had no personal contact with Mr. Nott. Although they both attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, their paths rarely crossed. Granger and Nott officially met for the first time after his release through a mutual friend, outside of working hours.”
“It’s absolutely mad that you even had to explain that,” Blaise muttered.
Hermione nodded. The rumors had been insidious, spreading like mold both within the Ministry and the press– that her relationship with Theo was a conflict of interest, that she’d somehow manipulated the Act for personal gain, that Kingsley and Brightstone were covering up for her.
Pansy’s eyes flicked up from the paper, then back down, lips curling into a knowing smirk. “This bit is my favourite, actually,” she said.
“Ms. Granger states, ‘While it is common for women in positions like mine to have their personal lives scrutinized, I want to make it clear that my relationship has never interfered with my ability to perform my duties as Undersecretary. If anything, my partnership with Mr. Nott has made me a more empathetic, more effective advocate for the causes I believe in– most notably, restorative justice, mental health, and the right of every witch and wizard to define themselves beyond the past. My record, my work, and my vision for the future stand entirely on their own merit.’”
Pansy paused, clearing her throat. If Hermione didn’t know better, she would’ve sworn there were tears in her eyes. Then she continued.
“That’s my girl,” Ginny interjected. “Give ‘em hell.”
Pansy smirked. “‘The couple is determined to keep the focus on the Reintegration Act and the broader societal shift it represents. While they acknowledge the controversial nature of their relationship, they both firmly believe that the work Undersecretary Granger and others on the Legislative Affairs team have done matters far more than public opinion on their personal lives.’”
Pansy glanced up at Theo. “Here comes your part, Theo,” she said, as if giving him time to brace himself. She knew him so well, Hermione thought to herself.
“Nott echoes Granger’s sentiments as well. ‘I am not owed forgiveness nor do I expect it. But Hermione’s belief in me has given me something I didn’t think was possible– a second chance at life. And for that, I’m forever grateful.’”
Hermione squeezed his hand tighter.
“Nott ends his part of the interview with a public apology to those he hurt during the war. ‘I have caused pain, and I will live with that for the rest of my life,’ he admits. ‘My actions, my choices, have hurt many people, and I will never make excuses for them. I am deeply sorry for the role I played in the war. I am not proud of the person I was, and I cannot change the past. But I can work every day to make sure that the man I am now is someone who tries to make amends. I have spent five years trying to understand the consequences of my actions, and I will continue doing so for as long as I live. I owe a debt to those I’ve wronged, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to repay it.’”
Hermione's heart clenched as she heard Theo’s words spoken aloud. He had always been so private, so reluctant to share these things with the world. But he had done it– for the people he’d hurt, for the cause, for her, for their relationship. She knew he meant every word he’d said– none of it was for showmanship or sympathy points. And she loved him even more for it.
Even still, a small flicker of doubt nagged at her. Would it be enough? Would people understand?
As if answering her unspoken question, Pansy continued. “In addition to Granger and Nott’s interview, several prominent figures have also offered their perspectives. Ronald Weasley–”
“ What? ” Ginny and Hermione cried at the same time.
“Ronald Weasley,” Pansy continued, ignoring them, “longtime friend, member of The Golden Trio–”
“Ugh,” Hermione groaned. “I hate that she used that title.”
Pansy gave her a look. “–and former partner of Granger, shared his thoughts.”
“‘I’ve known Hermione for a long time, and if there’s one thing I know about her, it’s that she always stands up for what’s right,’ Weasley says. ‘I’ve watched her work tirelessly for most of her life to make the world a better place, and I’ve never seen her as happy as she is right now. She’s entitled to live her life and make her own choices, just like anyone else. As a society, we owe her that much.’”
“Wow,” Ginny murmured. “He sounds almost… intelligent.”
Pansy snorted, but waved her hand impatiently. “I’m not done,” she said. “He says something about Theo too.”
“‘As for Theo Nott, while I don’t know him very well yet, I can see that he’s putting in the work to change. We all make mistakes. It’s not about where you’ve been, but where you’re going, and I believe he’s on the right path. At the end of the day, I trust Hermione’s judgment, and frankly, everyone else should too. She’s the reason Harry and I survived past age thirteen.”
Neville interjected. “He’s not wrong,” he chuckled. “I can confirm that’s true.”
Others joined in, the unexpected laughter easing some of the tension from the room. Hermione smiled, feeling something warm in her chest at Ron’s words.
“In addition to Weasley, Harry Potter, long-time best friend of Granger’s, has also issued a rare public statement. ‘Hermione’s been through more than most of us could ever imagine,’ Potter says. ‘She’s always had this incredible ability to see the good in people, even when they can’t see it in themselves. I’ve seen her believe in Theo firsthand, and that belief isn’t misplaced,’ Potter says.
“‘Theo isn’t one to place blame for his actions on anyone but himself. But I think it’s important to acknowledge that he was coerced into joining Voldemort’s ranks. He wasn’t given a choice, not really. His father was a Death Eater, and it was always made very clear to him that that’s what he’d become, too. The way I see it, he spent most of his life just surviving. But now, with help, he’s learned to do more than that– he’s learned how to live. I respect him for that. Not everyone’s given a second chance, and even fewer know what to do with one when they get it. For Hermione, this is about more than just love; it’s about trust, it’s about redemption, and it’s about standing up for what’s right. I’m proud to call both of them my friends.’”
Hermione swallowed, blinking back tears. She could hear him in every syllable, the earnestness and the unvarnished belief that people could change. Beside her, Theo ducked his head, his expression a mix of shock, discomfort, and gratitude.
Pansy continued, eyes shifting to the next page. “The Quibbler was also able to obtain commentary from the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt on the matter.
‘We are at a crossroads in magical society,’ he says. ‘I refuse to comment on the Undersecretary’s personal life. But I will say that for me, this discussion brings up the fact that we can– and must– create a world where people are not eternally defined by their past actions. Undersecretary Granger’s work is invaluable, and I am proud to stand beside her as we continue to enact changes and legislation that will prove essential for the healing of our society.’”
Hermione exhaled in relief. Kingsley’s endorsement and words of support were a solid reminder that this was about so much more than her relationship. The fact that he’d chosen to publicly back her– something that would undoubtedly ruffle some feathers, meant more to her than she knew how to convey properly.
Pansy cleared her throat. “The public’s perception of Granger and Nott’s relationship remains a topic of intense debate, but it’s clear that, despite the challenges they face, both are unwavering in their belief in the power of second chances. Through their work and their words, they are determined to show that change is possible– for them, and for everyone who has been part of the system many of us hope to reform.”
Finally, she lowered the paper, giving a low whistle. “Well fuck,” she said, eyes moving between her and Theo. “That was… something.”
Theo exhaled. “Yeah,” he said, breaking his silence. “I’m not really sure what to say.”
Ginny shrugged. “I don’t think either of you have to say anything, really. The article did a brilliant job of that.”
Hermione nodded. “Luna really was brilliant, wasn’t she?”
The rest of the room hummed in agreement. Before anyone else could speak, the Floo roared to life, startling them all. Harry stumbled through first, brushing powder from his hair. Spencer strolled through after him, grinning with a tray of takeaway coffee cups and a brown paper bag from the café, no doubt filled with pastries.
“We saw the article,” Harry explained. “Thought you could use some moral support, although it looks like we’re late to the party.” He scowled as he glanced around the room, but there was no anger behind the expression.
Hermione jumped up, letting Harry gather her into a tight hug. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to see him until he appeared. “Thanks for coming,” she said softly. “Both of you. It means a lot.”
Spencer waved her thanks away, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Of course we came,” he said plainly. “How are you two holding up?”
She smiled. “Better now.”
Theo gave a tight-lipped smile. “What she said.”
“Harry,” she said, touching his arm. “Thank you for what you said in the article, too.”
He frowned. “You don’t need to thank me, Hermione. I was only telling the truth.” He pulled out a bottle from his pocket, setting it on the coffee table with a clunk . "Figured you lot could use something a little stronger.”
“It’s not even noon yet, Potter,” Blaise drawled. Then he stood, walking towards the kitchen. “I’ll get the cups,” he called over his shoulder.
Hermione curled up on the sofa, feeling the tension in her chest ease a little as the group settled into the comfortable chaos that always seemed to surround them. Blaise handed her a cup, and she sipped it, grimacing as the Firewhisky burned its way to her belly.
She set her cup down, the table already littered with mismatched mugs and empty plates. Conversation rose and fell in lazy waves as everyone settled in, their laughter sharp and bright, the tension of the morning already fading.
She could feel Theo’s gaze on her, not urgent or possessive, just steady. She liked the weight of it, the way it seemed to bring her back to earth every time she drifted.
She reached for him, bracing her elbow on the back of the sofa so she could lean over and let the conversation fade to a low, comfortable buzz around them. He met her eyes, tilting his head. She shifted closer, knees pressing up against his on the couch.
“Hey,” she whispered, feeling strange and almost giddy.
Theo gave her a small, sheepish smile. “Hi,” he said, sounding shy, somehow.
She rested her head on his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo, the rich scent of his cologne. “You did so well,” she murmured. “I know how hard that was for you.”
He exhaled, shaky. “It feels a bit like being dissected alive, honestly.”
Hermione laughed, the sound low and breathy. “I know what you mean,” she said.
Theo turned his head slightly, pressing a gentle kiss into her hair. "Thanks for sticking with me," he said, his voice soft, a little uncertain but entirely honest.
"Always," she replied without hesitation, her fingers lightly tracing the outline of his hand.
Hermione could feel the quiet sincerity of the moment, the calm that settled between them in the wake of all the chaos. As she rested there, the world outside her flat seemed a little more manageable, a little softer.
She could forget about Rita Skeeter, about the Ministry-issued Aurors who stood guard outside the flat even now. She could forget about the vitriol and whispers that followed her, that would likely always follow her. For now, she had peace. She had the warmth of her friends and chosen family, Theo’s unwavering faith in her. Crookshanks lazily groomed himself in front of the fireplace, the autumn air blew the leaves off the trees outside, and Theo’s fingers were laced between hers, sure and steady.
-------------------------
Cold, cold water, bring me 'round
Now my feet won't touch the ground
Cold, cold water, what you say?
When it's such, it's such a perfect day
It's such a perfect day
I remember
We were walking up to strawberry swing
I can't wait 'til the morning
Wouldn't want to change a thing
People moving all the time
Inside a perfectly straight line
Don't you wanna just curve away?
-Coldplay
Notes:
Okay, I kind of hate this chapter. I hope you all like it more than I do, ha. Big things happening in the next one!
Happy Wednesday <33
Chapter 23: Abstract (Psychopomp)
Notes:
Surprise! I managed to finish editing this chapter much quicker than I expected, so here it is. Buckle up! This is a long-ish one. Hope you enjoy <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
By and by, as the days passed, the chaos that had followed the release of both articles– Skeeter’s and Lovegood’s– began to fade, until it was almost just a dull roar in Theo’s ears.
The Aurors that had once been posted outside their flat had their hours reduced, and then eventually, only showed up when they left the house, trailing a safe distance behind them. Hermione slowly began returning to the Ministry, something he had to pretend to be thrilled about for her. As awful as the last two weeks had been, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed having her all to himself– entering the study to find her bathed in afternoon light, her hair tumbling down her shoulders, brow furrowed as she chewed absently on the end of a quill.
As he often did, Theo would recall how absolutely chuffed his sixteen-year-old self would’ve been at the sight. Especially when she’d turn to find him staring and smile at him, setting her quill down and tipping her head up to kiss him. It was enough to render a grown man– by many accounts a hardened one, a cynic, someone who'd seen enough of human horror for a dozen lifetimes– feel like a simpering schoolboy again.
It was a sensation he'd never quite been able to shake, not since that first blurry, half-formed crush that had begun to take shape at age sixteen, when he’d pretend to be listening to a lecture while instead stealing glances at the Gryffindor witch who seemed to quite literally glow from across the room. Who was impossibly, pathetically out of his league. Who was miles and miles above him in every possible way, who he wouldn’t expect to give him the time of day even if someone offered her a thousand galleons for it.
And now, somehow, this same girl had materialized in his kitchen, feet bare and hair wild, pouring herself coffee. Had just recently professed her love for him in a very public manner. And who, with a single look, could cause his insides to twist in a manner that was neither dignified nor particularly adult.
He was toying with the idea of sabotaging her return to work by pressing her against the kitchen counter and carrying out one of his many teenage fantasies when the Floo roared to life, an altogether unwelcome sound, at least in Theo’s book.
Hermione squealed and ran off to the bedroom, presumably to put something on besides the oversized t-shirt and knickers she currently had on.
What a shame.
“Nott?” a familiar voice called out. “Are you decent?”
“In the kitchen, Blaise,” he sighed.
Blaise emerged from the green flames and stepped into the kitchen with his usual swagger, though today, there was a more urgent edge to his demeanor. His dark eyes immediately found Theo, and he didn't waste any time.
“Get dressed,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “We’ve got to go.”
Theo frowned. “Excuse me, mate. I’ve hardly even rolled out of bed. What do you mean we need to–”
“Draco was released last night,” Blaise cut in, his tone sharp.
Theo froze, his heart immediately picking up speed. “Already? It wasn’t supposed to be until–”
“Tomorrow. Yeah, I know. Apparently the timeline moved up, I dunno. But he’s out already.” He hesitated, his frown deepening. “It’s not… good.”
Theo raised his eyebrows, gesturing impatiently for Blaise to elaborate.
“I’ve got a guy at Azkaban,” Blaise explained.
Theo chose not to question him about this small detail at present.
“Sent me an owl last night, saying Draco would be released in the next hour or two. So I headed to the Ministry, same place I came to collect you. Of course, I expected to run into his mother there, right? But no. It was just his solicitor. Turns out, Lady Malfoy was... otherwise occupied at the chateau.”
Theo frowned again. “Narcissa wasn’t there? She couldn’t even show up to meet him?”
Blaise shook his head, continuing. “She’s secured him a flat, and a house-elf to ‘look after’ him. It’s rather… bleak, the whole thing. I slept there last night on the couch, and Pans is with him this morning. He isn’t doing well, frankly.”
There was a small intake of breath in the doorway, and he turned to find Hermione standing there. “Sorry,” she said, reddening. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
Blaise smiled thinly at her, his expression still tight with concern. “It’s fine, Granger. No secrets here.”
She came and stood by Theo’s side, touching his arm. “Can I– is there anything we can do? I mean, obviously I was never close with him, but if there’s anything, really, anything at all…” she trailed off, biting her lip worriedly.
Theo glanced down at her, grateful for her grounding touch. “I think I ought to head over there now,” he said, looking over at Blaise, who gave a quick nod of agreement. “Thank you, though. I’ll let you know if there’s anything, yeah?”
“Of course,” she said, standing on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek. “Good luck,” she added hesitantly.
He headed to his closet, dressed quickly, then followed Blaise back through the Floo.
-------------------------
“There you are,” Pansy said as they entered the flat, something between a whisper and a yell. “Took you two long enough.”
She sat perched on the sofa in a black cashmere sweater and wide-leg, tailored black trousers, a cup of tea in her hand and a magazine open in front of her. Her hair was as sleek and tidy as ever, cut into a sharp, angular bob that framed her face with perfect precision, the ends just brushing the nape of her neck. Her lips were painted a deep burgundy color that contrasted sharply against her fair skin. Pansy set her tea down, crossing her arms and giving them one of her signature put-out looks.
“Sorry,” Blaise said, stepping into the sleek apartment with a tired sigh. “Had to drag loverboy away from Granger. You know how that goes.”
“I do,” Pansy said sympathetically, giving Theo a knowing look as he opened his mouth to protest. Then she leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “He’s in the bedroom, last I checked.”
Theo nodded, feeling the knot of worry tighten in his chest. He glanced around the flat as he stepped inside fully, taking in his surroundings.
It was a very posh building, unsurprisingly, even more so than Blaise’s. The flat itself was as polished as it was sterile– fancy, expensive, well-lit—but there was an unmistakable emptiness to it, a kind of hollow silence that made it feel more like a showroom than a home. It was eerily reminiscent of Malfoy Manor– thick, deep green velvety curtains, black and white checkerboard marble floors, expensive furniture that looked vaguely uncomfortable to sit in.
It made him immediately homesick for his and Hermione’s sunny, warm flat, where the walls were lined with books, the kitchen always smelled like something cooking, and there was always an energy– laughter, soft conversations, the low hum of their life together. The contrast between his and Draco’s home was stark, and it left him with a strange, guilty feeling pooling in his stomach, oily and unpleasant.
As they moved farther in, a house-elf appeared in the hallway, its large ears twitching as it looked at them with wide, expectant eyes. “Master Blaise, Master Theodore, welcome,” the elf squeaked in its soft voice, bowing.
“Oh, hello,” Theo said, smiling at the elf as he dropped to his knee to shake its hand. Pansy and Blaise exchanged a look which could be easily interpreted as look what Granger’s done to him .
He ignored it, watching the little elf’s eyes widen. “What’s your name?” he pressed.
“Pip is my name,” he squeaked. “Master Theodore is not remembering me?”
Theo frowned, trying to recall. The Malfoys had kept many house-elves, just as his own father had. He couldn’t remember meeting this particular one, but he didn’t want to be rude. “Ah, of course!” He said, and the little elf brightened. “From the Manor, right? Please excuse my memory.”
“No apologies needed, Master Theodore! It is Pip’s pleasure to be seeing you again, yes it is.” He wrung his hands together anxiously. “Would you like some tea, or perhaps another refreshment?”
Theo turned to Blaise and Pansy, who shook their heads politely. “No thanks, Pip. Perhaps later. We’re here to check up on Draco.”
Pip’s face fell at the mention of his master, his lower lip trembling slightly. “Oh, Master Draco is lucky to be having such wonderful friends, yes he is. The young master will certainly be needing good friends at a time like this.”
Pip bowed again, then disappeared quietly into the hallway. Theo turned back to Blaise and Pansy, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. “Should we… er– do you think he wants to see us?”
Pansy raised an eyebrow at him. “Well he’s already seen us ,” she said slowly.
“Right,” Theo muttered. “Should I go check on him, then?”
Pansy and Blaise exchanged another look. Theo felt a flash of irritation at his friends’ wordless conversation and loaded glances.
“What?” he snapped.
Blaise raised his hands in surrender, then cast a Muffliato around them. “Nothing, mate,” he said quickly. “Sorry. It’s just– we haven’t gotten much out of him. Either of us. We’re hoping he’ll be more… open to seeing you.”
Theo ran a hand through his hair. “And why would that be?”
Pansy gave him a sad, knowing sort of smile that irked him even more, for some reason. “Maybe because you were in a similar spot not very long ago. We thought you might be able to… empathize a little better than we could.”
For fuck’s sake.
Theo stared at his friends, momentarily stunned by the implication. It was like he’d spent years clawing his way up from some bottomless pit, only to find that the reward for making it out was to be handed a rope and told to go back down and fish out someone else. There was a certain bleak comedy in it. Here he was, barely holding himself together, still waking up most nights with his heart pounding and his mind racing, still biting back the urge to look over his shoulder every time he left the house, and yet everyone seemed convinced that he was some kind of paragon of resilience. The blueprint for surviving Azkaban and coming out the other end.
He wanted to tell them that he was just as broken as Draco. That the only difference between them was roughly six months, a bit of luck, and Hermione’s steady, gentle hands.
And admittedly, he resented it a little. He could barely keep himself in one piece, and now everyone expected him to be some sort of pillar of strength and wisdom? But he didn’t resent Draco. Not really, not in any bone-deep sense. It wasn’t that he lacked empathy, or that he didn’t want to be there for his friend– hell, he would have come running regardless of whether or not Blaise had asked him to. But the thought that he was now the designated expert on post-Azkaban dysfunction, that he was meant to be some kind of lighthouse for Draco to steer by, made him feel oddly panicked. Like he was a child asked to explain the world to another child, when all he’d done was memorize a few survival tricks and hoped the grown-ups never noticed how confused he was.
Yes, that was it. The crux of the issue. How could he possibly be some sort of guiding force for a broken man when he was barely put back together himself? What kind of advice could he offer? ‘Hey, mate, try not to off yourself today.’ Or maybe ‘No one else is going to say it because they’re scared to upset you, but you reek and you need to bathe.’
He would say the wrong thing. Or worse, say nothing at all, just sit in the room silently, two half-mad Pureblooded heirs without a fucking clue how to be adults, let alone have a conversation.
But it wasn’t as though he could refuse, not when it was Draco, not when he remembered the cold, cell-deep terror they’d both survived. Not when he’d saved Theo’s life probably more times than he could count, when he’d looked out for him in a thousand different ways, half of which he’d probably never even mention to Theo. He owed him this much. Maybe more.
He sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Yeah,” he said finally. “We’ll see. Suppose I’ll go see him now.”
Pansy squeezed his shoulder as he passed, and Blaise gave him an encouraging nod. “We’ll be out here if you need anything,” he said quietly.
-----------------------------
Theo reached the bedroom door and paused for a moment, taking a deep breath. He knocked once, and when there was no answer, he pushed the door open.
Draco sat by the fireplace, his back to the door, staring into the flames. The faint flicker of light from the fire cast an eerie glow on his thin figure. His once-sculpted features were now gaunt, shadows under his eyes marking a sleep-deprived face. His hair was longer than Theo had ever seen it, tangled and dull, falling messily around his face like a veil. His beard, scruffy and unkempt, only made him appear older, like someone who had weathered far more than he ever should have at his age. Which was technically true, he thought to himself.
The sharp-tongued, proud, impeccably dressed boy Theo had once known was now an image of someone completely removed from himself– a haunted, broken man, a stranger, but also not.
Theo lingered at the door for a few moments, unsure how to proceed. Draco hadn’t acknowledged his presence, but the stillness in the room told Theo that perhaps his arrival hadn’t even registered. He took another slow step into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
The sound was almost too loud in the quiet space.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Draco shifted ever so slightly, his hand rubbing at his jaw as he slowly turned his head to acknowledge Theo’s presence. The look in his eyes was vacant, unfocused, as though he wasn’t entirely sure where he was.
Theo cleared his throat, not wanting to speak first, but needing to fill the silence that had stretched for far too long. He moved toward the chair opposite Draco, sitting down with a soft creak of the upholstery. For a while, Theo didn’t speak, just studied him, trying to gauge whether this silence was an invitation or an indication that he should leave.
His friend seemed to almost curl into himself, as if he wasn’t used to having this much space to occupy, as if he didn’t know what to do with it. Like he wanted to press himself into a corner and disappear. Fuck, Theo knew that feeling. Much too well, actually, and it was disconcerting to see it on someone else.
Theo let out a slow breath, shifting slightly in his chair. He didn’t know how to begin, but the silence was starting to suffocate him, so he spoke. “I won’t bother asking how you’re doing, or how you’re adjusting, or any of that utter rubbish.”
Draco gave no indication that he heard him besides a slow blink, still staring into the fire, so Theo continued.
“It feels wrong, doesn’t it? To be able to walk around freely, to breathe air that doesn’t smell like piss, sweat, or mildew. Like any moment they’ll show up and haul you back, say it was all a mistake.” He paused, watching Draco’s posture shift slightly. “At least, that’s how I felt,” he added.
Draco’s shoulders tensed, and his eyes flickered briefly away from the fire. He didn’t speak, but Theo could tell he was listening. He cleared his throat, tapping his fingers idly on the side of the chair.
“It’s strange, isn’t it? How the world just continued to move, while we sat in the same cell for years, staring at the same exact view, thinking the same tired thoughts. I was so desperate to be free, and then when I was, it felt like a punch in the gut because I didn’t know what the fuck to do with that freedom, you know?”
Draco glanced at him for the first time since he’d arrived, a brief, tentative thing that somehow encouraged him to continue.
The words were pouring out, things he hadn’t properly said to anyone else, save for maybe Healer Brown. But even with her, it was different. She hadn’t occupied that same space, the way Draco had. She didn’t know what it felt like to sit in a cell for an endless amount of days, and then one random morning, blink and be back in the world.
Although Draco wasn’t responding, there was a stillness in his posture, a hollowness in his face that told Theo he understood perfectly what he meant. He kept going.
“I remember eating food that didn’t taste like cardboard soaked in sewage for the first time,” Theo continued. “I’ll never forget it, actually. Blaise got me Indian takeaway, and it was like my body didn’t know how to handle it or something. It wasn’t bland like the stuff they fed us in Azkaban– it was too rich, too full of flavor. It made me sick.”
He paused, exhaling harshly. “Even just sitting at a table felt wrong. I’d gotten so accustomed to eating my meals off the floor, like a dog.”
Draco let out a small grunt of acknowledgment, perhaps a rather sad attempt at a chuckle. Theo startled at the sound, but tried not to react outwardly.
“And even though I’d dreamed of a proper bed for years, once I actually got into one, I couldn’t bloody sleep,” he said bitterly. “The bed was too soft, if you can believe that. I used to get up and fall asleep on the floor sometimes.”
He shook his head wryly. “You could forget leaving the house, too. That was out of the question. Too many noises, too many people, too big and bright. So I stayed locked inside the flat and avoided looking at mirrors. Made me feel sick to look at myself.”
It was shocking, really, how easily all of this poured out of him. Things he wouldn’t have admitted to anyone else, at least, not all at once. He wasn’t even sure if it was helping or hurting, but he was flying blind here, and he couldn’t stand the mutual silence. So this would have to do.
Then Draco’s head swiveled, and he turned to face Theo fully. His expression was blank, empty, but he studied him closely. Theo let him, wondering what it was he was looking for. For some reason, he decided to let the silence linger this time. After what felt like minutes, Draco spoke.
“And now?” Draco’s voice was rough and scratchy, like he hadn’t used it in weeks.
Theo blinked. “Sorry?”
“What about now? Is it better now?”
Theo paused, choosing his words carefully. “Yes,” he said, finally. “It’s better now.”
“Hm,” Draco said, turning back towards the fire. “What changed?”
Theo stilled, swallowing. “Lots of things.”
“Lots of things?”
Hermione Granger showed up like some sort of fallen angel and rescued me from the throes of depression and self-loathing. Now I live with her and she’s putting me back together bit by bit.
He met Draco’s eyes. “Yeah. Lots of things.”
Draco looked slightly amused. “Care to elaborate, Nott?”
Theo smiled. It was the first time he’d seen a glimpse of the old Draco since he’d arrived.
He ran a hand through his hair. “I dunno. Little things, over time. It’s not like I just woke up one day and became a well-adjusted person. Some days are still pure shite, and there are plenty of times where I feel like I’ve hardly made any progress since the day I walked out of there. But overall, it’s better.”
Draco didn’t seem completely satisfied. “So let’s say I wanted to… head in that direction. Of feeling better. Where am I meant to start?”
Theo was momentarily taken aback by the vulnerability in the question. He stared at Draco, at the bones jutting from his wrists and the absence of light in his eyes, and for a moment he wanted to punch a wall, to hex the ceiling down on their heads, just to feel something other than the vast, echoing unfairness of it. There was no dignity in survival, not the way people liked to pretend. No triumph of the spirit. There was just want, and hunger.
How am I meant to start feeling better?
There was a cruelty to the simplicity of it, to the naked need in Draco’s voice. It was the kind of question twelve-year-olds asked, the kind you were supposed to have outgrown by their age, by now, by the time you’d survived a war and a prison sentence and all the exquisite humiliations that came with both. He wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, at the nakedness of the question. At how much it cost, pride-wise, to even admit that he wanted to feel better at all.
He composed himself quickly. “I mean, a shower wouldn’t hurt. Neither would a haircut.”
Draco snorted, then stilled, looking surprised at himself. “Right. Haven’t quite gotten around to that yet,” he muttered.
“It’s alright,” Theo said quickly. “Took me awhile too. The haircut, I mean. A shower I sorted right away.”
Draco scowled at him. “Always have to one-up me, don’t you, Nott?”
Theo laughed. “Years of practice for it, too. Go on, then.” He gestured towards the washroom.
Draco blinked. “Now?”
“No time like the present, yeah?” Theo said, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “I’ll wait here. Shout if you need anything.”
Draco glanced at him, his expression still muted, but Theo could see the slight hesitation in his eyes. It wasn’t exactly fear, but something akin to it—uncertainty, perhaps, or reluctance. His body was stiff, his hands still gripping the armrest, white-knuckled, as if he wasn’t sure whether it was safe to move.
He looked like he might refuse, as if the idea of standing up and walking across the room was some insurmountable task.
“It’s just a shower, Draco. It’s not going to solve everything, but it’s a start, right?” He let the words hang between them, unhurried. “You can sit there and think about it for as long as you like, or you can get up and feel a bit better. More like a human.”
Draco was quiet for a long while, and for a moment, Theo thought he might retreat back into himself, that this, too, might be too much. But then, with a sharp breath, he slowly pushed himself out of the chair, his movements stiff and jerky, as if his body wasn’t used to action.
He stayed still, watching Draco with a level gaze. He wouldn’t press, wouldn’t offer platitudes, but he would be here. The kind of support that wasn’t always verbal, sometimes just present. That seemed like the right thing to do. Draco hesitated in the doorway of the bathroom, then, in a move that seemed as much like resignation as determination, he gave a small, jerky nod and walked inside, pulling the door shut.
Theo relaxed once he heard the water turn on, closing his eyes and leaning back into the chair. The soft hum of the world outside seemed to fill the silence of the flat as he waited. Eventually, the door opened, and Draco emerged looking significantly less grimy. He pulled a dark blue bathrobe tightly around himself, his blonde hair hanging limply like tangled strings around his face. He moved slowly, his steps measured as he rejoined Theo in the sitting area. There was a faint shift in the atmosphere, a subtle release of tension. He seemed a bit lighter, though the emptiness in his eyes hadn't entirely lifted.
Once he’d settled, Theo cleared his throat. “So,” he said. “What’s next?”
Draco gave a long-suffering look and said nothing.
Undeterred, Theo continued. “Food? Fancy a game of Exploding Snap? Or should we just stare into the fireplace forlornly together? Bask in our melancholy?”
“Piss off, Nott,” Draco muttered, but there wasn’t much bite behind the words. “What did you do, then? When you first got out?”
Theo smirked. “Oh, mostly just this,” he said, gesturing around. “Sort of walked around aimlessly. Looked out the window loads. But then I discovered the telly, and everything changed.”
“The telly?” Draco wrinkled his nose. “What in Merlin’s name is that?”
He leaned forward. “It’s basically a box, right? You turn it on, and there’s all sorts of moving pictures and sounds. It’s... well, it's a bit of a time-sink. But it’ll keep you entertained.”
Draco looked unconvinced. “How come I’ve never heard of it?”
“It’s a Muggle thing.”
There was a beat of silence, and Draco gave him a strange, searching look. “A Muggle thing,” he repeated. “Since when do you do… Muggle things?”
Theo leveled him with a look. “A lot has changed, Draco.”
“I’ve gathered as much.”
“Is that going to be a problem?”
“The telly? I don’t imagine so.”
“Cheeky. No, I mean– nevermind.” Theo jiggled his knee, feeling suddenly anxious. “Are you going to speak to Blaise and Pans, by the way? They’ve been… concerned. You might throw them a bone. At least give them a grunt or a hullo.”
Draco tilted his head slightly, his gaze wandering to the window, where the sun had begun to peek through the clouds. He didn’t respond right away, but Theo could feel the tension still lingering in the air between them.
He shifted slightly in his seat, adjusting the robe around his shoulders. “I don’t know what to say to them,” he muttered, his voice low.
Theo shrugged. “I’m not asking you to spill your guts. Just... don’t shut them out completely.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “They’re here because they care about you, mate. Not out of obligation, or anything like that. Took me awhile to understand that, too.”
“Right,” Draco mumbled. “And what about you, Nott?”
Theo looked at him sharply. “Of course I care. Don’t be daft.”
“Good to know,” Draco said, studying him for a moment as though looking for some fissure in the statement. “So what’s the plan then, Babyface? You going to come by every day and make sure I haven’t offed myself?”
He tried to phrase it as a joke, but the edge was unmistakable. Theo thought of saying something dry or witty in response, but decided against it, trying for a rare moment of authenticity.
“Depends. Would you like me to come by every day?”
Draco made a show of considering this. “I suppose there are worse things.”
He snorted. He felt Draco watching him for a moment, a cool and clinical assessment that almost brought back a wave of adolescent discomfort.
Theo cleared his throat. “Right. Well then, sure. I’ll keep coming by. No problem.”
Draco didn’t say anything at first, but Theo could feel his eyes on him. “Is that what Blaise did for you?” he asked finally.
Theo gave a half-smile, as if the question was rhetorical. "Blaise has a job, you know. He's gone more than he's here. When I first got out, it was mostly just me rattling around that empty flat." He picked at a loose thread on the chair's arm. "He checked in, but it was more for his own peace of mind, I think. Not that I blame him."
Draco pressed his lips together, weighing this. Theo could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, the way he took in information and filed it away for later, like a magpie with shiny facts.
“So who did, then?" Draco asked finally. "Who checked in on you when Zabini wasn't around? Pansy?”
It was the opening Theo had been dreading, but also, he realized, sort of hoping for. He could have lied, said nobody, or yes, it was all Pansy, or the parole officer, or the neighbors, or some random support person from the Ministry. But what was the point of that? Draco would find out the truth, and it’s not like he wanted to hide it, necessarily.
There was a long, expectant silence. “Yeah, there was someone,” he said quietly. He exhaled, feeling the oddest pressure behind his sternum. “Still is someone, really. She’s–”
Draco’s eyebrows jumped. “She?” He looked puzzled, like he was piecing something together. “Are you… seeing someone?”
Theo’s cheeks colored in spite of himself. “I mean, yeah.” He fought the urge to snap ‘is that so hard to believe?’
Draco tilted his head. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Nott. Do tell.”
“Fine. But you can’t get all twatish about it.”
“Me? Twatish? Theodore, you wound me.”
Theo rolled his eyes. “It’s Hermione Granger. I’m dating Hermione Granger.”
There was a silence that felt deafeningly loud, somehow. Draco didn’t react immediately, his face remaining impassive. “Granger,” he said finally. “Interesting.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“Is there something in particular you were looking for?”
“Oh, sod off.”
“If you insist.” The silence hung there once more before Draco took a breath, continuing. “I’m not sure what to say. Is she still swotty? Unruly and sort of… frightening?”
“Watch it,” Theo warned, and Draco made a gesture of surrender. “I don’t particularly care what you think about it. I’m not looking for your approval or anything. It’s just– I might not be here today if it weren’t for her. So just don’t be a tosser, alright?”
“Understood,” Draco said. “I’ll keep the tosser-esque comments to a minimum.”
“That’d be good, thanks.”
“So you still have a thing for her, then. After all these years,” Draco said, an obnoxiously knowing expression on his face.
“What? What even makes you think I–”
“Please,” Draco scoffed. “You have about as much subtlety as a Hippogriff in a china shop. Of course I could tell you fancied her.”
Theo ignored the way his cheeks flamed. “Whatever,” he muttered, feeling uncomfortably adolescent. “Are you going to be weird about it? Or can you be decent to her?”
Draco stared at him for a long moment. “I’m not sure I know how to be decent to anyone, Nott,” he said quietly. “But I’ll try my best.”
Theo nodded once. “Good. You ought to make a bit of an extra effort with her, since she’s practically worked herself into the ground trying to get you released.”
He had an odd sense of déjà vu, recalling a very similar conversation he’d had with Blaise the day he was released.
Draco’s expression was a mix of faint dismay and confusion, as if someone had just informed him that his entire wardrobe had been replaced with Muggle t-shirts. “Granger did what? ”
Theo leaned back in his seat, feeling vaguely pleased for some reason. “She’s the Undersecretary for Legislative Affairs over at the DMLE,” he explained. “She quite literally created the Reintegration Act– you know what that is at least, right?”
“Yes, I know what the bloody Reintegration Act is,” Draco grumbled. “My solicitor may have mentioned it a few times,” he added sarcastically.
Theo hummed in acknowledgement. “Right. Well on top of that, she works the individual cases. Gathers testimony, lobbies the Wizengamot, handles all the paperwork. She pulls ridiculous hours and exhausts herself trying to get people like you and I released. And she’s bloody good at it too, as you may have gathered.”
Draco blinked, shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “Not that I’m not… grateful,” he said finally. “But why would she do that? I haven’t exactly been–”
“Friendly? Decent?” Theo interjected. “No, you haven’t. But that’s the difference between people like her and people like us, isn’t it? She doesn’t hold grudges, isn’t bitter towards anyone. Hermione is just…” he struggled to find the proper words. “She’s just good. She helps people. I dunno how else to explain it.”
Draco was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the fire as he seemed to consider what Theo had said. There was something in his expression that shifted, a subtle crack in his stoic mask.
“It makes me a bit uncomfortable, truthfully,” he said eventually, a rare glimpse into the complex labyrinth that was Draco Malfoy’s emotions. “Being indebted to her. And it doesn’t make sense to me. Why she’d even bother.”
“Yeah,” Theo relented. “I felt that way too, at first. Almost used those exact words, actually. But she has a way of… wearing you down until you see things differently. It’s hard to explain.”
“Ah,” Draco said coolly. “Like a Liondragon, then.”
Theo gave him a look, but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Not quite as volatile. More like a cat,” he said. “She’ll just keep showing up nudging you until you finally do what she’d like you to.”
“So you needed some convincing, then?”
Theo barked a laugh. “Hardly. I was ready to propose as soon as she showed up on my doorstep. Really, it was her that took a bit longer to come around.”
Draco gave him a sardonic look. “I never took you for the commitment type.”
“What can I say,” Theo shrugged. “She’s made an honest bloke out of me.”
There was another pause in which Draco studied him again, as if looking for an answer to a riddle he didn’t quite understand. Theo cleared his throat. “She’d like to see you, you know. Hermione. If you’re ever up for it.”
Draco frowned. “Maybe.” It wasn’t convincing, but it was better than hell no .
Theo stood, stretching. “Right. Well, I should get going. Got to make my shift. If you need anything, though. I’m around. You can owl or Floo, whatever works.”
Draco stiffened, looking slightly panicked, then quickly schooled his expression to something more neutral. “You’ll come back? Tomorrow?”
Something twisted in Theo’s gut. “Yeah, mate. Of course.”
Draco nodded once, resolutely. “Right. Okay. That’s… thanks.” He tilted his head. “Your shift? You have a… job? Why?”
Theo snorted. “For awhile I actually thought I was broke. Then Pans dragged me to Gringotts and it turned out I had the vault from my mother’s side. But still, I needed something to do with my time. Couldn’t just sit around the flat waiting for Hermione to come home.”
Draco looked like he was taking in an overload of information, blinking in confusion. “So where do you work?”
Theo straightened, determined not to show any embarrassment. “A café. Potter’s boyfriend owns it. Nice bloke.”
“Potter’s… boyfriend,” Draco murmured. “Alright. And you said wait for Hermione to come home. Do you– you live with her?”
“I do.”
“Hm,” Draco murmured. “Interesting. Alright. Well… thanks, again.”
“Don’t mention it. Try to eat something, yeah? You’ll send Pans into a tizzy if you don’t.”
“Wouldn’t want that, would we,” Draco muttered, but there was a bit of humor in his voice, a lightness that hadn’t been there before.
He closed the door softly behind him and stood for a moment in the corridor, the hush of the flat pressing in around him. He could hear the low murmur of Blaise and Pansy in the drawing room, the faint clink of china and the scratch of Pansy turning the page of her magazine.
For a second, he hovered, unsure whether to join them or just leave altogether. He felt untethered, like he was watching himself through glass, staggering into the role of caretaker with a competence he didn’t entirely believe in.
It was strange, being the one who left someone else behind to their solitude.
He’d spent so long in that seat– in the thick of it, being the one people tip-toed around, the one who waited patiently in an empty flat that didn’t belong to him for the moment Hermione would inevitably show up and make him feel like life was worth living again. It was a peculiar vertigo, to realize he had now become someone who showed up to check in and then inevitably walked away, off to resume his own life. He felt a bit like an imposter, someone pretending to be capable of checking in or caring for another person.
His mind wandered back to Hermione, to the way she had shown up for him, over and over again, like some anchor he couldn’t quite understand. How she seemed to have a never ending supply of goodwill, of patience. Sometimes he felt like he was constantly trying to prove that he was worthy of being loved by Hermione– not to her, but to himself, maybe. He wondered if that would ever go away, or if he would always feel like he needed to earn it, piece by piece, although she gave it freely.
He thought again of Draco, alone in his room, staring into the fire.
That same aching, desperate desire to be someone worth caring about, to be more than the sum of his mistakes, his shameful past– was written all over Draco now. Theo understood it in a visceral, humiliating sort of way.
He and Draco had both been foolish, frightened boys when the war had started, desperate to prove themselves somehow, desperate for validation, for affection, to survive. And now, after years of being shut away, forgotten by the rest of the world, here they both were. Still trying to find their footing, still searching for something to hold onto that didn’t come with the weight of guilt or expectation. They were still, in a way, waiting to be seen, to be understood, to matter.
Theo swallowed against the lump in his throat, the discomfort of his own reflection he saw mirrored in Draco.
He didn’t know how to be a good friend to him.
He remembered the way Draco had looked out for him, the way he’d quietly made him feel at home at Malfoy Manor, the way he’d wordlessly protected him from his father’s wrath too many times to count. Theo exhaled, feeling the weight of it all press down on him. There was no clean solution, no magic word to make everything better. He didn’t even know if he was the right person for this. But he couldn’t leave Draco to figure it all out alone, not when he knew what it felt like to be trapped in that kind of loneliness.
So he’d keep showing up, like he promised, the way Hermione had done for him.
-----------------------------
The next morning, Theo was still mulling on it all when he Flooed into his scheduled appointment with Healer Brown.
He liked the normalcy of her office, the way it always smelled faintly of eucalyptus and the furniture didn’t feel sterile or uninviting. It looked like someone’s home, almost, all sunlight and mismatched chairs, plants in varying states of health.
And he liked Healer Brown, actually. She was gentle but direct, never abrasive but also didn’t allow him to skirt around topics that felt uncomfortable. She wore gold-plated glasses and cozy-looking jumpers and cardigans that looked vaguely homemade but high quality. She was quick to smile and had warm brown skin, a dimple that flashed when she laughed, and hair cropped so close to the scalp it looked almost velvet to the touch. She owned endless pairs of chunky beaded earrings and had a way of making every session feel less like a cross-examination and more like coming home after a long, cold walk.
The session began the way they often did– with a mug of steaming tea and a careful sidelong look, as though she was measuring how much progress the last week had really made. “Anything in particular you’d like to discuss today? Or shall we pick up where we left off last week?”
Theo shifted. “Actually, there was something I was hoping to talk about. Draco was released yesterday.”
She tilted her head, considering him. “Ah. That’s rather a seismic shift in your landscape, isn’t it?”
He snorted. “I’d say so.”
“Have you seen him, then?”
Theo nodded. “He’s not doing very well,” he admitted.
Healer Brown’s mouth drew into a sympathetic line. “That must be quite a lot, watching someone else go through a similar transition after what you’ve experienced. How are you feeling about it?”
“A bit shite, honestly,” Theo admitted. “I suppose it’s like looking in a mirror. Not a very pleasant one.” He smiled without humor. “I hated being pitied when I got out. And now I find myself pitying him. It’s… uncomfortable.”
“Do you pity him, or do you empathize with him?” Brown asked, voice careful. “There’s a difference, you know.”
He hesitated. “What’s the difference, really?”
She smiled patiently. “Well, pity is distancing– you see someone’s suffering and you erect a little wall between you. You feel sorry for them, but you’re still over here, safe. Empathy is…” She looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “Empathy means you climb inside it, even for just a moment. And while that’s difficult and painful, it’s also how we connect, and how we heal.”
He stared at the rim of his mug, turning that over. He’d always thought of empathy as Hermione’s special skill– her ability not just to see other people’s pain, but to sit with it, to carry it like it was her own. He didn’t know anyone else who was so defined by their ability to empathize. He envied it sometimes, and resented it other times– the way she could walk around the world so porous, so unguarded, and somehow not get ripped to shreds in the process.
“I think maybe I just don’t have as much of that in me,” he said. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to… access it.”
Healer Brown watched him for a moment. “I actually disagree with you, Theo. Quite strongly, in fact.”
He raised a brow. “Oh?”
She gave him one of her little smiles, genuine but unyielding. “I happen to think you’re deeply empathetic.”
Theo snorted. “With respect, Healer, I think you’re projecting.”
She didn’t bristle at the jab. “Well,” she began patiently. “You’re unusually capable of seeing perspectives that aren’t your own. You described Draco’s pain in minute detail just now– how many people can sit with another’s suffering without looking away? You’ve spoken at length about the guilt you carry for things you did, and didn’t do, and things you simply witnessed. Most people avoid that at all costs. You don’t."
She paused to let the words settle. “You’re even careful about how you talk about Hermione. You don’t just notice her; you try to parse her motives, her moods, how she’s navigating the world. I think you’re actually quite attuned to other people. I’m not sure what’s led you to believe otherwise.”
Empathy.
His mind unspooled with images of the word, images of Hermione– the careful way she dissected the world, her endless curiosity about the inner workings of everyone she met, the way she looked after her friends, or strangers, even, and everyone in between. She did it even with people she’d once hated, or had every right to hate– she’d forgive them, or at least try to understand them, and do it without any performative effort. It was just how she was built. If there was a soul in pain within a square mile, Hermione Granger would find it, and then she’d bloody well do something about it.
He compared that impulse to his own: a deep suspicion of other people’s motives, a reflex to build distance rather than intimacy. He’d spent years training himself to look away. To only feel things at arm’s length, to let nothing touch him if he could help it. His own pain wasn’t anyone else’s burden to bear, and theirs wasn’t his.
Except for Hermione, though. And maybe his closest friends.
"It's just—" he started, but the words stuck.
He tried again. "Hermione is the standard, isn't she? At least in my mind. For… for goodness, or empathy, or whatever you'd call it. The way she is with people, it's like she's built for that kind of thing. She doesn’t even see lines between herself and other people. She just naturally absorbs everyone’s everything. I think I'm missing something essential. Like a part that was left out. Or maybe I had it, once, and it just got… er, cauterized by everything that came after."
Healer Brown shook her head, a smile playing at the edge of her mouth. "I don't intend to diminish what Hermione brings to the world," she said, "but it's not a fair comparison, not really. She had a different upbringing from you. Different models for how to process and express emotion. Of course, I can’t know this for sure, but from what I’ve gathered– she was raised in an environment where curiosity and compassion were rewarded, not used against her."
Theo drank this in, letting it settle in the base of his chest like a stone. He could picture it perfectly– little Hermione, precocious and softhearted and probably always half-furious on someone else’s behalf.
He tried to imagine himself as a child, capable of that same sort of openness. But he couldn't. He’d been quiet and sharp, already wary, already cataloguing every social transaction as potential threat or liability. He’d learned early that the safest way to survive was to observe, to withhold, to keep his feelings folded up like delicate handkerchiefs. And later, when he’d failed to keep them hidden– when he’d allowed himself to want, or to need, or to hope– he’d always been punished for it, one way or another.
Healer Brown spoke again, and he realized he’d been silent for a long time. “You’ve spent most of your life in survival mode, Theo. And survival doesn’t leave much room for empathy to grow. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. It means it wasn’t safe to let it out.”
He frowned, uneasy. “You think I’ve had it in me this whole time?” He scoffed. “Because I certainly don’t remember being that kind of child. I remember being calculating. Quiet. Careful. I remember always watching, waiting for the next blow. That doesn’t sound like someone who could be… like her.”
“You’re assuming empathy has to look the same in everyone,” Brown said gently.
“Hermione might have been encouraged to express hers openly, maybe even praised for it. But that doesn’t mean it was effortless. Sometimes empathy is shaped by the way we’re treated too. If you’ve ever been dismissed, ignored, or punished when you showed feeling, you might learn to bury it. That doesn’t erase it. It just makes it harder to recognize.”
He swallowed, letting himself imagine Hermione learning empathy not just because she was born softhearted but because she’d been hurt too. That her way of reaching for people wasn’t just some innate brightness but also a response to her own loneliness, her own sense of being an outsider.
Brown went on. “I hear you describe yourself as cautious, withholding, watchful. But those qualities? They’re not the opposite of empathy. They’re its survival form. Empathy doesn’t always mean rushing in, heart wide open.”
She gave him a pointed look. “Sometimes it means seeing more than you let on. Sometimes it’s noticing the smallest details others miss because you’ve trained yourself to watch so closely. Or sometimes, it means understanding that people are in pain but not knowing exactly how to act on it. Just because you don’t jump in and offer help doesn’t mean you don’t feel their pain acutely.”
He blinked, turning the words over. No one had ever framed it that way for him before. He’d always thought of his watchfulness as defensive, not… attentive. Not something that could be valuable.
“You don’t need to be just like Hermione to be worthy of love,” the Healer added. “Or to be a good friend, or good partner. Your way of caring doesn’t have to mirror hers. It can be your own. You’re learning how to feel, and how to share those feelings, maybe for the first time in your life. That is empathy. It just looks different on you. Does that make sense?”
“I guess so,” Theo said after a moment. “I just– I don’t understand how this even ties into what we first started talking about.”
Healer Brown leaned back in her chair, adjusting her glasses. “You mean Draco’s release?”
He nodded.
“Well,” she said. “Let me ask you this– you said you went to see Draco yesterday. What did you do when you saw him?”
Theo hesitated, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Not much, at first. I just… sat there.”
“And then?”
He let out a small breath. “Then I started talking. About when I got out. How it felt. How fucking weird it was to suddenly be out in the world, how I didn’t start feeling like a proper person for weeks.I didn’t plan to say all that, but he was listening, so I kept going.”
Brown nodded for him to continue.
“He asked if it got better.” Theo’s throat tightened. “And I told him yes, for the most part. And then he asked what he should do if he wanted to… start feeling better.”
“And? What did you tell him?”
Theo’s mouth curved in the faintest, almost self-conscious smile. “I told him to take a shower. That was the first thing that made me feel like a person again. So he did. And then we just… talked. I told him I’d come back the next day.”
There was a beat of silence. He glanced up and found an unexpected softness on Healer Brown’s face, something almost… affectionate. He blinked away in discomfort.
“Theo,” she said gently. ‘“Do you even hear yourself?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You sat with him when he couldn’t move. You shared the darkest part of your own story so he wouldn’t feel alone. You gave him something small, human, to hold onto, and then you promised him you’d return. That is… incredibly empathetic. Incredibly thoughtful and caring. And you didn’t hide from what you were feeling or what he was feeling. You faced it, even when it was hard.”
Theo ran a hand through his hair. Truthfully, he felt like he’d done a rather mediocre job of handling the situation. No, he hadn’t run away, that was true. But it was hard for him to believe that there was truth in her words– that his instincts had been right, that he’d done something good.
“That shows growth,” Brown said firmly. “You need to give yourself more credit. Empathy isn’t about grand gestures or perfect words. Sometimes it’s as simple as staying, and being honest, and offering someone the smallest step toward feeling human again. You did that for Draco.”
“Theo,” she said again, and he clenched his jaw, looking up at her. “I am tremendously proud of the way you handled a very difficult situation. I’d like you to try– just try– to give yourself a little credit for it.”
He scoffed.
“I mean it. That’s your homework for this week. Once a day, I want you to find one thing about yourself you’d say kindly if you were talking about… let’s say, Hermione. You see the good in her so easily– try to practice seeing even a fraction of that in yourself. It doesn’t have to be big. Just one small thing you can give yourself credit for.”
Theo sat back in the chair after she spoke, trying not to roll his eyes, trying not to let the familiar impulse take over– to scoff, to use humor to ease some of the discomfort. Because if he was being completely honest, he didn’t like the way it felt to hate himself, to always be the first to believe the worst about who he was.
Once a day, say something kind about himself. It sounded absurd, but maybe absurd wasn’t the same as pointless. Maybe it was worth at least attempting. He thought about the way he saw Hermione– how easily he found the light in her, how quickly he could list the ways she was extraordinary. He couldn’t imagine ever seeing himself like that. But perhaps, just once a day, he could try to find even the smallest scrap of something good.
It was uncomfortable to admit, but he wanted that. He wanted to stop feeling like he was undeserving of love. That was why he’d agreed to come to therapy in the first place, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to second guess everything. He didn’t want to need so much reassurance that Hermione wouldn’t leave him. He wanted to feel better. And if this was the first step, then maybe he could give it a shot.
--------------------------
Sometimes it returns like rain that you slept through
That washed off the world, the streets looking brand new
I will not be great, but I'm grateful to get through
The feeling came late, I'm still glad I met you
The memory hurts, but does me no harm
Your hand in my pocket to keep us both warm
The poor thing in the road, its eye still glistening
The cold wet of your nose, the earth from a distance
I remember the view, street lights in the dark blue
The moment I knew I'd no choice but to love you
The speed that you moved, the screech of the cars
The creature still moving, that slowed in your arms
The fear in its eyes gone out in an instant
Your tear caught the light, the earth from a distance
-Hozier
Notes:
Lots to unpack here, y'all.
First off, as I'm sure you've probably noticed, I am a big fan of Hozier. What can I say- he's a man written by a woman.
This particular song might feel like an odd choice for this chapter, but it's one of my favorites because the message is so incredibly beautiful. I'd suggest listening to it first, but for some context as to why I chose to use it: at its core, Abstract (Psychopomp) is about empathy, which is at the heart of this chapter. It's about the intensity of witnessing someone’s pain, the way love forces us carry pieces of another person’s suffering inside ourselves. The incredibly brutal, intimate act of seeing someone else's pain and allowing it to shape you.
The word "psychopomp" is rooted in (from my understanding, many different kinds of) mythology and refers to sort of a spiritual guide who helps move souls from one realm to the next. In this song, a "psychopomp" becomes a metaphor for the kind of love and empathy that can accompany someone through their darkest times, bearing witness to suffering, and helping them take small steps forward.
In this chapter, Theo is beginning to explore empathy- how it's been extended to him, how it lives in him, how he can extend it to others. In a way, he is learning to become his own kind of psychopomp: not by carrying someone all the way out of darkness, but by sitting with them in their pain and offering human connection- a path forward. And of course, he recognizes that Hermione has been this kind of guide for him. She's seen his pain and helped him make sense of it, helped him find his way out of his own darkness little by little.
Our boy is growing!
As always, thank you ever so much for the comments and kudos. You're all the very best.
Chapter 24: Nothing Matters but You
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Hermione pushed the front door open, pulling her coat off and hanging it on the hook. Crookshanks ran to greet her, rubbing insistently against her leg.
“Hi Crooks,” she crooned, scratching under his chin. She glanced around the flat, frowning. All the lights, save for the kitchen lamp, were off.
“Theo?” she called.
Nothing. He wasn’t in the bedroom either. Hermione frowned again, feeling a slight twinge of worry in her chest. It wasn’t like him to not be here when she got home, especially without telling her first. She’d come to depend on it, actually– the certainty of seeing his face at the end of every day, the way he’d call out to her from the kitchen, his face lighting up at the sight of her walking in the door.
She stood in the hallway for a beat, listening. Still nothing.
Her mind raced for a moment, a silly but insistent panic flaring in her head. She quickly squashed it. Perhaps he’d gone over to Pansy’s, or gotten caught up with Spencer after his shift. Maybe he’d gone to check on Draco and ended up staying longer than he planned. There were plenty of perfectly reasonable explanations for his absence, she reminded herself. With a small sigh, she shrugged off her concern, deciding to shower as an attempt to clear her head.
Crookshanks followed her to the bathroom, contentedly mewing as she turned on the taps. She shucked off her work clothes, tossing them in a pile on the floor and stepped into the shower. As the water started to run, she leaned her head back and let the warmth soothe her muscles, the steam filling the air.
By the time she’d gotten out, dressed in her pyjamas, and brushed her hair, the clock read eight. Her brow furrowed, but she moved toward the kitchen, figuring she ought to start on something for dinner. As she rummaged around in the pantry, she heard the unmistakable sound of the door opening.
“Hermione?” Theo called.
She couldn’t help the little sigh of relief that left her mouth. “In the kitchen!”
He appeared in the doorway with a large bag of takeaway and a bouquet of flowers in his hands, looking slightly sheepish and disheveled. Adorably so, actually.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said quickly. “I hope you weren’t worried.”
Hermione leaned in to kiss him. “I was, actually. But it’s fine. I’m glad you’re home,” she said earnestly.
Theo smiled, looking a little relieved as he set the bag of takeaway on the counter. "I didn’t mean to worry you. Got caught up with Draco... again." He ran a hand through his hair, still looking rather apologetic. “These are for you.”
He handed her the flowers, his cheeks reddening a bit. Gods, he could be charming, couldn’t he?
“Thank you,” she said, admiring them. “They’re lovely. I’ll just put them in a vase–”
“Let me,” he said, already pulling one out from a cabinet. As he filled it with water, he looked over his shoulder at her. “How was your day?”
Hermione opened the fridge, considering whether she should have a glass of wine tonight or not. “It was alright,” she said. “Things have been a bit less busy these last few days. Not sure what to attribute it to, but I’m grateful nonetheless.”
Theo made the decision for her, in the end, pulling out two glasses and opening a bottle of Pinot Noir. They settled at the kitchen table as he unpacked the brown bag, pulling out containers of pasta and a large salad to share. From her favorite Italian spot, she realized with a smile.
She took a bite, closing her eyes at the taste. “This is much better than anything I would’ve made,” she admitted.
“Bollocks,” Theo scoffed. “Your cooking is superb, Granger. Don’t go fishing for compliments,” he teased.
She rolled her eyes at him. “How was Draco today?”
Some of the mirth fell from Theo’s expression– not enough to make him appear unhappy, but enough for her to notice. “He’s… alright,” he said, sighing. “I mean, you remember what I was like then.”
There was a beat of silence as she considered his words, sipping her wine thoughtfully.
Her mind drifted back to that evening over a year ago now, when she had first entered Theo’s world. When she hadn’t known what to expect, but had found him alone, distant, and entirely closed off. The way he looked at her then, almost as if he didn’t quite believe she was real, or that someone would care enough to show up for him.
He had been so different that night– quiet, disheveled, distant in a way that made her heart ache for him. The disarray of his life had mirrored his appearance, his body thin, and his demeanor one of weariness and resignation. That night, she’d been so nervous , unsure of what to say, unsure of how to even exist in the same space as him.
Things had changed so drastically since then. Theo had changed so drastically since then. He was still the same person in many ways, but now there was a certain softness to him that hadn’t been there before. The sharp, guarded edge that had once surrounded him had given way to something more open, more genuine. The weariness in his eyes was still there, of course, but it no longer defined him. Now, his gaze was warm, even when it was lazy from the day’s exhaustion.
And it was reserved only for her.
His hair was significantly shorter than it had been then, of course, messy in a way that suited him, curling at the nape of his neck and falling just over his brow in a casual disarray. Hermione found herself watching him a little too long sometimes, admiring the way he moved– unhurried, sure of himself now, even when he was simply leaning against the counter or reaching for something.
Just as she’d felt it the first time she laid eyes on him that day, there was an undeniable pull towards him, like he was a magnet and she was powerless to stop herself from getting closer to him. If anything, it had deepened, intensified.
“What?” he asked almost shyly, interrupting her thoughts.
She blinked. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “Sorry. I was just…” she ducked her head, feeling her cheeks heat.
“You were what?” he pressed.
“Checking you out,” she mumbled.
He nearly choked on his wine. “Sorry?” he croaked, then coughed, which only made her laugh. The sound was genuine, loose and bright. She shrugged, taking another sip of her own glass, not bothering to look away.
“I said, I was checking you out,” she repeated, a little louder this time, grinning at the way his ears flushed pink. “Is that really so shocking, Theo?”
“A bit,” he said under his breath, but his mouth kept twitching like he couldn't quite keep the smile down.
She let herself appreciate the lazy sprawl of his limbs, the slight tan of his skin, the way his shirt was unbuttoned to reveal his collarbones, the precise, long-fingered grace with which he poured her more wine.
"It's not my fault you happened to look especially fit today. And that I had to miss you a little extra, since you decided to make me wait,” she teased. “I had to shower all by myself. It was very… lonely.”
Theo groaned audibly. “You’re trying to kill me, Granger.”
Hermione nudged his foot with hers under the table, grinning. He looked at her over the rim of his glass, the expression in his eyes caught somewhere between disbelief and mischief. “You, uh… you want a do-over, then?” he asked.
“Of what?” she replied, feigning innocence.
He set his glass down, reached for her hand and drew it across the table, his thumb stroking lightly over her knuckles.
“The after-work reunion. Unless you’d rather keep undressing me with your eyes from over there,” he said, his voice low. “Which, for the record, is fine by me. I just thought you might prefer the real thing.”
“I don’t know what makes you say that,” she said, but her pulse thrummed when he stood, pulling her out of her chair by her hand.
He didn't give her time to think– he just backed her into the kitchen counter, the edge pressing into her thighs. She felt the heat of his body even through her pajamas as he crowded closer, one hand splayed on the countertop beside her hip, the other rising to cradle the side of her face. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, and she couldn’t stop the small, helpless noise that escaped her mouth.
In response, he took her wrists and pinned them gently to the cabinet above her head, his palms encasing hers. For a moment she could only breathe, blinking up at him in astonishment.
“Okay?” he murmured, his nose brushing hers.
She nodded, once, and something in his face went feral. He kissed her again, deeper this time, messier, until she felt dizzy from the pressure of his mouth, from the way his body fit so perfectly against hers.
He released her wrists and ran his hands down her sides, hooking his fingers under the hem of her shirt, and she felt the sparks everywhere he touched. He squeezed her hips, picked her up in one clean movement, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her back pressed to the cupboard.
He walked her down the hallway, her arms around his neck, his mouth never leaving hers except for the occasional graze of his teeth along her jaw. She giggled against his lips between kisses, her hands fisting in his hair as he pushed the bedroom door open with his foot.
He eased her onto the bed, following her down, his hands sliding under her shirt (his shirt, really) and over her bare skin. She shivered, tugging him closer, running her feet up the backs of his thighs.
His palms were rough and careful all at once, and she could feel his heartbeat everywhere they touched.
Theo kissed his way down her neck, then lower, bunching the worn cotton of her shirt upwards in his hands. She shrugged it over her head and dropped it off the side of the bed.
The rush of cool air over her skin was nothing compared to the slow burn of anticipation as his mouth found the hollow beneath her collarbone, sucking gently until she knew he’d leave a mark, and she thrilled at the thought of it. Something that would last through the whole weekend, a mottled bruise just above the line of her shirt collar, something she could touch and remember. It felt like a secret she could keep tucked under her blouse, an amulet against everything that had ever made her feel less than wanted.
She threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled him even closer, pressing his mouth to her pulse until she felt his teeth scrape, the sharp little sting blossoming into pleasure. He made a low, satisfied sound, almost a growl, and it vibrated against her skin pleasantly. He kept going, his hands sliding down, bracing her thighs apart, and she let her knees fall open, the exposure making her pulse beat so loud she was certain he could hear it in the quiet of the room.
He nipped at her hip, then looked up at her, green eyes vast and dark.
“You are,” he said, and he almost sounded angry with it, “the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” He said it like an accusation, like she’d gone out of her way to ruin him. “You have no idea, do you?” His voice was both rough and reverent. “How much I want you.”
She shivered in response.
He pressed his mouth to her belly, then lower, and she felt the heat of his breath before he ever touched her with his tongue. Her hips lifted off the bed, seeking him, needy and unashamed, and he hooked her knees over his shoulders, burying his face between her thighs like he needed to breathe her in.
He was good at this– almost criminally good, she realized, not for the first time. There was nothing tentative about the way he held her open, nothing shy in the way he mapped her with his mouth, slow and exquisitely precise. He licked her the way he kissed her– with a kind of focused devotion, like she was something holy and irreplaceable. Every slick movement, every flick and circle, was answered by her breath quickening, by her hands tangling helplessly in his hair.
She gasped, her thighs tensing around his head, and Theo groaned into her, the sound reverberating through her body and making her arch off the sheets. He took that as encouragement and sucked harder, circling his tongue until her breath dissolved into high, crackling moans. He was shameless, greedy, utterly unselfconscious in the way he licked and sucked and mouthed at her, and it undid her completely. She felt herself swelling into his mouth, opening for him, letting go of the last remnants of composure.
“Theo,” she gasped out. “That’s so good. You’re so good, Theo, you’re perfect.”
She barely even knew what was coming out of her mouth at this point– nonsense, practically, but whatever it was seemed to reach him.
He froze, just for a second, and she felt the way his breath stuttered against her skin.
When he looked up at her, it wasn’t smug or cocky or even lustful. It was raw, almost desperate, his eyes wide and uncertain like he didn’t quite know what to do with the praise. But then he blinked and dropped his head back down. She ran her hands through his hair as he continued his ministrations, driving her closer and closer to the edge.
“No one’s ever made me feel this good,” she said breathlessly, curiously, testing the waters. “I want you inside me. Just you, forever. Please can I–”
He needed no more convincing; he pushed himself up, mouth slick and chin gleaming in the low lamplight, and she felt the absence of him between her legs like a loss.
But then he was lining himself up, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, and she raised her hips, desperate for it. She wrapped her arms up around his neck, pulling him closer, pressing her mouth against his. The sound he made when he entered her was muffled against her mouth, but it vibrated through her, hot and helpless.
She wrapped her legs tighter around him, and he thrust into her, hard and deep. She wanted to touch every bit of him, wanted to taste the words that came out of his mouth, but he’d locked their hands together, pinning them above her head so she could do nothing but take him.
His breath came in ragged, staccato bursts, his eyes fixed on her, looking half-drunk with arousal. He was relentless, never easing up, never giving her a second to lose the fragile line that tethered her to the edge. She twisted beneath him, gasping, nails digging into his shoulders where he'd managed to pin her, and the sensation only built, wild and unmanageable.
The heat coiled up her spine, her toes curling, her thighs trembling uncontrollably. She felt him everywhere, even behind her eyelids, in the pounding of her heartbeat. Like he was marking her, like his magic was seeping into her veins, mingling with her blood and becoming part of her very being.
And then at last she came, a sharp, wordless cry clawing out of her throat, the world fracturing into bright, tingling fragments.
He followed in the next heartbeat, his movements growing wild, uncoordinated, as he lost himself in her. He buried his face in her neck, biting down to stifle the hoarse sound that tore out of his throat. She felt him jerk inside her, molten and overwhelming, and the way he groaned her name, choked and guttural, sent her shivering over the brink again, a second aftershock rolling through her.
Theo’s head dropped to her shoulder, his breath ragged and damp against her neck. He stayed there, unmoving, for several long moments, the only sound in the room the echo of their panting. She wrapped her arms around his back, tracing the line of his spine, feeling every tremor that pulsed through him as he came down.
At last, he pushed himself up on his elbows, still inside her, and looked at her from under a tangle of sweat-damp hair. His face was open, vulnerable, eyes blown and dark but soft at the edges.
Like he could see every corner of her, every secret, and was still somehow awestruck to find her there with him. He was breathing hard, bare chest slick with sweat. He looked down at her, eyes darting over her face like he wanted to memorize it, and Hermione felt something catch in her chest, some animal ache that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with the messy, terrifying fact of loving him.
His thumb traced the edge of her jaw. “You’re staring,” he whispered, his voice so hoarse it barely sounded like him.
“So are you,” she replied, and the smile that curved his mouth was so gentle she thought she might cry.
“Because I can’t believe you’re real,” he whispered. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”
She pressed a kiss between his eyes, on both of his cheeks. “I love you, you know.”
“Mmm,” he grinned lazily then shifted, curling onto his side so their foreheads almost touched.
His hand rested on her waist and he drew lazy, abstract shapes against her skin. The duvet had slipped off them at some point, but she didn’t feel cold. His body radiated warmth, a human furnace, and she pressed herself close, tucking her knees behind his, like she couldn’t get close enough.
She felt drowsy, but in that slow, honey-thick way that made the world feel safe and unhurried. For a while, they lay tangled in silence. His breath began to even out, and eventually, so did hers. She fell asleep that way, wrapped around him, breath mingling with his, her cheek pressed against his bare chest.
--------------------------
Hermione had never been a particularly jealous person. Self-conscious, sometimes. Needy, sure. But jealousy? That wasn’t something that typically plagued her.
She liked to think of herself as more secure in her relationships, level-headed and rational. But recently, as she watched Theo slip more and more into the rhythms of his new life, there was a strange undercurrent of something she hadn’t anticipated, something she couldn’t even name until it came to her one day– she was jealous .
Strangely, irrationally, quietly jealous.
Something she wouldn’t voice to him because it sounded so ridiculous to say out loud. Because every time he left to go to Draco’s, she was struck by this odd sensation, as if he was on the other side of a door that was closed to her.
It wasn’t that she wanted to intrude on his relationship with Draco– she didn’t, not at all, but she couldn’t help feeling like there was this part of his life, this part of him, that she would never fully understand. Hermione still hadn’t laid eyes on Malfoy since he’d been released. It wasn’t as if she was particularly bent out of shape about that, but the fact that Theo saw him each day without fail made her feel vaguely like the odd man out, like she was back at Hogwarts when Harry and Ron would talk about Quidditch and she’d sit there, pretending to read her book.
It was stupid, she knew that.
Theo had a life before her, and a bond with Draco that she had no reason to be insecure about. They had their own history, their own unspoken understanding, one that didn’t require her to be involved. Just as she did with some of her friends.
But still, every time he left, she couldn’t shake that feeling, the nagging sense that there was a part of him, a part of his world, that she couldn’t touch. It was like she was standing on the outside of a glass wall, watching him move through a life she could only glimpse but never quite reach.
It wasn’t just about Draco, though he certainly played a part in it.
Theo had grown so much in the past year, and every time she thought she understood him, he shifted again, evolving into someone else, a version of himself she didn’t always recognize completely.
It wasn’t a bad thing. He was stronger now, more whole, but she felt like there were moments when the man who used to be so raw, so uncertain, was slipping away from her. Not in any dramatic way, not in a way she could point to and say this was where he started to change. But still, little by little, she felt like she was losing the version of Theo she’d first encountered, the one who always looked slightly shell-shocked by the fact that she kept wanting to see him, the one who couldn’t seem to get enough of her.
Shamefully, she realized she had liked it, being the center of his universe, the only one who got to see his vulnerable side. Hermione wanted him to be happy, healthy, well-adjusted. She really did. There were just times when she missed the way things used to be. And that made her feel guilty.
The second unexpected feeling that came with this was the irrational sense of competition she started to feel– competing for his attention, for his time.
For a moment, she found herself resenting the fact that Draco was still such a large part of Theo’s life, as if she had to prove she could be as important. She felt absurd for it. It wasn’t like she needed Theo to choose her over Draco. That was a nonsensical, possessive thought. She’d never ask him to do that.
Things had been so great lately, in so many ways. The controversy had mostly died down since the article in The Quibbler, work had become more manageable, and Theo was in a much better place. They had a lovely flat together, she got to crawl into bed with him every night, got to kiss him good morning and tell him about her day when she got home.
It was ridiculous, really, for her to find something to complain about. And yet, here she was.
Hermione had been so proud of the way Theo had handled the interview with Luna, the way he spoke about his past and how far he’d come. But one strange consequence of it had been the sudden attention.
Witch Weekly had picked up the story, devoting a full page to him, with a picture snapped by some photographer who had caught him leaving the grocery shops with a bag of cat food in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in another. She couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the headline, reading it aloud under her breath.
“Theodore Nott: Bad Boy With a Heart of Gold?” Theo had been mortified, of course, which had made Blaise even more inclined to make fun of him for it.
He’d invited the two of them over to Ginny and his flat under the guise of seeing their “redecorations,” which had turned out to be a large, framed copy of the magazine page, front and center in the guest suite.
He’d even framed a page from yet another issue of Witch Weekly beside it, headlined “Bad Boys Don’t Care About Anything– Except Maybe Redemption.” It featured an obviously unaware Theo leaned against the wall of the café, sunglasses on and a coffee cup in his hand, looking way too fit for his own good, in Hermione’s opinion.
“For fuck’s sake, Zabini,” Theo groaned, his face roughly the color of tomatoes.
“Oh wait! You haven’t even seen the best part,” Blaise said, grinning. “It was Gin’s idea.”
He flicked his wand. As if on cue, the frame began to play Bad to the Bone , the song’s deep bass filling the room and making Theo cringe visibly.
Ginny cackled in delight. “How’s it feel to be dating a bad boy with a heart of gold, Hermione?”
Hermione bit her lip to suppress a laugh but couldn’t quite keep the grin from spreading across her face. She leaned against Theo playfully. “I guess I always did have a thing for trouble.”
Theo groaned. “Please don’t encourage him.”
Blaise patted his back sympathetically. “Sorry, Babyface. It was too good to pass up.”
Hermione could hardly keep from giggling herself as she watched Theo squirm, but something unexpectedly stirred in her chest. It was a mix of amusement and something else, something almost possessive, though she wasn’t entirely sure why.
She didn’t want him to be a public figure in this way, she realized, someone for other women to ogle in Witch Weekly. She wanted him to herself, her Theo. And it wasn’t like he enjoyed the attention, anyways– in fact, it was abundantly clear how much he loathed it.
Later, once they were alone, she’d mentioned it again. It was petty, sort of a childish approach, but she didn’t know how to properly convey her own feelings about it.
“Guess you ought to get used to all that attention, hm?” she’d said, fiddling with the hem of her jumper, pretending to read her book.
He glanced over at her curiously, turning his book over on his lap. “What?”
She shrugged, feeling self-conscious. “Just seems like you’re getting an awful lot of it.”
He seemed genuinely confused. “What, you mean like those stupid articles?”
She nodded, refusing to meet his eye. “Hermione,” he said carefully. “Are you… jealous?”
“No,” she muttered. “I dunno. Maybe. It’s stupid but–”
He made a noise that was half scoff, half incredulous laugh, and it startled her so much she had to glance up, finally meeting his eyes. She couldn’t help but frown, suddenly feeling like the butt of an inside joke.
He raised his eyebrows, almost smiling. "You. Jealous. Of what, exactly? The Witch Weekly readership?"
“Shut up.”
Theo let out another small, self-deprecating laugh, his eyes flickering with a touch of discomfort as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Honestly, Hermione, I don’t even know what I’m doing on those pages. It’s bloody embarrassing, is what it is.”
“I’m sure other girls don’t think it’s embarrassing,” she said, fully aware of how ridiculous she sounded. She was being a brat, and she knew it. She crossed her arms self-consciously.
Theo sighed, coming to kneel in front of her on the floor. “Look at me, would you?” She did, begrudgingly. “You’re being silly, you know that, right?”
She kept her arms crossed stubbornly. “Yes.”
“First off, I didn’t ask for any of… that. The attention, the fucking photos. In fact, it’s the opposite of what I want– it makes me deeply uncomfortable, actually.”
She felt a pang of guilt and opened her mouth to say as much, but he stopped her, continuing. “And as flattering as it is that you , of all people, would actually think you have a reason to be jealous… you have no reason to be. Ever.”
“That’s easy for you to say, when you’re the one splashed across magazines looking like the wizarding world’s very own James Dean,” she muttered.
She really needed to shut up.
“Come off it,” he said, his voice low. “Hermione, I’m yours . It’s laughable how true that is. I always have been, always will be. Even if you stop wanting me, even if you get sick of me and tell me to sod off. Every single part of me belongs to you.”
Hermione felt her pulse thrumming and her vision tunneled until he was the only thing she could see.
How was he so good at this, at peeling back her layers and seeing straight into the ugliest, most insecure parts of her? How did he know exactly what to say to assuage her doubts, to comfort her? The thing about Theo was that he had no patience for what he called “empty comforts.” He never said things he didn’t mean, never offered her a placating lie when the truth would do, even if the truth was hard, or ugly, or meant risking a bruise to his own pride. Most boys, when confronted with a girlfriend's irrationality, would flatten it or swat it away with teasing or, worse, silent withdrawal.
But Theo always treated her emotions like a gift, like he was the lucky one because she’d allowed him to see them. There was a gentleness to everything he did, a willful refusal to make a joke of her feelings, and it always managed to disarm her. The way someone so battered by his own loneliness, so fundamentally unmothered , had arrived at adulthood with his empathy not just intact but sharpened. The way that years of isolation had failed to chip away the goodness in him, the unwavering compassion he was constantly showing her. He could be wicked, yes– cynical and cutting when it suited him, and devastatingly quick to call out the hypocrisy in others– but with her, he was never anything but honest and gentle.
She often wished he could extend the same kindness to himself. But perhaps that was how he’d managed to handle the pain, the trauma– rather than letting it fester into something bitter, some resentment towards others, he’d turned it inwards. She’d noticed it from the very beginning, the way he withheld judgment from anyone but himself. He could rattle off a litany of his own faults at the drop of a hat, could spend an entire evening cataloguing all the ways he’d failed, all the rotten things he’d said or hadn’t said, done or hadn’t done. But when it came to Hermione, or to anyone else he cared for, that razor edge blunted into something wholly different. She’d never met anyone like him, this man who wore sarcasm and self-deprecation like an armor, who extended gentleness to strangers before he’d ever offer it to himself.
She glanced down at him, trying to swallow against the lump in her throat.
He was still kneeling, chin propped on her knee, hands loose and open on her calves. Watching her, reading her. She inhaled shakily, trying to find the right words to say. But he shook his head ruefully, plunging on, like he’d been waiting for her to finish her train of thought before he continued.
“I don’t think you quite understand,” he said patiently. “It’s not normal, the way I think about you. It’s not just that I love you– and I do, an embarrassing amount, really. It’s that you’re… you’re a bit of an obsession, honestly.” He winced, like he hated to even say it. “Pretty sure I figured that out in sixth year, probably even before that.”
She tilted her head at him, and he gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “I used to watch you, you know. Not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird.”
Hermione laughed despite herself.
“I’d just notice things. Like how you always had ink on your fingers, or how you’d get this little line here–” he touched her brow, very lightly, “when you were concentrating. You’d walk past me in the hallway and it would derail my entire day. I’d sit through entire classes wondering what it would be like to just… talk to you, or brush up against your hand, or hear you say my name.”
“Theo,” she said quietly, overwhelmed.
He closed his eyes. “Like that,” he said.
He let the words hang in the air for a beat, marinating in it, then opened his eyes and met hers, almost daring her to look away first.
“The way you say it– it’s like everything else vanishes. It’s the only thing that matters. You’re the only thing that’s ever felt real to me. And they could print a thousand articles about me, every delusional witch in Britain could be queued outside my door– and it still wouldn’t be enough to make me take my eyes off of you, even for a second. So please, believe me when I tell you that you have absolutely no reason to be jealous.”
Hermione once again suppressed the urge to cry, swallowing as she stared at him. “Okay,” she said, barely a whisper. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
The words felt woefully inadequate in comparison to what he’d just said, but Theo didn’t seem to mind. He released a breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
“It’s alright, you numpty. Don’t apologize. Ridiculous witch,” he said, under his breath.
She leaned in to kiss him, soft and slow, letting her lips linger on his so she could feel his breath ghosting across her face.
“I love you, you know,” she said, even though it didn’t capture everything, even though it wasn’t enough to explain the depths of her feelings for him.
But it must’ve been enough for him, because he smiled, boyish and genuine. “I love you, too. Always, Hermione.”
----------------------------
“Hermione,” Brightstone said, poking his head into her office. “Can I have a word?”
She frowned, glancing at her MagiScheduler. It was a Monday morning, arguably the busiest time of the week at the DMLE, and it was unusual for her boss to pop in unannounced. It had to be something important, she realized.
“Of course,” she said, setting down her quill and gesturing to the chair on the other side of her desk. “Would you like to sit?”
He glanced down at the piles of paperwork that had quite frankly taken over her desk, then back up at her, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Let’s go to my office, shall we? I’ve got tea waiting.”
Hermione mumbled something under her breath about having her own system despite the appearance of chaos, but she knew it was of no concern to him. She followed him down the corridor, smoothing her skirt as they wound past the midday flurry of owls and interdepartmental memos. There was a reason she’d stayed on at the DMLE after the war, despite the more glamorous offers that had come her way. Here, at least, she was understood. Here, her particular brand of chaos was not just tolerated but, in its odd way, valued.
And she liked working in Legislative Affairs. At least, most days she did. She certainly liked working with Eric Brightstone– aside from Kingsley, he was one of the only Ministry officials she had ever truly respected. He was brisk but patient, shrewd but not unkind, the kind of man who’d once been an academic and still wore his intellectual restlessness like a badge. She admired the way he navigated the mess of postwar bureaucracy– half diplomat, half silent assassin, always five moves ahead of the other departments.
He was trustworthy and understanding, sometimes encouraging her to take a day off if she looked particularly haggard, but never forcing her. He was a bit like a friend, in a way, but mostly a colleague rather than a supervisor.
Brightstone levitated a mug her way, a spoon already stirring the two sugars and lemon he’d already added for her. She accepted the steaming cup. “Thanks,” she said.
“So,” he said, steepling his fingers. “I wanted to check in.”
She frowned, setting her mug down on his (much neater) desk. “Check in? About what?”
If the wizard was ever put out by her directness or lack of propriety, he never showed it. “You’ve been in this role three years now,” Brightstone said, his tone even.
“Almost five years in the department. Long enough to know the ins and outs, long enough to leave your mark. Which you have, quite spectacularly. The Reintegration Act wouldn’t have passed without you. And that legislation on Lycanthropy? Half the Wizengamot still grits their teeth when they hear your name, but they also know they lost fairly.”
Hermione flushed, unsure whether to thank him or deflect. He wasn’t finished, apparently.
“What I want to know,” he went on, leaning back in his chair, “is how you’re feeling. Do you like this work? Is this where you see yourself, long-term?”
The question caught her off guard. “Yes,” she said automatically, too quickly. “Of course. I’m happy here.”
Brightstone tilted his head, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. He had a knack for looking straight through her. “Alright, Hermione,” he said, almost amused. “I’ll take that as your first answer. But I’d like another one, your real one, if you’ve got it in you.”
Hermione hesitated for a moment, pondering. Why was he asking her this? Was she being… fired? No, she didn’t think so. Promoted? Or was he genuinely just curious? He must have seen the gears turning in her head, because he leaned back in his chair a bit, still smiling.
“I’m asking as your… friend. As your colleague. Not as your boss. No hidden agendas here, you have my word.”
Her shoulders dropped infinitesimally, and she gave him a polite smile. “Thank you. As for your question, well–” she paused again, gathering her thoughts. “I don’t know. Some days I think this is exactly where I’m meant to be. Other days… Other days I’ll admit, I catch myself wondering what it would be like to be out in the world again. Not drafting legislation, but working with magical creatures directly, or… or being closer to those whom these laws actually affect.”
“There’s no shame in that,” Brightstone said mildly. “In fact, I rather expected it. You’ve never struck me as someone who was built to sit still for too long.”
He paused, weighing her with a look. “There are opportunities abroad, you know. With international organizations, conservation efforts, refugee aid. Not as tidy as the Ministry, but more immediately gratifying, meaningful. More hands-on.”
Hermione shook her head a little too firmly. “My life is here. My work is here.” She thought of Theo, just beginning to find his footing again, his world still fragile. “And besides, I’m not sure running off is really an option at the moment.”
Brightstone studied her for a long moment, then inclined his head. They’d never spoken directly about the headline, which frankly, she’d appreciated. He’d only been concerned for her safety and her ability to do her work– the wizard had seemed to have no issues separating her work from her personal life, which was more than she could say for plenty of the wizarding world.
“That may be so. But I’ll be frank with you, Hermione. I won’t be in this chair forever. Five years, perhaps less, and I’ll step down. If I believed this was where you wanted to be, I’d recommend you for my position without hesitation. You’ve got the brains and the spine for it. But I wouldn’t want to tether you here if your heart lies somewhere else.”
Her mouth went dry. She hadn’t even considered taking over Brightstone’s job, at least, not recently. There had been a time in Hermione’s life when she dreamed of climbing the ladder, of working her way to the top, fighting tooth and nail if she had to so that she could one day become Minister for Magic. She’d had a kind of ferocious certainty about it back then, a conviction that all it would take was hard work and more hard work and, eventually, the world would yield.
But a lot of things had changed. The war, of course, had dulled some of that blind optimism in her, had made her more jaded, in some ways.
And then, once she got to the Ministry, there was the slow, sickening realization that the machinery of power was so much more complicated than it looked from the outside. The endless grind of fighting for small, incremental victories, only to watch them get rolled back again by committee. The bone-deep fatigue that set in after a decade of never once looking away from the suffering around her. There were some days where she felt so tired she wondered if she’d be able to wake up the next day, or if her body would just refuse to drag itself out of an almost comatose sleep.
On those days, she sometimes wondered if life was really meant to be lived this way. If all of her best years would be spent burning herself out before she even turned thirty. Hermione was still full of her quintessential fire– it hadn’t dimmed, not really– but sometimes she felt like a match struck too often, the edges fraying, the sulfur scraped thin.
It was hard to imagine herself in Brightstone’s chair, day after day, year after year, head bent over parchment while the hours drained away. Harder still to imagine she could keep doing it until she was old and grey.
Because she did want more for herself, didn’t she? For a time, she hadn’t thought it would be possible. But Theo had changed something fundamentally within her, had lifted the heavy stone of loneliness and self-inflicted isolation that had taken up permanent residence in her chest. And it made her feel hopeful. It made her imagine possibilities beyond the same grey London skies. Beyond the endless rhythm of stepping in and out of the Ministry Floo each morning, shaking ash from her robes, and returning home long after dark with ink still smudged on her fingers. Beyond the habit of working until her eyes blurred and her shoulders locked into knots, as though exhaustion was the only constant she could trust.
She wondered, cautiously, almost guiltily, if life might be larger than that. If her life could be larger than that. If there was work that didn’t grind her down to dust, but filled her in some deeper way. Work that left her tired in the best sense, the kind of tired that came with satisfaction instead of depletion. The kind of tiredness that came from something lived, rather than something merely endured.
And sometimes, if she imagined further, she let herself picture something else. A different kind of future, tender and almost frightening in its simplicity.
Hermione had always known she wanted to be a mother. It was a fact that might surprise even her closest friends, a fact that she wasn’t sure she’d admitted aloud to anyone else. She was Hermione Granger, workaholic by all accounts, fiercely independent, full of drive and relentlessly dedicated to changing the world. That was all true, but so was the simple fact that for as long as she could remember, she’d pictured herself with children. In her mind, it was as indisputable as the color of her eyes or the fact that she loved to read– she was meant to nurture, to love, to make a home where someone small could feel safe.
So no, if she was being completely honest with herself, she didn’t think she wanted to end up where Brightstone sat now. But the truth of that was too fragmented, too distant for her to name, because she didn’t know exactly what she wanted instead, did she?
No, she knew part of what she wanted, she realized. Theo. He was just as much a part of her future as a career, as a home, as anything else. She wouldn’t take any leaps without including him in the equation– of course she wouldn’t.
Brightstone was watching her, still faintly amused. “You’ve got a lot to mull over then, it seems,” he said when he caught her eye.
She flushed. “I apologize,” she murmured. “I got a bit carried away with my thoughts there.”
He waved her apology away. “No need to apologize, Hermione. In fact, your thoughtfulness is one of the things I appreciate about you the most. I didn’t bring you in here to blindside you, to back you into a corner. I don’t expect you to give me any sort of answer now. It’s just… something to turn over. A question to ask yourself.”
Her brows knitted together. “What question is that again, exactly?”
“What do you want out of life, Hermione?”
She left Brightstone’s office with his words echoing behind her, clinging to her like the aftertaste of bitter tea.
What do you want out of life, Hermione?
It echoed around in her skull all day, as she returned to her desk, as she sorted through stacks of parchment and signed her name to the endless scroll of other people’s futures.
It followed her into the lift, up through the Auror Offices, and out onto the bustling street where she popped in to fetch a loaf of bread for dinner.
It trailed her down the street as she weaved through crowds of people, opting to walk home rather than Floo, thinking it might clear her head. When she arrived home, she let herself in and shook the wet from her hair while Crookshanks threaded between her knees, humming.
The half-kneazle looked up and met her eyes, tilting his head. “What do you want out of life, Hermione?” he asked.
No, he didn’t. But he might as well have. She laughed, the sound echoing through the empty flat. She shivered.
She showered and slipped into pyjamas, pouring herself a glass of wine and stared out into the rain, waiting for Theo to come home. The sound of the rain pattered rhythmically against the glass.
What do you want, what do you want, what do you want.
What
Do
You
Want
Out of Life,
Hermione?
------------------------
Most folks need a world to conquer
Something big to do
They don't know the worlds I conquer
When I'm kissing you
Let them all go chasing after rainbows
I have found my pot of gold in you
Your love is all I need to satisfy me
Nothing matters but you
Nothing matters but you
-The Young Veins
Notes:
So, I had originally planned the last scene of this chapter for a later one, but for some reason adding it here felt right to me. I hope it fits alright, because I was a little unsure. Hermione is questioning her own choices in life and her own future a lot right now, just as Theo is. They are also in very different places, which can obviously cause some complications. But fear not, dear readers! These two are headed for just as many wonderful things as they are challenges.
I am a little meh about the ending of this chapter as it felt very... melancholy, but I also think it's an important glimpse into Hermione's mind. The vibe of this song also feels very haunting to me, especially in context, but it fits in my mind.
Hope you enjoyed this one, next update probably on Tuesday :)
Chapter 25: This Must Be The Place
Notes:
See the end of the chapter for content warnings and as always, take care of yourselves, friends <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. ”
Theo flicked his wand, drawing back the heavy curtains that covered the windows, letting the afternoon sunlight pour into the room with an almost accusatory force. The sight that met him didn’t do much to quell his irritation.
Draco was still in bed, the blankets twisted around him like he'd been wrestling with them all night. His face was buried in the pillow, a mess of blond hair falling over his forehead.
“Draco.”
He was either still asleep or choosing to ignore Theo. Either way, this was getting ridiculous. He stepped closer, prodding at the motionless blonde lump with his wand.
“Draco,” he repeated, louder this time. “It’s nearly three in the afternoon. I thought we were past this.”
Draco stirred but didn’t move much, barely lifting his head before groaning loudly into the pillow, as if trying to drown out the sunlight and Theo at the same time.
“Sod off, Nott,” he rasped. “No one asked you to show up and hold a bloody intervention.”
Theo rubbed his temples. “Fine,” he said, heading towards the door. “I’ll owl Pansy then. Tell her to come deal with you herself.”
That seemed to get Draco’s attention. “Fine,” he sighed, pushing himself up on his forearms. He turned to glare at Theo, his long hair tangling in his face.
Theo appraised his friend with a sharp, uncomfortable awareness. It had been over a month since Draco had been released, and he barely looked any better than he had since the first day he’d seen him. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, apparently. Theo’s gaze involuntarily flicked to the outline of his ribs, thin and sharp beneath pale, almost translucent skin, and he averted his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck in discomfort. Even the light streaming through the window seemed to make his pallor worse, highlighting the deep shadows under his eyes, the hollow look to his cheeks.
“Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t go for blokes, Nott.”
Theo blinked, looking away, then rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. You look like pure shite, mate.”
“Appreciate the reminder.”
There was a heavy, stilted silence. Theo fidgeted, not sure what to do with himself.
He would’ve liked to think Draco was improving– that the hours they spent together talking, or watching the telly Theo had talked him into getting, or just coexisting– was actually doing something for his friend, but he wasn’t entirely sure that was true. Theo wasn’t sure how to measure one’s progress in this area, but it didn’t seem like there was much forward momentum on Draco’s part.
Draco slumped back against the headboard, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Theo could see how difficult even the smallest movements were for him. There was no energy, no fight left. He felt a pang in his chest at the sight– some sort of messy tangle of sympathy and frustration.
Something had to change, he thought. Something had to break this cycle, to help Draco crawl out of this hole. A thought sparked in his head, then solidified. Theo squared his shoulders and walked closer to the bed, meeting Draco’s eye.
“Alright, listen. You’re coming over for dinner tonight.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, and for a moment, his lips curled into something between a sneer and a scowl. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“I’m not taking no for an answer, mate. I’ll drag you there if I have to. Stupefy you.” He smirked, but his tone was serious. “You’re going to sit at the table with Hermione and I and behave like a civilized member of society.”
Draco made a strangled sound, something resembling a laugh. “I’m not having dinner with you and Granger. Absolutely not.”
“You need to get out of here, Draco. You’re not going to get any better by sitting in the same spot day in and day out.”
“And you think a meal with Hermione Granger, of all people, is going to be the thing that magically heals me?” Draco sneered. “Spare me the pity, Theodore. I don’t need it.” He practically spat the words.
Theo stared at him for a moment, watching his friend’s face for any sign of what lay beneath it. He let the silence stretch until it was so taut, so brittle, he could almost hear the way Draco’s jaw clenched against it.
“If you don’t want to be pitied, maybe you should start acting like you actually give a shite.” He finally said.
Draco glared at him again, cold and accusatory, but Theo continued. “But really, you absolute dolt, I’m not inviting you to dinner because I pity you. I’m inviting you not only because you need to get your sorry arse out of bed– but because I’d like my best mate and my girlfriend to know each other. Did that occur to you? Or are you too busy thinking about yourself?”
Draco’s face went through a fast, involuntary cycle– startled, then closed off, then something almost stricken before he managed to flatten it out.
“Don’t pretend like you need my approval, Nott. Seems you’ve gotten along just fine without it so far.”
Theo felt his face harden as something angry and visceral curled in his chest. “Ah, so it’s that, then?” Draco tilted his head at him, feigning uncertainty.
“The blood purity thing. You’re still hanging onto that, even after everything?”
Genuine shock flashed across Draco’s face. “No,” he said quickly, uncharacteristically clumsy. “I couldn’t care less about blood purity. Fuck, I stopped caring about that... years ago. I thought you knew that.”
Theo studied him and found, oddly enough, that he believed him. “Alright,” he said, his voice measured. “So then what’s this about?”
Draco threw his hands up in the air, vaguely gesturing at himself. “I’m a fucking mess, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m not… proud of where I am at the moment, and I’m not keen on others bearing witness to it.”
He averted his eyes, clearly uncomfortable with his own rare display of vulnerability. “And besides, what am I meant to say to her? ‘Evening, Granger. Sorry I treated you like utter shite for years. Thanks for getting me out of prison, cheers.’”
“I mean, something along those lines, yeah.”
Draco scowled at him. “Really helpful, Nott. Thanks.”
Theo smirked, feeling some of the tension dissipate. “She’s not expecting some kind of bloody speech, Malfoy. You just have to be decent. She’s asked after you, you know.”
Draco’s brow furrowed. “I can’t believe I’ve actually allowed you to talk me into this.”
He tried not to gloat. “Finally. You really are stubborn, you know that? Go shower, please. No offense, but you stink.”
-------------------------
When they arrived that evening, Hermione was flushed, likely from the kitchen, her cheeks rosy from the warmth of the oven or maybe just the bustle of the day. Her hair was piled into a bun on top of her head, stray curls falling loosely around her face. She wore a pair of Muggle denims and a soft grey jumper– the hem had slipped slightly off her shoulder, exposing just a bit of her shoulder.
Theo found himself staring at her, especially when she turned to greet Draco, her face warm and open. He was sometimes struck by how effortless her kindness was, the way she managed to disarm even the most standoffish of people.
“Hi, Draco,” she said, her tone light, like it was just another normal, friendly dinner. “It’s good to see you.”
Draco blinked then stilled beside him, like he was processing how pleasant the greeting was. Theo nudged him and he quickly cleared his throat, inclining his head.
“Granger,” he said eventually, shuffling in the door.
Theo exchanged a look with Hermione, who was still smiling pleasantly, seemingly unbothered by Draco’s lack of decorum.
“Dinner should be ready in a few,” she said. “Maybe Theo can give you the tour in the meantime. Not that there’s a whole lot to see,” she added hastily.
She turned and headed back to the kitchen, leaving him and Draco alone. Theo watched as his eyes roamed over the flat curiously, as if trying to deduce the story of their lives from the arrangement of furniture and the art on the walls.
Theo tried to see it through his eyes. Their flat was cozy, lived-in but with an undeniable quality to it, he’d always thought. The floors were dark hardwood, aged but beautifully kept, a striking contrast to the white walls lined with artwork– mostly Muggle prints, framed posters of abstracts or impressionist landscapes. It struck Theo then that his friend might have never set foot in a place like this until tonight.
Draco tilted his head as he studied the collection of photographs– some on the mantle, others on the bookshelves. There were a few moving, magical photos, but Hermione preferred to use the camera her dad had gotten her for her fourteenth birthday– meaning many photos were non-moving, Muggle ones.
There was a moving one of Hermione, Harry, and Ron, taken when they were maybe thirteen or fourteen, posing in their matching Christmas sweaters at the Burrow. Ron must’ve said something funny, because after they smiled, Harry and Hermione both threw their heads back and laughed, and Ron reddened.
Another, more recent, of Theo and Spencer standing in front of the café, Spencer grinning widely while Theo’s smile was more begrudging and subdued. Hermione had insisted on it, like she had most of their photos.
Theo saw Draco’s eyes linger on one of Hermione, Blaise, and Ginny gathered around a table at one of the many dinner parties Hermione had dragged him to, all mid-laughter. Then there was one of him and Pansy that Hermione had taken the day he’d gotten the keys to his flat, Pansy popping a champagne bottle. He wondered if the photos made Draco feel left out, if he was hurt there were none of him there. The problem was, Theo didn’t actually have any photos of them together.
He watched Draco pause in front of one of him and Hermione posing on the couch, Crookshanks curled between them. Hermione’s head rested on Theo’s shoulder, morning light streaming through the windows. He lingered there for a long time, studying the image.
Theo shifted, clearing his throat. He didn’t know what to say, so he chose not to speak, just watched Draco continue to move through the flat.
His eyes flicked over to the record player in the corner, the records stacked neatly beside it. Draco seemed genuinely intrigued, despite himself, as he walked over to it, eyeing it with a bit of uncertainty. He flipped through the records, brow furrowing as he murmured some of the names aloud.
“The Cure, Fleetwood Mac, Radiohead, The Beatles, Joni Mitchell…” he turned and raised an eyebrow at Theo. “I’ve never heard of any of these people.”
Theo smirked. “I should think not. They’re all Muggles.”
He strolled over and picked one out– one of Hermione’s dad’s favorites, or so he’d been told. He placed it on the turntable and set the needle down carefully. The room filled with the crackling sounds of The Greatest Soul Songs of All Time , Sam Cooke’s smooth voice wrapping around them like velvet.
It's been too hard living
But I'm afraid to die
'Cause I don't know what's up there
Beyond the sky
Draco’s expression shifted, apparently drawn in by the soft, aching melody. “What is this?”
Theo raised an eyebrow, turning towards the bar cart. “I think this one’s by… Sam Cooke. You like it?”
His jaw tightened. “It’s alright.”
Theo poured himself a drink and glanced back at Draco, noticing how still he was, his posture rigid as he stood there, listening. But then, the lines of tension in his shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing as if trying to focus on the words, almost lost in the quiet sadness of the song.
Theo quietly picked up the decanter of Firewhisky and poured them both a generous glass.
"Drink?" he asked, breaking the moment.
Draco nodded, accepting the glass without taking his eyes off the turntable. “Cheers.”
Theo settled on the couch, realizing they weren’t likely to complete the full tour anytime soon.
Next was Stand By Me by Ben E. King, which seemed to affect Draco even more. His frown deepened, and for a moment, Theo thought he might say something, but he just stayed silent, sipping his drink slowly.
Theo could hear Hermione moving around in the kitchen, quietly humming to herself. After a moment, she called out to him, almost timidly. “Theo... this one might be too sad.”
Draco glanced over his shoulder at her, his voice quiet but laced with curiosity. “She doesn’t like it?” He asked Theo in a low voice.
Theo hesitated, swirling his drink in his glass. “No, she does. Erm… I think it might just be one of the songs that reminds her of her dad.”
Draco tilted his head, looking confused, but he didn’t press. Theo hadn't told him about her parents. It wasn't his story to tell, really, and he wasn't sure how Hermione would feel about Draco Malfoy knowing about some of her most painful memories. Not when the two of them hadn't interacted in over six years, until tonight.
Just then, Hermione popped her head into the living room. “Dinner’s ready.”
The table was already set, and Theo saw Draco’s eyes immediately taking in the scene. The spread was simple but elegant, nothing too fancy– just Hermione’s style. There were fresh flowers in a small vase at the center, a few candles flickering. Hermione had laid out a spread of roast chicken, crispy on the outside with herbs and lemon, and a side of mashed potatoes rich with butter, garlic, and cream. There was a simple green salad tossed with a vinaigrette, and a crusty loaf of bread that smelled like it had just come from the oven.
As she finished setting everything out, Hermione glanced over at Draco, who was still standing awkwardly by the table, clearly unsure of where to sit or how to behave.
“You can sit anywhere,” she said. Her tone was patient, gentle, and she flashed a quick smile at Theo.
Draco hesitated for a moment before sitting down at the edge of the table, his movements stiff, his eyes darting toward the food but never quite meeting Hermione’s gaze. He looked out of place, like he wasn’t quite sure how to function in this environment. Like he was unaccustomed to the normalcy of a quiet dinner in a normal, extravagant home. Which frankly, he probably was.
This place, this cozy, worn wooden table had become a safe haven for Theo, but there was a time where both him and Draco only knew stiff, formal dinners at long tables, each course carried in by a house-elf. Where conversation consisted of scripted topics like their marks in school, society affairs, or politics.
Theo could feel the discomfort radiating off of Draco now, though he was doing his best to hide it. The tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes darted around like he wasn’t sure where to look, the way he nervously fidgeted with his napkin– they were all things Theo recognized all too well.
It wasn’t just the unfamiliar setting. It was deeper than that. Draco had spent years being told when to eat, when to sleep, what to say, and how to behave. He’d been quite close with his parents, and Narcissa had been involved in practically every aspect of his life. And then, after everything fell apart during the war, he’d spent the last six years in the suffering confinement of Azkaban, the isolation and monotony clearly taking a toll on him.
It was as if Draco had to relearn how to be a person.
Although they’d both been raised up in Pureblood society, both members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Theo had grown up with a different sort of coldness. One that came not necessarily from a strict schedule or adherence to Pureblood customs, but from a father who rarely acknowledged him aside from to criticize him, and a mother whose loneliness had eaten away at her from the inside until she’d finally had enough. Theo had learned to fend for himself, in many ways. He’d been fortunate enough to have good friends– Pansy, Blaise, and of course Draco, who’d made it clear that Malfoy Manor was his home whenever he needed it to be. But ultimately, he’d been alone for quite awhile.
He’d always tried not to let it show– how alone he really was, and he figured he’d done a fairly good job at it, at least back at school. He had friends, got good marks, did alright with girls. He’d figured out how to give off an air of self-assurance he didn’t really feel, had learned that dry, sarcastic humor was the best shield he could possibly wield. He’d been doing it for so long it felt like second nature at this point. Healer Brown called it a defense mechanism. He just thought of it as making the best of a bunch of rather shite situations.
But Draco was different. He had grown up surrounded by his parents’ constant presence, their expectations, their grandeur. He’d been loved, even in that dysfunctional way the Malfoys loved, and now, after everything, Theo could see how much that had shaped him. Draco’s hesitation at the table wasn’t about being spoiled, or snobbish– it was the result of someone who’d once been cocooned in a world where everything was managed for him, even in prison, and now had to face the wreckage on his own. He hoped Hermione could see that, and that she didn’t interpret his discomfort as rudeness.
Then again, this was Hermione. The most intuitive, empathetic person he knew. Of course she understood what Draco was feeling.
Theo blinked, realizing he’d let the silence linger for longer than he would’ve liked. Hermione looked fairly relaxed, though, leaning over to refill Draco’s wineglass, quietly humming along to another sweet, soulful song.
He admired her, the way the candlelight danced across her face, casting a soft glow that made her all the more lovely.
These arms of mine
They are lonely
Lonely and feeling blue
These arms of mine
They are yearning
Yearning from wanting you…
"What's this one?" Draco said suddenly.
"Oh!" Hermione smiled, pausing her humming. "It's by Otis Redding. It's called These Arms of Mine. It's sweet, isn't it?"
Draco reddened. "Er. Yeah, I guess so."
There was another stretch of silence, which Theo was beginning to find unbearable. Hermione seemed content to let it linger, though, which frustrated him. Between the three of them, she was the more adjusted, socialized one, right? It's not as if him and Draco had become masters at the art of conversation during their years in a bloody cell. As if reading his mind, Hermione tilted her head at him, giving him a small, knowing smile. It's alright, she seemed to say. Just relax. He let some of the tension drop from his shoulders and tried to think of a safe topic of conversation. Naturally, not much came to mind.
“How was work today?” Theo finally asked, deciding to break the silence with a question directed at her rather than Draco.
She smiled good-naturedly. “It was good, actually! Busy, but good.” She set the bottle down, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Still working on the Lycanthropy project. We’re finally moving past the initial research phase and getting into the policy writing. The new protections I’m working on are turning out to be a bit of a mess,” she sighed, pushing a few loose curls out of her face.
“The Wizengamot has been fighting me every step of the way, nitpicking at semantics, getting caught up on little details. Nothing I wouldn’t expect from them, really.”
Theo nodded sympathetically, preparing to respond. He was surprised when Draco cleared his throat, turning to face Hermione. “Lycanthropy project? So like, protection for werewolves?”
“Exactly,” she said. “It’s common for people who have been bitten to be ostracized, as we all know. But it goes beyond that– they’re legally required to register their condition with the Ministry, but once they’re registered, it’s nearly impossible to find a job! They can barely even get proper healthcare, because even some Healers have misconceptions and are afraid to treat them. Most places won’t rent to them, so housing insecurity is a problem too.”
Draco frowned. “I hadn’t realized it was that much of an… issue.”
“I don’t think most people do. We think of werewolves as dangerous and volatile, which causes us to forget that they’re people, too. You remember Lupin, don’t you?”
Draco’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “I do.”
“Right, so he was a prime example. He was bitten when he was only four, by Greyback, actually.”
Even Theo was taken aback. “ Four? ”
Hermione nodded sadly. “It’s horrid, I know. But yes, at the age of four. And for the rest of his life, he struggled to manage his condition, to hold a job and find a stable place to live. He’s one of the reasons I decided to tackle this issue in the first place. He deserved better, and there are plenty of others like him who do too.”
Draco swirled his wine around, brow furrowed. “I hadn’t really thought about any of that, truthfully. I mean, I remember when he was outed as a werewolf. My parents were furious, saying how unsafe it was for him to be teaching children. I suppose it’s easy to… dehumanize someone. When you think of them as some kind of violent creature.”
Theo glanced over at him in surprise. “I remember that too. My father said the same thing, then turned around and worked alongside Greyback.” He laughed humorlessly.
Draco was quiet for a moment, and at first, Theo thought he might’ve crossed a line. But then he huffed a laugh too. “Hypocrites, really. The whole lot of them.” He paused, his eyes flickering over to Hermione briefly. “Myself included.”
Hermione blinked but then quickly mastered her expression into a small smile. “We’ve all got our blind spots. It’s about how you learn to see them though, yeah?”
Draco’s eyes were downcast, and he gave a small nod of agreement.
Theo noticed Hermione tilt her head, as if weighing which direction to steer the conversation. It was likely as close to an apology as she would get from Draco, at least for right now. She seemed to know that.
She sipped her wine then gestured at Draco’s plate. “You’re not eating,” she said gently. “Still not much of an appetite?”
“Not as of late. I hope it’s not offending you.”
“Not at all, it's quite alright. Theo was the same, for a while. I might be offended if you don’t at least try the chicken, though. It’s my mum’s recipe. She used to call it ‘Marry Me Chicken’ because apparently my dad went and bought a ring the very night she cooked it for him.”
“Seriously?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “The chicken was good enough to... propose? ”
Hermione smiled, a shadow of something passing over her face quickly. “I’m fairly certain he was already planning to, but this sealed the deal.”
Theo reached under the table and squeezed her hand. Draco cut into the chicken, taking a small bite and chewing thoughtfully. “It is… rather good. What do you think, Nott?” He smirked at Theo.
“It’s delicious,” Theo said. “As always.”
“Mm,” Draco agreed. “Good enough to get you thinking about making some kind of… large purchase?”
Theo felt his face heat. “Sod off, Draco.”
Hermione laughed, a lovely, pure sound, and Draco looked rather pleased with himself, albeit a bit surprised.
After that, the meal stretched into a more comfortable rhythm. Draco began to relax, enough to eat more than a few bites, and conversation flowed more naturally. They ended the evening with a nightcap and a desert of stone fruits and homemade cream, almost cloud-like in texture, pooling delicately along the warm cherries and plums. By the time they finished, Draco had decided to purchase his own record player, and Hermione had insisted he borrow a few from her collection.
“Thank you, Granger, Theodore. This was… nice.” Draco stood at the door, shouldering into his coat.
Hermione smiled at him, genuine and warm. “Of course, Draco. I hope you’ll come back. You’re welcome anytime, and I mean that.”
Draco met her eyes for a moment before his gaze dropped to the floor, his cheeks reddening slightly. There was something in his eyes– something tentative, vulnerable– that made Theo feel like they’d reached a small, significant moment.
He opened his mouth to say something, his hand on the door, but hesitated, as if unsure how to express himself. Finally, he cleared his throat and met Hermione's eyes. “I will. Thank you.”
---------------------------
“How was your weekend, Theo?” Healer Brown asked from across the room, her legs crossed.
Soft light filtered through the thin curtains, creating gentle patterns against the pale blue walls. Healer Brown adjusted her glasses, the gold rims catching the light as she lowered them slightly down her nose, her dark eyes peering over the top at Theo.
Theo shifted in his chair, a faint sigh escaping his lips as he thought back to the weekend.
“It was good. Draco came over for dinner, actually. Finally talked him into it. And then Saturday, Hermione was hell-bent on wallpapering the loo, for some reason. That took up most of the day, but Sunday we went round to Spencer and Harry’s for brunch.”
Healer Brown nodded, her expression warm and attentive as she made a note in her pad. “That sounds like an active but fun weekend. How was it, having Draco over? I know you’d been feeling frustrated about that whole situation recently.”
Theo ran a hand through his hair. “It went… well, I suppose. Better than I’d expected. I think it was good for him to get out of his flat. He’s only left it to go to his parole meetings.”
“Sounds a bit familiar, doesn’t it?” There was no harshness behind the question, Theo knew.
He gave a faint chuckle. “Yeah. It certainly does.”
Healer Brown smiled. “I’ve said this before, but I think it’s wonderful you’ve become part of Draco’s support system. The two of you have been through some very similar things, and it’s rare that people with shared trauma like that are able to lean on each other.”
Theo muttered an agreement, and Healer Brown gave him a searching look over her glasses. “Have you been able to talk about those things with Draco?”
Theo shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Erm, sort of. Not really,” he admitted. “If things come up on their own, we’ll talk about it. But we don’t sit there digging into each others’ trauma, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Healer Brown’s pen hovered above the page, but she didn’t write anything. “Why do you think that is?” she asked, soft but direct. “That you and Draco avoid the topic of your trauma?”
“I dunno,” Theo shrugged, fiddling with a loose thread on the sofa. “It doesn’t make for great conversation, I guess. And neither of us particularly wants to relive any of that.”
“That’s understandable. Are there particular things you think you avoid discussing with others in general?”
Theo felt the beginnings of a tension headache begin to press on his temples. He sighed. “I mean, yeah. Of course.”
“Such as?”
“Isn’t that what they’re paying you the big bucks to tell me? ”
The words came out a bit harsher than he’d intended, but his Healer rarely seemed to mind when he was short with her. She gave a small smile, the kind that made him feel both disarmed and annoyingly seen.
“We’ve spoken quite a bit about the war. About your childhood, your mother’s death, about your complicated relationship with your father, even. But in all this time, you’ve avoided discussing your time in Azkaban. Why do you think that is, Theo?”
Theo stared at the floating dust particles dancing in a patch of sun near the window. He could practically count the seconds of his silence, the way her question rotated in his mind, angular and persistent.
“I don’t know,” he said again, frustrated with himself for his lack of eloquence. “I guess I don’t really see the point of it. I survived it. I’m out now. I’d rather not dwell.”
Healer Brown gave him a patient look. “And that’s valid, Theo. To not want to think about it. But when you do that, when you avoid your trauma, that doesn’t make it go away. You were there for five years of your life. That’s not an insignificant chunk of time, especially given the conditions there. I think it might help if… well, if we talked through some of it together, even if that’s uncomfortable.”
Theo felt a sudden, prickling anxiety at the nape of his neck. He tugged at the sleeves of his jumper, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.
“Fine,” he said, not quite hiding the resentment in his voice. “What would you like to know, exactly?”
The clock on the wall ticked with exaggerated slowness. Healer Brown set her notes aside, folding her hands in her lap. “No need to start with the worst bits,” she said gently. “But maybe you could tell me what a normal day was like, in Azkaban.”
He shifted, then ran his tongue over his teeth, searching for the right words.
“There’s not much to say there. Every day was exactly the same, for the most part. I remember the food being vile, or tasteless on the best days. There was nothing to do except sit around and stare out the window, if you can call it that. At first they’d let us out into the ‘ courtyard ,’” he said the word mockingly. “But then there was a big storm that cracked the concrete, so the ‘ outdoor recreation’ stopped about two years into my sentence, I think. Sometimes I’d try to talk to the people next to me, but I never had much luck there. Draco’s solicitor brought me some books a few times. That helped a lot.”
“I see. And did you ever lose track of the days?”
“Oh, all the time,” he laughed humorlessly. “If you were lucky, you could get a guard to tell you the date. But most of them would tell you to sod off. Or worse.”
“Worse?”
His jaw clenched. “Yeah.”
Healer Brown furrowed her brow. “Theo, did the guards at Azkaban ever physically abuse you?”
Theo scoffed. “I mean, sure. Does that honestly surprise you?”
She blinked at him. He’d never seen her look even a little shocked by anything he’d told her until today, he realized.
He forced a wry smile. “C’mon, Healer Brown. They’re not exactly recruiting Britain’s best and brightest for the job. If you’re working at Azkaban post-war, you’re either a sadist or you couldn’t pass the full Auror exam.”
Healer Brown didn’t write this time. She only watched him, face composed, but he suspected she was bracing for some confession. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Theo. Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
“Not particularly,” he said, then softened a bit. “It wasn’t anything dramatic, so you don’t need to worry about that. Just… whatever they could get away with, I suppose. You get used to it eventually.” The words sounded ugly and resigned.
Healer Brown watched him carefully, her gaze soft but insistent, knowing the direction their conversation had taken. Theo could already tell his attempts to dismiss the conversation were going to fall flat.
“I understand it’s not easy to talk about,” she said gently, “but I think it’s important for you to try. What, exactly, could the guards ‘get away with’?”
He sighed, leaning back in his chair, looking away for a moment, his fingers tapping on the armrest. “Nothing major. They’d just smack you around a bit if you mouthed off. Some of them were on more of a power trip than others. It’s not like anyone was coming to do welfare checks, really. So it didn’t matter if they left marks. It could’ve been worse for me, I think. I never had it too bad.”
He didn’t want to meet her eyes and see the pity that would almost certainly be there. From the corner of his eye, he saw her uncross her legs, clasping her hands together. “Would you mind telling me,” she began softly, “about a time you remember feeling frightened there?”
He recoiled, instinctively, from the question. Not that he could blame her for asking. That was the job, wasn’t it? Keep prodding until there was blood.
“I don’t remember being frightened,” he lied, shifting in the chair as if discomfort could be physically unseated.
Brown let the silence expand. She was an expert at this, making the space feel just uncomfortable enough that he’d fill it on his own, desperate to make it stop ringing in his ears. He wanted to keep stonewalling, but the question had unmoored something. He found himself thinking, despite himself, of a winter that seemed to last forever. The cold that seeped into his bones until it didn’t even hurt anymore, just made everything feel slow, dull, muffled like a rock dropped at the bottom of a pond.
“My first winter there,” he said quietly. “When I first arrived, it was Spring. It was still Azkaban, but at least the weather was a bit warmer. Brighter. It was November, I think, when things really went to shite.”
“What happened in November?”
He hesitated. “There was this new guard,” he admitted, his voice low. “Bray, I think his name was. He took the night shifts starting in November, and things got pretty bad after that.”
Healer Brown waited, regarding him patiently. He sighed. Vagueness wasn’t going to cut it, then. She was looking for the ugly details– of course she was.
“I thought I was quite funny at first,” he said. “I mean, you know how I can be. Sarcastic, mouthy bastard. But it seemed to get under Bray's skin more than the others, for some reason. So I backed off him, tried to keep my head down, but I guess he sort of had me pinned me as a troublemaker by then.”
He kept his eyes on the carpet, watching the light move against it as he continued. “It was just little stuff at first. He’d slam the hatch on your fingers if you weren’t quick enough. One time he left my cell window cracked open all night, which wouldn’t have mattered except it was December and the cold was enough to wake you up shaking, teeth chattering so hard you thought they might splinter. Sometimes he’d tip my food tray onto the floor and then make me eat it anyway.”
“And then,” he swallowed, trying to keep his breathing even, “it got worse. I’d almost prefer it if he’d just like… beaten me, which he did, sometimes. But it was other stuff too, like– just... random things to mess with my head. Throwing ice water on my face if I took too long to answer a question, waking me up every hour by shining his wand in my face. One time he locked me in the outdoor yard overnight. Middle of January. Was supposed to be twenty minutes of fresh air, but he left me out there for seven hours.”
Brown’s face was frozen in shock, but she blinked, regaining her composure. “Seven hours? In January?”
“Yeah,” Theo gave a half-hearted chuckle. “I was almost frostbitten, apparently. But at least I got to spend a night in the infirmary. Better than my cell. And Bray couldn’t bother me for a day or two.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, but it didn’t feel like the kind where Brown was waiting for him to speak. Instead, it seemed like she was trying to gather her own words, to keep herself from showing too much emotion.
Finally, she leaned forward and met his eyes. “Theo. I want you to listen closely to this. No matter what you did to end up in Azkaban, you never deserved any of that treatment. I am… I’m terribly, terribly sorry you had to experience that. What that guard did to you– it was an abuse of power, and it was wrong.”
Theo fought the urge to contradict her or make some kind of ill-timed joke. He swallowed.
“Thanks,” he said, fidgeting awkwardly.
She shook her head. “No. Thank you , Theo. I know that was difficult for you, but it showed tremendous strength to talk about something I know you’d rather avoid. This is how you heal– by unpacking the memories that are most painful, by understanding why you might not feel inclined to revisit them.”
She paused, tilting her head so he was forced to meet her eyes, which he hadn’t realized he’d averted. “For our next session, I’d like for us to discuss your first memories at Azkaban. Your first night, how that might’ve felt. I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to feel caught off guard, and I hope it will give you some time to prepare yourself.”
“Something to look forward to, then,” he quipped.
She gave him one of her signature Mind Healer smiles– friendly but clinical, kind but clearly not fooled by his sarcasm. “I know today was difficult, Theo. And I’m proud of you for handling it the way you did. I hope you’ll be gentle with yourself today. Take it easy. Do something that makes you feel good, alright?”
As he stepped out of Healer Brown’s office, he could somehow still feel the lingering chill of Azkaban in the corners of his mind, a coldness that had nothing to do with the blustery weather outside. It was one that came from feeling so utterly isolated that you’d do nearly anything for human contact, even if it meant heckling a guard.
The kind that somehow penetrated into the marrow of your bones, that made hours and days feel meaningless.
But then, he remembered where he was headed, and the air around him seemed to warm. It wasn’t the world outside the office, or the Autumn sun.
It was the thought of her – of Hermione, waiting for him. The way she was always there, the warmth of her presence spilling out from their flat, the smell of something cooking, the soft, familiar hum of her voice. The creak of the floorboards as she moved across the room, the way she curled into him at night, her small hand resting on his chest or threading through his hair. The smell of her perfume, the scrunch of her nose when she was cross with him; the sound of her laughter, the way her lips felt against his.
Do something that makes you feel good.
Being with Hermione. That was what made him feel good.
There was comfort in her, in the simple act of being near her. He could walk in the door and pull her into his arms, and he wouldn’t need to explain why. He could crawl into bed as soon as he got home and wordlessly, she’d join him, letting the comfortable silence linger until he was ready to tell her what was wrong. He could tell her he’d had a shite day and she’d listen or ask if he wanted to get drunk and order takeaway.
He didn’t have to be cold anymore. He didn’t have to be alone. Not with Hermione. It was the only place he’d ever really felt that way.
--------------------------
Home is where I want to be
But I guess I'm already there
I come home, she lifted up her wings
I guess that this must be the place
I can't tell one from another
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time before we were born
If someone asks, this where I'll be, where I'll be
-The Talking Heads (cover by LAUREL)
Notes:
cw: depictions of psychological torture, abuse
Poor sweet Theo. And Draco, too. They are getting there y'all, slowly but surely. Have faith! Theo would not have been able to have that conversation with his Mind Healer a few months ago, would he?
Also, the cover of this song has quite a different vibe than the original, so keep that in mind. As always, it will be added to the fic playlist- https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1iyZ2DFLWcAxuGcJ0jSOTN?si=3574a676d8944c4f
Happy Tuesday beautiful people!
Chapter 26: Silver Joy
Notes:
Happy Saturday! This chapter fought me a bit on the edits, but I'm pretty happy with how it turned out.
In honor of Autumn around the corner and beautiful weather (at least near me) today, here is a weekend in Hermione and Theo's little corner of the world. Enjoy <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“So,” Hermione said, handing Theo his latte and settling into bed next to him. “Are we going to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” Theo blinked at her, his hair still disheveled from sleep.
He was sitting up against the headboard, shirtless, his toned chest catching the soft morning light. She liked the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders shifted as he moved, the way his eyes were still heavy with the remainders of sleep. Absently, she wondered if he was still hard, the way he almost always was in the morning. It had been awhile since they’d made love like this, with the sun just beginning to stream in and the world beginning to wake… Merlin, she was getting distracted.
She turned away for a moment, clearing her throat and refocusing.
Then she met his eyes again. “Your nightmare last night,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “That was the third one this week, you know.”
Theo winced slightly, glancing away as he ran a hand through his hair, his lips pressing together like he was trying to push the memory away. “Right,” he said. “It’s nothing, though. I’d rather not rehash, if that’s alright.”
Hermione tilted her head and moved closer to him, resting a hand on his arm, stroking the velvety skin on his bicep.
“I know,” she said softly. “I’m never particularly keen on doing that either. But it was a bad one. All three of them were. It makes me feel a bit… worried.”
He glanced at her warily. “What are you worried about?”
“My sleep cycle being disrupted,” she deadpanned. “No, you numpty. I’m worried about you, obviously.”
The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Sometimes I think I’m rubbing off on you a bit too much.”
She leaned into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Maybe. But really, Theo. I think we should talk about it.”
“Alright.” His jaw tightened.
Hermione took a deep breath. “Do you remember what it was about?”
Theo nodded. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to say anything. “Healer Brown has been making me talk about Azkaban quite a bit recently,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “That’s what I’ve been having nightmares about, mostly. I’m assuming that’s what’s causing the… nightmares.”
“Oh.” She wasn’t quite sure how to react.
Theo rarely talked about his time in Azkaban, and when he did, it was usually just bits and pieces. He never really opened up about it, seldom offered more than a quick glimpse into the cold grey of his five years there. And because of this, the topic was something she’d always been wary about discussing with him. She didn’t want to push too hard, didn’t want to send him back to the dark places of his mind he’d worked so hard to escape. But if he was discussing it with Healer Brown…
He seemed to sense her hesitation and shifted slightly, looking at her. “I don’t want to drag you into it, Hermione. You’ve already done more than enough for me, and it’s not pleasant. It would just make you sad, I think.”
She shook her head. “No holding back, Theo.”
His eyes met hers, and she saw in them how tired he looked, how his mouth was set but not cruel, just resigned, the way his eyes– those impossible, restless green eyes– held so much pain it made her own heart stutter. There was a kind of panic in the way he tried to keep it hidden, the shame that ran marrow-deep, a horror he’d lived through that now colored everything, even now, in the soft and safe light of their morning.
Hermione wanted to say something to make it better, to coax it out in a way that would heal and soothe rather than wound him further. But she also knew quite well the violence of being asked to talk about something before you were ready.
“It’s okay,” she said, lacing her fingers through his. “I won’t force you to talk about it. But I don’t want you to hold back because you think it will be too much for me or change the way I feel about you.”
He swallowed. “It might.”
“It won’t. Why would you say that?”
Theo sighed. “I don’t even think you’d recognize the person I was. It was– I was miserable, Hermione. Barely even alive. It was the lowest I’ve ever been, and now I think I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, with you. I just feel like… that should be kept separate, for some reason.”
Hermione’s heart sank. She pondered for a moment, searching for the right thing to say. No empty comforts, she knew. No placating reassurances.
“You told me you’d go to Australia with me,” she blurted out.
He turned to face her, brow furrowed. “What? What does that have to do with any–”
“That was my lowest. That’s the place I’m terrified to return to. I know it’s different, I know they aren’t exactly… comparable. But that’s my lowest. I’m afraid of what I’ll find if I go, afraid of how it will make me feel, what I might do. But the thought of you being there makes it feel less awful. You are the one who made me feel like I could talk about it, like I didn’t have to keep it to myself and pretend it never happened.”
There was a beat of silence as he took in her words, and for a moment, she thought they might be resonating. But then he glanced back down at the duvet, shaking his head. “I’m glad you feel that way. But it’s not the same thing, Hermione. At all.”
“Why not?”
“Because, you’re a bloody war heroine. You did something incredibly painful and selfless to save the people you love, even if you don’t see it that way. I sat in a cell and rotted away for five years.”
“Theo,” she pleaded, trying not to let the frustration creep into her voice.
Sometimes she grew tired of having the same arguments over and over again, of running in circles trying to convince him he was worthy of love and second chances. But she was never tired enough to walk away. Never tired enough to give up on him. Never, ever that.
She took his hand. “Things aren’t as black and white as that. You know it. I mean yes, I did things I’m proud of. I helped Harry defeat Voldemort. I saved our lives a few times. But there are things I did– things I thought, things I said, that I still can’t look at head-on. Don’t put me on a pedestal. There wasn’t a side of that war that didn’t have blood on its hands, and I’m not morally superior to you because of the cards I was dealt.”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling roughly. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” she said slowly, allowing the thought to form fully in her mind, “that I’m not sure what I would’ve done, had I been born into your situation.”
He stared at her.
“If my father was a Death Eater, if I didn’t have anyone to tell me there was another choice, I can’t say for sure that I wouldn’t have done it. The things you did. If you grew up the way I did, with Muggle parents who loved you, if you’d been, say, sorted into Gryffindor, can you honestly tell me you would’ve made the same choices? If you had people like Dumbledore, McGonagall, Harry– all looking out for you, would you have taken the Mark?”
Theo looked dumbfounded. “I don’t know.” She waited, and then finally– “No, probably not.”
“I don’t think you would have. Because you never really wanted it in the first place, did you? You just couldn’t find a way out.”
“That’s not true. I could’ve defected, I could’ve come to the Order and asked to fight–”
“You were barely even seventeen.”
“So were you, and you nearly died fighting for the right side.”
“Stop,” she said, sighing. “We’re going down a rabbit hole of hypotheticals. My point was, we’ve all done things we regret. I know how much guilt you carry over yours, but that doesn’t mean you deserve to suffer. You made sacrifices that I couldn’t have–”
“Like what? ” he asked incredulously.
“Like doing what it took to survive. Like being alone, fending for yourself from the time you were, what, eleven? I couldn’t have done it, and I mean that. And even surviving Azkaban, Theo. Not once have I heard you complain, or feel sorry for yourself, or blame anyone else for your situation. Not even your father, who, by the way, deserves more than his fair share of the responsibility.”
She looked at him then, eyes blazing. “You survived something most people wouldn’t have been able to. And like you said in the interview with Luna– you spent five years atoning for what you did. Those five years in Azkaban are a part of who you are. And there’s no part of you I don’t love. There’s no part of you that’s too dark for me to hold.”
It was as if her words knocked the wind out of him. He opened and closed his mouth, blinked at her, and then simply stared, eyes soft and unguarded, like he was stunned into silence by the strength of her conviction. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
He shook his head slowly in disbelief. “Say exactly what I need to hear. I swear, Granger, it’s like you see into my soul sometimes.”
She couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound warm and easy, like a breath she’d been holding for too long. “I don’t know about seeing into your soul,” she said, brushing some of the hair out of his face. “But I do see you, Theo. I know who you are, and I love you for it.”
He gave her a small smile, and she felt warmth spark in her chest. “I love you more than I know how to say. And I… I’ll talk to you about it, by the way. About Azkaban. You’re right, I shouldn’t hold back with you.”
She felt an invisible knot in her stomach loosen. “Thank you,” she said simply.
And then the morning was just that– another sweet, slow, sunny beginning of their day. Where he was hers and she was his and the world was full of unknowns and possibilities.
-------------------------
“I’ll see you later tonight.” Hermione kissed Theo goodbye, smiling at the sight of him with a board game tucked under his arm. “This is adorable, by the way.”
Theo scowled at her. “I can’t believe I let Potter talk me into this.”
While Pansy had scheduled a “date night” with Hermione, Theo had somehow been roped into a Muggle board game night with Harry, Spencer, and Neville. Theo had grown close with Spencer, and in part because of that, an earnest friendship was beginning to blossom between him and Harry. Each time Hermione thought of it, a small fissure opened in her heart, as though Theo were melting the frost within her, bit by bit.
“You’ll have fun, love. I can’t wait to hear about which game you like best,” she teased.
He rolled his eyes, then looked at her, his face softening. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
Hermione’s cheeks warmed, but she tried to hide her blush by straightening her jumper. It was a fitted turtleneck, a deep green color, contrasting nicely with her black skirt, which hit the middle of her thighs. A bit shorter than she’d normally go for, but Pansy would call her a nun if she used a lengthening charm on it, and she didn’t mind showing a bit of extra skin now and then. Especially when Theo looked at her like that . She slipped on a pair of long black boots, grabbed her purse, and gave him an extra kiss, just because.
The brisk evening air hit her as soon as she stepped outside, but the cold was welcome, helping clear her head. Pansy was always late, so Hermione had allowed herself a few extra minutes to make sure she got to the pub early and found seats, considering it would likely be busy on a Saturday evening. She Apparated with a soft pop, arriving just a few blocks away since the pub was in Muggle London.
Although she didn’t get as much attention as she did when the articles had first surfaced, Hermione still aired on the side of caution most of the time, opting for Muggle areas whenever she could.
She walked inside, greeted by the warm hum of conversation and the smell of food wafting from the kitchen. She was lucky enough to snag a table by the window, where the light from the streetlamps outside danced off the glass. Hermione sat down and ordered a drink for both her and Pansy, knowing the witch would want one immediately. That was one thing she’d learned about Pansy, she thought fondly as she settled in to wait.
Hermione’s face lit up when she spotted her friend’s sleek black hair cutting through the crowd after a few minutes. She waved her over, and Pansy flopped into the chair across from her with a dramatic sigh, clearly unimpressed.
“Ugh, Granger,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she glanced around the Muggle pub Hermione had picked. “You’re lucky I like you enough to show my face here.”
Hermione arched a brow. “Easy,” she warned, although her tone was light. She knew where Pansy stood on things like this. She was just an elitist by nature, regardless of whether a place was Muggle or wizard-owned.
“Oh, please,” Pansy scoffed. “Now who do I have to shag to get a drink around–”
Wordlessly, Hermione handed her a gin and tonic, sparkling with a delicate fizz.
“Thank Merlin,” she groaned, closing her eyes as she took a sip. “Much better.”
Hermione smiled, raising her own glass of white wine. “Cheers,” she said, and Pansy clinked the glass against hers.
Hermione sipped her wine, settling into the warmth of her friend’s company. The atmosphere between them, as always, was easy– light and fun, comfortably familiar, even in this unassuming Muggle pub.
She and Pansy had been friends for some time, but over the past year their bond had deepened– woven tighter, in part because of Theo. Pansy had been the first to learn of their relationship, and only in hindsight did Hermione grasp how deeply her quiet loyalty had steadied her. With Pansy, it was unexpectedly easy to unburden herself. She seemed to understand both Hermione and Theo in a way that smoothed the sharp edges of it all– seeing not only their strengths, but their flaws and peculiarities too, and cherishing them regardless. She’d never felt like Pansy was on Theo’s side more than hers, despite the history and years-long history the two shared. More than anything, she wanted to see them both happy.
Pansy had a way of knowing when to push and when to pull back, offering just the right amount of tough love, never sugarcoating things, but always ready to step in when needed. She was a “good friend to have in a storm,” as her father would’ve said. It was something Hermione had come to appreciate, especially in the quieter, heavy moments when she wasn’t sure who to turn to. Pansy had a sharp wit, but beneath it was an emotional intelligence that Hermione hadn’t expected, a wisdom that quite frankly caught her off guard sometimes.
Like at Girl’s Night last year, they’d all been talking about getting their Hogwarts letters so many years ago, how they felt, what their parents had said, that sort of thing. Hermione had retreated into herself at some point during the conversation, struck by the memory of her parents’ reaction– utter confusion but overwhelming pride and joy. She hadn’t wanted to take away from the moment with some strange, inexplicably emotional reaction, so she sat quietly and waited for it to pass.
But without drawing any attention, Pansy had come to sit beside her quietly, refilling her wineglass and resting her head on her shoulder. Like she just knew what Hermione was grappling with. Pansy wasn’t a hugger, wasn’t much for sentimentality, which made the gesture all the more touching.
Or the time Hermione had been venting to Pansy about her frustrations with Theo many months ago, back when she’d felt like he spent his days just waiting for her to come home, as if he was just sitting in limbo until the moment she walked in the door. Pansy had let her get it off her chest and then given her advice that Hermione would never forget. She’d fixed her with that signature stare, the one that made her feel both scrutinized and reassured, somehow.
‘Granger,’ she’d said. ‘Listen to me now, because I’ll only say this once. Something you need to understand about our dear Theo is that he’s never had anyone love him properly before. So this is all new to him, and he’s bloody terrified you’re going to realize it was all a big mistake.’
‘He needs time to accept that this is real, and that takes time. But if you’re not prepared to wait it out, to let him sort himself, you need to cut yourself loose right now, before it gets even harder for both of you. And if you are in this for the long haul, then you’ve got to suck it up and deal with him even when he’s being a pain in the arse.’
It was perhaps the best, most honest advice Hermione had ever received about Theo. He’s never had anyone love him properly. It was the painful, naked truth that she reminded herself of often when frustration began to creep in. He was still making sense of love, still figuring out how to accept it and believe he deserved it.
And in turn, Hermione had come to learn a great deal about Pansy, too. Things she didn’t share during Girl’s Night or rowdy dinner parties and get-togethers, but the ones she opened up about when it was just the two of them.
She’d found out about the awkward, painful rift between Pansy and her parents that occurred shortly after the war, after the Parkinsons had tried to force her into an arranged marriage with a wealthy French Pureblood ten years her senior. Pansy had refused, obviously, and the fallout from that decision had been swift and immense. She rarely spoke to her parents now, and the only reason they hadn’t cut her off completely was because Neville was a Pureblood, despite his status as “blood-traitor.”
If you didn’t know Pansy well, you might take her blasé, off-handed comments about her estranged parents at face value, but Hermione knew better. She recognized the grief beneath them– the kind that lingers even when anger tries to smother it. For, as Hermione had learned, grief did not discriminate. Whether parents were buried in the ground or alive but unreachable, whether they were cruel with their words or their hands, the wound is the same– a child left untethered, mourning the love that should have been theirs.
It was this unspoken understanding, this quiet recognition of loss in all its shapes, that bound her to Pansy. Their friendship had deepened into something unexpected and profound, their conversations slipping with ease between laughter and confession, between the weight of grief and the relief of being open and known by someone else.
Pansy raised a brow. “Penny for your thoughts, Granger?”
Hermione rolled her eyes, laughing. “Sorry, got a bit distracted there for a moment. How’s wedding planning?”
“Ugh, I should hex you for even mentioning that wretched topic. No. I’d rather snog Binns than talk about that right now.”
Hermione gave her a sympathetic look. “So not good, I take it?”
Pansy waved her off with a well-manicured hand. “No, it’s fine. Just the same old nonsense with the caterers and the sodding venue staff. Honestly, how hard can it be to find a florist who can manage adding some exotic plants to the arrangements?” She sighed. “I swear, being engaged to a plant savant is a full-time job in itself.”
Hermione snorted rather inelegantly. “Have Neville make the arrangements himself, then.”
Pansy opened her mouth to argue, then tilted her head contemplatively. “That’s actually not a bad idea, you know.”
She sat back in her chair, giving her best attempt at Pansy’s signature aloof nonchalance. “I’m full of them.”
“They don’t call you the Golden Girl for nothing,” Pansy said in a sing-song voice, ignoring Hermione’s glare. “Anyways, enough about me. How’s our dear Theodore?”
“He’s… good,” Hermione said, wondering if she should tell Pansy about the Azkaban business, but ultimately decided it felt like too much of a betrayal. “Working through some stuff at the moment, but he’s doing well. Things are really good with us lately.”
Pansy arched a delicate brow but didn’t press. “Good. I can see it too, you know. How much better he’s doing. What a difference a year can make.”
Hermione hummed in acknowledgement. “We had Draco round for dinner the other night, actually.”
“Shut up. You’re winding me up, right?”
“Nope.” Hermione made an exaggerated pop at the end of the word. “Draco Malfoy in the flesh, sitting in my flat, eating the food I cooked and listening to my Muggle records.”
Pansy let out a genuine laugh. “Merlin, I would’ve paid to see how that evening played out. Did he behave himself? Or was he a complete tosser like he has been every day I’ve gone to see him?”
“He was pleasant, actually.” Hermione said, enjoying the way Pansy’s jaw dropped. “I mean, a bit awkward, but he was polite. Complimented my cooking, borrowed a few records, asked me about work.”
Pansy frowned in disbelief then huffed a laugh. “I guess it’s good to know he managed to retain some of his etiquette lessons,” she said. Then her expression softened slightly. “It was good of you to have him over, Granger. I know there’s an unpleasant history between you two. Thank you for giving him a second chance.”
Hermione felt her chest tighten at the unexpected emotion behind Pansy’s words. “Of course,” she said quietly. “I don’t hold any of that against him anymore. And besides, he’s Theo’s friend, and it’s just as much his home as it is mine. I want his friends to feel welcome there too.”
Pansy waved the waiter over and ordered them both another drink, then turned back to Hermione, a thoughtful expression on her face.
The silence stretched on for a moment, and Hermione gave her friend a strange look. “What is it?”
Pansy cleared her throat, accepting the fresh gin and tonic the waiter handed her. “I wanted to ask you something, actually.”
“Is everything okay?” she felt slightly alarmed at the nerves in Pansy’s voice.
“Everything’s fine,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes. “Relax. I wanted to ask if you’d be my Maid of Honor.”
Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned. That was just about the last thing she’d expected to hear out of Pansy’s mouth tonight. It took her a moment to regain her composure.
“Really?”
Pansy’s lips quirked. “I mean, I couldn’t very well ask Blaise or Theo, could I? Draco’s still a shut-in, and besides, he’s a bloke too.” She wrinkled her nose. “Why are so many of my best friends blokes?”
Hermione laughed, and Pansy shook her head, returning to the point. “So obviously, that crosses those three off the list. Really, that just leaves you.”
“Me? Are you positive?”
Pansy frowned. “Are you trying to talk me out of it, Granger?”
“No! Of course not, I just–”
“Yes, I’m positive, you numpty. I don’t think I’d trust anyone else with all that responsibility. And besides,” she said, a rare, sincere smile on her face, “you’re my best girl, Granger.”
Hermione couldn’t help it. She jumped out of her chair, letting out a little squeal as she hugged Pansy. “Of course I will, Pansy. I’d be honored.”
Pansy groaned, stiffening for a moment, but then surprised Hermione by returning the hug. “Ugh, Granger, you know how I feel about hugs,” she muttered, but there was a softness in her voice that betrayed the words.
Hermione pulled back slightly, blinking rapidly. She caught sight of Pansy’s eyes, glistening just a bit, and realized her own eyes were wet too. It was such a rare thing to see Pansy vulnerable like this, and it made her chest tighten in an unexpected rush of affection.
Pansy quickly wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, as though brushing away the sentiment like it was some kind of inconvenience. “Blech, enough of that,” she said, clearing her throat. “Shall we get pissed, then?”
Hermione laughed despite herself. “Fine. But only because I love you.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “Don’t go all soft on me, Granger. Next round’s on you.”
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Hermione loved coming home to Theo. She loved making dinner with him every night, feeling their elbows bump up against each other as he chopped and she stirred. She loved the way he’d come up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, dropping his head into the crook of her neck and letting his lips linger there. There was a quiet, beautiful intimacy of their evenings together, a pleasant domesticity that reminded her, achingly, of watching her parents together when she was small. And though the novelty of sharing a living space with Theo wore off eventually, the thrill of opening the door and finding him there never did.
But though she loved their evenings together, nothing was more sacred to Hermione than waking up to him on a Sunday morning. Hermione and Theo had settled into a rhythm that felt as if it had always existed, as if some part of the universe had quietly been holding space for the two of them to stumble upon this gentle, sacred inertia. She cherished the slow, sleepy haze, the warmth of his body pressed against hers beneath the duvet, the way the day stretched ahead of them. Their Sundays had a predictable cadence– coffee in bed, letting themselves wake up slowly and lazily, followed by breakfast. Theo had perfected a full English breakfast, and it was often him that did the cooking in the mornings.
After the washing up was done, they’d pull on thick socks and jumpers and step out into the soft chill of Autumn. The streets were speckled with golden leaves, damp with the lingering memory of rain. Sometimes they wandered to the little bookshop tucked between two cafés, where they’d both thumb through books, sometimes going their separate ways but always bumping back into each other at some point. Other times they visited the farmer’s market and bought fresh leafy greens, crusty pastries, or crisp red apples.
Most often though, they simply let their feet carry them through the park, crunching across leaf-strewn paths, hands brushing until fingers threaded together. Hermione loved the way he would tilt his face up toward the pale sun, as though trying to memorize every sensation of freedom, of ordinary life.
When they returned home, pink-cheeked from the cold, Theo always put the kettle on while Hermione shed her denims in a heap on the ground, changing into pyjama shorts or something soft and cozy. They drank tea by the window, books spread between them, the afternoon light growing soft and slanted. Theo had begun to devour Muggle classics with the intensity of a man catching up on lost time. He read slowly, carefully, underlining sentences that caught at him.
And always, like clockwork, she’d feel him glance up from his book, waiting, waiting.
“Mm?” she’d say, tearing her eyes away from the page.
“Can I read you a line?” He’d ask.
And of course, she’d say yes. She loved the low timbre of his voice as he read, the way he drank in the words like someone who’d been deprived of them for his whole life– which, she supposed, he had been.
From Tolstoy, he read to her– “He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”
One Sunday, he read To The Lighthouse in a single sitting and then immediately started it again from the beginning. He read to her, “The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one. This, that, and the other; moments of being. In the midst of chaos, there was one small, bright thing, and that was enough.”
Jane Eyre wasn’t his favorite, but he loved one line from it– “I have for the first time found what I can truly love—I have found you. You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel. I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my center and spring of life, wraps my existence about you—and kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.”
He finished The Great Gatsby on this particular Sunday, and of course, they ended up debating the final line for over an hour.
“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther.… And one fine morning— So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Hermione had always perceived those words through a lens of optimism. Even now, after all the suffering she’d seen with her own eyes and felt with her own body, she still clung to the belief that if there was no resilience in struggle, then what was left? To her, Fitzgerald’s final line wasn’t about despair but about persistence– the fact that people do keep beating against the current. That was the point, wasn’t it? That despite the pull of the past, despite the mistakes that weighed them down, humanity kept straining forward, reaching toward the dream, the vision, the thing just out of reach.
“That’s what I see in it,” she said, pushing her hair behind her ear, her teacup cooling between her hands. “We don’t just… give up. That’s why Nick tells the story the way he does. He could have painted Gatsby as a fool, obsessed with an illusion. But he doesn’t. He admires him.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “Admires him? I think maybe he admires his persistence, maybe, but he views it as tragic.”
Hermione shook her head. “No. He sees something noble in Gatsby’s refusal to stop reaching, even when it was hopeless. That’s what makes the ending tragic, yes, but also beautiful. While there is certainly some tragedy in Gatsby’s charachter, I don’t think Nick pities him, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Theo closed the book on his knee with a soft thud, considering her. “Or maybe Nick admires the striving precisely because he knows it’s futile. Gatsby ruined himself chasing Daisy– someone who was never really the dream at all. And yet he still believed, right up to the end. There’s beauty in that kind of ruin, sure. But it’s not resilience. It’s delusion.”
She snatched the book from him, tucking her feet into his lap. “It’s not delusion! Daisy was wrong for him, yes, that much is obvious. But that doesn’t make his dream meaningless. It makes him almost… pure. That’s what Nick is mourning, too. Gatsby’s faith, his hope. That’s why the story matters. Without it, all you’re left with is Tom and Daisy smashing things up and walking away. And isn’t Gatsby better than that?”
“Better, maybe,” Theo conceded. “But doomed. You call it hope. I call it inevitability. He was never going to have her, never going to outrun the… current, or whatever it was, pulling him back to what he really was. He was always trying to be a part of their world, but he never truly could be. That’s what Nick’s admitting at the end. No matter how far you row, you’re still dragged under.”
Hermione frowned at him, stubborn. “But doesn’t the fact that he tried count for something? Gatsby believed in more than Daisy. He believed in the future, you know? That belief, even if it’s impossible, even if it’s naïve, it matters . It’s what makes him human. Daisy and Tom? They’re the tragic ones. They’re the ones that are doomed.”
Theo tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I see what you’re saying,” he relented. “It matters to you because you need it to. You want Gatsby to be proof that we can move forward. I see him as proof that sometimes we can’t. That sometimes, no matter how hard you reach, the green light just gets farther away.”
She didn’t like that. “No,” she said, crossing her arms defiantly. “Don’t look at the world that way.”
“Hermione,” he said patiently. “You can’t tell me how I’m meant to view the world.”
“Why not?” she said, feeling petulant.
“Why are you getting angry, love?”
“Because!” she shot back, surprised by the volume of her own voice, and immediately softer, “Because you’re not a character in a tragic novel, Theo.”
“Who said anything about me?” He said, bemused. It was maddening how calm he was, how he seemed to be egging her on.
“Shut up. I know what you’re getting at. But you’re a real person, and your narrative arc wasn’t written before you even had a say in it. Maybe at one point it was, but look at you now! Isn’t the fact that we’re sitting here together proof that there’s resilience in struggle? That we both didn’t go through all of that for nothing?”
“Of course it is,” he said placidly. He paused for a moment, the only sound the faint bark of a dog outside and the crackle of the record player.
“If you want me to be honest, I don’t think my life was ever headed anywhere in particular. Not for lack of trying, but I don’t think I was built for a grand narrative arc. Or even a picturesque conclusion.” He shrugged, tracing his finger along the lip of his mug. “I’m not Gatsby, or even Nick. I just sort of… happened. Drifted. And then I met you, and it became a different kind of story, but the current’s still the same. Just stronger now, maybe.”
Hermione felt her jaw clench. “That’s an incredibly defeatist thing to say. You make it sound like you’re a bystander in your own life, when you’re not.”
He reached for her hand, tracing the line of her knuckle. She tried to yank it away but he wouldn’t let her. “You’re missing my point, Granger. I’m not saying I want to go back to the way things were, or that I wish I didn’t try. But I’ve always felt more kinship with the boats than the swimmer. I’m not bitter about it– truly, I’m not. I just think some of us are made for drifting. And then, if we’re really unlucky or lucky depending on your view, we run aground somewhere. Or into someone.”
His smile was faint, not self-pitying, but wry. “That was you, in case you couldn’t quite piece together my metaphor.”
She smiled a little, despite herself. “It’s just, Theo… that’s the most unnecessarily bleak worldview I’ve ever heard. You make it sound like you just… happened to crash into me by accident.”
“Didn’t I?”
Hermione frowned. “No.”
He leaned back, tucking an arm behind his head. The picture of ease. She wanted to shake him. “Then what would you call it?” He said mildly.
She chewed her lip. “Fate?”
He looked surprised. “I didn’t think you believed in that sort of thing. I thought Divination was a load of bollocks to you, no?”
“It is,” she agreed. “I mean, sort of. I don’t claim to… know everything. Or understand everything. There’s loads of things about magic I’ll probably never know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I wish I had a camcorder for this moment.”
She shoved him. “You’re maddening,” she grumbled. Then, she sighed. “No, I just… Luna said something to me once, and it’s always sort of stuck with me. I sort of dismissed it at first, but I honestly think there’s some bit of truth in it. I dunno.”
“The suspense is absolutely killing me, witch,” he teased. “Tell me, would you?”
“Fine,” she relented. “She said that you and I met each other at exactly the right time. That things like that are never random, and there’s more to this than we’re aware of.”
Theo tilted his head, his jaw working like he was moving the words around in his mouth to taste them. “It’s a nice idea,” he said eventually, he said softly, introspectively. “The idea that maybe there’s something… orchestrated about all this. Not in the way Trelawney would have us believe, but in the way certain people are just gravitational. Like, you can spend years trying not to be pulled in, but eventually you have to give in and let the universe have its way with you.”
He paused, reaching over to wrap one of her curls around his finger. “You know,” he said, his voice low. “I think maybe, you’ve always sort of been my… green light?” He looked almost embarrassed to say it.
“Yeah?” she pressed, her heart thumping.
He nodded. “It feels stupid to say, because that’s not the sort of story that ends well, is it? Gatsby never gets Daisy. The swimmer never makes it to shore. But here I am, with you.”
“It doesn’t always have to end poorly,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “I don’t know if I believe in fate like Luna does. But I do think there’s such a thing as inevitability. Some things just… were always going to happen. And you and me? I think we were always headed for this. I think I was always going to find you, somehow.”
She looked up, catching him in that rare state– unguarded, all the angles of his face softening. “It’s hard to believe I was meant for anything this good,” he said plainly.
“Mm,” she hummed in acknowledgement. “Me too. I didn’t think I’d ever be loved this way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I always assumed love would be a thing I could explain, or at least predict,” she said, letting herself fall back against the sofa and dropping her head onto Theo’s thigh. She stared up at the ceiling, letting her gaze unfocus.
“But nothing about this was rational. I tried to talk myself out of you, you know. I told myself it was too quick, that I was too busy, that we both had too much emotional baggage. But every time I saw you, it was like… like something in me recognized you already.”
He was quiet for a moment, stroking her hair. “I mean, we did know each other for almost seven years, technically,” he teased.
“You know what I mean,” she murmured, turning into him and burying her face in the soft wool of his jumper.
“I do,” he said.
And then the afternoon bled into sunset, painting their flat in pink and golden as they lay there. Hermione laid The Alchemist on her chest, tilting her head up as he ran his fingers through her hair. “My turn to read you a line,” she said.
“Let’s hear it,” he said, his face soft with sleepiness and the slow, lazy sprawl of their evening.
“When you are loved, you can do anything in creation. You are not driven by necessity, or by money, or by conquest. Only by love. Because love is not just a chance encounter; it is the inevitability of two souls who recognize each other. And when that happens, you know, deep within, that it was always meant to be.”
“Inevitability,” he repeated, after a moment.
“Exactly.”
The hours melted, and with them, a shifting tide of memory, of old aches alchemizing in the soft gold of now.
In the waning light of their living room, Hermione watched the dusk filter through the window and felt herself dissolve into it, as if she was being gently folded into the softest shadow, the safe hush of evening. There was a peculiar sweetness to it, a drowsy, honeyed sense of belonging that made the world outside blur into something both distant and benevolent. Their flat was washed in the hush of distant traffic, the ordinary din of city life, but within these walls there was only this: the turn of pages and the hush of each other’s breath.
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Let me sleep
In the slumber of tomorrow
There’s nowhere we need to be
That will not be there after
Keep me with you on the ground
All of my worries behind me now
And be sure to wake me when
Eternity begins
-Damien Jurado
Notes:
A swotty chapter for a swotty couple.
Books mentioned- Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.
Also, Pansy is my queen and I love her. I will do my best to upload another chapter this weekend- hopefully tomorrow night, but no promises. I am a teacher and this time of year is bananas, so chapters might take a bit longer.
This song always makes me think of The Holdovers. Has anyone seen that movie? Such a gem.
Chapter 27: All I Need To Hear
Notes:
Hihi! As I mentioned before, I am likely going to be a bit slower with uploading chapters for awhile. The school year is in full swing and this teacher is busy busy busy (why can't I write fanfiction for a living?? I would be so content).
ANYWAYS, hope you enjoy this chapter, also known as Theo Is A Very Supportive Boyfriend ™
Thank you as always for the comments and kudos. I adore each and every one of you!
Chapter Text
The flat was unusually quiet when Theo got home on Thursday night– no music filling the rooms, no gentle clanking of dishes, not even a candle burning. But Hermione’s things were there– her keys hanging on the hook by the door, her shoes set neatly along the wall, her coat on the rack. He frowned when he poked his head into the living room and found it empty. She wasn’t in the shower either. Cautiously, he made his way to the bedroom, pushing the door open fully.
“Hermione?”
“Hi,” she said, sitting up quickly and wiping at her eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
Theo frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “It was a long day, and I just needed to lay down for a moment–”
He came to sit beside her, the mattress shifting beneath him. “What happened?”
Her face fell. “Nothing happened. Just one of those days, you know?”
“Mm,” he said, tilting his head. “No holding back.”
Hermione sighed, fiddling with a loose thread on the duvet. “It’s my mum’s birthday.”
“Oh,” he managed.
She nodded, her eyes still shining with tears. “And I completely forgot until I got home, and it made me feel so horrid. Not that she’d know if I remembered or not, but I feel so guilty anyways. It’s my fault that we don’t… that we don’t know each other anymore. And the least I can do is remember things like this.” She swallowed, not meeting his eyes.
Theo’s chest tightened at the sight of her tears that were now falling in earnest, at the way she continued to blame herself for everything that had transpired with her parents.
“Hermione,” he said gently, taking her face in his hands. He wiped at her cheeks with his thumbs, gentle and clumsy all at once. “Forgetting a date doesn’t make you a bad daughter. And you didn’t even forget, did you? I couldn’t even tell you when my father’s birthday is.”
“That’s different,” Hermione said softly.
“Maybe,” Theo relented. “But the point is, you thought about her today. You remembered, even if it wasn’t the first thing on your mind when you woke up. Do you really think she’d care about that? Do you honestly think your mother would be cross that you didn’t spend the entire day being sad because it’s her birthday?”
A little sob escaped her as he spoke, and he panicked, wondering if he’d miscalculated. She looked up at him, her big brown eyes so full of sadness. “I just wish I could call her,” she whispered. “I miss her. I miss my mum.”
He drew her in, pressing her head against his chest, cradling her as if to physically contain the hurt, to keep it from spilling everywhere. He felt her shudder, the sound of her crying muffled against his jumper.
Hermione rarely cried like this. She’d tear up from time to time, maybe during a song that made her sad. There were a few films that always made her cry, and sometimes, for reasons Theo couldn’t begin to understand, she’d insist on watching them knowing full well what would happen. But she quite seldom broke down like this, seldom gave into full-body sobs that caused her to tremble and shake against him the way she was now.
It made him feel helpless, knowing there was nothing he could do or say to take the pain away from her. If there was, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat– would’ve endured any form of punishment if it meant he’d never have to see her fall apart like this.
“I know you do,” he murmured, stroking her hair.
Eventually, the sobs ebbed into little hiccuping cries, and she pulled back to look at him. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, wishing the right words would materialize in front of him like a script.
He cleared his throat. “Do you think it’s time?”
“Time for what?”
“Australia.”
Her eyes widened, panicked, and he stroked her cheek soothingly. “I’m not talking about right this minute, Hermione. It’s your decision, of course. But I just wondered if we ought to start… setting things in motion. Start planning ahead. I can leave the country, finally, so I just thought maybe we could consider it.”
Hermione was silent for a moment, chewing her lip anxiously. “I don’t know. I’m really scared, Theo.”
The admission was so simple and yet so raw, and it felt like a gift she’d given him, precious and fragile. “I know,” he said.
“It’s been seven years .”
“I know.”
“And it went so poorly last time. So, so poorly.”
He resisted the urge to repeat the same words again. “Yes. But things are a bit different this time around, yeah?”
The corner of her mouth lifted, just slightly. “Yeah. They are.”
He took her hand. “I don’t want you to feel pressure. Not from me. But I also don’t want you to spend the rest of your life wondering if there was more we could’ve done.”
“We?”
He felt his cheeks heat. Had he been presumptuous? “I mean, yeah. I want to help, Hermione. Of course I do. If you want me to, that is.”
He thought she might start to cry again but then she drew in a deep breath, meeting his eye. “I do. I don’t think I could do it by myself again. And I want you there. I need you there.”
“You don’t have to. Do it by yourself, I mean.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay. Yes. We can… we can look into it.”
He smiled then, feeling his shoulders drop a little. One hurdle at a time, he thought, and for some reason, his inner voice mimicked Healer Brown’s. How odd. “Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
He fixed her with a look. “No? Did you eat lunch today?”
She was looking anywhere but at him. “Erm. Sort of?”
Theo sighed, rubbing his temples. “Hermione.”
Ordinarily, he’d suggest takeaway, but some strange, unfamiliar instinct told him to offer something different. “We could go out?”
“ What? ” She looked slightly appalled.
Another miscalculation, perhaps? “I mean, we don’t have to, obviously.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Where would we go?”
“Wherever you want, my love.”
Her eyes narrowed even further. “You’re certainly turning on the charm.”
He shrugged, suddenly feeling bashful. “I’ve got to keep the spark alive, haven’t I?”
She broke into a grin, tears forgotten for now. “Theodore. Are you asking me on a date?”
He cleared his throat, and prepared to answer. But then he realized, with dawning horror, that this was the first time he’d actually offered to take her out on a real, proper date.
They’d grabbed food together, sure. Attended dinner parties and various soirées hosted by their friends. Nipped out for coffee, even had a few picnics in the park– but he’d never taken Hermione Granger on a date. It struck him, like a slap suddenly, how completely he’d fumbled the basics of courtship. Even at Hogwarts, where all of his… dalliances had been casual, he’d done the bare minimum. Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, a cone at Fortescue’s, even a dinner out, once.
The idea that he’d been more attentive to schoolyard flings than to Hermione– Hermione , with whom he was madly in love with– was frankly appalling. He could not stand for it.
Theo had spent the first few months of their relationship holed up in Blaise’s flat, relying on her to show up with takeaway (fucking mortifying), to decide when she wanted to see him, to initiate basically everything .
He’d let her take care of him. Which was… fine, he supposed (it was not, but what Hermione would have insisted that it was, should she somehow overhear his inner monologue).
But now, what was his excuse? He certainly had the means, and while he didn’t particularly enjoy crowds, he no longer trembled at the thought of setting foot in a restaurant. He’d gotten lazy. Complacent, maybe? He shuddered perceptibly, and realized she was watching him with a half-amused, half uncertain expression on her face.
He straightened, the resolve crystallizing on his tongue. “Yes, I’m asking you on a date, Granger.”
She raised an eyebrow, and he straightened, giving her a look that brokered no argument. “Scratch that. I’m not asking. I am taking you on a date. Go on, get dressed.”
“Oh?” she crossed her arms, but she was grinning unashamedly. “I don’t get a say in all this?”
“Nope, sorry.” He stood and began rifling through his wardrobe like a man on a mission, already assembling one of his nicer shirts and a pair of pressed trousers.
Hermione blinked at him, caught off-guard by the abruptness. “You mean right now?” she said, brushing some hair away from her eyes.
“Yes, woman. I’m taking you somewhere nice and you have exactly twenty minutes to get ready.”
“ Theo! ” her cheeks were pink, and he imagined she might stomp her foot as well.
“Yes?”
She scowled. “I– you’re ridiculous.”
“So I’m told.” He paused, pointing at her with a half-buttoned shirt. “Oh! And I expect you to wear something ruthlessly sexy,” he said, glancing over at her quickly. “ Please. ”
--------------------------
Hermione, always a woman of her word, had indeed chosen something ruthlessly sexy.
In fact, when she’d emerged in a deep green dress that ended somewhere above mid-thigh, with a neckline that left little to the imagination, Theo briefly considered abandoning the whole outing and dragging her back into the bedroom.
The color was, of course, calculated– she knew what it did to him, the way it made her eyes burn even deeper brown and her skin glow like honey. The cut was sharp, with subtle darts at the waist and tiny, complicated pleats that made the skirt move with a sort of liquid grace around her thighs. She’d paired it with a pair of long black boots that zipped up the side, and sheer black stockings, and her hair was a wild, glossy tangle of deliberate curls.
He tried to recover, but she’d already caught him gaping. She grinned, doing a little twirl that turned the skirt into a whirling green ribbon.
“Well?” she prompted, hands on her hips.
“Merlin, Granger,” Theo groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I said to wear something sexy, not jaw-dropping. You’re trying to kill me.”
Hermione rolled her eyes and grabbed her bag. “If you’re good, I’ll let you take it off me when we get home,” she’d said over her shoulder.
Her delivery was far too casual, as if she’d simply said if he wished, they could order dumplings tonight rather than spring rolls.
He nearly tripped over his own feet following her to the lift.
Their building was a medley of young families, pensioners, and the odd university student– hardly the crowd for a woman dressed like temptation itself. He could hardly keep his hands to himself as they left the flat. He rested one on the small of her back, one on her shoulder, fingers grazing the skin of her neck. She leaned into him, and the smell of her perfume the mere nearness of her were enough to make him want to drag her back to the flat.
But he resisted.
Her hand was soft and small in his as they stepped outside, her perfume a sharp, dizzying thing that seemed to sync perfectly with the crisp London air. He’d settled on a place he’d read about in one of Hermione’s glossy food magazines, a restaurant tucked down a little Muggle lane in Soho, hidden behind a lacquered red door and a huddle of bamboo plants. The sign was just two gold-painted Chinese characters, elegant and untranslatable.
While Hermione got ready, he’d Floo’d Spencer in a panic, asking him if it was any good, and Spencer had laughed and laughed and told him yes, it was quite good, and that he should go ahead and get a reservation… for six months from now. But then, as it turned out– being the overly-friendly bloke that he was, Spencer knew someone, who knew someone, who knew the owner.
They were able to get a last-minute table for two, which was a huge deal , according to Spencer.
Once they stepped inside, Theo could mostly understand why. The overall atmosphere was part speakeasy, part palace: dark wood, jade green velvet, brass fixtures, and candlelight. The ceiling was hung with a dozen birdcage chandeliers, and each table was gently walled off by transparent silk screens painted with cranes, peonies, and mountains in iridescent ink.
The effect was dizzying and intimate, as if the outside world had been shrink-wrapped away and only they remained, cloistered in a private, impossibly dazzling city. Hermione gave a little gasp as they were led to their table, her head swiveling around as she took in the space.
“Theo,” she whispered. “This is absurd. How did you even get a reservation here?”
He placed a hand on her back as they walked, feeling rather pleased with himself. “I have my ways.”
Very suave, Theodore, he thought mockingly.
The candlelight flickered softly on their table, casting a warm glow over the crisp white tablecloth, and the low hum of conversation around them felt distant, like they were in a world of their own.
Her eyes were wide. “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
Theo studied Hermione for a moment, her cheeks flushed, taking it all in. Her eyes caught the light just right, and for a second, he found it hard to focus on anything other than her.
It was amazing, really, how put-together and lovely she looked. She’d been up since the crack of dawn, wading through a mind-boggling amount of work, surviving on nothing but caffeine and pure determination. And then she’d come home and run headfirst into her own grief, sobbing into his chest for twenty minutes.
But here she was, radiant and relaxed and his . Something deep in Theo’s chest swelled– as it often did when it came to her– with a heady mixture of tenderness and pride.
They ordered drinks and appetizers– for him a Chinese five-spice Old Fashioned, and for her a lychee martini. Theo even managed to order for both of them without stammering like a loon. He was getting better at this whole being in public and acting like a functioning human sort of thing.
They sipped their cocktails quietly for a while.
After a beat, he broke the silence. “I thought we could talk about Australia tonight,” he said quietly, hoping his voice wasn’t too strained. “Somewhere nice. Somewhere we could just… talk about it without feeling like it’s this huge thing. You know, not like a burden, but just something to figure out together.”
Hermione didn’t recoil or shrink into herself like he worried she might. Instead, she tilted her head, her expression curious but not put-off. “Really? You want to talk about that… here?”
He shrugged. “I know it’s not a conversation you’re particularly looking forward to, but I don’t want it to be something we avoid. I know it’s overwhelming, and it’s scary, but I want you to feel like there’s room for excitement, too. Not just dread.”
She sipped her drink, licking her lips afterwards. He tried not to stare at them. “I… that’s a really nice way to think about it, Theo. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” he said quietly.
She smiled and glanced around the room again. “Why this place?”
“Erm, I dunno. Spencer said it was good.”
“Oh,” she nodded, pleased. “He does have good taste, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah. And… Chinese is your mum’s favorite, right?”
Her eyes snapped up to his, widening slightly. “Yes. You remembered that?”
“Of course. I try to make a habit of remembering everything you tell me.”
Hermione blinked rapidly, and he worried he’d upset her again, but then she reached for his hand across the table. “Theo. You make everything better.”
She said it with such conviction that it made his heart stall for a moment, and he felt a pleasant shiver as her words washed over him.
Oh.
No one had ever said anything like that to him before, and he was stunned by how good it felt to hear. Everything took on an almost dream-like quality after that, bathed in a hazy, golden light. It was quite nice.
“I’ve done a little bit of research,” he admitted, lowering his voice.
Her eyebrows jumped. “Really?”
Theo nodded. “There are a few studies that have been published in the last couple years–”
“You’ve found studies? ”
“Yes, most of them are–”
“How? I didn’t even know you were looking,” she was all raised eyebrows and flushed cheeks, like she couldn't possibly believe he'd gone to the trouble for her.
“If you’d let me finish,” he said teasingly, “I’ll answer all of your questions.”
“Right. Sorry. Carry on!”
He smirked. “As I was saying, there have been a few studies on the long-term effects of Obliviation, particularly on Muggles. There was a big insurgence a few places throughout South America a few years ago, and their version of the Ministry was–”
“Overthrown by a terrorist group of wizards from Brazil. And Muggles got dragged into it after they witnessed a rather massive public duel,” she interjected. “Hundreds of Muggles had to be Obliviated, right?”
He shot her an amused look. “Right. But the problem was, because of the mass Obliviation, there were a little over a dozen witnesses whom they didn’t realize were already tied to the magical world, mostly through family members.”
“Oh,” Hermione breathed, leaning in. “Families of Muggle-born witches and wizards were Obliviated?”
He nodded. “And they did a rather haphazard job of it, too, since they were so worried about making sure no one remembered what they’d seen. So while they might’ve remembered some details of the magical world, their memories were… incomplete. It caused a whole host of problems and a few massive lawsuits.”
Hermione nodded emphatically. “And? What were the results of the lawsuit? What did the studies find?”
Theo paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Well, the lawsuit led to the exposure of the full extent of the memory tampering, which their Ministry tried to cover up for a while. Muggles began showing signs of memory instability– some couldn’t recall anything about the magical world, but still had flashes of it, like memories that were only half there.”
He furrowed his brow, trying to remember the exact words of the studies he’d read. “Others began developing… strange fears, I think, or became emotionally distant from their magical relatives, like they could sense something was missing but couldn’t identify it."
Hermione's frown deepened. "That sounds awful. Were they able to reverse the effects?"
He hesitated. “In some cases. The interesting thing about one of these studies was that the team used a combination of magical and Muggle methods. It was conducted by a few researchers from Brazil, along with a group of Muggle-born… erm, neuroscientists? Who were interested in the intersection of memory and trauma. Truthfully, I’m still trying to make sense of some of it, since so many of the terms are unfamiliar to me.”
“Like what?”
Theo flushed. “Er, most of the scientific stuff. Muggle science isn’t really something I was raised to understand. I wish I was, though. It’s all very interesting to me.”
Hermione nodded sympathetically, but he could see the intrigue in her expression. “It’s never too late to start learning, Theo.”
“I know. You’ve taught me that.” He traced her knuckles with his fingers absently. “From what I gathered, it was about using a combination of memory-reversal spells–”
“Like a Reversing charm? That’s what I tried at first with them.”
“Exactly. But it’s very precise, like a skill that really has to be honed. And they used a lot of potions, too– some I’d never even heard of, like a Mind Stabilizing potion. They do something called… Brain mapping? It was fascinating, actually. I’d love to see what that looks like. I think the Muggle science side of it will probably make more sense to you, but I know there were also different sorts of therapies involved.”
Hermione leaned forward even more, her eyes wide with excitement. “That does sound fascinating. Can I read the study?”
Theo smiled. “Of course.” He watched her for a moment. “I think something like this is probably our best shot.”
“I’ll do some of my own research too.” Hermione’s brow furrowed slightly, like it always did when she was deep in thought. She sipped from her drink and then suddenly placed it down on the table with a rather loud clink . “Oh! I could talk to Padma!”
“Patil? She works at St. Mungo’s, right?”
She nodded vigorously. “Yes. She’s been working on a project related to progressive magical diseases, things that manifest in wizards and witches differently than non-magical folks. Like dementia, for example. She’s really brilliant– she's been exploring how certain spells might be adapted to preserve memory retention longer in cases like that,” she gushed.
Theo raised an eyebrow. “That definitely sounds promising.”
They paused for a few minutes to place their order, Theo insisting they get a little bit of everything to share. Then, as it often did, the conversation meandered to other topics. Harry and Spencer’s basement renovations, their plans for that weekend, Draco’s latest stunt. Hermione was animated, her brown eyes sparkling in the soft candlelight as she gestured and laughed, completely caught up in their conversation.
Theo couldn’t take his eyes off her.
At some point, she met his eyes, her expression soft and open. “Thank you, Theo.”
“For what?”
She gestured around. “This. Tonight. For knowing what I need and for taking such good care of me.”
She took his hand. “I just… I don’t know how to explain it, but everything with my parents has felt like this dark cloud hanging over me for years. Even talking about it felt awful. But you’ve made it easier. And bringing me here tonight– I never thought I could feel anything akin to excitement when it came to planning for this. But somehow, I do. Because of you.”
Her eyes misted over with unshed tears, just for a moment, and he squeezed her hand. “I don’t want to get my hopes up. I’m realistic enough to know this might not work out, but it’s nice to not feel like I have to do it by myself.”
----------------------------
After that evening, there was a new energy to Hermione. It was palpable– in the air of their flat, in the way she moved, the way she spoke.
On Saturday morning, he woke to find her side of the bed empty, a highly unusual occurrence. He found her in the study, surrounded by open books, scrolls of parchment, and an assortment of scribbled notes. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a haphazard bun with her wand shoved through it, curls falling around her face. There was a smear of ink on the left side of her nose and she wore a faded Tom Petty t-shirt that almost hit her knees– one of her dad’s old favorites.
She looked endearingly disheveled, the frenetic focus of someone who was chasing down an answer to a puzzle only she could understand.
He practically had to drag her out of the study to eat lunch on the balcony. But Theo had to admit, there was something thrilling and infectious about her, even more so than usual. This was the Hermione Granger he remembered from school. The one who always sat at the front of every class, somehow both put-together and chaotic at the same time, vibrating with excitement, crackling with pure magic.
Theo could still picture her– head down in the library, surrounded by stacks of books, furiously scribbling notes, her mind racing ahead of the rest of them. He was in awe of her now, just as he’d been in awe of her then. It was as if every new bit of knowledge unlocked a door to another world she wanted to dive into, another opportunity to throw herself into solving a riddle with gusto, always insatiably curious.
And then on Sunday afternoon he returned from Draco’s to find Hermione and Padma Patil stretched out on the carpet in the study, surrounded by books and stacks of parchment, deep in conversation.
He didn’t know Padma very well– certainly not back at school, but even in the last year, their paths had only crossed a few times. She was kind but quiet, a good friend of Hermione’s but not someone she’d usually invite over without the rest of their gaggle of witches. At first, he started to back out of the room, figuring they would want privacy.
But then Hermione looked up, catching sight of him, and her eyes lit up. “Come join us!”
Something about the way she looked at him made him pause, a little caught off-guard. She wanted him there, and the simplicity of that fact pulled him closer.
The Ravenclaw greeted him in the friendly but measured way she always did– “Hello, Theo,” she said, her smile genuine.
“Padma,” he said. “Good to see you.” He perched in the armchair. “You’re in the thick of it now, I see,” he remarked, eyeing the open books and the many scattered notes.
Hermione grinned, rolling her eyes a little as she reached for a book in the stack. “You wouldn’t believe how deep we’ve gotten. I think Padma’s about to figure out the entire memory-reversal process on her own at this point.”
Padma scoffed. “Of course not. But these studies you’ve found are really fascinating stuff, Theo. They’ve given us a lot to work with. I’ve even written to a few of the researchers on the Brazilian case study to see if they have any more insight.”
Theo raised an eyebrow. “Really? Do you think they’ll write back?”
Padma shrugged. “I certainly hope so. But given the fact that I may have name-dropped Hermione Granger, I wouldn’t be surprised if they did.”
Hermione groaned. “I don’t want them to offer their help because they think I’m the Golden Girl ,” she wrinkled her nose as she said the nickname as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.
“They won’t,” Padma deadpanned. “They’ll offer their help because you’re brilliant and your contributions to magical society have been invaluable.”
Hermione blushed and waved a dismissive hand. Then she turned to Theo.
“I was reading some older studies about memory damage in Muggles, and it seems that some of the symptoms are strikingly similar. They’ve used neuroimaging techniques to map some of the brain regions affected by memory charms. But there’s so little documentation on how these magical processes overlap with what Muggles experience with trauma-based memory loss.”
“That’s why the Muggle-born neuroscientists are so crucial to this,” Padma added thoughtfully.
“Their knowledge about memory loss from an entirely different angle allows us to see things we wouldn’t otherwise. Magic can’t fix everything, but there’s a blend of methods that could work if we could get them to collaborate. Muggles understand memory loss in ways we don’t, and their methods are so precise .”
Theo picked up an article off the floor, thumbing through it. Although he hadn’t had a chance to do a ton of research on the subject before he’d broached it with Hermione, he had to admit it had been quite exciting to be learning something new.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this way– back in sixth year, maybe. Before everything had hit the fan and there were still opportunities to enjoy school.
“So it’s about more than just reversing memories,” he said tentatively. “Forgetting something for extended periods of time would have effects on someone’s… emotional well-being. So that bit has to be addressed too, right?”
Padma nodded. “Exactly. The wizarding world is woefully behind when it comes to mental health. Even the existence of Mind Healers is a fairly new phenomenon. It’s not just a matter of waving your wand and reversing the spell.”
Hermione stretched her legs, looking fondly at her friend. “Yes, exactly! It’s about psychology, the emotional impact on the person who’s lost their memories. If we focus solely on the magical side of things, we might fix the memories but not the person.”
As the conversation continued, Theo found himself drawn into their world, his earlier uncertainty fading away. What started as an awkward interruption had turned into something unexpectedly fascinating.
Padma, though often quiet, had a way of pulling him into the conversation, showing him sides of the research he hadn’t considered. And Hermione, as usual, was the heartbeat of it all, her curiosity and enthusiasm contagious. Minutes turned into hours, and then they were ordering takeaway and eating it on the carpet.
Theo learned that Padma and Hermione hadn’t been close at school– they’d been brought together by Luna, who had dragged Padma along to one of their Girls’ Nights.
“Can you imagine how formidable we would’ve been, though? If we partnered up more in classes?” Hermione teased.
Padma laughed. “Oh, McGonagall would’ve been thrilled. Now imagine if Theo had joined us– between the three of us, we were usually top of every class, right?”
Theo scoffed. “You’re forgetting about Draco, though. He was always fighting for third place.”
“That’s right,” Padma said. “I’d forgotten that– when he wasn’t being a total prat, he could be rather clever.” She winced. “Sorry, Theo. I know you two are mates–”
“It’s fine,” Theo said quickly, laughing. “He is my mate, but he’s also a total prat. Less than he used to be, but that’s not saying much.”
Padma’s eyebrows shot up, as if she’d been expecting Theo to defend Draco. “He’s out, isn’t he? How’s he… doing?”
Theo shrugged. “He’s alright. Some days are better than others. I’ll tell him you asked after him, though. Might raise his spirits,” he teased.
Padma reddened. “Oh Merlin, please don’t! We’ve barely ever spoken and it would be strange for me to–”
He grinned. “I’m just having a laugh, Patil. Don’t worry.”
Hermione regarded her friend curiously. “Padma,” she said slowly. “I could be totally off base here. But please don’t tell me you fancy Draco Malfoy? ”
Padma turned an even deeper shade of red. “No! Hermione! I mean, objectively speaking– sure he’s… fit, er, he was back then… I dunno what he looks like nowadays, but it’s not–” she trailed off, looking decidedly mortified.
“Oh my God! ” Hermione said shrilly, her eyes wide.
Theo picked at the side of a takeaway container, feeling like he’d been caught in the middle of an awkward girl-talk ritual he had no knowledge of how to navigate. “Aw, leave her be,” he muttered.
“You’re not going to say anything to him, are you, Theo?” Padma mumbled, glancing up at him.
“No, no. Of course I won’t.” He grinned at her. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Padma groaned. “For Merlin’s sake.” She stood up, stretching. “I think that’s my cue to leave, you loons.”
Hermione laughed, then scrambled up to hug her. “Thank you again for coming, Padma. And for all your help. Truly.”
Padma returned her embrace, squeezing her tightly. “My pleasure, Hermione. And thank you for trusting me with this.” She turned to Theo. “Goodnight, Theo. Thanks for dinner. And for taking such good care of our girl.”
Theo smiled, a little surprised by how warmly Padma had thanked him, but he nodded in return. “Of course. Take care.”
As Padma made her way out, the apartment settled back into a quieter rhythm. Theo remained on the carpet, stretching his legs out as he leaned back against the cushions. Hermione, too, took her seat beside him again, a soft smile lingering on her lips. She glanced over at him, her eyes softening with a warmth he couldn’t quite explain. She rested her head on his shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m great,” she said, running her fingers up and down his forearm. “Thank you for being here tonight, Theo. It felt really nice, talking about this with you two.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Hermione. I’d do anything for you.”
She hesitated, her eyes lingering on him for a moment longer than usual. “I know,” she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. “I know you would.”
He pressed a kiss to her temple, and then sat in the quiet for awhile, watching the sun sink lower in the sky.
--------------------------------
I get out my records
When you go away
When people are talking
I miss what they say
'Cause it all means nothing, my dear
If I can't be holding you near
So tell me you love me
'Cause that's all that I need to hear
-The 1975
Chapter 28: Crystal
Notes:
Hihi! Weekend update, hooray!
I know I haven't been posting as consistently. Once the school year slows down a bit I should be back to posting twice a week, but things have been pure chaos lately. I am hoping to have another one uploaded by tomorrow evening, if all goes as planned!
As always, thank you for the comments and kudos and for those of you who have been supporting this story so consistently! It means the world <3 Enjoy!
Chapter Text
Hermione was horizontal on the living room floor basking in the remnants of late afternoon sun, a bottle of wine open beside her (poured into a glass, of course– she wasn’t a barbarian) and a Van Morrison record blasting.
Theo was working a double shift at the café today, since Spencer and Harry had gone on holiday together. At the moment, she was trying not to feel put out that he’d be spending an entire Saturday serving people other than her lattes. Then she chastised herself for thinking like a spoilt brat.
On the bright side, she had her research as a distraction, as evidenced by the massive pile of parchment and books surrounding her.
Truthfully, it was nothing short of thrilling to be so immersed in a project again. Of course, she was always up to her eyeballs in ‘ projects’ at work– managing countless policies and legal revisions, taking on new causes what felt like every other week– but it had been a long time since she’d worked on something that sparked this much excitement on a personal level. The last time she’d felt this drawn in, this completely consumed, was when she’d spent hours hunched over magical textbooks at Hogwarts, researching spells and potions that no one else cared much about. Extracurriculars, she’d called them. Ron had just called it swottiness.
But today, she was diving into the world of memory restoration, an entirely different kind of challenge, and it lit a fire inside her that had been smoldering for years. Work was rewarding, but it was also mostly about managing others, enforcing rules, and fighting battles she didn’t always choose. This, though? This felt like her own operation, her own quest.
She had spent so long pushing thoughts of her parents to the back of her mind, swallowing her sadness and telling herself she’d tried her best, and now there was nothing more to be done. But after that evening out with Theo last week, something had begun to take root in Hermione’s mind.
‘ I want you to feel like there’s room for excitement, too,’ he’d said.
And it had stuck with her, especially once she’d read the studies, once she’d sat with Padma for hours talking about possible approaches to the problem. She hadn’t realized how much she missed it until now– the way her mind raced, the excitement of connecting dots no one else had thought to connect, the rush of discovering a new layer of possibility in something as fragile as a memory.
There was still something undeniably terrifying about the whole thing– the possibility of having to face her parents after all these years, of having to see their faces when (if) she had to actually explain to them what she’d done, everything that had transpired over the last seven years– everything they’d missed.
But somehow, it wasn’t as terrifying as it had been before. Because when she played out the scenarios in her head, Theo was there with her– steady, constant, reassuring. And that alone made her feel like this was something she might actually be able to handle.
She sat up to refill her glass, barely tearing her eyes away from the book in front of her as she hummed along to the music.
I've been used, abused and so confused
And I didn't have nowhere to run
But I stood and looked
And my eyes got hooked
On that beautiful morning sun
And it seems like, yes it feels like
And it seems like, oh yes it feels like
A brand new day…
Hermione heard the Floo roar to life, her neck snapping up in surprise.
“Hermione?”
“Padma!” she scrambled off the rug.
Padma grinned. “Hi!”
“What’s going on?” Hermione shouted.
“I heard back from– er, can you maybe turn down the music?” Padma shouted back.
“Oh! Yes!” Hermione brought the volume down to a normal level. “Sorry about that.”
Padma was still grinning. “That’s alright. Nothing wrong with blasting a bit of music now and then.”
Hermione led her over to the sofa. “Wine? I know it’s early, but I’ve already gotten started,” she said, only a tiny bit embarrassed.
Padma leaned back into the cushion, her glossy black hair cascading across it. “Oh, why not? It’s Saturday, after all.”
Hermione handed her a glass.
“So,” Padma continued after taking a sip. “I got this in the post today.” She handed over a roll of parchment, the wax seal already broken.
Breathlessly, Hermione unrolled it.
Dear Ms. Patil,
I trust this message finds you well.
I am Dr. (or Healer, depending on your preference) Rafael Silva, lead researcher in the Department of Magical Memory and Cognitive Restoration at the Instituto de Magia e Neurociência in São Paulo, Brazil. I wanted to personally thank you for reaching out on behalf of Hermione Granger and for facilitating this connection.
I understand that Ms. Granger is seeking a way to restore her parents’ memories, and I am more than happy to offer my assistance in any way I can. My team and I have conducted extensive research on memory tampering, particularly in relation to non-magic people, in light of the unfortunate political unrest in Brazil several years ago.
During that time, many non-magics were subjected to mass Obliviation due to their accidental witnessing of fairly traumatic magical events. Some of these individuals were connected to the wizarding world by family, which led to further complications, as their memories were tampered with inconsistently.
As you can imagine, this caused complications for witches and wizards born into non-magical families. There were several instances of parents forgetting their children, parents forgetting that their children were witches or wizards, and in a few cases, spouses forgetting that they had married a person with magic.
At the Institute, we conducted a series of studies on the long-term effects of memory alteration. In some cases, we have had success in restoring lost memories, but the process is neither simple nor quick. We employ a combination of high-level memory-reversal spells administered in very small, controlled doses, advanced potions, brainmapping, and even therapeutic techniques derived from neuroscience.
After reviewing the particulars of Ms. Granger's case and the sensitive nature of her parents’ situation, I would like to extend an invitation to her to visit our facility here in São Paulo. I believe a face-to-face consultation would allow us to better understand her parents' memories and tailor our methods accordingly. Given the complexity of this type of restoration, a hands-on approach would be the most effective, and I would like to discuss this in more detail with her, considering the amount of time that has passed since the initial Obliviation.
Please pass along this correspondence to Ms. Granger if possible and extend my sincerest invitation, as I understand how difficult this decision may be for her. I truly believe that, with the right care, we can help her and her family.
I look forward to hearing from you, and I hope that Ms. Granger will consider this opportunity. Please feel free to contact me directly if there are any further questions.
Warm regards,
Dr. Rafael Silva
Lead Researcher, Instituto de Magia e Neurociência
Hermione released a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding as she finished the letter. Her hands were trembling as she lowered it and met Padma’s eyes.
“I don’t even know what to say,” she managed.
Padma frowned. “What do you mean? Say yes , Hermione! Go to Brazil!”
She wanted to say yes. She really did. And yet…
“It’s just so fast,” she whispered, raking her hair back from her face.
Padma gave her a look, gentle but insistent. “But this was the goal, wasn’t it? To find answers, to take steps towards restoring their memories?”
“Yes,” Hermione said weakly.
Padma touched her wrist, eyes kind. “You can take your time. Just write back, get a feel for it. You’re not committing to anything except the possibility, yeah?”
Hermione nodded, but her mind was already moving to the logistics, the doubts, the what-ifs. “I don’t even know if my parents would want this. They might be perfectly happy with the life they already have. What if I go all that way and make things worse?”
“Or what if you make them better?” Padma countered. “What if you find something that works?”
She swirled the wine in her glass, voice dropping. “Look, I understand being afraid. I’m scared all the time, of so many things. And I don’t even have anything this big on my plate. But you’re Hermione fucking Granger.” She squeezed her hand, her gaze unrelenting. “You don’t have to do it alone, either. You’ve got Theo, you’ve got me, and Ginny, and Harry, and Pansy, and Luna and… you get the point. You’ve got a lot of people in your corner.”
Hermione never heard Padma curse– it was equal parts surprising and amusing. She raised her eyebrows and smiled thinly. “I know you’re right. I just…” She picked up the letter again, skimming it restlessly, as if the answer might fall out if she shook it hard enough. “I just need to talk to Theo about it.”
Padma nodded. “Of course.” She tilted her head, studying Hermione closely. “It’s normal, you know. Your reaction. Sometimes we ask for something and then when we actually get it, it scares the hell out of us.” She refilled her glass. “What does your gut say?”
She made a small noise, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “My gut says this is all I’ve wanted for years and years. But you’re right, it’s scary to believe that it might really happen.”
“Do you think Theo will be on board? With going to Brazil? Like, do you think he’d go with you?”
“Yes,” Hermione said firmly, surprising herself with how quickly the answer came. “Theo is… he’s almost ridiculously supportive, Padma. He’d probably move across the world and raise llamas with me if I told him it was important to me.”
Padma laughed. “He’s mad about you. I think we all noticed that from the beginning.”
They sat and chatted for a bit after that– about what it might be like to go to Brazil, about how fascinating the work Dr. Silva was doing was, and also about this and that. They finished the first bottle of wine and opened another.
After a bit, though, Padma stood and stretched. “I’d best get going,” she said. “I’ve certainly taken up enough of your afternoon.”
“You haven’t!” Hermione said, the words coming out alarmingly shrill and panicked. “I mean, I’m not really doing anything. You can stay.” She hesitated, unaccustomed to saying the words that were about to leave her mouth. “Could you? Stay, I mean? At least until Theo gets home?”
The letter had stirred up so much emotion, so many questions, and her brain felt scrambled. She needed time to process it all, but she didn’t want to do it alone.
Padma searched her face, sitting down slowly. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll stay, Hermione. Of course I’ll stay.”
Her relief was palpable. She exhaled, leaning back against the cushions. “Thank you. You’re the best.”
Padma tilted her head. “If you’d like, I could ask if Gin and Pansy want to come round? We could make a whole evening of it.”
Hermione’s eyes brightened a little at the thought. “Oh! Yes, that would be… really nice.”
----------------------
Roughly an hour and a few owls later, Ginny and Pansy came crashing through the Floo after each other in quick succession.
Pansy shoved a bottle of gin into Hermione’s hands. “Heard you called for gin and tonics.”
“Erm, I didn’t, though.” Hermione frowned, accepting the bottle anyway.
The Slytherin let out a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, Granger. Don’t act like I’m not doing you a favor. Gin and tonic is exactly what you need right now.”
Ginny tossed her jacket onto the coat rack, then came and wrapped an arm around Hermione. “I agree, let’s get smashed. Oh, and can we order takeaway? I’m bloody starving.”
Hermione’s living room was instantly transformed into the headquarters of a low-stakes, high-volume girls’ night. Pansy commandeered the drinks cart (‘You are literally hopeless, Granger, where is your proper glassware?’), Ginny queued up a record and started dancing in her socks to the first song, and Padma plucked menus off the fridge and began a passionate debate amongst the girls about which Thai takeaway was superior.
And then, after a moment, Hermione began to feel lighter. Untethered but grounded, somehow. The anxiety from earlier was still there, but it was softened, diffused in the noise and laughter and mutual comfort of her friends.
Even when Pansy and Ginny picked up the letter from Dr. Silva and read it, she didn’t panic. And when Ginny started asking questions, Hermione didn’t freeze up, didn’t retreat inward as she might have before.
In some ways, it almost felt like being back at Hogwarts, maybe fifth year, sneaking out after curfew to commandeer an empty common room with illicit bottles of Firewhisky and a deck of Exploding Snap (something only Ginny could’ve convinced her to do back then, Hermione was a rule follower through-and-through, unless it involved saving the world or Harry Potter). Tonight, there was the same sense of reckless camaraderie, the same promise of nothing bad happening as long as they were all together in it.
“What do you think? Are you going to go?” Ginny asked eagerly.
Hermione looked around at the assembled front row: Pansy, stirring the ice in her gin and tonic with a deliberate, lazy swirl; Padma, bright-eyed, knees drawn up to her chest, Ginny sprawled on the floor with her socked feet in the air behind her.
“I think I’d hate myself if I didn’t,” she admitted, after she’d let the question hang in the air for too long.
“There’s that Gryffindor bravery,” Pansy said cheekily. “Ordinarily I don’t condone it, but in this case I think it’s warranted.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it bravery,” Hermione said, and her tone was so flat, so abruptly sharp, that all three women looked at her at once.
“Well, I would.” Padma said the words firmly, leveling Hermione with a look.
Hermione tried to ignore the flush rising up her throat, an old and familiar tide of embarrassment. “We really don’t have to sit here and only talk about my problems,” she murmured, trying to deflect.
“Yes, we do,” Pansy deadpanned.
Hermione shot her a glare, but she didn’t waver. “Granger. Do you have any idea how many times you’ve dropped everything to help the people in this room? And you think you don’t deserve to be able to hash everything out with us here?”
It was uncharacteristically earnest and disarming, something Hermione somehow always managed to forget Pansy was sometimes prone to. She blinked. “I don’t–”
“Remember when Harry and I broke up?” Ginny interjected. “Despite knowing it was the right thing to do, despite both of us knowing we were best friends and that was it, I was a sodding mess. I thought for a long time I was going to marry him, y’know?” She paused for a moment, her eyes darkening slightly. “You were there for me around the clock. Kicked Ron out of the flat for over a week so I could stay there with you and fall apart. Hermione, you had to spoon-feed me.”
Hermione shook her head ruefully. “It was nothing, Gin. You needed a friend and I was happy to–”
“Or what about when Neville proposed?” Pansy said quietly. “When I was thrilled, like properly thrilled, and I went to my parents to tell them and they acted like I’d announced a bloody funeral instead. And the first thing out of my mother’s mouth was, ‘ Well, at least he’s a pureblood.’ Not ‘congratulations,’ not ‘I’m happy for you,’ just… that. Like it was some kind of redemption for all my other failures.”
She stared at her glass, swirling the melting ice. “What’s mad about it is that we were barely even friends at that point, you and I. You lot were only inviting me to Girls’ Night as a favor to Neville. Don’t deny it, any of you!”
The three of them closed their mouths as Pansy continued. “But despite the fact that I’d been a raging bitch to you for years back at school, and we barely even knew each other yet, you dragged everyone to my door at seven o’clock sharp on Wednesday and wouldn’t leave until I let you in.”
“I remember that,” Ginny said, grinning. “The only thing more frightening than Hermione on a mission, is Hermione on a mission with enough gin in hand to tranquilize a Hippogriff.”
“I dunno about a Hippogriff, but it certainly managed to tranquilize Pansy,” Hermione said, laughing despite herself.
“Oh! My turn!” Padma said cheerfully. She set her glass down with a flourish, tucking her legs underneath herself on the couch.
“Okay, so my first year at St. Mungo’s, I was a nervous wreck. You know, imposter syndrome, the whole thing. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what they were doing, and I was just… faking it. But then, out of nowhere, Hermione started sending me the most helpful journal articles– annotated, mind you– with notes in the margins, and these little sandwiches and treats nearly every day for weeks.”
“You weren’t eating enough!” Hermione said insistently.
“No, I wasn’t. And you’re one of the only ones who noticed.” Padma fixed her with a firm but not unkind look. “Point is, you’ve bent over backwards for all of us. It’s no burden for us to be here for you now. You never ask for anything, Hermione, but you deserve the kind of friendship you’ve shown to others.”
Hermione swallowed, blinking against the pricking of tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she managed.
“So spill, Granger. Talk to us. What’s going on inside that big brain of yours?” Pansy asked, tucking a shiny black lock of hair behind her ear.
Hermione chewed her lip as she refilled her glass. “It went so poorly when I tried before,” she said eventually. “Like, so incredibly poorly. I don’t know if I can handle it if things go the same way this time around.”
“What happened?” Ginny ventured. “You’ve never properly told me.”
She took a generous sip of her wine and brought her legs up onto the couch, curling them around herself. “Well, it took me some time to track them down initially. Turns out there was more than one Wendell and Monica Wilkins in the continent. Who would’ve thought, right?”
She gave a half-smile. “I just showed up at their house. I was so stupidly confident about the whole thing. I thought– honestly, I thought it would be like flipping a switch. A quick charm, one tearful reunion later, and we’d all have some closure. I–”
Hermione caught herself, realizing she was speaking faster and louder than she normally did, her words spooling out unraveled and raw. “I didn’t think it would be that complicated, that maybe their memories would be… broken, or mixed up.”
Taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the way her voice shook, she continued. “They were in the garden, planting herbs, and I remember standing there just… watching them. They seemed perfectly happy. I almost left right then, just got back in the rental car and went back to the embassy.”
She shook her head sadly. “But I didn’t, of course. I came around the side yard and introduced myself, told them I’d gotten their names from someone back in Britain, that I was the daughter of a friend-of-a-friend.”
“They were so nice. They invited me in for tea, my dad showed me his record collection, and we just sat there talking about nothing, because there was nothing to talk about, not really. They didn’t know me, of course. Then when they were both distracted, I just… did the spell. And it was a disaster. My dad just gave me this blank stare and asked ‘excuse me, have we met before?’ And then my mum…”
Hermione paused, trying to collect herself. Padma reached over and squeezed her hand, a silent gesture of reassurance.
“My mum lost it, basically. She recognized me, called me Hermione, but then she started screaming and crying. I think maybe all the memories came back too quickly, or something, and it was just too much to handle. She was screaming at me not to touch her, to get out of their house, turned to my dad and said ‘Richard, call the police.’ And my dad was like, ‘who’s Richard? What’s going on, Monica? ’”
“Oh, Hermione,” Ginny murmured, her own voice sounding tight with unshed tears.
“I panicked. What was I supposed to do? If the police showed up, they’d put me in the psychiatric ward.”
At Pansy’s confused expression, she clarified– “like the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo’s. The police would’ve thought I was mental, waving a magic wand around and claiming I was my parents’ long-lost daughter. So I… reversed the spell. Luckily, that seemed to work, because they went back to treating me like a friendly stranger.”
“And then what did you do? Did you try again later?” Pansy asked.
Hermione shook her head. “I said goodbye to them, once the spell had been reversed– and parked in my rental a few blocks away. I sat there for hours and cried– I made myself sick from crying, actually.” She smiled sadly.
“Then I just drove back to the embassy and Portkeyed home. Refused to talk to anyone about what happened, even Ron. And then that was it, I never tried again. I figured they were happier this way, living in their sweet little house in Australia as Monica and Wendell. So I buried it and tried to move on with my life. Easier said than done, obviously.” She let out a humorless laugh.
The loaded silence sat for a few seconds before Pansy broke it. “Well, you were right, that was an absolutely shite situation,” she declared, slamming back the dregs of her drink.
“But Granger, you’d better listen to me, and I don’t want to hear any objections– you saved your parents’ lives when you Obliviated them. I know for a fact I wouldn’t have been able to do what you did, to make the sacrifices you made to keep them safe. And then you tried to fix it, and no, it didn’t go the way you planned, and that fucking sucks.”
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Pansy shook her head. “But since when does Hermione Granger just throw her hands up and give up when something doesn’t work the first time? I’ve seen you lose sleep and dedicate precious brain power to far less significant matters. You know I’m not one to dole out compliments unless they’re well-earned. But you should know that you are the most tenacious, formidable, and brilliant person I know.”
She fixed her with a look. “And frankly, you’re too much of a badass to back down from a challenge like this.”
Hermione let out a laugh, surprising even herself. Ginny smiled at her, and it wasn’t until then that Hermione noticed she was crying. “Gin,” she said, practically a whisper. Her heart squeezed.
Ginny wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, trying to suppress the tears. "Sorry, sorry. I'm fine, really.”
She tilted her head. “I just... I can't help but feel so gutted for you, Hermione. Not just because of what happened– because, as Pansy so eloquently put it, that was absolute shite– but because you carried all that around like it was nothing. I mean, you’ve been walking around with that weight on your shoulders for so long, and none of us even knew. I wish you would’ve come to me, of course I do. But I’m really bloody proud of you for finally letting it out. Talking about it’s never easy, but you did it."
Hermione let Ginny pull her closer, resting her head on her friend’s shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. To any of you. Talking about difficult things like this is a… work in progress for me.”
“That makes two of us,” Pansy quipped.
Padma leaned over and squeezed her leg. “Honestly, I’m honored you trusted me enough to share it at all, Hermione. And I’m here for you– whatever you need.”
Hermione smiled at the Ravenclaw, whose hand still rested on her knee. “Hell, you need an entourage for Brazil? I’m long overdue for a holiday. Joking,” Padma added. “Well, half-joking.”
Hermione laughed. “We’ll see what Theo has to say. Don’t write off a girls’ trip just yet.”
Pansy snorted. “Please. Like Theodore would let you out of his sight for more than a day. If anything, it’d be a girls’ trip plus with him as a chaperone.”
“Speaking of which, where is loverboy?” Ginny asked.
Hermione glanced at the clock. His shift would’ve ended over an hour ago. “Probably with his boyfriend.”
Pansy rolled her eyes, conjuring the shaker to make another cocktail. “I’d be willing to bet that’s exactly where he is. I swear, those two must get separation anxiety when they’re apart.”
“Blaise?” Padma asked.
“Nah. Poor Blaisey will always play second fiddle to Draco in Theo’s heart,” Pansy said, her expression one of mock sadness.
“Oh,” Padma said, her cheeks flushing. “So he sees a lot of Draco… of Malfoy, then?”
Hermione tried to give Padma a look of warning, but it was too late. Pansy Parkinson was far more perceptive than people gave her credit for, and she never missed the signs of a crush. Hermione would know, having experienced it firsthand.
Pansy narrowed her eyes. “Patil,” she said slowly. “Why are you suddenly as flustered as a schoolgirl?”
“I’m not!” The denial came out comically high-pitched, and Padma seemed to realize it, because her lips parted in a little ‘o.’
Hermione immediately recognized the look– a deer in headlights, a single frozen heartbeat before flight or confession. “I’m not… flustered,” Padma insisted, but once again, her voice went up at the end, a dead giveaway.
“Please,” Pansy drawled. “You might be a Ravenclaw, but all those brains can’t make you a good liar. I can see right through you.”
“Oh Gods,” Ginny said in delighted disbelief, sitting up straighter. “Padma, do you fancy Malfoy? ”
“No! I mean, not really! That’s not–” Padma sputtered, looking wildly at Hermione, as though begging her to intervene.
Hermione shrugged helplessly.
“That would explain those questions you were asking Blaise the other night at the Three Sheets,” Ginny said in between cackles. “‘How is Malfoy doing?’ ‘Is he still blonde?’ ‘Will he come to Pansy and Neville’s wedding?’ I don’t know how I didn’t pick up on it then!”
Pansy groaned. “For fuck’s sake, Patil. You could at least try for subtlety.”
Padma’s cheeks were flushing scarlet now. “Alright, I might’ve had a little crush back at school. Don’t ask me why– he was an absolute menace. But I haven’t seen the bloke in what… six years? Who knows how I’d feel if I saw him now?”
Pansy clapped with glee. “This evening is turning out so much better than I expected. Merlin, you fancying Draco Malfoy. Who would’ve thought?”
“Oh come on, Pans,” Hermione said, elbowing her. “Leave her alone. And don’t act like you didn’t go there once, too.”
“More than once, unfortunately,” Pansy said, displeasure written all over her face.
“Not that there’s anything… wrong with him,” she added quickly, her eyes darting over to Padma. “Well, let me rephrase. There are several things wrong with him, but he’s not a terrible shag. I just don’t think of him that way.”
“I’d bloody hope not,” Ginny mumbled. “You’re about to get married to another bloke. You shouldn’t be thinking of shagging Malfoy at all. Or anyone, for that matter.”
“You’re right,” Pansy nodded somberly. “I’ll leave the thinking of shagging Draco to Padma.”
“Pansy!” Padma screeched, throwing a pillow at her, which Pansy narrowly dodged. “You’re a menace, truly.”
Pansy smiled primly. “Cheers to that.”
Ginny grinned, her expression full of affection and mischief. “So, what do you think? Should we start the conspiracy to set you up with Malfoy, Padma?”
“Absolutely not,” Padma said quickly, raising her hand to ward them off. “He just got out of Azkaban like, two months ago. Let the man be. And please, for the love of Merlin, don’t tell him any of this.”
“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Patil. Mum’s the word,” Pansy said.
---------------------------
When Theo arrived back home, Hermione and Pansy were reading in the living room– a giant tome and a fashion magazine, respectively.
Ginny was fast asleep in an armchair, a quilt draped across her. Padma had bid them farewell half an hour or so earlier, needing a full nights’ rest for her shift at St. Mungo’s the following day.
Theo paused in the doorway, eyeing the scene with a wariness that bordered on comical. When Hermione looked up and met his gaze, he cocked his head, taking in the sight of the empty wine bottles, takeaway containers, and purses and shoes strewn by the front door.
Hermione beamed at him. “Hi!”
“Hello,” he said, still frowning slightly in confusion as he placed a kiss on her forehead.
“Welcome home, darling,” Pansy drawled without looking up from her magazine.
“Erm. Thanks.”
Smirking, Hermione patted a spot on the sofa beside her. “I needed some company earlier, so we ended up having an impromptu Girls’ Night. Padma was here, too. You just missed her.”
His brows pulled together in concern. “Oh? Some company? Was everything– is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine,” Hermione said smoothly, patting his hand.
“I believe that’s my cue to leave,” Pansy said, standing up and stretching. “My intended will be waiting up for me. Probably in need of a proper shag.”
“Ugh, Pans,” Theo said, looking as if he’d just tasted something particularly awful. Hermione just laughed.
Pansy ignored him. “Goodnight, lovebirds!” She sang the words as she stepped through the Floo, flinging her purse over her shoulder.
They watched her disappear into a wall of green flames, the only sound the ticking grandfather clock and Ginny’s soft snoring.
“What about Ginevra over there?” Theo gestured at the sleeping redhead only slightly nervously, as if she was a wild animal that might soon wake and bite his finger off. “Do we let her sleep?”
Hermione nodded, smiling. “She’ll be fine. Why don’t we go have a chat out on the balcony?”
Theo eyed her warily. “Okay,” he said, rising to follow her.
Hermione wrapped a quilt around herself, casting a Warming charm on both of them for good measure as they settled on the wicker chairs.
“So,” she said, turning to face Theo.
She realized he was anxious– his jaw tight, brow furrowed, shoulders tensed. “Everything’s fine, Theo. You can relax,” she rushed to reassure him. Merlin, she loved this sweet, fretful man.
His shoulders dropped slightly. “Right. What’s going on?”
“Padma brought this over earlier.” She handed him the letter from Dr. Silva, watching anxiously as his eyes scanned the page. When he finished, he sat back, his face a mixture of thoughtfulness, curiosity, and something else– relief, maybe?
“Well, this is big,” he said softly, glancing up at Hermione. “But I think it’s exactly what we’ve been looking for.”
Hermione hesitated, her gaze flickering to the letter in his hands. “You think so?”
“I do,” he said firmly. “How are you feeling about it?”
“A little nervous,” she admitted. “But excited, too. And I’m interested to see where it could lead, you know?”
Theo nodded. “I know it’s fast, and I know it’s probably scary, but this is a chance, Hermione. A real one. And the choice is only yours, of course, but if you’re asking me for my opinion, I think you should absolutely go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She bit her lip. “Would you– you’ll come with me, right?”
He looked slightly taken aback. “Of course. You think I’d let you go alone? Unless of course you wanted to,” he added.
Hermione’s heart fluttered, a wave of warmth rushing through her. She hadn’t really considered the idea of going alone– she had imagined Theo by her side the whole time– but hearing him say it out loud made it feel more real.
“No, I don’t want to go alone,” she admitted. “I know it’s a lot. I’d understand if it felt like too much or–”
Theo shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not too much, Hermione. You know I’d do anything for you.”
His words were simple but full of conviction, like they always were. The sincerity in his eyes made a lump form in her throat, and she swallowed against it. She reached for his hand, her fingers trembling slightly as she laced them with his.
“You’re sure?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Theo didn’t hesitate. “Yes. You’ve supported me through everything, Hermione. This is my chance to do the same for you.”
Hermione felt a genuine smile break across her face. “So I should write back then? Tell him we’ll come?”
“Absolutely.”
--------------------------
How the faces of love changed turning the pages
And I have changed, oh, but you
You remain ageless
I turned around
And the water was closing all around
Like a glove
Like the love that had finally, finally found me
And I knew
In the crystalline knowledge of you
Drove me through the mountains
Through the crystal-like and clear water fountain
-Stevie Nicks
Chapter 29: When You Wash Your Hair
Notes:
Well, I managed to keep my word! Here is a second weekend chapter (if you had Labor Day off like me. Otherwise it's just a Monday chapter).
Theo aka Loverboy is booked and busy, and we love to see it. Hope you all enjoy <33
Chapter Text
In the week leading up to their trip to Brazil, Hermione dreamt about her parents nearly every night. At first, she didn’t admit it, but Theo wasn’t a complete idiot.
When she woke in the middle of the night, it wasn’t with a scream or a ragged gasp like her usual nightmares. Instead, she’d sit up briefly, scanning the room, before lying back down and curling into herself. Theo, always a light sleeper, had become attuned to her movements, the subtle shifts in her breathing. So whenever she woke, he woke too.
The first time, she let him pull her into his chest and cried softly before drifting back to sleep. Theo knew not to press about what she’d dreamed about, at least at first.
But after the third night in a row of the same thing, he lifted her chin up so she’d meet his eyes, his fingers tracing the side of her face gently. The moonlight streamed across their bedroom through the curtains, casting a soft, silvery glow that caught the curve of her cheek and made the shadows under her eyes even more pronounced.
Her expression was soft yet distant, her eyes tired but searching, as if she were trying to hold onto the dream even though it had already slipped away. She looked fragile in the pale light, her features both sharp and softened, a quiet vulnerability that Theo had seen in her before but never so clearly as now.
“Tell me?”
She sighed, her eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. “It’s my mum and dad. I think because I’ve been… thinking of them so often, maybe?” Her lower lip quivered a bit, like she was holding back tears. He stroked her hair, silently waiting for her to continue.
“I’ve been dreaming about them in every possible way,” she whispered.
"Sometimes it’s like we’re all at the kitchen table again, and they’re reading the papers, and I’m just… there, with them, making tea, and no one’s angry at anyone, and nothing is broken. Sometimes, though, it’s more like I’m watching from outside the house. I can see them through the window, and I want to go inside, but they look so busy and content. And I just have this awful feeling that if I try to go inside, they’ll just disappear completely and I’ll never see them again.”
She took a deep breath. “And tonight, I dreamt that I was eleven years old again. They were helping me pack for Hogwarts– my mum was folding my jumpers just so, stacking them in military rows, and my dad was… labeling everything, like he always did.”
Theo nodded, as if he was acutely familiar with the way her father liked to label things. She continued. “And I was so excited but also so scared, and I kept thinking, what if I forget them? It’s like everything about the memory is tainted now with this awful feeling of dread, because I know how things turned out. I was so thrilled when I found out I was a witch, when I discovered I could do magic, but look at what I ended up using it for, you know?”
“And they were excited for me too, but a little scared, I think. And it turns out they had good reason to feel that way,” she finished quietly.
There was a long pause as Theo scrambled to find the right words to comfort her. He knew there wasn’t anything to say that would make it better, and even less that would undo the years of guilt Hermione seemed to carry as easily as she did her hair up or her books in her arms.
In his own way, he envied her ability to even talk about it.
He thought of his own parents, that cold mausoleum of a childhood, and how he’d be more likely to dream of them as marble figures than breathing, laughing people. If Theo grieved his mother, it was in a cloaked, confused way– his good memories of her were fragments, flashes of a childhood that had ended far too soon.
Memories of her perfume, of reaching up and touching the bangles that adorned her wrists, of clutching at her soft, flowy skirts.
And when he thought of his mother towards the end of her life, all he could picture was her blank stare, her sleeping form as she laid in bed with the curtains drawn all day, of the smell of liquor on her breath whenever he did manage to get close enough to her to smell it.
Of course, there was nothing to mourn when it came to his father. He wondered if that made it easier, somehow. If he found out today that his father had died in Azkaban, he couldn’t imagine he’d feel anything but perhaps, some relief. There was no tenderness, no warmth there.
Hermione’s grief was a live thing, a vine that grew and strangled but also– he could see it, sometimes– bloomed with hope.
It was foreign, and he was terrible at knowing what to do with it, but he tried. Sometimes he couldn’t help but think that all the years of isolation had left him slow, like his tongue was a muscle he only half-remembered how to use. But he’d learned, through trial and error, that Hermione didn’t want instant solutions or platitudes– she wanted the truth, even if it was messy, even if it was clumsy. So he did his best.
He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she was sprawled half across his chest. Her hair smelled like her shampoo, soft and floral and warm. He settled one hand on her waist, the other threading through her mane of curls.
“You know what I’ve never understood, Hermione? Why you always talk about your magic like it’s a weapon.”
She blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I know you feel guilty. And to some extent, I really do understand where that guilt is coming from. But you’re so damn hard on yourself sometimes, I think you forget that if you hadn’t done what you did, your parents would almost certainly be dead right now.”
The words rang out in the silence that followed, heavy and harsh. He felt her tense, but he didn’t let himself backtrack. “I know that sounds terrible. And I realize it might be hard for them to understand why you did what you did, since they were never really integrated into the wizarding world. All of that is… valid.” He met her eyes, showing her that he meant it.
“But my point is, your magic has done so much good. Do you have any idea how different our world would be without you, without your contributions to it, Hermione?”
He could see her winding up to argue, could see every line in her face preparing to mount the same old defense, but he pressed on, his voice low and even.
“You’re the best person I know. You really are. And your parents raised you to be this way, you know? They must have.” He smiled.
“You’re so kind, and selfless, and bloody brilliant. You’re tenacious as hell, and you stand up for anyone who needs it, no matter where they came from or what they’ve done. You’re so much braver and stronger than you give yourself credit for. I don’t know anyone else who’d bend over backwards to make sure the people they love are safe, even if it meant hurting themselves in the process.”
He shifted his whole body so he could look at her more directly, hoping she’d see the conviction in his face.
Hermione’s eyes were shining as she looked up at him. She tried to wave him off, tried to steer the conversation away. “I’m not a saint, Theo,” she whispered.
“No, but you’re not far off,” he teased, then his face turned more thoughtful. “But really. Look, you’re allowed to grieve what all of this cost you. You’re allowed to regret, and to wish it had gone differently. But you’re not allowed to pretend you did it for any reason other than love, Hermione. And you’re certainly not allowed to act like it was some sort of personal failing. Because I really, truly believe you’ve punished yourself enough by now.”
Hermione was silent for so long Theo thought she’d fallen back asleep, but when he glanced down, her brow was furrowed and her lips pressed tight, like she was physically battling the urge to protest. He almost smiled at the stubbornness of it.
She sighed. “Maybe you’re right. It’s just hard to… unlearn that way of thinking. I don’t want to feel guilty anymore. I’m so bloody tired of it, I really am.”
“Trust me, I understand that feeling,” he said quietly. “But you’re taking the first steps, right? You’re going to Brazil. You’re getting the ball rolling. That’s huge, and you’re facing something head-on that you’ve been afraid of for a long time. I’m… honestly Hermione. I’m unbelievably proud of you.”
Hermione stared at him for what felt like minutes, and Theo began to squirm under her gaze. He couldn’t read her expression or understand what was taking her so long to respond. Finally, he saw something resembling a smile ghost over her face.
He shifted. “Erm. What is it?”
“Nothing,” she said, still smiling faintly. “It’s just funny, sometimes. How much things have changed.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, we’ve both changed, of course. But sometimes I think about how different you are now, compared to when I showed up on your doorstep that first time.”
He propped himself up on his elbow to look at her, silently waiting for her to continue.
“You were so closed off, you know? I just remember wondering what your… future could look like. But now when I think about it, I can’t picture my own future without you in it. I can’t imagine doing any of this, sorting through this mess with my parents, without you there.”
He stared at her for a few seconds, the quiet weight of the moment settling over him like a heavy blanket. Because it was exactly how he felt– there was no future for him without Hermione in it.
He’d never allowed himself to hope for something so ordinary and bright. That he could ever inhabit a life like this– anchored by another person, a future twined around itself with words like ‘we’ and ‘ours’ , not just his own solitary line extending into nothing.
Certainty had always been a foreign country, something other people inhabited if they were brave or lucky or so naïve they didn’t realize how quickly the world could upend itself. But Hermione was the first thing in his life that felt like more than just hope, but a fact. It was humbling, and terrifying, and also, sort of incredible. He didn’t quite know what to do with the feeling, other than hold onto it as hard as he could.
Theo had spent most of his life holding back, remaining detached, refusing to hope. Because hope was dangerous and almost addictive, and for so long, he’d had nothing to hope for, aside from maybe just survival.
But Hermione had changed everything for him. She’d taught him how to look forward to the future, how to be vulnerable, how to love and be loved properly. The feeling was still so new and so huge it almost frightened him at times– that this was not some borrowed bit of happiness, not a provisional spell that would vanish at sunrise, but a real life, a real love, and it was his. It was theirs .
The security of it was almost dizzying. He’d never expected to deserve this kind of peace, this kind of joy.
He tucked her closer and said, not even trying to keep the wonder out of his voice, “I can’t believe how lucky I am. To be able to be there with you for this, to be able to come home to you every night. It still doesn’t feel real to me sometimes.”
Hermione scoffed softly, her breath warm against his chest. “If I keep hearing things like that, I’ll get a big head.”
He laughed into her hair. “Good. It’s about time– it’ll match your big brain.”
She laughed, her whole body relaxing. “You’re barmy.”
“And grass is green. Well spotted.” He yawned. “Can we go back to sleep now?”
“No. I’d rather hear you shower me with compliments,” she mumbled against his neck.
“You’re bloody gorgeous. Now, sleep.”
“ Fine. ”
-------------------------
“Drink?”
Theo stood at Draco's doorway, the faint smell of Firewhisky lingering in the air as he stepped inside. The flat, as usual, was pristine, too polished to be truly lived in.
“Erm, no thanks.” Theo glanced at the clock. “You’re drinking already? It’s not even noon, mate.”
Draco shrugged, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Not like I have anything better to be doing.”
“I’m not entirely sure that’s true,” Theo said, arching a brow as he crossed into the room, setting his bag down.
Draco half-smiled, leaning back in his chair, looking entirely too comfortable in the self-imposed isolation. “Oh yeah? Any suggestions?”
Theo scrutinized his friend carefully before answering. In some ways, he seemed to be doing better than he had upon his release. But in other ways, he seemed… stagnant.
The whole scene was all too familiar, really– Pureblood ex-Death Eater holed up in a posh flat, drinking Firewhisky instead of dealing with his problems.
It was like looking in a mirror, in some ways– one that showed him what he likely would’ve looked like to a visitor a year and a half ago. That realization alone gave him pause. Because who was he to be judging Draco for not making more progress when it had taken Theo himself months and months to feel comfortable leaving the house by himself? When he had spent countless hours shuffling through Blaise’s flat aimlessly or numbly staring at the telly?
“I mean,” Theo began cautiously, “if you feel like getting out of the flat, we could always go round to Pansy’s for lunch– you know she’d be thrilled.”
Draco didn’t answer right away, his eyes briefly drifting over to the bottle of Firewhisky on the coffee table. Theo’s gaze followed, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of all the unspoken words hung between them.
Draco’s hesitation was palpable. “I’m not really hungry,” he muttered. “Nor am I in the mood to sit around and make small talk with Neville Longbottom.” He set his glass down a little too forcefully.
Theo could almost feel the air thicken with tension. “Right,” he said quietly. “Fancy a walk, then?”
“I’m not a dog, Nott,” Draco snapped. “I don’t need you to drop by to take me out for some fresh air. ”
“Don’t be a dick,” Theo said, not caring that it was evident he was losing his patience. “I get it, obviously. Wanting to isolate yourself, drink yourself to death. But it’s got to stop at some point. You’re going to need to snap yourself out of this.”
Draco sneered. “Gods, please spare me the self-help special. What, you think you’re going to ‘rescue’ me with a nice walk by the river and a sandwich?”
Theo forced his face to remain impassive. “Obviously not, but it would be better than watching you waste away in an empty flat.”
“That’s rich, coming from you. Weren’t you doing this exact same thing not too long ago?”
“Yes, in fact, I was,” Theo snapped, more harshly than he’d intended to.
He took a deep breath, lowering his voice. “Yes. I was doing the same thing. And I felt like pure shite the whole fucking time, Draco. You think I like seeing you like this? You’re not even seeing the sun anymore. When’s the last time you spoke to someone that wasn’t me or your parole officer?”
Draco set his jaw, then looked away. “Pansy came round a few days ago.”
“I know,” Theo sighed. “She said it was like making conversation with a statue. That’s not interacting, that’s being present in the room while someone else talks at you. Would it kill you to try?”
“It might.”
Theo groaned. “For fuck’s sake, Draco. You’re in an especially foul mood today. Any particular reason for that?”
Draco shot him a look but didn’t respond, reaching for the bottle to pour himself another glass.
Theo’s fingers twitched before he stopped himself from snatching it out of his hands. Instead, he reached up and rubbed his temples, letting his head fall against the back of the couch for a moment.
It was maddeningly easy to lose his temper with Draco when he was like this, and the temptation to stomp out of his flat with a slam of the door was getting stronger by the minute.
But the truth was, even if he were to leave right now, Theo knew he’d be back. If not today, then tomorrow.
Maybe it was the years of unspoken history between them, maybe it was the way Draco had looked out for him as children, or maybe it was the simple fact that he knew what it felt like to not care if you lived or died anymore. And he couldn’t bear the thought of Draco suffering in that way alone, even if he was utterly insufferable half the time.
“I’m not here to talk down to you, mate,” he said, his voice softer now. “But can you honestly look me in the eye and say everything’s fine right now?”
“Of course it’s not,” Draco said, staring into his drink. “Nothing is fucking fine.”
“Okay,” Theo said slowly. “Am I wrong that you’re particularly… on edge today?”
“No.”
“No, I’m not wrong? Or no you’re not… on edge?” Theo pressed, as if approaching a wild animal.
“No, you’re not wrong,” Draco admitted, as if it pained him to do so.
“Right. Are you going to tell me why?”
“No.”
Of-fucking-course not, Theo thought. “Come on, Draco–”
“One sodding letter.”
“Come again?”
“That’s all I’ve gotten from my mother in the last two months. Nevermind the fact that I’ve probably written to her a dozen times– all she could manage was a single letter that sounded like a fucking assistant wrote it for her.”
Theo froze. “Mate, I had no idea she wasn’t–”
“It’s so bloody stupid.” Draco stared down at the table, his jaw set and white-knuckled. “The day they came to arrest me, she cried and cried, and swore to me she’d never give up on me, no matter what happened.”
He shook his head ruefully. “But now she’s off at the Chateau, busy with all of her society obligations. She couldn’t even show up to see me when I got out. I keep–” he cut himself off, his voice cracking before schooling his features and continuing. “I keep telling myself she must have a good reason for not being here. Maybe she’s ill, or maybe she’s nervous about traveling. But what could possibly be getting in the way of her writing me a letter? ”
Theo shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling quite out of his depth. “I’m sorry. I wish you would’ve told me.”
“Yeah, well. It’s bloody pathetic though, isn’t it? Makes me feel like a child who needs his mummy. Not something I want to go around advertising. But then today I–” he stopped, his jaw tightening.
“What happened today?”
“I sent a letter two days ago practically begging her to come. It was… not my proudest moment. And today my owl came back empty handed. No reply. Not even a note.” Draco’s mouth twisted, bitter and sharp. “What’s more pathetic than being snubbed by your own mother, Theo?”
His voice caught at the end, and for a moment, he looked so much like the thirteen year old Theo had once known, desperate for his father’s approval, his mother’s affection, that he had to look away.
Theo tried to think of something useful to say, something that wouldn’t come off as hollow or worse, patronizing. He wasn’t sure there was anything. He wished Hermione was there with him. She’d know exactly what to say, exactly how to offer comfort without stumbling over her words or saying something stupid.
“I don’t think it’s pathetic, mate.”
Draco shook his head, his eyes practically burning holes in the coffee table. “Yeah, whatever you say. Anyways, that’s probably why I’m being a prat. So… sorry about that, I guess.”
“S’alright. No need to apologize, I get it. And erm, if you need to… talk about it more–”
“It’s fine, Nott. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”
Theo rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the persistent tug of concern. “Okay. Fancy a game of Exploding Snap, at least?”
“Fine.”
Later, as Theo prepared to Apparate back home, he remembered something. “By the way,” he said carefully. “I won’t be around for the next two weeks.”
“Oh?”
He tried to ignore the sliver of panic in Draco’s face. “Yeah. I’m uh… traveling. With Hermione.”
“Traveling? Where to?”
“Brazil.”
Draco just raised his eyebrows, feigning nonchalance, so Theo continued. “There’s a Healer there who specializes in reversing long-term memory tampering. He’s invited us– er, Hermione, to come see the facility and learn more about her parent’s case.”
“That’s… good. Right, that’s good news, right? I hope it’s a productive visit and Granger gets some answers,” Draco muttered.
“Me too.” Theo rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Erm, I’m sure Pansy and Blaise will come by plenty while I’m gone–”
“Relax, Theo. I’ll be fine.”
“Right.”
As he turned to leave, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling of déjà vu, like he’d once been sitting exactly where Draco was, saying those same empty words to someone else.
--------------------------
Of course, Hermione always knew when something was bothering him. There was no use in trying to keep it from her. So as soon as Theo got home, he flopped down on the couch next to her and let out a sigh. She turned to him, blinking herself out of the reading trance he’d found her in.
She closed her book, folding her legs under herself and pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Rough visit?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
Hermione made a small noise of sympathy. “What happened?”
“I’m worried about him. More than usual, I think.” Theo rubbed his eyes. “Apparently he’s only heard from Narcissa once the whole time he’s been out.”
“ Once?! ” Hermione echoed incredulously. “That’s… awful. What could possibly be stopping her from writing, at least?”
“No idea. It’s a bit odd, really. She’s always been quite… devoted. But regardless of the reason, Draco’s not taking it well. He was well on his way to getting completely smashed by the time I left, and refused to leave the flat. Again.”
Hermione sighed, a soft, sad little sound, and nudged her way closer to him. “You know, it isn’t your job to fix him.”
He snorted, running his thumb over the soft inside of her forearm. “That sounds like something Healer Brown would say. But what am I supposed to do, then? Just let him fall apart and not do anything to stop it?”
“You’re doing exactly what a good friend should. You check in, you listen, you keep inviting him places even when he says no. That’s the part that matters, honestly. I know you wish you could drag him out of the hole, but… he might need to climb a bit himself.”
He pressed his face to her hair, breathing in the familiar scent. “I guess so. I just worry he’s going to give up completely. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if that happened.”
“I know,” she said softly. “You’re doing everything you can. He has to want to feel better though, and that’s a process that looks different for everyone. Draco has to find his own reasons to get out of bed in the morning– no one can force him to start caring against his will, you know?”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I do. You think he’ll be alright? While we’re gone, I mean?”
“I’m sure he’ll survive without you for a few weeks,” she teased, but then paused, looking thoughtful. “He’s lucky to have you as a friend, Theo. But it’s a lot of weight for you to carry. You deserve some time to yourself, to be able to get away for a bit.”
“Mm. Then I suppose jetting off to Brazil with the prettiest girl in Britain will have to do,” he said, leaning in to kiss her.
--------------------------
Hermione’s fingernails were probably drawing blood right now, she was squeezing his hand so tight. He tried not to show it though– he didn’t want her to let go of his hand. He could take a bit of pain in the name of love, or however the saying went.
“Well?” She asked anxiously, peering across the table at her best friend.
“Hang on, I’m almost done,” Harry said, pushing his glasses up his nose.
Hermione let out an impatient sigh. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. You’ve always read at the pace of a snail, Harry.”
Spencer snorted, then cast Hermione a silent nod of commiserating agreement.
After what felt like an eternity, Harry finally looked up and grinned. “Hermione,” he said earnestly. “This is incredible. I’m so happy for you.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” he said emphatically. “I mean first off, this bloke sounds like the real deal. A Healer and Neuroscientist? You don’t come across that every day. It sounds really promising. And not to mention, a trip to Brazil?!”
“I’m a bit jealous, honestly,” Spencer interjected.
Harry gave him a scathing look. “Spence,” he gritted out. “He doesn’t mean he’s jealous of… well, you know.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Just about the Brazil part,” Spencer added hastily.
“It’s fine, really,” Hermione said, smiling. “You’re not allowed to be jealous, though, after your romantic holiday. ”
Harry reddened.
Spencer just grinned. “Fair enough. So you two are going then, right?” He looked from her to Theo expectantly.
“Yes,” she said, accepting the refilled wine glass Theo handed her. “We’re going. On Monday, actually.”
Harry gawked at her. “Like, this Monday? As in, three days from now?”
Hermione nodded and Spencer clapped with delight. “On Monday?!” He glanced at Theo. “Sorry, bud. I don’t think I can spare you from the café. You didn’t submit a formal request.”
“Shut up, Spence,” Harry and Theo said at the same time.
“If it makes you feel better,” Theo said, smirking, “I’ll bring you back a very special souvenir. The tackiest one I can find.”
“I love tacky,” Spencer said.
“I know,” Theo deadpanned. “I think we can all tell that based on your choice of shirt this evening.”
Harry snorted and Spencer shrugged down at his shirt, a salmon-colored button-up with navy polka dots. “Anyways,” he said, unbothered by the teasing, “really though, I’m happy for you, Hermione. And you too, Theo. This is a big step for both of you.”
Theo groaned. Sometimes Spencer sounded so much like his Healer that he felt like he was sitting in her office. Anyone with half a brain would be able to tell he had therapists for parents. “Thanks, mate,” he said, trying not to roll his eyes.
Hermione turned to Harry. “Now, tell us all about your little holiday!”
“Honestly, it was a miracle I was able to convince this one to take a vacation at all,” Spencer said, wrapping his arm around the back of Harry’s chair. “He’s more tightly wound than a loaded spring.”
“I’m not that bad,” Harry grumbled. “I will admit though, some time away from school was… nice. It was a good trip.”
“So you stayed at Spencer’s family’s place, right?” Theo inquired.
Harry nodded. “On Martha’s Vineyard– they’ve got a nice little beach cottage. The whole island was bloody beautiful– quiet but still lots of things to do. We did some hiking, took loads of beach walks, went out for dinner and visited some shops. That’s where we got the chocolates,” he grinned, gesturing at the box of fancy sweets he’d handed the two of them when they arrived.
“That sounds lovely, Harry,” Hermione beamed. “We all need a break sometimes.”
“That’s quite rich coming from you,” Theo mumbled.
Hermione elbowed him. “Did you take pictures?”
Harry’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I did, let me grab them.”
Harry and Hermione poured over the photos he’d taken while Theo and Spencer headed to the kitchen to do the washing up.
“How are you feeling about all this? Brazil, I mean. I know it’ll be your first time really traveling since… what, before the war, right?” Spencer asked.
Theo was accustomed to his friend’s gentle prodding at this point. He’d come to the realization that it was actually nice to have someone who forced him to talk about things he’d otherwise avoid, despite his earlier trepidations.
He sighed. “I mean, I’m a bit nervous, obviously. I sometimes still spiral a bit when I have to make a trip to Gringotts. So I’m hardly an ideal travel companion. But I’m going to do my best to keep my shite together and be there for her. Because if it’s for Hermione…” Theo shrugged with a helpless sort of smile. “I’d go anywhere for her.”
Spencer rinsed a glass and nodded, methodical as always. “That’s all very sweet, Theo. But it’s also good to acknowledge it’s a lot. Have you talked to her about all this? Told her how you’re feeling?”
Theo dried a plate and smiled to himself at the faint clatter of Harry and Hermione’s laughter in the next room. “I mean, a bit. But I don’t really have to tell her how I’m feeling. It’s Hermione, you know? She’s got a sixth sense for these things. She keeps asking me if I’m okay, if it’s too much, what Healer Brown has to say about all this.”
“All valid questions,” Spencer said, his tone still thoughtful but softer now.
“But here’s the thing, Theo– you can be there for her, support her, and still feel… whatever it is you’re feeling. She doesn’t need someone who keeps it together all the time, she needs someone who’s authentic and honest with her about his own feelings. You’re not going to spiral , but you might be nervous about leaving home and going somewhere new. And that’s perfectly fine. It’s normal, really.”
He raised his eyebrows, meeting Theo’s eyes. “The point is, you don’t have to do it all alone, mate. You’re allowed to feel things, and you’re allowed to let her in on it.”
Theo mulled the words over, thinking about how much sense they made. It was just… more difficult to actually put them into action. “Yeah,” Theo relented. “I see what you’re saying.”
“The two of you have helped each other through some massive trauma already,” Spencer continued. “In other words, you’ve worked through quite a bit of shit together. This is no different.”
Spencer’s words were still echoing in Theo’s head when they said goodnight to the pair and he watched Hermione close their front door. She turned to him, smiling and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning into his chest. He soaked in the feeling of her body pressed against his, the warmth that spread from the press of her cheek.
“That was nice,” she murmured.
“It was,” he agreed. Then he frowned. “Wait, did you already ask Harry about watching Crooks while we’re gone?”
“Er, no.”
“Okay… have you changed your mind, then? Are we leaving him with Blaise and Ginevra?”
“First of all, you’ve got to stop calling her that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Secondly, no. I actually had… someone else in mind.”
“Who’s that?”
“Erm. Draco?”
A laugh burst out of Theo almost involuntarily. “ What?! You’re joking, obviously.”
“I’m not,” she said, her cheeks a bit red but her voice firm. “I know it sounds a bit mad, but I think it would be good for him. Our conversation earlier got me thinking about it, when you mentioned you’re worried about him, and I just couldn’t get the idea out of my head after that.”
Oh, she was wonderful. Thoughtful, kind, a bit misguided, but wonderful nonetheless. “Hermione, he’ll never agree to it,” he said patiently.
“Yes he will,” she said smoothly. “Because he won’t have a choice. We’ll wait until the day we leave to bring Crooks over so he can’t say no. Besides, he might say no to you, but he owes me a favor or two, don’t you think? If I show up by myself, he’s much more likely to say yes.”
“You want to go bring your mildly homicidal cat over to Draco Malfoy’s by yourself? You’re asking for a shitstorm, Hermione.”
“Maybe,” she shrugged. “I’m not worried about it though. Just… trust me on this, would you?”
“Alright,” Theo said uneasily, still processing the idea.
She smiled and pecked him on the cheek. “What were you and Spencer chatting about, in the kitchen, by the way?”
“Mm,” Theo grunted, his eyes fluttering open. “Nosy witch. Just the trip. You know how Spence is– wanted to talk about my feelings and all that bosh.”
“And? How are you… feeling about it?”
Theo laughed quietly. “Hermione,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to the sofa. “I’m okay. Really. A bit anxious, of course, but I promise I’d tell you if I didn’t think I could handle it.”
She chewed her lip, looking unconvinced. “That’s just it, though,” she said, her big brown eyes fixed on him. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t tell me if it was too much. I think you’re so determined to be there for me that you’re willing to ignore your own… discomfort.”
“I am determined to be there for you,” he said quickly. “Of course I am. But I also just feel like this has to happen eventually, right? I can’t stay here forever because I’m nervous about leaving home.”
She looked unconvinced, so he continued. “And what better opportunity is there than accompanying my girlfriend to go find the answers she’s been waiting years for? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than next to you, Hermione. No matter where that is– I’d follow you wherever you went, as long as you’d have me.”
“Theo,” she murmured, leaning into him. “Thank you. I don’t want to do this without you either. I– you know how hard it is for me to admit this, but I need you there with me. I really do. You’re my home.”
He stared at her, the words looping quietly in his mind.
You’re my home .
It was like a line that ran down his vertebrae and melted into his bones, left him feeling full and light as air at the same time. It was such a simple admission, but it might as well have been an incantation. He let it settle, heavy and good, in his chest, and then he smiled at her in a way that was so unguarded it felt like a new version of himself.
“You’re my home too,” he said, and he didn’t even have to think about the words, they just came. “I hope you know there’s never been a single place or person in the world that’s meant more to me than you do. Not even close.”
He felt her breath catch against his shoulder, and he bent his head so their foreheads touched, small and close and sacred. He’d never get over the revelation of being so wanted, so effortlessly, by someone as rare as her.
He could easily remember a time where he’d never imagined he’d know a love like this– that no one would ever say things like ‘ you’re my home,’ or fall asleep with their head on his chest, or press kisses to his Dark Mark and make him feel like a person again.
He could still remember what it felt like to speak and hear nothing back– years and years of words echoing off the walls, never touching anyone. Now, he could say things that mattered, that landed somewhere and meant something, because of her.
And sometimes, when Hermione smiled at him like this, her eyes warm and shining, it felt like being born a second time.
---------------------------
And now the morning sweeps you up
You take your evening outfit off
You run your shower and lean back your head
I love when you wash your hair
I hear you tell me lightly
You were quite a mess
But I worship you no less this way
You're quite the angel, Mary
As you cut up last night's dress
It lingers piece by piece this way
-Matt Maltese
Chapter 30: Til Kingdom Come
Summary:
Hermione and Theo arrive in Brazil and enjoy their first night in São Paulo together.
Notes:
Happy Sunday!
Thank you all for your patience as I struggle to stay on top of regular updates! I should have Chapter 31 up for you all by Wednesday at the latest. That being said, this is one of my favorite chapters. I love the way people can come alive when they visit a new place, and all of this is so new to both Hermione and Theo. We will be seeing different sides of both of them and their relationship during their time in São Paulo, and it was honestly so much fun to write.
I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed bringing it to life! <3
Chapter Text
Hermione knocked on Draco Malfoy’s door for the second time, trying not to feel exasperated that he hadn’t answered it right away. Finally, after what felt like another twenty minutes, she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the door swung open.
She hadn’t seen him since the last time Theo had managed to drag him over for dinner, which was probably a few weeks ago. He looked much the same as he had then, only more rumpled. His hair was an almost improbable moonlit platinum against grey sweatpants and an old Slytherin Quidditch tee. The t-shirt hung off his angles and his skin was the sort of translucent that came from not having seen direct sunlight in weeks. Even so, his eyes were clear and surprisingly sharp– it was the only part of him that looked awake.
His eyes widened when he registered her, stunned for a longer beat than was strictly polite, then snapped to attention with practiced composure.
“Granger,” he said, voice flat with confusion. He looked beyond her, as if expecting Theo to step out from behind a pillar. “To what do I owe the…?”
“Favor,” she supplied briskly, pushing past him and into the flat before he could object. “I’m here to collect on a favor, remember?”
“I can’t say I do,” he said.
He stood there, nonplussed for a moment, then shut the door and followed her in.
The living room was sparsely furnished, all sleek lines and cool tones, with almost no personal effects– no family photos, no sign that anyone lived there but Draco and his house-elves. The curtains were drawn and the room was eerily dark for ten o’clock in the morning.
“Yes, come right in, Granger,” he muttered. “What can I do for you?”
She frowned as she glanced around the room, resisting the urge to rip open the heavy curtains.
Instead, she turned to him, feigning confusion. “What do you mean? You are looking after Crookshanks while we’re gone, yes?”
“Who?”
“Crookshanks,” she said cheerily, opening the carrier she’d just placed on the floor.
The who in question stepped out one careful paw at a time, surveying his surroundings with his usual suspicion. He stretched languidly, his bottlebrush tail flicking once before he trotted straight to the settee, leaped up, and promptly began kneading a patch of expensive-looking fabric with lascivious delight.
Draco’s gaze tracked the orange heap with horror, and then swung back to Hermione, mouth open, searching desperately for a more rational explanation. “No, I– no. Absolutely not,” he managed. “There must be some mistake, because I did not agree to–”
“No? But I thought…” she shook her head, hoping she was putting on a convincing enough performance. “You got my owl, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Oh dear,” she said, putting on a show of appearing slightly panicked. “It’s just that I sent an owl several days ago and asked if you’d be willing to do it. I said if you couldn’t do it to write back, but otherwise I’d assume you were fine with it.”
He regarded her with a look that, on an ordinary person, might have been called incredulous. On Draco, it was more of a slow-burning, aristocratic dismay. “I most certainly did not receive any owl asking me to care for your… whatever that thing is. I’m sorry Granger, I really am, but I cannot agree to this.”
“Why not?”
“Because!” He sputtered furiously. “I have… things to do. And not to mention I haven’t the faintest idea how to care for a cat.”
She waved his excuses away. “Oh, please. Crooks is quite easy. He just needs to be fed and have his litter changed from time to time. I’m sure you can manage, even being as… busy as you are,” she said, trying not to crack a smile.
He narrowed his eyes. “Granger, you’re trying to pull one over on me. You really expect me to believe that out of your entire… posse, you chose me to look after your menace of a cat?”
“You can believe what you want, but it’s the truth,” Hermione said earnestly.
Because it was, actually.
She promptly began unpacking Crookshanks’ things, ignoring Draco’s glare. “Harry forgot to feed him for two days straight last time. Ginny and Blaise’s schedules are so unpredictable, they’re always traveling, and Pansy’s out of the question, for obvious reasons. She is very much not a cat person. So that just leaves you. Besides, Theo trusts you more than any of his other friends.”
Draco eyed her suspiciously. “He does?”
She nodded brusquely. “Of course. You shouldn’t take that lightly, actually. Theo and Crooks have a bond like no other– he wouldn’t agree to leave him with just anyone.”
“For fuck’s sake, Granger,” Draco groaned, dropping into a chair and wrinkling his nose at Crookshanks. “You’re relentless. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Once or twice.” Hermione grinned. “So you’ll do it, then?”
“Doesn’t feel like I have much of a bloody choice,” he grumbled. “Don’t expect me to do anything beyond the basic measures of care, though. No fancy meals or grooming or anything. I’ll probably just ask my house-elves to look after it.”
“Him,” Hermione corrected, actively fighting the urge to launch into a lecture about the ethics of owning house-elves.
“And if that thing tries to kill me while you’re away, I’m pressing charges against you and Theodore.”
“Fair enough,” she said lightly. “Oh! I almost forgot. I brought over a few more records for you to borrow.”
That seemed to pique his interest. He craned his neck, watching her carefully place them next to his record player. “Which ones?”
“Just a few I thought you’d enjoy,” she said smoothly. “A few classics, I remember you seemed to like the soul records I played awhile ago, so there’s more of those. And a new one, actually– a friend just recommended this band to me and I thought you might want to give them a try.”
She handed him a record, trying to hide her smile. Anyone who didn’t live under a rock knew Oasis, of course, but Draco didn’t know that. He was quite new to Muggle music. And it was true that the friend she was referring to was a massive fan of the band.
He slid the record from its sleeve, scrutinizing the cover like it was a foreign language. “A friend, you say?” His tone was just cool enough to suggest skepticism, but the way he flipped the record over and studied the back told her he was pleased by the gesture.
She pressed her lips together. “Yes. You remember Padma Patil, don’t you?”
He frowned. “Of course I do. The clever twin, right? Ravenclaw?”
“The very one,” Hermione said, watching him closely.
His face remained impassive. “Hm. I didn’t realize you were still in touch.”
Hermione turned set about refilling Crooks’ water dish, choosing not to look at Draco as she spoke– she wanted to see how much he’d ask for, if anything. “Oh yes, she’s one of my closest friends, actually. When I mentioned I was bringing over some records for you she practically forced me into including that one.”
Draco said nothing for a moment, but Hermione could practically see the gears turning behind his pinched expression. “Is she just, what, looking to recruit more fans for this band, or something?” He said carefully.
Hermione giggled, then cleared her throat to disguise it. “No, they’ve got plenty of those already. I think she just wanted to share her favorite record with an old classmate, maybe.”
He set the record aside and reached for his glass of water– perhaps to buy time, perhaps just for something to do with his hands. He looked rather flustered, she noticed. “Well, be sure to er… thank her for me, I guess.” He shifted awkwardly, then added– “Didn’t I hear she was on the Healer track? Is that still the case?”
“Indeed,” Hermione supplied, arranging Crookshanks’ food tins in a neat line along the kitchen counter. “She’s at St. Mungo’s now, mainly in the Janus Thickey ward, but she’s also doing some consulting on magical memory research. She’s quite brilliant, actually.”
Draco made a noncommittal noise, but she couldn’t help but notice the tips of his ears turning pink as he continued to study the record. “Right. Well, that’s… good. Good for her.”
Hermione gave Crookshanks one last pet as she headed towards the door. “I’m sure you’ll run into her one of these days– she’s part of our little girl gang– me, Pansy, Susan Bones, Luna, Ginny, and her.”
Draco scoffed. “I doubt it. I don’t attend many social events as of late, Granger.”
Her hand hovered above the doorknob. “True,” she shrugged. “But that could always change. And I forgot to mention– Padma also said to tell you hello.”
“She did?”
Hermione nodded, feigning indifference. “Yes, she’s asked after you a few times, come to think of it. She’s good that way, Padma. Anyways, thanks again, Draco! Bye, Crooks!”
“Granger, I–”
She shut the door before he could finish, smiling to herself as she Disapparated.
-----------------------
Hermione took a deep, steadying breath as she met Theo’s eyes.
He gave her a reassuring smile, none of his own nerves showing. “Ready?”
“I think so.” Hermione squeezed his hand one last time as they both reached for the Portkey, a chipped china dish courtesy of the Ministry.
The familiar pull yanked them through the air, and for a dizzying second, the world spun around her. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the sensation ended, and she staggered slightly, steadying herself with a breath.
Theo caught her arm as she stumbled, steadying her. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she assured him, shaking her head to clear it. “Just… not used to this much movement.”
She laughed softly, trying to hide her racing heart. The moment the Portkey had released them, her mind had shifted to a hundred things at once. The Institute, the upcoming meetings, checking into their hotel, the strange unfamiliarity of being in a new country, even the buzzing excitement of it all.
The Brazilian Magical Embassy was sleek, modern, with a clean, professional vibe, but still had traces of the local ambience– warmth, color, an underlying sense of movement. It was everything that London was not, and something about that felt quietly thrilling.
“Senhorita Granger!”
Hermione turned at the sound of her name and immediately spotted a sharply dressed man striding toward them. He was in his early forties, his dark hair neatly combed, and his suit tailored to perfection. Despite the formal attire, there was a certain relaxed quality about him– his posture was confident, his face relaxed into an easy smile.
“João Vasques,” he said, offering his hand for her to shake. “It’s an honor to meet you, Hermione Granger. And your companion, Senhor…”
Theo straightened beside her. “Theodore Nott,” he said, offering his hand.
Hermione watched the man’s face to see if he’d react to the surname, but he seemed unaffected. “A pleasure. I am the Head of the Embassy’s Magical Affairs Division here in São Paulo. Kingsley Shacklebolt himself asked me to ensure you had everything you needed upon your arrival. You must be a very important member of his staff, then, Miss Granger.”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that. We’re old friends, Kingsley and I,” Hermione said mildly.
“Of course. And you are humble as well.” He smiled. “I understand you’ll be meeting with Dr. Silva and his team here, correct?”
She gave a tight-lipped smile. “That’s right.”
“Excellent. I must admit that I myself am not terribly familiar with Dr. Silva’s work, but I’m told he is the best in his field. I’m sure you will be in good hands.”
“Yes, I think so too.” Hermione smiled pleasantly despite her nerves.
“Well then, all that aside, welcome to São Paulo!” He grinned broadly at them. “Everything has been arranged for you, including a private car you are welcome to use at your own disposal. We prefer this method of transportation for our international tourists to avoid Muggle detection. Security measures are a bit tighter in that area nowadays, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
He gestured for them to follow him down a long hallway, and Hermione had to force herself not to stop and admire the artwork on the walls.
“The car is waiting outside to take you to your hotel. Is there anything else I can do to be of service before that?”
Hermione glanced at Theo. “No, I think we can manage. Thank you, Mr. Vasques, you’ve been very helpful.”
“My pleasure,” he said, giving her another warm smile. “Enjoy the city, both of you. And please reach out if you find yourself needing anything at all during your visit.”
The sun was high and hot as they stepped out of the Embassy into the teeming street. Outside, the air was a dense, honeyed warmth that Hermione found instantly disorienting and thrilling in equal measure. Even in the city’s financial district, São Paulo felt alive.
The streets were a kinetic blur of street vendors, pedestrians, taxis, bicycles, buses and delivery trucks, all moving with an unspoken urgency. It was a shocking contrast to the city they’d left behind– where the cold bit at one’s skin, the ground was still covered in frost, and even in the busiest parts, things moved at a slower, more gradual pace.
There was a certain smell to São Paulo, a layered, living scent of cooking oil and citrus, exhaust and crushed greenery, perfume of passerby, and the faintest undercurrent of river water.
The last time Hermione had left Britain was maybe two years ago, when she’d traveled to Croatia for a Magical Law summit. She’d been so wrapped up in her speech, press conferences, and meetings she’d barely had time to do any exploring. This was different. Although she wasn’t in Brazil for pleasure, exactly, Hermione felt a sudden thrill at the fact that she wasn’t tethered to a Ministry mandated schedule, but her own whims and direction. She felt untethered, electric– untouchable for a split second, the world full of neon and possibility and humming with a different sort of magic than the one she was accustomed to.
Theo was quiet at her side, his brow faintly furrowed, green eyes darting from face to face, window to window, like he was cataloguing every possible escape route. Hermione knew the signs. There was a fine, invisible tremor to him; not fear, exactly, but the animal vigilance that he adopted anytime they left the flat, something that a life of looking over his shoulder and surviving Azkaban had carved into him.
She reached for his hand. His fingers were cold, rigid, but after a moment he squeezed back, and she felt a thrill of pride at the simple, wordless victory.
The driver was waiting for them beside a sleek silver sedan, holding a sign with her name on it. He wore mirrored sunglasses and a crisp white button-up, silently opening the door for them with a nod of his head before climbing into the driver’s seat.
And then, they were off. Hermione smiled at Theo’s white-knuckled tension, remembering that the last time they’d been in the car together was when she’d driven them out to the cottage for a weekend getaway so many months ago.
“Alright?” she whispered to him, squeezing his hand once more.
He gave a stiff nod. “Fine. Just… taking it all in. You?”
She smiled. “I’m good.”
They checked into their hotel– a tall, monolithic glass tower right on Avenida Paulista, with a lobby like a jewelry box, all golden-veined marble, low-slung velvet couches in bright tropical colors, and a wall of living greenery that nearly swallowed the front desk. There were orchids everywhere– at the entry, in the lifts, even in their room, which overlooked the city, giving them the most spectacular view.
The bed was a vast white expanse, the windows stretched floor to ceiling, and there was a handwritten note (“Bem-vindos, Senhorita Granger!”) next to a basket of fruit and a bottle of Brazilian red– Miolo Seival–waiting on the coffee table.
After pulling their shrunken-down luggage out of her pockets and enlarging it, Hermione glanced around in stunned silence. “This is so over the top,” she muttered. “Kingsley’s going to get an earful from me whenever I speak to him next.”
“It was good of him to take care of all this, though,” Theo said, peering down to the busy street below them. He gave an almost visible shudder at the sight before turning around to face her.
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled. “It was. I told him it wasn’t necessary but he insisted, said I was long overdue for a vacation. And when I told him what we were doing here, he was very encouraging of me taking the time off to go.”
She sighed. “Just a waste of our Ministry budget though, if you ask me.”
Theo shrugged. “Honestly, the Ministry owes you at least five paid vacations, if you ask me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She perched on the edge of the bed for a moment, admiring the view and the chaos of the street below, then turned to Theo and smiled slyly. “I think I’ll go take a shower,” she announced, pushing herself up and stretching in the sunlight that spilled through the giant windows.
She glanced at him. “Care to join me? Given your nerves, I think you deserve some relaxation.” She delivered the line deadpan, but there was a glint in her eyes that made it more invitation than suggestion.
Theo blinked, caught off guard, then recovered with a slow grin. “You never have to ask me twice, Granger.”
-------------------------
She ducked into the marble bathroom, leaving the door open behind her as she began to shed her clothes, knowing he’d follow. The room was absurd, all white and gold and glass, a rainforest shower as big as a walk-in closet, a vanity lined with expensive-looking toiletry bottles.
She let the water run until the room was thick with steam, then stepped in and sighed as the hot water needled her scalp and her shoulders.
The shower itself was ridiculous, far too large for one person, with a bench inset against one wall and a rain head that spanned the entire ceiling. She stood in the stream with her eyes closed and let the day dissolve away, every muscle in her body relaxing into something unspooled and blissful.
She didn’t hear Theo come in, but she felt the change in the air when he did, the subtle drop in pressure as the door creaked shut.
A moment later she heard the muffled thump of his shirt hitting the floor, then his warm hands snaked around her waist from behind. She turned to face him, opening her eyes and smiling at the sight of him– tousled hair, green eyes fixed on her, his cheeks flushed from the heat or anticipation, or maybe a combination of the two.
And then her eyes traveled down, taking in the angles and edges of him– past his jawline, to the small Azkaban tattoo on his neck she’d traced with her tongue a thousand times, the sun-kissed stretch of his collarbones, the defined slope of his chest tapering to a flat stomach, all the subtle muscle that came from years of compulsive walking and nervous energy. Then they traveled down his arm where the Dark Mark wrapped around his forearm possessively.
He reminded her of a boy from one of the novels she used to read as a girl. Lanky, yes, but dangerous in a way that made her giddy, that made her body hum with desire. Sometimes it came as a surprise to Hermione, the way she still wanted Theo almost constantly, the way her pulse quickened when he was close, how his naked body made her go weak in the knees.
She followed every line of him, the Adonis belt narrowing to the faintest dip above his hipbones, the sinuous cord of his thighs, the guarded way he moved, as if his body was always preparing for a blow. But he was all softness here, for her, the tension melting out of him, and she marveled at him– at his cock, already half hard, thick and flushed, hanging heavy and vulnerable between his legs.
She’d never get over it, how this taciturn, sardonic man, so full of defenses, could be made to shudder and gasp for her, could be reduced to a trembling, desperate thing with just her hands and her mouth.
Hermione reached down and wrapped her hand around him, slow and deliberate, tugging him closer. He groaned, dropping his forehead to her shoulder and biting down gently, which made her shiver and tighten her grip.
"You're going to bruise me," she whispered.
“Good,” he murmured against her collarbone, the timbre of his voice vibrating through her skin.
She laughed breathlessly, and he kissed down her neck, then lower, wetting a trail over her collarbone, her chest, until he found one peaked nipple and sucked it into his mouth. She hissed, heat prickling down her spine, and he groaned in response, palming her breast and rolling the nipple between his fingers.
She let her head tip back against the tile, letting the water run down her face. Without thinking, she reached for his jaw, fingers tangling in the soaked mess of his hair, pulling him up to kiss her, open, hungry, like they’d both been starving for this.
It was always like this, with him. She could never get enough, and the push-pull of their bodies, her hands gripping at his shoulders, his palms sliding up and down her back, made the air between them spark and crackle, somehow. Wrapping a thigh around the back of his leg to steady herself, she drove him back against the cool marble of the shower wall. He grunted in surprise when she reached down and stroked him, slow at first but growing bolder as he hardened in her grip, his hips moving of their own accord.
Suddenly, he lifted her up and flipped her around, bending her over the bench, and the mere authority of the gesture made her breath catch. The marble was slick against her palms, her breath fogging the glass in front of her, and for a split second she was aware of how exposed she was– knees bent, arse in the air, her curls clinging to her neck in wet ropes.
The steam made everything shimmer at the edges. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror through the shower glass, and the sight made her shudder; the bright splashes of color on her cheeks, the way her own eyes stared back at her, open and hungry. Behind her, Theo’s face was flushed and intent, jaw clenched, his hand splayed wide across her hip.
She watched his face as he eased her thighs apart and began to trail his fingers over her opening, his mouth parting slightly when he found her already slick for him. She couldn’t look away, not even when he hooked two fingers inside her and pressed up, making her cry out and clutch at the marble.
And then he pressed forward, his cock nudging into her, opening her inch by inch. She was stretched over the marble, face flushed, skin damp and tingling, and the only thought in her head was yes, just like that, please, please.
Hermione bit down on her lower lip as he pushed inside, slow at first, then with a smooth, devastating thrust that set her gasping.
She braced herself on her elbows, letting her head hang for a moment while she adjusted to the stretch, the fullness.
Theo’s grip turned possessive then, almost desperate, one hand on her hip, the other running up her spine and twisting in her hair. He leaned over her, hot breath against the nape of her neck, and for a second she closed her eyes, letting the sensation burn through her. Then she looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror once again, just past her own face– his eyes dark with focus, hair plastered to his forehead, mouth slack with awe and hunger.
He started to move, slow and rhythmic, each stroke making her gasp and clutch at the bench until her knuckles and knees ached. Water sluiced down her back, streaming between their bodies, turning heat into a kind of delirium.
In the mirror, their eyes locked– his burning and wild, hers blown wide and pleading. A single bead of water traced down his jaw and clung to his chin before falling, and she found herself utterly undone by that small point of focus, the way the water seemed to cling to him as if it, too, appreciated every angle and curve of his body the way she did.
She’d read about this, in fiction, in romance novels– those descriptions of mindless, molten pleasure, of body and mind unspooling until there was nothing left but raw sensation, but she’d always been suspicious.
Hermione was a cerebral person, rooted in analysis and words. Pleasure was real, yes, it was lovely, but it never eclipsed everything else, never completely quieted the buzzing in her head. Never made her feel like she was floating and untethered, shattering into a million pieces, forgetting her own name. Pleasure had simply meant something that felt good, something enjoyable.
Until Theo.
Something about him– his hands, his patience, the fact that he looked at her as if she’d hung constellations just for him– made it possible to lose herself, to let her mind blur out until she was only the thrum of her pulse and the heat of him inside her. That was where she found herself now, in the space that existed between their joined bodies, the fierce, blinding rush of being taken past thought altogether, where her edges blurred, dissolving into him, until she was less a person than a current.
The edge was coming fast this time, every nerve ending tightened to a single snapping point, so sharp it made her gasp. Theo must have sensed it, because he slowed, leaned over, and pressed his face to the curve of her neck.
“Look at you,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on hers in the mirror. “So fucking beautiful.”
His voice was low and rough, and the words sliced through her, making her whimper. He rutted into her, each thrust expertly timed, relentless but never careless. She fought to keep her eyes open, to hold his gaze, the coil in her belly twisting tighter with each movement.
He slowed again, and she was grateful and desperate all at once, on the edge but not quite over it. He tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her upright, flush against his body, his mouth on her shoulder, then her ear.
“Are you really mine?” he whispered, barely audible over the hiss of the shower. “Tell me you’re mine forever, Hermione. Say it.”
She twisted to look at him, and in that moment he looked so open, so stripped bare, that she could barely breathe. She wanted to say everything at once, to give him every part of her, to crawl inside him and share the same heartbeat.
“I’m yours,” she whimpered. “Only yours, always.”
Her voice broke on the moan, and he lost it, his grip bruising her hips as he pistoned into her, his forehead pressed to the slick curve of her shoulder.
“Fuck, Hermione, I love you,” he choked, and she tumbled over the edge, her body unraveling all at once, the orgasm a violent, dizzying wave that left her clawing at the marble and crying out his name.
He followed in the same instant, his shuddering gasp hot against her ear, his hands everywhere– her breasts, her throat, her belly, as if he needed to anchor himself to every part of her at once.
They stayed that way for a moment, breathless and lightheaded before he turned her around so she was sitting on the bench and looking up at him. He pressed kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her shoulders, his breathing still ragged. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he buried his face in her hair and held her close.
Afterwards, they dressed in fluffy hotel robes and crawled into bed even though it was only five o’clock. Hermione found a Portuguese movie with English subtitles on the telly. They called down for room service while Theo uncorked the bottle of wine that had been waiting for them. It was a dark, ruby-red thing that stained their lips as they drank straight from the bottle despite how expensive it was.
They ordered far too much food– picanha steak with garlicky rice, feijoada with hunks of pork and black beans, sweet plantains, pão de queijo, and mousse de maracujá, deliciously tart and creamy.
They ate it all right there in bed, licking salt from their fingers, trading forkfuls and laughing at their own lack of decorum. She felt oddly young and free, her hair still wet from the shower and curling down her spine, cheeks flushed and heart beating pleasantly fast in her chest.
It was only as the city lights came up and the sky turned the improbable shade of violet that signaled dusk in the tropics that Hermione realized how completely, utterly happy she was in that moment.
Not a transient happiness, not a borrowed or conditional one, but a kind of full-body contentment that made her want to wrap the whole evening in wax paper and tuck it away, preserved just as it was. Bottle it up, perhaps, like a potion made of pure dopamine, for grey, rainy days in London when she didn’t feel like getting out of bed.
Hermione thought about the days to come, about the meeting with Dr. Silva, about the possibility of failure or, more terrifying still, success. She had run each scenario through her head a thousand times, always searching for the flaw, the angle she’d missed, a glaring possibility of disaster she’d overlooked.
But tonight, for the first time, the worry felt dulled, inconsequential. Because Theo was warm and real and alive beside her, laughing and touching her. And Hermione was happy.
“I love São Paulo,” Theo announced, breaking her reverie. “I’ve decided.”
She smirked at him. “All we’ve seen so far is the inside of our hotel room.”
“That’s not true,” he said somberly. “I’ve seen you naked inside our hotel room. I can’t imagine anything here could be more exciting than that.”
Hermione laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”
But she loved him a little more for it. She could feel her smile stretching wide and unselfconscious across her face, could feel that sense of delirious brightness radiating out from her.
Like she was finally occupying the life she was always meant to have, an existence stitched together from equal parts laughter, yearning, and the steady truth of Theo’s devotion, of her soft place to land. It was dizzying, the sense of possibility that hung in the air, the way the city seemed to hum in tune with her pulse.
Tomorrow, they’d go meet Dr. Silva, and the rest was an unknown, a puzzle that she hadn’t yet solved. But for once, it didn’t feel terrifying.
How long had it been since she’d felt this light?
Since she’d been able to look at herself in the mirror and think about the future without flinching, without bracing for disappointment or loss? It had been years, she thought.
And it wasn’t just different now because she had someone with her to face the problems– it was the knowledge that, should everything fall apart, should nothing go as planned, this thing was certain.
As sure as her own breathing, there was Theo, who loved her. Who held her hand and knew the darkest corners of her mind, the parts of her she’d never shown anyone else. Whose breathing she fell asleep to every night and whose warmth she woke next to every morning. Who touched her with a reverence she’d never thought possible, who kept her nightmares at bay, laid himself bare before her and told her often that he would do anything for her.
And Hermione knew with pure certainty that no matter what happened, she had this, and this was enough.
----------------------------
For you I'd wait 'til kingdom come
Until my day, my day is done
And say you'll come and set me free
Just say you'll wait, you'll wait for me
In your tears and in your blood
In your fire and in your flood
I hear you laugh, I heard you sing
I wouldn't change a single thing
And the wheels just keep on turning
The drummers begin to drum
I don't know which way I'm going
I don't know what I've become
-Coldplay
Chapter 31: Build Me Up From Bones
Notes:
Tysm for your patience, those who are still reading! Doing my best to stay on top of updates.
Hope you enjoy this one, another very fun one to write. Although tbh, it was a labor of love. I've never been to Brazil, do not speak any Portuguese, and know absolutely nothing about neuroscience SOOO if you notice any errors, please know that this was all written based on my own bits of research on the Internet, ha.
Special shoutout, as always, to my wonderful beta Joycemaliks who was my expert on all things Portuguese (purely a coincidence, btw).
Love you all, thank you for the comments and kudos <3
Chapter Text
Hermione smoothed her skirt, glancing around nervously from her vantage point in the lobby. The Institute of Magical Neuroscience was domed and dazzling, a sweeping expanse of glass and stone that shimmered like a mirage under the morning sun. She could see the faint pulsating of wards outside the window. It looked like something out of a dream, or maybe an architect’s fervent fantasy of the future– brilliant white columns flanked by mirrored panels that reflected the palm trees and the wide, humming avenue beyond. She felt like a fish out of water, out of place and disoriented.
Beside her, Theo reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. Breathe, the gesture seemed to say.
He didn’t need to say the words aloud– she knew he was thinking them. He was the calm to her storm today. She’d changed clothes five times that morning, oscillating between formal and casual, professional and unassuming, as if the right ensemble might somehow tip the scales of fate. Theo had sat patiently on the bed, murmuring his approval of each outfit, agreeing with her when she huffed that one was too dressy or too stuffy, but then quickly changing his tune when she decided maybe the same one wasn’t so bad after all.
She’d finally settled on a soft white blouse tucked into a slip-style silky emerald skirt, subtle but sharp, and a pair of black loafers that Ginny called her “sensible business bitch shoes.” It had taken almost thirty minutes to wrangle her hair into a sleek bun, and she was sure it wouldn’t hold up for more than an hour.
She could see her own reflection fractured and multiplied in the glass, a row of Hermiones each a shade more nervous than the last. The lobby was alive with quiet activity– healers in cream-colored coats hustling clipboards from one end to the other, a magical coffee cart dispensing drinks to the waiting patients, a fountain in the middle of it all, trickling quietly in the background.
Hermione turned to Theo to say something– she wasn’t even sure what– when a door near the reception desk swung open, and a man in a deep blue suit strode out. He was of medium height and build, with closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and the air of someone constantly in motion even when standing still.
Pausing at the receptionist’s desk, he said something to her in Portuguese. The receptionist leaned in and said something quietly in response, her eyes flicking towards Theo and Hermione, to which he nodded once.
“He was making sure his schedule was cleared for the rest of the day, I think,” Theo whispered.
Hermione’s eyes snapped over to him, brow furrowing in confusion. “You understood that?”
He shrugged, looking bashful. “My mother spoke six languages, remember? You think she didn’t subject me to as many private language tutors as money could buy?”
She eyed him curiously despite her nerves. “You had a Portuguese tutor?”
“At some point. Along with French, Spanish, Mandarin, Arabic, and Italian, of course.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I only remember bits and pieces.”
Hermione studied him like she’d never seen him before. He was being modest, of course– clearly, he remembered more than he was letting on, because he’d been able to make out a full, almost hushed exchange with ease. Theo really was quite an enigma sometimes. How was he just now sharing this information?
She barely had time to dwell on it, because the man that must be Dr. Silva was now walking towards them.
“Hermione Granger!” The man clapped his hands together as he approached, smiling warmly.
Hermione found that she liked him immediately. She rose to greet him, extending her hand. “Hello– Dr. Silva, I assume?”
“That is me,” he said, still smiling. He turned to Theo. “And you must be Miss Granger’s companion. Mr. Theodore Nott, yes?”
Theo cleared his throat, shaking his hand as well. “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Silva.”
He smiled kindly. “You have come a long way, my English friends.”
“Oh, it was quite an easy journey, thanks to international Portkeys,” Hermione said.
“Ah, yes. The wonder of magic,” Dr. Silva said. “Do you have a few moments now? I realize we are not scheduled to meet for another ten minutes, but I would be happy to show you around the Institute before we sit and talk about your case.”
“Of course,” she said, wincing at how overeager she sounded. “We’d love to see the facility.”
He gestured for them to follow, and they entered an airy corridor lined with frosted glass doors, each etched with a different geometric pattern. The corridor curved gently, and as they rounded the bend, a faint thrum of energy could be felt, as if the building itself hummed with the possibility of new discovery.
“As you likely know, the Institute was built in response to the Obliviation Crisis– the mass memory tampering in Manaus– the non-magical news called it the 'Amnesia Wave,' because so many people suffered from short or long-term memory loss, seemingly without explanation." His English was fluent and accented in a way that sounded softly musical, despite the gravity of his words.
“Yes,” Hermione said, shaking her head sadly. “How awful. I can’t begin to imagine.”
Silva smiled grimly. “It was quite a mess, but it forced us to become very creative. That is how the Instituto de Magia e Neurociência was born.”
He paused in front of a plaque that Hermione assumed detailed the history of the Institute, although she could not read the words.
Silva continued. “The earliest days, it was all triage. Emergency spellwork and panicked officials worried about lawsuits, Healers on neverending rotations with very little sleep. But in the end, it was not magic alone that helped us tackle the problem, but a combination of many things. We took all the best methods from the Muggle neurological sciences and paired them with the discipline of magical Memory Healing. The result, I think, is quite special,” Dr. Silva said, opening a door and gesturing them into a wide observation gallery overlooking a laboratory below.
Hermione gasped as she took in the sight of a glowing, pulsing diagram of what looked to be a human brain. Healers and researchers huddled around it, pointing out different things with their wands. One young woman took notes on some sort of charmed whiteboard that looked more like a computer screen.
“What are they doing?” She asked, almost involuntarily, her voice hushed.
“At the moment, they are practicing neuromapping,” he explained. “See the way certain neural pathways are lighting up? This is in response to stimuli– music, food, photos, smells. Once we can identify these connections, it allows us to slowly restore the pathways linked to the stimuli the patient’s brain has already responded to, creating stronger, more grounded memories.”
“Fascinating,” she murmured.
“It is,” Silva agreed. “Even when an experienced caster restores one’s memories, there are often gaps, or the memories are surface-level, not as ingrained as they would be prior to Obliviation. We sought to change that.”
Beside her, Theo had also frozen in awe of the scene in front of them. “This is… incredible,” he said quietly, mostly to Hermione.
But Dr. Silva heard him anyway, smiling broadly. “You think so? I do, as well. Come, I’ll show you the rest.”
Hermione had to tear herself away from the lab, following Dr. Silva down the winding hallway. He paused, gesturing at a series of doors as they passed. “These are our assessment wards. Full privacy, minimal magic, so the readings are as accurate as possible. If you would like, I can show you one?”
“Yes, please!” Hermione didn’t bother to hide the enthusiasm this time, and she heard Theo chuckle softly.
Dr. Silva opened the next door with a flourish. Inside, it looked remarkably like a Muggle examination room– muted blue walls, padded chairs, a desk with a computer, a sink, those quintessential blue rubber gloves in a box on the counter.
Hermione stepped inside, immediately assaulted by the crisp scent of antiseptic and new plastic. The desk held an honest-to-god computer, its blue screen humming with lines of code alongside a stack of parchment bound in twine. The effect was at once clinical and magical, a seamless fusion that felt more advanced than anything Hermione had seen in England.
"Do you use Muggle technology for all your work here?" she asked, unable to mask her curiosity.
“We do now, although we combine it with magical methods as well. As you can see,” he gestured to the computer, “the keyboard has letters as well as runic glyphs.”
Theo, usually reticent in new situations, looked genuinely captivated as he stepped forward to examine the device. “But I thought magic interfered with Muggle electronics?” he asked almost absently, tilting his head as he examined the screen.
Hermione had once taken him to the Muggle public library and showed him how to use a computer. They often visited bookstores and libraries on the weekends, and she’d noticed the way his eyes would linger curiously on the computers. She thought he might’ve been interested in learning how to work one.
She’d been correct– he spent nearly two hours typing things into the search engine, amazed at how easily accessible information was. Clearly, his interest hadn’t faded, because he was still staring at the computer in front of him with an almost boylike wonder.
Dr. Silva’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “You are correct. Traditional wards do cause interference. But we’ve developed a new kind of shielding– what we call ‘camadas encantadas’– layered enchantments that insulate and stabilize the technology rather than repel it. It is not perfect, but it allows us to use non-magic neurological monitoring equipment without shorting out the moment a wand enters the room.”
Theo turned to Hermione, visibly impressed. “Makes you wonder why we don’t have this back home,” he said, uncharacteristically talkative.
Hermione smiled. “Yes, unfortunately, British magical institutions are still not very… welcoming of Muggle ideas.”
Dr. Silva nodded. “Muggle, that is what you call non-magical people in England, yes?”
“Do you have another word for them here?” Hermione asked.
“The most commonly used Portuguese word is Trouxas,” Dr. Silva explained. “I find the term to be… a bit elitist, so here at the Institute we use Semencantos. It simply means ‘without magic.’ In America, they are called ‘no-maj,’ and this term is closer to that one.”
Dr. Silva led them out of the examination room, stopping to show them a few more places, including a long-term ward for patients who needed more extensive, around-the-clock monitoring. There were several more research rooms and labs, a sleek cafeteria, even a play area for children. Finally, they reached a sleek, unmarked door at the end of the corridor.
“Here we are. My office.”
He opened it with a tap of his wand, revealing a high-ceilinged room lined with spellbound glass bookshelves and a wide desk scattered with scrolls, folders, and a few framed photographs of what Hermione assumed to be his family.
“Please, have a seat,” Dr. Silva said, waving his wand to conjure two cushioned chairs on the opposite side of his desk. “Can I offer the two of you anything to drink? Perhaps a cafezinho?”
“That would be lovely,” Hermione said, although she knew the last thing she needed was caffeine, jittery as she was.
Theo accepted as well, and with a flick of his wand, a pitcher, which had been steeping the coffee, poured its contents into three small mugs. They floated over and landed on the desk in front of them gracefully.
“In England, you have tea. In Brazil, we have coffee,” Dr. Silva said, lifting his mug in a salute.
There was a beat of silence as they sipped their drinks, and Silva watched them with a smile on his face. “It is good, yes?”
“Delicious,” Hermione replied earnestly, savoring the rich, slightly sweet bitterness that clung to the back of her tongue. It was much stronger than anything she’d had in London.
Glancing over at Theo, she saw that he had already drained the contents of his mug and was now tapping his fingers against his chair, one of his nervous habits. She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling– this was the same man who’d never even tried a latte a year and a half ago.
“So,” Dr. Silva said, setting his own mug down and meeting Hermione’s eyes. “Tell me, in your own words, what happened with your parents. I hope you don’t mind if I take notes– is a quick-notes quill fine with you?”
“Of course.” She took a deep breath, and Theo reached over and squeezed her hand.
She straightened then began. “As I’m sure you know, during the war, Muggles and the families of Muggle-born witches and wizards became a target for Voldemort and his army. I became particularly concerned for the safety of my parents, due to my friendship with Harry Potter and involvement with the Order of the Phoenix. You must understand, my parents were not very well-informed about the state of affairs in the wizarding world. Perhaps that is my own fault, but…”
Silva interjected, “No need to place blame on yourself here, Ms. Granger.”
“Right. Sorry.” She gave a tight-lipped smile before continuing.
“I knew that if I explained to my parents what was happening, they wouldn’t allow me to fight. In fact, I was certain they’d try to keep me away from the wizarding world as a whole– they would’ve believed I’d be safer with them, away from my friends, away from Hogwarts.”
She shook her head sadly. “Of course, that wasn’t the case– it would be very easy for Death Eaters to track our family down. So I did what I believed to be my best option at the time– I performed a memory charm on them, without their consent.”
Pushing past the way her voice wavered, she continued. “First off, I erased any trace of myself from their memories, so they wouldn’t remember that they had a daughter in the first place. I made them believe they were new people entirely– I gave them new names, new identities, and planted the idea in their heads of moving to Australia to start a new life for themselves.”
The quill scratched diligently against the parchment on his desk, flipping to a new page as she finished.
Dr. Silva raised an eyebrow. “And you performed this charm yourself? At age…”
“Sixteen.”
He raised his eyebrows. “At age sixteen. That was… very advanced magic, Miss Granger. Did you have any formal training in memory charms?”
“Not really, no,” she admitted. “I did a lot of research beforehand and practiced on myself. Just small modifications, inconsequential things to test the strength of the spells.”
The quill continued its scratching. “I see. Tell me about when you attempted to reverse the spell, if you would.”
Hermione swallowed– this was the hard part. Theo began rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, gentle and grounding.
“About a year after the war, I traveled to Australia. It had taken me some time to… recover. I did as much research as I could, and it took a few weeks to track my parents down with their new identities. When I found them, I showed up at their house and claimed to be a friend of a friend. Once they invited me in, I attempted to reverse the charm.”
She drew in a breath. “It did not go as planned.”
“I am not surprised,” Dr. Silva said, but his voice was not judgemental. “Memory reversal spells are in some ways, even more complex than Obliviation. There are many ways they can go awry.”
“Yes,” Hermione said, her voice coming out quieter than she intended. “I’m still not sure exactly what went wrong. My father was very disoriented– he seemed almost caught between his old and new identity, and he seemed to recognize me but couldn’t place me. My mother was… distraught. She knew me, but it seemed like everything came rushing back very quickly and it was too much for her to handle at once.”
Dr. Silva gave a thoughtful hum, folding his hands beneath his chin as the quill continued to scratch softly beside him.
“What you’ve described,” he began, “is not uncommon in cases of long-term memory reconstruction. Especially those rooted in emotional trauma or identity fragmentation.”
Hermione sat up a little straighter. “Identity fragmentation?”
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Let me explain. In magical neuroscience, we understand memory not as a single, isolated strand, but as a vast web– interconnected, layered, and deeply influenced by emotion. A strong memory, particularly one tied to your sense of self, is supported by hundreds, sometimes thousands, of these small anchor points. Smells. Songs. Physical habits. Emotional cues. As you saw in the lab we visited earlier.”
He gestured loosely toward her. “When you removed yourself from your parents’ memories, you weren’t just excising a name or a few snapshots. You were pulling out an entire foundational thread. Their role as your parents– your role as their daughter– is not just a series of facts. It is… identity. It is emotion. It is felt memory.”
His gaze was firm but not unkind. “Without it, the surrounding structure begins to rewire itself to compensate, to make sense of the gap. That is why your father struggled to distinguish between timelines. The old and the new are trying to coexist in the same neural space.”
Hermione frowned, processing the words. “And my mother? What about her reaction?”
“What we have found here at the Institute is that a gradual reintroduction is most helpful. We call it ‘cognitive priming.’ Without it, the brain can react defensively. Especially in Semencantos, who are not physiologically adapted to magical memory alterations. It can trigger a cascade effect; memories re-entering too rapidly, without integration. Think of it like flooding a room with light after years in darkness. There is pain. Disorientation. Sometimes rejection.”
Hermione felt the guilt rising like bile again in her throat. “I never should have gone into it with the assumption that I could handle it myself,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as vulnerable as she felt. “It was… callous. Overly impulsive and self-assured.”
“You are very hard on yourself, Miss Granger,” Dr. Silva said gently. “I do not believe you were callous, or any of these other words you use to describe your actions. What I see is someone who made an impossible choice with the tools she had– someone who acted out of love, not arrogance.”
She felt a lump in her throat and willed herself not to cry. She stared down at her lap, at Theo’s hand still wrapped around hers.
Dr. Silva continued in a soft but authoritative tone. “We know that memory magic is about precision, incantation, and wandwork. When there are emotions involved– emotions like love, anger, concern, guilt– this can… complicate things.”
He leaned forward. “Even with the very best intentions, it can make us more prone to mistakes if we care about our subjects on a personal level, like you do about your mother and father. You cannot be expected to be objective in this situation, you understand that, Ms. Granger?”
“I think so.”
He nodded. “Which is why,” he continued. “I believe it would be best to bring your parents here, to the Institute for extensive study and treatment.”
Hermione lifted her eyes, startled. “Bring them here?”
Dr. Silva nodded. “Yes. I realize it may seem abrupt, but due to the time that has already elapsed, I believe it would be most beneficial to work with them in a controlled, specialized environment. The Institute is designed for this. We can monitor their neural responses in real time and adjust our methods as needed.”
Theo’s brows knitted together. “There might be complications, though right? Getting them to Brazil from Australia, their former citizenship in Britain, the fact that they’re Muggles…”
Hermione’s mind, too, was already spinning with the layers of red tape they were sure to encounter.
Dr. Silva smiled tightly. “Ah, yes. Of course there would need to be formal coordination between the Australian Ministry of Magic, the British Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the Brazilian Ministry’s Department of Magical Health and International Ethics. I can begin the request on our end, but your cooperation will be essential in obtaining approval from your home ministries.”
Hermione’s heartbeat quickened. This was moving so much quicker than she’d assumed it would. “I can get in touch with Kingsley Shacklebolt,” she said, biting her lip nervously, her wind whirling. “Once I speak with him, I imagine that will get things moving.”
Dr. Silva looked surprised. “Minister Shacklebolt?”
Hermione nodded sheepishly. “He’s my boss, technically, but also a friend. We fought a war together– rode on the back of a Thestral together, actually.” well, excuse me
Theo’s head snapped over to her. “You never told me that.”
Dr. Silva was smiling, looking both interested and amused. “Very well, it sounds like you are well-connected, Ms. Granger. Not that I’m surprised. But as for transportation… that may be the most delicate matter of all.”
Hermione’s stomach dropped slightly. “Because of the ethics.”
“Yes. We will cross that bridge when we get to it, but we will likely not be able to obtain full consent from your parents before transporting them to the Institute, for reasons I’m sure you can imagine.”
She nodded.
“In such cases,” he continued, “a limited Confundus Charm may be necessary to help them travel without distress. But that decision must be made carefully and documented thoroughly. We follow strict ethical guidelines here at the Institute.”
“Of course,” she murmured.
“I can assist with the preparation,” Dr. Silva offered. “We will provide documentation outlining our protocols and safeguards. The British Ministry may assign an ethics liaison to oversee the transition. That’s standard. I recommend starting with formal letters of intent. If you'd like, I can help you draft them. We could begin working on this as soon as tomorrow.”
Hermione nodded again, overwhelmed but grateful. “Yes. Please. That would be… very helpful.”
He gave her a reassuring smile. “You’ve done the hard part already, Miss Granger. You protected them. You found them again. Now let us help you bring them home to themselves.”
She looked over at Theo, whose expression was full of unwavering support. Something in her settled. “Yes. Let’s do it.”
----------------------------
They rode the elevator in silence, Hermione’s mind a static rush of exhaustion and possibility. She’d been running the numbers before they’d even left Dr. Silva’s office– the number of hours it would take to contact the Ministry, the number of signatures needed for each form, the number of ways this could still fall through.
She was already drafting a bullet-pointed action plan in her mind, and the only thing she wanted more than to pull out her magical ledger and start a to-do list was to crawl between the crisp sheets of their hotel bed and sleep for a year.
She felt exhausted but frantic at the same time, a feeling she knew all too well but despised nonetheless.
Back at their room, Hermione kicked off her shoes and immediately shed the business-casual attire in favor of a pair of Theo’s joggers and an oversized t-shirt of her dad’s.
She moved on autopilot– tying her hair into a loose knot, muttering a cleansing charm on her face, and already reaching for the ledger that sat waiting on the nightstand.
Theo, sitting at the edge of the bed, caught her wrist before she could open it. “The to-do list can wait,” he said gently.
“But I need to–”
He didn’t let go. “Take a nap, Hermione. Please.”
She hesitated. Then, reluctantly, set the ledger down. “Fine,” she muttered, climbing into bed and tugging the duvet up to her chin. “But wake me in an hour, okay? Not a minute more.”
He smirked. “Yes, your highness.”
When she woke, the light outside had shifted to a deep gold, painting the hotel room in warm amber hues. For a brief, disoriented second, she forgot where she was, until she saw Theo sitting beside her, gently stroking her hair.
She blinked. “Was I out for longer than an hour?”
“Nope. Sixty minutes exactly, just like I promised.” He grinned.
Hermione squinted at him, taking in his appearance in drowsy confusion. He’d changed his clothes, but not into loungewear like she had on. Instead, he wore a soft white linen button-up, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and a pair of tan trousers. He looked like he belonged on a yacht, or at the opening of a modern art gallery, and Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the incongruity of her own outfit.
“You look nice,” she said, sitting up and stretching. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Why do you look so nice?”
Theo only shrugged, a faintly mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I made a reservation. You should probably get dressed if we’re going to make it in time.”
He reached over to gently smooth a rogue curl behind her ear. “And before you ask, yes, I’ll tell you where we’re going, if you insist– but I think you’ll like the surprise.”
Hermione’s eyebrows jumped of their own accord. “You made a reservation? In a city neither of us have been to before?”
“I might have made it weeks ago,” Theo confessed, sounding sheepish.
“When you told me the date you’d scheduled the first meeting with Dr. Silva, actually.” He shrugged, refusing to meet her eyes. “I thought you’d want something to look forward to afterwards, regardless of the outcome.”
His hands shoved in his pockets, Theo radiated an almost bashful energy. His cheeks were faintly flushed and he kept glancing at her nervously, trying to gauge her reaction. It made Hermione’s chest squeeze.
He shifted. “If you’d rather stay here we can–”
She swung her legs out of bed and crossed the space between them, wrapping her arms around his middle and pressing her face into his shirt. He smelled like clean linen and something warm and faintly woodsy– his cologne, the one she liked best, the one he wore on purpose when he wanted her to notice.
“No, let’s go,” she murmured against his chest. “Give me twenty minutes.”
She felt him relax. “Are you sure?”
“Of course,” she smiled, already heading into the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, Hermione emerged in a soft slate-blue dress that hit mid-calf, her hair charmed into loose waves and a pair of earrings she hadn’t worn in months– tiny gold hoops her mum had given her for Christmas when she was fourteen, and of course, the sun pendant from Theo. He looked up from where he was tying his shoes and paused, visibly stunned.
“You’re staring,” she said shyly.
“Can you blame me? You look beautiful, Hermione.”
Her cheeks heated. “Thank you.”
The car was waiting– same driver, same mirrored sunglasses obscuring any hint of his mood. The streets of São Paulo were even more kinetic in the evening, alive with the promise of rain and the sharp, high music of motorbikes weaving through traffic. Hermione craned her neck at every intersection, memorizing the neon storefronts, the tangled lights in the trees, the painted murals that covered even the crumbling walls with color.
She'd expected dinner to be a trendy restaurant, or maybe one with good reviews in a Muggle area. But as the car moved through shimmering wards, she realized wherever they were headed was in a wizarding neighborhood. The driver wove through a narrow, flower-choked street and stopped in front of an enormous, vine-draped townhouse, and they stepped out.
The building looked less like a restaurant and more like an urban jungle, its terraces and balconies thick with orchids and ferns, every window spilling golden light into the gathering dusk.
On the gate, in curly green script, was a sign that read “O Arquivo das Flores.”
She raised an eyebrow as they approached the entrance. Up close, she could see the carvings etched into the stone façade– runes and swirling vines, ancient sigils woven together with creeping ivy. A pair of enchanted lanterns hung on either side of the massive wooden door, glowing with a soft greenish light. Theo rang the brass bell tucked beneath one, and a moment later, the door opened to reveal a woman in a silk-blend suit the color of night-blooming flowers. She regarded them with the clinical assessment of a bouncer at a nightclub, before her face broke into a smile so dazzling it almost seemed rehearsed.
“Senhora Hermione, Senhor Theodore? Sim, sim, come in, please,” she said, her voice rolling over their names like a drumbeat. She spoke English with a lilting cadence, then immediately pivoted to a rapid fire Portuguese as she ushered them into the foyer.
Hermione caught only a few words– something about “reservation,” “special table,” and “honra.”
To her surprise, Theo matched her with a hesitant but passable reply in Portuguese. Their hostess looked momentarily baffled before breaking into another wide grin, and launched into a story that was at least eighty percent lost on Hermione, although she tried her best to keep up.
“What is she saying?” she whispered.
“She’s explaining the history of the building,” he whispered back.
Hermione’s eyes widened. “Theo! Please,” she practically begged, not wanting to miss out on a single bit of history.
Theo squeezed her arm, then leaned in, his mouth barely an inch from her ear. “Apparently this place used to be a library,” he murmured, the words feather-light but urgent. “Very famous, too. The Biblioteca das Vidas.” Then, as if remembering all at once, he added, “She says it was the first magical lending library in Brazil. Six centuries old. Now it’s… half restaurant, half archive.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
“I’d never joke about books around you,” he murmured.
“Do they still have… books?” she asked, voice gone a little breathless.
“Apparently,” he whispered back, “the collection is now part of the décor. She said the main dining room is in the old reading hall, and if you’re interested, there’s a self-guided tour after dinner.”
She resisted the urge to squeal with delight.
They reached the dining room and the hostess led them to a table in the back of the room, where every wall was lined floor to ceiling with ancient, illuminated tomes. The air was perfumed with the scent of wood polish, fresh cut blooms, and the unmistakable scent of old books– one of her favorite smells in the world.
The tables themselves were dark wood, set with simple, mismatched china in varying botanical patterns.
When they sat, a waiter appeared at their table, presenting a pair of menus printed on thick, linen-textured parchment. The menu was entirely in Portuguese, but the waiter said something to Theo, who nodded and tapped Hermione’s menu once with his wand, and the words changed to English.
Hermione ran her fingers over the parchment, the translated menu clean and simple, printed in deep green ink. The categories were organized by ingredient– roots, leaves, fruits, and flowers, and everything was marked with small icons: sun for seasonal, droplet for foraged, leaf for vegetarian.
“I’ve never been somewhere like this before,” Hermione said, still a little breathless as she watched the waiter walk away.
“Neither have I. Do you like it?”
“It’s incredible,” she said earnestly. “I think I’m going to remember this night forever.”
Theo looked pleased by her answer, his cheeks flushing as he ducked to hide the wide grin that stole over his face. “Cocktails? Or should we get a bottle of wine?”
Hermione smiled, feeling a bit mischievous. “Why not both?”
In the end, she ordered a cocktail called ‘Do Desejo’– a pale golden drink named after an old love poem, made of sparkling sugarcane spirit, passionfruit, and pink pepper. Theo opted for a magical twist on a Caipirinha, infused with enchanted lime peel and a sprig of yerba santa, said to sharpen memory and calm nerves.
Hermione tried hers, watching it shimmer faintly in the light. “That’s dangerous,” she said, taking another sip. It was delicious.
Theo took a sip of his and gave a small hum of appreciation. “Strong,” he said, then leaned forward to steal a sip of hers before she could stop him.
“Hey!”
“I just wanted to taste the poem,” he said with a shrug.
Hermione tried to look indignant, but it was hard when he looked so genuinely delighted. “You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood.”
He smiled and leaned back to watch her as she scanned the menu. Everything felt intentional– honoring local ingredients without pretension. There were no flashy enchantments, no gimmicks. Just beautiful food in a room that breathed history. She wanted to read each and every line of the menu, every ingredient, every note about native fruits and foraged mushrooms and the curious, poetic names of each dish.
Theo watched her with an open amusement, chin in palm, as she pored over the menu, and she felt a sudden, laughably childish sense of embarrassment at how seriously she was taking the decision.
Finally, the waiter returned to take their orders. Clumsily, Hermione attempted to order in Portuguese, blushing ferociously the entire time. They ordered a sampling of cheeses, jams, and warm pão de queijo, followed by a salad of pickled hearts of palm and charmed edible flowers that shimmered when touched with dressing.
For mains, Hermione decided on the moqueca– the classic Bahian stew, built on foraged peppers and coconut, brimming with local shellfish and roasted sweet potatoes, while Theo picked the roasted guava-glazed duck with a side of crispy yuca fries and sautéed couve.
Every plate was a study in color and contrast, the greens luminous against earthen browns, the blossoms tucked here and there like little gifts. Theo grinned at her across the table, watching her eat with a kind of private pride.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so happy with a salad,” he teased, as she bit into a nasturtium petal and made a small, genuine sound of surprise.
“It’s peppery!” she exclaimed, then laughed at herself, covering her mouth. “And the palm is… nothing like tinned.”
Theo seemed content to watch her, his own plate barely touched. She poked at his arm with the end of her fork. “Eat, Nott, or they’ll think you’re rude.”
Obediently, he took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ve never tasted anything like this,” he admitted. “Here, have a bite.”
She did, and it was delicious.
Every bite was, really. Hermione relished every flavor and every odd new texture, trying to commit each detail of this night to memory. Theo let her choose the wine, and she’d selected a Portuguese white, light and minerally, and somehow even that tasted like something from another planet.
Theo, for his part, seemed more at ease than she’d ever seen him before when they were out. He didn’t wear the guarded, tense posture he usually did, but instead laughed freely and told stories, barely even pausing to glance around surreptitiously. He talked about their Hogwarts days, telling stories about his group of friends that made Hermione laugh out loud.
“Why does Blaise call you Babyface? You’ve never told me,” she’d asked.
Theo groaned. “Mostly because I can’t grow a beard– it started during fifth year when he and Draco insisted on having a sodding beard growing competition. I tried to worm my way out, but once they realized I didn’t even need to shave at all, I never heard the fucking end of it. Blaise gave me a bloody rattle for Christmas engraved with ‘Babyface Nott.’”
Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing, but not before Theo caught her. “It’s fine, you’re allowed to laugh. Besides, I got my revenge.”
“What did you do?”
Theo lowered his voice like he was telling her a state secret. “I went to the Weasley twins. Gave them ten Galleons for this potion they claimed would ‘stimulate targeted follicular response.’ Sounded legit.”
“Oh Merlin.”
“I swapped it out for their stupid sodding beard oil. Next thing you knew, they had beards that touched the ground. They had to shave four times a day just to keep it under control. I think the nickname stuck partly out of spite.” He grinned devilishly.
“You’re a menace,” Hermione said, shaking her head. Smirking, she added– “Babyface.”
“Oh absolutely not. You are not allowed to call me that.”
They ordered two desserts to share– a cake made with olive oil and citrus, topped with candied orange peel, and a flourless chocolate tart garnished with sugared violets and cacao nibs. When the bill came, Hermione tried to reach for it but Theo pulled it out of her grasp.
“Don’t you dare ruin my chivalry streak, Granger.”
He signed the bill and left a tip so excessive even the hostess blushed when she dropped by to thank them before they left. The sugar and the wine had left Hermione buoyant and a little giddy, full to the brim with good will and wonder.
“Library tour?”
“Nah, I thought we’d just call it a night,” Theo teased.
She elbowed him and then took his arm, practically dragging him to the other side of the restaurant where she’d spotted the sign for the archives.
The library was on the upper floor, accessible only by a dramatically narrow, winding staircase that clung to the wall in a spiral of lacquered black wood. At the top, a stained-glass window cast a grid of bright, fractured color over the wall, and the door– carved mahogany, inset with a brass plate that described the history of the library in Portuguese.
Once they stepped inside, Hermione had to stop and catch her breath at the sight of it. The library was, by any reasonable measure, the most beautiful she’d ever seen.
It was more than just the books, it was the atmosphere of the entire place. It felt almost cathedral-like, sacred in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on, like it had seen several centuries and held the knowledge deep within– which, she supposed, was true. The scents of dust and vanilla and something drier and older than paper rushed over her like a tide, and Hermione felt herself shiver with something like anticipation.
Every surface was stacked with books, not merely in the disciplined rows of a modern library, but in great, teetering columns of every color, some with ribbons dangling from their spines, others bound in leather gone soft with centuries of use. There were a few other patrons inside, quietly browsing the shelves, pulling tomes out. There were several armchairs and couches tucked within, inviting people to sit down with their books.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” she whispered to Theo. But when she turned to look at him, he was already standing in front of a shelf, his finger passing over the spines.
Hermione smiled then slipped off down one of the aisles, greedily drinking in as many titles as she could read. Some titles were embossed in gold or silver leaf, others hand-painted in curling script. One book growled softly when she reached for it, and another rearranged its pages mid-sentence, shuffling them like a deck of cards before resettling itself with a sigh.
She moved slowly, reverently, pausing every few feet to flip through something new– a bestiary with hand-drawn magical creatures, a tiny, palm-sized grimoire that pulsed faintly in her hand; a weathered field journal with handwritten notes in three languages, its margins crammed with pressed flowers and correction marks, a notebook with hand-painted plates of magical flora and fauna native to South America. It felt like being surrounded by historians, like being in a room with witches, wizards, and Muggles who had long since left this earth.
She lost track of time entirely, which was, she suspected, the point.
Hermione felt Theo approach before she actually heard him. “Found something,” he said quietly.
He held a thin green volume, something unsuspecting. Tilting her head, she stepped closer. “What is it?”
“Poems.”
“What kind of poems?”
“By Hilda Hilst,” he said, flipping open to a page. “Apparently, she was a witch, but she was also known as a famously eccentric Muggle poet. This is the poem your drink was named after.”
“Do Desejo?”
He nodded. “Meaning ‘of desire.’”
Hermione leaned against the edge of a bookshelf, watching the candlelight flicker on Theo’s face. “Will you read it to me?”
He reddened a little but then cleared his throat and began to read. “Because there is desire within me, everything glimmers. Before, daily life was thinking of heights.”
He glanced up at her, something passing over his face before he continued. “Seeking another decanted, deaf to my human bark. Sap and sweat, they never came to be. Today, flesh and bones, laborious, lascivious. You take my body, and what rest you give me. After the readings, I dreamt of cliffs, when there was a garden by my side. I thought of climbs where there were no signs.”
He paused, his face turned crimson. “The last part’s a bit crude,” he mumbled.
“Keep going,” Hermione pressed.
“Ecstatic, I fuck you instead of yapping at Nothingness.”
Her breath caught. “Oh.”
“I told you,” he muttered.
“No, I liked it. A lot, actually,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes. I don’t know how to explain it properly, but I understood what she was describing, I think. Can I read it again?”
He handed her the book. She let the words soak in again as she read, basking in the peculiar feeling, turning the poem over in her head.
For a long time, love had always been merely a theory for Hermione, something to decode, a high ideal. She had always assumed love would feel neat, the click of one puzzle piece fitting into another, like something falling into place.
But with Theo, that had never been the case. Falling in love with Theo had been messy, terrifying, and visceral. Like tumbling headlong into an ocean she hadn’t realized was inside of her. It was tidal and dark and dizzying– there were no constellations to guide her, no tidy logic or neat equations. It was sweat, breath, and hands gripping, tears and shivering, falling apart and coming back together all at the same time.
She read the poem again, slower this time. Letting it bloom in her mouth like bruised fruit. The last line, the one Theo had called crude– it wasn’t. It was more than that.
Ecstatic, I fuck you instead of yapping at Nothingness.
This feeling, this love she had– it was the opposite of emptiness, of nothingness. It was choosing presence, choosing skin-on-skin, choosing the messy, imperfect miracle of being truly known by another.
For so long, Hermione had refused to let herself be known, burying the ugliness deep enough that none of her friends would see it. She’d been careful, wary, guarded, planning ahead and avoiding things that made her feel unsteady. But Theo had always been exactly that– never fitting into her plans, gently coaxing her into the light and lovingly sifting through every piece of her she tried to keep hidden. He was all instinct and need and soft ruin. And being with him– loving him– had felt like finally waking up in her own life, like learning the shape of her body through his hands. Like letting go of the cliff and finding the garden beneath it.
She looked up from the page, heart hammering. Theo was watching her, lips parted like he’d been holding his breath.
Hermione stepped closer to him, brushing her lips against his. His eyes fluttered shut as he cupped her face, and she swore she could feel his own pulse racing beneath hers. She pulled back and met his eyes.
“Because there is desire within me, everything glimmers,” she said quietly.
Theo’s eyes widened just a fraction, and she watched the words settle within him. “I– yes. Everything glimmers.”
---------------------
Build me up from bones, wrap me up in skin
Hold me close enough to breathe me in
The moon's a fingernail
Scratching on the back of the night in which we lay beside
I held every inch of you
I wrote every line for you
I made time when time was all but gone
You're the love I've always known
-Sarah Jarosz
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