Chapter Text
Theo's mother had always told him that beautiful people could be the unluckiest in love, because other people tended to judge them automatically based on that beauty. Watching a lopsided grin spread over Ron Weasley's face as he laughed at something Potter had said, Theo half-wondered if Ron hadn't had a relationship in three years simply because everyone judged him too damn pretty to not be taken already.
"Theodore," someone said. He blinked, refocusing his attention on a smirking Pansy and the familiar brown owl swooping past her head to rejoin its brethren on their way to the Owlery. "Hurry up, will you? We have to go watch Weasley play chess against Draco in”—she checked the silver watch on her wrist—“ten minutes.”
“I’ve been looking forward to that,” said Daphne. “Draco must be better than I thought if he’s made it into the semi-finals.”
Across the Hall, Ron was leaning in to read something over Granger’s shoulder, a light frown on his face as he pointed to a line in the thick book she held. Theo suppressed something that felt far too close to jealousy for comfort. (Although, really, what had Granger ever done to deserve that little crease between Ron’s eyebrows?) “We’ll see how he does against R—Weasley,” was all Theo said.
Pansy grinned at his near-slip, but refrained from lambasting him for it. “Maybe if you ever finish your breakfast so we can get going, T. And that important-looking letter.”
"You know, I’d be surprised if he can still read after staring at the weasel for so long," Blaise drawled. "I don't think weasels can read. It might be contagious."
Theo flipped his friend a non-complimentary gesture. “Read your own, Pans,” he said, nodding to the envelope sitting next to her plate even as he picked up his. The heft and feel of the cream envelope in his hand told him whose it was even before he saw his mother's elegant cursive on the back, but his brows shot up when he saw who she’d addressed it to: it wasn’t Theodore Nott written there, but his Chinese name, done in the Lady Nott’s careful calligraphy. She only used his Chinese name when he was either in deep shite or about to be. It was her way of reminding him that he represented not one, but two powerful and ancient pureblood houses.
Usually Theo was proud of that fact. Today it made his fingers twitch as he opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.
My darling Tian Yu, it read. I hope this letter finds you well. Forgive me for being so blunt, but this missive must be a short one; your father’s health has worsened, and our Healer has suggested that we move him to St. Mungo’s.
Theo could almost hear the disdain in his mother’s voice and bit back a grin that felt inappropriate in the face of his worries about his father—and, more selfishly, his worries about himself. He’d always known in the back of his mind that his father’s health had never been the best, and that eventually he, Theo, would have to take up the Lord Nott mantle, but he’d always rationalized his worries away by telling himself that if it happened before he turned seventeen, his mother would still be the one holding his Wizengamot seat and representing House Nott to the public. But now that Theo was seventeen...if he lost his father now, he would be the one taking his place.
Maybe he was wrong, though. Maybe he still didn’t have anything to worry about. Heart pounding, Theo kept reading: In the face of this development, your father and I have decided to hasten the process of finding you a suitable spouse, lest the future Lord Nott find himself without a partner. To that end, we have had fruitful discussions with the Lord and Lady Parkinson...
Theo’s heart dropped like someone had just Accio'd it into his feet. He looked up to see Pansy staring unseeingly at the letter in her hand, the other tucked firmly into Blaise’s underneath the table.
“Shite,” he murmured to himself. “Just—shite.”
”Got to that part in your letter, T?” Pansy inquired, far too casually. “Did your parents also imply that Blaise Zabini is the son of a good-for-nothing whore, or do yours actually adhere to their own standards of decorum?”
When Theo looked up, Pansy’s eyes were flashing murder. She half-slammed her and Blaise’s intertwined hands onto the table, and Blaise, whose attention had clearly been snagged by the mention of his name, said, “Pansy, what did they say?”
”Nothing important,” she snarled. “Not unless Theo can find a suitable pureblood match before his father—”
Theo levelled her with a look, and she subsided. “Sorry.” She had the grace to look chagrined. “I just...” Pansy blew out a breath and extricated her hand from Blaise’s so that she could hand him the letter. “Read this.”
As Blaise scanned the page, the crease in his brows growing deeper with every line he read, Theo went back to his own. I hope you understand the necessity of these measures, and take steps to ensure their permanence, for the good of both yourself and the lovely Miss Parkinson. Of course, not much can be done while the two of you remain at Hogwarts, but it would certainly help matters if you could publicly indicate your affections for her. Word has already begun to spread among my peers about your father’s condition and the responsibilities you may soon bear, and I will not see you disgraced for seemingly failing to meet them.
(You did not hear this from me, my darling, but I know how much Pansy likes the Zabini boy. If you so happen to find another match that would rescue Pansy from her inevitable heartbreak, I won’t tell your father.)
Theo stared unseeingly at his mother’s elegant signature. In his mind he laid out the pieces of information his mother had given him—and everything she hadn’t said—trying to make sense of the whirling maelstrom in his head.
One: His father could be close to dying.
Two: If he did die, Theo would become Lord Nott.
Three: A Lord as young as he was would inevitably invite doubt from the younger generations and scandalize the older purebloods, who would see him as nothing more than a frolicking, rowdy teen if he didn’t have at least the promise of a future spouse to steady his reputation.
Four: He was never going to marry Pansy. He would rather fling himself off the Astronomy Tower than marry a girl, much less let anyone—himself included—unwillingly shackle his best friend.
Five: His mother wanted a public declaration to someone. Even if it wasn’t permanent. And even if it wasn’t Pansy.
The pieces fell into place like the endgame moves of a rapid-fire chess match, and Theo began to smile. “Pans, I’m afraid I won’t be marrying you.”
“And why not?” Daphne asked for her. She was sharp enough to guess what exactly their letters had been about, and as her blue eyes met Theo’s they seemed to say, I hope you know what you’re doing.
He didn’t, but he also felt a little reckless. Maybe he wasn’t going to end up Lord Nott at seventeen, but if he did, Merlin knew he was going to do it in style. “Because,” he said, tucking the letter and envelope into his bag, “I’m going to win the chess tournament and announce my intentions toward Ron Weasley.”
”You’re what?” said Pansy. A spark of hope lit her brown eyes as she followed the same path Theo’s own thoughts had taken. “Well, he’s technically a pureblood. And it would certainly be a public declaration.”
”Very public,” said Blaise. “You do know that Draco and Granger said they’re presenting the winner with the trophy in front of the entire school, don’t you?”
“All to the good,” said Theo with a confidence he did not feel. “Come on, Pans, Daphne. Don’t we have a chess match to watch?”
Whatever the girls might have said to that was interrupted by Draco, swaggering up to them as though he’d been there all along. “I seem to remember you lot saying you’d come watch me pummel the weasel,” he said, and then Theo watched him notice the tightness lingering at Pansy’s mouth and the territorial arm Blaise had slung round her shoulders. “Shite,” he said, sliding into the seat on Theo’s left. “Tell me who hurt Pansy so I can sue them out of existence.”
“Good luck trying that on my parents,” said Pansy. “You know how they feel about Blaise, and since Theo’s dad has apparently fallen ill, they’re trying to arrange for me to marry Theo instead.”
”Shite,” said Draco again, with feeling.
”But,” said Theo, “I had an idea. If—”
Pansy, checking her watch, cut him off with an apologetic wave of her hand. “You can update him after his match, T. We have three minutes till it starts.”
Draco let out an undignified yelp and went back the way he’d come, the rest of them hot on his heels; Theo realized he’d barely eaten anything and, decorum be damned, stuffed half a piece of toast in his mouth.
“Wait,” said Pansy as they reached the doors to the Great Hall. Her eyes were suspiciously bright. “I know you would never want to marry me, but...”
Swallowing his toast, Theo grinned at his best friend. “Likewise, I believe.”
Pansy caught his hand in hers and squeezed it once. “Shut up, T, I’m trying to be nice. Thank you.”
Theo squeezed back. “Anything for you. Except marriage.”
”You are such a slob, I wouldn’t want you anyway,” said Pansy immediately as they started walking. “Don’t think I didn’t see you putting an entire slice of toast into your mouth just then. You and Weasley are perfect for each other.”
“Says the woman who lets Blaise rub her bare feet in the middle of the common room,” Theo countered playfully, and the familiarity of this argument put matching grins on their faces as they headed to the Charms room.
-
Ron wasn’t having the best morning. His favourite of the school brooms, an impressively fast Cleansweep that was only a couple years old, had inexplicably fallen apart underneath his hands as he’d tried to take it out for a pre-breakfast fly; when he’d taken it to Madam Hooch she had just tsked at it, proclaimed it a victim of shoddy spellwork—something about the protective charms not holding together—and told him he’d have to pick a new favourite broom. But the thing about having a favourite broom was that you got used to it. Ron knew how that broom flew under him, and he wasn’t about to trust the upcoming Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game to some dodgy Comet that wobbled when it lifted off. But unless he could scrounge up money to put forward for a new broom before the game, he was out of luck.
There was one way, of course, for him to procure enough money for a broom—or, well, maybe half a broom. His second-last obstacle to that money was the Malfoy currently looking down his nose at him from across the chess board. “Weasley.”
”Malfoy,” Ron acknowledged. “Ready to get your arse kicked?” Just from the way Draco was studying the board, he could tell this wouldn’t be nearly as close of a match as it had been against...
Without his permission, his gaze drifted to the Slytherins propped up against the wall to their right, whispering amongst themselves and laughing about something. Theo’s eyes caught Ron’s for a moment, brown on blue, and—had someone slipped him a potion at breakfast, or did Theo wink at him?
“Admiring the future Lord Nott, are we?” asked Draco.
“Pawn to F4,” Ron shot back.
Draco’s eyes followed the pawn’s quick steps across the board, but all he said was, “For a moment I thought Harry was bound to be the only Gryffindor I ever knew who was ensnared by a Slytherin’s charms. It rather pleases me that this isn’t the case.”
Ron opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again to say, “Sod off, Malfoy.”
Draco smirked. “Pawn to D5.”
Maybe Ron had been wrong, because this was certainly becoming interesting. There were any number of steps Draco could take from here, and any number of ways Ron could counter them. “Knight to F3,” he said. And then, as soon as a tiny frown had appeared on Draco’s face: “Don’t you think the future Lord Nott would be offended that you implied a Gryffindor would ever want his attention?”
His gambit paid off. Draco, clearly lost in a mental run-through of their next moves, said, “I don’t suppose it matters, Weasley, since Theo’s scheduled to be engaged to Pansy.”
All the air went out of Ron’s chest like a Bludger had smacked him, except the Bludger was the expectant way Draco’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “Engaged?” Ron made himself say.
Bloody hell. The Weasleys weren’t quite removed enough from polite society for him to not know how frequent marriage contracts were, even for wizards as young as Theo. But he just hadn’t...
He’d thought he could have a real chance at something with Theo, in these last few months they'd have together. He’d thought he could get to know the one person in this school who seemed to see more in him than anyone else ever had. But, after all, Ron was the youngest son, and the least important member of the Golden Trio. He was used to disappointments like these. Maybe he shouldn’t have hoped after all.
”Yes, engaged,” said Draco mildly. Ron hadn’t missed the long pause his opponent had taken, nor did he miss the almost regretful expression on the Slytherin’s face, but it didn't quite matter. The damage was done, and it wasn't even the slimy ferret's fault. “Pawn to G6.”
That made things easier. Not that it fixed the hollow feeling in Ron’s chest. “Pawn to E3,” he said, already watching the victory in his head, backtracking several steps mentally to make sure Draco didn't have any traps in store and then flicking forwards to check if Draco could pull a suddenly brilliant move and checkmate him.
He didn’t, of course. Everything happened exactly as Ron had predicted it would. “You win,” said Malfoy reluctantly, knocking over his king with one long finger, but for once Ron didn’t feel like gloating. He just wanted to get out of there and forget that any of this had ever happened.
“Wait,” someone said, as Ron got up from his seat. It was Theo Nott. Of course it was. Theo, right in front of him, with a tiny grin on his face. “I didn’t think the day would ever come when someone handed Draco’s arse to him on a chess board, but that was...a brilliant game. Really. You got control of the center space so quickly it was impressive.”
Something in Ron melted a little at the earnest praise. It told him to say thank you, to ask where Theo was going next, to tease him about how easy it was to predict the moves of a slimy Slytherin. But then the bigger part of him, the Gryffindor part, was telling him in no uncertain terms that Slytherins always had an ulterior motive in hand, and who was he to stand here and let Theo compliment him with those dimples and then go back to Pansy Parkinson? Was he just going to let everyone in his life step over him like he wasn’t even there?
Theo hadn’t. So far. But maybe his head had been occupied with winning and he’d known that Ron would succumb to a few pretty words and a pair of statue-like cheekbones. Maybe Theo hadn’t really meant any of it.
Hadn't he all but asked, during that first match, if it ever bothered Ron that everyone valued Harry and Hermione so much more than him? What had Theo even done to prove that he wasn't exactly like nearly everyone else in Ron's life?
“Yeah,” he said finally, staring at Theo until the other boy’s smile faltered. “Congratulations on the engagement.”
Savage pride ripped through him at the bewildered hurt in Theo's eyes, but he didn't stay to let Theo get a jab back at him. He just turned around, walked out of the Charms room, and ran headfirst into Harry.
"Oi!" he said. Then, once they'd extricated each other from a tangled mess of limbs: "Ouch, sorry, Ron, didn't see you there. How was the match? Did you win?"
Ron had no idea what the expression on his face was, but whatever it was, it made Harry's eyes widen tangentially. He reached up to push a few dark curls out of his eyes. "That bad, huh?"
"It wasn't the match," Ron admitted. "It's Theo."
Harry blinked. "Theodore Nott?"
"Yes," said Ron. He hadn't been sure who to talk to all these stupid feelings about; Hermione was so busy, and Harry was always with Draco these days, and it wasn't like he was going to talk to Dean and Seamus about his love life. But now that Harry was here—and already dating a Slytherin anyway, so it wasn't like Ron was betraying his House—he was suddenly overcome with the urge to tell Harry everything.
"Blimey, mate," said Harry. "You sound like you've got it bad."
"You can tell?"
"'Course," said his best friend loftily, earning a snicker from Ron. "Now tell me all about it."
"According to your boyfriend, there should be nothing to tell," Ron said a little miserably, but spilled the whole story to Harry as they walked out to the courtyard.
-
"Are you bloody daft, Draco Lucius Malfoy," Theo snarled, pacing back and forth in front of the crackling fireplace. His friends—though whether he wanted to currently include Draco in that number Theo wasn't entirely sure—were lounging in the couches directly in front of him, wearing expressions ranging from amused (Daphne) to terrified (Draco). "Just when I was making some progress with the wizard I've been interested in for months, you decide to stick your great big nose in where it doesn't belong and tell Ron that I'm engaged—"
"You are!" Draco near-squeaked. His terror could be attributed to the fact that Theo had been yelling at him for the past three minutes, but also because Theo was currently pointing a wand in his direction and Theo had outscored Draco in DADA every single year. It might be funny if Theo hadn't felt so hurt.
"Our parents have discussed the possibility," said Theo, switching to Chinese so he could call Draco a few choice things that his mother would scold him for saying in public. "I know your parents fell in love the second they met," he continued in English, "but in case you happened to forget that not all pureblood marriages happen like that—"
"This one won’t happen," said Draco firmly, regaining his composure now that Theo had turned to pace the other way and his wand was no longer in Draco's face. "Was that your plan, then? Circumvent your mother's expectations by declaring your intentions toward Weasley?"
"Once I win the chess tournament," Theo agreed. "Which will be significantly harder now that Ron will be playing to kick my arse."
"He has to have some feelings for you," Draco offered. "Otherwise it wouldn't have been very Gryffindor of him to recoil like that when I told him about the—"
Theo sighed noisily. "Engagement, yes. I know." The look in Ron's eyes when he'd been "congratulating" Theo...
He would rather lose a million chess tournaments than see that pain, that anger, in Ron's eyes again.
"So what are you going to do now?" said Pansy from her seat on the couch. "You can bet that Weasley's told Potter, and once Potter knows, everyone will know."
Theo resisted the temptation to march up to the fireplace and bang his head on the mantel until it cracked open. He couldn't stop the rumour from spreading, and he couldn't even pretend to have a dramatic, relationship-ending argument with Pansy that would render an engagement impossible, because that would get back to their parents and cause more problems than it was worth. He just needed a way out of this bloody predicament that would protect his reputation as a student, reassure the purebloods that House Nott would be in good hands, and not result in Ron Weasley hating him.
Then it occurred to him: there was one brilliantly obvious way to break off an engagement. One way to divert the Hogwarts rumour mill, without standing in the way of Theo winning the chess tournament and sweeping Ron off his feet. "Pans," he said quickly, before the idea could slip out of his head. "Do you know what sort of recompense my parents offered?"
He wasn't sure that Pansy would know the specifics, since the Notts would never be coarse enough to say outright how many Galleons, heirlooms, and/or elite social connections Theo would be willing to offer Pansy's family for the honour of taking her hand in marriage. It was an old pureblood tradition that the groom, upon taking his blushing bride from her family, should compensate them for the loss of their precious daughter with an often outrageous wedding gift, called a recompense; the practice had historically enabled the groom's parents to show off through the inevitable gossip that a large recompense would bring, but it also enabled the bride's family to advance in pureblood society, depending on the particulars of the recompense in question. Theo honestly thought the whole practice was much too complicated and had long ago told himself that any daughter of his would already be rich enough that she would hardly need to bother with the whole song-and-dance of a recompense. Unfortunately, his parents weren't quite that progressive, which was why he wasn't surprised when Pansy nodded, frowning. "The usual group of international connections, and a rather frightening amount of Galleons."
"Blaise," said Theo, grinning as Daphne's brows shot up in realization and Draco smirked. "I won't offend you by implying that you aren't also heir to a frightening amount of Galleons, but your mother knows a lot more people, and has access to a lot more family heirlooms, than mine does."
"Not all from the same family, either," said Blaise. "Let me get this straight, Nott: you want me to declare my intentions towards Pansy and offer a recompense even bigger than yours?"
"Yes," said Theo, firmly.
Blaise bit his lip. It was an unfairly attractive maneuver, but then again everything he did was unfairly attractive. "You realize that your parents won't necessarily appreciate my usurpation of your claim?"
Theo hesitated. This time he was less firm, but he said it anyway: "Yes."
"You'll have Harry's endorsement in the press if it comes down to that," said Draco, eyes sharp. "And my father's. He's always liked your mother, Blaise."
"Maybe a little too much," Blaise muttered, pulling a much-needed laugh from the group. "But thank you." His eyes met Theo's. "For doing this for me."
"You're not even a little angry that I'm all but forcing you into a potential blood feud so I can go to Hogsmeade with a weasel in peace?" asked Theo, only half joking.
Blaise just grinned. "What's life without a blood feud or two?"
"Probably easier," said Daphne. Theo restrained the urge to jump, having nearly forgotten that his friend was even there. "But it won't be all sunshine and roses with the blood traitor, Theo, unless you manage to win him over by the time you also win the chess tournament."
"Let's talk about Blaise winning me over before we jump to any conclusions about our darling Theo and the weasel," said Pansy languidly, and the conversation turned to heated planning about how, exactly, Blaise was to make his intentions clear. Theo jumped into the discussion with gratitude, content for the moment to focus on two of his best friends instead of dwelling on a certain red-haired Gryffindor who might not be dwelling on him at all.