The Double Delivery and the Devastating Decision
September, 1979
It was too soon …
Isabelle screamed.
There should’ve been more time to prepare the right potions, to have another witch there with her, but Isabelle’s child was anxious to arrive. He was six weeks early.
The Numbing Draught wouldn’t work for several more minutes and it would only take the edge off … the baby was coming too quickly.
Sweat poured from her brow as Isabelle clenched her fists into the quilt. Of all the wondrous things magic could do, it couldn’t stop new life from arriving. No matter how bad the timing was.
“Is alright, Missus,” whispered Minky.
The elf-servant rested a tiny hand on her Mistress’s forehead, and Isabelle felt the sweat vanish as her body temperature cooled just enough to soothe her. She could bear the pain.
But the next contraction wasn’t far behind.
Despite her fragile and willowy appearance, Isabelle was a strong, resilient witch. But this agony was like nothing else. Even the magic of her trusted servant did little to ease her discomfort as the baby began crowning.
With a myriad of whimpering and other vocalisations that would embarrass her any other time, Isabelle pushed until she could push no more.
“Baby is coming … baby alright. Missus does good …” Minky soothed repeatedly in her squeaky voice.
Isabelle struggled to breathe as the Numbing Draught finally began to take effect.
Even the distraction of the pain couldn’t stop her from worrying. Only in rare cases a healthy witch would deliver so early.
“Missus must push again,” Minky said in the most demanding tone she’d ever dared to utter. “Again!”
Isabelle pushed. She cried, and she pushed …
Why her son was so desperate to arrive? Was something wrong? Was he sick? Would he be too small to survive?
Her husband didn’t even know yet that the baby was on his way; he’d been called away and wouldn’t return until morning at the earliest.
The thought of what might happen if something went wrong …
Isabelle breathed easier. The pain was abating.
“Baby is here,” Minky said softly.
Isabelle forced her eyes open.
Minky’s adept magic quickly cut the umbilical cord and cleaned the tiny body. She wrapped it tenderly in a flannel bundle.
“Oh …” was all Isabelle managed to breathe in her exhaustion. She lifted her arm weakly in Minky’s direction, and the elf gently laid the precious bundle at her side.
The high-pitched wail was the most reassuring sound Isabelle had ever heard.
“So … beautiful …” she smiled down at the wee nose, blue eyes, and teensy fingers. The head was blanketed in a fuzzy covering of the tiniest blond hairs. The little fingers seemed to grab Isabelle’s own finger for a precious, beautiful moment that made her heart glow.
The child was soft and pink and perfect; yet she feared, not only for her premature baby’s health, but of her husband’s inevitable reaction if his heir proved unfit in any way.
“Minky … is he healthy?” Isabelle begged. “Will he be alright?”
“Healthy, yes,” her nursemaid replied slowly. “Little small but will grow.”
Isabelle’s brow quirked with worry.
“Minky … what aren’t you telling me?”
Minky shuffled her feet and Isabelle’s pulse increased dangerously.
If her husband were here, he would yell at the elf, demanding answers and making threats. Isabelle knew better than to try and correct the other’s behaviour, but in her kind heart she could not treat the elves in such a way.
This was the first time she considered yelling abusively at Minky herself, so desperate was she for answers.
She watched with bated breath as Minky’s pointed ears continued to droop, a sure sign that something was amiss. Isabelle’s heart pounded and her arm tightened protectively around the tiny child.
“Missus … baby is a– a girl.”
Isabelle forgot how to breathe.
She was somewhat aware of Minky’s squeaky voice trying to reassure her, trying to offer help, trying to calm her, but it didn’t matter.
Her hands clutched the precious bundle against her side, terrified to let go. The moment she did …
The image of her husband’s face came into her mind. She could already see the red hue of his cheeks, the fierce gnashing of teeth, the wide black eyes that reminded her of cold telescopes … and his fury exploded as he ripped the child away from her and–
“Missus! Missus!”
Isabelle only cried harder and clutched her daughter more closely, ignoring the elf’s cries and the pains radiating through her body. Minky was a darling, but there was nothing she could do, nothing could possibly fix–
“Missus! Missus must wakes up!”
It was slow, but Isabelle began to rise from the depths of her panic and regain awareness of her surroundings. She heard Minky’s squeaky pleas, but they were meaningless. She cared only for the cry from her daughter, the sound tearing into her heart. The sound she would never hear again after tonight–
The pain … there was so much pain. Perhaps it spread from her heart … perhaps the sheer horror of losing her baby would make her body simply crumble into ash and she would blow away on the wind, never to feel anything again.
But why was this pain so centralised?
Minky’s voice slowly faded back into Isabelle’s notice.
“… coming! Missus, please! Next baby …!” she pleaded.
Next baby?
As though from a lightning strike, Isabelle jerked back to reality. She thought she’d been imagining the pain, but it was just as real as it had been, minutes before …
She screamed.
It was vivid, it was agony; it was–
“… most there! ‘Nother baby almost here!”
–another contraction?
She was carrying another …? She had twins?
It was about four more minutes, but Isabelle thought it was a lifetime as she writhed, pushed, and sobbed. Minky had carefully levitated the baby girl to the dressing-table away from the chaos, but close enough that Isabelle could keep her eyes fixed on the soft bundle.
Just as before, there was so much pain … and yet it almost seemed to dull as Isabelle focused on her daughter. The pain had been utterly worth the agony once, to have this beautiful treasure … and now there was another. Another baby.
The Fertility Potions were meant to increase her chances of becoming pregnant, but never had Isabelle dreamed they might give her two children.
Her body shuddered in relief as the pain abated and a fresh stream of tears poured from her eyes. It was over.
Moments later, Minky’s soft wave of magic cleaned Isabelle’s face of tears and she gently tucked another bundle into the crook of her Mistress’s arm with the first.
“Baby boy,” Minky whispered.
The second child wriggled and made sounds. For a long time, Isabelle couldn’t do anything but look desperately at her beautiful children.
She couldn’t keep her tears back.
Isabelle managed to feed the babies and she cradled them with the utmost care while Minky silently tidied the room, not straying far.
The elf knew what was at stake … she was just waiting for Isabelle to be ready.
More time passed.
It wasn’t long enough. It would never be long enough.
But dawn was breaking, and her husband would soon return.
“Minky,” Isabelle whispered. The elf was at her side in an instant.
Isabelle pressed a kiss to both of her babies’ heads and for just a moment, held their tiny hands together as they slept. Perhaps one day they might know each other, if the world could change in a way Isabelle only dared to dream.
“Minky, you … you know w– what must be done,” she sobbed.
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Thoros was a strict wizard, led by rigid habits based on centuries of noble tradition.
He knew anything could be achieved in one of two ways: the right way or the weak way.
Weak wizards settled for second-best. They achieved lesser goals, upheld themselves to lower standards, and associated with those of tainted blood. They infected wizarding culture by adopting Muggle customs and Muggle vocabulary. They allowed their children to get away with reckless or boisterous behaviour. They spoke carelessly, worked for spineless leaders, and wore their emotions on their sleeves.
As a curator and spokeswizard for the right ways of magic, Thoros proudly matched every aspect of his life accordingly.
It was with practiced movement that Thoros enchanted his front door securely, then unfastened his cloak and hung it with a perfect wave of his ebony wand. Despite having traversed through the rainy night, he wore polished shoes and pristine robes, without a wrinkle or water stain to be seen. His long, greying hair was pulled behind his head, not a strand daring to be out of place. A lesser wizard may use potions to hide the grey in their hair, but Thoros knew better: grey hair came with age; thus, it symbolised knowledge and experience.
Of course, his manor was as aptly designed as his appearance. The foyer around him was flawlessly decorated with a display of antique artifacts, a simple but elegant gold and umber colour palette, and nary a speck of dust in sight. His heels would’ve clicked on the marble as he made for the upper level but for the Sound-Proofing Charms he’d personally laid into every inch of the floor.
Magic was a precious commodity; it was not a toy for amusement but a tool to be refined, sharpened, and perfected. One did not do justice to magic by casting half-hearted or entertaining spells, just as one did not disrespect one’s pure wizarding heritage by breaking any sacred tradition.
Luckily for his wife, giving birth early did not break a tradition.
Thoros was nevertheless taken by surprise when he let himself into Isabelle’s quarters and discovered her cuddling a swaddled bundle.
“What is this? We were not meant to have our child for six more weeks!”
He had to approach his wife’s bed closely to hear her stammering reply.
“… came early, Thoros … the– the Fertility Potion … it granted me t– twins.”
Twins?
Thoros did not display emotion outwardly – he was not weak – but he was pleased. Even with magical aid, producing one heir at his age already proved a challenge, much less two.
And yet …
“I see only one child,” he frowned down at his young wife’s arms.
He was quickly taken aback as the witch begin weeping uncontrollably. This was even stranger than her stammering. Isabelle was well-versed in the correct traditions and etiquette. She knew her place … she should never act this way–
“So … so tiny …” Isabelle choked.
Thoros blinked in confusion. Her tears were odd enough, but Thoros detected something else untoward. Of course, he was well acquainted with the thoughts and behaviours of his obedient, docile wife. She’d never dare to keep something from him.
Yet every sign suggested that the woman was now trying to conceal a secret.
His brow furrowed, liking the outright sentimental display even less. But he should not need to remind her how to behave in his presence; she knew better than this–
“Forgive me, master,” a squeaky voice sounded from behind him.
Thoros turned to see his wife’s nursemaid in a deep bow. Perhaps the elf was offering to say whatever his wife was too distressed to utter.
He would give it one chance. He did not regularly subject himself to communication with the lesser beings.
“Speak,” he ordered the creature.
“Mistress Isabelle first gave birth to baby girl, but baby girl was too small. Very weak,” the elf said clearly. “Then Mistress Isabelle gave birth to baby boy. Baby boy is stronger … baby boy will live.”
The elf finished speaking and dropped its head into a bow one again.
Thoros turned back to his wife, who was still shaking and sobbing. Though still uncomfortable to see the display of emotion, he supposed he could excuse such behaviour if she had indeed lost a child, regardless of it being female.
“Is this true?” he inquired in the softest voice he could manage.
Isabelle nodded her head sorrowfully.
Thoros would’ve preferred a verbal answer, but he was satisfied. She could not lie to him after all, and he was relieved there was no need to punish her. Perhaps it was fate, he decided; his wife bore a weak daughter and a healthy son, and the son would live to carry on his line. Isabelle had fulfilled her duty.
“Well then,” he said gruffly. “It seems I have an heir to name.”
He reached down to retrieve the bundle from his wife. She helped him cradle the tiny head until he was comfortable walking to the window.
It was difficult in this moment, suppressing the emotions Thoros ignored for years. He reserved enough affection for Isabelle to keep her well-cared for, as was his duty, but this was something else entirely.
He looked down at the tiny wizard sleeping in the moonlight. Little, fragile fingers rested against soft pink cheeks. The wee eyes opened for just a moment, and Thoros found himself staring, transfixed, until the miniscule lids closed sleepily again.
This was his prodigy, his blood … undoubtedly the most important thing in his life.
“My heir … my son,” Thoros fought to keep his voice even as he looked proudly at the child. “He is a gift … and I shall raise him to be a great leader of our kind. Thus, he shall have the name Theodore Odin Nott.”
June, 1995
“Excuse me,”
A timid, unfamiliar voice surprised Hermione and she looked up from Advanced Numerology with a start.
She hadn’t expected anyone else to show in the library since exams were finished and the train was due to leave in about an hour. Naturally, nobody but Hermione was taking last-minute advantage of the empty library to quickly scan the fifth-year material for a head start. Though she knew Harry had probably already left for the station, wanting to get away from the castle and this horrible year as fast as possible, she couldn’t resist one last trek to her favourite place.
The wizard who disrupted her quiet study was Theodore Nott, a Slytherin she’d never spoken to and who she’d never seen stoop so low as to address a Muggle-born, much less politely.
“Er– yes?”
The slender boy opened his mouth and then closed it again. Hermione noticed his shaking hands and the odd rate at which he was blinking.
“I– I’ve been …”
Hermione wondered if she should draw her wand. Nott was a friend of Malfoy’s and Harry had seen both their fathers in the graveyard. She probably shouldn’t trust him.
Nott took a long breath and grasped the back of the empty chair next to Hermione.
“I couldn’t wait … I– I have to know–”
“What?”
Hermione was suspicious but beginning to lean more towards curiosity than paranoia. The other student seemed quite nervous, but not particularly threatening.
“I need to … to cast a spell on you.”
Hermione barely had time to form a concerned look before Nott blurted, “I won’t hurt you; I swear! It’s just … I think there’s– you’re– er, I mean …”
“What spell?”
Nott bit his lip.
“I … I might be wrong … I’m probably wrong. But I– I have to know if you’re …”
Hermione blinked. “If I’m what?”
There was an agonisingly long moment of silence in which Hermione couldn’t decide between subtly reaching for her wand or grabbing the boy by the shoulders to shake an answer out of him.
To her surprise, Nott crouched beside her chair. He was slender but tall, so he was nearly her height while kneeling.
“Please, Granger, let me cast a simple charm,” he nearly whispered. “If I’m wrong, nothing will happen.”
“And if you’re right?” Hermione asked dryly.
“I’ll … I’ll have the answer I’ve been looking for.”
She studied the desperation in his ice-blue eyes, which weren’t nearly as cold as other Slytherins’, like Malfoy’s.
Logic dictated there was no reason to appease Nott, but Hermione was chronically curious. Besides, they were still at Hogwarts – he could hardly cause irrevocable damage, and if he truly wanted to harm her, he wouldn’t’ve crouched down to where she could probably knock him over with a good kick.
“Well … alright.”
His eyes closed minutely in gratitude as he pulled his wand from his sleeve.
Hermione barely heard as he murmured, “Irides Revelio.”
A small cloud of silver-grey mist erupted from his wand and drifted in Hermione’s direction.
There was no effect … until Hermione felt a small tingle around her eyes, making them water slightly. It felt as though she had leaned over a steaming bowl of soup. She blinked a few times and frowned.
“What was that?”
Nott didn’t speak. His wand fell to the floor as his hand clapped over his mouth. He made a sound like a wail mixed with a sigh. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, surprising Hermione. Slytherins didn’t show emotion like that … Did something go wrong?
Worried that she was now horribly disfigured, she dug into her bag for her compact mirror – a necessity she’d carried since meeting a Basilisk – and flipped it open.
“No!”
Nott seized the mirror before she had a chance to look at it.
“What did you do to me?!” Hermione demanded as she tried to snatch the mirror back, but he was quicker.
“Irides Terra Obscuro!” he cried.
Hermione once again felt a tingling around her eyes, forcing her to blink hard. When she looked up again, Nott had disappeared.
She quickly retrieved the mirror he’d dropped and looked carefully at her face, her hair, her eyes … she’d never heard those spells before, but everything about her seemed utterly normal.
She slid the mirror back into her bag and frowned to herself. What had Nott been up to?
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Theo stopped running once he reached an empty classroom. He fell into a chair, panting, and squeezed his eyes shut to preserve the memory.
It had only been a few seconds, but he knew what he saw. Hermione Granger’s eyes temporarily ceased to be chocolate brown.
They were pale, ice blue … the perfect mirror-image of his own.