Chapter 6 - Almost Gryffindor-ish

"Yeah, his dad's sentence was finalised yesterday. Four years."

"But You-Know-Who will probably help him escape, right?"

"He did for the Lestranges. But I don't know, he might be mad at him for messing up at the Ministry."

Potter and Weasley, kings of subtlety, are talking about Mr. Malfoy's term in Azkaban over the Daily Prophet at breakfast in the Great Hall.

Theo's own father's sentence should be decided soon too, though he's not sure when. He can't decide whether he's hoping for a long sentence or not. On the one hand, he's quite enjoyed the infrequency of letters and reduction in open hostility since his father's been in Azkaban, awaiting sentencing. On the other hand, he's unclear on exactly what his father did? From what he's heard, he got injured early on and didn't really do anything at the Ministry. So he might not deserve it, for this particular crime at least.

"Morning, gents," Theo says cheerily, taking the empty seat next to Potter. "Anything interesting in the Prophet?"

Potter and Weasley both scowl. Theo grins.

It's a little game he plays. The friendlier he gets, the scowlier they get. He wins every time.

"No? Too bad," he says, helping himself to some pumpkin juice and toast. "News just isn't as interesting these days, I guess."

"We were trying to have a conversation here, Nott," Weasley says.

"Shame that's so difficult for you," Theo says with dripping insincerity. "But really, don't let me stop you from trying."

Potter huffs and rustles the paper noisily and Weasley turns back to his sausages. Theo finishes his toast.

He's pondering whether he wants more to eat when Neville arrives, tie loose and hair ruffled.

"I overslept," he says, sitting across from the three of them. "Any news?" he asks, pointing at Potter's copy of the Prophet.

Potter's face darkens and Theo chuckles into his pumpkin juice.

"Wait, what did I miss?" Neville looks between them in confusion.

"Nothing, Neville, don't worry about it," Weasley says wearily.

Neville turns to Theo, his eyes narrowed as he grabs a piece of toast. "Theo?"

"Oh, they were just talking about Malfoy's father and didn't want me to overhear. I'm a Death Eater spy, you know," he says conversationally.

Neville looks like he wants to crawl under the table and/or leave and go back to bed. "Harry…"

"I don't think you're a spy, Nott," Potter nearly spits. "I just don't trust him," he continues, turning his focus to Neville. "I know you guys get along or something, but he's friends with like, Malfoy and Parkinson, and his father..."

Theo bristles. "Is it necessary for you to talk about me like I'm not here?"

No one says anything.

"Fine." Theo sits up straight and turns sideways on the bench so he's facing Potter and Weasley head-on. "Look. I don't know what Draco's doing. Or if he's even doing anything. But if he is, it won't be by choice. Either way, I'm not Draco. But I do have to live in your dorm and sit at this table. So. You need to go ahead and accept that."

He slightly expects some sort of applause for his speech. A rousing chorus of encouragement and accolade.

What he gets instead is an eye-roll from Weasley, a glare from Potter, and some nervous foot tapping from Neville.

Theo turns back to his plate. He doesn't want any more to eat, on reflection. He starts to gather up his things.

"How can you say it's not by choice?" Potter says with a weird sort of desperation, just as Theo's standing to leave.

"Merlin, you seriously know nothing, do you?"

"Nott, if you can't —"

"His father's in prison. The Dark Lord can get him out. His mother can be hurt or kept safe, entirely at the Dark Lord's say-so. Draco loves his parents. He also presumably doesn't want to die. He's sixteen." Theo climbs over the bench, ready to walk away. "There's no way he has a choice."

Theo strides out of the Great Hall, not bothering to wait for Potter's reaction, his head still buzzing with anger.

He probably should have thought more about it before saying any of that. He doesn't think he'll regret it, but still. It was impulsive.

Almost Gryffindor-ish.

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"Theo!"

It's Neville, running after him in the hall on his way to Divination that afternoon. Theo waits for him to catch up and Neville falls into step beside him.

Neville has a leaf in his hair. Theo pulls it out and vanishes it. Neville grins sheepishly.

"So this morning at breakfast —" he starts.

"I overstepped, right?" Theo cuts him off. "It was too much? I'm sorry, okay? But—"

Neville's eyebrows stitch together in confusion. "No, it's not that. I just wanted to know if you were alright?"

"Oh."

"Yeah, I mean… Are Harry and Ron bugging you too much? 'Cause I can, um, talk to them…" Neville looks like there's nothing he would like to do less.

But he's offering. Brave fucker.

"No, it's okay," Theo says. "Thanks, though. I just want to move on, you know?"

Theo tries to imagine for a moment what he would have said if Draco or Blaise had offered to talk to someone giving him trouble in Slytherin. Not that they would have.

He would have been outraged. Told them to fuck off, that he could fight his own battles.

And yet here he was, thanking Neville for the offer.

They arrive at the Divination classroom and climb through the trap door, before sitting down at their usual station.

After a warm-up exercise ("Quietly meditate on the meaning of death"), Trelawney passes out crystal balls. They're starting the practical portion of their unit on Divination of Desires today.

Trelawney flicks her wand, dimming the lights and shutting the drapes.

Theo adjusts the position of his crystal ball and gets comfortable, breathing deeply, banishing thoughts of the day from his mind. He feels a thrill of excitement low in his abdomen. It's time to See.

He sets his intention, murmuring the incantation for seeing desire, and closes his eyes.

When he opens them, there's an image in his crystal ball.

It's Neville.

He looks up, thinking for a moment that somehow he's capturing Neville's reflection. But, no. The Neville in the room is focused on his own crystal ball. The Neville in the image is sitting in the sun and running a strong hand through his golden hair, smiling brightly.

So. Theo desires Neville. That means — well, that means — Neville's his friend, so —

The image shifts the instant Theo thinks the word "friend."

It's still Neville, but he's shirtless. At a minimum. His bottom half is under the covers. Of Theo's bed. Theo watches himself climb onto the bed. He for sure isn't wearing anything. Oh god. Now they're kissing. And — okay, Theo cannot watch this in a classroom.

He tears his eyes away. It takes him a second to catch his breath.

He looks down at the sheet of parchment they're supposed to be writing their visions on. He imagines writing "My inner most desire is to fuck Neville Longbottom." He leaves the parchment blank, obviously.

It's not that he's never liked a boy before, or never considered the possibility of bisexuality. He has. It's just… he always thought he'd marry Daphne. That he'd go his whole life without having to deal with it.

There was no version of his life in which he expected to be confronted with pornographic crystal visions involving a Gryffindor as part of a routine class assignment. Not that this changes anything, per se.

He shifts in his seat and grits his teeth, turning back to the crystal ball.

Any burgeoning arousal he may have felt turns to dust.

The image is now his father.

He looks old and decrepit. Weak. The background is dark and cold looking. Vertical shadows pass over him like prison bars. Azkaban.

The frame adjusts, and Theo sees himself walk in. He's a few years older than he is now. His robes are neat and expensive, his head held high. He carries his wand casually, confidently.

He watches himself speak, clearly and precisely at first, then devolving into anger and yelling. He can't hear everything he says, but a few snippets echo around in his head.

Standouts include "weak-minded sadist," "murderous bastard," and "worthless cunt."

Theo watches this older, more confident version of himself point his wand at his father's throat. His father looks scared. Older Theo doesn't.

Theo holds his breath, watching. His older self laughs and the image dissolves into mist.

Theo returns to awareness of the classroom, again struggling to catch his breath. Looking around, he sees some of his classmates still gazing at their crystal balls. Others have given up and are talking quietly.

He glances at his sheet of parchment. He can't write "My inner most desire is to yell at and possibly kill my father, while he's already dying in prison."

Theo rubs two fingers over his forehead. This is — He didn't sign up to think about this today.

And he's not going to.

He shoves the images away, for use in future nightmares, and glares at the crystal ball. He dares it to give him something neither horrifying nor life-altering. Preferably something usable on his assignment.

He dives back in, softening his mind and focusing on the misty crystal ball.

The image is fuzzy this time, like he's viewing it through fog. It's something shiny… silver, with a bit of red. He leans in closer, trying to get a better look. He stares intently, practically crossing his eyes, as the image begins to clear.

A sword.

A long, ornate sword with a ruby-encrusted handle.

He has no idea what that means. Why does he desire a sword?

As soon as he tries to think about it, the image disappears.

It has to be symbolic somehow. Of what, he's not sure. But honestly, he's just relieved it wasn't something else dark or sexual. He can do an assignment on this.

He writes what he saw down on his parchment, then pushes the crystal ball away. He has no interest in looking at it again any time soon.

But as he packs up his materials at the end of class, he can't get the sword out of his head. It's by far the least troubling thing he saw, but it was still… haunting, somehow. The way it came through the mist.

The other things he saw — about Neville and his father — were hard to watch, but predictable. They were things he wants to avoid, but he understands them. He knew, on some level, about those feelings.

But the mystery sword, it's — well, it's mysterious. He has a vague sense that he's seen it before, but he can't think where.

It's probably just that it looked like a sword, and, like, he's seen swords before.

It doesn't mean anything. He'll do research on the symbolism of swords for the essay Trelawney assigned at the end of class, and that will be that.

"Any luck?" Neville says pleasantly once they've been dismissed. "I didn't see anything. It'll be another creative writing assignment for me."

Theo laughs, then blushes when he catches Neville's eye. "I, erm, yeah. I saw some stuff. I usually do."

"That's so cool!"

"I guess," he says. "My mother was a seer, so. It runs in families, I suppose."

"Right, makes sense."

"She was sort of famous for it before she died. She could do, like, prophecies and stuff. I can only See things with the right tools — crystal ball, star charts, you know."

Theo's not sure why he's talking about his mother all of a sudden. Maybe to distract Neville so he won't ask what he saw.

"Yeah," Neville says. "That's still really great, though!" He pauses. "Or is it? I don't know what it's like to See things. Is it great?"

Theo considers. "It can be. It's kinda fun sometimes, but it can be — heavy? Confusing?"

Neville nods seriously. "That's understandable."

"My mum found it overwhelming, from what I remember. It was part of why she killed herself, I think."

Neville's breath stutters a little, like a gasp. Theo never knows who knows about his mum. It's not really a secret, it was in the papers and stuff at the time, but it's not really common knowledge these days either.

Neville recovers quickly, his voice soothing and even when he speaks again. "I'm sorry, Theo," he says softly. "How old were you?"

"Five."

Neville touches the back of his hand to the back of Theo's hand as they walk. Just gently, just for a second.

He feels the touch long after he takes his hand away.


"As we discussed earlier in the week, the transfiguration of large objects requires a great deal of magical power, and as such is often completed in pairs," Professor McGonagall says at the beginning of class on Thursday afternoon.

Hermione jots down the assignment (turning the classroom desks into armchairs), an unnecessary but comforting part of her in-class routine.

"Please select a partner who is not your usual desk-mate." McGonagall narrows her eyes at the collective whinging of the class and speaks sternly. "You need to practice working magically in concert with individuals outside your usual partnerships. You may begin."

Hermione's been sitting with Ron, who jumps up and claims Harry for his partner. She stands, and in the shuffle of everyone rearranging, she finds herself one of the last to be partnerless.

Except of course, for Malfoy.

She braces herself and approaches him.

"Granger." He acknowledges her with a glare.

"Hi, Malfoy," she says briskly. "What desk do you want to use?"

"Does it matter?"

"Only in the sense that we need to point our wands at the same one at the same time, so it would be helpful if we both knew which one we were using."

He points lazily. "That one."

"Do you remember the incantation?" she asks.

He glares again.

"Fine, I was just checking," she snaps. "On three?"

He nods curtly.

They attempt the spell, on her count of three. The half of the desk nearest to Hermione becomes soft and cushy and takes on a brown striped pattern similar to her parents' sofa at home. Not bad for a first attempt.

Malfoy's half doesn't change at all.

They try again and Hermione's half has an arm and a back and looks like it would be a lovely place to sit if it weren't for the fact that it is currently connected to half a school desk.

She pokes at it and Malfoy's half is, at most, slightly softer. The difference is so slight she might be making it up. She frowns. Malfoy's normally good at Transfiguration.

"Why aren't you doing your half, Malfoy?" she accuses.

"I'm saying the spell, Granger," he says. "Not sure what else you want from me."

She looks at him. He's a bit red in the cheeks, almost… embarrassed? She can't quite tell through the mask of his sneer.

"I want you to make an effort!" Hermione whirls around to face him. "We're supposed to be working together, I'm not going to do your work for you!"

She realizes belatedly that she's holding her wand aloft, pointing it at his face as if she's ready to attack.

"No need to get violent about it, Granger," he says impassively.

She lowers her wand slowly and clenches her jaw in frustration over not having a better retort prepared.

She takes a deep breath. Forces herself to remember that none of this matters. This is just practice. It's just Malfoy. "Let's try again."

"Fine by me," he says.

Their third attempt at the desk ends up looking almost identical to their second.

"Are you sure you're casting at the same time as me?" she asks.

He glowers.

"Do you have any ideas about what's going wrong?" she pushes, keeping her tone even.

"How do you know it's me that's not doing it right?" he counters, standing taller. "We're both casting at the same object. There's no guarantee proximity plays into it."

Hermione grits her teeth. He's grasping at straws, but he's never going to admit that he can't do something.

"Well, first of all," she begins in what Ron would call her 'swotty teacher voice', "my half looks nearly identical to my parents' sofa, so it's obviously my work. But more importantly, proximity is one of the most elementary principles of joint transfiguration, as you would know if you'd done the reading."

Malfoy's eyes darken.

"How did you manage to hand in the essay today anyway? Without even cracking open the book?" she continues in spite of herself.

It's possible she shouldn't antagonise him. If there's anything she knows about Malfoy, it's that he hates to be beaten by a muggle-born. Her in particular.

His fist tightens around his wand and she swears she sees a hint of an angry spark crackling out of the tip.

"I've got other shit going on," he spits out eventually. "Not all of us can make homework our first priority."

"Yes, well," she says primly. "Perhaps fewer late nights in the Room of Requirement would free up your schedule a bit."

He goes still. His eyes are somehow even darker than before as he steps into her space, just like the other week in the hallway. The classroom goes quiet around them, the movements and voices of everyone else fading into nothing. It's just her and Malfoy.

"What did you say?" he whispers.

"I —" She can't hold a thought together with him looking at her like that. "You — the Room — the other night. You said you were there with — with your girlfriend."

He visibly relaxes, his face abruptly shifting from menacing glare to his default confident smirk. "Jealous, Granger?" he asks, his voice still low, still mere inches from her face.

"I —" she can't quite manage to form words. Which is utterly ridiculous. She just has to open her mouth and make a denial. Which should be easy, since it would be true. Obviously.

"Mr. Malfoy," Professor McGonagall says sharply, stepping up to the other side of their un-transfigured desk. "Is there a problem?

Hermione takes a step back and shakes her head. It's louder in the classroom than she realised.

"No, Professor, everything's fine," Malfoy says politely, smiling pleasantly. "Just a bit of difficulty with our spell. Do you have any suggestions for how to improve?"

His demeanour shifts so abruptly and so completely, that Hermione almost doubts that he was ever angry in the first place. Or smirky.

It's rather unnerving.

McGonagall, who had appeared to be about to reprimand him, now seems unsure, as if she's doubting that she saw anything untoward after all. She asks them to demonstrate the spell again, tells Draco how to adjust his wand movements, and circulates off to watch another pair.

They practice a few more times, not looking at each other, not speaking except for when she counts to three.

They make absolutely no progress.

After the seventh attempt, Hermione sighs. "What are you visualizing when you cast?"

"A chair," Malfoy says tersely.

Hermione sighs again, louder. "What kind of chair, Malfoy?"

"An armchair."

"That's not –" She cuts herself off. Why bother? "Fine. This time let's both think about the black chairs in the common room – you know, the leather ones?"

"Whatever."

She counts to three, and closes her eyes, visualizing deeply as she casts the spell.

When she opens them, she sees progress. Malfoy's half is not quite chair-shaped, but it is soft-looking and coated in black leather.

"Excellent," she says brightly. "I thought that might work."

Malfoy continues to sulk, though she swears one corner of his lip twitches up, just a bit.

She smiles. "Let's try again, shall we?"

They make no further progress. There's got to be something else going wrong, if only she could–

"Malfoy, how are you holding your wrist?" she asks abruptly, somewhere between the tenth and one millionth iteration of the spell.

He shows her his hand

"Close the angle a bit more, like this." Without thinking, she folds her hand around the back of his and bends it forward until the angle is just right. "That should do it," she says softly, continuing to hold his hand in place.

Malfoy clears his throat and she jumps back, startled. She'd almost forgotten who she was with. She doesn't think she's ever touched Malfoy before, other than that one time she punched him in the face.

He's staring at her in a way she can't identify. Somewhere between 'she's sprouted a second head', genuine amusement, and just… vague intensity.

"Right, well, on three then," she says quickly, tearing her gaze away from him, feeling suddenly rather warm.

Three seconds later there is a beautiful black leather armchair, where before there was nothing but a desk. She grins widely.

"We did it!"

"Well spotted," Malfoy intones drily.

"Oh come on, Malfoy, don't tell me you're not at least a little bit proud of yourself?" Hermione goads him gently, as she steps forward and circles the chair, examining it for any flaws.

Malfoy makes a non-committal humming noise.

Then he steps forward and throws himself dramatically onto the seat of their chair. While she's still inspecting it, she might add. He practically sits on her hand.

"Hey!"

"What is it, Granger? Did I interrupt your obsessing?"

"I was checking it," she says. "Which you could have helped me with, by the way."

"What's the point?" he says. "It's obviously perfect."

She huffs. "But how would we know that?"

"Because I made it," he smirks. She gasps in outrage. "You helped," he acknowledges.

She glares and he bursts into laughter. Hermione furrows her brow, trying to think if she's ever heard Malfoy laugh before. Not without an audience, she's pretty sure.

"Relax, Granger," he says. "Try the chair."

He slides to one side and pats the seat next to him.

She glares harder. "Are you serious?"

"Why not?" he says lightly. "It's comfy. And we made it."

She narrows her eyes.

"You're being ridiculous," she declares, moving to get her bookbag. She'll spend the last few minutes of class working on her Potions essay.

She looks up and Malfoy is pouting. Actually pouting. Like, sticking-his-bottom-lip-out, puppy-dog-eyes pouting.

"Oh for Merlin's sake," she mutters. "What do you want?"

"I want you to come enjoy our hard work – yours, mostly," he says… sincerely? Which doesn't make any sense at all. Hermione frowns.

Then Malfoy… wiggles? He squirms around, pressing his body deeper into the chair and waggling his eyebrows as if to demonstrate how comfortable it is.

Hermione laughs, in spite of herself.

"You're ridiculous," she says again, though it comes out sounding almost fond.

And the next thing she knows, her feet are carrying her forward and she's sliding into the seat next to Malfoy.

It's a tight fit. The chair is very much meant for one person. An entire side of her body, from shoulder to thigh, is pressed up against Malfoy's. He's warm. She can hear the gentle movement of his breath.

"Happy now?" she stutters.

He makes an odd scoffing noise. "Almost never, Granger."

She folds that over in her mind for a moment. It's an extremely vulnerable statement coming from him, the exact sort of emotion and weakness Malfoy would never entrust to her. Maybe he's joking? Or trying to manipulate her somehow? Being friendly and silly and vulnerable in an effort to – what, exactly? What's he trying to achieve?

"You're really tense," he says quietly, an observation that causes Hermione to tense further.

She turns to look at him and his face is right there. Pointy chin, grey eyes, almost translucently pale skin – right there. Mere inches from her own face. She jerks her head away, staring instead at a spot on the floor. She gets the sense he's still looking at her.

"I don't understand," she says after a moment. "What do you want?"

"You asked me that already."

"But your answer didn't make any sense."

"Maybe it wasn't supposed to," he says enigmatically.

She whirls her head back around, being sure to lean as far away from him as possible as she does so.

He's grinning.

And the next thing she knows she's laughing, and he's laughing too, and she still doesn't quite know what's going on. It's almost like... she's having fun with Draco Malfoy?

That can't be right.


A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you're all having a wonderful week!

And extra thanks to Sunshineceline this week for being with me for the approximately 10 million re-writes of Transfiguration class ❤️