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tomriddleslove · 5 months

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Lie thou there, by a dead man interred.

✩Theodore Nott x Reader part 3 (final part)

Summary: The one where love is enough to drive a man mad, and Theodore is no different.

TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF ABUSE AND GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF TORTURE. PLEASE SCROLL DOWN TO THE VERY BOTTOM FOR A FULL LIST.

The dim lights of his dorm seemed all too bright as Theodore’s eyes fluttered open, a small groan escaping his lips.

His head was pounding, his mouth felt dry and every inch of his body ached profoundly. He mustered the energy to slowly turn his head, his eyes adjusting to the light. He can very barely make out the silhouette of Blaise sleeping in his bed.

“You’re awake.” Draco murmurs, getting up from the edge of his bed. He walks over to Theodore, who gingerly shuffles up. He ignores the way every muscle in his body screams at him with the slightest movement.

“You couldn't have taken me to the hospital wing?” He croaks, his voice dry, and a humourless laugh leaves Draco’s lips as he rolls his eyes

“And let Madam Pompfrey get an eye of the dark mark on your forearm? No chance.” He tuts.

Despite his seemingly patronising tone, the Malfoy boy eyes Theodore with wariness and what seems to be ….

Pity?

Why on earth would he feel pity?

“She-” Theodore breathes out, eyes widening as the image flashes in his mind.

Watching you being yanked up by his father's harsh grip, watching you getting dragged away.

“She’s alive,” Draco mutters.

Theodore wants to laugh. As though you being alive would bring him any comfort. Theodore was his own flesh and blood and his Father had no qualms beating him till he couldn’t move. What would he do to you?

With a firm resolve, Theodore throws back the covers, not batting an eye at the bruises that litter his body as he moves out of bed. His voice croaks as he speaks five words that he doesn't have to think twice to utter.

“I'm going to get her.”

Draco's voice cuts through the silence, tinged with frustration. "Don't be daft, Theodore. Get a grip. This,” He says, motioning around their dorm “ - is the lifestyle we live. It would have never worked with a Muggle-born girl."

Theodore's jaw tightens, his resolve hardening. "Don't tell me what's daft, Draco. You have no idea what it's like to love someone like her."

Draco scoffs, his tone dripping with disdain. "And you have no idea what it's like to risk everything for someone who will never understand our world. You'll be dead if you try and save her."

“This life isn’t worth living if not for her!” Theodore snaps.

For a moment, Draco falls silent, his usually sharp tongue rendered speechless. Then, with a shake of his head, he refuses to yield. "Absolutely not. You'll get us all in trouble."

Theodore scoffs, grabbing his wand as he tugs on a sweater.

“Try fucking stop me.” He spat.

"Are you really willing to throw everything away for her?" Draco's voice is tinged with desperation now, his usual cool demeanour slipping slightly under the weight of the situation.

But Theodore's resolve remains unyielding.

"Yes," he replies simply, his voice firm and unwavering. "I'll do whatever it takes to save her, even if it means risking everything."

His concern morphs into frustration, and he steps in front of Theodore, shoving him backwards.

Draco speaks, a venomous edge creeping into his usually arrogant drawl. “You’re willing to risk your life for a mudblood?”

Theodore’s fist connects with Draco’s nose in a sickening crack. Draco stumbles backwards, clutching his nose. Draco's eyes widen in shock and pain, his hand instinctively moving to his injured nose. His usually composed demeanor crumbles, replaced by a mix of surprise and hurt. But beneath it all, there's a flicker of something else – something darker, more volatile.

"You dare to strike me?" Draco's voice is low, his words seething with barely contained rage.

"You deserved it," Theodore retorts, his voice cold and unyielding. "You dare murmur a word of her again and so help me, I will fucking kill you."

The platinum haired boy falls silent, clutching his bloodied nose as he observes his usually lighthearted, and humorous friend.

His chest was heaving, his knuckles were busted, and his demeanour seemed almost feral.

It was rather terrifying how love could do that.

Without a second word, Theodore storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him as he clutches his wand. He hadn’t even stopped to think about the state of Hogwarts after the attack. Did his friends make it out alright? Did any teachers get harmed?

He was so caught up in pursuing you he didn’t think twice of anyone else. Did he step over the corpse of a friend looking for you?

His urgency is palpable, and he is sure if someone was here to witness it they’d be able to see it immediately. The door for the room of requirement is already there as he turns the corner, and he all but throws the door open.

He catches sight of the vanishing cabinet and wastes not a single second stepping inside. For all the times he had sat in this room for hours on end, watching as birds came back dead or mangled, he paid no mind to any risks. He lurches, and it all of a sudden feels like he's being compressed from every direction. The walls of the cabinet push into him, constricting his form, and for a split second, he wonders if something has backfired, if they had charmed the vanishing cupboard to not work in the opposite direction. As quickly as the sensation comes, it leaves, and he’s stumbling out into Borgin and Burkes, almost hurtling face first into a display of antique display plates.

The shop is eerily quiet, the only sound the soft shuffle of his footsteps against the creaky floorboards. The shelves are lined with oddities and curiosities, their dusty surfaces illuminated by the faint glow of enchanted lanterns. He pushes open the heavy wooden door, the cool night air hitting him like a welcome relief after the confines of the shop.

He navigates the labyrinthine-like streets with sickening familiarity, heading for the battered-looking pub held deep within the confines of the area.

The air is thick with the smell of stale ale and cigarette smoke, the patrons eyeing Theodore with contempt and curiosity as he strides to the fireplace.

“Nott Manor.” He mutters, the flume of floo powder billowing by his feet.

He stumbles into the familiarity of his family manor. Met with the chilling coldness, which never seemed to warm, his heart began pounding.

The drawing room is shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming from the flickering flames of the nearby torches. The air is heavy and still, a palpable tension hanging in the air.

As Theodore takes a cautious step forward, the silence is deafening. His heart pounds in his chest, the sound echoing in the empty space of the grand room.

But then, amidst the silence, he hears it – a faint cry, barely audible over the hushed stillness of the manor.

At first, Theodore's mind struggles to process the sound, dismissing it as a trick of his imagination. But then it comes again, louder this time, unmistakable in its desperation and pain.

His heart lurches at the sound, one he swore he’d never have to hear. Your cries tear away at him, making him feel sick to his stomach.

His feet slam against the marble floors as he sprints towards the noise, and the sounds of your screams getting louder and louder by the second stimulate the adrenaline that courses through his veins.

Dread coils in the pit of his stomach like a serpent, tightening its grip with every step. The sound of your cries echoes through the dark corridors, haunting him with its intensity.

When he finally reaches the door, there's no mistaking it.

It's the very same room he was locked in for hours on end as a child whenever he’d misbehave.

It was the same room he’d scream in when his father used the Cruciatus Curse on him for the tiniest of things.

It was the same room he lay in, bloody and bruised mere hours before he returned to Hogwarts that fateful day to find you in a similar state, all at the hands of his father.

Did you know that was his blood dried up on the floors? Did you have an image of him screaming out in pain in that very same room?

He throws the door open with little to no regard for who could be there. Damn whoever it was, even if it was the dark lord himself, Theodore would murder them with his bare hands.

He could not possibly fathom what it would look like.

There was so much blood. Too much. Copious amounts of it pooled around your bruised form. You can't even lift your head up, pained whimpers escaping your lips as you lay limp on the stone floor. Theodore’s father doesn't pay attention to Theodore's arrival, not until he finishes stomping on your hand, the sickening crunch of bones breaking drowned out by the hoarse cry that escapes your lips.

“You actually came for the filthy thing? Here I was, thinking you'd have some sort of sense knocked into you.” He sneers as he turns to face his son.

To say Theodore was seeing red was an understatement.

No, Theodore was filled with a visceral rage so strong he could feel it emanating off him, to the point where he was sure he could snap his father's neck with his own hands.

“Avada Kedavra,” Theodore mutters without a second thought, though his father just narrowly manages to miss it.

Theodore's father recoils in shock as the green light of the Killing Curse narrowly misses him, the deadly spell leaving a scorching trail in its wake. His eyes widen in horror, his features contorted with rage.

"You dare?" he snarls, his voice trembling with fury. "You dare raise your wand against your own flesh and blood?"

But Theodore is beyond reason, consumed by a blinding rage that threatens to consume him whole. His chest heaves with every breath, his muscles tensed and ready for another attack.

"You're no father of mine," Theodore seethes, his voice low and dangerous. "You're nothing but a coward, a servant to the Dark Lord's whims."

Theodore's father's face twists with fury at the accusation, his wand raised in a defensive gesture. "You insolent brat," he growls, his voice thick with malice. "You have dishonoured this family. Over a mudblood, no less. You are no son of mine."

With a flick of his wrist, he sends another curse hurtling toward his father, but his father is quick to react, deflecting the curse with a well-practised flick of his own wand. There is an endless barrage of spells, sparks crackling against the confined space. Theodore's wand mainly emits green, aiming to kill.

“ENOUGH.” Theodore’s father roars, casting a stupefy so strong Theodore slams into the wall. His head smacks against the concrete, and a small groan escapes his lips as he slumps down to the floor. He can barely open his eyes, no, it all hurts, but his mind screams at him to get up when he sees your near unconscious figure slumped on the floor.

Theodore struggles to open his eyes, his muscles trembling with exhaustion and pain. His father's voice cuts through the fog of his mind, each word like a hammer blow to his already battered senses.

"You see what your foolishness has brought upon you, Theodore?" his father sneers, his tone dripping with disdain. "You're weak. Pathetic. A disgrace to our family name."

He walks towards Theodore, paying no regard to you as he does so.

‘Yes!’ Theodore thinks to himself ‘come for me, forget her’ he pleads internally.

“A muggle-born," he scoffs, his lip curling in disgust. "And you have the audacity to love such filth? You're no better than the mudblood herself, Theodore."

He crouches in front of Theodore, staring down at him with contempt.

“You see, son. They’re like a virus. They infect our society, ruining our pure lineages. This-” His father stars, motioning around him, “- is what they do to us. So we need to cut them out. Remove them from our lives. The dark lord is correct, it is not enough to simply ignore them, we must remove them before the threat furthers.”

“Fuck… you…” Theodore manages to choke out, ignoring the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

His father sighs as he gets up, looking over to your form.

“I hoped for better from you, son. I thought you'd come to your senses, but no. I disciplined you, Theodore. I taught you not to be weak like your mother, yet here you are.” He admonishes, turning back to Theodore.

“Perhaps then I ought to give you a nudge in the correct direction, no?” He mutters, and Theodore can only comprehend what he means when his father raises his wand to Theodore and speaks.

“Imperio.”

He feels as though there’s a thick fog that envelopes his mind. Like he’s spectating in his own body. He tries to move a finger, to lift a hand, to do anything, but he cannot. It's a horrible feeling, worse than any torture he had endured.

Theodore had only been under the Imperius curse once. It was mere days after his mother's death, and his father had to cast the curse on him to stop him from lashing out and breaking down. He didn't have to do anything overtly bad, no, all he had to do was attend the funeral without acting out. But the feeling of having all your autonomy being taken away from you, to be completely and utterly helpless, was so horrific he didn't speak for days on end when it was lifted.

“Stand up.” Theodore’s father utters his voice low.

That was another thing about the Imperius curse. It controlled the body, and not the mind. Theodore felt every agonising inch of pain as his body moved on its own accord, and there was not a single thing he could do to stop that.

Theodore feels a kernel of terror gnawing at his soul. It's a primal fear, raw and unrelenting as if he's staring into the abyss and there's no one there to pull him back from the brink.

The most terrifying thing was that Theodore’s father didn't need to speak the commands out loud for Theodore to obey him. He fights tooth and nail to stop himself from moving, but he can only pray that as he approaches your battered form, you heard Theodore's father cast the Imperius, so you know it wasn’t Theodore’s doing.

He watches helplessly as his own hand reaches out, grasping your hair with a cruel force that makes your tears spill over. Theodore's heart shatters into a million pieces at the sight of your pain, but he's powerless to stop himself.

His eyes meet yours, and he sees the fear and confusion reflected in them. He wants to scream, to beg for forgiveness, but his voice is lost in the void of his own mind.

With a sickening lurch, Theodore's body moves of its own accord, his foot slamming into your ribs with a force that sends you reeling. He feels the impact reverberate through his own bones, but it's as if he's watching from a distance, disconnected from the horror unfolding before him.

Every fibre of his being rebels against the violence he's forced to inflict upon you, it's a sickening feeling, worse than any torture he's endured, knowing that he's being used as a weapon against the person he loves most in the world.

Your pained sobs echo off the stone walls, a result of Theodore’s failure to protect you reflecting back on him.

He’s paralysed by his own powerlessness, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of you curled up around yourself on the floor, and it’s not the first time he’s been in this room praying that he simply stopped living.

“Come now, Theodore. Why are you playing so nicely?” His father jeers, a sickening sort of satisfaction in his voice as Theodore rises, beginning to move again.

He feels a surge of revulsion as his fist connects with the side of your face, a sharp cry of pain escaping your lips as you double over in agony. Theodore wants to scream, to tear himself away from the nightmare that holds him captive. But it was all his fault, wasn’t it? He was the one who stupidly, and selfishly, loved you. He was the greedy one, who wanted you even though he knew he may end up putting you in danger. He was weak, and he was pathetic.

If it was his hand that harmed her, he would have to chop it off.

If it was his tongue that harmed her, then remove it from him.

If it was he who hurt her, then let death be an undeserved mercy.

“You know what I want you to do, Theodore.” His father murmurs, an almost melodic lilt to his voice as Theodore rolls you over, slamming your shoulder into the floor as he settles his weight on top of you.

“It’s cathartic, son. You’re purging yourself of this virus. You have to do it yourself to learn that it’s a messy business.” He continues.

Theodore feels sick to his stomach, bile rising in his throat as he stares down into your tear-stained eyes, your face bloodied and bruised from the violence he's been forced to inflict upon you.

Every fibre of his being screams in protest, his mind a whirlwind of revulsion and despair. His body moves of its own accord, his hands closing around your throat with a sickeningly tight grip.

Your struggles beneath him only serve to fuel Theodore's torment, each gasp for breath a dagger in his soul. He wants to cry out, to beg for forgiveness, but all he can do is stare down into your eyes, pleading silently for you to understand.

One of the first things of Theodore’s that you fell in love with were his eyes. They were betrayingly expressive. Before the two of you had gotten romantically involved you’d constantly tease him for how his eyes betrayed his otherwise stoic demeanour. They were an almost mesmerising shade of blue that were so enchanting you were sure he had to have some sort of veela ancestry.

Those same eyes, the ones that you’d gaze into so lovingly when you'd lie under the stars by the black lake, a half-smoked joint passed between you, now held a coldness and emptiness that betrayed the boy who loved as if it was breathing. No, this was not Theodore, even if he had the same sharp jaw, the same handsome face and unruly hair.

“It’s- Okay-” You choke out, as though you can hear Theodore's thoughts. You felt your windpipe being crushed under the force of his hands, unable to look away from the sight of the boy you loved.

You had long accepted your death the very second you cast the stunning spell that knocked Theodore backwards when he so rashly tried to save you that day in Hogwarts. You didn’t need to think twice to do such a thing. Heaven forbid someone noticed Theodore was actively fighting against his father to save a muggle-born girl.

He would be subjected to horrors worse than anyone could imagine. It was the only option in your mind. Theodore had so much to live for. So much to do, to achieve. He was brilliant.

And you were weak. Because part of you also knew you couldn't even comprehend living a life without Theodore. No, you couldn’t.

But as much as you had come to terms with your death, it still didn't stop you from clawing at Theodore's hands when the lack of oxygen became critical. The human instinct to fight for survival always overpowered the will, and the sight of you trying to fight back was even more heartbreaking.

“I’m- Not-” You choke out, desperately trying to reach a hand out to cup Theodore's face. Your hand trembles as it does so, making contact with the smooth skin on the side of his face as you look up at him.

His hand remain constricted around your throat, squeezing harder, but you feel wet tears fall onto your chest. Not yours, but his.

You were too good for him. You really were. How could you forgive him? How could you stare into his eyes and tell him you loved him as he wrapped his hands around your throat?

Tears slip from his eyes, betraying the hold of the curse, but it's the only rebelling he can do. He cannot move his vice-like grip from you, and he wants to hurl when he sees your face turn slightly red.

Theodore's heart feels like it's been ripped from his chest as he hears your choked words of forgiveness and love.

‘Don’t forgive me. Damn me to hell, please. Curse me, say you hate me’ He wants to plead, because he feels pathetic, knowing you still loved him. He was undeserving of such love.

“It's okay,” You murmur, your words simultaneously a soothing balm that calms his soul and one that reminds him repeatedly of his own shortcomings.

You manage to muster a small smile, the corner of your lips turning upwards barely as you stare into the eyes of the boy who, for love, was the very reason you felt as though you started living and the very reason you'd stop living too.

And all you could wish for was that you didn't have to stare into the eyes of this stranger before you, but his eyes instead.

Darkness creeps into the edges of your vision, and your body feels as though it's on fire, screaming at the lack of oxygen. You almost fall into a state of resignation, falling limp against him as you feel your consciousness begin to slip.

Every attempt from Theodore to loosen his grip only makes him tighten it further. As he watches the life drain out of your eyes, he feels it draining out of him too. It tears Theodore from the inside out, It's a sensation akin to drowning, the weight of your fading life pressing down on him with an unbearable heaviness.

Theodore cannot bear to see your eyes flutter shut but he can’t bring himself to look away.

Somehow, by some sick, cruel trick of fate, he freezes up when he feels you stiffen and then fall limp beneath him. Your chest stops heaving, and your hands fall from where they clawed at his hands.

Your heart stops beating, and his does too.

Always seconds too late.

Theodore cannot recall the last time he hadn’t been drunk, high, or a combination of both. Really, there's not been a second that he's been sober since that day.

He had been placed under strict watch by his friends, never left alone for even a second since the day Mattheo found him surrounded by bottles upon bottles, unresponsive on his bed. He couldn’t bring himself to move, to even think. Every breath he took left a profound ache in his chest like there was a weight that threatened to crush him.

He couldn’t bring himself to attend your funeral. Whilst everyone else in the castle made their way down to the wake, Theodore had stumbled up to your empty dorm, with your belongings all there as though you were due to walk through the door at any second, collapsing onto your bed as he wept. It was Blaise who had to keep watch of Theodore that day. Surprisingly, all his friends attended the wake.

Theodore screamed at Blaise, pure agony in his voice.

“GET OUT.” He sobs, throwing one of the decorative vases in your dorm at Blaise. He barely flinches as it shatters on the wall behind him, rather he looks at Theodore with such sadness you would think he had lost Theodore that day as well.

But they had, hadn’t they? This boy, this was not Theodore. He no longer laughed, nor did he relentlessly wind up the rest of them. This was an empty shell of who Theodore used to be.

Theodore had buried his face in your covers and sobbed until his throat was raw. It was so bad, he had to be stunned and carried back to his bed.

Blaise doesn’t think he’ll ever forget what he saw that day. He had never seen such defeat, such hurt and rage in a single person. Mere seconds after the imperius was lifted. Theodore slaughtered his father with such unrestrained rage it was grotesque. For all the jokes, the laughs, and the optimism in light of the worst situations, seeing his close friend kneeling in a pool of blood, slumped over the body of his lover as he wept was a sight that would forever be burnt into Blaise’s mind.

There was no doubt in his mind that news about the cause of Tiberius Nott’s death had circulated among the followers of the dark lord. Theodore was a dead man walking, and it was only a matter of time before he would face the consequences of his actions.

Theodore could only hope that day came quicker, though. It may as well have been as if the Imperius was never lifted that day, because he felt like a zombie, here against his own will.

He only breathed because his body made him do so, not because he wanted to.

He only lived because he had to, not because he wanted to.

TRIGGER WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH.

Mentions of Child Abuse, Torture and substance abuse.

My Dm is always open for anyone who needs to talk ❤️.

@mildlyuninformative @chgrch @gillyweeds @anti-hero03 @schaebickel @lillywildly @multifandom-worlds @batmandabest @always-reading

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