"I hate Floo Powder," Nott mutters right outside the post office in Hogsmeade.
"Would you rather have spent hours on a train just because you can't manage to speak clearly?"
"We could've just apparated."
"Wrong, Nott. I could have apparated. You're struggling with it – and eventually I end up explaining to your parents why you're missing a leg."
He shrugs his shoulders in embarrassment. "And what else do you need from the post office before we use the fireplace?"
"Nott," I sigh, "I know you've told your family about friendship and hence feel eager to live it, but let's not go overboard with the chit-chat, yeah?"
"Sure, whatever," he grumbles and follows me into the office.
Owls everywhere, as well as their traces. And a grey old man who prefers to talk to his owls rather than people.
Not that I could blame him …
"Mr Tadpole," I greet the old owl master behind his counter and wait a moment until he stoops up from a sack of birdseed.
"Ah, Tom, good afternoon!"
"Do you have any news for me, sir?" I ask without much fuss – we understand each other without polite small talk, and it's incredibly pleasant.
"No, no, unfortunately not," he confirms my assumption. "As soon as I receive something, I'll let you know via the paintings in the castle."
"Thank you, but that won't be necessary over the holidays, Mr Tadpole," I inform him. "I'll ask you again once I return."
As odd as he is, he's in no way immune to the principle of curiosity. "Are you going somewhere interesting?"
"We intend to go to … Nott, what's it again?"
"Keswick," he replies, resigned to his fate. "In Cumbria."
"Keswick in Cumbria," I repeat. "Would you let us use your fireplace?"
"Of course – do go ahead." He compliments us towards the very spot. "The Floo Powder is under Starling."
"Under what?" Nott asks.
"The owl," Mr Tadpole specifies, "it's sitting on it, there by the mantelpiece."
Nott follows his gaze until he gets it and tries to shoo the animal away. The owl doesn't move an inch.
"Starling seems to sit well," I comment on Nott's struggle just when Mr Tadpole takes heart and puts an end to this scuffle himself.
"Starling, why do you always have to block the powder of all things?" he grumbles before sauntering back to his counter with the oddball on his shoulder. "Happy holidays, gentlemen."
"Thank you," Nott mumbles after finally taking a bit of Floo Powder out of the pot.
"Springs Road," he repeats for me, "we need to jump off by the fireplace in the pub overlooking the lake." I nod, then, mentioning the address, he disappears into green fire.
"Mr Tadpole?" I turn around to the old owl master once again.
"Yes, Tom?"
"I changed my mind. Should a letter arrive for me during the holidays, would you kindly reroute it?"
"Sure. Where would you need the mail?"
"In Brimington, at the Sullivans'. Thank you, sir."
I nod him goodbye, then reach into the bowl of Floo Powder myself. The green flames don't burn skin, but the sight of it is mesmerising. Within moments I recognise the aforementioned pub and abruptly find myself next to Nott in Keswick.
The pub is empty, and so are the streets. "I guess everyone's having tea at the moment," Nott says. "Suppose we'll have to drink a cup at home as well …"
"Well then – on we go."
After a short walk through alleys with old cobblestones, past a path along the shore of England's fourth largest lake, the Derwent Water, on which April's pale sun lets its rays of light glitter, we finally stand before the gates of the huge Nott estate.
"Feudal", is my résumé as I let my gaze wander over the country house surrounded by formal gardens and a wooded park. Very British. Strict symmetry, pale Ancaster stone – and somewhere between Palladianism and Carolingian architecture. "Why don't you act like a king if you grew up like one?"
"That's a really odd question," Nott claims. "The way you behave, one would think you came straight from Olympus."
"Hades at best," I reply just when in some distance to us, a stag crosses the main path to the country house in long, elegant leaps, only to disappear into the dense green of the thicket around the oaks again. "How enchanting."
"I know." Nott seems miserable nevertheless. "So you want to stay longer after all?"
I chuckle, shaking my head. "Absolutely not. Calm down."
"I told my mother, by the way, that we have school work to do."
"School work?" I raise my brows as the dusty ground beneath our feet gradually begins to turn to gravel. "You couldn't think of anything more trivial, could you?"
"I've organised it, didn't I? We're here!"
"Yes, you're right," I reassure him, "where are my manners …"
"They're important here," he informs me in a moment of trepidation. "My parents are … very traditional. I'd really appreciate if you –"
"Relax, Nott," I interrupt him. "You'll all barely notice I'm there. And before you know it, I'll be gone again."
Just as we proceed to walk by the splashing circular fountain right outside the main building, the huge front door, framed by old lanterns, is already being opened as if by magic.
"Mother!" Nott calls out to the lady dressed all in black velvet stepping out into the open.
She waves him Hello in posh delight and Nott gives her a forced smile, while a wiry, tall man with a stern look – probably his father – also steps out.
No, he really doesn't have to worry about me staying any longer than absolutely necessary …
"Father, hello," Nott calls out from the distance, but before we know it, brisk handshakes are being exchanged as though I were a welcome guest.
So that's him, I hear Mrs Nott think, such handsome features, and yet already chasms deep enough for blackmail …
I can't help but give her an amused half-smile, something she now has absolutely no way of interpreting, but I already turn to Mr Nott. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"Oh, there's nothing to thank us for," he immediately says – and yet he thinks exactly the opposite. "Friends of our son are always welcome after all!"
He nods at me with a blandly kind expression, yet he harbours nothing but resentment at my obvious intrusion.
Nott must hence have played his cards close to his chest and confessed to his parents that I unfortunately know about their dirty little family secret.
These people realise that their only alternative to allowing my brief visit would be a murder. So the question is how much scruples they have.
"How nice," I finally say. "It's all a matter of priorities, isn't it?"
"Indeed," Mr Nott replies, trying in vain to hide his anger. "Let's go into the lounge. It's time for tea."
Maybe no scruples at all. Perhaps their dusty biscuits, none of which I'd ever touch, are poisoned. The tea itself, however, turns out to be just fine.
"I'm already burdening you with plenty of dishes," I say in mock dismay, "whereas my plan was quite a different one, Mr Nott."
"Since you mention it," he directly – and gladly – picks up on it, "I think we can speak openly?"
"Since I suppose your son has already done so," I reply, "I guess there's really no point in secrecy, sir."
"No, it almost seems so," old Nott groanes, looking at me with strange urgency. "This family sticks together, Tom. We keep things secret from the world, but there must be no unspoken doubt in our own ranks. That would be fatal. If there were secrets in the midst of our family, too – we'd constantly be surrounded by them. That's not healthy, in my opinion. That is why we keep it this way – whoever has something on their mind may speak, provided no lies are being told. My son, squeamish as he may be, at least adhered to this principle when he revealed to us why he couldn't come alone today."
Nott junior gulps, and it's as if the adults are talking now, even though I myself am barely a few weeks older than him.
"This is how we have kept a low profile over the many years," the head of the family tells me. "We have done what we thought was right and pursued education for the world of magic. But my fathers and I didn't keep this noble work a secret just to now risk it all because of an underage schoolboy."
"Mr Nott, you seem to misunderstand my intentions." I hold his gaze. "What exactly do you think I have in mind?"
"Obviously you want to blackmail us, Tom," he surmises. "You had a suspicion, and our son clumsily confirmed it to you. Now you are here and want to see the archives with your own eyes – and afterwards you will force us to buy your silence."
"Not at all." I put down my teacup – with those tacky gold rims – and lean forward in this even tackier armchair. "Mr Nott, all I want is for you to take me to the very archives that have enabled you to make claims about the bloodlines of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."
"And afterwards?" he asks. "After that, what I've just prophesied will happen. You'll prepare a memory for the records and newspapers and blackmail us."
"No," I firmly reply, "I have no interest whatsoever in exposing your family. On the contrary, I'm indebted to you. Your work may be based on questionable motives, but it might indeed serve to enlighten …"
"We can't let him into the archives!" Mrs Nott breaks her silence for the first time since we're in the lounge. "How do we know he won't betray us after all?"
"We don't," her husband says under his breath.
"Now you're already toying with the idea of killing me, aren't you," I say, smiling into the group.
"Not at all, no," Nott senior asserts, but I can tell it's just a white lie. "That can't be the solution. And yet I suppose we are stuck in a dilemma."
"No, I expected something like this," I say. "I'm ready to make an Unbreakable Vow. If you are."
The Notts look at me in surprise.
Until the head of their family asks, "What would
we have to vow?"
"I want you to never speak of my visit or my research. That you don't ask questions or spy on me. None of you."
"Your father Cantankerus would never have gotten involved in something like this," Mrs Nott whispers.
"But my father didn't have a son that couldn't shut up," he murmurs.
Sighing heavily, the senior weighs his options, but he can only come to one conclusion.
"Quid pro quo," I fuel the fire.
Finally he nods. "Agreed. My son, you're responsible for the binding."
"You also make a vow," I say to Mrs Nott, then look to their junior. "As do you."
"Are we sure?" he asks his father.
"Yes, go ahead, the both of you," he encourages them.
Nott takes a deep breath, then he pulls out his wand as his father and I join hands, and likewise his mother and him. The white thread of commitment wraps around our arms as Nott junior begins.
"Do we, the Notts," he then begins and continues, "swear never to speak of Tom Riddle's visit and his research? To not ask any questions nor go after him?"
"We swear," the master of the house confirms for all of them.
"Tom Riddle," Nott junior then proceeds, "do you swear to keep our family secret about the Pure-Blood Directory and its archives even after your research? Do you swear to never let the world find out through you?"
I look at Mr Nott as I vow. "I swear."
For a moment there, it seems as though an invisible noose is tightening around my neck, but it's the price I pay. It will never have to strangle me – I have only one thing in mind. Final and utter clarity.
"So be it," Nott announces, pulling his wand away again.
It's mere intuition to look down my arm for a few more heartbeats, but then I straighten up.
"So – where are the archives?"