BN: Memory Event

[aroundthetwist]

Marking

The mask was too heavy, too restricting, and it was making Theo acutely aware of how fast he was breathing. He was quiet--knew he was quiet, but it still sounded harsh to his ears and a small part of him thought that they knew, that he knew, that the pounding of his heart and his unsteady exhales might as well have been amplified by magic because there was no way that everyone in the room couldn’t hear how terrified he was.

Theo closed his eyes, head bowed, and tried like hell to steady himself. His father was on his right, silent and still and Theo didn’t know who was on his left but knew without daring to turn his head to look that it wouldn’t be a friend. They would be with their own fathers, obedient and loyal(or, at the very least, as much as they could to pretend to be). No one spoke, no one moved, and Theo wished someone would do something for him to focus on other than the broken litany of words running though his mind, I don’t want this, I don’t want this, it’s going to get me killed--

Voldemort’s voice broke through his thoughts with a single word, “Nott.”

A chill spread through him, curling into dread at the pit of his stomach and Theo wondered what would happen to him if he was sick across the stone floors before he could answer. He swallowed thickly, praying his voice would come strong. “My lord.” Passable, but just barely. He was convinced the entire room could head the faint tremble that started it off.

“Step forward.”

Theo rose before he could get any sharp urgings from his father, on steadier legs than he would have expected. He could the gaze of the onlookers and met none of them with his own eyes, keeping them down as his stomach rolled. He could have run. Not now, no, they would kill him(if he was lucky) before he made ten steps, but earlier, before, he could have left, could have disappeared, his father wouldn’t have spent many resources looking for him—

He kneeled before Voldemort, praying to Gods he didn’t believe in to not have to look Voldemort in the eye, that he would be able to keep his thoughts his own. He’ll know if he looks at you, he’ll see it in your eyes, Merlin, please. Theo couldn't remember ever being so afraid and he couldn't think properly, couldn't focus, couldn't do anything but respond automatically to Voldemort’s cold, sharp voice as if he wanted this, as if he could think of nothing else that he’d rather have and distantly voice in the back of his mind urged him to stop shaking before Voldemort could comment.

The fear was nothing, though, compared to the pain that came when he rolled back his sleeve, when Voldemort’s icy hand griped around his wrist and his wand found the underside of Theo’s forearm. He would have screamed, maybe, if the air in his lungs hadn't felt frozen in place, would have shouted or jerked away. Instead he choked out a gasp, feeling as though he’d stuck it into a furnace, like he was being branded down into his very bones and strangled, agonized sounds tore themselves from his throat as he clenched his jaw and tried bear through it.

Seconds turned into hours, into ages, as Theo tried to detach himself from the situation, tried to remove himself away from the fire smoldering into his skin and the bile rising in his through and after, when it’s finished and Theo can slink back to his place next to his father(coward, his mind supplied. You fucking coward), he just barely managed to keep himself from retching at the elder Nott's soft murmur of approval.


His Mother

Sometimes you think that your mother is the best one in the entire world. You know the word people would use for that(exaggeration—an ‘e’ in front of the ‘x’ and two ‘g’s’ not one because you can spell it now, you’ve looked it up to see what it means and everything), but it’s not like that at all. Especially not in comparison to your father.

She’s soft where he’s all hard edges, a warm source of comfort when you hear his voice booming from his study where he’s taking Firecalls and the way he sweeps past in the hallways. He’s not mean to you, not exactly. Or at least, he never yells at you and you never see that look in his eye when he turns them on you, the one usually gets right before he hexes one of the House Elves out of his way. He’s stern and strict but so is everyone else’s fathers it seems. You know he just wants you to be a proper Pureblood like he is, like your mother is, and one day you’re going to make him proud of you.

Still, you like her company much better. She doesn’t make you feel bad when she corrects you for saying things you shouldn’t or when she touches your shoulder in that way you know means you need to stand up straighter. When she’s sick(she seems to get sick more than most people, more than the other children’s mothers, and she said it’s because her immune system isn’t as good, but that it’s okay, that she’ll be fine) but she doesn’t mind that you like to follow after her anyway or that you’d rather be in a quiet room with her than playing outside because she knows you adore her and she loves you too—and you can tell, you can see it in her face when she looks at you, when she smiles at you, you can hear the truth when she says it--and she especially doesn’t mind that you’d rather hear her read to you than read something yourself.

It’s one of the better days, one of her not-sick days, and it’s a perfect day outside. It’s her idea to spread a blanket under the largest elm on the property. She has a few books in hand and a tray with lemonade and sliced fruits floating behind her as she settles gracefully with her back against its trunk. She lets you take up residence in her lap even though you’re starting to get too big for this and opens one of the books in front of the both of them to start reading. Your mother has a beautiful voice, a singer’s voice, and it never fails to instantly relax you.
It’s warm out, warm enough that the combination of it and her voice eventually lulls you into a place suspended in time.

It when you’re the happiest, when you can feel the vibrations of her words through your clothes and the steady shifting of her breath. Her long hair tumbles over your shoulder at some point and you reach for the soft curl almost instinctively, twisting it carefully around your small fingers as you fight to keep your eyes open. It’s a losing battle, it always is, and a shame that you can’t hear the end of the story, but there really isn’t any better way to fall asleep than in your mother’s arms.


His Hogwarts Letter

Birthdays, you’ve come to find, rarely mean anything but a way to mark the passage of time. Parties aren’t something you expect anymore, not since your mother died, though you’ve never really had them before either. Not like the other children, because to have parties, you have to have friends and to have friends means you have to enjoy playing with kids your age. You haven’t done yourself any favors on that front and there isn’t anyone that you can think of would want to come to one of your birthday parties even if you know you could probably convince your governess to throw one for you. It would be awkward and bothersome and with the manor lacking the warmth it use to have the other children wouldn’t want to be there anymore than you do.

Still, they aren’t all bad. Your governess has a cake made for you in your favorite colors, you favorite flavors, insists that your favorite foods are prepared for dinner. She gets you something every year, usually something small but with thought clearly put into it that you always appreciate. There’s usually something from your father, too, an heirloom or a book or something flashier like the viola he bought you last year, but he never gives them to you personally. He’ll leave them in front of your place at the table to find when you come for breakfast, things that you’re almost sure your governess suggests to him to make sure he’ll get you something.

On the morning of your eleventh birthday, though, there is only one thing that matters when you open your eyes and it isn’t flashy presents or sugary cakes. You aren’t sure why you’re nervous because you know your letter is coming. There isn’t any doubt about whether or not you have magic, not with the occasional bursts that have come and gone, but there is still that little thread of doubt whispering what if in the back of your mind and it’s all you can do not to run down to the dining room to see if your letter is waiting for you.

Your father is there with a copy of the Prophet in front of him and whether he’s ignoring you or he simply doesn’t hear you enter(you assume it’s the first one) he doesn’t look up as you pad across the rug. It’s right there waiting for you, a small but thick envelope of thick parchment propped up against the few presents stacked neatly on the tabletop and you just about hold your breath as you pick it up as carefully as you can manage as if it’ll fall apart with too much handling, like it will disappear the moment you relax. You don’t recognize the green writing on the front but it doesn’t matter because it’s your name staring up at you and your anxiety is quickly morphing into giddy excitement as you turn it over to see the Hogwarts crest on the backside.

Excitement or not, you’re careful not to rip it too badly as you break the wax seal and inside is everything you’ve been patiently waiting for since the first time you heard of Hogwarts. You read your acceptance letter twice just to be sure, a grin spreading across your mouth as you set it aside to look over the rest of the contents, fingers already itching to get your hands on everything mentioned in the supply list. You’re finally going to get your own wand and that alone is the best birthday present you could ever ask for(even though your mum said she’d take you to get it, that she let you pick out your own truck, a new owl, don’t think about it, don’t remember-).

When you look up, your father’s eyes are on you and you think you can see the approval in his face. His eyes look warmer, anyway, than they usually do, and you hope to Merlin that you’ll be sorted into Slytherin like you’re suppose to so you can make sure that look stays. “Are we going to Diagon Alley today?” You ask, no doubt your excitement shining though and you dare to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll be the one to take you. That maybe this will be where he thinks you’re more interesting investment to give his time too.

“I have work to attend to, Theodore. Madeline will take you this afternoon.” His governess. Of course.

The excitement fades a little, enough to let your shoulders slump, and you doubt your father noticed before he turns his eyes back to his paper. You shouldn’t have let yourself think it would have gone any other way. “Yes, sir.” You mumble, disappointed as you slip into your seat and gently nudge the presents away for later, your letter back in your hands to read one more time in case you’ve forgotten anything. He’ll probably be there to see you off to the train, at least. It would look strange if he wasn’t and it isn’t much, really, but for now it’s enough.


Battle of Hogwarts

Nothing about this entire year has felt real. Though, if you’re honest, nothing since your Marking has really felt real, either. You’ve been wearing nothing but masks since, even more careful to mind the things you say, trying to keep your head down, avoiding the students who would love nothing more than to out a blood-traitor to their own father. You occupy yourself instead by tucking yourself away into quiet corners with the two or three people left in the school you dare to trust, in trying to support who needs supporting and give distance to those who can’t bear to let anyone near, in avoiding the attention of any of the Death Eaters posing as professors who have a special love of torturing any students who down cower before them as examples to the rest. So long as you don’t stand behind any rebels, so long as you keep quiet and don’t make a spectacle, you’ll be fine. You’re a pureblood, you’re a Slytherin, you’re already one of them.

You’re also a coward and you don’t know how to be anything else with your life on the line. Part of you envies the students who are brave enough to stand up for what they think is right, who are fearless enough to stare down their wands even when they know what’s coming, but their screams of pain when the Cruciatus Curse finds its mark is enough to keep you from wanting to follow their lead.

It doesn’t matter, though, because the war is on them before Theo has time to do anything but react The Slytherins should be in their common room, should be under watch to make sure they don’t do anything stupid like join the other side in the fight or hurt their fellow students, and it works for some. The younger children, the people who have no desire to fight, they stay behind, but for every student who doesn’t want to join Voldemort, there are two that do. Whether out of obligation or out of real loyalty, they try to flock to him and you slip out with them under the same guise when all you can really think about is finding your friends, is getting out alive.

You aren’t sure what you expected to find when the fighting really broke out, but everything is happening so quickly and so viciously that you don’t have time to think. There’s smoke in the air, something is burning, and the castle feels like it’s coming down around you in hunks of stone and shreds of shrieking portraits. Curses and hexes and screams echo through the corridors that had become more of a home than your family manor ever was and you’re terrified, more so than you can ever remember feeling before, and it’s sheer luck that you don’t catch a spell in the back as you weave in and out of the chaos. You haven’t seen Draco since the Great Hall, no sign of Blaise, or Crabbe and Goyle, and you can only spare a brief moment to hope they’re all right before you’re ducking out of the way of a blast that sends rubble coming down on your head.

You curse, reaching up to check the point of impact and you’re startled to find blood on your fingertips, blinking rapidly as if it will make it clear away. You redouble your efforts to run, wand clutched so tightly in your hand that your knuckles are white, throwing spells to clear your way, to keep Death Eaters away from you, and you aren’t sure what you’re even saying but you know that your own body count has to be rising. The word ‘murderer’ flickers through your mind as you shout a curse at an advancing man you don’t recognize, a beam of green light catching him in the chest before he can finish his incantation and you watch him crumple to the ground with wide eyes before a hex whizzing by your head sends you into motion again.

You’re going to die, you’re sure. You’re going to die and they’re going to find your body sprawled with the dozens of others you keep passing as you run, children who should have never been in a battle, people you’ve grown up with, people you use to actually enjoy being around. You’re going to die and there won’t be anyone left who cares enough to be bothered by it and you still can’t help but hope that Potter gets his shit together and takes the Dark Lord back to the hell he crawled out of because this isn’t the world they need. This isn’t the future the Wizarding World should be embracing.

You react without thinking, whether it’s running or ducking or fighting back and you can’t justify not helping those you can, blasting grown men away from killing children barely entering puberty and shouting at them to get out, and you don’t know how long he’s been watching you, but when you turn and see your father’s disgusted face, you know it’s long enough to not be able to come back from. You freeze, unable to even string together a sentence to offer him and there is a snarl building on his mouth, his eyes mad with the rush of battle and the blood on his hands, and you think I should kill him, I’m dead to him anyway but when he raises his wand, you counter with a red beam instead of a green one, and when he falls you linger long enough to know he’s still breathing before you duck into a deserted corridor to try and remember how to breath, to not break down, to keep going, oh Gods what am I suppose to do-