Death Eater No More—Chapter Thirty-Six (All in the Family)
January 25, 1999
Rodolphus' jaunt to Hogsmeade lasted only as long as it took to get there, confront Varden for his sins against Rabastan and execute justice, and to travel back. He returned to the Lestrange property in high spirits, still in the form of his detestable uncle. The Polyjuice Potion wouldn't wear off for another forty-five minutes, he may as well make good use of the time.
Before he entered the house he transfigured his robes into those worn by the older wizard, then strolled through into the kitchen. On the counter where he'd set the glasses of viscous brew was only an empty spot; his heart skipped a beat. What if Rabastan had seen them and recognized what it was? Would he put it together?
"Nels!" Rodolphus stormed out of the room bellowing for the elf, who literally tripped down the stairs in its hurry to do its master's bidding; Nels skidded to a stop and nearly fell over with a low bow. "Where are the glasses I had set on the counter?"
"Nels washed them, Master Lestrange," cringed Nels, not daring to back away and certainly not enjoying the thought of incurring Varden's displeasure. The wizard rarely struck him, but it was not unknown. "Did master wants the nasty glop?"
"No, I didn't want it. Did anyone else see them?"
"No, Master. Nels cleaning up good as soon as Master making a mess!" explained the creature emphatically, nodding so hard his head threatened to break loose from his stick neck and roll away.
Rodolphus eyed the whimpering beast for signs of deceit, finding none. As far as he knew, Nels was absolutely loyal to Varden. In the back of his mind he felt a niggling of regret—not for killing Varden, the bastard deserved it, but rather for the pitiful elf who'd had no company other than Varden for decades until the Death Eaters had shown up at the door. Although Nels had three men to care for, undoubtedly he'd feel abandoned by his master if adequate provisions were not taken. A depressed elf was an unproductive, brooding elf, not something anyone liked to see.
"Go pack me a small bag for travel, and make it quick. I'm going on a trip," he ordered. Nels scampered out to obey.
While he waited, Rodolphus-Varden clomped down the stairs into the cellar where his telltale cauldron of Polyjuice Potion rested in the corner. A wave of his wand vanished the potentially revealing goo, leaving the pot clean if not shiny. During the course of brewing the potion he'd done away with any extra ingredients that might point to a specific concoction, were one of the mind to be snooping, so there was no point in lingering down here.
Patting himself on the back for a job well done, he came back up the stairs and proceeded to the living room, stationing himself next to the front door. He tapped a foot impatiently as he waited for Nels. If he ran out of time he'd have some serious explaining to do, and he had no intention of letting that happen.
The elf had scarcely popped in beside him with a cloth-sided suitcase stuffed to the brim when Rodolphus commanded him to bring the wizards so he could converse with them. Once more Nels disappeared, to apparate with Rabastan's pantleg clutched in one fist and Nott's pantleg in the other.
Nott shook off the offending appendage with a snarl at the house elf.
Rabastan glowered first at Nels, then at the figure he assumed to be Varden. "What do you think you're doing? You can't force me to come to you like a servant!"
"Shut up," said Rodolphus dispassionately before remembering this was ostensibly his nephew, not his little brother. Varden didn't speak to Rabby that way. "I need to talk to all of you. Where's Rodolphus?" He barely suppressed a smirk as he asked.
"Not in the house, Master," chirped Nels.
Rodolphus-Varden waved a dismissive hand. "No matter. You can tell him later. As you may have noticed, I have a traveling bag packed."
Rabastan and Nott glanced down at the floor near Varden's feet, their curiosity aroused.
"I may be gone a long time, I've decided to tour the world. You're all welcome to stay here as long as you like." To the elf he said, "Nels, you are to obey my nephews and Nott, is that understood?"
"Yes, Master," Nels peeped, his grapefruit-sized eyeballs bugging from his misshapen head. For the briefest moment he'd feared he was to be given clothes!
"This is rather sudden, isn't it, Uncle?" asked Rabastan. Rodolphus was sure he detected suspicion in the younger man.
"What if he's leaving to notify the aurors we're here?" exclaimed Nott, drawing his wand and aiming it at Rodolphus-Varden.
It took a good deal of will power not to knock Nott on his arse. He instead focused his attention on his brother. "No, it's not sudden. I've been thinking about it since our conversation right before Christmas," he crooned at Rabastan, flashing him a knowing look that made his brother blush. "Given the climate here, I think it might be best for us. Don't you agree?"
Rabastan's scarlet face turned to Nott with a horrified look suggesting he thought Nott may have guessed the awful secret Varden was dancing around. Nott merely stared in boredom at Varden, his wand rock steady; he couldn't care less if the old wizard stayed or went as long as he wasn't sending enemies or giving him the boot, nor did he have any clue of the terror running through his friend's mind.
"Put it down, Nott," said Rabastan softly. "He isn't snitching on us."
Rodolphus-Varden nodded curtly. "Give Rodolphus my regards. Good luck to you all." Picking up his bag and snatching Varden's cloak on his way, he walked out the front door and disapparated before anyone had a chance to reply.
He apparated to a cliff far down the coast, sidled up to the rim, and tossed the satchel over the edge. It fell down tumbling end over end before crashing onto the enormous boulders in the surf below, ripping open and spilling the contents into the frigid waters. The waves snatched at it like grasping claws and dragged it under the froth.
Rodolphus transfigured his clothing back to his own garments then sat at the edge of the cliff to wait for the potion to wear off. He reached into the breast pocket of his robes and took out Varden's wand, which he held between his fingers as he studied it thoughtfully. It would be a shame to destroy a perfectly good wand, especially when one never could tell when another wand would be needed. Probably never, but…better safe than sorry.
With Varden's wand he dug a shallow hollow in the frozen ground and cast anti-moisture, anti-decay, and insect-killing spells on the hole. He dropped the thin branch into the cavity and kicked dirt over it, stomped it down, and cast a final charm to permit him to locate the spot without difficulty. As he loitered he desperately hoped Rabastan didn't somehow find out what he'd done. He really didn't want to face the inevitable recriminations when all he'd done was to do everyone a favor.
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Oh, no. It wasn't bad enough Draco's nauseatingly in love parents were permitting Theo to come over for an exclusive interview of the Malfoy family with their newest member—and exclusive pictures besides. No, that wasn't enough. Narcissa had insisted he hold the brat and pretend like he was happy!
What was there to be happy about? He rarely saw his mother anymore, she was always busy feeding the little nuisance, or rocking him, or sleeping from exhaustion herself since she'd decreed that humans were to raise her child, elves were only to assist in emergencies. When he did see his mother, she had the rugrat attached to her like a fungus—unless he was clinging to their father. For all they seemed to notice, Draco had become invisible. Ordinarily that might be a good thing, if he were up to mischief or didn't want to explain his whereabouts, but it got old fast.
And now, to add the cherry on top of his woes, the tiny monster had just pooped his nappy—again! Draco wrinkled his nose and scowled. "Mother, he did it again! He stinks!"
Narcissa started out of her chair. The reporters would be here any minute, but frankly she was too tired to run upstairs to change the baby. She sat back and gestured with her hand. "Take him up and change him, sweetheart."
The young man's scowl deepened to a hateful frown. "I'm not a house elf."
He might have continued griping if Lucius hadn't sent him a smoldering look that could burn skin if it contacted for too long. In a low, eerily calm voice he drawled, "Your mother told you to do something, Draco. I suggest you do it."
Draco wheeled and stomped out, crashing his feet hard on each step of the staircase even though he was fairly certain they couldn't hear and appreciate his tantrum from the main sitting room. In the crook of his arm he carried his infant brother, scarcely ten days old. He glared down at the child, who flashed a toothless grin up at him.
"It's easy for you to smile, brat. Everyone waits on you hand and foot," growled Draco. So what if he'd received the same treatment as a baby, that was different—he was the heir!
Ladon cooed and thrashed his limbs, then shoved a teensy fist in his mouth to suck noisily on it. Draco carried him into the nursery, laid him on the changing table, and with a flick of his wand the miniature grey robes identical to Lucius' lay in a heap on the floor. Holding his breath he carefully removed the pins from the diaper, then wiped off as much of the mess as he could with it before dropping it into the bucket beside the table.
"Gross little urchin," he muttered. Tempted as he was to use magic to clean the nastiness, he honestly didn't want to harm the boy, and the doctor had warned against using too much magic on babies—the younger they were, the more ill effect could build up, and being premature exacerbated that likelihood.
He conjured a wet rag to wash Ladon's bottom, forgetting for a second the boy's predisposition to—there it went! While Draco held Ladon's feet together in his left hand raising his bum off the table, the child let loose a stream of urine that dripped all over the tot and surrounding territory. Draco let out a groan. They should be downstairs by now. Damn it all to hell, now he'd have to bathe the scheming brat!
He finished up wiping the baby's rear, then wrapped him in a blanket to carry him into the adjoining bathroom, careful not to get any pee on himself. Across the sink basin was the infant bath where he placed Ladon; quickly he ran the water until it was just warm and hurriedly poured cupfuls over the boy in a perfunctory bath that would have to suffice. Ladon laughed deep in his belly with each cup of water drenching over him, making him look like a drowned rat. Draco had just lifted him up bundled in a towel when Lucius showed up at the door with an incredulous expression on his face.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" Lucius barked, making Ladon whimper and start to bawl. In three strides he was across the floor, snatching his baby away from Draco.
"I—he peed—I was just washing him," Draco stammered. Had his father actually thought he'd been trying to hurt Ladon? No, that was too ridiculous to contemplate.
He followed his father into the nursery and watched him expertly pin up a clean nappy and dress the squirming child. Evidently he'd had more practice on Draco as an infant than he cared to admit. Then he lifted Ladon into one arm, cradled to his chest. "Let's go, your mother is waiting," he said curtly.
Try as he might, Draco couldn't dispel the feeling that Lucius was angry with him, and the notion made his own blood boil. He'd done nothing improper, he'd been helping! Traipsing along at his father's heels, it occurred to him (not for the first time) that maybe the man loved Ladon more than he loved Draco, that's why he was so protective of him. Aside from the obvious ache it caused his heart, it made him fear for his future….if that were the case, what if Lucius decided to appoint his second son as heir? Could he do that?
They were descending the stairs when Draco ventured, "I didn't do anything wrong."
"Did I say you did?" returned Lucius without even looking back at him. He headed into the sitting room where Narcissa plucked Ladon from her husband to smooth out his now dripping wet blond down clinging to his skull.
"No, you barely speak two words to me anymore," retorted Draco. In an almost insolent manner he demanded, "I'm still the heir, aren't I? Or have I been replaced?" There, the question was out in the open.
Lucius' grey eyes pierced his older son. "You're co-heir with your brother."
"That's not fair! I was born first!" burst out Draco before he could stop himself.
When Lucius took a step in his direction with his eyes blazing wrath, Draco instinctively backed up and threw an arm up over his face for protection. The man bellowed, "He's your brother! I won't have him living in the street!"
The harsh tone had again frightened the infant, who began shrieking, which drowned out any reply Draco may have been foolish enough to make. While jiggling the baby up and down and rocking him to soothe him, Narcissa shot daggers at both of the men. In an icy calm tone that dared anyone to defy her she said, "Lucius, you are upsetting the baby. Draco, your father and I love you and Ladon equally. This is not the time for such ludicrous arguments, we have guests coming."
Still Lucius wouldn't let it go, though he lowered his tone to a seethe. "If my older brother had lived, he would have been the heir. Do you believe your grandfather would have left me destitute?"
"No, sir," murmured Draco, bowing his head. "I didn't mean you shouldn't give him anything, I…" He shrugged, unable to finish what he was saying.
"I can do no less for one son of mine than for the other," answered Lucius, his anger drained away. He motioned Draco over and put an arm around his shoulders. "You will inherit the mansion and land here, Ladon will have his pick of other properties. The money will be evenly distributed."
"Master Malfoy, your guests is here," squeaked the new elf whose name he couldn't remember. Some herb…Chamomile? Sarsaparilla?
"Thank you, Echinacea. Show them in."
The elf tilted her head and gave him an odd look—odd even for an elf. A house elf does not correct its master, that was one of the rules…but her name was Cinchona. How could she be sure he was speaking to her? But there was no other elf in the room, so it must be her. But that wasn't her name…..
"Now, Peppermint," Lucius ordered.
The elf scuttled out like her pillowcase was on fire.
"I believe her name is Cinchona, dear," said Narcissa, smirking.
Lucius didn't respond, he was too busy gaping at the woman flouncing through the door. He snapped his jaw closed while glaring fiercely.
Rita Skeeter bounced jauntily into the room beside Theodore Nott, the latter carrying a camera. "Hello, Malfoy family! Thank you so much for allowing us into your grand, gorgeous home."
Lucius turned to Narcissa with a question in his eyes, his lips pinched so tight he couldn't have asked it if he tried. She shrugged and smiled coyly. "Sorry, love. I guess I forgot to tell you who Theo's mentor was. Nonetheless, our beautiful Ladon's picture must be circulated or we'll have people hounding us everywhere we go." She looked down at the baby, tracing lines along his cheeks and chin, cooing lovingly to him, "Isn't that right, precious?"
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How Lucius managed to get through the interview without betraying his loathing of Rita Skeeter was a mystery…or a tribute to exceptional breeding. He played his part of the perfect, charming host to the hilt, every so often squeezing Narcissa's hand and shooting glances at Draco as if to make sure the boy didn't reveal anything he ought not. Draco caught the looks and winced, insulted and chagrined at once. So he'd blabbed to Daphne and Pansy about Jacinta's true father—it wasn't like he planned to do something like that again, he had a brain!
"Mr. Malfoy, could I get a picture of you holding little Ladon?" In a surprising display of strength, Rita reached around with one hand and tugged Theo right out of his seat and over to get the picture. "The adorable tyke looks so very like you," she gushed, tilting her head and crinkling her nose at the baby, who stared at her with wide, round eyes and trembling lips.
"I rather think he favors his mother," drawled Lucius, cuddling the baby to him. It was so difficult to concentrate on being annoyed when he gazed at the cherished child.
Theo took the photo just as Ladon yawned, his father smiling down at him.
"Captivating!" Rita squealed. With a wink she said, "One might think you've been training the boy already."
Draco rolled his eyes and slumped down until his buttocks neared the edge of the sofa and his long legs jutted out like gangly spider legs. "Show-off brat," he muttered under his breath.
"What's that, Draco?" asked Rita. Her new magic quill was dutifully scribbling down every word, complete with embellishments.
"Uh—Brax," he grunted, shoving himself into a more dignified posture, his cheeks pink. Notably he avoided eye contact with his dismayed parents. "It's my nickname for Ladon—you know, from Abraxas."
"Oh, how sweet," chirped Skeeter. "Make sure to get that down," she instructed the quill. "Paying honor to his grandfather like a true Malfoy."
Inwardly Draco groaned. Now he'd either have to face his parents' ire when Skeeter finally hauled her nosy arse out, or stick to his story and start calling the baby 'Brax'. Not a hard choice, really. And grandfather had been called 'Brax' by grandmother; it was a nice nickname, and it sure beat listening to a lecture on respecting his brother who, if one drew inferences from his parents' actions, was an angel incarnate. That decided it: Brax it was….in public, at any rate. In private he was still a vexing little brat.
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Nearly midnight, a time when the only ones afoot at Hogwarts were ghosts and teachers on the prowl for dangers or wayward students: it was inevitable for certain individuals to meet eventually in the deathly silent corridors. Inevitable, not hoped for.
"Professor Snape!" rang out and echoed down the hallway, followed by the pounding of trainers on the stone floor, accompanied by a bobbing light on the end of a wand.
"Mr. Potter!" hissed the Headmaster when the young man was close enough to throttle. "Do refrain from screaming. If I were intent on trying to raise the dead, I'm sure a potion would be more appropriate."
Harry grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I've just had a hard time tracking you down alone."
"Really?" Snape sulked, disgusted with himself for not fleeing the moment he saw that scarred head bob into view. "What do you want?"
"It's about Hermione. Haven't you noticed she seems to be avoiding you since the new semester began?"
Snape's lips curled into a sneer-laced smile. "Is she? I'll have to remember to thank her, and perhaps even do the dance of joy when I return to my quarters."
Harry ignored the sarcasm. He understood it was Snape's way of coping with relationships; he felt sorry for the poor guy. Now that he was no longer a student he could view things from another perspective, and thus felt a far greater sympathy for the man's position. "Do you know what's got into her?"
"Mr. Potter, if I cared—which, rest assured, I do not—I might exert the minutest effort of straining my brain to determine why Miss Granger does anything that she does. If you're insinuating in your oh-so-subtle-Gryffindor-hammer-to-the-head manner that I have somehow provoked Miss Granger's peculiar behavior, I categorically deny having drugged or hexed the witch." Under his breath Severus added, "Not that I am averse to either one."
"I'm not suggesting you've done anything like that," sputtered Harry. "I thought, you know, maybe you could talk to her."
Severus cocked his head, eyebrows dipping. How on God's green Earth had Potter taken it into that brainless cavity atop his neck that Snape had any interest whatsoever in speaking to Granger for any purpose, let alone to ascertain her state of mind regarding personal issues? "Potter, have you been dipping into Minerva's brandy store? When, to your knowledge, have I made a practice of counseling teachers?" He spat out the word 'counseling' as if it were venom.
"Never," admitted Harry, hanging his head. "But since you mentioned Professor McGonagall…she's the one who said she thought Hermione, er, had a fleeting crush on you and that she's embarrassed about it now."
"How ludicrous!" Severus snapped, breaking into a cold sweat. He'd thought that topic was laid to rest! "If Miss Granger respects my intellect and expertise, it's only natural. She's bright enough to discern it's grotesque to even consider anything more than that between us! Not to mention she's dating that Weasley, is she not?"
"Yeah, she and Ron get on real well."
"There—problem solved! If it's all the same to you, I'd like to finish patrolling the halls and go to bed." The expression on his face promised a swift but painful death to anyone insisting on continuing this thread of discussion.
"Yeah, I'm sure she's over it—the crush I mean," Harry concurred, backing off. "Goodnight, Professor."
Snape grunted something to the effect that it would have been a better night had he not been accosted by a dimwit on a mission, spun on his heel with robes billowing furiously, and stalked away gathering speed as he went. Never know when the idiot Potter might try to chase him down.
That could have gone better. At least Harry gleaned that Snape had no interest in Hermione—as if he'd ever entertained the notion—and sure, once Hermione got over her girlish embarrassment at having liked the Bat of the Dungeons, all would be normal again. Meanwhile he shrugged and started off in the opposite direction, rounded the corner next to the library, and stuck his head inside. At this time of night he'd have been astounded to find students studying, and all did indeed seem quiet…at first glance. Then he heard the sound of a book striking the floor with more force than seemed probable from a simple fall from a table or shelf.
Harry went inside, wand at ready, head swiveling left and right; there didn't appear to be anyone here. He'd given it up for one of the poltergeist's tricks until he heard a sob from the back of the room—the Restricted Section. Moving forward cautiously, he was able to make out a dim light coming from that location.
Slowly, silently he treaded ahead through the open gate and into the second row where a lantern hung magically in the air over a boy sitting on the floor, eyes closed, surrounded by stacks of books that had obviously come from the empty shelf in front of him. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he repeatedly banged his head in a rhythm on the wooden shelf behind him in a frenzy of despair accompanied by the rasping phrase scearu peine over and over. Harry couldn't tell if it was a curse, a charm, or simply Bulgarian.
"Bayly, are you alright?"
The boy started with a yelp of surprise as he automatically scuttled out of reach, wiping an arm across his tearstained face and slipping his wand into his hand. It took a few seconds for his senses to process who had spoken and to assure himself that Professor Potter posed no danger to him. He lowered the wand, his heart beating frantically.
"I'm sorry, I'll clean this up." Immediately he picked up a book and placed it in its spot.
"Bayly, stop." Harry waited for the student to comply. "What's wrong?"
Still facing the shelf, too ashamed to look at Harry, Bayly replied, "Did Hagrid tell you I was here? He gave me permission."
"No one told me." It didn't pass his attention that the lad assiduously avoided answering any questions concerning his well being. With his sneaker Harry nudged at a book, turning it to read the title. Ancient Dark Spells. Not exactly a comic book, was it? "What are you looking for?"
"It doesn't matter, it's not here." The last word caught in his throat and he choked back another sob. It was hopeless, he'd never find a way to be free of the damnable curse! Dolohov had probably invented it himself, surely no hope existed now that he was dead!
"If you tell me, I might be able to help," coaxed Harry.
"Nobody can help me," whispered Bayly. He picked up a book and placed it on the shelf beside the other one, then reached for another. "Thank you for your concern," he added stiffly, his jaw so tight it physically hurt.
"When you're finished, get on to bed," said Harry. Half an eternity passed while Harry stood staring helplessly at the emotional wreck in front of him, his heart aching for Bayly. Time would help to heal the wounds inflicted by his father, but meanwhile he suffered terribly. He wondered if professor Snape knew the meaning of that strange phrase, so guttural and ghastly sounding it sent shivers up his spine to think of it. He dared not disturb Snape again tonight; maybe tomorrow would be better.
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January 26, 1999
Lucius opened the morning edition of the Daily Prophet with more than a dash of trepidation. Despite his veiled threats delivered through bright smiles, that Skeeter bitch may have written any number of asinine or slanderous things about the family. With any luck the pictures had turned out well.
He'd expected to see an article about the Malfoys; what he saw made his jaw drop for the second time in two days as he blinked back his shock. On the front page was a photo of Udo Nott splayed out in the snow, eyes wide open, accompanied by the headline:
Elusive Death Eater Found Executed
The news left him shaken as he skimmed over the article. There was no reference to the Lestranges, and the killing had taken place near Hogsmeade. What was Nott even doing there? His family would be devastated…his son Theo had been the one taking pictures of the Malfoys only yesterday.
He barely comprehended the other headline further down the page:
Prominent Guinness Family of Ireland Robbed and Murdered, No Suspects
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Guilt. Rarely had Rodolphus experienced guilt over anyone he killed, but this was different. This affected people he cared about. At first all he'd worried about was keeping Rabby from finding out what he'd done to Varden, especially in light of the newspaper he'd sneaked in from town under cover of a glamour charm. Now it occurred to him how awful this would be for Nott, who lived for the visits from his family.
When he returned to the house to see Nott excited over his impending visit with his wife, that nasty emotion had kicked in, making his stomach churn. He pulled the man outside for a 'walk', and when he was sure Rabastan was out of earshot he said bluntly, "I don't think Fidelia will be coming today, Nott."
"Why not?"
"Because she thinks you're dead." Rodolphus thrust the newspaper into Nott's hands.
The other wizard gaped in disbelief as he read the article thoroughly, including the part detailing the surviving wife Fidelia and his four children. "I—I don't understand. How can this be?"
Rodolphus took him by the shoulder in a brotherly way while he explained how he'd carried out the murder of Varden, the potion, the pretending to be Varden and leaving. All to which Nott howled, "Why did you do that? Why would you murder our benefactor?"
"I did it for you, ingrate!" huffed Rodolphus.
"You killed Varden for me?"
"Well, no—not that part," Rodolphus amended. "I made him look like you and put your ring on his finger so the authorities would declare you dead. Now you won't be hunted, you can be with your wife and kids."
"Except I still look like me," snarled Nott. "If they saw me, they'd get suspicious. And you stole my ring?"
"I had to, that clinched the identity. And you could grow a beard." Roddy crossed his arms. Really, the ingratitude abounded!
"But why, Rodolphus? I thought you loved your uncle, and Rabastan—"
"Shut up! Just shut up, you don't know anything about it!" barked the other heatedly, panting, rage emanating form every pore. "I did it because of Rabastan, what Varden did to him."
There was a brief pause while Nott considered if he'd witnessed Varden do anything to Rabastan. He had not. Even so, it wasn't wise to push a Lestrange too far when they got in a mood. "Rabastan can take care of himself."
"Now, yes," agreed the other, his face set in a grim mockery of a smile. "When Varden molested him he was only a boy about your son's age." With satisfaction he noticed the horror and disgust cross the man's face. "What would you do if you found out somebody molested Theo?"
It was evidently rhetorical, they both knew the answer to that. "Did Rabastan ask you to kill him?"
"No, he doesn't even know I overheard them talking, which is how I discovered what happened. And you can't tell him!" Rodolphus gauged his friend; Nott wouldn't tell, he could keep his mouth shut. "After your funeral, maybe you can move your family up here." Unspoken were the words Varden can't stop you now.
All of a sudden it hit Udo like a kick to the stomach and he dropped onto one knee feeling weak and ill. Fidelia thought he was dead, his children thought he was dead! They'd be suffering because of him. "I have to go tell my wife the truth."
Roddy restrained him with a strong grip on his bicep. "No, not yet. Their grief at your funeral has to be genuine," said the wizard quietly. "After that, no one will notice a well-wisher visiting the house and you can explain everything. I know it's hard and it hurts, but you have to wait a few days, for your family's sake. If you ever want a real life again, you have to trust me on this."
Nott resisted the urge to scream and roar at the man, fists flying. He knew he wasn't as smart as a lot of people, that didn't bother him; but it often came as a shock to others how dumb he was not. Even with as terrible as he felt right now, he saw that Roddy was right. As painful as it was, this could be the start of a new life for him, for his loved ones. For the sake of that, he would wait. For his family, he would do anything.