Who: Frank Longbottom & Theodore Nott When: Monday 26th September Where: Private, quiet, out of the way office What: Telling Theo that Nott Snr is dead Rating: PG-13? Mentions of dead bodies, mental health issues, possible mentions of child abuse
He hadn't even been here for 24 hours yet and already Theo was being called to the side. The sudden transition from Hogwarts to St Mungo's hadn't really been noticed, Theo having been so confused and detached already that moving to another place was neither here or there. The return back, however, was noticed; he'd been given a chance to bring himself back into line while in St Mungo's, the time away from his father but also out of the melee of the start of the school year meant that all he had to concentrate on was himself. He slowly drew the fractured pieces of himself back together, missing large shards but letting them lie, unwilling to touch them and cut his fingers to ribbons.
He had himself back on his feet by the time St Mungo's let him out. He was strangely without anxiety as he made his way back to his dorm, back into the bed he'd been conspicuously absent from for weeks where he lay down and didn't sleep. He supposed he'd have to catch up on his lessons. He supposed he'd have to make some arrangements about the Nott Estate's maintenance. He wasn't going to bother with a funeral.
He thought, as well and at length, about his future. It wasn't a common topic of thought for him as up to the point where he'd received the owl notifying him of his father's murder he hadn't thought he'd live long enough for it to become an issue. The minute he refused the Dark Mark his father would kill him and if he'd taken it then it was only a matter of time before he became cannon fodder. While his father had pressured him to join the Dark Lord, to be less of an embarassment and someone more worthy to bear the Mark he had still been a barrier of sorts between Theodore and direct recruitment. With his father now gone it left a gap between Theodore and pressing him onto the side of the Dark Lord and he was under no illusions that people other than he had worked that out as well. He considered that it was only a matter of time before they sent others to press him into the service of the Dark Lord, and he was still unsure if that was a path he wanted.
He was still conflicted about his old feelings on the matter - that Voldemort was a poor leader, that he was a wizard driven by selfish desires and only a lust for power, that anyone believing they could put their trust in him was deluding themselves - but also by his lack of alternatives. He saw the antipathy he was met with from other sides, the same prejudiced judgements he heard and witnessed in the Death Eater loyalists just as prevalent on the side that was supposed to be against all that. Nothing had really changed apart from the fact that now the urgency to decide had increased.
And there was also Rabastan.
His continued kindness despite their distance had only reinforced the idea that the other man might actually care for him beyond another fuck toy, beyond the fact that he could be a good little acolyte. He didn't have to serve the Dark Lord to remain in Rabastan's favour... did he?
He didn't know, and he didn't know that throwing his lot in on the other side would only mean that he wasn't targeted directly by them. He'd still be fending for himself.
He thought then, that if this was the case that it didn't really matter what he did. He'd always had to look after himself and he didn't expect that to change. By the time he'd mulled this around enough to get to that conclusion it was dawn and he got out of bed early to try and avoid the morning crush. He hadn't even had time to eat breakfast before he was called away to a private office - he could guess what this was about but it never did to think you held all the cards.
He entered the room and paused when he saw a stranger sitting there, a man with dark hair and an almost familiar face. Theo tipped his head a little in that way he had, pondering a second before dismissing the thought as pointless. "Sir." he greeted, tone low and respectful but wary.