Work Text:
theodore nott x luna lovegood
"Hey, Theo," Daphne voiced, her tone so sickeningly sweet that Theo wanted to brush his teeth from the mere sound. "Look — I. . . I know you don't want to talk or move or anything of the sort. But I got you something."
Theo lifted his head from underneath his suffocating and bleach white comforters, eyeing his friend with a weary glance and urging her to continue with a cock of his eyebrows.
"We — Blaise, Pansy, and I — all pitched in," Daphne said excitedly, rushing over toward him while levitating an enormous and quite lumpy package, which was wrapped meticulously in an overzealous Christmas paper. "I think you'll like it."
Theo groaned, rolled over, and went back into a foetal position to get comfortable. "Daph, I'm really not in the mood right now. Can I just be left alone?"
"Theodore Nott!" she shrieked in that high-pitched and annoying voice of hers. "All you've been doing the past three weeks is moping, you little piece of shit."
An unrestrained scoff left his lips. "I prefer the term 'brooding' — it's less sappy that way."
"Oh — so you have the energy to get sassy with me, but you can't even give me one second of your attention to give you a Christmas gift?" He couldn't see her at the moment from the fiery inferno of covers in which his head in stuffed in, but Theo imagined Daphne to be standing with her hands on her hips. The ever-lasting drama queen struck again. "I swear — if you don't—"
"Oh, bloody hell," Theo grumbled, shoving off his covers and clambering to his feet in an attempt to please her. "Just give it to me so you can piss off and I can sleep."
Daphne's eyes glistened with pity. "I'm worried about you, Theo. We all are."
He ran his large hand over his features in an attempt to mask his contempt. And then he gritted out, "Greengrass, my father was just given the Kiss last month — so, I'm so sorry if my pleasantries haven't been up to par this holiday season. I haven't got the time to pretend like everything is fucking okay this year by going to your damn parties and baking cakes and whatnot!"
She shied her face away from his white hot gaze and bit her lip. "I'm sorry, I'll leave. Just — open it, okay?"
Daphne threw one more last smile — tightly wound into a wry grimace — before gliding away from his room, which looked like it had been ransacked on the daily.
Theo sat on the edge of his creaky mattress, perching his head in his hands and feeling utterly guilty — like a sinking feeling in his stomach had just appeared. He lifted his gaze, staring at the present with mild interest.
No. He refused to give in to his friends' glaringly obvious attempt at holiday cheer.
After eight minutes of internal debating, Theo got up, strolling over to the gift and inspected it. He ripped open the green and scarlet paper, saving the bow for later purposes.
And when he finally saw what was inside it — he wanted to cry or scream or kick something, hard.
They'd gotten him an easel — a beautiful, handcrafted oak wood easel with a polished finish and just wide and tall enough for him to use at his normal stature.
They'd remembered.
They'd remembered that the last cogent memories of his mother including him watching her paint for hours in her own crafted studio in his Manor.
If he hadn't cried before, he sure as hell felt the hot, sticky liquid dripping down his cheeks then. Yet, it did nothing to wash away the gut-dropping and jaw-clenching feeling that was pulsing through his mind.
—
A soft, wistful giggle resonated from his full pink lips as he ran around the legs of the easel. His mother watched him with a bright smile, pretending to be annoyed all the same. But Theo kept his feet moving around her studio — from her stool to her lanky legs to her shelves of colours lining the walls.
"Theodore, darling," his mother finally reprimanded when he banged his knee quite hard into a mahogany set of drawers. "Come help mummy with her brushes."
He nodded vigorously — with as much intensity a tiny tot could muster. And he glided toward her, holding her canister of brushes — all varying in bristle size and length. With his chubby fingers, he would hand her brush after brush, watching with wide eyes how she managed to paint the lake outside their Manor with a shades igniting the scenery.
It was ethereal — just like her.
He missed her.
A lot.
—
The first thing Theo did after his brief and reluctant session with his streaks of sadness was shower. And shave. He scrawled off an Owl message to Daphne detailing how much he wanted to hug her to death — Theo wasn't very good the whole 'thankful' thing.
And then the next thing he did was sign up for a painting class — in Muggle London, at that. He wanted to be sure that he wouldn't know anyone recognisable in the setting, for Theo needed a place to relax — a haven, so to say. Somewhere he didn't have to be regarded as that son of Death Eater scum living in a grungy flat after all his money was confiscated by the Ministry.
Finding an adequate enough place on a corner street, Theo quickly signed up for the oil painting class as the last participant to start the next week.
Now, all he needed were brushes. And his confidence.
—
Waking up the next Saturday was harder than he could've imagined. He spent half his day with an amount of tired that reached his bones, and getting out of bed with an amicable smile to be practiced on Muggles was even harder.
He showered, ate toast with black cherry jam, gulped down a cup of freshly squeezed orange juice, and still tried to lay in bed for whatever remaining minutes he had left before the class.
Nearing the deadline, he flooed to the Leaky, ignoring the prying and unforgiving gazes on onlookers, and chose to briskly walk and nearly jog to his class a couple of streets away. The air was crisp and cool on his skin, but he appreciated the first burst of fresh wind against his pores in over a month.
By the time he reached the daunting doors of the studio, he peered into the glassy windows with interest. The class was already in session, but he couldn't help but watch the instructor, a burly woman with thick red curls, explain to the class with wide gestures of her arm.
And then he saw her, sitting pleasantly near the back of the classroom, all wrapped up in a thick navy knitted scarf and adorned in a baggy snowman jumper. She smiled wistfully at the front of the classroom, her legs crossed with intent as she sat up straighter.
The brief and twitching hope that Theo wouldn't know anyone in his class trickled down the drain within seconds because Luna fucking Lovegood was in his oil painting class. His breath hitched in his throat, and the idea of running away to somewhere — anywhere — seemed appealing at the moment.
His conscience finally stopped debating minutes later; he didn't attend class that day.
—
The next week he spent over twenty minutes in front of his fingerprint-smudged and toothpaste-splattered mirror, watching his body convulse with the fear of talking to her. He hadn't so badly wanted to not confront his past since his own trial. And now it was back, slapping him in the face.
After extended minutes of contemplation, Theo headed out his floo, buttoning up his coat to his neck. When he reached the same studio, very early indeed, he was surprised to see the only two people in there to be his instructor and Lovegood. The former was busy rummaging through a stack of papers, while the latter seemed enraptured in setting up her brushes in a precise line by her easel.
He easily slipped into the studio, meeting her grey eyes and quickly looking away.
She didn't show any other sign of knowing him for the entire class.
Theo didn't know if he was glad of the fact or unhappy that her disregard itched uncomfortably at his ashen skin.
—
Her pretending to not recognise him went on for the next few months. Theo would slip in and out of the studio within minutes of the session, avoiding any further contact with Muggles if not necessary.
And then finally, after weeks of shying away from eye contact and covering his face his beanie, he accidentally bumped into her in the foyer of the building.
"I — uh, I'm sorry," he whispered, looking straight into her doe eyes.
"It's okay, Theodore," she voiced, a small smile etched on her lips, strolling away after that.
And in what seemed like a brief surge of confidence, he caught up to her asking with a curious voice, "Why do you pretend that you don't know me, Lovegood?"
She scrunched her forehead. "Who's pretending?"
"I mean — you haven't told anyone that I'm here."
"You seemed like you didn't want to be found," she said softly.
"You mean. . .?"
"Because you're not ready," Lovegood interjected. "I can tell by the way your eyes shift away from me during class."
He was struck silent. And then, "It's not you. I swear."
"I know," she simply offered, wrapping her cream scarf tighter.
"Then. . .?" he couldn't help but clarify.
"When you're ready, I'm here," Luna murmured, walking off in the opposite direction from where he was headed, a slight skip in her black booties.
—
He spent the next oil painting session so wrapped up in what Luna Lovegood had told him — that he accidentally dragged his brush over his half-painted picture of a pinecone. And the instructor mouthed him off after scowling, saying something about the waste of resources that snooty men like him thrive off of.
Theo clenched his fist, reining in his anger before he did something utterly stupid — like hex the woman.
And after class, Luna had run up to him, squeezing his wrist and telling him that even if there was a streak of brown across the canvas, that painting of a pinecone might've been the best bloody painting of a pinecone she had ever seen.
That night when he thought about it, his cheeks hurt from grinning so wide.
—
The next painting Theo started was a picture of a freckled face of a woman, clad with pink lips and shadows underneath her brow bone — not someone in particular he argued, even if he spent the majority of the session slyly glancing at Luna's face through hooded eyes to get the spots just right.
He painted to escape the confinements of his mind — to run away from his nightmares. Theodore Nott swirled his sullied brush around the muddy water in an attempt to brush over a new slate.
And while he's hanging up his apron after class, he caught sight of Luna's painting in the back of the classroom — walls adorned in moss. . . and blood.
She painted to get away — to escape the reality which haunts her past, present, and future. Luna Lovegood dipped her bristly brush and splayed it over a fresh canvas, drawing streaks of jewelled-red rubies over it.
He wanted so badly to ask her what she's basing it off of, but he's too bloody scared that for the next few minutes, he forgot he was washing his brushes in scalding water and nearly ended up with burnt palms.
—
"Hey. . ." he said softly, hesitantly, weeks after their first and last conversation as she strolled out the door of the studio, her brush carrier tucked into the crook between her elbow and torso.
"Hi," was all she managed to say before smiling.
"I saw your painting in class," he gulped down. "It's nice — detailed, truly."
"It's Malfoy Manor," she simply explained — no more, no less.
"Oh."
"I saw yours in class as well, Theodore," Luna offered kindly. "Who is she?"
He rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck. "Someone in my dreams."
"Wistful," she commented in a serene and absent voice.
"Do you want to maybe talk later?" Theo nearly slapped himself for being so thick a second after. He's the most obtuse man in the history of obtuse men.
A smile slipped onto her face easily. "We're talking now."
"I know. . . I mean. . . later?"
"I think I'm free later, so that sounds wonderful."
—
"Alla prima," Luna clarified, sucking on her straw to gulp down some hot chocolate. She always drank hot drinks with straws. "I use it for my paintings."
"What — why?" Theo asked with a scrunch of his nose.
"It's different, I think. Not everyone has the luxury of waiting for paint to dry, you see. Sometimes it's easier to continue on and paint — no matter the current state of the canvas, you know? You can't spend your life waiting for the oil to finally dry. Everything is done at once, just like life. So, I paint and then I paint over it and over it again. But that doesn't mean the bottom layers are forgotten. They never are."
He didn't know what to say after that — so he merely ran his tongue over his gums.
—
"My favourite has got to be watercolour, hands down," Theo admitted, leaning back in the plush chair. The soft, melancholy sounds of classical music rang in the background. "It's amazing what you can do with some water and some colour."
"Well. . . yes, the name does imply the coinciding of those two items," Luna said airily. "I love drawing with charcoal, actually. It's amazing what you can do with some charcoal and some paper."
And all he did was laugh and say, "Hi, pot, meet kettle."
She smiled with growing amusement.
—
"And then what?" Theo prompted, lifting up the spectrespecs to rest evenly on the pointy bridge of his nose.
"Then you just look through it, silly. Don't you see the wrackspurts?"
"I — I don't know. What even are those bloody things? Warkpurs?"
"Wrackspurts. They're invisible, you see. They use it to their advantage to sneak into your head and make your brain go inevitably fuzzy. Most of the time, I can feel them, though."
". . . I don't see any."
"Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're not real. Here, let me try," she voiced.
"Okay. . ."
She peeked over at him with a squinted gaze for about seven seconds (he counted).
"Merlin," Luna quickly whispered, eyes blinking fast. "Your head's full of them."
"What! Get 'em off me! Now!" He swatted aimlessly around his head.
"This is worse than I thought," she mumbled to herself, shaking her head and clicking with her tongue.
—
He wasn't expecting her to continue talking to him the next week and the week after that and the week after that. But Luna had always been a pleasant surprise. She walked and talked at the same time on their way to a nearby chai place, prattling on about the experience that magical creatures must feel while being pet all the time. And he simply listened — he was good at that, a star, excellent, really.
Nearing the tea shop, he took a chance and glanced around, pulling her into a nearby alley for a minute.
"Theodore?" she asked softly.
He leaned in and planted a soft kiss on her lips, lingering for a couple of seconds before pulling away. His thumbs reached up to trace over her freckles — the ones he had been painting for weeks on end.
"I just wanted to see," he whispered, their sweet breaths mingling in puffs of dank air.
"See what?"
"What it would be like to taste something pure and genuine." There he went again — being absolutely stupid and sappy. Did his mouth run on autopilot?
"And?" she prompted with an calm expression. "How did it taste?"
"Tangy."
"Oh — that must be my peach lip gloss."
"Ah," Theo cooed, leaning down to kiss her again, licking her lips before releasing. "Are you sure that's not nectarine?"
He knew then — he was absolutely, utterly, full-heartedly fucked.
Because Theo fancied the living daylights out of Luna Lovegood.
And he wanted to snog the shit out of her. Constantly.
"You know, actually, many people have trouble distinguishing the two fruit, but one can usually tell from—"
He swiftly cut her off with lips once again; she didn't seem to mind much.
—
Theo spent the next month after class talking to Luna about his colour palette, inspired by the events in his life. And her eyes visibly brightened, babbling on about the same exact thing.
She told him how—
Ruby was the jewels of fruit laying on the counter, spritzed with water. Ruby was the pigmented lipstick stained on the back of her pale hands. And ruby was the blood seeping through the floors of the battle, dripping and sluicing and squelching underneath the vicious licks of flames.
Amber was the crisp, cut fallen leaves of autumn, flowing through the wind. Amber was the colour of her oversized jumpers running rivers down to her thighs. And amber were the cakes frosted in delightful cream cheese, from when she was a child as she watched her mother bake sweet smelling pastries.
Gold was the encrusted plate shining the number of her flat, which was sort of crooked and kind of chipping. Gold was the soft lights of bokeh shining through bushels of trees at both dawn and dusk. And gold was the tribe of ducks waddling near her home during long summer days.
And he told her how—
Sapphire was the satin silk of skies as the sun dipped over the horizon. Sapphire was his mother's gleaming wedding ring, made especially for her birthstone. And sapphire was the beams of light shooting out his wand as he struggled for another breath under the cloud of grey, ashy smoke.
Indigo was the fluffy clouds meeting in the centre of the sky, rubbing against each others in acts of love. Indigo was the purple yam pie that his house elves used to feed him on the birthdays he spent alone. And indigo was the flock of peacocks that surrounded his Manor as a decoration.
Ebony was the colour of his father's hair under the dire light of the Dark Lord's gaze. Ebony was the pigments of ash powder staining his hands after he burnt down Muggle-born house after house. And ebony was the the spiralling coal mark winding down his arm.
She strived to show the Earth her silky streaks of ruby, amber, and gold; and he ventured into wanting to tinge the skies with palettes of sapphire, indigo, and ebony.
They began to do it hand-in-hand.
Together.
—
"One of the hardest things in the world is looking back at the past," his teacher explained. Theo drummed his fingers on the bottom of his wooden stool, and Luna gazed at him from across the room. "It's difficult knowing we can't relive the happy moments and change the sad ones. Which is why for our next assignment, everyone is required to pick out a photograph from the past — whether it be your dog, your dad, your sibling, doesn't matter — and paint an image depicting something from that memory.
"Remember, painting without sorrow is no painting at all."
—
Theo tiptoed around the assignment till the morning before his class. And when he finally snuck underneath his dusty shelf of trinkets, pulling out a tattered box from his teenage years, he found—
He found a picture of him and his father on the outskirts of his home. One his mother took on his fifth birthday. She had prompted them to get closer and closer — because they were related, for Merlin's sake. Theo was smiling broadly with missing front teeth; and so was his father, with a regal yet relaxed stance.
A little flip-flop overcame his heart.
And he didn't pick up a paintbrush for three weeks.
—
She found him in the third week — and he opened the door to his flat in a pair of sweatpants with a mustard stain on them; he blushed wildly at that.
Luna didn't seem to notice though; she merely entered his home as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They spent a while with awkward silence engulfing her visit.
And then—
In a quick exhale, she finally said, "You've been avoiding it."
"I have."
"And I know you're upset."
He nodded. "I am."
"But there's no reason to be."
Theo frowned viciously at that. "Why not?"
"It's not very nice to your body, is it?"
He didn't say anything after that — instead, he optioned for kissing her on the lips, silently hoping his breath still didn't smell of the pad thai he chowed down an hour ago.
—
Kissing her on his couch, with her legs tangled around his waist, felt just as good as the first time their lips met in the back of a dark alley — romantic, he knows.
Lovegood was busy resonating dulcet sighs and wistful sounds into his neck when he was busy peppering a speckle of open-mouthed kisses down the bridge of her freckled nose, over the contours of her jaw, and down the creamy span of her neck. He thrived on it. Like fire pumping in his veins.
His hands made quick work of her buttoned, floral top, wanting to feel every inch of her, wanting to run his calloused and blood-stained hands over the beautiful, beautiful and silky canvas of her torso. Every new exposure to his cool hands over her warm body, and she released another sound of pleasure. Like bloody music to his ears.
And his kisses became slower, more inviting, on her own painted pink lips, prying her closed heart open with a brief caress of his mouth. She finally let out a soft moan when their tongues tangled, and her hands went to grab at his hair. Lovegood pulled, hard.
He shrieked and released her mouth. His hands went up to stroke the back side of his head. "Ow — Merlin's beard, woman. You have the grip of a damn vulture."
She smiled and kissed him again, filling him whole.
He didn't mind. No. Not one bit.
—
They were tangled up on the carpeted floor — the warmth of the fire behind them providing a blanketed heat to snuggle in and leaving grazes of flickering flames to give amber and orange gleams over their grinning faces.
She had brought out her small palette of colours from her extended-charmed purse, and was currently in the process of mixing a pastel lilac and a vibrant peach with a small, lining brush for something she wouldn't yet tell him.
"Come on, Luna," Theo prodded, wrapping his arms around her waist, bringing them flush against each other, her body stationed between his open legs. "Tell me your dirty little secret."
"I can't, Theodore," Luna informed blankly, turning her head over to blink at him. "And it's not dirty, at all. Quite the contrary."
He released her to give a mock surrendered pose with two hands in the air. "Oh-kay, just let me know when you're done."
Theo laid back on the floor, propping the back of his head in his laced fingers as a makeshift pillow, falling asleep to the crackling fire with the image of her back hunched over a blockade of acrylics surrounding her seared into his mind.
The next thing he knew, a tiny brush bristled at his left forearm, sending tingles of gooseflesh down his spine. He scrunched his nose, peeking his eyes open to Luna tracing patterns over. . . his Mark.
When Luna gazed over his bulging eyes, she leaned back on her knees, watching him intently.
"You were sleeping," she whispered, almost hesitantly. "So, I did a thing."
Theo was almost afraid to look down at his arm, so he merely clamped around his wrist, his eyes glazing over as he stared back at Lovegood with what he attempted to morph into anger.
And then, with a slow and strolling lurch of his eyes, he glanced down at his left arm.
His Mark, covered in a bushel of flora and fauna, all ranging in bright, gleaming pastel colours with verdant stems winding around the ugly scar of his past. And it seemed that all the blood splatters that once had the pleasure of occupying the barren space inked by black was worthless.
Because then and now, it was emancipated by the working of fresh flowers and bright plants and lovely, lovely imagery.
"I — I don't know what to say," Theo finally murmured after minutes of silence, still stock-still and staring at his transformed arm.
"Don't say anything," she voiced. "Just know you can plant your own garden after getting rid of the weeds. I do it all the time."
Silence.
And then—
"It's not too late?"
"Never."
He kissed her till he felt her brushes of adoration and love burn strokes against his bloody canvas.