The Cruel Break of Day
There was a time when the manse was immaculately kept by his own mother's hands. The proof was in paintings and photographs, but Theodore can't remember it for himself; all he has ever known are these crumbling walls shot through with vines and spiderwebs.
He staggers through those ancestral halls, left leg thin and dragging; he refuses to carry a cane. From his fingertips, a decanter of brandy delicately hangs. When the night grows faint, he settles into a large, high-backed chair lined with velvet and stares at the fireplace. In his home, in his father's favorite chair, the memories should not be so vivid, yet the war, years past, is more real than any imagined memory of his mother's soft kisses good-night.
There had been a late bloom that complacent, vanished summer after his fifth year, and the land was bright with color. Pink and orange flowers dotted the horizon against the cool green of distant firs. A soft breeze brought in the wafting scent of junipers.
His house, though riddled with a fine latticework of cracks, stood tall and pale in the sunlight, partially hidden by a trio of silver birches. The Nott Manse, in all its stately dilapidation, would never be suited to house a single person; his father once confided wistfully that it was meant for a large family.
Theodore remembered his father's soft words acutely as he opened the double doors and stood in the spacious foyer. His head was tilted toward the high ceiling, luggage hanging slack in his hands. The chandelier above seemed to cast more shadows than light and the darkened house was suddenly unfamiliar.
During his childhood, Theodore often felt like more of a parent than his own father. When Theodore was six, his slender young mother wasted away from some disease that the healers at St. Mungo's swore only affected Muggles. In truth, Theodore remembered less about his mother's disease than how much his father aged in the space of her illness. At the time of their marriage, his father had already been three times the age of his mother.
On the days that his father refused to get out of bed, Theodore quickly acquainted himself with the manse and the single house-elf that had been in the service of the Notts for a century. Two people can be a family, the six-year-old Theodore had reasoned to himself. Ten years later, he could not quite convince himself that there was any family left.
At Hogwarts, it was easy enough to pretend: his frail father was not rotting away in some cell in Azkaban, but waiting for him at home, and when he opened those double doors his father would offer him that small half-smile.
In the face of the glaringly empty manse, it was not so easy to pretend.
He sat down abruptly, splayed on the polished floor as if his legs collapsed under him, his school things scattered around him.
That was how his house-elf, Aidia, found him.
His childhood companion, stooped and shriveled with age, gently spirited him away to his room. When Theodore came back to his senses, he was laying in his bed, his midnight blue duvet tucked under his arms.
For three days he indulged his depression, but the fact of the matter was that Theodore was not an idle young man. When he awoke on the fourth morning, he sat up on the bed and shook his head as if to flick off the lingering gloom; he was not a retiring lady for Merlin's sake. With his father gone, there were many affairs to attend to.
"Master should eat," Aidia told him softly, when he began to get ready for the day ahead. She stood at the foot of his bed, hands clasped in front of her sturdy white apron.
"Young Master," Theodore corrected sharply, as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt.
"Young Master should eat," the house-elf quickly amended, boxing her own ears at the slip.
"I'll eat after I've finished sorting through my father's office," he said, shaking off Aidia's quiet insistence, and heading to the room on the far end of the hallway. It was a mess, of course. Parchment was strewn not only on the expanse of the desktop, but drawers were overflowing with them, and several lined the floor. Theodore delicately made his way across the room, avoiding the papers on the floor.
When he sat on the over-large chair, he almost cried in relief. A good distraction was what he needed, and this would definitely suffice.
Above the fireplace, a banner hangs, proclaiming the Nott motto in a garish silver. Victum Invideo Silenti. Theodore snorts. "The Conquered Shall Envy the Dead," he says, tasting the familiar words. "Do you agree? I suppose you would know better than most," he asks conversationally.
From a dark corner of the room where the firelight fails to touch, a young man comes into view. He wears plain robes, a hood lying limply on his back. Deep-set eyes peering over a long nose are the man's most prominent features. It always seems to Theodore that those eyes are accusing.
The first time the Russian appeared was three years ago when he made his way back to the manse. It was the winter after he finished Hogwarts; the Wizarding World was in an upheaval of change, but the Nott Manse remained constant.
"I suppose you've come to haunt me, then?" Theodore asked with a mocking quirk of his eyebrow. His grip on his wand deceptively casual. Offhand, he hadn't known any exorcism spells, but there were certain darker spells that could affect even ghosts.
The Russian cried something in his native language, and groaned loudly, the anguished sound filling up every corner of the room. It was quite good for a beginner. Theodore told him so, and the Russian furrowed his thick brows.
It was then that Theodore decided the Russian ghost was no threat; it had nothing to do with the emptiness of the manse since Aidia was freed. How Aidia had cried that day, when that stupid Ministry bint declared it was for her own good according the Free Creatures Act. Theodore frowned and tucked his wand away, while the Russian continued to speak to him in low, melancholy tones.
Now, on nights like this with the starlight peeking through blue-black clouds, Theodore laces his voice with irony and converses with the ghost. In truth, he need not bother with the sardonic tone; often he forgets whom he speaks to. In the dreary twilight, he can even pretend that the luminous quality to the Russian is just an odd reflection of moon upon pale skin.
He considers learning Russian; he is sure that there are some books in the library that could assist him with such a task. Yet mostly, he doesn't really care to know what the Russian is saying. I hate you. I want my mum. You did this, you traitor. Theodore heard enough of that in the war; he doesn't need to hear it in his home.
When the Russian speaks to him in that thick, guttural language, it makes much more sense to Theodore to create his own translation.
Once, there were other ghosts. At night, they whispered stories to Theodore, stories about how Great Uncle Lysander was mistaken for a Muggle prince, or when Cousin Eustace lost a priceless family jewel while playing Quidditch. There were tragic stories, too: he listened wide-eyed when he was told the story of his spinster ancestor, Eliza Rose, who fell in love with a dead man.
When his mother died, Theodore's father could no longer stand to be so near to the dead.
Theodore was eight when it happened. He spent the day playing under the shade of the poplar trees. Earlier in the day, he sat with his back pressed against the trunk of the largest tree, reading from a book which rested on his lap. As the day wore on, and a patch of uncomfortably warm sunlight landed on his shoulders, he got up to stretch his legs. He picked up an innocuous slim stick, incanting spells at bugs and trees, as if he had a wand of his own.
If anyone saw Theodore as he waved about his imaginary wand, they might have pitied the thin, pale boy. His robes were ill-fitting and worn, since his father often forgot to buy new ones.
It never occurred to Theodore to care much what a hypothetical anyone would think, even when a not-so-hypothetical Draco Malfoy looked him up and down and declared him unfit for civil conversation.
He wandered back to the house when the sun sat high above, and his stomach grumbled for lunch. When he found his father shaking hands with a man in Ministry robes, he stopped his route to the kitchen with a start. A hopeful feelings curled in the pit of his stomach; his father was rarely up before noon.
It was so rare for the Nott Manse to have visitors that Theodore couldn't help but tilt his head questioningly at his father. He received a small, tired smile at the gesture. "This is Mr. Travers, a good friend of mine. He's doing me a favor today," his father explained.
"You must be Theodore," the Ministry man said with a large, fake smile. Except for his father's, there was a falsity to every adult's smile which Theodore could quickly identify, but it wasn't good etiquette to point such things out.
Instead, he nodded. "How do you do," he said dutifully.
"What a polite boy!" The Ministry man laughed heartily, skin stretching grotesquely over his lean face. Later, Theodore would know that look intimately; it was the look of a man who had been marked by war.
Then, he simply refrained from shuddering.
He didn't understand what was happening at first. The Ministry man stood in the center of their sitting room and shouted words in Latin that Theodore had never heard before, and Theodore was quite proficient at Latin.
That was when it began. In a great mist of silvery forms, they came from all corners of the manse. They were together in a horrible swirling mass, only distinguished by their contorted faces.
Cousin Matilda with her soft lullabies, Great Great Uncle Hector and his silly, bawdy poems, even clumsy Aunt Victoria, who fumbled over her words as often as she tripped over the hem of her skirt. All were banished with a few words and a wave of the Ministry man's wand.
Theodore was still in a daze when the Ministry man took the Floo Network out of the house. He wondered if his ancestors screamed as much when they died the first time around.
Often, there are periods of silence.
Theodore welcomes them sometimes, when the memories come softly, nostalgic whispers of his childhood. But tonight, he frowns at the Russian. "You're quite awful at being a ghost. You don't have many job descriptions, but making a fuss is one of the major ones," he informs the ghost.
Instead of speaking, the Russian meets his eyes. There is something mournful in those eyes; there's something angry there, too. Theodore can't remember what color the Russian's eyes were when he was alive. Brown perhaps. Maybe green.
It's difficult to pick out specific details when his mind is muddled from brandy and a cocktail of potions, though they never seem to stop the barrage of other memories.
His mother's death had almost killed his father the first time around, and Theodore had no doubt that when put in a room full of dementors, his father would relive that moment continuously. It therefore wasn't particularly surprising to Theodore woke up one morning, his cheek pressed against his father's desk, with an official Ministry owl sitting atop a pile of paperwork.
Theodore picked up the letter gingerly, examining it from all angles. The letter was sealed with wax, the Ministry crest embedded in it. The words were made out in important blue ink:
Mr. Theodore Nott
Nott Manse
The Second-Floor Office
For a moment, he considered not opening it. The thought was silly, but he clung to it for a full minute. With furrowed brows, he eased open the envelope with a letter opener. He didn't read the words closely, for the same reason that he didn't read over his Hogwarts acceptance letter closely. The only information he was concerned about stood boldly from the rest of the pleasantries: Eric Nott died in Azkaban this morning.
The words blurred for a moment; Theodore blinked to clear his eyes. He took in several deep, ragged breaths, ignoring the pounding of his heart, which sounded so very loud in his ears. With a startled, horrible laugh, he wondered if it was normal to be able to hear one's own heart.
He glanced at the letter again. It was odd to see those words printed so starkly; there was a certain unreality to it. With his mother, Theodore saw her die a little every day. But he had just seen his father during the winter holidays. Although his father's eyes were sunken, and he was a bit on the thin side, Theodore had not noticed anything wrong.
Aidia revealed herself then, head bowed. She held a tray with his breakfast sitting atop it. "Young Master?"
"It's Master," Theodore corrected, surprised to find that his voice was hoarse.
The house-elf looked up at him sadly with her wide, pale eyes. "Master. Oh, Master,"
Theodore wonders what would push the Russian to the place beyond the Veil. An apology? Begging for forgiveness sounds like something any maligned soul might enjoy, even though this particular ghost wouldn't understand the words. "Have you finally given up?" Theodore asks scathingly. Everyone else has, he adds silently.
Once, Theodore warned the Russian that he might as well give up. "You aren't going to drive me insane, and you certainly aren't going to drive me out of this house," he had told the ghost.
Now, he wonders at the validity of that statement. Obviously, Theodore still resides in the house, but besides him, no one has ever seen the Russian. Theodore is quite certain that the healers think he went mad some time ago, living alone in the ancient, neglected manse.
After the war, the healers inspected him quite thoroughly; they almost didn't allow him to leave St. Mungo's. Granger, that Mudblood friend of Harry Potter's, insisted upon it. Something about mental stresses of war.
Theodore doesn't doubt that. Yet…
I know you're real, Theodore tells the ghost silently. No figment could perfect such a look of hate.
His father never spoke of his business with the Dark Lord. Theodore had always been peripherally aware of it, but perhaps it was the one thing his father sought to protect him from. When Theodore found his father's papers regarding an ancient dark spell for immortality, he knew what it meant.
Later, Zacharias Smith asked him baldly why he hadn't gone straight to Dumbledore when he first came across that information. Theodore blandly replied that it hadn't occurred to him.
It was the truth.
The first person Theodore thought to call on the fireplace was not Dumbledore, not Professor Snape, and certainly not the Dark Lord. When he threw the Floo powder into fireplace, what came out of his mouth was, "Narcissa Malfoy, Malfoy Manor."
Unfortunately, it was the son and not the mother that answered the call. "Who's there?" came the hostile voice. "Nott?" Malfoy said, surprised. For a moment, his eyes were wide with curiosity. Quickly, he rearranged his face to give Theodore a suspicious look. "Well? Why are you calling, then?"
"My father is dead," he said calmly. He had practiced that line again and again, but it never seemed to lose its meaning. My father is dead. My father is dead. "I need to speak to your mother."
Malfoy looked uncomfortable. "I heard about that," he muttered. "What's it got to do with my mother?" he asked warily.
"While sorting through my father's things, I found something that may be of use to an associate of your mother's," Theodore told him smoothly.
"My mum is not involved with any of that!" Malfoy hissed fiercely. His eyes were glittering, eager and angry and so many things that Theodore couldn't identify. "Tell me, tell me what you found," Malfoy demanded.
Theodore studied the other boy for a moment. Malfoy was always thin, but he was looking particularly gaunt this summer. His eyes were wild and desperate.
"Well?" Malfoy asked, annoyed.
"Who are you speaking to, Draco?" a voice outside of Theodore's view asked Malfoy. The voice was husky and feminine, and nothing at all like Mrs. Malfoy's light, airy voice.
"No one," Malfoy said sulkily.
"Don't lie to your Auntie Bella," the voice playfully admonished with a faint laugh. "Now, tell your Auntie who you're speaking to." The voice was no longer playful.
Malfoy glanced at Theodore, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks. "Theodore Nott," he mumbled.
"Speak up, Draco," the voice sang.
"Theodore Nott," Malfoy repeated. His face was pink and irritated.
"Nott, you say?" the voice said sharply. "Move aside, Draco," came the command.
Reluctantly, Draco moved. In his place was a witch with high cheekbones and a cloud of dark hair. Her smile was wide, cat-like. "Theodore," she purred. "Tell us why you've called today,"
"I—I found something that may be of use to an…associate of yours," Theodore repeated, though not nearly as confidently.
"Really?" the woman asked. She paused for a moment, as if considering something of dire importance. "Come by the Manor tonight at midnight. I'm certain that my—" she paused and arched an eyebrow, "—associate would be quite interested in anything you've found,"
She terminated the call before Theodore could answer.
Theodore had been the to Malfoy Manor before. His father and Lucius Malfoy would sit across from each other in a secret back room, would tell him and the younger Malfoy to amuse themselves in Mrs. Malfoy's carefully tended gardens.
To Theodore, the Malfoy Manor was a cold place, with its spires and gargoyles. It lacked the lived-in warmth of the manse.
When midnight came, dusky and silent, he palmed a bit of Floo Powder that sat in a wide-necked vase. After a moment's hesitation, he threw the powder into the lit fireplace and said, "Malfoy Manor!" When the flame burned brilliant green, he stepped into it.
The Dark Lord was waiting.
He dozes on and off, but never sleeps for long. The dreams are part of the reason: vivid, chaotic images dash behind his eyelids whenever they flutter down. Theodore could sleep through the images, but always starts awake at the screaming.
The Russian floats before him when his eyes open; for a moment, he thinks he's still dreaming. The calm look on the ghost's face is what convinces Theodore that he isn't asleep. In his dreams, faces are always in a rictus of pain.
"So after three years you've finally finished crying," he sneers cruelly in his best Malfoy imitation.
The ghost's face tightens.
Ah, a reaction. It is tremendously difficult to insult a person who doesn't speak the same language as him; he's found that it's all in the tone of voice. The triumph is small and insignificant, but these days Theodore takes what he can.
It's almost a shame when dawn breaks; the Russian never appears in the daylight hours.
Harry Potter himself asked Theodore why he switched sides. Theodore looked the other boy in those green, aged eyes and told him that the Dark Lord killed his father.
Many were skeptical. Ronald Weasley most loudly. Zacharias Smith most often. They all read in the Daily Prophet how old Eric Nott died in his cell in Azkaban because his frail constitution couldn't handle the dementors.
Theodore thought so, too, until the first time the Dark Lord cast the Cruciatus Curse on him. He was sixteen and had been a Death Eater for five weeks.
The Dark Lord never visited the Nott Manse in the entire time that his father had been a Death Eater, and Theodore had no intention of inviting him, maniacal evil wizard or not. Thus, he often met the Dark Lord at the Malfoy Manor, where Malfoy's aunt, the right hand of the Dark Lord, resided.
It was in the Malfoy Manor that Theodore found himself kneeling before the Dark Lord, lips pressed against the hem of black robes. It was becoming a familiar sensation, this sycophancy, and not one he enjoyed.
"I apologize, My Lord," Theodore murmured. His teeth were unclenched, but with great will power.
"Your father was a loyal servant of mine," the Dark Lord began. "It is his research that I value, not you,"
"I am unworthy," Theodore said woodenly; the words felt heavy and awkward in his mouth.
"You are," the Dark Lord agreed. "Perhaps you need something to motivate you?"
Theodore didn't even hear the curse being cast. Pain, indescribable pain, throbbed throughout his body; even his eyelashes hurt. A scream tore from his throat, as his fellow Death Eaters watched on in silence.
Bellatrix Lestrange, who stood at the Dark Lord's side, had a hungry, eager look in her light eyes that he somehow recognized.
When the pain stopped, he dragged himself home. When he stumbled through the fireplace, Aidia fretted over him, but Theodore waved her off. As he blankly readied himself for bed, he found himself staring at the reflection in the bathroom mirror. He splashed water on his face, but it was still there: the thin face, the sunken eyes. The dark smudges under those tired eyes.
It was his father's face.
A cold, angry feeling arose in his chest as he thought of how fragile his father seemed the winter before his death.
The next morning, he found himself addressing a letter to Albus Dumbledore.
He awakes the the sound of someone's shoes clicking on the hardwood. Theodore refuses to open his eyes, especially when the light behind his eyelids brightens unbearably. He has a dreadfully good guess about who pulled back those curtains.
"I know you aren't sleeping, Nott," comes the unfortunately familiar voice. A hard tap of a wand comes down on Theodore's head.
"Do you always barge into your client's homes unannounced and then abuse them?" he asks, his eyes fluttering open lazily. His head throbs and there's a bad taste in his mouth, but he doesn't even wince at the sunshine that cheerily makes its way to his face.
The witch ignores him in favor of sniffing around his sitting room. Her hair, plaited neatly down her back, bounces with each step she takes. She has a quill and parchment in her hands, taking notes as she eyes his home critically. He knows what she sees: empty glass cases that once housed his mother's fine china. Doxy-infested damask curtains. Cheap brandy in an heirloom decanter. Burn marks on the carefully embroidered rug from fireplace embers.
It's amazing how impassive she remains; even Theodore wants to wince at the ruined room. "Did you fall asleep here again? Have you been drinking? Did you take anything besides your Ministry-regulated potions?" she asks, her voice clipped.
"Obviously."
"Yes, yes, and yes," she mutters, writing it down. "What potions have you been taking?"
"Pepperup, Dreamless Sleep," he admits laconically.
"You've been taking Dreamless Sleep with alcohol?" she queries, her eyes hard. Her neat little steps pause as she turns toward him. "Are you trying to kill yourself, Mr. Nott?" Her tone is professional, the searching look in her eyes is not.
"With all I have to live for?" he says, gesturing to the expanse of the Nott Manse with a indolent wave of his hand. "Certainly not."
Her lips tighten at either his tone or his answer. "I could recommend that you are to be observed at St. Mungo's," she tells him calmly. "A retainer could tend to the manse."
He meets her eyes; they are uncompromising and understanding all at once. Theodore has never felt a stronger urge to hit someone. "The Dreamless Sleep is in the kitchen," he says after a moment.
The witch spends the rest of the morning combing through each room of the four-story house; Theodore doesn't bother to follow her. He used to shadow her every move in his staggering gait, watch as she overturned everything of value and noted everything else on her parchment. How it smarted, seeing her walk through his hallowed home.
He can barely muster up indignation anymore. It's simpler to let her do her job, while he sits in that high-backed chair sipping on last night's brandy. It's warm, stale, and vaguely disgusting.
He drinks it anyway.
At the end of her investigation, she comes back to the sitting room. "Everything seems in order," she reports, with a slightest emphasis on "seems". "I will be back next month for another examniation."
"I'll look forward to it," he replies drolly.
"I suppose it's too much to ask you to stop drinking?" she asks; the question is almost ritualistic.
Just as the ritual dictates, a snort is her only answer.
"Well, as long as you stop taking those non-regulation potions, there's nothing I can do about it," she says, though it's not completely truthful. Theodore wonders if she knows it. He suspects she does.
"As you say," he says, taking another sip.
When she heads to the Floo, she hesitates. "Nott…"
Theodore raises an eyebrow.
"As a veteran, you're entitled to a monthly stipend from the Ministry of Magic," she states, a formal invitation to charity.
"Don't worry," Theodore tells her, voice cool and ironic. "There's no need to bribe me. It's in everyone's best interest that I don't run to the Daily Prophet and confess the war crimes of the Order of the Phoenix."
"That's not what I meant!" she protests, but there's no heat in her words. There never is.
"Good-bye, Miss Bones,"
He never leaves the house, not to go to Gringotts, not to take a stroll under the blooming junipers, the scent of which haunt him when he leaves the windows ajar. It would amuse him to discover that children from the nearby village have begun rumors about that creepy old house, the one with the three trees in front of it.
The house that was meant for a family is now only fit for a ghost.
Theodore, if indeed he ever hears the rumors, will smile blackly and know that the children aren't talking about the young Death Eater he killed years ago.
Author's Notes: I just had to write a Theodore Nott fic after reading JK Rowling's extra commentary about it. He's just such a fascinating character. I hope the tense changes weren't too confusing!