Chapter II
The perfume always hit him first—floral with a sharp, citrus tang. It was fleeting, like a breath of summer, but whenever it caught him unaware, it dragged him back to that day. The last time his mother smiled at him, the way her lover’s hand lingered on hers at the tea table.
The first time Theo realized he could hear thoughts, it wasn’t a triumph. It was a nightmare. His mother’s voice rang in his head, even though her lips didn’t move: “Please, don’t let him find out. I can’t lose this. I can’t lose her.” He didn’t understand what she meant at the time, but the desperation in her thoughts clung to him, heavy and suffocating. The ability only grew stronger as the years went on, and his father, ever the opportunist, made sure Theo knew exactly how to use it.
“The mind is a weapon, Theo,” his father had told him. “Use it, or be used.” It wasn’t a lesson—it was a command. His father would sit him in front of the house elves, the staff, and even other noble children, forcing Theo to dig through their thoughts. The results never mattered. What mattered was control—his father’s control over them, and Theo’s over himself. Love, loyalty, and kindness meant nothing in a world where every mind was a battlefield.
The first time Theo Nott found his parents being intimate was at the age of seven. His mother had laughed softly, a sound like sunlight catching glass, as his father muttered something Theo didn’t catch and thoughts of pure desire and what he thought was love flitted through his mind as he watched his parents.
But the second time... that summer before Hogwarts, there was no laughter. His mother’s tea gown hung loosely off her shoulders, her bare collarbone catching the light. The noblewoman leaned in close, her hand brushing a strand of hair from Theo’s mother’s face with such care that Theo, for a moment, thought he was intruding on a secret, sacred thing. He didn’t stay long—he didn’t know why he ran, only that he couldn’t face her that night at dinner.
His attempts at hiding from his mother did not last long, for his mother had found him the next morning after breakfast, huddled in his dark little corner of the upstairs library. A warm yet amused smile graced her lips.
“I know you can hear me, my darling” her words echoed in his ears yet her lips never moved but she lifted her hand and bent a finger in a ‘come here’ motion before turning and leaving the room. With a heavy sigh, Theo stood and followed his mother and soon found himself in their little corner of their large manor gardens.
His mother knelt on the grass, carefully folding her dress beneath her knees as she sat herself infront of her gardenias, not caring for whether or not she dirtied herself or her clothes.
“Come Theodore.” her voice was soft and her words always felt like a cool flow of water down a mountain stream, just as calm as her thoughts.
Theo sat himself beside his mother and finally found the courage to ask her about what he had seen the night before.
"Do you love her?" The question felt heavy around the two of them, like a stone dropped into still water.
His mother paused her wand movements, but only for a moment. She dropped her hand holding her wand and turned to him, her smile soft but tired.
“I did. I still do, in a way. She was my first everything—my first kiss, my first heartbreak, my first dream of something bigger than this life.”
“Then why did you marry Father?”
His mother paused for a moment and placed her hand against his cheek.
“Because love is freedom, Theo, but duty... duty is a cage. I chose the cage so you could grow up free.”
“Do you love her more than father?”
She sighed, reaching out to take his hand. "Love isn’t about more or less. It’s about... what feels right. She feels right. Your father and I... we were never right, but I loved him enough to try. And we made you, so I’ll always be grateful for that.”
Theo’s mother had a laugh that made people lean closer, as though hearing it might grant them a glimpse of the world the way she saw it. When Theo was small, he’d often sit at her feet in the drawing room, listening as she talked about books she loved or old wizarding folktales. It was always “their” time—free from the stiff rules his father imposed.
"One day, you’ll find someone who makes your heart sing, Theo," she’d told him once, pulling her fingers through his hair. "And when you do, don’t ever let them go." She’d smiled then, but it had been a sad kind of smile, the sort that said she’d let someone go once, and it had cost her everything. What she did not know, however, was that Theo would be the one to cost her, her life.
It isn’t the most pleasant evening when Theo asks his father the question that kills his mother. But then again, any day in the company of Theodore Nott. Sr is never hailed as a pleasant one.
Theo’s fingers tightened around the fabric of his robe as he stepped forward. The crackle of the fire filled the silence, punctuated by the low rumble of thunder outside. His father didn’t look up, swirling the glowing amber of dark firewhiskey in his glass with slow, deliberate movements.
“Father?” Theo’s voice was tentative. He hated how small it sounded, but the question pressed against the back of his throat like a stone he couldn’t swallow.
“What is it, boy?” Nott Sr. didn’t bother to look at him, his voice as sharp and cold as the glass in his hand. The lack of eye contact made Theo nervous at the prospect of not being able to read his fathers thoughts clearly enough and anticipate his actions.
Theo swallowed hard, his feet shuffling against the rug. “Do you—” He hesitated, but then the words tumbled out in a rush. “Do you still love Mother?”
The glass paused mid-swirl, and for a moment, the only sound was the rain tapping against the window. Slowly, Nott Sr. turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Theo.
“What kind of an idiotic question is that?” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it, a restrained violence simmering just below the surface.
Theo stiffened. “I just... I mean, you used to love her, didn’t you? Before you married?”
A humorless laugh escaped his father, bitter and cutting. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the glass dangling precariously from his fingers. “Love? You think marriage has anything to do with love?”
Theo flinched but pressed on, his curiosity emboldened by the flicker of vulnerability he thought he’d seen in his mother’s eyes earlier that day in the garden. “So... do you have someone? Someone you love? Like—like Mother does?”
As if the gods knew, lightning outside crackled and the thunder hounded against the manor and its windows almost as if it were trying to break in and sweep the child off to somewhere safer than in the presence of his father.
The glass slipped from Nott Sr.’s hand, shattering against the stone hearth. Theo jumped as the sound reverberated through the room. His father stood slowly, his towering figure casting a shadow across the room. It was as if Theo were prey standing in front of a predator ready to slaughter him in a moments notice.
“What did you just say?” His voice was deadly quiet, his tone laced with warning.
Theo instinctively backed up a step, his heart pounding. “I—I didn’t mean anything by it. I just... I saw Mother earlier, and—”
“You saw her?” His father’s voice cracked like a whip, and Theo froze. “What did you see?”
“N-nothing!” Theo stammered, but it was too late. His father’s face twisted with a fury that made Theo’s stomach churn. His fathers wand was held in a tight and almost deadly grip as he stalked forward towards the small boy in front of him.
The door creaked open, and Theo’s mother stepped into the room, her usual grace faltering when she took in the scene. Her eyes darted to the shattered glass, then to Theo, whose pale face betrayed his fear.
“What’s going on here?” Her voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of tension, a mother’s instinct sensing danger. She moved towards her son, slowly and carefully as if even the slightest disturbance would have set her husband off on a rampage.
Nott Sr. turned on her, his fury redirected like a storm finding a new target. “You,” he spat, pointing his wand at her. “Filling his head with lies, turning him against me. Is that what you’ve been doing all these years?”
She frowned, her chin lifting defiantly. “You’re drunk, Theodore. Whatever Theo told you, it’s your own paranoia speaking.” Her arm wrapped around Theo who had been shaking in fear behind her, she pushed him further back, keeping him completely out of sight from his father.
He stepped toward her, his movements erratic, his voice rising. “You think I don’t know? All your tea sessions, your guests. How long have you been making a fool of me under my own roof?”
“Theodore, stop this—” she began, but Theo’s small voice interrupted her.
“It’s not her fault!” he blurted out, tears stinging his eyes. “She said it’s because of love! You—you don’t understand because you don’t have anyone you love!”
The room fell deathly silent. For a moment, Theo thought his father might actually break apart. His hands trembled and for a moment he lowered his wand and his face contorted into something unrecognizable.
“Don’t... have anyone…I love?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but the menace in it sent a chill down Theo’s spine. “You stupid, ungrateful little brat. You think you know what love is?”
He lunged at Theo’s mother with terrifying speed. Theo cried out, but his feet wouldn’t move. There was a flash of light as his father slashed his wand, and a moment later, she crumpled to the ground. Her lover, who had followed her into the room in an attempt to intervene, fell next, their scream cut short by a sickening squelch as they were both shot down with a cutting curse. There was nothing left but silence.
Theo stared at the scene, his breath caught in his chest. His mother lay motionless, her face turned toward him, her eyes wide with shock as blood poured to the floor from her wounds. His father turned to him, his wand still raised, his face red with rage. Her mind which had been calm and quiet and almost freeing to listen to, now only left behind a deafening silence.
“This is your fault,” Nott Sr. hissed, his voice shaking. “You did this. You and your stupid questions. If you’d kept your mouth shut, none of this would’ve happened!”
Theo opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. His father’s words buried themselves deep in his mind, twisting around his thoughts like vines. The world spun, and the last thing he remembered before blacking out was his father’s sneering voice: “Get out of my sight.”
Theo woke the next morning to the scent of gardenias —his mother’s favorite. For a moment, he thought it had all been a dream. But then he heard the low hum of voices from the parlor below.
"Such a tragedy," one of them said. "And so sudden. The poor boy—what will he do without her?"
Theo sat up, his chest tight. He remembered flashes: his father’s rage, his mother’s scream, the way the room spun as he stumbled back. The rest was blank, but the smell of gardenias lingered, as though mocking him.
Theo often wondered if he’d imagined it all. Memories, like old parchment, had a way of crumbling at the edges, softening until only the sharpest parts remained. But there were nights when sleep wouldn’t come, and all he could see was the red splash of wine on his father’s hands. Wine—or was it blood? His mind always stopped him before he got close enough to find out. He preferred it that way.