The evening came and while she was making her way to the Great Hall, she was approached by a First-year student with a piece of paper he passed over to her. She thanked him, confused. The note was uneven, clearly ripped in a haste, and written in an angry looking scrawl that said, Our spot. Come as soon as you get this. It wasn't signed, but there was only one person that could have been from.
She tucked it into her pocked in annoyance, turning her course towards the ruined part of the castle. When she made it to her destination, she found Theo pacing back and forth. As she met his eyes, she could tell he wasn't happy with her.
"You didn't show up," he accused her in a way of greeting.
"I've spoken to Professor McGonagall," she responded in return.
He narrowed his stare at her, taking in what she had said. She waited for an outburst, a yell, an insult even, but nothing of sorts came. Instead, he asked calmly, "What did she say?"
Hermione knew Theo had a remarkably great hold over his emotions, so his cool reaction wasn't that surprising, but it still seemed eerie how collected he could be in any situation. Although, she was yet to mention the Ministry, so she wasn't sure if it was just the calm before the storm.
"She said she knows someone at the Ministry who could be of help," she explained, watching him intently. "And that she could count on their discretion. But—" she paused for a heartbeat. "I left Malfoy's name out of it."
It was the truth. She had omitted that pretty damn important detail. She rationalized that she was doing it because she didn't have any proof that involved Malfoy directly in the situation, but deep down she knew she was doing it for the sake of Theo and out of fear that he would end up hating her if anything were to happen to Malfoy because of her. She could tell that Professor McGonagall didn't entirely believe her when she had ensured her that she had told her everything she knew.
A glint of curiosity flashed in Theo's eyes and he took a step towards her. She instinctively took a step back, alert to the new emotion that crossed his features. It was as if she was a puzzle he was trying to solve, but it wasn't supposed to be like this. He was the one she tried to figure out, and she was supposed to be the one who was transparent and easy to read, wearing her emotions on her sleeve. There was nothing about her to unravel, and it unnerved her to think he might see her differently. She was the Golden Girl, the smart one, without any hidden depths.
He kept coming towards her, and she kept walking away from him, until she finally stood firmly against the desk, creating a tangible barrier between them. He came to a halt on the other side, separated by the physical distance she had established.
"Why are you running away?" he asked, sharpening his gaze on her.
"Why are you coming closer?" she shot back, unable to find an appropriate answer to his question.
His eyes darkened and his voice was barely a whisper. "Do I scare you?"
She shook her head. It wasn't Theo that scared her—it was the flurry of emotions she experienced in his presence. The flutter in her stomach, the flush that colored her cheeks whenever he looked at her for a little too long and with a touch too much intensity, the warmth that spread inside her whenever she could see the concern flash across his face when she wasn't sleeping and eating enough. It was all those little things that made her acutely aware of her growing feelings for him, and the fear of falling for him terrified her. She was the embodiment of everything his family stood against, a living contradiction to their deeply held beliefs and values.
"Maybe you should be scared," Theo's voice sounded over her head. She couldn't remember when he had crossed the space between them and planted himself close to her; too close. "I'm a marked Death Eater and you're exactly who we hate."
She could feel her stomach twist, but not because of what his words were, but because of how in line they were with her own train of thoughts.
"Is that how you feel?" she asked, looking up at him. "Do you hate who I am?"
He murmured something indiscernible, gently tucking the strands of hair that had fallen over her face behind her shoulder. The intimate gesture he made was a stark contrast to the words he had spoken.
"You might be Marked, but you're not a Death Eater, Theo," she said and his hand paused in her hair. "You're a loyal friend. You're smart and I know you're compassionate, even if you pretend you're not. And trying to be tough all the time doesn't hide your vulnerability. You're a lot more than just the Dark Mark on your skin."
"Is that so?" he asked, bundling a bunch of her hair in a fist. He leaned his free arm on the desk, bringing them to eye level. "Maybe I just let you see what you want to see."
Her brain was screaming at her to run. To step back and put distance between them. His words should have been like a splash of cold water. Instead, her heart was racing in her chest and her body was yearning to shift even closer to him.
"Maybe," she agreed, but she didn't believe him. "But I like to think it's the real you."
Hermione had already seen the cracks in the broken, lost man in front of her. It might be easier for him to just play along with how people perceived him—a Nott, the son of a Death Eater, a corrupted soul with no path for a redemption. He could stay in the shadows, not go out of line, but his family's sins would forever haunt him. He could put up this act for others, but she was a witness that he wasn't just his father's son.
His gaze didn't waver from her and his eyes were searching her face. She didn't know what he was looking for, or what he found, but his hand tangled in her hair even more, grasping the back of her head and pulling her closer. She knew what was coming, but the softness of his lips on hers still caught her off guard. Her knees suddenly felt weak, and she instinctively clutched onto his chest, gripping the fabric of his sweater for support. The kiss was rushed, feverish, hungry. The pressure of his mouth against hers was relentless, demanding, leaving her breathless and yearning for more. She had never tried to imagine what kissing Theo would be like—there was no place in this world for the two of them; they were too tainted with the ghosts of the past. In this moment, though, standing in his arms and feeling his racing heartbeat under her palms, she couldn't find a single reason to resist the pull that tugged at her heart and drew them together.
It was Theo who broke them apart, pressing his forehead against hers, and Hermione couldn't help the disappointment that washed over her. She kept her eyes shut for a little longer, afraid of seeing the emotions that could be playing behind his. When she finally looked at him, his breathing was ragged, but his gaze was unreadable. She couldn't tell if she was more frustrated or glad about not being able to read him.
"As much as I would like to continue doing this," Theo started, pulling away. "I want to continue our lessons."
Hermione's heart skipped a beat at his words that indicated that he enjoyed the kiss as much as she did, but she quickly disregarded her elation, focusing on the annoyance she felt at the fact that he had stopped their moment in favor of learning. And people said she was a swot. She perched herself up on the desk, turning his way and waiting to feel him in her mind.
He was as unrelenting as always, going to the deepest parts of her brain, digging up the most hidden memories and feelings, and no matter how much she tried, he kept having his way. He told her to compartmentalize—and she found out she could do it; that she had been doing it for years, but focusing her mind on doing it actively and with full awareness helped her hone that skill—yet, she still couldn't fight him off. He was too good at this. She never liked to think about the circumstances in which he had learned it.
What she was getting better at was feeding him with the memories she wanted him to see—her getting bullied, insulted, disregarded because of her blood and the hurt look in his eyes and the squeeze of his hand on hers each time she had shown him those memories never ceased to catch her by surprise.
After exhausting her with the onslaught of his invasion into her mind, it was her turn to invade his. She always held his gaze, slowly making her way around his brain, familiarizing herself with it, waiting for the moment to catch a stray thought. The problem was that Theo didn't have stray thoughts—everything was neatly tucked away in shelves, protected by him. She felt around, feeling all the negative emotions when she stumbled upon a happy memory and without too much thinking, she went straight after it.
It was Theo, sitting in the grass under the sun, the beams lighting up the clearing, and he was staring at someone in the distance with the feeling of a person in love. She guessed that could explain the heartbreak she once felt during their lessons and she couldn't help the pang of hurt at the thought of him loving someone else—someone he used to?
"Come here," he said, continuing to stare at the girl, who was sporting a sun hat that was the only visible thing from his perspective .
Hermione saw the girl giggle and when she was about to turn around and see the face of whoever held his heart at some point, the memory broke into little pieces and then it was gone from her grasp.
Frustrated, Hermione continued her roam around his mind, hitting a shield each time she was about to latch onto something. The deeper she went, fighting hard for access, the darker Theo's emotions grew. There were no more happy ones. She caught a glimpse of his father in one of the memories and tried to peer into it more deeply, hoping to see it more clearly. His face was contorted in a snarl and his voice was muffled, and she could only make out the words like 'disgusting mudbloods', 'filth needs to die', 'someday, I will see the world run with their dirty blood'—that was enough for her to back out from it immediately, crashing back to the reality.
Hermione was aware of what kind of man Theo's father was—but hearing the disdain, the disgust, the disregard in his tone made her sick. His hatred might have just run deeper than Voldemort's.
The realization of the gravity of the situation began to slowly dawn on her and she let out a small gasp. Theo's eyes darted towards her at the sound, taking in her horrified expression. Theo's father was a Death Eater, through and through, and the fact that the curse wasn't affecting any Muggle-borns was starting to feel like an even greater curse in itself.
"Do you—" she stopped, taking a shaky breath, as the implications terrified her. "Do you think his choice of curse was incidental, or was it something he just never got a chance to use before?"
Theo reached out, twisting one of her curls around his finger, and looked at her with solemn expression. Dread settled low inside her stomach.
"I don't know," he answered. "But my father was devoted to the Dark Lord. If he knew he was going down for serving him, I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to go out in his twisted sense of glory."
"So what, do you think his intention was to create chaos in the Wizarding World once again? To incite animosity towards Muggle-borns, reigniting hatred and fueling a rebellion?"
She was conscious of her voice trembling, but she desperately needed Theo to refute her current thoughts. Just this once, she wanted him to be right, to dismiss her idea as absurd. Instead, she met his gaze filled with sadness and compassion, she heard him say in a defeated voice, "I can't say," and she broke down completely.
The tears streamed down her face and warmth engulfed her, as she felt Theo wrap his arms around her. She sobbed silently into his chest, finding irony in the situation—the son of someone who wanted to eradicate people like her was the one offering her comfort. She could have taken it as a sign, a spark that meant the things weren't so dire, but she was too terrified to find any hope and confidence in this. The thought of facing a world that openly hated her, of enduring the rejection and animosity once again for her blood and lineage was unbearable. She couldn't go through this again. The scars of the previous war still haunted her, and she was tirelessly working to mend her brokenness. If she had to face her world burning again, she would shatter.
That night, when she slept through the same nightmare, and the same black void consumed her, she saw a flicker of a figure in the distance.
