MTLNOVEL Chapter 2: Chapter 2
Waking in the dim morning light, the kind that filtered weakly through the heavy, dust-veiled curtains of the old manor, he found himself burdened by a lingering sense of inertia, as though the weight of returning to this place, to these memories, had settled too deeply into his bones. And yet, despite the reluctance gnawing at the edges of his mind, despite the quiet protest of his own exhaustion, he forced himself to rise, dressing with the kind of slow, methodical precision that came more from habit than necessity, before setting off down the silent, cavernous halls of the house, his destination clear even before he had fully acknowledged it.
The grand library.
It had been years since he had set foot inside its towering doors, years since he had last run his fingers along the spines of its endless volumes, since he had sat beneath its arched, cathedral-like ceiling, poring over books that had once been his entire world. And yet, as he approached, as he stepped past the heavy oak doors and into the vast, dimly lit chamber beyond, it was as though nothing had changed at all.
Everything remained exactly as it had always been.
The room was enormous, stretching from floor to ceiling with endless rows of bookshelves, the sheer number of volumes overwhelming even for someone like him, someone who had spent his entire childhood surrounded by them. Every available inch of space was lined with books—tomes bound in cracked leather, their gilded lettering dulled with time, their pages yellowed with age, volumes stacked precariously atop one another, some so ancient they seemed on the verge of disintegration. Dust hung in the air, thick and undisturbed, floating lazily in the shafts of light that spilled through the high, arched windows, catching in his throat as he inhaled deeply.
It was a cathedral of knowledge, an archive of power, a hoard of secrets long forgotten by the world outside these walls.
And yet, for all its grandeur, for all its wealth of history, there was something unsettling about the stillness of it all, something almost funereal in the way time had refused to move forward in this place. Books that had once been touched daily, studied religiously, debated in hushed conversations between father and son, now lay neglected, untouched for years, their pages left to gather dust and decay in the suffocating silence.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand over the desk at the center of the room, his fingers leaving clear trails in the thick layer of dust that coated its surface. It was suffocating. The whole place was suffocating.
It needed to be cleaned.
It was absurd, really—the idea of tidying up a space so vast, so drowning in decades of neglect—but still, he found himself rolling up his sleeves, mindlessly reaching for the old, tattered cloth he knew would be tucked away in the cabinet near the fireplace, just as it had always been.
Perhaps it was the dust, or perhaps it was something deeper, something heavier, but he couldn't shake the feeling that if he left the library in this state—untouched, abandoned, frozen in time—he might never be able to step inside it again.
As he moved through the library, his hands trailing absentmindedly over the dusty tomes and scattered parchments, his attention was inevitably drawn to something more unsettling—objects tucked away in the forgotten corners of the room, hidden behind stacks of books and within the deep drawers of the heavy oak desks, things that, at first glance, seemed unremarkable, yet upon closer inspection carried an unmistakable air of something unnatural, something that did not belong in the hands of anyone who valued their freedom, their sanity, or their soul.
Artifacts.
Not the kind that sat in museum cases, admired for their historical value, nor the kind that collectors sought to display in pristine glass cabinets, but the sort that radiated an eerie, almost sentient presence, the kind that pulsed with old magic, whispering of forbidden knowledge and dangerous intentions, of curses woven so intricately into their creation that even touching them felt like an unspoken agreement to something unseen, something irreversible. They were the remnants of a world his father had operated in far too comfortably, objects hoarded not for curiosity's sake but for power, for control, for the quiet, insidious pursuit of dominion over forces no man had the right to wield.
And Theodore wanted no part of it.
He knew well enough what happened to men who dabbled in things beyond their understanding—his father was proof of that. His father, who had spent years amassing these things, trading in knowledge that came at a cost he had been all too willing to pay, who had sat in darkened rooms with men whose names were only ever spoken in whispers, bartering power for allegiance, for influence, for a future he had believed would be secured by the very artifacts now gathering dust in this house of decay.
And where had that left him? In Azkaban.
A fate he was determined to avoid.
The thought of it, of that cold, grey fortress where men rotted away beneath the weight of their own sins, sent a shudder crawling down his spine. He had spent his entire life trying to prove—to himself, to the world—that he was not his father, that he was not doomed to follow in the same footsteps, shackled to a destiny written in blood and legacy. And yet, here he was, standing in the ruins of the life his father had left behind, surrounded by the very things that had condemned him.
He needed to do something.
He needed to get rid of them.
But he couldn't go to the Ministry. The moment they got wind of this, he would be as good as implicated, guilty by association, no matter how vehemently he protested his innocence. And he certainly couldn't trust anyone in his father's old circles—anyone who might have been willing to help him would only be looking for a way to use him, to use the artifacts, to drag him deeper into a world he wanted nothing to do with.
No, there was only one person he could turn to.
One person who wouldn't judge him. One person who wouldn't look at him and see a Nott first, who wouldn't see the sins of his father as a reflection of the son. One person who, instead of recoiling in disgust, instead of narrowing their eyes and stepping back as though his very presence tainted the air, instead of treating him like a criminal simply waiting to be caught, tried, and sentenced, might actually listen—might actually understand that he wasn't his father, that he wasn't some relic of a dark, crumbling bloodline doomed to follow the same path of arrogance, greed, and eventual self-destruction.
Granger.
The thought alone made his stomach twist in something caught precariously between reluctant relief and sheer, unfiltered dread.
He liked to think of himself as a level-headed person, someone who approached life with the cool detachment of a strategist, someone who never allowed emotions to dictate his actions, who never lost his composure, never wavered, never cracked under pressure. He liked to think that.
In reality, he was anything but.
There was no calm, no effortless control, no carefully cultivated aura of nonchalance that so many of his peers seemed to possess with infuriating ease. There was only a restless, anxious mind that never stopped calculating risks, never stopped overanalyzing the way people looked at him, the way their words could mean one thing and yet hide another beneath the surface.
He was a contradiction, a carefully crafted illusion of quiet reserve disguising the barely-contained mess of frayed nerves and compulsive overthinking that dictated far too much of his life.
If he had to assign himself an animal—if he had to boil down every quirk, every tendency, every panicked reaction into something tangible—it would not be something sleek and dangerous, something noble or powerful. It wouldn't be a great predatory beast, nor something swift and cunning, nor anything remotely impressive.
No, if Theodore Nott had a Patronus, it would be nervous energy personified—a creature plagued by second-guessing and worst-case scenarios, an embodiment of overthought sentences and panicked expressions.
A rambling, anxious, wide-eyed wreck of an existence.
He could almost see it now—the shimmering form of his Patronus, if he could even conjure one, pacing in frantic circles, muttering under its breath, too preoccupied with its own internal catastrophe to even function as a proper defense.
Merlin help him.
He was about to ask Hermione bloody Granger for help.
This was it. The moment he officially lost whatever scraps of dignity he had left. He wasn't even sure what was worse—the fact that he had genuinely, after hours of agonizing internal debate, decided that she was his best option, or the fact that he was about to humiliate himself further by sending her a Patronus message that reeked of desperation, sheer panic, and the overwhelming certainty that he was about three seconds away from complete and utter ruin.
Swallowing what little pride he still possessed, he took a deep breath, pointed his wand forward, and practically yelled into his Patronus as it shimmered to life.
"Granger, help! I might go to prison! I'm going to die!"
There. That was direct. No room for misinterpretation.
His silver-furred messenger bolted off in a streak of light, carrying his barely coherent distress signal to the one person who, despite being insufferably logical and infuriatingly smug about her intelligence, was still more likely to help than to turn him in.
And then, just as he was beginning to think she might take her sweet time responding, that maybe she'd roll her eyes, sigh dramatically, and finish her bloody tea before even considering whether to acknowledge his impending doom—Hermione Granger came flying out of the Floo in a blur of robes and determination, her voice already ringing through the air before the green flames had fully died down behind her.
"Theo! Where are you?"
He blinked. That was… fast.
"Library."
Before he could say another word, she was already storming toward him, her expression a perfect mixture of exasperation and alarm, the kind of look reserved exclusively for situations where she had been summoned rather than asked, and likely had been in the middle of something far more pleasant than dealing with him.
She stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room as though expecting carnage, only to find—nothing. No chaos. No crime scene. No Aurors waiting to drag him to Azkaban. Just him, standing dramatically in the middle of the cavernous library like a man on the verge of some great existential collapse.
"Theodore," she deadpanned, crossing her arms, "why would you do this? I was having lunch."
He opened his mouth to respond—probably to explain how lunch was hardly his concern when he was one misstep away from ending up in a cell next to his father—but before a single word could escape, he heard it.
Another set of footsteps.
Not Granger's.
Lighter. Softer.
And then, just as he turned, as the realization hit him like a hex to the chest, she stepped into the room.
Luna fucking Lovegood.
Not the strange little girl he remembered from school, not the oddball wrapped in layers of ridiculous clothing and muttering about creatures that probably didn't exist. No. This was different.
She looked like something out of a dream. Like an angel who had grown bored of the heavens and decided, just for the day, to descend and grace the mortal world with her presence. Ethereal, effortless, untouchable. Her blonde hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, her blue eyes calm and unreadable as she regarded him with that peculiar, knowing expression that had always unsettled him, like she could see straight through him and into the depths of his soul.
And—oh. Oh, no.
His body betrayed him instantly.
Instant. Fucking. Erection.
Merlin help him.
He was rapidly approaching what could only be described as a personal crisis. His body had betrayed him, his mind had short-circuited, and Luna bloody Lovegood—who had once been the odd girl with radish earrings and nonsensical conspiracy theories—was now standing in front of him looking like some otherworldly creature of grace and effortless beauty. It was unfair. It was dangerous. And it was also causing a very, very unfortunate problem that urgently needed adjustment.
Subtly—or at least what he hoped passed for subtlety—he shifted, angling himself slightly, hands moving to his pockets in a weak attempt to casually adjust the unfortunate situation that had arisen in his trousers, all while maintaining some semblance of dignity.
Luna, ever oblivious—or, perhaps, far too aware—tilted her head slightly, her expression as serene as ever.
"Good morning, Theodore. Are you okay?"
She sounded like she was genuinely asking, as though she truly believed he might not be, and frankly, given the way his heart was racing and the fact that he could still feel heat crawling up the back of his neck like some adolescent schoolboy, she might've been onto something.
"He is totally fine," Hermione cut in, her tone dry, unimpressed, the very embodiment of someone who had zero patience for theatrics this early in the day. "Just dramatic."
"I was most definitely not!" he shot back immediately, far too defensive, the protest falling flat considering the fact that his cheeks were already betraying him with their telltale flush.
Luna only smiled, entirely unbothered by whatever strange mess she had just walked into.
"I apologise for coming unexpectedly," she continued, voice as light as ever, as though they were discussing nothing more urgent than the weather. "I was with Mimi."
Oh.
The sharp, entirely irrational pang of irritation that shot through him was, quite frankly, appalling. It had no right to exist, no reason to sink its claws into his chest, and yet there it was—the sudden, unwarranted annoyance at the idea of Luna being anywhere with anyone when he was in the midst of—of—whatever this was.
"It's… it's totally fine," he forced out, struggling to compose himself, suddenly aware of the way his tongue felt like a foreign object in his own mouth. "It's good to… to…"
Merlin, get a grip.
"To see you again," he finally finished, hoping that sounded remotely normal, hoping that neither of them noticed the way his voice had betrayed him with that stupid, stammering hesitation.
Hermione, naturally, was not about to let it slide.
"If you're done being flustered over Seline," she cut in, crossing her arms, raising an eyebrow in that particular way that suggested she was absolutely filing away this moment for future torment, "perhaps we can finally move on to the part where you explain why you're freaking out."
"I was not freaking out!" he protested, even as his voice wavered, his red cheeks standing as a very damning contradiction to the words coming out of his mouth.
Hermione gave him a look.
Luna, bless her, simply waited, head tilted in quiet curiosity, utterly untouched by the chaos of it all.
With a long, drawn-out sigh—because of course this day couldn't possibly descend into further chaos, and yet, somehow, it continued to do so at an alarming rate—Theodore forced himself to refocus, to drag his mind away from the mortifying disaster that had been his own reaction to Luna's arrival, to set aside the inexplicable, entirely unwanted flustered state she had left him in, and to redirect his attention to the matter that had actually warranted their presence here in the first place.
"I found some artifacts," he admitted at last, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair, fingers threading through the strands in a futile attempt to ground himself, to compose his thoughts, to stop himself from spiralling into yet another regrettable internal monologue about why Luna Lovegood now had the capacity to reduce him to a stammering wreck. "And I need to know if they're dangerous—or if they're the same sort my father used to deal with."
The words, when they finally left him, were steady, measured—none of the previous panic, none of the barely concealed mortification, just the cold, simple truth. Yet, even as he said them, as he forced himself to let them settle in the air between them, he could feel the weight of it shifting the atmosphere entirely, dragging them out of the absurdity of whatever the fuck had just transpired, and grounding them back into the grim reality of the situation.
Luna blinked, her pale eyes thoughtful but unreadable. Hermione, on the other hand, underwent an instant transformation. The easy irritation, the exasperated amusement at his dramatics, all of it vanished in a blink, replaced by something sharp, something focused, something ruthlessly efficient—the part of her that lived for solving problems, for untangling messes, for picking apart riddles with the sheer force of intellect alone.
And just like that, they were back to the reason he had summoned them here in the first place.
"Can you show it to me?" Hermione asked, already shifting into business mode, already ready to dismantle whatever mess he had unwittingly stumbled into.
He nodded once before turning on his heel, leading them further into the dimly lit corners of the library, past endless rows of dust-laden bookshelves, past tables still cluttered with forgotten notes and ink-stained parchment, until they reached the farthest wall, where, laid out atop the heavy wooden desk, sat the object in question.
A stone tablet.
It was large, roughly the size of a chessboard, carved from a dark, almost obsidian-like material, its surface covered in intricate etchings of symbols he almost recognised but couldn't quite place. The markings glowed faintly in the dim candlelight, shifting as though the very stone pulsed with a quiet, dormant energy, waiting, anticipating—watching.
Hermione wasted no time stepping forward, eyes narrowing in scrutiny as she leaned in, fingers hovering over the edges of the script but never quite touching, her lips pressing into a thin line of concentration.
Luna, in contrast, approached with an entirely different air about her—not cautious, not wary, but curious, intrigued, almost reverent in the way her gaze swept across the markings, as though she were reading something the rest of them couldn't see.
All three of them moved closer, instinctively leaning in, drawn to the mystery of it, to the unknown history woven into the stone's surface.
"Well," Hermione muttered under her breath, eyes flicking between the strange, archaic script and the edges of the carvings, "this is certainly not Ministry-approved."
No. It most certainly was not.
If there had ever been a moment in his life when Theodore Nott had truly considered himself out of his depth—properly out of his depth, drowning in the sheer magnitude of something far beyond his own comprehension—this was surely it. Because there were many things he had expected when he called for Granger, and there were some things he had even resigned himself to when Luna had followed, but absolutely nothing could have prepared him for what came next.
Luna, who had been staring at the ancient stone tablet for a long stretch of silence, her ethereal gaze fixed upon its weathered surface with the kind of detached curiosity one might expect from a scholar deep in thought, suddenly, and with an air of effortless ease, dumped an overwhelming wealth of historical knowledge upon them with the same casual tone one might use to comment on the weather.
"It is an Akkadian work from Mesopotamia," she began, her voice lilting, soft but unwavering, as though she were simply reciting something she had known her entire life. "The text, most likely composed around 2300 BCE, is also known as The Birth Legend of Sargon. It details the humble origins and rise to power of King Sargon of Akkad, a man whose fate was intertwined with the goddess Ishtar, who aided him in securing his empire. The legend concludes with a challenge—an open invitation, really—for future rulers to go where he has gone and to do as he has done, a call to destiny for those who dare to walk in his footsteps."
Neither Theodore nor Hermione spoke.
Undeterred, Luna continued, still gazing at the tablet as though it was speaking to her directly.
"Sargon was the founder of the first multinational empire in recorded history, a man whose reign became the stuff of legend, inspiring countless tales that endured long after his time. And yet, despite his significance, very little is known of his life beyond literary pieces such as The Legend of Sargon of Akkad and another work known as Sargon and Ur-Zababa. These texts, both poetic in nature, are now often classified under what is known as Mesopotamian naru literature—the world's earliest form of historical fiction—where a renowned figure, usually a king, is positioned at the heart of a fictionalised narrative, not with the intention to deceive, but to impart moral, religious, or cultural values upon the audience. The purpose was never to fabricate history, but rather to shape a narrative that served a greater purpose, a legend that endured not because it was true, but because it was important."
Her voice was steady, measured, as though the words belonged not merely to history, but to her, as though this knowledge lived in her bones, passed down not by books or study, but by something older, something intrinsic to her very existence.
"In the case of The Legend of Sargon of Akkad, however," she added, tilting her head slightly, "the naru genre seems to have been used not simply for the glorification of kingship, but to establish Sargon himself as a 'man of the people'—an orphan, a nobody, who, through sheer determination and divine favour, forged his own destiny and built an empire that changed the course of history."
Silence.
A heavy, stunned sort of silence.
Theodore, whose brain had completely short-circuited somewhere around Mesopotamian historical fiction, could do nothing but stare at her, utterly at a loss for words.
Then, after what felt like a lifetime of gaping, he managed, somehow, to find his voice.
"Why do you know this?" he asked, incredulous.
It wasn't meant to be an insult—not really—but the sheer impossibility of it, the casual, breathtakingly precise delivery of academic knowledge, the fact that she had just unloaded the entire historical significance of the tablet as though she had personally attended Sargon's coronation, absolutely warranted an explanation.
Luna simply smiled. That soft, unreadable, infuriatingly enigmatic smile.
"We don't know each other that well, Theodore," she said simply, with the sort of quiet amusement that suggested she was enjoying his shock far more than she was letting on. "Perhaps that is why you are surprised."
That was not an answer.
He had so many questions.
Hermione, however, had apparently had quite enough of this exchange, because she rolled her eyes with an exaggerated huff, folding her arms across her chest as she turned on her heel with all the dramatic flair of someone who had much better things to be doing.
"She's been dealing with artifacts since the war, Theo," she drawled, her tone now laced with the distinct edge of someone who had known this for ages and found his ignorance vaguely amusing. "So perhaps, while you two sit here being absolute swots together, I should return to the lunch that you dragged me away from."*
Theodore scoffed, drawing himself up in immediate protest.
"I am not a swot."
Hermione snorted, entirely unconvinced.
"Oh, please," she scoffed. "Who spent years following me into the library? You and Malfoy were practically my personal entourage, hanging onto every bit of research I did just so you could keep up. Don't you dare mock me, Nott, when you were right there next to me, scribbling notes like an absolute menace."
"I had to keep up," he shot back, folding his arms as well, "because you insisted on setting the academic standard unreasonably high. You ruined the curve for the rest of us."
Hermione smirked, utterly unrepentant.
"And yet, who followed me the most?" she teased, eyes glinting. "Who couldn't stand being second-best? Who spent every exam season frantically revising just so he could come this close to outscoring me?"
Theodore narrowed his eyes.
"Malfoy."
Hermione raised a brow.
"You," she corrected. "And Malfoy, but definitely you."
"You are insufferable," he muttered.
"And you are a dramatic little prince," she shot back breezily, before throwing a smirk at Luna, who had been watching the exchange with an air of quiet amusement. "Anyway, enjoy your swot session. I am leaving."
And with that, Hermione Granger swept out of the library, leaving Theodore standing there, vaguely indignant, still recovering from the absolute onslaught of historical knowledge, and painfully aware of Luna Lovegood standing far too close, still watching him with that unreadable expression.
Merlin help him.