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Theodore Nott was a ghost long before he could become anything else.
He learned how to vanish when he was eight years old, on the night his mother died.
Silvia Nott neé Lovegood had been warm, her laughter soft like sunbeams on a summer evening.
(She had told him stories. Of witches and wizards, yes, but also of gods that walked in shadows, of deceptions that could shape worlds. He had loved her dearly, clung to her voice like a talisman.)
And then, one night, his father killed her.
It was not an accident. It was simply cold, efficient murder. A precise spell to the heart, a body left cooling on the study floor, a glass of wine finished without pause.
Theodore, silent in the corner, had not made a sound. Had not been able to unfreeze. Had simply been able to watch as Theopilus Nott muttered about “weakness” and “soft heirs” as he left the room, wand still glowing faintly.
He did not cry. He did not scream. He did not run. His mother had taught him better than that.
Instead, he prayed.
Not to any earthly god, for he knew better. Though magic was power, it could be cruel, and no benevolent force would ever answer him, tainted by the deeds of his ancestors and the curses of their enemies as he was.
His mother, however, had taught him older names, forgotten names. And among them was one he remembered well:
Savathûn.
(The Witch-Queen. The Weaver of Lies. The Deceiver, who tricked godlike beings both good and evil alike. She who’d oftentimes look upon the magical peoples of Earth and be amused and intrigued by their peculiar woes and self-importance ever since the ancient rulers of Atlantis invoked her to this plane of existence for the first time.)
That night, Theodore swore himself to her.
And she answered.
Theodore, her voice glided through his mind like knives on a chalkboard, an agony unlike any he’d felt before.
Won’t you dance by my side, and he said yes. (He would give himself - soul, mind and body - as long as his mother was avenged and his father had bitterly suffered).
Hogwarts, 1991
Theodore Nott was a non-entity.
He was not loud like Draco Malfoy, nor brutal like Greggory Goyle or Vincent Crabbe. He was not callously amused by everything like Blaise Zabini or vapid like Pansy Parkinson. He was not desperately trying to live up to the high expectations of a family without male heirs like Daphne Greengrass, nor was he the quiet shame of tainted blood intermingled with pure blood like Tracey Davis or Milicent Bulstrode.
He was quiet, clever enough and entirely unassuming.
(Forgettable.)
The only interesting thing about him was his wand, stark white but for dark green accents curling around it - not that anyone knew what it was made out of.
He sat at the edges of the Slytherin common room usually; watched, listened, and learned. He let them underestimate him. Let them think he was just another heir of pureblood society, another boy shaped by his father’s cruelty.
None of them noticed the way his eyes flickered bright green tinged with gold, with something other, when the candles burned low. None of them saw the faint shimmer of wings lurking at the edges of his shadow. None of them heard the whispers, the soft hisses of knowledge older than Hogwarts itself, about Songs of Unmaking, thrones carved from the very fabric of the Ascendant Plane, and conquests throughout the eons.
(And if they did notice, they knew better than to say anything.)
He learned patience from Savathûn herself - she who had waited millennia to break free of chains made in youthful naïvete.
He learned subtlety from some of the most valued of her court. (The Witch Queen’s wizards and knights were often cruelly amused by the mortal human so hungry for revenge and yet so empty of everything else, but they still indulged him).
While others schemed openly (Draco Malfoy’s posturing and preening were simply pathetic), Theodore wove his own web, making quiet alliances (Hufflepuffs were always so underestimated when they did not have names big enough for recognition) trading whispered secrets, noticing and storing away weaknesses (that second-year Gryffindor was being abused by her parents. That seventh-year Ravenclaw was planning on running away with his Muggle boyfriend over the Holidays. Some Muggleborns were driven to the point of hopeless desperation by their peers’ bullying and the magical world’s bigotry).
And when the Dark Lord returned, he did not rush to his father’s side. He did not scrape at the feet of that husk of mortal.
He simply waited.
____________________________________________________________________________
Winter Holidays, Malfoy Manor, 1995
Voldemort had long since lost the ability to feel fear.
Oh, he remembered it — dimly, like a half-faded dream. The gnawing, cloying terror of his youth, when he had been just Tom Riddle, a child among Muggles who hated and feared him in equal measure in the middle of World War II. He remembered the sound of the bombs falling-
But he had conquered fear. He had become fear, had bent the very fabric of life and death to his will, had sundered his own soul to make himself eternal.
He did not fear that fool Dumbledore.
He certainly did not fear the Ministry.
He did not fear Death itself.
Harry Potter, with his measly schoolboy education and the protection of his Mudblood mother no longer, could be considered a small pebble in his path, if one discounted the Prophecy.
And yet…
Theodore Nott stood before him, tall and dignified, utterly unimpressed by the power of the Dark Lord.
A boy of pureblood lineage, the son of a loyal Death Eater, brought before him for his Mark.
It should have been routine. Simple enough.
(And yet.)
Something was wrong.
Something in the way the light bent around him, in the way the air shivered, thick with a presence that was not Voldemort’s own.
Lord Voldemort, Master of the Dark Arts, the Dark Lord who would conquer Britain, who had almost forced the British magical world to its very knees, opened his senses to perceive other, more subtle forms of magic and beheld–
Amusement-ThisPaleLittleCreatureIntendsToStealMyOwnAcolyte-HowDroll-Begone
He recoiled, heart thudding in his chest as he realized something had already claimed Theodore Nott.
It was in the knowing gleam in the boy’s eyes (since when were they as golden as the Sun at its zenith and just as piercing?), the way his shadow had wings and a third luminous eye superimposed itself on his head.
A pale imitation of cunning. A flickering candle against the abyss of a mind that had woven deceptions before mankind had even drawn breath. That was what Lord Voldemort was to the boy’s owner.
Theodore Nott could not, would not, serve him. Theopilus’ son was so much more than the man who’d seeded him.
(He wondered if Nott Jr. was as brilliant a tactician as his father, as ruthless and coldly efficient as Tom Marvolo Riddle’s first Lieutenant, and then he crushed the useless wistfulness).
Nevertheless, it was clear the boy was out of his reach, and if the… being who had staked their claim on him had taken offense to Voldemort trying to do the same, he did not doubt he, the Dark Lord himself, would not have stood a chance against them, much as it chaffed at his pride.
“I see,” the creature that was once a penniless, half-blood orphan said, voice without inflection as he masked his unease, “You belong to someone already, don’t you.”
“I have been dedicated to my mistress ever since I was eight years-old,” Theodore inclined his head in acknowledgment, mouth flat but eyes smiling.
“That was when Theopilus killed your mother,” Voldemort mused, contemplating what he would tell his followers. “I will tell my Inner Circle Death Eaters, should they ask, that I have assigned you a task of the utmost importance involving certain experiments of mine, for which you must be Unmarked. That should be enough, and I will inform your father your proficiency in the Dark Arts pleases me, as well as to give you more independence in the case you do not have it currently.”
“Your consideration is noted, Lord Voldemort; may your reign over these isles prove fruitful for you. Aiat,” Theodore’s voice, when he spoke, had an odd layer over it, something that should not be paid too much attention should one wish to retain their mental faculties.
(The Dark Lord’s Occlumency barriers were some of the strongest in the world, and even he struggled to keep the creeping sensation of that last word out).
As the boy departed his office, Voldemort thought that he would enjoy watching others realize Theodore Nott was like the Green Death: fast, deadly and utterly merciless.
____________________________________________________________________________
After the Battle at the Department of Mysteries, 1995
Severus Snape had never feared a student before.
He had loathed them, yes. Despised their arrogance, their thoughtlessness. He had resented the way they reminded him of all he had lost, of all he had been and could never be again.
But fear? No, never.
(Not until Nott.)
It was not an obvious fear. The boy was quiet and clever, though forgettable in a way that was almost unnatural. He did not strut around like Malfoy, nor did he gormlessly seek favor like Goyle and Crabbe. He did not preen like Zabini or fawn like Parkinson.
No, Theodore Nott was something else entirely.
Severus had only ever made the mistake of truly looking at him once.
It had been late – long past curfew, the dungeons cast in flickering torchlight.
Nott had been alone in a room near the Slytherin Common Room, hands clasped together almost as if in supplication.
Something had whispered when Severus peeked past the door. Not aloud, but inside his mind, soft and cloying, curling around his thoughts like a creeping vine.
(Not even the Dark Lord had evoked such a feeling when he let himself into Severus’ mind.)
He had stilled.
Nott had looked up at him.
And Severus had seen it in those suddenly gold and green eyes.
Something unearthly, something vast, lurking behind the boy’s eyes and in the air around him. A presence that should not have been in the realm of mortals.
For one terrible moment, Severus had thought of Lily. Had thought of James Potter and their infant son, of the terrible magic that had shattered the Dark Lord. He had thought of old powers, of whispers in the dark, of magics that were not human but something other.
(He had to suppress hysterical laughter every time someone spoke of Lily Evans as kindness incarnate. He had been the first to lay eyes on Lily’s corpse, had felt the residual magic used to protect the Potter boy around the destroyed nursery; it hadn’t been just love that protected her son, and he often wondered how many Lily had killed to power the ritual which made the Killing Curse rebound. He sometimes even wondered whether Potter Sr. had known, righteous as he had been. Dumbledore had certainly deluded himself into thinking it to have been the purest of Light magics.)
And then it had been gone.
The presence vanished. The boy’s eyes were simply blue once more, his expression blank, expectant.
“Professor,” Nott had said, his voice perfectly polite.
Severus had opened his mouth to speak—to demand—
And nothing came out.
His throat locked. His mind seized.
He tried to move, to step forward, to do something-
But the power that curled around his bones was older than Hogwarts. Older than the landmass upon which the castle stood. Ancient when compared to the magic of the planet itself.
It bound him like iron chains, threading through his limbs, weaving through his very being.
He could not speak of what he had seen.
Could not act against the boy.
Could do nothing except know.
Nott had tilted his head then, watching him with something like amusement.
“You can see now,” he had murmured, “can’t you, Professor?”
Severus had forced himself to breathe, to master the shudder clawing its way up his spine.
Nott had smiled.
A slow, knowing smile.
A monstrous smile, worse than the Dark Lord’s when pleased, because his master did not have fangs and claws and three glowing eyes—
And then, as if nothing had happened, the boy had turned back to what he’d been doing, dismissing him.
Severus had left the room.
Had forced himself to keep walking, to forget—
But he could not forget.
Could not unsee.
Could not unlearn the terrible, simple truth:
Theodore Nott did not serve the Dark Lord, or his father, or even himself.
He served something older than even magic itself: this, he was certain of.
____________________________________________________________________________
Hogwarts, 1997-1998 School Year
During the Carrows' tenure at Hogwarts, Theodore Nott's proficiency in the Dark Arts became a subject of both fear and morbid fascination among the students and staff. Despite his usual preference for remaining unnoticed, the oppressive atmosphere and the Carrows' brutal methods compelled him to reveal a depth of knowledge and skill that surpassed even that of the Death Eater instructors.
Nott’s expertise was not merely academic, either; he demonstrated a practical mastery that left his peers and teachers disturbed beyond the norm.
Students and sometimes staff members present would later recount instances where he effortlessly disarmed opponents, countered curses with ease, and employed hexes that were both cruelly inventive and useful in combat. His control over such magic was so profound that even the Carrows, notorious for their bold disregard of those at the school bar the current Headmaster, Severus Snape – and only begrudgingly, at that – approached him with a mixture of respect and caution whenever they were forced to interact with him.
One night, sneaking after curfew to help a half-blood Hufflepuff first year who’d had detention with the Defense professors, Ginny Weasley overheard, from the outside of their office, the twin Death Eaters whispering:
“Nott Jr. is Unmarked?,” Alecto Carrow asked, sounding surprised, “But isn’t his father old Theopilus, one of the first to have followed the Dark Lord?”
“Apparently, Travers was foolish enough to ask our master about that, and after being punished for his impudence, He said Theodore Nott had been given an important task involving some of His experiments that required him to be Unmarked,” Amycus, her twin, responded, voice hushed with both fear and envy.
“When I heard Sr. bragging about his heir’s proficiency in the Dark Arts and how even our master had praised the boy, I simply thought he was full of it,” Alecto sounded sour, evidently bothered that someone much younger than her had been commended by Voldemort himself.
At this point, Ginny was getting increasingly more wary of Nott, who was obviously some kind of monster to be praised by the likes of Tom Riddle, than she already was.
She was turning the corner to stealthily leave for the Room of Requirement to warn the others to be careful around the Slytherin when she noticed another person standing in the shadows of the corridor, looking directly at her.
The Weasley barely refrained from cursing out loud when she realised it was Nott himself, and was about to make a run for it when the seventh year put a finger to his lips in the universal sign of shushing.
He smiled at her, pointing to the ceiling and making Ginny look up, only to see nothing, and when she swung her eyes back to where he was, there was no one there.
(Later, when what would later be called the Battle of Hogwarts was about to start, and after she’d warned the others to stay clear of Nott if they could, she was still thinking she’d imagined the whole thing, and she would’ve, if not for Luna of all people.
“Cousin Theodore is very lonely, even if he doesn’t realise it himself,” the girl said airily when it was just Ginny, Neville and Luna.
“Huh?” Neville grunted, sounding completely bewildered. “I didn’t know you had cousins, Luna.”
“Me either. I thought you and your father were the only Lovegoods left,” Ginny braced herself for whatever it was her friend was going to say.
“Oh, daddy and… well, I suppose it’s only me now – We were the only Lovegoods to carry the name,” Neville and Ginny winced, having tried to be more tactful about their friend’s father’s death, “but aunt Silvia married Theopilus Nott and had cousin Theodore.”
“Theodore Nott’s your cousin?,” Neville almost yelped, not that the Weasley could blame him for his reaction.
“Oh, yes, he is. We’ve never actually met, mind. His father isn’t the most pleasant of men, and the Lovegoods aren’t that respectable. Aunt Silvia was daddy’s half-sister, you see, her mother having been a Fawley. It was quite the scandal, supposedly, but she was still considered of good, pureblood breeding,” here, her expression darkened, incredibly unlike the normally cheerful girl, “The only good thing to have come out of that union was her son; daddy sometimes talked with her in secret, and the only thing she would talk about was her precious, sweet boy.”
“What happened to her, then?,” Ginny asked, but it was Neville who surprisingly answered, voice dark.
“An accident, the Prophet said. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck,” at Ginny’s raised eyebrow, he clarified, “A coincidence, it was reported the Aurors on the scene said, that Theopilus Nott’s second wife died in the same manner as his first.”
He scoffed, “Gran told me Nott Sr. is a psychopath of the highest degree and the only reason he didn’t kill his child as well is that every respectable pureblood lord needs an heir.”
She grimaced, feeling unexpectedly sympathetic towards Theodore Nott. She chanced a look at Luna when she heard her humming under her breath and almost jumped when she saw her oddly vicious expression.
“My cousin will make sure the man who killed my aunt pays; of that, you can be sure.”
Neville and Ginny shuddered in unison at Luna’s oddly prophetic words but silently hoped Luna’s cousin succeeded.
____________________________________________________________________________
Battle of Hogwarts, 1998
Spellfire whizzed through the air, acromantulae hopped from destroyed balconies upon the backs of the defenders of the castle, giants smashed the animated guards of Hogwarts called forth by Minerva McGonagall, Dementors were repelled by desperate DA and Order of the Phoenix members, and Death Eaters attacked with increasing desperation.
It was amidst this chaotic battlefield that Theopilus Nott found himself dueling against Harry Potter’s mudblood, the Granger girl, whose spell repertoire was, surprisingly enough, almost as ruthless as one might expect of a Lieutenant of the Dark Lord.
He’d just gained the upper hand in their fight when he felt a pain worse than the Cruciatus sear through what seemed like his very soul, making him release agonized screams.
The last thing he saw was his son, leaning against a ruined turret and grinning with his teeth bared whilst looking in his direction.
(Hermione was left blinking in the aftermath of a gold bolt of lighting etched in black and emanating pure Dark magic striking the ground. She almost gagged, the smell of rot and charred human flesh so strong to her senses. When she looked to where the head of Nott’s corpse was turned to, she saw a boy her age in Slytherin robes, so similar in looks to the previously alive man, they had to be related. Theodore Nott, she remembered, had been one of her yearmates in her Ancient Runes class, before she, Harry and Ron left Hogwarts for the Horcrux Hunt. He’d looked nothing like the wild, almost-feral-with-glee thing now before her, his eyes glowing the same golden colour of the lighting that had just struck his father. He killed his own father, she thought, both horrified and morbidly curious.)
(Voldemort stilled from where he was dueling Minerva, Horace, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. From the corner of his vision, he could see the three fighting against him pause, wary. He, however, had felt that outpouring of Dark magic filled with so much malice and hatred, it left even him partially in awe of Theopilus’ son; and though it was lamentable his first ever follower had just died, he understood the desire and need for vengeance against one’s own father for the wrongs committed against one all too well. So in the end, he simply laughed, delighted, to sudden alarm from his foes, and bowed his head slightly in sincere congratulations toward Theodore, the young man inclining his head as well, smiling from ear to ear.)
(It’s done, the thought slithered through his mind in the form of beautifully carved knives, her murderer is dead, his soul obliterated from this plane and all others. Theodore, for the first time since his mother who had sung to him of starlight and eons-long games was killed, felt something akin to peace.)
In the sudden silence of the battle, after Voldemort himself congratulated a boy Harry’s age for the death of one of his Death Eaters by laughing and bowing his head and the boy - of course it was a Slytherin - grinned, bowing his head back, fearful murmurs rose.
“Who is that?,” Adults who had arrived to help the defenders of Hogwarts could be heard asking, unnerved by the completely unhinged smile on display.
“That’s Nott!” DA members hissed at them, visibly terrified.
Just when the tension began building, Nott’s shadow started morphing, getting bigger and growing wings which enveloped him. As Harry watched, dumbfounded, Nott disappeared.
(Later, even once he’d done away with Voldemort once and for all, Harry couldn’t stop replaying the scene in his mind. The mere thought that someone so young and obviously powerful could be recognized by Tom in such a way, and in a public setting, was mind boggling, not to mention frightening.)
____________________________________________________________________________
Wizengamot Chambers, May 10th, 1998
During the trials of captured Death Eaters and their sympathizers, one of the most memorable hearings - besides Harry Potter speaking up for Narcissa Malfoy and saying she’d lied to You-Know-Who himself, thereby saving the Boy-Who-Lived’s life - was the questioning of one such suspected Death Eater, Theodore Nott, a fact later proven untrue,
Mister Nott, whose father had been a confirmed Marked Death Eater, was personally interrogated by Interim-Minister Shacklebolt, something most Wizengamot members (whose lives had not changed much during Voldemort’s regime) thought excessive, but it was not so to those who had been present at, as it was being called, the Battle of Hogwarts, where Lord Voldemort had finally been vanquished; though not before the Dark Lord had personally congratulated the young man for the death of one of His most devoted followers some hours before his death.
As Mister Nott sat in the accused’s chair, looking regal and completely unbothered, there were many who, upon witnessing this, were reminded of a madly loyal witch who’d sat, just as unruffled, in that chair after the first fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in ‘81.
Already, most had begun to see the young Nott Scion in the chamber in the same light, wondering what atrocities he had committed in the Dark Lord’s name like Bellatrix Lestrange before him.
(Harry, grimly, wondered the same. He could see the same expressions on Hermione and Ron’s faces.)
“Let the record state today, 10th of May, 1998, I, Interim-Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt of Magical Britain’s Ministry of Magic, will question the accused, Theodore Nott, suspected of being a Marked follower of the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort, as well as crimes to be uncovered, under Veritaserum. How does the accused plead?”
“Not guilty, of course,” Nott’s voice was perfectly pleasant, his face relaxed.
Immediately, shocked whispers started from the members of the Wizengamot, followed by angry yells from those in the viewing box. Under their glares and scrutiny, all Nott did was raise an eyebrow, his blue eyes cool.
(Harry, despite himself, felt grudging respect for Nott rise, though he also angrily wondered at what game the other man was playing.)
“Silence! You will be silent within these hallowed chambers lest I throw you out of them myself!,” Kingsley shouted with the assistance of a Sonorous and, after a few moments, the yelling went down.
“Do you consent to having Truth Serum administered into your body, Mr. Nott?,” Rather than looking rattled at the prospect of being put under Veritaserum, Nott simply replied affirmatively.
The same Veritaserum that was used in previous trials - brewed by a representative of the ICW - was brought forth and three drops of it were introduced to Nott’s body by him willingly opening his mouth.
Just as the third drop was gone, Nott’s eyes glazed over, gaining the customary silver sheen over them.
“Simply to verify the serum is working; what is your name?”
“Theodore Frederick Nott II.”
“When were you born?”
“I was born June 12th, 1980.”
When the preliminary questions to see if the Veritaserum was working were done, an anticipatory air filled the chamber.
“Were you ever Marked by the Dark Lord Voldemort?,” Kingsley asked, looking expectantly at Theodore Nott.
“No.”
And with that single word, all became chaos, at least until a boom came out of Harry’s wand. Kingsley simply nodded in thanks at Harry and resumed with his questions.
“But is it true that, as some defectors from the Death Eaters claimed, you were entrusted with a task by You-Know-Who himself?”
Nott cocked his head, seeming oddly aware even through the serum, and said, “It is true Voldemort,” (Harry couldn’t stop a shocked inhale at the fact Nott called Voldemort by his name and not any title), “decided, when presented with me, that he would tell those of his Inner-Circle who asked that that was indeed what I was to him: a personal researcher of the Dark Arts in his service who required to be Unmarked due to the nature of his volatile experiments and their possible reactions to the Mark.”
Just when shouts of vindication started to ring out, the young man’s voice echoed, still with the eerie calm of a truth potion, “But I wasn’t ever in Voldemort’s service, it was simply a lie he was comfortable telling others.”
At the exclamations of disbelief at that sentence, the Interim-Minister asked, looking somewhat shocked himself, “Nevertheless, did you ever have prolonged contact with the leader of the terrorist organization headed by the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort?”
“Oh, yes, I did indeed converse with him,” they were all on the edges of their seats by now, “his magic and soul were fascinating to observe.”
There was a ringing silence at that, and then Kingsley asked for clarification on that statement.
“I’d heard and read, of course, of those so consumed by their hubris and desperately afraid of death, they tore their souls apart in search of immortality.”
(Most flinched at the confirmation of the late Dark Lord’s immortality and the taboo subject of soul magic. Harry, Ron and Hermione, however, only exchanged alarmed glances at what Nott could possibly know.)
“It’s such a shame, though; a one-of-a-kind specimen of Voldemort’s caliber won’t come about for possibly centuries now. I would’ve loved to have had the opportunity to study him. Hypothetically, of course,” there were multiple horrified faces among the audience after that, made worse by the fact that Nott was now smiling almost longingly.
Looking slightly dumbfounded and incredibly unnerved, Kingsley cleared his throat and asked the final question.
“During the confrontation at Hogwarts with Voldemort, witnesses report having seen V-Voldemort nodding at you, almost as if in congratulations, after Theopilus Nott, your father and a Marked Death Eater, was struck down by a bolt of lightning. Could you expand on that?”
The Minister had already seemed disconcerted, but after he asked that, he looked grimly terrified (an expression Harry had never seen on the unphased, formidable man) when Nott’s blue eyes started glowing an eerie green, almost like the Killing Curse, and then golden like just polished gold. His shadow, horrifyingly, grew big enough to encompass half of the Wizengamot chambers.
(All recoiled at the incredible display of power happening before them, some taking their wands out in fear.)
Almost as soon as all that happened, though, his eyes went back to their normal pale blue hue and his shadow receded, making all desperately hope that it had simply been an illusion.
“I suppose Voldemort saw himself in a young Slytherin boy wanting vengeance for the wrong wrought unto his mother by his uncaring father,” Nott’s tone was positively arctic as he said that, his voice a drawl not unlike Severus Snape’s.
(Harry could only sympathise, unfortunately, much like he’d done watching a young Tom Riddle’s memories and his desire for justice against hateful relatives. Of course, the similarities to a young Tom Riddle were starting to become even more alarming to him.)
In the end, although some protested, Theodore Nott was let go with only a warning about the kinds of magic he practiced, the Ministry officials in charge of saying that to the terrifying young man almost pissing themselves when all Nott did was stare at them, still as a statue.
(When Harry crossed paths with Nott in Diagon a few days later and he saw the former Slytherin eyeing Harry’s now pale, famous scar with a thoughtful gleam in his gaze, the Auror-in-training spent the next week looking over his shoulder, irrationally sure the other man would dissect him like he had apparently wanted to do to Voldemort.)
____________________________________________________________________________
High Coven, Savathûn’s Throne World, Sometime Indefinite
“Was it everything you had hoped for?”
The Hive Goddess of Cunning’s ringing voice asked of one of her most amusing and devoted followers, tone teasing.
“That and more, my lady. Though it’s such a shame we couldn’t procure Voldemort’s soul pieces to study more in-depth within your oubliette.”
“That is what paracausally enhanced Vex are for, O’ Dedicant Mine, don’t you worry.”
Savathûn’s laughter was as melodious as it was discordant as it echoed through the corners of her Throne World.
(And though Theodore Nott became a recluse after the end of the war, sometimes the Aurors received reports of strangely coloured lights coming from the grounds of Nott Manor. Of course, not many ever thought to actually investigate, and those few that did were never heard from again.)