The Petrified People and the Pilfered Photo
June, 1993
He was going to smack Blaise on the back of the head as soon as he got out of here.
His irresponsible best mate had been experimenting with third-year Transfiguration and for the hundredth time ignored the rules for reckless casting.
Firstly, Blaise shouldn’t’ve been practicing so late at night when they were already tired; secondly, he shouldn’t’ve been attempting a spell beyond their year without supervision.
Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, he shouldn’t’ve been aiming at an object inches away from an open flame.
Theo groaned and shuffled in the hospital bed yet again. His left arm throbbed painfully, but the bruises across his ribs made it impossible to lie on his right side, either. He was forced to remain flat on his back, staring at the dull ceiling, unable to get comfortable.
It wasn’t long before Theo had quite enough. Ignoring the nurse’s earlier command, he kicked off the sheets and started pacing in his bare feet, hoping to wear himself out enough to get to sleep.
Moon beams illuminated the hospital wing in pale light. Theo’s long limbs cast lengthy shadows as he traced a path between the tall windows. The grounds of the castle were silent, only a lone crow making any disturbance against the picturesque view.
It felt like home.
Hogwarts was ancient, dusty, and imperfect – which was precisely why Theo loved it. He liked the cracks in the walls, the faded paintings, the ancient furniture, and the creaky suits of armour. The well-trodden floors knew centuries of people living, learning, and laughing in the building, creating memories, and leaving behind imprints of themselves in the very stone.
His true home, Nott Manor, was much more picturesque than Hogwarts … but it was a cold, sturdy, emotionless work of art that belonged in a wizarding museum. There were no cracks, no flaws, no faded colour. Every inch of the building was smooth, solid, and charmed to perfection. The centuries-old estate might’ve been constructed a month ago for all the wear and tear it displayed. Theo tried once to scratch at the paint on the wall next to his bed just to see if he could leave a mark – an imprint to show that he’d actually lived in the room – but the enchanted paint didn’t budge.
The Slytherin dormitory was much more interesting. Draco’s alcove was straight and neat and would’ve probably passed an inspection by Thoros Nott, but Greg and Vince were notoriously bad at tidying, and Blaise fell somewhere in a comfortable neutral zone between the others.
Meanwhile Theo tried to make his own corner as different as possible from his stark bedroom at home. He used Sticking Charms to hang photos, drawings, and magazine clippings all around his bed. He’d scratched so many designs into the posts and bedframe with his potions knife that he half-wondered if one day the wood might simply splinter and give out underneath him as he slept. He pinned various scraps of cloth all over his green velvet curtains so that barely any green showed through anymore; the others teased him by calling his bed the “circus tent.”
Normally Theo loved his circus tent but regretted pinning a particular scrap of bright red silk on the side of the bed facing Blaise. When his friend was bored Blaise often used the flashy piece of silk as target practice. Theo mostly allowed him to get away with it – they were barely thirteen and hardly knew any truly dangerous spells – but Blaise crossed a line when he thought it would be fun to Transfigure the piece of cloth into a folded crane that he could fly around the room, something they shouldn’t be able to do for another year.
Theo didn’t expect the spell to work, and clearly neither did Blaise. His friend’s sheer surprise made him drop his wand, allowing the scarlet crane to fly erratically sidelong – directly through Theo’s candle.
Theo would’ve been annoyed enough that the crane subsequently set his bed on fire and quickly consumed his colourful curtains, but he’d also had the misfortune to be in the bed at the time.
His evasive action resulted in him rolling through a flaming curtain to the stone floor, tangled in his sheets, at the precise moment Blaise leapt from his own bed in a hurry, tripped on his dropped wand, and landed directly on Theo’s left arm with an awful CRACK.
The subsequent detention wasn’t enough punishment, Theo decided as his healing arm gave yet another throb. Blaise WOULD make it up to him by doing his last piece of Transfiguration homework for him, and he was going to charge Blaise with reconstructing the circus tent next year, too. Theo would miss his colourful alcove in the meantime, but there was no point trying to rebuild it now when he had to return home in just a few weeks anyway.
Theo sighed and started back to his boring, white hospital bed but was momentarily distracted by the cluster of silent beds at the back of the room surrounded by high curtains.
He paused, wondering if he dared to have a look. He’d never seen a Petrified person before, and he couldn’t deny the morbid curiosity tickling his mind.
Surely it wouldn’t hurt … he didn’t mean them any harm, anyway. Despite popular school opinion, being Slytherin didn’t automatically make Theo hate Muggle-borns. They could be a bit annoying since their ignorance of the wizarding world made them a liability – not to mention he couldn’t follow some of their bizarre Muggle slang – but generalising that they were ALL awful seemed a little excessive, no matter what his father said.
Theo soundlessly pulled aside the first curtain and glanced down at the frozen face of Justin Finch-Fletchley. He drew in a sharp breath.
He hadn’t expected his classmate to seem so … lifeless.
Slytherins shared Astronomy with the Hufflepuffs, and Theo had been surprised to find out last year that Justin enjoyed learning the histories of the constellations just as Theo did. They’d shared several conversations about it, and Theo didn’t regret it – not even after Thoros found out that his son interacted cordially with a Muggle-born and punished him accordingly.
This year, Theo simply decided he wouldn’t let Thoros find out about his interactions with Justin – or Mandy Brocklehurst, an ill-bred Ravenclaw who often teamed up with him in Herbology. Having Blaise as a best friend was beneficial, as the skills he’d taught Theo in deviousness, subtlety, and deception were keeping Thoros blissfully in the dark.
Theo knew these cunning traits came naturally to most Slytherins, but he tended to personify the Slytherin ambition trait where Blaise was somewhat lacking. Theo’s determination to land in the top five meant that he steadily beat his friend in all subjects but Transfiguration. (This was possibly due to Blaise’s regular, ill-advised, late-night practice sessions – or perhaps Blaise simply had a better imagination than Theo since he grew up in fabulous European cities with his glamorous mother instead of a stark, isolated building with only Thoros Nott for company.)
Theo couldn’t look at Justin for long; the pale, breathless body barely looked human. He wondered if the other Petrified people looked this eerie, or if it was only strange looking at Justin since he knew him.
He quietly replaced the curtain and pulled aside the next.
Hermione Granger.
As displeased as his father had been to learn his son spent time with a Hufflepuff, Theo knew he’d have been beaten to an inch of his life if he tried associating with a Gryffindor, so he kept a safe distance from their house as a rule. He didn’t know this girl well, so she didn’t seem as eerie as Justin, but there was something … strange about her.
She seemed familiar.
He’d seen her around, of course – she didn’t exactly keep a low profile hanging out with Potter – but Theo got a strange feeling in his stomach when he looked at her. Her unmoving eyes seemed to almost look back at him … they seemed off somehow, as though there was something wrong with them.
A yawn took him by surprise.
Theo shook his head and replaced the curtain around the Petrified witch. He was tired; that was it … hopefully the Skele-Gro would finish its work soon so he could sleep comfortably for a little while.
December, 1994
Theo’s hands shook violently. Blaise nudged him in the ribs as they reached the marble staircase.
“Would you relax already? You’re starting to make ME nervous.”
Theo ignored him. Blaise was perfectly fine; he’d been steadily dating his way through Hogwarts’ pool of fourth- and fifth-year witches for months and his confidence was not to be questioned. Theo, on the other hand, had barely stood in proximity to a witch since summer last when his cousin Tatiana had given him dance lessons.
There was only one witch with whom he cared to attend the Yule Ball, and it took him a few weeks to decide if it would be worse to skip the prestigious event or to attend with a Muggle-born on his arm. After weighing the odds until the last possible minute – after which his roommates were sworn to silence – Theo finally built up the courage to ask Mandy Brocklehurst to accompany him.
Quite apart from thinking she was attractive, Theo liked Mandy because she didn’t immediately dismiss him as an evil Slytherin when they’d met, and they’d had many pleasant conversations about Herbology and novels they both enjoyed. She’d been surprised at his invitation but accepted regardless.
Now Theo caught sight of his favourite Ravenclaw’s long, silky black hair across the Entrance Hall. She was dressed in satin robes of pale mauve, which should pair excellently with Theo’s iron-grey. He hated wearing grey, but black was everyday wear, and only second-class wizards wore brightly-coloured robes, or so he was regularly reminded. Hopefully next to Mandy he wouldn’t look quite so much like a long, thin nail.
Mandy went slightly pink as Theo bent his head to brush her hand nervously with his lips. To his left, he saw Blaise kissing the hand of his own date with flawless confidence. Theo could hardly believe Blaise managed to attract one of the bosomy Beauxbatons witches, given they were far out of his friend’s league – he was lucky to be tall and skilled enough at the art of flirtation that the age difference didn’t seem to matter in the slightest.
Theo tried to hold his arm steady as he led Mandy into the Great Hall. He focused on keeping his breathing even and not tripping over his robes – or hers – as they took their seats. He barely paid attention to the champions entering the Hall.
Across the table, Pansy Parkinson looked in surprise at Theo’s date. A quick desperate glance at Draco had the blond distracting his partner with comments about the menu. Theo shot a grateful look at his dormmate later; Draco and Pansy were the only two Slytherins whose parents considered Thoros among their friends, so it was only through them that Thoros might find out about Theo’s inappropriate choice in dance partner.
He didn’t possess Blaise’s charm – or even Draco’s, who managed to make Pansy giggle effortlessly – but Theo thought he did well over dinner keeping Mandy engaged in polite conversation and even striking up a chat with Daphne Greengrass and fifth-year Neil Vaisey on Mandy’s other side.
The pressure to dance wasn’t too overwhelming, as Mandy seemed content to simply wander the beautiful Hall on Theo’s arm and chat with other students. But when the band struck up a faster song, Theo couldn’t ignore the spark of excitement in his date’s eyes. He obliged her by spinning her onto the floor.
Tatiana had taught him well; even in the slightly-too-long dress robes Theo spun and dipped his delighted partner. He didn’t feel the need to rush off the dance floor when the song ended; the pair maintained comfortable silence as they waltzed, and he began to copy Mandy in studying the other couples travelling by.
They held back identical amused snorts when Ravenclaw Quidditch captain Roger Davies nearly tripped Fleur Delacour with his large feet – Davies was known to be much steadier on a broom than on the ground. Draco, naturally, was just as skilled on the dance floor as any proper pure-blood should be, and Pansy seemed to be having the time of her life in his arms. Justin Finch-Fletchley twirled the lovely Hannah Abbott with a distinguished grace that might’ve fooled even Thoros Nott into believing he was pure-blood himself.
Speaking of pure-bloods, Theo squinted across the dance floor in search of Blaise. He’d made his friend swear that he wouldn’t get himself into any trouble. Slytherin could hardly afford to gain a bad reputation among the foreign guests, but he knew his mate’s hormones were more than likely to get the better of him.
Unfortunately, many of the Beauxbatons witches were dressed alike, so Theo couldn’t spot Blaise or his date. He sighed internally and spun Mandy again, keeping his eyes peeled for the potential troublemaker.
As he studied the other dancers, his gaze was drawn by a pretty witch twirling on the arm of one of the Durmstrang lot – wait, that was Krum, Theo realised.
He hadn’t expected the celebrity champion to simply lose himself in the crowd instead of basking in the spotlight like Fleur, but Krum seemed utterly oblivious to the jealous and lingering glances from surrounding couples, his eyes fixed firmly on the witch in his arms.
She looked …
Theo stared.
But … how?
Mandy let out a tiny sound of pain as Theo trod on her foot.
He stammered an apology and led his date carefully to a chair. He retrieved a drink for her and soon she was distracted by a conversation with one of her housemates, so Theo let his gaze stray back to Krum’s partner.
It was impossible, of course … but his heart pounded fervently regardless. The sounds of the ball seemed to disappear from his ears as his mind flashed back home.
Thoros was abundantly strict about his Manor’s décor. Art must depict one of three things: relevant historical events, magical achievements, or commissioned portraits of esteemed relatives. Photographs, comparatively, were unceremonious and plebeian.
Since a witch among the Notts would rarely do anything more esteemed than birth the next heir, the Manor’s portraits rarely featured any – but there was a modest portrait in the drawing room depicting Thoros and his bride on their wedding day, commissioned by the bride’s father. Theo knew Thoros didn’t keep the portrait on display for sentimental reasons, but because it had been painted by Jean-Claude de Ville, one of the greatest French painters of the age.
Theo’s mother had passed from dragon pox when he was only four years old, and his memories of her were faint. Since there were no photographs, he knew the face of Isabelle Selwyn Nott almost exclusively from the wedding portrait.
And across the dance floor in periwinkle blue robes with silky, bronze hair coiled up in a knot and full, pink lips drawn back into a pleasant smile, Hermione Granger looked exactly like her.
June, 1995
Since he was in the same class as attention-demanding Draco Malfoy, Theo passed relatively unnoticed by the other houses. He had the unique ability to study their peers without drawing unwanted attention. He knew all their year mates, better even than Draco did, because he simply observed from the sidelines.
The Hufflepuffs were predictable and enjoyed gossip, although they could be open-minded enough to join study groups with Slytherin participants. The Ravenclaws were much like Theo himself – hyper-focused on schoolwork and largely uninteresting to observe since they kept to themselves most of the time.
By default, the Gryffindors in their year were the most diverse, and thus the most fascinating.
Theo knew perfectly well that Finnigan and Thomas were interested in each other, but neither was brave enough to say it aloud, likely for fear of social rejection given the wizarding world’s low tolerance for anything non-heterogenous.
He knew Brown pretended to hold herself in high esteem to distract from her lower-than-average intelligence. He knew Granger was perfectly secure in her intelligence but insecure about her peer relationships. He knew Weasley had a superiority complex to hide his fragile ego, just as Longbottom had an inferiority complex to hide his fragile courage.
And Potter … he was the most unwilling celebrity Theo had ever heard of.
Theo knew the other boy hadn’t put his name in the Goblet of Fire. From his years of observation, he’d learned that Potter hated being recognised unless it was for something he’d earned, like winning Quidditch. No matter what Draco or Snape assumed, Potter wasn’t the type to make up stories to garner attention.
Thus, his classmate’s claims about the third task – about Diggory’s death – had to be true.
And if Potter’s story was true, then the Dark Lord was back.
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Voldemort. Walking among the wizarding world once again, in flesh and blood.
And Theo was terrified.
He’d listened to stories and read books and heard rumours, but the war was in the past. Even though Thoros kept an open mind about the Dark Lord’s supposed demise, Theo spent his whole life believing firmly that the horrors were OVER. The odds of resurgence were so minimal that he didn’t consider any sort of contingency plans …
But suddenly Voldemort was BACK. And given that Thoros was one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted followers, he’d surely be pulled right back into the Dark Lord’s ranks – and he’d probably drag Theo right along with him.
Voldemort was meant to be the epitome of preserving pure-blood tradition, hence Thoros’ deep devotion, but Theo knew better. He’d listened to accounts from both sides; he’d studied the unbiased histories … and no matter what Thoros hoped, the Dark Lord’s presence threatened everyone, regardless of blood. Theo learned long ago to co-operate with the pure-blood ways even though they were old-fashioned, narrow-minded, and sexist, and he knew how to fool Thoros by necessity.
But Theo couldn’t fool Voldemort.
Theo’s blood ran cold as he imagined kneeling before the most frightening wizard of the last five decades, only to have his mind invaded and all the awful truths spilled out: He’d befriended people of lesser blood status. He didn’t care about ninety per cent of pure-blood traditions. He had no intention of carrying on the old ways once the Nott bloodline belonged to him.
He’d be disintegrated into ash faster than a dying phoenix.
Leaving the castle at the end of the year was always difficult, but this year Theo wanted to return home about as much as he wanted to steal a Blast-Ended Skrewt to hide in his sock drawer.
As he sat curled up on his bed, his eyes jumped yet again to the black-and-white photo he’d memorised.
However insecure he felt about his fate he was even less secure about hers. If his wild theory was correct, she’d be in even more danger than him. And if Voldemort could dig in his mind, he’d find everything.
He’d find out about her.
Since the unintentional fire two years ago, his circus tent had only grown more colourful and cluttered, so a single photo should go unnoticed. Just to be safe, Theo had pinned the photo up inside his curtains, surrounded by several much brighter photos for good measure.
But Theo underestimated his best friend’s snooping prowess. It had been just days ago, before the third task, that Blaise realised Theo kept this photo. But despite his cunning and manipulation, Blaise was still unable to make Theo divulge why he had it.
Tonight, on their last night at Hogwarts, he was taking over half of Theo’s bed and pestering him.
“You mean to copy her haircut?”
“Go to bed, Zabini.”
“Jealous she got to date Krum before you, that it?”
“Bugger off.”
“I got it. You’re keeping an eye on your competition ‘cause you wanna take her out and become Potter’s best friend next.”
“Now you’re getting desperate.”
“Potter’s not that bad,” Blaise baited, a sly grin crossing his face as he made himself more comfortable on Theo’s pillow. “We both know you have a thing for tall, dark, and pretty–”
Theo wished he hadn’t put his wand away so he could hex the invader.
“If you think Potter’s pretty, perhaps you should woo him next,” he pointed out. “Face it, you’re running out of witches; you’ll have to switch soon.”
Blaise paused for just a second before lazily kicking Theo’s leg. “I’ll switch if you do. Gotta admit dating a bloke would be smarter than dating Brocklehurst, and you know it.”
“I’m not dating her,” Theo mumbled. Even though the Ball had gone well, he wasn’t brave enough to risk his father’s wrath by being seen anywhere else in public with the Ravenclaw.
“Maybe if your father goes back to the Dark Lord, he’ll do something stupid and get himself killed. Then you can date all the Mudbloods you want,” Blaise teased.
Theo kicked him back with minimal force, knowing full well that Blaise was just trying to make him laugh. His friend’s dark and dry sense of humour was normally helpful, but not now. Not tonight.
Blaise didn’t know what Voldemort’s return could mean, not really. His mother was foreign, and his father long gone … the half-Italian had no idea what it meant to have a Death Eater for a parent.
Further attempts at teasing and the subsequent lack of response from his friend made Blaise sober a little. He sat up to join Theo and peered yet again at the black-and-white photo pinned to the bottom-left bedpost.
Blaise didn’t know how carefully Theo watched the Prophet, hoping the press that followed her around during the infamous love triangle would reemerge at some point. He couldn’t pay too much attention to her in real life for fear of drawing attention.
Finally, after Krum pulled her from the lake, the Prophet caught this candid shot of her. Even with wet hair and sodden robes, her black-and-white face was unmistakably Isabelle’s no matter how long Theo looked at it.
There was just one little problem eating away at Theo’s mind–
“Brocklehurst would be better than Granger,” Blaise pointed out. “Might be better to find a picture of her to hang in here–”
“I’m not interested in Granger.”
“Just felt like having her photo where you can see it from your bed?” Blaise waggled his eyebrows. “Even if she’s not your type, she does make pretty decent wanking material–”
“Oh, piss off,” Theo shoved his friend lazily, ignoring Blaise’s snicker. “Anyway, she’s not … it’s not like that, either.”
“Someday you’ll have to tell me,” Blaise yawned and laid back down. “What’s so intriguing about the Gryffindor know-it-all.”
xxxxxxxxx
The next day found Theo bent over a dusty desk in an unused classroom, trying to catch his breath. Distantly, he knew Blaise would be looking for him. The train should be leaving soon, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.
The obscure spell he’d cast had revealed her true eyes and confirmed his suspicions without a doubt.
Hermione Granger was related to Isabelle. To him.
But … HOW?