Theo Nott and never been scared of the dark. He knew most children were scared of it at one point in their life, especially Muggle children, but he had never been counted among them. The darkness offered places to hide with no strings attached, it enveloped you be sure that was simply it's purpose, a by-product of it's existence. Sometimes he used to sit in yeh dark for hours, wondering if his after would notice his absence, as if they were playing Hide and Seek and Theo was biding his time until he could make a spectacular entrance in triumph. But his father never came looking for him, didn't realize Theo existed half the time. Which was better.
It was when he did notice him that Theo would wish he could go back to hiding.
Even if he was alone in the dark, it was infinitely better than to see what his after had done in his spare time.
The wizard was gone, yet Theo could swear that he felt him in every corner of the house, in every creak of the stairs and dust-riddled fold of the drapes. He was eighteen, the last surviving Nott, even though he probably had some distant cousins or something still crawling about somewhere. But as of yet, no one had come to claim the house.
He didn't know what he would do if someone wanted it. Yes, he would be glad to see the back of this place, yet at the same time it was the only home he had ever known outside of Hogwarts. His mother has picked those curtains, the chairs in the dining hall and the impossibly grand sofa in the living room. He knew his father had raged at the time, saying that it was his house and she couldn't go around changing things in it without his permission. She'd just told him that she wouldn't live in a house that looked like it belonged in a haunted house catalog or some gothic romance novel. He'd loved her, so he let it go.
That was the thing Theo couldn't wrap his dad around: his father had loved his mother. Deeply. The kind of love you read about but don't believe could possibly exist in real life. He'd loved her, yet he had killed her. Then again 'Each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard,' or whatever the line was. He'd heard Draco say it, so it must be true.
Theo couldn't imagine loving someone like that. Or maybe there was just a fine line between love and obsession, in thinking you needed someone and thinking you owned them.
Theo put his hands in his pockets, surveying the Christmas tree he'd got.
He hadn't had a tree since his mother died.
He could still remember her putting up the decorations, wrapping presents and making cookies with him -she'd always let him have an extra one- and simply being together. He knew it wasn't what other Pureblood families did, that Christmas was usually a quiet and reserved occasion that was now about having an excuse to throw another party than to be Merry with family, but his mother had been different. She'd still been Lady Nott, yes, but she'd been his mother first, wife second. Maybe his father had resented that. Maybe that why he'd killed her, because she loved her son like a human being and not something to be sold off at a later date. Maybe.
But he would never know, and perhaps he was better off that way.
Yet he still wanted to honour her memory and all she had given him when she had been alive, so he'd gotten this tree and put up some fairy lights. It looked fine, but the house still felt empty, with only him in it. He'd gotten rid of the House Elves, not wanting to keep those that were still loyal to his father and practically enslaving those who weren't.
It was just him and his thoughts and his ghosts, as it should be. As it would always be.
Or he could go to the Malfoy's.
Draco had invited him several days ago, and he'd declined, insisting that he would be fine, that he had plans.
Theo did not have plans.
Perhaps he should have taken him up on his offer.
But could he really stand it, sitting around the table with them, eating Christmas dinner and playing Quidditch with Draco like they had done when they were younger, feeling like an interloper, an intruder, looking in in their private happiness?
Not only this, but rumour has it that Hermione Granger had been whisked off to stay with them after the fiasco at the Ball. He liked her enough, and he knew Draco was completely taken by her, but he didn't know if he wanted to be watching their particular brand of chaotic drama/flirting.
Honestly, the sooner those two admitted their attraction for each other, they better. It had been less painful to watch Voldemort try to talk Harry Potter to death than watch those two dance around each other like this.
But he supposed he couldn't blame them.
Draco was about as open with his feelings as a cantaloupe and Hermione Granger was as tight-lipped as any Gringotts goblin when it came to their sacred treasure. Everyone had scars, and no one wanted to get hurt again, Theo included. He didn't want to spend time with Draco only because he had no one else to see, didn't want Blaise to keep sniffing around him like a dog waiting for crumbs to drop on the floor. All this fuss, all this fuss over one witch. The Brightest Witch of Their Age, addmittedly, but just as witch nonetheless.
Maybe one day, Theo could be happy again, could walk these halls without feeling them press in on him, could laugh with his friend and the laugh be whole-heartedly genuine. Maybe one day he'd find peace and love and all the good and bright things in the world.
But until then, he'd put up these decorations to honour his mother and the happy years they'd had together. He'd open the presents he had and do the homework and think about what he wanted to do with his life, all the while finding comfort in the shadows.
Blaise Zabini prided himself about many things: for one, his impeccable sense if style, his effervescent charm and his dazzling smile and ability to sweet talk anyone. But most of all, he prided himself in his composure, his ability to hold his emotions in check and keeping others from observing them.
But honestly, he swore to Merlin, if his mother's new husband didn't stop going on about different types of rocks and dirt, he might very well smash his mother's very fine china teacup that he held in his hand and shove the shards down the wizards throat, just to get some peace and quiet.
It didn't matter: the teacup was ugly anyway. It had dancing ducks on it. Who was under the assumption that ducks liked to dance, Blaise did not know, but should certainly be refrained from decorating teacups worth more than most houses.
Just a thought.
Of course, his mother cooed over them both, her latest conquest and the teacups. Usually his mother had more taste; this must be about money. Supposedly, Mr Archeologist was one of the best in the country. It must have been a very niche field then.
With thinning salt and pepper hair, glasses that would slip down his nose at every inhale, his skin not quite as dark as Blaise's own, the man looked like he belonged hunched over a desk, magnifying glass in hand. But for a man of supposed intellect, he certainly didn't bother to add any dazzle to his take about finding some pottery shards in a hole in Egypt.
All in all, a wonderful Christmas then.
Blaise shouldn't be surprised.
His mother didn't do Christmas. She'd never hidden the fact that she was the one who bought all his presents -and then made the House Elves wrap them- or put up any special decorations like other families, unless it was for The Party. The Party was capitalized for a reason: every year, every Pureblood family of import gathered in his mother's ballroom for her Christmas/New Year's party. It was like a myth, the tales growing ever more fantastical with the passing years. It should, given how many Galleons his mother spent on them.
His mother grew colder at Christmas, and it made Blaise wonder what had caused his mother to adopt such an aloof persona. She hadn't always been like this; Blaise suspected it was something to do with his biological father. He didn't know much about the wizard, only that the two had married young and been very much in love, until the man died, leaving his widow to raise their son alone. Well, she wasn't alone for very young.
By the time he was six, he'd lost count if how many times his mother had remarried, how many times he'd been stuffed into suits and made to carry rings and throw flower petals.
He'd wondered, when he'd been younger and therefore so very naivé, if she was doing it to fill the hole his father's death had left in her heart. But Blaise knew better now: his mother liked the challenge, the conversion, drawing men in slowly until she was all they could see. Then watching them die unexpectedly. Or, right on time, if you thought about it.
But that was all in the past now. Now, he had to watch the endless stream if men that came in and out of their lives, like people on one of those Muggle conveyor belt things, a constant rotation. A carousel of courtship.
Hey, at least Blaise always got free presents out if it.
His mother's simpering laugh broke him out if his thoughts. "Oh, that's so interesting," she said indulgently. "Isn't that interesting, Blaise?" she asked her son, eyes boring into him as if she knew precisely that his thoughts had not been on the conversation.
Blaise set his teacup down, not spilling a drop, as he had been taught to do since before he could walk. "Of course, mother. Archaeology is a most fascinating topic, with multiple decades to cover, it's always incredibly relevant to modern society, to uncover the secrets of the past so that they may better influence our future."
Good save, he thought internally. What marvellous bullshit he could spew.
The new husband smiled at him. "Indeed, my boy, indeed." The man put down his teacup, liquid spilling into the saucer. He saw his mother rein in her grimace. Interesting. "Tell me, Blaise, what are your plans for the future? A wizard as intellectual, well-versed and talented as yourself must have high prospects, of that I have no doubt."
Before he could even open his mouth, his mother jumped in, a shark with a fish in it's mouth, blood dripping into the water. "Blaise is going to work for the Ministry," she said, as if the matter were already settled, written in stone. As if he had no say, which he didn't. "Isn't that right, Blaise."
Blaise gave a close-lipped smile. "Indeed it is, mother."
Mr Archeologist opened his mouth, bit Blaise was saved from answering another tedious question but the insistent tapping of an owl's beak on the french doors of the living room.
His mother set down her teacup, eyes alight as she smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in the skirt of her dress.
She retrieved the letter, sharp gaze flicking over it with hungry interest, brows furrowed with curiosity.
"It's for you, Blaise," she was all she said, handing it to him.
It was small, the cardstock of a heavy and fine quality.
He knew what this was, although he wished that he didn't.
Blaise pocketed it.
"May I be excused," he asked as casually as he could.
His mother's husband smiled. "Of course, son. Just don't be late for dinner; your mother has been slaving away in the kitchen all day and I don't want you to disappoint her."
Blaise refrained from pointing out that he was not his son, and that his mother had in fact not been slaving away as he claimed, but the House Elves in their employ.
Blaise left the room, his mother's gaze a heat boring into his back as he traversed his way to his bedroom.
The curtains were drawn from the morning, so Blaise opened them with a mindless flick of his wand.
He sat heavily in the chair parked by his desk, looking up to find the delivery owl perched outside, black talons a stark contrast to the white marble of the balcony rail.
Blaise practically hurled the envelope at the desk.
He didn't want to open it, but there was no alternative; it's sender had most likely given it instructions to make sure it was opened.
Blaise ran a finger along it's seal, feeling the parchment tear under his ministrations. The card was black, the cursive silver script only stating, 'After Christmas.'
A chill danced along the skin of his spine, and he dropped the note with a violent shudder.
Blaise was starting to have doubts.
What if he wasn't doing the right thing? What if he only made things worse? What if this wasn't what was best for him?
What if, what if, what if?
It was a litany in his brain, a constant since the Charity Ball. When a certain blonde had come up to him, had run circles around him as they talked well into the night, glasses pilling up between them. Until he'd asked her to dance, the two of them the only ones left, and he'd felt something strike in his chest. Like a firework igniting, like a lock fitting into a key after years of abandonment in some dusty and unused drawer. He couldn't say what it was, exactly, only that he felt different in her presence.
She made him think, like no one else ever had.
It unnerved him, yet he didn't want it to stop.
But it wasn't like he could exactly pull out now, could he? Couldn't turn around and say, 'Hi, deepest apologies but I'm starting to have doubts about this crazy scheme that I concocted with your coaching. How about we leave it alone and have a nice Christmas?'
Ha. If only.
No, there was no chance of that. His pride wouldn't allow for any other outcome. He was a Slytherin, and he'd been raised in the value of keeping your word, Unbreakable Vow or not.
So he'd see this though until it's conclusion.
Even if it killed him, even if, sometimes, his thoughts strayed to memories of silvery blonde hair and crazy earrings and bangles that tinkled like chiming bells and that feeling in his chest. He could only wonder about what could have been, if only he was a better man.
Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I'm so sorry that this chapter is late, it was really hard to write and my table crashed so I had to re-set it. But I'm here now! How's everyone doing? Are you excited for summer? It does feel weird, to be writing Christmas chapters in this heat. There's one left to go until we get to other things, but it was important me to cover every group and family, to draw contrasts and make parallels. If you've got the time, I'd love it if you left a review and told me your thoughts.
Until next time.
All my love, Temperance Cain
