Theodore Nott knows there's things he's supposed to do. Rules and expectations and such. And, sure, yeah, he'll do them. One day. Eventually. But it's summer before fourth year and there's books to read and music to listen to and Hufflepuffs to annoy; and while the Death Eaters (namely Selwyn and Pettigrew) are intent on stirring up trouble, Theo and his father are definitely on the same page: war sucks almost as much as evil dark lords demanding unconditional loyalty.
So, no, Theo has no clue why his father was at the Quidditch World Cup, which just so happened to be the scene of an anti-muggle terror attack, and Theo really, truly, has no idea who killed him. His father, that is. Murdered. The audacity.
Anyways, Theo's going to find out. And he's going to make them pay. If he thwarts a war in the process, great.
If only the sodding Hufflepuffs would leave him alone so he could focus, thanks.
A/N: Swearing. Heavy/adult themes (dying, living, purpose, etc), discussions on society and existentialism. Murder. Teen-level romance.
This is an entirely self-indulgent piece where I very slowly rewrite the angstier parts of the Harry Potter series to make them even angstier. Featuring soft Slytherins, poor decision making skills, my attempts at combining magic and forensics, and a whole lot of world building (because I took the potential that is Theo Nott as a character and ran with it). No posting routine (see 'entirely self-indulgent' above). Originally posted on ao3 and updated there first.
The title is a reference to the CCR song. Also, I'm incorrigible, so all chapter titles will reference songs (named in chapter notes at end of chapter).
Theoretically, this is an AU, and, if I ever get that far, it'll make sense why it's different from canon. But you'll just have to humor me until then as I rob canon lore blind and add in my own two-cents. Cheers, folks.
One: Scientists and Atheists and White Men Who Killed God
18 August 1994
Sometimes Nymphadora Tonks hated being an Auror. Not often, mind, but sometimes.
Surrounded by smoke, burning camp ruins, the dead body of one– muggle, wizard, she couldn't be sure, yet– and the pale green glow of the sky, she decided this was one of those times. The epitome of those times, actually.
But, she supposed, wiping a forearm across the sweat of her brow, times like this were rather the point of being an Auror.
"Mad-eye?" she hollered, casting one more glance at the body of the man. "Oi! Moody! Where the fuck are you?" There was movement, people bustling about – a commotion, far off across the field, that's probably where she was supposed to be but she couldn't just leave him – another look at the corpse – and, besides, where had Moody gotten to? She hadn't seen him since– "Moody!"
"Alright, alright, calm yer tits," Alastor grumbled, eye rolling in time with his limp. He emerged from the smoke and the shadows like a rake– was his skin bubbling? Or was that the moonlight corrupted by the glow of the Mark? His movements were almost jerky, unnatural – but the whole uncanniness was fleeting, and her mentor let out a long, low whistle. "Well, hex me balless– is that–"
"Fuck, it must be, huh?"
Was that glee in his eye? No– just the warping of the firelight– because then Moody frowned and said, almost compassionately:
"Someone'll have to tell the boy."
Someone meant Tonks. Blasted gender roles; Tonks didn't think herself comforting in the slightest, though Remus said it came natural to her, and just the thought of that compliment made her cheeks warm. Wildly inappropriate, she thought. She forced a scowl, which wasn't hard, considering. After all, she rather liked Theodore Nott.
And now she'd have to tell him his father was dead.
23 June 1994
Plink.
The Sacred History of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, published allegedly and posthumously by one ornery Cantankerous Nott, begins the family's entry as follows: The Notts, ancient and noble and pure as they may be, are as enigmatic and omnipresent as their namesake the night.
Plink. A rabbit, definitely, a rabbit.
It goes on to declare, They are stewards of truth and knowledge, and seek enlightenment in all things. They are masters of the shadows and keepers of dark secrets, capable of acting with the utmost discretion.
Amadeus grunted - plink - and Theo passed him a tool from the tray.
Silentio vivit virtus.
Most assumed that Cantankerous's inclusion of his family was meant to hide a secret squib ancestor or half-blood lineage somewhere (the Nott family tree was not and never had been publicly accessible, not even in the case of marriage negotiations), but Theodore Nott knew the truth. His great-grandfather had thrown in with the Carrows, and Theo's own father Amadeus had loved a Burke (we don't talk about Michael, Theo's grandfather, but rest assured, he married properly as well, if more by coincidence than intention), and so Theo was (fairly) certain he was as pure-blooded as the other 27 (or so) heirs.
Plink. Plink. A wand. Maybe… the country of Portugal.
No, the secret, Theo knew, was that the Notts were cursed. Somehow, somewhere, somewhen, someway, the Notts had been damned and subjected to the worst fate that could befall such persons of ambivalence and amorality: they knew Love.
That's what Theo was thinking about that evening in his father's workshop, the old man performing a routine autopsy on a witch found cursed and dead in the Forest of Dean. It hadn't been the curse that killed her, but a great fall off some sort of cliff, down a hill perhaps, her body impeded in its descent by great, ancient trees and so Theo held the tin while Amadeus dug fragmented bits of femur and oak out of the muscle of the witch's thigh.
"There we go," muttered Amadeus, extracting another bit far too majestically.
Plink. Okay, that bit of bone was definitely shaped like Snape's nose.
Where was he? Oh, yes, Love.
Most Notts had had the wherewithal to choose and follow Loves that complemented the family's reclusive, sordid nature, but as it was, by the time of Theodore Nott, Love was something to be wary of, to always expect as an inconvenient point of fact. Love made people do strange things, like change their entire destinies and rewrite whole legacies (Cantankerous certainly blamed Love for the fall of Michael). Like a refined imperius, or the will of God, rejecting Love promised only pain and obeying it promised absolution.
But that weakness, of course, was a secret, and so when Theo's mother died, the whole world saw Amadeus Nott, old and twisted, collapse into genteel senility. Meanwhile Theo– Theo saw Love, the obsession and madness of it, the power of it, and knew all at once it was something he would never, ever outsmart.
But Theo was clever, bred to be so, and nothing if not enduring and patient as a black cat stalking a mouse in a snowstorm. Or a rabbit in a burrow, perhaps, waiting out the winter.
So, he thought, he'd work with it. Keep it close and observe it. Like so many Notts before him, he would not object to Love; he would tame it. Live with it, like one lives with a bum leg or bad eyesight.
That approach, after all, had worked on Draco Malfoy.
"Theodore, come here."
Theo blinked, aware of the world again and moved swiftly around the table. At his father's side, he leaned in close. With a wet squelch, Amadeus pulled the skin back a bit with the forceps and prodded at the purpling meat underneath. A vein, white as snow, spiderwebbed across the surface of the muscle.
Theo looked at his father. "An impedimenta? Someone tripped her?"
"Perhaps."
Theo straightened, tin still in hand and glanced at the woman's unfamiliar face.
"I suppose the Ministry already suspected she was murdered," Theo concluded.
Amadeus grunted, withdrawing the tools and wiping his hands on the dull gray, bloodstained smock he wore. His spectacles balanced on the tippiest tip of his nose.
"She is – was a witch, wasn't she?" asked Theo, and Amadeus nodded.
"Yes, yes, the Ministry has already identified her."
There was, after all, no way to discern a dead witch from any old dead woman without knowing who or what she had been in life.
1 July 1994
"Are you sure you won't come to the World Cup?"
Theo was sprawled lazily in the wingback chair, his Book open in his lap, but he'd momentarily abandoned it to talk with the head in his fireplace.
"Malfoy, you're like a brother to me, but really, I hardly do what my own father asks; in what universe would I care to listen to yours?"
In the floo, Draco huffed.
"Have you considered that I'm asking you to join me?"
Theo cocked a brow and viewed the flaming form of Malfoy with renewed curiosity.
"Are you?"
The fire scowled. "No, but certainly your company wouldn't be unwelcome."
Theo gestured dismissively. "You'll have the Golems with you, what do you need me for?"
"Please, don't start with that. Crabbe's too crass to be properly funny and Goyle's, well," Malfoy chewed on his words before settling with, "he's Goyle, you know."
Theo did know, having been forced to tutor the two of them in potions last year. Greg was easy-going, if a bit lacking between the ears, and Theo, quite frankly, adored him. Crabbe, however, was becoming more trouble than he was ever worth. All trigger, no rounds, one might say, and hopefully no one would ever give him any. Theo rather thought he did the universe a favor, making sure the bloke never brewed a proper potion, since he couldn't even tell slicing from dicing. As long as it hurt, was the Crabbe family motto.
Theo hadn't answered, so Malfoy drawled on, "But, whatever, leave me to my misery of top box seats and schmoozing with star athletes."
"Oh, I do love it when you talk dirty, Draco. Yes, tell me more about the schmoozing, that'll convince me."
"Just because you're a recluse with no political savvy to speak of doesn't mean the rest of us don't enjoy a bit of bribing and flattery."
"I'll leave you to your games, Malfoy."
"Honestly, Theo, horrendous enough that you missed my birthday party, but then you missed the Fawley Lithia Burning– it was at their estate in the Alps, you know– and here we are, rolling into July, and, really, have you left your house once this summer?"
"Nope," lied Theo.
"Heathen, shut-in, agoraphobic ar–" the voice broke off in a squawk as someone properly stepped through the floo.
"Nott," grunted out Milo Borgin. If Malfoy had Crabbe and Goyle, Theo supposed he had Milo Borgin: tall, built like a brick house, his long, tawny colored hair naturally greasy like his father's and rather prone to matting, so he kept it tied back in a braid. He was a pirate, a late 20th century brigand with a maroon cotton shirt and tan clipped breeches and the only sort of robe he really ever wore was open and black down to his ankles. Theo'd once asked about his choices and Milo had merely muttered something about his father. Theo, understanding completely, left it at that.
Milo'd finished school three years ago, if you'd believe it, but between the two of them– those set to inherit that sorry excuse for a pawn-shop on Knockturn– Theo was the brains of the operation, while Milo was the pretty– well, the face. Most of the time it suited Theo just fine, Borgin and Borgin more than capable of keeping things running, but, occasionally Theo was forced to step in.
It seemed they were upon one such occasion and Theo lamented the loss of his afternoon.
He sighed heavily. "I was on a call, Milo." Borgin looked down and back at the ash of the fireplace, stomping his foot and knocking some off onto the wide planked parlor floor.
"As if I give a shit what you were doing hidden away in your castle," said Borgin. "We got a bastard at the shop demanding to speak to Amadeus Nott and he ain't takin' no for an answer."
Theo frowned. "My father doesn't take independent requests."
Borgin shrugged. "That's what we told him, gotta go through the Ministry if'n he wants to talk to Nott Senior, but this bloke says what he's offerin' the Ministry ain't buyin'."
"But my father is?"
Borgin nodded curtly.
Theo sat up, slamming the Book closed and dragging a hand over his face. Damn Death Eaters.
Make no mistake, Theo didn't doubt that one day, hopefully in the way distant future, preferably when Theo and everyone he had some sort of fondness for was dead, the Dark Lord would rise again. That is what dark lords did, and this one, anyways, was known especially for his aversion to death.
See, Theo rather felt he'd already lived enough for one lifetime and was saving the rest of his energy for Love and her demands, should she ever darken his doorstep. By fourteen years old, all Theo really wanted to do was curl up in one of the old Nott houses and read his Book. Maybe take a vacation with Father if he was ever allowed to leave the houses.
Life, of course, had other plans.
"Who's this runt, then? You said you were bringing me Nott."
Theo raised an eyebrow in exasperation, but what probably read more as appraisal. Selwyn : he'd recognize that face anywhere, lips split with a jagged old scar (the man claimed a duel, but Father had said it was a fall down some stairs after one too many drinks) and eyes set a bit too wide.
"This runt is Nott, Selwyn. Speak quick," Theo said, bored, "I've got shit to do."
The old Death Eater-turned-closely-monitored-citizen (Azkaban's quite crowded, you see) narrowed his eyes. The backroom of Borgin and Burke's was tense, Milo shifting a bit in the doorway. Out in the shop proper, a bell jangled.
Then Selwyn exhaled heavily and dropped his shoulders, his face opening up.
"You're having me on."
"I assure you I can think of at least twenty other things to do that would be more fun."
"So, what, Nott ain't in the game anymore? Got his tyke calling the shots?"
"It's a joint effort. Tell you what, if I think whatever you spout was worth my time I'll pass it on to my father and maybe he'll humor you. But as it is, he's busy and I can make decisions for the both of us."
"Fuckin' kids, right scary you are. In my day, we just had lots o' sex and bullied each other."
"Yes, and that worked out so well for you. The future, Selwyn, is built on the past. Now quit wasting mine."
"Alright, alright, jeez." But instead of telling Theo what he wanted, Selwyn's bloodshot eyes flicked over towards Milo in the doorway.
For the sake of his afternoon, Theo humored the old man. "Milo, step out."
"But–"
"'S fine, Borgin, I'm guessing he just has some nefarious plot he wants to rope me in on."
Milo rolled his eyes but left, and Theo suspected he was watching the grandfather clock at the end of the hall outside. Five minutes, probably.
"Well, come on, then, Selwyn, chop, chop, what is it? Find yourself with a curse to break? Impending Ministry raid?" Theo picked a piece of lint off his robe sleeve. "Did you murder someone?"
Selwyn chuckled, leaning back and crossing his arms. "You think you're funny, don'tcha? Smart ass 'n all. Tell me, boy, you ever fought in a war?"
Theo leveled a look of incredulity that would have gotten him points from Snape. "Obviously not."
Selwyn flung forward like a viper. Theo merely cocked a brow.
"You will," hissed Selwyn. "Mark my words. He's coming back , you can tell your father that. He's coming back and he won't be pleased to see what's become of poor, pathetic old Nott and his upstart brat–"
"Can we skip this part?" Theo asked and Selwyn sneered. "You-Know-Who's coming back, is it? How's he going about it this time? Find the Fountain of Youth in El Dorado, did you?"
Selwyn blinked. "Fountain o' Youth? That ain't a half-bad idea–"
"It was a joke , Death Eater. Old wive's tale. Honestly, next you'll tell me the Dark Lord's plan involves the Philosopher's Stone."
"Now look here, Nott, this is why I want to speak with your Father. He knows his shit, right, that's why the Ministry cut him a deal. We're bringing the Dark Lord back and I bet he knows how to do it."
Code for: there is no plan, not one beyond getting Amadeus Nott on board. They always were useless, the Dark Lord's fan boys. Speaking of–
"Who's we, Selwyn?"
"Nuh-uh, you ain't grillin' me, you brat. You're either in or you're not. And trust me, when he's back, you'll wanna be in. He won't tolerate any wishy-washy loyalty, not this time around. Your old man'll have to prove he's not gone soft and senile, no half-hearted kinship and school-age nostalgia will save him–"
Theo tuned out Selwyn's rant to consider his options, reckoning about two more minutes left.
Death Eaters promising the Dark Lord's return were nothing new. They'd been hounding his father since that deal a decade ago that got him out of Azkaban, and Theo and his father had to tread carefully, lest the Ministry decide the Notts weren't satisfactorily in hand. That's why Theo played host to the more clandestine audiences, why he kept to himself at school, and why they'd secured him an old Gregorovitch wand– unTraced, thank you very much– before he'd ever even set foot in Ollivanders.
Theo may never have fought in a war, but he lived in the aftermath of one, brought up in the tenuous peace of a ceasefire, and plenty of people may be happy to pretend it was more permanent than that, Theo knew better, he had to know better. The Ministry had been falling apart since before the Global Wizarding War, its own corruption and self-interest prime for a coup, stable as long as men like Lucius Malfoy, Albus Dumbledore, and, yes, Amadeus Nott, remained firmly disinterested in upsetting the status quo; as long as idols and martyrs and figureheads like Harry Potter or Tom Riddle stayed to the sides or better yet, dead, where they might inspire but would never instigate. Theo knew societies collapsed and power structures changed, history proved as much, but there were hardly ever real winners when that happened, not for awhile. Just a whole lot of fighting, and dying, and not a single afternoon perfect for reading.
So sue him if he wasn't keen on helping kick start the collapse of this one.
But what about his father? Did Amadeus hate the position he was in enough to use a war to change it? Certainly bringing back his old school chum would free him from the Ministry's house arrest and indentured servitude. And, anyways, say the Dark Lord did rise whether the Notts had a hand in it or not, there was no doubt in Theo's mind what side his father– and by extension himself– would be on. They were the Notts, the secret keepers, existing as close to the State of Nature intended by God as structured society allowed. The Light was no better than the Ministry, not really. At least against men like Lucius Malfoy, the Notts would always have power. There was no point in adhering to the law in a world run by people who thought themselves above it.
Theo mentally shook himself; he was contemplating hypotheticals and he didn't have time for that. Selwyn had nothing so far, Amadeus's voice echoed in Theo's head, so steady on, make no promises, and leave no room for doubt.
Selwyn, unbelievably, was still talking. Theo wondered if he ever paused to breathe, let alone think.
"Alright, Selwyn," Theo interrupted and Selwyn's face froze, screwed up and a bit inflamed. Theo, ignoring this, barrelled on. "I've heard this all before– bring the Dark Lord back, oppress the muggles, wizards reign supreme, yadda yadda yadda, but you've got to sell me, my not-so-good man. What makes you think now is the time? Last summer, everyone wanted to seize on the newly escaped Sirius Black. What is it this year?"
Selwyn grinned madly. "You know Pettigrew?"
A/N: Chapter Title: 'Rät' by Penelope Scott