The café was warm in the wrong way, the kind of heat that felt stale from too many coats and umbrellas dripping onto the tiles. Steam clung to the windows in soft foggy patches. Someone near the counter was talking loudly about crypto charms, and every time the door opened a gust of damp air rolled in, carrying the smell of rain and traffic. Theo sat at a small table near the back, hunched over his teacup like a man trying to disappear.
He did not look up when Hermione came in. He saw her reflection first in the window: dark coat, hair that had been coaxed into perfect curls, lipstick in a shade that would smear on anyone else but never on her. She moved with the confidence of someone who believed public places were hers by default. She was late, as always. He had been here long enough to wear a dent into the seat cushion with his elbows. The spoon clinked a little too hard against the cup as he stirred his tea for the third time without drinking it.
She spotted him immediately. He could tell by the way her eyes softened and sharpened at once, the look of someone who had found the patient she had come to treat. She wove through the tables with the ease of a cat and dropped into the chair opposite him, peeling her scarf from her neck as she smiled. It was not an apologetic smile. It was a "you're lucky I'm here" smile.
"You look tragic," she said cheerfully, unwrapping a muffin and tearing the top off before she even ordered a drink. "Which is perfect, because I've come to rescue you."
Theo arched an eyebrow at her over the rim of his cup. "Rescue me how?"
"By dragging you back into civilisation." She waved a crumb at him. "Specifically, Luna's birthday party tonight. You're coming."
He blinked at her, slow and unimpressed. "What?"
"You love parties," she went on, ignoring his tone. "You love getting sloppy drunk. You love attention. This is your natural habitat. Come with us tonight. You need it."
"I'm confessing to my professional failures over tea, and your solution is alcohol?" he asked, voice flat.
Hermione raised her brows in mock innocence. "Obviously."
He stared at her for a long beat, spoon balanced in his fingers. "Hermione."
"Theodore," she said sweetly.
"You are insufferable."
"I'm efficient," she corrected. "And you're sulking."
He set the spoon down and leaned back in his chair, arms folded. His robes felt too heavy, his hair too messy, everything about him slightly wrong for daylight. "It's just a job, you said," he muttered. "Just a potion. Just a disaster. Easy for you to say."
"It is easy," she agreed, reaching for her coffee at last. "Because I know you. There will be a new day, a new potion, a new disaster to fix. Tonight isn't about that. Tonight is about fun."
He gave her a flat look. "You think seeing Luna Lovegood again after ten years is going to be fun."
"Yes," she said without hesitation.
"I haven't seen her since Hogwarts."
"I know."
"I haven't spoken to her."
"Also aware."
"She might be completely different."
Hermione's lips twitched. "She's still amazing. Still funny. Still loving. Still Luna."
Theo stared into his tea. It had gone cold. "Still Loony, you mean."
She snapped upright. "Don't."
"What? It's what everyone called her."
"She hated it."
"She laughed."
"She laughed because she was braver than the rest of us," Hermione shot back, voice sharper now. "And she's not a girl anymore, Theo. She's an adult. So stop saying it like it still applies."
He raised his brows. "All right. Fine. She's… what, exactly?"
Hermione's mouth curved. "She's a bit of a hippie now."
"I'm not entirely sure I know what that is," he said drily.
"It means she lives in a cottage covered in vines, she drinks tea made from moss, she probably thinks your trauma has an aura," Hermione said, tearing off another bit of muffin. "But she's brilliant. And you used to like her."
He snorted softly. "That was before I realised life is mostly bills and failed experiments."
"Even more reason to see her."
"I have nothing to wear," he said, taking a small petty sip of tea.
"That's complete bollocks and you know it," she shot back instantly. "You probably have six tailored robes and three backup waistcoats hanging in alphabetical order in your bloody closet."
"They're colour-coded, not alphabetised," he said with dignity.
"Same difference," she replied.
Theo sighed, setting his cup aside. "I just don't want to go."
"Because?" she prompted.
"Because it'll be awkward," he muttered. "I'll feel like I don't belong there. She'll look at me and wonder why I bothered."
Hermione's expression softened. "She'll be happy to see you. Everyone will. Some of our old classmates are coming. And she has new friends now. You might even meet someone."
"I don't have time for a girlfriend," he said quickly.
"You don't have time," she echoed, rolling her eyes. "Right. Because your schedule of avoiding emotional vulnerability is so demanding."
He glared.
She smiled sweetly. "You're going," she said, picking up the muffin again. "I'm picking you up at seven."
"I never agreed to that."
"You just did."
"I did not."
"You're still talking to me," she said with a shrug. "That's legally binding."
Theo let his head fall forward until his forehead thunked softly against the table.
Hermione reached out and patted his hand. "It'll be good for you. There's moonlight. There's dancing. There's probably at least one potion that makes your nipples glow."
He didn't even bother lifting his head. "Kill me now."
"I'll let Luna do that," she said, grinning. "With love, of course."
Theo lifted his forehead from the table with a slow groan, rubbing the spot with two fingers as if Hermione had physically wounded him. The tea had gone stone cold. The condensation from the mug had left a wet ring on the wood, which somehow felt like a metaphor for his life. Stains everywhere. Nothing quite drying properly.
"You do this on purpose," he muttered.
Hermione, in the middle of unwrapping a napkin from her cutlery, glanced up. "Do what?"
"Turn up late. Breeze in looking smug. Drop life-ruining suggestions into my lap as though you are offering me a biscuit."
Her mouth curved into a grin. "Life-ruining? I am inviting you to a birthday party, Theo, not a firing squad."
"You have not been to one of Luna's gatherings in ten years," he pointed out. "You cannot possibly know what you are condemning me to."
Hermione took a slow sip of coffee, eyes glinting over the rim of the cup. "I know enough."
Theo gave her a look that could have curdled milk. "You are terrifying."
"Thank you," she said sweetly.
He slumped back into his chair, one arm draped over the back like a man already defeated. The café buzzed around them, Muggles tapping furiously at laptops, spoons clinking, the hiss of steam from the counter. He caught sight of himself in the streaked glass of the window and hated what he saw: tired eyes, sharp angles that had once looked elegant but now looked pinched, a man clinging to control so tightly he might snap.
"You do realise," he said after a long pause, "that if I turn up tonight I will spend the entire evening standing in the corner with a drink, watching everyone else enjoy themselves, and wishing I were dead."
Hermione shrugged. "Sounds like Tuesday."
He let out a scandalised scoff. "You are cruel."
"I am honest. You think you are more complicated than you are."
Theo pressed his fingertips to his temple. "I am complicated."
"You are dramatic," she corrected. "Entirely different thing."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "You enjoy this."
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "Very much. It is one of the few joys left to me in this bleak existence. Winding you up like a clockwork toy and watching you sputter."
He considered leaving. He considered standing up and walking out into the drizzle just to make a point. But she would follow him, and he would look even more pathetic. So instead he sighed, long and heavy, as if the weight of the world had been placed upon his shoulders.
"I have been rejected again," he said flatly, voice low.
Hermione paused mid-chew of muffin. "What?"
He nodded grimly. "The potion. The one I spent three months on. The Institute sent back my application this morning. Polite words. Empty thanks. No funding."
Her expression softened for the first time since she sat down. "Theo—"
"Save it," he cut in, raising a hand. "I do not need your sympathy."
"I was not going to offer sympathy. I was going to say… good. At least now you can stop obsessing over it and do something else."
He stared at her, incredulous. "Good? Hermione, I poured everything into that project."
"You pour everything into all your projects. And then you pour what is left into sulking when someone tells you no. It is a cycle, Theo. You need to break it."
He sat there in silence, stung and furious, because she was right. He hated that she was right.
"Do you know what would help?" she went on, smiling that infuriating smile. "A party."
Theo groaned again, letting his head drop back against the chair. "You are insistent to the point of violence."
"Thank you," she said again, pleased.
He dragged a hand down his face. "Hermione."
"Theodore."
"I will not survive it."
"You will thrive," she corrected.
"Thrive?" His voice cracked on the word. "You think I will thrive in a room full of people, most of whom I have not spoken to since school, while they dance around singing happy birthday to Luna bloody Lovegood?"
Hermione's grin widened. "Exactly that."
"You are deranged."
"And you are dramatic," she said again, clearly enjoying herself.
Theo let his gaze drop to her muffin. Crumbs scattered across the paper like little failures. He was surrounded by metaphors and none of them flattering. "I could simply stay home. I could light a fire, pour myself a glass of something, and pretend I never heard this conversation."
"And yet here you are," she said, brushing crumbs from her lap. "Still listening to me. Which means you will be there."
"I will not."
"You will."
"I will not," he repeated, firmer this time.
"You absolutely will," she said, standing to fetch more napkins.
Theo glared after her, muttering under his breath, "Over my dead body."
When she returned, she placed a fresh napkin on the table and said, "Seven o'clock. Wear something charming."
He closed his eyes. The temptation to throw himself out the nearest window was strong.
Theo pressed his palms flat to the table, as though grounding himself against the tide of Hermione's schemes. She watched him with that maddening patience, sipping her coffee as if the outcome were inevitable. He could feel the words building in his throat, heavy and sharp, and finally he let them out.
"Do you even remember what she was like?" His voice dropped lower, conspiratorial, as if half the café might overhear. "She used to walk around with radishes hanging from her ears. She believed in invisible creatures that stole your socks. She once told me my nose had the aura of a depressed cat."
Hermione smirked into her cup. "Sounds accurate."
He ignored that. "She was… unpredictable. Unsettling. You never knew if she was about to tell you your future or ask you if you had spare dung beetles in your pocket."
Hermione set her cup down and leaned in. "And you liked it."
Theo flinched, scandalised. "I did not."
"You did. You liked her."
"I liked her in the same way one likes fireworks from a distance," he snapped. "Colourful, impressive, liable to burn your eyebrows off if you get too close."
Hermione's smile grew. "And yet here we are, years later, and she still lives rent free in your head."
Theo glared. "She does not."
"You just gave me a five-minute monologue about her earrings."
"That was illustrative," he argued weakly.
"That was obsessive," she countered, eyes bright. "Merlin, Theo, you have been boring for years, and suddenly you sit here going red over a girl you have not seen in a decade."
"She is not a girl," he muttered. "She is an adult. You said so yourself."
"Exactly," Hermione said, smug. "Which means she will not be wandering around with beetles in her pocket anymore. She has grown up. And so have you. Sort of."
He rubbed at his temple. "I have grown worse."
Hermione laughed outright. "You are faffing about, that is what you are doing. You are pretending you cannot face her when really you are terrified she might actually like you."
Theo nearly choked on air. "Like me?"
"Yes."
"That is absurd."
"That is possible."
"She will look at me and see a man who hides in his flat brewing potions no one buys," he said, voice dropping into bitterness. "She will see someone who failed every standard of ambition except the ability to wear a tie properly."
"She will see Theo Nott," Hermione said gently, surprising him. "And if you stopped sulking for five seconds, you would remember that that used to be enough."
The words sat heavy between them. He hated when she did that, slipped the knife in with kindness instead of mockery. It was harder to deflect.
Theo shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. "You make it sound easy."
"It is easy," Hermione said, tearing another piece off her muffin. "You turn up, you say hello, you smile at people. You do not hide in a corner like a tragic bat. You drink something, maybe dance once. That is it."
He stared. "That is it?"
"That is it," she confirmed. "Unless, of course, you want more."
He narrowed his eyes. "What are you suggesting?"
"Nothing," she said innocently. Too innocently. "Only that you could do with a little chaos. You get wound up so tight you squeak. Someone like Luna might remind you that life is not a schedule."
Theo scowled, but the heat crept into his cheeks all the same. He could feel it, the faint flush that betrayed him every time. "You are insufferable."
"So you have said," she replied, serene.
He dropped his head into his hands with a groan. "This is going to be a disaster."
"This is going to be fun," Hermione corrected. "And you are going."
He peeked at her through his fingers. "I hate you."
"I know," she said brightly. "Pick out your nicest shirt."
Hermione had just finished her speech about Luna when she casually dropped Draco's name, like it was nothing. Like she hadn't just lit a torch in the middle of Theo's already miserable day.
"Draco will be there," she said, as if this were encouragement. "So you will have someone to talk to."
Theo froze, teacup halfway to his lips. He set it down carefully, deliberately, and then turned his full attention on her. "Draco Malfoy?"
"Yes."
"The same Draco Malfoy who cannot step into a room without announcing himself as though he were descending from Olympus?"
Hermione rolled her eyes. "He is not that bad anymore."
Theo leaned back, lips twitching. "Not that bad anymore, she says. Oh, this is marvellous."
"What is?"
"This," Theo said, gesturing broadly at her, at the table, at the entire café as if it were evidence. "You. Sitting here trying very hard not to blush while you mention Draco's name like it is an afterthought. You are shameless, Granger."
Her cheeks pinked instantly, which was all the confirmation he needed.
"Do not start," she warned.
Theo smirked. "Start? Hermione, I have been waiting for this moment for years. My two favourite people in the world, enemies sworn by blood, slowly circling each other until one day I look up and realise you are calling him Draco instead of Malfoy."
"I have always called him Draco," she snapped.
"That is a lie and you know it," Theo said smoothly. "You used to spit his name like poison. Now you say it like it tastes nice. Sweet, even."
Hermione's eyes flashed. "You are insufferable."
Theo leaned forward, delight glinting in his eyes. "Do you know what Draco said to me last week? He said you were tolerable. Do you know what that means, coming from him? That is basically a declaration of love."
Hermione went scarlet. "He did not."
"Oh, he did," Theo assured her, utterly gleeful. "We were at the pub, he had two whiskies, and he said, and I quote, 'She is tolerable. Less irritating than she used to be.' In Draco's language, that is practically a marriage proposal."
She glared daggers at him, but her blush betrayed her. "You are making this up."
"Am I?" Theo said, smirk widening. "Who knows. Perhaps I am, perhaps I am not. But the way you are glaring at me right now tells me everything I need to know."
Hermione huffed, shredding the wrapper of her muffin. "You are impossible."
"And you are in denial," Theo said smugly. "Honestly, I should start charging rent for the amount of space Draco clearly occupies in your head. The two of you squabble like you are still sixteen, and yet if I so much as mention his name, you go redder than a Gryffindor banner."
"I do not—" she started.
"You do," he cut in, grinning. "And he notices, by the way. Oh yes. Do you think I have not seen the way he watches you when you walk into a room? He is far too proud to admit it, but it is written all over him. A Malfoy undone by Hermione Granger. What a tragedy. What poetry."
Hermione looked as though she might hex him straight through the table. "You are unbearable."
"Thank you," Theo said sweetly. "I will be sure to tell Draco you think so when I see him later."
"If you so much as breathe a word—"
Theo raised his brows, smug as sin. "What will you do? Hex me in public? Right here in this café? Go on then, give the Muggles a show."
Hermione's jaw clenched. She grabbed her coffee and took a sharp sip instead, glaring at him over the rim.
Theo leaned back, victorious, folding his arms. "Seven o'clock, Granger. Wear that little black dress you pretend you bought for yourself but really bought for him."
Her coffee nearly sloshed over the side of the cup. "Theo!"
He smiled, utterly delighted. "See you tonight."
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
Theo did, in fact, have something to wear. Several somethings. Too many somethings. His wardrobe was not a collection, it was a fortress. A regimented battlefield of fabrics pressed to within an inch of their lives, hung precisely by length, weight, and occasion. Dark velvets for winter. Lighter linens for reluctant spring outings. Formal robes that had not seen daylight in years, preserved in garment bags like relics in a museum. His system had taken years to perfect, and standing in the middle of it now, he felt less like a man making a choice and more like a prisoner surveying a vault of failed decisions.
The green robe was his first victim. A deep shade, elegant lines, the sort of garment that suggested power without effort, the kind of thing you wore to a Ministry gala where your very presence was a threat and a declaration. He slid it from its hanger with reverence, draped it over one arm, and held it up to the mirror. It was almost right. Almost. Which made it worse.
He frowned. The mirror hummed, then said something faintly complimentary about his shoulders. Theo glared until the glass gave a nervous cough and fell silent. He returned the robe to its exact place, brushing out the sleeves as if tucking a child into bed.
Next came the midnight-blue set, sharp enough to cut the air. He tried it on, adjusted the collar, turned left, turned right. Too austere. He imagined Luna—Luna bloody Lovegood—tilting her head at him, asking him if he had come straight from a funeral. He stripped it off and threw it over a chair with unnecessary force.
Then the grey. So soft it was nearly silver, the kind of fabric that caught lamplight like water. He put it on, then off, then on again. He stared at his reflection with grim intensity, tugging the sleeve down, tugging it back up. He imagined her smile, that faraway dreamer's smile, and wondered if she would even notice what he wore. He changed his mind three times before he even finished fastening the buttons.
At last, shirtless in front of the mirror, he stood motionless. Twenty minutes passed. Twenty full minutes of staring at his own chest as if it were a riddle to be solved. He flexed once, not with vanity but with suspicion, as though trying to determine whether he had wasted the last decade on sleepless nights and nicotine instead of health. He ran a hand through his hair, messed it, flattened it, messed it again.
The mirror attempted another compliment about his jawline. He muttered, "Shut it," and the reflection obeyed.
It was Luna's birthday. Luna Lovegood. A girl he had not seen in ten years, not since the great divide of school, not since the corridors where her laugh had floated like it belonged to another world entirely. A girl who might not even remember him. Why in Merlin's name was he wasting three hours trying to look like he had not tried at all.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, robe half-pulled on, collar gaping. His eyes wandered across the room, catching on the neat rows of potion bottles lined like soldiers along the dresser. They glinted in the dim light, disciplined, obedient, everything he was not at this moment. And there, shoved half out from beneath a stack of parchment, lay his rejection letter. The paper curled at the edges, its black seal broken and its words etched like failure. A bad omen, smirking at him.
"This is idiotic," he muttered, voice hoarse in the stillness. "Completely idiotic."
He pressed his palms against his knees and stayed there for a long moment, caught between fury and exhaustion. He could still bow out, he told himself. He could fire-call Hermione and say he had a migraine, that he had spilled something, that he had tripped down a flight of stairs. She would glare, call him pathetic, but she would go on without him.
He looked at the letter again. The ink seemed to leer. He clenched his fists, stood, and marched back to the wardrobe.
Charcoal-grey trousers. That was safe. Black waistcoat. That was flattering without being desperate. A robe that fell just so over his shoulders, neither too severe nor too casual. He buttoned each piece with the deliberation of a man disarming a bomb. His cuffs caught, he cursed, started again, adjusted, readjusted. His lips pressed thin, his jaw tight, every detail suddenly urgent.
The sky beyond his window had gone violet. Shadows bled across the carpet. He told himself again that this was idiotic, that he did not care, that he would walk in and walk out and no one would remember him. But his fingers lingered at the cuffs, smoothing, tugging, perfecting.
He was still adjusting when the knock came. A sharp, impatient rattle that shook the door. Hermione. Early, of course. He closed his eyes, shoulders slumping, and whispered, "Of course."
⋆.˚🦋༘⋆
Hermione did not give him so much as a second to reconsider. One moment he was still fretting over the lay of his cuffs, the next her hand was on his arm and the floor fell out from under him. Apparition cracked like a whip through his skull, his stomach dropped, and then they landed hard enough for his knees to jolt.
The lane was unnervingly neat. Moonlight washed over identical hedges and prim little houses that lined up like soldiers on parade. Each roof sloped at the same angle, each gate creaked in the same rhythm when the wind shifted. There were garden gnomes peering from one yard, plastic flamingos in another. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and someone's burnt casserole drifting on the night air.
Theo straightened slowly, tugging at his sleeve as though adjusting the cuff might erase the fact that he was standing in the middle of a Muggle suburb. "This is it?" he asked.
Hermione smoothed down her dress with deliberate calm. "This is it."
"She lives in the suburbs?" His voice was flat as stone.
"Yes."
He blinked around at the uniform houses, his lip curling. "Not even a cottage. You and your maine lied again."
The idiotic nickname — a relic of some old inside joke he refused to abandon — made her roll her eyes. "It is practical," she said briskly, already setting off up the path.
"It is disappointing," he muttered, lengthening his stride to follow. "I imagined ivy-covered walls, crooked windows, perhaps a goat wandering through the garden. Instead, we are here, in a street where every house looks like the last. A row of biscuits in a tin."
Hermione ignored him, ringing the bell without hesitation. The door swung open on its own, enchantments humming faintly, and she stepped inside with the confidence of someone who belonged. Theo trailed after her, still eyeing the wallpaper in disgust.
The door had barely clicked shut when a flash of pale blonde blurred through the hall.
"Oh, Mimi, you are here!"
Hermione barely had time to brace before Luna collided with her, arms thrown around her shoulders in a hug that nearly lifted her off her feet. The name Mimi rang through the hallway, bright and affectionate, so at odds with the stiff, quiet neighbourhood outside that Theo felt the walls themselves lean closer.
"Happy birthday, babes," Hermione said, laughing as she hugged her back.
"And Theodore!"
Theo froze. His eyes widened. He had half a second to prepare before Luna shifted her focus and launched herself at him. For a terrifying moment, he thought she might actually knock him down. She smelled faintly of citrus and lavender, her arms warm and certain around his shoulders, her cheek brushing his jaw as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world.
He went rigid.
The truth arrived in one cruel, swift thought: perhaps he had not been touched enough as a child. Because this, this simple hug, felt alarmingly intimate. Too much. Too close. His spine locked and his hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure if it would be more humiliating to return the embrace or to let them fall uselessly to his sides.
"I…" His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat, trying again, aware that Hermione was probably watching with undisguised glee. "I would like to wish you a happy birthday, Luna."
She smiled against his shoulder, her breath warm for a fleeting second, then stepped back as though nothing at all unusual had occurred. "Thank you so much," she said brightly. Her pale hair shimmered in the light as she tilted her head. "You look very handsome nowadays."
His brain short-circuited.
And just like that, she turned, skirts swishing softly, humming some unplaceable tune as she wandered off toward the living room.
Theo remained rooted to the spot, entirely undone. His ears burned. His face, unfortunately, followed suit. He could feel the colour creeping, treacherous and obvious, up his neck.
Hermione, of course, noticed. She always noticed. She smirked as she adjusted her clutch. "Oh dear. I might have just found you a new girlfriend."
Theo shot her a look sharp enough to kill a lesser witch. "Shut your mouth," he snapped. "Go and find Draco. The one you are definitely not trying to seduce."
Her cheeks flushed immediately, and she smacked his arm as she swept past, muttering something unladylike under her breath.
Theo exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his chest as if to steady the chaos Luna had left there with nothing more than a hug and a compliment. He had survived wars, betrayals, years of clawing his way through disappointment, but apparently all it took to undo him was Luna Lovegood casually telling him he looked handsome.
Hermione smirked at him, smug as a cat who had not only caught the canary but skinned it and laid it on your bedspread. "I might have just found you a new girlfriend."
He snapped his head toward her, scowling as if that might shut her up by sheer force of will. "Shut your mouth, Granger. Go find Draco, who you are definitely not trying to fuck."
Her jaw dropped so fast he almost laughed, colour flaring in her cheeks, blooming hot along her collarbones. "Theodore!"
He smirked, enjoying her indignation far more than was wise. At least it pulled the heat from his own ears. "What?" He gave a casual shrug, strolling toward the living room as if he owned the place. "Did I lie?"
She smacked his arm with her clutch hard enough to sting, and he let out a short laugh, surprised by the sound of it in his own throat. Merlin, he could not remember the last time he had laughed like that — sharp, involuntary, entirely uncalculated.
He lingered a moment in the hall, palms useless at his sides, still pink-cheeked from Luna's offhand compliment. Handsome. She had said it as though she were stating a fact as fixed as gravity, not something to be debated or shrugged away. Theo was not accustomed to such casual certainty. Most people complimented with the kind of sharp edge that suggested a hidden demand. Luna had simply said it and floated off, leaving him stunned and infuriated with himself for being stunned.
He tugged at his cuffs, though they sat perfectly neat. He raked a hand through his hair, though it did not need rearranging. None of it cooled the heat beneath his skin.
The murmur of voices reached him from the living room before he crossed the threshold. Laughter lilted over the hum of music spilling softly from a wireless tucked in the corner. The faint scrape of chairs against wooden floors rose and fell, the easy background sound of a room full of people who trusted one another.
He drew in a breath, bracing himself like a soldier before battle, and stepped forward.
The living room was alive. Paper lanterns floated overhead, each glowing with its own soft shimmer, some gold, some silver, one pulsing faintly like the glow of a star. Wreaths of wildflowers hung on the walls as if the countryside had been coaxed indoors, stubborn stems twisting through enchantments that kept them fresh. Candles lined every available surface, their flames catching on glass bottles filled with odd little treasures: pressed leaves, feathers, stones with runes carved into them.
The air smelled of lavender and wine, a mingling that might have been overwhelming in someone else's home but here felt inevitable.
And there, in the middle of it all, was Luna.
Her hair caught the glow of the lanterns, pale gold tipped with silver where the light kissed it. She was greeting people with that serene warmth she had carried since Hogwarts, the kind of unguarded gentleness that once made her a target and now drew people closer, orbiting her as though she were the moon itself.
Theo swallowed hard and turned sharply away, unwilling to be caught staring.
The nearest cluster of guests was familiar enough to make his stomach twist. He straightened his shoulders and nodded stiffly. "Longbottom."
Neville's face lit with unfeigned warmth. "Theo." His tone was almost absurdly kind, and that kindness, after all these years, made Theo's chest tighten like a vice. "Good to see you again. What has it been — a decade?"
"Roughly." Theo's voice sounded too dry, but at least it was steady.
"Bloody hell," came a voice at Neville's elbow. Seamus Finnigan materialised, a pint sloshing dangerously in his hand, grin wide as ever. "Nott, I thought you'd vanished into thin air. Look at you. Still pale, still broody. Some things never change."
Theo raised a brow, letting the dryness sharpen to a blade. "Some things mature poorly."
Seamus barked a laugh, entirely unbothered. "Still got the bite, eh? Good. Wouldn't want you all tamed. Be boring if you went soft."
Before Theo could reply, Hermione swooped in, all efficiency. "Theo's been busy with potions research," she said with infuriating smoothness. "He's published twice this year."
Theo stiffened, ears burning hotter than ever. "That isn't necessary, Granger."
"Oh, but it is," she said sweetly, already turning away, smug as if she had delivered a checkmate. She flitted off to greet another friend, leaving him stranded in the circle of attention he had no desire to occupy.
Seamus leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. "Published, eh? Sounds like you're cleverer than you look."
Theo pressed his lips thin. "And you are exactly as clever as you look."
Neville choked on his drink.
Parvati Patil floated over, her sari catching the lantern light so that every movement shimmered like water. She leaned in without hesitation, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek that left the faintest trace of perfume in the air. "Theodore," she said warmly, her accent rolling over his name in a way that made it sound oddly elegant. "You clean up nicely. I was worried you'd turn up looking like you hadn't seen daylight in years."
Theo inclined his head, keeping his voice as dry as possible. "I have windows."
Parvati laughed, unbothered, the sound light and fond. She gave his arm a quick squeeze before drifting away toward the drinks table, the sparkle of her sari vanishing into the crowd.
He was left standing with that prickling sensation crawling over his skin again. Every inch of him felt exposed, wrong, too stiff, too formal. It was the exact same exhaustion he remembered from every ball and gathering in his youth — rooms that were always too loud, too bright, filled with people who seemed to breathe the air more easily than he ever could. He tugged at his sleeve again and shifted his weight, trying to remember how to stand without looking like he was on trial.
And then she was there.
Not near enough to touch, but near enough to undo him.
Luna moved through the party like she was made for it, though not in the same way Hermione or Parvati moved. They commanded attention. She drew it without ever asking for it, drifting between clusters of guests as though she were gliding. The pale fabric of her dress brushed along the floor, her bare feet silent, her hair catching every shift of light from the floating lanterns. She leaned in when people spoke, her expression intent, her laughter soft but somehow more luminous than the candles flickering all around her.
Theo found himself watching in spite of every instinct telling him not to.
And then she looked up.
Her gaze met his across the room, steady, unhurried. It was not sharp or questioning, not mocking or curious. It was simply hers, and it landed on him with the kind of weight that made his chest clench.
Something in him stuttered.
He tore his eyes away so fast it nearly hurt. His attention snapped toward the bookshelf in the corner as if the arrangement of spines had suddenly become the most pressing mystery of his career. He muttered something about needing a drink, though no one was listening, and walked briskly away, ears hot, traitorous, giving him away before his face even could.
The drinks table was mercifully empty for the moment. He reached for the nearest bottle, poured himself a glass of red wine, and took a long swallow that burned more than it soothed. He stared into the surface of the liquid, half hoping to see someone steadier staring back. Instead, the reflection was all sharp cheekbones and tension, a man rattled by a single glance.
"Still pretending you're invisible?"
Theo stiffened. Draco had appeared at his side as if conjured, immaculate as ever. His robes were tailored so precisely it made Theo want to wrinkle them on principle. The smirk on his face was faint, but it had the same razor edge as it had in school.
"I'm not pretending," Theo muttered, keeping his eyes on the wine.
"Ah. Then you're sulking." Draco sipped his own drink, eyes sweeping the room like he owned it. "Relax, Nott. It's a party, not a tribunal."
Theo shot him a sidelong look. "Easy for you to say. You thrive on attention."
Draco tilted his glass in agreement. "And you hide from it." He glanced down at Theo's collar with something that looked like approval. "Although I'll admit you did make an effort tonight. Very unlike you."
Theo rolled his eyes. "I am perfectly capable of dressing myself."
"Yes," Draco drawled. "Usually like a man preparing for his own funeral."
Theo did not dignify that with a reply.
Instead, his gaze flicked back across the room. He told himself it was casual, just scanning the crowd. But there she was again, settled now on the sofa, surrounded by a small knot of people hanging on her every word. Her hands moved gently as she spoke, painting pictures in the air, and her laughter rose again — a sound like silver catching sunlight. She was telling some story about caves in Iceland, of all things. Her voice was calm, lilting, and the light in her eyes was so bright it was almost unbearable to watch.
Something tugged hard in his chest, sharp and insistent. Something he had thought he buried years ago.
He looked away before it could undo him further.
And of course, Hermione's voice floated in from behind, merciless as ever. "You're staring, Theo."
He nearly choked on his wine. "I am not."
"You are."
Draco smirked over the rim of his glass, eyes glittering. "You absolutely are."
Theo clenched his jaw so tightly it ached. "I hate both of you."
Hermione only grinned, far too pleased with herself. Draco's smirk deepened.
But even as he tried to summon irritation, Theo's gaze betrayed him. It slid back, helpless, toward the girl who had hugged him as if it had cost her nothing, who had smiled at him as though he were simply part of the room she belonged to. His heart thudded too fast, too loud, and the thought that rose in his mind was one he could not begin to stomach.
He was in trouble.
Hours later, he was tipsy.
Alright, more than tipsy. The wine was stronger than it had any right to be, and Seamus had been on a personal mission to see the bottom of every bottle. Every time Theo's glass emptied, a fresh one appeared, shoved into his hand with a grin and a slap on the back. He should have stopped after the third, but his patience for crowds had been wearing thin, and a fourth glass had seemed like an answer at the time. Now his head felt light, his tongue loose, his carefully maintained composure fraying at the seams.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. He felt like a lovesick schoolboy. All because she had hugged him. Hugged him. What in Merlin's name was wrong with him.
The lanterns in the living room swayed gently overhead, their golden light blurring at the edges until they seemed to swim. Laughter pressed in from every side, too loud, too close, too warm. He could smell wine on everyone's breath, herbs from the food, the faint sharp scent of enchanted candles. It was too much. He needed air. Needed space. Needed to stop thinking about the way Luna's hand had rested on his shoulder, light but sure, like she had every right to touch him.
He slipped quietly out through the back door and into the garden.
The night hit him like a draught of cool potion. A faint breeze tugged at his collar, carrying the scent of jasmine and something darker, wilder, the smell of earth after a warm evening. The noise from the party dulled to a hum behind him, and for the first time in hours he exhaled fully.
He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, the tip flaring orange against the dark, and drew in a deep drag. Smoke curled up into the night sky, pale and thin. He tipped his head back, staring at the stars as if they might offer advice, and for a moment he almost felt steady.
Then he turned.
And stopped.
She was there.
Tucked away on a bench in the far corner, half-shadowed by a flowering tree heavy with blossoms. Luna sat with her knees drawn up slightly, her pale dress pooled around her like a spill of light. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, a curtain of pale gold that caught the moon and glimmered faintly. She looked perfectly at home, as though the night had been arranged around her rather than the other way round.
Theo's throat went dry. He swallowed hard, cigarette burning down between his fingers.
"You organised an amazing party," he said at last. His voice came out rougher than intended, almost like gravel.
She looked up, eyes bright even in the dark, and smiled. "Thank you. Hermione helped."
He nodded, awkward, smoke curling from his hand. Suddenly it felt as though he'd intruded on something private. She didn't seem to think so. She never did.
He stayed where he was, silent, his thoughts colliding and scattering. The quiet stretched between them, but not uncomfortably. Not for her, at least. She sat, serene, as if she had all the time in the world, watching him with that soft patience that made him itch and ache at once.
Finally she spoke. "It's good to see you again, Theo."
His chest tightened, a tiny, traitorous pulse under his ribs.
"I've read your latest book," she added softly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
That jolted him. His head snapped toward her. "You did?"
She nodded. "I like to keep up with my old classmates. Keeps me entertained."
The corner of his mouth twitched before he could stop it, and then, unexpectedly, he laughed. A low, real sound that felt like it had been locked away for too long, shaking loose as if she had reached inside and flicked it free.
Something in her expression softened at the sound.
He took another drag, nerves buzzing, head swimming. Before he could stop himself, the words spilled out. "You look gorgeous. A goddess…"
He froze. Eyes wide, he slapped a hand over his mouth, horrified. "I would like to apologise for this very inappropriate observation," he said quickly, muffled through his palm. "I am very, very drunk."
She laughed.
Not a mocking laugh, not sharp or cruel, but soft and warm, the kind of laugh that slipped past his defences and made his heart stutter.
"You are funny," she said, tilting her head at him. Her hair fell like a veil of light. "I like that."
And then, without ceremony, she reached out and took his free hand. Just for a moment. A brief, fleeting touch, her fingers curling gently against his.
It was nothing. A casual gesture. Barely even contact.
And yet it burned through him like an incantation.
He stared down at their joined hands, at her thumb brushing lightly across his knuckles, and felt the ground shift beneath him.
She let go as easily as she'd taken hold, turning her gaze back toward the stars as though nothing at all had happened.
Theo sat frozen, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, pulse thundering in his throat, wondering how a single touch could undo him so completely.
The silence stretched again, but this time it was taut, humming, heavy with something he didn't dare name. The cigarette burned down in his hand. She still hadn't moved, still hadn't looked away, and he felt himself unravel under the weight of it.
He was drunk. Fine. More than drunk. He was wrecked. That had to be why his mouth betrayed him before his brain had a chance to interfere.
"You should…" He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, tried again. "You should come to lunch. With me. Tomorrow."
Her head turned slowly, curious, her pale eyes catching the faint glow of the garden lanterns. They looked the same as when she was seventeen, except sharper now, older, deeper, like looking into a still pool and finding your own reflection staring back.
"At your place?" she asked, voice calm, almost amused.
"Yes." His answer was far too quick, far too eager. He winced, tried to backpedal. "I mean—yes. If you want. It wouldn't be anything inappropriate, obviously. Just food. Normal food. At a normal table. At noon. Or one. Whatever suits you. Or never. You can absolutely decline. That would be wise."
He stopped, horrified by the sound of himself.
Luna tilted her head, considering him as though he were a particularly fascinating puzzle, and then she smiled. "I'd like that."
His heart lurched.
"You would?"
"I would," she said simply. "One o'clock then. I'll bring tea."
And before he could completely combust, she stood gracefully, pressing her hand lightly to his shoulder as she passed, and disappeared back inside to her guests.
Theo sat there on the garden bench, cigarette smouldering uselessly in his hand, utterly undone.
"Brilliant," he muttered to himself, tipping his head back against the tree. "I've just scheduled my own public execution."
But even as he said it, his mouth tugged into the faintest, traitorous smile.