DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but this twisted so-called "plot".

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Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Hermione beamed up at the towering stack of books on her bed: her parents had truly outdone themselves. Every year they'd pick a theme of sorts, and between her birthday and Christmas, they'd ply her with a carefully curated collection of books. There was however, a less-than-pleased sentiment conveyed in the letter that accompanied them.
"I've made you an absolutely killer mixtape, but of course you'll only get to hear it when you bother to come home next." Clearly, dear old dad was a bit brassed off.

Okay. Concentrate.

She stared hard at the book at the top of the pile, and thought Accio! with all her might. It shifted perceptibly.
The second time it hopped up into the air and hovered for a few seconds, before falling back down.
The third time it came flying into her outstretched hand.

Hermione grinned with manic delight. One by one, she summoned all the books, stacking them on the floor next to her forsaken wand.

She summoned the glass sitting on her bedside table. Aguamenti! she cried in her head. Nothing happened.
The second time, she thought the glass felt marginally cooler.
The third time, she managed to conjure a few condensation-like beads along the inside of the glass.
The fourth attempt left her with half a glass full of icy water. Definitely half full.

Hermione spent an hour creating absolute chaos in the dormitory that was all hers for the next ten days. Summoning, conjuring, severing and repairing, transfiguring, shrinking, enlarging... She failed a lot, but succeeded more. She felt like Matilda Wormwood after she'd learned to control her powers. Exactly like Matilda – she was an extraordinarily talented, woefully misunderstood bookworm... suddenly exalted.

Exhaustion gripped her soon enough. She stood amid the wreckage, basking in absolute self-satisfaction. Her magic and her mind had done this. She had tossed a room; surely with enough practice, she could bring down mountains, part the sea, summon tornadoes, chisel rock and steel and build cities like the world had never seen. Elated and euphoric, she stretched out on her bed gracefully like the blooming queen of Sheba, and with languorous waves of her arm, took her time putting things in order again. A botched reparo had left an uncomfortable looking dent in Lavender's mattress, which Hermione made a point to forget to rectify.

Turkey and Potatoes and Parsnips, oh my! Christmas dinner at Hogwarts was utterly spectacular, and Hermione hoped the house-elves slaving away in the kitchens liked the hats, socks, and scarves she had sent them. As always, very few students had opted to stay back for the holidays, so they were all comfortably seated on one table in the middle of the great hall. After a surreptitious glance up and down the table, Hermione crooked a finger at a salt cellar, and it sprouted legs and scuttled over to her.

"Could you perhaps direct some salt my way, Ms Granger?" said an amused voice.

Startled, Hermione looked into the brightly twinkling eyes of Professor Dumbledore. Clearing her throat, she mumbled, "Yes sir, of course," and with a slight flick of her finger, set the cellar a-walking.

Every single pair of eyes in the room watched the tiny bit of silverware scamper down the table.

"Impressive," said Professor McGonagall, gracing Hermione with a rare smile.
"Simply marvellous!" Slughorn exclaimed through a mouthful of food, beaming.

Many other commending assertions, hushed and loud, piped up along the table, and Hermione felt her whole face burn.

"Show off," Theo muttered in her ear. She glared at him half-heartedly as he grinned at the splodges of red on her cheeks.
"Shut up," she hissed back.

A few seats down, Hagrid was telling Slughorn about how consistently brilliant she had been over the years. The younger children were gaping at her in awe.
Thanks for that Dumbledore. She saw that he was still watching her, smiling knowingly. Hermione wondered how much energy he must expend in keeping that sparkle going in his eyes. It had to be a charm – human eyes didn't do that.

They sat on the steps by the archway that opened onto the central courtyard, stomachs full and minds briefly unburdened.

Hermione was leafing through a book on Arithmancy, and Theo, seated one step below, rested back on his elbows, lazily contemplating the setting sun that looked like a grimy, dumpy little pumpkin though the evening haze. Save for the odd stray student milling about, they were completely alone, and a deep stillness pervaded the usually raucous castle.

"Why on earth did you choose to stay here for Christmas?" Theo asked her sullenly.
Hermione emerged from her book and frowned, "Why did you?"
He shrugged mordantly. "It was bound to be me alone in a cold and lonely castle either which way."
"You live in a castle?" she asked in wonder.
"Mansion. Whatever."

Hermione studied his profile for a moment – perhaps he didn't share her tranquil mood as she had assumed. Indeed, his furrowed brow and cloudy eyes were obvious indicators of inner turmoil.

"I can't be around my parents," she said hesitantly, "I... I just don't know how to downplay the hell we're hurtling towards. I never have been able to lie to them."
Theo's frown deepened. "Would they stop you from coming back if they knew?"
She couldn't hold back a derisive snort. "Hardly. They'd want to join the Order and fight."
His eyes widened with incredulity as he turned towards her. "Seriously?!"
"Oh yes. No power on earth can stop them from fighting for a worthy cause. They have to stand against all injustices, oppose all wrongs; running and hiding is never an option."
"Dear Merlin," Theo's expression cleared, and he grinned. "So that's where you get it from!"
Hermione sniffed snootily. "I get it from both sides. That's why I'm twice as insufferable."

His laugh rang out, echoing around in the empty courtyard, and she smiled at the sound and the way he looked.

"I'm going to show you something," he said slowly, "but you have to promise you won't laugh, or get all sappy on me."
"Okay?"
"No. Promise."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Alright, you lug. I promise."

He fished around in his bag for an eternity, muttering to himself. Hermione made out a couple of 'where the fuck's, a few 'somewhere here's, three 'Ah-haaaa...nope's and one notable 'dickering doxy bollocks, where is it?'
She tapped her foot, emitting impatient growl-sighs. The forth 'Ah ha!' was, thankfully, not a false alarm. With it, Theo pulled a small badge out of the depths of his bag.
It was a S.P.E.W. badge, slightly scratched up and a bit dented.

"I nicked it off you ages ago. Well, not nicked," he backtracked, "I definitely left you a sickle in place of it."
"Why?" Hermione asked, stunned.
"I suppose I thought... I still think... they're important. House-elf rights I mean..." Theo paused as though to mull over his next words. "I already told you I didn't have a very happy childhood. After my mother died, Boffin – he was her elf – he took care of me. On particularly... bad... days, when I'd be up in my room crying, he'd bring me hot chocolate and biscuits, and tell me stories. For a scraggy kid who rarely saw any kindness... it was, well, everything. I hated how my dad treated him. And then I saw how other wizards and witches treated their elves, and I hated that as well. When I heard about your venture, I knew I had to support it; even though it would've had to be- regrettably- in secret. Wasn't brave enough to take a stand at that point, see. Also, I wasn't too chuffed at the thought of wearing the word 'spew' on my chest. You really didn't think that one through, did you?"

Hermione knew her eyes were huge. Huge in that cartoony-doe-eyed kind of way.

"Oh, Theo, I can't beli – "
"No." He shot her down, pointing an accusatory finger. "You promised you wouldn't get sappy. Stop it now."
She let out a watery chuckle and said, "Those badges were worth two sickles."
"Guess I owe you, then." Theo laughed... and then stopped abruptly, as though struck by the unintended significance of his statement.

Hermione shook her head, hoping to cut short that train of thought.

"Wow. I managed to recruit four members. Brilliant."
"Who were the other three?"
"Harry, Ron, and Neville."
Theo scoffed. "Pathetic. Twat number one and two probably only joined to shut you up. And Longbottom would happily dive into the lake in the middle of a snowstorm for you if you smiled at him."
"You mean like you do for Luna?"
"Fuck off." He scowled.

Hermione struggled with a broad grin – she loved how defensive he was about his feelings for the eccentric Ravenclaw.

They chatted into the evening, well after the sky was a domineering navy blue, and all the lamps inside the castle had flared to life. He was extremely inquisitive about her parents, about their activism, and what were considered 'contentious issues' in the muggle world.
It soon got too cold to be sitting on stone steps out in the open. They moseyed back indoors, aimlessly wandering empty corridors.

"Do you talk to them like this? Potter and Weasley, I mean. Do they know you like this?"

Hermione's silence evidently conveyed enough, and Theo made a noise of disgust. "I just cannot understand this supposedly great friendship. You don't talk about things that matter, you don't confide in them... they don't think twice before abandoning you –"
"Harry has never abandoned me." Hermione asserted. "Look, I know how it seems to you, and yes, maybe Harry and I don't have tender heart-to-hearts, but there's this... implicit and deeply strong trust between us. Like I know, I know, Harry Potter would risk his life on my behalf, no matter what. Nothing can destroy that."
"He's a sodding Gryffindor. And look at his track record – risking his life is like a habit for him."
"And you think that hasn't taken its toll?" she retorted, shrilly. "The things he's had to endure, the horrors he's faced, the people he's lost... and the worst is yet to come. His burden is bigger than any of ours, and he's never had a choice. He was orphaned, marked, and forced into accepting this fucking nightmare as his destiny. And I will gladly, willingly, unconditionally give him my help and support, because in spite of being in the eye of the storm, Harry takes time out to cheer me up when the boy I fancy goes and gets himself a girlfriend."

A heavy silence succeeded Hermione's rant. They'd stopped walking, standing stalk still and on edge in the middle of the passageway. This caused a very crusty looking portrait to tartly chastise them: "Move along yer dawdling dingbats!"
Both Theo and Hermione jumped. "
Naff off!" Theo spat, and Hermione let the ridiculousness of the moment eradicate all the tension.

"Anyway," said Theo evenly, as they recommenced their directionless trek, "That boy you fancy is a knob."
Hermione laughed bitterly. "One of his many character flaws."
"And yet you fancy him."
"I'm bad at choices."
"Well, Hermione," said Theo, graciously, "I will endeavour to be an exception to that rule."

A group of ghosts floated by, with vacant eyes and empty smiles. "Merry Christmas," they softly whispered, and "Merry Christmas," Hermione and Theo said back.

Bah! Humbug!

Theo pulled out a box of Fizzing Whizbees from somewhere within his robes. They walked, talked, periodically floated off the ground as they ate the sweets, and it was only after an unpleasant run in with Mrs Norris that Hermione realised that it was well past midnight.

Christmas was officially over.

"What I don't understand..." and then he halted briefly to take a long sip of butterbeer, "...is how you can dismiss the entire concept of Divination, but believe wholeheartedly in Arithmantic predictions."

The Three Broomsticks was only moderately full that afternoon. Madam Rosmerta sat idly behind the bar, looking strangely glassy-eyed, as if she had indulged in too much of her own stock.
It was a cold and sunless day, one that – as both Hermione and Theo agreed – could only be assuaged by warm butterbeer and a steaming plate of chips and gravy.

"Pshaw," said Hermione, popping a chip into her mouth, "They're completely different. Divination is all smoke and mirrors. Arithmancy uses numerical calculations and tabulations to deduce the probability of certain outcomes, with solid empirical evidence to back each claim."
"Oh, but what about –"
"Honestly, even the Astrology-based centaur method of divination has its merits. Studying planetary movements to predict broad future scenarios is perfectly plausible... it has its base in legitimate Astronomy, after all. Now compare all that to Trelawney's ridiculous tea leaves and crystal balls and oooooh you're in grave danger!" Hermione's attempt at putting on a spooky voice had Theo looking completely bemused.
"Luna was right about you, you know," he said, "You really are obsessed with hard facts and logic. They're like crutches for you, and you can't move forward without seeing proper tangible proof for everything."
"And what's wrong with that?!" Hermione spluttered indignantly. "It's how you establish facts and the truth..."
"What's wrong is that it makes you myopic. Limited. Tell me something," Theo leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, "How did little precocious muggleborn Hermione end up believing in magic?"
"McGonagall turned into a cat in my living room. Hence proved."
He rolled his eyes. "Easy as that? But surely that didn't suddenly supply you with all the answers to the magical world. Like, how you came to possess magic, or what it comprises of –"
"I'm not neurotic," she said resentfully, "I know that... that... fire is, without knowing its exact chemical make. And I know magic is, without knowing the exact atomic deviation that caused it to be. I've been looking into it for years now... but it's a disturbingly unstudied area. And for that," Hermione slapped her palms down on the table for emphasis, "I blame the complacent, blasé attitude that you, Luna, and most of the magical community are content to stew in. It can't just be all whimsy and sparkles! Magic is energy; Muggleborns and squibs prove that the genetic make of muggles and magical folk is near equal. So what is the origin of magic? Where does it come from? I sure as hell am not going to find those answers in the bottom of my tea cup."

Hermione drained the last of her butterbeer, and Theo fell back in his chair.

"Blimey, Hermione. Sometimes... the way you talk... you sound just like..." He pulled a face and looked away.
"Like what?"
"Nothing." He replied swiftly, "I'm going to ask for the bill now, and this one's on me. Don't you dare argue. You got me three books and that incredible hamper of muggle sweets for Christmas, and I gave you one fucking quill. Merlin. All our outings from now until the end of time are on me. Or until next Christmas, at least, when I can get you a unicorn. Or perhaps your birthday. When is your birthday? I was born on February twenty-ninth, nineteen-eighty. That's just the kind of luck I have - a sodding leap-year baby. So I just consider the second half of the twenty-eighth of..."

Nobody rambled at the speed of light like Theo. Hermione could only blink, nod, and laugh as he went on and on. There was no stopping him. Mister Fahrenheit. Yes; she'd found his theme song.

"No, no," she said in frustration, "There are six balls in one over, and fifty overs in one innings. But that's only in one-day matches. Test matches don't really have a fixed number of overs."
"And that's four innings to each side?"
"No. One to each side in ODI's, two to each side in Test matches. Of course, there are certain exceptions, and –"
"How do you score goals?"
"Gah, Theo, I told you, there are no goals. The aim is to collect runs –"
"You mean the goal is to collect runs," he said cheekily.
"Ha ha. Sure. So anyway, six balls in an over, fifty overs... or not, as the case may be... and see, this is the pitch, where the action takes place, this is the crease..."

Professor McGonagall would be most annoyed if she knew her blackboard had a crude diagram of a cricket stadium on it.

"Shit, Hermione. I can't believe you said quidditch is unnecessarily complicated."

"Oh god, are you alright?" Hermione gasped through uproarious laughter when Theo fell smack dab onto his arse after a long, frenzied skid down the Hogwarts grounds.

She pulled at his arm ineffectively, as he sat there groaning.
It took her over five minutes to get him up and moving again, all the while enduring an enraged tirade against snow.

"You certainly invoke this god fellows name a lot, for someone who claims to be an... er... eighty-ist?"
"Atheist."
"Ah. That's just as well. Eightyist sounds like what you'd call someone with a fetish for geriatrics."
"Oh god."

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And Theo and Hermione were writing— Writing—writing –
Theo and Hermione were writing, while sitting on large cushions on the floor.

There was a full but contained fire crackling between them that Hermione had conjured and Theo had suitably praised. Then he had rolled his eyes when she'd pulled out a book and parchment from her bag, before settling down to write a letter to Luna himself.

She drew herself out of the world of Protective Enchantments and Spells for Conservation after a long period of quiet, suddenly finding herself in desperate need for conversation. Honestly – and shockingly – the book had begun to bore her.

"Theo."
"Yeah?" For once, he was the one looking jarred and abstracted, and she was the one smirking.
"That's a mighty long billet-doux you're penning there."
Theo glowered. "Funny."
"Tell me," she said, "How're you finding that history book I gave you?"

For some reason, he flushed and instantly looked away from her.

"Good. It's good. Really fascinating," he said shiftily.
"Oh...kay? Where have you reached?"
"Um, far. Not too far? Sixteenth century. Yeah."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "So the Industrial Revolution then?"
"Yeah. Exactly," he said promptly.
"God, you're so full of it," she snapped.
"Excuse me?"
"You haven't read a word, have you?" she demanded.
It looked like he was going to protest for a moment... but then his shoulders slumped in defeat. "No."
Hermione shook her head at him, torn between annoyance and amusement. "Can I have it back in that case? There's something I want to look up."
"No! No. I'll read it. I will. Really."
She laughed at his whacky display of near-panic. "I'll give it back to you soon. Just... our last conversation got me thinking about paganism, and –"
"I can't give it back to you, alright?"

Two – Four – Six – Eight seconds went by with her just staring at him.

"Why on earth not?"
"I um..." he grimaced and ducked his head, as though expecting to be smacked, "I gaveittosomebodyelse."
"You WHAT?!"

Oh no. Shrill voice.

"Er, yeah. I just... You see... someone, they um, saw me with it and expressed great interest, so I lent it to them, and –"
"Where the fuck do you get of lending MY books to other people?!" she yelled.
"Hey, hey... Hermione calm down..."
"Do NOT tell me to calm down, you... you... todger! How dare you..."
"Look, he was genuinely intrigued, and I promise you'll get it back in pristine condition –"
"– bloody trusted you with MY BOOK, and you went and –"
"...overreacting –"
"OVERREATING?!" she bellowed, outraged, "Hullo? Have you met me? Are you truly surprised I'm extremely protective about my books?"

She hoped for his sake that he'd carefully considered what he'd say next, because she was so so so close to hysteria.

"I'M SORRY!" he blurted out loudly, looking quite sincerely repentant.
Hermione gave him the most poisonous look in her arsenal. "Who did you give it to?"

Theo, impossibly, looked even more contrite, and also... scared? He looked downright wretched.

"Now see here... before I tell you, just please try and stay calm..."

Oh fuck. Oh no. She felt nauseous... and she knew. Of course she knew. It was obvious.

"...I um... I gav—I lent it... to... ohfuckdontkillme... Draco."

Hermione felt dangerously livid, and when she spoke, it was with the kind of precarious, deceptive quiet that most people would instinctively run far away from.

"You gave my book to Draco Malfoy."
"...yes. Listen –"
"You gave my book... my muggle book, written by a muggle man about muggle things, to that awful, bigoted muggle-hating bastard."

The fire between them rose to an alarming height, roaring flames nearly scorching the ceiling.

"WHOA! Hermione, calm down!"

Deep breaths. Count to ten. That little shit, she thought.

"You little shit," she said.
"Listen, I am sorry, but you have to –"
"Do NOT tell me to calm down. He's probably torn it to shreds by now! Set it on fire! How could you do this? Oh god, I'm so furious with you right now!"
"NO!" Theo interjected forcefully, "He wouldn't do that, alright? I promise you, your book will come back to you looking exactly like it was when you last saw it."
"UGH. WHY would you... UGH." Hermione balled her fists and squeezed her eyes close. Deep. Breaths.

"Hermione," Theo adapted a very cautious and gentle tone, "I swear, he isn't like you think he is. And he's been reflecting on some things that your book will help him through and –"
"Don't try and make me feel sympathetic towards that arsehole," she cut in acerbically, "It isn't going to happen. I don't care about what's going on in his perverse little mind. I don't want him anywhere near my book; you get it back Right. Now."
"Why?" he asked seriously, with a frown.
"What do you mean, why?"
"Why can't you— okay not sympathise—understand his situation?"
"What bloody situation? And UNDERSTAND? Seriously?! All I understand is that I've been subjected to his ghastly racist invective for as long as I've been a part of the magical world. And now he's got his claws on my book, and... oh god. Does he know it's mine?"
"He doesn't. No! But will you please, please let me talk?"
"No."
"Hermione..."
"Oh just talk, will you." she barked, crossing her arms tightly across her chest and glaring stonily at the tip of her shoe.
"Draco is every bit as tied down to his fate as Potter –"
"HAH."
"Every bit as tied down. He was born into it. His family, his life, everything has led him to where he is and –"
"You were born into it too!"
Theo gritted his teeth at her interruption. "Sure, except my father was a fucking monster," his temper and tempo were both rising: "He's been beating the shit out of me for as long as I remember. He beat the life out of my mother. Yes, literally. I can see the thestrals, remember? No, don't... I'm not saying this to soften you. But understand that that is where I'm coming from. Of course I'd want to run away from it all. But Draco...? His parents adore him. They spoiled him rotten from the moment he was born; he's known nothing but love and indulgence. So why wouldn't he go along with what his father – the man who he respected and admired above all – told him? He's been a dick and bully, but it's not fun and games anymore, and he knows it. He... he knows it, and it's fucking killing him. He's my best mate, Hermione. I know him through and through, and I can see what all this is doing to him. It's like he's on a fucking precipice; on the brink of either a revelation... or a complete breakdown. So yes. I gave him your precious book. I'll do anything to help him, and I won't apologise for it again."

Hermione collected her things, packed them into her bag, and stood up. The fire extinguished itself, drenching the room in shadows.

"I want you to get my book back to me the very second he gets back to Hogwarts."
"Okay."

She walked away, fully prepared to leave Theo alone in the murk with his thoughts. However, just before she stepped out of the room, Hermione paused, and without turning to face him she said, "Don't build him up as a victim in front of me again. I understand that he's important to you, but I'm in no way obligated to be concerned about his circumstance."
"Okay."

His voice was raspy, and broke on the second syllable of the word. Hermione was thrown back to the day by the lake when she had cried, and he had held her.

The fire flared back to life. She turned around, and went to sit opposite him again.
They passed the time silently holding pieces of parchment to the flames and watching them blacken, curl, and crumble.

"Sing it for me."
"Absolutely not!"
"That's not fair. You can't tell me you know the perfect muggle song for me, and then refuse to let me hear it..."
"I'll recite the lyrics."
"Fuck off. That's pathetic. Sing for me, darling. Come on."
"You're pathetic."

On new year's eve, he lured her over to the astronomy tower with a bottle of wine and half a dozen cauldron cakes. It was cold and blustery, but alcohol combined with a couple of nifty warming charms had them feeling perfectly comfortable.

And they were nicely, gently fuddled.

"This wine is good," Hermione smiled.
"That's it? Good?" Theo said, drolly, "Aren't you going to comment on its smokiness, or earthiness, or pick out obscure undertones..."

She giggled, tilting her head back to look at the stars. Struck by sudden vertigo, she sat straight down by the railing against which Theo was casually leaning. He took a swig of wine, and looked out into the night like a king surveying his flourishing empire.

"What did you think was the craziest thing about Hogwarts when you first came here?" he asked.
"The fact that we had a Herbology teacher whose name was Sprout."

Theo choked. Wine dribbled down his chin, and he doubled over laughing.

After recovering, he dropped down next to her, and put his head in her lap. His hair was ridiculously long, with the fringe falling into his eyes. He looked like a young George Harrison.

Hermione swept the strands off his forehead and said, "Why don't you cut your hair? Doesn't it annoy you?"
Theo laughed loudly, again. "Oh, Hermione. Do you honestly want to start a conversation about annoying hair?"

She flicked his forehead.

"Ah! That was so unnecessary!"
"Stay out of my hair."
"Clever. Ha ha. Then you stay out of mine. ...Oi. Not literally. Keep stroking. Feels nice. I think I might take a nap."
"If you fall asleep on me, Theo, I will turn your hair blue. Permanently."
"We both know I'll pull it off."

An owl glided by. Hermione checked her watch... Eleven Fifty-Six PM.
Another year gone by. She supposed this was meant to be a big moment, but she felt neither anxiety nor excitement. She felt serene. In the past few days, she had finally known what it meant to have a confidant – a true peer.
She didn't know when the war was going to fall upon them. She didn't know when she'd have to fight, when she may die, if she'd ever get to sit for her NEWTs, if things with Ron would ever get sorted...

But she knew that she would be keeping Theo Nott forever.

"Happy New Year, Theo."
"Haaappy fucking New Year."