Theodore stood within the threshold of his home before morning dawned, between the carvings of the fall of Rome cracked in two. His eyes drifted from the old cobblestone up to the relentless and hopeless sky, mindlessly examining each chisel within the grand doors of the Nott Manor spread open at his sides. He couldn't understand how some no-name craftsman had perfectly carved the chagrin upon the faces of the old gods as they burned and bled out.
But all great kingdoms fell, he supposed. All gods were forgotten, and all bloodlines eventually ran dry.
He reached out and traced the smooth indents of the polished wood. He was sure the forgotten craftsman had bloodied and blistered hands, too, as he did. Theo admired the curvature and gross details within the eyes of the ghastly creatures encircled in flames, who wept for the falling gods. He closed his eyes, grimness palpable, and wondered who would weep for those creatures now.
Theo brushed back his hair despite the fresh blood on his hands. The enchanted doors had unlocked with a heavy price tonight, as magic always carried a high cost. The home had taken its fair share from him, drinking his blood through the cracks as if it was wounded. As if it sensed there was one less Nott in the line. The shimmering magic here, within these walls, within the heartbeat of the Wolfwood, had always been supplied by the lifeforce of his familial line. It's what made the Belladonna bloom and the water always warm. It's what chilled the pillows and exhaled the lazy golden haze of the early afternoons. It's what made the stars that mocked him now glimmer so much more brightly.
Theo hung his head, unsure of how to proceed, entirely stuck in that horrible moment as if he was wrapped in tar.
The wind quivered behind him, prodding the carved doors to open wider and invite him in. He wiped his running nose, skin numbed by winter's harsh touch after hours on end in the cold.
He had no one to share in his grief; his father was a monster with no one to mourn him or care that he was gone. He had no refuge that truly felt like a full home, and because he had nowhere else to go, he gave into the plea of the wind and took a step forward.
"Tatters!" His voice was cracked and broken as he cried out.
It was ridiculous and pathetic that the elf enslaved to his name was the only person or creature he could truly trust, but Tatters had never betrayed him. The elf was the only one breathing who didn't hate him equally as much as he loved him, like his father — gone. Tatters cared, unlike his own mother, who hadn't cared enough to stay. His own brother had left soon after like he wasn't worth sticking around for either, and since he was feeling honest, he admitted to himself that Dahlia had left him behind, too. They circled the truth, blaming his absence and the lies for the loss of what they had instead of admitting that her heart was never his to lose.
"Tatters!" He called out again, roaring desperately now. The rawness of his voice painted the restored walls of his home with despair that would surely cement new ghosts. This home, no matter how elegant, was cursed. It was nothing more than an eldritch fairytale, infested with the painful memories still rotted beneath the newly polished, checkered floors.
No answer returned to him, and he smiled ruefully in the shadows of the moonlight. It retreated from him on most occasions now, and he figured he was no longer deserving of the graceful rays.
He gave up on the elf and trudged down the main corridor, wiping the stained smoke from his face. The step of his boots echoed in the night. It seemed Alexander hadn't bothered to return home.
If he ever even considered this place a home.
Theo shook his head.
Maybe he hadn't planned to return at all.
He dragged his feet up the carved staircase within the main hall. He didn't care to light the iron-forged chandeliers above, yet they softly lit and illuminated the ambitious space in a somber light. He wasn't sure if the home sensed his misery or if the manor was spectacularly haunted. He had never cared for specters as his mother had been too miserable on this earth to stay here in death. She had always kept one foot beyond the veil, too curious of the possibilities after passing for her own good. He was certain she had been haunted herself.
Theo quietly entered his bedroom. Even the wind was careful not to make a sound. He was one pinch from either falling or ripping the world apart. The rich woods that made his room were black in the light of the night as it flowed through the monstrous windows. He stripped himself of his dirtied coat and boots. His thermal shirt clung to his skin with cold sweat as he peeled it over his head of knotted curls. His skin was painted in ashen filth, and he was sure his heart was too.
Theo shivered, chilled beyond bones and utterly terrified of what came next. He leaned against the mantle of his fireplace and choked on a breath. The silence was screaming.
This isn't the plan. There must be something I can do. A solution.
He balled his fist, clenching everything taught as if he might combust in the shadows. It was only then that her starlight shone through the glass, reaching all the way through the dense Wolfwood to find him, although he had killed their own selfishly. He didn't deserve her grace, yet the shadow of the moon kissed him and pushed him to persevere.
He lifted his head, racking his mind through the laws of time magic. Could he go back? Save him? Could he reach back far enough to stop his brother from even considering the murder of their father?
Think. Fucking think. There's always a loophole.
Yet nothing came. His cleverness was failing him. All options had catastrophic consequences. He squeezed his knuckles until they turned pale. Perhaps there was nothing left but vengeance. The mark upon his arm burned in approval, giving him all the permission he needed to be as cruel as he desired.
He rubbed his exhausted eyes before stripping entirely. He kicked into the washroom and started a shower. He paced, maddening as he waited for the water to scorch.
Lucas...what about Lucas? He's read everything on necromancy. He has access beyond the veil...but he's at school, and he would never do something so abominable...not while he's with Juliet.
He came to a halt, exhaling his rage.
Could I do something so awful?
He eyed his features, recognizing the best of his mother in the moon-casted mirror. He knew the answer and hated it.
"Fuck!" He roared, tossing a small table with creams and lotions across the room. He took a deep breath and cleared his mind. His thoughts were all screaming at once. This was the madness, driven by the inability to fix the unfixable.
He let the hot water cleanse the smoke and ash from his skin for a good while. He pulled at his wet curls, wishing to be someone else — anyone else who had been dealt a different set of cards. He scrubbed the dirt from beneath his nails. These very hands had felt the last rise of his father's chest. They had dug a grave and returned him to the earth. Unmarked, as only the wicked deserve. No one would want to monumentalize him, anyway. Remember him. Pass down tales of him or pray to him for a better day, and as his searing tears melted with the warm water, Theo couldn't help but sob at the notion that he might succumb to the same fate in the end. No tombstone. No soft wishes to his remembered name or any kind words to spare. He had no one left to love him without fault. Love him unconditionally. And there was nothing worse in this world than to be unremembered. Rendered insignificant and unloved.
Maybe this was his punishment. The universe was striking back because he had dared to question the powers that be. He had chosen to believe in his own conviction that he could write his own fate instead of kneeling in reverence.
The water beat his back as his shoulders slumped, exhausted, and bruised blue. He cried freely until he was numb, and all was dull. Flush and throat aching, he stood until the pounding water's relief ran cold.
What now? Where do I go now?
He thought of Hogwarts, its fortified walls shining in the golden hour of an endless sunset. He couldn't tell them what happened. He couldn't return to a place where the expectations were suffocating. He imagined Dahlia's face alight in the falling snow. He couldn't stand to face her disappointment in person. He couldn't yet truly face what he had lost, what he had never had.
He yanked the shower handle to ease the water.
She had given up on him, too.
He freshly dressed, although he felt permanently stained. Theo stepped back into his bedroom and went still, immediately spotting a box placed on his bed. He looked around curiously. No one would be foolish enough to break into a home owned by the Notts, and no burglar would be stupid enough to leave something behind rather than take the tapestries from the walls.
Theo stepped closer to the canopy, scrunching his wet curls with a black towel. He threw it to the ground as he reached for a crumpled piece of parchment that was strewn on top of the wooden box.
Retrieved for master.
It was written in the scratchy handwriting of Tatters. Theo rolled his knuckles over the smooth wood with tiny flower carvings and realized it was the box hidden in his brother's room. The one they had found that held his mother's letters. He hadn't wanted to know what words they kept. He couldn't handle the heart-fall of his mother's secrets. She was perfect, and he couldn't tarnish his memories of her.
Theo pocketed the note with no intention of opening the box again. He sat on the bed and rubbed his face with exhausted hands.
"Ow!" He hissed as another piece of burnt parchment materialized and slapped him across the face.
You must read.
The note was scribbled in the same handwriting. He sneered alone in the dark, hating to be told what he must do. He despised all authority in general.
Before he could toss the note to the floor, another quickly appeared.
You must please read. Master Theodore.*
Theo rolled his eyes, and only because Tatters had asked politely did Theo pull the box into his lap. "Alright, fine," he whispered in the dark to no one.
He opened the box with shaking hands and found one letter remaining, along with the list of active Death Eaters the Order was desperate to have. The list Alex had secretly kept to protect only himself, Theo now realized. Theo tossed it lazily on the bed behind him, uncaring of meaningless politics at the moment.
With a shaking hand, he reached for the letter written in his mother's whimsical handwriting. He was reminded that she was a dreamer — the source of the good magic that had nurtured this home. It had never wanted her blood, only her dream-weaving touch.
The seal of the letter was broken, a cut slicing true through the Rossier mark his mother had used till the end.
Someone has already read this, he realized.
His elf had obviously glanced through it, but he wondered if Alex or his father had read it, too. Why wouldn't they have shared it?
He looked from the page out the window, the starlight beaming in so brightly he could swim within it. Valeria still lingered, ridiculously large on his lawn and stomping around in the gardens, but she wished to be close. Her jeweled eyes lifted to him, and she huffed as if questioning why he was so afraid of words after all he had accomplished.
Theo bit his lip, and before he could stop himself, he opened the letter and read the last piece of his mother.
Teddy,
I've known since the first time I held you that you were unlike all else. You were born under Apollo's first light of day after two endless nights, screaming ferociously as you entered this world like it was yours. I knew then that you were meant for something more grand than can ever be imagined. You were my purpose and my greatest love from that moment. I wrapped you in a small tapestry blanket that was woven with the legends of Perseus, as I knew you would be a hero someday, too. I loved you as my rose, thorns and all. I spotted the golden flecks in your eyes that marked you as the only true and cursed heir to your name and wished something better for you. I could not stay, my darling prince. They call to me and promise me peace. Know, my greatest love, that I am always in your heart. I'm the breeze in your hair and the brave whisper in your ear.
May you always be guided by the light you were born under. Let it settle on your skin and warm you always as a sign of my love. Know that there cannot be light without shadows. Darkness is needed to see the stars, so always look up when you need to be led home.
Remember, the most courageous act is one of honesty. Let your heart set the path, and be bold. Love fiercely, burn brightly, jump from the highest cliffs, forgive first, and don't hide your kindness beneath your name.
Most importantly, know that it is never too late to look up to the stars and begin again. If you cannot find a path, make it. Bridges burnt can be rebuilt. Find the magic in new beginnings. Look forward, not in the past that can never truly be forgotten even if changed, and discover the true ending. Take hold of what you love and let it create the light in your heart. Let it burn, and be brave. These are my hopes for you.
You were born a warrior. You ran before you walked and danced before you heard music. You didn't have to cry out to make the world yours because it already belonged to you. Stay true to the purity in your heart, the light that has always been in your eyes, and remember that all legends — happy endings — are written with a golden quill that erases the suffering and hardships that wove them into the fabric of the universe.
Persist, and may you solve all the mysteries.
With infinite love,
Your mother
Theo dropped the letter from his shaking fingertips. It drifted to the Oriental carpet in the moonlight. He remembered how his mother used to sit with him on the same carpet and tell him ridiculous tales of his lineage while he played with her hair.
She was here. Always here.
He wiped his nose as the wind finally emerged and brushed his cheek. He looked up to the stars, graced in newfound courage.
He was never alone. Never had been.
Although filled with insurmountable grief, Theo smiled. His dimples reached bravely as to assure his mother, who still breathed through the wind and still sang him lullabies through the rustling of trees, that he would fulfill her wishes.
He would be brave and rewrite his wrongs. This was no end.
"Tatters," he called out. "I know where I need to go."