Author's note: I may have rushed the introduction of the shinigami in this tale, but what's done is done, and I don't feel like going back and changing things around, or beginning anew.
Chapter two
Theodore spun around and stood face to face with a ghastly, nightmarish figure clad in what looked like a well-worn burial shroud; it was the size of a human, but impossibly gaunt and malnourished, with unnaturally long, bony and thin limbs. The hands ended in fingers with claw-like nails. The skeletal face was a bone-white death-mask with deeply sunken eyes that seemed to shine like a cat's when the light hit them just right. The mouth was unnaturally wide, and the dead, blackened lips were curled back in a mocking rictus-grin, exposing the inhuman teeth. An unnaturally long red tongue licked the sharp, broken teeth.
The figure seemed morbidly, though genuinely, amused by Theodore's horrified reaction, and a let out a low chuckle that sounded more like a death-rattle than laughter.
Theodore drew his wand and pointed it at the stranger, trying to keep his hand from trembling.
"Don't do that," the figure warned him in a hoarse, raspy voice that sounded like it came from a great distance, as it slowly wagged a long, bony finger before him.
The thestrals were similarly ghoulish, as were the long-dead, bloated cadavers he had seen submerged in liquids down in the dungeons; but while these had been unsettling at first, the latter were truly dead while this thing longed like it ought to be dead, yet moved and spoke. It was a mocking caricature of the human body, morbidly twisted and distorted beyond anything he had seen before. "I'm Morgo," the stranger introduced himself, and the mouth twitched in a macabre grimace, likely intended to be a grin. "That notebook you found is mine," he explained, when Theodore was too shocked and taken aback to reply with anything coherent.
"And now you've come to take it back," Theodore reasoned, his voice surprisingly steady.
"Not at all, I only want to see what you'll do with it. It's one of our only sources of amusement these days," Morgo sighed, and leaned against the wall.
"There are more of you?"
"Not on this plain," came the reply.
Now what the hell did that mean? But before Theodore could think of anything else the door opened and Blaise entered. Theodore stood frozen in shock and fear. Shit!
"There you are," Blaise greeted casually, walking over to the mirror, not paying any attention to the ghoulish figure casually leaning against the wall nearby. Blaise pulled out a comb from his pocket and made some last-minute adjustments to his carefully coiffed hair, making sure not a single strand of hair was out of place.
"Only someone who has touched that Death Note can see or hear me," Morgo explained, shrugging his shoulders, when he saw Theodore's shocked expression and silence.
"You alright, mate? You look like you've seen a ghost," Blaise commented, looking at him via the mirror before him. "We see ghosts all the time," Theodore noted simply. Blaise rolled his eyes at him. "It's a figure of speech," he clarified, before running his tongue over his perfectly white teeth.
When Theodore remained silent, or rather speechless, Blaise pocketed his comb and turned to face him. "You look like death… You sure you're OK?" Blaise looked at his friend with genuine concern in his voice and eyes. Theodore turned his head to look at his reflection and caught his and Blaise's reflections, as well as the horrific figure only he could detect. It was truly bizarre to see this ghastly figure defying gravity as it moved up the bathroom wall effortlessly and with a strange sense of grace, like a ballet dancer, whilst Blaise was completely unaware.
"Here, I think you could do with some of this," Blaise suggested, offering him his silver hip flask. "It's eight in the morning," Theodore stated, but that didn't stop him from accepting the flask. "Yeah, but we've got a double classes of magical history coming up," Blaise defended, turning his attention to straightening out his immaculate uniform. "Touché!" Theodore acknowledged, taking a sip of the firewhisky. "Yeah, that's the stuff," he grunted, striking a grimace as he handed the flask back. Blaise chuckled and took a solid sip himself.
They left for class as time was running out, and as they walked down the hallways to class next to Blaise that silent thing – a Shinigami – followed behind them. He had half expected people he passed to react and withdraw in horror at the macabre sight, but true to Morgo's claim no one seemed to notice the ghastly figure following them like the grim reaper himself.
They arrived just in time, as the others were shuffling into Professor Binns' class. Theodore took his usual seat in the back and quickly pulled out his books. Behind the cover of his text book he scribbled in his notebook to communicate with Morgo during class. 'Is there any way to detect you?' he jotted down. Morgo leaned in to read it, squinting his eyes, trying to make sense of Theodore's handwriting. "No, the magic in this world cannot affect or detect a shinigami," Shinigami? "A death god," Morgo clarified, when he saw Theodore's brows kitting together in confusion and curiosity. What the hell was he getting himself into? He would have to look into this Shinigami thing later. There could potentially be something written about them in magical literature, though he had never heard the term before. How strange… Could there be more things like these death gods that the magical world had no knowledge of? Having grown up in a pureblood family, and with everyday access to a massive library, he thought it strange, fascinating and a little unsettling that there could be sentient, powerful otherworldly, or other-dimensional beings here on earth, able to interact with humans, and apparently playing some key part in peoples lives without them knowing.
He would have to cross-examine Morgo later on; so many questions and sinister implications! The term "death god" seemed to imply some religious significance… Were there any repercussions, other than, perhaps, moral qualms and trauma for writing names in the book? Had he already doomed himself by writing Shacklebolt's name?
He looked around the classroom – half-bloods and mudbloods… someone would have to stop this influx of these mixedbloods into the wizarding world. Voldemort was a raving madman on a quest for power – he was dangerous, and only out for himself. Not to mention the fact that the self-styled Dark Lord was himself a half-blood! Theodore was the last heir of the ancient Nott family – a true pureblood descendant. Why should he allow some violent half-blood moron to terrorise the wizarding world and cause untold deaths in his quest for power? Now, in his bookbag he had a tool that could change everything, and the ideas he had for the wizarding world and the survival of witches and wizards living in harmony, away from the tainted blood of muggles was within his reach. If only he would take it upon himself to do it – noblesse oblige.
As soon as lunch break began he excused himself and led Morgo to the library. He needed to have a tête-à-tête with the Shinigami, and the library would undoubtedly be empty during lunch break. The only other regular there during lunch break might be a few Ravenclaws and the Gryffindor golden girl. Over the years they had developed a sort of silent agreement and understanding in how they worked; they had never spoken to one another in the course of all the years, but worked diligently and in a comfortable silence, with neither feeling the need to break the invisible, unspoken barriers between them – there was a class barrier, as well as the difference in blood status.
He greeted Madam Pince genuinely and with a smile. They had always been on friendly terms, and he felt a genuine respect for her strict but fair persona. He had been introduced to her at a young age, before Hogwarts, and over the years a strange sort of semi-friendship had developed. She'd give him suggestions and advice on books, and he'd give her his thoughts on the book afterwards, always handling any book with great care.
After exchanging some more pleasantries and returning a volume on ancient Slavic paganism and shamanic practices, he headed for his usual spot; a secluded and private study area in one of the least frequented areas of the massive library section, almost a sort of large alcove nestled between the large bookshelves that went from floor to ceiling and formed an almost labyrinthine and disorienting maze of dim walkways and other study areas. A sturdy table with four chairs and green-glassed lamps, and by the nearby stained-glass window, two deep armchairs with a small coffee-table between them.
Theodore had taken an interest in genealogy since he was a young boy, studying the old family tree at home, the copious notes his ancestors and relatives had made, and the publication titled 'The Sacred Twenty-Eight'. In his third year he had found out that the self-styled Dark Lord was a half-blood! His father would never talk about Riddle's ancestry. It was total taboo among his followers who knew or suspected. And it was to this dangerous, violent and power-hungry madman that his father had sworn allegiance. Bellatrix Black/Lestrange was obviously insane after spending years in Azkaban; certainly not someone who should be given any kind of leadership over anyone, or make any important decisions. The list of Death Eaters' who ought to be removed from any kind of position of power was long and sad.
One of his uncles had been killed during Voldemort's first attempt to claim power, other relatives had been arrested and suffered greatly for their loyalty to him. The thought that his ancient family, and other pureblood families, could die out with him was abhorrent and ghastly to him. And with this half-blood madman in charge things looked bleak.
Morgo hovered behind him, squinting at the books, then stifling a yawn. "Not much of a reader?" Theodore finally spoke up, feeling safe now that they were deep in the library. Morgo grinned at him. "The books on this mortal plain hold no secrets to a Shinigami."
"Is that so?" he found this repellent-looking figure more and more interesting, and the prospect of learning any of its otherworldly knowledge was incredibly appealing to him. "How old are you?" he quickly followed up with, taking in the morbid appearance of this figure. Morgo squinted slightly, then pretended to count on his fingers. "Time holds no sway over Shingami," he chuckled darkly. "The concept of time is strange and alien to beings in our plain of existence," he went on, walking over to the window and gazing out at the surroundings with his dead stare.
"Are there any repercussions to using the book?" Theodore sat down in one of the two armchairs and put his bookbag on top of the coffee-table. Morgo turned to face him and pretended to think about it very carefully before he replied. "None that I can think of."
"Unless you are referring to the not unsubstantial risk of being found out, or losing your soul, or suffering moral dilemmas," Morgo quickly added, listing off any "drawback" he could think of. "But no divine punishment?" Theodore pressed, brushing away any idea that regret or moral qualms would be of any concern to him. Morgo cocked his head to one side, as if the very idea was weird to him. "No. Knock yourself out," he finally answered sitting down cross-legged in the window-sill, facing the room. "Just follow the rules I have been so graceful to write down in the book and try not to get caught. I'd hate to see you mess it up, making my visit pointless and boring," Morgo said, stretching his abnormally long, thin limbs, causing a nauseating cracking sound, as he stifled another yawn.
Theodore leaned back in the chair, pressing the fingertips together as he processed all the information and impressions brought on by the book and the visitation by this eldritch abomination sitting close to him. "This is a remarkable opportunity," Theodore commented, trying his best to reel himself in and remain level-headed. The responsibility was great than anything else he could imagine in the history of the magical – and non-magical world. Here he had a chance to set things right – change the course of history from the death spiral they were hopelessly trapped in. "Your kind is an interesting lot," Morgo grinned with something akin to admiration in his tone and dead eyes, as he rested his chin on his hands and watched Theodore with morbid interest. "Likewise," Theodore responded, taking in the figure with great interest and increasingly less disgust.
The peaceful moment was shattered and Theodore flinched at the sudden, unexpected sound of someone approaching. Hermione Granger appeared, looking confused and curious as she took in the scene, carrying her well-filled bookbag. "Am I interrupting something? I heard talking…" she had stopped by the large study-table, but seemed unsure if she should stay or find somewhere else to sit. Like Theodore she craved solitude from the more boisterous students and was often the only other student occupying this silent study area of the library, and one of the very few students he tolerated the presence of.
"I was talking to myself," Theodore explained with a shrug, trying to keep the sound of his racing heart from betraying him. What had she heard? Apparently she had just arrived, and he hoped the bookshelves had obscured what he had said. "It's the only way to get an intelligent conversation around here," he added jokingly, and Morgo's hoarse chuckling came from his right, as he watched the scene playing out before him with. Theodore didn't care if the mudblood swot thought he was eccentric, and it was preferable to her becoming suspicious if he played dumb or denied having heard anything. Hermione let out a laugh, and there was a smile playing on her lips. "I can relate to that," she said as she took her seat by the study table. "Not interested in arguing about Quidditch teams or broom brands ad nauseam I take it?" he inquired with a raised eyebrow, knowing from experience how tiresome those topics were. Hermione made a face. "If I have to listen to yet another hours-long argument on any of those topics I am going to check in at St. Mungo," she stated with honest distaste for Quidditch and flying evident in her voice and look.
Theodore was struck by how normally their interaction felt. Over the years they had never felt the need to converse, and the most they had spoken whilst spending time in each other vicinity in the library had been short questions and replies – "Can I borrow that book for a moment, please?", and perhaps an affirmative "Go ahead,". They had managed to be civil and act like adults. House rivalries and politics had thankfully not affected their ability to share a study section on occasion, and it felt natural, not like they were stepping on eggshells around each other, as so often happened when unfamiliar students from different Houses had to interact with each other.
It was a shame that they were on opposite sides – she was rather resourceful, but much too irrational and driven by her emotions, and too blunt in the way she went about things. She lacked the cunning and cleverness of a Slytherin, not to mention the reverence for ancient wizarding customs and society. Like all purebloods Theodore had been brought up to view these as integral to being a wizard. She had been an outsider till she got her letter of acceptance, and the centuries old traditions that had shaped the society they lived in did not hold the same place in her heart.
He sat there tapping his fountain pen against the desk as he mulled this over in the comfortable, only broken by the strangely pleasant sound of Hermione's quill scratching against the paper as she took copious notes from the books she had brought. Unlike most others in the wizarding world he preferred fountain pens to quills; in certain regards he could agree that the magical community was hampered by their own traditions when it comes to sticking to hopelessly archaic equipment.
With the bushy-haired Gryffindor now seated close by he could not continue the conversation with Morgo, and turned his attention to his bookbag. He pulled out his commonplace book, a pocket-sized leather-bound notebook bearing the Nott family's crest embossed on the front – a grinning death's head and a crescent moon. The leather was smooth and worn to the touch. Inside, on the inner cover a note written by his parents, dedicating this book to him on occasion on having received his acceptance letter. On the following pages began his own handwriting, which was by no means legible; indeed, at times it was virtually a foreign language. Hastily scribbled notes, quotes, sketches and lists of names and dates, hastily drawn-up ahnentafels and family trees, as he had set out to continue his family's passion for genealogy of wizarding families.
He had long been interested in the genealogy of fibs and mudbloods, suspecting that all witches and wizards in Europe could trace their ancestry back to a shared ancestor – the original forefather, or foremother, from which everyone who were gifted with magical blood now descended. All evidence seemed to suggest that mudbloods were an atavism – the reappearance of the ancestral trait of magic in their bloodline after being dormant and missing for several generations.
What was to be done regarding the Mudblood Question? The situation was not as obvious as Voldemort claimed, and eradicating every mudblood in school and the wizarding world was not one he could carry out. Most of them were after all innocents in this, and ought to be pitied, rather than vilified. A marriage law forbidding unions between purebloods and mudbloods was the obvious and logical choice. The problem with mudbloods was not so much their blood, which could be saved by marriage to other mudbloods and eventually to half-bloods and even purebloods after some generations, but their persistent and antagonistic culture-tradition; they continued to cling to their non-magical views, and that could not do as it would infect the wizarding world. Muggles represented a vastly inferior biological variant, and could under no circumstances could anyone with an ounce of magical blood be permitted to mix with them, lest they give up all claim to belong to the wizarding world.
He pulled out a textbook and the Death Note from his bag, and hiding the Death Note inside the opened textbook opened it on the first page. He paused for a moment, his pen not touching the paper. "Having second thoughts?" Morgo's hoarse cackling edged him on.
'Albus Dumbledore'
'Tom Marvolo Riddle'