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Theo’s alcove, hard-won and staunchly defended, is in neutral territory, a chamber down a hall that spins off the library, where the dark of the black wood stacks is cut with natural sunlight, a rarity this deep into the warrens.
The contrast is dramatic, the play of golden afternoon light glimmering. The shadows, of course, are only deeper for it.
Theo considers the board, laid out for chess solitaire, pieces obscenely detailed.
Mammoth ivory, of course. In the Selenus style, tall and spindly. Truly, he prefers the lambent glow of alabaster, the clarity, how the light diffuses through stone like skin, though he will admit it won’t hold as fine a line.
The figures stand proud, little idols of little gods on a little altar to nothing. Still, he has this set trained well—they follow his command without question and don’t balk at their own sacrifice.
Theo pauses the contemplation of his next move when soft footsteps pad down the hall. He determines the interloper by process of elimination: a mudblood, he thinks, at first, for standard wizarding boots are wood-soled and ring with resonating claps on the stone floors—only these horrid rubber-soled muggle atrocities squeak shyly like mice.
But he rather surprises himself to find he knows those footsteps with a strange familiarity. Harry Potter, who walks like he’s afraid to be heard. Who prowls the halls in the shadows, alone. Who trails Weasley with an easy lope, in public, and flies with a hawk’s grace and killing intent.
Like the stalk of a predator more used to feigning prey. Or is it the reverse?
So Theo doesn’t jump when he hears the swish of a cloak before Potter melts out of the shadows.
(It’s an open secret that Potter owns an invisibility cloak and frequently haunts the halls after hours, Gryffindor’s own restless spirit. Such an artifact is, of course, a tool better utilized in secret—though Theo can’t fault him for the indiscretion, except, perhaps, for his choice in friends, because far too many of the rumors append, ‘Ron Weasley says…’)
Theo looks up lazily to see Potter staring back.
He stands in a sun ray warbled by the dusty cathedral glass windows, haloed by inky hair and dust motes swimming in the light. His face is pale and wan, eyes smudged with purple bruises, but his stare is sharp and intent.
“Nott,” Potter says, warily. The caution is all Slytherin, though he should know better than to show it. Potter has good instincts, but they’ve quite clearly been blunted in Gryffindor. In Slytherin, they would be refined to a sharp edge.
“Hello, Potter,” Theo says, cheery voice belying his studiedly blank expression.
“I never thought you’d be so happy to see me,” Potter replies, deadpan. “Actually, I never thought I’d see you happy, period.”
It’s clear Potter’s itching for his wand—his right hand is curling unconsciously, another clumsy tell—but Theo would guess it’s a natural reaction to being alone in a room with anyone, rather than being alone in a room with Theo.
Which doesn’t speak much for Potter's intelligence, despite his healthy abundance of paranoia.
Of course, Theo has no plans to attack the Boy-Who-Lived. In fact, he’d rather like to see Potter succeed at his mad task in this mad war.
But, really, everyone should be wary of being alone in a room with Theo. Even Malfoy’s learned his hard-won lesson.
Potter cocks his head to the side, for a moment, and stares at Theo as if he’s trying to see into his soul. (Or understand a third-year Arithmancy equation, depending on how generously one cares to view it.) After a long moment, he seems to have found his answer, for in a not-so-shocking display of boldness, Potter edges closer to Theo.
Theo gestures in a lazy circle around the chessboard and the pieces fly back into marching position. “Care for a game?”
Potter squints. A cloud shifts over the sun and light flashes off his glasses, briefly obscuring his eyes. “I’m sure I’m no competition for you. But I suppose I have no reason to refuse.”
He pauses, then grins wryly, flourishing his own wand to rotate the chessboard, placing the white king on his side and leaving the black for Theo.
How droll.
Theo supposes if he were to assign worth to the pieces in this war, Harry Potter is, indeed, the white king, and the Dark Lord the black. For the war will not end until one of them is dead and buried.
And in all likelihood mutilated. Though not, on second thought, buried—at least not until the loser’s corpse is first paraded around Diagon for a sufficiently torrid terror- and morale-boosting display.
But assigning Potter and the Dark Lord the same piece implies equal value. And despite the Ministry’s claim (‘the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal… and either must die at the hands of the other…’ ), regardless of whether Potter has the potential, it would take a good few decades before they could be considered remotely at the same level in a fair fight.
In terms of freedom of movement, of power and ability, the Dark Lord has the capacity of the queen. There’s the first problem.
If the opposition has a queen, it could only be the illustrious Headmaster, although based on the rumors Theo’s gathered about his still-withered hand, the man does not have long to live.
Well, chess is chess, and war is war, but either way, the Light has a handicap, now.
Potter must be feeling desperate to come to Theo for consolation.
So he prods. “I’m sure you’re familiar with my father. Perhaps you met him last year, at the Ministry?”
“What, you mean at my hearing?” Potter says, wide-eyed and mocking.
Theo narrows his eyes. Playing oblivious, then? “Hmm. Something like that. That begs the question, though. You seem shockingly unconcerned about my motivations.”
“I didn’t hear a question.”
Theo doesn’t grant that with a response. He's starting to sympathise with Snape. The backchat truly appears to be terminally compulsive.
Potter flips his wand into hand, aimed pointedly away from Theo, and incants, “Muffliato.”
Fascinating. Theo’s quite aware of just who invented that spell, and just who favors it. It certainly never made it into any textbooks. Whether it speaks to Potter’s resourcefulness or Snape’s tutelage--or true affiliation--he couldn’t say.
“I know you’re no Death Eater, Nott. And I doubt you’ve any desire to be. You’ve never espoused all that blood purist rubbish unless you were making a point, and I think you’re too smart to buy into Tom Riddle’s bullshit—” Potter’s eyes light up with glee— “Oh, sorry, the Dark Lord Tom.”
Potter pauses a moment, but when Theo doesn’t react, he continues. Looking just the slightest bit put out at the lack of shock regarding his revelation. “Though I suppose if any of our classmates would know that name, it would be you. Was it your father? Hmm, no, your grandfather, probably. Your father didn’t look that old last I saw him. I’d bet you’ve grown up weaned on the stories of the young halfblood in Slytherin who dazzled everyone. Too bad his looks have gone to shit, now. He really was quite fit.”
Potter pauses what is beginning to sound suspiciously like a recruitment pitch to consider his next play.
It’s bold, reckless, and leaves an opening Theo does not take. Not yet.
Theo puts barely a mind to each move, much less his overall strategy. Even if the conversation were not so revealing, he has no need to. The possibilities sling out like a winding path, the winning moves a line lit bright in gold, a mockery of fate’s threads.
Potter could barely be classed as a mediocre player, and despite the occasional flash of cunning (or the accidental genius of a fool) he is steadily losing ground.
Chess, unlike war, is a memorization game, a constrained field, a mathematical set of possibilities. Instinct has no place here for a novice.
Chess takes knowing chess. War takes knowing people.
“I’d wager you agree with some of his talking points, but not enough to blind you to the obvious outcome of his little 30-year temper tantrum. British Wizarding Society decimated, half the old families dying out, exposure to muggles—and then, when he loses—because he will lose—” Potter looks fierce in his determination, demonic in his vindictiveness, “--there will, of course, be a political backlash, and anything even remotely connected to the nebulous Dark will be strangled to a quiet annihilation. Old magic, dark families… or is it dark magic and old families? I can never remember.”
True enough, apart from Potter’s certainty in his future victory. Although when he looks like that, it’s almost hard not to get caught up in his sway.
“And, of course, even if he wins, even if he kills me--"
And how absurd that the fate of the Isles rests on the shoulders (or forehead) of a schoolboy.
"--it’s quite obvious he’s nearing the Downstairs end of a steady spiral into insanity. He can’t go a single meeting without Crucio-ing at least a few of his loyal followers—it’s four per meeting on average, these days, in case you were wondering. Up from two last year.”
That’s a heavy revelation to be dropping so casually in conversation with a stranger.
Information like that certainly couldn’t have come from Snape, who Theo knows isn’t allowed within spitting distance of Inner Circle meetings these days. Though the party line is that his work as a spy keeps him chained to the castle, everyone knows he’s only trusted with information the Dark Lord desires to leak to Dumbledore.
(The Dark Lord’s army is a hive of jealousy, treachery, and backstabbery, and there’s nothing that loosens a Death Eater’s tongue like a chance to mock a one-time favored servant who’s fallen in the Dark Lord’s estimation.
And to the average fool who preached the Dark Lord’s glory all the way to Azkaban, nothing gets the blood boiling more than a favored servant who slipped away from the heavy hand of justice by denouncing his ‘former’ master, who then gets rewarded for his betrayal by retaining his place in society, and therefore his use.)
So if Potter has a spy in the Dark Lord’s service, they must be slipperier than Severus Snape himself, and for Potter’s hands to hold that leash would be quite a feat indeed.
But considering the rumors of Potter’s rather dramatic fainting spells—not least how they were often attributed to visions--it may well be a bigger clue.
Theo is instantly on his guard.
Potter may be a Gryffindor, but he’s not entirely a fool. To even be alluding to secrets like this, war-ending secrets, to anyone (much less Theo) he must be either desperate enough to be reckless, arrogant enough to be foolhardy, or else he’s come prepared with ways to seal Theo’s tongue—whether curse or blackmail or both.
“Let’s presume you’re correct about my motivations. Who’s to say my father didn’t force the Dark Mark upon me?”
“Well, we both know you can’t take the Mark unless you vow willingly—”
“Do we? I don’t believe that’s publicly circulated information.” Lucius took enough pains—and galleons—to hush that little secret up, or his Imperius excuse would be a tough sell even with his resources.
“--but even if that weren’t true, I suppose the pressure a father can exert upon you could be significant enough to strongly encourage you to give in, regardless of your personal feelings on the matter.” Potter grimaces as if he couldn’t possibly understand a child so weak-willed. “Of course, I’ve never had one, so I wouldn’t know, I suppose. A father, that is.”
As if Theo would let the situation degrade that far. He’d sooner dispose of his father than succumb to his pressures.
It seems Potter is not totally oblivious, and manages to catch the murderous glint in Theo’s eye—in return, he smiles. It’s vindicated, self-satisfied, and a bit bloodthirsty.
“Of course, none of that really matters. I know you haven’t taken the Mark because I know.”
“Playing peeping Tom in the showers, Potter? I wasn't aware you fancied me so.”
Potter looks considering again. “Can you keep a secret?”
“I suppose it depends on how you plan on ensuring my silence.”
Potter grins a cheshire smile, wild and predatory. “We-ell, I spent some time in a Black family residence recently. I found a lot of fascinating spells in the library… I suppose I’ll leave you to guess.”
Lovely.
Theo would assume Potter is bluffing, but he and his little Gryffindor fanclub can be surprisingly ruthless. Everyone’s heard stories. When Potter found out about Black in third year, he truly looked murderous, and it took all his friends to stop him from hunting the traitor down himself. Fuck, he supposedly killed a professor with his bare hands at age 11. And when he’s in a mood, even Gryffindors know to stay clear or be hexed. Very Sturm und Drang.
There was Granger’s little curse on Marietta Edgecomb last year—and that was only a simple secrecy contract, and Umbridge a relatively pathetic enemy. Scale that up to the Dark Lord, and life or death stakes, and, well.
In any case, Theo would only fall back to the Dark Lord if his win was a near certainty and the borders sealed. Else he'd leave Britain, perhaps take a little wanderjahr.
Potter’s arguments were sound, though nothing Theo hasn’t thought himself. The Dark Lord is clearly mad and getting madder, and even if his conquest succeeds, his reign is doomed along with Britain.
Besides, Theo will serve no man, and the Dark Lord is barely even that.
Potter apparently thinks Theo’s been given enough time to stew in uncertainty. “I can sense the Marks,” he says, smile turning strangely rueful. “I suspect I could even control them, to some extent.”
Fascinating. Theo is itching to perform some experiments.
At this point, Theo is moving his chess pieces automatically, without any real care. Potter’s in a nearly unwinnable position, and doesn’t seem to be paying any more mind to the game than he.
This game is much more interesting, and Theo suspects he now has enough pieces of Potter’s puzzle to figure him out.
There’s the connection with the Dark Lord. The fated connection. Prophesied equals, inevitable enemies. Some form of mind-bridge—Potter’s visions of the Dark Lord, possibly from his point of view. How the Headmaster wouldn’t even look his supposed protegee in the eye all year. How Potter thinks he can control the Dark Marks. Parseltongue. The resurrection—Theo only knows the vaguest rumors, but it supposedly required Potter’s blood.
Tied together in fate, in mind, in body, in magic. Why not soul?
Potter’s eyes light up with a malicious sort of glee. “You understand, don’t you?”
“Soul magic…” Gods.
Like a glimpse in a convex mirror, oeil de sorcière. Two muggle-raised orphans, powerful, misunderstood, and solitary at heart. Pale skin, dark hair, matching cheekbones, sharp eyes. With wild tempers and an animal sort of cunning. Blinding brilliance to match the deepest shadows.
Their paths may have diverged—and when? Was it the sorting? When Potter chose Gryffindor? Stifled his own ambition? —but it seems fate has plans to bring them back to cross.
And what, then, would it take for Potter to become the next Dark Lord after deposing this one? Frighteningly little, Theo thinks sometimes, but then a moment later it seems impossible. After all the kid’s suffered, if this hasn’t done it, nothing short of total defeat could. Or total necessity.
All his links to humanity severed, all his friends killed.
“Do you see the problem, yet?” Potter asks, coaxing.
“Well, why would the Dark Lord tie his soul to an infant? Unknowingly, I suppose. Which means he must have been playing with soul magic. I can’t say I’m an expert in the subject, but the most obvious use… soul jars.”
“10 points to Slytherin!" Potter is beginning to sound slightly hysterical. "Horcruxes. He made horcruxes.”
“So he’s immortal.”
“That’s a problem. Not my problem, though.”
“Not your… oh. You’re one of them. He can’t die until you do.”
“And, according to the prophecy, by his hand.”
“Dare I ask what the Headmaster thinks of your predicament?”
Potter’s face contorts with rage, teeth bared in a snarl, the harsh cast of light deepening the shadows and sharpening the lines, features stark and cold.
The air itself seems to darken with a heavy weight, simmer with the roiling fury of his magic. The chess pieces rattle their swords, pages flap, the table cracks.
Theo shivers, takes care not to show it. The supposed Savior has never looked more like the Dark Lord.
“He hasn’t seen fit to tell me. I figured it out on my own. Otherwise, I suppose he’d have told me at the last moment, bade me walk to my death. Hell, I’ve always known I’m supposed to play the martyr, but he raised me like a goddamn pig for slaughter.”
Potter exhales, and the air breathes with him, the weight dispersing like fog, burnt up by a sun ray. His smile brightens, the slightly sheepish one he puts on to break the tension whenever he does something extraordinary, or to lighten the room when he falls too far into his rage. “You know, you’re the only one I’ve told about this. Any of it.”
“I suppose I should be flattered. Or concerned about what you’ll ask of me in return.”
Potter’s smile turns wistful, melancholic. “I would do it, you know. Walk to my death. Dumbledore always used to say the power that would defeat the Dark Lord is ‘love’. Tom Riddle could never feel love, you see. Dumbledore thinks he was born like that, with that lack, from love potions.”
“Or because he’s a psychopath,” Theo grumbles.
Potter continues as if he hasn’t heard. “I was raised in a loveless home. I’ve never told anyone that, either. Not so blatantly. Dumbledore put me there, too. You know, Tom asked the Headmaster to stay at Hogwarts over the summer because muggle London was being bombed. He was denied. That’s something else we have in common.”
Theo wonders how far Potter’s sympathy extends towards the man who has haunted his life, dogged his every step. Or perhaps it’s more of a kinship.
“How are you supposed to know how to love when you’ve never been loved? When you’re trained your whole life to hate yourself? When all you’ve ever known is hate and fear? When it’s engrained in your entire being? I suppose it’s different now. I have people I care for and who care for me. I would destroy the world for them. I might even just save the world for them. But do I love them? I don’t know. I want to possess them, keep them close, keep them safe. Keep them.”
Dangerous waters, these. Not that Theo is much more emotionally aware, himself.
But Theo’s temper is cold and calculated, and he acts solely in his own self interest. Theo has no one left to burn the world for.
Harry’s life is a pile of kindling in a dry forest, and his temper rages like a wildfire. And unlike Theo, Potter has the power to burn it all down in a fit of pique.
Speaking of which…
“If Voldemort was waiting for me and Dumbledore told me to walk, I think I would do it. But mostly because everyone in my life has told me that’s all I’m worth. But right now? I want more than to survive. I want to live. I want to prove them all wrong. And I want you to help me do it.”
“Why me?”
“Because I’m famous for my light, but I’m defined by my shadows. Because they’re ever darker for its brightness. Because I have a hot temper and I need a cool thinker. Because you hide in the shadows, and I cast the darkest one around.” Harry grins, wide and sappy. Then, a little bit self-effacing and a little bit coy, he adds, “And maybe I think… well, all you show anyone is your darkness. I wanna see where your light is. It must be blinding.”
“Are you… is this you trying to flirt with me?” Theo comfortably ignores his own thoughts along quite similar lines not too long ago. “Perhaps you should put a bit of that energy into our game. I’m two moves away from checkmate.”
“Ehm. How about I tell you what my plan is, and then you decide. You might just want to kill me for the affront when I’m done.” Potter stares at the chessboard as if he’s trying to burn a hole in the wood with the intensity of his gaze alone. Then he grins, wide and blinding. “Hey, black rook at H-8. What do you think about winning the game in one move?”
No.
"I promise I’ll support you in whatever you need to do. I would love to have you on my team. I know Theo’s kind of uptight, right?”
No.
“Think of the eternal glory! You could rule in his stead. You can conquer both sides in one fell swoop."
Now Theo’s too curious to intervene. Wizarding chess sets are enchanted to follow the rules of the game. To sweet talk the opposing piece into betraying his King? It should be impossible.
But if anyone can accomplish the impossible…
“To E-8! Take off his head! C’mon… YES!”
“Wait, did you just Imperio my chess piece when I wasn’t looking?”
"What, you don't believe in my raw charisma?"
"I'm fairly certain that you don't, or you'd be even more of a terror."
Harry flushes red. It’s rather charming. “Alright, how about I tell you about my plan…”
***
Like a pinpoint of a smile, a spark
Or star one is not sure of having seen
As darkness resumes. A perverse light whose
Imperative of subtlety dooms in advance its
Conceit to light up: unimportant but meant.
- JOHN ASHBERY, Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror
Fractured reds and greens and yellows shift across Potter’s face as the sunlight angles through a leadlight, or maybe a rose window. (Theo’s not about to check. He’d have to look away, first.) Harry looks like a saint, like a martyr, like an icon in leaded glass, stained with color, like he belongs high on a cathedral wall.
The irony is rich, considering what he has just asked of Theo.
“That’s positively ruthless,” Theo says. He might even be the slightest bit proud.
(To submit himself to the Dark Lord. To live according to His mercy--and Potter's own. To annihilate his would-be brothers-in-arms in one fell swoop.)
He thinks, perhaps, that he was mistaken about Potter’s edge. Maybe it’s not sharpened to a sleek, fine point like it would have been in Slytherin, but it’s certainly not blunted. More like a jagged, toothed blade.
Cats are predators too, after all, of tooth and claw if not fang and scale. But they’re no less vicious for it. At least a snake’s kill is cleaner, bloodless. Silent venom, or a quick severing of the head, a slow torturous embrace, swallowed whole. No mess, no evidence but the smug satiety of a predator fat on its kill.
A lion will tear open your gut, rip out your heart, crush bones, snap spines. Ravage you with tooth and claw then lick their bloody maw.
But perhaps, when one has a pride to protect, loved ones to lose, it makes one consequently more vicious in their defense. And are savageries in name of a pride not noble? That’s what they say, isn’t it?
Theo wouldn’t know. He’s always been a snake. Solitary, cold blooded, and positively ambitious in defense of his lack of ambition. (Honestly, it’s almost more work to fend off challengers without making a play for the top.)
But he has been bored lately. Stagnant. Maybe it would be nice to have a new project.
He suspects Potter sought him out because he can sense that Theo lacks a strong will to live, despite his highly developed survival instinct. (It's a matter of motive and means--or rather, he has abundant means and practically no motive.)
Is it hypocritical of Potter to convince another to martyr himself for his ill-fated cause, considering the disgruntlement Potter feels at being asked to do the same?
Of course. But the entertainment will be worth it from the reactions alone, especially if the Prophet gets ahold of the story.
Theo's never played the selfless hero before. (He knows where his light came from, and she's long dead. But perhaps... just perhaps, he can spark a new one.)
And it’s true: Harry Potter casts a large shadow. It’d be a shame not to make good use of it.
Theo’s always embraced his darkness. It’s what he was raised for, it’s what is expected of him. At least it will be hilarious to see the shock on his father’s face when he turns up the light.
***
How many people came and stayed a certain time,
Uttered light or dark speech that became part of you
Like light behind windblown fog and sand,
Filtered and influenced by it, until no part
Remains that is surely you. Those voices in the dusk
Have told you all and still the tale goes on
In the form of memories deposited in irregular
Clumps of crystals.
- JOHN ASHBERY, Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror