Zero at the Bone

Zero at the Bone

A narrow fellow in the grass

Occasionally rides;

You may have met him,--did you not,

His notice sudden is.

"Step forward."

Shuddering, Theodore Nott did as he was told. Sweat dripped off his chin as he stood next to the blazing fire, gazing into the darkness beyond where the Dark Lord stood.

His father, Edward, stood by, watching proudly as his son went before his master. To Theodore his father was merely two pale eyes watching in the distance. Eyes that gleamed with malevolence, hunger, and desire.

He was going to be sick.

"Do you pledge your life to the Dark Lord, our master?"

What could he say? Theodore thought wildly. 'No, I don't think so. Perhaps another time, see you all later.'

That was just like asking to be killed.

The words were caught in his throat, he couldn't say yes. He didn't want to sign his life away to this bogey-man, this monster before him. Theodore placed a great price on his life-he didn't want to see it go to waste. There were other things he could be doing, better things than killing Mudbloods for fun. Not that he thought Mudbloods ought to be tolerated, that was Gryffindor thinking, that was, but still...

"Well?"

His chin moved of its own volition. But apparently they wouldn't take a nod for an answer.

"Come here, boy."

The grass divides as with a comb,

A spotted shaft is seen;

And then it closes at your feet

And opens further on.

Gulping, Theodore took another step forward. This was it, there was no turning back. He was going to be Marked, and then his life as he knew it was over. It wasn't bloody fair.

This had been his father's idea, he knew. Edward Nott was so proud of his son, he had been waiting for Theodore to turn seventeen with barely concealed patience. This ceremony and the results meant the world to him, and Theodore didn't want to disappoint him.

But it was his life, he ought to be able to choose how to live it. Perhaps later, once he had lived a little, perhaps then he'd join the ranks of faceless Death Eaters and cease to be Theodore Nott, and become instead merely one of Voldemort's servants.

The concept made him squirm.

"Do you wish to join my loyal supporters?" came the hiss.

"Er-"

That had been the wrong choice, he knew it. He should have made his answer definite, and, if he wanted to stay alive, he should have said yes. But that wasn't living. That was simply an extended state of not dying.

"You hesitate? Perhaps your father was wrong, perhaps you are not ready to join us."

Theodore could sense Draco Malfoy smirking at him from his father Lucius's side, and a scowl crossed his lips. If that smarmy little ferret was acceptable, than so was he. And as those feelings of hatred filled him, he saw what the Dark Lord was trying to do. And he was succeeding.

"Perhaps not," Theodore replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "I was never keen on tattoos."

He likes a boggy acre,

A floor too cool for corn.

Yet when a child, and barefoot,

I more than once, at morn,

Someone in the chamber gasped and the others started whispering. His father looked like he was being choked. Theodore couldn't see Lord Voldemort's face, but he could almost sense his amusement.

"They are scandalised, my followers, young Mr. Nott," the Dark Lord said, his tone mocking, "because no one speaks to me like that. Those that have ever dared, do you know what happened to them?"

"I imagine they died horrible, painful deaths, sir." To stop himself from saying more, Theodore bit his tongue so hard it bled.

"Right you are."

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash

Unbraiding in the sun,--

When, stooping to secure it,

It wrinkled, and was gone.

"But I rather like you, Theodore," the Dark Lord continued to Theodore's shock and dismay. "So I won't kill you. Be quiet, Lucius," he said to Malfoy, who looked like he was going to interrupt. "I accept Theodore. Come forward, Wormtail."

The man Theodore knew as Wormtail came forward with the brand. A cry escaping his bloody lips, Theodore backed away. Voldemort's high pitched laughter rang throughout the chamber and was soon joined by the snickers of the audience. Edward Nott stared at his son in horror as Theodore struggled to get away. The silver hand of Wormtail held him tightly and the hot brand was thrust into the fire then pressed to his skin.

Theodore's screams of pain were lost among the laughter.

Several of nature's people

I know, and they know me;

I feel for them a transport

Of cordiality;

He stumbled backward and fell to the ground, his skin aflame. Clutching his arm, he stared up dizzily at the faces he had grown up with looking down at him with a mixture of disgust and contempt. In most he saw nothing; they had been stripped of their ability to care.

His hand was covered in his blood. Moaning, he tried not to pass out for fear of what they might do to him if he were unconscious. He didn't want to become one of them. They weren't people, they were machines, slaves, nothing! He was better than that, he was more!

Their sneers echoed their taunts. What were they now? Did they have feelings at all? Not even hate burned within them. They didn't feel enough to hate, and that, to Theodore, was the most horrifying of all.

He was a Slytherin. To most this equated Death Eater. But Theodore had a very strong sense of self-preservation, and he knew joining Lord Voldemort was the quickest way to die.

He was a bully, and cunning, and hated Mudbloods with a passion. Particularly that one who had harmed his father two years ago. Oh, he hated her, certainly. But to become a Death Eater just for the purposes of revenge, that was stupid. Oh no, Hermione Granger would die, just as he had promised his father, but he didn't need Voldemort for that.

That dangerous sentence replayed itself in his head. He didn't need Voldemort.

Verging on insanity from the pain, he tried to convince himself that there was still a chance for escape. But he had been branded, there was no where to go where he wouldn't be followed.

"Now we have a little entertainment."

A girl was dragged into the chamber, bound and gagged. She did not seem afraid, Theodore noted. Nor would she; she was his sister. Fear was not allowed in the Nott household, and if nothing else, Helena did her blood credit. Her blue eyes found his and she stared at the Mark on his arm. If she could have, Theodore thought she would have spit on him.

"Kill her," the Dark Lord ordered.

"Why?" Theodore cried, his face pale and sweaty. Edward remained where he was, his expression impassive. Helena's intense gaze never left her brother's face.

"Because she has shown where her loyalties lie. She loves a Mudblood, will bear his child. We must not allow this abomination."

He hadn't known she was pregnant. Helena had scandalised her family by running off with a Mudblood last year, which resulted in Edward's push for Theodore to get his Mark. Helena had been the chosen child, the beloved one. Her betrayal had destroyed their father. All his hopes and dreams for her had been transferred to Theodore without his consent.

Anger at her bubbled up inside him. It was her damned fault that he was in this mess. If she had never left, if she had played out her part as she was supposed to, it would have been her screaming and writhing on the floor in pain, and Theodore could have continued with his dream of playing professional Quidditch. How dare she ruin his life.

His wand was drawn and he actually pointed it at her. He had never used the Killing Curse before. He had no idea if it would work. She was his sister. Her gag was removed, most likely so they could hear her plead for mercy. Helena refused to acquiesce.

So did Theodore. His wand fell to the stone ground with a clatter.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

And before he could register the betrayal, that it had all be a set up, a test of his loyalty, Theodore Nott died at his sister's wand.

But never met this fellow,

Attended or alone,

Without a tighter breathing,

And zero at the bone.