She was staring out the window as the house groaned under the force of the storm outside. Thunder rumbled, low and angry, shaking the walls and rattling the windows. The wind screamed like a banshee, howling as it battered against the house, pushing at the doors and shutters with relentless fury. The storm seemed endless, as though the heavens themselves were in turmoil.
A small figure huddled near her, his back pressed tightly against the stone walls. His fingers, tiny and pale, twisted the fabric of the woman's dress, pulling it into his hands desperately. His face was buried against the hem of the fabric, his eyes squeezed shut as though he could banish the storm if he just tried hard enough. Each flash of lightning sent bright streaks across the room, casting wild shadows that seemed to dance and crawl, serving to only fuel his fear with every crack of thunder that followed.
She stood perfectly still. Her figure was unmoving, unshaken by the fury of the storm. Her posture was as rigid as ever, the lines of her body sharp and controlled, the only movement coming from the faintest rise and fall of her chest. Her hands were folded in front of her, neat and composed, the fingers of one hand gently resting on the other. Her long black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, her blue eyes dancing almost ghostly in the darkness. Her gaze was distant, not focusing on anything but the storm outside.
He could feel the space between them, that invisible gul that no amount of reaching or crying seemed to close. Her presence was constant, but it was cold, as though the warmth that should have filled the room was absent. She was nothing but an anchor, still and unyielding. He could feel the pressure in his chest growing with every thunderclap, the air around him thick with fear and isolation.
The room was so quiet, despite the storm, that he could hear his own breathing. It was shallow and quick. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut, tried to shut out the sounds of the storm, tried to slow the quickening beat of his heart. He wanted, more than anything, for her to look at him, just once. He needed her to bend down and wrap her arms around him, whisper something soothing… but she never did; and she never would.
Thunder crashed again, so close the very ground seemed to shake beneath his feet. He flinched, his small body stiffening at the force of it as his fingers dug deeper into her dress. It was the only thing tethering him to the world now. He wanted to speak, beg her to make the storm go away, but no words came. The fear was too big, too overwhelming. His small chest tightened with the effort of holding it all inside, and yet, despite his distress, she did not react. She remained as she always did: distant, removed and completely unreachable.
She did not move. Her eyes, cold and distant, never once shifted down to meet his. There was a fleeting moment, a brief glimmer when he thought he saw something in her - a hint of concern, perhaps - but it was gone so quickly he couldn't be sure. Her expression remained unchanged, her gaze trained on something inside the storm. It was as though he didn't exist in this space, like he was another object in the room. Her silence wrapped around him like a weighted blanket. The sound of the storm outside, while absolutely terrifying, was nothing compared to the suffocating quiet between them. A silence that never ceased.
He felt small. So small. His tiny hands still gripped her dress, though the effort was beginning to feel futile. He didn't know what it was that kept her from holding him, what refrained her from ever being able to actuallyseehim. Why could she not see that he was almost beyond terrified? Why could she not reach down, just once, and pull him into the safety of her arms, the way he had seen other mothers do? Why was it that every time he reached for her, every time he needed her most, she was nothing but a stranger?
The storm outside was only growing worse. Each crash of thunder made his heart skip a beat, each flash of lightning seemed to carve its way through his fragile mind, deepening the terror he was feeling. The room felt like a trap, the walls began to slowly close in on him. He felt the weight of her presence. She was there, standing so close, and yet it was as though she was on the other side of some great chasm, completely unreachable. The fear that churned in his stomach seemed to wrap itself around him like chains.
And even then, she did not move.
In these moments, when the storm was at its worst, Theodore's young mind was able to lightly grasp an understanding of his aching emptiness. It was a feeling that sat in his chest, a pit that grew wider and deeper the longer she remained still, ignoring his need and his fear. She couldn't possibly understand the chaos that raged inside him, the terror that wrecked his small body…and if she had, she made no effort to comfort him.
Thunder struck again, this time louder than the others had been, leaving a loud ringing in his ears. It shook the entire room, rattling the windows with such force Theodore couldn't stop the small cry that escaped him. It was a sharp sound, escaping from somewhere deep inside of him. The fear and desperation was spilling out of him despite himself.
Her gaze flicked briefly to him. Her eyes were not soft, but calculating. Conflicted. She made no move to touch him. She offered no moment of reassurance. The faintest line appeared in her brow but was gone as quickly as it had come, and she turned her gaze back to the storm outside as her expression returned to its usual unreadable calm.
Theodore swallowed, trying to control his trembling body, willing his tears not to spill. He had no words. His small body was rigid, but his heart was beating so violently in his chest it felt as though it might burst. He looked up at her, his fingers still gripping the cloth of her dress, hoping that this time, just this time, she might change. She might reach down and through that action, make the storm go away. Hold him close, just long enough for him to believe that everything would be alright.
As he pleaded with her with his eyes, her eyes remained focused on the storm.
"Mummy?" He finally croaked, unable to hold it in any longer, as he buried his face in the fabric of her dress and cried. If possible, he felt her stiffening even more under his touch, but he couldn't pull himself away. He couldn't remember the last time he had called her that, it was an almost forbidden title for him, but as the storm continued to grow around them all that stood in the room was a cold and distant woman and her terrified child. A child who needed his mother.
She unclasped her hands, rubbing his hair through her fingers and he looked up to see her still staring out at the storm, but the blues of her eyes had turned to rivers which began to overflow and fall silently down her cheeks. Her lips were trembling and after a few moments, she finally looked down at him.
There it was. The love he craved so desperately.
"Teddy," she whispered. Her voice was so soft, had he not been clinging to her he would not have heard it. She cupped his face in her hands, "Teddy, love, please-"
Her words were cut off as she fell to her knees, crying out as she ripped her hands away from him and clutched them close to her chest. Her face was contorted in pain, her palms in fists so tight her knuckles were turning white.
"Mummy!" Theodore cried out, reaching for her, trying to grab anything his small fingers could capture. He was finally able to rest his hands atop her own. He could feel the tightness in her muscles, the tremor beneath her pain. He didn't know what to do. What should he do?!
She took in a few deep breaths. "I'm alright, Teddy," she panted. She looked up at him, trying to mask the pain that was engulfing her, "Mummy's okay."
She unclenched her fists to reach for Theodore once more and that's when he saw it. The ring finger of her left hand had gone completely black. "You're hurt!" He cried, looking at her finger and she quickly withdrew her hand, covering her finger with her right palm.
"No, darling. I'm not hurt."
Tears were blurring his vision, "Promise? Promise, Mummy?"
"I promise," she said, bringing him close and hugging him. "I love you, Teddy. I love you so much. Don't be afraid of the storm. The storm can't hurt you, nothing can hurt you. Stay strong, my darling." Releasing him, she pushed him away just far enough for their eyes to meet. Her entire body was trembling, she cupped his face once more and leaned in, kissing him atop the head before standing to her feet.
"Tipka!"
With a soft pop, the House Elf appeared, her eyes still half shut from sleep. Tipka was only a few inches shorter than Theodore, a young elf by House Elf standards. "Yes, Mistress?" Tipka asked, her voice muffled under a yawn. "Pardon me, Mistress. How can Tipka help?"
"Please take the young master back to his room."
"No!" Theodore shrieked and quickly grasped his mothers skirt once more.
"Now, Tipka." Her voice was harder this time.
Tipka quickly rushed to Theodore, reaching for his arm and Theodore slapped her away. She looked up at her Mistress, unsure of what to do. With a forceful grip, his mother tore him from her skirt, holding his arm high until Tipka grabbed hold.
"Please, Young Master," Tipka's voice was soft, tentative, but firm with her duty. She looked up at him with wide, gentle eyes, her small hand gripping his arm with surprising strength.
"No!" Theodore wailed again, his feet scrambling against the floor as he tried to dig them into the ground, but he was too small and weak to resist the House Elf's pull. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed the storm still raging outside. "Please, Mummy…" he sobbed, his free hand reaching out for her, but she was already stepping away from him. She seemed further than ever, like a distant star that was to be seen but never touched.
She turned away from him, raising her hands to her ears and tightly shut her eyes, curling into herself and blocking out the sound and scene before her. Tipka tugged again, more insistent this time, pulling him further away, through the threshold of the door. The door slammed loudly once they passed through. As the lock clicked, he could hear his mother screaming on the other side.
"Mummy!" Theodore echoed her screams, tearing himself from Tipka's grip and throwing himself against the door. Her screams continued on the other side of the door and he could hear the room being torn apart beneath her cries. Sounds of exploding furniture, tearing fabric and finally… shattered glass.
Theodore desperately clawed the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn. Tipka tried again to lead him towards his bedroom but Theodore shoved her off him so forcefully the elf fell backwards on the floor. She looked up at him, eyes almost fearful. Theodore banged on the door, his small knuckles bruising and the skin cracking beneath the force of his pounding.
"Young Master!" Tipka yelped, throwing herself between Theodore and the door so his blows would land on her to stop him from further injuring himself. Theodore didn't stop, he continued pounding, striking the House Elf with all the force his small body could muster. Tipka shielded only her face with her arms. "Help!" She cried. "Help!"
Another pop alerted the presence of another House Elf. An older one who had followed Lady Nott from her home to her new marital home.
"What is all this commotion, Tipka? You'll wake –" The elder elf's voice paused only for a moment before she cried out, "Young Master!"
"Fliss!" Theodore choked, recognizing the elf's voice. He turned his attention from the door towards her, rushing to her and gripping her shoulders. "Mummy's inside! She's inside!"
"Calm down," Fliss cooed, gently wiping the tears from Theodore's cheeks. "Fliss will check to make sure Mistress is okay, Young Master should go with Tipka so she can dress his hands."
Theodore shook his head, frowning at the elf. Fliss looked at Tipka who shrugged, very lost in what she should do. "Mistress had asked Tipka to bring Young Master to his room," she explained. "Young Master did not wish to leave."
Fliss looked back at Theodore, her expression gentle, "Fliss made some pastries for tomorrow's breakfast. Fliss thinks it would be okay for Tipka to take Young Master to the kitchens and give him one before bed. What says he?"
Theodore shook his head again and pointed at the door, new tears welling in his eyes. "Bad," he said, his voice quivering with the fear and sadness that was nearly drowning him, "Fliss…Please."
Fliss nodded and apparated. She was gone for only a few minutes, but to young Theodore the minutes stretched on like hours. Finally, she returned, completely drenched. She grabbed Tipka, "Take Young Master to the kitchens. Give Young Master a pastry. Fliss needs to fetch the Master."
"But… Mummy…" Theodore choked, his throat raw.
Fliss cupped his face with her hands, her expression a deep sadness he had never seen before. "Please go with Tipka, Young Master. Master will be here soon."
Tipka gently placed her hands on his shoulders and slowly began leading him down the hall. Theodore didn't fight this time, didn't cry. He didn't know what Fliss had discovered in his mothers room, but he trusted her.
The air was thick with the damp, heavy weight of a grief that no one seemed to want to acknowledge. Theodore's small fingers curled into tight fists as he stood at the edge of the grave, staring at his mother's coffin which had yet to be lowered to the ground. His heart ached with a sharpness that hadn't left him since that night, growing only stronger as he stood there. Mummy was gone and the weight of it crushed him.
The funeral had been quick, too quick, everything about it feeling cold and distant. The adults stood around, their eyes hollow, their voices barely a murmur as they conversed with each other. The house elves stood quietly to the side, watching with their empty, unblinking eyes. Everything was justwrong.
Theodore moved closer to her, his small body shivering with a mix of fear and uncertainty. His hands were cold and trembling as he reached out and pressed his small palms on the wood of the coffin. At first, he couldn't look at her, his eyes fixed hard on his fingers, but with a soft rub on his shoulder from Draco, he finally brought his eyes up to rest on her.
Mummy looked so peaceful, her black hair cascading behind her like an ebony waterfall. Her eyes were closed, her lips and cheeks were tinted pink. Like a beautiful doll. Her hands were clasped in front of her, right hand over the left, and that's when he saw it.
They had tried to hide it, the black of her finger, but the tip of her ring finger poked out, almost camouflaging against the black dress she wore. She had lied to him. She was hurt.
Tears began to blur his vision and he angrily brushed them away with the palms of his hands. His eyes were completely fixated on the tip of that finger.
The ring, his small brain rationalized. The ring was hurting her. He had to get it away from her.
With a soft, almost guilty, feeling he reached out for her hand, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. He tugged gently. Her hand didn't move. It was stiff and cold, the skin so tight against her bones. He tugged again, harder this time but with the same carefulness as before, afraid that even in this state he might cause her more pain.
"What are you doing?" Draco's voice was a frantic whisper, looking around fearfully, as though they would be caught any moment.
Theodore ignored him.
He wrapped his fingers around the ring and pulled. It didn't budge. He looked around, the adults were still not paying him any attention, but Draco was looking at him as if he had completely lost his mind. Returning his focus to his mother's hand, he tried again, and with that final - desperate - pull, the ring came loose and he gripped it tightly in his fist, stumbling backwards.
He didn't wait for anyone else to notice or question him, clutching the ring like a vice, he turned and ran.
His feet carried him across the damp grass, away from Draco and the grave. He didn't look back. He wasn't sure where he was going, he only knew he couldn't stay there. He couldn't let this ring stay close to Mummy. He had to make it stop. He had to get rid of it.
Once he reached the edge of the cemetery, he stopped at the banks of a large pond. Without thinking, without a moment's hesitation, he lifted his arm and flung the ring into the dark depths. It sank with a soft splash, vanishing into the murky stillness. Theodore watched the ripples spread outward, lingering until there was nothing left.
And, just like that, it was gone.
Footsteps came from behind him, soft but purposeful, and he didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"Are you okay?" Draco's voice was quiet, almost careful.
Theodore didn't respond right away as he stared at the now flat surface of the pond, feeling the dampness of his shoes sinking into the earth beneath him. His fist was clamped tightly around nothing, the ring was gone, but the weight of it still lingered.
"I... I couldn't let her have it anymore," he said in a soft voice, barely above a whisper, his words tangled with his small sobs. "It was hurting her."
Draco, who had stopped a few paces away, seemed unsure of how to proceed. He took a step forward, his eyes searching Theodore's small frame with something resembling concern. "She's gone, Theo…" Draco said, the uncertainty in his voice apparent. "But it's not your fault."
Theodore turned away from him, not believing his friend's words. His entire body was tense, recalling the brutal accusations of his Father.
"You did this," Vesper Nott had hissed, his fury building with every sip of Firewhiskey. "She's dead because of you!"
Draco stood next to him then, hesitating for only a moment before awkwardly pulling Theodore into a hug. "I'm sorry, Theo," Draco murmured, his voice still soft but much steadier now. "I don't... I don't know how you feel…But I'm here."
Theodore's tiny chest rose and fell with shallow breaths but he noticed that the ache inside of him was beginning to feel a little less sharp. He returned Draco's embrace with such intensity he could feel his muscles ache. This hadn't fixed everything, but he felt like he had done something. In his own five-year-old way he had made it stop. He protected her and now she was free of the pain.
The memory of that night—the storm, his mother's coldness, and the tragic end she met—had always been a part of Theodore's soul. It was a wound he carried with him, buried deep in the shadows of his thoughts, too painful to address but impossible to forget.
He hadn't slept a wink the night before, his memories haunting him every time he closed his eyes. He felt so cold, so alone, like that five-year-old child he once was. It had taken years to learn about the ring and what it had actually done to her. The true evil behind a magic that was meant to guarantee loyalty and love. Seraphina must be rolling in her grave with what her invention had become.
He had skipped breakfast, choosing to remain in bed until he was forced to rise and shower before his first class of the day. Charms. He shared the class with Granger and though he knew they wouldn't speak - they rarely did outside of patrols - he was anxious to see her. He needed to know she was okay.
The Charms classroom was buzzing with anticipation as students shuffled into their seats. The heavy oak desks were arranged in tight rows as brightly colored jars filled with various magical ingredients lined the shelves of the walls. Professor Flitwick (now Deputy Headmaster Flitwick) stood at the front of the class, his wide eyes gleaming as he danced on his heels.
Theodore took his seat a few rows behind Granger. She appeared bright, as always, but it stung in a way that Theodore couldn't quite explain. She was talking to Longbottom and Weasley, laughing even, but the space between them seemed as wide as an ocean. He couldn't help but notice the way she avoided his eyes, the way her smile faltered when she caught his gaze.
He couldn't blame her, especially not if his suspicions were correct.
"Good morning, everyone!" Flitwick chirped, his voice loud and clear despite his small stature. "I have something very exciting for today's lesson: The Imago Charm. Now, who can tell me what an Imago Charm is used for?"
Granger's hand shot up immediately, as it always did, her usual enthusiasm shining through.
"The Imago Charm is used to create illusions, Professor," Hermione responded. "You can create illusions of people, objects - even entire environments - depending on how advanced the spell is."
"Right you are, Miss Granger!" Flitwick beamed. Turning to the class, he continued, "Now, who can tell me what advantages such a charm might hold?"
Theodore raised his hand, not quite as enthusiastically as Granger, but wanting to prove to her she wasn't the only one who understood the charm.
"Yes, Mr. Nott?" Professor Flitwick asked.
"It can be used to defend against or deflect an opponent," he said.
"Ah, excellent point, Mr. Nott!" Flitwick said, adjusting his glasses with a pleased expression. "Indeed, using the Imago Charm in defense is one of its most effective applications! By creating illusions, you can confuse or mislead your opponent, giving you the upper hand. As you mentioned, it can be used to defendagainstan attacker by making them think they're facing a much larger or more powerful threat. And of course, it candeflecttheir attention, buying you precious moments to regroup or counter their attack."
The Professor turned his attention back to the class as a whole, "However, let's remember that we are inCharmsclass, not Defense Against the Dark Arts! While the charm can be useful for creating illusions to defend against an opponent, our primary purpose is to explore the intricacies of illusion magic and how we can use charms to manipulate perceptions and create convincing images."
The class nodded, eager to start, but Theodore couldn't help but feel a twinge of apprehension as he traced the handle of his wand with his thumb. Illusions were tricky, and for someone who preferred to keep things close to the chest, the idea of creating something purely for show felt uncomfortable.
Flitwick continued, "We'll start with a basic illusion: a simple image of something that's not really there. This will be a good introduction to controlling the charm before we move on to more advanced forms. Now, the incantation for the Imago Charm is:Imago Apparere."
There was a soft murmur among the students as they repeated the incantation under their breath, testing it out.
"Very good!" Flitwick cheered, pumping both fists in the air excitedly. "Now, lift your wands and follow my lead." He paused, allowing each student to bring their wand forward. "You begin by raising your wand in front of you, just so, keep your wrist slightly tilted as if you're drawing a picture in the air. Control is key, don't move too fast. It's a fluid, sweeping movement, beginning with the tip of your wand and gently curving in a circular motion."
He began to move his wand in the air while adding, "It's similar to tracing a spiral. Be sure to create a smooth and continuous curve. As you move your wand, envision the object you wish to create forming right in front of you. It's important to keep the motion graceful - remember, you'redrawingan image, not casting a forceful spell. Finish off with a flick of your wrist. This will solidify the image you wish to create."
The Professor straightened himself as he performed the charm, "Imago Apparere," he said, moving his wand exactly as he had demonstrated. A small bird materialized in the air above him. It flapped its wings and chirped, its translucent form shimmering in the light before fading away as Flitwick broke the charm.
"Remember," Flitwick said, raising his wand for emphasis, "the key is to picture the object clearly in your mind. Your image must be vivid and strong enough to fool the eye of anyone who looks at it. No detail is too simple." He pointed his wand randomly at the students, as if to further emphasize his next words, "The charm will not last long as it requires tremendous concentration and once that concentration breaks, so will your illusion."
Students began to raise their wands, aiming at the empty spaces in front of them. Theodore hesitated, his wand held loosely in his hand. He had always been more comfortable with spells that held tangible effects, spells that didn't require much imagination, and as he stared at the empty space before him just beyond the tip of his wand, he could feel his shoulders tensing.
Draco, who was sitting next to him, eyed the empty space before him with the same unease Theodore was feeling before he finally attempted the charm. With a fluid motion, Draco muttered the incantation and a single stemmed rose flickered into existence, the bud of the rose was slightly withered as translucent petals began to fall, disappearing just before they touched the desk. The illusion held form for a matter of five seconds before Draco quickly broke the charm, waving his wand through it as though he was afraid someone besides Theodore might notice.
Theodore looked at the tip of his own wand and took in a steady breath. Muttering the incantation, he moved his wand and before him a hazy, flickering image of a ring began to manifest on the desk. It faded in and out, like a strobe light, before slowly solidifying on the wood. He felt Draco tense beside him and the two of them stared at the ring, both almost afraid to breathe.
"Is that..?" Draco began, and Theodore quickly slammed his palm atop the image, feeling the sharp edges of the stones that adorned the ring against his skin before his palm finally flattened as the illusion vanished. The sound was loud enough to bring everyone's attention to them.
Theodore kept his eyes on his hand but Draco straightened himself, his confidence shining through, "Neat trick, this charm," he said, smirking over at the Professor who was watching them carefully, "Theo here is afraid of beetles; he smashed the illusion as soon as he saw it."
A few of the students laughed at that and Professor Flitwick instructed everyone to continue practicing. Draco turned his attention completely to Theodore then, and Theodore brought his hand back, resting it on his lap. Looking up at his blond friend, he could see a hint of concern in his gray eyes, "It's happening again, isn't it?" Draco asked.
Theodore sank in his seat, tearing his eyes from Draco and resting them on Granger, studying her as she practiced the charm, creating a candelabra on her desk. "I don't want to discuss this now, Draco." His voice was soft, but short, almost commanding.
Draco shot him a disapproving look, "If you don't want anyone asking questions, then I'd advise you refrain from charming that into existence and focus on something else."
Theodore nodded, straightening himself as he moved his eyes to the space where the illusioned ring once stood. His thoughts were mixing themselves so violently in his head he could feel the pain of them tearing themselves apart. He'd speak with Granger tonight. She would be there, he assured himself, she wouldn't be able to avoid him a second night in a row.