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Chapter Text

Harry was late to breakfast. This could mean a lot of things, most of them revolving around Malfoy and images that Ron really didn't want to think about this early in the morning; fortunately, he was spared from thinking about them by the arrival of the boy himself. "Morning," said Harry, plopping down next to him and reaching for a piece of toast. His voice had the raspiness of having just woken up, and he had the bed-hair to prove it. "What's—"

Across the hall there was a commotion. Draco Malfoy had just begun making a ruckus at the Slytherin table, and even from this distance Ron could see Theo Nott dropping his head into his hands, the very picture of exasperation. "Oh, Merlin," said Ron, and he exchanged eye-rolls with Hermione, who was sitting across the table. "A Sickle on one minute."

"Two Sickles on thirty seconds," she countered, going back to the thick Arithmancy book she was reading. 

Harry looked thoroughly confused, but was prevented from saying anything by the arrival of none other than a very blond, very snooty-looking Draco Malfoy. 

"Pay up!" said Hermione triumphantly. Ron groaned, but fished in his pocket for the appropriate coins and handed them over. 

"Hang on," Harry interjected, looking between the two. "Were you betting on—"

"Yeah, how soon your stuck-up ferret would bless us with his presence." Ron nodded, grinning, in Draco's direction. "Morning."

"Morning, Weasel," the youngest Malfoy said, the sneer on his face more habitual than anything, before producing an enormous box of chocolates and handing it to Harry. "Mother sent these for you, since apparently the three you stole out of my box last week wasn't enough." 

Harry grinned. "Sorry, love, Sirius and Remus didn't send you anything. If they ever do, the world is probably about to end. Thank Narcissa for me, will you?"

Draco said, with an expression that was not a pout but was dangerously close to one, "Don't I get any thanks?"

"C'mere," said Harry, all disgusting and sappy, and Ron pointedly slurped his pumpkin juice to block out the sounds of what was unfortunately happening next to him. 

"Oh, honestly," tutted the Head Girl. "Malfoy, you should be setting an example for the younger students, not—"

"Not what, Granger?" said Malfoy. Ron risked a glance at him. The Slytherin's gray eyes practically glittered with amusement. "I'm simply professing my gratitude to the Chosen One for defeating the Dark Lord as a one-year-old. Why, Granger, it almost sounds like you aren't as grateful as I am."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Judging by the sounds that come out of your room at night, Malfoy, the entire castle already knows how grateful you are to be dating the Boy-Who-Lived. Spare us the dramatics."  

As dark-skinned as Harry was, he still turned a very gratifying shade of red. Ron just snorted. "The woman has a point. You two"—he pointed a fork vaguely in their direction—"bleh." 

"If you're quite finished," said Draco, eyes flicking up and to the side in a polite pureblood's evocation of an eye-roll. Ron, having no such qualms, gave him a good, real eye-roll in return. "I came over because I had an idea. Granger." 

Hermione cocked her head. She and Malfoy had a cordial relationship at best, and a rivalry to compete with Harry and Draco's early years at its worst, but, Ron thought fondly, she was never one to resist a good idea. "What is it?"

"A chess tournament," said Draco, and Ron spat out his pumpkin juice. 

"What?” the other boy asked, pale brow raised. He probably thought it made him look sophisticated. It just made him look like a prat. "Don't play chess, Weasel?"

"On the contrary." Ron grinned. "You may not remember, Malfoy, but in first year I got Gryffindor House a whole bunch of points for making it through a chess game McGonagall set up."

"And you think you're so good at it?"

"He thinks, because he is," Hermione jumped in. Merlin bless her. "But I do like the idea. Hogwarts has never had an officially sanctioned wizarding chess tournament. Mostly because Gobstones tournaments are, logistically, much easier to implement because the games are so much shorter, but—"

"Fascinating," said Malfoy dryly. 

"Draco," Harry cut in.

At the disapproval in those green eyes, one of Draco’s own eyes twitched. Ron had learned that this was the closest he would come to what on another person might have been a full-blown wince. "I, ah...it is fascinating, Granger, really.” She just raised one dark brow at him in challenge, and he hurried on: “But we'll still have to go through McGonagall to get it approved."

Hermione’s expression smoothed out into thoughtfulness. "Yes, and then we could ask Flitwick to help us work out a schedule.” The wheels turning in her head were practically audible. "And we'll need sign-up sheets, of course..." 

"Just tell me when the first match is," said Ron, excitement coursing through his veins as he turned back to breakfast with a self-satisfied grin. 

This was going to be a lot of fun. The Slytherins, Malfoy included, wouldn't even know what hit them. 

-

After almost a week of schedule-wrangling, bickering, and Draco whinging about Quidditch times, the First Annual Hogwarts Chess Tournament was scheduled for the sixth of June, which fell on a Saturday, which meant that Ron got up at seven and dragged Harry out of bed, too. 

"Remind me why you want me there again," Harry said over his toast. "I'm rubbish at chess."

"Moral support, Harry," Ron told him, leg bouncing under the table as he took a swig of his pumpkin juice. Hermione was nowhere to be seen—presumably she and Malfoy were off bickering about what boards to use. According to Hermione, there had been a very heated exchange the other day about glass wizarding chess sets versus marble ones; Ron, who had grown up ordering around his grandfather's battered pieces, was just grateful he wouldn't have to provide his own. Lucius Malfoy, of all people, had sponsored the purchase of nearly thirty brand-new chess sets to eliminate unfair advantages. Ever since the sign-up sheets had announced the prize to be seventy Galleons, people had become a lot more worried about eliminating unfair advantages. 

"D'you know who you're playing against?" 

"Not yet," said Ron, a bit of nerves bubbling up within him, like they did before a Quidditch match. "But—" He checked his watch. "Shite, come on, Harry."

"What?" Cramming the last bit of toast into his mouth, Harry said around it, "Wherwegoin'?" 

"Charms classroom," said Ron, practically bouncing on his toes as he made his way out of the Great Hall, barely sparing a glance behind him to see if Harry was following. On the way he passed a number of fellow Gryffs who wished him good luck; Fred and George went so far as to offer him a shiny white candy that would, according to them, give him enough charm to sway his opponents' pieces to his will. Ron's years of experience with them prompted him to laugh, clap them on the back, and keep walking. 

It was a matter of minutes until they reached the Charms room, where a small crowd had gathered just inside the entrance. Ron elbowed his way through, muttering halfhearted apologies, until he laid eyes upon the blackboard that declared the first round of matches. Next to his name at the top was a number and the name "Theodore Nott". 

Ron nodded sagely to himself. He only knew the Slytherin boy by association, seeing as Harry forced him and Hermione to spend at least some time with Draco and his band of snakes, but his general impression was of a smart, quiet bloke. Well, as smart as a slimy snake could be, anyway. Ron silently pleaded with Merlin to make his first match a win. 

"Good luck, mate," said Harry, grinning. "Please win against Theo so you can play Draco eventually.”  

"I'll try my best," said Ron solemnly. The two clasped hands as if they were going to war, sealing Ron's oath to kick Slytherin arse. 

Hermione hurried up to them, beaming, curly dark hair bouncing on her shoulders as she checked the clipboard in her hands. "Morning, you two. Ron, Theo's in the corner at table number twelve. Are you playing, Harry?"

"Oh, no," said Harry at once. "Can't strategize to save my life." 

Ron snickered. "Remember how Hermione literally had to hit you with a Tripping Jinx so you would fall into Malfoy's arms and realize you were in love with him?"

Harry flushed red. "Don't you have a chess match to get to?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Ron, and made his way to the back of the room, where Theodore Nott was waiting. 

“Morning, Weasley,” said the boy in question as Ron approached and slung himself into the wooden seat across the small table. Upon it sat a pristine, glittering wizarding chess set and a chess clock. “Had a good breakfast? Or, well, as good of a breakfast as you can have when Draco and Potter are slobbering all over each other?” 

Despite himself, Ron let out a laugh. “Those two are a bloody pain in the arse, I’m telling you.” 

He looked up to find Nott staring right back at him, the hint of a grin on his face. Ron had seen his parents, once or twice at the Hogwarts Express; Nott Senior was a tall, gaunt wizard who was clearly one of those purebloods that didn’t smile in public, while the Lady Nott was a commanding woman with a sheet of long dark hair and a face that lit up when she smiled. Ron’s dad had told him once that she hailed from an incredibly powerful pureblood family in Hong Kong. When Ron had mentioned that to Hermione, she’d gone off on a tangent about wizarding Britain and wizarding Hong Kong that he hadn’t really paid attention to, but he didn’t need the historical context to see that Theo looked much more like his mother, especially when they smiled. 

Ron filed that information away for later. Sometimes, in a chess match, the most important knowledge and battles were not the ones that played out upon the board. 

“Ready to play?” asked Theo. 

“You bet your Slytherin arse I am,” said Ron, eliciting the tiniest chuckle from his opponent as he surveyed the board. They’d gone with glass after all, and the pieces glinted under the sunlight. The slightly darker shade of the glass of his pieces was the only indicator of his side.

Ron mentally shook his head. What was wrong with good-old-fashioned wood? 

Theo narrowed his eyes at the board. “Pawn to E4.” As he spoke, the hands of the chess clock—really two different clocks, one for each of them—began ticking. 

“Right away!” the pawn squeaked, and marched forward. A few of Ron’s pawns started calling him a filthy cretin as Theo’s clock stopped ticking. 

Ron ignored the hubbub in favour of reconsidering his next move. Well. There was nothing wrong with a classic. “Pawn to E5.” 

He and Theo watched his pawn advance in silence. Aside from Theo’s pieces hurling abuse at it, that is. “Tell me, Weasley,” said Theo. “What prompts a Gryffindor to enter a chess tournament?” 

Ron only shrugged. “The same thing that pisses a Gryffindor off when a Slytherin thinks he can’t play chess.”

”Touché.” Theo’s smile was razor-sharp. “Pawn to F4.”

Ron mouthed the words along with him, somehow knowing exactly what Theo was going to do. He had choices, as the other side. Instead of making that choice right away, Ron leaned back in his chair and studied his opponent. “So, where does a snake learn to play chess?” 

“In a den of iniquity, of course,” said Theo, playing along. “We play chess matches in the Slytherin common room to determine who gets to hex a Muggleborn next.”

”Oi,” said Ron. “No hexing Muggleborns. My best friend’s one and she’s brilliant.”

”Well, everyone knows that,” Theo drawled. “Perfect Hermione Granger, top of her class in every class. And the other member of your little Golden Trio—Harry Perfect Potter. Saviour of the Wizarding World.”

In his quiet voice Theo made the familiar epithets sound like nothing, like Harry’s saviourship wasn’t any more important than the colour of his hair; Ron wasn’t sure whether to get defensive or to give in to the tiny curl of satisfaction forming in his chest. He settled for defensiveness: “Those two are heaps better than any of you will ever be, Nott.” 

Nott lifted one shoulder and let it drop again. The rich pureblood heir’s equivalent of a shrug. “If you say so. Doesn’t it bother you that everyone loves your best friend for something he doesn't even remember?"

Ron knew the Slytherin was just trying to get under his skin—feel out just exactly what his opponent, Ron Weasley, was all about—but it wasn't even the question that did it. It was the matter-of-fact way that he asked it, like he was genuinely curious as to whether it ever bothered Ron that the people he loved more than almost anything, the two people he'd Avada for without question, were, really, so much better at everything than he was. 

Except, he thought to himself, chess. 

So he looked back up at Theo, at the concern he thought he saw flickering in his brown eyes—but he must have been imagining it, because why would Theo Nott be concerned about him?—and said evenly, "Pawn to D5." 

-

Ron did get his hoped-for victory. Barely. In the end it had been Theo's knight and pawn against Ron's lone bishop, their kings watching each other with baleful glass eyes; Theo, dark hair flopping into his face as he leaned forward to study the board, had realized that his knight could defend the pawn against the bishop, or move against Ron's own king, but not do both at the same time. Glancing up at Ron wryly, Theo reached for his king with one finger and knocked him deliberately to the board. "Well played, Weasley."

Theo's clock stopped ticking. Both his and Ron's rewound with a clacking noise to their original positions. It had been a long time since Ron had played someone good enough at chess to resign instead of dragging it out until Ron beat them over the head with a checkmate, and Ron's mouth tipped up into a grin despite himself as Theo held out a hand. A question, a declaration, and an offer all in one. 

Ron took it. "Good game, Nott."

Theo grinned back. "I might see you later if I beat whoever I'm up against next."

"Don't count on it," said Ron, and his opponent laughed—a real, honest laugh that heated something up in Ron despite himself. 

Well, it wasn't his fault Theo was wicked smart, and had really nice cheekbones, and...

Ron shook his head a little to clear it, wincing, as Theo turned away and headed for the entrance. What in Merlin's saggy ballsack was he on about? Cheekbones? He was definitely spending too much time with Harry. 

Trying valiantly to wipe all thoughts of sneaky, slimy Slytherins out of his head, he found his next opponent, Michael Corner, and thoroughly thrashed him when he turned Theo's strategy on him and the git actually fell for it. Ron knew the game was over from the first piece he captured, but Michael just had to drag it out until Ron’s king was beating his king over the head with a checkmate.

As they reluctantly shook hands at the end of the game, Ron spared a thought to wish that everyone could accept defeats as gracefully as a certain Slytherin. 

And there he was, thinking about Nott again; Ron groaned to himself and decided to go out to the Quidditch pitch for a pickup game or three. (With or without his missing friend—Harry was nowhere to be found, presumably snogging Malfoy in some deserted corner.) Perhaps some flying, and some fresh air, would clear his head, because there was something very bloody wrong up there if he was still trying to get thoughts of Theo Nott out of his head. 

After all, he thought as he shouldered open a wooden door, even if he, Ron Weasley, could get over the fact that he couldn’t stop thinking about a Snake: what were the odds that the rich, powerful pureblood thought of him as anything more than a blood traitor? 

What were the odds that, after their match, Ron hadn’t even crossed Theo’s mind? 

-

Several floors below, deep within the heart of the castle, Theo was toying with the green tassels of a sofa cushion and trying to make himself stop thinking about Ron Weasley, with the rationale that there was absolutely no way Ron was giving him a second thought. 

But Theo couldn't help himself. As soon as the conversation in the common room reached a rare lull, he said, "General opinions on the male Weasley?"

Pansy, beside him, tipped her head back and laughed, feet wriggling where they were currently resting in Blaise's lap. "He’s always given me the sense that his broom doesn’t fly entirely straight. I’d say have at it.” 

"Keep your head out of the gutter, Pans," said Theo mildly. Of the very elite social circle they laid claim to, Theo and Pansy had always been the only ones who allowed each other to call them nicknames of any kind—they had the special kind of bond that only comes with people who have practically grown up hand-in-hand—and it was this understanding that made Pansy cut her eyes at him in disbelief, hearing the undercurrent to his voice that admitted Pansy was right and warned her to stay quiet in the same breath. "I asked for opinions about him, not whatever team he happens to play for."

"He's Harry's best friend," Draco volunteered languidly. "Aside from me, of course."

Theo rolled his eyes. "Anyone else?"

"His last relationship was with Lavender Brown," said Blaise, meeting Theo's eyes over Pansy's outstretched legs. His hands, as dark as the shadows that the flickering firelight cast over the floor, stood in stark contrast to the pale ankles he was currently rubbing, but Theo's attention was caught by the knowing slant to his friend's mouth. "Back in fourth year, when he was trying to get Granger's attention and had to settle for Brown because she went to the Yule Ball with Krum."

"He had a thing for Granger?" Theo asked, leaning back slightly against the couch and trying not to sound like he cared. Which he didn't, of course. Like it mattered to him who a weasel with too-red hair had fancied three years ago. 

"Yes," said Blaise. 

"And you know this how?"

He resumed massaging Pansy's feet. "Word gets around in this place. You, Nott, just have your head in a book too often to hear the gossip." 

"This isn't an idle line of inquiry," said Daphne, looking up from the parchment in her hands in a movement that made her blonde hair sway. "Theo, you do not make idle lines of inquiry."

"She's right," said Draco, pointing one dramatic finger at her. "What in Merlin's name are you—"

Pansy beat him to it. "Morgana, please, spare me," she announced, looking pleadingly at the ceiling, "from having to deal with another Slytherin-Gryffindor couple." Off Theo's betrayed look, she protested, "You have 'lovesick' written all over your face, Nott!" 

"I do not," he said. 

"Yes, you do," came the general chorus of assent. 

Theo just sighed. Damn these Slytherins. "It's nothing," he said, not even sure who he was speaking to. "He's just...really good at chess."

Draco tsked. "Swot." 

Theo tsked right back. "Pompous git."

Draco grinned. "Pompous git with a boyfriend." 

"Low blow, Malfoy," said Theo. 

It was his turn to have a Malfoy finger pointed dramatically at him. (Lucius did this in meetings to stress particularly emphatic points in his speeches, and Draco, who had started shadowing his father all over the Ministry in preparation for his own inevitable rise to power, was starting to pick up a disconcerting number of the elder Malfoy's mannerisms and overuse them in everyday situations.) "Yes, but it wouldn't have mattered to you if you didn't care whether the Weasley was your boyfriend." His face scrunched up. "Honestly, Theo, a Weasley? What do you even see in him?"

It reminded him of what Ron had said earlier—the same thing that pisses a Gryffindor off when a Slytherin thinks he can't play chess—and Theo smiled to himself. "Lots of things, Draco, that you simply do not possess."

"Lots of things, he says." Blaise let out a low whistle. "Nott's got it bad."

"Fine," said Theo exasperatedly. "So maybe I've had a slight interest in Weasley for a while. Slight!" he said hurriedly, at the giggles and slow blinks of surprise he was receiving. "But I just..." One of his hands went back to playing with the cushion tassel. "He's brave, and intelligent, and...” Theo trailed off again, thinking about the caustic look in Ron’s storm-blue eyes when he’d asked that question over the chess board. If Ron didn’t ever think he could do better, that he deserved better. 

Theo had thought it, watching Ron play Quidditch. And he’d thought it every time he’d seen Harry and Hermione singled out by teachers for something or other while the tiniest red flush crawled across Ron’s cheeks.

But he wasn’t about to say any of that here. “He’s damn good at chess,” Theo repeated finally. 

"I'm good at chess," said Draco. 

This went widely ignored. "Well, what are you going to do about it?" said Blaise. The words that is, if you're serious about him, which you have to be since you're both purebloods, even if he is a blood traitor, and if you don't approach things properly our parents and their friends would whisper about you and you would presumably like to avoid a scandal that would taint your prospects after graduating. Provided that you haven't married Weasley by that point. Which I don't think is likely, but I said that about Potter and Draco and look where we are now went unsaid, but Blaise somehow conveyed them to everyone listening by virtue of a few choice facial expressions and the power of the heritage they all shared. The intense, immense, responsibility that each and every one of them wore like armour.  

Theo put his head into his hands. “I don’t care that he’s a blood traitor. Can I just forget about the consequences and go to Hogsmeade with the ginger?”

”Not on your life,” said Pansy. “It’s like Blaise says. Word gets around.” 

“Also,” said Daphne unhelpfully, “you don’t know that Weasley actually returns your lovesick affections.”

Theo hesitated. It was true. He, incredibly, thought highly of a Weasley, but there was no small chance that Ron thought of him as just another sneaky, slimy Slytherin. Some of the ancient rivalry between their Houses had begun to cool ever since the most beloved of the Gryffindors had started dating the Prince of Slytherin, but that still didn't tell Theo anything about Ron. "I should just forget about this, shouldn't I? There's no way it'd end well for either of us." 

"I don't know, Theo," said Daphne. "There's hope. Look at Draco."

"Yeah, well, it's politically advantageous for both of them," Theo countered. The words stung even as he thought them, but he said them anyway, knowing that here, at least, he would be understood: "What prospects would a Weasley have in our world, anyway?"

It was Blaise who answered. "Are his prospects more important to you than he is?"

Theo didn't answer. He didn't have anything to say. 

"Well," said Draco, "if you decide you're serious about this admittedly quite interesting decision, let me know. I daresay I know a thing or two about courting Gryffindors."

"No, you don't," Pansy interjected. "Didn't Granger and Weasley have to hex Potter into your arms to get you two to—"

Draco hand-waved away his friend's words. "Technicalities, Parkinson."

Even as the rest of their little group laughed, Theo couldn't bring himself to join in. Draco's words were rolling around in his head—if you decide you're serious—and the troubling thing was that Theo genuinely didn't know if he was. 

What would it take to win a Weasley's affections? Would he even want to? Would it even be worth it? 

The question bothered Theo enough that night that at dinner he sat across from his usual seat, with his back to the Gryffindor table, so he wouldn't be tempted to sneak glances at the ginger boy across the Hall. 

If Blaise, who took Theo's usual seat next to Draco, noticed that a certain Weasley kept glancing at him, frowning, and then looking away again, he was wise enough not to say anything about it. 

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. 

Chapter Text

It took the Slytherins a week or so to finalize their planning. But to look at them, of course, you wouldn’t know that they were plotting anything in the first place, all gleaming smiles and elegant letters that they unfolded over their pumpkin juice in the Great Hall; Ron, who had no inkling of why Draco had postponed the finals of the chess tournament, just grew more and more irritated every time he saw them. It was a feeling that he’d thought was dying away, but now the snide remarks about snakes and evilness and the constant question of what, exactly, is so interesting to Theo Nott about Pansy Parkinson, ‘Mione? came to him more easily than ever. 

It didn’t help that he and Theo weren’t on speaking terms. Somehow this fact bothered Ron more over a span of six days than it had over the past six years. Ron mostly attempted to avoid even looking in Theo’s direction very often, trying to convince himself that this was due to a streak of Gryffindor patriotism on his part rather than the true cause: a painful, reluctant diffidence that the Hogwarts rumor mill was inspiring in him. He knew it was very un-Gryffindor to be afraid of anything. Even Harry, who was in the habit of not noticing anything unless the thing was Draco with a box of his mother’s chocolates, had reassured him that it wasn’t Theo’s fault, really, that he was getting engaged.

Ron had clapped him on the back in thanks, but Harry didn’t get it. Ron wasn’t angry. Maybe he wasn’t even afraid. 

He just couldn’t bear the thought of looking up at Theo, only to find him crowded in a corner with Parkinson the way Ron used to be with Lavender, all those years ago. 

“Ron,” said Hermione waspishly—clearly not for the first time—and he jumped. “Whuzzat?” he said around his mouthful of food. 

Hermione sighed. "Honestly, why don't you go out and fly for a bit? You're nearly jumping at your own shadow these days, I don't know what's gotten into you—"

"I'm fine," said Ron, unconvincingly. His eyes strayed to the ever-present gaggle of Slytherins across the Hall, to where Theo's and Draco's heads were bent together over a piece of parchment, and he looked away feeling guilty and not knowing why. 

"C'mon, mate," said Harry, leaning coaxingly towards him. "I'll bring Draco. I found some manoeuvres I want to try out before the Ravenclaw match," he added, ever the Quidditch captain. 

“Aren’t you going to play against the Slytherins eventually?” said Hermione dubiously. 

“We won’t practice anything important,” said Harry. “What d’you think, Ron?” 

"I dunno, your ferret seems a bit busy." Ron eyed Draco, who was now pointing a menacing-looking finger at Parkinson and arguing with her about something.  

Harry turned to follow Ron's gaze, then turned back with a huff. "I'll make him come. I've had loads of practice getting him to do things he doesn't want to do, like his Charms homework." The corner of his mouth twitched up. "Plus I've got blackmail to spare these days..."

"Oh, please," said Hermione, even as Ron guffawed. "Enjoy yourselves out there; I've got to run to the library and return the books I borrowed yesterday. I'll see you in the common room later."

Ron glanced absentmindedly down at her book bag, only to blink in curiosity when he caught the words 'pureblood customs' clearly written on the spine of one. Noticing his gaze, she shifted to block his view, but he just reached over her and pulled out the book on top. "Hermione, what are you reading about this for? Blimey, marriage customs? Is there a wizard in your life I should know about?"

"There's such a thing as research, you know," she said, only to deflate when both he and Harry stared at her. "Oh, alright, I just wanted to know what those Slytherins were up to! I heard Theo telling Blaise Zabini about his recompense the other day, and since I didn't know what that was—"

"I could have told you that," said Ron. His heart, which had briefly perked up at the mention of Theo, sank back into the pit it had taken to inhabiting lately. He hadn't thought things were so far along with Theo and Parkinson that Theo felt comfortable enough discussing his recompense with Blaise Zabini. In a low voice, he explained to Hermione what exactly Theo had been talking about. 

"That lines up with what I’ve read," said Hermione, brows furrowed. "But it's just that..." She trailed off, began again: "Well, I heard Theo talking about you."

"Me?" said Ron. "What about me?"

"It was something about you, and having to win the chess tournament, and—oh, don't look at me like that," she said crossly, for Ron could feel his expression growing stormy. "I'm just passing along what I heard him telling Blaise in DADA." 

"'Course he has to win against me," said Ron, stabbing his egg with perhaps more vigour than was strictly necessary. "I'm his last obstacle to the prize. Not that Theodore Nott needs seventy Galleons. What'll he do with them, buy his seventh having-tea-with-the-Malfoys robe?" 

"Ron, mate, come on," said Harry. Ron didn't miss the gratified look Hermione sent him, but decided to further mutilate his egg instead of commenting. He knew they were just trying to help, but they didn't really know what it was like, did they? Harry‘s relationship always seemed near-perfect, and Hermione was much too content alone to even consider entering into one. And then there was Ron. Just another Weasley, waddling after the pair of them like a lost Decoy Detonator and blowing up all the time for no reason. 

"We'll go out to the pitch," Harry insisted. "Let me go and get Draco." He promptly got up and headed to the Slytherin table, leaning in to kiss Draco lightly on the cheek before pointing in the general direction of the Quidditch pitch. Draco tipped his head back to look at him, an objection clearly materializing on his face, but then Harry leaned in again and whispered something in his ear. Both of their eyes shot to the Gryffindor table before Draco nodded, imperiously telling the rest of the Snakes something—probably that they had better join him out on the pitch—and Harry squeezed his hand, both of their eyes alight with the nonchalant ease of people in love. 

See? Perfect, Ron thought to nobody in particular. But he would admit that if anyone deserved to be happy in love, it was Harry. He’d always been the moral compass of their little trio, the arbiter who patiently worked out Ron and Hermione's spats when they got a little too angry at each other. And it wasn't just with the three of them; he'd spent hours practicing spells with, of all people, Cedric Diggory in fourth year, and to this day Cedric attributed his winning the Triwizard Tournament to Harry's unyielding faith in him. Harry had always shrugged it off, but he was just that kind of person. He’d never allowed his fame to go to his head—hated it, even, which Ron knew well after six years of protecting Harry from prying eyes in Diagon Alley and snarling at reporters who tried to get too close. Harry was their hero, the protector who sometimes also needed protecting himself; Hermione was the brains to Harry's heart, flattering her way out of trouble when the three of them got caught wandering the grounds after curfew and proofreading essays with comments that always flew over both of their heads. 

Where did that leave him, Ron? 

Blimey, he thought, shaking himself out of his stupor, he sounded like a bloody Ravenclaw. It wasn't like him to get so...existential. "You're not coming, 'Mione?" he said, just for the sake of saying something. Harry and a few members of Draco's little gang—including, he saw with a jolt, Theo—were already making their way out of the hall. 

"I'll come and watch for a bit," she decided, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder. "But then I'll have to go straight to the library!" 

"'Course you will," said Ron indulgently. "You wouldn't be our Hermione if you weren't dashing off to the library every chance you get..."

-

It really was a beautiful day, though the breeze coming off the lake as they passed it was nippy enough to make Ron shiver. He and Hermione arrived at the pitch to find the Slytherins and Harry already there, watching with considerable dismay as the Ravenclaw team swooped round the pitch. Evidently they'd had the exact same idea. "Now what?" Harry asked. 

“Let’s go fly out by the greenhouses,” said Draco, hefting his broom. “It’s nearly always empty when Harry and I are there, we’ve gone plenty of times.” 

“To do what, exactly?” asked Blaise, one eyebrow raised. 

”Study,” said Harry quickly. Ron met Theo’s eyes and grinned conspiratorially, only to realize what he was doing and begin feigning a sudden interest in the handle of his broomstick. “Anyway, c’mon, let’s go.” 

The walk to the greenhouses felt longer than it should have to Ron, perhaps because he could practically feel Theo’s eyes digging into his back, but eventually they passed the Whomping Willow, clambered over a hill, and found themselves in the grassy, wide-open space that Ron had to admit was pretty perfect for playing Quidditch. Draco sneered at a group of first-years and sent them scattering, leaving the area truly empty. “I don’t think you’re really supposed to fly outside the Quidditch pitch,” said Hermione, a tad anxiously. 

”Seeing as we’ve got the Head Boy and Girl here,” Draco said dryly, “I don’t think that will be a problem.” He unlatched the trunk of Quidditch balls that someone had had the foresight to bring over and unlatched the Snitch, a swift-moving glimmer of gold that disappeared into the blue sky. “Come on, Potter!" he taunted, swinging onto his broom and following after it. "Think you can beat me to the Snitch this time?"

”You’re on, Malfoy,” said Harry, laughing, and was soon chasing his boyfriend to and fro across the grass. 

"Well, don't start without me," Blaise called after them. He and a lone Quaffle swooped into the sky; Hermione sighed and said, "Even I know enough about Quidditch to see that you're going to end up wanting a hoop or two," and traipsed off to the far end of the area they'd staked out, murmuring to herself about the properties of rocks. 

Of course, that left Theo and Ron standing awkwardly on either side of the Quidditch trunk, staring at each other and pretending they weren't. 

"I—" Theo began. 

"Catch me if you can, Nott," said Ron, and somehow he felt like he was talking about more than just Quidditch. He knew it was stupid, a reckless game to be playing when he was so close to Theo—Theo, dark hair tossed every which way by the wind, who was looking back at him like Ron was the closest thing to sunlight he'd ever seen—but Pansy Parkinson wasn't there to witness it. Even the other three boys had hurtled far enough away that Ron could pretend he and Theo were the only wizards left in the world. 

It was a feeling he liked. Even if it was a feeling he knew better than to hope would stick around. 

But the second he flew into the air, his worries vanished into the clouds, and Ron was able to lose himself in the simple exhilaration of feeling the wind slice past his cheek as he turned, whooping, to follow Theo along the line of the greenhouses; when he was on his broom he felt the weight of a million expectations lift off his chest, like there was nothing he couldn't do so long as Harry was there to shout manoeuvres at him and an opposing team was there to send unflattering hand signals at. It wasn't his job to be the best Quidditch player in the castle. It was his job to enjoy the hell out of the game. Merlin knew he'd had a hard time of that when he was younger, but the older you got the more you realized that you always did best at what you loved. Chess, and Quidditch, and pie, Ron thought to himself with a grin, dodging a rogue Bludger that someone had leashed and which Blaise was currently trying to beat into submission with a bat that looked out of place with his immaculate designer robes. Those were the things he loved. 

His eyes caught Theo's for a moment, something borne from the simple freedom of a summer's day unravelling between them. Ron's blood ran hot with a reckless Gryffindor courage that made him angle his broom toward Theo's just slightly, meaning to tell him something—tell him everything—when it happened. 

It was so fast. Ron would try to put it together later and come up with only snatches. His broom, which he'd unconsciously stopped while hovering next to the goal hoop; Blaise, finally managing to hit the Bludger and sending it right at him; his chest imploding, all the breath rushing out of it, when the stupid school broom he wasn't used to didn't move out of the way fast enough. 

The branches of the Whomping Willow looming over his head, a latticework of grey and brown and white coming directly toward him. A scorch of pain that ripped up and down his side, then was mirrored across his face as Ron's hands moved to cover it too late. 

But then: warm arms pulling him out, cursing as the branches attacked his saviour instead. "Harry," Ron would later remember slurring, a white sky cartwheeling above him. "You came."

"I'm not Harry," said Theo Nott, and Ron caught a flicker of Theo's eyes—concern, pain, something like adoration—but that doesn't make sense, was his last thought before his eyes drifted shut. 

-

It was like a snake flashing out of the grass to bite its unsuspecting prey. Ron was there, safe and whole, eyes wide and blue on Theo's, and then Blaise's Bludger knocked him nearly off his broom. It wouldn't have mattered if Ron's broom had been better, but, as it was, he struggled briefly to regain control—Theo's own broom started moving without his conscious permission—but Ron had already careened backwards, knocking straight across the hill they'd passed and into the arms of the Whomping Willow.

Immediately it took umbrage, branches thrashing as it tried to shake off the intruder. Theo's attention was caught by what he thought was a stray twig on the ground before realizing with a sinking feeling that it was Ron's wand. He was truly helpless, then, and it was a matter of seconds before the Willow decided it had had enough and dropped him twenty feet to the ground. 

The world slowed down around him. It was like playing a game of chess, almost; Theo weighed a dozen different courses of action, judging the level of personal sacrifice involved in each, and then sent a wordless hex at a clump of branches far from Ron. Seemingly enraged, the tree erupted into a frenzy of thrashing branches and snapping twigs, leaving a gap near Ron that Theo judged to be just wide enough. A finely honed sense of self-preservation kept him from rushing in until he was certain that the Whomping Willow’s attention was diverted, but when he was sure, he made his move. The sky and grass and trees blurred by in too-bright colours as he flew straight for Ron. A few branches slapped at him as he tugged one of Ron's legs to freedom, and a particularly sharp thorn dug into his shoulder; Theo said something unpleasant but refused to stop, not until he had managed to free all of the Gryffindor's lanky body and they were free from the clutches of the gnarled old tree. 

He guessed that the others had copied him, throwing hexes at the rest of the tree to keep it occupied, and was about to call his thanks to the four students closing in when Ron said, "Harry. You came."

There was a nasty, bright-red scratch wrapping nearly the length of Ron’s face, and still all Theo could do was stare. Harry. You came. 

Of course he'd come. Of course.

But all he said was, voice shaking slightly, "I'm not Harry." And if the flicker of confusion on Ron's face broke his heart, he didn't dare mention it, not when an ashen-faced Draco and a wobbly-lipped Hermione had taken over the task of levitating Ron to the hospital wing. Nobody said anything, though several times Harry seemed as if he was about to say something and then thought better of it. Theo half-wondered if he had heard what Ron had said, if he, too, was wondering why Ron would have thought...

He was broken out of his thoughts by Madame Pomfrey's clucking as they finally came through the doors of the hospital wing. "I've said it before and I'll say it again, someone needs to rid us of that tree," she said darkly when Hermione had finished breathlessly explaining what had happened. "He'll be here until he wakes up. You five can run along."

"And when is he going to wake up?" asked Theo. 

"Not to worry, it will likely be before dinner," said Pomfrey over her shoulder, studying the glowing white diagnostics that she had conjured with a wave of her wand. They waited with bated breath for the outcome, even Draco. "Not bad at all," she pronounced. Theo breathed a silent sigh of relief. "The worst he'll come away with is a few bruises, but he'll require peace and quiet in the meantime." Surveying their faces, she said more gently, "One or two of you can stay with him if you like."

"We'll stay," said Harry and Hermione at once. It was such an essentially Gryffindor display that Theo had to smile. Draco paused to exchange a few words with Harry in a low voice, and Blaise turned on Theo, chagrin pulling down the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry," he said at once. "About the Bludger. I didn't even see him there."

"Why are you apologizing to me?" Theo asked.

"Well, he's your weasel," said Blaise. "I'll plan a huge sorry-I-knocked-you-unconscious party if you like. Complete with dung, or whatever it is that weasels eat." 

They were intercepted before Theo could say anything in response: it was Pansy and Daphne, barrelling in through the door. A warning look from Madam Pomfrey sent the Slytherins, minus Draco, scurrying right back out. "Someone said Ron crashed into the Whomping Willow and you pulled him out, T," said Pansy. "Is that true?"

"How did you hear about that?" Theo demanded. 

Pansy's eyes took on a decidedly wicked glint. "Aurelia Codsworth—you know, that third year—saw you when she was leaving the greenhouses, and she told me about it when I cornered her to ask if she'd seen any of you, because you weren't on the pitch. But never mind that. He's not dead, is he?"

"No," said Theo quickly. For a moment he imagined Ron lying deathly still on the hospital bed, those hands never again able to grip a broom, those blue eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, and just barely repressed a shudder. "Pomfrey says he’ll be awake before dinner." 

“Before dinner?” Pansy prodded. “Good. Daphne and I discussed it on our way up, and we agreed: Blaise should make his formal announcement tonight.”

”Tonight?” said Blaise. “Not that I have any particular grounds for objection, but I thought we were waiting for Draco to finalize the chess schedule—”

”So that it would be fresh in everyone’s memory, yes,” said Pansy. “But I don’t believe there’s a point in delaying it any longer.” And...” Unbelievably, the ever-unruffled Pansy Parkinson blushed, her eyes meeting Blaise’s. “I just want people to know Blaise Zabini is mine, alright?”

A slow grin spread across Blaise’s face. “Miss Parkinson, the feeling is absolutely mutual.” 

Theo coughed something that sounded suspiciously like “lovebirds” into his hand; Daphne laughed. “Mind your own business,” said Pansy loftily. “Oh! That reminds me. Daph, don’t you have Theo’s letter?”

”Right,” said Daphne, pulling a cream envelope out of her bag. “I think your owl was waiting for someone it recognized to come in. It nearly bit my hand off trying to give this to me.”

Theo murmured his thanks, frowning, as he took the letter. His stomach was twisting into slow, deliberate knots—but that was ridiculous, he didn’t even know who it was from. Behind him, he was dimly aware of Blaise and Pansy drifting closer together as he opened it. 

It was from his mother.

His heart skipped a beat.

The letter, such as it was, was very short.

Tian Yu,

Your father died at one o’clock this afternoon. It grieves me to bring you such terrible news, but I thought you deserved to know. Arcturus is under orders to give you this letter as soon as possible, so that you may behave yourself as befits the newest Lord of the Nott House. 

With love,

Your Mother

As if from a very great distance, he heard Daphne say, “Theo? Are you alright?”

He looked up, somehow still holding onto the letter. Daphne was watching him with concern. “What did the letter say?” she asked gently. 

“He’s dead,” said Theo, hollowly. “My father. I—Daphne...I’m Lord Nott.”

Daphne’s face fell, and she held out her arms; Theo fell into them without hesitation, burying his face into his friend’s shoulder. Her robe still held the faint scent of fresh summer air—she and Pansy had no doubt been out there for quite some time, searching for them—and the familiarity of the smell grounded Theo a little. 

A hand touched his shoulder. Pansy, his mind supplied. “I’m sorry, T,” she said quietly. 

He inhaled, one long, shuddering breath, and then gently extricated himself from Daphne. His friends gave him stricken looks. You are a Slytherin, some voice inside him whispered fiercely. You are the scion of not one, but two ancient pureblood dynasties. You are Theodore Nott, and you will not fall short.

Catch me if you can, Nott, Ron’s voice added in his head, full of so much laughter it made his heart ache.

“OK,” he said, meeting his friends’ eyes one by one. It was all he had time to say, because Draco chose that moment to exit the hospital wing, the door slamming shut behind him. “What’d I miss?” he said, looking round at the worried faces.

”Maybe if you spent less time with Potter you wouldn’t have to keep walking in at inopportune times,” Pansy muttered.

“My father’s dead,” said Theo evenly. Draco’s gray eyes went wide. “Tell Granger you’re moving the chess finals to tomorrow afternoon. We carry out the plan tonight.” 

Chapter Text

When Ron swam back into consciousness, the first bleary word out of his mouth was, "Theo?"

"Oh, Ron, you're awake!" Hermione exclaimed, bolting upright in her seat at his bedside. She moved to throw her arms around him, and then at the last moment seemed to think better of it. “How are you feeling?”

There was an insistent twinge in his side that made him glad Hermione hadn't gone for one of her trademark suffocating hugs. "I’m OK, I think," he said. His memories, or what he had of them, were coming back—snatches of blue sky, the Whomping Willow's unforgiving arms rushing up to embrace him, and...Theo.

I’m not Harry, he'd said. Ron hadn’t gotten the chance to explain that his brown-haired savior, backlit by the sun, had looked eerily like Harry. 

He didn’t know how to explain that for a moment, free-falling into the whipping cords of the Willow’s arms, he hadn’t been sure if anyone would come for him at all. 

Struggling up to a sitting position, Ron said casually, “So where did the Slytherins get to?”

The attempt at nonchalance fell so flat that even he heard the pathetic note of hope in his voice. Hermione and Harry exchanged glances. “Pomfrey kicked them all out," said Harry, shifting in the seat he occupied next to Hermione. "She gave them one of those looks and they all left.”

“You do think she’ll let you go to dinner, don’t you?” asked Hermione, shooting a surreptitious look at the closed door to Pomfrey’s office. “Because I think the Slytherins are up to something, and I really, really want to know what it is.”

Ron snorted. ”What, besides planning Theo’s wedding to Perfect Pansy Parkinson?” 

Hermione gave him a look. "Yes, Ron. Remember how I told you Theo was talking about having to win the chess tournament? I think…” She paused. 

The silence stretched for a moment. Harry prompted, “What do you think, ‘Mione?” 

“I think,” said Hermione, meeting Ron’s eyes, “that Theo wants to make a public proposal out of giving Pansy the prize money. In front of everyone.”

Something dark and ugly coiled in Ron’s stomach at the thought of having to watch Theo give those seventy Galleons to Pansy. 

“‘S’not like he’s dirt poor without it,” Ron muttered, just to be contrary, but he saw her point. Purebloods weren’t afraid of a little spectacle if it meant setting some unwelcome gossip straight. “But what’s that got to do with tonight’s dinner?” 

“Draco told me to make you go,” said Harry. “Drag you by the collar if I have to. He also said Blaise's sorry about the Willow.” 

“Did he?” Ron asked. 

“Er,” said Harry, “he meant to.” 

“I’ll make sure to thank him at dinner,” said Ron, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. As if on cue—or summoned by a ward or two—Madam Pomfrey came bustling out of her office. "Planning to go to dinner, are we?" she asked, waving her wand at Ron in lieu of waiting for an answer. "Hmph," she said, studying the glowing white diagnostics that sparked to life between them. "Don’t go anywhere near any more magical trees, young man.”

Ron shuddered. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

The matron waved them towards the door. “Go on, then, before you’re late.” Together the three of them dashed out, unspoken curiosity driving them down the stairs three at a time.

By the end of their mad dash through the corridors and staircases, Ron was breathing hard. The stupid tree had hit him harder than he wanted to admit. Thankfully, when they came to a stop at the Great Hall’s doors, it was to see plates still spotless in anticipation of the food, and gathering crowds who didn’t spare the trio a second glance as they made their way to the Gryffindor table. 

Whatever you do, Ron told himself sternly, don’t look at the Slytherins. And then—of course—he did anyway, as he took a seat between Hermione and Percy. Electricity slid down Ron’s spine: Theo was staring back at him with impenetrable dark eyes. On his left, Pansy Parkinson was rubbing her hands together as if she was nervous. 

He was distracted by the mouthwatering smell of dinner rising from the table, along with a swell of noise as people began tucking in. Only after Ron had filled his plate—priorities—did he turn to Hermione, catching Harry’s eye across the table, and say, “Pansy looks like she hasn’t slept in a week.” The observation wasn’t as comforting as he thought it would be. 

“Well, I would be sleeping poorly if I were her,” said Hermione. "In fact..." She trailed off, eyes narrowing in the direction of the Slytherin table. 

Ron followed her gaze. Across the hall, Blaise Zabini had gotten to his feet, wand aimed at his throat. He murmured something that looked like Sonorus. “If you wouldn't mind giving me a minute of your time,” he said in a magically amplified voice, “I wish to make it known that I, Blaise Étienne Zabini, am announcing my intentions for the hand of Pansy Parkinson."

The buzz of whispers in the Hall faded to nothing against the sudden roar in Ron’s head. Parkinson? But Zabini couldn’t—that would mean—

On reflex, Ron glanced at Theo, who looked for all the world like he was faintly smiling back at him. 

"Zabini can't do that," said Harry. "Can he?" 

Ron shook his head as if to dispel his confusion. "It's an insult to Theo.” And, indeed, the smile was disappearing off Theo's face; nearly every single eye in the Hall was trained on the Slytherin table—on him—as he got to his feet. 

"We had an agreement, Blaise," said Theo. "Specifically, my parents and Pansy's had an agreement." 

Blaise's brilliant white teeth flashed as he grinned. "Nothing's been said that can’t be unsaid. I wouldn’t mind duelling you for the chance.” 

Theo scoffed. "As if you'd have a chance of winning.”  

"What is the meaning of this?" Snape rose from the head table with irritation seared into every line on his face. “Zabini, Nott, cease this squabble at once.” 

“It’s not a squabble, sir,” said Theo, eyes sweeping the Hall. Most of the students were staring back, rapt. “Zabini”—his voice grew cold—“has decided to insult me. Publicly. I’m deciding how I want to answer him.” 

Blaise’s ever-present smile turned a little wolfish. “With a duel, perhaps?” 

As he spoke, his right hand drifted subtly to his waist. He’s going for his wand, Ron thought. And then—He’s not enjoying this.

He wasn’t. Blaise’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, which were as tense as Theo’s. Ron hadn’t missed the way they were positioned: like two players, side-by-side, fighting for the same Quaffle. In competition, yes, but starkly aware of their breathless audience. 

A performance. They were up to something. But how was this supposed to help Theo propose to Pansy?

“Or,” Blaise said, dropping the word like a rock into the anxiously rippling silence, “you could ask your father what he thinks.” 

”My father’s dead, Blaise.” A murmur went through the Hall. The lost look on Theo’s face didn’t feel at all performed—it pierced straight to Ron’s heart, but he could only stare helplessly as Theo, both hands splayed on the table, said, “As Lord Nott, you answer directly to me.” 

"Those weren't the terms," said a new voice. Pansy. She rose from her seat with the catty grace of someone whose suitors were fighting over her in front of the entire school. "My father made arrangements with the late Lord Nott. Those terms are void if he is no longer able to uphold them."

Still as a trip wire, Theo said, "What is that supposed to mean?" 

"It means that our arrangement is no longer viable, Lord Nott.” Even from here Ron could see the faint smirk on her face. He wanted to Scourgify it off. “There’s been no insult to your house. Though I am sorry to hear of your loss. What…turmoil…it must be.”

“Quite,” said Blaise’s ringing voice. He did not need to say that his family was undergoing no such turmoil. Ron heard the implication well enough. “Are we to consider the matter settled?”

”You should duel!” someone at the Gryffindor table shouted. Laughter and hoots ricocheted around the Hall. The tension suspending the room broke, and Ron realized belatedly that the food platters had arrived; most of the students, assured that Theo and Blaise weren't going to start brawling on the floor, had already started eating. Ron caught a whiff of something truly mouth-watering down the table and longed to pass his plate over, but his attention was too completely transfixed by the Slytherins—the trio had made no move to sit down. 

Theo was looking at Blaise, studying him, and then nodded once. Blaise grinned and touched him lightly on the shoulder. Pansy’s shoulders sank with something that looked strangely like relief. Snape whirled down from the head table like a bat out of hibernation, and Ron hastily ducked his head so he wouldn't get caught staring. 

"I don't know about you, Ronniekins, but that was excellent dinner entertainment," said Fred cheerfully from next to Harry. "Almost makes you wish—"

"—that us blood traitors—" George interjected from his other side.

"—took more interest in our public reputation," Fred finished. "As it is, dear old mum couldn't care less who we end up marrying. Not that I'm complaining, really."

"I certainly hope you don't marry just anyone," said Percy. 

"Oi," said Fred crossly. "When I marry a three-headed dog you are not invited to the wedding."

Ron put his fork down, mulling over what his brother had said. Harry and Hermione were talking to Seamus and Dean about a ghost they may or may not have seen (“a man with a sword and everything, like”), and so neither heard Ron when he said, “What if Mum was more of a proper pureblood? How interested d’you think she’d be in our marriages?”

Fred gave a theatrical shudder. “She’d arrange it herself, I bet. That’s what they all do.” 

“Just imagine, Ronniekins,” said George. “You can either have this girl”—he gestured in the air with his fork—“with the personality of a wet sock, or this one”—he pointed a few inches to the right—“with the brains of a wet sock. That’d be Mum’s pureblood options for you.” 

“And then you’d make little sock babies,” said Fred, sniggering.

“So,” said Ron through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, “pureblood mums give their kids options, then?” 

“Usually the parents’ hearts are set on someone by the time their child begins at Hogwarts,” Percy said. For once he didn’t sound condescending, only thoughtful. “If you’re stingy about blood purity, let alone English blood purity—”

“Oh, sorry, Professor Weasley, we didn’t bring our notes to History of Magic class,” said Fred. 

But the gears in Ron’s brain were turning. “Can’t imagine the Notts are too worked up about Englishness,” he said. 

“Well, in that case,” Percy conceded with a nod, “the new Lord Nott could choose anyone he wanted.” 

Anyone he wanted. The words left a sticky feeling in the back of Ron’s throat. 

But if Pansy was that anyone, then why had she been so dogged about terms? Why had Blaise been so eager to challenge his friend? 

A performance, Ron thought again.

He looked back at the Slytherin table, where Theo was wrapped up in an animated conversation seemingly without a care in the world. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it looked like Blaise and Pansy were holding hands between their plates. 

What if he’d been wrong about Theo and Pansy Parkinson? What if Nott had pulled off a classic chess swindle—tricking your opponent into a win, or at least a draw, in a losing game? It would make so much sense for the Notts and Parkinsons to have betrothed their children to each other, leaving the children to find their own way out if they wanted one.

But that raised more questions than answers. With his father dead, why would Theo even want a way out of a marriage that promised financial stability and a solid political alliance? Even if this was a swindle, what did Theo possibly stand to gain? 

"Ron," someone said, and he blinked. Harry, across the table, was watching him with concern. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head again. He was thinking too hard about Slytherin plots and not hard enough about the delicious smells tempting his attention towards the table. 

He couldn't help looking up again, though, and just in time to see a small knot of green robes—Theo among them—slipping out of the Great Hall. Malfoy paused to confer with someone Ron didn't know before coming at a brisk pace towards the Gryffindor table.

A few heads turned. “Granger,” he said briskly, stopping behind Harry. “We need to move the chess finals to tomorrow.”

”What?” She put down her fork. “It’s not supposed to be until Wednesday, I’ve had to cross-check every professor’s timetable to see which rooms are free—”

”I’ll take care of that,” said Malfoy impatiently, and then seemed to notice that Harry’s mouth was tugging downward at the ends. “I do appreciate the amount of work you’ve put into this, Granger,” he said. “But we need to move the finals.” Taking a stark breath, he added, “Please.”

Hermione’s eyebrows twitched up a fraction. “Fine, Malfoy,” she said. “You make sure the rooms are free and I’ll charm the posters.”

“Fine.” He didn’t say thank you, but he hesitated a moment longer, eyes lingering on Ron. Then he turned and strode out of the Hall as quickly as he’d come.

“Yes,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “They’re definitely up to something.” 

-

“OK,” said Theo, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. This was their fifth strategy meeting in twenty-four hours, and by all rights the small group ranged in front of him should be exhausted from too much planning and too little sleeping. But he could see in Daphne’s wide eyes and Blaise’s endlessly tapping fingers that they thrived on this: the conundrum of making a rewrite of the social landscape seem as effortless as Accioing it from the other room. “Is everything ready?

”I checked the rooms,” said Daphne. (She'd been delegated the task so Draco could “get information out of Harry”. No one really wanted to think about what that entailed, but it had given him the air of a pleased cat all night and persisted when they'd come here to meet before breakfast.) “They’re all free.”

”And everyone knows we moved the finals,” added Pansy. She was still holding hands with Blaise. Theo hadn’t seen them let go of each other since dinner and was trying not to let the jealousy eat away at him too much. “I conferred with Macmillan and the Patil girls.” 

"I thought you didn't like them," Blaise said. 

"The girls are perfectly lovely. I don't like Macmillan," Pansy said with a sniff. "But his mother owes mine a few favours and no one ever taught him proper deference, so he always talks to me like he's sorry about knocking over my prized vase."

"Which is how you like to be spoken to," Blaise said. 

She elbowed him. "The point is that all four Houses know about the move."

"OK," Theo said again. "What about Professor Snape?"

"I spoke with him," said Draco. "Oh, don't look at me like that," he added crossly, "I didn't tell him very much. Just that it was pureblood politics and that it would all make sense tomorrow."

"What did he say to that?" Daphne asked.

"'Your juvenile attempts to navigate complex social matters had best surpass your pitiful approximation of Veritaserum,'" Draco intoned in his best Snape impression, which was not very good but made them all laugh in the strained way that stressed people have. "Insulted us for five minutes and then said he would keep out of our way."

"A stunning vote of confidence," Blaise said dryly. 

Theo checked the silver watch on his wrist and realised it was the one his father had given him for his last birthday. Something cold and painful tightened in his throat. "It's almost time," he said. "Do we know the plan?"

"Well, our parts are basically done," Blaise said sensibly. "Your job is to win the tournament so Draco and Granger can give you the prize money, at which point you say something sappy to Weasley and give him the money as proof of your intentions. The rest of us will sit with the Slytherins and clap politely."

Theo sighed. "Go win the tournament, Theo. Don't worry, Theo."

"Only the rest of your life on the line," said Pansy. Then, maybe because the strain was showing on his face: "You can do this, Theo. Merlin knows you've beaten the rest of us at chess three thousand times over."

"I know," Theo said. But Ron Weasley isn't you, he didn't say. 

It wasn’t Draco or Pansy he’d be facing over the chess table when he sat down in front of the whispering crowd lining the back of the room. It was Ron who looked up at him, jaw set and eyes flashing, when Theo took his seat. “Weasley,” he said.

”Nott,” Ron answered.

”You ready?” He tapped the chess clock with his wand to start it.

Ron just looked at him, blue eyes pressing into Theo’s. “You saved me.” 

“Yeah,” said Theo. “You‘re welcome.”

Ron didn’t laugh. “Why?” 

Theo leaned back in his seat, aware of the people watching. Aware of Ron watching. “I’ll tell you if you win.”

”Such a snake,” Ron said, and there at last was a hint of his lopsided smile. “What if I don’t win?” 

”Well,” said Theo, studying the board, calculating. “Do you plan on finding out?”

“No,” Ron said decisively. “Knight to F3.”

As his knight rode out, Theo heard Granger’s voice from the back, and a glowing white simulation of the board appeared on the wall. Appreciative murmurs rose from the watchers—Hermione had adapted this spell herself for the third task of the Triwizard Tournament—but Theo had no eyes for them. 

“If that’s how you want to play,” he said, and the game began in earnest. 

Chapter Text

“You’re winning,” Theo observed as Ron’s knight pounced on yet another of his pawns. 

“Thought I might’ve been the only one who noticed.” The pawn made a very satisfying crunch under the knight’s horse. Ron looked up to gauge Theo’s reaction and couldn’t help but notice that the other boy’s eyes were unfocused. He barely seemed to be looking at the board. A memory came to him, as sharp and unbidden as the tug of a Pensieve, of Theo bent over his parchment in History of Magic with a thoughtful scrunch to his brows. This was the thing about growing up with someone—even in a school this enormous, on the other side of a semi-political, semi-social divide, you didn’t go six years without getting to know everyone else. Ron knew what Theo looked like when he concentrated. Blimey, he’d just recently beaten him in a match. This wasn’t it.

One instinct urged him to press the advantage; a different one won. “Sorry about your father.” 

Theo blinked twice, catlike. His eyes refocused on Ron, who as Molly Weasley’s son had met plenty of threatening stares in his life but still felt a shiver slip down his spine at the intensity in Theo’s. “Thank you. I’ll have my work cut out for me whether I win this match or not.” 

Ron shifted in his seat and swept a glance across the board. Their pieces were eyeing each other with a nervous energy that might have been infectious. “Didn’t get detention from Snape for that stunt you pulled, did you?” 

“Bishop to E4,” said Theo, sounding amused. Then: “Not this time, no, but contrary to Gryffindor belief we Slytherins get our fair share from him. You know the bronze cauldron with the crack in it?” 

Ron frowned. As little as he paid attention in Potions—there was usually a lot of extra entertainment, like Harry and Draco making eyes at each other behind Snape’s back—he did dimly remember a cauldron of the sort. “Yeah?” 

“That was me in third year,” Theo said, eyes crinkling with his grin. “I added too much sneezewort to my Confusing Concoction and made a dent they somehow can’t fix. Snape wasn’t happy.” 

Ron couldn’t help but answer his smile in kind. “Swot like you, I’d think the most trouble you ever got in would be studying too hard.” 

Theo lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “If I didn’t study so much, I wouldn’t be able to get into new kinds of trouble, now would I?”

Ron ordered one of his pawns to move and watched as Theo’s pawn quailed in fright. “Take that, you shadow-licking lout!” shouted Ron’s pawn, leaping onto the square and exploding the other in a shower of dark-hued glass. After a contemplative moment, Ron said, “No one’s ever taught you lot to shrug properly.” 

“I shrug perfectly adequately,” said Theo, so straight-faced it took Ron a moment to hear the laughter in his tone.

“That half-arsed shoulder-raise doesn’t count,” Ron said loftily. “You’ve got to commit to it. Really aggressive, like”—he demonstrated—“so no one thinks you’ve just got a fly to get rid of.”

Theo’s mouth quirked up as he studied the board. “You’re rather observant for a Lion.” 

“Contrary to Slytherin opinion,” said Ron, in a decidedly posh accent, “I pay attention sometimes. ‘Course you didn’t get detention yesterday, because that wasn’t real.” 

“It felt plenty real to me,” said Theo, but he had gone completely still. 

“You were…posed,” said Ron, searching for the right words. Ridiculously, he found himself wishing for Draco’s sharp tongue. “Like you and Blaise were trying to prove something. You wanted him to challenge your claim.”

“I,” said Theo, “can’t think of any sane reason why I would want to do that.”

”A completely mental reason, then.” 

Theo studied the board, eyes narrowed, and instead of answering he said, “Knight to G3.” 

Twin groans arose from the knight piece in question and the Slytherin side of the crowd, and for the first time Ron glanced up to his left, where spectators were ranged among the tiered benches of the classroom. Hermione, in the centre with Harry, smiled encouragingly at him when she caught his eye. Theo’s friends were clustered in a knot in the back left corner, looking uniformly anxious. 

“You don’t want to marry Parkinson,” said Ron, keeping his voice low. “But she’s your best friend, isn’t she? Queen to G3.” 

“She is,” said Theo, not even paying attention to the ensuing explosion. 

“Merlin’s balls,” Ron muttered. Theo’s king was in a dangerous position without the knight to defend him. What was he playing at? 

Theo just kept watching him, unperturbed. Like he was waiting for Ron to figure it out. 

“You’re Lord Nott now,” Ron said. “Don’t expect me to start bowing, but you are. Before that happened,” he said, more slowly, “your parents betrothed you to Parkinson. You didn’t want that, so you and your snaky friends planned that whole spectacle out.” 

“Right so far,” said Theo.

The shards of glass from the knight had long since magically vanished, but Ron couldn’t stop staring at G3, reliving the fatal crunch in his mind. His back twinged in sympathy, remembering the Willow’s angry lashes. “You sacrificed your knight to give me an opening,” he said. “And you saved my life.”

”Anyone would’ve gone after you.” Theo frowned. “You thought I was Potter at first.”

”I didn’t think anyone was going to risk their own sorry arse to save me,” said Ron. “Did it get you?”

With his left hand, Theo drew back the sleeve of his robe to reveal a raised red line that jagged across his forearm. Ron winced. “Only a bit. I’ve had worse in Quidditch.” 

“I reckon the Whomping Willow stings a bit more than your average Bludger,” Ron said. “What’d you say earlier? That you’d tell me why you came after me if I won?”

”Yes,” said Theo. 

Ron snorted. “‘S’not exactly a fair win if you’re letting me, is it?”

“Merlin, you Gryffindors and your moral codes.”

"You snakes and your...slimy ways," Ron said without heat. 

"You're almost there, Weasley," said Theo. "Try to put yourself in my shoes." Ron looked back up at him just as he pulled a hand through his hair, the rings on his fingers glittering with the movement. Ron thought he saw House crests engraved upon them, and remembered with a jolt that Theo was set to inherit not just one but two pureblood dynasties. If Chinese wizards were anything like British ones, rumours were no doubt already circulating about who Theo would choose to bear those pressures with him. Wasn’t it dangerous of him to let a match like Pansy slip out of his hands?

Wasn’t it odd that Theo, who Ron knew damn well was beyond careless mistakes, would leave himself open to checkmate? What would make him fly into the Whomping Willow and lose a chess game just to prove a point to a wizard he barely spoke to? 

“You wanted me alive,” Ron said into the sudden silence. The whole room seemed to be holding its breath. “You want me to win.”

”Yeah,” said Theo. “I want you.” 

Ron opened his mouth—to say what, he had no idea—but Theo ploughed on with the relentlessness of a dam finally broken, searing brown eyes pinning Ron to his chair. “I have ever since fourth year when Gryffindor beat Slytherin to the Cup. That final game, when you fell off your broom and shoved the Quaffle away on your way down—”

”My finest hour,” said Ron weakly. 

“I’d never seen anyone do something like that before. You were going down but damned if you wouldn’t bring us down with you.” Theo smiled wistfully. “I’ve nurtured decidedly questionable feelings for the most anti-Slytherin boy in the school ever since.”

”Oi, I’m not the most anti-Slytherin,” Ron said. “I helped your prince get his golden boy, didn’t I?”

”You did,” Theo said. He paused. “Pansy and I have, let’s say, mutual misgivings about marrying each other. I know your family isn’t quite as ensconced in the general society madness as is mine—”

”We’re blood traitors, yeah,” said Ron. Half of his brain was responding in the conversation and the other half was reeling around in his skull yelling. Theo wanted him?  

“I don’t give a soggy sock about your blood status,” Theo said vehemently. “My father did, but…” He swallowed. “The point is that I’ve gotten Pansy out of the woods but not myself. Polite society won’t stand for me entering their ranks without the promise of some sort of steadying hand.” 

“So…” Ron shook his head. “You can’t just cast a Tripping Jinx on me like a normal Slytherin?” 

“No,” said Theo with the hint of a smile. “I need to make a public declaration. That is, if…” Vulnerability made him fidgety. He toyed with the ring on his index finger—the Nott one. “If you’ll have me.” 

“You really are mental,” said Ron, half-admiringly. “Telling me all that and not even knowing what I think?”

”Well?” said Theo.

Ron looked back down at the board. “Know what,” he said, mouth tipping up into a crooked grin, “I’m going to let you figure that out. Queen to F4.”

It wasn’t strategy, any more than Theo flinging himself at the Willow had been. It was a question. It was an offer of trust. 

“Queen to G3,” Theo said, and grinned. “Checkmate.” 

-

As Theo was swept up in a shouting crowd of students, Hermione dashed up to Ron and said breathlessly, “I figured it out—it was never meant to be Pansy—”

“He’s been in love with me for years, the crazy bastard,” said Ron, head still spinning as if he’d been whacked by a Bludger. He needed to think this through. “I think he wants to marry me.”

”He does?” Harry exclaimed. With the wordless communication borne of six years doing everything together, the trio ducked through the crowd—Ron spared one last glance at the chess table and Theo’s dark hair—and headed for Gryffindor Tower. As they walked, Ron outlined everything Theo’d said during the match. 

“He’s right that the purebloods will be happy,” said Harry. “Dad proposed to Mum on their last day of Hogwarts, and Grandma Euphemia was so happy she almost had kittens.” 

“Well, more importantly,” said Hermione, “will it make you happy? What do you want for your future?”

“Dunno, really,” Ron admitted as they collectively sidestepped a suspicious green puddle. Whenever he vaguely imagined life after Hogwarts, he thought of himself as an Auror, or maybe a Quidditch coach, taking along to holiday gatherings at the Burrow a faceless Gryffindor girl who’d changed along the way from friend to something more. None of his daydreams had ever accounted for a beguiling Slytherin boy with enough Galleons to buy the Burrow itself a hundred times over. 

But if Ron really thought about it, he didn’t want to pick someone boring whose eyes would glaze over when he talked Quidditch. Yeah, he wanted someone his mum would like, but he also wanted someone who matched him in every sense of the word. Someone who was a challenge, in a good way. Theo Nott, with his dark eyes and the weight of two families on his shoulders, would be a challenge indeed.

Some impulsive side of Ron also liked the idea of being the first one to get proposed to in their year, to knock everyone else off their feet and upset all the bets on Harry and Malfoy. Theo was offering the chance to be the first at something. How often did opportunities like that fall into Ron’s lap? 

“Y’know what,” he said as they crested a flight of stairs, “I think I do know. Hard as it is to believe, I like Theo. Blimey, is Harry’s obsession with Slytherins infectious?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” said Hermione. “If you agree to this, you won’t be able to change your mind, you know.”

”I know,” Ron said. “Harry, what d’you think?”

His friend scrunched up his face in thought as they walked down the hall. Harry might be oblivious when it came to his own love life, but for judgments of character there was no one Ron would trust more. “I like Theo,” Harry said finally. “He has a funny way of looking at you when you’re not paying attention.”

”Like what?” Ron asked.

“Like,” Harry said thoughtfully, “he’s found a pile of Galleons in an alleyway and is trying to figure out why no one else has snatched it up already.” 

“Malfoy’s turning you into a proper poet,” Ron teased, even as Harry’s description made him grin to himself. He could work with a Theo who looked at him like that. He definitely could. 

-

Theo had barely said a word to his friends in the intervening hours—he'd dashed off to the Owlery to send a reply to his mother, telling her he was sorry about his father, and he had a plan—which explained why they all but jumped on him when he burst back into the common room before dinner. “Well?” Pansy demanded. "Where've you been, snogging Weasley out of his senses?"

“Not in so many words,” said Theo as they hurried back out towards the Great Hall. "I haven't seen him since I won." 

“You were letting him win at first,” Draco said. “I never thought I’d live to see the day: Theo Nott, letting a Gryffindor stomp all over him.”

”Metaphorically,” Theo said. 

“And?” said Pansy impatiently. “Did he say yes?” 

Theo hesitated. “He said I’ll find out at the ceremony.”

Blaise let out a whistle, looking impressed. “So that's why you've been hiding. Positively Slytherin of him to make you wait."

"But he does, doesn’t he?” Daphne interjected.

Theo didn’t have to ask what she meant. "Yeah. I think he does."

"Of course he does," Draco said. "He'd be ridiculous to turn down such an advantageous match."

"Is that all you ever think about?" Daphne said. 

"What kind of Malfoy do you take me for?" said Draco indignantly, but Theo was only half-listening because he could hear the faint roar of voices from the Hall. Doxies flip-flopped in his stomach. They were early, but so was everyone else; word spread like Fiendfyre in this school.

"While I was gone," Theo said to Pansy, "did you go around making sure people would be there?"

Pansy's eyes sparkled. "I only told Astoria and Lavender Brown, that Gryffindor," she said, which was a yes. 

They all paused for a fraction of a second outside the doors and the others pretended not to notice the slow breath Theo took to prepare himself for what he'd find. "Thank you," he said, voice rough. "For plotting with me."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, T," Pansy said. "The anticipation is killing me. Could we please go in so I can be awed by your declaration of timeless love to a weasel?"

Blaise mimed throwing up. Theo missed the others' response, because as soon as they walked in his eyes were searching the far table for a familiar tousle of red hair. There it was—Ron, like always, was sitting with Potter and Granger, already looking in his direction. Their eyes met. Theo didn't miss how many students nudged and whispered each other when they saw the Slytherins enter. 

Ron didn't seem bothered. The corner of his mouth quirked up, as if to say, Can you believe this?, and Theo grinned, as if to say, You haven't seen anything yet. He took his seat with the other Slytherins and pretended not to be looking at the Gryffindor table out of the corner of his eye every five seconds. 

His shoulders slumped with relief—only his shoulders; his mother's etiquette lessons had been drilled in young—when Dumbledore finally rose to speak. "If an old man could take up a few minutes of your attention before dinner begins," he said, quieting the general clamour in the Hall. "Our Head Girl and Boy have asked, and been granted, permission to present the trophy for the winner of the First Annual Hogwarts Chess Tournament, as well as the seventy Galleons of prize money." A noticeable murmur swept the crowd at that. "May this happy tournament last many years and foster relationships between all four of our Houses."

"A relationship is going to be fostered, all right," Blaise muttered. 

"Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy, I am as anxious as anyone to see the trophy," said Dumbledore, taking a seat and an attentive posture as Draco and Granger came forward. They exchanged meaningful glances as they stopped in front of the professors' table. 

Granger mouthed something, and in moments a golden blur was zipping through the Hall that she caught with both hands. It was the trophy, modelled after a chess king but several times the size. The writing engraved across the bottom glinted where it caught the fading sunlight from the enchanted ceiling. "I know it's a bit unusual to present a trophy like this at dinner," said Granger, "but we hope you'll forgive the intrusion on your time. Thank you to everyone who participated in the First Annual Hogwarts Chess Tournament."

Polite applause from most of the tables. A clump of Ravenclaws looked incredibly bored with the whole proceedings. Theo felt like doing something very unbecoming of a pureblood and flipping a table if Draco didn't get to the point very quickly. "This afternoon," said Draco, glancing at Theo as if he were a much better Legilimens than he actually was and had heard Theo's thoughts, "we found our winner: Theo Nott, seventh-year Slytherin." The Slytherins hooted and clapped. "Our runner-up is Ron Weasley, seventh-year Gryffindor." Much louder hollering ensued from the Lions' table. "Come join us."

Theo got to his feet and miraculously didn't trip all over himself as he threaded his way between the tables. He had no idea what he was doing. His father was dead, he was a lord, and the entire school was staring at him. 

But when he turned, Ron was there, close enough to touch, his eyes a guarded blue. Too low for anyone else to hear, he said, "What’ve you been scheming up, Theo?”

Not Nott—Theo. It sounded so natural from his mouth. Theo said, "I think you might have an inkling." 

"Theo," said Draco, smiling in a magisterial sort of way that he sometimes practiced in the mirror when he thought no one was looking. "The trophy is yours, as is the prize money." Sometime in the interim, Granger had produced a bag that clinked when she held it out. "Anything you'd like to say?"

"Yes, actually," Theo said, taking the bag in one hand and cradling the trophy in his other. He turned to face the school. Now that he was here, his nerves had stilled. He'd rehearsed this speech a hundred times when he was trying to fall asleep. All he had to do was deliver it. 

All he had to do was unravel the unconscious masks a pureblood Slytherin always wore, and give Ron what he deserved: honesty. 

"I won the chess tournament," Theo said, looking round at the faces that varied from wide-eyed with interest to looking longingly at the empty plates. "But with the death of my father, I'm coming to see that some things are more important than chess, or competition. Such as following your heart, no matter where it takes you." Now he looked back at Ron. "I earned this prize money fairly, and it's within my rights to do with it as I wish. I'm offering it to you, Ron Weasley. As part of my recompense." A few people gasped. Blaise was grinning. "I'm asking you for your hand in marriage."

The sickle finally dropped: the Hall erupted in noise, and Dumbledore had to raise a hand to quell the hubbub. Theo almost didn't notice. He was staring at Ron, begging him to understand. To see himself the way Theo saw him. "To play chess—really play it—requires perceptiveness. You can have every combination of possible moves committed to memory, and it won't do you any good if you can't see the game happening in front of you. You can't put up a fight if you don't see who you're playing against. And I saw you. I saw someone fearless, someone unafraid of defying expectations, someone I'd be proud to build a dynasty with. Build a future with." Theo added something that wasn't in his script: "Please."

The silence was so profound you could have heard a Thestral's wings flap. Ron said, "If you told me I’d end my school year with a recompense offer from a Slytherin, I’d ask to have whatever you were having." Scattered laughter across the room. Theo's heart was eating its way out of his chest. Slowly, Ron said, "But I know a good man when I see one. Yeah, Theo Nott, I'll marry you. As long as no one tells my mum before I do so I don't get a Howler." 

Relief punched through Theo like a shock of cold water. "I'll make sure of it." He'd deal with it—with everything—later. Right now, he just wanted to savour the fact that his plan had worked. Everything had worked. And Ron was there, safe and alive and real, his eyes glimmering with laughter. Theo could get used to this. He wanted to. The chess clocks were off; for once, he had the luxury of time. 

-

One year later 

Ron was trying, and failing, not to eat too many dumplings—Lady Nott had apparently made them, and besides being a gracious hostess, she was an incredible cook—which was where Theo found him, standing next to the food and watching their guests swirl across the dance floor. It was perfect weather for dancing: the searing July afternoon had settled into the breeziness of early evening, and the setting sun bathed everything in a warm, incarnadine light. Underneath the magically conjured dragons and phoenixes, sparkling red as they chased each other through the sky, Draco and Harry were slow dancing so lovingly that you would've thought it was their wedding. "Having fun?" Theo asked. He was wearing a traditional ma gua, a brilliant red jacket decorated with Chinese calligraphy in gold that was constantly dissolving and rewriting itself. 

"I'm marrying the wrong Nott," Ron said, looking up at him. "Your mother's dumplings are the best thing I've ever tasted. If I had this every night I'd've never come to Hogwarts."

"I'll make it for you," said Theo, smiling. "Actually, you're giving me some ideas."

"What, bribing the Minister for Magic to do your bidding with dumplings?" said Ron. "They teach you to be against corruption in my Auror training, y’know.” 

Theo pretended to look offended. "I would never do such a thing. Notts exclusively issue bribes in legal tender, thanks very much."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Bribe me with some punch, will you?"

"'Course, love," Theo said, reaching for the punch bowl. Ron's stomach did a Quidditch-worthy backflip. He couldn't believe he was this lucky. Sometimes it felt like he'd dreamed the handsome, cheekboned Slytherin proposing to him in front of the entire school. But, to his continued disbelief, it was real. Some things had changed: they started working together in Potions out of unspoken agreement, which was less interesting to Ron than the way their hands brushed when Theo handed him ingredients, and more than a few people had congratulated Ron or insinuated that he was marrying Theo for money. (Harry had just barely managed to hold him back from punching Cormac McLaggen for it, but when word reached the Slytherins, Pansy and Daphne had disappeared for an afternoon and the next day McLaggen was sent to the hospital wing for, as rumour had it, painful boils in an unfortunate area.)

Ron had also learned to cast a Patronus: a Jack Russell terrier that bounded around the room yipping at the motley group of students who'd assembled to try to learn to cast the Patronus from Harry in time for their N.E.W.T.s. The dog had nuzzled its head against Theo's leg before fading away. "It likes you, Theo," Daphne said.

""Course it does," Ron said. What he didn't explain: the memory he'd used was of the final game where Gryffindor had thrashed Hufflepuff to win the Cup, and Ron had flown past the Slytherin section of the stands only to see Theo wearing a red-and-gold scarf and cheering at the top of his lungs. Ron had felt like he could have flown to America and back on the sheer invigorating fierceness of his joy. 

"Let me try," said Theo, eyes shuttering for a moment. "Expecto patronum." A sleek dragon like Ron had never seen before burst from Theo's wand, with a long, undulating body and a fierce mane spiking out from its head. It swam once around the classroom, pausing to breathe a cloud of mist in Ron's direction before soaring out the window. "What kind of dragon is that?" Ron asked. "I've never seen it before."

"It's a Chinese dragon," said Theo, something strange in his voice. "Not the Chinese Fireball—that species came later. In myth, these dragons bring wisdom and good luck." 

"Beautiful," said Hermione, looking awed. 

"What was your memory?" Ron asked, unable to help himself. 

Theo smiled, and it lit up his whole face. "You agreeing to marry me."

"Merlin, get a room," Draco said, to which someone said, "Hypocrite," but Ron, beaming back, really couldn't have cared less. 

Something like that feeling came aglow in his chest when Theo handed him a cup of punch. "I think they're due to start the speeches soon," he said. "Prepare to hear a lot of embarrassing stories from my friends."

"I'm covering your ears if any of my brothers start talking," said Ron. 

"Why? I like your family," said Theo. Impossibly, he did, and they liked him too—Theo had won Molly over by bringing her flowers the first time he'd visited the Burrow, and he'd proceeded to talk Ministry politics with Percy for half an hour and promise to connect him with Malfoy to talk policies about something-or-other, before turning round and giving as good as he got with the twins and Bill when they'd tried to tease him for being a Slytherin. "Sometimes I wish I had a family as big as yours," Theo said wistfully. "It's a lot of responsibility to bear alone, sometimes."

"You're not alone," Ron said. "Not anymore." 

"Well, in that case," Theo said, putting out his hand, "we're going to suffer through these speeches together."

"Yeah, together. Whatever happens." Ron took Theo's hand. “Let me go and thank your mum for these dumplings.”

”She’ll love you forever,” said Theo, squeezing his hand. “Not that she isn’t already overjoyed that I’ve found a pureblood match that’s unorthodox enough to make me look like I’m an innovator who still respects tradition.”

”Glad to see you only like me for my blood type,” Ron said.

“Oh, I can think of a lot of things I like about you,” Theo said, winking. Ron flushed despite himself, love-drunk and happy and feeling so impossibly tender for the boy at his side, and together they walked over to where their friends and families were waiting.