Author's Notes: This story is set in an alternate Hogwarts. The students of Harry Potter's year are now in their seventh year. In this Hogwarts, the students have had a normal student experience at Hogwarts. There has been no Quirrell or Chamber of Secrets. Voldemort has not returned, but Voldemort's actions years before did occur. Hope you enjoy!

Midnight City

Three cigarettes, a cut upper lip, and the worst possible hangover. Theodore Nott woke disoriented. His mouth was arid and sharp. Each breath was short. Something was stealing his air; his inhales only partial: break, break, breaking. The length of his face was stretched; the cut split as he tried to move. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with decaying teeth. A chain of gunk filled the back of his eyes to his stomach, rotting everything it touched. He felt awful.

He glanced at the other beds around him, but they were all empty. What time was it? There were no windows in the basement room. He must have slept in. It was not anything special.

He was still in his clothes from the night before. His jeans were impossibly tight, and his boots were laced. The sheets were still properly folded on his bed. He had just laid over top of them. His memories of entering the room were blurry. He remembered experiencing his entrance, but anything more than that was gone.

The best action was to return to sleep. His current state was inoperable. But the aches kept his eyes open. No comfort was afforded to the positions he tried to orient himself in. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to close his eyes and be brought forward in time. He'd be better in the future. Yet he knew he wasn't capable of it; he felt too shitty.

His usual hangover cure involved magic and weed, but those were both inaccessible. His stash was empty. His capacity to focus was empty. The exhaustion was holding his head down, denying any possibility of concentration. Instead he resolved to keep lying. It was easier. He did not need to try. And if he did try, it would not be any better. He'd still be stuck feeling like shit.

The Slytherin senior's dorm was long and narrow. Two rows of beds rested along the walls. It was situated on the edges of the Slytherin basement; its outer wall shared the same posterior as the outside wall of the school. Like all other rooms in Slytherin, there were no windows to the outside. Instead muted green torches kept the rooms in a constant sombre state.

Unlike the other rooms in Slytherin, there was one particularity to the seventh year dorm: it had a door to the outside. The male and female dorm rooms respectively were the only unofficial exits of the whole school. It was a fact broadly known but never confirmed. Everyone stayed in a willing disbelief of the doors' existence. All of the faculty was aware of the exits, but ignored any claims about them. Nott believed they were trying to make up for the lack of windows. Slytherin was such a despondent place without sunlight. It was only through their ease of access out of the school in their final year that any of the students had any hope or knowledge of the outside. The prospect kept the house quiet and subdued. Rarely anyone complained, fearing a potential removal of the perk.

Nott wondered whether he should smoke one of the cigarettes. Little point having them without using them. He did not usually smoke, but given the opportunity was not against it. Three was a strange number. How did he end up with such a peculiar number of them? One would have implied he saved it for himself; two would have implied for himself and a girl. Three was odd, he couldn't think of a specific context requiring that many. He did not have any at the beginning of the night, so he must have asked someone to possess them.

If he wanted to smoke them though, he would need to head outside. The prospect seemed counter intuitive. His eyes felt as though they were being dragged back towards his stomach. As if someone were pulling on the veins behind them. A sadistic shadow being hiding behind his vision, whose mission was his constant discomfort. He had a feeling it bared resemblance to him the night before, bestowing the hangover onto his future self. What an asshole.

Nott was not a big fan of the sun either. Even before he started to live in the closed coffin of Slytherin, his experience had not been enjoyable. When he was younger he lived in a large house; many would call it a mansion. It contained many statues and pieces of art. Nott had never been sure of their ages, but knew they were old enough to be fragile. His grandfather would insist on limiting their exposure to the sun or any bright lights. The rooms were kept at a consistently dimmed light. Nott had often wandered through the halls wondering what the time of day was, whether the sunlight would be folding into the room or resting above the window frame.

He owned a large pair of sunglasses to fix his issue. They were thick and black: the two necessary components as far as he was concerned. He didn't need anything stylish. Simple and practical were his focuses. Plus, stylish sunglasses were not very punk rock.

The glasses were resting on his bedside table, in the place where his wrist watch was supposed to be. He used his wrist watch as an alarm clock. Where the wrist watch was, he had no idea, but the glasses were awfully convenient. No reason to dwell too much on the watch; he had probably thrown it across the room without realizing it. Or dropped it in a pile of his belongings the night before. It would not be the first time it happened.

He brought himself before the exit to the outside. In a groggy trance he trudged through the air; his hair was messy and flat. His left leg hurt when he stepped on it. He started to wonder if he had left himself any more surprises from the night before. The gaps in his knowledge were slowly becoming larger; his hazy conception of what transpired was becoming insufficient.

"Pathos," the words barely escaping his dry lips. His voice cracked on the second syllable. The door opened on command, and he left the dorm.

The door lead to a tight and steep stair case. He grabbed the rusted handrail with apprehension, hoping not to lose his balance. His head still lead drowsy; his legs begged to be folded beneath him. The whole of the upper part of his body felt as though it was being pushed downwards. If he lost his balance on the stairs, it could be dangerous. In hindsight, he was surprised he was able to get down them the night before. He had never thought of himself as a graceful person. The amount of times he had almost fallen down the stairs completely sober was staggering. Surely the risk had been increased at the level of intoxication he was the night before. "Goddamn," Nott let slip through his lips as the revelation of past danger returned. It was one of those moments where all of the parts come together: an epiphany of proximity to death, and fragility of life. He was only one step away: one missed step away.

Outside the sun was bright and belligerent. Nott took out his sunglasses. His personal 'fuck you' to the light. The sharpness of the luminance felt intensified by his hangover; like the wave were stabbing at his eyes. His skin twitched, and his lip quivered.

He brought one of the cigarettes to his mouth. The grounds were empty. A single bird flew over head. It was too far away to be identified. Nott decided to call it a spy; he lit a match. The spy was drawing circles around the towers. It dipped towards the grounds, but was cautious to avoid getting too close. For if it did, then it would not be a good spy. Nott took a drag.

When he exhaled, Nott noticed the trail. It was subtle. A weak track of magic lining the grass. The pace was almost distinguishable from the constant aura of magic emanating from Hogwarts. No one other than Nott would have been able to identify its unique trace, for he had signed it. He had left it for himself.

In Nott's childhood he had often left himself little traces around his grandfather's house. They were messages he would leave for himself. He put them there to pretend someone was talking with him; he put them there to pretend someone cared.

His parents had been arrested when he was a young age. He had no recollection of the night. He wished he did. Then he could pretend he had a personal relation to them, and what transpired afterwards.

Nott spent his childhood with his grandfather, and his grandfather's acquaintances. His grandmother had died before he was born. The rest of his family he only knew through pictures. He was not sure if any of them were still alive. His grandfather would never talk of them. Some of them looked young in the pictures, Nott imagined they would probably still be alive. But he wasn't sure of their names or their stories.

Nott's grandfather would rarely talk. When he did talk, he would use the least amount of words possible. He was a simple and direct man; his words were chosen with the utmost precision. The sentences would capture all of his intention. Rarely would he need more than one to get his point across. Nott had been taught by an expensive private tutor before coming to Hogwarts. The tutor gave Nott a commendation one day, a mark of high praise. When Nott had told his grandfather his accomplishment at the dinner table, his grandfather merely stated "as it should be." Nott never heard any more on the matter.

One of the few things Nott's grandfather could talk at length about was the history of the Nott family. He would claim that the Nott family had made their fortune at the turn of the century. They made most of their money through the selling of silks to the wizarding world. It took years for Nott to infer who the Nott family was buying the silks from. The process for silk is long and cumbersome; the Nott family could not have been producing themselves. They must have been purchasing the silk from muggles.

Nott never heard his grandfather mention it, but it seemed pretty clear. The Nott family did not initially have enough money to invest in the amount of silk worms it would have required to produce their supply. Nott had often wondered if their dependency on muggles for their fortune had affected the family's stance against muggles. It would make sense if the family wanted to hide their initial dependency on muggles, particularly at the turn of the century when anti-muggle sentiment was popular. The other topic Nott's grandfather would talk extensively was muggles; how they were ruining contemporary wizard culture. It was only venomous, and was intended to poison Nott's blood to a deeper crimson.

There were many parts of the Nott family history which his grandfather avoided. They never spoke about the family now. Nott's grandfather refused to talk about his children, and what had happened ten years prior. The silence emanated all of Nott's life. Even when Nott's grandfather had visitors, Nott was never allowed in the room. It was not proper for Nott to participate. He would sit outside of the door frame hoping they would invite him in. That at some point his grandfather would want Nott's opinion, or at least want to show off the exceptional. Maybe some recognition that Nott was there, or that Nott mattered.

Nott's grandfather was a dedicated collector. The walls were lined with aged paintings. There was a large hall near the front of the house filled with statues. Some were over six feet tall, while others were a more modest size. Combined, they must have been worth a fortune. Nott's grandfather acted as though they were at least. The traditional poses and classical aesthetics were nauseating; Nott hoped they were worth something. He could not stand them.

The hall was where he used to place down his magic paths. During the day he would map them out. He'd write a mental script; it would contain foot steps and emotional cues. It was an imaginary play between him and the statues.

He would enter the hall at midnight. Everyone else in the house would be asleep. The statues, in his head, would come alive at the striking of the clock. He was entering a city. Each statue had a story and a personality. Following his magical trail, he would walk through their experiences. He'd hear their yarns of the past and of the present. They'd talk to him about who they were, their fears, and their hopes. The statues saw a value of Nott's opinions and views. Their interest felt real and direct.

While the whole performance was planned by Nott, he would pretend an air of ignorance. As he gave the statues life, he would act as though they were talking for the first time. It was an elaborate fantasy. His time alone had enhanced his imagination; he could talk to the lifeless statues without a sense of shame or acknowledged silliness. This theatre was all he knew. There was no shame in his make believe, for all he knew was the make believe. The world, the midnight city, was the only home he felt comfortable in.

The whole act was self identification. In the statues' recognition of Theodore Nott, Nott knew that he was there. He was recognizing himself through his projected recognition in the eyes of the statues. It was how he was able to define himself. The statues would make labels: smart, brilliant, funny. The statues let Nott know who he was; let him be more than the silent kid everyone ignored. It was only years later in Hogwarts when Nott discovered how much it was actually a misrecognition. The Nott in the eyes of the statues was not him; those properties did not define who he was. He was whatever he did: his life now was the life that made him.

Nott could not remember the last time he had laid down a magical trail. He took another drag; the smoke danced before his eyes before dissipating. The situation felt strange, wouldn't he remember putting down something like this? He was surprised he even remembered how to do it. The skill was a naive conjuration he taught himself before he had studied magic. It seemed like something to him he would have lost over time.

But the trail was there. He knew it; he felt it. There was no denying it. The precise markings of his own casting was present. It was invisible to the eye. Instead it had to be felt. It was a marking on the extrasensory aura of magic, which filled the air and space. Being near it was like building static electricity walking on a carpet floor. Only, in this case, Nott had left his own charge along the ground.

Nott inhaled once more. Should he follow it? There was something special about it. Yet he had made it the night before, when he had been black out drunk. For all he knew it went around in circles, following the ravings of a partially conscious man. Did he want to find where it lead? Would it end up being worth it? He could go back into the dorm and continue to sleep. His leg still hurt; his mouth was still arid. The sunlight berated his head, he would enjoy getting out of it.

The smoke irritated his cut lip.

Those were not the only reasons. He had left behind that version of himself; the naive young boy acting in his own play. He'd grown through his years at Hogwarts. The last thing he wanted to do was return to how he used to be. It took a lot of hard work to learn that muggles are good people, and how to make friends.

The Nott of the past had been okay with his family's silent history. The history that had ignored his parents' crimes and murders. The history which denied the involvement of the family in Voldemort's activities. The history that ignored the family members who had 'died for the cause' or were in prison. The younger Nott did not know about this, but he also did not care. The younger Nott only wanted the attention of his grandfather.

The Nott of the present was not okay with his family's history. They were killers, and help perpetuate genocide. Nott was never returning to his grandfather's home. Nott was never going to forgive the actions of his bloodline. To remove his grandfather's venom, he needed to transfuse away all of his blood.

Messed hair; skinny jeans choking his legs; safety pinned shirt: Nott was punk rock. He was not going to take that shit anymore. He was knowledgeable; he was cool; he did not need those phantoms of the past.

Yet, while the trail brought back past notions of himself, he must have had a reason to put it down. He'd been black out drunk before, if only for a few times. Why had he thought yesterday was appropriate. What had brought back the memories of those statues the night before? After all of the alcohol he drank, he probably could not have held onto a clear thought. How did his mind wander back to such a particular skill he had not used in years? There must have been a reason. It may not be a particularly good reason, but he was curious now. What had brought him back then, to a place he had tried so hard to forget?

The cigarette burnt to the filter, and Nott threw it to the ground. He was going to follow the trail. At least he would follow it until his strength gave way. There were no classes at the school today. His schedule was empty. What else did he have to do?

The courtyard the staircase out of Slytherin lead to was a small corner of the school. A well trimmed yard kept the space between two of the larger towers. On all sides corridors and sections banked the grass. The exit lead to the outside, but only lead back into the school. Slytherin kids would still need to pass through sections of the school to go anywhere.

Nott's trail lead towards the east tower, opposite the exit. The spy was flying circles around the top. What was entertaining the bird to keep it occupied? It seemed like an anomaly to Nott. The spy was keeping to itself, without needing to move on. It had its place, and was content to just stay. Flying around was all the spy was content of; its goals were simple and achievable. Nott could not sympathize. He would need to be going somewhere, anticipating his next step. The spy seemed not to mind.

It made sense for the trail to lead to the east tower. Nott and Draco had started that way the night before. They were attending the Honour's Party. Draco wore a suit and smoked black cigarettes. Nott had not brushed his hair; his pants were black and tight as they could be; the shirt was a bright pink: it was not safety pinned, so it was formal enough.

"You're going in that?" Draco asked.

"Yeah." Nott replied.

"You look fucking awful you know?"

"It's great isn't it?"

Nott had a great respect for Draco, and he was sure Draco felt the same way. Draco was sharp and had the ability to command a room. Since he had entered the Slytherin House, he had been a force. People flocked to his opinion, and performed his requests. He was the opposite of Nott, who was shy and quiet. Nott though, was immune to Draco's rhetoric. Nott never followed Draco's lead. Instead of viewing Nott as a challenger or as a threat, Draco acted like Nott was an equal. Even in their first year, Draco would walk up to Nott and ask for Nott's opinion. The first time it happened Nott just stared at Draco for a few seconds before answering; he was shocked such a popular and interesting guy would seek out his view particularly.

Over their shared time the two of them rarely agreed. Draco had a much more traditional stance on things, and paradoxically he was more than willing to forget the past that shined a poor light on his position. Nott often called Draco on his bullshit. And Draco was not stupid. He was able to recognize certain flaws of the past, and was willing to admit to the tragedy his family had helped perpetrate ten years before.

Nott was actually proud of Draco's position on the matter. A large portion of Slytherin, and many of the students in the other houses had that blemish on their family name. The topic was often ignored; how could one face the knowledge of such an intimate relation to the evil? Draco never avoided the issue. He was willing to admit to it, and demanded that people recognize their past. Simultaneously he would demand people realize that the acts of parents and families were not the actions of the persons. For a lot of Draco's shitty views, Nott respected how Draco treated it.

The Honour's Party was a mandatory event for the honours students in the different years. The event occurs biannually, in which the students are asked to dress formally and mingle with other honours students and professors. Nott loathed the event. There was too much navel grazing for his liking. The whole thing was an exercising in stroking people's over sized egos. He was not a fan.

Draco had a different view on the event. "Could you at least put on a blazer or something? I'll look stupid by association if you're wearing that. You've worn more than that before at these things."

"I did, and I'm not going to again," Nott said.

"Shit, it's not that bad. Do you think it's going to hurt your image that badly if you looked like you even sort of cared about one of these events?"

"It's not that it'll hurt my image. It's that I actually don't care about the event. If I didn't have to go, I wouldn't."

"Whatever, just don't expect me to stand by you the whole time."

"I think I'll be able to deal without you."

"Cool. Daphne's having a party with a bunch of the Slytherin girls in the west basement tonight. You want to head there after?"

"Maybe. I was hoping to try and get a couple of the honours kids to drink. We've been going to these things for the past seven years, yet we've never done anything other than the shitty event. I say we try to make things a little more interesting. I'm bringing a couple of bottles." Nott took out a light blue bottle of vodka out of his shoulder bag and had a swig.

Draco grabbed the bottle from Nott's hand and had a swig himself. "We can try. They're mostly stick in the muds though, I doubt any of them will want to go through the trouble of finding a secret enough place to drink."

"Yeah," Nott took back the bottle and downed a large gulp. "But if that doesn't work out, then we'll just have a shit ton of alcohol to enjoy between the two of us.

"You know what, maybe I will stick with you for a while."

They both laughed. Draco finished his black cigarette and the two of them headed towards the east tower.

Nott's magical trail followed a similar path Draco and he had taken. The trail staggered a little; Nott obviously was not walking straight the night before. Blindly, Nott continued down the path. He had closed his eyes, the sun was too annoying.

Nott was starting to wish he had drank some water before heading out. The back of his throat felt like a vacuum with barbed teeth. Each breath cut into his mouth. His split lip agonized in the air. How did he let himself get into this state? He'd been drunk numerous times before. It's not like he did not have the foresight to predict he may feel like this if he had too much to drink. All he wanted was sleep. If he laid back in his bed then he would feel better. The pain would go away.

He left the courtyard he'd been standing in, and entered the east tower, went through the entrance way, walked through the corridor leading towards the main dining hall, passed his potions classroom, passed his classical literature classroom, and finally stopped in the north east wing outside of the dining hall. His left leg ached from the pressure of his walking.

He thought to himself that he may wish to stop momentarily to eat. Before he could come to a clear decision, Terry Boot exited a washroom to his right. Terry noticed Nott and waved him down. Nott was too tired to move in a sharp fashion; his legs felt like jelly dreaming of congealment.

Terry was tall and lanky. He towered over all of the other students. Since first year he'd been one of the tallest students in the school. Now, in seventh year, Terry was a unique presence; his height put him over all of his fellow schoolmates. Otherwise Terry looked average: no glasses, a leather bag hanging over his shoulder, scruffy looking clothes. He walked with the slow pace of someone who was not feeling well. Large bags pulled under Terry's eyes; an obvious queasiness painted his face.

"Greetings Nott," Terry began, shaking Nott's hand.

"Hey Terry," Nott was barely able to speak. The syllables were dragged through the arid wasteland of the back of his throat.

Terry laughed to himself briefly. "My friend, it does not sound like you are well." Terry was always well spoken. He had a maturity in his words that was uncommon for his age. His mind was calm and smart, which put him as one of the heads of Ravenclaw. Nott always felt sorry for him. How lonely it must feel to be so far above all of his friends and acquaintances: physically and mentally.

"I've had better mornings, surely." Nott replied.

"I think we all have. That was quite a night last night."

"Yeah? I don't seem to remember all too much of it."

"That's too bad. It was a nice finale. A good closing note to the Honours Parties. To think, we've been attending those since our first year. I think this was the first time I really enjoyed it. Thanks man, I think you really made it special." Terry spoke.

"It's my pleasure, glad you enjoyed it."

"I see you're using your sunglasses to cover your black eye. Good plan, wouldn't want one of the profs to see it. It would look awfully suspicious."

"What?" Nott asked. Terry's face changed demeanour. Nott became suspicious of the circumstances.

Terry, in a serious tone started: "your black eye. The black eye you're hiding with your sunglasses. Doesn't look like it's darkened as much as we feared it would.

A black eye? Nott had not looked at his face in a mirror all morning, but there was no chance he had a black eye. He would have felt it. It would have hurt more than his leg; he'd have felt it more than his dry throat. He moved his finger towards his eye and felt the skin around it. Good God it hurt! Just a touch felt as though he was setting off small explosions on his skin. Fuck! How had he not noticed? How could he not remember how he received it. This seemed like a pretty massive hole in his memory. It was not a small detail he could not recall.

Staring straight at Terry, Nott tried to pretend he'd known about it. "Right, my black eye. I haven't been thinking straight all morning. It's the hangover. Fuck, I was glad it wasn't worse this morning." Nott lied. "At least black eyes are punk rock." He hoped Terry would mention how he received it. His curiosity was now peaked. What happened last night?

"Yeah. You can rock it. You're lucky we broke up the fight though, you guys could have been hurt much worse." Terry noted. "Anyways, I have to grab some food to nurse my hangover. You take care. We'll talk soon."

"For sure. See you in class." Nott said.

Nott wanted to press further. Who had he fought? In his seven years at Hogwarts, he'd never been in a fight. What made last night different? The circumstances must have been pretty serious to make him fight. He was not the kind of guy to throw a punch over nothing. There had been many times others would have fought in his shoes, but he showed restraint. He liked to think restraint was one of his stronger qualities. How could he fight someone? The notion seemed absurd.

Since touching his eye, his face felt inflamed. His face was punishing him for avoiding his wound before. The cut on his lip finally made sense. Its origin was probably the same as the black eye. A fight, the concept seemed foreign to Nott. He was not the kind of guy to get into a fight. Was it why his left leg hurt too? It seemed like a plausible explanation. Yet the entire premise seemed implausible to Nott.

He decided he was going to follow his trail. Hopefully it would hold the answers he now sought. Something happened the night before. He acted like he was not himself. He put himself into the state he was now suffering. This magical trail, a game he used to play when he was a child, held the answers. He was sure of it. It would tell him who was Nott, and who he was not.

Author's Notes: This story was originally intended as a One Shot. I now believe it will probably be three chapters long. I've been trying to use a more 'pop' like style, and hope you've liked it.