Untouchable

It was 10:40 AM. Harry had twenty minutes to make his way to the quidditch pitch, and Hermione was not budging. With great help from Parvati and Lavender, Hermione Jean Granger had been shifted into the common room from her bunk in the girls' dormitories. Now that she was in the common room, Parvati and Lavender had gestured to Harry that Hermione was his problem. She stood rooted to the spot, arms folded over her chest, looking highly combative. Having run out of ideas and desperate not to be late for his match, Harry considered sweeping her forward with his firebolt. "We discussed this."

"No!" She corrected. "You and Ron discussed this." Her tone was accusatory, and the expression on her face was one of hurt. "There's no way I am showing my face in front of the school after that fiasco in potions!"

"That was almost two hours ago!"

"I don't care!"

"What about lunch in the great hall? Are you going to miss that too?" Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated by his inability to understand the female mindset in general.

"Yes." She hollered. "I'll skip dinner as well."

Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets and was rocking back and forth uncomfortably, acutely aware of the time and the lack of progress. "You realize you're just drawing more attention to yourself if you go into hiding. Just face everyone head-on once, and they won't bother you again. You're lucky we have a match today."

She replied scathingly. "How fortunate; I get to be confronted by everyone in the school all at once!"

Harry reached for her arm and tried pulling her to the portrait door.

She swatted his hand away. "Don't."

"Okay, what do you want to do?" He said, throwing the ball in her court. He cocked his head sideways, holding her faltering gaze with his steady direct one. The tactic was clever, forcing her to judge the situation dispassionately. At the same time, he urged her to disregard the emotions that were throwing her out of balance. Seconds passed while Hermione considered her options. She prided herself on being rational, and Harry was counting on it.

She sighed. "Oh, alright then."

Harry's face cracked soundlessly into a triumphant smile. He gestured to the portrait entrance. "Ladies first."

She nodded decisively as a trooper would though her eyes still looked a little moist from earlier this morning. The stream of red-clad Gryffindors poured out of the common room, and Hermione joined the vanguard.

Someone bumped into her from behind. "Sorry!" An acne-ridden fifth-year lad with gangly limbs apologized but straightened up when he realized who he had bumped into. "Er..." His glance flitted from her face to her hips. This was only a small taste of what was to come. The group of Gryffindors parted around them. Even first years looked at Hermione with an undisguised interest before tittering and whispering to their friends. "That's her. That's the girl I was telling you about." She fixed her gaze ahead, and it landed promptly on Saemus Finnegan and Dean Thomas, who gloated near the top of the stairs. Finnegan held her gaze for a couple of seconds before wolf-whistling. The pair broke out in raucous laughter. Third and fourth-year boys Hermione could not name joined them in lewd merriment. Her cheeks burned, their rosy hue offering ample encouragement.

"Just ignore them," Harry said.

"I am." She said, her voice quivered.

Hermione gripped the banister tightly so that her knuckles popped, and she tried to take the steps down two at a time, hoping to lose her housemates. Harry struggled after her in full quidditch gear, waving his broom and yelling for her to slow down. Dean Thomas nearly lost his balance on the steps as he followed her down, with Finnegan whispering lewd remarks in his ear. The words would soon be shouted at her back for all their housemates to hear. It gave her no comfort to be proven right. Hermione simply dreaded making an appearance in the quidditch stand. It was far too soon. There would be nowhere to hide and too many eyes upon her. The staircase swung to the left before taking them down a flight. She lost her nerve. Without thinking, Hermione side-stepped around Harry onto the adjacent landing, too quickly to be intercepted.

A stunned Harry Potter stared after her. "Where are you going?" More students weaved around Hermione's still person and onto the staircase. Harry stepped back to make room and jostled for space in the swarm, breaking eye contact with Hermione as shoulders knocked into him.

Hermione leaned over the railing. "You must prepare for the game and do the pep talk."

"Come back here! That's not the way to the Quidditch pitch!" said a flustered Harry Potter.

She tried to explain. "You should go, and you are already running late." More bodies pushed past her onto the staircase. The distance between them widened, and Harry dropped his broom in the melee. "Just hang on a second!" He shouted as he dropped to his knees in search before someone stood on it and snapped it in half. The staircase barely creaked with the extra weight, and soundlessly, it began to move. "Just wait, Hermione!"

Hermione bit her lip with regret for what she was about to say. "I'll meet you in the stands if you have time. Otherwise, I will be in the crowd cheering." It was an outright lie. "Good luck, Harry!" She shouted, waving until he was lowered out of sight, his unruly head of hair disappearing. An unblinking Seamus, standing a few paces behind Harry, waved back at her. The tip of his tongue traced his top lip in a slow half-circle. Seamus made her skin crawl, and Hermione let her revulsion show.

As Hermione wandered by the Great Lake, it started to rain. The smell of damp grass pervaded her nostrils, and she craned her neck forwards, taking the heady outdoor scent deep into her lungs. Above her, greying cotton wool clouds rolled in. Her Oxford brogues were mud-stained, but for once, Hermione didn't care. She threw her head back, tossing her hair over her shoulder while she trekked through the long grass on the bank. The witch slipped once or twice onto her hands and knees as she scrambled for purchase. Wiping her muddy hands absently on her school skirt, she continued ambling beside the lake.

Hermione could hear the thunderous applause from the ongoing match, shouts, and Lee Jordon's animated commentary in the distance. "Bell passes the Quaffle. Swerves to avoid the bludger. Intercepted by Bletchley. Handed back to Montague. Malfoy takes a nosedive. Potter follows suit. Malfoy's closing in on the snitch. Will he make it..." And Hermione closed her ears to the noise, reveling in the quiet moment, feeling insignificant, pocket-sized, and free to the elements. A salvo of raindrops pinched her skin till it was red and raw. She fisted her hands and tried to breathe some warmth into them. Slowly, the curls dropped out of her hair, sagging under the weight of the unshed raindrops that sought sanctuary in her mouse-brown locks. Hermione found a large mossy boulder to sit on, pulling her knees up and tucking them under her chin. A few hours ago, she lost her skirt, reputation, and prefect recommendation. She must have looked a sight, but no one could see her here. Hermione was happy in simply being; lost in that tranquil moment. She was so absorbed in this state; she failed to notice the intruder emerging from the shaded undergrowth of the Dark Forest behind her.

"Granger?"

She turned to the unexpected call, and her eyes widened. Time stood still. They watched, taking in the other for several slow heartbeats. The only sound was the relentless drumming of raindrops on saturated soil. He was dressed for an expedition. A thick woolly scarf muzzled his mouth and nose, and his dark brown tresses peeped out like an errant child from under the black wool hat. His feet donned sturdy walking boots, and his broad shoulders filled out the dark windbreaker, tapering to a narrow waist. He cocked his head imperceptibly to the side, registering her relative state of undress. Ripples spread across still water. Hermione’s reflection disintegrated into a hundred scattered pieces.

"Did you hear what I said?" His deep, vibrating baritone rumbled through her, jolting her awake a second time. "Why aren't you at the game?"

Just like that, the illusion shattered with the very sight of him. The shame she had quieted for the past ten minutes resurfaced. Hermione's eyes filled with tears. When she turned her face away, Nott saw within them a reflection of the Great Lake pricked with scores of needle-thin raindrops. "Neither are you."

Theo said. "I don't have anyone to cheer on now that Blaise is off the team." Then he realized that she hadn't asked about his lack of attendance.

She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, and when she could not speak, she attempted a watery smile. "I couldn't face them. Not after potions."

Theo expected her to scream, shout, curse, or hex him through the dark forest, and he knew deep down it was what he deserved. Despite his misgivings, his wand was within reach of his fingers, and a curse ever ready on his lips. A sudden squall ripped through him, plundering his body heat. His nostrils pinched. He had been hiking in the forest for over an hour, skipping herbology class, and his hands were numb. His face hurt, and the words were slow to form through frozen lips. His opponent looked subdued, wet hair plastered to her skull. Her cold blue fingers were clasped around the shirt sleeves of each respective arm and folded across her body. For once, Theo felt out of his depth. "I did not intend for that to happen." He waved his hand in a vague gesture, no doubt alluding to that whole debacle, and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"You achieved what you said you would do."

He added hastily. "Those were fighting words. I thought it was unfair of your friends to…." Theo's mind drew a blank, and before he could find the words to finish his sentence, Hermione interrupted.

"You took your anger out on me," Hermione stated, her knees tucked firmly under her chin and rocking ever so slightly. She could sense his growing unease from her vantage as he swayed subconsciously on his feet in time with her rocking rhythm. When she slowed to a stop, so did he. The sound of distant thunder rumbled ominously.

 "I wanted to teach you a lesson." He answered honestly. "You are more mature than the friends you keep, and I expected you to understand the consequences of your actions."

She laughed mirthlessly. "You did that and more." She craned her neck to look at him under the weight of her sodden hair.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and turned away sharply, shifting his gaze to a distant point on the horizon. Pine trees turned with him, bending and swaying in the stiff breeze. As the wind picked up, branches cracked and fell to the ground with shudders and groans. She watched him coolly. He could feel the weight of her gaze upon him, the silence stretching between them only broken by the drumming rain. "It was not my intention to disrobe and publicly humiliate you." He regretted saying it instantly.

Granger flinched at his statement as though he had done it a second time. She shifted from side to side, adjusting her clothing if only to know it was still there, and untucked her knees, planting her muggle shoes on the grass with a squelch. A self-conscious Hermione pulled the corners of her pleated skirt as far over her knees as the fabric would stretch and crossed her legs at the ankles. She paused, "I can't speak of your intentions. Slughorn hates me. I am in detention for the next four months. It’s going on my school record. My hopes of landing a decent internship at the ministry are thinning. Congratulations, you evened the scoreboard."

He dropped his gaze and studied his mud-caked boots. "Perhaps, I owe you an apology." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Apologies should be given willingly and not as an afterthought." Nott was not in the habit of apologizing, so it had not struck him as the appropriate initial course of action. However, he was catching on fast. She observed his decisive gleam as he decided on his next step. Storm clouds gathered above. He would do well in the ministry, Hermione mused. The wizard was, after all, a consummate chess player. She could see his future as clearly as the lake stretched before them. He would surely follow in his father's footsteps. His path was cast in a preset mold, waiting for his feet to arrive.

That sympathetic tone he had acquired was notably absent when he spoke. "If you won't accept my apology, what do you want from me?"

It was a difficult question to answer aloud. The constant drizzle shrouded the harsh angles of Nott’s face and shoulders in a rolling mist. When he faced the lake, his sculpted features were emphasized in the brittle winter sunlight and mirrored in the water. She studied his side profile covertly, with a voyeuristic relish. Time would weather those sharp features, hollow his cheeks, and line his mouth with fine wrinkles. His unruly brown, black hair would be speckled with grey. The straight line of his back would curve gently over a walking stick - no, a stiff brolly. Nott would appear distinguished in his prime when the beauty of his youth had faded. He had many years yet. "If I don't accept your paltry apology, you'll have to stew in your guilt."

"Who says I'm guilty?" He said reflexively before controlling his voice to a low whisper.

Then why are you still here? She kept the thought to herself. She had thrown her last words like bait on a hook, not expecting him to bite. But the fact he seemed rooted to the spot and had not concocted an excuse to leave made her wonder. Hermione considered the following words carefully. “I can’t think of anyone else who wanted me to ruin my experiment. You told me as much in the storeroom.”

“I said no such thing.” A hasty denial.

 “We both know otherwise.” She sighed. “Fortunately for you, I don’t have proof. It's just your word against mine. My father isn't on the Hogwarts board of directors, so I don't think my word counts for much.” Her voice was as loud as a whisper, and her speech half-drowned in the wailing wind. Brown leaves scattered in all directions whipped off in a frenzy and hurled to the ground, but Theo caught every word. “Lucky you."

He scowled immediately.

"I didn't know until Professor Spout announced the fact in Herbology class two weeks ago. She accused you of coasting on your father's position after you handed in an essay you wrote in the fourth year that she had already marked." Hermione giggled at his audacity and so had half the class until Professor Spout's tirade on Nott's insolence extended into break time.

"The lessons repeat the fourth and fifth year, and the homework assignments are repeated too." He said tersely. "If I recall, she had nothing good to say about my father."

"I haven't seen you in her class since," Hermione observed.

"There is no point in attending; I could learn more herbology walking in a garden." He said with the flippancy of a student who could fail a class without consequence. The irony was, that he was still handing in his herbology homework via the ever-dependable Blaise Zabini but willing to fail his practical.

"Well, of course." Hermione laughed openly. "Where do plants grow?" The Dark Forest groaned in complaint. The canopy stirred as a pine tree fell crashing onto the undergrowth. Crushed brackens and ferns whimpered under its weight.

"Are you waiting for your father to intervene and forcibly send you back to Professor Sprout's class? The irony." She snickered.

"I do not rely on my father to fight my battles."

"No. I think it's admirable how you are willing to fight his battles for him." Certainly, Professor Sprout had learned that, perhaps to her detriment. As far as she was aware the Professor had not reported Nott to his Head of House or indeed the Headmaster for his ongoing absence. The Professor seemed to be waiting for Nott to return to her class when he was ready. Hermione wondered if the formidable stout middle-aged witch had finally cracked.

His comment about walking in a garden unlocked a memory rather a pertinent piece of gossip. It was common knowledge that Nott's father was a death eater in Voldemort's inner circle who fell from his position of influence. The reason for the disgrace was a tightly kept secret, but according to Lavender, he had succumbed to an illness. It was debilitating. He had retreated with his only child to their family estate to either recuperate or die within its walls. According to Lavender, whose source was presumably Daphne, the country manor fell into disrepair quickly. The gardens became overrun with wild grass, the fountains clogged with algae, and tree branches broke through the roof and the basement. Mice and squirrels breached the rooms. In winter, the pipes froze, thawed, and broke. Ceilings collapsed from under the damp, rotten beams, and mold spread unchecked across the walls. Yet no one dared to check on the occupants.

Lavender had told her that Nott's mother had died young of accidental causes and was buried on the estate in a simple plot. The only proof was a death certificate issued by the ministry at her husband's request. Nott's father, lingering in sickness for years, cut off all contact, after which and was presumed dead. It was also rumored that Theodore Nott had died of sepsis in his early years. The rumors were dispelled for good only in Diagon Alley when Nott's father was seen buying school supplies for his eleven-year-old son. The first sighting of Nott on the train to Hogwarts was overshadowed by Harry's admittance to Hogwarts the same year. "Professor Snape and your housemates constantly malign my parents. I tend to hold my tongue, but I'd love to tell Snape what I think of him one day." After she stopped speaking, her teeth continued to chatter.

"You’ve waited too long, Granger. He is no longer your potions teacher.”

Hermione smothered a laugh. Nott could be funny especially when he was not trying to be. She switched gears. “Your father is…shorter than I expected.” She had meant older, and frailer was probably more accurate.

“You have met my father?” His brows furrowed.

“I have seen him about.” She had seen Nott Senior on many occasions though she did not know him by his official title until now. He hobbled through Hogwarts’s corridors on a sturdy walking stick. His wizard hat, which was too large for his head, was pulled low over his brows to hide his temporal wasting. Board meetings happened monthly, which he attended without fail. After the board meetings, Mr. Nott liked to tour the grounds, casting a beady eye over the institution in his care. He tottered alone or accompanied by ancillary staff like Filch or Hagrid, stopping to ask pointed questions with a jab of his cane whenever he saw peeling paint and crumbling drywall. She observed that Theodore Nott rarely walked with his father. When he did, his left arm carried his father’s cane, and his right arm looped through that of his father’s, taking his weight like a crutch, shortening his strides to match until they fell in step together.

Keen to get the conversation back on track, Theo spoke. “We can resolve this between ourselves, Granger, without escalating to faculty.” He referred to the incident potions class, not herbology, and indeed not his father, parking that discussion indefinitely. Unlike Malfoy, Theo rarely mentioned his father in conversation with anyone, and he had certainly never talked about his father’s position on the school board. Though it was no longer a secret, it irked him that Granger remembered it and the inevitable conclusions she would draw.

Hermione laughed outright. “I hope this doesn’t escalate any further, and I don’t know how I could even surpass your retaliatory efforts.” She locked eyes with him defiantly. “You win.” The sky wept even harder.

“This is not a game.” Theo grounded out.

“But you set the rules in the storeroom, remember?”

“You cheated,” Theo growled. “You sabotaged my experiment.”

“Now we come to the real issue.” She smiled frostily. “Here, I thought you were just a concerned friend.”

His eyes narrowed to near slits.

“Blaise is so fortunate to have you fighting his corner.”

“We are not friends, not as you know.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said sarcastically. Hermione had wanted to know his definition of friendship but asking him would be just a waste of her time. He’d clam up instantly. She knew they had become associates less than a year ago. Their relationship had deepened quickly. She rarely saw them apart; even in Slytherin's house, they were given a wide berth. To attack one was to expect the other. She would have done well to remember. Hermione batted her eyelids thick with rain-sprinkled lashes and professed insincerely, “I’ll never say a bad word about Zabini as long as I live. I‘ll kiss the ground he walks on. I have learned my lesson. You should be pleased to hear that.” Rainwater filled her open mouth and left her gagging.

Nott did not look pleased; if anything, he looked furious. “Sarcasm does not become you.”

She froze and then threw her head back and cackled throatily. She could not help it. She laughed for nearly ten seconds until she coughed and spluttered. Even when she stopped guffawing like a hyena, his serious expression induced a second involuntary chuckle. “When did you become an authority on muggle witches?”

“I am not.” He said, his voice wavered. Theo stepped back and glanced over his shoulder at the castle; its wet stones lashed in the rain and polished to a shine like a refuge in the storm.

She tracked his gaze and pre-empted his next move. Hermione did not want him to do a runner when things were getting lively. “You are very comfortable with wandless magic, as you aptly demonstrated in potions. I’m guessing that given half the chance; you would use it again.” She raised a rain-slicked eyebrow.

“That is a preposterous suggestion.”

She smiled at him, wider than the Cheshire cat. “Why don’t you teach me, Nott? We could have our first lesson now.” Nonverbal magic was part of the Hogwarts curriculum for sixth-year students, but wandless magic was a different entity altogether. She knew only one individual (Professor Dumbledore) who could cast wandless magic reliably. Though she relished the challenge, there were too few instructional manuals in the library's restricted section and professors who encouraged using magic without a wand. She gave up the dream long ago. Theodore Nott certainly had not studied this craft at Hogwarts, meaning he learned it at home. She suspected his skill at wandless magic was honed over many years, given how effortlessly he could cast spells with his mouth closed.

Nott abruptly changed tack. “How did you arrive at such an absurd conclusion?”

“I’d tell you, but you would not believe me.”

“Try me.”

She retorted. “You habitually keep your wand on your non-dominant side. What if you need it?” Parvati had mentioned in passing that it couldn’t have been Nott who tore her skirt open in potions because his wand was on the table. She kept that tidbit to herself.

He froze for a second. His eyes widened fractionally before drawling, “I would stick to reading Muggle fiction, Granger.”

“I’m surprised you have heard of muggle fiction.” She giggled. “What would you recommend?”

It was either a lot of books or too few judging by the rapid flush on his cheeks. He stuttered, “I will take my leave now, Granger.”

“Do stay. We are just getting to know each other.”

“There is nothing more to say.”

“That’s just not true.” She added coyly. “I do not doubt you learned much about me in the potion’s storeroom. I merely wish to return the favor,” she said, bemused by his expression, referencing their encounter when he had disarmed her and proceeded to analyze her wand’s attributes.

He stood beside her, and she watched his jaw working silently. The time for play was over, and she steered the conversation towards serious matters that required addressing and, in the firm knowledge, he would contribute to the discussion. “Whatever wandless magic you learned, it does not compare to the strength of your wand.” She paused, “I think you fear its power.”

“What do you know of its power?” His hand slid to his trouser pocket, and a slip of damp fabric separated the pulp of his fingers from the yew tree wand.

“Few have such a wand and are almost always drawn to the dark side.” She said.

"You  are talking to a Slytherin." 

Her heart sank with his cutting response. Try as she might, she could not hide the emotion leaking into her eyes. She hoped desperately his reptilian grey gaze could not translate it into words. 

He paused. “You speak of the Dark Lord who owned a wand like mine.” He said, but it was phrased as a question. “What of Potter?” He asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. Theo bit his tongue, but it was too late to retract the question.

It was a fair question. “Harry’s wand is made from holly,” Hermione explained quickly. “But Ollivander said both wands were brothers.” 

Nott looked downcast, and quickly his expression transformed into one of irritation. “The yew tree wand’s reputation is over-stated, and it is a tool, nothing more.”

“If that’s the case, why don’t you use it more often instead of casting spells with just your mind.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, Granger.”

“Well, you’ve lost the element of surprise. I know what you are capable of.”

“You haven’t the faintest idea what I am capable of, and neither do I.” He said savagely.

A glimmer of forked lightning tore through the underbelly of the storm clouds, tearing away Granger's attention. The wind howled as a wounded animal impaled. A few seconds passed. His hazel-eyed classmate looked over one shoulder at him in wondering, cheeks nipped till they were red, wet eyelashes clumped in rainwater, her sodden curls hanging limp in the biting wind. She jumped out of her skin when a second spear of lightning struck the ground in white fury and uprooted an aged sycamore tree meters behind her. She twisted her head sharply to the noise and he caught a glimpse of her slight and pale profile framed in swirling grey mist. The ground shook as the winding branches, thick trunk and knotted roots landed sequentially. The root system that had never seen the sun in its lifetime lifted head height. It gasped and screamed a final protest at the sky before choking. Granger turned on her soles to face him. Gnarled wooden spines radiated from behind her crown like a pagan wreath. Thick sheets of rain lashed the hills and the lake as storm clouds descended further into the valley. Theo shuddered in the cold. His fingers worked at the zip on his jacket. He slid it off his shoulders to Hermione's wide-eyed surprise. She took a step back as he took one forwards before halting in confusion as he draped the rough heavy men's jacket over her shoulders. "If you don't accept my apology, would you accept this?"

Slytherin lost. They had been winning until the storm broke in full, and then the match had to be rescheduled. Better weather was promised after seven o’clock in the evening, but the Slytherin team could not hold onto their early lead and conceded defeat. The mood in the Slytherin common room was somber, though Theo knew Blaise was inwardly rejoicing. The grandfather clock chimed nine times. The sixth-year and seventh-year boys pulled up chairs in a wide circle, passing a bottle of Malfoy's fire whisky around to collectively drown their sorrows. Most were still in damp quidditch uniforms, but thankfully boots were off. Goyle sniffled into his sleeve. Crabbe was staring grimly into space; his lips pursed at the corners. The only person on the Gryffindor team with a firebolt was Potter. They had been flying against a team of Nimbus 2002's and Weasley twins’ voodoo sticks and still had managed to lose the game by sixty points. Finally, the bottle was returned to Malfoy. He lifted it to his lips and took a generous swig. "Crabbe? Your first hex?"

Crabbe snatched the bottle from Malfoy, "Eloise Midgen. Bat Bogey Hex."

“I was asking about the first hex you did and not the one you received, nitwit."

The boys bellowed laughter. Nott inclined his head out of feigned politeness though he failed to understand the cause for hilarity.

"Zabini – first kiss?"

Zabini replied smoothly, gulping the fire whisky without blinking. "Easy. I was five and gave Pansy a peck on the cheek under the table at one of Malfoy's mother's events."

"Yeah, Pansy was my first kiss, too," Malfoy said rather pathetically.

"Your first everything." Marcus Flint mumbled.

Malfoy passed the bottle to Pucey, who took his fill and handed it to Nott. Theo hesitated. He took a slow, steady sip, the molten amber liquid burning down his throat to the pit of his stomach. Malfoy, who had been sipping fire whisky from a newly materialized second bottle, interrupted Pucey and asked giddily. "First time."

"Pardon?"

"First time." Malfoy slurred.

Theo knew exactly what Malfoy meant, but he was momentarily stumped.

“It’s my turn anyway,” Pucey interrupted.

Montague wrenched the bottle from Theo's loose grasp. "The fling with Davis doesn't count." He swirled the whisky, and the subject was unclear.

“Davis wasn’t my first,” Pucey interjected hotly. He glanced sideways at Nott, who shrugged and wished the ground would swallow him whole. He was not having much luck with girls lately, and Davis was a particularly sore subject that his classmates seemed intent on revisiting.

Montague sighed deeply. “I have enough material to write a book on Tracey Davis’s misadventures, and she’d come clawing for royalties.”

“Are you not a member of Davis fan club then?” Zabini snickered.

Montague said, pointing to everyone in turn, “No, I leave that to these sorry sods who fell for her rustic charm; the treasurer (Nott), secretary (Pucey), and president (Malfoy) of the official Tracey Davis fan club.”

“She’s got questionable taste.” Blaise teased.

Montague spat, “I agree. Morons, all three of them.”

Flint smiled far too broadly for Theo’s liking. “Whoever she could get her hands on.”

Bletchley smirked. “I hear there’s not much money left in the Treasury, Nott.”

Theo bristled at his insinuation but kept silent despite the taunting.

Blaise interceded. “Mind you, Adrian, as the Davis’ fan club secretary, you’ve written some quality poems in dedication. Pansy said it was some of the most beautiful drivel she had ever read.” He shouted over the rising clamor of hoots, whistles, and jeers. “She said you could cry tears reading it at night and use it for toilet paper the next morning.

Flint roared, “It’s the closest you will get to Davis’ backside!”

Miles Bletchley aspirated his drink and had to have his back thumped repeatedly. “You’re killing me, Flint,” Bletchley groaned between back blows from Higgs.

“Couldn’t you die any quieter?” Flint teased.

“You don’t mind if I reused and recycled some lines?” Zabini asked impatiently as Pucey turned an unnatural shade of red. “Obviously the material has circulated around the Slytherins and Ravenclaw girls' dorms. There have got to be some gullible Hufflepuff ladies I can try my luck with."

The corner of Theo’s mouth twitched with amusement.

“I still would.” Malfoy slurred over his drink.

“What would you do?” Montague sneered. “Huh?”

Malfoy groaned and rested his head on his fellow Slytherin’s shoulder. Crabbe straightened in his seat with acute discomfort. “Davis is so beautiful, it hurts.” Malfoy bleated. “It hurts to look at her, and I just would.…”

“You are a stupid boy, Draco.” Montague gulped a second mouthful of fire whisky and shook his head gloomily. “You wait till your father hears about it. What would he say about you carrying on with a half-blood?”

“You’ll lose your inheritance, mate!” Zabini shouted out. “You are not moving in with me, and I already have one penniless pureblood under my roof.”

Nott glowered in response while Blaise winked at him openly.

“Nott’s hardly penniless!” Flint countered. “His Dad’s on the board of governors! He kept that one quiet, didn’t you!”

“It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for.” Montague drawled. “Secrets come out eventually, Nott.”

“She’s worth more…” Malfoy dribbled saliva onto Crabbe’s sleeve.

A clamor of shouts broke, voicing disbelief and disgust. Crabbe and Goyle scrambled to their feet, barreling into each other. Malfoy apologized too soon, and he stood up, braced himself on his knees, and began to retch.

"Somebody, please take Malfoy to his room before he throws up here.” Flint droned over the noise of Malfoy’s dry heaving.

“Crabbe, take him up to his room!” barked Montague.

“I’m fine! Malfoy stumbled, waving off Crabbe. “Leave me alone.”

“You’ve had enough, Draco,” Crabbe said quietly in his ear. “You need to come with me.”

Malfoy swore loudly and swung wildly, letting go of the bottle. It smashed into twenty pieces against a coffee table, spraying liquor like a jet onto an empty sofa. Crabbe let go of Malfoy’s arm to pick up multiple shards of glass on the floor, embedded in the couch, and floating in puddles of fire whisky. He was helped by Goyle, who together picked up the glass fragments gingerly in their bare hands. Flint instructed the remaining boys to leave Malfoy for the time being, who latched his mouth onto another bottle and started draining it. Catching Zabini’s eye somehow in all the commotion, Nott jerked his head sideways. It was a good time to leave. “Already?” His roommate sighed in disappointment but plodded over.

“We agreed we were not going to drink.”

Blaise lowered himself onto the carpet from his tenth push-up, beaming. “It was too good an opportunity to miss.”

Theodore Nott sat, resting his solid frame against the headboard of his single bed; long legs stretched before him and crossed at the ankles. The lamplight cast a soft glow across their bedroom. Nott’s robes spilled out the trunk at the foot of his bed, his rolled-up socks discarded underneath the bed frame. Blaise had left a meticulously folded and pressed set of clothes on his bed to change into after his nightly ritual. “It’s a school night.”

“With you, it’s always a school night. You need to loosen up more.”

Theo turned over a leaf in his notes, setting it aside for later perusal. His lips were pursed in concentration. He glanced over the top of his herbology notes, left brow crinkled.

“Are you reading up on the class you skipped?" 

Nott ignored him. Blaise had a card up his sleeve that would rile his roommate no end. “Your dad wrote.” Blaise took a moment to study his roommate's face. No, the emotionless mask was as intact as ever. “He wants to know if you burned his letters, and I told him two of them are on your nightstand, unopened.”

Theo lowered his notes slowly into his lap, curling his lower lip in displeasure. “I wonder why he bothers writing to me when he can extract information from you.”

Blaise grinned at finally getting the reaction he hoped for. “Your father is worried about you, and he said he is so concerned he is thinking of cutting your allowance and leaving you destitute if you don’t write back.”

Theo shrugged his shoulders gracefully, eyes narrowing on the parchment in his lap. 

“He says he would happily adopt me.” Blaise jibed.

“He can keep you. You have got a personality only a mother can love.”

Blaise smirked as he lowered his torso flush to the ground.

The scratching of Nott’s goose quill broke a stretched silence as he crossed out and corrected a glaring error in his notes. “I was under the impression my father sent my monthly allowance to Tracey Davis’s family.” There was an unmistakable bite to his voice.

Blaise was not one to pull his punches. “Pansy told me it was your annual allowance, but it should last that family six weeks. Her father bought a new car, they are redoing the house, and Davis has been flaunting designer glad rags.”

Theo’s chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. He picked up his herbology text and flicked to a heavily underlined chapter on mandrakes and an old essay he had written in his third year, grateful that he held onto all his old essays. 

“You sure know how to pick them,” needled Blaise.

“You introduced us,” Theo said flatly, refusing to look up from the page.

“It’s not my fault things turned out the way they did.” It was Blaise's turn to be exasperated. “If it only lasted a month, why are you mooning over her?”

“I don’t care about Davis.”

Blaise whistled. “I believe you.”

Theo snapped the textbook shut loudly to signify the end of the discussion. His roommate was either terrible at picking up cues or determined to ignore them. Unable to curb his interest, he asked outright. “Why did my father get involved? Why was it any of his business?”

“You know what your father is like,” Blaise grunted. “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty…”

 “Is it because Tracey was a half-blood? That’s what he kept complaining about.” Nott tossed his textbook onto the nightstand with a low thud, knocking off several loose sheets, his father’s letters, and an alarm clock.

“You are not the first to have a fling with a half-blood.” Blaise looked at Theo sharply. “You were not going to marry her, were you?”

“No, we were just dating.” Nott shrugged. His plaintive expression on his face gave Blaise pause.

Blaise swore. “You and two other guys! It’s pitiful.” He was braced in position on locked, extended arms and the tip of his toes. He strained as he held the position for several seconds, holding his breath.

“It was sequential, and it barely lasted a month. How did my father find out about it? Did you tell him?”

“Are you being serious? I don't need to tell your father anything.” Blaise collapsed to the ground. He hit his breastbone on the carpet and grimaced. He rolled onto his back and pulled himself up on Theo’s bed frame to a sitting position. For a clever guy, Nott could ask some stupid questions. Nott shut his mouth abruptly, embarrassed at his folly. It was an open secret in the death-eater circle what Theo’s father’s abilities were and why the Dark Lord, who trusted no one, had kept his father close for as long as he did. What had been to Queenie Goldstein had been to Grindelwald, his father had been to Voldemort. He tried to offer some comfort. “Davis knew exactly what she was doing. She would have moved on from you to something better if it had come her way soon enough. Your father was doing you a favor.”

A display of emotional fragility was rare, almost always followed by a verbal steel-tipped lance hurtling at speed. Blaise felt a pang of regret for his words earlier, but the brittle look in Nott’s eyes was warning enough of what was to come. Theo did not disappoint him. “You think my father would write to you if he knew what you were?”

“Are you going to throw that in my face whenever you disagree with me?” Blaise snapped with an elastic recoil. “Your father writes to me more often than you think. Ever since my mother died, he has written to me. I don’t get letters from anyone else.” He continued to do his push-ups in earnest, his muscles and tendons protesting in vain. He pushed through the pain with gritted teeth. Eventually, Blaise collapsed on the carpet, having hit a target of forty push-ups in a record time. Sweat dripped from his brow and pooled around the lining of his vest. He pulled the bottom of his vest out from his trousers and wiped his face on it. 

Theo said sarcastically over the top of his essay. “Well, I’m not telling you to stop writing.”

Blaise detected a peculiar strained note in Nott's voice that made him pause. Clearly, there was no end to the distress Tracey Davis had caused.  If Nott did not want comfort, Zabini offered a verbal slap. “Listen, I’m not your wet nurse. If you want answers, take it up with your father and leave me in peace.” Blaise envied his female housemates, who conducted group therapy sessions. “Are you angry because he was right about her? Davis moved on quick enough, mind.”

Nott crossed his legs on the bed and sat hunched forward; papers clutched over his chest. In the half-light, he looked much younger. “He could have let me figure it out for myself.”

“At what cost?” Blaise sighed. “He spared you some heartache.”

“It is his way of exerting control, and I have been publicly humiliated.”

“So, you learned your lesson.”

Nott’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Excuse me? What did you say? What lesson was that?” He said, enunciating each consonant daring Blaise to continue talking.

He clearly did not know Blaise well enough, whose skin was as thick as dragonhide and his tongue was as sharp as a scale. “A lesson about fraternizing with unsuitable women.”

Nott’s expression closed off immediately, shutting like a drawbridge.

“Just be grateful it’s just your housemates who know. Imagine if Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil knew. The whole school would find out. You are not the first guy to be chased for the wrong reasons. Davis got your allowance when she could have had your inheritance. She wasn’t patient or smart enough to play the long game. Your father showed her true colors; Davis could be bought.” Blaise said bluntly. “While I disagree with your father’s methods, you can’t deny they’re efficient.”  He sat up, reaching for his water bottle beside him. He shook the bottle and to his disappointment, it was empty. His roommate’s silence was unnerving. Keen to change the subject, Blaise said. “They are still at it. None of them have come back to their rooms! It’s nearly eleven, and it's a school night! Malfoy is getting wasted downstairs. It is the third time this week. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Malfoy is not my problem.”

“His Omniscience didn’t notice.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“I don’t appreciate you interrupting my workout, but you went and did it anyway.” Blaise turned the water bottle upside down in a vain hope and he motioned to the flask of iced tea in Nott’s hand. “Can I have some?”

“No.”

“Okay then.” Blaise frowned. There was an awkward pause. He pivoted to another topic in a conspiratorial voice, as he sat on the edge of Theo's bed. His roommate shifted uncomfortably at the invasion of his personal space. "Listen if I were you and I wanted to tell my Dad to stop interfering, I would date someone even more unsuitable than Davis, just to prove a point."

"I will do no such thing, Zabini. You can be sure of it."