Growing up Theodore Nott believed in the certainty of magic.
Before the young boy knew his letters he understood that it was magic that swept the marble floors, magic that kept the tea warmed to the perfect temperature, and magic that ensured ivory rose vines always bloomed along Nott Manor's walls. Everywhere Theodore looked in his immaculate household magic was not some abstract concept, or a fairytale trick. Charms, and transfiguration were everyday life skills, and according to his father the power was not only Theodore's inheritance, but his destiny and right.
The idea that one day he'd possess such knowledge thrilled Theodore, and from a very early age the frequently left alone boy gravitated towards the family's extensive library. Insatiably eager to read everything he could about the ability to manipulate reality, time, and tiny particles in the air. His greedy eyes practically devouring all they could: the outcome of tournaments, and battles all won by a lack of hesitation, and the right spell that could be learned.
Even the theories fascinated him, and there among dusty walnut shelves (and curled up in his favorite red velvet cushioned chair) the dark haired boy would dirty his small finger with smeared ink. Pouring over those ancient books with friendly devotion, and there was no question that someday magic would bend to his will.
After all, his family expected nothing less than spellbinding brilliance, and they told him as much. Repeatedly.
Shouted over the dinner table "Magic is your birthright" occurred with as much frequency as "pass the peas." On any given day his stern faced father might not once have asked how his young son had spent his solitary mornings, but the lovely dinner time conversation starter of blood supremacy was a given. A fierce almost nightly reminder that he held unique power worth protecting.
"Never dilute what has kept us pure." his father would warn in a crisp aristocratic tone.
Determined to get his meaning across Prometheus Nott would then stare down his son without flinching, and send chills rolling down his young heir's spine. Notch by notch drilling in the message that muggles were evil beings best avoided at all costs.
The threats were effective to say the least, and up until the impressionable boy turned seven Theo harbored a terrifying theory that muggles were actually monsters in human form who had come for his power. While most boys played with their imaginary friends little Theo pictured a greedy ginger-haired muggle boy lurking right outside his window that kept him up at night. Looking in with glistening white teeth ready to snatch him up in the middle of the night, and weaken his strength.
Equal parts curious and horrified to catch the muggle thief in the act Theo would leave out a candle at night longer than he should have. Clutching his covers to his tiny pounding chest as his eyes shifted back and forth, and keeping a shoe within throwing range.
Not surprisingly, by the time the young boy neared the end of his tenth year he'd had quite enough with muggle fear mongering. At that point Theodore's sadistic auburn playmate was thankfully long gone, but instead of nodding his head along to his father's insistent demands he'd stare down at his dinner. Biting back this overwhelming urge to scream at the top of his lungs that he'd heard all the purity talk before. Pushing his fork around his plate the sullen boy who'd never been allowed to fidget couldn't wait to go to Hogwarts School of Magic. Believing fully that there he would be able to do something with this "magic" that everybody was always raving on about as opposed to growing to resent it.
For restless Theodore age eleven couldn't come soon enough, but the years after that held far less mystical allure. In some ways his father's frequent lectures on going to school, becoming a Slytherin, and then marrying an obedient pureblood girl from a respectable family were a luxury that saved Theo from worrying over tomorrow. That was the plan, and unless the Nott heir intended to find himself cut off from his fortune there stood no hope for a future beyond this carefully weathered road, and absolutely no use dreaming for what would never be.
Everything is laid out for me, and that is good. That is my privilege, and that makes me better.
Perhaps his mother might have softened the edges of her husband's harsh lessons, but lifeless eyed Dahlia Nott was far too familiar with elf wine. Most days she'd keep it together enough to go through the motions of life, but at least once a year she'd fall into a bad "spell" that made the drinking worse. A tense time when sheltered away from her family she'd imbibe alone, holding herself as she danced, and crying behind closed doors. During those awful hours it seemed to poor Theodore that the whole house walked on eggshells to avoid disturbing mummy. They played their part, but even when she was fine she wasn't exactly all there. On her best days Dahlia was a beautiful shell of a witch who could only be counted on to dress well, and agree with Prometheus over dinner. However, occasionally she'd stop by Theodore's room, sitting on the end of his bed to run her fingers through his hair while he tried to sleep and slurring near his ear about all the balls and weddings she'd been invited to as a girl.
"Mummy-had-the-pick of any wizard she wanted...dance card full for the night...and yet here I am." she'd laugh bitterly through the nonsense. "Stuck being a bored mummy."
Without realizing it her nails would end up scraping along his scalp, and then planting a wet kiss on her son's cheek she'd leave. Gone in a swish of robes, and slamming her bedroom door hard enough to shake the walls.
Thankfully for Theodore most days Dahlia Nott made herself scarce. Either attending luncheons with other regal witches, or braiding her long jet black hair into elaborate styles in her room, or hiding out in her garden maze to avoid her husband entirely, and as much as possible her son who looked far too much like him.
Of course it wasn't his fault, but the boy tortured her fragile sanity with the same fine features as the elder wizard who once captured her hand before she'd known better. Before she'd looked past the flawless exterior, and seen a glimpse of the madness behind (another Nott family trait that moody Dahlia found less than agreeable). For the witch, the boy's looks were a constant reminder of everything she'd done wrong, and she didn't appreciate her faults up close and personal.
Not one bit.
However, there were sometimes rare beautiful days when she'd spy skinny Theo coming back from the family pond. Hair slick, eyes bright, and his mother would sober up long enough to remember that her sensitive inquisitive son was far kinder than his father. With any luck Dahlia hoped he might not turn out as cruel, but thanks to her abhorrence of her husband more often than not she avoided her Theodore entirely. Leaving her maternal duties to the timid house elf Bitsy instead, and fully expecting the elf to tuck the heir in at night. The lone affectionate caregiver happily did as much, and it was the elf who brought Theodore hot fresh biscuits on cold winter nights. Doting on the lonely boy, and loudly giggling when she'd find another book hidden under his pillow.
"Young Master Nott is the smartest boy!" She'd coo in her shrill voice. Grinning, and patting Theodore's arm (the only morsel of affection he'd receive for the day) before popping away for far less agreeable chores.
Snuggling inside the covers he'd fall asleep. Cozy, and safe, and better off than if his parents had come by. In Theodore's opinion those were the good nights. The evenings alone with Bitsy far far away from long boring parties, and with none of the terrifying Parkinson cousins for miles around.
Already at his young age, shy Theodore didn't appreciate gawking from pureblood girls and their ambitious fathers. On the few occasions his parents dragged him out for the night, Theo felt like an object on display. All hopes in dreams in dress robes, and bracing himself for the trick questions and interrogations designed to find where his loyalties lay. But clever Theo was courteous. Always appearing to be a proper obedient boy politely going along with his parent's wishes and making small talk. Under the supervision of others he'd smile, and use the correct fork, but all his good behavior came less from good breeding, and more from self preservation. Knowing far too well that there are spells which can hurt without leaving marks, and without another witch or wizard to turn to Theo learned about the infinite loneliness of love among duty.
To do as you're told, or else.
Occasionally whilst sitting in his room looking over Quidditch stats he'd pause for the smallest fraction of a second, brows pinching together as he wondered if maybe he wouldn't be forced to fulfill his duty. Just for a laugh he'd picture asking his father if he might become a dragon scholar, or a curse breaker, or what would happen if he weren't a wizard at all. Alone in his room Theo smirked over his father's surely horrified expression, but never would the boy have followed through. Especially since there was no use questioning "if" he'd have magic when the term squib was never once repeated in the household. The thought so completely inconceivable that the word didn't deserve a passing mention.
Too filthy on the tongue for civilized adults to speak of.
No, deviation from the norm wasn't an option, and so instead Theodore cautiously bided his time at Nott Manor. Counting the days until he left his home with a healthy hate for tradition, a deep suspicion for the outside world greedy for his gift, and never taking what another wizard told him at face value. Books alone he trusted, words on pages were reliable, and in his sunlight bathed library Theodore learned all he thought there was to know about the history of wizardry, and the certainty of fate. By the time he packed his trunk for Hogwarts, Theo could recite the ingredients for over two dozen potions, and the winner of the Triwizard Tournament in 1294 without trying. But nowhere in Theodore's vast library were any writings on kismet, and the power outside of logic that challenges faith.
In all his heavy books there was nothing at all about the moment when you look across a crowded room. When an indescribable electric pull grabs at you through a chaotic sea of stranger's activity. Squeezing around your heart, and dissolving your focus towards something unexpectedly intimate. The important magnificent gaze of somebody that shouldn't be familiar, but is.
Somebody that perhaps your soul recognizes as a person worth knowing, or maybe even an old friend in a new body.
Yes, nowhere in his books (or in his parental guidance) had Theodore learned about kismet, but the first time he boarded the train for Hogwarts, and he laid eyes on young Blaise Zabini he felt it all the same.
I'm going to know that boy.