When Theodore Nott left Hogwarts, he didn’t go into Potions like his father wanted. He didn’t take over the old, cobwebbed estate in Wiltshire. He didn’t attend the endless pureblood networking events where everyone still whispered the name “Malfoy” like it was both a warning and a promise.
Instead, Theo packed a suitcase, cast a Disillusionment Charm, and disappeared into the Muggle world. Specifically: London. Even more specifically: the glitter-drenched underground club known as The Pink Hippogriff.
It was a secret venue, buried deep below a Muggle laundromat in a sketch part of town, where magic wasn’t cast with wands, but with sequins, stiletto boots, and the kind of lip-sync battles that made even dueling look tame. Glamour spells swirled with neon lights. Illusions danced on the walls. People—witches, wizards, squibs, Muggles, magical creatures—came from all walks of life to lose themselves on the dance floor.
And Theo?
Theo became Theodora Nightshade.
She wore shimmering robes that sparkled with shimmering pink glitter in one light and green glitter in another. Her hair changed color with her mood. She could stop a room with a smirk and a swish of her wand (which was now rhinestone-encrusted, naturally). She didn't just perform—she commanded.
At first, it was terrifying. She remembered the way her father scoffed at boys who wore eyeliner, at women who didn’t dress "respectably," at anyone who didn’t fit in the tight little box marked “Traditional.”
But at the Pink Hippogriff, there were no boxes. Just stages. And spotlights.
And on stage, Theo was finally someone who didn’t flinch at their own reflection.
One night, as Theodora spun into a flawless twirl, her charm-enhanced voice belting a glam-rock anthem about broomsticks and heartbreak, she spotted a familiar face in the crowd.
Draco Malfoy.
Of course, he was trying not to be recognized—hood up, eyes darting around nervously, standing half in the shadow of a glamour spell. But Theo saw him. Saw the shock, the curiosity, the hesitation.
And something in her—a part that still remembered being thirteen and trading snide comments and smirks in the Slytherin common room—smiled.
After the show, Draco found her backstage.
“I didn’t know you…” he started.
“Were like this?” she finished for him, wiping off a smear of thick silver lipstick.
He paused. Then: “I didn’t know I could be, either.”
By the end of the month, Draco was bartending at the club, under the name Velvet Doom. He wore leather and eyeliner and, shockingly, a smile.
They weren’t the only ones.
Pansy Parkinson did a weekly jazz set under the alias Nocturne. Luna Lovegood dropped by on full moons to do a very interesting interpretive dance with enchanted mooncalves. Even Neville Longbottom came one night—nervously clutching a bouquet of flowers—and stayed for the drinks, the kindness, and the way Theo said, “It’s okay to bloom in your own time.”
And maybe it was just a club under a laundromat.
Maybe it was all glitter and illusion and escapism.
But to Theo, it was more than that. It was a revolution in heels. A rebellion of softness. A second chance at becoming the person she'd always wanted to be.
And when she performed her signature closing number, wand in the air, pink sparks raining down from the ceiling, she sang it loud enough for every stiff old wizard in Wiltshire to hear:
“I’m gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Hippogriff Club…”
“And I’m never going home.”