The Changing Lights by lazywonderland

chapter seventeen

For the rest of the weekend and into the following week, Draco kept even more unusually quiet than he had since the first day he'd returned to lessons after the hex. That night with Potter had felt so monumental, had impacted him so deeply, left him so emotionally stripped and bare, that it seemed strange he hadn't been marked with some sort of physical evidence of its having happened. But there was nothing - just his puffy red eyes the next morning when he woke up to another note from Potter ("Didn't want to wake you - see you Wednesday night") and a lingering tightness in his chest. He was half convinced Pansy or Blaise would sense something, but while Blaise did give him a searching look at breakfast, Pansy was so busy prattling on about the holidays that Draco felt convinced she wouldn't have noticed if he'd been wearing an orange wig.

On Tuesday, as Draco was leaving Arithmancy and heading to Transfiguration, a voice stopped him in the corridor. He tensed up immediately, but not for the reason he'd become so used to doing - flinching at people harassing him, mostly - but because he recognised the voice so well.

Theo was one of the only other Slytherins in Draco's year taking N.E.W.T.-level Arithmancy, Tracey Davis being the other. Draco turned stiffly, hand clutching his bag until his knuckles were much whiter than usual. However, upon spotting the boy in question a few feet back, Draco saw he was carrying two copies of Advanced Theories of Numerology and realised at once that he'd left his own back in the classroom.

His face burned hot while he stood there and waited for Theo to catch up, jaw clenched as he reached out and took it slowly, meeting his eyes with reluctance. Other students weaved around them, and neither bothered to move from the middle of the hallway.

"Thank you," he said tightly, and giving a curt nod after a moment he turned away when nothing else seemed forthcoming. He'd only gotten a few steps when Theo called out again.

"Draco, wait." He sounded as tentative as Draco felt, and maybe that was what made him stop and turn around a second time. He lifted an eyebrow, hoping his face was effectively conveying an aloofness he didn't feel. Theo's expression was difficult to read, and this was all the more noticeable in contrast to Potter, who may as well have written what he was feeling at any given moment on a piece of parchment and charmed it to his forehead. "I wanted to ask ... how you were doing," he said lamely.

Quiet, introverted, and exasperatingly intelligent, Theodore Nott had never been one to stumble over his words, but least of all to say something so utterly and unbearably stupid.

"How I'm doing?" Draco repeated, sneering. Indignation flared to life in his chest. Theo, at least, had the decency to look ashamed. His cheeks coloured and he looked away, but he showed no other sign of discomfort. His pure-blood upbringing would have quashed any desire to fidget under scrutiny long ago. "You'll forgive me if I don't dignify such utter tosh with an answer."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," Theo said. When he met Draco's eyes again, he saw that some of the conflict had gone from Theo's face. "D'you think we could we talk?"

This came as such a shock that Draco was quiet for several moments, studying Theo's face, looking for something, although he wasn't sure what. It was extremely unlikely Theo was taking the piss, never having gotten any satisfaction out of that sort of thing, but the possibility that he genuinely wanted to talk to Draco was equally as difficult to believe at the moment.

"We have Transfiguration," Draco pointed out.

"I know. I mean ... later."

"What is it you want to talk about, Nott?"

Theo frowned at the use of his surname, correctly reading Draco's irritation.

"A number of things," he said after a brief silence. "I got a letter from my grandmother today. My father's receiving the Kiss first of February."