In his seventeen years of living, Theodore Castiel Nott Jr. had learned many things. Some of those things included how to write with a quill without breaking them in half, how to wax his broom to shine in the light just enough to make a Gryffindor envious, or how to trim his herbology projects just enough for Sprout to not make him retake the entire course. He even knew how to flick his wand and with a simple spell to perfectly cuff his sleeves but he had also learned some of the things that held less than pure intention.
Some held darker aspects like how simple it was to hide one's own emotions, or how his name along with the correct amount of galleons would get him out of any auror trouble, or even how to perform some of the families dark magic spells that would do more than maim an opponent. Many of those things were not something a typical wizard would learn, but he never thought of himself as normal or typical. If anything he learned things very clearly growing up in his household. But most importantly from a young age he had learned how his mother really was killed.
He also knew that he hadn’t trusted love, mostly because love never saved his mother. His own mother had too big of a heart and so much love she gave out only for the world to take her away far too soon.
At night he still could hear her blood curdling screams bouncing off the drawing room walls. A younger boy had paddled down the stairs in a sleepy daze hurrying, the screams grew louder as he reached the hallway. As he stood hidden in the doorway, he saw his favorite person thrashing in pain as her shrill voice rang. Taking a step closer he was met with her wide eyes that filled with panic. Following was the loud calls of a man arguing with his mom, though never once had Theo perceived any of the words. Everything besides the screams made it sound like he was under water.
None of the memories made much sense as his subconscious had blocked them out when he looked back. But he recalls with every ounce of strength Aurelle Nott still held she silently mouthed ‘run’ as a tall man stood above her with a wand pointed down at her. Maybe he would have turned out differently if he listened to his mother that fateful night of April 7th. But he stood still hidden out of sight as he watched the light die out of her eyes as his father's voice rang out.
“AVADA KEDAVRA”
The screams for the first time in the last 20 minutes had stopped, as the entire manor fell silent.
His memory was always a little blurry of the rest of the night. Only recalling making it back up to his room wishing to anyone that would listen that his mom wasn’t gone. Maybe it was the shaking or the goose bumps or the horror that clouded his mind but the boy had no idea what to think at the time. Theodore hadn’t even had time to process that the voice that killed her belonged to his father. The shock left him frozen in this state of disbelief hiding underneath his bed before his overwhelming fear was overcome only by his own exhaustion.
The boy wished that his mother wasn’t gone, that it was all a dream. But he knew it was real when he woke to neither of his parents home, and a single spot of blood staining his slippers.
It took him time to realize his mother was gone. To realize that the terrible recollection of events were all true. Maybe he knew the moment his father returned to the manor it was him, he knew the voice sounded familiar last night. But he knew Theodore Nott Sr. was a cold hearted person who rarely let his own family see him smile, but he was also now a murderer. Weeks went by as they both pretended not to notice the absence of his mother or of the rug that was usually in the drawing room.
Until one night he looked up to his father, already knowing in the bottom of his stomach he knew the answer, ‘When will mother return’ his voice was hollow as if dead. The room was death silent as even the house elves seemed to be nowhere in sight, his father only gave him a cold frown before raising a glass to his lips to drink. Once done and surveying young Theodore he simply said ‘She gone, a case of dragon pox as Healer Binnes informed me’.
Yet he never missed the way his eyes drifted from contact, he knew for a sick certainty his father was lying. He murdered her, in the drawing room. No further words were spoken at dinner that night.
That night for the first time in what felt like years, eight year old Theo curled up on his bed and cried. Mourning the loss of his mother, letting only the grey walls and the moon see his tears. Knowing his father had killed his mother, he grew up accepting the fact and resenting the fact. So as the seventh year boy now lied in his room flicking aimlessly around his room his eyes found sight of the root of his painful flashback.
The silver thestral patronus circling around him.