Chapter Text
Unspeakables, and Dark Lords, and Time-Travelers, Oh My!
Chapter Eighteen
The Problem with Notts
The problem with knots is that they are difficult to discern from one another. There’s a whole branch of muggle mathematics that is solely dedicated to that pursuit. The difficulty therein lies with the unraveling of the knot itself; and how oftentimes a complicated tangle of rope was in fact nothing more than a twisted up mess that once unbound and laid out was either a simple knot or not even a knot at all.
The Gordian Knot was an infamous knot found in Ancient Greek texts. There was a prophecy passed down from the seers of Athens about it and how the one to undo it would be the ruler of Asia. It was believed that Alexander the Great sliced through this knot with a sword tied to an ox cart. Whether the knot the seers spoke of was a physical or theoretical knot was unclear, however, and many scholars—especially with in the Department of Mysteries—theorized that the prophecy of the Gordian Knot had in fact eluded to a far graver and terrible truth involving the fundamental nature of reality.
Theodore’s parents, both Unspeakables working closely with Augustus Rookwood, had painstakingly dedicated their lives to the study of knots, both physical and theoretical. Theodore’s mother, Anya, had often joked when she was alive that it was only natural that she married his father because of her academic interest in knots. Theodore hadn’t understood the joke until he was older; and by that point, he thought it was a bad pun. But he still vividly remembered how his father would laugh at it every time. Theodore didn’t have a lot of memories of his father laughing, but the few he did have had always involved his mother. After her death, Thaddeus Nott had stopped laughing, he grew colder and distant, and threw himself wholeheartedly into his work at the Ministry and Theodore had been left in the care of the house elves more often than not.
Theodore hated knots. As a child, he used to hate them because it felt as if they were responsible for taking his father away. It was only later he realized that his father had used them as an excuse not to see his son—A son that looked too much like his deceased wife—and couldn’t stomach the reminder of what he lost. As an adult, Theodore hated knots because they were such a bloody headache.
How anyone would willingly dedicate their lives in this academic pursuit was beyond him. His parents must’ve been bleeding mad. Or perhaps, they had been motivated by something, not a desire for knowledge, but a necessity for it. He was beginning to suspect that his father, if not his mother too, had known about the paradoxical binding melding multiple worlds into one all the way back then when he was barely more than a toddler.
It would certainly explain some things…
But if this paradox that created this closed loop existed all the way back then, perhaps even before the prophecy of the Athenian seers, where then was the origin? How was he supposed to find it? Narrowing down the search would prove to be an insurmountable task…
Theodore didn’t have the slightest clue of where to begin.
He had wanted to utilize this time without Potter being a constant bleeding thorn in his side. He thought he’d have some relative peace and quiet without the raven-haired auror dragging him into schoolyard squabbles. Theodore was wrong. Dead wrong.
It seemed in the short time they had been there, Potter had not only managed to throw a bunch of overconfident youths into their plans, but utterly obliterate any hope the Unspeakable might have had of keeping a low profile. In particular, keeping a low profile from Voldemort himself—or this younger alternate reality version of the Dark Lord. It seemed that without Potter at his side, Riddle’s attention—and thereby the attention of the rest of the Slytherin seventh-years—had been diverted to him.
He was going to kill Potter. He was. He’s made up his mind about it. As soon as they got back to their reality it was going to be on-fucking-site.
It had been subtle at first. A change of routine. A new seatmate during the Friday Transfiguration lesson when Potter had up and disappeared. One that Theodore had not the presence of mind to pay any attention to until the girl planted herself at his side in the first class of the day.
“Good morning!” She greeted him first. Cheerful, far too cheerful and friendly he had thought for that time of day. She must’ve been a Hufflepuff he assumed, except she wore the green and silver of the house of snakes Theodore observed. That put him on edge, though he didn’t show it.
No Slytherin was that friendly straight away unless they wanted something. Theodore had a fairly good idea what that something was. Turning toward her with an expression bordering on polite indifference, he returned the greeting as social graces dictated whilst leafing though the seventh-year transfigurations text to make it clear he was not interested in carrying on any sort of conversation. This girl, this slytherin, ignored the sign extending her hand toward him in a careless though no less friendly manner again better befitting a well-meaning Hufflepuff.
“You’re new, right? My name’s Lyra Burke,” she said. “You’re Theodore Rowle?”
The Unspeakable reluctantly shook the girl’s hand. “I am,” he said.
“I’m surprised, Evan’s isn’t here. You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?”
“S’pose not,” the Unspeakable shrugged in a way that he considered normal for an adolescent boy. She smiled again. He felt like it was a little too much smiling.
“How are you liking Hogwarts?” She asked him.
Again the Unspeakable shrugged. “It’s alright.”
“Truly?” The girl arched her thin auburn brow at him incredulously. She glanced around the room, seeing that Professor, Esmeralda Alliette, had yet to make her appearance before she leaned closer. “I heard you had some trouble already with some of my housemates…”
“And?” Theodore prompted her, his gaze intent.
“I know some people, particularly some of them in Slytherin, take issue with a person’s name or lack thereof…” She trailed off giving him a meaningful look, “I just wanted you to know that a few bad apples doesn’t poison the whole cart.”
“Noted.” Theodore nodded.
The girl rested her chin in her palm. “You’re pretty quiet, huh?”
“When I want to be,” he said.
“That’s how Alyx is too! Oh, Alyx is short of Alyxander Mulciber. He’s my betrothed,” she pointed toward the hunched over form of a dark-haired boy looking as if he was catching a few minutes of sleep behind his propped open textbook before class began. Next to him was the Slytherin Headboy, Tom Riddle, or as Theodore knew him the Dark Lord before he became the Dark Lord. As if feeling the attention on him, the Slytherin turned and looked over at their table. Theodore stared waiting for a legilimens attack that didn’t come whilst the girl beside him waved in a flirty sort of way. The headboy curled his mouth into a smirk and waved back in an indulgent sort of way, like an older sibling humoring a younger one, and turned back to his own text.
“And next to him is Tom Riddle,” she whispered to him. “He’s headboy this year and a good friend of mine. He likes his quiet too just like you and Alyx. I think the three of you would get on. I could introduce you later if you wanted.”
Theodore couldn’t think of anything he wanted less at the moment. Fortuitously he was saved from having to answer Burke by the arrival of the transfiguration professor looking a bit scatterbrained and half put together in her rumpled robes as she hushed them to open their textbooks. During class Burke was blessedly silent, focusing on her own school work. But as soon as class ended she was back with that Hufflepuff friendliness as she chatted about the class.
“So do you have any ideas for what you want to do for the transfiguration assignment?” The unspeakable was busy packing up his books and showed no interest in answering. Burke didn’t seem to need him too. “I think I want to focus on potions based transfigurations like the polyjuice or animagus potions. I’m kinda pants at the theoretical calculation involved with wand transfiguration, but I’m decent at potions,” she told him without prompting.
Theodore slung his bookbag over his shoulder, not turning to acknowledge the girl, as he headed toward the door. It was a more than obvious sign he was done with the interaction. Again Burke persistently ignored obvious signs and followed him at his elbow. “You’re pretty good at potions too, aren’t you? Professor Slughorn has been giving you a lot of points in class for them so you must be. Are you studying to be a potioneer?”
The Unspeakable didn’t visibly sigh, though he certainly wanted to.
“He told us that Evans was studying for a potion’s mastery. Something about it being a requirement for the ministry…” The girl trailed off, Theodore could feel her gaze boring into him. Most people would’ve left him alone by now. Stopping in the corridor, the wizard turned and looked down at the red-haired witch.
“Is there something you want?” He asked her somewhat rudely.
“Oh,” the girl jolted, looking for a moment unsure in the face of his rather obvious annoyance. “No. I was just walking to class. We both have Charms next, right? I thought we’d walk together…”
“I’d prefer it if we didn’t.” Theodore told her.
The slytherin looked confused. “Why? Am I bothering you?” It was obvious that she was. Theodore gave her an unimpressed look. “Oh…sorry. Alyx has always said that I talk too much sometimes. It can be a little grating on strangers. I’ll stop, if you prefer?”
Now the Unspeakable did sigh. He really didn’t have time for this.
“Is everything alright, Lyra?” A deeper voice cut in and they both turned, spotting the Slytherin Headboy and the girl’s betrothed approaching.
The girl answered first. “Everything's fine, Tom! I was just getting to know our new transfer student,” she explained. She made a brief introduction between the three boys which Theodore reluctantly participated in, before he was able to excuse himself with the claim of having forgotten something in Ravenclaw Tower he needed for his next class. An obvious lie to the cluster of Slytherins, however unable to call it out, none of them stopped him as he turned and left.
The next two classes were spent dodging Burke before lunch. She seemed to have an uncanny ability to ascertain when he was about to arrive at the next class, appearing suddenly, and taking up the seat next to him before anyone else was able to. If he didn’t know better, Theodore might suspect some kind of tracer spell was placed on his person. She had started asking him about Potter in Charms class; wondering about his absence. “Tom’s worried,” she had said. “He’s been having a difficult time adjusting, I think.”
She asked him if he knew where Potter was. Theodore didn’t, but he said he wasn’t worried. “Harry can handle himself just fine.”
“Oh?” She had looked curious, but the unspeakable refused to say anything more on the topic.
At lunch, Theodore had been approached again by Cygnus Black of all people asking where Evan’s was hiding. “How am I supposed to know?” He had wondered exasperated at this point. How was he bloody supposed to focus with all these interruptions? “I haven’t seen him.”
“But aren’t you two friends?” The black-haired boy had wondered.
“Try checking the infirmary,” Theodore suggested, ignoring that question. “Idiot always ends up there somehow.” The unspeakable hadn’t known where Potter was, nor did he particularly care. But it had served his purpose of getting the lot of them out of his face for the moment so he could focus on the arithmancy text in front of him.
Of course, Potter in his stupidity had actually ended up in the infirmary. The idiot. But once the wayward Slytherin was located, the interest in Theodore didn’t waiver like he had hoped.
Cygnus Black seemed especially observant of him in detention with Professor Beery when Theodore performed an advanced transfiguration spell to repair a broken beam support. The Herbology professor had been impressed by it and assigned the ravenclaw to the task of making sure the old greenhouse was structurally sound, whilst the others busied themselves with the removal of overgrown weeds and creeping ivy that had tried to return the man-made structure back to the forest. Walburga Black had complained the whole time about Potter’s skipping out on his punishment. To which Theodore had countered by casting a nonverbal silencing charm on his ears to muffle the shrill pitch of her voice to save himself the headache.
Perhaps Potter’s complaints about the Slytehrins weren’t entirely unwarranted.
Thankfully the detention lasted only for an hour, before the group of them made their way back to their respective common rooms to get ready for dinner.
Theodore, after cleaning himself up, skipped the evening meal in favor of the library and that was where he now sat, buried in Arithmancy text again. He had been at this for a few days and still he didn’t feel as if he was figuring this out. Something had to have gone wrong with the prototype. But, without the briefcase, trying to figure out what exactly had gone wrong was nearly impossible. He didn’t know what Potter had done to it. Nevertheless, Theodore was certain that the fault lies solely with Potter and not anything he had done.
And he had clearly done a lot. Potter’s penchant for trouble had started long before all this mess. It hadn’t come as a huge revelation to him. Theodore knew that. But he still hadn’t quite grasped the extent of Potter’s shenanigans until he told him about the bloody Basilisk he killed when he was just twelve— Twelve?!
The Unspeakable still had trouble trying to wrap his mind around it. Not because the idea of a twelve-year-old boy slaying a Basilisk was utterly ridiculous—which it was— but the fact that no adult had tried to stop him. The utter incompetence was what he was struggling to wrap his mind around.
‘ No wonder Potter had such a problem with authority figures… ’ the wizard considered dryly. Theodore had his own issues with authority, although they seemed rather pale and halfhearted when compared to Potter’s. He hadn’t been a reckless, rebel leader like Potter. But he had defied the authority figures in his life, mainly his father, in his own stubborn headed and dogged way.
He was defying him even now. The whole project with the Department of Mysteries had been in defiance of his father. Circe knows working for the Unspeakables at all had been a defiance of his father. But especially meddling with time…Well, Theodore considered himself largely blameless for that decision. Not when it was Thaddeus Nott that had set his son on this path long before Potter ever got himself involved.
If he hadn’t left. If the old, stubborn bastard hadn’t abandoned him in search of—Theodore still didn’t know what his father had been searching for—What he said he was searching for in the scraps of notes left at that cabin was an impossibility. It should’ve been an impossibility...
But now…Now, he had doubts. The nature of time is that it is relative. Events do not occur consecutively even if that is how they appear to. But to change the past…Theodore’s father had been mad. Brilliant too perhaps, but also very, very mad.
He still remembered the last conversation they had. That last conversation hadn’t been in person or in a Floo fire. It had been a shared dream. Dream sharing was a complicated bit of magic; at times vivid in its detail and other times half forgotten.
They had been at a muggle cafe he thinks. Though the location was unclear and undefined as they sat outside siping on steaming cups of tea. His father had been the only object in focus, though his voice had sounded muffled as if he were speaking through a wall.
“Dreamwalking is dangerous magic to be meddling in,” eyes as dark and blue as his own had settled over his person. “I’ve told you that.”
“How else am I supposed to get a hold of you?” Theodore had demanded. “It’s not like you’ve left me a Floo address.”
“And that was intentional.” Thaddeus looked at his son dismissively. Not that that was anything new. Theodore had long since gotten used to that look. “Can’t keep in contact with family when I am a wanted war criminal. So what is it? Spit it out.”
“Merlin…you are such a prick,” he spat.
“You wanted this meeting. Did you just call me here to insult me?”
“No. I—” Theodore hadn’t known what to say. He had gone through such lengths to track his father after he fled England. Had followed him through the European continent, until he had found himself halfway around the world. And why? He still didn't know. But they were family, although they hated each other. “I’m tired of this,” he finally settled on.
Thaddeus Nott had furrowed his dark brows. “This?” He had prompted.
“Of chasing you. Following you halfway across the continent. Waiting for you to come home—”he cut himself off. “I’m done with it.”
“Good.” Thaddeus nodded, looking rather unphased by his son’s frustration. “I never told you to look for me, boy. I explicitly discouraged it.”
“So I was just supposed to let you run off and live the rest of your life in hiding?”
“You were supposed to be my heir. To marry and carry on the family legacy. Not be some vagabond traipsing after his father. You aren’t a child anymore, Theo, you have responsibilities—”
“And you didn’t? You just left everything in shambles and—What? I was supposed to stay behind and clean up the mess you made? How is that fair?”
“So it was better to run away from it all? To leave England. To abandon our ancestral home to picked over like a dead carcass by those muggle-loving bloodtraitors—”
“I’m just following your example,” Theodore spat. “Why show I care about that place when you so obviously don’t?”
“Because it’s our legacy,” Thaddeus stressed.
“It’s not,” he disagreed. “Our legacy is that of terrorist, genocidal maniacs that turned our wands against fellow wizards and Mother Magic herself. Do you know what word they call us back home? Witchprickers. The same thing we used to call those fucking squibs that sided that bastard Hobbs. Wizarding society spits when they hear our name. That’s the legacy you left me.”
His father was silent for a moment. Thinking, swallowing those words, and ingesting them. For a moment, Theodore saw the anger behind those eyes. The hurt pride and indignation was a difficult thing to suppress, but his father did. “Again I’ll ask, is there a point to this whole conversation or did you summon me here to simply berate me?”
“I want to help you come home,” Theodore said. “I want you to let me help you.”
“Why?” His father asked. “According to you, I’ve done nothing but ruin your life. I’m sure you think I’m a terrible father. Why would you want me home?”
“But you are my father,” Theodore stressed. “You’re blood. My only blood.”
Thaddeus sighed, but didn’t argue that point. “You have your mother’s heart,” he said as a healer would deliver a terminal prognosis. “It’ll be the death of you as it was hers if you're not careful. Sentimentality does not keep one alive long in this world, use that head of yours and be rational. There is no helping your poor terrorist father out of this situation. I will not allow it and you must accept that.”
“So you’re just giving up?” Theodore asked. “You’re just going to live the rest of your life on the lam until the Aurors catch up to you—until Potter catches up to you?”
Thaddeus scoffed. “I’m not concerned with that foolish boy,” he said.
“You should be,” Theodore said. “That foolish boy had been locking up the dark lord’s supporters left and right. You know Rookwood is in Azkaban now, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Theodore wondered. “Your longtime friend, your mentor, my godfather is in Azkaban because he helped you and the Lestranges and that’s all you have to say?”
“He helped the Dark Lord too,” Thaddeus reminded his son.
“Because he was trying to keep us safe!” Theodore shouted, finally losing his composure. The scenery around them shook, unfocusing and flickering at the momentary loss of concentration.
“Careful,” his father warned. “You’re making the dreamscape unstable. Control your emotions.”
Theodore breathed deeply, trying to restrain his temper and his magic. It was like trying to put a lead on a stampeding hippogriff; and yet somehow he managed it.
“The only one responsible for Augustus’s actions is himself. Not me. He made his own choices and I made mine,” Thaddeus looked for a moment weary as if the time in Azkaban and years on the run were finally taking its toll on him spiritually.
They had taken a toll on his father physically.
He was no longer the strong imposing figure from Theodore’s childhood. Somewhere along the way his dark hair had grayed, his skin sagged and wrinkled, whilst his muscles atrophied turning that once tall and sturdy-built man into someone an unwitting person might describe as frail. Thaddeus Nott was not a frail man, at least Theodore had never thought so until this moment. Even when he returned from Azkaban he hadn’t for a moment lost that proud stubborn tilt to his chin. But now there was a look on his face that Theodore couldn’t quite describe. It was almost forlorn, regretful, and soft.
“It’s time you made your own choices, Theo,” he said. “You cannot keep chasing after me for much longer. You won’t be able to.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I’m leaving,” Thaddeus said, but his son didn’t understand.
“You already left.”
“No,” his father shook his head. “I’m leaving this place for good. I won’t return and you won’t be able to follow me.”
Theodore had tried to wrap his head around the words his father was saying to gauge their true meaning.
"I've done all I can do here.”
"Stop being so vague. Are you sick?"
"No."
"Then where are you going? Where are you leaving to?"
"It's time to move on. It's time you move on too, Theo. We must all walk our own paths in life. One day you will understand and you will hate me for it—"
"I hate you now," Theodore snapped.
Thaddeus almost smiled, not looking at all like the father Theodore knew. This wasn't his father. It couldn't have been. It was a stranger sitting across from him.
"Maybe so. But everything I have done has been necessary."
He hadn't understood then. He had assumed his father meant he was dying, that the leaving he was talking about was a more permanent leaving. It was a more permanent leaving, but it wasn’t death that his father was speaking of he had realized later when he had finally managed to track down the last remnants of his father in an isolated cabin hidden in the Swiss Alps. Where he found his notes and research left strewn about the place with no rhyme or reason.
It had taken weeks to pour over it and a month and a half to even understand it. To understand the equation and the ritual spell that his father had left him. The very same equation and spell that had disproven Larry Niven’s Law, the one that Theodore had spent months attempting to test and had published in an academic journal. It was the very same equation and spell that had gotten him his job at the Department of Mysteries.
It was the equation and ritual that had allowed his father to travel through time without a time turner. It was that ritual, a ritual that broke the fundamental laws of magic and shouldn’t have been possible without some precedent, that was the cause of it all. His father had created this mess and Theodore knew that he wouldn’t be able to fix it unless he found him.
Theodore swore slamming shut the tome of arithmancy text in front of him. The problem was that family was more complicated than knots and his was nothing more than a tangled up mess just like this fucking timeline. His mother, if she were there, would've probably made some horrible pun and laugh. She would've told him to expect it.
“That’s a rather serious expression—”
Theodore tensed and looked up. “Riddle,” he eyed the headboy, looking at the tome tucked under his arm. He couldn’t catch the title, however it was thick and heavy and likely a tediously long read. “Is there something you wanted?” He asked him.
“Mmm…” the headboy shrugged. It was a strangely human gesture, so far removed from the physically warp homunculus that he would become. “Not particularly. I was just passing by and saw you here,” he told him. “You look like you need a break.”
Theodore snorted. “I need a bloody holiday,” he grumbled.
“It’s not good to overwork yourself, Rowle,” he said, sounding pleasant and curious. “Is there anything I could help with?”
Theodore shook his head. “No. Thanks for the offer though,” he said, though his tone was flat and insincere.
Riddle frowned, adjusting the book under his arms. He cocked his head like a bird and stared at him. “You know, Evans has made it abundantly clear that he does not like me, but you…I didn’t realize you felt the same way as him. I can’t imagine what I’ve done to offend you.”
Theodore paused. “You haven’t done anything,” he said.
“And yet, you still dislike me,” Riddle observed. “My presence is making you uncomfortable.”
Theodore didn’t know how to respond to that. Fortunately he didn’t need to.
Riddle shrugged. “I don’t particularly care whether or not you like me, Rowle. You’re hardly the first. But I am curious about you.”
“You ever heard that phrase about curiosity and the cat—“
Riddle snorted. “Of course. A muggle idiom,” he said.
“Then maybe you should take it to heart,” Rowle suggested.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“It sounded like one.” Riddle looked at him, appraising him he was sure, waiting expectantly for him to continue.
“It’s a bit of advice,” Theodore told him. “Whatever curiosity you have about me or Evans, the truth isn’t worth it.”
“You imply that there is a truth to find,” Riddle pointed out, and pulled out a chair to sit down, unprompted and uninvited.
“There’s always a truth to find, but this one isn’t worth your time. Believe me you’re better off staying far away from Evans and I,” he said. “We’re nothing but a headache.”
“You discredit yourself too much,” Riddle said, setting his book beside him on the table. “There’s more to you than you let on.”
“Maybe. But I’m not discrediting Evans,” he told the headboy. “Seriously, I can’t believe I’m giving you advice.” He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair and met the unwavering gray eyes of the young Dark-Lord-To-be across the library table they sat. He felt himself grimace under that stare. “Look Riddle, Evans isn’t someone to mess around with. I know he looks nonthreatening, being so short, and thin, like a gust of wind could blow him over; but if you keep fucking with him it’s your funeral.”
Tom arched an incredulous brow. He looked at him, and Theodore knew that he was taking in his build, sizing him up and comparing him to the short, waif that Potter’s body had taken. He saw the question there between the ridges of his forehead as he furrowed his brow briefly. He knew the question before the schoolboy even voiced it.
“Why are you so afraid of him?”
“Because I’m not stupid,” Theodore scoffed. “We’ve known each other a long time. I know what he’s capable of.”
Riddle leaned forward in his seat, interested. “And praytell, Rowle, just what is Evans capable of?”
“He’s capable of getting everyone around him killed,” the Unspeakable told him matter-of-factly. There was no if, ands, or buts about it. It was simply the truth. “Kid’s a walking curse. Always has been. Always will be.”
“Then why do you associate with him?” Riddle wondered. “If he is such a curse…”
Theodore sighed. This conversation didn’t look like it would be ending anytime soon. There was no simple answer to that question. Any answer could only ignite the boy’s curiosity further. But the longer that silence stretched out between them he could see the more Riddle grew expecting.
Behind Riddle someone moved, Theodore’s eyes caught the movement of Professor Fortescue as he rounded a bookshelf and thought suddenly occurred to him.
Of course! Why didn’t he consider that sooner? Invariance…
“You know,” Theodore suddenly changed the subject, “there is actually something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Oh?” Riddle paused, looking momentarily taken aback. “What?”
“Can I borrow your notes for History of Magic?”
The headboy hadn’t been expecting that question. After everything they had discussed so far it seemed to catch him off guard with how anticlimactic and mundane it was. “I didn’t think you were struggling in class.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why do you need them?”
“It’s not for class,” he told him.
“Then I don’t see why you would need them,” Riddle said.
“How about a trade?” Theodore proposed because a Slytherin never did anything without gaining something in return.
That caught the boy’s interest. “A trade? What do you propose?”
“You want Evan’s to fall in line, right? Stop causing issues in Slytherin with the pureblood families…”
“Are you saying you can control him?” Riddle asked.
“No.”
“Then what are you offering?”
“Leverage,” Theodore said. “I can tell you what Evan wants. The only thing he wants and I’m sure you’re clever enough to figure out how to use that information to make him more agreeable.”
Riddle paused to consider it. “Perhaps…Depends on what he wants, I suppose. So what is it? What does Evan want?”
“Notes first,” Theodore counters.
“Seems like an unfair trade,” the headboy said. “What is it? Money? Fame?” Riddle shook his head. “No that wouldn’t be, I’ve been around him long enough to know he doesn’t care for either of those material ideals. Evans is motivated by something more intangible, illogical.”
“Notes first,” Theodore repeated.
Riddle looked at him again, appraising him. “Alright, Rowle,” he said. “I’ll bring them here tomorrow, same time, and I’ll hold you to it.” He held out his hand to the Unspeakable, not an unbreakable vow, but an unspoken promise. Sometimes with magic those held more weight because the non-verbal intention was more clear. It was akin to offering up one's soul at a crossroads to Hecate herself. That’s what it felt like when he shook the boy’s hand. It cemented something between them, he felt a shift in his magic, a bond had been formed, a contract.
Riddle gathered up his book and left his table shortly after. Theodore watched him leave with a growing sense of trepidation. Was it a bad idea offering up information about Potter? Probably. Theodore knew that. But one of them had to make some kind of connections here. And if it wasn’t going to be Potter, well, he supposed he had to be the one to make a deal with the boyish dark lord to at least create some semblance of civility.
“The things we do for family,” Theodore muttered to himself.