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VIII. Vice and Virtue
"You're late, kid," said Kitty Sharp, her smirk a mix of amusement and irritation at the corner of her mouth.
Ivo's expression turned from embarrassment to awe upon seeing the blonde's stunning transformation. She was clad in a sophisticated coat with pronounced, black feather-adorned shoulders. She stood in stark contrast to the modest teenager he had known in The Hollow.
"Sorry," Ivo mumbled.
"Let me guess, Cloyd's still on your case?" she asked with a knowing look.
His last visit to Diagon Alley had seen him lift several valuable items, affording himself a temporary reprieve. Yet, it did little to curb the bullying from the other kids at The Hollow.
"Don't worry, kid. When you come back today, they'll see you in a whole new light," Kitty assured cheerfully, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Right then, let's get on with it."
Ivo followed the girl as she strode confidently into a narrow alley branching off Diagon Alley's bustling main thoroughfare. Ivo swept an uncertain glance around. They had drifted from the crowd.
Kitty paused to rummage through the small badger-fur bag slung over her shoulder. Under Ivo's wary watch, Kitty whistled a tune, seemingly without a care. Moments later, she pulled a thick garment from the bag and handed it to him.
"Put this on," she commanded.
Ivo unfolded the garment—a wizarding robe with a grey fur collar. The softness of the fabric amazed him with its delicacy.
"Hurry up, kid. We haven't got all day," Kitty urged, her impatience clear.
He slipped into the outfit with haste, and to his immense satisfaction, it was a perfect fit. The fabric's touch against his skin was exceptionally comfortable. He was accustomed to the coarse and scratchy fabrics of makeshift garments scavenged from The Hollow's basements, once possessions of past inhabitants.
"Look at you—every inch the young heir to the Sacred Thirteen," Kitty remarked, sizing him up.
"Where did you get this?" Ivo asked, impressed.
"That's for me to know," she replied with a twinkle in her voice.
Carefully, she assisted with the fastening of his cloak, the buttons concealing the shirt worn beneath.
"Rule one," she announced. "It takes money to make money."
"How so?" Ivo eagerly asked.
"What that oaf Cloyd doesn't understand is the real art of money-making, not just pilfering baubles from distracted Purebloods," Kitty said with a scoff.
She stopped in front of a clothing shop called Tissard and Brodette, pressing her forehead to the glass as she scrutinized the display.
"Wait for me here," she said with a chirp, before ducking into the shop.
Shortly after, Kitty reappeared, sporting a large wool hat trimmed with a gold band. It made her look even more sophisticated. She grasped Ivo's shoulders, steering them to face their reflections in the shop window.
"Tell me, we don't look like mere nobodies from The Hollow now, do we?" she inquired.
Ivo observed his own reflection in the glass. The cloak lent him a refined air. Unconsciously, he had straightened his posture, pleased with his appearance that boosted his confidence. He shook his head.
"Far from it," he conceded, the mantle of his new persona settling comfortably upon him.
"Exactly," Kitty chimed in, satisfied. "This, my young friend, is the very essence of investment—outlaying capital to reap greater returns."
They walked arm in arm, Kitty's boots tapping a steady rhythm on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley. Soon, they reached a public Floo station. Panic flickered in Ivo's eyes as he saw Kitty head for the Purebloods' queue.
"We're not allowed to..." he began to protest.
"Hush, and keep up," Kitty snapped with authority.
Confidently, she stepped up to one of the gatekeepers and handed him a few Knuts.
"Power and purity," she proclaimed, her gaze haughty.
"May Voldemort guide your path," the gatekeeper declared, motioning toward the fireplace.
"Cobblestone Crescent!" she called out, tossing the Floo powder at her feet and stepping into the green vortex.
Ivo gave the gatekeeper a wary look, fearing he'd be exposed as unauthorized for this queue. He cast a sidelong glance at the extended queue for the Unbloodeds, snaking away into the distance. With hesitation, Ivo took a pinch of Floo powder and stepped into the hearth.
Upon arrival, he brushed ash from the epaulettes of his jacket and surveyed his surroundings with curiosity. Before him lay a vast square; the ground beneath him was of an unusual texture, reminiscent of finely carved stone. He spotted forms that mimicked human silhouettes and magical creatures. His eyes widened as the figures moved beneath his feet, stirring to life. Ivo took a step forward and stumbled when his foot landed on the leg of a drawn figure. A hand caught his, steadying him and saving him from a fall.
"Watch your step," came Kitty's voice, materializing before him. "Otherwise, you might find yourself taking quite a few tumbles today."
"Doesn't this scare you?" Ivo blurted, his surprise evident.
''Scared of what?" Kitty queried, her brow furrowing.
"It's forbidden to use the Purebloods' fireplaces. If they realise that we're not—"
"Do you know why I asked you to wear that?" Kitty interrupted, pointing to the wizarding robe Ivo was wearing.
He shook his head.
"Because common folk judge your blood status by your looks," Kitty explained. "Your clothes, your demeanor, the way you walk, the way you talk."
She adjusted her hat on her head, sweeping back her blonde locks.
"Walk like a Pureblood, talk like one, and they'll think you are one," she said. "A small price for the right impression."
To him, Kitty's words might as well have been Gobbledygook, and he was left feeling none the wiser. Yet she seemed so confident in her words that he didn't dare voice any doubts.
"Where are we actually going?" he inquired, as they halted before a towering structure of purple bricks.
Elaborate Vs were etched into the stained glass. Once inside, the grandeur of the architecture was breathtaking. Staircases ascended the walls, leading to balconied upper levels brimming with onlookers. From there, one could behold a commanding view of the main stage below. Rows upon rows of benches, already crowded with attendees, spanned the first level and the balconies above.
Kitty guided Ivo to a room corner, where standing room was all they could find. Raising his gaze to the upper levels, Ivo's attention was captured by a colossal portrait adorning the wall. It featured a large family. A halo of light encircled the central figure, with all others posed in submissive adoration around him. Engravings beneath the portrait eluded Ivo's understanding.
"Who are they?" Ivo murmured to Kitty, gesturing subtly toward the portrait.
She leaned in closer after following his gaze.
"The Carrows," she whispered confidentially. "Members of the Sacred Thirteen—this place is theirs."
Disbelief etched Ivo's features, a shiver coursing down his spine. He took in the scores of people in the room. Each face was a mix of apprehension and anticipation, waiting for what was to come.
"What does it say?" he asked, pointing to the words below the painting.
"Contentment precedes wealth. That's their family motto, I'd wager," Kitty replied.
"Why are we here?" he questioned, a note of unease in his voice.
"You're about to witness quite the spectacle," she murmured, fighting back a chuckle.
She picked up a pamphlet from a shelf and handed it to him. The man in the portrait graced the pamphlet's cover.
"I don't know how to read," Ivo conceded, a flush spreading across his cheeks.
Kitty gave him a tired look before reclaiming the pamphlet.
"The Clan of the Final Days," she intoned softly. "The Prophet, Adamus Carrow."
Before Ivo could voice another query, a wave of motion rippled through the crowd. Everyone in the assembly had risen to their feet. Ivo craned his neck, attempting to see the source of the commotion. Across the room, on the raised dais, a man materialized, drawing his hands to his heart. The crowd echoed his gesture, forming the dreaded sign of Voldemort. Kitty nudged Ivo, silently cueing him to follow suit. Ivo mimicked the action, his arms drawing a 'V'.
The man's sweeping white cape seemed to catch the chandelier's light, casting an ethereal glow. Ivo immediately recognised the man from the painting - the infamous Adamus Carrow.
"Brethren," boomed the Prophet, "last night's revelation was bestowed upon me by the Dark Lord."
He paused, leaving the stage to walk amongst rows filled with faithful followers. As he passed, some reached out, yearning for even the slightest touch.
"Voldemort has promised our foes will be but dust ere long, our streets awash with the tainted blood of our enemies," he proclaimed, a hand over his heart.
The assembled erupted in exultant cheers. Adamus lifted his hands, beckoning silence.
"But there are conditions, my faithful," he said solemnly. "Only sacred blood, servitude, and sacrifice will guide you to salvation's seat."
He observed his followers, who appeared to be hanging on his every word.
"Adhere strictly to my teachings. Abandon pride and greed. Devote your souls entirely to our cause," he implored.
Suddenly, a woman flung herself at his feet in an attempt to kiss them. A man in a cape similar to the Prophet's hurriedly moved the woman aside. Adamus looked at the woman kindly as she was forcibly removed.
"Your presence here is pivotal. You convene to shield your souls and to secure entry into Voldemort's realm. Heed my teachings, and your spirits shall be hallowed," Adamus declared.
He moved back towards the stage, lifting his eyes to the higher floors where wizards crowded the staircases and balconies.
"Your guardian in purity's shield, rebuffing the tainted spirits that would defile us," he elaborated.
Ivo was spellbound, unable to avert his gaze from the man as he spoke. He exuded a potent and magnetic aura that captivated the attention of all present. It was clear why his words swayed the crowd so.
"Today, we turn our attention to the sanctity of family. My friends, as you well know, the family unit is our staunchest bastion. Our foes know this well, hence their attempts to penetrate our venerable families, seeking to defile us with their contemptible ways. Remain vigilant, for the foe shall ever seek to beguile you, to besmirch your bloodlines," he cautioned.
He emphasized the vital importance of continuing one's lineage. In his words, each year should witness a new birth within every family of his following.
"This way, lad," Kitty murmured suddenly, coaxing Ivo's attention from Adamus.
She nodded towards the exit and stealthily made her way there, Ivo close behind. They threaded their way through a throng of followers crowded outside the doors, straining to hear the Prophet's sermon.
"Another minute and you might've joined their ranks," Kitty remarked with a twinkle in her eye.
"Why did we come here? Who exactly are these people?" Ivo asked, his confusion clear.
"A cult," Kitty exhaled.
"A cult?" echoed Ivo, confused.
"They're a group of blind followers shadowing this nutter, all convinced he's got a direct line to Voldemort down in the catacombs," Kitty said, her scornful laugh echoing. "If you ask me, they've concocted quite the grand swindle."
She took off her hat, fiddling with the golden band.
"He preaches all sorts of nonsense to these people, and they follow because they believe they're doing Voldemort's will," she explained. "They swallow whatever this charlatan preaches because they've lost the will to think for themselves."
She rolled her eyes skyward.
"But ultimately, it serves our ends," she remarked, eyes twinkling with a scheme. "Off we go."
They made their way back toward the steps near the building.
"Keep an eye out," Kitty instructed.
She then drew the gathered wizards' eyes, standing at the doors' forefront.
"Brethren, might you spare a donation for the Prophet?" she intoned, holding the hat out solemnly. "To assist the congregation in the saving of souls."
To Ivo's astonishment, hands appeared from everywhere, eagerly throwing coins into the hat.
"May the purity of your blood cleanse your spirit," Kitty proclaimed, nodding respectfully. "Your benevolence will secure your path to Voldemort's realm."
Ivo watched, transfixed, as coins clinked and piled up in the hat. He then spotted a masked figure drawn to the commotion Kitty had stirred, weaving through the crowd to investigate. "A Death Eater," Ivo realized, as a wave of panic washed over him.
"Kitty!" Ivo hissed urgently. "Company!"
Wordlessly, Kitty scooped the coins from the hat into her bag and dashed down the steps.
"Quickly now, lad!" she shouted, taking off down the boulevard.
Ivo sprang after her as the Death Eater struggled to thread through the devout throng blocking his path. They hastened to the public Floo station, Ivo careful not to stumble over the intricate floor patterns. Kitty flipped a Sickle to the gatekeeper and tugged Ivo towards the hearth, declaring, "Diagon Alley!"
Just as they disappeared into the green flames, Ivo caught a glimpse of the Death Eater in the distance, wand aloft and charging towards them. Once they landed in Diagon Alley, Kitty kept up her sprint, bustling past passersby without a word of sorry. With his heart pounding, Ivo matched her pace, too frightened to look back. Soon after, they veered sharply into an alley toward Knockturn District. Kitty glanced from the alcove, ensuring they weren't followed.
"We've lost them," she declared, her laugh ringing with exhilaration.
Her cheeks were slightly flushed, probably from the chase, but she looked particularly joyful. Ivo, meanwhile, was panting loudly, trying to catch his breath. He'd never run so fast in his life.
"A most profitable start to our day!" she exclaimed, rifling through the coins in her bag.
She scooped up a handful of coins, extending them towards Ivo. He felt strangely elated, swathed in his fine wizarding robes with pockets brimming with gold. Real Galleons.
"Here's your cut of the loot, mate. Stow it and dole it out to that troll Cloyd gradually. It'll tide you over for a fortnight at least," she advised.
Ivo tucked the coins into his new cloak's inner pocket. He felt oddly buoyant in his fine wizarding robes and pockets full of gold.
"That was... spectacular!" he gasped, all former panic vanished.
He'd never envisioned such audacity. Now he understood why Kitty was such a valuable asset at The Hollow. Her ingenuity and fearlessness were unmatched.
"Oh, that? It's nothing. Wait until you see what other tricks I have up my sleeve," she said, feigning modesty.
"Is this a regular stunt for you?" Ivo asked, clearly impressed.
"From time to time. I keep a low profile before going back, though. Best not to make them suspicious. It's a gamble, but well worth it," she added.
"You've never been nabbed?" he queried.
"Oh, I have," she chuckled, unfazed.
"And what happened?" Ivo inquired, shocked.
He had heard of the punishments meted out to lower-ranked wizards when caught in the act of wrongdoing. The cost was usually steep compared to the crime.
"I have my methods for wriggling free from tight spots," Kitty said, her tone laced with intrigue. "But that's a story for another time — when you're older."
She perched her hat back on her hair and turned up the collar of her coat.
"Catch you later for our next lesson," she said with a wink before walking off. "Stay out of mischief till then, eh?"
/
Theodore Nott made his way down the grand staircase into the manor's entrance hall, striding with purpose. His day had started late after a night spent intensely composing at Damasus the Decadent's Theatre. His debut concert loomed on the horizon, and readiness still eluded him. Theodore, ever the perfectionist, staunchly refused to showcase any piece that fell short of his stringent standards.
He found his parents in the main drawing room. Just moments earlier, Zephyr, the family's house-elf, had delivered his mother's summons. On entering, Theodore observed an unfamiliar woman in their company. In her thirties, she sported a bun of long black hair, secured with a glittering brooch. Wearing a flowing purple gown that brushed the floor, she had a peculiar talisman around her neck.
"Ah, Theodore, you've finally surfaced," Gislena, his mother, greeted him with evident delight.
She made an attempt to stand as a greeting, but it was visibly a strain for her. Theodius, his father, placed a reassuring hand on her arm, silently cautioning her against any sudden movements. Gislena relented and resumed her seat on the sofa.
Theodore drew near to his parents, yet remained standing, regarding the stranger with suspicion. He couldn't explain why, but he didn't trust her presence.
"This is Tamsin. We met her a few weeks before you came back, and she has graciously offered her assistance," announced his mother.
"To help us?" Theodore repeated, puzzled, his eyes moving between his mother and Tamsin.
"Tamsin's a doula," his mother explained, her voice tinged with cheer.
Yet Theodore knew his mother too well not to notice the forced enthusiasm in her voice. It was as if she was delivering some bad news. It was the same tone she'd used the previous year when telling him about the ravages of her illness and the terminal diagnosis given by the Mediwizards. Immediately, Theodore tensed up.
"A doula?" he said at last, his tone even, raising an eyebrow.
He had never heard the term before.
Tamsin rose and extended her hand to Theodore in greeting, receiving a tentative handshake in return. The woman glanced questioningly at his mother, who nodded her permission to go on. Theodore's gaze lingered on this exchange, his confusion plain to see.
"Doulas usually offer emotional and practical support to expectant mothers during childbirth and beyond, akin to a midwife but without the medical aspect," she spoke softly. "My role is rather particular; I'm an end-of-life doula, providing support and comfort to families like yours when a loved one is in their final hours."
Theodore lapsed into silence, wrestling with the implications of the woman's words. He felt his heart sink like a stone within his chest. The looming end of his mother's life had been a specter in his thoughts for months, yet it had always remained an abstraction. Until this day, it had never seemed so ominous. The clinical detachment with which his parents were arranging Gislena's final days struck him as utterly jarring. The realization hit him squarely in the face.
His mother was going to die, and everyone seemed prepared for it.
Everyone but him.
Without uttering another word, Theodore spun on his heel and exited the room, his mother's calls falling on deaf ears. He didn't want to listen to the doula's words. He didn't want to prepare himself to let go of his mother.
Without conscious thought, his steps carried him to the Manor's music room—the only place in the house where he felt at ease, surrounded by his instruments. He slumped onto the piano bench, head down, staring blankly at the contrasting keys.
His slender fingers began to dance across the ebony keys, feet softly working the pedals, as harmonies filled the room. He channeled his emotions through the instrument—a tapestry of sorrow, resignation, and fury. He was engulfed by a profound sense of injustice. Why should his mother have to leave him this way? She didn't deserve this end, filled with suffering. All the more unjust while merciless monsters roamed free under the current regime.
Theodore was so absorbed in his melody that he didn't notice someone else entering the room. A delicate hand running through his hair caught his attention. He immediately recognised the gentle and comforting touch of Gislena. Theodore's fingers came to an abrupt halt on the piano keys.
"Ever since you were a child, your music has been your refuge," she said, smiling tenderly as she kissed his dark hair.
He shifted on the bench, making room for his mother to sit next to him. She played a random series of keys, eliciting a discordant sound that drew a chuckle from Theodore.
"Clearly, you didn't get this talent from me," Gislena said with a smile.
"No, but I've taken on other traits from you," Theodore gently reminded her.
She nodded, wrapping his hand in her chilly, feeble grasp.
"You embody all my finest qualities and more: sensitivity, generosity, boundless potential. The world is watching, anticipating your next move," she said, her voice filled with pride.
"But you won't see it," Theodore whispered, the words barely audible.
"I'll be with you always, one way or another - in your memories, in the legacy of your upbringing," Gislena stated with conviction.
"I am not ready, Mother," Theodore admitted, the weight of his truth clear in his voice.
"And I'm not ready to leave you. That's why this woman is here. To prepare us as best as possible. Although it will never be easy, I am aware," she sighed.
"You see, I've always felt it was my duty to shield you from the world's cruelties, to preserve "I've always seen it as my duty to protect you from the world's cruelties, to maintain your innocence. That's why I sent you away—to grow up beyond this place and to be different from what our kind can sometimes become. I am immensely proud of the man you've turned into, Theodore. You've exceeded my greatest hopes," she affirmed.
A wistful smile touched the corners of his mouth.
"Yet sometimes, I wonder if I've protected you too much. I thought emphasizing life's positives, avoiding its negatives, was the right choice. But now, as the end approaches, I face my first pangs of regret," she admitted.
She lightly squeezed Theodore's hands.
"I long to live, holding onto even a sliver of hope. But the truth remains. Death is nearing, Theodore, and the fear is palpable. That's why I've reached out for help," she finished.
Upon receiving the news, Theodore had withdrawn inward, in his usual manner. The prospect of solitude following his mother's passing filled him with dread. The void she would leave behind. He acknowledged his mother's presence beside him and resolved to support her through this trying time, notwithstanding his own pain and fear.
"I apologize for storming out like that," he said.
"No need for apologies, Theo," Gislena answered. "I know it's a big ask. Having yours and your father's support means everything to me."
He nodded. "Let's continue," he stated, a newfound determination in his voice, as he rose and offered his hand to Gislena.
Upon their return to the drawing room, Theodius stood up, looking at them with concern. It seemed he was wondering if the meeting should have been concluded earlier than planned. Theodore nodded in his direction, as if to assure him all was well. They took their seats next to his father, facing the doula.
"Please, let's continue," Gislena pressed.
"Very well," Tamsin said. "Death is a natural part of life, giving our existence its full significance. It's not a stage to be ignored. Think of me as a guide through this transition. I'm here to help with any fears and questions about what's to come. My support will be practical, emotional, and psychological. Gislena, I'll help you articulate your final wishes and support your family through what follows."
A few hours after departing from the Manor, Theodore was besieged by a tumult of conflicting emotions. Listening to his mother express her funeral wishes and settle her final affairs stirred deep disquiet within him.
Yet, there was an unexpected solace in speaking so candidly with his parents about it. Conversing with the doula had also proven to be a turning point for him. She had illuminated the fleeting nature of life and how swiftly it could draw to a close. His life held value, worth the living.
That afternoon, Theodore made his way to Macmillan's Great Librarium. Despite the urgent need to finish his composition, he had lacked the courage to return. He incessantly pondered his last conversation with Hermione, trying to identify the exact moment he had so offended her.
He treasured the afternoons he'd spent in the young woman's company. Her analytical mind and extensive knowledge had impressed him. The elite often depicted lesser-ranked wizards as simpletons lacking intellect. Theodore's extensive travels had taught him not to entertain such extreme views. His exposure to diverse cultures, traditions, and customs had enlightened him to the rich tapestry of the magical community.
Hermione, however, seemed quite different from the Half-Bloods of the regime. There was something about her that fascinated Theodore, compelling him to learn more. In the dim, narrow room's confines, Theodore could easily forget their differences, insulated from the outside world's concerns. Their last conversation, however, had reminded him of the gap between their respective statuses.
Theodore was delighted to have found someone with whom to have such exchanges. He had few friends in the United Kingdom. Most who sought his friendship were opportunists, viewing him as a social ladder because of his connection to one of the Sacred Thirteen families.
Theodore was uncertain about how to face Hermione upon their next encounter. Recent events concerning his mother had spurred him to cast aside doubts and live life on his own terms. And if that involved befriending a woman the regime considered sub-human, he would do it.
Upon arriving at the Librarium, Theodore asked the Death Eater escort to wait at the entrance. He hated being shadowed by such individuals, but necessity dictated otherwise.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Nott," greeted a young woman with a wide smile as he entered.
He had encountered her multiple times on his visits to the Librarium. Each time he visited the Librarium, she would attempt to capture his attention with dubious tactics, and although he typically rebuffed her advances with polite skill, his patience was now running low.
"Good afternoon," he replied, with uncharacteristic briskness.
She appeared keen to continue the conversation, but Theodore proceeded down the main aisle, disregarding her words. A part of him felt a pang of guilt for so blatantly ignoring her. He ascended the metal spiral staircase and then rapped briskly on the door to Aelius Macmillan's office. The old man's voice called out from within, inviting him to enter. Theodore stepped into the room.
"Ah, Theodore," Aelius greeted him enthusiastically. "I was just telling Miss Granger that your absence had been noticed."
Their eyes met briefly before Hermione swiftly turned hers away, refocusing on the books spread out in front of her.
"I encountered some... unforeseen issues at the theatre," Theodore offered before he looked towards Aelius.
It wasn't a blatant lie on his part. After all, he had had a lot of work with the rehearsals. Or rather—he had made sure to be busy so as to spend all his free time there. It had been an excellent excuse not to go to the librarium, where he needed to work, nonetheless.
"The upcoming concert, that's it? I'm eager to attend. Your invitation has reached me," Aelius remarked, settling contentedly into his large armchair. "You need access to my private archives, I presume?"
Theodore nodded.
"In that case, Miss Granger..." Aelius started.
"I'd hate to impose on Miss Granger if she's presently aiding you," Theodore said, casting a fleeting glance at Hermione, whose posture stiffened.
"Now, now, let's have none of that, my boy. Miss Granger's role is just that. She's your designated assistant as of now," Aelius stated.
The young woman didn't answer but nodded, making sure not to look in Theodore's direction. Disappointment washed over him. Having mustered the courage to visit after a week's absence, he was disheartened to find her attitude so distant, signaling that his enthusiasm was unreturned.
Hermione found herself in an awkward position due to him, obligated to assist despite her apparent reluctance for his company. The enthusiasm with which Theodore had entered the Librarium evaporated completely.
Hermione walked towards the door, passing Theodore without looking at him, and began to descend the steps. Theodore followed at a respectful distance. As they passed through the portrait hole into Aelius's private collection, Hermione turned to him.
"Is there something specific you're looking for today?" she asked, without making eye contact.
"I'm capable of finding what I need alone," he assured her. "I understand if you prefer not to assist. My apologies; I should have requested someone else from Aelius."
This time, Hermione looked utterly flabbergasted. She met his gaze, and he saw sheer astonishment in her eyes.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
Theodore looked at her, puzzled.
"What do you mean?" he inquired, confused.
"Why are you apologising? Why are you being so pleasant with me?"
"I never meant to upset you," he said hesitantly.
"Upset me?" she echoed, her eyes widening, evidently startled by his words.
Hermione's next action caught Theodore entirely off-guard. She burst into laughter, though not with sheer mirth. It was a blend of hysteria and nervousness. She suddenly stopped, her large brown eyes shimmering under the lamp hanging above them. Theodore recognised a glint of embarrassment.
"You haven't upset me in the least. I overreacted," she admitted. "The fault isn't yours. I'm the one who should be apologizing."
This admission filled Theodore with relief.
"You're different from the others," she stated.
She spoke in a factual tone. It was neither a compliment nor a criticism—simply a statement of fact.
"Perhaps we both have preconceptions to work through," he reflected.
Hermione's eyes widened at his words.
"You're right, I have my own prejudices," she admitted, her cheeks coloring.
"Shall we call it mutual forgiveness, then?" he proposed. "What do you say?"
Her lips curved into a smile that lit up her face.
"Very well," she conceded. "But you haven't answered my question yet."
Theodore's forehead creased with confusion.
"Which book are you after?" she inquired, eagerly.
For the next few hours, Theodore found it difficult to stay focused. He felt an uncommon excitement at the thought of being back in this room with Hermione. Each encounter offered a fleeting escape from his more somber reflections. He reveled in their shared discourse and the vivid spark in Hermione's eyes upon each new revelation.
Theodore was a solitary man—the few women he'd become acquainted with were only interested in his social standing. An esteemed composer. The scion of a venerable lineage.
He often regretted being born into a world where he perpetually felt like an outsider. He wished he came from an ordinary family—then perhaps he'd be valued for who he truly was, not the status he held. As for Hermione, she evidently didn't care in the slightest. Moreover, he detected a trace of disdain from her towards his status. A novel experience for Theodore.
"Look at this," Hermione exclaimed, taking a seat beside Theodore.
"This says Diricawls can produce remarkably complex sounds," she read aloud.
They had been debating—once again—about the ability of certain creatures to exhibit musicality. Hermione hadn't seemed convinced.
"You were right," she admitted, grimacing.
Theodore smiled. He quickly realised that Hermione had a vital need to be right and being wrong seemed to prick her personal pride.
"However, it appears they use it as a means of communication," she added.
"So you were also right," he said.
She sighed.
"It's fascinating," she admitted. "I wonder if some creatures express musicality for reasons other than communication—like humans."
"Music is my language, too. I've always struggled to express my feelings in words. Music does it naturally," Theodore shared.
"And what are you saying through your music?" she asked, curiously.
"Sorrow, loss, indifference, anguish," he murmured, almost without thinking.
She seemed disoriented by his brutally honest response.
"That doesn't sound very... happy," Hermione commented in a subdued tone.
Theodore gave a nonchalant shrug.
"An artist taps into the full spectrum of their experiences for inspiration—both the good and the bad," he said.
Silence ensued. The only sound was the occasional chirp from the diricawl on the pages of the grimoire. It hopped towards the edges of the aged parchment, letting out a high-pitched sound from time to time. Theodore glanced at the clock which struck a new hour.
"I should be going," he hesitated. "I wouldn't want to impose on your time."
Hermione seemed disappointed—a reaction that pleasantly surprised him. He couldn't lie—he would have liked to stay longer with her. However, he knew his mother placed great importance on family dinners.
"I have something for you," he said, rummaging through his bag.
Theodore pulled out a ticket and handed it to her. She looked surprised and took the paper hesitantly, scanning it with her eyes.
"I'm inviting you to my first concert here in Britain," he announced. "I'd be honoured by your attendance."
Hermione's mouth fell open.
"I… I'm sincerely moved," she said, observing him with a newfound unease. "But I can't accept it."
She seemed to notice the disappointment on Theodore's face because she quickly added:
"You must realise that in here, we can pretend the world's divide doesn't touch us. Out there, it's a different story," she said, grimacing.
Theodore remained silent.
"I understand," he finally said. "You're right."
He appeared to think for several long seconds.
"However, you could still attend a rehearsal, couldn't you? Amongst a small gathering," he proposed.
Hermione seemed inclined to refuse, but Theodore's hopeful expression seemed to convince her. She nodded with a reluctant smile.
"Alright. For the rehearsal," she conceded.
A sudden thrill filled Theodore's stomach—a feeling he hadn't felt in a very long time.
"I'll send a carriage for you on Friday afternoon," he promised.
"Mr. Macmillan might not approve of me missing work," she warned.
"Leave it to me. I'll find a way to convince him," Theodore reassured her.
Hermione appeared taken aback by his forthright initiative. To tell the truth, he was too.
As he left the room, Hermione's radiant smile sent an unexpected flutter through Theodore's heart. As she vanished down an aisle, Theodore's gaze lifted. Aelius Macmillan was on the spiral staircase, watching him intently with his hands on the railing. The man then turned and retreated to his office, with Theodore watching uncertainly.
/
"Ginny! You cannot be serious!" Hermione exclaimed, rolling her eyes.
The two young women had stopped in front of the window of a narrow shop on the main street of Knockturn District. The shop bore the name "The Soul Therapy." A description had been added to the window:
Sybill Trelawney
Oracle and Specialist in Divination and Cartomancy
Your future is but a wand wave away!
(Officiating matrimonial and sacred unions on Thursdays)
"For Merlin's beard... I mean, Voldemort's sake, Ginny," Hermione groaned, her perturbation evident.
Ginny adopted an innocent look that deceived none as she looped her arm through Hermione's, batting her eyelashes childishly.
"Please, Hermione, come on! You did promise," Ginny implored her, with a hint of mischief.
"I thought we were headed for a pint at the Leaky Cauldron, not this... place," Hermione retorted, her distaste apparent.
"We'll swing by the Leaky Cauldron straight after," Ginny promised, nodding earnestly.
"I'm absolutely not setting foot in there," Hermione declared firmly.
"I'll cover the cost of your session," Ginny persisted. "Remember, Hermione, you agreed to let me plan the night!"
Hermione rolled her eyes. Saying no to Ginny was impossible. She had this innate ability to persuade you to do something you didn't want to do.
"Five minutes," Hermione finally conceded, exasperated.
Ginny's face broke into a wide grin as she guided Hermione inside. A pungent aroma—likely potent incense—assaulted their senses upon entry.
Hermione felt the walls of the room close in, a wave of claustrophobia washing over her. The cramped space was cluttered with furniture, shrouded in tablecloths and drapes of ghastly designs. Dusty shelves filled the interior, stocked with crystal balls, pendulums, statues of bizarre shapes, and other instruments whose function Hermione did not know. The lighting was scant, at best.
"Is anybody in?" Ginny called out, peering towards the thick curtain concealing the counter beyond.
"I perceive a mind shut to amazement, a heart guarded against belief," came the dramatized voice, startling both women.
Ginny placed a hand on her chest before letting out a little laugh.
"She gave me quite a fright," she whispered to Hermione.
The curtain was swept aside to reveal a slender woman whose eyes were exaggerated behind thick lenses. A thick shawl hid her tousled blond hair, and her wrists and fingers jangled with bracelets that chimed at every gesture.
She moved toward the counter, separating her from the pair with a deliberate poise.
"You there," she said, directing a slender, bony finger at Hermione.
Hermione observed her skeptically.
"I sense reluctance. You wish to be elsewhere," she declared.
"Remarkable intuition," Hermione commented dryly. "Or is it divination at work?"
Ginny gave her a nonchalant glance while the woman looked on, taken aback.
"My friend is skeptical, but I keep an open mind," Ginny interjected smoothly.
The fortune teller seemed to relax, losing her shocked expression. She adjusted her shawl over her other shoulder before moving towards a collection of candles on the countertop. With a swift gesture of her wand, the candles flared to life.
"May we have a reading?" Ginny inquired. "I'm not quite sure of the procedure."
"Thirteen Galleons for a vision through the crystal ball, nine for tarot's story, and five for a quick palmistry session. Plus, if you're tempted by any wares, I offer a fifteen percent discount on my acclaimed book," the fortune teller detailed.
She pointed to a row of books on one of the tables. "My Eyes and How to See Beyond Them, penned by Sybill Trelawney,"
Hermione and Ginny exchanged a look.
"That's quite steep," Ginny remarked.
"My fees reflect my renowned skill," Trelawney stated with dignity. "You might be interested to know I am descended from a celebrated lineage of seers, including the distinguished Cassandra Trelawney."
"Should that name mean something to us?" Hermione inquired, her tone laced with sarcasm.
Beside her, Ginny seemed to struggle to keep from laughing.
"I will not tolerate disrespect in my shop. Please leave immediately!" Trelawney seethed, clearly affronted.
"Oh, please," pleaded Ginny. "I'm sorry. My friend had a bad day. She didn't mean to offend you. Please, we would like a reading."
Trelawney gave a curt nod and gestured for them to draw near. She sat down at a table and invited Hermione and Ginny to join her. She lit more candles and an incense stick with an overpowering scent. Hermione wrinkled her nose.
"Payment upfront, if you please," warned Trelawney.
"Of course. Ten Galleons for the combined session," Ginny affirmed, withdrawing her purse.
She placed the golden coins on the table under Hermione's disapproving eye.
The fortune teller scooped up the coins and stuffed them into a small purse around her neck.
"You wish to commence, I gather?" she asked Ginny.
The latter nodded eagerly.
"Present your palms," commanded Trelawney.
"Let's skip the part where you tell me men aren't to be trusted—I'm well aware," Ginny remarked wryly, then proceeded to comply.
Trelawney sprinkled an unidentified powder on Ginny's hands—resembling talcum powder. Suddenly, when she took Ginny's hands into her own, the woman began to shake as if seized by violent spasms. Ginny gave her a skeptical look.
"Two you may bear, yet one you'll hold; in strife, the other's story untold," she finally announced in a deep and profound voice, as if someone else had spoken.
Trelawney then withdrew her hand, a self-satisfied smirk playing upon her lips.
"Is that it?" Ginny asked, her voice mixing skepticism with a tinge of concern. "What exactly do you mean by 'one you'll hold'? And what strife?"
"I cannot say. My gift does not perform at will. It is the universe that discloses its secrets, not I," Trelawney replied. "I am but a vessel for its voice."
"This is absurd, a complete sham," Hermione scoffed, clearly irritated.
She couldn't believe she was in this shabby shop, listening to the gloomy predictions of a first-class crackpot. Trelawney turned to Hermione.
"Your turn now."
"Absolutely not. You should get your money back, Ginny. I've no intention of spending a single knut on Chocolate Frog card readings."
"Lay off the Chocolate Frogs, they're sacred," Ginny teased, chuckling.
She was clearly finding the humour in the situation.
Trelawney gave a dismissive shake of her head and gestured towards the 'No refunds' sign by the door.
"Do it, or it's Galleons down the drain," Ginny urged.
Hermione rolled her eyes but reluctantly held out her hands to the fortune-teller. The latter began her act again. Her whole body trembled as if she were possessed by external forces.
"I see a union of unyielding strength, an eternal bond," Trelawney proclaimed, her eyes shut to the world. "Bound by a love that transcends time, unbreakable by the trials of fate. Even death will try to separate you, but it will not succeed."
She opened her eyes again, meeting Hermione's annoyed gaze, who still looked at her with exasperation.
"This is despicable," Hermione hissed, withdrawing her hands in disgust. "To exploit the naivety of the vulnerable with such charlatanism is utterly reprehensible."
Hermione stood up quickly and stormed out of the shop. This Trelawney had to be reported to the authorities as soon as possible. Her shop was located on Knockturn Alley, which meant her clientele was primarily lower-ranking wizards. Purebloods rarely set foot in this notorious neighbourhood, known for housing non-Purebloods, the poor, and the uneducated. She was exploiting already vulnerable communities oppressed by the regime, capitalising on their despair for money.
Ginny had quickly left the shop behind Hermione.
"No need to tell me, I know," she said to Hermione.
"Tell you what?"
"That was a disaster. There's ten Galleons I'm never getting back," Ginny muttered, her face contorting with regret.
"Where did you even find that kind of money to throw away?"
"Right, you wouldn't know," said Ginny. "We hardly see each other these days."
An hour later, they were sitting at a table at the Leaky Cauldron, around icy Butterbeers.
"Are you telling me a Governor sought your help to draft a bill?" Hermione asked, incredulous, her eyes wide.
Ginny nodded.
"I don't know, Ginny... it seems like a very bad idea. These people... they're not to be trusted," said Hermione, concerned.
"Says the one who's going on a date with one of the Sacred Thirteen heirs," Ginny commented ironically.
"It's not a date," Hermione insisted, her voice hushed, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
"Usually, when a decent bloke invites you to a concert, it's considered a date," Ginny said with a knowing smile.
"Not the concert itself, but the rehearsal," Hermione clarified.
"Just because you turned down the actual concert," Ginny retorted.
"We're just friends. We share common interests," Hermione maintained with insistence. "His invitation is simply to show gratitude for my assistance."
Ginny gave her a mocking smile, skepticism written all over her face. Then suddenly, she seemed struck by a revelation.
"It's worked!" Ginny burst out, bouncing on her stool so much she nearly sent their Butterbeers flying off the lopsided table.
"What's gotten into you? What on earth are you talking about?" Hermione asked, eyeing Ginny as if she'd gone mad.
"The Law of Attraction!" Ginny declared, as though it explained everything. "You manifested it, and it happened!"
Hermione gave her a confused look.
"Don't you remember? An epic and passionate love with a handsome, rich, and intelligent man!" Ginny repeated excitedly. "Then, this fellow pops up out of nowhere! What are the chances?"
Her hands clapped over her mouth, shocked.
"And remember the seer's words? An eternal bond. Bound by a love that transcends time. Oh, Hermione!" Ginny swooned, almost breathless with excitement.
Hermione watched her as if she had lost her mind. It was probably the giggly water Ginny had consumed upon their arrival at the Leaky Cauldron, to celebrate her new job. It had evidently gone to her head faster than expected. Suddenly, Ginny seemed to calm down and furrowed her eyebrows.
"But wait a second... Why didn't it work for me? It was my idea, after all," she said, disappointed.
Ginny's aggrieved look sent Hermione into fits of laughter. Two hours later, back at their building, Hermione found herself helping a drunk Ginny up the stairs. She was walking unsteadily, having overindulged in alcohol during the evening. After putting her friend to bed, Hermione headed for her own room. As she undressed, Hermione spotted an envelope pressed against the windowpane. She opened the window to free the ensnared letter.
The envelope bore only her name, in handwriting she didn't recognize. With a flicker of curiosity, Hermione peeled open the envelope, drawing out an aged parchment to slowly unroll it. The parchment held a brief, stark message:
I know your secret.
Hope you enjoyed! Let me know your thoughts.