Chapter 16
Theo
Theo stared out the window, watching the evergreen trees slip by him as the train hurtled on. He tried to stamp out the gnawing anxiety that he’d might have made a mistake, that he was in over his head. Honestly, what was he thinking? Him and Hermione had only been together– were they even together? – for a few days and here he was, dropping everything and spending Christmas with her. At the Weasleys. His father would be appalled, which actually brought Theo a small amount of glee, if only for a moment. He thought about the way Draco had reacted when he’d told him how he planned to spend the break– slightly curious but mostly concerned, likely wondering what the hell Theo was thinking.
“He just called you a Death Eater a few nights ago, mate,” Draco had said slowly. “And now you’re off to spend Christmas with him and his family?”
Theo cringed at the thought, realizing how bizarre this really was. How much he would stick out, how he might be received by the family. Surely his father had inflicted some sort of pain onto the Weasleys– why else would Ron have been so angry with him? What if there was some sort of confrontation– what if they asked him what he’d witnessed? What he'd done to stop the violence? To answer to his father’s many crimes somehow? He started to panic, his pulse racing, his palms beginning to sweat. Suddenly, he was pulled from the dark cloud of terror, Hermione reaching for his hand.
“Theo?” She smiled sweetly up at him, and Theo’s mind went blank. Oh. That was why he was doing this, he remembered. He would gladly endure any number of tortures if it meant that she’d look at him like that again. Like he was good. Like he made her happy.
He beamed down at her despite himself, marveling at the way she managed to calm the storm inside him with just a smile, as if the weight of his fears could be lifted by the warmth in her eyes. “Hmm?” He asked, trying to pretend he’d just been lost in thought about something banal, like his N.E.W.T. scores.
Of course, she was too clever to be fooled by that ruse. “Everything is going to be fine– you know that, right?” Hermione said quietly, her warm eyes meeting his.
Eyes like Autumn– he thought as he studied her, a blend of deep brown and soft green, flickering with gold. “Sure,” he said, hating the way his voice betrayed his nerves.
Hermione pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “You’re overthinking. I can see the wheels turning,” she teased before her tone turned more thoughtful. “Remember, you’re here because I want you to be. I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I thought you wouldn’t be welcome, but if you feel even the slightest bit uncomfortable, we’ll leave. Okay?”
In that moment, everything seemed to settle, the panic in his chest subsiding just enough for him to breathe. He pressed a kiss to her forehead– even an act as small as that still sent his mind into a tailspin. “Thank you, Hermione,” he said reverently, hoping it conveyed the intensity of his feelings. She kissed his shoulder, looking up at him through her lashes, and he could do nothing but stare down at her as if her eyes had glued him in place. She tilted her face up and kissed his jawline and then his cheek, nuzzling into his neck.
“Honestly, if someone doesn’t put a stop to this now, I’m going to need a bucket,” Ginny groaned from across the traincar, her eyes dancing teasingly.
Hermione balled up a napkin and chucked it at her head. “No one’s forcing you to look, Gin!” She said, and Theo liked the way the corners of her mouth lifted slightly, as if she almost enjoyed that she and Theo were sappy enough to elicit such a reaction. “Besides,” she continued. “I had to put up with this for months when you and Harry first got together.” She shot Potter a look and he shrugged at Theo innocently.
“Oh please, we were never this nauseating,” Ginny protested, her expression even more indignant when Hermione gave her a pointed look as if to disagree vehemently.
Theo felt himself relax at the lighthearted nature of the conversation, at the way Ginny and Potter seemed to accept him without a second thought. As if he and Hermione were a package deal. He liked the way they’d begun referring to them as a unit over the last few days– “Hermione, are you two coming?” “Nott, Hermione, are you ready?” “Hermione, Nott, let’s go.”
Ginny had even begun to refer to him as Theodore rather than his surname, despite his insistence that he much preferred Theo. “It’s a natural progression, really,” Ginny had explained cheekily. “First it was ‘Nott,’ then ‘Theodore,’ and soon enough, it’ll be ‘Theo.’ Before you know it it’ll be ‘Theo, dearest’ – y’know, just wait for the full upgrade.” He’d taken to calling her Ginevra to prove a point, much to her displeasure.
He hadn’t seen much of Ron (he’d been forced to begin referring to him as such in his own mind in order to differentiate between him and the hundreds of other Weasleys who now seemed to take up residence in his social circle) since his awkward apology outside Hermione’s room. When they did cross paths, Ron was civil, as promised, but Hermione continued to give him the cold shoulder. Theo had made it clear to her that she didn’t need to be angry at her best friend on his behalf, but she didn’t seem ready to let it go, so he didn’t press her. He wondered how that dynamic would play out when they were all stuck under one roof for the next two weeks.
“We’re here!” Hermione was squeezing his leg, her face lit up with excitement. He followed her gaze out the window and saw a short, robust woman with the quintessential Weasley fiery hair, waving enthusiastically at the oncoming train. She wore a long, faded floral skirt and a sort of lumpy brown jumper, and she was flanked by a tall, thin man whose hair was also red, although perhaps less intensely so. He was peering at the train over his glasses, a smile on his face, dressed in faded brown slacks and an equally lumpy burgundy jumper. They were surrounded by several other tall, redheaded men, two of whom Theo recognized from school. Theo swallowed anxiously, his gaze flitting to Hermione. Seeming to read his mind, she laced her fingers through his and smiled at him reassuringly.
“They’re lovely, Theo– I promise. And they’re going to love you,” she said as he moved to stand next to her.
They stepped off the train, Theo slinging his duffel over his back as they approached the beaming couple. He hung back as they greeted their horde of ginger offspring, noticing with surprise that Potter and Hermione were both embraced with an equal amount of fervor as the Weasley parents' own blood. He’d never seen anything like this– his own mother had hugged him when he was small, but only when his father wasn’t around, and that had obviously stopped after she had passed away. Even Draco rarely embraced his parents– certainly not Lucius, and Narcissa on very rare occasions. When he did, it was formal, almost stiff– nothing like the uninhibited way Mrs. Weasley yanked her children against her, peppering them with kisses and cupping their faces in her hands as she pulled them close to admire them. To his utter shock, Mr. Weasley offered affection in a similar manner, casually pulling his son in for a tight hug and leaning in to say something in his ear which seemed to make Ron smile.
The woman’s eyes finally moved to Theo, and he felt frozen in place. What was he supposed to do? He’d never been so out of his element. Frantically, he searched for Hermione, hoping she’d be able to help him navigate this. Luckily, Mrs. Weasley seemed to sense his uncertainty and moved towards him, reaching out and clasping both his hands.
“Theodore, isn’t it?” He nodded, knowing he looked as bewildered as he felt. “It’s so lovely to meet you, dear. Ginny and Hermione have told us such wonderful things,” she said, beaming at him.
“I– it’s good to meet you too, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you for inviting me to your home,” he said, hating how robotic and stilted he sounded.
The woman didn’t seem to mind. “Please, call me Molly,” she said warmly. “And you're more than welcome, although I hope you don’t mind noise,” she winked.
Theo felt himself smile. “Noise is great. Er– you can call me Theo, actually.”
Hermione appeared at his side, glowing with a happiness he’d never seen on her before. She looked beautiful, and he didn’t want to take his eyes off her. Mrs. Weasley seemed to notice, chuckling slightly. “Look at you two. How wonderful,” she said, and she looked like she meant it.
After introductions had been made, Theo trying to keep track of the faces and names that all looked and sounded vaguely similar, they lined up at the fireplace, tossing the glowing green sand and shouting “the Burrow!” When they arrived, Theo looked around in fascination. They’d walked into a home he could only describe as cozy– mismatched furniture crammed into the living room and draped in colorfully knitted blankets and throws, a massive dinner table surrounded by at least fifteen chairs, a variety of shapes, colors, and materials. The walls were covered in family photos, ranging from formal portraits of relatives that were likely long dead to pictures that looked as recent as last year. Theo spotted a picture of an infant Ginny, her red locks tied up with a bow, held by a toddler who must have been Ron. He even saw pictures that included Hermione and Potter, spanning from the time they were eleven or twelve to more recent. The smell of something wonderful beckoned to him, and then he was hit with the noise Mrs. Weasley had warned him about. Multiple voices, all talking over each other; several different conversations happening at once, an ease and familiarity that Theo assumed must come with feeling completely comfortable and accepted in one's own home.
Theo found himself almost enchanted with the scene, feeling a bizarre mixture of awe and displacement, as though he were a stranger observing something too intimate for him to fully understand. To his surprise, Potter joined him, watching the scene unfold in silence for a moment.
“Kind of an assault to the senses, yeah?” Potter joked, but his tone was filled with awe, even though Theo was sure this was far from his first time being here.
“A bit, but it’s nice. Chaotic, but nice,” Theo replied.
“I didn’t know what to make of it the first time I came here,” Potter said, leaning against the fireplace.
“Why’s that? It was different from your home?” Theo asked, wondering if it was an appropriate question. Obviously, he knew what had happened to Potter’s parents, but he realized he had no idea who had raised him. Where he’d grown up.
Potter snorted. “You could say that. I lived with my aunt and uncle until I came of age, for the most part. They were Muggles, and they despised anything magical, so naturally I fell under that category.”
Theo felt his face shift in surprise. “It never really occurred to me that Muggles could discriminate against wizards– I thought it was mainly the other way around. I’m sorry though. That sounds… unpleasant. So they didn’t let you practice magic?”
Potter nodded darkly. “Definitely not. I wasn’t– it wasn’t a happy place. I don’t think I have any good memories there.” Theo tensed, feeling a strange sense of guilt for assuming Potter had coasted through life as the Chosen One. “Luckily, I had Molly and Arthur– I spent as much time at the Burrow as I could. They’re good people,” Potter said earnestly.
“I can tell,” Theo said quietly.
-----------------
If it were even possible, dinner was an even louder, more chaotic affair. Theo barely said a word the whole time, but found himself enraptured with the whole thing. Hermione sat by his side, her hand resting on his knee. Every few minutes, she’d turn to him, whispering information in his ear to help provide context for whatever was being discussed or to remind him of names, smiling reassuringly at him, or mouthing “you okay?” The food was like nothing he’d ever tasted before, and Mrs. Weasley had grinned when he’d caught himself staring at his plate in disbelief, his eyes wide with genuine amazement as he tried to savor every bite without giving away how much he was enjoying it.
“Do you like it?” She asked.
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he answered honestly, not even going for intentional flattery.
His comment seemed to delight the woman. “It’s because it’s made with love,” she’d said, reaching for his hand and squeezing it affectionately. "And there's plenty more, so help yourself."
After dessert had been served, Theo found himself still sitting at the table with Hermione, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley. The others had slowly dropped off to go laze about on the sofas, nursing various beverages as they chatted and dozed off. The conversation between him and the women had migrated through an assortment of topics, from classes to politics to family– and Hermione and Ginny chose that exact moment to head to the kitchen in search of another drink. Theo felt himself tense as he realized where the discussion would likely go, and like clockwork, Mrs. Weasley turned to him.
“Theo, dear. I understand if you don’t feel comfortable discussing this any further, but I want you to know that who your father is and what he’s done has absolutely no bearing on the way I see you. You seem like a wonderful young man, and you’ll always have a place at my table. Is that clear?” The woman said firmly, her eyes boring into Theo’s.
Theo tried to swallow the lump in his throat, feeling completely caught off guard by what he’d just heard. For a split second, he had the horrifying feeling that he might begin to cry– something he rarely did, and he found he couldn’t speak.
Mrs. Weasley’s face softened in concern, reaching up to cup Theo’s face with both hands, the way he’d seen her do to her children. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, dear, but I want you to know you don’t need to bear your burdens alone. This can be your home, too, if you ever need it. You’re welcome here, always, no questions asked– I’ll never treat you any differently than I would one of my own.”
Theo nodded, feeling caught between embarrassment for the way her words had obviously affected him and a strange, empty feeling in his stomach. “Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. That means a lot,” he managed to choke out. “I think I’m going to head up to bed now. Will you tell Hermione where I went?”
He made his way up the winding staircase, concentrating solely on making it to the room he’d settled his things into. He couldn’t remember the name of the Weasley it belonged to, but judging by the posters on the walls and books that adorned the shelves, he was quite the dragon enthusiast. Finally inside, Theo closed the door and slumped against the wall, fighting back the unexpected sting of tears that threatened to betray him. He tried to make sense of where this was coming from—why Mrs. Weasley’s kind words had sliced through him, leaving a raw, gaping wound in his stomach, an ache so deep and jagged it felt like something had cracked open inside him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t belong here, and yet the ugliest, most vulnerable part of him writhed, desperate to be part of it, to have a place in something he knew he didn’t deserve.
“Theo?” He heard Hermione’s muffled voice say from the other side of the door.
He gritted his teeth, trying to fight back the visceral emotions that were threatening to overtake him. “Yeah?” He replied, his voice breaking. Fuck.
“Can I come in?” She asked, and he didn’t know what to say– he couldn’t turn her away. Not her– not Granger. He didn’t say anything, hoping against all hope she’d decide to retreat.
Unfortunately, she seemed to take his silence for consent, because a few seconds later she was pushing the door open, sliding down next to him, like she already knew exactly where he’d be sitting. She didn’t say anything, just reached over and pulled him close, her hair pressed against his face. To Theo’s distress, his body seemed to collapse under her warmth, and he felt himself choking back sobs. He tried to pull away, panicked at what he was doing, but she wouldn’t let him.
“You’re okay, Theo,” she soothed, her hand rubbing circles on his back, the other one gripping his neck tightly. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”
Despite his mind screaming at him to back away, to shut himself off, Theo felt himself clinging to her, knowing if she were to pull away and leave him at this very moment, he would probably break. “Fuck– I’m so sorry– I don’t know what the fuck is happening,” he managed, disgusted with how weak and raspy his voice sounded.
Hermione didn’t waver, didn’t even flinch. “Take a breath, Theo,” she whispered, stroking his cheek. “I’m not leaving. I’ll help you make sense of all this.”
Her words were like a cool breeze on burning skin, a balm to the raw panic in his chest, grounding him somehow. “Okay,” he managed.
“What happened?” She asked him simply, continuing to soothe him with her hands, her eyes full of such a deep compassion he thought he could drown in them.
“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I was just talking to Mrs. Weasley. She said– fuck,” he said as his voice caught. “She said a bunch of really nice things, and all of a sudden I was about to fucking cry,” he said bitterly.
“Is it– did it make you feel uncomfortable? The things she said?” Hermione asked.
He shook his head. “Not really– I mean maybe just in the sense that I’ve never– I didn’t know parents could be like that,” he managed.
Hermione nodded in quiet understanding. “It’s very different from what you grew up with,” she said softly.
“Yeah. You could say that,” Theo said wryly. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be– I just don’t understand why it made me so fucking emotional.”
Hermione hesitated before gripping his hand. “Could it– I know you probably don’t want to talk about it. But could it be about your mother?”
Something like understanding dawned on Theo then. “Oh. Um, yes, that’s it, I think,” he said, dropping his face into his palm. “Shit. I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me.”
“It’s okay– Theo, grief is complicated. It’s hard to make sense of sometimes,” Hermione said, and Theo’s chest seized when he thought about how well she must know that to be true.
He paused for a moment, thinking about his mother. Trying to picture her face, her smell, her voice. It made his chest ache. “I feel like I can only remember bits and pieces. And there’s no one around to tell me what she was like– to help me fill in the blanks. But sometimes I feel a thread, or something– like a yanking kind of feeling in my head, and if I could just follow it I’d remember more about who she was, maybe feel a little closer to her. I think maybe I was just feeling some of that tonight,” he said tightly.
She squeezed his hand, saying nothing, but her mere presence brought a sense of peace to him he didn’t know existed– a way to claw his way out of the storm he felt raging inside him. “I think it just made me realize what I’ve been missing out on,” he said falteringly.
Hermione’s own eyes were filled with tears, and he found himself touched by her empathy. By her capacity to feel things so strongly that his own pain was mirrored in her face. “I know I’ll never know her,” she said quietly. “But I think she’d be incredibly proud of you, Theo. And I think she’d want to see you take risks, and show people who you really are. To accept the love you deserve.”
Theo’s chest contracted at the brutal warmth in her gaze, her words both a comfort and a reminder of how much he had yet to allow himself to accept. “Will you stay with me tonight?” He heard himself ask, unsure if it was even an option. If it would be frowned upon. He nearly took them back, but Hermione was nodding at him, a teary smile on her face.
“Of course I will, Theo. I was hoping you'd ask.”
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Over the next few days, Theo fell into a strange routine at the Burrow. Aside from his out-of-character outburst on their first night, he found himself feeling content and genuinely enjoying himself most of the time. He loved watching Hermione relax in a way he’d never seen before, hearing the sound of her laugh– authentic and lovely. Each night, she would sneak into his room and snuggle close to him, always greeting him with kisses as she wrapped her arms around him. Theo wished he could bottle the feeling up– the warmth of her body against his after the cold emptiness of the bed, the way his heart would race every time he saw her slip through the door; how, in those moments, it still felt unreal that she craved his closeness as much as he did hers. Every morning, he’d wake to Hermione Granger in his arms, her beautiful face mere inches from his as the sunlight began to peek through, gently highlighting the freckles on her face.
Then they’d head downstairs and Hermione would make coffee, something he’d only just discovered through her, and found he quite enjoyed. The Weasley clan would slowly begin to emerge from their respective bedrooms, the smell of breakfast beginning to waft through the air. A copy of the Daily Prophet would be passed around, the family remarking on current events or laughing at Rita Skeeter’s far-fetched articles. The more time Theo spent here, the more he began to relax, and he found himself genuinely enjoying conversations with some of the Weasleys. He actually got on rather well with Percy, which Hermione said she found ‘interesting.’ He’d begun helping Mrs. Weasley with the cleanup after meals, and eventually, she began enlisting his help for cooking sometimes as well.
He ended up joining the occasional pickup Quidditch games with the Weasley boys– whose names he learned were George, Percy, and Bill (the second-eldest, Charlie, was away in Romania where he worked with dragons– hence the decor in Theo’s temporary bedroom) and Ron and Potter. When he wasn’t helping with the cooking and cleaning, chatting with a Weasley, snogging Hermione, or playing Quidditch, he found plenty of time to read, usually curled up on a couch or armchair in front of the fireplace. Hermione would often join him, draping her legs over his or leaning against his shoulder. Theo had to get used to the feeling of being touched so much– it was strange at first, but felt like the most natural thing in the world to him now– her small hand in his, the tickle of her hair, her sweet smell surrounding him– and he found himself craving her proximity almost constantly.
On this particular morning, he sat at the breakfast table, Hermione on his left, her arm wound through his, and Mr. Weasley to his right. They were discussing an article they’d all just read about a new policy the Ministry planned to roll out in the next few months in order to monitor the use of magic in predominantly Muggle areas. The Ministry would install tracking charms' on every wand in the country, to “ensure safety”.
“They’re saying it’s about protecting Muggles and preserving the security of the wizarding world,” Mr. Weasley said. “But it seems a bit…”
“Orwellian,” Hermione offered, then blushed at Mr. Weasley’s confused expression.
“Sorry– it comes from a Muggle book called 1984 by George Orwell. The book is set in a dystopian world where the government has total control over everyone. It’s just a way of describing a political system in which the government tries to monitor every part of people's lives,” she said, still looking slightly embarrassed.
Theo looked at the witch in admiration. She seemed to possess an infinite reservoir of knowledge—he imagined her mind as a vast, meticulously organized library, where, whenever she needed a piece of information, she’d effortlessly hop on a ladder to retrieve it from the precise section she was seeking.
“That’s also where the whole ‘Big Brother’ concept came from, right?” Theo chimed in, her words jogging something in his memory.
Hermione’s head whipped over to him, her eyes wide. “You’ve read Orwell?” She asked, clearly shocked.
Now it was Theo’s turn to feel a bit self-conscious. “Um. I did, awhile ago. I don’t remember everything about it, but that term sort of stuck with me for some reason.”
Mr. Weasley was eyeing him curiously. “You read Muggle literature, Theodore? That’s rather progressive of you.”
Theo shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s fair to call learning about other cultures and societies progressive. I just think it’s important to understand different perspectives, especially when you’re living in a world that isn’t all magic. The Muggles have their own history, their own problems—might as well learn from them, right?” Hermione was looking at him with a sort of loving fascination on her face, and he smiled quickly back at her.
“Too right you are. I don’t mean to sound so surprised, it’s just not something I’d necessarily expect from–” Mr. Weasley cut himself off, looking slightly guilt-stricken. Theo knew exactly what he was thinking– from the son of a Death Eater.
“You know, Arthur, Theo’s favourite class was Muggle Studies,” Hermione said, pinning Mr. Weasley with a stare that made it clear he should tread carefully. Theo remembered writing that to her in their notebook months ago, and was shocked that she’d held onto such a small detail about him. “Theo’s always been someone who wants to understand things for himself, not just accept what he’s been told. It’s something I’ve always admired about him. Considering the way he was raised, I think it takes a lot of strength to reject the hate he was taught and form his own opinions.”
Mr. Weasley looked appropriately chastised. “Of course. Of course it does– I commend you for it, son. I didn’t mean to imply anything else.”
Theo scoffed. “It’s fine, really. I can understand why you might expect me to think differently than I do.” Hermione frowned slightly, but he gave her a gentle look as if to say– enough.
Mr. Weasley smiled. “It’s wonderful the two of you have each other. I’m sure being with Hermione will only continue to expand your view of the Muggle world– she has such a wealth of knowledge on the subject. Tell me, Hermione, what have you introduced him to so far?
“Er… not a lot, really. I don’t have much contact with the Muggle world anymore,” she admitted, and Theo saw a shadow cross her face for just a moment.
He squeezed her hand, feeling strangely attuned to her emotions, even the slightest shift in her mood. Her eyes flicked over to him at the gesture, looking slightly surprised that he was paying such close attention to her. Like maybe no one ever had before.
Mr. Weasley seemed to recognize that he had managed to touch on a few sensitive subjects over the course of their conversation at this point, because he excused himself and mumbled something about ‘going to check on Molly.’
Theo turned to Hermione. “You alright?” He asked quietly, noticing the way her jaw was set tightly, like she was holding back an unspoken, painful memory. She started to nod, but he could see her wavering, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. “Why don’t we go upstairs for a bit?” He urged, pulling her towards the stairs.
Once they reached his bedroom, he cast a quick Muffliato and sat down on the bed, pulling her down with him and leaning against the headboard. Theo didn’t say anything as she broke down, her head buried in his chest, just stroked her hair and pressed kisses against her temples, wiping the tears from her cheeks occasionally. He felt a deep surge of empathy for her– he didn’t know the exact reason she was crying, but he was smart enough to know it had to do with her parents– the weight that she carried constantly, the empty space in her heart where they had once been. That kind of loss, that kind of erasure, went beyond grief, he thought. It was a permanent, unfillable void. He wanted to carry some of that weight for her, if only for a moment, to somehow ease the burden of the devastating choice she’d had to make. But underneath that, there was a sense of reverence in the way she’d let him be the one to hold her through it. It was strange, but Theo felt in that moment what an incredible privilege it was to be the one she turned to when everything was too much, when the loss and the weight of the past overwhelmed her.
Hermione had seen Theo at his most vulnerable– had been the one to help make sense of his own grief, his own complex feelings towards his father and himself. She had been the one to show him he didn’t have to face things alone, and had found him the help he so desperately needed. It had brought them together in a way Theo couldn’t properly convey with words– in a way that can only occur when you allow someone to see the most painful, broken parts of you, trusting that they won’t turn away. For a brief moment, as he held her tight, he let himself feel the depth of his gratitude. Now he could be the one to carry some of the weight for her, just as she had done for him. He could be there for her now, steady and present, and that felt like the most important thing in the world. She needed someone to be the anchor when everything felt like it was drifting, and he was honored that it was him. In the stillness of that shared vulnerability, he realized just how precious it was– a feeling he never knew existed but was now carved onto his very being.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, her voice thick with tears. “I don’t even know where that– you’re probably so confused,” she hiccuped.
He shook his head, brushing her hair back from her face and wiping a stray tear. “I’m not confused, Hermione. And even if I was, you never need to apologize to me for feeling things. Remember what you told me the other night? ‘Grief is complicated. It’s hard to make sense of sometimes.’”
Hermione smiled at him tearfully. “Thank you, Theo. You’re so wonderful to me.”
Theo pressed another kiss to her forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Okay,” she said, a bit apprehensively. “It’s probably just the holidays. I have so many memories with my parents from this time of year, and knowing that I’ll never experience them again– that they won’t ever remember it–” her voice caught, and she took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together.
Theo waited patiently, stroking her hair reassuringly. “When Mr. Weasley asked me that question, for some reason it occurred to me that I’d never be able to introduce you to my parents. I wish I could’ve brought you home with me, that they could've gotten to know you. I love the Weasleys with all my heart, but it’s not quite the same,” she said quietly.
“I get it, Hermione,” he said after a few seconds. “The holidays are bound to bring up things like this– I know it probably feels like a part of you is just... gone, like they’re gone, even though they’re still out there. I’m not an expert on this kind of thing, but I think what you had with them, what you gave them, it’s certainly not erased. It’s part of who you are, and even if they can’t remember it, you’ll carry those memories forever– they still matter.”
She nodded at him, and he could see she was mulling over his words.
“You know, just because you spend Christmas with the Weasleys doesn’t mean you can’t keep some of those traditions alive. Even if it’s just something you do on your own, a way to remember them by– but also, I would be happy to experience some of those things with you. I might not be able to meet them, but I’d love to get to know them somehow, to learn more about your family,” he said softly.
“Theo,” she said, tears spilling from her eyes again. “That would mean so much to me. Thank you.”
“Do you want to tell me about some of the things you’d do with your parents during the holidays?” He asked earnestly.
Hermione seemed to light up as she began to speak, her tears beginning to dry on her face. “Oh, there were quite a few,” she said excitedly. “My dad used to take me to see The Nutcracker every year, just the two of us. It’s a Muggle ballet,” she explained. “Of course we had to go pick out a tree– we would drive an hour there and back to find one, and my dad insisted on chopping it down himself. And they would take me to pick out a special ornament every year. They’d write my name and the year on the back, and when we’d pull them all out to hang on the tree, they’d tell me funny stories about what I was like at those different ages.” Her face was aglow, and Theo admired her, knowing he, too, was smiling at her words.
“Oh! And my absolute favourite one was on Christmas Eve, we would make a fire and have hot cocoa with loads of marshmallows and whipped cream, and we would watch a Muggle Christmas movie. It was always the same one every year,” she said.
“What was it called?” Theo asked, genuinely curious.
“It’s an American film– it’s all in black and white, and it’s called It’s A Wonderful Life. It’s a beautiful story,” Hermione said, looking wistful. She turned to Theo, planting a gentle kiss on his lips. “Thank you, Theo. Even just talking about it has made me feel so much better– you’re right that I should try to keep the memories alive.”
Theo’s chest warmed with the knowledge that he’d been able to help her make a small degree of sense out of her pain– that he’d been able to bring a smile back to her face. “Of course, Hermione. This doesn’t have to be a one time thing, either– you can tell me about them anytime you want. I’d love to know more.”
Later that evening, as he watched Hermione doze peacefully against his chest, her book still open on her lap and the fire roaring in front of them, he was struck by how different his life had been this time last year. The cold, vast, echoing hallways of Nott Manor that he’d roamed alone, save the company of a few house elves– all cold marble, hard, unyielding materials that reflected no warmth, only harsh angles and uninviting surfaces– stood in stark contrast in his mind to where he was now. The Burrow, with its creaky wooden floors, worn down by countless pairs of feet; each room which radiated warmth and activity, from the mismatched furniture to the cluttered counters, all marked by the unmistakable signs of a family that loved and lived here. And here he sat, his body humming with contentment, more than happy to bask in Hermione’s warmth, to revel in the soft rise and fall of her chest. For the first time in his life, Theo realized, he felt at home.