My Darling | Theodore Nott

Without

Theodore Nott had been three years old when he learned his mother was dead.

At this age a sighting of a wealthy pureblood mother with their child was a rarity. He hardly saw his father. He had assumed his mother was the woman with the crinkly eyes and the communicative hands.

Mother, he signed to her, in greeting. He had learnt the sign himself, he stood in his quarters. There were few toys. There was a carpet Theo quite liked. It was lined with gold.

Who he had assumed to be his mother shook her head, she walked in quite slowly, avoiding the small pink flower patterns on the carpet Theo was most fond of. Theo frowned at how she had not removed her shoes. His mind swiftly preoccupied with how to communicate to the elves that it needed cleaning.

He looked down at the carpet, flinching in shock when he felt a hand on his cheek, he could not understand how quickly she had reached him.

I am your grandmother not your mother. She signed, he furrowed his eyebrows, confused.

Then who is? He signed. Blaise had a mother. Draco had a mother. Theo assumed his was on vacation. Or perhaps employed.

She extended a hand for him to take. He shook his head. If she took his hand he could not speak. She allowed him to follow her out of his quarters, to the stairs.

Theo had never been allowed to climb the stone steps. It was deemed to dangerous by his old nanny elf. He glanced up at her, and took her hand when it was offered. Anything to avoid being picked up.

The steps were terrifying. He did not like being touched. Theo grew afraid by the fourth and had to collect himself. He could feel the shoe tapping on the stone beside him as he decided to press onward, stepping up one at a time.

He reached the top, and took his hand back quickly. I did not enjoy that. He signed, I don't like you very much anymore. I had hoped you were my mother but now I hope you are going to buy my affections back because that is the only way I will ever look at you again.

Theo shut his eyes matter of factly. She tapped on his shoulder.

I will bring you to see a mime. His grandmother signed.

Now?

After I show you your mother.

I would prefer the mime.

His grandmother smiled. It was a sad smile. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked like his older brother. She hadn't the time to miss him. Cordelia Nott was far too preoccupied becoming fluent in sign language to avoid the need for anymore runes on the soft skin of her youngest grandson.

The young Nott heir was incredibly intelligent. She had him explain himself in sign language about every opinion he ever expressed.

Theodore Nott was an incredibly peculiar and particular child. He preferred odd days to even ones. Mondays. Wednesdays. Fridays. Sundays. There was an even number of odd days. He enjoyed the irony. He did not know what irony was but he was certain he would grow into a fondness for it.

He enjoyed lining up his books. He enjoyed choosing flowers from the gardens to press in the heavy novels he could not understand yet.

You are my grandmother he signed, she nodded,

I am your mother's mother.

Where is she?

His grandmother pointed to a painting on the wall. It was a portrait of a young woman in a wedding dress. She was really quite young. Her skin porcelain smooth. Her eyes framed with heavy dark lashes. Like his. Theo looked up at his grandmother and then back at the painting.