Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, this fic belongs to me.
Previously…
"Theodore went home. His father called him back—I believe he received a similar letter as you." She let out a long, drawn-out sigh. "I think it's so cheap of them to try and recruit their spawn, don't you?" She scoffed. "Merlin knows that's how revolutions are born."
Draco cocked his head. "What, exactly, do you mean?"
"They've got us under their thumbs. Think they do, anyway. That will never last long. Patronizing us. Controlling us. Breeding us. A revolution is coming. And Theodore Nott is leading it."
- - -
Chapter Eleven: In Which We Hear From Theodore
- - -
Theodore sat at the table, his fists clenched in his lap. He bit down hard to keep from lunging, to keep from gripping the table and shoving it with all his might. "I know where my loyalties lie." He raised his head slightly, looking his father in the eye.
"They lie with me, of course. And with the Dark Lord," his father said, pacing by the window.
"Of course." Theodore's gaze never flickered.
"I know you, boy. You will make a dutiful servant to the Dark Lord. You will bring honor to us." His father turned his back to look out the window, pacing in front of the leaded glass, gazing out at the darkening sky.
"Will I?" Theodore rose slowly, his face neutral, calm. His father spun, narrowing his eyes.
"Of course." He turned again with a sneer.
"Are you really so sure?" Theodore drew his wand, leveled it with his father's back. Flicked his wrist. "Are you really so foolish?"
The older man had his wand out, sparks hissing from the end before Theodore was even really aware he had turned around. As a shot of light sped toward him, he ducked beneath the table, gripping a chair leg and shoving it out of his way.
He heard the sickening shift and chink of the door locks falling into place. Shut in.
"Nowhere to go," his father clucked, casually flicking his hand and moving the table to the left, revealing his son. "Nowhere to go."
Theodore clambered to his feet. "I don't need to go anywhere. I can—"
Another flash of light. Theodore ducked again, but it grazed his shoulder. It was painful, and it burned. Not enough to stop him, though. He whipped his wand, hastily muttering a spell his father easily blocked.
"You're all talk, boy," his father growled. Another flash of light, painfully bright, blindingly so. It threw Theodore backward into the wall, hard, and he crumpled, his head sagging. His vision swam in darkness and he struggled to find his breath. His wand wasn't in his hand anymore. He saw his father's shoes move toward him; saw his own reflection in their shine. He looked tired and old and beaten.
The slap was harsh and sudden, a ring cutting across his cheek. Backhand. "Stupid, worthless, boy." The words were said on a low, disappointed growl. Theodore bit down hard on his cheek, so hard he thought he tasted blood. His face burned like a hot coil of iron and he watched his father leave, shut the door, lock it.
There was dead silence in the room for a moment and then he was gasping in pain, feeling the rush of shame and humiliation and defeat burn his cheeks. His head was pounding and his chest felt as though it were collapsing inward on itself. One gasp, another, another, sobbing. He was rocking, his fingers digging sharply into his knees, his back pressing against the wall, his eyes shut tight against acid tears. He sucked a harsh breath in through his teeth. It hurt to breathe past the tightness in his throat. He knew what this feeling was.
Failure. And it hadn't even begun.
- - -
When Draco next saw Theodore, he was haggard and drawn, a purple cut marring his high cheekbone. It had been nearly a week that Theodore was gone.
"Nott," Draco called, jogging to catch up with him in the hallway. Theodore continued onward, ignoring him. "Nott!" He followed him outside under the overcast sky. "Hey," he yelled.
Theodore spun, practically spitting like an angry cat. "You stupid little rat—"
"Ferret," Draco corrected, interrupting, coming to an abrupt stop in front of Theodore.
Theodore waved a hand, annoyed, his own sentence hardly breaking, "—you think I'll give you the time of day? You have to pluck up, ferret—" Ah, Draco thought, so he did notice. "—take a stand for yourself rather than letting me or your poppy do it for you, you little plonker." Theodore took a step back, his chest heaving. His face was red. "Bugger off, then, eh?"
Draco held his hands up. "Look, I'm not asking—I'm not asking forgiveness—"
"Then what the bleeding fuck are you doing?" Theodore's hands went in the air as he turned, shaking his head.
"I just—I just want in," Draco called and Theodore slowed, the gravel beneath his feet shifting as he turned. Draco saw his jaw working, his index finger rubbing at the inside of his thumb. "I want in the revolution," he repeated.
"You ever read The Naked and the Dead?" Theodore asked finally.
"No." Draco blinked.
"Okay. Well, either way, you're a fugger."
"And what is that supposed to mean?" Draco demanded.
"Exactly how it sounds," Theodore said. He pretended to buff his nails on the front of his shirt and then grinned wickedly at Draco. "So you want in, eh? You can be the naked."
"What does that make you?"
Theodore's mouth quirked at the side, but his eyes were void of humour. "Dead."
- - -
A shaky truce was established between the two and during the dinner hour, Draco effectively and succinctly rattled said truce by saying, "Where'd the cut on your face come from?"
Theodore froze mid-chew, his eyes sliding icily to zero in on Draco's face. He slowly lowered his fork, shoved the food to one side of his mouth and said coolly, "Tripped."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Liar. Why do you always lie?"
Theodore ignored him, chewing determinedly, focusing his gaze steadfastly elsewhere.
"I asked you a question," Draco said, his eyes glued to Theodore.
Lucy Spungen inched away uncomfortably, practically moving into Zabini's spot at the table, hindered only by the fact that he still maintained that spot.
Theodore swallowed and turned to glare. "How the hell d'you think I got it?"
"I don't know," Draco said sarcastically. "I'm guessing you have a history of abuse and your dad beats you ruthlessly. Later," he continued lavishly, sneering, "you lock yourself in your room and write emotional poetry in some fucking diary."
Theodore was so still it seemed as if he weren't breathing. Tense minutes passed and Draco began to doubt his stupid remarks. For about the fifth-hundred time, a line had been crossed.
Theodore said very quietly and very dangerously. "Journal. It's called a journal."
There was a soundless second before Blaise burst out laughing and spewed pumpkin juice across the table, but more specifically across Lucy.
"Good one, Nott," Zabini wheezed through tears. "Journal."
Lucy rose abruptly, glaring at Draco, her eyes then flickering toward Theodore briefly as she turned and left, briskly making her way to the large double-doors.
Zabini quickly sobered and the three boys watched her determined path cut down the room.
"I think there's something more going on with Lucy than she's letting on," Zabini said mildly, dabbing at his lap and the spilled pumpkin juice with his napkin.
Theodore's eyes were still on the retreating girl. "Yep." He turned his grey eyes on Zabini. "And you're the prime candidate to find out what."
- - -
Author's Note: Thanks for your patience, everyone. Let me know how you're feeling about the story.
References: The Naked and the Dead is a 1948 book by Norman Mailer. Apparently, his publishers didn't like how often he used "fuck," hence the reason he used "fug."