London bridges falling down, falling down . . .
To quell the nightmares, he does not sleep. And sometimes even then, they haunt him. Like a silhouette on the back of his mind, their shadowy fingers trace memories in his waking thoughts. He tries to ignore them, but he can't. Their silent screams and dead eyes are burned in his retinas. Their names and faces are not forgotten. They live inside him, fused to each blood vessel, each fragment of his tired soul. The newspapers cannot keep up with the casualties, reading off the bodies in estimated numbers. Headlines scarred with another terrorist attack.
Theodore scans the obituaries over his morning toast and tea. An idle fascination to read about the minuscule details of his victims. Who they left behind, their dreams. In the margins, he scribbles his own comments. Like the patterns their blood made as it flowed through the sidewalk cracks or those last faltering syllables before the curtains were drawn.
The Dark Lord chooses him for these tasks because Theodore thrives in what he does. He resembles an exotic parasite because each kill sustains his existence. The world is not beautiful to him unless it is painted with hot tears, broken teeth and whimpered prayers. Unlike the others, the young wizard was never entirely whole, undamaged. Before he was a tool for Voldemort, he was a tool for his father. A puppet to hang on silver strings, dancing to please the court. It didn't matter if every movement was false, if every smile and gracious word were untrue. It's not love that makes the world go round. It's lies.
Theodore stands outside when it rains. He lets the sky devour him until he becomes just another bruised cloud. Wash away my sins, he begs. Let me be purer. But the water only fills him. Drowns his senses until he feels better about being hateful. House elves drag him away eventually, brittle hands taking his robes, soaked and cold. A metallic ache throbs in his bones, threatening to shatter frozen marrow.
He is eight when his mother dies. She hangs herself from the rafters of their library room. He spends his days in the room, fingers fluttering through butterfly thin pages. The scene plays itself back to him like an old picture film. An angel in her silk white gown, she still floats above him, her petal lips in a contorted smile. Sapphire eyes rolled back with vision unseeing. He stares at the lifeless form, hypnotized as it sways in a makeshift noose, like a metronome. Eventually, his father comes and cuts her down without looking at Theodore.
He takes her away and buries her among the daffodils and rosemary. When someone asks about her, his father says, "she was sick." And she was. Sick in the head, sick in the heart.
Tonjours pur, the walls murmur. Always pure.
Theodore strains to listen to their secrets but everything is muffled by the sound of his heartbeat. A harsh, relentless sound manifesting in his ears. He contemplates self-asphyxiation, stilling his breath until oxygen-starved lungs induce a faint reaction. His body forces him to breathe.
It's suicide, in small doses.
Theodore learned many things in childhood, things few grown wizards ever face. He learned to kill, not just other creatures but the humanity within him. To use pain as a catalyst for something more. These were lessons every Nott should know. Generations had come before him, generations would follow and each would march in these footsteps. Each would learn these secrets.
"You disappoint me," the father says, shifting the wand to his other hand. He is always disappointed with Theodore and the boy learns to hate those words. Fresh blood mixes with sweat, leaving a cool trail across his burning skin. Theodore bites his lip, forcing back the urge to scream. The sound builds in his throat, threatening to sear his tongue. It hurts just to breathe.
Be silent. Be still. Always be silent.
Outside, the sun scourges a fading night, bruising the sky. Stray threads of light infiltrate the heavy curtains, spilling across the marble floor to where he bows at his father's feet. Theodore blinks, his own mind balancing on the cusp of delirium. Father wants to make me strong, so I must endure. Don't speak, just endure. . . The lights seem to move across his fingers in a delayed reaction, before the image blurs and suddenly, Theodore sees nothing but the elderly man's shadow until that too fades.
And then, nothing at all. Darkness. Sweet, suffocating, darkness.
"This is too much for such a little boy," the mother weeps softly.
She doesn't think he is listening, she thinks her son is still mingling with his dreams. But Theodore hears everything, even the things unsaid. He is still only seven-years-old but one day he will know and understand it all. "I'm sorry Theo, what sort of world have I brought you into? I should have known better. I should have known."
Theodore never grasps why people apologize for so much. His mother is full of apologies and late night hysteria. I'm sorry, Theo. So so sorry. Your daddy loves you. But his father loves the Dark Arts even more. He knows this, he accepts this. Standing outside his father's lab, he can sometimes smell the odor of strange potions; ingredients mixing, toxic magic swirling in fragile vials. It seeps under the door, and the mystery of what his father does inside that room occupies little Theodore's imagination. Sometimes he sits outside in the hallway of his father's lab, aching to see inside the room if even for a split moment.
One day his father opens the door to his lab, closing it too quickly for Theodore to see what lurked beyond the corridor. He rushes forward to Theodore and the little boy's first instinct is that he is in trouble. He doesn't flinch though, merely looks to the older man with a curious stare.
"Drink this, Theodore," his father hisses, shoving a vial close to his son's face.
"What is it, father?" Theodore asks, gazing inquisitively at the liquid. It is a bright violet, glowing steadily.
"Just do as I say, boy," the man snaps, pushing the vial to Theodore's lips. But before the boy can open his mouth, there is a screech that delivers them both in a state of surprise.
Theodore's mother races down the hall and scoops the boy into her arms, holding him tight to her chest as she spins away from her husband. "This is madness!" She screams, her voice echoing. He is your son! She yells so many things, hurling words at the husband while his rage swells.
No, stop mother. You must be quiet now. Look how angry father is. Can't you hide your feelings, for your own sake mother, please just be quiet. . .
Theodore knows the value of silence. He sees the power in withholding words, saving them for later or for a time never to come. He is a master of silence, wielding it deftly. While it sets him apart from the other children, but it is not the sole factor of his alienation. He is astoundingly clever. Unfortunately thanks to the constant barrage of his father's mental warfare, he is not entirely aware of his own potential. Yet.
As he boards the train that will take him to his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Theodore finds an empty compartment and settles in. There is howling laughter in the compartment paralleled to his own. He can't make sense of the jokes being told, an incoherent mash of sounds, but doesn't care to find out any ways. There is a gentle rapping and suddenly the tinted-glass door slides open, revealing a very homely looking girl.
"Is this compartment full?" She asks shortly. Theodore raises his gaze, casting boredom in her direction.
He scrutinizes her plain robes, the fidgety way her fingers clench into small fists, the bushy, singular, eyebrow and the matching bushy mass of hair. Finding himself mildly repulsed and thus, finding her unworthy of his company, Theodore answers her question with a blatant lie, "yes."
The witch takes in the empty seats, the sole baggage hanging in the overhead carrier. She purses her lips and furrows that single monstrosity of a brow, "are you sure? It doesn't look as though there is anyone in here but you."
Theodore sighs, hiding his aggravation behind a calm and disengaged mask. "I am quite positive you are not welcome here." She catches the coldness in his words and even as he turns his face to look out the window, he can feel this girl's fierce gaze on him. After a pause she hisses something, something that catches his attention.
"What was that?"
"I can obviously see which house you belong in," she snaps, her hands planted on her hips, "a rude, haughty Slytherin, I'm sure of it."
He flashes a very subtle smile as the indignant girl stomps off, "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Theodore's roommates for the next seven years are to be the same boys: Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Draco Malfoy. Each of them were purebloods, but they still managed to positively repulse Theodore with their less-than-aristocrat ways. Draco seemed to be the more dignified of the three, managing to hold Theodore's attention from time to time in a short-lived conversation. But in truth, Draco was pretentious without any remarkable attributes to really boast about and this deeply annoyed Theodore. It's a sad age when this pathetic boy is the product of two magnificent bloodlines.
Luckily for the most part, the tow-headed Draco and his meat-headed cronies leave him alone. Theodore sometimes thinks Draco actually fears him, and for whatever reason he may have Theodore is only mildly curious. Yet on one unusual morning, instead of going upstairs to fetch breakfast with everyone else, Draco lingers in their dormitory and tells Vincent and Gregory to go on without him.
Without an appetite himself, Theodore continues to read his book, unperturbed by Draco's continued presence. He doesn't even look up, rather he merely senses, when the other boy stands at the edge of his bed.
"Hey Nott," Draco starts, trying to gather his attention. He seems startled by Theodore's gaze though, once the cobalt eyes connect with his own. There is something piercing about the way Theodore looks at people, the subconscious dread that fills a person when they meet his stare. Draco is not unique in this matter, nor is he slightly brave, and therefore he catches himself struggling to speak clearly: "Are you sure you want to stay up here alone?"
"Quite sure," he answers dryly. "It's the only way I am going to get any work done."
If Draco had been smart enough to take a hint from this comment, he had a cleverly good disguise with the unaffected way he speaks, "what I mean is the whole business of the Chamber of Secrets."
During their second year, this had been the buzzing drama. Children, cats and ghosts all dropping into a near-dead state of Stupefaction. For some this was terrifying, for others like Theodore it was merely amusing. Based on the school's lore, he would have nothing to worry about. He was a pureblood, after all. In replying to Draco, he says as much.
"I guess you're right," Draco says, though this sounds very rehearsed to Theodore and the boy wonders what his real aim is in having this discussion. "Who do you think the Heir is?"
Me, he wants to say. Just as a joke, of course, but Theodore figures that his wit would be wasted on this person. He figures Draco might actually take him serious. "My guess is that it's a professor, or some outside person altogether."
"Most people think it's that rotten Scarhead," Draco says with a hissing venom. Theodore at once knows that he is referring to the resident hero Harry Potter, but doesn't really care to take part in the verbal bashing that follows. Draco, for his own reasons, has an undeniable hatred for the boy; Theodore doesn't because he is no threat to him in any way. Perhaps, with time, this will change. But if ever Potter truly was a threat to him and his plans, he would kill him. As simple as that.
"You know they say the Dark Lord is coming."
"Is that so," he replies. Draco looks for Theodore's reaction, but there is no trace of emotion in his alabaster complexion. His face is stone, solid and unrevealing. Theodore turns a page in the book, already bored of the other Slytherin.
"Kind of exciting I think," Draco continues, trying to muster a gusto in his voice. He presses, in the hopes of better grasping Theodore's nature, his alignment, "what do you think he will do if he takes over?"
"It's not a matter of 'if', Draco," he answers blatantly, "it's more like when will he take over."
He hadn't expected Theodore to answer so openly. Despite their notorious reputations among other Houses, few Slytherins themselves would be bold enough to declare allegiance to Lord Voldemort. In this ridiculous time where pureblood also meant possible terrorist, it came so close to condemning one and one's family to admit such a statement. But Theodore had not voiced his support, he had merely expressed the inevitably of the Dark Lord's return.
"You think so?" Draco asks, somewhat too eagerly.
"I am rather positive of it, actually," he replies. "Strangely, the Ministry would care to think otherwise," he says motioning to the small pile of newspapers and government reports laying on his nightstand, "even the papers are being coddled by a false security. By the time they accept what's coming it will be much too late for them I'm afraid."
He answers with such certainty that Draco is compelled to believe him, if he ever had thought otherwise. Nodding in agreement, there is nothing Draco can really say to any of this that would really impress Theodore. The dark-haired boy no doubt knew more of the world outside the Hogwarts' castle more than he did. It was a sad defeat for a prideful boy to acknowledge someone else's intelligence but a part of him was thankful that at least he was on their side.
But in truth, Theodore takes no side. He plays the game of life and death only for himself. And in time, like with other things about this peculiar boy, Draco will come to realize this about him.
In the dead of night Theodore lays awake to the cacophony of snoring, his insomnia set to the orchestra of his dormmates's dreaming. He is at the point where he acknowledges the futile war to savor sleep, half-raising himself in bed with the intent to read. Only Theodore catches something in the shadows of the room. A brief flicker of movement. Because none of them have familiars, he knows it isn't an animal stirring in the night. The shades are drawn and outside the air is still, it could be a bothersome ghost or maybe Peeves but one by one he rules out the possibilities until there is no explanation for this movement at the edge of the room.
Bare feet on the cold wooden floors, Theodore grabs his wand from under his pillow and with deliberation, he moves forward to confront the shadows. His expression betrays his surprise at the sight of a young man kneeling on the floor. At once Theodore is prepared to inquire what this person is doing here but the stranger looks up at Theodore and presses a finger to his lips, silently saying "shh".
There is something very strange about this person. In the darkness, Theodore can only make out a few details of this person: his school uniform, Slytherin colors, his well-trimmed dark hair and graceful features, but there is an underlying feeling that fills him. Power, a dampened but unremarkable power.
"I'm looking for something," the boy whispers, running his hands across the floorboards.
"And it couldn't wait til a more reasonable hour?" Theodore replies in the same hush voice, crouching to get a better look at what he was doing.
"No, I haven't the time nor patience to wait," he answers, "you can go back to sleep if you wish, I won't be here for much longer."
"That's pleasant to know," Theodore answers with a hint of sarcasm, "but to be perfectly honest, I may have a smidge of trouble sleeping with a stranger in the room doing Merlin knows what."
"My name is Tom," he answers, absently as if this means he is no longer a stranger at all. He continues to run his hands along the floorboards before pausing, focused on his task, "and I already told you what I was doing, I'm looking for something."
Theodore grits his teeth, slightly indignant by this treatment. It is one thing to come into another's bedroom uninvited, but another matter altogether to carry on like this. He sees himself in this other boy, and feels how others must when dealing with him. With half the mind to politely make Tom leave, he opens his mouth to speak only to be cut off when Tom asks,
"May I see your wand for a moment?"
"Absolutely not."
"You are being rather rude about this," Tom chastises, his voice is level, very calm and matter-of-fact. But before Theodore can make reply, Tom has risen. He towers over Theodore, closing in on the boy's personal space. Theodore tightens his grip on his wand, ready if this boy chooses to attack him.
He is not much of a fighter, abhorring physical violence whenever it requires him to touch another person. He hates it, but he would not hesitate to resort to it.
Violence doesn't prove to be necessary though, because Tom is gone. He disappears in such a fashion that it seems he had never been there at all.
In the morning before the others have awoken, the Slytherin boy peers into the corner where furniture had been moved, exactly where Tom had been kneeling, and he sees the Dark Mark etched faintly into the wood. He gasps quietly, bending down to where the image is imprinted.
Theodore runs his hand along the deep impressions, thoughts of darkness, the inescapable kind, and one singular being, filling his head.