Chapter six is here people's. Can't believe it's almost over (I know there's still a chapter left and all that).

Chapter 6: Mournful Song

Theodore should've been used to it after all these years. And yet, a gasp of surprise still escaped him as the door slammed shut behind them, the shelves of goblets and plates trembling as the slam echoed through the small cupboard. A silver fork clanged onto the floor.

And it's not like he particularly cared about being ambushed, it was routine at this point.

"What was that fo- ouch." He was shoved backwards, his head crashing into the wall.

Lavender's fingers were wrapped tightly around his wrist, threatening to bruise. How she had the strength to do that, he had no idea. She glared at him, her jaw clenching as her other hand gripped his arm.

"You've got some bloody nerve," she said, her eyes blazing with unkempt fury. "How long do you think you could go on ignoring me, eh?" she said, her eyes blazing with unkempt fury. "Thought the stupid Gryffindor Brown wouldn't notice?"

"I'm not ignoring you?" It might've been the weakest lie he'd ever told. Even a flobberworm would've called him out. So it was no surprise Lavender's glare intensified.

"Scared that someone will see budding Death Eater Nott with blood traitor Brown? Is that it?" she asked, shoving him against the narrow gap in the wall, between the door and the shelves.

"What?" He choked out.

He wasn't a budding Death Eater; his father had done his kept to keep that sort of stuff away from him. But he'd also warned him to keep a low profile this year at Hogwarts - to keep away from those who were close to the Dark Lord and those who publicly denounced him.

The message was clear. Stay away from Draco. Stay away from Dumbledore. Stay away from everyone.

"So then," she said, "Pray tell, why on earth you've been avoiding me like the plague."

"I haven't been avoiding anyone," he said, attempting to shrug out of her hold. "I've just been busy."

Lavender scoffed. "What on earth could keep you so busy you couldn't even reply to one of my owls?" She shook her head slightly. "One reply, Theodore, even if it was just to tell me not to send any more owls. But no, I sent letter after letter, like an idiot-"

"I didn't get your letters," he said quietly. "They're intercepting the letters – every owl's getting inspected. So my father's enchanted the house boundaries to keep any owls away."

Just in case. In the end, all it would take was one letter. One letter and the Notts would be ruined - his father thrown into Azbakan for the actions of his disobedient son. And if that letter came from Lavender, he knew full well his father wouldn't be the only one to be punished. Blood Traitors were high-priority targets.

The darkness of her irises faded giving way to the green and gold flecks. Her fingers loosened around the fabric of the robes – his neck free from the cloth's chokehold.

"I didn't think it'd be that bad for you lot," she said quietly.

'You lot'. Like they were on separate sides of a war which had yet to begin. As though they lived in different worlds altogether.

"Yeah, well, that's what our lot's world looks like," he said, smiling tightly. His hand curled into a fist, drumming into the wall behind. "All that pureblood privilege stuff is utter drivel."

Lavender raised an eyebrow, her mouth drawing into a straight line.

"That might be the most outrageous thing I've ever heard," she said. "And I've seen Malfoy instigate actual duels in the corridors and get away with it. You can't seriously believe the sacred twenty-eight don't have a massive advantage over the rest of us."

"That's completely different," said Theodore. "Besides Draco wouldn't ever do anything of the sort."

It was a complete lie, obviously. Theodore had seen it happen on far too many occasions, and whilst it was entertaining at times, it didn't quite hold its charm five years on. A part of it, he assumed, was so Draco could ignore his own issues and instead cause problems for others.

"Are you okay?" asked Lavender. "Do you need to go to the hospital wing? Malfoy's mere presence is enough to make any sane person's blood boil."

"He's not that bad," said Theodore. "He's one of the nicest people I know."

Not many students could be given a literal mission by the Dark Lord and actually have a chance at succeeding. Though that would depend on Professor Snape's cooperation - not the first teacher Theodore would trust with his life, or anyone's for that matter; it'd certainly explain the reason for Draco's added irritability.

"So you keep saying," said Lavender. "It's been years and I've yet to see the day when Malfoy isn't that bad."

"You're clearly just not paying enough attention," said Theodore, shrugging. "Maybe if you weren't so busy with Witch Weekly you'd know."

"Witch Weekly is such a bore. I've moved on to bigger and better things."

That'd be nice, a world where their biggest worry was gossip and its accuracy. Witch Weekly, atrocious as it was, seemed to be a much better problem to have than a Dark Lord, in his humble opinion.

Lavender's tongue peaked out, running over her chapped lips; a glistening sheen left in the aftermath. Merlin, when had it gotten so warm?

Theodore tugged out of her grasp, her fingers giving way; he forced himself to look at something else, anywhere but her. He focused on the door, the scuffed handle sprinkled with rust, the metal dull, unlike – his gaze wandered back to Lavender, her golden hair spilling shoulder, stark against her dark robes.

He ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes. Merlin, she wasn't supposed to be this pretty; they were friends – even that label was dubious at best.

"What's wrong?" asked Lavender.

"I've got some Transfiguration homework," he said, brushing past her.

She grabbed him, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. "No you don't."

He tried to move away but it was to no avail. Instead, her nails dug into his skin, causing him to wince.

"Have I done something wrong?" she asked slowly. Merlin, her voice was so soft as she spoke, his heart lurching, turning painfully with each word.

"It's not you, it's me-" would be a good shout for the number one spot in 'The Worst Things Theodore Nott Has Said' book. The other nine things were probably irrelevant compared to this. "Fuck-" he ran a hand through his hair. "I... we..." he tried.

He wasn't even sure where he was going with this. Yeah, he knew the end goal, but the path he needed to take? He hadn't a clue.

"You want to try that again?" And whilst the words were light-hearted, there was no mistaking the shakiness of her voice. She blinked rapidly, her hand still on his wrist, burning against his skin.

"Not particularly," he said weakly, looking down. His shoes were in need of a polish, the black leather worn and soft. The creases were so prominent, he was convinced even the best polishing charm wouldn't remove them. "I mean it though. We can't keep meeting each other."

"So this is it?" she began slowly. "You ignore me for weeks on end, and then you just decide it's all over." She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief, "You can't just decide you don't want to be friends anymore. It doesn't work like that."

"It's too dangerous."

She inhaled sharply. "So when things get hard, you just run away? And I'm supposed to let you?"

"What if something happens? What if one of us gets hurt?"

"We won't." She tugged his collar. "As long as we're careful, we'll be fine."

"And how are we supposed to be careful?" He asked. "How long before Granger or Patil start asking questions when they realise you sneak out at the same time every weekend?"

"They haven't cared for the past five years, why is it going to change now?" Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers brushed his neck. Theodore recoiled, backing up against the wall.

He shook his head, stiff and heavy. "We can't take any risks. Potter thinks something's going to happen, which means he'll be interrogating everyone in Gryffindor. Or he'll have Granger do it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," he said. "It doesn't matter."

Draco's mission would ruin them in one way or another. Potter would only speed the process up – it's what he always did. Play the hero, and mess everything up for the Slytherins. All the houses refused to believe Potter last year, and yet it was Slytherins who were blamed. The only house who actually believed Potter – not openly, of course, they weren't thick like the Gryffindors.

"Just quidditch games then," she breathed.

There were six quidditch games in the school year. Five of them he didn't attend. Neither did Lavender. It'd be just like First Year – risk-free, and safe.

They'd been fine back then; they'd be fine now. They were older and more sensible. As long as they stayed away from the common rooms, they'd be okay.

"Fine," he said slowly.

"I'll see you when Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw play."

They spoke to each other sooner than that.

Two weeks sooner, if he was being precise. The day after Gryffindor had beaten Slytherin.

Again.

She murmured something in Weasley's ear, who nodded before she pulled away and blew him a kiss. He grinned stupidly and waved at her, before ambling down the corridor.

Once Weasley was out of sight, Lavender stalked towards the gargoyle statue, hands on hips. She sported a smug, Gryffindor smirk, her tongue running over her teeth.

"What are you doing here?" She asked lazily.

He wasn't sure whether it was anger or frustration burning him from the inside and out. Whatever it was, it severed the connection between his rational thoughts and the rest of his body.

Where last time, he was the one who got pushed up against a wall, this time it was him shoving her against the wall of a small alcove.

"What the hell, Lavender," he seethed, his fingers tightening around her wrist.

Though the reason he'd come up with was rather weak.

"Weren't we supposed to talk at the next quidditch game?" she asked, arching a perfect brow.

"Don't," he said, his voice shaking. "Don't you dare try to play this off."

"Play what off?" she asked innocently.

"This whole thing with bloody Weasley," he snarled. "What on earth are you thinking?"

"I don't see how it's your problem," she said. "We like each other. That's all."

"Are you an idiot? Shoving your tongue down Weasley's throat could ruin this whole thing," he said, gesturing between them. "He's Potter's best mate."

"So what?" she hissed. "You don't have to worry about your merry band of Slytherins. It's not like you tell me anything."

"Maybe it's a good thing I don't." His jaw felt stiff, his teeth grinding against each other. Lavender's eyes flashed, and she tried stepping away from him. He blocked her path, his grip tightening around her wrist.

"You don't mean that."

"I meant every word," he said. "Is this all just some convoluted plan to spy on us?"

"Of course not-" she spluttered, her cheeks red. She was pressed up against the wall, her back arched.

"Or is it just a sick and twisted way of getting into Potter's pants?"

The words spilt out, bypassing his brain's filter – whatever was left of it, anyway – a haphazard shield thrown in front. It was too late to back down now.

"What?" She choked out, shaking her head slightly.

"Don't look so confused," he spat. "Finnegan in fourth year, Thomas last year. Now Weasley. Bet you gave Longbottom a freebie as well-"

Crack.

A fist connected with his cheek, and for one horrible moment he thought his cheekbone had shattered. He must've let go of her wrist, because she was still as he staggered backwards, bracing himself against the wall. He touched his cheek, wincing as his fingers came into contact.

Lavender glared at him, her gaze burning through his eyes and into his soul.

"Fuck you."

The words drowned in poison, meant to pierce him. Or drown him. She didn't wait for a response, stalking out of the alcove.

The beauty of empty corridors was that sound travelled. "Bet the Weasel wouldn't be too happy if he knew about the company you keep."

Lavender froze, and for a moment, he's convinced she's going to turn around and yell at him, maybe even hex him. But she didn't, she just shook her head slightly, and marched away, not even bothering to spare him a scowl. How un-Gryffindor of her.

Whether it was still Sunday, or Monday had officially begun when he got back, he didn't know. Nor did he care. It's not like Snape would care if he missed the Defence Against the Dark Arts in the morning.

Pansy's curious gaze followed him as he crossed the common room.

"What's wrong with you?"

He shot her a withering glare. "Piss off."

None of his dorm mates said a word as he crashed onto his bed, the frame creaking beneath him.

They didn't say anything when he jinxed the living daylight out of the bedside table either.

"He wants me to do it tonight."

The words were barely a whisper. Draco wasn't even looking at them as he spoke.

He'd become a shell of a person over these last few months, nothing like the confident boy Theodore had known since they were all children. The bags under his eyes were heavy, his cheeks gaunt.

He looked like he had seen death itself.

"We've got ages left yet," said Daphne. "You've got loads of time-"

"Tonight," Draco muttered. "It has to be tonight."

"And they're all ready?" asked Theodore. "The Death Eaters?"

Draco's head moved in a way that vaguely resembled a nod.

"If everything goes the way it's supposed to," he said, "the castle will be under his control."

They'd all be in danger. The Death Eaters would go for Potter first, they'd destroy Gryffindor Tower, brick by brick.

No student would be safe.

"Are you ready?" asked Pansy.

The blond closed his eyes, tapping his wand against his knee in slow, rhythmic movements.

"I don't know," he murmured.

"Do you need us to-"

Blaise was cut off harshly by Draco.

"No. I don't need you lot."

The boy stormed off downstairs, his robes billowing behind him. Pansy followed him hurriedly, calling his name out.

"You don't think it's actually going to work, do you?" asked Theodore.

"If he doesn't do it, someone else will," said Blaise. "One of the Death Eaters."

Maybe even his father. It's not like Nott Sr was in a position to decline.

"He'll have to do it," said Daphne. "He's scared about his dad."

"But to murder a teacher," said Theodore. "The most powerful wizard alive?"

"He'll just have to get his act together won't he?" Daphne smiled tightly and trudged towards the dormitories. "I better check on Pansy before she terrifies the first years."

"You might be a bit late for that," he said dryly. "She's probably declared her undying love for Draco in front of some poor second-year."

Daphne flipped him a finger, and descended the steps.

"Rude," he muttered. "If I ever step into Zonko's for her, please petrify me. Or jinx me."

Blaise arched a brow. "Any jinx?"

"I'll owl you a list."

"I think you should go."

Theodore wrinkled his nose. "Didn't think you'd jump at the idea of jinxing your best mate that quickly."

"Not Zonko's, you idiot."

"Where then?"

"To warn her," he said quietly, glancing around the room.

A group of fifth years were in a heated game of Exploding Snap, far too busy to even notice them. A few younger students were dotted about, either reading thick Defence Against the Dark Arts textbooks or writing letters.

"Daph's already on damage cont -"

"The Gryffindor," he hissed under his breath. "Brown? Lavender?"

Theodore stared at Blaise, his eyes wide. He looked back unblinkingly, sitting forward.

"What are you talking about?" Theodore gave a stiff shrug, a failed attempt at nonchalance. Blaise raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Frizzy blonde hair," said Blaise, "You know the one you stare at like a lovesick house elf whenever you're in the Great Hall."

"I've no idea what you're talki-"

"Don't try to deny it," said Blaise, shaking his head slightly. "I'm your best mate, I know these things."

"I don't look at her like a love-sick house elf."

"Yes you do," he said. "It's disgusting. I think even Daphne's noticed."

"Why should I care about what she thinks?" said Theodore, glancing at the girl's sister.

"Because she's your friend?"

"I know that," he said. "But what's she got to do with Lavender?"

Blaise shook his head, as though he couldn't quite believe what Theodore was saying. "You're so obtuse, Theo."

"What have I done now?" He threw his hands up in the air. "We went out like twice last year, and nothing happened between us. She couldn't care less if she tried."

"Maybe," said Blaise, brushing him off. "So when are you going?"

"I'm not," he said.

"Really?" said Blaise. "So that's it then? You're not even going to give them a fighting chance?"

"They have Potter, don't they? Don't think they need our help."

"There's no way you believe Potter can save the day this time," he said.

"He's done it before," said Theodore. "He can bloody well do it again."

"You're not actually just going to let them fend for themselves, are you?"

"What's your problem, Blaise?" he hissed, his elbow digging into the arm of the sofa. "You clearly seem worried, why don't you tell them?"

"Don't go then," said Blaise, standing up. "You'll be the one beating yourself over it if anything happens. Somehow I don't think Draco will be quite as sympathetic with your moping."

Theodore glared at Blaise's retreating figure, his fingers drumming erratically against the rough, green fabric of the cushion. He had no reason to mope, why would he? It's not like he cared about the Gryffindors; they certainly didn't care about him.

He pushed himself off the sofa, the common room far too warm to be thinking of the idiotic Gryffindors.

"Oi, Theo."

He paused just as he was about to go down the stairs.

"You dropped this," said Astoria, holding his mother's compass aloft. "It's bloody boiling. You got a furnace in your pocket or something?"

"Something like that," he said, grimacing. "Just chuck it across."

Astoria shrugged but threw it nonetheless. She was right, it was 'bloody boiling.' The metal casing almost burned his fingertips as he caught it.

It flicked open, and the golden needle had made a reappearance after three long years. And just like last time, curiosity got the better of him.

"If anyone asks," said Theodore, nodding at Astoria, "I'm in the library." She gave him a quick thumbs up and went back to her game of Exploding Snap.

He stalked out of the common room, almost jogging. The needle pointed towards the stairs, and the compass seemed to be pulling him in their direction. Theodore tried veering away towards the kitchens, but his movements became slow and sluggish as he turned away. His palm felt hot, the metal device becoming unbearable to hold.

"Ouch."

The compass clanged onto the floor, the metal ringing against the stone. Theodore shook his hand, muttering a quick episkey at the angry red skin. The cooling effect was instant, but a faint ache remained in his left hand.

Nudging the compass with the tip of his shoe, he found the needle still pointing towards the stairs. He pointed his wand at it, and mumbled, "Levioso."

It should've shot up in the air, hovering right in front of him. Instead, it remained on the faded stones of the dungeons. He grimaced as he leaned down to pick it up, closing his eyes tightly as his outstretched fingers made contact with the metal.

It was still warm, but certainly not the burning inferno it had been mere moments ago. The needle shone brightly in the darkness, more yellow than gold, the tip pulsing imploring him to listen to it – or follow it, or whatever the stupid compass wanted it to do.

This time he did walk up the stairs, his eyes trained on the needle, waiting for it to change direction, or disappear. Honestly, magical artefacts were less reliable than a bloody flobberworm. It changed direction as he approached the top of the stairs, jerking sharply to the left towards the ground floor corridor.

About twenty minutes later, he found himself on the second floor near Slughorn's Office. The door was wide open, but there was no sign of the professor. The needle pointed further down, towards the swivelling staircase.

"You don't think there's any real danger, do you?" came a whisper from behind a statue of a gargoyle.

It was Weasley, walking along with Granger.

Funny that, he was surprised that Lavender had retracted her claws off the boy. Perhaps she'd gotten bored. Or maybe she had wanted to attract Potter's attention and he'd eventually obliged.

Was he bitter? Of course not. What a silly notion.

"Harry gave us the Felix Felices for a reason," replied Granger. "I suppose we better look for Malfoy."

Crap.

Potter wasn't even in the castle, by the sounds of things. And he clearly had the wrong idea.

Draco wasn't the danger. It was Snape the idiots needed to keep an eye on. Snape would let the Death Eaters in while Draco killed Dumbledore.

He couldn't explain what he was about to do, not because he was probably breaking every unwritten Slytherin moral code, but because he wasn't sure why.

Making sure Weasley and Granger still had their backs to him, he shoulder barged a coat of armour, dropping the compass in the process. The armour crashed onto the marble floor; its visor coming down – he could've sworn a pair of eyes stared back at him.

Well, he never said it was an intelligent idea.

Theodore felt around for his wand, patting his robes, and brushing his hand against the floor.

"You dropped this."

Like clockwork. Gryffindors were so bloody predictable.

Granger offered the compass to him. Weasley stood about six yards behind her, half hiding behind a gargoyle.

"Thanks," he muttered, taking the compass. It was cold, the bitterness seeping into his skin as he pocketed it. "Fuck."

"You alright there?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "You seen Malfoy?"

Granger's eyes narrowed slightly, but she shook her head. "No."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Weasley reach for his wand. Idiot.

"Careful Weasel," he drawled, "Potter isn't here to scrape your blood-traitor scraps off the floor. Where is he anyway?"

"What's it to you?" snarled Weasley. "Piss off back to Malfoy."

"I'd keep him on a tighter leash, Granger," he said, "even the brain cell he shares with Potter is on loan. I've heard the Potions Office has tons of memory potions. Snape keeps the key in his office, not that it'd stop you filthy thieves.

Weasley advanced down the corridor, but Granger held up a hand. He could almost see the gears turning in her mind, her eyes darkening slightly.

"He'll be out in the evening for the meeting with the Slytherin prefects."

"You're off your rocker," said Weasley, drawing his wand.

"Wait Ron," she said. "He's just talking nonsense. For once, think."

"Yeah, Weasel," he said. "I wouldn't wait too long before making that trip to Snape's office. I've heard wizards like Weasel can end up with less magic than a squib."

"Shut up, Nott," said Granger, grabbing Weasley by the arm and dragging him towards the swivelling staircase. In the opposite direction to the dungeons.

He flicked the compass open, but it proved to be pointless. Where there were two needles only moments ago, there was only a dull red one, lazily pointing towards north.

Even shaking it proved to be futile; normal service had resumed. Whatever powerful magic his mother had talked about had clearly lost its strength over the years. A useless trinket, barely worthy of a spot on Borgin's dusty shelves.

The first thing he did once he reached the dormitory was throw the cursed compass into his trunk, sealing the leather box shut with a firm, "Colloportus."

"Not a good trip?" Blaise was sat on his bed, absentmindedly twirling his wand.

"I didn't go anywhere," said Theodore. Merlin, he just wanted to sleep, it was late and certainly not the time for a bloody interrogation.

Blaise lay back on the bed. "Whatever you say, mate."

"It's not like it would've made a difference," he scoffed, taking a seat on his bed not bothering to take his shoes off.

"The compass didn't work?"

"Shut up, Blaise."

Theodore stared at the carpet, once a deep green now layered with muddied footprints; a thicker swirl of brown by the entrance slowly fading into something resembling the colour of a barren forest floor, patches of green surrounded by endless soil and debris.

"You know," Blaise said slowly. "I wouldn't have a clue if you didn't stop speaking to her."

Theodore flicked his wand and curtains drew around his bed, the rings skating across the metal pole, with a grating hiss. He didn't bother to open them when Draco returned, not bothering to listen when Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle threw question after question at the blond.

Dumbledore was dead. Draco had succeeded. Snape had succeeded. Potter's idiotic friends were still alive.

Draco didn't turn up at the funeral, and honestly? Theodore didn't blame him one bit. Better to hide away and be talked about, than show up and threatened to be hexed by a bloody Hufflepuff. Granger might've tried to catch his gaze at one point, but he didn't stick around to find out, instead rushing back to his dorms.

As for the other Gryffindors, well, they didn't so much as glance at the Slytherins.

Thanks for reading this chapter (No Flobberworms were harmed in the making of this chapter).

Got a bit of a dilemma for the next chapter. Got a few rough versions written up but still not sure how to end it. Might need a coin toss to decide for me and trust the process. I've probs put off the, like, four people who don't hate this story, lol.