Hello my lovely, lovely darlings.

It's been over two years since I last updated this story, I know. Things have been quite a bit hectic, and when I do find time to write I focus on my main WiPs since this was only supposed to be something fun I wrote on the side. I'm probably not going to update this story very often, so I'm really grateful with your patience with me and this story. I should mention I also have a very vague idea with what's going to happen next. So sorry that updates are going to be sporadic, at best.

WARNING, this chapter is a little sad, and there are mentions of unpleasant things, but it doesn't go into graphic detail.

Also, sherbertlemons98 and lunarwhy, and just everyone that's reviewed since my last update, you are absolute DARLINGS.

Please, please leave a review and let me know what you think ;)

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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.

Not for the first time Theo finds himself ruminating over the feeling that something is drastically different about this timeline. It is palpable in the air, and there is a metallic taste that settles heavily on his tongue; coating it thickly.

Theo apparates onto the grounds of Malfoy Manor with little effort; the blood wards easily slip away and allow him passage, a mere tickling sensation across his skin. If there is one consistency across the span of space and time, it is that he and Draco Malfoy are destined to be friends. In a peculiar twist, he and Blaise were not always close, but more oft than not they were.

Theo catches sight of the Manor in the distance: there is a dreariness that clings to it, and is only emphasised by leaden, almost black clouds that hang low in the sky. Most of the plants in the gardens are overrun with weeds, choked to the point that they are unrecognisable as any species in particular. Theo frowns as he cautiously strides up the damp path. It is slippery because of all the rain they've had over the past few days, so he treads carefully and slowly.

This is bad, Theo thinks, tugging his cloak a bit tighter around him. As he walks, flickers of memories of the things that happened here flash through his mind, like a grainy, old, black and white film that is overexposed with harsh, dark lines rolling across it.

Ronald Weasley lost an arm. Harry Potter almost died and his blood had stained the Manor walls; his magic sunk into the fabric of the house. Hermione was tortured, her screams tearing reality apart and stitching it back together again, and again, and again.

Theo pauses, closing his eyes together tightly. His hand searches for anything solid and he flinches as his fingers hit into the hedge beside him, it towers over him and makes him feel very small.

He harshly breathes out through his nostrils. He is immensely grateful for the violent, gruesome end that Voldemort had suffered in this timeline.

Theo opens his eyes, and reluctantly resumes the trek towards the Manor. He comes to the end of the path, and it opens out into the wide grassy front garden. There are a handful of albino peacocks roaming the grounds, their pale fan of elaborate feathers swaying with every movement. Their red eyes follow him as he heads towards the grand staircase that carries him up to the front door.

The steps creak under his weight as he ascends the staircase. His hand glides across the handrail for a couple steps before he withdraws it; the surface is covered in dust and grime. Theo grimaces as he dusts his dirty palm across the side of his trousers.

Theo is painfully aware of his heartbeat as he reaches the landing. A warning bell is singing in his ears. His nose twitches, and he approaches the door. It is dark, ornate, with intricate carvings.

The knocker is different, Theo quietly notes, lips pressed in a thin line as he examines it. It is the head of a hippogriff with eerily vibrant eyes for a stone statue. The creature turns its gaze to him, beak curving to a sharp peak as it partially opens its mouth. With trepidation, Theo raises his hand, and knocks using the large loop attached to the hippogriff's plaque.

The sound is startling, and a shock to his ears with the oppressive silence of his surroundings. Theo's hand falls to his side like a dead thing. Theo closes his eyes and tendrils of his magic extend out of him and test the waters; there are two magical signatures in the near vicinity.

Theo's eyes fly open when he feels magic push back against his, and he immediately draws his back. There was emptiness to the magic that had nudged his; a gloomy sort of sluggishness.

Theo waits for another few moments before he hears movement on the other side of the door. It creaks open slowly, groaning and protesting the whole way. Dim light from the interior meekly makes its presence known, and illuminates a grim looking Blaise Zabini.

The dark skinned Italian is as attractive as ever, his dark, thick curls neatly arranged on his head. He is wearing form-fitting emerald green robes with black dragonhide shoes that curve upwards at the tips. There is surprise trapped in his chocolate brown eyes, and a dash of levity enters them as a smile tugs at the corners of Blaise's mouth. There is a jagged scar that starts in his hairline on the right side of his face and carves its way diagonally across his nose, across the corner of his mouth and ends at his jaw line.

"Ginny thinks the scar makes me look even hotter," Blaise brags. Blaise's voice echoes in Theo's head, and unwittingly he is drawn into the memory of how his friend had received said scar.

It's their Seventh Year. Blaise told Macnair that he hoped he slipped back into the filthy hole he clawed his way out of as he interrupted the twisted man's 'fun'. Macnair had tried to take advantage of a muggle woman on one of the Dark Lord's missions for them, and Blaise put a swift stop to it. Macnair decided to bestow him with the gift of a nasty cut from a cursed blade.

Time stood still as Draco Malfoy successfully cast the killing curse for the first time without an ounce of hesitation. The Dark Lord's punishment was agonisingly lengthy—Cruciatus curse after Cruciatus curse—and it ended with Draco twitching on the floor in a pool of his own piss. Afterwards, in the solace of his room, he adamantly declared (for Theo and Blaise's ears alone) that he wouldn't change a thing.

"Welcome back, wanker," Blaise says, voice low and brimming with wary warmth. Blaise is guarded, maintaining quite a bit of distance between them as his eyes clinically rove over Theo.

"Yea well, had a couple errands to run," Theo shrugs noncommittally, electric blue eyes sparking in the darkness.

"So it would seem," Blaise replies with a crooked smile, leaning into the door slightly. "You didn't bump into my Mother along the way, did you?"

"Lunella decided to go on another wild expedition?" Theo teases, taking a small step towards one of the many iterations of a man who he considered a brother, not by blood but by choice.

Blaise regards him silently, and murmurs with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, "something like that."

Blaise sighs, straightening up. His spine is rigid, and he stretches to his full height. A taut pressure welds his jaw shut. A burst of regret prods at the base of Theo's skull, and he wishes more than anything that he had stayed in his pitiable excuse for a house and never braved the trip to Malfoy Manor.

I was driven by the memory of Voldemort dispatching Lucius and Narcissa in the most vile way in their own dining room, Theo reminds himself. Most of the time at least one of them survived the war in various states of mental of physical disrepair. Usually their deaths were swift in other timelines as a 'kindness' on Voldemort's part. This time however, Voldemort felt the need to make an example in a fit of anger towards the end of the war, and the Malfoys had drawn the unlucky straw of being caught in his sights.

Theo is prodded back to the present by a hesitant pair of arms wrapping their way around him. Theo chokes back a sob as he finds himself in Blaise's embrace. He clings to the man with a desperation he didn't know he is capable of.

There is so much pain in this timeline, so much suffering, but yet he was drawn to this one like a moth to a flame. Something in his gut screamed that this was it, this was the one; his final destination.

Blaise pulls back from the hug, a wry smile on his lips as he places his hands on Theo's shoulders, "you aren't going to up and leave for seven more months are you?"

"Six and a half," Theo mutters, averting his gaze. He catches sight of a pallid figure lurking over Blaise's shoulder and he stiffens.

Draco Malfoy looks more haggard than Theo remembers. It was the anniversary of his parent's death in a few days, so he supposes that must have something to do with it. There is a lifelessness to the man that deeply concerns Theo.

To deal with the aftermath of the war (after they had all served a short sentence in Azkaban), Blaise shagged numerous women until he met his match in Ginny Weasley, and Draco became a recluse and left the Manor only when forced to by Blaise or on the rare occasion, Theo.

Theodore Nott, until seven months ago, spent the majority of his time working closely—in the shadows, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself than absolutely necessary—with Kingsley Shacklebolt to help reform the wizarding world after the devastation Voldemort had wreaked.

Until he just couldn't deal with being around people, and decided that it was better if he just disappeared, Theo thinks morosely.

Draco creeps towards them, his bare feet padding across the hardwood. Draco's height and stature are imposing as life breathes way into him. His chin raises, his limp, pale hair springs to attention. He's bare-chested, only dressed in a pair of black silk pyjama bottoms.

Draco comes to a halt a few feet away from them, his brow furrowed. There is a sharpness cradled in his pale grey eyes, and a touch of colour washes over his skin. He comes alive. There is a rumble of thunder in the distance.

Draco appraises Theo for a few seconds, eyes darting this way and that. The blond's mouth parts, the sharp angles of his face highlighted by the feeble glow from the house, and in a harsh, raspy voice he states coldly, "you're not Theo."

Theo blinks blankly for a few moments, "what?" He manages to get out.

"You heard me, fucker," Draco says, ice and steel threaded through his words, his wand now raised and pointing over Blaise's shoulder directly at Theo's forehead. "Now, who the fuck are you?"