Chapter Text
Who Done It?!
POV Millicent Bulstrode
Millicent laid in the Hospital Wing, stiff as a board on the sheets, clutching her stomach as the pain crawled through her stomach.
She’d had boils the size of galleons, hexes to the face, and once briefly an incident involving a jinxed book that tried to eat her hair.
None of it compared to whatever fresh humiliation had crawled into her stomach this morning.
Tracey laid on the bed beside her, propped up with pillows, looking pale and furious in that delicate, offended way that made her seem like she’d been personally wronged by the concept of digestion.
Millicent curled into a ball, fighting down the lingering nausea. Her insides felt strange, not pain exactly, more like an unstable cauldron that refused to settle no matter how carefully you stirred.
Like her body had decided to betray her as entertainment.
She glared at the ceiling as if it was responsible.
“This—” she began, then had to stop and breathe through another wave of cramps that made her toes curl. “This is not normal.”
Madame Pomfrey swept past, brisk and unimpressed, her heels clicked with purpose. She looked tired in the way someone did when they had seen far too many students make foolish choices and demand sympathy afterwards.
Pomfrey paused at the foot of their beds, “Of course it’s not normal, dear.” She said tone soothingly flat. “You’ve taken muggle laxatives.”
Millicent’s head snapped up. “Muggle what?!”
“Yes, it’ll explain the cramping, the urgency,” Pomfrey said briskly pulling a small vial from her pocket. “Or the repeated visits to lavatories that could be avoided if you’d simply had drank water and eaten something sensible.”
Millicent felt her ears burn.
Pomfrey uncorked the vial and tipped a measured amount into two cups. The potion fizzed once, sulky and offended. “I don’t know how you girls obtained muggle laxatives, but the details are none of my business as long as I already know how to help.” She then offered the two cups to the girls that reminded Millicent of a particular snake, “Here, this will settle it, drink up.”
Millicent drank because Pomfrey’s tone suggested that there was no room for argument.
Tracey took her own cup with a grimace and swallowed too, eyes watering.
The potion worked fast, not immediately, there was still the lingering aftershock of the laxatives. But Millicent could feel her body calm, settling like the worse of the storm had passed and she was left with the damp wreckage.
Which meant the pain subsided enough for her brain to think properly.
She turned her head towards Tracey, voice low and deadly. “It was him.”
Tracey frowned, still clutching her cup. “Who?”
Millicent’s fingers tightened around the rim of her own cup. “Theodore.”
Tracey blinked. “Theo?”
“Yes,” Millicent hissed, as if the name itself tasted foul in her mouth. “Who else would do it?! He’s the one who gave us drinks!”
Tracey scoffed, color rising in her cheeks, not with embarrassment, indignation. “Millicent, no. He was being nice.”
Millicent’s laugh came out sharp and humorless. “And you believed that?”
Tracey’s eyes flashed. “It’s not impossible for someone to be decent.”
Millicent stared at her like Tracey had announced she’d taken up knitting with house-elves.
“Oh, don’t start,” Millicent snapped. “You’re only saying that because you and Theo” she made a vague gesture, dripping contempt, “used to be a thing.”
Tracey stiffened. “We were not a thing.”
Millicent rolled her eyes. “Right as if all that skulking about after Astronomy, whispering about how horrible your precious betrothals were, meant nothing.”
Tracey’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Okay continue playing dumb Trace but it doesn’t change the fact he did this to us,” Millicent said sharply, “He has no empathy left for you after you started messing around with Durmstrang boys.”
Tracey opened her mouth, then shut it again, face flushing. “He was just handing out juice.”
“And why would Theodore suddenly decide to be charitable?” Millicent demanded, “It’s cause he has a motive.”
Tracey scoffed, “Oh please what motive would he ha—”
“Daphne.” Millicent interjected.
Tracey shifted uncomfortably. “Even if he did— Theo wouldn’t—”
“He would,” Millicent said, certain. “He’s clever. And he’s petty. That combination is practically a Nott family trait.”
Tracey shook her head, stubborn. “No.”
Millicent glared, aghast. “No?”
Tracey lifted her chin. “Theo’s a pureblood from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He wouldn’t stoop to using Muggle savagery.”
Millicent scoffed. “Oh please.”
Tracey waved a hand, flustered but insistent. “You know what I mean! How would he even know what muggle laxatives are? He doesn’t even take Muggle studies. I remember he had no idea what a flipping electric kettle was last year.”
“An electric kettle?” Millicent echoed, confusion at muggle contraptions.
“See, my point proven, he’s just like you— clueless.” Tracey argued.
Millicent’s mouth opened to argue because it made sense in her head that it was Theo until Tracey blew a hole in her argument.
Tracey then spoke up, “It’d make more sense if it was Granger.”
Millicent turned to face her, “Granger…?”
Tracey nodded, “It’s pretty obvious Millie, she had attacked us with that pepper spray, plus she’s a mudblood.”
Millicent nodded slowly. It did make more sense, at least Granger couldn’t deny not knowing what muggle laxatives were. Plus she had a righteous streak the size of the Black Lake, it would make sense for her to do something this petty if she thought the pepper spray wasn’t enough.
“Okay fine, it might be Granger.” Millicent said reluctantly, “But we need proof.”
“How are we going to get that?” Tracey asked confused.
Millicent’s eyes flicked to Madam Pomfrey, who was rearranging vials at a cabinet with the energy of a woman clinging to sanity by her fingernails. She raised her voice, sweetly polite in a way that wasn’t natural to her. “Madam Pomfrey.”
Pomfrey didn’t turn. “If you’re about to ask for more potion, the answer is no.”
Millicent forced her tone to stay calm. “How does a student obtain Muggle laxatives.”
Pomfrey turned then, expression unimpressed. “By asking permission from their Head of House,” she said briskly, as if explaining the basics to particularly slow first years. “And if approved, by requesting them from me. I supply them only when the reason is medically sound.”
Tracey’s eyes sharpened. “So someone asked you for them recently.”
Pomfrey’s mouth flattened.
Millicent leaned into it, feeling the righteous thrill of a hunt. “Who?”
Pomfrey’s stare could have frozen a bottle of firewhiskey. “I do not disclose medical information to other students.”
“I understand Madam.” Millicent then said with a smile as Pomfrey gave an unamused huff and returned back to her station in the front.
“Well that was a bust.” Tracey said flatly.
“Don’t give up just yet Trace.” Millicent said with a sly smile. “Well just force the answer out of her.”
Tracey looked at her confused for a moment, then understood what she meant.
Umbridge.
If Pomfrey wouldn’t give them the culprit, they’d simply find someone who enjoyed making people talk. And if Umbridge wanted an excuse to punish Hermione Granger? Millicent was more than happy to hand her one.
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When Anger Softens
POV Hermione Granger
Hermione walked beside Theo with the stiff, controlled posture of someone who had forgiven a person without forgiving the stupidity.
Despite that, she’d let him take her bag, even though he’d duplicated something from it quite recently. Call her idiotic for trusting him so soon, but she was tired.
Not the ordinary sort of tired. Not just sore feet and a too-long day.
This was the kind that settled behind her eyes after holding your chin up in front of a room full of people watching you like you were the accused at a trial. The kind that came from an hour with Umbridge and then another hour convincing a Slytherin boy not to drown in his own guilt.
Theo carried her overstuffed messenger bag with one shoulder dipping under the weight, his expression smugly unbothered in a way his posture betrayed.
He was talking, joking really about how nobody could keep her name out of their mouths since Umbridge’s little theatre act.
Hermione let out a small, reluctant huff of amusement before she could stop herself.
It felt strange, hearing him sound like himself again. She hadn’t realized how much silence he took up until it was gone.
She was still angry. Properly, hotly angry, at him for duplicating her laxatives, at herself for not catching it, at Umbridge for turning the Great Hall into a courtroom and her hand into a warning. Anger sat in Hermione’s chest like a live coal.
But she’d also seen his face the moment he’d spotted her hand.
He hadn’t looked guilty in the ordinary way. He’d looked terrified, properly stricken. Like the sight of an adult with power carving words into skin had yanked him somewhere old and private.
And that did something inconvenient to Hermione’s anger, softened the edges, just slightly, into something complicated.
Even now, as he lugged her messenger bag as if it were some noble burden instead of the consequence of her own over-preparedness, Hermione could feel the faint ache of how much she’d missed him.
Not the chaos. Not the trouble. Not the part of him that duplicated things behind her back like a niffler without morals.
But this, his presence beside her, the way he filled the silence with stupid little jabs until it didn’t feel like silence at all.
She reached for the strap. “Theo, it’s fine, you can give it back now.”
Theo shifted the bag higher with exaggerated strain. “No.”
Hermione stared at him. “I don’t need you carrying it.”
“You absolutely do,” Theo said, all maddening certainty, like he’d made a decree and expected the world to obey. “I’ll give it back at the staircase. Consider it as part of my penance.”
“I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own things.” She argued.
“Yes,” Theo said, glancing at her like she’d just claimed she could lift Hagrid, “and I’m just as capable of carrying your portable library.”
Hermione huffed. “You’re being ridiculous.”
Theo’s mouth twitched. “I think the word you meant is helpful.”
Hermione tried to scowl. It didn’t land properly.
They walked on, the castle dimmer now, evening settling in. Hermione’s hand throbbed with every shift of her fingers, the sting a constant, sneaky reminder.
I must not harm other students.
The phrase made her fury flare again, sharp enough to taste.
Umbridge had done it casually, like cruelty was just an educational tool. Hermione’s mind, relentless as ever, was already turning it over, thinking of ways to do something about this. Students shouldn’t be getting abused with an unlawful Blood Quill.
And if the adults wouldn’t do anything about it, then Hermione would have to.
Theo bumped her shoulder lightly, as if he could feel her thoughts sparking. “You’re doing it again.”
Hermione blinked. “Doing what.”
“That look,” Theo said, nodding at her face like he was diagnosing an illness. “Like you’re plotting, like a snake.”
Hermione’s head snapped toward him. “Stop calling me that.”
Theo held up a hand in mock innocence. “Alright, no more snake.”
“Good.” She huffed.
Theo’s eyes gleamed. “You’re more of a highly irritable cat.”
Hermione made a sound of outrage and aimed an elbow at his ribs. He dodged with infuriating ease, laughing under his breath.
It was absurd. And somehow, despite the sting, the anger, warmth crept stubbornly into her chest.
Because it had been days since they’d spoken properly, and she’d hated it.
She hated how she had to avoid their study sessions in the library. Hated how she had to pretend he didn’t look wounded little puppy when she sat next to him in Arthimacy. Hated ignoring him in Ancient Runes when he’d tried quietly and awkwardly to be useful.
Hated keeping her eyes fixed on Hagrid in Care of Magical Creatures when Theo’s glance used to meet hers like punctuation. Hated making Harry and Ron fetch ingredients in Potions just so she wouldn’t have to brush past him in the pantry.
Hated turning her back to him in the Great Hall and she couldn’t keep track if he had eaten something properly.
Hermione hadn’t realized how much she missed him until he’d started teasing her, until he’d started sounding like himself again. Until she’d felt warmth spread, stubborn and unwelcome, through the middle of her chest.
She reached for her bag strap again on instinct. “You really can give it back now.”
Theo dodged the grab with infuriating ease. “Staircase,” he reminded her, as if she were the one being unreasonable.
They turned a corner, and Hermione’s gaze dropped briefly, to his sleeve.
There was still a faint mark there, darker against the fabric. Her blood. Left behind from his panicked attempt to undo what couldn’t be undone.
Hermione’s throat tightened.
He’d spiraled back there in the corridor, apology piled on apology like if he stacked enough remorse it would turn into a time-turner. Hermione recognized the look with a sick kind of clarity.
Harry did the same thing.
Harry carried guilt like it was a sacred duty. Cedric, every injury, every consequence, he stacked it all on himself until he could barely stand.
Theo’s guilt had looked frighteningly similar. Different packaging, same ache. The same instinct to take blame and grind it into himself.
Which was frankly, unfair. It made Hermione’s anger harder to hold in one clean shape.
They reached the steps leading up to Gryffindor Tower at last.
Theo halted with theatrical flair and slid her bag off his shoulder like he was returning a sacred artifact rather than a messenger bag full of books and stubbornness. He extended it to her with exaggerated solemnity.
Hermione snatched it rolling her eyes.
Theo’s mouth curved into that infuriating dimpled smile that did idiotic things to Hermione’s heart. “You’re welcome.”
He shifted, clearly preparing to retreat down into the dungeons with the rest of the snakes, a neat, practiced exit as though leaving first would hurt less.
Hermione reached out before she could think better of it and caught his sleeve.
Theo froze, startled, eyes flicking down to where her fingers held the fabric. “What, you need me to carry you up the stairs as well?”
Hermione cheeks flushed at his offer and pretended she was doing this purely out of irritation, and not because something in her refused to let him walk away wearing her blood like a badge. As if he could take it with him and spiral somewhere private and dark.
She lifted her wand. “Tergeo.”
The blood vanished instantly, the cuff returning to spotless black.
Theo blinked at his sleeve. “Well,” he said slowly, “there goes my tragic aesthetic.”
Hermione snorted before she could stop herself.
Theo’s eyes gleamed, relief sliding into humor as if he’d been waiting for her to laugh like it was proof she hadn’t fully abandoned him. “Brilliant,” he said. “Now you can’t dock points from me for looking like I’ve been wrestling a troll.”
Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “I wouldn’t be that petty.”
“Sure you wouldn’t.” Theo said in a tone that indicated anything but belief as turned like he meant to go.
“Wait,” Hermione said, and immediately hated the heat settling onto her face. It really did look like she was trying to keep him there. As if she’d forgiven him and now wanted him close again, which was ridiculous. She was suppose to be mad afterall.
Theo paused, fidgeting with his newly cleaned sleeve, wornout scarf pulled up like armor.
Hermione dug into her bag, ignoring the fact it was ridiculous that she could find anything in there without an index and pulled out a piece of muggle chocolate, one of the ones she remembered him liking. She pressed it into his hand.
“As thanks,” she said, brisk, as if gratitude was a difficult language and she was translating on the fly. “For walking me back and carrying my bag.”
Theo stared down at it like it had sentimental value, which was absurd. It was just chocolate.
“Is this a reward for good behavior?” he asked, too lightly.
“It’s a reward for not doing something even stupider,” Hermione corrected. Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she added, “Don’t let it go to your head.”
Theo’s mouth quirked. “Too late.”
Hermione shook her head, but she couldn’t quite stop the small smile that escaped. It felt strange, feeling warmth when her anger still boiled within her.
“Goodnight, Theo” she said, voice fond in a way she didn’t expect.
Theo’s expression shifted, softer, quieter. “Goodnight, Hermione.”
Hermione turned and started up the stairs. Halfway up, she glanced back despite herself.
Theo was still standing there, chocolate in hand, looking faintly stunned like he couldn’t quite believe she’d been kind to him after everything.
Hermione’s anger was still there. Her hand still stung in remembrance. But as she climbed toward the portrait hole, warmth curled in her chest anyway, stubborn and inconvenient and real.
Because they were okay.
And somehow, for tonight, that was enough.