[Theodore Nott and the Pureblood Tyrant]
The rain fell down steadily across the overgrown premises of Kerkshire Manor. It was by far not the most sizeable manor in this part of Britain, and the deep grey colour of the bricks had long since seen its better days. But, through the thick layers of ivy that
covered the walls one with taste could quite easily appreciate the grandness of the architecture as well as the intricate stonework that decorated the doors and windows. Through one of these windows, in a grand room decorated with paintings of wizards and witches of old stood a curious boy around the age of eleven with short dull-brown hair and pale green eyes. His name was Theodore Nott, Heir to the House of Nott. He was not the most handsome or outgoing, as far as little boys go, with his big front teeth, his awkward almost non-existant smile and his pasty skin. But, he was a Pureblood, so none of it truly mattered, he was born above the rest. His blood made him akin to Royalty.
The boy sat down, pulling absent-mindedly at the tassels of the blood-red curtains that decorated the windows of the lounge, his eyes slowing taking in the words of the book laid out on his lap. The boy revelled in the silence, not that it was hard to find in Kerkshire Manor. Most of the rooms were rarely used and collected cobwebs all year long until someone (or something) has the sense to clean it. But there was something about this particular room that Theodore liked. It was in this room his only memory of his mother took place. She had died when he was a toddler, but he could still remember her face. That was the only way he could remember her. She didn't appear in any portrait in the foyer nor in the hallway leading into the greenhouse. He had always wondered why. His father rarely spoke of his mother and if he did, it would be very straight-to-the-point, no nonsense. He never spoke of her in a kind or loving way. It was to be expected, of course. A Pureblood and especially the head of the Noble House of Nott, should not concern himself with such petty things as emotions. The Notts were a very old Pureblood family that could be traced back to medieval times, a family that had spawned some of the most brilliant, revolutionary minds in the Wizarding World, particularily in potion-making. The members of the Nott Family could nowadays be counted on one hand They were, however, not alone in Sacred twenty-eight, the total number of Pureblood families in Britain, had been crumbling slowly but steadily over the years past. Several of the old Pureblood families began to embrace muggleborns, and some were worse yet, tainting their once noble bloodlines with the filth of muggle lineage.
It was sickening, thought the boy. Why would anyone do such a thing to their heritage? To their ancestors? The very thought brought shivers down his spine, thinking of the portrait in the study of his great-uncle, Tibiscus Nott who his father made him sit infront of everytime he had voiced some sort of sympathies toward muggles as a younger boy, to receive a very stern telling-off and lecture on the pride of the Pureblood, and particarily the pride of a Nott.
The silence is broken with a loud crack by the fireplace, causing the young boy to look up from his reading. A very old House elf, recognisably female, with a squashed, kind face and two small black orb-like eyes picks herself up from the floor and stumbles around for a moment or so, looking disorientated. The elf spots the boy sitting on a armchair by the window and attempts to compose herself in the most dignified manner she can. "T-there Master is! Potsy has been looking.. N-n-now you come along now, yes.. Dinner served sh-shortly!" she piped with a raspy squeak. "Master working late at the M-m-ministry tonight so Master is a-alone for dinners!" The boy remained motionless for a moment.