Chapter Text
Hermione woke up with an uneasiness in her stomach that could mean only one thing: something bad was about to happen.
She wasn't a very superstitious person, always mocking those who refused to leave their rooms on Friday the Thirteenth, or the girls in her class who wore crystals in their underwear as though it would help them pass the exams they didn't study for. She didn't believe in the manifestation powers, either.
The last time she had tried to manifest something good for her, a pigeon slammed into her face. She'd needed four stitches over her brow after that.
Manifesting, her arse.
She did, however, trust her gut more than anything.
It was, as her father pointed out on every possible occasion, what would make her a great lawyer in the future. And so far, even though she would never admit that, it turned out to be a correct assessment from Richard Granger. She would also never (or at least not in the nearest future) admit that she was thinking of following her mother's footsteps, rather than his.
Her father was one of the best lawyers in London, and if she only wanted to, she would have a job secured in his firm for the rest of her life. But she had long ago decided she didn't want to defend criminals, no matter how small or petty their crimes were.
She wanted to do something good for the world and it, unfortunately for Richard Granger, meant that his daughter would not be continuing the family legacy. She didn't talk to her parents about that particular decision about her future, but she was planning on joining her mother on the prosecution side of the conflict.
But that was a discussion they wouldn't need to have until the beginning of the fourth year, at the very least. She could still do the summer internships at her dad's law firm, gaining the necessary experience and connections, but when the time came... Well, it was going to be a difficult thing to bring up.
Today, however, Hermione didn't want to worry about it.
Today was the first day of the spring semester, and Hermione really couldn't imagine a single thing that could go wrong. She had handed all of her assignments long before the deadlines and the spring break, she'd passed every exam with flying colours and made sure to catch up with her teachers to discuss the extra-curricular activities for the sixth semester. Everything was in order, organised in her four planners. Two different study plans had been prepared—one if she passed all her finals, the other for the unlikely scenario she didn't. Just in case.
Everything was ready.
She was good to go and start another semester.
And yet she couldn't shake off this weird feeling tying her stomach in tight knots.
After taking a shower and making sure she packed everything she needed for today's classes, she grabbed one of the cold-pressed juices her mother became obsessed with recently. Hermione wasn't a fan per se, but since she couldn't stomach eating any solid food so early in the morning, the juices were saving her life more often than not. She tossed two more into her bag, labelled respectively: lunch and mid-day snack. The latter looked like watered-down coffee but she tried to ignore it, promising herself she would not—under no circumstances—check the ingredients' list.
Marion Granger was obsessed with fenugreek, kale, and every root vegetable that existed.
Hermione, on the other side, was obsessed with cheeseburgers and potatoes.
Still, she kept the juices.
It was seven a.m., which meant she still had three hours to get to the campus, but she always liked to be there a little early. She was supposed to come back to the flat her parents rented for her and her adoptive brother, Harry, three days ago, but he had turned it into one of these typical American frat houses for the entire spring break. Which, to be honest, was a perfect opportunity for her to stay in the family house and relax rather than live in the constant state of frustration.
She would have to come back today, though. She could only hope Harry cleaned the mess he and his football team made in their beloved flat. For a week, she refrained from any comments, even though she had literally witnessed every single party they threw—courtesy of Instagram stories and the never-ending stream of Snapchats she had been getting nonstop.
Lavender and Ginny had begged her to go almost every day (they absolutely could not go without her, even though Ginny was dating Blaise Zabini, the Oxford team's central midfielder), but she flat out refused each time. While the parties were surely fun to attend once in a while, Hermione had to actually live in that house on a daily basis and suffer through them every week. Sometimes twice, or even three times a week.
It was such a blissful break from the havoc that she didn't really want to go back. But driving an hour back and forth five times a week would not only be a waste of time, but also money. Her parents wouldn't complain, naturally, but, without a doubt, she would soon curse the traffic and lack of proper parking spots on the campus. Besides, she liked living with her brother. It was half of his football team unofficially living with them that pissed her off to no ends.
Maybe next year she would take up on Lavender's offer and move into her dorm.
There were only four months left of her third year.
She could totally do it.
After three hours of Introduction to the legal system in the USA, Hermione was exhausted. Why did she sign up for this class? It wasn't a compulsory one, but she'd thought that it would be beneficial to actually learn more about it—more than she knew from Suits and How to Get Away With Murder, at least.
It probably would have been, had the professor not buried them with homework already. Every student had been given nor one but five case studies that they had to come up with a defence strategy for. And it had to be ready and mailed to the professor by next Monday.
Bloody Americans.
Luckily, her next class was one she was actually looking forward to. Despite exhaustion and hunger (both the mid-day snack and the lunch juices turned out to be big misses), she almost ran across the campus. Ancient Runes class was by far the most fascinating thing she had ever learnt about, and the professor herself was a legend in her field.
Hermione had tried to get into the class for three years until she was finally accepted.
And it was so worth it, it sometimes made her regret her decision to go for Law.
The second Hermione entered into the classroom, her eyes drifted to her usual spot. Students were already filling their seats too, everyone avoiding Professor McGonagall's legendary third row. Which was exactly where she was sitting during the last semester, along with the partner she was assigned for this class. But where Zacharias Smith would always sit next to her, stood a tall (to put it mildly), dark-haired boy with a mustard-yellow backpack slung over his shoulder. Textbooks and empty sheets of paper were scattered at his feet, but he didn't seem to mind as he chatted—chatted!—with Professor McGonagall.
It definitely was not Zacharias Smith.
The boy laughed softly, the dark glasses around his eyes slightly askew, which made a smile appear on McGonagall's face.
Hermione stopped dead in her tracks.
Before today, she was convinced their history professor wasn't even capable of smiling. And yet, there she was, grinning like a child when her stern eyes scanned the envelope the boy handed her.
Probably a donation from his disgustingly rich daddy.
She swallowed her pride and walked over to them, clearing her throat loudly and completely ignoring the new boy glaring at her. He was tall as a bloody tree.
"Professor McGonagall," Hermione said politely as she tried to shove the obstacle out of her way. But he was too big for her to freely move him aside, his body not shifting an inch even as she elbowed him. "Where is Zacharias?"
"Ah! Miss Granger, it's good you're early," the woman said, her features morphing into the sharp lines every student knew so well. There was no hint of a smile left, and before Hermione could read any word from the letter she held in her hands, McGonagall folded it and slid it back into the envelope. "Unfortunately, Mr. Smith has been expelled from this class earlier this week," her voice dropped an octave as she leaned in, glancing around beforehand. If Hermione hadn't known the professor, she would have thought the woman was genuinely sorry. But the word unfortunately was only a necessary addition in an official, polite conversation. "I caught him plagiarising one of my recent papers in his history assignments."
Hermione's jaw dropped, but she didn't say a word. Her first instinct was to defend Zacharias, but was it that impossible that he was guilty of what McGonagall was accusing him of? He wasn't stupid, but she had caught him taking shortcuts in assignments before. She'd warned him multiple times that it could end up badly, but he had always been more focused on his rowing career rather than the class he got in by pure luck. And if he didn't even bother to text her and tell her what happened, it must have meant it was the truth and he was too ashamed to face her.
If she were Zacharias, she would avoid herself too. The wrath she was going to unleash on him the second she found him would be world-ending. Perhaps she would drown him in the river after his stupid kayak practice.
She liked him, but not enough to risk her own grades for the boy. "Is he going to be expelled from the university, too?"
The professor shook her head. "I believe everyone deserves a second chance. And before you say anything, Miss Granger, me not reporting it to the Dean is his second chance." She opened her mouth, but the snort that came from the boy she had forgotten was still there successfully rendered her speechless. No one snorted in McGonagall's presence. Minerva casually swatted the boy across the shoulder with the envelope. Hermione blinked. Were they friends, or something?. "Manners, Theodore. We are not in a circus."
Her eyes drifted back and forth between them in confusion. Hermione had seen Professor McGonagall in both formal and informal settings, teaching classes, giving lectures to the most influential people in the country, as well as getting wasted with the other teachers at the university's galas. But she had never seen her so relaxed in anyone's company as she was now.
Was this guy shagging her?
Hermione looked him up and down. His designer sneakers must have cost more than her entire outfit (not that her family was poor, she simply didn't mind getting cheaper clothes). Dark trousers hugged his lean thighs, and a grey hoodie drew out the brilliant blue of his eyes. A smartwatch of the newest generation buzzed on his wrist, but he slid his hand into the back pocket, ignoring the message that popped up on the tiny screen.
On the surface, he looked every bit of a proper, private-school and trust fund boy that this university was swarmed with. His teeth were impossibly white and straight as he revealed them in a smile that belonged to the posters at the dentist's you'd see plastered all over the walls in the waiting room.
But his glasses—simple, dark blue frames—were slightly crooked, one leg sticking at a weird angle that caused them to slide down the bridge of his nose whenever he moved his head. The lenses were too thick to be a mere accessory to his look; the frames too ruined to be comfortable at all.
No, he didn't look like someone Professor McGonagall, an almost sixty-year old woman, would invite into her bed. Not to mention she probably wasn't Mr. America Smile's type either. Already, every girl in Hermione's periphery was sizing him up, some of them stopping mid-stride as they walked into the classroom.
The witch hunt would begin soon, and, judging by his dashing smile, he would happily encourage it.
"Sorry, ma'am," he murmured apologetically even though his tone suggested he was anything but. Hermione chose to ignore him still. He’d better be out of the classroom before the lecture started. Was it too much to hope she would be assigned a new partner at least half as smart when it came to deciphering runes as Zacharias was?
The boy turned to her, offering her his hand, "Hi, I'm Theo."
She rolled her eyes, ignoring his outstretched arm, and gave him a saccharine smile. "Hi. I don't care."
Once again, McGonagall's features shifted completely when she looked at her; all the softness replaced by harshness. And Hermione was one of the students everyone considered lucky anyway, when it came to her interactions with the professor. It wasn't to say that Minerva liked her, but she at least remembered her name.
"Now, now, Miss Granger, don't be impolite. This is Theodore Nott," she motioned to him with something terrifyingly similar to pride striking across her wrinkled face, as though there was anyone else in the room that she could be referring to. "He had transferred to Oxford University this semester and he was kind enough to join this class. He will be replacing Mr. Smith as your partner, considering everyone else in the group has been paired up in September."
No.
No.
That simply could not be happening. Hermione didn't care who this Theodore Nott was, and why he made the most serious person in the world smile, but under no circumstances would she agree to work with some transfer student on her most ambitious project this year. She would rather work alone than waste her time on filling him in on eight months worth of research and hard work. Did this guy even know anything about Old Norse runes?
"But Professor…” she started. "With all due respect, this is a bad idea. I have been working on this for the last seven months and I don't think it would be fair if some transfer student got half the credit for the things—" Her blood sizzled in her veins, and she was ready to list all of her doubts and complaints, only to be silenced by a stern look from the old woman.
Ah, of course..
"This is not up for discussion, Miss Granger. I am going to give you an extra week to turn in your assignment at the end of semester because I know you'll both need the time to catch up on the progress you and Mr. Smith had previously made, but I will not tolerate any disagreements or whining. Is that clear?"
She really wanted to say that no, it was not clear. She didn't want to work with this guy even if it meant she would have to spend twelve hours a day on this project. But there was no point in arguing with Minerva McGonagall. Not if she wanted to keep her place in this class for the remaining two years of her education.
So she only nodded, defeated, tossing her bag onto the empty seat next to hers and slumped in her chair without sparing Theodore Nott another glance.
If the professor had anything to say about her attitude, she kept it to herself. Her dark green eyes scanned their surroundings, and Hermione could have sworn a corner of her mouth curled upwards when she saw the mess on the floor. "I'll leave you two to catch up before the class starts. This is a demanding project, and I know you're far from being done, so I suggest you put your prejudice aside, Miss Granger, and let your new classmate help you," she said sternly.
Despite her choice of words, it obviously wasn't a suggestion. In fact, it was as far from a suggestion as possible, and there was nothing she could do about it. For the first time in her life, Hermione truly hated a teacher. And a teacher she looked up to, no less.
One. Two. Three.
Hermione schooled her face into politeness everyone wanted to see from her.
"And clean this mess, Mr. Nott,” McGonagall added. “I'm pretty sure some of these drawings of yours would scandalise even my students. And god knows the shit they're watching these days on their phones."
Before she could stop the words from leaving her mouth, Hermione parroted, "Drawings?"
Theodore Nott let out an exasperated sigh and sank to his knees to gather the papers scattered across half of the classroom. She couldn't help but notice his long, elegant fingers as he tried to reach for a folder stuck between two chairs in front of them.
He tossed everything into his backpack, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. She crossed her arms over her chest and gave him the best Don't Mess With Hermione Granger look, staring him up and down. "So, drawings?"
His voice was soft, if not slightly shy when he waved a page in front of her face, giving her a shrug. "Um, these are just sketches for my traditional art classes." Herummaged through his backpack to fish out an empty notebook and a mechanical pen that Hermione could already hear clicking in her head. It was weird, however, that he wasn't using an iPad or a MacBook. "I had to bring my portfolio but it got lost somewhere in Frankfurt."
Hermione blinked in horror, choking out a weak, "Art classes?" She dropped her face into her hands and whined loud enough for half of the class to hear.
Of course, it wasn't bad enough that she had to switch partners mid-assignment, no, she also had to deal with an art student now.
An art student!
She could very well work with the janitor and the final product wouldn't be probably much worse.
It took her a good minute to find her composure again, though the despair must have been evident across her features when she faced Theodore Nott again. He only lifted his eyebrows in response. Despite the abyss of distress taking the form of an annoyingly charming art student threatening to swallow her whole, she cleared her throat in her best attempt to sound less bitchy. "You are an art student?"
"Oh no,” he admitted. Hermione’s chest deflated as the air left her lungs. Thank God. “I wish I was, though," he added. She couldn't say she shared his sentiment. It wasn't a secret that she considered the entire art department an utter waste of university's resources and personnel. She quirked an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. "I study medicine. Third year."
She frowned. It was an effort not to snort, but somehow she kept her face impassive, pressing her lips into a tight line. "You?"
Again, she tried not to sound like one of the mean girls. But it wasn't her fault that this boy didn't look like he could tell the difference between a tendon and a ligament.
He shrugged, either not realising she was offending him, or not giving a shit about her opinion. "Yeah. I know I don't really look the part of a future surgeon, but what can I do—"
"A surgeon?" Instinctively, her eyes flickered between his long fingers and the dark-blue frames of his glasses. She wouldn’t trust her plushie toys to be operated by someone like him. But that wasn't her problem, was it? "No offence, but what are you doing in this class? You know this is about Scandinavian runes, right? I doubt you will find it useful while cutting people open on a surgery table."
Nor will she find him useful.
"No offence, but you ask a lot of questions for someone who didn't even introduce herself," he countered brusquely, his lips curling into what must have been the most devastating smile she had seen in her life. Two dimples appeared on each side of his mouth, adding to that charming persona of his. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but from what I have been informed, this class focuses on runes from Old Futhark."
"You clearly don't belong here with such blatant gaps in your knowledge," she scoffed, fixing him with a cold stare. "Elder Futhark is the oldest form of runic alphabets that was used in Scandinavia from the first to—"
"To the eighth century. I know." Again, there was no smugness in his tone. "But it's a common misconception to use the terms Old Futhark and Scandinavian runes for the same thing, considering Scandinavian runes were the reduced form of its predecessor. And I was told our assignment would focus on the Old Futhark alphabet."
Stunned, Hermione opened her mouth only to close it again. "My assignment is none of your business."
What an embarrassing response. Still, it was the only one she could come up with after her brain literally short-circuited.
She had never been corrected by another student.
She was never wrong.
And even though Nott didn't look half as smug as she expected him to, mischief danced in his cerulean eyes as he kept his gaze locked with hers. "Look, I don't want any trouble. I know you're pissed because your old partner got kicked out in the middle of the year, and this is not ideal for either of us, but I am staying in this class whether you like it or not. It would be a shame to start this partnership with a futhark miscommunication."
"A futhark miscommunication?" Hermione deadpanned. Was this guy for real? "What are you, The Big Bang Theory episode?"
What a bloody nerd.
He placed his hand over his chest, feigning indignation. "Hey, I love that show!"
It didn't matter that she loved it too. Hermione would never admit that after he said he liked it.
"Do you even have to be here?" She asked, trying to ignore the doodles he was scribbling on the empty page of his lined notebook. The scratching noise his pen made was going to be her thirteenth reason. "If you're telling the truth, you are a med student who also takes art classes." Her face twisted. The story he was trying to sell her was ridiculous. "What could possibly be the reason for you to attend this class, too?"
Nott's hand hovered over the paper. Did the hostility in her voice finally hit the mark?. He didn't look at her when he spoke again. "Would you believe me if I said I was interested in the Old Norse societies?"
She didn't dignify that with a response.
A med student who liked to draw in his free time and who was interested in ancient societies. Sure. And her brother shared a bed with his teammate because he was cold at night.
"The last few months have been hard for me," he said, head bowed low as though he didn't want her to neither see nor hear him. She didn’t either, if she were being honest. When she asked him why he enrolled for this class, she didn't expect an answer. Not an honest one, at least. But he went on, "I failed a class or two and I need to keep up to balance out the missing ECTS points your uni requires. I transferred from—"
"I don't care where you transferred from," Hermione snapped. "All I care about is that you are going to ruin my assignment and, possibly, the entire semester with your presence. Do you think I don't know your type? I have lived with that type of men for almost three years."
He leaned back in his chair, his knees hitting the underside of the desk as he tried to shift his unbelievably long legs. A smile tugged at his lips. "And what exactly is my type?"
"Arrogant, entitled, with one functioning brain cell that you use on following twenty men running behind a ball, and obnoxiously handsome--"
Oh, fucking hell.
Sometimes, she really should think twice before spewing words at the pace of a machine gun. It wasn't the first time her temper got her in trouble, but it was perhaps the first time it was in such an embarrassing way.
"You think I'm obnoxiously handsome?" Nott asked, doubt lacing his tone as though it was a ridiculous concept. Either he was a great actor, or he was genuinely surprised by her confession. Never mind. Those puppy eyes he was unwittingly giving her grated on her nerves so much she wanted to walk out of the classroom. "You are very pretty, too."
Oh.
He had such a weird accent.
Up until then, she thought he was from the UK, perhaps slightly influenced by watching too many American movies or growing up with immigrants' children. But the way the r sound rolled off his tongue made him sound more American than British, though she couldn't place where exactly he came from.
She could, however, imagine how her ancestors felt when Thomas Jefferson and his buddies declared independence over two hundred years ago. Her life too, was being ruined by entitled Americans.
"Are you seriously hitting on me right now?" she hissed.
Her eyes flicked to her wristwatch. Still over twenty minutes before the class would start. Twenty more minutes of an awkward conversation with this tosser.
"I was just returning the compliment," he said lightly. "You were making a rather interesting assessment about my type, remember? Anything else to add to your analysis?"
He was absolutely baiting her. He wanted her to say more, which meant she was possibly wrong about at least one of the things she had listed. And somehow, she doubted he would believe her if she said she didn't mean the last part.
Because, whether she liked it or not, he was bloody handsome. It was beauty in the most traditional way, mixed with kindness and warmth that everyone was drawn to. His blue eyes were bright and friendly, dark curls fell loosely around his head, framing his face. And yet, he didn't radiate confidence or cockiness, which only added to his charm.
Hermione cleared her throat.
It didn't matter how good looking he was. She was in this class to learn something, not hook up with America's Golden Boy.
Charm or no charm, he was still going to be her academic undoing and she wouldn't have it. If McGonagall wouldn't approve her request of switching the partner, she would make sure Theodore Nott ran to the professor by the end of the class and begged her himself.
And if that didn't work, she was simply going to drown herself in the Thames.
She straightened her spine, pursing her lips as she regarded him with the coldest look she could muster. Chances were he could see right through her lies, but it didn't matter when her success was on the line. "Let me guess, your parents got divorced because your geriatric father found a younger girl to warm his bed." He flinched, as if stricken by a physical blow but only shook his head in response. Hermione didn't miss the way he grabbed the edges of his seat, knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip. It should have been a sign for her to shut her mouth. His reaction screamed at her to stop talking. But she was good at ignoring screaming things. "No? That leaves us with option two. Your mother decided she no longer wants to entertain her old husband and gladly took the settlement offer worth a million dollars from your father before he packed your bags and shipped you back to England. And you never saw your mommy again—"
The wood groaned under Nott's grip, splinters forming on the flat surface of his chair. Colour drained off his tan face, blue eyes so dull they looked almost grey. A chasm opened in her chest when he snatched his backpack from the floor and stood up, not bothering to look her way again. But his words, despite the fact that he said them so quietly only she could hear, rang in her head loud and clear.
"You're right. I never saw my mother again," his voice trembled, and it wasn't faked. She was going to eat her fucking words, wasn't she? Theodore Nott rose to his feet, knees hitting the underside of his desk. "Because she is dead."
He didn't turn around when she called after him, apologising and asking him to come back. In fact, he didn't even look at Professor McGonagall as he exited the classroom.
The eyes of every person in the room fixed on her, including the old professor whose murderous glare could rival that of a Basilisk.
But she sat frozen in her seat, unable to look anywhere but at the notebook Theodore Nott had left on his desk, the first page covered almost entirely in black, irregular lines that she dismissed as random doodles at first.
A face was hidden between these lines, a woman with riotous curls and pursed lips.
Her face. It was her face.
And underneath the drawing was her last name, written in Elder Futhark.