𝕹𝖔 𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗
i.
“Oh darling boy, you’ll all live and die for love. You, all of you, will die for love.”
He looked at the Malfoy heir, six year older than him, frown and recoiled in disgusted when the old woman reached for his hand. Oldest branch of magic, they said, and yet this woman just spewed nothing but nonsense. She’d been rambling on about this love thing for a while now, and she’d said it to almost all the heirs in the room. Just think, all of them, destined to die for… what? A weakness? A concept? It sounded—
“And you.”
Her voice cut through his thoughts, a hiss thick with malice. She spat at the ground and pointed at him. Up close, he could see the deep wrinkles on her fingers, the way they curled like claws, and the look on her face. Contempt. For him.
“You’re worse than them.”
His grip tightened around mother’s hand. This woman—how dare she? How dare she speak to the Nott heir like that? She twisted the ragged fabric of her robes, her blinded silver eyes opened wide in horror, then jabbed a trembling finger toward him again.
“You will love to death. Till it destroys you.”
He drew his wand in a flash, and a curse he was all too familiar sprang from the small wand. She shrieked in pain, clutching her filthy face in agony. Mother embraced him and quickly led him to the ballroom, smiling lightly.
“She should have known it was coming if she were a true Seer.”
Even so, mother’s hand slightly trembled, and when he looked up, he saw that mother wasn’t looking at him at all.
ii.
Edward Wright was a thorn in his side.
The boy was the embodiment of his father’s mistake—a man of high standing brought low by a dalliance with a Muggle, as though magic was something that could simply be thrown away. It might have been easier to accept if his father had been honest from the start. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for men like him to seek comfort elsewhere.
But no. Father, in his infinite foolishness, had kept it hidden. Eleven years of quiet humiliation, endured by him and mother without ever knowing why—until just before his first year at Hogwarts. The half-blood was brought into their home.
Worse still, Thaddeus Nott and Edward Wright looked almost identical—except for their eyes. The resemblance was unmistakable. They were both their father’s image, reflected in the most unwelcome way.
At least the boy had the sense not to boast. An illegitimate child of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight should know his place—above Mudbloods and Muggles, perhaps, but not by much. Thaddeus might have ignored it. Blood, however diluted, was still blood.
At least, that was what he’d thought. Until he saw the Nott family pendant hanging around Wright’s neck.
“How dare—”
He snatched the pendant without hesitation—the heirloom that was rightfully his. His father must have lost his mind, handing it to a half-blood. For what? Sentiment? It was absurd.
“Crucio.”
Watching that mirrored face twist in pain, Thaddeus tightened his grip on the pendant, its edge biting into his palm until it drew blood. Anger burned hot in his throat—at the sight of it, at the audacity. That face. His face. Wearing what belonged to him.
As though he could ever pass for a Nott.
“If you dare let me or anyone see your face at school—”
Mother was right. Mudbloods. Half-bloods. Thieves, all of them.
iii.
Mother died in his second year. He had been summoned back in the middle of the night, long before he could hear her final words. She had been ill for eleven years, and yet the healers had assured him she would live another ten, perhaps fifteen years.
Father behaved like a madman, smashing things as though the world itself had ended. A hypocrite. A pitiful figure. A man who had rendered his wife bedridden, humiliated her beyond repair, sullied his own beliefs, and now dared to mourn her.
He should have gone to Durmstrang. Then he would not have been constrained by labels such as “Dark Magic.” He could imperio father – spared the family the disgrace of his continued existence.
And yet, when he returned to Hogwarts, with mother’s diary clasped tightly in hand, something in him had shifted. No, Imperio would not enough. He wanted Avada Kedavra.
Among magical nobility, intermarriage and binding contracts were hardly uncommon; father knew that well. He knew the consequences of betrayal—of bringing an illegitimate child into the family, of committing adultery—
Mother’s health had deteriorated eleven years ago. Exactly when that half-blood was born—barely two months after himself. She had loved father. Loved him enough to relinquish the only clause that might have protected her within their marriage contract… only to meet such a tragic end.
No. Death would be far too merciful for them.
The current head of the Nott family, and his bastard half-blood son.
At twelve years old, Thaddeus Nott made a vow: he would ensure they suffered a fate far worse than death.
iv.
Thaddeus had no intention of staying in that corner. This was only temporary.
The library was empty at this hour, and he did not have Slughorn’s permission to enter the Restricted Section. Still, he would find it—that curse that had plagued his family for generations. Perhaps it was a blood curse, passed only through their line. If so, it should be written down somewhere in the family library, shouldn’t it? But he couldn’t find—
His head throbbed, and he pulled his scarf higher, covering nearly half his face. It was only a flu, not Dragon Pox, so his hands continued turning the pages. But his mind was no longer on the book.
“Edward?”
A soft voice came from behind him—followed by a light touch on his shoulder.
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t hide your face when we study together?”
He didn’t turn. He could already hear the smile in her voice. When he didn’t respond, she simply pulled out a chair, lift it just enough to avoid the sound, then sat opposite him.
Her posture was proper, almost perfect. Light blonde hair framed her face, and her smile, seemed warm and easy, sparkled in her eyes. The only thing that felt out of place was the bright red Gryffindor scarf around her neck.
A pure-blood young lady, he assumed. He could always recognize his own kind. From her way holding the pen to the way she spoke, she was clearly used to comfort.
That half-blood wanted to climb the social ladder? Then this girl had been fooled.
“Don’t do that again,” she said softly when he remained silent, glancing at the scarf covering his face. “You said you wouldn’t. Not with me.”
He should have corrected her. It would have been easier. And besides, he had never fond of lions. Instead, he watched her.
“Did I?” he said at last, his voice low and careful.
She paused, just for a moment. Her hands rested neatly on the table as she gave a small, certain smile. “You did. Last week.”
Now she was watching him carefully, almost suspecting him. It felt familiar. He knew this kind of game well. It was part of his world.
“But if you don’t want to,” she added after a short silence, her eyes narrowing slightly before softening again, “I can leave. I just thought…” She hesitated, choosing her words. “It might be easier, studying together.”
“You seem to know me well,” he said, adjusting his scarf without taking it off. He caught a glimpse of his own face in a distant bookshelf, and realized the half-blood might have noticed it too.
“I know you, Edward,” she said with a soft sigh, waving a hand as if it were obvious.
Bold. Very Gryffindor.
He smiled, a smile hidden behind his Slytherin scarf, its green faded in the dark corner of the library.
We have something to discuss, Edward.
v.
“Please… don’t target her anymore.”
Thaddeus did not lift his gaze from the book in his hand, though he was perfectly aware of how desperate that half-blood must have been to come to him. Perhaps his anger at Edward’s audacity—showing his face to outsiders—was not as great as the realization that Mary Macdonald was nothing more than a Mudblood.
A Mudblood, pretending to be a pureblood noble.
He clicked his tongue softly. He should have attended Durmstrang. Hogwarts had long since lost whatever nobility it once possessed since Dumbledore took over; even creatures like that were permitted through its gates. He was here solely at mother’s insistence.
As for the girl—what Mulciber had done was not his concern at all. The boy was always hanging around that wretched half-blood, Snape, and had seemed particularly idle of late. Thaddeus had merely suggested he find something productive to occupy himself with.
“It is your fault, is it not?”
He turned another page, exhaling in quiet irritation. A family curse, and not a single record of it in his own library. He did not even know how mother had been cursed. Gaining access to the Restricted Section had been troublesome enough, yet none of the texts had answered his questions.
“I—I didn’t show myself to anyone. Only her. Mary… she didn’t know—”
“The terms were quite clear,” Thaddeus cut in. “You live as a rat at Hogwarts. No one knows you. In return, your mother remains unharmed. I do not recall promising you comfort.”
At last, he set the book aside, pressing his fingers briefly to his temple. The urge to cast a slashing curse and be rid of the nuisance altogether was tempting. Unfortunately, his second wand had yet to arrive, and he would not risk drawing Dumbledore’s attention.
“Do not forget,” he continued, “your existence is the reason my mother is dead. You are here to atone—not to indulge yourself.”
Edward was clever enough to see the truth beneath his words. Ravenclaw, after all.
Which will it be, then—your mother, or the Mudblood girl who so kindly befriended you?
Next time they met, he would have his second wand. And then, there would be no restraint or mercy at all.
vi.
He shouldn’t have gone to Hogsmeade.
It was all because Lucius said he wanted to talk. The Black and Malfoy families had been discussing this for years, and luckily Salazar had blessed him and Narcissa to be a good match. Not everyone was so fortunate.
Of course, a formal invitation would have been addressed to the Head of the House, not its heir. Yet everyone was well aware of his father’s condition. Much of the family’s affairs had long since been placed in the hands of his fourteen-year-old son.
Besides, he and Lucius were close. No one found it strange that he had been asked to stand as his best man.
Even so, he didn’t like the idea of meeting at the Three Broomsticks. He had heard that the Carrow family intended to invest in a more exclusive establishment in Hogsmeade; had that been true, it would have been far more to his taste than this chaos.
Obviously it was clear that Lucius Malfoy’s other invitation was what caught his attention even more.
“Someone intends to restore order to the wizarding world. Are you interested?”
Lucius claimed it was the Heir of Slytherin. Thaddeus was a little skeptical; the family closest to Slytherin, the Gaunt, was all but extinct, or madness. Still, Lucius insisted he had proof. He held the card in his hand, walking through the light November snow. Perhaps he would take Mulciber and Avery with him to see if this person was really as he claimed.
“Edward!”
If he heard that half-blood’s name once more, he would curse the next person who uttered it.
“There you are!” A hand seized his arm. He froze. Only a fool would mistake him for that half-blood.
He probably didn’t realize that to meet Lucius Malfoy, he’d been wearing a neutral, unremarkable black outfit, rather than his Slytherin uniform. But however similar he and the half-blood were, their reactions and mannerisms were clearly different. This Mudblood girl was blind.
His fingers moved instinctively towards the second wand concealed within his sleeve. There were too many students nearby—Prefects among them. Not here. Somewhere quieter.
“You said you’d never tried caviar, right?”
What was she saying again?
“Come on, let’s eat! And then you can explain why you’ve been avoiding me!”
He did not understand how she had obtained a Portkey (those required connections, paperwork, expense) but before he could draw his wand, the familiar pull seized him. When it settled, he found himself standing in the corner of a vast, high-ceilinged room. A chandelier loomed overhead, light spilling across intricately carved walls and gilded frames. A high-end restaurant.
A Muggle one. The paintings did not move.
“Miss? Miss, where have you been?”
“My friend, this is my friend. Is the table ready?”
The atmosphere was unfamiliar, yet not difficult to adapt, for him at least. Hierarchies existed here too, just in different forms. And the girl—this Mudblood—moved through it all with effortless authority, like in her own home, as though she belonged at the very top of it.
No wonder he’d been tricked by that Mudblood the first time. It had not been skill that allowed her to deceive him before. It had been truth. She was no imitation of a pureblood lady. She was one.
A Mudblood noble.
What was her name again?
“Miss Macdonald, this way.”
“Thank you, butler. And please don’t tell my parents, all right?”
Macdonald.
Slowly, Thaddeus loosened his grip on his wand—though not enough that he could not reach it in an instant.
Interesting.
vii.
Being mistaken for a half-blood and dragged to a high-class (albeit Muggle) restaurant forced Thaddeus to pay far more attention to Mary Macdonald than he would have liked.
First, Macdonald was very good at hiding. Even in shared Gryffindor and Slytherin classes, he could never find her unless he was paying close attention from the very start. Perhaps that was why he had never heard, nor remembered her name.
Second, Macdonald was so ordinary as to be almost unremarkable. For someone who could blend into high society and deceive even him, her magical ability was underwhelming at best, barely above a Muggle. If he were careless, he might even mistake her for a Squib. Merlin never gave anything away for free then.
Third, Macdonald was skilled at avoiding conflict. Unless she was with her friends, and even then, she kept herself small, tucked neatly into the background. She avoided eye contact and moved through corridors as though she did not wish to be seen at all. Once, he had deliberately stood in her path so that she would collide with him. Aside from a hurried apology and a quick gathering of her fallen books, she did not look at him once. Sometimes, he wondered how she managed to navigate crowded hallways without looking where she was going, but that was hardly his concern.
It wasn’t his concern. And yet, whether he wished it or not, he noticed her.
That was the problem.
Fourth, she was, like all those lions, reckless and impulsive. He had accidentally (emphasized accidentally) overheard her advising Evans to stop associating with Severus, a Slytherin. She spoke how those people practicing Dark Magic with the confidence of someone who understood nothing of it. For Salazar’s sake, he would have to deal with Mulciber and his lot—how could he allow a Mudblood to know of such things?
Wait. Severus, as in Severus Snape? That half-blood was keeping company with another Mudblood? Why did half-bloods always seem to collect them?
And finally, she possessed the curious ability to make herself seen—when she wished. As Thaddeus, he could scarcely find her unless he was looking for her. But as “Edward,” he never had to look, she would simply appear. Sitting beside him. Starting conversations. Far too forward. And in those moments, she became unmistakably Gryffindor. The shift was abrupt, like a mask removed only in the presence of those she permitted into her close circle.
He didn’t mind her sitting beside him, struggling through her spellwork. He was merely annoyed. Annoyed that she did not bother him quite enough to warrant the use of a second wand to curse her.
It seemed that half-blood truly was avoiding the girl, just as he had claimed. Macdonald was not lacking in friends, and yet she continued to seek out “Edward.” What, exactly, did that half-blood possess that drew the attention of a Mudblood noble?
He tapped his fingers lightly against the table, absently noting his half-blood brother lingering nearby, just watching.
Then, suddenly, Thaddeus had an idea.
“You’re doing it wrong. Protego first, then Stupefy.” He reached over, dragging Macdonald’s chair slightly closer, and gestured to the DADA homework she had been struggling with, her quill caught between her teeth.
Her quiet “thank you” lit her face more than he expected. Not bad, obviously for a Mudblood. But he did not miss the way the half-blood’s face drained of colour, nor how quickly he turned and walked away.
Salazar, it seemed, had granted him a new pastime.
viii.
“Crucio.”
Oh, his poor wand. Why waste his energy on people like this? How did they expect to purify the wizarding world when even the practice of dark magic was known to a Mudblood?
The Dark Lord would be thoroughly disappointed if he knew Thaddeus had even considered recruiting such incompetent fools.
“Awake yet, Magnus?” He seized Mulciber by the hair, letting out a quiet sigh at the boy’s pitiful endurance. It wasn’t the first time, but he had overlooked it, time and again, out of respect for the family name. But everything had its limits. “Arthur, you call yourself his friend. Why don’t you try paying attention to him?”
Avery was held back by Parkinson, his face gone rather pale at the mention. Hadn’t their families taught them anything? Endurance, resistance, to Crucio, Imperio, like, the basics, surely. Or were all the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight now nothing more than spoiled, useless heirs?
With a faint grimace, he released Mulciber’s head, his gaze drifting across the common room. Before this, he’d had to deal with that half-blood brother, and now this lot. He still had no answers about his mother’s curse, and on top of that, he would have to report all of this to Lucius. And Lucius, of course, would pass it on.
“For the last time,” he said, adjusting his spare wand with a flick. “We’d rather not be discovered. So if you’re going to do anything, show off, make spectacles of yourselves, anything, at least have the sense to practice your Memory Charms properly beforehand. Or, better yet, make sure no one’s watching.”
His eyes settled on a boy standing off to the side, watching Mulciber writhe on the floor. His name… what was his name again? Severus Snape. Ah yes.
“I’d hate to use all of these on you,” he murmured, almost idly, brushing a hand against Mulciber’s cheek with a soft, mocking chuckle. “At least try using your brains, won’t you?” His gaze flicked up. “Like him.”
Snape flinched at the attention. Of course Thaddeus hadn’t missed the origin of those curses—Mulciber and Avery weren’t clever enough to invent them themselves. Lucius might call the half-blood useful. He wasn’t so easily convinced.
If anything, it made the Mulciber and Avery look worse. Letting a half-blood boss them around – truly pathetic.
He rose, making for the door, passing Snape as though by coincidence. A hand came down lightly on his shoulder. “I rather like your Levicorpus, Snape,” he said, almost pleasantly. “At least one of you seems capable of using his brain. The Dark Lord would be very pleased.”
Parkinson turned sharply at that. Even he seemed taken aback. Thaddeus, for his part, felt faintly disgusted at the words as they left his mouth, but he had learned something, living alongside a half-brother. Half-bloods were predictable.
“You said if I stayed away from Mary, you’d leave her alone.”
“She came to me. Or rather, she came to ‘Edward’.”
He wondered, idly, whether Snape’s face would look the same as Edward’s had, in that moment. He supposed he might find out.
“But, Sev…” His voice dipped, just low enough for only them to hear. “You might want to be a bit more selective with your friends. Take Lily Evans, for instance.”
“Even a Mudblood prefers my version of Edward to yours, doesn’t she?”
There it was – that look. He did enjoy that particular expression, the moment they were reminded of their place. Snape. Wright. Two half-bloods in one day. His luck was truly abysmal.
“I’ve nothing to do with that Mudblood!”
Thaddeus didn’t so much as pause to hear the denial. He was already striding out of the common room, running late for something else entirely.
He didn’t notice the moment he subtly and instinctive cast the spell, shifting the green of his uniform to blue, his scarf drawn halfway up his face as he made his way towards the library.
ix.
Alright, he could admit, at least, that there was a problem. The problem revolved around Mary Macdonald.
Even the word Mudblood inside his head no longer provoked the same instinctive disgust when he sat beside her. The excuse he had—that it was all to make Edward suffer—was becoming increasingly flimsy. Particularly when he found himself deliberately choosing that corner of the library. Deliberately arriving early. Deliberately waiting.
The trouble was, Macdonald had an irritating sense of restraint. She was foolish, but never quite foolish enough to become a nuisance. Useless, but not useless enough as to be dismissed outright. Stubborn—yes—but annoyingly adept at steering a conversation elsewhere the moment it suited her.
And a keen observer, another problem. It explained the way she navigated the castle with her eyes fixed on the ground, as though she saw more that way than most did looking straight ahead. It explained how easily she grasped what interested him—how effortlessly she could turn his mood from irritation to something tolerable.
He found himself unable to keep his displeasure in her presence. And afterwards—always afterwards—came the irritation. At himself.
It would take so little. Just one reason. One cruel, final reason, and she would leave on her own accord. Thaddeus did not leave first. He was not a coward.
And there were smaller irritations.
Macdonald preferred a particular sweet-scented ink. Section two of Scrivenshaft’s finer stock, third shelf from the bottom, a pale black. He had replaced it, once, with an identical bottle—near enough in color, but wrong in scent—while she worked on her Potions essay.
She had stopped at once. Closed the bottle without a word. Later, he found it discarded.
When he asked purely out of curiosity, which was itself becoming something of a problem (and how dared she to pique his curiosity), she had only sighed. “These are the moments I prefer Muggle things to wizarding ones.”
It was, he noted, also the only scent that seemed to calm her when she cried. (And he found it exceedingly inconvenient when she cried. It soured the entire day.)
Stubborn. Ignorant. Magically inept—he doubted she would manage more than an Acceptable in her O.W.L.s, it would be a miracle.
And then there was the other matter—the one he had been deliberately avoiding. Mary Macdonald had once said she would rather be a Muggle than a witch.
He had nearly scoffed aloud. By Salazar’s grace, she had been granted what many born into magical families were denied. Squibs would have given anything for it. And yet she treated it as though it were incidental. As though it had not been taken from somewhere. From someone.
“I like magic,” she had said, “but it doesn’t define me. It’s more like a hobby. Like playing the pianoforte. I like it enough to learn the right notes—but not enough to become a pianist.”
Absurd.
To treat magic as a tool, when it was the very foundation upon which entire families had been built—preserved, protected. That was precisely what made people like her so intolerable. They possessed what they did not understand, and valued it least. That was why they would forever remain outsiders.
She detested Slytherin. Not merely disliked—detested. Even he, who held little fondness for Gryffindor, could at least acknowledge its history. Godric Gryffindor had been a pureblood; ancient families had passed through that House. Macdonald refused everything associate with Slytherin. Mulciber’s attentions the previous year had ensured as much. She avoided green and silver outright, would not look directly at Mulciber or Avery—yet even hearing about them was enough to drain the color from her face.
And obviously, here was the simplest solution: He could stop. He could abandon the absurd pretense, stop playing as Edward, return to himself without inconvenience. A Slytherin. He could ignore her entirely—or, if necessary, obliviate her and be done with it. She would distance herself, like how she did with Mulciber. Or he would make her. It required very little.
But she was never quite irritating enough. Never quite offensive enough. Not enough to justify using his secondary wand.
Not enough.
Ignorance and stupidity could be corrected. Even a lack of magical prowess was hardly a fatal flaw; after all, not every witch needed to excel in magic to be of value. Even Narcissa Black only needed to be good at being a pureblood lady.
Was he truly making such a comparison? Narcissa Black and a Mudblood? A noble, but still, a Mudblood?
He exhaled as the realization followed close behind: these were all excuses that allowed him to indulge a growing, increasingly indefensible attachment to Mary Macdonald. A habit, then. A poor one.
“I like you better this way.”
“Which way?”
“This way. More confident. More attentive. And perhaps… kinder than before.”
For Salazar’s sake. Three months. Three months of summer would be more than enough to put an end to whatever it was.
