Chapter Text
Theo doesn't do relationships.
One club and two pubs deep into the Weasley-Parkinson engagement afterparty festivities have him willing to die by this fact. Traitorous witch. Breaking their live fast and die young and fucking single pact for the likes of Ronald bloody Weasley.
Only so many times he could bear witness to the Grand Broom Ride Proposal story before wanting to commit several crimes in the name of putting himself out of his misery. But no. Theo was a good friend, decent even. Could behave when required. And what better way than slipping away to the bar and getting absolutely pissed in the name of keeping the peace.
So, no, Theo does not do relationships.
"Hi there."
Slim build, ill-fitting button-down, hair far too slicked, cologne fucking suffocating. But those eyes… "Hi yourself."
Theo, does, however, have a bad habit of indulging in pretty, messy things.
It began early, when his father thought motherly love could be placated with enough galleons to keep his toybox full. New brooms and custom-tailored robes when it became apparent his appearance mattered more than his self-worth. A cracked jaw on his sixteenth birthday and a bottle of vintage Ogden's to wash the pain away.
A good tolerance starts young, he'd said. Patted him on the back like he'd done Theo the honour of it. At the time, Theo wasn't sure if he meant the beating or the liquor.
But then he found the warmth he'd been craving all those years at the bottom of the bottle that night and decided it didn't really matter.
Not when he could drown himself silly instead. Drunk off that temporary release. Flitting from one distraction to the next. Whatever he could wrap his teeth around and savour.
When it wasn't alcohol, it was something else. Constantly adjusting where he could. Buying cigarettes and herbs and whatever else Muggleborns snuck back into school from their visits home, threatening his bloodline with every wizard he brought to bed, picking fights with just about anything that breathed because if there was one thing Theo was good at, it was running his mouth straight into trouble.
He couldn't be bothered about much—but this? Theo could do this just fine.
Channelled distraction and chaos through his routine until he tricked himself into thinking this was necessary, healthy even. That any resulting fallout was just a means to the end of whatever it took to get through each day without slamming his skull through a wall. That if he exerted enough control, he could convince just about anyone not to look too close behind that curtain and see him for what he truly was.
And it had worked. Kept him somewhat coherent through the rest of his schooling, allowed him temporary escape from a future he'd no sooner die from at the hands of a homicidal wizarding cult, dulled the public ridicule and outrage at his mere existence into something more tolerable as he tried to navigate life after the war.
If he could stay that course, he'd be fine.
His terms. His rules.
No feelings. No regrets. No attachments.
"I'm not usually this forward, but I'd be kicking myself later if I didn't at least make an introduction."
The man offers his name.
Theo doesn't bother filing it away.
From the way his body's being visually eye-fucked from head to toe, Theo's sure he could probably call him just about anything and it wouldn't really matter.
"If I'm honest, I've been meaning to work up the courage to talk to ya all night. Leave it all out there and see what happens. Probably making an arse of myself, but I've been single for a while and you're bloody gorgeous, so I figured I'd take my chances."
If Theo had known he'd be this much of a talker, he would've skipped the formalities and dragged him to the loo instead. Maybe shove him on his knees and shut him up around Theo's cock so that at least he could slip into his fantasies for a while. Let himself melt into that shade of green that always lit a fire inside his veins and had him scourgifying his sheets at untold hours of the night.
"What are ya having?" The man leans closer, encroaching on the invisible boundary line that Theo's been projecting all night for the sake of escaping Parkinson's wrath should he make a scene. As if her permanently tying herself to Weasley wasn't a fucking crime in its own right.
Theo downs his glass in one swallow, shifting just out of the man's reach to keep them from touching. "Nothing now."
"Damn, really know how to make a guy work for it, huh?" The man smirks, but his growing irritation rolls off him in waves, hands fidgeting and eyes darting around.
"C'mon, give me something! A name, at least? Don't think you ever told me." He tries a hand on Theo's thigh.
Entirely out of fucks and no longer feeling decent, he doesn't bother hiding his disinterest this time. Theo rises to his full height, beating the man by several inches in the process, and plasters on a vacant smile. "You're right. I didn't."
Be on your fucking way, he means, but catches Parkinson's eye across the room and thinks better of it.
Several beats pass where the man says nothing.
"Alright, alright, you've caught me." Then he's laughing, and it trills just on the wrong side of grating. "Never thought I'd get to meet Theodore Nott in the flesh."
Theo's jaw ticks.
It's not until someone's bumping into him from behind and pushing Theo right into the man's chest, breath clinging to his neck all hot and wet and wrong, that he realises his eyes were never even close to the colour he'd been enticed by to begin with.
"Whoa, already got you going weak in the knees? What do ya say I take you back to mine, hmm? Could treat you so nice, yeah? Bet you'd look even better on them for me."
Unwelcomed hands land at his waist, and Theo's stiffening under their grip before he can say, let alone do much else.
Touch within his realm of control? Theo initiated with calculated precision.
Anything outside of that, without warning and his explicit consent, was enough to render him mute and lacking for air. Flushed palms and itching skin. A flash of his father and that slimy fucking smirk.
The man mistakes his silence for permission. Must really be asking for Theo's fist through his face when his hands start slipping further down.
"Get your fucking hands off me," Theo warns, wand-summons slick on his tongue as he wrenches out of his hold.
Dropping the faux charm, the man yanks at Theo's wrist, thumb caressing right beneath the sleeve and voice cocky enough for Theo's stomach to turn rotten. "Prophet said it was just the Malfoy prick who took the mark, but I'm not buying that. Like father, like son, am I right? Fuck, I'm getting hard just thinking about it. One peak, just let me have one little look—"
"There you are, Theodore."
Cedar and citrus replace the bloodlust rippling off Theo's skin.
"Was wondering where you ran off to."
Fucking Salazar bloody FUCK, Theo cinches his eyes shut with a grimace.
A large, calloused hand extracts his wrist free with considerable force.
"Ow, the hell?" The man yanks his back with a wince. "We were kind of in the middle of a conversation here if you don't—oh fuck."
Theo should delight in the way the man's eyes almost bulge out of his head, but then a possessive arm slips around his lower back and pulls him flush into a broad expanse of shoulder, and suddenly all words die on his tongue.
"Ah—shit, sorry. Manners. Harry Potter, Head Auror. Who the hell are you?"
As it turns out, there's one other thing Theo's exceptionally good at besides getting himself into messy situations: not knowing when to let pathetic, childhood crushes die and stay buried.
Crush, singular, his brain corrects. Practically on instinct at this point. Despite Theo cutting it off at the root each time it sprouts. Hell, since it first bloomed when those eyes held his for just a brief but world-shifting moment across the Great Hall during Fifth Year.
Because, for some reason, Merlin and Morgana and whoever the fuck else who charted his stars in the sky had a shitty sense of humour and decided to make it Harry fucking Potter's life-long mission to insert himself into Theo's. Even worse, trying and somehow managing to become a permanent fixture in it.
But you couldn't Veritaserum that admission out of him, so here Theo finds himself, latched to the side of the boy who can't seem to bloody die and definitely, absolutely not noticing how his body moulds perfectly into it.
"Listen, I didn't realise you two—it's just, he never mentioned—I wouldn't have—"
"Really? Cause from what I saw, you sure seemed keen to help yourself." The grip on his waist tightens almost protectively, but Harry's smile stays relaxed, cock-sure, casual. That silent, steady confidence of someone whose reputation speaks for itself. Why the fuck was it making Theo's stomach flutter?
"Nah, you got it all wrong! We were just talking, messing around, having a laugh. You know how these things go, right?" Theo notices him scanning for his friends in the sea of people, panic clear when he comes up empty.
"Can't say I do." Harry's face stays light, but his voice dips into something much less. "Go on, explain it to me."
"It was just some stupid fucking bet, alright! Like I'd ever actually take this Death-Eater scum home with me."
Harry tenses next to him at the insult, a raw anger tugging at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
"Please, you were ready to get your dick wet for just a glimpse up my sleeve," Theo mocks, unable to hold back as a noticeable crowd starts forming around them.
"Look"—The guy's almost yelling now, ignoring Theo and pointing a finger right at Harry's chest—"your friend here didn't exactly push me away. Not my fault he couldn't make up his mind."
Harry shakes his head with a clipped scoff, eyeing Theo as if asking for permission and forgiveness for what he's about to do. He returns it with a look that he hopes screams, I'll leave you here to bleed out and die if you use me as an excuse to pick a fight with this son of a bitch.
Getting the message loud and clear, Harry clears his throat and shoves the finger out of his chest, gripping his shoulder in a firm lock. "You're gonna apologise to Theodore, yeah? And then you're going to leave and never come back here."
"Ha, the fuck I am—"
"Otherwise, I'm gonna have Ollie at the bar give my office a ring—he's really good at remembering pieces of shit like you—and then I'm gonna show up with the rest of those Death-Eater scum I happen to call my closest friends. And they're not so forgiving. Sound fair? Brilliant."
He shoves the man directly in front of Theo. "Nice and loud, it's a busy one tonight."
He's sweating, hair sticking up all over the place and eyes beyond lifeless to the point that Theo's questioning a vision assessment, thinking they could ever compare to the real thing.
Glancing anywhere but him and teeth clenched like they'd sooner crack, the man rushes out a quick, "Imsorry."
Theo looks at Harry. Harry looks at Theo. Then, "Oi! Malfoy! Zabini! Get your lazy arses over here—"
"Fuck! Stop! I'm sorry, okay? I'M SORRY. I'm very sorry," the man panics, voice rising several octaves.
Buzz slowly returning but not yet properly satisfied, Theo makes like he's leaning in to accept the sorry excuse of an apology. At the last second, and with a sly smirk to a confused Harry, he doubles over at the waist, pawing at his left forearm with a startling hiss. "The mark! It burns! He's back!"
The man is running straight for the exit in a fit of screams before Theo can raise his head.
"He's kidding! He's just kidding!" Harry reassures the onlookers, no doubt all concerned for Theo's mental well-being, then, in a much quieter voice and solely directed towards him, "If my guys get flooded with Voldemort resurrection sightings tonight, I'm listing you by name in my resignation letter."
Theo rolls his eyes and straightens his shirt, wandlessly vanishing a few wrinkles in the process. "Granger said you weren't coming tonight."
Theo only remembers this because it may or may not have been the reason why he'd decided to come out in the first place.
"Aw, missed you too, Teddy." Theo bristles at his use of that godsforsaken nickname. Harry had started using it after a particularly wild party during Eighth Year, where he still couldn't quite remember how he ended up in his own bed the next morning, and he'd adopted it ever since. "Told Davies I'd owe him one if he held off on sending his notes for my proposal until after the weekend, so I got to leave early. Just in time, at that."
"And who could ever turn down a favour from the Harry Potter?" Theo sidesteps his last comment with a ten-foot broom.
"Hey! Can't help it if I'm dependable."
"Mmm, humble too."
That has him cracking into a full-toothed grin, and Theo curses himself for enabling his own demise, yet again. Like his mind and body are attuned and trained to react on instinct and take whatever he'll give him under the guise of having the last word.
Harry gives Theo another once over, features melting into sincere concern. "Listen, about all that—"
"Potter, I'm fine—"
"Nah, bullshit you're fine—hey, Ollie!" Harry flags down the barkeep, "Give me a pint of that muled port you just got in and another Ogden's, neat. Thanks." He's depositing Theo's usual order into his hands before taking a healthy sip of his own. "Have half a mind to submit the harassment report myself."
"For fucks sake, I said I'm—"
"But I won't." Harry rests his temple on his fist, elbow propped up on the bartop. "'Cause I know how you are. And I also know that you could have put him and just about anyone else in this pub on their arse without so much as lifting your wand, in case you were about to accuse me of underestimating your abilities."
"Well, at least that much we can agree on." Theo raises his drink.
Harry clicks his tongue in defiance but taps his pint to the glass anyway. "Fuck, some of that shit he was saying, I swear, Theo, I was this close to—"
"Nothing the Prophet hasn't spewed before." Theo waves it off dismissively. Not that it takes the sting out any less. Having his name on the lips of people he's never met. Who doesn't know what he's been through but casts their judgment regardless. How out of anyone who could understand, it's the one looking at him right now, concern and warmth and openness meeting each of his deflections blow for blow.
He hates how easily he gravitates towards it, how badly he wants to lose himself in Harry's orbit. How the closer he gets, the more desperate he becomes. To let go, to drop the mask, to link a permanent tether without worrying it could snap and send him hurtling into free fall.
But it's not that simple. Good things never are. Theo slips back into his familiar state of cool indifference, sighing as he adds, "Think your peacocking and my little performance did a number on him anyway. I wouldn't worry too much."
"Yeah, you're probably right—excuse me, my what?!"
Theo bites back a private smile as he turns to make his way back to the rest of their group, calling over his shoulder, "You should ask Draco for some pointers, think Cissa still has a few keeping guard at the Manor."
"Oh fuck off!"
He follows hot on Theo's heels, but just before they reach the back corner booth, that swirl of cedar tucks into the curve of his neck, ghosting along his ear. "You know I'm here for you, right? You'll tell me? If you're never not fine?"
Theo convinces himself he's just imagining it. That it's the adrenaline from the previous altercation that leaves a silent plea in Harry's voice. The raucous crowd that presses him against Theo's back with shaky hands ghosting his waist. The alcohol that has his mouth lingering far too long and far too close to Theo's neck.
Because any other option carries implications that Theo is neither sober nor brave enough to face. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
So he does what he does best.
Theo snips the cord and detaches. "Yes, fuck, alright! Gods, what are you, my mother?"
Harry holds up his hands in mock surrender as they finally reach the table, putting on a good show of taking it on the chin, but it's stilted, eyes lacking some of that warmth, and Theo wants to hurl right there on the floor.
"What about your mother?" Draco pouts in a drunken stupor, tucked into Granger's side. Theo raises an eyebrow, but she shakes her head in defeated exhaustion.
"Dead." Blaise sneaks up on his right, dropping down a fresh tray of shots over the empty one and nearly toppling over the table in the process. "Died when you were a baby, right?"
"So sorry for your loss, Theodore," a barely coherent Neville sniffles from several seats down, cheek plastered to the sticky tabletop.
Weasley, in all his inebriated glory, pops up from Gods knows where under the table. "Oi! Dead mum? Yay! Just like Harry! Jinx! Someone owes someone a something or some—"
Pansy slaps a hand over her fiancé's mouth, "Last I checked, the invite said engagement afterparty, not a fucking funeral. Can we cool it with the dead mums club for two seconds? Thank youuu."
Amongst the unfiltered noise, Theo tilts his head to the ceiling, sending up a silent prayer like he'd seen muggles do in times of crisis.
If there is anyone out there, may someone hear my cry and strike me dead. Or at least into a very long, magically induced coma.
With no luck, he lowers it back down, letting the chaos of the night inevitably consume him. But even still, he finds himself sneaking glances at Harry when he's not looking. And a few when he is. Trading scowls for shock and greedy smirks he'll surely regret once the shots wear off in the morning. But then there's the other looks. Where the voices quiet and Theo's caught in the stillness of that green that started this whole mess tonight in the first place.
Harry, unguarded and searching, like he's mapping out every feature on Theo's face in hopes there comes a time he'll get to explore it fully and unrestricted by this invisible line Theo's drawn in the sand. One they're both towing carefully with each second more they allow themselves to have.
Then his attention's pulled away again, a full laugh escaping Harry's chest with a warmth Theo knows he'll never be worthy of.
Something sharp constricts in his chest, knowing what he's doing is wrong. Indulging in these pretty things he wants but won't let himself have.
And when he crawls into bed that night, head a mess of green and sun and cedar, he vows to pull his walls up higher, draw as many lines as he can, and dig down to the root if necessary to cut off feeling.
Numb himself to all sensations of Harry Potter.
That would be, assuming Harry Potter could just accept things lying down. Somehow, the harder Theo draws his boundaries, makes up his excuses, and puts emotional and physical distance between them, Harry rebounds and doubles back with full force.
Stopping by his and Blaise's shop on DMLE potion-related business to end up behind the counter and sweet-talking customers all afternoon; Unannounced fire-calling about Draco getting distracted at work because Theo had let it slip once that he keeps a running tally of his best friend's Granger induced cock-ups; Cornering him at monthly friend dinners in a panic because did Pansy really mean what she said when she threatened to burn his entire wardrobe if he kept showing up in that flannel shirt; Straight-up stumbling through his floo near-pissed after Ministry events, half out of his dress robes and claiming he needed a 'quiet place to think', only to pass out on his sofa minutes later.
Theo wondered who he royally pissed off in a past life to deserve this. After he decided to really make an effort to cut off his Potter-related supply, only to have it delivered on his doorstep wrapped in a shiny fucking red bow and those pathetic puppy dog eyes.
How the fuck was he meant to do this for the foreseeable future without going into hiding? At this point, it had become a heavily considered option. Although he's sure Pansy would crawl to the depths of the Earth before she'd let him miss her wedding. If Harry didn't somehow get to him first.
So he does what he can. Relies on familiar vices when the ache behind his eyes becomes too much to bear. Starts funding Neville's side business for muggle-grade medicinal herbs and drowns himself in the high. Convinces Draco to let Granger show him how to operate a cell phone, only to download a dating app and shove a few more faceless wizards into his sheets. Picks a fight with another asshole at a club, unprovoked, because he's that pathetic at this point, and adopts the stray cat from the alley that saw him nursing his wounds the rest of the night.
Blaise threatened to have Pansy stage an intervention when he brought it to the shop the following morning, without a name and seeing fit to wreak havoc on both of their workstations and some of the merchandise.
Turns out, Weasley brought him one good thing in this lifetime from all that incoherent babbling, Theo aptly bestowing his newfound familiar with the name Jinx.
Like her father, she's a cunt; hissing at most people, only content on her favourite perch above the till where she can keep an eye on everyone, weaponising affection for treats just to swat when no one's looking. All in all, a spitting image.
Down to the last bloody fucking Harry Potter of it all. Why he's the only other person outside of Theo she'll tolerate being handled by; he'll never know. Considering he's spent several nights a week cursing his name between his pillow, one would think she'd get with the program. The context and nature of those curses entirely irrelevant.
Probably doesn't help that Theo's brain short-circuits whenever Harry babies her. Plays all domestic in his own fucking living room with his cat and looks at him like she'd hung the moon. What the fuck was he supposed to do other than hex the lamp off the counter and send her skittering for cover just to break the spell of the moment?
Theo never claimed to be above sabotage.
The following two months bleed into one another, and before he knows it, the weekend of the Weasley-Parkinson wedding hits with full force. It's a short engagement, all things considered. And thank fuck for that.
It's the night of the rehearsal dinner, and they're tucked under an intimate tent at the burrow, string lights illuminating a quite frankly, lovely evening. As a compromise to both of their friends and families, they opted for a quaint ceremony at the Weasley house the following day, with a more opulent reception hosted at an expensive hotel in the heart of Muggle London.
It's after immediately sitting down for dinner, however, that Theo's gratitude for the moment dies a swift death; him seated directly next to Harry, who's dressed in a navy Muggle suit, sans tie and white button-down, partially exposing a chest of flushed, drunk skin.
He'd thought that by declining Pansy's offer to be her Man of Honour, he'd successfully avoided having to interact with the Best Man as much as possible. Silly him for assuming that extended to table arrangements.
And meddlesome so-called friends who should stay out of people's private lives.
It takes all of his self-control to get through the starter, attempting to keep his focus on anything but what currently taunts him to his right.
Certainly not the feverish itch of his skin. Or how with everyone packed into such a close space, it's only a matter of time before their legs butt-up right next to each other. Arms brushing when drinks are refilled. Fingers reaching for the same utensils because, unlike Theo, Harry was spared from pureblood table manners on goblin-wrought silverware growing up.
He will give Ronald another point on behalf of his family; they sure know how to put their liquor away.
He's barely through his entree when he realises he should probably switch to water if he's meant to last the entire meal. Especially if he plans on remembering Draco bending over backwards to impress Granger by letting the Weasley Matriarch use him as her own personal assistant for the night.
Just a comfortable, warm buzz.
And not entirely blitzed to miss the heat of a palm landing at his thigh. Dark strands slipping past dark frames and grazing his cheek. A curl of brandy and snark lacing his ear. Harry holding him hostage by the sheer act of existing as he whispers, "Think if Molly asked, Malfoy would get on all fours and bark like a hound?"
Theo's breath hitches into a broken, stifled gasp. Having nothing to do with the words and everything to do with how throaty Harry speaks them, mouth panting and wet and just on the right side of tipsy to loosen his vocal chords. How his reaction seems to spur one of his own, Harry's hand tightening and slipping further inwards on his leg. How, even with his attention called to the far end of the table, his fingers aim to tease at the inner seam of Theo's trousers, eager to keep him balancing on a tightrope as he's just meant to feel it all.
Dessert brings its own hell via Harry's arm moving to the back of his chair and several fingers scraping against the short undercut at the base of Theo's skull.
Featherlight touches, barely noticeable to almost everyone in the room. To Theo, it's his psyche cracked open, Harry picking each lock to elicit another hum or murmured string of intelligible nonsense. Every conversation and intrusion into their bubble is another test of his will and a challenge Harry seems eager to accept.
It's the faintest tease at his ear, calloused fingers tracing every ridge and edge, that somehow ruins him completely.
"Fuck."
Theo outright moans.
And just as quick as it ignites, Harry's hand is gone, heat dissipating and snuffing out between the idle noise of dinner guests and clinking glassware.
But the impression lingers—indents of fingers and slurred words clinging to his skin just enough to upend his meticulously held control. To spiral him into thoughts he's bottled up and tucked within the furthest recesses of his mind. Just enough to piss him right the fuck off.
Because where did he get off? With the touches and the longing stares and casual flirting and flitting in and out of his life like it meant fuck all to do it? Going from zero to one hundred back to zero before Theo's had a chance to make sense of the score. Where he stands. What they are. Who the hell Theodore Nott is to Harry Potter?
Detach. Detach. Detach.
His thoughts come at him faster than a portkey's toll on his body, sucking him in and spitting him back out at a crowded dinner table surrounded by faces he recognises but feeling more alone than ever before.
As soon as the last plate is levitated away, Theo stands, unsure what he's doing but knowing enough to put as much space between them as possible. As he makes to move, his body stills, head swivelling just barely to the right. He's not sure what he expects; a nod, a wave, fucking something because he's well past his pride at this point.
He certainly doesn't expect Harry not to acknowledge him at all. Fully turned in his chair without the slightest glance in his direction, despite Theo scraping his back several more inches to make a point.
Yeah, fuck this.
Theo finds the nearest exit and uses all of his willpower to walk towards it without looking back, not bothering with proper goodbyes. He was never good at them anyway.
It's not till he's entirely outside the tent and well past the burrow into the open field of guest tents and conjured cottages that Theo realises it doesn't matter where he goes. Or what he does.
These feelings, these godsdamn useless feelings, won't let him tune out the noise. Still try to take hold of his feet and turn him around. Still give him hope, that despite everything his head is screaming at him, Harry will follow after him. Like he always does. Even when Theo pushes him away and denies, denies, denies, Harry is always there for him, just like he said he would be.
It's only after all the guests return to their lodgings and the dinner tent is broken down, leaving Theo alone in the moonlight, that he dares admit the truth he's been running from all along.
"I'm not fucking fine, Potter. Are you happy? You win."