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He slips away when no one’s looking.
Heart in his throat, pressure building behind his eyes, camera bulb flashes of skeletal wings and sunken black eyes.
He’s seen them before, but has never known why.
All he knows now is pain.
His knees hit the muddy shore of black lake, and there, he loses himself to the memory.
Mother, soft and white, in bed. She’s a tiny island in a sea of duvet. A living, breathing, funereal raft.
Not much longer, now.
No matter what Theo says, no matter how hard he cries, she doesn’t open her eyes to acknowledge him.
The scene is too perfect, too… sterile.
A pang of unreality prickles the space behind Theo’s eyes as he tries to think.
Her fingers are cold, so co—
A spike of pain spears his temple. Theo grips the curls above his ears and gasps.
A cracked door.
The crunch of a blunt fist, her cry, cut off abruptly.
Mother, a crumpled heap between Father’s splayed feet and beneath his bloody knuckles.
She isn’t moving this time.
She isn’t breathing.
“No,” Theo sobs, denial fogging the air in front of his horrified reflection.
Mother flickers back into view.
Unblemished grey skin, not a bruise or red smear in sight.
She dies right in front of Theo, chest sinking with her last breath, never to rise again.
It must have been an illness, but he can’t remember properly. He can’t—
His tears ripple the cold black lake, scattering his reflection so he can glimpse the fathoms beneath.
Time stops.
Mother doesn’t move.
Father huffs and snorts like a bull that's just gored its prey and doesn’t know where to strike next.
The floorboard creaks beneath Theo’s toe, and it’s the loudest sound in the world.
Father wheels around, eyes livid, whisky-sour breath bearing down on his five-year-old son, who backs into the corridor wall with both hands raised to block the inevitable blow.
The lake is a pane of perfect obsidian again, and Theo can’t recall the next part.
A twig cracks behind him, and his spine stiffens. He takes stock of his wet knees and tearstained cheeks and nearly withers on the spot from embarrassment.
“What the fuck do you want?” he lobs at the offending figure of Neville Longbottom, who stares at Theo with wide, moss-brown eyes.
A savage desire to lash out grips Theo until he’s nearly angry enough to charge his pudgy marshmallow of a classmate.
But then he remembers that fleeting glimpse of his drunken father, and the truth of what really happened on that terrible day. The realisation that his fractured memory of her had been his fabrication. Theo wilts when faced with the demon in the mirror.
“Are you alright?” Neville asks, all innocence and concern.
Theo dashes an angry palm across his streaming eyes. “No, I’m not fucking alright. Fuck off!”
Neville shifts his weight from foot to foot, but doesn’t take the out.
“You can see them, too, can’t you?”
Theo stares at Neville, dredging up the memory of their Care of Magical Creatures lesson like it was a whole lifetime ago and not mere moments.
Right.
“Who did you lose?” Neville asks.
Theo tries to say her name, but his throat throttles it on the way out.
Neville nods his chin in understanding. Theo feels naked under that knowing look. He wraps his arms around himself and shudders.
“I think—” Theo blurts, not thinking at all about what he’s saying,”—It was my Father. He kil—“
A fresh wave of horror flattens Theo. He claws at the half-frozen ground and sobs, heedless of Neville’s warm arm sliding around his shoulders, anchoring him, soothing him.
He can’t bring himself to pull away.
“I wish I could go back in time and save her,” Theo whispers his secret wish into the void.
No one is going to grant that wish, he knows, but he still clings to it. Clings to the comfort of the body beside him for one last moment before shoving it away and stumbling back toward the castle, alone.
Theo sneaks into the hospital wing after hours and finds Neville propped against a mountain of pillows, nodding off while the rest of his battered friends sleep.
He’s got wicked bruises under both eyes, nose swollen, cuts and bandages all over.
“Theodore?” Neville asks, voice garbled and nasally.
“Don’t call me that. It’s his name.”
“Theo, then. What are you doing here?”
Theo pulls the broadsheet from his pocket and slaps it across Neville’s lap.
There, listed among the names of the captured Death Eaters is his father.
“I hope he rots in there,” Neville voices Theo’s inner thoughts aloud, his tone uncharacteristically vindictive.
Theo seldom smiles, but finds a reason to do so now, a grim, small thing that tugs uncomfortably at his cheeks. “I suppose I have you and your friends to thank for this.”
Neville waves him off like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just given Theo everything he’s ever wanted.
“I have something for you,” Neville murmurs. He paws at his robes’ pockets for a moment and comes out with a fisted tangle of gold. “Here.”
Theo stares down at the contraption, brow furrowed in confusion.
“The Daily Prophet said these had all been destroyed during the battle,” Theo says.
“Yeah, well. I grabbed one when nobody was looking. It’ll have to be fixed, but I was thinking maybe you’d like to save her with it someday.”
“What’s in it for you?” Theo asks, slipping the mangled time turner into his pocket.
Neville shrugs. “I just wanted to help.”
“Thanks,” Theo says. He spins on his heel, ready to flee, then stops and turns back, because gratitude isn't nearly enough.
“Is there someone you’d like to save, too?”
Neville’s mouth tightens into a grim line. “More than anything.”
Theo nods. “Good. I’ll be in touch, then, Neville.”