Chapter 29 - Absolute insanity
Theo doesn't sleep. He can't.
He watches, bouncy with adrenaline, as Madam Pomfrey rushes to tend to their whole ragged group, after they collapsed rudely onto her doorstep in the middle of the night.
Draco is first in line, blood-replenishing potions poured down his throat, vital monitoring charms set up, his heart restarted once after it stuttered to a halt, overwhelmed by the reintroduction of blood and stability. The matron asks Theo sharp, precise questions about what happened to him. She doesn't ask where or why or how — just when and what.
When Draco's heart starts working again, she moves on to Hermione, waking her from the immediate sleep she fell into. Her blood gets replenished as well, and her ankle set and straightened. Then a vial of dreamless sleep and she's back to rest.
Madam Pomfrey is just beginning to treat Neville, telling him his ankle has a minor sprain, but no major problems, when she gets interrupted by Pansy, having some sort of panic attack. Delayed shock, or something like that. Pansy gets fed some chocolate before getting her own dose of dreamless sleep.
The matron returns to Neville and Theo's corner of the room, and hands each of them large chocolate bars, before setting Neville's ankle and casting a few charms at Theo. He's fine. Physically, at least.
She instructs them to go right to sleep as soon as they finish their chocolate and doesn't even glance askance when Theo forgoes his assigned bed and climbs in next to Neville. They lie facing each other, hands and arms and legs all tangled up under the blankets. It's not a good sleeping position, but Theo just wants to feel him. To know that he's breathing, his heart is beating and he's here, he's safe, he's alive.
Neville drifts off quickly, exhausted, but Theo remains wide awake, listening to the ward.
"Mrs. Malfoy," Madam Pomfrey says tightly when all her student charges are squared away. "Do you need anything?"
"No, I'm perfectly alright, thank you. I just want to stay here with my son."
"I —" the matron stutters. "I'm not sure if —"
"Here," Narcissa says quickly. "Take my wand, if you like. I don't want any trouble with you or anyone else. I've left. I have no plans to go back. None of it matters to me anymore, not if Draco's not safe. I didn't even bring anything with me — he can have it all — my money, my damn house, anything except my boy. I'm not going back. I want to stay here with Draco. And," she says as an afterthought, "I'd like to see the Headmaster if he's available."
Madam Pomfrey pauses, considering for a moment. "Yes, alright. You may stay the night. The Headmistress," she adds slowly, "is not available, though I'm sure she will see you in the morning."
"Headmistress?"
"Yes. Professor McGonagall will see you in the morning."
Hermione wakes up with an aching head, a shooting pain in her ankle, and a rather tight grip squeezing both her hands. Ron and Harry are there.
"Hermione! You're awake!" Harry exclaims, dropping her hand. She winces at the noise.
"How're you feeling?" Ron asks, gripping even tighter than before.
"A bit sore," she says. "How's everyone else?"
"They're all going to be fine," Harry tells her.
"Even —"
"Yes, Malfoy too," Ron assures her.
Okay. She breathes deeply. Okay.
She shifts around, sitting up in bed and peering around the ward. Pansy, Draco, Theo, Neville, Mrs. Malfoy — they're all there. Draco looks to be the worst off by far, pale and bandaged with an enormous number of potion bottles stacked beside his bed.
"Do you need anything? Water?" Harry presses. Hermione nods, studying his face for a moment. He looks oddly solemn.
Harry finds a glass by her bed and fills it with an aguamenti. He shudders, cringing as he casts the spell.
"Harry, what's wrong? What aren't you telling me?"
"Um," Harry says, "I think we're supposed to wait… McGonagall said she'd be here…"
As if on cue, Professor McGonagall arrives, clipping quickly into the hospital wing with tired eyes and her head held high.
"Poppy?" she asks, summoning Madam Pomfrey from her office. "May I speak with the students?"
"Yes, briefly," Madam Pomfrey affirms. "Mr. Malfoy will not be awake for a while yet, but the others should be up for it."
McGonagall nods, conjuring a chair and settling into it with a sigh. She positions herself in the centre of the row of beds and clears her throat. "Last night," she begins, "was a difficult one, both here at the school, and it would seem, elsewhere. I am quite eager to hear your story — and indeed, to learn how you left the castle and why you chose not to consult with any staff members before doing so." She shoots them a stern glare over the rim of her glasses. "But first, I must inform you that Professor Dumbledore is dead. He was murdered by Professor Snape."
Oh. It makes a certain kind of sense. Voldemort would still want him dead, he would still be dying anyway, and Snape would still need to prove his loyalty. Yes, of course. It all fits.
Hermione catches Pansy's eye, and knows she came to the same conclusion.
"Snape?" Theo asks incredulously, not knowing the full story.
"Yes," McGonagall sighs. "He is not the man I thought he was. For now," she tracks on, burying her sentiment, "I have taken over as Acting Headmistress until the end of the school year, which will be terminated early, as soon as a funeral can be held. Now, please, tell me what happened yesterday."
They do. The four of them — Hermione, Pansy, Theo and Neville — take turns, leaving almost nothing out. McGonagall listens closely, nodding impassively at the rule breaking, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the actions of the Death Eaters, and widening her eyes at the details of their escape.
"Well," she says when they reach the end. "Though I might have hoped for a bit less recklessness from those of you who were present at the fiasco at the Ministry last year, knowing as you do the dangerousness of valiant rescue missions, I am deeply moved by your bravery, strategic thinking, and determination to do the right thing."
She rises from her chair and vanishes it back into thin air.
"Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, I think it is time for you to return to your common room and allow Ms. Granger to get some rest. Mr. Longbottom, your grandmother is on her way. Ms. Parkinson, I believe Ms. Bulstrode is waiting in the corridor — are you up to a visit?"
"Yes, please," Pansy says quietly. "I would really like to see her."
"Very well, I shall send her in on my way out. Now, Mrs. Malfoy," McGonagall says, addressing her directly for the first time, "please come with me to my office."
"Yes, of course, thank you." Mrs. Malfoy rises, placing a kiss on Draco's forehead before straightening her still elegant robes and following the Headmistress from the room.
Harry and Ron follow shortly thereafter and Hermione drifts back off to sleep.
Later, after being formally released from the hospital and surviving the visit with Neville's grandmother, and then hanging around the hospital wing most of the day anyway, Theo goes up to Gryffindor tower.
He slips into his dorm room and finds it empty. He sighs, breathing out deeply and closing his eyes.
He snaps his eyes back open when he remembers that he still has the Sorting Hat. The sword was returned to McGonagall's office that morning, but the Hat is still somewhere, balled up with his discarded, bloody robes from the day before.
He digs the hat out and places it on his head.
"Didn't I tell you?" the Hat immediately purrs in his ear.
"What?"
"You will do great things," it quotes itself. Theo shivers. "Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that sword. I am never wrong, and you, Mr. Nott, are the feather in my cap — so to speak."
"But why?" he pleads. "Why did you switch me? How did you know? If you're never wrong, how come I was a Slytherin for five years?"
"Sometimes," the Hat declares, "things that are true, are not true forever."
"But why me?"
"Ah dear boy, I am but a humble hat. I cannot tell you everything."
"But just this one thing?"
The Hat is conspicuously silent.
"Er, Hat?"
There is a vague humming in his ears, like a gentle melody of avoidance.
Theo takes the Hat off and holds it in his hands. "You're a right arse, you know that?" He sighs and whispers, "Thank you."
By the time Hermione wakes on her second day in hospital, Neville has already been released. It's just her and Draco, and Mrs. Malfoy sitting by his bedside.
Hermione stares at him, still quietly asleep, and wants nothing more than to go to him, hold his hand and whisper lovingly in his ear. But his mother is here. His pureblood supremacist, Death Eater affiliated mother, who called her a mudblood on the one occasion they previously met.
Of course, they couldn't have escaped the Manor without her, and McGonagall is letting her stay in the castle, so perhaps she's changed. Perhaps she loves Draco enough that she's willing to change.
Perhaps that's a thing she and Hermione have in common.
Regardless, the last thing she wants is to be alone with her. Or heaven forbid, speak with her.
As though she senses her thoughts, Mrs. Malfoy meets Hermione's gaze. She quickly averts her eyes, but Mrs. Malfoy steps out of her chair anyway and comes around to the one next to Hermione's bed.
Hermione steels herself, sitting up as straight as she can in a hospital bed. She is suddenly dreadfully aware of her hair and the frizzy contrast it must make to Mrs. Malfoy's effortless poise.
"Ms. Granger," she says. "I've been hoping I would get a chance to talk to you."
"Hello, Mrs. Malfoy," she says softly.
"How long have you been in love with my son?" Mrs. Malfoy asks conversationally, her smooth expression giving nothing away.
"I — er — How —" Hermione fumbles, her still sluggish mind racing for the correct answer, the one that would satisfy the formidable woman in front of her, while maintaining some semblance of her own dignity. Can she lie? Should she? What does Mrs. Malfoy want?
She smiles without opening her lips, an odd, feminine mirror of Draco's own smirky grin. "How do I know? I can see it in your eyes, my dear. And in the rather grand gesture you performed, coming to my home as you did. No one would do such a thing for any reason but love."
"Yes," Hermione admits at a whisper.
"How long?" Mrs. Malfoy asks again.
"Well, I suppose it depends how you count," Hermione hedges. "But since… November, I would say."
"Ah," Mrs. Malfoy says, her grin softening into something more genuine. "I thought he was mooning after someone over the holidays. I'd hoped it was Pansy, of course. I've always adored that girl. Though, now I've seen her with Ms. Bulstrode, I realise that was quite out of the question."
Hermione nods slowly, dropping her eyes to the section of floor at the edge of the bed.
"I should have known," she continues with a gentle chuckle. "The way Draco used to go on about the girl who was always just ahead of him in class. Jealousy and admiration are two sides of the same galleon, I've always thought. Are your parents good people?"
"Yes," Hermione says slowly, thrown off by the sudden change in topic.
"With respectable careers?"
"Yes," Hermione says. "They're dentists, a sort of muggle tooth healer."
"Healers? That's good," says Mrs. Malfoy, nodding as if to herself. "They must be educated, intelligent people. Much like yourself, I suppose."
"I suppose," Hermione echoes dumbly. She waits, tense, for the other shoe to inevitably drop.
"You know, I'm sure, that I expected Draco to be with a different sort of girl. But, the world is changing, isn't it? These last few days, I've had nothing but time to think. And before that too, when I thought I would lose him…" She trails off, her face tightening as she masks emotion. "Well, I want my son safe, more than anything. And if he can manage to be happy too, I will not do anything to deny him that."
"Oh," Hermione says, not knowing what else to say. "Thank you."
The evening before Dumbledore's funeral, Theo receives a summons from the Headmistress.
Hermione is already in her office when he arrives, and Theo sits next to her, full of foreboding deja vu and, at the same time, a sort of skiterry anticipation.
The office is different in subtle ways. A few fewer whirring golden instruments, a bit more tartan. The box of lemon drops swapped out for a tin of shortbread. But the sword of Gryffindor is there, glinting in its case above the desk and the Sorting Hat is back, snoozing on its shelf.
A place has been cleared for a new portrait, though the painted Professor Dumbledore has not yet arrived.
"Professor Dumbledore," McGonagall begins, after pleasantries are exchanged, "was reticent about many things, and may have at times appeared rather scatterbrained. But he was remarkably prepared for his own passing. Indeed, I have spent much of the week going through his carefully organised belongings and instructions. For the two of you, he set aside three memories."
She summons three small vials from a cabinet and sets them to float above her desk. They're full of a silvery-white gas-liquid that twists and swirls around the glass.
"I have not seen these memories myself," she explains. "They were, evidently, intended for the two of you alone. I know nothing of their contents, though I must assume they have something to do with the resorting."
McGonagall flicks her wand again and a pensieve emerges from the same cabinet as the memories.
"You may view the memories now, in my office. Any questions?"
Theo shakes his head, glancing at Hermione.
"When you're ready."
Theo and Hermione stand. They make eye contact for just a moment above the basin, Theo's heart pounding out of his chest. He doesn't know why he's this nervous. It's just memories — it can't really change anything, can it?
He takes the plunge.
He emerges in the exact same spot, in a different time. The office is back how he remembers it from before, the pensieve basin back in its cabinet, the golden instruments and lemon drops back in place.
"I am sorry, Sybill, but this is simply the way things are." Professor Dumbledore's voice makes Theo turn around.
Hermione has appeared beside him, watching as a memory of Professor Dumbledore speaks to a memory of Professor Trelawney.
"It's a violation of my rights, is what it is!" Trelawney snaps back. "Absolutely ridiculous, after all the years I've put into this school… I'll go elsewhere, don't think I won't!"
"Of course, Sybill. I am certain you are valued in many places — and Hogwarts is one of them. I do hope you'll stay with us. Give the co-teaching a try. You'll have extra time for private study, I know how you enjoy that. Now, then, if that will be all…"
Dumbledore rises from his chair and none-too-subtly flicks his wrist to open his office door. His hand is still whole and healthy.
Trelawney clucks her tongue indignantly as she rises from her chair and makes her way toward the open door.
Then she stops in her tracks.
Theo can only see the back of her head from his vantage point by the pensieve cabinet behind Dumbledore's desk, but something in her posture goes... off. Tense and angled.
Her voice is odd when she speaks, rising and falling in a strained, nasal lilt.
"Following the words of a mother, a son will betray his father in the shadow of his seventeenth year… He will bring the Dark Lord to his knees. A new alliance will emerge, more powerful and braver than any before… without the son, there is no hope… no hope while the father has his loyalty… In the shadow of his seventeenth year… The time approaches…"
Theo grabs Hermione's elbow to keep from falling over.
It's him.
He betrayed his father when he gave his letter to Dumbledore. He changed his loyalty. An alliance — the new friendliness between Gryffindors and Slytherins? It all happened right after he turned seventeen. The shadow of his seventeenth year.
He doesn't understand the beginning though — what mother?
"Theo," Hermione breathes beside him.
The scene of the memory carries on, with Trelawney walking out the door, seemingly unaware that she did anything strange. Dumbledore stares after her, his brow furrowed in contemplation.
"It was a prophecy," he says to Hermione, just to say it. "About me."
"Yes," she agrees. "That must be why. Though I'm not sure —"
Abruptly, the scene dissolves and they are thrust into another memory.
It's the end of a party. Theo frowns at the abandoned, half-empty plates and glassware and the trickle of laughing people wandering out of the room.
It's Hogwarts students, but no one he recognises. The dress robe styles seem a few decades out of date.
"It's a Slug Club party," Hermione says, her voice as bewildered as Theo feels. "What —"
"Good night, Isabel. Do let me know what you think of that book!" Slughorn's voice booms over the emptying room.
Theo whips around.
It's his mother. She looks just like her photo from when she was seventeen.
"Of course, Professor," she says, smiling brightly. "Thank you for the invitation."
Theo wanders over to her as if pulled by an external force. It's really her, close enough to touch. He stares at her face, her eyes, and his chest throbs. Some deep, childhood part of him stirs with recognition. He aches to talk to her, or even for her to notice him for a single moment.
"Well, I'd best be off," she continues. "Good night, Professor."
Isabel turns, walking from the room. Theo follows, desperate to be close to her for one more second.
She stops in her tracks.
Then she speaks again, her voice going odd, her body tense, just like Professor Trelawney.
"A son without a mother will betray his father and he will bring the Dark Lord to his knees. A new alliance will emerge, more powerful… than any before… there is no hope… no hope while the father has his loyalty…"
The scene shifts and falls away before Theo can think, before he can take a final look at his mother, before anything. He can't — he doesn't —what's —
They're back in the Headmaster's office, Dumbledore's again.
The old Headmaster sits, more tired and drawn than before, behind his desk. His hand is blackened and shrivelled.
Professor Snape sits, glowering, across from him. "Is that all then?" he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just the one simple task?"
Dumbledore bows his head in something like shame. He sighs. "Yes, Severus. Just the one. Although —"
"No," Snape says. "Whatever it is, my answer is no."
"There is one more thing I'd like your opinion on," Dumbledore continues as though Snape had not spoken. "Several weeks ago, Sybill came to visit me. And I again had the dubious pleasure of bearing witness to a prophecy."
"NO!" Snape jumps up from his chair, sending it flying backward. "Do not speak to me of prophecy! Don't you know by now that nothing good comes of it? I won't hear of it!"
"I ask nothing from you but your counsel, your strategic mind," Dumbledore tells him calmly, as though he'd been expecting this reaction. "Surely you can agree that all information is worth considering, as it pertains to Voldemort?"
"No," Snape says icily. "I do not. Setting store by prophecy is what got us here. It is meaningless — the product of a trite, unreliable branch of magic and an incompetent drunk. You want my counsel? Put it to rest."
"But Severus," Dumbledore continues, "it was no ordinary prophecy. It was a repeat — a continuation — of a prophecy made more than twenty years ago by Isabel Nott. She was most certainly not, as you say, an 'incompetent drunk.' I thought I recognised some of the prophecy from one of Horace's many stories."
"Slughorn?" Snape scoffs. "That curse must have spread to your brain if you believe a word of that pompous —"
Dumbledore holds up a hand, silencing him. "Perhaps. But I have secured his memory of the night in question," he says, gesturing to a vial. "It is crystal clear and unambiguous. The prophecy is nearly the very same, though Sybill's words do add a certain amount of clarity."
Snape hovers, seemingly caught between storming out of the office, and sitting meekly back down to listen to his superior and mentor.
Dumbledore takes the opportunity to carry on. "The prophecy, as I understand it, refers to Theodore Nott — Isabel's son. It is said that he will take an action to betray his father which will meaningfully weaken Voldemort and at the same time forge an alliance that will bring hope to our cause. This will happen around his seventeenth birthday — in other words, sometime this year."
Snape sits. "Nott?"
Theo grips the edge of a chair, barely breathing as he watches the wizards discuss him. His life, his fate.
"Indeed," Dumbledore says. "I confess I know little about the boy. You, as his head of house, could surely enlighten me?"
"There is nothing extraordinary about him. Nothing particularly interesting either," Snape says slowly. "Average in every way."
"Oh, I believe there is something extraordinary inside all of us, Severus," Dumbledore chides him. "In that case, perhaps he will need a nudge?"
"A nudge?" Snape sneers. "Acting on the word of prophecy, you mean? No, Albus, I do not think any of us need that."
Dumbledore nods. "Perhaps. Although —"
"No," Snape says, and Theo begins to get a sense about the nature of the professors' typical interaction.
"Although prophecy can be dangerous, it is foremost a tool. One which wielded carefully, can lead to highly effective results. No, Severus, I do not think prophecies should be ignored — they should not be assumed to be unquestionably true, but they can become true. If it is a favourable outcome — as it is, in this case — there remains very little question in my mind that action must be taken. I turn to you to assist me in determining which actions to take. Nott Sr. is a rather brutal man, is he not?"
"Yes."
"So there is surely some resentment already, between father and son?"
"One could assume," Snape says coldly.
"And an alliance, both powerful and brave… Bravery always makes one think of Gryffindor, doesn't it?" Dumbledore smiles slightly. "What do you think, Severus — if you had an unsorted student, a first-year perhaps, and you wanted them to become brave, where would you place them?"
"Gryffindor…" Snape answers cautiously. "If one wanted to encourage a trait, the child ought to be around like-minded peers."
"My thoughts exactly. I have always said we sort too soon… And to form an alliance, while developing bravery sufficient to defy one's own family, all in a single year… that would take quite a shift, I imagine, an extraordinary measure, for what you describe as a rather unimaginative boy?"
"Do not tell me you are considering resorting the poor boy into Gryffindor?"
"Yes," Dumbledore says, without even an attempt at denial. "Could be quite a good scheme, I think."
His eyes do that infuriating twinkle thing and Theo cannot decide if he is angry or grateful for Dumbledore. Both, maybe.
"And how do you propose to do this? The decision of the Sorting Hat is binding, as you are well aware."
"Yes," Dumbledore says. "Unless it makes a new decision."
"That is your great plan? Coerce a hat?"
"Oh, it cannot be coerced," Dumbledore says seriously. "It can be asked to review its decisions, certainly. It can be placed on the boy's head. But what is inside his head will be what matters. He must want to be brave. Young Nott must want, deep down, in his true heart, to change."
"That would be quite the assumption."
"Oh, I disagree greatly. I believe all ordinary folk have not only the capacity to be extraordinary, but the desire as well. No. I think it quite likely that the Hat will find what it is looking for — not certain of course, but with the details of the prophecy being as they are… And the worst that can happen, I suppose, is an anticlimactic interruption to the feast and a triumphant return to Slytherin, if that is the boy's true desire."
"You would do it at the feast?" Snape says, aghast.
"Of course, when else?"
Snape shakes his head. "Absolute insanity."
"Isn't it?" Dumbledore says cheerfully. "Well, that's settled then. This talk has quite convinced me. Theodore Nott will be reevaluated by the Sorting Hat for a new placement in Gryffindor."
"And you foresee no risks? No talk of special treatment? Of Gryffindor bias from the Headmaster? Or, worse, retaliation from the Dark Lord for the turning of a promising young recruitment possibility?"
Dumbledore frowns.
"Retaliation?"
"Quite possibly."
"Perhaps if he were not the only one… An alliance is best served both ways… and if a student were to join Slytherin in his place, no allegations of favouritism could be made…" Dumbledore speaks, in fits and starts, pausing for careful thought. "And perhaps… the other situation we discussed… a new influence on young Mr. Malfoy… Which student in Gryffindor would the Hat most likely select for Slytherin, in your opinion?"
Snape grimaces, but answers without hesitation. "Granger."
