"Suspected" Death Eaters, that was what we had to call them, officially, even though we'd all seen them trying to kill off Order members when we arrived at the Ministry, had even witnessed You Know Who's brief appearance when what should have been a simple collection job turned into the Death Eaters' biggest disaster since their master's quiet return. The son of the suspected Death Eater Aldous Nott had requested a visit home to pick up some things. He'd wanted to stay there, alone, but we just couldn't allow it, times being what they were.
"You'd be the best one to handle this, Weasley," said Quentin Whitmore, who had taken over the Dark Objects Division at the Ministry at the same time I'd been given Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. "You've got a son about his age. Haven't you?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," I said. "He's sixteen, you say? Same year as Ron, then."
"Shouldn't be too much of a problem, he's just a kid really," Whitmore continued. "But he's bound to be upset about his father's arrest. I want someone who's got experience with teenagers on this one, just in case. The boy knows he's allowed to watch the inspection but he didn't seem too bothered about that, I think he just wants to pick up a few things."
"Sure," I said, taking the case notes he held out to me and heading for the door.
Whitmore called after me, "Just make sure he doesn't remove anything we can use as evidence against the father."
And so on the first day of the Hogwarts summer holidays I found myself apparating up to Oxfordshire, and walking to the Nott residence, Thickthorn Chase. The Nott boy met me in front of the imposing wrought iron gates. It was impossible to see him there and not recognize the startling contrast he made with Ron. He was about my own height, still skinny like a boy, but he held himself like a man. While Ron wears Muggle clothes during the holidays, this boy was wearing a sombre set of wizard's robes, slightly worn, although the fabric was very fine and they had clearly been expensive when new.
"Hello, Mr.– " He checked the letter he was holding, whether to signify my lack of importance to him, or an innocent confirmation of my name I wasn't sure, "–Weasley."
"And you are Theodore Nott?"
"Correct."
I've noticed that formality in the proud pure-blood families before, especially the ones tending to the Dark side, the way the sons act in precisely the same manner as their fathers. Still, I tried to picture Ron in his situation, and just couldn't imagine it. When I was injured at the Ministry, Molly and the children pulled together to support me and one another, and that's how we made it through. Ron's certainly been in some terrifying situations with Harry, but I just couldn't picture him so alone in the world and dealing with adults in this stiff, formal way.
"Shall we get started then?" I asked.
The Nott boy fished a set of heavy silver keys out of his robes. He unlocked the gate, which swung noisily open. We walked through and it shut behind us with a macabre squeal. The path up to the house was long and straight, lined on each side with rows of lime trees. It led up to an arch, and suddenly we were in a walled garden. The gardens were stunning. It was summer, so they were at the very height of colour: magenta, orange, yellow, electric blue, purple, crimson. They were walled, in the medieval style, each flowered chamber passing into one yet more sequestered and exquisite. The boy said nothing to me as we walked through the gardens. We passed through walls lined with honeysuckle and wisteria, fairies chattering among the flowers, before arriving suddenly upon the house.
The building was sprawling, ornate and charming, crumbling but still magnificent. Though fashioned from the same golden stone, it had clearly been extended by generations of Notts in the style of the day, so that the house was a jumble of different features: cupolas, balconies, flying buttresses, even a Bridge of Sighs stretching over an artificial lake. We walked up a grand set of steps to a high, imposing double door. The boy pulled out another key which flew up to the lock and fitted itself snugly inside, turning around as if getting comfortable. He tapped the winged horse to the right of the door with his wand; it sprang to attention and he spoke to it.
"It's me," he said. "Theodore."
Both horses drew themselves up, fluttered from their podiums and each opened the doors in a single movement, then sank to their knees, bowing for us to pass. The foyer was light and airy, still grand but slightly more rustic than I might have imagined: flagstones, austere white walls, dark wood paneling.
There was a sudden of peal of squealing and a flurry of tiny limbs.
"Master Theodore!" A house elf sped past me, hurling herself towards the boy and hugging his legs. He patted her head awkwardly.
"Master Theodore, your father is going away and he isn't coming back home. I is worrying, I isn't knowing where he go." She sobbed.
"Erm…Dappy…I…" The Nott boy looked around wildly. The elf had disconcerted him and for the first time I thought I glimpsed the frightened teenage boy behind his formal façade. He clearly didn't know what to tell her. I cleared my throat and knelt down so that our eyes were level. She had to find out sooner or later.
"Dappy…I'm afraid that Aldous Nott…your master…has been taken into custody. He was caught trespassing at the Ministry of Magic with You Know Who and some other Death Eaters."
The elf looked at me, her blue orb-like eyes wide. She blinked. Then she hurled herself onto the floor of the entrance hall, sobbing wildly. The Nott boy gave me dirty look. I felt a rather disproportionate surge of annoyance.
"Mister Aldous, Mister Aldous!" wailed the elf. "What will he do without Dappy to look after him?"
It occurred to me that while we considered the house to be standing empty, no one had taken into consideration the presence of the house elf. While unaware of her master's capture, she would have been unlikely to have hidden or destroyed any Dark objects, but there was nothing to stop her doing so as soon as I left. Something would have to be done.
The Nott boy led me through to the drawing room, leaving the elf weeping on the flagstones. ("Don't worry, she'll cry herself out.") It was a generously proportioned room lined with bookshelves. The carpet was a rich red and two enormous tan chesterfields half-filled the room. There were strange curios, everywhere: a silver candelabra in the shape of an octopus, a tiny trebuchet, clay oil lamps, a model square-rigger, lumps of glass with tiny figures rattling around inside. A portrait of a plain witch hung over the fireplace. She beamed at us as we entered.
"Hello, Mummy," called the Nott boy.
"Hello, my dear," she said. "Back for the holidays?"
"Not exactly," the boy replied.
"Boys will be boys," she said, indulgently. "I expect you're off on a jaunt with your friends."
"Something like that," he said.
"You look taller every time I see you," she gazed at him fondly.
"You don't see me," he said curtly. "Not really. You're just a portrait."
She looked rather hurt, but forced a smile.
"And who is this?" she said, as if noticing me for the first time.
"From the Ministry, Mummy. Arnold Weasley."
"The Ministry? Whatever are they doing here?" she asked, an edge to her voice now.
It was then I recognized her, her buggy, wide-set eyes, small thin-lipped mouth, delicate upturned nose at odds with her square, masculine jaw: Persephone Wilkes Nott, casualty of the first war and reproach to the Aurors and Barty Crouch's draconian methods of law enforcement. Although there had been an inquiry, the Wizangamot had ruled no wrongdoing, a fact that had infuriated many, and not just those on the side of the Death Eaters. The son had been a mere baby at the time of the incident, not even a year old. I was fairly certain that he could have no memory of the killing, but he would have heard about it all his life.
"They're searching the place," her son said.
"I hope you'll be polite, darling," said the witch in the portrait.
"I'll try, Mummy," replied the Nott boy.
A flash in the corner caught my eye, the sun reflecting off a delicate mobile of hanging scrolls, stars, ribbons and golden thread, lightly twisting in the slight wind. The Nott boy caught me looking at it.
"Goes back to Bertilak," He said, a note of pride in his voice. "You know, Merlin's contemporary. Not quite as brilliant, but still."
"What is it?" I asked, still confused.
"It's our family tree," he said impatiently. "The scrolls are our birth certificates from St. Mungo's. That's me." He pointed to a scroll tied with a purple satin ribbon dangling precariously under the cloud; it looked rather isolated down there. "I expect your family just keep a book of names or something like that."
I didn't say anything; I wasn't sure. Muriel was much more bothered about this kind of thing, so she might have some of this information written down, but I'd never bothered keeping track. The idea was abhorrent to me, actually. It doesn't make a difference to me, and it shouldn't to anyone. Except not really knowing any Muggles does make it hard to get all the artifacts I'd like.
The boy raised an eyebrow. "You don't keep any record? None at all?" He seemed incredulous.
"No," I said, shortly. "Now, have you decided whether you will be attending the entire search?"
"I don't think so," he said. "I may drop in now and then to see how the search is going, though."
"You do know you will have to pre-arrange these visits?"
"What?" He was shocked.
"Wasn't that explained to you?" I asked.
"No," said the boy bitterly. "It wasn't. You mean I can't even visit my own house when I want to?"
"We will, of course, make every effort to accommodate your wishes," I said quickly.
He didn't say anything. He crossed to the chesterfield by the oriel window and sat for a moment, breathing hard.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"Leave me alone," he snapped. "I know what you think of me."
I was silent for a while. I looked out of the mullioned windows into the garden below. It was a beautiful day, still early enough that the dew in the shadow of the walled gardens had not yet dried. The boy leaned his head back on the sofa and took a deep breath.
"Let's go," he said, standing up. "Most of the stuff I want is in my room."
We went up to the top floor. I was somehow expecting it to be a neat reflection of what had appeared to me a prematurely middle-aged character but it was as untidy as any of my son's rooms; inside it looked as though a herd of books had multiplied and taken over. There were stacks of them everywhere covering most of the floor, some of them placed face down amid the forest of empty tea-stained mugs. An adjoining door led to a messy washroom full of crumpled towels, and beyond that were the governess's quarters. I imagined that this had been the nursery for generations of Nott children. In spite of myself I wondered whether this was where it had happened, the room in which Persephone Wilkes Nott had died, struck by a stray curse, her lifeless form crumpled over the cot in which her infant son lay. The thought was horrible. An old rocking horse stood in the corner, covered in robes, its silhouette monstrously exaggerated by the folds of fabric.
My job was to inspect everything he wanted to remove, giving everything a good jab with a Secrecy Sensor, and then make a note of each item to be kept on file. A precautionary measure, if you like. The Ministry would then search the house, which the boy had the right to observe if he wished to do so, provided he gave us twenty-four hours advance notice. Then there was also the Wilkes estate, which had fallen to the boy following the death of his mother and uncle, and was under the father's care until he came of age. We had locked the property down, but that too would need to be searched.
"Right, let's get started," I said.
The first thing was to inspect the trunk he wanted to take so that he would have something in which to put all of his things. It was a beautiful varnished oak chest with the name Theodore St. John Nott stamped on it in gold: "my second-best trunk". It was not a terribly big trunk, but he thought he could fit everything in. It was deceptively large, he said.
"All right," he said. "These. I want to take these."
He had brought a precarious pile of books with a strange, hairy lump on top. I gave the books a quick once over and then picked up the hairy thing for a closer inspection. It was a shrunken head.
"I can't let you take that, I'm afraid."
"Why not?"
"You have documentation for it, I hope?"
"Of course," he said, passing over a piece of paper with the Ministry seal on it. I looked it over: Name of importer of restricted artifact: Telemachus Cripp-Rivers Nott. Country of extraction: Peru. Date of importation: 22nd November 1793. Name of deceased: unknown. The document appeared genuine, and the date made the head untouchable, although the law on human artifacts had been tightened considerably since then. The Nott boy gave me a smug look and, dropping the books in the trunk, made as if to take the shrunken head.
"You can't remove it from this house, I'm afraid," I said brightly.
He frowned. "Why not?"
"Shrunken heads are classified as a type 5D restricted item, an artifact that may have the power to conceal Dark magic within it. A simple Secrecy Sensor or Sneakoscope wouldn't pick that up. This classification also includes brooms, wands and certain types of magical garment."
"So if I wanted to collect a broom I wouldn't be allowed?" he said incredulously.
"Not right away, we'd have to do some more rigorous tests." I replied.
"How long would that take?" he asked.
"A month, maybe. The head should be quicker, though. Brooms are much more complex."
"Forget the head," said the Nott boy, seizing another pile of books. "I don't need it that badly."
A/N: Thank you to all my lovely reviewers, especially shiftingful, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx and AshleyofRavenclaw for giving feedback on several chapters. It's really good motivation and your constructive comments are always appreciated. Sorry this particular update took so long but I've had a lot going on IRL as well as getting a weird block about this chapter. Next few will be quicker, I promise!