superlatives for the mundane

August

It’s weird, coming to Hogwarts not on the Hogwarts Express but rolling out of the Floo in McGonagall’s Headmistress office, all of the past Headmasters watching as Harry brushes soot off himself. Unconventional entry aside, it’s nostalgic -- and hurting -- to be in the room again.

And he’d visited Hogwarts for all manner of business in that ten years’ time: Auror business, public service, rebuilding Hogwarts and erecting memorials. 

Hogwarts was Harry’s first home. 

And when one visits home there’s always a visceral reminder of why one left in the first place. It’s easy to romanticize sunshine by the Black Lake and the sway of the leaves of the Whomping Willow; easier still to see the imprints of people long gone. 

Headmistress McGonagall watches Harry take in the room over the rim of her teacup, her piercing gaze steady as she gestures silently to the seat across from her large mahogany desk. “Tea, Potter?” 

Harry runs a hand through his hair before taking a seat, perched at the edge of it like he’s in trouble. He’s no stranger to the seat across from the Headmaster’s desk.  “No tea,” he says, voice cracking slightly. “Although if you happen to have biscuits…” 

McGonagall purses her lips, hiding a smile as she pushes a plate of biscuits towards Harry. She hasn’t aged, but she hasn't gotten any younger; her hair’s still grey and she still has the air of wisdom and sternness that Harry has come to admire over the years. She gets things done. She’s seen a lot. 

They all have. 

“Are you ready to come back, Potter?” she asks him without preamble, setting down her cup, and Harry’s struck by the familiarity of her rolling accent. Harry learned quickly and early on that it’s not just a building’s walls that make home.  

“No,” he responds simply. “But I think it’s time to.” 

Something softens in McGonagall’s eyes before she looks away, shuffling some of the parchment on her desk and carefully sliding a piece towards Harry. Harry doesn’t pick it up or inspect it, instead reaching for a quill, I must not tell lies catching the light as he slides the inkpot towards himself as well. “Though you were never the most diligent student,” she says, watching him sign at the bottom, “you were gifted with intuition.”

The backhanded compliment is high praise, and Harry flushes. “Thank you, Professor,” he says, crumbling a biscuit over the small plate and watching the crumbs pile up. 

“It’s Minerva now, Harry.” 

Harry meets her gaze. “I could never,” he says with a small smile. 

The pre-term faculty meeting takes place on a clear summer’s day, the sky blue and bright and the Quidditch pitch calling Harry’s name like a drug. He’s not that old yet, a strong man of twenty-seven; not old enough to have forgotten how to play, nor to have forgotten the feeling of skiving off class to pull out his Nimbus from the broom closet. He runs his hand along his beard, looking out the window. Giving himself a second to pretend. And to remember. 

“Oh, Harry?” someone asks from behind him.

“Neville,” Harry greets him, stepping forward to shake Neville’s hand. Neville’s smiling at him, eyes twinkling, and Harry’s struck by how confident Neville looks now, a scream away from the chubby youth that he was. Perhaps it’s teaching classes to students who look up to him. Perhaps it was the war that changed him. Harry’s smile fades slightly. 

“So the rumors were true, then?” Neville asks Harry, gesturing towards the faculty meeting room. The room is high-ceilinged with big arching windows, and Harry’s grateful that there are no portraits in the room. “Last we heard, you weren’t even considering the position. Thought maybe academia wasn’t for you, or something.” 

Harry bristles slightly at the implication. Neville meant no harm by it, of course, but something about people making assumptions about him always -- still -- gets under his skin. “Midlife crisis,” Harry responds wryly, shrugging his shoulders. “Thought maybe I could instill some fear in eleven-year-olds for a change. They scare better than Death Eater sympathizers.” 

Neville grimaces, as if he isn’t sure if it’s a joke or not. He flounders about for some words for a bit before settling on, “That’s nice.” 

There’s an awkward pause, and Harry makes no move to fill in the silence, watching different Professors make their way into the room. Some old, and some new. Binns floats in and looks like he’s staring through Harry for a second before "taking a seat". 

There’s a chalkboard at the front of the room that Flitwick is charming to take notes for them and duplicating the notes on parchment. It’s an impressive piece of wandwork, more impressive still when the parchment duplicates itself, making copies for everyone in attendance. 

Sometimes Harry wonders why they wanted him so desperately for the DADA role, considering he doesn’t have half the credentials of the other professors. And then remembers that he fought in a war. Spent ten years after working like a mule in the Auror division of the Ministry. 

Neville’s saying something to him. “What was that?” Harry asks. 

“I was just asking if you’ve given any thought to your lesson plans,” Neville says, digging around his satchel for a self-inking quill. “The rest of us have been here a while so we just teach the same thing year after year.” 

“I haven’t,” Harry begins carefully, looking out the window instead of at Neville. “But Hermione has.” 

Neville chuckles. It wasn’t a joke, though. Hermione’s ascent through the ranks of the Ministry is well known, and Harry suspects she’s next in line after Shacklebolt, her advocacy and persistence second-to-none. 

When Harry informed her and Ron of his decision to return to Hogwarts, she had immediately launched into a tirade about how the werewolf section should be reworked in the Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum. On his birthday he had woken up to three textbooks and fully fleshed out lesson plans for fifth through seventh year students, including her own personal notes from her OWL preparation time.

Ron had gifted him a new set of dragonhide gloves and a shrug of a note: Happy Birthday, mate. Reckon Hermione’s got you covered for the rest of it. Another year. Drinks tonight at the Leaky? Like nothing was the matter. Harry appreciated the gesture. 

Trelawney all but dances into the room and Harry cringes before he can help himself as her gaze fixes on him. “You did die, Potter,” she says, stepping closer to him. He can smell the sickly-sweet smell of incense on her clothes, and alcohol on her breath. “You did die,” she says again, quieter, patting him on the shoulder. “And this year…” she holds his palm in her hand, splayed for her to read. “Restlessness. Unconventional desire and --” 

“Sybill,” McGonagall says sharply from the front of the room. “If you would.” She gestures at an open seat. The bell tolls the hour somewhere, three times. The room is quiet, waiting for McGonagall to start the meeting. 

An agenda writes itself on the board.

Harry shifts nervously in his seat, and Neville just pats him on the shoulder, handing him a quill. Harry had come to the meeting empty-handed, save for his wand. No one told him he had to prepare, so he didn’t. He just showed up.

Slughorn’s watching him from across the room, a frown on his portly face.

But that's none of Harry’s business. People can stare all they want. 

Harry feels, more than sees, another magical presence entering the room. A thin man, pale face and dark circles under his eyes, slips into the room from the back entrance, taking a seat on the other side of Neville, barely sparing Harry a glance. He carries himself with a slight slouch in his shoulders despite his aristocratic air, like he’s hiding in plain sight. Like he grew up too quickly.

Just like the rest of the people around Harry’s age.

There’s something melancholic about him, and Harry could swear he’s seen this man somewhere before, sunlight illuminating his hair, a tawny brown, and long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. As if he can feel Harry’s eyes on him he shoots Harry a sideways glance, the only indication that he registered Harry’s presence a slight twitch of his eyebrows before he’s looked away again, focused on annotating the parchment in front of him with a spidery scrawl. 

Harry’s not sure why there’s even a meeting going on when everyone’s notes have already been added to the parchments in front of them. He flips through the pages, noting McGonagall’s suggestion to bring back the Yule Ball and Madam Pomfrey’s request for Wolfsbane to be brewed in greater volumes. Harry has nothing in the stack of papers. And he likes it that way. 

Idly he folds and unfolds the corner of the paper, staring out the window again. It’s the kind of summer’s day that one falls in love, perhaps, breeze in the trees and the sweet-sharp scent of the green grass. His first kiss with Ginny kind of felt like that. Like a summer’s day, comforting and warm, something exciting and joyous, and novel. 

Neville’s droning on about something or the other related to the greenhouses. “And now that Harry’s back, maybe we can coordinate--” 

The room turns towards Harry, necks craning to see the Boy Wonder, Chosen One, sitting among them as a Hogwarts Professor. Most of them had taught Harry at some point or the other. Harry straightens his spine, gaze wandering until it lands on McGonagall, who looks at him with her mouth in a thin line like she knows he hasn’t taken a damn thing away from the meeting in the past twenty minutes. 

“Well, Potter?” McGonagall asks. “What do you think about bringing back the dueling club?”

Harry doesn’t want to. He’s sick of fighting. He’s sick of the glorification of violence, a shocker, considering it was what he was born for, his fate tied to prophecy. And to train more children to be soldiers didn’t sit right with him, even though dueling could be seen as an art form. Maybe he’s just tired. 

It’s better they’re prepared, Hermione had said, after insisting on running through the lesson plans with Harry. Remember how utterly ridiculous Umbridge was, teaching us straight from the textbook? 

He tries not to shrug his shoulders, reminding himself that he’s now in a professional environment. “I worked it into my lesson plans. But if the students want extra--”

“They do,” Slughorn interrupted emphatically. “Especially my lot, they’re keen on being the best, which you’ll see this year, Potter--” 

Really Harry couldn’t give a fuck. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face as he nods neutrally.

“I won’t do it alone,” he says decisively, cutting Slughorn off.

It's more like can’t, but they needn’t know that. Harry’s nightmares are his own business. 

“You won’t,” Neville says. “Theo’s offered to be the secondary.” 

Harry looks at Theodore Nott, the man sitting next to Neville. Of course, Harry thinks. He knows Theodore Nott. Though he knows the father better than the son, having visited Nott Sr. in Azkaban more times than his own son has if the visitor ledger is anything to go by. 

Nott just nods at Harry impassively, something sharp in his eyes, before addressing the group at large. “Sacrificed then belatedly notified, more like.” His voice is quiet and tired, but it carries a self-assured tonality. The corner of his mouth quirks slightly upwards when he glances back at Harry, like only they are in on a joke at everyone else’s expense.

Some chuckles in the room, and no looks of remorse from the other Professors. 

Harry sits on the armchair in his quarters, assessing the room. He hasn’t made any moves to unpack his trunk despite having already been there a week, and instead has chosen to watch the sunset outside his window lighting the Forbidden Forest in a golden hue. He’s not moping, but he’s self-aware enough to know he’s sitting rather despondently, staring off into space more than anything. Growing up in a cupboard does that to a man -- makes him forget, sometimes, that there’s a world outside his head. 

Dinner’s scheduled to start in an hour. Term will start the next morning. Everything’s starting and yet Harry feels stagnant, and listless. He decides it’s a good time to get up when he starts comparing the red of the setting sun to Ginny’s hair, sober.

There’s a knock on the door as Harry sets the kettle to boil on the little stove that’s been provided in his quarters for lack of anything better to do, barring preparing for lessons and just generally unpacking and settling in. 

Harry kind of hates the way Nott’s standing there in well-tailored midnight blue robes, watching him steadily as if waiting for permission to enter without saying a word.

Neville stands behind him, holding a bottle of Firewhisky and a potted plant in the other, nervously chattering on about housewarming and team bonding. Harry steps aside to let them in, watching as Neville sets the dittany down on an empty shelf of Harry’s bookshelf and takes a seat on the second armchair in the room. 

Nott stays standing, waiting for Harry to make a move to sit down, casting a cursory glance about the room. Harry grabs the wooden chair from his desk for himself, watching as Theodore sinks -- gracefully -- onto the armchair. Perhaps it’s the novelty of the Slytherin’s presence that makes Harry’s gaze catch so, lingering on his birthmark and his ink-stained fingers. He doesn’t even know what subject Nott teaches, and only vaguely recalls Hermione mentioning him in passing while they were in school. 

Nott’s watching him right back, the only thing betraying him being the glance at Harry’s forehead before he meets Harry’s eyes again. Then he looks away completely, seemingly focused on what Neville’s saying. 

Harry lights the fire in the fireplace with a subtle flick of his wand, and the room is bathed in a warm glow as the sky darkens outside. Despite it being summer there’s a draft in his quarters that he can’t quite figure out the root cause of, and the light from the fire is welcome, dancing across Nott’s and Neville’s faces. 

“The worst groups to teach are definitely the second and fourth years,” Neville is saying, Firewhisky sloshing in his glass as he gestures. “And the worst groups to discipline are the third and sixth years. Something about the teenage hormones, and the pecking order of the school.” 

Harry laughs, the alcohol making his face warm as he sits backwards on his chair, resting his arms on the back of it. He imagines Ron and Lavender’s dots on the Marauder's Map in sixth year as they snuck around the school snogging in broom closets and empty classrooms. And all of the secret passageways that Fred and George used to exploit. The egg in the prefect’s bathroom. Something about teenage hormones. Something about pecking order. The ideas float about in his mind, intermingling with memories, conclusion just slightly out of reach.

Suddenly Harry’s not so buzzed anymore, and his smile is tight on his face. “Why the second years?” he asks curiously despite the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Should I be worried? I have a double period with Gryffindor and Slytherin tomorrow.” 

Neville cringes, and takes a sip of his whiskey to avoid the question. Nott’s looking at Harry with a hesitant humor in his eyes. 

“You should be afraid,” Nott warns, but there’s a small twitch of his lips as he addresses Harry directly for the first time since they met during the faculty meeting. “Be very afraid, Potter.” 

“Harry is fine,” Harry blurts out before he can help it, Nott’s intonation of Potter reminding him a bit too much of all of the unpleasant run-ins with Draco Malfoy. And Harry’s not about to unpack the war just yet, happy to maintain a professional but familiar equilibrium with Theodore Nott if it means it’ll make his life easier during the school year. “Just Harry.”  

Something in Nott’s shoulders tense then, but he nods all the same. “Just Harry,” he repeats with a small smile. 

The three of them stumble into the Great Hall towards the end of dinner when the older faculty members are sure to have turned in for the night. It’s just them three taking their respective seats at the table, looking out over the hall. A solemn silence has fallen over them, Neville’s head hung low and hands folded as if paying respects and Nott looking out over the room, at everything and nothing at the same time. 

Was he even there? Harry wonders, trying to rack his memory without dredging up all of the Horrors. Was Nott even at Hogwarts that day? He stabs at the potatoes on his plate, not bothering with table manners when it’s just the three of them in the empty hall. Every breath feels like it’s echoing across the space, and the ceiling has swirling grey clouds - an early Fall windstorm brewing in the night sky. 

“There’ll be no potatoes left if you continue on that way,” Nott says quietly on Harry’s right as Neville begins to cut into his roast beef on Harry’s left. 

Harry turns sharply, alcohol in his head sloshing about as he does. Nott’s watching him again, lips a thin line, a shockingly accurate representation of McGonagall. But Harry doesn’t know Nott well enough to know if he’s joking or not, and hesitates, his fork hanging in the air mid-stab. “Right,” he says awkwardly, setting his fork down. “Cheers.” 

But he finds that he can't quite look away from Nott just yet, and Harry hates that Nott’s content to sit still and let Harry look at him, as if he knows Harry's cataloging every interaction between them.

“Pass the salt,” Neville says, also quiet. It's like none of them want to break the silence of the hall. “Please.” 

“Is it always like this,” Harry asks, accidentally brushing Nott’s cold fingers with his own as Nott hands him the salt to be passed along to Neville. 

“No,” responds Neville simply, picking up his utensils again, poking at his side salad. “We usually eat with the other faculty members.” He pauses, sneaking a glance at Harry. “Or we go home, and Floo to work.” His wedding ring glints gold on his left ring finger.

Harry feels like he's done with his food, the potatoes fully smashed to a mush on his plate. It's childish of him, really, but there's no one to correct him. He's not a kid anymore, he can do what he wants. 

The lights of the candles around the hall are steady and warm. “I guess…sometimes work and home are the same place,” Harry says, more to himself than the other two, the lingering alcohol in his system making his tongue loose. 

“Can be,” Nott agrees. 

September

The first day of school and the first week subsequently are not without their chaos and Harry finds himself tiredly dragging himself to dinner on the Friday of the first week, hoping that he can avoid the ass-kissing fifth years and the snotty-nosed firsties. All he wants is a nice Dreamless Sleep Drought. And a warm bath. 

“Mr. Potter,” a gruff voice addresses him from the shadows. And Harry knows he can’t pretend to not have heard it, because he knows who the voice belongs to. 

He crosses his arms, stepping closer to the alcove where two sets of eyes watch him steadily.

“Yes, Filch?” he asks coolly, trying not to cringe at Mrs. Norris, somehow still alive despite it all, brushing up against his leg. “How…” he clears his throat, just knowing whatever Filch asks of him is going to take up the remainder of the evening. “How can I help you?” 

“Professors Slughorn and Nott have discovered bubotuber pus all over the Slytherin dungeons.” 

Harry raises an eyebrow. “And I…” 

“You’re the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.” 

“And?” 

“Go defend the dungeons,” Filch says slowly like he’s stupid. “Investigate the cause while Professors Slughorn and Nott calm the students.” 

Harry just stares, like it’s a joke. “Defend the…” 

“Dungeons,” Filch says again, turning and walking away. 

Harry figures going down to the dungeons is a better excuse for avoiding the crowd of students, and at least he doesn’t have to sit at the Professors' table as students gawk at him eating his pot pie and drinking his pumpkin juice. Not that it’s a new phenomenon by any means. 

Slughorn’s nowhere to be seen, and it’s just Nott, leaning against the wall and twirling his wand idly. 

Harry clears his throat to announce his presence. “I was sent to…defend the dungeons.” 

“Ah,” Nott says drily, casting a cursory glance in Harry’s direction. “Yes, save me, Potter.” 

Harry freezes for a second, having not expected Nott to be as casual as he was, and Nott glances away at the same time, as if realizing he had broken some sort of unwritten rule of professionalism between them. Harry fumbles around for something to say. “You look like you can save yourself.” He cringes immediately, flashing back to the Slytherin students sneaking out of Hogwarts during the war, past the greenhouses and apparating out the moment the wards fell. 

Nott turns to face him, then, something conflicted in his eyes, but he doesn’t move to say anything. 

They stare at each other. A glob of pus drips from the ceiling, falling to the floor between them.

“Sorry,” Harry says awkwardly, breaking eye contact. “I…” He pulls out his wand to have something to do, vanishing the pus from the floor, then inspecting the ceiling, grateful for the darkness of the dungeons and the cool air against his warming cheeks.

“How inspirational,” Nott says instead after the pause, choosing to ignore the subtext of the conversation and moving further down the hall, nonverbally casting cleaning charms along the corridor. “Harry Potter believes in my ability to save myself.” 

Harry watches Nott’s robes swish around his ankles and the unbothered, relaxed way he holds his wand like it’s simply an extension of his hand. Can’t help but to follow Nott along the hallway, pretending to check the nooks and crannies for danger. 

They stop in front of a wooden door abruptly, and Harry bumps into Nott. Embarrassed, he takes a step back. Nott’s watching him again, that unwavering stare. “These are my quarters,” he says. 

“Oh.” 

“You could come in,” Nott says slowly, as if testing the words out, an air of hesitancy about him as his eyes dart from Harry’s to Harry’s hair, most definitely sticking up at odd angles - a double period with Gryffindor and Slytherin sixth years does that to a man - and linger at his forehead, before meeting Harry’s eyes again. 

“Have you had dinner?” Harry asks before he can stop himself, not wanting to enter Nott’s personal space for reasons he can’t quite articulate. “We could go to the kitchens.” 

“Tickle the pear,” Harry instructs. 

“You’re having me on,” Nott accuses, glancing at Harry but stepping towards the painting anyways. 

Harry just shrugs with a grin. “How would you know?” 

“Because I’d be standing here like an idiot,” Nott responds. He steps away from the painting before crossing his arms and staring at Harry, a challenging glint in his eye. “You do it.” 

Harry hasn’t felt like this in a while, something bubbly in the pit of his stomach and it takes everything in his power to not laugh at Nott. He steps forward, tickling the pear, and there appears a door handle. He gestures to it, looking smugly at Nott. “Would I lie?” 

“I don’t know you like that,” Nott responds, but Harry can hear the joke in his voice. And it’s refreshing, Harry thinks, to be around someone who doesn’t pretend to know him. There’s enough in the papers about him as it is. “You could, for all I know.” 

And then Nott abruptly pauses, looking at the long rows of tables that directly correspond to the setup of the Great Hall, and the house elves bustling about, a small gasp of wonder escaping him. 

Harry can’t help but to step closer to him, to try to see what he’s looking at, to try and remember what it was like to sneak into the kitchens for the first time. 

A house elf, proudly wearing a black pillowcase with the Hogwarts crest on it, bows deep and low, her nose brushing the ground. “Masters Potter and Nott,” she says, her voice high-pitched. “Cloudy is much pleased to serve.” 

“Thank you, Cloudy,” Harry says, watching as the elf pats her pillowcase as if preening, or making sure she looks presentable. If house elves could blush, he thinks, Cloudy most certainly would be as her big eyes sneak glances at Nott. “Dinner, for both of us.” 

Theo and Harry settle at a table. 

“So how was the first week?” Nott asks, a relaxed grin on his face. The shadows pool under his cheekbones, the candlelight illuminates his eyes. His voice, Harry thinks, is made for teaching. He’d listen to anything Nott has to tell him. 

Harry groans, running a hand across his face. “Maybe I should have stuck with running after bad guys.” 

“You’ll come to love it,” Nott assures him with a wave of his hand. “Especially when the sixth years think they can ditch class to snog and the first years poke each other in the eyes with their wands.” 

“Oh Merlin, kill me now,” Harry says, watching food appear in front of them. It’s a feast for them, platters and platters of dishes appearing. “I barely survived theory and the syllabus.” 

Nott laughs, pulling a plate of roasted vegetables towards himself. “At least they respect you.” 

“Do they? Or are they just blinded by the novelty of having a tabloid name in the classroom with them?” 

“Like Lockhart?”

“You did not just compare me to Lockhart, Nott,” Harry says, reaching for the pumpkin juice at the same time as Nott. Their hands brush, and Nott retracts his hand quickly. Harry pours himself some, and then reaches for Nott’s glass. 

Nott stares at him. Or rather, Harry's hands, pouring pumpkin juice into his glass. “I…” he begins, as if to retort, but doesn’t look away from Harry’s hands. 

Harry realizes belatedly that this is not something he would do with his Auror colleagues. He flushes, setting the glass and pitcher down. Forces himself to pick up his fork casually, trying not to shovel food in his mouth. He’s suddenly hyper aware of every one of his own movements.

He doesn’t know why he did that.

“But then again,” Harry says, trying to speak normally as if nothing’s amiss. “Everyone did have a crush on Lockhart.”

Oops. 

Fucking oops. 

He’s digging a hole. He’s digging his own grave. He takes a sip of the pumpkin juice, the liquid sweet and warm against his tongue. When he sets down his glass, Nott’s staring at him like he’s a puzzle to be solved. 

“So you think that’ll improve your students' performance?” Nott asks finally, looking away to move the contents on his plate about with his fork absent-mindedly. 

“Might encourage them to come to class at least,” Harry says with a shrug, the moment passing. “Turn in their homework so they get a copy of my handwriting.” 

“And come to Dueling Club,” Nott tacks on. 

“Why the fuck --” Harry pauses as Nott cringes at the curse word, likely his pureblood sensibilities getting the best of him. “Sorry. Why in the world did they think dueling club ’s a good idea to be reinstated?” 

Nott shrugs. “Gets the extra energy out. They can sort out house rivalries in a controlled environment.” 

Harry kind of hates the brains of the man. And tells him that without a thought. “I hate how smart you are.” 

That startles a laugh out of Nott. “Pardon?” 

“I can just tell,” Harry responds, turning slightly towards Nott to look at him. Their knees brush under the table. 

“This your fabled Chosen One sixth sense?” 

Harry puffs out his chest, feeling like a school boy. “I’m never wrong.” 

“I suppose I should take the compliment, then, Potter.” 

“You should. I don’t hand out compliments to just anyone.” 

“Your poor students,” Nott says with a laugh, pushing his plate away in favor of summoning a spoon and eating the ice cream straight out of the serving dish. 

Harry gapes at him as Nott hands him a second spoon, their fingers brushing again. “Your manners?” 

“Can’t we break a rule or two?” Nott wiggles his eyebrows at Harry. 

Something soars in Harry’s chest as he reaches for the spoon. “Who are you?” he asks, almost to himself, as he digs into the other side of the bowl.

It’s a Neopolitan; not just ice cream but cake and nuts and bits of fruit candy. It’s a reward of a dessert, and it melts on his tongue. He closes his eyes in quiet appreciation, remembering sunny days and sticky hands, the smell of Mrs. Weasley’s cooking and the chatter of the Burrow. 

When his eyes open, it’s with nostalgia and a little bit of sadness, and Harry’s about to say something, but

Nott’s looking at his lips.

There’s something so wrong but so right about it, Harry’s heart pounding in his chest, afraid to move. Their knees are still pressed against each other under the table. Harry has no idea who Theodore Nott is beyond the fact that he teaches Advanced Arithmancy and is funny sometimes. Beyond the fact that he’s a pureblood. Harry doesn’t even know if there’s a Dark Mark under his robes. 

Nott drags his eyes up to Harry’s, and a flush is climbing up his throat, coloring his cheeks in patches of rouge. And then he’s climbing over the bench, extracting himself from the table.

“I’m er…” He clears his throat, and Harry feels like the both of them are stuck in a vacuum, neither able to look away. “It’s late. And…I have to tutor some students tomorrow. But…” And then he’s walking backwards towards the door, almost falling out of it as it swings open. “Thank you for dinner, Potter.” 

“Call me Harry,” Harry says as Nott nervously pulls at the sleeves of his robes. 

“Call me Theo,” he responds with a hesitant smile. And then he’s gone. 

At breakfast on Monday of the next week -- the second week of school -- an unfamiliar owl swoops in, landing in front of Harry and sticking its leg out for him to extract the letter. It allows Harry to pet it before hopping along the table and pecking at some of Nott’s -- Theo’s -- porridge before leaving. 

Theo simply raises an eyebrow at Harry when he catches him staring, tilting his head towards the note in Harry’s hand. 

In a swoopy scrawl: 

I’m sure you have more substance than Lockhart, though. 

It’s not signed, but Harry knows exactly who it’s from. He can feel Theo’s eyes on him and doesn’t deign him with a reaction, instead folding the note neatly and shoving it in the pocket of his robes. 

Harry has a free period, and he’s curious. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he slips into the back of Nott’s classroom, sliding onto the bench in the last row. Advanced Arithmancy only has ten students - a mix of sixth and seventh years, and Theo’s spelled the chalkboard to write what he’s writing on his own parchment. 

And Harry’s right about Nott being made for teaching. As the sunlight filters in through the window, even Peeves is content to just float near one of the tables, listening to Nott’s lecture. 

Theodore lectures in a way that makes Harry regret he wasn’t a better student, or perhaps in a way that makes Harry regret he didn’t have more competent professors. He’s engaging, and tells a story with the numbers on the board, a mix of Latin and Greek and calculations and runes rolling off his tongue easily. 

His right sleeve is rolled up, and Harry watches the tendons flex as Nott writes out the key calculations, explaining something or the other that goes way above Harry’s head. There’s ink on his fingertips, and some on his cheek as well. 

Harry doesn’t know what he’s doing. He still sometimes dreams about Ginny’s perfume. 

Nott’s looking at him as the class breaks into discussion groups. Nott’s carefully walking towards him with a neutral expression but a warmth in his eyes.

“Professor Potter,” he says smoothly in greeting, adopting the professionalism that faculty maintain with each other in front of the students. 

Some of the students turn in interest, the sixth and seventh years just old enough to remember some of the parts of the war. Sometimes Harry wonders if he can’t move on because no one else has actually moved on. 

“Professor Nott,” Harry says in turn, and Theo grins at him, placing a hand on the desk in front of Harry. 

“What do you think?” Theo asks Harry cryptically. 

Harry shrugs, handing Theo a note of his own. (In his own handwriting: Your confidence in me seems lacking.) 

Theo gives a small snort as he reads it, shoving it in the pocket of his robes. “We have Dueling Club tonight,” he says in a low tone, away from the prying ears of the students. He turns, as if knowing the class is staring at him. “Well? What’s the answer?” he asks with a challenging smirk on his face. “I can’t take points from the whole class for slacking.” 

The students return to their work, sufficiently chastised. 

“Wow,” Harry says, teasing. “You need to teach me how to do that.” He needs to stop…this. He needs to stop whatever…this…is. The glances. The teasing.
Theo’s fingers, brushing imaginary dust off of Harry’s shoulders. 

Neville had looked between the two of them oddly when the three of them had gathered for drinks a few days prior in Harry’s quarters once again. Theo had placed the wooden chair right next to the armchair. Harry had no choice but to sit close to him, smelling the subtle but spicy cologne that Theo had on. 

He can smell it now, too, wafting around Theo. Harry’s head almost feels hazy with Theo’s proximity. 

Theo’s hand drops away from Harry’s shoulder, and instead he sits next to Harry on the bench. From this angle Harry can see the dark circles under Theo’s eyes. “In due time, Potter,” Theo says, fishing out a parchment from one of his pockets. 

“Harry,” Harry corrects. 

Theo simply glances at Harry from the corner of his eye, passing the slightly crumpled parchment towards him. “Harry,” he allows, the syllables soft. Ha-rry, he says. “Harry,” he tries again, as if finding a feel for it in his mouth. Har-ry. 

Harry cuts his eyes away, unfolding the parchment in front of him, smoothing it flat against the table. It’s stained with a coffee ring and inkblots - clearly club sign ups were low on Theo’s priority list. “This is mainly first and second years,” Harry says, proud of how steady his voice sounds even as he can feel the warmth of Theo’s thigh seeping in through his robes. “There’re no fair matchups for the sixth and seventh years.” 

Theo nods. “Except…” 

“Except?” 

“For us,” he says, looking at Harry meaningfully. 

“No.” 

Theo frowns slightly, but there’s a look of resignation rather than surprise, as if he had been expecting an argument. “Then?” 

A student approaches Theo hesitantly, pausing a few steps away from the desk where he and Harry are sitting. “Professor Nott?” she asks hesitantly, brushing her hair back to reveal a Ravenclaw crest on her chest. “We weren’t sure about the--” 

Harry knocks his knee against Theo’s under the table. He really needs to stop. Stop bantering, stop touching, stop everything. But not today. “Go,” he says. “We’ll meet later.” 

Theo nods, sweeping back to the front of the classroom, inspecting the student’s paper as he goes along. “So when you did the calculations on line fifteen, and organized the number into the box --” And he’s drawing on the chalkboard and Harry watches for a few minutes before sneaking back out the way he came, a refreshing cold shower calling his name. 

The argument’s postponed, because the upperclassmen didn’t show up to the club meeting at all. 

“We should probably bring it up during the next faculty meeting though,” Harry says thoughtfully, lazily casting spells that slowly put the room back together, tables and benches arranging themselves as they were before.

Theo’s sitting on one of the tables, his legs dangling off the side as he, too, casts spells -- charming twinkling lights on the ceiling before removing them, turning the stone floor into carpet before changing that back, too. Adding curtains to the windows and blocking out the moonlight before those disappear as well. “Not worth,” he says, swirling his wand and a small breeze wafts across the back of Harry’s neck. 

Harry looks up and finds Theo watching him with an amused look before Theo's waving his wand and the breeze disappears as well. They're all lovely, showy pieces of magic, all nonverbal, and Harry’s not sure if Theo's made up these spells or if they already existed. Harry’s never seen magic like it, and he’s enraptured.

“Why not?” Harry asks, stepping towards Theo. The color of Harry’s robes change from black to an emerald green, and Theo’s stepping closer to him as well, and suddenly his hands are in Harry’s space, adjusting Harry’s collar. 

“Because you’ll have to change the attitudes of the students. Not the professors. All McGonagall’s going to suggest is adding point values to club attendance, and that makes it an obligation.” Theo speaks as if nothing’s amiss, as if it’s perfectly normal to be standing toe-to-toe with your coworker who put your dad in jail, to be fixing his robes. 

Their eyes meet. “Theo…” Harry begins, mouth dry. “What…” 

Theo’s eyes are on him, and Harry can tell he knows exactly what Harry’s asking about. He steps away, out of Harry’s space, far enough to be out of arm’s reach. 

“What does that mean?” Theo begins, chattering almost nervously, changing Harry’s robes back to their original color. “Well it means that we can’t really do anything about it, and honestly it makes less work for us. Plus you’ve worked it into your lesson plans, especially for the upper years, and I’ve heard that you’re using the Room of Requirement which the students are finding extremely engrossing, props to you--” And Theo’s dancing out the door, footsteps light as the space between him and Harry grows. He salutes Harry when he’s what he likely considers to be a safe distance away with a “Goodnight, Professor Potter,” and Harry watches him disappear down the hall. 

Harry’s tying a letter and Hermione’s birthday gift - a small box - to a school eagle owl when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs of the Owlery. The days are getting shorter now, the weather starting to be colder, and Harry’s dug up one of his Weasley sweaters which he had haphazardly shoved into his trunk when he was leaving his and Ginny’s shared flat. Ginny’s flat, now. 

“Harry,” Neville greets, arms full of dried plants encased in glass tubes sealed with corks. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.” 

Harry laughs. “You seem to always be in the greenhouses,” he counters. “And then you go home for dinner. And stay home for breakfast.” 

“Fair enough,” Neville acquiesces, methodologically tying one or two tubes to a series of owls before telling them their destinations. He runs a hand through his hair, still ever as awkward as he was despite having grown into himself. “Are you up to dinner with me and Hannah one of these days? You haven’t seen her since the wedding, have you?” 

Harry hesitates, then feels bad for hesitating almost immediately. 

“I’ve invited Theodore as well,” Neville says, looking at Harry with almost a knowing glint in his eyes. “He said he’d come if you did.” 

What? “What?” Harry asks dumbly. 

“A colleague get-together,” Neville backtracks, and there’s a look of pity in his eyes that Harry hates even more than the looks of blank adoration he gets from random fans. “Mid-term check-in.” 

Harry’s mouth is dry, and his palms are sweating. “Okay,” he croaks. “Yeah, uh…just…let me know if I can bring anything.” 

Neville nods. “Of course.” 

Theo’s leaning against the doorway in the back of Harry’s classroom, and Harry can feel him watching as Harry makes his rounds, making sure his students don’t accidentally blind each other, or worse, blast the tables to bits. Defense spells can be used offensively, and the classroom isn’t the best place to practice, usually. But the Room of Requirement hadn't been cooperating as of late, only changing into a small study room with walls lined with books and a fireplace, a plush carpet on the ground. Harry wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. 

Hermione had written back almost immediately upon his enquiry, explaining that sometimes if there was something someone really required or desired it could take precedence over what the person was asking the room for. 

Solitude maybe? Comfort? The books on the shelf, Harry had noticed, were all theoretical. Books like Numerology and Grammatica, Biography of Pythogoreas, and the Greek Wizarding Dictionary For Numerologists. Harry didn’t want to think about who the room could possibly belong to. 

There’s a wand pressed to the back of Harry’s neck, and the hairs on his skin rise.

He’s in

He’s in a classroom

He’s in a classroom.

His hands are trembling, and he can feel the magic in his fingertips. “Put it down,” he says, voice deep and low and dangerous. He turns slowly to see Peeves staring back at him, and the wand isn't a wand but a quill. 

The hum of the busy classroom has dwindled as students watch. 

Peeves gives him an evil, knowing grin. “Ickle Potter, fickle mind,” he sings, floating up, up, up, to the ceiling before hovering over Theodore. “Turbulent waters--” and he’s got a bucket of water in his hands. Theo simply casts a rainproofing spell and steps away, but Peeves remains hovering over him. 

“Peeves,” Harry threatens, and he feels a flare of protectiveness rushing through him. His wand’s out, and he’s trapping Peeves in a reverse Protego, surrounding him in a bubble to contain whatever magic - and nonmagic - prank he’s planning. “Leave my classroom.” 

“Love, divined,” Peeves finishes, pouring the bucket of water. It simply sloshes about in the bubble before Peeves is flying through the wall, letting the water splash against it and run down the stones and pool on the floor. 

Theo vanishes the mess before it can even make an impact. It’s gone before anyone has even processed what’s going on. 

The students break out into whispers, totally distracted from their work. 

Harry fights to control his breathing, running a hand over his face. “Back to work!” he barks at the class before stalking to the back of the classroom where Theo’s standing, his hands shaking. 

Theo takes a step back at the look in Harry’s eyes and guilt immediately flows through Harry. “Are you--” Harry begins.

Theo steps out of the classroom into the empty hallway, pulling Harry by the front of his robes. “You’re not okay, are you.” Theo says it as a statement, more than a question. “What are you doing at Hogwarts, Potter?” 

“What are any of us doing here?” Harry asks quietly in return, still trying to get a grip. 

Theo holds Harry’s wrists, grounding him. “Did they send you here?” 

“The Aurors?” Harry asks bitterly. Somewhere a clock strikes the hour and voices start tumbling into the hallway as people make their way to dinner. Harry and Theo are expected at Neville’s soon. 

Theo just studies his face, looking tired and weary in the dim lighting of the hallway. Then he slowly lets go, backing away to a respectful, professional distance. Scratches at his left forearm subconsciously, and Harry notices it immediately, eyes lingering on Theo’s sleeve. 

“And you, Nott?” he asks. “Wouldn’t you know why I’m here, better than anyone?” 

Theodore’s eyes harden, and he turns to walk away. 

Hannah and Neville’s home is warm and comfortable, a cottage with a thatched roof and what Harry can guess to be a sprawling garden from what he can make out in the darkness, staring out of their kitchen window under the guise of pouring glasses of water for everyone. Theodore hasn’t shown up yet. 

But then again, he has a penchant for showing up exactly when expected, not a second earlier or later.

Harry doesn’t want to face him, yet. The afternoon incident was weird.

Everything’s weird between them. 

Harry can’t stop being in his proximity. They don’t speak more than a few sentences at a time. They work together in silence. They run into each other in the hallways. They avoid each other as much as possible, or they’re exchanging subtle touches and glances. It’s a back and forth, it’s confusing, Harry’s never felt this type of way. Not even with Ginny, her freckles now a distant memory in his mind. 

There’s the thrill of the chase, and the bubbly feeling when Theodore smiles his crooked grin. His posh accent and the paleness of his skin and the ink stains on his thin fingers. Harry brings the glasses to the living room, setting them on the coffee table as Neville tunes the wireless and Hannah sets out wine glasses, humming softly and flashing a gentle smile at Harry as he approaches. 

The wards ring, and Hannah sends Harry to let Theo in. 

Harry stands awkwardly in the foyer for a brief moment before taking a breath and opening the door. 

Theo looks… good. Theo’s in Muggle clothing, his hair combed neatly and an oxford under a maroon cashmere sweater, wine bottle in hand. Harry can't do much more than stand in the doorway and stare.

Theo looks at Harry coolly. “Are you guardian of this home, now?” he asks, tone slightly joking with a bite to it. “Should I stand out here and freeze?” 

“Are you mad at me?” Harry blurts out, slightly miffed, as he moves out of the way to allow Theo into the house. He catches a whiff of Theo’s cologne, and hates that he’s started to be able to recognize it. 

The impassive look is back on Theo’s face. “About what?” he challenges quietly. “What would I be angry about, Harry?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry says slowly, watching Theo’s face for any sign of emotion. There’s none, and Theo turns to walk towards the living room, where Hannah and Neville are conversing quietly. “Help me understand,” he says to Theo’s back. 

Theo turns. “We don’t know each other like that.” 

It’s frustrating, this push and pull, and dinner’s a quiet affair if not for Hannah and Neville’s chatter and banter. Both Harry and Theo get slowly drunker and drunker on wine, faces flushed as they sit next to each other across from Neville and Hannah at the dining table. 

At some point Neville’s pouring firewhisky for both Harry and Theo, and in the back of his mind, Harry wonders if this is all a setup, if Neville and Hannah are trying to get them drunk. And his suspicions are confirmed when Hannah says, “Oh but you shouldn’t apparate or Floo back now, it’s much too late,” and Neville says, “Luckily we have a guest room set up. You guys should stay over.” 

And Theo and Harry find themselves standing in the doorway of the guest bedroom, Theo’s head hung low miserably and Harry trying to hold back his drunken hiccups and 

there’s only one bed. 

There’s a brief argument over blankets and space, and Theo insists on the left side of the bed, farther from the window and closer to the door, and Harry doesn’t really mind either way, much too drunk to even feel awkward. 

“Theo…” Harry mumbles into the darkness of night, stars twinkling outside the window and an owl hooting somewhere in the distance. “What’s going on? Is this normal?” He doesn’t know if Theo’s awake or asleep, and for a long moment, Harry accepts that maybe he’s finally gone ‘round the bend, talking to no one. 

“I don’t know,” Theo whispers back, and the blankets rustle as he rolls onto his back. Harry can hear his quiet breaths, and is close enough to feel Theo’s warmth. The bed is full-sized, and they’re both grown men. It creaks as Theo moves. “I don’t know,” he says again, as if he had been trying to find words to elaborate, and all words fell short. 

Harry nods to himself. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Theo asks with a quiet hiccup, now turning towards Harry. 

Harry turns on his side, too, and he can see the whites of Theo’s eyes in the darkness, and the outline of his features. Before he can help it, Harry’s reaching out to brush his hand across the soft pajamas that Neville lent Theo, a size too large for him. Theo’s swimming in them, and his collarbones jut out. Harry brings his fingers to Theo’s collarbones. “We don’t ever…talk.” 

“We talk,” Theo responds. “Just…” 

“Just not about us,” Harry says, suddenly brave as he cups Theo’s face with his hand, running his thumb across Theo’s lips like he’s been aching to do since day one. “We both know it’s weird.” 

Something in Theo’s face shutters, but his eyes stay on Harry’s. “Weird?” 

“Not like that,” Harry insists, moving closer. “Weird like…we don’t…know each other. Like you said.”

“Okay,” says Theo, draping his arm across Harry’s waist, fingertips tracing delicate patterns on Harry’s back. “Is that something we’re going to solve tonight?” he asks with a yawn as he gets comfortable, pressing his face into Harry’s chest and fully cuddling up to him. “You’re warm.” 

“You’re drunk,” Harry responds, amused and also drunk, a warmth seeping into him, straight to his soul. He runs his hand through Theo’s hair before settling in.

Theo hums, content. 

They awake in a tangle of limbs and luckily it’s a Saturday and they don’t have to be on campus. Harry’s laughing as Theo pushes him off with a “You’re so heavy,” and Harry responds with his own “My arm’s asleep because of you.” 

And then they’re lying on their backs staring at the ceiling as the songbirds croon at the window and the leaves outside rustle, the first of them turning orange and yellow. The clouds are rolling in and it’s shaping up to be an indoors kind of day. 

Theo sits up at the edge of the bed and Harry’s admiring the curve of Theo’s spine and how he moves, so elegantly, despite his hair sticking up at odd angles. “We’re not just coworkers,” Harry blurts out, making sure he’s not the one reading too much into things, making sure that whatever he’s feeling is mutual. Making sure that things aren’t awkward between them, and the mild tiff from the day before has been smoothed over. 

Theo shoots him a smirk over his shoulder as he searches for his sock on the floor and Harry’s heart stutters at the mischievousness of it all. “Of course not,” he says, before leaning in to put his face up close to Harry’s, and all of Harry’s thoughts halt at once. “We’re coworkers and dueling partners.” 

“Shut up, Nott,” Harry says with a laugh, pushing him away and feeling around the side table for his glasses. Theo presses his glasses into his hands quietly, and Theo's face comes into focus as Harry wears them, eyes expressive and a slight curl to his lips. 

“I’d be remiss if I--” Theo begins, but is interrupted by a knock on the door. 

Neville, equally sleep-ruffled, is standing at the door in pajamas a bit too short for him, ratty and ending above his ankles. “Morning, gentlemen,” he says slowly, almost hesitantly. “My wife’s making breakfast.” And he says wife with such pride and love that Harry’s heart kind of hurts. He sneaks a glance at Theodore, and finds that Theo’s already looking at him. 

October

The mid-term exams and homework assignments to be graded are piling up and Harry’s never been the best at doing desk work in the first place. He’s holed up in his quarters, trying not to cringe every time the fifth years’ essays devolve into nonsense and it’s clear they’ve been using Quick-quotes quills to write them; he also tries not to throw himself out of his window when his first years keep misspelling words like ghost. 

Harry’s quite close to giving up, leaning back in his chair and running a hand over his face when there’s a knock on his door before it’s opening itself and Theo’s sauntering in like he belongs there. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Harry asks, in his best imitation of Snape - displeased and dry. But his heart sings every time Theo’s in his proximity. 

Theo sets the kettle to boil - the Muggle way, Harry notes curiously - and flops down into his usual armchair by the hearth, pulling out a book. “Figured you’d be grading papers and could use some company.”

The weather’s progressively been getting colder, and Theo’s wearing his regular robes but Harry can spy a sweater underneath. Wandlessly and nonverbally he lights a fire in the fireplace and Theo glances up in appreciation.

Their eyes meet. 

Harry clears his throat, glancing down at his papers. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested in --” he holds up a paper, red marks from Harry’s quill all over it and a large T at the very top. 

“Absolutely not,” Theo laughs, waving his hand at Harry. “Do go on, darling.” 

Harry’s mouth drops open, his heartbeat in his ears. “Darling?” he asks in clarification, testing the word out. 

Theo shoots him a soft smile and that’s it, it’s over, Harry’s officially flustered. Harry’s a goner, and he’s realizing now he can’t dance away from it forever. He knows next to nothing about this enigma of a man, and yet…

Theo stands, placing a hand on the back of Harry’s chair as he leans, reading some of the essays that Harry’s been trudging through. Harry fights the blush best he can, but then Theo’s looking at him again, up close and personal, the scents of his cologne and his soap a heady combination. 

“You okay there, Potter?” he asks, a knowing smirk on his face. Harry resolutely decides that he’s not going to sit next to Theo at the next faculty meeting, even if Neville sticks him to the seat. 

Theo’s brought his hand to Harry’s face, cupping his jaw. “Your cheeks are warm,” and he says it with the same smile, but there’s something breathless in his tone, and all at once Harry realizes that maybe he’s not the only one navigating whatever this is. 

“I’m blushing, obviously," Harry says before he can stop himself, testing the waters to see how Theo will react. 

But Theo freezes, dropping his hand and taking a step back, as if deciding that that’s enough for the both of them for the moment. As if saying it out loud is what makes it…wrong. 

Harry overhears something interesting just before he steps into the faculty break room, Madam Pomfrey and Madam Poppy’s voices drifting out the crack in the door, yellow light seeping into the hallway over the din and bustle of the students. 

“And Neville has three galleons on the end of October, before the Halloween feast, especially because of the Masquerade Ball the Ministry is holding,” says Madam Poppy, her voice aged but sweet in a way that Harry’s sure she was very popular in her youth. 

“Well Trelawney said that Nott’s still got a lot of unpacking to do before they can really be together, so I’ve placed my money on Yule.” Madam Pomfrey says. Then she sighs. “I remember when Potter was just a boy, getting hit in the head by bludgers. And somehow he’s ended up here.” 

There’s a soft laugh in the room, and Harry realizes it’s Neville’s laugh. “I’m sure they’ll surprise us all,” he says, and Harry hears his footsteps coming towards the door and scrambles into a more dignified position, trying to make it look like he has just arrived. 

“Speak of the devil,” Neville says with a wink, patting Harry on the shoulder as he exits the faculty room. Pomfrey and Poppy look up in unison, switching the topic to herbal brews and healing potions. 

Harry makes himself a cup of tea, watching as the leaves sink to the bottom. And when he finishes the cup, the leaves have arranged themselves into a heart. He snorts with derision, dumping the leaves in the trash. 

It’s another night with nightmares, and Harry finally decides it’s not worth staying in bed, instead simply throwing his robes over his head and making his way out of his quarters in a direction he hasn’t decided until his footsteps are taking him to the number one moping spot in all of Hogwarts - the Astronomy Tower. 

The moon is bright and the air is crisp and cold as Harry climbs the steps, suddenly smelling something awfully like a muggle cigarette. It’s Theodore, sitting dangerously at the edge of the tower, legs dangling off and a cigarette between his fingers, his head leaning against the railing as he watches the ashes fall the many stories down to the ground below. 

Harry tries not to think about Dumbledore falling, falling, falling. “You’ll die if you smoke that, you know,” Harry says, leaning against a wall, loud enough to block out the memories. 

Theo doesn’t even startle, instead tapping his cigarette against the wall of the tower, leaving singe marks where he presses the base of it into the stone. “So be it,” he says moodily, and Harry wants to laugh because the theatrics are exactly what Harry had in mind for himself. 

“Come, now, Nott,” he says with a grin, dropping down next to Theodore, pulling one knee up to his chest and looking out over the grounds. “So many better ways to go.” 

That startles a laugh out of Theo, and it’s clear he can’t fight the grin as it creeps up his face. “Like what?” 

Harry pretends to think, humming quietly. “Throwing yourself off the tower. Melodramatic, and romantic.” 

“But someone can save you with a cushioning charm,” Theo responds. “Poisoning?” he suggests instead. 

“Bezoar,” Harry counters. “Drowning in the Black Lake.” 

“Squid,” responds Theo. 

“Well that’s that,” Harry says, before the conversation can turn any darker, Cedric crumpling to the ground in front of him playing over and over in his mind. “Not dying tonight, I guess.” Ghosts, metaphorical and literal, hanging about the hallways of Hogwarts. Rebuilt, sure, but for some reason the rubble and the soot were implied, the sound of the screams and the colors of the spells always there in the corner of Harry's eyes. 

They lapse into silence, and Theo puts out his cigarette. “Haunted,” he says quietly. 

“What?” Harry asks. 

Theo casts a sidelong glance at Harry. “Maybe we're all ghosts,” he elaborates, a knowing look on his face as if he had read Harry's thoughts. “Not children, but still young. Not full adults, but still haunted.”

“You too?” 

“You’re not special,” Theo says, and something about the words are so refreshing in their bluntness that Harry can’t help but to stare. 

“Why do you pull away?” Harry asks instead. “You…you call me darling and then you leave. You cast charms, and we cuddle in bed, and…” 

“I’m afraid of you,” Theo says simply. Perhaps it’s the nicotine prompting the honesty, or maybe it’s the stillness of night and they’re the only two living beings in the scene. Maybe it’s the mention of the war. “I’m afraid of liking you.” 

“Just once…” Harry begins, his mouth dry. “What if…” He turns, studying Theo’s face with a feeling of trepidation, and hope. “What if I believed in your ability to save yourself?” 

Theo’s eyes dart down to Harry’s lips before he’s looking up again, looking into Harry’s eyes as if searching for something. “That’s not courage,” he says, voice hoarse.

“It’s not,” Harry agrees, leaning infinitesimally closer. “But you won’t be afraid of falling.” 

“Are you selfish for asking that of me?” 

“Am I?” Harry pauses. “But I…” He looks out over the Forbidden Forest. “I’m allowed to ask for things, right?” 

He can feel Theo’s eyes on him. “What’s…what are we doing, Harry?” Theo asks. 

Harry's speaking before he himself can process what he's saying. “I’m asking to try. Just a date. I feel like I could love you, if you gave me the chance to.” 

“And when you break my heart?” 

“I won’t.” 

Theo just looks at Harry for a long while, and finally he says okay so quietly that Harry’s almost convinced he didn’t say it at all. 

An owl, landing in front of Harry the next morning. A note, on a small scroll, in Theo’s elegant yet spidery scrawl: if you ask, I’ll say yes. Theo resolutely avoids eye contact.

“Professor Nott,” Harry interrupts Theo’s lesson, sweeping into his classroom. The students look up in interest at the sudden appearance of the Wizarding World’s savior. 

Theo looks up, a mild frown on his face, but Harry can’t bring himself to feel guilty. “Yes?” he drawls, setting his quill down like it’s a burden. 

Harry steps closer, pressing a folded up note into Theo’s hand. (In Harry’s handwriting: sugar quills, books, and butterbeer? McGonagall wants me to oversee the Hogsmeade trip. I need to let her know by the end of the day. ) 

Theo looks up at him, before scribbling something out on the back of the note and shoving it in Harry’s hand before gesturing towards the classroom door. “Certainly that wasn’t important enough to interrupt class,” he says to Harry’s retreating back. 

Harry simply flashes a grin at him over his shoulder. (In Theo’s handwriting: is this a date? ) 

The school-sanctioned owl lands in front of Theo the next morning, clumsily spilling pumpkin juice across the table, promptly vanished by Professor Flitwick. The note, in Harry’s handwriting: do you want it to be?  

Harry’s already looking at Theo, and Theo can’t help but to feel the treacherous butterflies at the pit of his stomach. If only his father -- or his past self -- could see him now. He nods, despite himself. Yes, he wants it to be a date so badly. 

Harry’s standing nervously at Theo’s door in his robes, running a hand along the glass tube hidden in his pocket. To date, he hasn’t seen the inside of Theo’s quarters, but he suspects he’ll know what it looks like all the same. 

The door swings open, and Theo’s endearingly rumpled, still in silk sleep attire and his hair sticking up every which way. He doesn’t even blink at seeing Harry standing at his door at six in the morning, and instead just lets Harry in. 

Harry’s buzzing with nervous energy, glancing around Theo’s quarters - plush carpeting, bookshelves - everything as the Room of Requirement had made it to be -- plus drapes hanging over Theo’s bed, the walls made of brick. Harry runs his fingers along the counter of the kitchenette, where Theo has miscellaneous cauldrons brewing and arithmancy diagrams attached to the walls. 

Theo’s climbing back into bed, yawning. “You need to do something about your anxiety, Potter,” he says, and Harry watches him covering himself with his comforter, totally unbothered. “Blaise dropped off some calming drought if you’d like,” he continues, voice muffled by the pillow. “Or--” another yawn. “You could join me.” 

It’s all the invitation Harry needs. Harry sets the glass tube down - it has a preserved, rare form of dittany he was sure Theo would appreciate - before stripping out of his robes down to his sweater and jeans before climbing into bed next to Theo, pulling him in so Theo’s back’s pressed against his chest. “On the first date, Theo?”

Theo laughs sleepily. “You’re an odd, odd man, Harry Potter.” 

They doze. 

The path to Hogsmeade is simple but the journey is cold, and the third years are insistent on horsing around and honestly, Theo should be used to it after his five years of teaching, but somehow he’s shocked every time. 

But there’s something nostalgic and assessing in Harry’s steady gaze, green eyes looking at Theo as if he’s trying to solve all of Theo’s deepest, darkest, secrets, so Theo’s fine to let the students mess around if it means that Harry’s remembering the good parts of dark times. Harry's gaze makes Theo feel like he has nothing left to hide, and like Theo’s the only person in the room. He feels trapped in it, and sucked in, enough to forget that whatever he’s feeling is technically not allowed. That his father would never, ever approve. And yet, around Harry, he can’t seem to bring himself to care. 

As the students disperse into the town, beelining for Honeydukes and Scrivenshaft’s and The Three Broomsticks, Theo’s content to slip a gloved hand into Harry’s, avoiding eye contact when Harry glances at him in question. “It’s a date, right?” he asks softly, as if to remind Harry that this is in fact proper date behavior. Something about Harry makes Theo feel brave. 

Harry laughs quietly, a puff of breath in the cold air and his cheeks and nose red. His hand flexes around Theo’s before intertwining their fingers. “I like you,” Harry says, glancing at Theo from the corner of his eye. The admission is so simple, and Harry says it with no hesitancy at all, like it’s just another fact like the sky being blue. “Something about you…” he trails off with an embarrassed smile, and Theo feels like if Harry wasn’t holding his hand just then he’d have died on the spot. 

“I want to know you,” Theo says instead of saying I like you back, feeling like it’s much too soon to make embarrassing admissions like that out loud. Fact of the matter is that Theo’s always noticed Harry, because Harry was born to be noticed, a bloody prophecy looming over his head that thrust him into the spotlight over and over again. But Theo didn’t want that Harry, but the Harry that looked at the thestrals with morbid fascination, and the Harry that fell asleep in the library during exam preparation season, and the Harry who disappeared for some time after the war and the Harry who showed up at Hogwarts as a Professor with a glint in his eye like he had something to prove but a helpless smile on his face like he didn’t know he was the most powerful man in the room. 

“Twenty-seven’s not that old, right?” Harry asks. “We have time.” 

“Time?” Theo asks, dragging Harry into Tomes and Scrolls, beelining for the arithmancy section to see if any old texts have been added to their selection. “You planning on sticking around then, Potter?” 

“Harry,” Harry corrects. 

“My, quite insistent,” Theo responds, unable to stop the grin slowly creeping onto his face. He feels giddy around Harry. He feels like he wants to hold on and never let go. “Harry.” 

The smile Harry flashes him is worth it, Theo thinks, even though after a few minutes Harry’s restless again, looking longingly out the window towards the joke shop on the corner but valiantly keeping quiet.

“Should we go, then?” Theo asks Harry, and Harry turns guiltily, as if ashamed to be caught wanting to be elsewhere. 

“Uh, no we can…” He says the words like they’re painful, and Theo laughs at how Harry wears his heart on his sleeve. “We can stay longer, if you want.” Twenty-seven’s not that old, Theo decides. Even though he didn’t think he would make it to twenty-seven. But he knows he’s not special for that. 

They’re sipping at butterbeer in a (relatively) quiet corner of the Three Broomsticks when Harry decides it’s time to breach the one of the questions they’ve been dancing about, and Theo worries that this might be the first and last date at the same time, his hesitancy and anxiety building up in his chest despite the way Harry’s thigh is pressed into his own. 

“I didn’t know I liked men,” Harry offers quietly. It’s not a question, but an opening, and Theo knows Harry wants him to say something in response. “Not until…a few years ago,” he says, thinking. 

Theo looks at his open palms in his lap. “I’ve always known,” says he, feeling shame all over again, remembering his father’s watchful gaze, and the way he avoided events like the Yule Ball, hiding out in the library. Deciding that it was okay to sacrifice romance for everything else. “Something…innate.” 

Harry nods quietly, and the sounds of the pub fill the silence between them. “I like you, though.” And he says it again, so easily, and Theo can’t help but to tense up. And Harry, damn him and his perception, notices, pressing a drink into Theo’s hand before dropping his hand to Theo’s knee and then removing his hand altogether. “You don’t have to say anything, Theo.”

But there’s a quiet hurt in Harry’s eyes, and Theo doesn’t want to be the one responsible for that hurt, so he grabs Harry’s hand and squeezes it gently, knocking his knee into Harry’s. “I feel like I’m deceiving you,” Theo says honestly. 

Harry’s hand grabs Theo’s left wrist, turning it upwards but not moving to move the sleeve of Theo’s robe out of the way. “It was the worst of times,” he says, acknowledging the elephant in the room, the size of black ink on a forearm. 

“Dickens?” Theo asks instead. “The best of times, the worst of times. The spring of hope and the winter of despair. The period is meant to be received in superlatives only,” he paraphrases, and Harry’s eyes are on him, patient and adoring. 

“But that period of our lives was actually just like every other period,” Harry explains. “We kept moving forward, because that was all we could do, and what we considered to be the mundane then is now described with superlatives." He reaches out, his fingers warm under Theo’s jaw as he closes Theo’s mouth gently with a laugh. “Hermione taught it to me. Don’t worry.” 

He’s not even offended that Theo’s shocked by his display of intellectualism, which makes Theo fall for the stupid git a little more. “I would be remiss--” Theo begins, but Neville’s sliding into the seat across from them with Professor McGonagall in tow. 

“Potter, Nott,” McGonagall greets, eyes immediately darting to where Harry’s hand is on Theo’s wrist. And Harry only lets go to interlace his fingers with Theo’s, causing Theo to blush. Neville’s smirking -- smirking! -- at him, and it feels like the world’s been turned upside down. 

“Professor,” Harry greets, an amused smile just for Theo on his face. 

Theo simply nods in greeting, settling back against the booth as Harry’s knee brushes his under the table and subconsciously leaning into Harry’s side. The three Gryffindors discuss something that Theo can’t bring himself to care about enough to listen in, instead paying attention to Harry’s quiet breathing and the warmth emanating from him. He could get used to this, and it scares him. 

The trek back to Hogwarts is cold, but not miserable, because Harry’s insistent on staying close to Theo despite their agreement to keep their relationship away from the prying eyes of their students, lest the news hit the papers. Their shoulders are brushing all the way to Theo’s door, and before he can second-guess it, Theo’s pulling Harry in for a cup of tea. 

“Might I seduce you into a second date, Harry?” Theo asks, holding out the cup and saucer for Harry to take. It’s awfully dainty in Harry’s broad hands, and yet Harry holds Theo’s mother’s china with care and precision, setting the saucer down on the coffee table as Theo settles in beside him. 

“With this tea?” Harry responds with a smile. 

Theo folds his legs underneath himself, picking up a book and lighting the fireplace. “And my delightful company,” he responds. “Darling,” he tacks on with a smirk, and Harry’s immediately a blushing, stuttering mess. 

Harry’s dozing on Theo’s couch in the late afternoon when there’s a knock at Theo’s door, and Theo realizes that he had offered to host study hall for some of his students that needed tutoring. Harry cracks an eye open, ever vigilant, and just shrugs when Theo asks if it’s okay to let the students in.

“Not like we're doing something untowards,” he says suggestively, and Theo has to fight the flush in his cheeks as he lets the students in, the thought of Harry’s tongue in his mouth just too much to bear. 

Theo can feel Harry’s eyes on him throughout the meeting despite him appearing to be sleeping on the couch, and itches to dismiss the students, but knows that he’ll sit there helping them until they’re ready to leave, or comfortable with the material. 

“I’m not sure why this quadrant isn’t adding up,” a third year student says with a frown, their Slytherin crest proudly displayed on their House sweater. 

“Perhaps it’s a pentagram,” Harry says from the couch, squinting at the paper from across the room. 

The students jump, having not noticed Harry there at all in the first place, and Theo sets his quill down to watch Harry languidly making his way off the couch towards Theo’s kitchen table to look at the problem set. He nods to himself before catching Theo’s gaze from across the table with a boyish grin. “It is, isn’t it, Professor Nott?”

Theo nods, circling parts of the diagram on the student’s paper. “Re-do it as a pentagram. Otherwise your calculations are just fine.”

“How’d you know it was a pentagram, though, Professor?” the student asks Harry. 

Harry shrugs. “I’ve seen it before. But perhaps your Professor would have a better way of going about it.” He brushes his hand along the line of Theo’s shoulders before making his way to the door, dropping a folded piece of parchment into Theo’s lap. ( You know where to find me. ) 

Theo’s breath catches in his throat when Harry opens the door to his quarters the night of the Ministry masquerade gala. Theo’s still in his regular robes from teaching all day, but Harry’s cleaned up nicely, in a dark suit and his hair combed neatly for once. He can’t help but deflect his feelings with a jab.

“How long did the hair take you, love?” he asks, making his way into Harry’s apartment like he belongs there and immediately moving to set some tea. 

Harry laughs. “Longer than I’d care to admit,” he says, standing in front of a full-length mirror that gives him suggestions as he turns this way and that, making sure his shirt’s tucked in and his buttons are buttoned properly as the mirror commands him to. Theo finds it absolutely endearing. 

After a few dates - Hogsmeade the first, then a walk around the Black Lake, then ice cream in Diagon Alley - they’d fallen into a comfortable routine and banter. But Theo can’t get the idea of snogging Harry senseless out of his mind. But if Harry’s waiting, he’s more than happy to wait, too, to see where this goes. He feels Harry’s strong arms wrapping around his waist, and settles into the back hug with a sigh. 

“Do I have to go?” Harry asks, setting his forehead on Theo’s shoulder, and his breath brushes against Theo’s skin. 

“You are the savior of the Wizarding World,” Theo says, patting Harry’s hands with mock pity. “Oh, how terrible, a masquerade party.” 

“You won’t be there.” The words are so simple, and so affectionate, and Theo’s melting. He’s positively, absolutely melting. 

And Theo hates to be a buzzkill, but he feels like he must say it in that moment. “It’s better if I’m not,” he says quietly. 

“The war’s ten years over,” Harry says fiercely, though his words are muffled by Theo’s shoulders and his arms are tightening around Theo’s waist. “We were kids. You were a kid.” 

“My friends all served time,” Theo says quietly. “I didn’t.” 

“Blaise--” Harry brings up. 

“He didn’t do anything like I did,” Theo says, and Harry’s turning Theo around in his arms, studying his face like he can see through all of Theo’s thoughts. “But we can talk about this later.” 

“But it's been brought up now,” responds Harry, a slight frown on his face. They’re the same height, and yet Theo can’t bring himself to look into Harry’s eyes, instead keeping his gaze trained on the floor. 

“You have the privilege of talking about it when you want to.” 

“You brought it up first,” Harry reminds him, and Theo’s reminded that twenty-seven’s not that old, but it’s not that young, either. 

“I can bring up a lot of things,” Theo retorts pettily, trying to pull out of Harry’s arms, but Harry’s grip is strong, and he’s holding Theo there, pulling him into a hug. "Doesn't mean we have to talk about them right then and there." Theo squirms about a bit. “Let me go so I can look at you properly.” 

Harry’s shoulders are shaking, and Theo pauses, affronted. “Are you laughing, Harry? We’re trying to have a serious discussion here and you’re laughing?”

Suddenly Theo’s being manhandled and they’re flopping onto a conjured couch, Theo sprawled on top of Harry. “Your suit--” 

Harry actually laughs. “Forget the suit, honestly.” He’s hauled Theo up so Theo can comfortably rest his head in the crook of Harry’s neck. “What’re things you can bring up,” he asks softly, but there’s still a light giggle in his voice.

Theo hides a smile of his own, recognizing the ridiculousness of it, and buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck. And Harry smells so good, and his laugh is infectious, and he looks so handsome in his suit, and he’s so warm, and Theo’s impulsively pressing his lips to to spot just under the corner of Harry’s jaw. 

He can feel Harry’s heartbeat increase, and Harry’s sharp inhale. 

Harry’s turning his head to try to look at Theo, but Theo holds Harry, wrapping his arm carefully around Harry’s head to hold Harry’s face still as he trails light kisses down his neck. Harry’s grip instinctively tightens at Theo’s waist. “Theo…” he groans quietly, shifting under Theo, tilting his head to give Theo easier access to the tanned skin of his neck. 

Theo pushes himself up to hover over Harry, to look at Harry’s face and the damage that he’s done. Harry’s eyes are on him, steady and dark, and his fingers are digging imprints into Theo’s hips. His mouth’s slightly ajar, and he licks his lips. 

“Theo, I --” And suddenly his lips are on Theo’s, warm and firm and incessant and insisting. Theo's heart leaps into his throat, goosebumps down his arms, Harry’s lips fitting themselves between his own, Harry’s hand coming up to the back of Theo’s neck to pull him closer. 

Harry’s tongue, doing sinful things -- licking into his mouth, intertwining with Theo’s, tasting like treacle and something citrus, and Theo’s such a goner, his hands making their way into Harry’s just barely tamed hair, messing it up all over again, but it’s everything Theo had been dreaming about for the past few weeks, brushing by Harry in the hallways, secret glances in the break room, spending time together on the weekends. 

Theo kisses back in a way that he hopes doesn’t betray his enthusiasm, but it’s not like it matters because Harry’s grinding up into him and honestly Theo’s ready to strip naked right in the Chosen One’s living room, or maybe he'd at least drop to his knees, fully in his teaching robes, when the Floo activates, and 

Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio are stepping through the fireplace. 

Theo scrambles off of Harry immediately, but it’s much too late, Weasley turning a shade of red that’s awfully close to his hair and Granger turning around to face the hearth, hand on her mouth. 

She’s immediately apologizing, too, which mortifies Theo even more. “I’m so sorry, I thought it’d be better to be earlier than late because you and Ron have a track record of -- I didn’t realize you’d be -- well, occupied ,--” and she’s glancing at Theo before blushing even harder. “With your--” 

“Boyfriend,” Harry supplies coolly, interrupting Hermione before she can say colleague and Theo chokes on the tea that he’s been sipping to keep himself from saying something embarrassing. “You know Theo,” he continues, as if the circumstances are perfectly normal. 

Hermione coughs, still not turning around. “Yes, of course. Nott.” 

“Granger,” Theo responds, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat. “Weasley,” he adds, just to be polite. They too are dressed to the nines, Hermione in navy blue dress robes twinkling with stars and Ron in a matching suit that clashes with his red hair. But Theo suspects that feedback wouldn’t be welcomed and keeps it to himself. 

Theo pats down his own hair the best that he can, watching as Harry discretely casts cooling spells on the both of them, and Theo can feel the swelling in his lips go down, and sees the same effect on Harry. 

Harry stands up from the couch, adjusting his suit. He clears his throat. “Give us a second,” he says, and his eyes are twinkling as he glances at Theo, indicating for Theo to follow him into his bedchamber. “And then I’ll be ready to go.” 

“Sure, mate,” Ron says distractedly, dropping onto the couch in a daze. 

The moment the door clicks shut behind them, Harry’s pushing Theo against it gently, his lips on Theo’s again before he’s pressing kisses to Theo’s neck, and to his cheeks, and to his nose, and forehead before wrapping his arms around Theo’s waist and pulling him into a hug, resting both their weights against the door. “As far as first kisses go…” Harry says into the crook of Theo’s neck, pressing a kiss there, “I want this to be the last." 

Then Harry’s lips are on his again, and Theo feels like he could spend forever being kissed by Harry, could spend forever in this man's arms. “You’re going to be late,” Theo reminds him, voice husky, when Harry pulls back to unbutton the top few buttons of Theo’s robes, pressing a soft kiss to Theo's throat after every button, from jawline to collarbones. “Don’t be late,” Theo insists, pushing Harry off of him, gently. “We have time.” 

Harry sighs, resting his forehead against Theo’s. “You sticking around, then?” 

Theo laughs. “You’re stuck with me, Harry.” He leans in to seal it with a kiss. 

November

Theo’s not sure what it means to fall in love, but he knows what it feels like to fall in love. Like the first flurries of snow outside the window of his office, and the ghosts drifting through the hallways, singing Christmas carols and songs long gone. There’s a note he keeps in his pocket, parchment with Harry’s handwriting -- my last first kiss, darling -- and he knows Harry’s schedule by heart. He knows how Harry takes his tea, and what to ask the house elves in the kitchen for when a wave of melancholy washes over him. 

And that happens frequently, days when Harry will withdraw, the weight of the war still hanging over his head like it happened a few months ago, and not ten years ago, and Theo’s happy to sit with him through it all, slipping into Harry’s bed to hold him, and Harry, doing the same for Theo. 

Falling in love, Theo decides, is being wrapped up in Harry Potter’s arms and never wanting to leave. It’s like glances during faculty meetings and quiet inside jokes, and the brush of Harry’s hand against his. It feels like being a teenager all over again, snogging in empty classrooms, pushing Harry against the stacks in the restricted section of the library instead of patrolling hallways. 

It’s reckless, and it’s enchanting, and it’s comforting all at once. Like coming home. 

December

Harry Potter -- Professor Harry Potter, Auror Harry Potter, the Chosen One -- cannot stop stuttering when he notices Theo in the back of the room, bumbling through the theory of something he can’t remember now, and eventually just dismisses the class because he knows they’ve already gone through the lesson and just have to show up to his office hours in the Room of Requirement to practice the spells, anyways. 

And the second the students clear out, Harry’s stalking across the classroom with a singular goal - to get his hands on Theo. Theo tuts him and steps out of the way as Harry reaches out for Theo’s waist, and it devolves into a game of catch me if you can, Theo jumping over tables and giving Harry a hard time as he levitates obstacles. “Auror Potter,” he taunts. “Try to catch me. But you can’t.” 

Harry can’t help but to laugh, something healing within him after growing up at the Dursleys’ and being an outsider on the playground. It only took twenty years. And he suspects, when he finally gets his hands on Theo, that Theo let him catch him, the mischief glinting in Theo’s eyes. His dark circles aren’t as pronounced anymore, Harry notices, and there’s color in his cheeks, the pale pallor giving way to something healthier. Theo licks his cheek, and Harry drops his hands in surprise and Theo’s taken off again, this time running down the empty hallways, his robes billowing about him. 

Harry guesses where Theo’s going and takes a detour instead, leaning casually against the door to Theo’s quarters as Theo rounds the corner, stopping in shock. “How’d you do that?” he asks, slightly winded.

Harry shrugs, trying to hide his smirk. “Do what?” 

“You--” 

Theo stalks closer, studying Harry’s face. “Secret passageway?” he asks with a knowing look, and Harry wonders suddenly if Theo’s a legilimens. 

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Harry says, and Theo looks at him blankly. “What? You’ve never heard that before?” 

“You’re having me on,” Theo says hesitantly, stepping closer. “People don’t say that.” 

“Muggles do,” Harry responds. He wonders what other parts of his vocabulary were learned from his time with the Dursleys. He’d truly always had one foot in the Muggle world and the other in the Wizarding world until the war. He misses parts of it, sometimes. 

Theo must see something in Harry’s face, because he grabs Harry’s hand, tugging him into his quarters. 

The preserved dittany is sitting on the center shelf of Theo’s bookshelf, hovering with protective charms around it. Harry steps forward, reaching out to feel the buzz of the protective magic against his fingertips. There’s something comforting about it, and Harry can almost hear it like music in his ears. 

“Can you feel it?” Theo asks curiously. “I knew you were powerful, but--” 

“Power?” Harry asks. 

Theo nods, pulling Harry to the couch and lying them both down across it, cuddling into him as they just stare at the floating vial. “Power, Harry. You know this.” 

Harry just looks at him. Taking in his features, memorizing, and wishing moments could last forever in time. With a healthy dose of self-sabotage, he blurts, “Can I see your arm?” 

Theo sits up. “Why?” he whispers. 

Harry doesn’t know how to explain himself. “I want…” He looks imploringly at Theo. “Please?” he asks in a voice so embarrassingly small he doesn’t even recognize it as his at first, and he’s almost ashamed by the insecurity that’s washing over him like a tidal wave.

Maybe it’s closure. Maybe it’s confirmation, or some sort of unsettled feeling that there are still things they haven’t addressed despite everything they have. The feeling that things can’t be going this smoothly, because good things never come easily. 

“And then what?” Theo asks quietly, and Harry realizes that maybe Theo’s just as scared as he is, despite his calm demeanor. Harry’s not sure if that confirms the existence of the Mark on Theo’s arm or not, but he needs to see Theo’s arm to…to be sure? To make sense of things? To move on? 

If love can defeat the Dark Lord, Harry decides, if love can beat Lord Voldemort, who branded the marking into his follower’s skins to hold them to an oath because he couldn’t trust that they wouldn’t betray him, then maybe love is enough to move past what the mark stands for. And maybe that's what power is, really.

“We’ll move forward,” Harry responds. “We’ll…we’ll live on.” 

“Together?” Theo asks, allowing Harry to hold the wrist of his left arm. “I would be remiss--”

Harry knows that whatever he sees or doesn’t see on Theo’s arm isn’t going to change the fact that he, in the present, loves the man sitting in front of him. And to love someone in the present is to love their flaws, and to love their virtues. And to love their past. “Theo, I--”

But Theo’s already speaking, a hand over Harry’s mouth in an act of courage, and an act of belief in Harry’s belief that Theo can save himself. He’s rolling up his sleeve, offering the only thing he knows for a fact: “I would be remiss if I didn’t say I love you.”