— Prologue —
It happened on the same day of every year for as long as Theo could remember.
In the third week of September.
A dream.
The dream.
Where he would see her.
— Year 1 —
Weeks after he first comes to Hogwarts, he dreams of a lion's mane. Shimmering gold, full and rich and beautiful.
He doesn't know what any of it means.
He has no idea who it might be about.
And chances are, he never will.
Most witches and wizards never find the soulmate they're destined for. His mother and father hadn't. Their parents didn't either.
So the first dream marks the beginning. The onset of the future that likely awaits him—years ahead of him with reminders of her existence. Snippets of who she is and the life she's living played out for him in visions of the night.
There for the taking but forever out of reach.
It's fate; cruel and divined.
— Year 2 —
A room, towering shelves of tomes. He walks its halls, and they never end—Book after book after book.
Plucking one from the shelf, it's well-worn and loved. Hogwarts: A History.
When he wakes, his feet carry him to the library instead of class. He finds only a single copy for the entire school.
The inside cover is inscribed with a record of names, a list he overlooks as he reads the tome front to back.
Hermione Granger
Hermione Granger
Hermione Granger
— Year 3 —
He thinks nothing of it, at 13, when he dreams of curly chestnut hair.
He thinks nothing of it when it resembles the girl he's partnered with for the year.
It is serendipity, not fate.
When she giggles for the first time at his silly joke in class, brushes her elbow against his on accidental chance, warmth quickly begins to bloom in his chest.
Day in and day out, they study together, pouring over potions, writing essays, mapping the stars. He begins to recognize her in the maroon of Gryffindor wherever he goes.
He already knows what's in store for him. Who he is. What his namesake calls for.
But it's so easy to forget the weight of that. To pretend like it isn't there at all. To admire her as if she's the one he's destined for.
"Theo," she whispers, nudging him under the table in the study hall, pulling him out of his reverie.
He's pragmatic, but the sound of her voice quickly pulls that easy smile out of him. "Yes, Hermione?"
In a matter of months, saying her name already feels like reciting a melody. It rolls off his tongue, dances in his heart, and he relishes the way her eyes light up when she hears it.
The way her eyes light up at him.
Her grin matches his in return. "Hush already. I'm trying to study."
— Year 4 —
He realizes that fate is crueller than he wishes it to be when he dreams of sugar quills.
It takes only one day for him to notice an entire pack on Hermione's desk. She has them in class, in the Great Hall, even in the library.
Theo finds himself unable to look away.
He spends the entire year watching her suck on them, wanting to pull her into the alcoves and taste the flavour of each one off of her lips.
If he slips her extras, nobody else has to know.
— Year 5 —
It is the beginning of the end when Umbridge reigns the school. Theo knows what's coming; everybody does.
At 15, he has a dream he wishes never came.
Because it cannot be.
It simply can't.
He remembers it vividly, can paint the memory of it despite never holding a brush in his hand. Darkness, all around, except for one blinding beam of light.
A shape, an animal, an otter.
He wakes up panting, knowing two things for sure.
His soulmate is a witch.
And that he's seen her Patronus.
That she's got enough good in her to cast one.
Which means he will never be good enough for her.
Hermione beams at him when he sees her on the train and ushers him into her compartment. She is warm and brilliant and everything right with the hostile world, and though he knows he has to, he cannot stay away. She whispers all her secrets to him — she knows what's coming too, but she trusts him.
It's a foolish Gryffindor notion.
But he nods and reaches for her hand when she tells him that she's scared. That she doesn't know if their plan will work.
He tells her it will, squeezes her fingers, and makes sure that he does everything he can to prove himself right.
And he does. He gets so close to proving to her that he was right.
It's Draco's deceit that ultimately fails him.
He realizes a moment too late where they're going, that he can't back out, that he's going to betray her, before the squad blows up the door to the Room of Requirement. It's filled with students and flying beams of light.
Shapes, animals, dancing amongst each other, and at the centre of it all—her.
Her and her otter.
Theo blinks, feels his heart clench until he can't expel a breath, as she meets his eyes.
The curly hair, the lion's mane, the sugar quills, and this.
The Otter.
It's her.
The look of betrayal on her face gets ingrained in his memory. He knows it will forever haunt him.
She doesn't utter another word his way for the rest of the year.
— Year 6 —
The Dark Lord returns.
Theo knows what Draco has been asked to do. He knows he'll have to be involved. He's no fool to think he can prevent it.
The summer before 16, he wishes every night that he could dream of Hermione. That he could have a reprieve from the life that he lives. But every night, he falls asleep thinking about her freckles and curly hair, and a smile that looks just like hers, but that doesn't feel quite the same.
The dream doesn't come. Not before it's meant to.
At 16, he knows he's a goner.
He dreams of the war, and she's standing on the other side. She looks at him, and she doesn't cry or smile or come running toward him. She just stands there.
It feels like a goodbye.
Months pass, and she doesn't speak to him.
But he knows she's watching, not just Draco but him as well.
It's her that pulls him into the alcove first.
"Hermione," he gasps, tumbling inside.
"Theo."
He's prepared what to say to her, recited it to memory, but at the moment, he forgets every word. In the dark of the small space, he cannot see her.
But Merlin, can he feel her.
Warm and much too close, but real.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against her. "I'm so fucking sorry."
"For what, Theodore," her breath tickles his neck, and he doesn't know how he's still standing.
How can he tell her— everything. That he's sorry for fucking everything. For who he is, what he's done, what he's yet to do. How can he tell her that he's sorry it's him, that he wishes she had another choice?
Despite the fact she deserves better than him, he wouldn't trade her for the world.
So he does, he tells her, in the way his hands come to rest against her hips, to the way he tugs her forward and she doesn't resist, to the way he pulls her close.
"For everything," he whispers against her lips. "I'm so sorry for everything, Hermione."
And then he kisses her.
He kisses her, and he does not stop.
Fatefully, neither does she.
— Year 7 —
He takes the mark.
Hermione doesn't show up at Hogwarts.
At 17, his soul split for the first time.
He dreams of a dagger in late September. Wiry black hair. And blood.
He wonders if she's already lived what he's seen.
From the other side, he only hears whispers of where she is-on the run. She's not meant to be found.
So he does the only thing that he can to protect her.
He buries her in his mind. He lets the evil flowing through his veins take over. Until he's a shell of himself. Until there's nothing to find about who he once was.
Until he's just as bad as the others.
Because this, this is his fate.
Cruel and divined; his destiny.
By Christmas, he is not Theo.
He is Nott.
Each kill gets easier. Each potion simpler to make. The dark magic wages war on his insides, on his soul and heart, until it feels like he is made up of only flesh and bones, held up together by wicked sin and nothing more.
She is a speck amongst his consciousness—no more significant than what he eats for breakfast or the clothing he wears.
But it all comes rushing back to him when he hears her voice again.
It's a mission, just him and his wand and a potion stuffed deep in his cloak. He should be alone; his intel told him so.
But it's her. He knows it's her that speaks.
"Theodore."
He freezes. Doesn't say a word.
"It's you."
Yes, he suddenly wants to scream from the rooftops for everyone to hear, every feeling rushing back to him. It's me, I'm your soulmate.
But he doesn't. He traces the curls of her hair as he pushes his hooded garb back.
"It is," he says, confirming the obvious.
"Not just here," she clarifies. "I saw you in my dream."
His heart pounds against his chest, and he pretends like he doesn't feel it.
"Maybe you did."
She stalks towards him as if he isn't a Death Eater, as if he couldn't kill her right there.
"You cretin," she hisses, pounding her fists into his chest. "You knew!"
He lets her hit him; relishes the way the pain makes him feel alive.
"Hermione," he warns, failing to ignore the pulse of his mark against his skin. "You need to stop."
"No!" she barrels into him. "How dare you? How — dare — you! You're my soulmate. How can you do this? How can you stand there and be so unaffected? How could you lie to me!"
"I'm not unaffected," he says, a truth he doesn't think she'll believe. Because he did lie. That's all he's ever known.
"You're my soulmate, and you're a Death Eater," she presses into him, tone sorrowed, brandishing the words against his face with little bite.
He wants to reach out and hold her. He wants to kiss her lips and never let her go again.
But that's not who he is. That's not what he was destined for. That is not his fate, even though she is.
"A lion and a snake," he whispers, feeling her melt into his touch. "It can be our little secret."
He lifts his wand at her, and in the dark, luckily, she cannot see it.
"Remember when I told you that I'm sorry?"
His heart aches. The dark magic makes sure of it.
"Yes," she whispers, clutching at his robe.
He nods, fighting back the tears before he speaks.
It's better this way. Safer. Finer if she doesn't know who he really is.
His soul splits before he even says it.
"Obliviate."