Chapter Text
There was first a drip; steady, and unyielding. It became a metronome of normalcy for those with shaking hands who found solace in the witch’s room at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Between stalls and black obtrusive graffiti grew something beautiful destined to shatter.
Their hands shook for separate reasons, but their hearts beat the same. Lilting on each other’s breath—hinging on the lovely anonymity of it all, the unknowing intimacy of scrawled letters, first on green wood; then written and legitimized on paper. A promise extended by pale hands, trading letters.
They made 4 rules:
- Use plain paper, and ink.
- Don’t use any identifying details, names, or adjectives.
- Never EVER reveal your identity.
- You tell my secrets, I tell yours.
These rules became Marlene’s lifeline. The only time she could tell her whole truth to someone, without fear of judgement. It would be two years before she understood the identity of the other girl fearful of vulnerability for all those months.
No one did—not really, she was a mystery. Hidden behind a shadow of expectation, and of course—the shadow of her brother—Peter.
The two were brought up in a small flat in Rye, East Sussex, a crumbling cottage on the deteriorating ends of town. The home was stout, like their mother, and it proved just as unyielding. Mother, previously Cynthia Mccall—before a certain Orval Pettigrew swept her off her feet. At least that’s what Theodora dreamed was true, when she would pray with bent elbows, propped by the quilt she loved—softening her prayer. That maybe—once—her parents had loved each other.
Cynthia was a short woman, quick to think and even quicker to speak. She was a pretty girl, before she became their mother. Cynthia always baked her own bread, and cooked with an incessant blandness. She hated kid’s TV Shows, but loved to read defiling romance novels.Their father Orval was a tall man with thin, peppered hair and a plaster-like complexion. His skin never rosied, even in the cold. It was rare to hear his heavy hand turn the knob of the front door.
The kitchen was the warmest room in the house, though not by design. Warmth leaked into it from the oven that Cynthia rarely turned off, from the kettle that boiled itself into a constant whine, and from the small bodies of two children huddled over a narrow table pushed against the wall. The table leaned slightly to the left, Theodora had learned to balance Peter’s homework on the right side so the pencils wouldn’t roll away. Her small finger tapped a number on the page.
“Here,” she said gently. “You add this to this.”
She sat folded onto her calves on the chair, leaning across the table so she could see properly. Her elbows were too sharp for her sleeves and they slipped down her arms as she pointed again. Peter frowned at the paper like it had done something terrible to him. Theodora stared at him expectantly.
“I don’t understand,” he said after a long pause, his voice thick with frustration. His pencil dropped with a dull clack. The overhead light flickered once, twice. It buzzed faintly like an irritated fly. Theodora glanced up at it, then back down at the page.
You’re not trying, she thought. “That’s alright,” she said softly instead, the way she had heard teachers speak in the rare classrooms she liked. Like English. She had always enjoyed that class. “We’ll try it another way.”
Peter dragged his sleeve across his nose, the skin reddening from the warmth. “I’m stupid.”
“You’re not,” she replied immediately. Her voice held a strange certainty. She slid the paper aside and reached for the biscuit tin on the counter. It was dented and blue with faded flowers—a drawing of a cat drawn in sharpie, Theodora’s childhood artwork.
“Break,” she declared with a nod.
Peter perked up immediately, leaning back in his chair, his face already relaxing. Theodora placed two biscuits on a small plate between them and took a large bite from hers, chewing theatrically. “See?” she said through crumbs. “Thinking food.” She made a silly face after she swallowed, not only the biscuit, but the silence too.
Peter laughed weakly and grabbed one. For a few moments, the kitchen was peaceful. From the living room came the sound of the radio playing some distant crooning voice. The walls were thin enough that the song bled through. Their mother’s chair creaked, and the sharp smell of cigarette smoke drifted into the kitchen. Theodora chose to ignore it, but scrunched up her nose—she hated cigarette smoke. She pushed the homework back toward Peter once he finished chewing.
“Alright,” she said, tapping the page again. “Try this one.” Something about this evening had her losing her carefully penned patience. Peter sighed dramatically but picked up his pencil. She understood how he felt. When her mother would frown at her, her eyes smoldered coals; leaving scorches in the way of words. Not the real kind, her mother’s eyes held the truth that adults never believe they can show children. And her mother’s eyes, they told her the brightest truth of all.
I hate you.
You were born to it.
The front door knob turned. Both children froze. Theodora’s head snapped toward the hallway before she could stop herself, her hope hitching in her breath. The sound of the door opening was heavy and unfamiliar, like a cupboard that had been shut too long. Peter slid off his chair so fast it scraped the floor. “Dad!” he gasped with rosy cheeks.
Orval Pettigrew stepped into the doorway, filling it in a way the kitchen wasn’t built to accommodate. The kitchen was always something to moderate. A space to fill in whichever way was suitable, like how trees grow apart from each other so they can communicate. Except in this case, it was so the saplings could stay apart from their mother tree—and resist the natural wrath of her reproachful branches. He was shorter than Theodora remembered each time she saw him, each meeting peeling back a layer of childlike fantasy. One day, he would be normal. In size, and in reality. But for now, he was still her father.
His coat hung crookedly from one shoulder, damp with mist from outside. His thin hair clung to his temples and his face was the same pale, chalky color it always was—as though he had been carved from plaster and left to rot in the rain. Peter barreled into him with an enthusiasm Theodora hadn’t seen all week. Orval staggered slightly before placing a large hand on the boy’s head.
“Well now,” he said quietly. To steer clear of repercussions, to keep the moment a convergence of time. His voice was deeper than the radio music, deeper than the creak of the house itself.
She didn’t meet the stormy eyes of her father.
“You’ll knock an old man over.” Peter grinned up at him, cheeks round and flushed with previous frustration. “You came home!”
Theodora stayed seated at the table. She bit her nails. The skin around the edges threatened to bleed and sour this precious moment her father had deemed worthy of his time. Her father’s eyes flicked toward her after a moment, lingering just long enough to acknowledge her presence.
Not long enough for a moment. Not long enough for anything at all.
“Evening, Theo.” That was all she was allowed.
“Evening,” she replied politely, removing the fingers from her mouth. Her voice was careful, she’d learned it. Or rather, it learned her.
From the living room came the sound of a book snapping shut. Cynthia Pettigrew appeared in the doorway like a storm cloud drifting in, threatening to drown them all. Her lips were painted the same red as her fingernails. The cigarette between her fingers left a thin trail of smoke behind her as she leaned against the frame. The house creaked in protest. Theodora imagined it would groan to her if it could, then wondered what the walls would say to her—if they were chatty.
“Well,” she said. Her voice carried the particular edge of someone already irritated. A curl of her upper lip showed a remainder of disappointment. “Look who remembered he lives here.”
Orval didn’t respond immediately. He carefully untangled Peter from his coat and hung it on the back of the chair. “I was working,” he said simply.
Cynthia laughed once. It wasn’t a happy sound. The house hated it. “Working,” she repeated. Her gaze flicked to the table. Homework and biscuits, two chairs pulled close together. Then her eyes landed on Theodora. “And what’s all this?”
Theodora straightened slightly, rubbing her wet hands on her skirt. “I was helping Peter with his maths.”
Cynthia inhaled from her cigarette and exhaled slowly. “Well clearly that’s not working.”
Peter shrank a little beside their father. Orval cleared his throat. “He’ll get it,” he said mildly. Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And since when are you the expert on raising children?” Silence settled over the kitchen like dust, which ironically, the house had in droves. Peter looked between them anxiously. Theodora kept her gaze fixed on the table.
Orval reached for the kettle. “I’ll make tea,” he said. Cynthia rolled her eyes and turned back toward the living room. “Don’t bother,” she called over her shoulder. “They won’t like it.” The radio volume clicked louder. The chair creaked again. Peter looked up at his father.
“Can you help me with this one?” Peter asked his father eagerly. Orval glanced at the paper. Then at Theodora. “You were already doing a fine job,” he said.
Theodora nodded once, and then slid the homework back in front of Peter. The kitchen grew quieter once the kettle stopped screaming. Orval finished his tea in three careful gulps. He patted Peter on the shoulder, mumbled something about being tired, and disappeared down the narrow, creaking hallway. The bedroom door shut. Theodora sighed. The house returned to its natural state. Which was Cynthia’s voice.
“Theodora!” It sliced through the walls like a hot knife—shredding the wallpaper with its intention. The girl stood immediately.
“Yes, Mum.”
Cynthia leaned in the doorway again, cigarette already halfway gone, ash falling onto the floor. "You’re brother hasn’t eaten.” It was not a question. Theodora glanced at the clock. Seven pm, much too late to decide to care. Her father had certainly discerned that. Peter had eaten two biscuits already. But she nodded anyway. “Right away.” Peter looked guilty, lip quivering. “I’m not that hungry—”
“You are,” Cynthia snapped. Her voice softened instantly as she walked over and kissed the top of Peter’s head. “Peter must be starving.” She brushed crumbs from his cheek like he had been abandoned in the wilderness and starved for weeks rather than sitting at a kitchen table. Like Theodora was the one who abandoned him.
Theodora moved quietly around them, bare feet on tile. She pulled bread from the cupboard. Ham from the icebox. Her hands were small but they had come to understand the rhythm of it. Knife. Plate. Fold. Serve.
Peter watched her with a strange ephemeral mixture of gratitude and embarrassment. “Thanks, Theo,” he whispered. She smiled, “You’re welcome.” Cynthia flicked ash into the sink, and put the cigarette out on the porcelain.
"You should learn from your sister,” she told Peter absently. “She’s useful.” The word hung in the air. Useful. Not loved. Useful. Theodora placed the plate in front of Peter with a clink. Cynthia sighed dramatically and sank into the kitchen chair.
“My mother would be horrified if she saw this house,” she muttered. Theodora continued cleaning the crumbs from the counter with her hands, cupping and scraping. “I was raised properly,” Cynthia went on, staring into nothing. Will she be quiet already? Theodora would think. Or perhaps she looked at Theodora, eyes boring through her clothes—looking for the thing she hated most of all. A little girl who looked just like her. “Fresh bread every morning. Floors polished. Children who didn’t argue. How did I end up here?” By doing nothing, she thought.
Peter chewed quietly as Theodora rinsed the knife, nicking her finger. The blood came in small bulbs—she sucked it all out, rolling her canines into the wound, feeling for the sharpness that would validate this. The wickedness.
“But I suppose,” Cynthia continued, her voice sharpening, “this is what happens when you marry a man with no ambition.” The bedroom door remained closed. Orval did not come out. Theodora dried the knife with a tea towel, careful not to bleed red over the plain white. She placed it carefully in the drawer. Cynthia’s eyes followed her.
A moment. Should she move? Under this gaze, there was no right place to go.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said suddenly. “I’m not,” Theodora replied, long brown hair falling over her eyes. There was a tangle in the back she was rarely able to brush out. Her blind spot, that’s where her mother always decided to stare.
Cynthia scoffed. “You’re always hovering.”
Theodora swallowed. “I’m sorry.” She wasn’t.
Cynthia waved the apology away like her cigarette smoke. Did Theodora’s apologies create those yellow spots on the ceiling?
“Make sure your brother finishes eating,” she said, standing up. “And wash the dishes after.” She paused in the doorway. “And for heaven’s sake, keep him from failing school.”
Peter looked down at his plate. Cynthia returned to the living room. The radio resumed its soft crooning. The chair creaked. The house settled, breathing a sigh of relief. Theodora pulled another chair beside Peter and sat.
“Alright,” she said gently. He looked at her miserably. “I’m bad at it.” She shook her head.
“No,” She slid the worksheet between them again, “You’re just learning slower.”
Peter sniffed. “You promise?” No.
Theodora smiled. “I promise.” Her small finger pointed to the numbers once more.
“Here,” she said patiently. “You add this to this.”
Rarely did her father come through that door and offer respite from the nagging, screechy voice carrying from the living room. Nor did he come to church. Church was an inveterate matter in her mother’s eyes. Something you happen upon when you feel guilty or happy, usually both.
The church smelled like old wood and something faintly sweet—polish, perhaps, or the ghosts of flowers long removed—or maybe it was the scent of souls left here trying to remember what mistake they made. Theodora sat stiffly on the hard bench, her legs dangling just enough that her shoes knocked softly against the wood when she forgot to keep still. She had to wear her best shoes, even though her toe hit the very top, contorting to fit the negligence.
“Stop that,” Cynthia muttered without turning her head, eyes kept directly forward. Theodora stilled immediately, folding her hands in her lap. Her fingers pressed together so tightly the tips blanched white. She stared straight ahead as well, fighting the urge to bring them to her mouth.
Peter sat beside her, swinging his legs freely until Cynthia reached across and stilled him too—but gentler. Always gentler. Theodora wondered if she’d treat her softer if she was a boy too. Maybe it was natural—that boys were annoying, and so sweet—and it was just as natural for it to be endearing. Was her cheeks as full of sugar as Peter’s? When did hers drain through her pores, into a new place within her, that would make her better.
“Sit properly,” she whispered to him, smoothing his sleeve after. Theodora noticed, she was always this way.
At the front, the preacher spoke in a slow, steady rhythm. His voice rose and fell like the kettle back home, though softer, more controlled. Something less sinister, but more meaningful. Did these words make her mother so oppugnant? Would it make her the same way? She did not want to make tea, she wanted to cry.
The words blended together after a while—mercy, grace, forgiveness—things Theodora tried to hold onto long enough to understand. The words situated themselves into the creases of her mouth, preparing to be used later—in a secret place. She liked the quiet between the sentences best. That was where people told the truth. She wanted to know what they meant more than anything, but she had no one graceful enough to ask.
Around them, heads bowed in unison. A practiced motion. Predictable. Safe. Theodora followed a second too late, her hands tightening as she lowered her gaze. Please. Please.
Forgive us our trespasses…
She mouthed the words carefully, watching the way they formed in the space between her lips, molded to the imprint of her crooked teeth. She wasn’t sure what counted as a trespass yet. Taking an extra biscuit, perhaps. Thinking unkind things. Wanting things she wasn’t meant to want.
Her eyes flicked sideways.
Peter’s lips moved lazily, half a beat behind everyone else. He glanced up once, caught her looking, and made a face. Theodora nearly smiled. A sharp inhale from Cynthia stopped it before it could exist. Theodora was glad that her mother hadn’t done that before she was born—she existed in between will or won’t—and it was what brought her into this world quietly.
Theodora looked forward again.
As we forgive those…
Forgiveness. That one stuck more than the others. It was a pretty word. Theodora wondered, briefly, if her mother had ever asked for it. What would the preacher say to her? The thought came and went quickly, like touching something hot and pulling back before it could burn, which, coincidentally, Theodora had done many times as a child.
When the congregation stood, the bench creaked loudly beneath them. Theodora rose too quickly and her shoe scraped against the wood with an awful sound. A few heads turned. Heat rushed to her face, her eyes crinkled. Cynthia’s hand landed on her wrist—not hard, but firm enough to anchor, her red nails pushing into the veins underneath her delicate skin.
“Careful,” she murmured, smiling tightly at the woman across the aisle. The smile vanished the moment she turned back, and Theodora shook somehow. She tried to stop, she tried so hard.
Peter, meanwhile, was handed a small folded leaflet by the woman in front of them. He took it eagerly, whispering a quiet “thank you” that earned him a soft, approving look. Theodora received nothing. The silence of apathy—so cruel it felt soft. She stared at the leaflet in his hands. Thin paper. Neatly printed words. Something official. Something meant to be read by eager people. Something given, unable to be stolen.
A trespass, Theodora repeated to herself.
The service ended in a shuffle of coats and quiet conversation. Adults spoke in softened tones, their harshness tucked neatly behind polite smiles. Cynthia joined them easily, her voice smoothing into something almost pleasant.
“Yes, they’re both doing well,” she said lightly, a hand resting on Peter’s shoulder. “Peter’s very bright.” Peter beamed, leaning into the warmth—though Theodora doubted her could feel it through his suit jacket. It fit him well.
Theodora stood beside them, invisible in the space just behind her mother’s arm. “And your daughter? How is she?” someone asked, leaning to the left to get a better look at the girl.
Cynthia paused only for a moment. “She manages. Real shy that one,” she said. The words settled over Theodora like dust. Not harsh enough to protest. Not kind enough to keep for later.
On the walk home, Peter skipped ahead, kicking at loose stones in the road. Cynthia called after him once, but there was no real heat behind it. Theodora walked a step behind her mother, hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“Mum?” she said after a while. She was uncertain.
Cynthia didn’t look at her, instead she watched the sea. “What.”
Theodora hesitated. “In the prayer,” she began carefully, “when they say forgive us—”
“You ask too many questions,” Cynthia cut in, her tone flat.
Theodora nodded quickly. “Right.” Silence stretched again, familiar and unyielding. But that night, lying in bed with her hands folded the same way she had held them in the pew, Theodora tried again. Not the full prayer. Just one part she could remember best. The one she had asked her mother about.
“Forgive me,” she whispered into the dar of her eyes. She wasn’t sure what for, maybe the absence of something she was supposed to have. It felt important to say it anyway. It was part of the structure of the prayer. It made it whole. It was food for God.
That night, the house settled slowly. The pipes knocked first—sharp, uneven taps that echoed through the walls like someone trying to get out. Then the floorboards quieted, the distant murmur of the radio dissolved into static, and finally even Cynthia’s voice disappeared behind the thin bedroom door at the end of the hall. The house was chatty today, and it told her so many things.
Theodora waited for it to quiet. God required reverence that could only be found in silence. She needed to devote every thought to the insuperable request.
She lay still on her side of the bed, eyes open in the dark, listening to Peter’s breathing even out beside her. He slept quickly, like children who had nothing to confess to anyone. He held a simpleness she yearned for in the dark.
The room they shared was narrow, barely wide enough for the two small beds pushed against opposite walls. A single window sat crooked between them, letting in a slice of moonlight that cut across the floor and climbed halfway up Theodora’s blanket. A small glimpse into the world, forming brightness in a room so full of her it couldn’t breathe. She worried she’d suffocate Peter one day.
So she counted Peter’s breaths. One. Two. Three. Four, maybe, but excitement took over. A perverse excitement—much too greedy for God to listen to.
When she was sure—absolutely sure—she slipped quietly from the bed. The floor was cold beneath her feet. She winced as one board creaked, freezing in place, her heart thumping hard against her ribs. Peter shifted slightly, mumbling something unintelligible, then settled again.
Theodora exhaled slowly. Carefully, she lowered herself to the floor beside her bed. Not all the way at first. She hesitated halfway down, as if something unseen might stop her. The house maybe. It disapproved of her worship, sung a song she could not understand until the years passed.
Then, slowly, she pressed her knees into the thin rug. It scratched, a hot kind of burn as it seeped into her malleable skin.
She folded her hands the way she had in church—fingers laced too tightly, thumbs pressed together until they hurt. Her elbows hovered awkwardly before she forced them down against the mattress, bowing her head.
This was how it was done. She had watched closely.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. The words felt too small in the quiet room.
She swallowed.
“For—” Her voice caught. She didn’t know what to say next. She hadn’t focused hard enough.
The Preacher had made it sound so simple, like there was a list somewhere—clear and ordered, like Peter’s maths problems when they finally made sense to him. But nothing inside her felt clear. She squeezed her eyes shut so hard.
“For being… wrong,” she tried again, softer this time. The word lingered. Wrong. It fit better than anything else. Though she didn’t understand it, nor what it held for her. She didn’t know enough words to describe how she felt.
Her fingers tightened.
“I’ll be better,” she said quickly, the words rushing now, tripping over each other in the dark. She spoke too loud and nearly stopped, but she couldn’t, “I can be quieter. I won’t make noise. I won’t—” she paused, breath hitching as she nearly sobbed, “—I won’t upset Mum.”
The room didn’t respond. Not even the house creaked, and the house loved talking.
Theodora pressed her forehead lightly against her clasped hands, as though that might make the words travel further—through the floorboards, through the walls, through something unseen that might be listening. Even if it was just the small organisms in their pipes, or the worms slithering in the soil. Nature could be benevolent. And she knew—no, thought that God was too. There was no proof.
“I can help more,” she added, more urgently now. “I already do, but I can do it faster. And better. I can make Peter understand his work without him getting upset, I can—”
Her voice faltered. A small, sharp breath slipped out before she could stop it. Her chest contracted, converging inward due to feeling. It shook, heaved in, and out. In, and out. She pushed her face into her quilt and it muffled her feeling. Set fuzziness to her pain.
“I can be useful,” she whispered. The word sat heavy in her mouth, threatening to choke her as they slid and lodged themselves in between her tonsils.
Useful. Not kind, or pretty or anything good. She swallowed hard, pushing her face back into the cool air, feeling it spring onto her cheeks. It grounded her.
“Please,” she said, quieter now. “Please just… make her like me.” The sentence broke at the edges. She hadn’t meant to say it like that. Her shoulders trembled. Quickly, she squeezed her eyes tighter, as if she could force the feeling back down before it escaped entirely. She could hide from it if she tried.
“I’ll do anything,” she added in a rush, correcting herself, trying to fix it. “I don’t need—anything. Just—just don’t let her look at me like that anymore.” Silence. The kind that pressed in from all sides, walls closing in threatening to crush her and scoop out the substance in her head when it cracked. God would find what was wrong inside her. He would find a way.
Theodora stayed very still, waiting. For warmth. For something, even the splatter of her brains.
For any sign that she had said it correctly. That she had done it right. That she didn’t have to hide. She didn’t want to play a silly game with God. She was terrible at hopscotch, so she sat on the edges of her Playground. She kissed the mantis’s and prayed onto their wings. She played hide and seek with the tree’s she’d talk to.
Behind her, Peter shifted in his sleep again, letting out a soft, contented sigh. The sound cut through her like something clean and effortless—like death, she imagined.
Theodora opened her eyes. Nothing had changed. The moonlight still sat in the same place on the floor. The walls didn’t move. The air didn’t feel different. No answer came.
Slowly, her hands loosened. Her fingers ached where she had pressed them together too tightly. She flexed them once, then drew them back to her chest, curling in on herself as she leaned sideways until her shoulder rested against the bed.
For a moment, she stayed there on the floor. Half-curled. Half-kneeling. Purgatory.
Then, very quietly, she whispered one last thing into the dark: “I’ll try harder tomorrow.”
It was a promise.
After a moment, she pushed herself back onto her feet and climbed into bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin. Across the room, Peter slept peacefully, one arm thrown above his head, his breathing slow and even.
Theodora turned toward the wall, and kept her hands folded beneath her cheek. Just in case someone had been listening after all, even if it wasn’t God. She slept with her mouth open in hopes that something would violate it—sneak inside and wrench the gears in her guts—make her work properly. Or maybe God could give her the answers, and she’d find them one day in her clotted blood.
The letter arrived in the middle of the afternoon.
Theodora heard the owl before she saw it. A soft flutter against the window above the sink—then a faint tap of a beak against the glass. Her heart leaped.
She looked up from the counter. For a moment she simply stared. Owls did not come to their house. Not since an incident at the Ministry happened months ago. Her mother wouldn’t tell her what the letter said. Not ever.
The bird outside was large and pale, its feathers speckled grey like drifting ash in their unused fireplace. It blinked slowly at her through the glass, one talon gripping the windowsill while the other clutched a thick envelope.
Theodora’s hands stilled in the dishwater. “Peter,” she called quietly. From the living room came the dull thump of something hitting the floor. “What?”
“Come here.”
Peter shuffled into the kitchen holding a toy soldier. When he saw the owl his eyes widened so suddenly it looked almost painful. “Blimey.”
The owl tapped again, impatient this time. Theodora hurried to open the window, dripping water all over the floor.
A rush of cool air filled the kitchen as the bird stepped inside with surprising dignity, wings rustling once before settling. It extended its leg without ceremony—all business. The envelope was thick cream parchment. A red wax seal gleamed against the paper. Theodora untied it carefully, her fingers brushing the wax. It was smooth and slightly raised beneath her skin. Her name was written across the front in looping ink. Miss Theodora Pettigrew.
Peter leaned so close his nose nearly touched the parchment. “Open it,” he whispered. He was almost more excited than her.
Theodora slid a finger beneath the seal. The wax cracked softly. Inside was a folded sheet of parchment, heavier than any letter she had ever held. The ink seemed darker somehow, more deliberate. It was meant for her.
She read the first line. Then the second.
Her breath caught. Peter bounced slightly on his heels. “Well?”
Theodora looked up slowly. “It’s Hogwarts.” Peter blinked. “The magic school?”
She nodded. The owl hooted quietly, as if confirming it.
Peter let out a delighted laugh. “That’s brilliant!”
The noise carried into the living room. Cynthia Pettigrew appeared in the doorway almost immediately, cigarette already between her fingers. “What is all that racket?” Peter turned toward her eagerly. “Theo got her Hogwarts letter!”
Cynthia stopped. Her eyes flicked to the parchment in Theo’s hands. For a moment something unreadable crossed her face. Then she exhaled smoke.
“Well,” she said, “Only a matter of time.” She stepped into the kitchen and plucked the letter from Theo’s hands, scanning it quickly. Her expression didn’t soften. If anything, it tightened into something wicked that Theodora disdained.
“September first,” she read aloud. “Boarding school.” Peter grinned. “You’ll learn spells!”
Cynthia handed the parchment back without ceremony. “Let’s hope you learn discipline first.” Theodora held the letter carefully, as though it might dissolve if she gripped it too tightly. She had been answered!
Peter tugged her sleeve, “Do you think I’ll get one too?” Cynthia answered before Theo could. “Of course you will.” Her voice carried a certainty that surprised them both. Peter brightened immediately, “I will?” He wouldn’t feel left out.
Cynthia flicked ash into the sink. “You’re your father’s son,” she said. “It would be ridiculous if you didn’t.”
Peter puffed up slightly at that. Theodora looked down at the letter again, her name shimmered faintly in the afternoon light. For the first time in her life, something important had arrived addressed only to her. Just her.
Cynthia turned back toward the living room. “Finish the dishes before you start daydreaming,” she called over her shoulder, “And feed your brother.”
Peter followed her halfway out of the kitchen, still buzzing with excitement. “Do you think she’ll be in Gryffindor?” he asked. Cynthia shrugged, “Hardly.”
Peter frowned, “Why not?”
Cynthia smirked faintly. “Your sister’s clever,” she said, “But Gryffindors are the ones people remember.”
Theodora stood very still at the sink. She folded the parchment carefully. Smoothed the crease with her thumb, and slipped it back into the envelope with the widest smile she could muster.
She would never forget holding it in her hands that night, tracing the wax seal again and again with her fingertips. Feeling the weight of the parchment and the careful strokes of ink that spelled her name. Thinking of all the ways she could prove her mother wrong. Kneeling by her bed and uttering never ending “thank-you’s”, followed by dreams of grandeur.
For weeks afterward, the letter stayed tucked beneath her pillow like a secret, she liked sleeping on it. Its joy was contagious and something that belonged only to her. Something untouched by the small, crumbling house on the edge of Rye. Her mother hadn’t said no. It was too much victory for Theodora to bear. She decided to make something great of it.
A month later, candles floated in the air above the long tables of the Great Hall. Theodora Pettigrew sat perfectly still on a small wooden stool as the Sorting Hat slipped over her eyes. She could recall that darkness as a prayer answered. She thought of Gryffindor as she recalled her mother’s words. She wanted someone to remember her. She wanted it more than anything. The hall buzzed with whispers as the hat hummed thoughtfully. People were talking about her.
“RAVENCLAW!”
Applause rose around her. Theodora walked toward the Ravenclaw table with careful steps, heart dropping in her chest. Your sister’s clever, but Gryffindors are the ones people remember. Her mother couldn’t be more wrong.
Candles floated overhead like captured stars, dripping waxless light over the long tables. Theodora Pettigrew sat very straight at the Ravenclaw table, hands folded carefully in her lap. Applause had faded. Conversation swelled around her like water returning to a tide pool. She kept her eyes on the tablecloth.
It would take her years to understand just how quiet that moment truly was. No owl the next morning. No congratulatory letter folded between the marmalade and the toast—her favorite. No Howler bursting above the Great Hall ceiling in a display of loud parental pride. No embarrassment of affection. At eleven years old, she mistook that silence for disgruntled freedom. It was foolish.
Hogwarts, it turned out, was not freedom at all—it was simply a different arrangement of the same rules. Her first year, she went home for Peter—watched him open his presents. Proud for once of her accomplishments. When Peter came a year later, they changed. A brief pause in their long, winding story.
Peter Pettigrew trailed behind the other first years, eyes widened in awe as he was overcome with the great hall. The Great Hall was loud that day, it was exciting to see the first years get sorted.
Nonie Albatross, a small girl with mousy blonde hair, “Slytherin!”
Marlene Mckinnon, a lanky girl, taller than most with blonde hair sticking out every which way, “Gryffindor!”
Brier Crow, a boy with dark curly hair, and an olive complexion, “Ravenclaw!”
Lonnie Beltburrow, a redheaded girl with the rosiest cheeks, “Hufflepuff!”
Minerva McGonagall, lips left slightly-open in anticipation, called out the last name of the night with vigor, “Peter Pettigrew!”
The small, plump boy made a slow tread to the stool, fiddling with his thumbs. The Sorting Hat slipped low over Peter’s eyes, and Peter shrunk into his shoulders. When he was sorted into Gryffindor he smiled wide, nearly bouncing to his seat beside some willing first-years—he didn’t look, not once—to the Ravenclaw table. It was expected. He didn’t know where his big sister slotted into this new life. Especially now that everything was different.
It was Charms where they learned this new dynamic.
Desks had been pushed into loose clusters. A few first-years remained, stubborn or anxious enough to stay after the lesson. Theodora had been one of them once, eager to please. At the front, a feather hovered. Theodora stood beside it, wand lowered, watching the girl across from her. Studying how best to help.
“Again,” she said gently. The girl swallowed, adjusted her grip, and tried. The feather lifted, drifting sideways. Theodora stepped closer, guiding, “You’re overcorrecting. Relax your hand.”
The girl steadied her hand and the feather stilled.
“Oh,” she breathed. Theodora gave a small nod, “You had it the first time.”
Behind them, Professor Flitwick let out a soft, delighted sound. “Extraordinary control,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Do you see, Miss Harper? That’s exactly it, no wasted motion.”
Theodora straightened slightly. Flitwick turned fully now, beaming at her, “Miss Pettigrew has a most remarkable instinct for Charms. Rare, at any age.”
A couple of students looked up. One of them muttered, “Of course she does.”
Theodora’s hands folded together in front of her, “It’s just practice, Professor.”
Flitwick waved that off immediately, “Nonsense. Practice refines, it does not create precision from nothing.” His eyes sparkled, “You had it from the start.”
Across the room, a dull thud broke the moment.
Peter. His feather hadn’t moved at all. It sat stubbornly on the desk. Peter flicked his wand again, quicker this time, “Wingardium Leviosa.”
Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing.
A boy at the next table snorted under his breath. Peter’s shoulders crept higher. Theodora hesitated, just a moment, then crossed the room.
“Peter,” she said softly, stopping beside him, “You’re holding it too tightly.” You can do this.
“I’m not,” he said, too fast. He didn’t look at her. His hand tightened. Theodora’s voice stayed even, “If you loosen your grip, you’ll have more control—”
“I said I’ve got it.”
“Alright,” she said quietly. Behind them, Flitwick’s light footsteps approached again.
“Mr. Pettigrew,” he said kindly, peering up at the unmoving feather, “Still resisting you, is it?”
Peter forced a small laugh, “Something like that.”
Flitwick studied his wand hand, then the feather. “Too much force,” he said gently. “You’re trying too hard. Charms are a cooperation, not a command.”
Peter nodded quickly, “Right.”
Flitwick glanced at Theodora, then back to Peter. “Well,” he added, almost fondly, “your sister demonstrated a most elegant levitation at your stage. Perfect height, perfect stillness, no tremor at all.”
Peter’s wand stilled midair.
Flitwick continued, pleased with the memory. “In fact, I used it as an example for the entire class. I believe I said—” he tapped his chin, thinking—“This is what controlled magic looks like.”
Please don’t say that to him, Theodora thought. A girl nearby looked over at Theodora again.
“Not everyone has that instinct immediately, of course,” Flitwick went on. “But it can be learned. With patience.”
Peter nodded again, "Yes, Professor.”
Flitwick smiled, “Wrist, Mr. Pettigrew. Lightly. Let the magic do its work.”
The feather didn’t move. Theodora shifted slightly beside Peter, “If you try it slower—”
“I am trying it slower,” he snapped. Peter flushed, the red climbing fast up his neck.
Theodora’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened, “I know. I just—”
“I don’t need you to show me.”
Theodora went still. Then she nodded once. “Alright.”
She stepped back. Across the room, someone’s feather lifted cleanly into the air.
“Finally,” they laughed.
Another voice: “It’s not that hard.”
Peter’s jaw tightened and he raised his wand again.
“Wingardium Leviosa.”
The feather twitched.
Lifted—half an inch—and dropped.
Theodora didn’t react. Instead, she turned to another student, her tone slipping back into that same calm, steady rhythm. “Try relaxing your fingers,” she said. “You’re holding too much tension.”
Behind her, Peter tried again like he’d been told. The feather didn’t move.
He lowered his wand and for a moment, just stared at it.
Then he glanced up to see if anyone had seen. One boy looked away too quickly.
Peter swallowed, “Stupid,” he muttered under his breath.
T
hey didn’t talk much after that.
Charms, Flitwick said, were the bones of all magic. And he was right, Theodora knew. She stood near the end of the corridor with her books tucked carefully against her chest. Her own lesson had finished some minutes earlier, and the hallway had begun its usual slow transformation from crowded to quiet. She was part of the latter.
“Miss Pettigrew.” Professor Flitwick’s voice was light but unmistakable. He stood in the Charms classroom, half-hidden by the tall frame, his small hands folded neatly behind his back. A feather quill hovered lazily beside him, still dutifully captured in its levitation charm.
“Yes, Professor?”
“If you have a moment.” Thedora stepped inside.
Professor Flitwick climbed down from the stack of books he used to reach the lectern and approached her with a thoughtful hum. “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything important.”
“Not at all.” He studied her for a moment with the gentle attentiveness he often reserved for delicate charms, “It’s about your brother.”
The words settled quietly between them. Theodora shifted her grip on her books, resisting the urge to bite her fingernails. “Peter?”
“Yes.” Flitwick clasped his hands together. “He’s… struggling a little in class.” Theodora said nothing.
Flitwick continued carefully. “The theory in particular seems to trouble him. Wand movement he manages eventually, but the reasoning behind the spells—well,” He gave a small apologetic shrug, “Some students simply take longer to see how the pieces fit together.”
Theo nodded once. “Of course.”
“I wondered,” Flitwick said, “if you might consider helping him review in the evenings. Just until he finds his footing.”
The request was delivered gently, like a favor rather than an obligation. But the meaning beneath it was clear enough. Theodora had heard variations of it before. Your brother. Perhaps you could.
Through the window behind Flitwick she could see the Quidditch pitch far below, bright with the motion of students beginning afternoon practice. Tiny figures darted back and forth above the grass like restless birds. “I already help him with some of his assignments,” she said quietly. Flitwick brightened slightly. “Ah! Excellent. Then perhaps you could take a look at the levitation exercises as well. Nothing complicated, just a little reinforcement of the basics.”
“Of course, Professor.” It’s always this.
Flitwick smiled warmly, satisfied. “Splendid. I knew I could count on you.”
He turned back toward his desk, gathering a stack of parchment that had begun to drift off the edge. The hovering quill bobbed obediently after him. Theodora lingered for a moment near the doorway. Down in the courtyard a burst of laughter floated up through the open window—loud and careless. A group of Gryffindor boys crossed the grass below, shoving one another as they walked, their robes flapping behind them like loose sails.
Peter trailed a few steps behind them, trying very hard to look as though he belonged there. Theodora watched him for a moment, then she turned and stepped back into the corridor.
That evening she would sit across from him in the library, parchment spread between them, explaining the mechanics of a spell he would forget again by morning. It had become a quiet rhythm between them. And somewhere in between, the professors nodded approvingly, satisfied that the problem had found its solution. Peter never thanked her.
Her relationship with Peter steadied after he realized he still needed her—and when he introduced her to his friends, she was happy her brother had come around.
Peter shuffled nervously behind the other Gryffindors, his small hands clutching the straps of his bag. Sirius Black, James Potter, and Remus Lupin walked ahead, joking and laughing as if they owned the corridors. Sirius and James actually did.
Theodora Pettigrew sat at the Ravenclaw table, knees tucked under her chair, unsteady fingers fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. Her heart lifted a little when she spotted her brother, small and wide-eyed, trying to keep up with the loud Gryffindors. For a moment she almost reverted back to the kitchen, where she had tried—and failed constantly. Peter didn’t have friends then.
“Peter! Come introduce us,” James called, spinning around with his usual grin. Cocky fellow. He had tan skin and a glint in his eye that was reserved for trouble and the deep browns of love. Peter’s face flushed, but he straightened, holding his book tight over his belly. “They’re my friends,” he whispered, his voice excited.
“They’re big, noisy friends,” Theodora murmured to herself, smiling despite the flutter in her chest. Sirius leaned over the edge of the table, grinning at her, “And you must be the sister! Theodora, right? Heard about you.”
Theodora’s cheeks warmed. “I…yes. I’m Peter’s sister,” she said quietly. “I’m glad to meet you.”
Remus nodded politely, adjusting his glasses. “We’ll look after him…mostly.” Theodora liked him. He had a quiet softness hidden behind his ruthless practicality. She could appreciate the intentional folk like him. He had a mop of shaggy brown hair, scars covering his whole self. He had green eyes as well, so dark they looked blue most of the time, but Theodora noticed the green first.
Sirius snorted. “Mostly?” Sirius was delicate. Pretty for a boy, hair, deep black and pale brown eyes that were always watching.
Theodora laughed softly, a little breathless. “He doesn’t get into trouble…yet,” Peter glanced at her, eyes bright and seeping with hope. “See? They’re nice.”
“They seem nice,” Theodora said, leaning back in her chair, watching them with a soft smile. And for the first time, she felt a little less alone in the castle, knowing her brother had people to laugh with—people she could, if only quietly, trust to care for him. She could focus on herself, for the first time in her life. Even just a little bit.
Theodora listened too closely in class. But she couldn’t answer the questions. She couldn’t find the words. She looked in her bible, ran her hands over the notes she’d written night after night—but it didn’t have the words either.
Her essays returned marked in bright black ink, good marks. Her potion brews simmered to precise color long before the other cauldrons stopped sputtering. She could be proud of that. But her dorm stayed quiet. She seemed to always fall into its jaw when no one else was present. In fact, she rarely saw her roommates at all. Theodora paused just inside, hand still on the handle, she might catch it returning. It might smile at her.
All present. All absent. She moved further in, setting her things down with quiet precision, aligning them without thinking. It was her routine. And no one was ever here until the day broke. Like their voices curved around her face, to small alcoves only she couldn’t see.
Voices echoed faintly from down the corridor. Laughter. Not gone, just not reserved for her ears. Theodora sat on the edge of her bed, listening for a moment longer than she meant to. They could have asked her to come. She would have gone. Her fingers traced the edge of her book. They never asked. The thought settled easily. Comfortably weaving itself into her braids and settling in between her ears.
She opened her book instead. She devoted herself to potions. She was good at charms but potions had a simple predictability. It was very hard to ruin so long as you followed the rules. It had to do with amount, and a potion counted on your greed or altruism. She often added too little at the start. She expected that. Now, she has found a delicate balance.
By Third Year, Professor Dumbledore greeted her in the corridors by name. She had helped him hold his books once. And now, it seemed she had rapport. He had a special ability to make you feel special.
“Miss Pettigrew,” he would say with that mild, distant smile. “Still asking the right questions, I hope.”
She never knew how to answer that, but whatever it meant, she really liked it. She would pray in Dumbledore's words later. He was something of an enigma, a figure untouched by human reason or sin—something holy. He saw something in her. She would tell her mother about this, when she came home.
She even made friends. Anise Cassoway, an angular girl with a strong resolve. There was also Lavender Grace, a soft yet observant girl.
Both were Gryffindors.
Both were Muggle-born.
Both disliked the Marauders with impressive consistency.
“Idiots,” Anise declared once after a particularly loud corridor stunt. “Every last one.” Lavender simply nodded. Theodora did not disagree. But she hated that infrequent member most of all.
The girl.
The tall blonde Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Marlene McKinnon.
It was during a passing period. Theodora moved to the side automatically, holding her books close to her chest. Shoulders angled inward waiting for the rush to pass.
Someone bumped her hard enough to knock her off balance. Her books slipped from her hands, parchment sliding across the stone. She crouched immediately, already reaching for the nearest page.
“Watch it.”
The voice was flat, irritated. Theodora looked up.
Marlene McKinnon stood there, barely slowed. A leather bag with embroidered stars on its side hung from her thin shoulder, one hand hooked casually around it. She wore her skirt and button up—her Gryffindor tie loose. Silver rings covered her fingers, earrings hung from her delicate ears. Scraped knees, one still bleeding faintly. Blonde hair fell in shaggy waves, framing brown eyes that glinted as if she was constantly entertained. Pale skin, a sloping nose, plump lips that let out small pants rather than breaths. Sweat that sat at her brow, giving her skin a luminous sheen. She was infuriatingly attractive, and Theodora felt it in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t moved back. Hadn’t apologized. If anything, she looked like Theodora had stepped into her path. And Theodora stood for a moment too long.
“I’m sorry,” Theodora finally said, gathering her papers. Marlene glanced down at her—quick and unimpressed.
“Right,” she said. A couple of people behind her snorted. Theodora stacked her parchment carefully before standing.
“You ran into me,” Theodora finally uttered.
Marlene shifted the leather bag slightly on her shoulder, “Did I?”
“Felt more like you were in the way.” She didn’t wait for an answer. Someone called her name from further down the corridor.
“Come on!” Marlene turned her head slightly, “Yeah, hold on.” Then back to Theodora.
“Careful.” She stepped around her then—close enough that Theodora had to shift slightly just to give her space. She walked away, falling back into step with the others, their voices picking up again like nothing had interrupted them. The corridor filled back in.
It started in her 5th Year, the resentment. So much had changed. Her body had changed form. Filled out in certain places, shrunk in others. She looked different. This new, disconcerted age brought new malice to the people around her. Relationships. Love, and what was further than that. That one word that scared her. It started that year—the quiet shift.
Girls spoke differently now. Softer, but sharper too. Names slipped into conversation where they hadn’t before, threaded between laughter and lowered voices. Who liked who. Who had done what. Theodora listened. She understood, slowly, that there was something expected of her. Something she had missed the instructions for.
It didn’t come naturally. But then, most things didn’t.
Raine Loriss, a handsome Slytherin, was not loud like the others. He spoke to her once after class about an assignment. He looked at her when she spoke. That was all it took.
They spoke more.
She thought, briefly, that this might be what it was supposed to feel like.
When he eventually asked to meet her later, she said yes before she could think of a reason not to. It wasn’t romantic, not in the way the other girls described it. There was no rush, no warmth that settled into her bones. No undeniable change. It didn’t feel like anything at all.
But he chose her. That at least felt important.
So she let him.
Afterwards, she lay very still, waiting for something to arrive—some understanding, some confirmation that she had done it right. Nothing came. Raine spoke a little. She didn’t remember what he said. She only remembered thinking that it must have worked.
That this was how it started. She didn’t tell anyone, not even God.
It wasn’t even a day before more was asked of her. It had changed nothing.
Theodora stood with her back near an alcove, a book open in her hands she had not turned the page of in several minutes. She had been waiting. Not consciously, perhaps—but she had learned the rhythm of it. Peter arrived like a fish out of water. Flipping and far too eager.Too loud in his breathing, though he tried to quiet it halfway down the corridor. His shoes scuffed against stone, then corrected themselves, as if the act of walking properly might undo whatever had already been done.
“Theo—” He stopped just short of her, eyes flicking once behind him before settling on her face. There it was. That look, his face still looked the same as years earlier.
She closed her book. “What happened?” she asked.
Peter hesitated. He always did, at this part—as though there might still be time to choose a different version of events. He was always prepared to swing and change directions. A side effect of his upbringing. They rarely spoke about it—if at all.
“Nothing,” he said quickly. The word landed wrong.
Theodora tilted her head, just slightly. “Peter.” His shoulders sank a fraction. “It’s not—” he started, then stopped, dragging a hand through his hair, “It’s not a big thing. Just—don’t get cross.”
“I’m not cross.”
“You might be.”
“I’m not,” she repeated, softer now.
Another glance over his shoulder. The corridor remained empty.
“I told them,” he said, words coming faster, tripping slightly over each other, “that you’d helped me with the essay. The Defense one. The one I forgot to finish.” He rushed on. “Only—only I didn’t finish it, not properly, and Professor said it looked like two different bits stitched together, and—” he swallowed, voice lowering, “and I said you’d looked over it. That you’d—corrected it.”
There it was. The shape of it, revealed in pieces.
“And now?” she asked.
“They want to ask you about it,” he admitted. “Just—just in case. To make sure I told the truth.” A faint, brittle laugh escaped him. “As if I have.” Silence settled briefly between them. What had happened? Where did he change, from that little boy at the table? Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to stay still inside the silence that Theodora urged.
“I didn’t think they’d actually—ask you,” he added quickly. “I just needed them to stop looking at me like that. Like I’d—like I was—” He didn’t finish.
Theodora had seen that look before. Felt it. Carried it home, once.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the spine of her book. “When?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “After breakfast.”
“I can fix it,” he said suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “I’ll just say I got it wrong, or that I misunderstood, or—something. You don’t have to—”
“It’s alright,” she said.
He stopped. “What?”
“It’s alright.”
Peter stared at her, searching—perhaps—for something beneath them. Irritation. Hesitation. A cost. He found none. “You’ll—” he faltered. “You’ll just say it? That you helped?”
“Yes.”
Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders dropped, the tension leaving him in visible increments. “Right,” he said, a little laugh breaking through now, lighter. “Right, okay. That’s—brilliant, that is.” He smiled at her. Relief made him softer and younger.
“Thanks, Theo.” That was new.
She nodded once. “You should finish the essay,” she added gently. Why couldn't you finish it the first time?
“I will,” he said quickly. “Tonight. Properly this time.”
“Probably.”
She almost smiled. Peter stepped back, already turning, already half-gone in the way he always was—moving toward the next thing, the next noise, the next place where he might not be asked too many questions.
“See you,” he called over his shoulder.
“Yes,” she said.
The corridor swallowed him easily. The sound of his footsteps faded, replaced once more by the quiet hum of torchlight and distant, indistinct voices drifting through stone. How could she betray the force that brought her here? She thought she wouldn’t lie for him again. She opened her book again, though her eyes did not immediately find the words. She thought of what to say. The shape of the lie settled into her easily. It did not scrape or resist as she thought it would. She wondered about it, turned it over and squished it between her fingers—how easy it was to carry him. Let him bite at her ankles after he comes up empty.
She was trying to be honest now. She thought she could keep clean. She would pay for it, maybe God would strike her down and pledge her to the Devil—maybe he would hurt her. Or, nothing could happen at all, which was far worse. She knew what truth looked like. The truths of childhood—that look. She had hoped that as opposed to the one who birthed her—the man that formed her breath by breath and put the sea in her blue eyes—could love her. Or merely like her. Give her a hug like her brother. Or perhaps something more practiced. Sterile—but pleasant. She knew that it was natural to sin. She’d have to make it up to him. There were no churches nor chapels in Hogwarts. And there was no one to confess to but the empty air and the stones that jut out of the walls. The walls that spoke to her in taunts: ‘Is this how you repay him?’ and she would respond in gasps, ‘for my brother, yes.’
She had to.
The lie fit. As so many things had learned to do. Just as Peter fit in with that group.
Their noise.
Their carelessness.
Their endless talent for escaping consequences.
Peter sat cross-legged on the floor by the fire, sleeves pushed up, trying—and failing—to mend a tear in his robe with a charm that kept sputtering into weak sparks. “Hold still,” he muttered to the fabric, as if it might listen, he was naive like that. The common room was quiet, most people had flooded out when they arrived.
Theodora watched him for a moment from the arm of the sofa, her chin resting lightly against her knuckles flushed with warmth. “You’re doing it too fast,” she said with a smile.
“I’m not,” Peter replied, immediately defensive. “It’s just—rubbish magic.”
“It isn’t.”
“Feels like it.”
She slipped down from her perch and crossed the small space between them, kneeling beside him. Her hand hovered near his for a second—then adjusted his grip, just slightly. “Slower,” she murmured. He followed her lead this time. The spell held. The tear stitched itself closed with a soft, neat line.
Peter blinked, “Oh.”
A small, surprised laugh. “Oh, that actually worked.”
Theodora smiled brighter.
“Told you.”
He glanced at her, still grinning, “You make everything look easy.”
“I don’t.” Peter tilted his head, “You do.”
She shook her head, eyes dropping to the mended fabric. “I just… like fixing things,” she said. “When something’s broken, you can see it. You know where to start.” Her voice softened, almost thoughtful. “I wish people were like that. Especially Mum,” Theodora let out a shaky breath, “I don’t think she likes me.”
Peter didn’t answer straight away. He looked at her instead—properly, the way he rarely did when things got a bit too close to meaning something. Then he nudged her shoulder with his.
“You fix me alright,” he said. Theodora blinked, caught off guard. A small breath left her. Something secret.
“You’re not broken,” she said. Peter shrugged. “Bit wonky, then.”
She smiled again, pulling him into a hug. Inhaling his faint woodsy scent.
Later that night the library had settled into that dense, muffled quiet that came after dinner, when the castle’s louder impulses dulled and even the loudest seemed to hesitate at the threshold. It was easy, here, to believe in order. Or something natural and inevitable—the darkness formed a silent cathedral for her hopes—but it was feeble. Theodora sat across from Peter, parchment spread neatly between them, her notes arranged in careful columns of messy cursive. His, by contrast, looked like something recovered from a storm—ink blotted, margins crowded, thoughts half-finished and abandoned. Peter himself was often half-finished, but it was probably Theodora’s favorite thing about him. When it didn’t give her more work, anyway.
“No,” she said gently, tapping the page "You’ve skipped the middle. You can’t just write the result, you have to show how you got there.”
Peter groaned, dropping his head briefly into his hands, “But I know what it does.”
“That’s not the same as explaining it.”
“It should be,” He dragged his quill across the parchment again, slower this time, lips moving faintly as he tried to follow the structure she’d laid out for him. The silence between them was not uncomfortable—just concentrated, held together by the quiet rhythm they had fallen into over the years.
“Alright,” he muttered after a moment. “So, this causes the transformation because…”
“Because of the principle,” she reminded.
“Right. That.” He hesitated. “Which is…?”
Theodora leaned forward slightly, her voice lowered, the explanation itself required gentleness. He wouldn’t listen otherwise. “Stability before alteration. You have to anchor the object before you change it, otherwise it—”
“—goes wrong,” Peter finished, relieved. “Right. Yes. I knew that.”
She smiled faintly. “Of course you did. "No, you didn’t. How many times did she have to explain this? Footsteps approached before voices did—loose, uncontained, carrying through the quiet like something that didn’t belong there. “Need help do you, Peter?”
“Oi—there she is. You’re quick on the clutching, aren’t you?”
Peter stiffened almost imperceptibly. Theodora didn’t look up straight away, she didn’t need to. James dropped into the chair beside Peter with all the subtlety of a collapsing skyscraper. Sirius leaning lazily against the edge of the table behind him, Marlene—the girl from the corridor beside him. Remus followed more quietly, lingering just slightly apart, his eyes already taking in the scene with something like resignation.
“Yeah,” Sirius said, glancing between the parchment and Peter’s strained expression. “Or maybe it’s just a habit from sleeping your way to praise. Heard you’re a master with the right professors. What have you been doing to Flitwick?” Peter let out a short, nervous laugh. Something in his face looked triumphant. There it was. Something in between—something that leaned just far enough away from her to keep him safely where he stood. Theodora lifted her eyes to him, and they stayed there—boring and blue. She wanted to shout, but she didn’t.
“Not pretty enough for the attention, though, are you? No wonder you'll throw yourself at anyone,” James offered brightly. Something snapped inside her, a thin wire of anger she usually kept coiled. She stood to say something, lips parted, but no words came out.
“No,” Marlene said, shaking her head lightly, moving to face her. “I don’t buy it. You’re not the sort to get anyone’s attention like that.” Her smile was sharp, cutting.
“No, she’s a fag,” Marlene took a step closer. Closer still. Theodora instinctively shifted backward, until her hip met the back of the desk she’d been sitting at moments before. The corridor felt smaller, tighter, almost suffocating under Marlene’s presence that was so demanding.
“You want to kiss me, don’t you?” Marlene asked, tilting her head, voice deceptively casual. “Come on. I can tell. You want to. Admit it.”
Theodora’s mind screamed. I do not. I do not, I do not, I do not. But her lips stayed pressed together. She could feel the weight of the Marauders behind her, their snickers faint but present, their approval a stain in the air.
Marlene circled, careful, slow, watching her. “Do you like me?” she repeated, voice low now, insistent, a hum in the quiet corridor. She was so close Theodora could feel the heat from her body without being touched. Heat rushed to Theodora’s face, coloring her pink.
Marlene’s eyes flicked to the Marauders behind her. “Don’t look at them,” she said. “I don’t care about their opinions. Just us. I know you’re thinking it. You do, don’t you? "She flashed a sickening smirk, all canines.
Theodora’s body wanted to flinch. She wanted to scream. She wanted to spit every thought she had into that perfect, cruel face. Spit on it even. Something. Instead, “I—.” Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
Marlene leaned in slightly, close enough that Theodora could smell her hair, a mirage of apple and something spicier. “Do you like me?” she whispered again, nearly against her lips, almost casual, almost innocent.
“You do. Admit it. Everyone knows what you are. Admit it.”
Marlene straightened, eyes still on her, grin widening. Then she turned, sweeping past her, leaving Theodora still pressed against the desk. Peter stayed silent, but he looked at Marlene, and he nearly smiled. It was so small, but it was there. It felt the same as before, when she would take the blame for something broken here or there—preserving him. He didn’t mean to. Her mother would scorn and then fawn. It was a monthly transition, like the occasional church visit just often enough to keep people quiet. Yet, Theodora could not stop. It was a cycle she edged. Problem—solving—forgiveness. But her mother would never forgive her, so she asked God. It was a mistake. A random plea to be understood she couldn’t help.
It was convenient for him, as Theodora had never reprimanded him for it, not really. He was always her baby brother. It was natural to love him like that, because of all the things Peter had been and could be.
Remus spoke, “Leave it, yeah?” he said. “We’ve got to go.”
James scoffed lightly, “Since when do we have to be somewhere?”
“Since it stops you lot from being insufferable,” Remus replied, not unkindly. Then Sirius pushed himself upright, seemingly caring more about Remus’s opinion than he let on, “Come on, then.”
James stood, clapping Peter once on the back. “Don’t let her rub off on you,” he said with a grin and a mock promise to the heart. Peter laughed, “Yeah,” he said. “Wouldn’t want that.” They moved off, their voices fading back into the library’s edges. Remus lingered a moment longer, his big brown eyes flicked between Peter and Theodora, something unreadable passing through them. Something understandable.
Then, softly, “Night.” And he followed the others. Peter shifted in his chair, reaching for his quill again as if nothing had changed.
“Pack up,” Theodora said, harsher than she ever had before. Peter didn’t argue.
They gathered their things in silence, parchment stacked, ink sealed, books aligned. The ritual of it remained intact, even if something else had slipped loose. She always thought that what was lost was given by grace. What grace was, she wasn’t sure anymore.
The corridor outside was cooler. Night had settled fully now, the windows reflecting only darkness back at itself. Their footsteps echoed faintly against the stone as they walked, side by side but not quite together. For a while, neither of them spoke.
Peter kicked lightly at a loose bit of gravel near the edge of the wall, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “They were joking,” he said finally.
Theodora didn’t look at him, “I know.”
“It didn’t mean anything.”
“No,” she said, “It didn’t.”
Something in her tone made him glance at her then. “You’re being…” he hesitated, searching, “weird about it.”
She stopped walking. A few steps, a step, none.
Peter took another step before realizing, then turned back toward her with a faint frown.
“What?”
Theodora’s hands folded loosely in front of her, fingers pressing together in that familiar, controlled way. “I don’t like your friends,” she said.
It was placed between them, plain and unembellished. A truth she would never have said. In fact, she didn’t understand why she said it now. She could rarely say what she thought. But she needed to preserve Peter.
Peter blinked, “Right,” he said after a second, letting out a short breath. “Okay. That’s bit’ harsh.”
“It’s true.”
“They were just joking.” Did it also sound stupid to him?
“They always are, and none of it is ever funny.”
“That’s the point,” he said, a little sharper now. “It’s not serious, Theo, you don’t have to—take everything like that.”
“I don’t,” she replied, “I take that like that.” She felt a foreign anger bubbling up her chest, threatening to spill out. She had never yelled at her brother.
He shifted his weight, irritation flickering in the set of his shoulders, “You don’t even know them.”
“I know enough.” ‘Why didn’t you say something,’ sat in her throat, waiting for her to utter it.
“They’re my friends.”
“I know,” she said.
“They don’t make you better. You—You’ve changed.” Good enough.
Peter’s expression changed—something tightening, something defensive snapping into place. His brows furrowed as he began to pace, only a few steps in a tight circle.
“They make me liked,” he shot back. It came too quickly to take back, proof of honesty—but Theodora could see it on his face. Theodora’s face didn’t change much. But something behind it did.
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“It is to me,” he said, stepping closer now. “You don’t get it, alright? You don’t—need that sort of thing, but I do.”
“I understand more than you think. I need things too Peter—”
“No, you don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t understand anything—well, you do but it’s... It’s not—needed. Not for everyone.”
“I’m not saying it is.”
“You are,” he insisted. “You think they’re beneath you. That I’m—what, stupid for being around them?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Silence stretched between them, thinner now, threatening to burst and explode. Theodora swallowed, her voice quieter when she spoke again, “They laugh at me.” They made fun of me, in every way they knew how. Peter let out a sharp, disbelieving breath, “No, they don’t.”
“They do.”
“They laugh at everything,” he snapped. “That’s different.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is to me!” The words echoed slightly against the stone. Peter ran a hand through his thin hair, pacing a step away before turning back again, invigorated by his free moment.
“You just don’t like them because what they say is true,” he said.
Theodora stilled.
“That’s not—”
“You can’t be so good all the time,” he went on, the thought gaining shape as he spoke it. “You can’t sit there and tell them what to do, so you don’t like it.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Isn’t it?” he said. “Feels like it.”
She stayed quiet.
“Or maybe you’re just jealous.”
The word hung there, ugly in its simplicity.
Theodora stared at him, anger dissipating—giving to the firm ebb of loathing.
“Of what?” she asked.
Peter hesitated only for a second.
“Of the fact I’ve got people who actually want me around,” he said, “Of the fact people care about me—for heaven's sake our mother doesn’t even like you.”
The silence that followed was different, heavier, and final in a way the others hadn’t been. It seeped into them like the cold, and it threatened to never leave.
Theodora’s hands loosened slowly at her sides. She nodded once.
“I see,” she said.
Peter shifted, something uncertain flickering now that the words had fully landed. “That’s not—” he started, but stopped, because it was. Or close enough to feel the same. Peter urged and forced a thousand opologies as Theodora stepped past him. Her shoulder brushed his, light enough to be accidental. “I’ll still help you with your work,” she said, not giving herself to emotion. That almost made it worse. She wanted to cry, scream—she wanted to tell him, ‘I raised you’.
There were so many moments. Tucking Peter into bed, hugging him when he’d cry—with not an ounce of recognition. She’d never asked for it, not once. She was seething, but it was a cold sweat, meticulous in its building.
There were backyards, and meals that improved over the course of time. Peter didn’t know her at all. Didn’t see the work. The comforting, the help, the cleaning, the listening. All of it was never a chore, because it was for him. She felt a sharp pang reach inside her.
She had raised him wrong.
And part of her said, ‘That wasn’t your job.’ Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be, but it was. And she had destroyed him. Formed his impressionable clay with sharp nails that never pushed in—never wounded it.
The realization felt infinite, a pain that was never ending. Really, it took 3 seconds. Only 3. For her to say nothing at all. Each direction she could go brought something sinister and empty. It crushed her, but she remained silent—begging for once for her mother to fill it. She couldn’t leave it like this. She could be like her mother, encompass her cruelty and direct it to her brother.
“You’ll understand later,” she said, already turning away. “You always do.” It was far crueler than she was nursed to, but she didn’t fight it. Then she walked on.
Peter stood where he was for a moment, the corridor stretching long and dim around him, her footsteps fading into it. He didn’t call after her or apologize. He just stood there and let her go. They would never be the same again. Until Theodora pleaded that night. And she would forgive. She was so predictable. And they were steady in dismissal like that, for two months. The longest she had ever resisted it.
The library, at that hour, had begun to loosen at the seams. It was still quiet, technically, but not the sacred, brittle quiet Madam Pince preferred. This was something softer, more porous. Chairs scraped without immediate reprimand. Someone whispered too loudly three tables over and got away with it. Laughter, when it slipped out, lingered a second longer before being swallowed.
Theodora had chosen the back stacks on purpose. Not to hide, she wouldn’t have called it that, but because the light was dimmer there, and fewer people bothered with the higher shelves unless they needed something specific. It made for uninterrupted work. And she needed something these days—some alone time to think. To mull over what she had said. She could have made a thousand jugs of cinnamon wine with her thoughts already—they fermented with age often enough. None of them were entirely new, just changing—forming to take new sorrows—making space for the pieces.
She stood on the small wooden step, returning a book to its proper place, fingers aligning the spine with quiet precision, the words were simple. It wasn’t a very special book, ‘Herbology Vol. 3.’ She liked the ribbed texture on its spine, though. She’d checked it out four times now, just to feel the spine, give her fingers some sequences to thin over so her mind could do the same. Her oral fixation had gotten worse—the book didn’t dissipate it so much as amplify it. Her cuticles bled—but never on her books. Not on her assignments. They were sacred in their way.
Voices drifted in from the other side of the shelf, familiar ones. She stilled, though she hadn’t meant to.
“—I’m telling you, it’s weird,” Sirius was saying, his voice low but carrying easily. “Proper weird. He’s always with her.”
“Not always, and we haven’t talked since—well,” Peter muttered.
“Mate,” James said, and Theodora could hear the grin in it, “you practically bring her into your dorm to tuck you in at night.”
A couple of people nearby snorted at that—background noise, half-listening.
“Shut up,” Peter said, but there was no weight behind it. Maybe there would have been, if he were different.
“Does she ever stop?” Marlene cut in. “Or is it just constant—” she shifted her voice into something clipped and precise, an exaggerated imitation, “—‘that’s not correct, Peter’.”
“Alright—” Peter started.
“It’s not wrong, though, is it?” Sirius said, his voice had an uncharacteristic lilt, like he knew he was saying too much before the words even came out. “She’s always on at you, I mean—my brother would never.”
“She was helping me,” Peter said, more firmly now. A familiar warmth spread to Theodora, but it just confused her further, pushing her deeper into the hole that her brother seemed hell-bent on keeping her in.
“Helping,” James repeated, “That’s one word for it. Like how she ‘helped’ Raine Loriss with his homework.”
“I can’t believe that,” someone else—one of the boys from their year, Theodora couldn’t place which—chimed in from a nearby table, “Talked to him twice and that was enough.” She froze.
More laughter. It spread easier, with an audience. This is how they must like it best, with someone to watch. They didn’t know the perfect audience was hiding with a quivering lip—the contents of her throat threatening to spill out. They see right through me, she repeated to herself.
Theodora’s hand remained on the book, she ran the pads of her fingers along its spine. A streak of red was left in their wake. Small, and spread then, but an infinite reminder of this exact moment. She never did understand why adults like her father cared so much for them. They were never good. She wished time was non-linear, and all her life could happen out of order—so maybe now she’d be in an older mind, and she’d be able to take what she was hearing.
What could be worse than having nothing to depend on?
“Why be with her at all?” Marlene said, blunt as anything, “You’ve got us.”
“That’s exactly why,” Sirius said dryly.
“Hey,” James protested, though he was laughing.
“No, really,” Sirius went on, “Since when do you need her to help you? We have Remus, and he’d be delighted to help you.” He made the word sound like a joke. “Thought you were one of us.”
“I am,” Peter said quickly.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Marlene said, “You vanish every other night to sit in the library with her. These are the best years of your life, live a little.”
“I do not,” Peter contested, but weaker now. “It’s just easier.”
“Easier?” James echoed.
“Yeah,” Peter said, grasping at it. He didn’t elaborate.
“She’s rubbing off on you. Just tell her to leave you alone,” Marlene said.
“No one actually likes girls like that.”
“That’s not—” Peter stopped. “We—She’s not.”
“Isnt’t she?” Sirius said, “Looks a lot like it from here.”
“She just likes being right,” Marlene added. “You can tell. She’s gotta make up for her face somehow. It’s a miracle she has friends—but those girls are cunts too. Go figure.”
There was a murmur of agreement from somewhere behind them. Theodora lowered her hand from the book. Quietly. She held back a sniffle, and then another. It still hadn’t set in that Peter hated her this much—that someone else could, too. That it was her fault. She found herself praying into her eyelids like she did as a child.
“She isn’t—” Peter started again, then faltered. And then, with a short, awkward laugh, “I mean—yeah, she kind of is.”
“Thank you,” Sirius said. “Finally, some honesty.”
“She’s a bit much,” Peter went on, quicker now, like if he kept talking it would settle into something easier, “Always thinking she’s right. That she’s so smart. It’s—” he searched for the word, “—a lot.”
Marlene let out a small, satisfied hum. “Knew it.” Theodora could practically hear that cocky smile.
“Does she even like you having friends?” someone asked. Peter hesitated.
Theodora could hear it—the pause, the shift of weight, the recalibration. It took him a moment, but insulting her rarely seemed to take him any time at all. It was that his moments were conforming. They were malleable and constantly kneaded, he shifted to what was needed.
“She doesn’t like… them,” he said.
“Us,” Sirius corrected.
“Yeah,” Peter admitted, “You.”
“Brilliant,” James said. “What did we ever do to her?” He nearly laughed. “She just thinks—” Peter rubbed at his neck; the sound of it carried faintly, “—you don’t make me better." Sirius laughed, sharp and incredulous. “Better?”
“Oh, that’s rich,” James said.
“Better,” Marlene repeated, like she was testing the word and finding it lacking. “Who does she think she is?”
“She didn’t mean it like that,” Peter said quickly. Theodora’s breath hitched.
“How did she mean it, then?” Marlene shot back.
Peter didn’t answer straight away because there wasn’t another way to mean it. “She just—” he tried again, then gave up halfway. “She doesn’t get it.”
“No,” Sirius said, “Clearly not.”
“She tries to do everything right. She thinks it’ll make people like her,” Peter said, the words coming easier now that they had direction. “Like that’s how it works.”
Theodora clasped her hand over her mouth—attempting to prevent herself from crying. But she sniffled out anyways.
“And you told her she was wrong?” James asked.
“Yes,” Peter said.
“Good,” Marlene said immediately.
"Course he did,” Sirius added.
Peter let out a small laugh, encouraged now. “I mean, yeah. I told her—I’ve got people who actually want me around.”
There it was again, that same sentence. It sat differently this time, softer because it had an audience. “Exactly,” James said, clapping something—probably Peter’s shoulder. “That’s the point, mate.”
“Not everyone wants to spend their life like this,” Sirius said.
“God, imagine,” Marlene muttered. A few of the others nearby laughed again, quieter now, but still there. “She’s just—too much,” Peter added, almost as an afterthought. “You know?”
“Yeah,” Marlene said. “I know exactly the type. Insufferable,” There was a shuffle of movement, chairs pushing back, books closing.
“Come on,” James said. “Let’s get out of here before I fall asleep.”
“Remus?” Marlene called. “You coming or what?”
There was a slight pause before he answered. Theodora hadn’t heard him arrive.
“I’m here,” he said, and his voice was quieter than the rest, but it carried in a different way. Steadier. “And I’d be happy to help you Peter, but that was unfair.”
“Oh, here we go,” Sirius said. “Voice of reason.”
“I mean it,” Remus went on, “She was trying to help.” Marlene huffed a soft laugh, “You don’t even talk to her.”
“I don’t have to,” he said, “I’ve seen enough.”
“Seen what exactly? Do enlighten us Remus, ” James asked.
“That she helps him,” Remus said simply, “And he needs it.” Peter shifted, “Yeah, well—”
“And she’s not wrong,” Remus added, before he could finish. “Hey,” Sirius said, “Pick a side.”
“I’m not picking sides,” Remus replied, “I’m just saying—you’re all acting like she’s done something awful, and she hasn’t.”
“She told him not to be friends with us,” Marlene said. “She said you're a bad influence,” Remus corrected, “That’s not the same thing.”
“Sounds the same,” Sirius muttered. “It isn’t,” Remus said, still calm.
Then James exhaled, half-laughing, “Alright, we get it.”
“Do you?” Remus asked lightly. “Not particularly,” Sirius said. “But I’m bored of the conversation.”
Marlene nudged him. “Come on, then. Leave them to it.”
“Yeah,” James said. “Peter, you coming?”
“Yeah,” Peter said. There wasn’t even a pause. It was immediate. Footsteps shifted, voices moved. The space they occupied began to empty, and Theodora filled it just as she had suffocated her small bedroom back home.
“She’s still too much,” Marlene muttered as they went, not bothering to lower her voice this time. “Bit intense,” Sirius agreed.
“Terrifying, honestly,” James added.
Remus didn’t say anything else, not that Theodora heard. Their voices faded into the wider library, dissolving into the low hum of everything else, shuffling into her misery. Theodora remained where she was. She went to her dorm and cried. Her roommate—Indigo Doves, actually comforted her. They would be friends.
The siblings hadn’t spoken. It would be a few days.
Theodora had found her favorite corridor. Largely left alone, coincidently, this is where she had been coerced to lie for Peter. She tried not to think about that. It was late enough that most people in the castle had already gone—either to bed or somewhere louder. The torches along the walls burned low, their light uneven, catching in the gaps between stones and leaving the rest in shadow.
Theodora stood by the window, a book open in her hands, she wasn’t reading it, moreso just absorbing the words, searching for one to describe how she feels. Footsteps approached—quick, uneven, familiar—too heavy to be anyone else’s.
“Hey.” Peter. She looked up. He didn’t stop straight away, pacing once, twice, like he wasn’t sure where to put himself. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tight in a way that didn’t quite match the casualness he was trying for. “We need to—” he started, then stopped, “Just—hold on.”
Theodora closed the book. “What is it?” She realized, looking at him now—that she still loved her brother, just as much as before. He let out a breath through his nose, short and sharp. “You can’t keep—doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“That,” he said, gesturing vaguely, like the word itself annoyed him, “The way you are with them.”
“With your friends?”
“Yeah.”
“I wasn’t aware I was doing anything,” she said. Peter laughed, but there was no humour in it, “Exactly. That’s exactly it.”
Theodora’s brow furrowed, just slightly, “Then explain it to me.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing again. “You just—you make it weird, Theo. All of it. You sit there all quiet and—judgy, like you’re better than them.”
“I don’t think that.”
“You don’t have to say it,” he snapped, “It’s obvious.”
“It isn’t,” she said, still calm, “And I’ve never—”
“You told me they don’t make me better.”
“I told you I was concerned—”
“Yeah, well, they heard it like that,” he cut in. “They all did.” That stilled her.
“Why were they hearing it at all?” she asked, quieter now.
Peter hesitated. “Because I told them.”
The words landed cleanly between them, she didn’t react immediately.
“I see,” she said. She already knew.
“Don’t do that,” Peter muttered.
“Do what?”
“That—” he gestured again, frustrated, “—that calm thing. Like you’re above it.”
“I’m not above anything,” she said. “I’m trying to understand why you would tell me this, only days after you said that.”
“Because it affects them,” he shot back. “It affects me.”
“I spoke to you,” she said. “Not to them.”
“They’re my friends,” Peter said, sharper now, “What, I’m just supposed to—keep that from them? Let you sit there and think they’re what? Bad for me?”
“I didn’t say bad.”
“You meant it.”
“I meant what I said,” she replied, steady. “I hope you didn’t.”
He let out a frustrated noise, turning away, then back again. He didn’t even answer. “This is what I mean,” he said. “It’s always like this with you. Everything’s a discussion.”
“I don’t see what the alternative is.”
“Just—drop it,” he said, “Let things be normal.”
“They aren’t normal,” she said.
“No, they’re not,” he snapped, “Not when you’re there.” A beat.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Peter laughed again, softer this time but meaner for it. “Yeah. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Then, more plainly—more honestly, because he was tired now, because the frustration had somewhere to go, “You embarrass me.” Silence, not the quiet of the corridor. Not the quiet they used to share. Theodora looked at him, really looked, like she was trying to place the sentence somewhere that made sense.
“How?” she asked. He exhaled, running a hand over his face. “Just—everything. The way you talk, the way you—correct things in front of them, the way you look at them—”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he insisted. “And it makes me look like—like I can’t do anything without you there fixing it.”
“I was helping you,” she said, quieter now.
“I didn’t ask you to do it in front of them.”
“You asked me to help you,” she repeated.
“Yeah, well—” he shook his head. “Not like that.”
“I didn’t realize it mattered so much,” she said.
“It does,” he replied immediately. “It matters.”
“More than this?” she asked. He didn’t answer. The silence did it for him.
Theodora nodded once. “Alright,” she said.
Peter shifted, something uncertain flickering now that it had all been said. “That’s not—I mean—” he started, but there was nothing to fix it with. Because it was already clear. “I won’t embarrass you again,” she said, as she walked down the corridor without looking back. Peter stood where he was, the torchlight catching unevenly across his face, watching her go.
She sobbed, heavy as she walked too fast. Now she understood it was something worse. Her brother hates her. It has always been this way. This had been built upon years of being around her.The shame hit. It was sharp, her skin gave way easily—skin parting, the lattice of her veins flexing until they burst. She was good once—she had to be. The alternative scared her too much.
What was she to do? Those people—that group—had violated her in a way unimaginable. Theodora could never take—only be given. And she had been given one thing in this world: Peter. What had she committed, what impunity led to this? She hated them. Every single one. Godless creatures. But it was like looking in a mirror—ancient and blotched with black. Her most natural state of loathing. Theodora wasn’t a cruel person, only unkind in her inaction. She had that, and only that.
She would give herself to anger when she had the time. Now, she needed to bite her nails, feel the pressure of her crunching teeth. She needed comfort, and didn’t know how else to give it. It was much too late. Anise and Lavender didn’t like her brother—no, they hated them. Self-administered it would have to be. Everything all the time. As above, so below.
She went to the only place she could count on.
Theodora stood at the sink for a long moment, staring at her reflection. Light hair tied back, swirling into something she wished could be magical. A face plainer than her childhood home. Behind her, one of the stall doors hung slightly open. The wood was already cluttered with old graffiti—names, crude drawings, half-erased jokes left behind by students who had long since graduated. Ghosts. Theodora stared at it. Then she reached into her pocket, hands shaking. Her quill hovered over the painted green wood for only a moment, shuddering at the notion of being caught.
And she wrote a single line. Excruciatingly simple, she needed to admit it to the universe—or whatever girl came to this stall next. A quiet confession meant for no one at all. The ink glistened, it was patronizing.
Theodora read it once. “God Forgive Me.”
Days later, another hand would answer it.
But that was long before Marlene McKinnon knew any of this.
Long before the two of them sat in the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory—praying they wouldn’t get caught.
Before the laughter.
Before the Quidditch matches.
Before even the secrets written on stall doors.
Back when Marlene McKinnon was simply a first-year girl sprawled across her bed, watching her new redheaded roommate struggle with a stack of books.