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V. Nobility Bids, Weakness Forbids

"Rise and shine, you lazy maggots!" A thunderous voice echoed throughout the dormitory. "Up, now! And make it quick!"

Blinded by the glaring light of a wand aimed his way, Ivo's eyes snapped open. He slowly sat up on his makeshift bed, rubbing his still sleepy eyes.

"Get a move on, you worthless runts!" continued the hoarse voice, making him jump.

Ivo pulled aside the tattered blanket he used each night for cover. It had faded to a sickly grey, a far cry from its original hue, now exuding a musty stench. The boy hastily laced up his worn-out shoes, sneaking glances at the children and teens around him scrambling to abandon their wretched beds.

After donning his worn badger-fur jacket, Ivo joined a group engaged in animated chatter. He reached the mess hall, where several dozen young people were seated at long metal tables, bowls of porridge before them. As usual, the hall buzzed with chatter. Ivo joined a long queue where a plump woman was doling out bowls of porridge to the young who approached her stand. Beside her, a man with a hostile scowl was intently scrutinising a large register. Each step toward the front tightened the knot in Ivo's stomach.

Jacobus Cloyd ruled The Hollow with an iron fist; so greedy and malevolent was he that he'd sell his own mother for a sickle or two. On paper, The Hollow was a haven for parentless and wayward children. While it claimed to offer them shelter and food, what really awaited these youngsters was anything but educational.

As Cloyd spotted Ivo, a look of displeasure crossed his glassy eyes. He scrunched up his hooked nose as he checked the register before him. Ivo's throat tightened.

"Ye didn't bring back nothin' yesterday, did ya?" Cloyd noted in an irritated tone, his scrutinising gaze returning to the young boy. "Wanna tell me why tha' is?"

"Death Eaters were swarming Diagon Alley, sir," Ivo stammered, clearly intimidated.

"An' why didn't ya just bugger off to another spot, eh?" Cloyd asked, his voice unnaturally patient.

"I tried District Thirteen, but one of the bosses there recognised me. I thought it best not to risk it," explained Ivo, sensing eyes upon him.

"'I thought it best not to risk it,'" Cloyd mimicked in a shrill voice, gyrating his hips exaggeratedly. "Ya hear this fairy?"

Behind him, Ivo heard raucous laughter erupt. Before he could utter a word, the towering form of Cloyd abruptly stood. The man seized him violently by the collar of his jumper. A furious glint animated Cloyd's eyes as he pulled Ivo's face close to his.

"Ya think I'm payin' ya to think, faggot?" the man spat, his voice seething with anger.

Ivo frantically shook his head, frozen in place by the towering brute above him.

''Been three days since ya last caught dinner, ain't it?" growled Cloyd. "Still munchin' on me grub 'n snoozin' in me hole, are ya? Ya think this is some kinda luxury inn, ya little turd? Think yer at the bleedin' Imperial Augurey or somethin'?"

Cloyd delivered this with mock grandiosity, dripping with undisguised sarcasm. Once again, mocking laughter filled the air around Ivo.

"Don't ya even think 'bout comin' back t'night without loot. Got it, ya snivellin' weasel?" Cloyd threatened, his voice menacing.

Ivo nodded, his face draining of its scant color, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind. Cloyd roughly let him go, and he fell back onto the floor.

"Ain't got no time for ungrateful snots like yerself. Don't ya forget now, I gave ya a roof, unlike yer slag of a mum. Don't make me chuck ya back to the gutters, you hear? Ya little vermin," Cloyd persisted.

Next to Cloyd, the matronly figure dishing out porridge shot Ivo a withering look, as if he were a vile thing she'd discovered on her shoe. She called out to the young girl who was behind Ivo in the queue and handed her a bowl of porridge, deliberately ignoring the young boy.

Ivo rose slowly, a weight of terror on his shoulders, stifling the urge to burst into tears. He made his way to the far end of the dining hall, garnering a mix of pitying and mocking stares. For lost children like him, The Hollow was one of the few refuges available. Yet, it came at a price. To stay there, the lost children had to perform petty crimes for Jacobus Cloyd. This usually meant pickpocketing on the streets of London.

The best thieves were rewarded and enjoyed better treatment at The Hollow. More substantial meals, comfortable dormitories, and better attire. The rest received the bare minimum, packed into tight, damp dormitories whose cleanliness left much to be desired, and were fed with mouldy scraps.

Those who failed to meet the house's demands were often tossed onto the streets like worn-out brooms. Still, The Hollow was a roof overhead, and many young people preferred this harsh lifestyle to being out on the regime's unforgiving streets for children of their status.

Ivo had endured two harrowing months on the streets. He did not want to go back there. Since his mother's death, he had tried to make do as best he could to survive. Initially, he was sent to an orphanage but had eventually run away due to the mistreatment he received there.

It was on the streets that one of The Hollow's children spotted Ivo and offered him to join their group. He was promised a decent roof and a bowl of food each day if he was willing to work for his keep.

He occasionally succeeded in "catching dinner," which in Hollow slang meant pickpocketing. On those occasions, he was left alone. However, Ivo was not consistent. Pickpocketing required a certain finesse that he had not yet acquired. Most youngsters at The Hollow didn't possess a magic wand due to their blood status and extreme poverty. Few had received a decent magical education.

For the few youngsters who did own a wand, its use was typically restricted. Thus, they had to be imaginative and creative in swiping items from passersby. Their loot varied, typically consisting of money, enchanted items, or valuable jewellery and accessories. The most resourceful and seasoned children could sometimes obtain brooms, more elaborate magical items, or even wands. Everything was collected by Jacobus Cloyd and The Hollow's supervisors to be resold on the black market. Pureblood wands were the most sought-after items, fetching astronomical prices.

Ivo's life was not easy. Since his arrival, some of The Hollow's residents had taken a dislike to him. They found his manners too effeminate for a boy, mocking his high-pitched voice, his gait, or even his protruding ears. Despite everything, Ivo knew he had no other choice. He couldn't end up on the streets again. For a twelve-year-old Half-Blood like him, navigating the regime's streets was like walking through a minefield.

"Ey up, little one," a cheerful voice piped up in front of him. Ivo looked up, his focus shifting to a blonde young girl who was smiling at him apologetically.

"Cloyd's a right troll when he puts his mind to it," she whispered, sitting down across from him.

Ivo didn't reply, instead darting anxious glances about, as if ensuring no one had overheard.

"Don't worry, we're all in the same boat here. Been around long?" she inquired softly.

"A month," Ivo replied dishearteningly.

"Ah, a greenhorn," the girl chuckled. "What's your name, little one?"

"Ivo."

"Pleased to meet you, Ivo. I'm Kitty," she introduced herself.

She slid her bowl of porridge toward him.

"You're nothing but skin and bones, little one," Kitty noted. "Eat up."

"You don't want it?" Ivo asked, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Nah, not really my cup of tea," she claimed, scrunching her nose as she eyed the bowl indifferently.

Needing no further encouragement, a famished Ivo grabbed the spoon and started devouring the porridge. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. Kitty watched him with twinkling eyes.

"Thank you," Ivo said, his mouth full, giving her a grateful look. "How long have you been here?"

"Let's just say I move between here and other places," Kitty replied mysteriously. "But I've been hanging around The Hollow for about four years now."

Ivo's eyes widened. If Kitty had been at The Hollow for that long, she must be a skilled thief.

"To be honest, I've been keeping a low profile recently. But I do come back, now and then. For nostalgia, I suppose. And to make new friends," she said, eyeing him closely. "Looks like Cloyd really did a number on you. What did he say?"

"If I don't catch dinner today, he'll kick me out," Ivo revealed, shivering as he cast a fearful glance toward the table where Cloyd still sat, leafing through his ledger.

"And he'll do it, mark my words," she cautioned, her tone taking a sobering turn. "You should come with me. I can train you, if you'd like."

Ivo's mouth formed a silent 'o,' stunned by the stranger's unexpected offer. Why was she being so kind to him? Most kids he'd met at The Hollow treated him with scorn or cruelty. Some bullied him, others just ignored him, not wanting to be associated with him.

"If I take you under my wing, you'll be left alone," Kitty declared confidently, flipping her long braid over her shoulder.

"Why would you do that?" Ivo asked uncomfortably.

"Because you remind me of me, when I first got here. I was a scapegoat, just like you. Then someone took me under their wing. I wouldn't be here if they hadn't taught me everything they knew," Kitty explained solemnly.

Ivo finished the last spoonful of porridge, wiped his mouth on his jumper sleeve, and looked at her in awe.

"What do you want in return?" he asked.

He'd been at The Hollow long enough to know that nobody did anything out of the goodness of their heart. Everyone was out for themselves. Exchange was at the core of all interactions. Ivo had nothing to offer.

"Honestly, kiddo, you're not exactly flush with assets, are you? But life's fickle—you never know when you might be in a spot to return the favour," she said, her eyes twinkling knowingly as she shrugged.

After a brief hesitation, Ivo replied:

"Alright, I accept."

A broad smile spread across Kitty's face.

/

The ship's horn boomed, its powerful sound echoing for miles around. Theodore Nott set down his quill, intently observing the notes etched on the aged parchment before him.

"We've arrived safely, Master Nott," a frail voice interrupted his deep thoughts.

He turned towards Zephyr, his faithful house-elf, who looked at him adoringly with her bulbous eyes. Zephyr's wrinkled face, tinged with grey, bore the marks of her years. A thinning tuft of hair partially concealed her shrunken skull, and her long, pointed ears twitched every time she moved her head. She had served the Nott family her entire life.

"Have you made progress on your composition, Master Nott?" the little creature asked excitedly, looking at the darkened parchment over which Theodore had been hunched.

Theodore nodded, and Zephyr seemed ecstatic, eliciting a wry smile from him. He had toiled over this composition for years, his progress so agonisingly slow that he doubted its eventual completion, even if he lived to the ripe old age of 130, like his great-grandfather, Theradius Nott, a renowned composer and virtuoso.

It was Theradius who had instilled in Theodore his love for music. The Nott dynasty had bred many artists and creators over generations, all nurtured in the arts and engineering from a young age. The Notts appreciated the finer things and spent their lives in pursuit of the beauties of art.

This was why his parents had sent Theodore to France to hone his skills and knowledge in music. He had studied at the prestigious Grand Conservatory des Tuiles, one of the best magical conservatories in the world. After graduating, Theodore had completed his education under renowned composers.

He had often been described as a virtuoso. Theodore had composed his first sonata at the age of ten. He had an original flair and was able to blend the conventions of classical music with more modern and innovative themes. His audacious blend of emotional depth, avant-garde sensibilities, and disregard for convention won him widespread acclaim.

He knew that the opera he had been composing for over two years would be the work of a lifetime. Yet he struggled to make headway on the project, never satisfied with the outcome. He was still searching for that depth he wanted to imbue in the composition. Theodore had little time to devote to it. His demanding job primarily focused him on composing for international theatres and operas, leaving scant time for his magnum opus.

Despite his age, Theodore was well-travelled—a rarity among British wizards. His illustrious lineage meant that the usual rules rarely applied to him or his peers. After nearly fifteen years abroad, during which he had spent his entire adolescence and early adulthood, Theodore had returned to the UK at his mother's request. She was afflicted with a degenerative disease that had worsened over the past year and wished to be near her son in her final months, as predicted by the doctors.

The ship stilled, and the outside clamour reached Theodore's ears. Beside him, Zephyr had already gathered all his trunks and began neatly organising the scattered papers on the cabin desk he had occupied during the journey. The trip from the United States had been exceedingly long, and Theodore was happy to be back on solid ground. Though accustomed to such travel, he had never been fond of prolonged sea voyages.

As he descended the gangway onto the dock, Theodore noticed a group waiting for him at the port. The ship's crew would ensure he left the vessel before the rest of the passengers, immigrants from other purified nations.

After so many years abroad, he sometimes forgot what it meant to be a member of the Sacred Thirteen. Everywhere he went, Theodore received special treatment. He was hardly ever mixed in with the crowds, and his movements were typically escorted by Death Eaters for security reasons.

As he continued up the ramp, Theodore recognised his mother, seated in a levitating wheelchair. The chair rested on two miniature broomsticks suspended a few centimetres above the ground. He hadn't seen her since her visit to the United States last year for the holiday season.

Theodore's face fell as he laid eyes on her. Her complexion was ashen and he thought her features looked gaunter than ever. She had lost a lot of weight since their last meeting. Theodore remembered his mother as fuller-figured, her face rosy and her eyes always sparkling with laughter. Her hair, once wavy and of a deep auburn colour, had turned grey and appeared dull and lifeless.

The sight of his mother starkly revealed the extent to which illness had ravaged her. He covered the remaining distance and knelt in front of her, fighting to hold back tears. Gislena, for her part, looked at him with a joyful glint in her eyes and cupped his face in her hands.

"My son," she said emotionally, "you must barely recognise your own mother."

A laugh tinged with emotion escaped Theodore's lips. He was relieved to find that despite her ravaged appearance, his mother's voice, still the soft and melodious timbre he remembered, hadn't changed. She had the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard.

An imposing carriage pushed by an invisible creature awaited them. Theodore helped his mother get inside. A Death Eater made a motion to assist her, but Theodore brushed his hand away abruptly.

"Don't touch her," he said in a cold tone directed at the Death Eater.

Once Gislena was properly seated in the carriage, the Death Eater enchanted her flying chair, which immediately shrank down to miniature size. Theodore took his seat beside his mother, who, still holding his hand, looked at her son with unabated affection.

As they pulled up to Nott Manor, Theodore's gaze settled on the imposing edifice that loomed before him. A deep sense of discomfort always gripped him here, a feeling that had endured over the years.

Nott Castle stood as an architectural marvel, a legacy from his ancestor Methodius Otto Nott, dating back to the 17th century. He had called upon numerous archmages and European builders, creating a blend of styles that made the place unique. Over the centuries, the residence had undergone several renovations but had never lost its authenticity or splendour.

As they traversed the expansive hall, Theodore's gaze was immediately drawn to a life-sized canvas portraying the current Nott lineage. Each generation had a similar portrait, hung in the long corridors of the residence, imposing remnants of an ancient dynasty. The family motto was carved under the portrait.

- With Graceful Beauty and Unyielding Bravery -

To Theodore, however, the manor remained a cold, austere sanctuary that had never offered him comfort. He had been happy to leave it when he was sent abroad to continue his education in France. The residence was a reservoir of unpleasant and unhappy memories for him.

Upon entering his room, it felt almost foreign to him. Everything seemed different—the furniture, the colour of the drapes, and the arrangement of items within. Theodore sat on the massive bed that dominated the room and looked around apprehensively. Absentmindedly, he twirled the signet ring on his left little finger.

"Last time you were here, you were still a child," Gislena reminded him, near the doorway. "We've made some changes ahead of your arrival. I realise you've come of age and would likely value your privacy; thus, this wing of the Manor has been set aside entirely for you. Your instruments have already been set up in the music room."

Lifting his gaze, Theodore watched Gislena glide closer, ensconced in her flying chair.

"I'm so delighted to have you back, darling," Gislena declared, her voice full of emotion. "Obviously, I wish the circumstances were different, but…"

Clutching her chest, her face twisted in discomfort, she broke into a loud cough. Theodore watched his mother helplessly. He knew she was suffering immensely, even if she pretended otherwise. Gislena had always been the kind of mother to downplay what was happening to her so as not to frighten her son.

"Mother…" began Theodore, his throat tight.

"I'm doing well, Theodore, far better than a few weeks ago," she affirmed with a voice that sought to reassure. "It warms my heart to have you back here."

The prognosis given by the Medi-wizards for Gislena was far from optimistic. Her condition was terminal, and her illness had progressed far too severely. According to them, she had only six months to live— a year if she was lucky. At this advanced stage of her illness, all the Medi-wizards could offer were palliative potions to alleviate her suffering.

When she heard the diagnosis from the Healers, Gislena had confided to Theodore one of her last wishes. She wanted to spend her remaining time with him, in the UK. The prospect of returning had always filled Theodore with deep trepidation, but he was willing to do anything to ensure his mother's end of life would be as comfortable as possible, even at the cost of his own peace of mind.

"I've told the theatre director to expect one of the world's greatest composers starting next week," Gislena said, her eyes aglow with pride. "I can't wait to see your compositions finally presented in our homeland."

"Would you like to hear the opening movement of my latest symphony?" Theodore asked, a faint smile touching the corners of his mouth.

For a fleeting moment, Gislena's weary eyes lit up with sheer joy, making her look like a little girl unwrapping a long-awaited gift.

"Nothing could make me happier," she said, her voice brimming with sincerity.

/

Hermione Granger carefully set down the weighty tome she had been studying on the wooden table, then gently brushed away the dust that tarnished its cover. Cleaning spells, too abrasive, were ill-advised for such ancient books due to the delicate materials used in their construction. As she jotted down notes on the parchment beside her, she felt the weight of lingering gazes upon her and looked up.

Hermione caught the eye of Penelope and Patricia Clearwater, her colleagues at Macmillan's Great Librarium. They were muttering to each other, throwing occasional venomous glances her way. Hermione returned her attention to her parchment, doing her best to ignore their antics.

Ever since Hermione had filled in for Penelope during her absence, Aelius Macmillan had made it clear he wanted her continued daily support. Naturally, Penelope had been less than pleased upon her return—a reaction Hermione fully understood. Nevertheless, she couldn't care less. The only reason Penelope found herself in the archives was due to her mother pulling some strings. Penelope had never demonstrated a profound interest in books or the country's great authors. However, in the purified United Kingdom, nepotism was rife, and Pureblood families hoarded the choicest opportunities for themselves.

Hermione knew she had never been favoured by her two colleagues, but they had never dared to comment. After all, it was Mr. Macmillan himself who had hired her, and they were not foolish enough to vocally criticise his choice. Instead, they had their ways of making Hermione feel unwelcome in the archives. This usually involved micro-aggressions, passive-aggressive comments, or merely disdainful and disgusted looks, as if she were a stain on an otherwise sophisticated tapestry.

Hermione had long since grown a thick skin, turning a deaf ear to her colleagues' daily sniping. The opportunity was too good to let herself be provoked by these two spiteful women.

Once her notes were complete, Hermione waved her wand to return the book to its designated shelf. She then stood and walked past Penelope and Patricia's table to ascend the spiral stairs leading to Aelius' office.

"Ah, there you are, Miss Granger," the old man greeted her immediately, as if he had been waiting for ages.

Hermione quickly noticed that he had a guest. A young man was seated in one of the chairs facing Aelius' desk. The man appeared to be around Hermione's age, with slightly wavy dark hair that covered his forehead, tanned skin, and eyes of an indeterminate colour—so much so that she couldn't tell whether they were blue or green.

"Valour and virtue," Hermione greeted politely.

"Victorious be his coming," the man replied.

He had a melodious voice for a man, yet Hermione was taken aback by the tone she detected as he uttered those words. She almost thought she discerned irritation.

"Miss Granger, allow me to introduce you to Theodore Nott. You've heard of the Nott family, I presume?" queried Aelius.

Hermione knew that the Notts were among the Sacred Thirteen. Given his age, she surmised that this man was likely the son of the current Governor, Theodius Nott.

Hermione slowly nodded in response to her employer's question, suddenly nervous. Though she had come to find comfort in working under Aelius, the thought of standing in the presence of someone else from the Sacred Thirteen filled her with palpable trepidation. They were powerful people. The scant stories she'd heard about them and her readings on the country's history indicated that they were uncompromising and abhorred those of lesser status.

She knew that Aelius wasn't as extreme in his blood-status views as others, but he remained an exception. The regime was as it was mainly due to sacred families advocating for exemplary and perfect purity. People like her weren't considered worthy of respect.

"I've heard of Theodimus Nott and his works on architectural elements. He was the first wizard to praise centaur construction methods," Hermione noted.

"Works that would have landed him in Azkaban, had he written them 70 years later, no doubt," Aelius quipped amusingly.

Hermione was stunned by Aelius's words and cast an apprehensive glance towards Theodore, observing him cautiously.

"He would probably have followed the great men of our regime. Stealing the work of those considered sub-race individuals and claiming it as his own without citing sources," Theodore responded acerbically.

His words only added to her confusion. She couldn't believe she was hearing two men from the Sacred Thirteen openly criticising the regime. Hermione sat in uneasy silence. Had she been heard making such remarks in public, she'd have faced severe punishment—something these people likely never feared. After all, they sat unchallenged at the pinnacle of the social hierarchy, wielding their power without consequence.

Aelius seemed to notice Hermione's discomfort and cleared his throat.

"Miss Granger," he resumed, "Mr. Nott is looking for some works on Ethnomusimagicology. I believe I have some good references in my private collection."

"In your private collection, sir?" Hermione repeated, flabbergasted.

Though the librarium was technically the property of the Macmillans and might be called a private collection, Hermione knew that Aelius guarded an even more secretive trove, accessible only to him and Patricia, the Chief Curator.

"That's correct, Miss Granger. For security reasons, these books never leave my reserve, but I have no issue with Theodore consulting them on-site. Can I entrust you to guide him? Patricia will show you the way."

He produced a golden key with an unusual end and extended it towards Hermione. Completely taken aback, she accepted the key, astonished by the trust Aelius had vested in her.

She nodded enthusiastically, her excitement clear for all to see. Aelius observed her with amusement through his glasses. Theodore then stood up, and Hermione was surprised by his height; he towered over her by a head at least. He possessed a quiet grace that she rarely saw in men. He looked at Hermione as if waiting for her cue. Hermione turned her eyes to Aelius who gave a subtle nod, his eyes encouraging.

"Hm, follow me," she indicated to Theodore, with newfound confidence.

They made their way to the spiral staircase leading to the main Archive room. Hermione approached Patricia, who was bent intently over a desk. Patricia looked up, her gaze haughty.

"Could you please lead us to Mr. Macmillan's private archives?" Hermione asked, attempting to sound as pleasant as possible despite her colleague's condescending demeanour.

"Excuse me? You're not authorised to enter the private archives," Patricia immediately retorted disdainfully.

Hermione brandished the key Aelius had given her. Patricia looked as though she'd been spat on by a troll and her eyes widened in shock.

"Mr. Macmillan personally requested that I escort Mr. Nott to his private archives," Hermione retorted smugly.

The affronted look on Patricia's face gave her a secret thrill. The older woman seemed about to reply but caught sight of Theodore and decided to hold her tongue.

"Absolutely," she said in a tone too forced to be natural. "Follow me."

They took a corridor Hermione hadn't set foot in since her arrival at the librarium. A painting of a serene-looking brunette woman sitting in an armchair greeted them. Hermione recognised her instantly. She resembled a younger version of the woman in the family portrait hanging in Aelius's office. It was undoubtedly Vivica, his late wife.

"Scientia sapientes juvat," Patricia announced clearly before the portrait.

Vivica nodded and gave a dismissive wave of her hand. The painting moved aside, revealing a narrow door in the wall. Patricia stepped back, visibly irritated, and shot Hermione a spiteful glance. Hermione stepped forward, inserting a small key into the lock, which emitted a slight 'click'. She pushed the handle and entered a room with a much lower ceiling than the main hall. The room was filled with about twenty shelves, comfortable sofas, and a long work table made of shining wood. A scent of fresh parchment reached her nose.

The sound of Patricia clearing her throat caught her attention. Hermione turned swiftly to see Patricia and Theodore Nott looking at her perplexedly. Hermione realised that her face was probably wearing a goofy smile and she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"I'll take it from here. Thank you for your help," she said, directing her words at Patricia.

Casting a final disdainful glance at Hermione, Patricia bowed deferentially to Theodore before making her exit. Hermione noted a brief flicker of annoyance cross Theodore's features at the gesture.

"Are you looking for anything specific?" Hermione asked.

"Not really, to be honest. Aelius mentioned some of the books could be interesting for my work," Theodore replied, shrugging.

Hermione quickly surveyed the shelves. The shelving system looked to be the same as in the public section of the archives, so she knew she'd have no trouble finding her way around. After a few minutes, she set down some selected volumes in front of Theodore.

"These ought to provide a good launching pad for your research," she suggested. "We can delve into more specialised works later."

Theodore nodded, took a seat at the table, and retrieved a roll of parchment and a self-inking quill from his satchel. As he read through the books, Hermione explored the secluded archives, thrilled by the discovery of such a rich collection. She had long wondered what sorts of tomes were stored here. She'd thought they were rare and expensive books that Aelius preferred to keep secure. Perusing some of the volumes, she realised the truth was quite different.

Given their controversial content, some of these works would undoubtedly have been banned by the regime.

The Benefits of Blood Diversity

What Can We Learn from Muggles?

Why Blood Purity is an Archaic Concept

Hermione stared at the tomes, shocked by their titles, understanding why Aelius had hidden them away. What prompted him to possess such contentious material? Simple curiosity? An insatiable thirst for knowledge? The months she'd spent working for Aelius taught her that the Macmillans seemed to value knowledge and scholarship above all. Aelius didn't appear to be a purist or an extremist. Yet, Hermione never thought he'd go as far as to educate himself on concepts in total disagreement with the regime. Her respect for him deepened. An hour later, Hermione's heart leapt as she lifted her gaze to find Theodore standing before her, his eyes intense. Surprised, she nearly dropped the massive book she was reading but caught it just in time.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Theodore apologised.

Hermione dismissed his concern with a shake of her head.

"It's all right," she reassured him, smiling.

He seemed uncomfortable, lingering on the edge of a question he didn't quite dare to ask. Hermione was taken aback by the shyness he displayed. She wondered how long he'd stood there, hesitating to interrupt her reading.

"Can I help you find anything?" she asked in a gentle voice.

"One of the books mentioned an author—Thanh Loan Phan. I believe it might be relevant to my research," he offered.

"Let me check if we've got that," Hermione responded, closing her book and placing it back on its shelf.

She made her way to the section where she'd initially found the tomes on musical magic, scanning the titles carefully. Feeling Theodore's eyes on her, Hermione suddenly grew self-conscious.

"'Khmer Musical Techniques' by Thanh Loan Phan," she announced, pulling out a thin book of only about a hundred pages. "Here you are."

"Thank you, Miss," Theodore replied before heading back to the long table to resume his seat.

Hermione followed, casting an intrigued and impressed glance at his scroll of parchment, which already boasted over fifty centimetres of notes.

"What precisely are you working on?" Hermione blurted before she could catch herself.

She knew her curiosity could be excessive, a trait scarcely appreciated under the regime. To her relief, Theodore appeared unoffended.

"I'm a composer," he said in a measured tone. "I like to learn different techniques in addition to the ones I was taught, to diversify my work."

He pointed to the book Hermione had just handed him.

"This person has done extensive work on various Asian musical techniques and on polyphonic overtone singing," he explained.

Seeing Hermione's confused expression, he added:

"It's a singing technique that involves producing a vocal timbre characterised by two notes of different frequencies at the same time."

"Oh," said Hermione, delighted to learn something new.

She'd never really delved into musical magic. This art form was scarcely accessible to the regime's lower strata. It was said to be too sophisticated for lower-ranked wizards, who were usually not admitted into theatres and other cultural establishments. The prices were also a significant deterrent. Such pastimes were expensive for most people like Hermione.

"It wasn't difficult to find these kinds of works in the countries where I lived before," he explained, sounding frustrated. "Before coming here, I first went to the National Archives and several bookshops."

He sighed.

"And then I remembered which country I was in," he added in a low voice.

Though he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her, Hermione couldn't miss the bitter undertone.

"Where did you live before?" she asked eagerly.

"In the United States for the past two years. But I was in France before that," he revealed. "I've travelled a lot for my work."

Hermione didn't miss the nostalgic glint in his eyes.

"I assume this Phan individual had ideas that didn't sit well with my ancestors," he added.

Hermione knew that France and parts of the United States were also 'purified empires.' From what she'd heard in rumours, confirmed by Theodore's words, these regimes were not as extreme as the United Kingdom. Especially if one could easily find works by authors who did not subscribe to the ideology of Blood Superiority.

"What were you doing in the United States?" Hermione asked, intrigued.

"I was showcasing my works in various theatres, essentially," he explained.

"Why did you come back to the UK?" Hermione wondered.

At her question, Theodore's face turned solemn, and he seemed to withdraw. Mortified, Hermione instantly realised she'd overstepped. Once again, her enthusiasm and curiosity had inappropriately overtaken her.

"I apologise; it's none of my business," she apologised, her cheeks turning scarlet.

"It's quite alright," he assured her, his smile faint but genuine.

Despite his words, a sad glint remained in his eyes, sparking an immediate, overwhelming sympathy in Hermione.

She'd never envisioned having such an engaging conversation with a member of the Thirteens—let alone actually enjoying it. Yet, from the little information she'd gathered since her arrival, Theodore appeared to be a breed apart. From what he said, it seemed he'd spent a significant portion of his life abroad, which likely accounted for his open-mindedness and the disconnect he had with his peers. His comments with Aelius and his reaction when Patricia had bowed before him indicated he didn't entirely share the regime's convictions.

As Theodore turned a page of Phan's book, a thundering sound erupted. A feminine voice, singing in perfect harmony.

"Close your eyes," Theodore directed Hermione, "and listen."

She complied, honing in on the sound.

"You hear a low sound, I presume? That's the bass voice," Theodore whispered, mindful not to drown out the ethereal notes.

Hermione nodded, her eyes still closed.

"Now, focus—listen for the other sound, behind that low voice. It's something higher-pitched, resonating," Theodore continued, his voice barely audible.

A moment passed. Then, Hermione realized—there was a second sound, humming at a different pitch.

"I hear something," she whispered, holding her breath.

She opened her eyes excitedly, meeting Theodore's amused gaze. He smiled at her reaction.

"That's a single person's voice. She's using two notes and two different frequencies at the same time with her vocal cords," he explained. "It takes considerable training and magical mastery to produce such a dual sound."

"It's... remarkable," Hermione marvelled.

Theodore nodded, smiling as though he agreed with her.

"Quite," he affirmed.

He turned the page, and the singing voice stopped immediately. For the next few hours, Theodore pressed on with his research, pausing occasionally to elucidate musical terms and concepts for an eager Hermione. She, on her part, was busy finding the information he needed from the private archives. It was the first time in her life that Hermione had enjoyed working in tandem with someone. Soon, she realised they'd been in the room for nearly four hours and she hadn't even noticed the time pass. Her eyes widened as she caught the clock's time hanging above the door. Theodore followed her gaze, seemingly surprised by the time that had elapsed as well.

"It appears I've once again gotten carried away. It happens on these topics," he admitted, flashing an embarrassed smile.

"It happens to me all the time," Hermione assured him with a nervous laugh.

"Thank you for your help, Miss Granger," he said.

Her eyes widened, realising with delight that he seemed to have remembered her name. The genuine appreciation in his voice took her aback. Such courtesy in a work setting was foreign to her.

"I'll likely be back on a regular basis," he explained, meticulously placing his notes into his bag. "Aelius absolutely won't allow these books to leave this room—which I understand."

Hermione nodded. Far from dreading Theodore's return to the Archives, she found herself eagerly anticipating it. She'd been impressed with the sensitivity he'd shown towards the books and remained in awe of the passion for music that seemed to animate him. Hermione found a kindred spirit in him when it came to her favourite subjects.

Interacting with Theodore had been a breath of fresh air, a stark contrast to the icy disdain of Penelope and Patricia. Even Aelius, who sometimes intimidated her and whom she still struggled to understand, hadn't been as enjoyable to work with.

They left the room, and Hermione carefully closed the door behind her. The portrait of Vivica Macmillan flashed them a congenial grin as they made their way back to the Archives' main hall.

"Until next time, Miss Granger," Theodore whispered before heading towards the exit, flashing one last smile at the young woman.

"Until next time," Hermione murmured, her gaze lingering on his retreating form.

I hope you enjoyed reading about some of the new characters. This story covers multiple points of view to explore various aspects of the 'world,' so you'll often see introductions of new characters. There's always a reason behind it, though.