To Be or Nott to Be

Potter mentioned that he was staying at the Weasley home in Ottery St. Catchpole.

Malfoy had been a time or two before to the Burrow. The experience had been…enlightening.

Not to say that Narcissa Malfoy had not done her best to make the Manor a welcoming home for a child, for a young boy, but there was a warmth about the Burrow that most pureblood homes lacked.

The massive, winding estates were usually covered in overzealous portraits, cursed objects, and darkness that eminated so succinctly it was as if a dementor shared the space.

It was Molly Weasley who answered the wards call as Malfoy touched down on the lands. His apparation was still quiet. Some things of his past life he was not able to shake.

“Hello, dear,” Her voice was softer than usual, welcoming him into the house. Another thing that Malfoy wasn’t used to was the kindness and the acceptance he had received from the Weasleys post-war.

The Weasel was still occasionally…well, a weasel, but the rest of the family had taken well to his friendship with Potter.

Even after his divorce from the Weaslette.

It probably didn’t hurt that Ginevra married one of Draco’s closest friends.

“What brings you in?” She asked, leading him to a chair and putting a spot of tea and some sandwiches down on the table in front of him. As if she could have anticipated him coming from St. Mungos in the middle of the night…

“I’m looking for Nott,” He replied, taking a great sip from the tea cup. It rattled gently into the saucer as he set it down and reached for a cucumber sandwich triangle. “Thank you for the refreshment, Molly.”

“I know you’ve been spending every night sitting at Hermione’s bedside, but that’s no excuse not to bring that darling little girl to see me.” She chided, ignoring what he said all together. “Arthur,” She called, barely louder than a whisper.

The Weasley patriarch either had supersonic hearing or had been just out of earshot. “Good to see you, Draco.” Arthur said with gusto, clapping him on the shoulder.

Malfoy wondered for a moment if the Weasleys just enjoyed taking in stray snakes. It had started with Draco, then Blaise, and now Nott.

“Could I have a few moments alone with Nott?” Malfoy asked.

Arthur looked down his nose beyond the bridge of his glasses. “Depends on what you need from him, son. I’m afraid that if you’ve come here to challenge his honor—,”

“No,” Malfoy said, “I’ve just been doing some light reading on family trees.” The knowing tone in Malfoy’s voice was not necessarily meant to be sharp, but his words seemed to cut Arthur deeper than Malfoy would have expected.

The Weasley patriarch let out a deep sigh. “I will wake him, then. Molly, we ought to let them have the kitchen.” Before Arthur went upstairs, he said, “Your wand, son?”

Malfoy let out a deep breath, “I guess that was to be expected.” He handed Arthur his wand and sat wordlessly at the table.

Molly squeezed him gently on the shoulder before disappearing behind Arthur. Malfoy felt the warmth from the hearth settle into his skin, the scents of dill and lemon warming him in a familiar way. He would never admit it, but he found the Weasleys’ home to be friendlier and warmer than any home he had ever lived in.

He wasn’t sure why Potter lived in Grimmauld, other than the fact that his Godfather, the late Sirius Black, had left the place to him.

“I hear you are here to see me,” Nott called from the stairs. He sauntered lazily down the last few, his knee nearly buckling as he haphazardly placed himself in a chair. He summoned a tea cup wandlessly, pouring himself a cup of the steaming English Breakfast and helping himself to a cucumber sandwich.

“I was doing some reading,” Malfoy replied. “I know of only one blood curse that could cause fainting, seizures, and affect the lover of the affected and not the affected.”

Theo, warm and sleep-rumpled, did not seem affected by his statement. The clothes he wore were ill-fitting. It looked like hand-me-downs from a much larger Weasley, the frayed edges of the cotton sleep shirt and the pyjama pants were made of a similar worn flannel. “Is that a Gryffindor quidditch shirt?” Malfoy asked, incredulously.

“Dragon-tamer Weasley is the only Weasley tall enough that I can wear his clothes,” Theo replied, tone cheeky.

“Sleeping in his room, I take it?” Malfoy asked with no particular malice.

“Certainly not sleeping in the Weasel’s—,” Theo broke off, grabbing another triangle of sandwich to stuff in his mouth. Malfoy watched Nott carefully, studying the pallor of his skin and the limp curls that were framing his face. The bags under his eyes were severe and despite his penchant for overeating, he looked thinner than usual. “What is it that you came here for, anyway? To gloat? To threaten me? I’ve heard it all before, Draco. Save it for someone who cares.”

Malfoy wanted to smart off, to offer his condolences, really, but he didn’t. Malfoy wouldn’t make this any more painful for him than he had to. “I know about your lineage, now.” His voice was quiet, not threatening. “I knew there was something familiar about the situation and I had taken to reading some family journals—,”

“I am not a Malfoy,” Theo practically spat. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“I know you aren’t a Malfoy, Theodore, don’t be daft.” Malfoy snapped. “But you are a Black.”

______________________________________________________________________

Theo stared blankly at Malfoy. The cucumber sandwich he was chewing had started to taste like ash. But you are a Black.

Did Malfoy know the whole time? Had he received one of those blasted letters from his mother?

“Listen,” Theo began to panic in earnest, his heart was racing, his vision was blurring.

“I haven’t told her anything,” Draco interrupted him, “Theo, it’s going to be okay.” Malfoy walked around the table and sat down next to him, putting his hands on his shoulders. “Just breathe for a minute,” Malfoy whispered, putting pressure on his shoulders to ground him. “Name something you can see right now.”

“The tea pot.”

“Describe the colors.”

“White and blue china. Handpainted.”

“How blue is it?”

“Like the eldest Weasleys eyes,” He replied. “Deep and sure and rich.”

“How did the tea taste?”

“Like English tar.”

“What would you have preferred?”

“Blackberry and citrus.” Theo replied, shoulders shaking marginally less than when he started to panic.

“Describe the taste of blackberry and citrus tea,” Malfoy said, still applying pressure to Theo’s shoulders.

“It tastes like springtime at the manor,” He could feel the ache in his throat. “It reminded me of picking daffodils with my mother and rolling in the grass among the bluebells and bees, before she was sick.” Tears leaked from his green eyes.

“What did the grass feel like?”

“Prickling,” Theo replied.

As if Draco could sense that this line of questioning was not working for Theo’s anxiety, he steared it away from the direction of wistful nostalgia. “Describe something that you smell.”

“Cedar,” Theo replied immediately. “Smells like our room back at Hogwarts. Cedar trunks and soft sandalwood. I used to think you had manufactured a cologne to spray all over the room.”

Draco let out a soft breath. “My mother had charmed my clothes to smell like that. It never wore off. It was almost cloying at times.”

“I was so incredibly jealous,” Theo replied, “A mother who loved you enough to do domestic magic for you.”

Draco tutted, clearly displeased with his sentiment. The Late Lady Nott loved her son — whether Theo was able to see it at the moment or not. “Theo,” Draco whispered, sitting down in the chair next to him. He released Theo’s shoulders and looked into his eyes. “We need to be able to discuss this. Are you going to be okay? Can I get you a calming draught—,”

“—yes,” Theo interrupted, voice shameful and needy.

Malfoy summoned a calming draught wandlessly and wordlessly. Theo knew that Molly kept all her brewed potions in a cupboard near the kitchen. He wondered how Draco knew, too.

It seemed so effortless, the way that Draco had himself into the lives of the people Theo so desparately wanted to impress and to be with.

“Shall we walk around the grounds?” Draco asked him, “Or are you more comfortable here?”

Theo hesitated for a moment. “Here,” He said. “I don’t know if I can move my legs right now.”

Draco nodded. “I didn’t come here with the intention of upsetting you, but we need to discuss this as calmly as we can. What all this means—,”

“It means I will lose everything and gain nothing,” Theo replied. “It means I am a bastard son with no title, no family, and nothing to offer.”

“—Theo,” Draco interrupted, his voice was almost a coo. “You know that is not true, right? I may be cross with you, I may never forgive you for absconding with the witch of my dreams and my daughter too, but you have value here. Not just with me, not just with Hermione or even Willa. You are a valued member of wizarding society. Besides, there is no one left of the Nott bloodline. I would argue with the Wizengamot if they tried to take your ancestral seat—,”

“But that’s just the thing, isn’t it?” He let out a hollow laugh, “It’s not my ancestral seat.”

Draco was quiet for a moment, thoughtful as he studied Theo. “What would make this easier for you? Do you need money? Do you want the Black family seat?”

“No,” Theo snapped hoarsely. “I want to stop hurting Hermione,” He whispered.

“I know this is not what you want to hear, but you know what would stop this—,”

“How do you expect me to fall in love with anyone else?” Theo’s eyes snapped up to meet Draco’s. “She is all things brilliant and warm and wonderful. And Willa? You would expect me to want to give that little girl up, too?”

“I didn’t say that—,”

“The only cure here is for me to love someone of pureblood,” Theo spat. “This curse is ridiculous.”

Draco agreed with him, holding out a hand to him. “If it gives you any sort of comfort, this means your father wasn’t a Death Eating bastard. Quite frankly, by our parents standards, he was a blood traitor—,”

“He really isn’t my father,” Theo said. “I never even met him.”

Draco’s face was unreadable.

“Besides, it’s not my father’s fault that this is happening.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” Theo sighed deeply, his chest caving in as he shuddered. “I think you ought to read the letter, then.”

“The letter?”

Theo wordlessly summoned a letter from thin air, placing it gingerly on the table in front of Draco.

He could have recited the letter by heart.

THESE ARE THE LAST WORDS OF PHILOMENA ANASTASIA FAWLEY NOTT

When I was a young woman, I was promised to the Nott family. Had I known what it was that I was going to suffer here at the hands of my husband, I might have considered fleeing the Isles and never returning.

When the marriage contract had been drawn up, fidelity had not been a clause that was included for either party. I had no assumptions about this. I assumed my role was to remain pious, to remain faithful to only my husband. I expected my husband to do as he pleased. This was the way of the pureblood wife.

I never intended to fall in love with another man.

It was not the fault of Sirirus Black that I grew infatuated with him. The young Mr. Black had intrigued me when he managed to not only to get himself blasted off the Black Family tree, but rather, to live to tell the tale afterwards.

Walpurga Black, make no assumptions about her lack of cruelty, a mother’s love for her son — oh no — but rather, understand that it was cruelty that fueled the dreadful witch.

It was the love of his father, Orion, that had spared young Sirius Black’s life. He was the one to spare punishment, he was the one who helped Sirius escape after his failed marking from the new Dark Lord.

We met while Thaddeus was away on business. I had not known at the time the severity of the situation that Thaddeus was placing us in. The alignment he made with the devil behind my back was as unsurprising as the first time he raised a hand to me.

And yet, I still made no plan to leave. No plan to stay, either.

It was not until I looked into the amber eyes of Sirius Black that I found I had something left to live for. Something to stay in Wizarding London for.

I found that in my marriage, I was meant to be a silent doll. To produce the next Nott heir and to lay back and think of England while I did my marital duty.

It was in these days following my chance encounter that I sought to anull my marriage.

We had not yet conceived a child and Thaddeus had grown impatient. I thought naively that he may wish to take another wife, someone more suitable for him than the youngest Fawley daughter. My husband among others — namely the Wizengamot — would not hear it — a pureblood wife would not provide an heir? An anullment would not be granted. The Wizengamot ordered my murder. We either remained wed and attempted to bring together a pureblooded child, or my husband had license to kill shall I not satisfy his requirement for a first-born son.

Sirius Black, who was three years my junior, had already left Hogwarts when we met. His kind friends, Lily Evans and Remus Lupin, were desparate to pull me from my situation.

His other friend, James Potter, was not so enthusiastic about my extraction from my volatile marriage. He was afraid that Thaddeus Nott Sr. would come after them all.

Six years my senior, Thaddeus was nearly ten years senior to the Potters, newly married and expecting, and Mr. Lupin and Sirius Black. He had fallen in line with the new regime, hungry for power and respect. The darkness consumed my husband and while he was distracted, I made my plans to leave.

Sirius and I intended to run away together, to start a new life. There was a colony of wizards in Costa Rica that we made contact with. They had taken on the lifestyle of the native people there and were aware of our situation and would protect us.

It was not until the deaths of James and Lily Potter that I realized that I was trapped, my safety net locked away in Azkaban. I thought that my husband would never know the truth of my infidelity. He was the inventor of the magical paternity test.

When the asp struck down the fox and the dove, he knew that I had been unfaithful.

It was then that he planned his revenge. He found the curse that might lay in the blood of a Black — how he knew that his son was a Black, I may never know — and he modified it.

His son would be doomed to hurt anyone he loved that was not born of a magical bloodline. And I? Destined to descend into madness. The curse that lay dormant in my blood was passed to my son. My husband made no one aware of any cure or any way to reverse the damage.

My son will always be able to love a pureblood, and maybe, if he can reverse the damage done, have a child.

Upon my death, copies of this letter will be sent to the appropriate parties. Justice will be served.

Theo watched Draco’s face while he read the letter for any signs of shock or anxiety.

Draco let out a breath, “We will work it out, Theo.” He clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Everything will be right, in the end.”