Theodore Nott closed A History of Magic in the 19th Century and pushed it to the edge of the mahogany desk.
The study was quiet. The fire in the fireplace gave an occasional soft crackle.
He rose and walked to the tall French windows, looking out at Nott Manor beneath the night sky.
The estate was less ostentatious than Malfoy Manor, and it had no white peacocks wandering about. It possessed only the gloom and restraint of an ancient pure-blood family.
At Hogwarts, many people thought he was strange.
A Slytherin from a Death Eater family, yet he almost never spent time with Draco Malfoy's little circle.
He was always alone, like a lone wolf separated from its pack.
The reason was simple—
He found Malfoy noisy.
And stupid.
Draco was forever saying "my father," treating Old Malfoy's years following the Dark Lord as something to boast about at every opportunity. He had no ability to think for himself.
Theodore's own father thought the same of him.
In the Slytherin Common Room, that crowd was always trying to imitate their fathers' supposed glory, mocking Muggle-borns with the crudest words they knew.
Whenever Theodore saw it, he found it ridiculous.
Because in the Nott family, their opinion of the so-called "Dark Lord" was entirely different from everyone else's.
His father, Old Nott, was indeed a Death Eater in name.
But the man he truly looked up to was someone else.
Behind the soundproofed, carved wooden door, whenever his father held a glass of wine, his face showed nothing but open contempt for the Death Eaters.
"Brutish, cruel, without a shred of beauty. Not the least bit elegant."
That was Old Nott's assessment of Voldemort.
In his father's eyes, the man was merely a thug who ruled through fear and torture.
He