Author's note: This is the first time I write Theodore Nott and I have to admit, I'm pretty excited because he's been in many great fanfictions. I also tried to make a headcannon for Theodore Nott that is canon compliant and epilogue compliant except that it twists some events around. Disclaimer: Also of course I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters and make no profit from writing fanfiction. Only the plot is mine :) [Slytherin House prompts used: (colour) silver; (emotion) intrigued];Slytherin character: Theo; Lucky Duck Biweekly challenge: #9. Flourish and Blotts]
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*~*~*~Of Pumpkin Lattes, and Things Lost Past*~*~*~*~*
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Theodore Nott doesn't want things. He gets them.
So when he is confronted with his reflection in the Mirror of Erised, he is suitably conflicted.
For beside him stands, not a pureblood, but a mudblood. A very famous one. With bushy, brown hair and wide brown eyes that are at once all too seeing and yet too narrow-minded.
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Really Mirror-of-Erised? he wants to ask. You really think I'm not over her? My Hogwarts crush from 10 years ago?
The Mirror blankly stares back at him as if to say: don't hate the messenger. So he is forced to stare at the mirror for a while longer and contemplate just why his reflection shows him happy in matching cardigan sweaters with Granger draped over him, her lips kissing him, their hands intertwined...a nauseatingly-in-love expression on both their dumb faces.
Would the Mirror of Erised show them with a Granger-Nott child next? Would the child wear a matching annoying cardigan sweater and have that struck-dumb-with-happiness look on its face?
Happiness is dumb. Love is dumb. War and grit and life didn't allow these things.
If it wasn't several IQ points beneath dignity, the Mirror wouldn't even have dared show him something so unrealistic and stupid. Only daydreams could be so insipid and self-glorifying.
She'd never think of him as anything more than the Death Eater from the war.
Why didn't he forget her too?
As if he even deserved such happiness.
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The Mirror had to be wrong. Granger couldn't give him the ultimate happiness, anymore than he could time-travel to before the war and reclaim his innocence. Or stop himself from making the biggest mistake of his life.
That is all long past. Dead like the leaves falling to the ground in autumn all around him.
Yet he keeps the Mirror for a few days more in his study before auctioning it off along with other valuable purchases made by the Nott Estate.
He purchased the Mirror to make a profit by reselling it at a higher value. Which he did.
He didn't get the Mirror to find some life's advice or direction. No, he did not. He's fine, thank you, very much. Moving on.
In fact, he's glad he never has to stare at his duplicate's soppy shit-eating-grin again as his cardigan wearing arse wraps his undeserving arm around Granger and kisses her perfect pink lips.
Good riddance, he thinks.
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Only the image, of second chances, is now bored into his head. Like a mantra.
As is the remembrance of what her perfect lips used to taste like.
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Perhaps the Mirror does have a point.
Or it could be setting him up for total embarrassment and annihilation of his last shreds of dignity when it comes to Hermione Granger and himself. And their immature, short-lived romance that ended so badly in Hogwarts so long ago it's hard to remember at times just all the things he said or did before completely blowing it.
Either way, he's not one to back away from a challenge. Now that he's been forced to see himself. In cardigan...In a new light.
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He does want her. He can admit it now.
Why did he have to lie to himself for so long about letting her go?
He never did forget. Or stop caring.
Perhaps that's why he stayed away for so long.
He thought she was happy and moved so, so decided to do the same.
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You can only stay away so long before coming back.
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He strolls down Diagon Alley with his hands buried in his pockets. The corduroy of his jacket blends in with the dusky hues of the grey slabs and ancient marble buildings of the crooked, busy street.
Among the crowds, he is both classy and casually dressed, typically wrapped in his favourite shades of silver, grey wool and dark blues.
The cold air of late September blows through his long, auburn brown hair and he turns as he sees a familiar figure step into the threshold of Flourish & Blotts bookstore.
It would be nice to say this is coincidence, except it is completely not. He tipped someone off to give them an idea of Hermione Granger's routine and where he could find her alone in her busy schedule.
This, Flourish & Blotts, would probably be the only place she ever made time for herself anymore.
Theo smirks to himself. She's almost too cliche at times, choosing to frequent and do everything expected out of a bookworm and busy-body law reformer at the Ministry.
If he reached for her hand now, he feels certain he'd find her fingers and palms stained with ink from writing another fervent letter or law espousing the rights of the defenseless and maligned in society.
Always the bleeding heart, aren't you Granger. Except when it comes to your own affairs? Then you give up on what you love as soon as he isn't as perfect as you thought of him and want nothing to do with his wretched kind.
Well, better now than never.
He only resists the idea for two seconds more, before he follows her into the store.
She doesn't notice him behind her.
~o~
Hermione Granger is a very busy woman. Very busy. And very adult-ish and responsible. With a whole load of SPEW, muggle and magical animal rights to resolve, a world to reform and a Ministry's outdated system to make law changes to.
There is no way—no way—she has time to step into Flourish & Blotts to read some trashy romance novels or scintillating new potions research in Brewers Digest. Yet again. For the fourth time this month during her lunch break.
She's not that frivolous, she's really not.
Yet there are so many things to read and more and more new books of every subject being printed out everyday. It could be argued she has to keep up with the latest developments just to stay a well-rounded person.
She smirks to herself as her leather heeled boots trod against the familiar old wood of the beloved bookstore—filled with her favourite smell of old pages and lattes—and finds her favourite spot to read by a corner. She sinks into the cushioned armchair, which is right by the fireplace and in front of the "Witches Novels and Magazines" section. She shouldn't be here, not when she has a toddlers and Quidditch games with Rose to pick up and letters of protest to write to the usual corrupt Ministers, but she smiles as she crosses her legs and rests her tired feet out for awhile.
There's never really any harm in reading nonsense for a bit.
She could use the little escape too from her family, home, Ron and the kids, to rest for awhile.
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If she's honest, she comes here entirely too often. And the proof is that, without even asking, Blott's shopkeeper conjures one of her pumpkin spiced lattes right beside her little table without asking and her current tab. He knows exactly how she likes it, and then he leaves her in perfect piece and solitude. The only sound is the crinkling of the pages as she turns them and the crackling of the gentle fire as it warms her up.
Fall is cold. Yet it makes being indoors that much more precious. She warms her fingers by the fire and sighs in contentment.
She's picked up a magazine that would make her embarrassed if anyone saw her reading it at work; one of the articles is about the libido of first-born wizards and fertility and heirloom spells. It's an odd topic, obscure, and yet completely fascinating. She devours the whole magazine shamelessly, glad that no one is looking over her shoulder.
Though she wonders, secretly, how Ron would compare to one of these first-born wizards and their heirloom spells...Hmm. Is there any difference between a heirloom tomato and a regular beefsteak tomato? Could wizards be compared to tomatos? What a silly comparison.
She flips the pages, disgusted at her own frivolity. What would she compare Ron to next, an eggplant? Stupid, stupid mind. Ron is fine, he's a perfect husband in many ways...I shouldn't be comparing him to vegetables or thinking of pureblood ones. Hmmmm.
She chews at the nib of her quill, which she takes out, to make a quick note of something she better do back at the Ministry tomorrow morning first thing sharp.
~o~
Theo's steps are nimble and almost impossibly quiet against the ancient floorboards that should be creaking and whining loudly under the 185 pound, 6ft2 frame of Theodore Nott. But he's graceful as a cat. Without the whiskers and adorable tail. So nimble, in fact, he could probably sneak up behind a person and kill them without ever being noticed (and that's without the use of silencing spells). That is, if he were into killing sorts of thing, he could make a perfect assassin. Again if he were into that sort of thing. But he's not. And he's nowhere as nefarious as his past as Death Eater would have anyone believe.
No, he is proud to say, Theo is much more selfish; he never does a thing that doesn't serve him and his personal gain. Almost like a politician, he never says more than necessary or admit anything that might hurt him. His wounded pride is probably why he's avoided this for so long too.
Right now, there is a lot to be gained and he is haunted by the way her hair falls into her eyes and as she reaches out a hand, to push it back in place, her fingers are covered in splotches of ink—
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She hasn't changed a bit, in some ways, and then both being nearly 30 years old, they have changed in irreparable ways.
He wonders, does she have stretchmarks under her sweater now, where he last kissed her on her stomach when they were both 15 years old?
Perhaps it is not too late to turn back and forgot everything again, bury his wounded pride, and forget the fake picture of happiness the Mirror showed him. Perhaps.
But that is not this moment.
He is strangely drawn to her again, as if they are meeting for the first time, a bit like at Hogwarts where he crushed on her for awhile before finally confronting her and then making her life a sweet hell in some ways.
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He sits down across from her, just plops down the wood bench—it's meant for books not people—and stares at her.
"Hello."
"Oh my goodness," she nearly kicks over her cup of pumpkin latte as she notices Theodore Nott, her oldtime classmate and onetime boyfriend, sitting across from her.
~o~
A/N: Should I continue, what do you think? I am loving the fall weather, it's a very nice time with the leaves and spices...and Theo stories
xoxo