Nott to be Marked

A/N: I will not make any profit from this fic because I own nothing from the world of Harry Potter.

Before you read, you should know that this fic is probably riddled with repetition, confusing name differentiation (damn wizards for the habits of naming children after themselves... cannon or not, I will always think of two Theodore Notts) and SPaG as I have not yet had it beta'd, nor have I had the time (or will... really, I've been on and off this for days writing it without too much inspiration) to look at it myself. Hence, the reason I am posting it sort of raw is to see what your initial take to it is, and if it really is that horrible, I will not enter it. Which brings me to point 2, that I had originally written this for the Diagon Alley II forum's Weekly One-shot Wars competition. The task for the initial round is to write about a parent (not the Potters or Weasleys) protecting their child against all odds. However, upon looking at it, this is way too long for the maximum word count, so I may be off to write another random tale. Lovegoods anyone?

Anyway, love it or hate it, here is this... uh, story for you.

"Step forward Nott."

Theodore Nott moved forward, composing his face beneath his mask to hide any signs of his fear, sure that it could be seen regardless. His palms were sweaty as he resisted the urge to grasp his wand and protect himself – the reaction now as natural to him as walking. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and he worked to level his head in the correct position; not insubordinately staring at the cold flagstone yet not meeting his master's cold stare either.

He wanted to stoop further to his knees; to clasp his hands and beg for mercy. He wanted to spurt excuses and mumble apologies. He wanted to prevent what he knew was coming. Yet he was a Nott and Notts did not beg or mumble; not even if, by some miracle, it helped the situation.

"Has your son arrived yet?"

The cold voice sent a chill up Nott's spine and he hastily stopped himself from shivering as he answered.

"No, my Lord, he is on his way. I apologise, my Lord, for the delay," Nott's voice was low, effectively disguising any trembling it would've held.

"So he is late?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Nott closed his eyes, knowing that his answer would bring only punishment. The Dark Lord would have to make an example of him for his son's tardiness; one that Nott would pass on to his ungrateful son if he managed to survive.

Where was Theo anyway? He had told the boy to be there early so as not to risk the Dark Lord's wrath – or rather, more of it. Surely his son wasn't as stupid or cowardly as he looked? Surely he wouldn't abandon his father after all Nott had done for him?

As Nott heard the collective intake of breath of his fellow Death Eaters and braced himself for the forthcoming spell, a loud metallic bang was heard followed by Bellatrix's sigh of disappointment.

Protect him, she had said. Do not let him fall to the darkness, she had said. Well, how could he possibly do that when she was no longer here in this world, with him?

Despite his best efforts, Nott felt the hot sting of tears as they welled up in his eyes. The delicate silver chain felt cool wrapped around his rough palm, yet as he carefully fingered the attached oval locket, he could only find warmth. Kathryn had only been gone a little over a decade but to Nott, it felt like forever since he had felt her touch.

"Father?"

Nott hastily wiped away the single tear that trickled down his cheek and flung the locket onto his oak desk. Swallowing hard to ensure his voice did not come out as a croak, he remained facing his desk as he addressed Theo.

"You're late."

Nott could hear his son shifting uncomfortably by the door.

"I apologise father."

"Next time, be prompt."

"Yes father."

Heaving an annoyed sigh, Nott turned around and surveyed his son. The boy was a lot taller than he remembered and though he wore long winter robes, Nott could tell that he was a little more toned too. Good, he'd need to be.

Levelling his narrowed gaze at his son's dark, piercing eyes, he cleared his throat importantly. "I have just returned from a meeting. If I were to tell you that the Dark Lord has taken an interest in you, what would you say?"

Theo paused for a second, but did not tear away his gaze. In a monotone voice he replied, "I would do my duty to our family."

"Excellent. If you were to be presented with the honour of bearing His mark, would you accept?"

"If it was expected of me, I would."

"Would you bow to Him? Meet all of His commands? Kill for Him?"

"Yes father." Not even so much as a pause.

With a pang, Nott realised just how submissive his son had become. He had of course always expected Theo to obey him without question, and was pleased that he did not receive cheek from the boy as so many other parents did. However, seeing the way his son stood, lips pressed together and eyes unwavering, made him question if that was how he appeared in front of his Lord.

Was he just as emotionless and cold, almost like a puppet? When had he, a Pureblood, become so weak and subservient? Just what the Dark Lord wanted.

He searched Theo's eyes carefully, trying vainly to find something – anything – to indicate that he had not become so unfeeling. And, as he began to give up hope that he had lost Theo altogether, he saw it. His dark eyes were indifferent yet deep within them – very deep – they betrayed his uncertainty.

"Good," Nott finally nodded, realising he had not spoken for a while. "Good. As it were, the Dark Lord has requested your presence soon. You will attend a meeting scheduled for a week's time, where He will decide if you are worthy or not. Do not disappoint me."

"Yes father, I will do my best."

Nott kept his eyes trained on Theo as the boy responded formally, and again, was sure that he glimpsed the same look of uncertainty. Within his stomach, something strange swelled, almost like hope that his son was different – not a weakling, not a follower. As quickly as it came, however, he squashed it down – with the war brewing, there was no place for hope.

With a nod of his head, Nott dismissed his son. As soon as the boy disappeared through the doorway, he strode to the liquor cabinet, ignoring his wife's locket on the desk. She couldn't help their son, and neither could he.

He deserved it. The Malfoy boy had failed the Dark Lord, and hence he deserved the torture he had received in punishment. There was nothing else to it.

Nott paced his office, forcing his tired legs to carry him across the soft carpet. The tall grandfather clock had long since chimed one o'clock in the morning – two hours since he had returned to the manor – yet he could not bring himself to sleep. Images of the meeting were still etched in his mind, and every time he dared close his eyes, he saw the young blond fall to the ground, writhing in pain. His mind was haunted by the sight of the boy's mother, Narcissa, biting her tongue in a silent scream as Bellatrix held her back.

Narcissa reminded him of his dear Kathryn. Though Kathryn's stark hazel eyes and dark brown hair were a contrast to the Malfoy woman's vivid blue eyes and blonde mane, both women did share an undeniable love and protection for their sons. Narcissa would probably one day defy the Dark Lord if it meant protecting Draco, and if Kathryn was still alive, Nott was sure she would do the same.

It didn't matter though – Theo was much stronger and more cunning than the Malfoy boy. His son knew when to back down and re-plan if he was outmatched. Better yet, Theo knew not to flaunt his strengths so that enemies were aware of them and could plan around them. Should the Dark Lord present him with a task to complete, as He was bound to soon, Theo would be able to find a way to complete it and please his master. Nott would not have to watch his son suffer from torture – let alone the embarrassment of failure – like Narcissa.

Still, Nott's stomach refused to cease flipping around as images of Narcissa and his wife remained in his mind. Coming to a stop, he sank down heavily into the leather sofa. He wanted to uncap another bottle of Firewhiskey but knew it wouldn't help lull him into a sleepy stupor anymore- he was too immune to its toxic powers. Carefully, he pulled himself down into a lying position, slowly closing his eyes and steadying his breathing.

In, out, in, out. How did wizards who had mortgages to pay and cheating spouses manage to relax at night? He had neither of those concerns, so he should have found it much easier to relax and nod off. In, out, in, out.

Dammit. He was much too old for this. Sitting back up, a deep sigh escaping his lips, Nott massaged his forehead. This time, an image of his dear Kathryn cradling their infant son – a mere memory now – had passed through his mind and he knew he had to do something to protect Theo, if only for the sake of sleep.

"Louder! I can't hear you boy, concentrate!"

It was hopeless. Four days – four long, painfully slow days – of preparation and yet still his son hadn't shown any signs of progress.

Sinking into the deep green leather armchair, Nott let out a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. Before him, the little house elf trembled and fingered its filthy potato sack cover. Its large yellow eyes continued to grow wide with fear at the displeasure of his master as Nott glared down at him. He was sure that if the wretched creature had any brains at all, it would at least pretend to be curled up in pain upon the rug.

"I'm trying, father."

"Well try harder!"

Nott turned his glare upon his son. The boy's wand was raised, sleeves rolled to reveal his developing forearms. The boy's brow was furrowed in concentration, yet even as he pointed his slightly shaking wand to the elf again, Nott could already see that he would fail.

"Move, let me show you how it's done."

Nott stood up, groaning as his aging muscles protested. Fixing both his glare and his own wand back upon the house elf, who had subconsciously begun to back away from him, he cleared his throat.

"Crucio!"

A jet of red light shot from his wand tip, hitting the little elf square on the chest. Immediately, the creature's eyes widened as it hit the floor writhing in pain. Its tiny legs kicked out to the sides and above it; toes curling and fingers tearing at the rug in agony. Nott felt the power surge through his arm, growing all the more stronger as the elf turned a pale grey under the pressure. Tiny squeaks escaped the creature's clenched lips. It was only when the creature's eyes began to loll back inside its skull that he resisted the temptation to continue and lifted his wand.

To the credit of his son, Theo had not flinched as he watched his father torture the elf. Theo had simply remained rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene. His thin lips were in a grimace, however, and it took Nott a few tries before he could snap his son to attention.

"Theodore, Theodore! Now I want you to do it, exactly as I just did."

"Yes, father," Theo shook his head and blinked. Casting a furtive look at the elf, who now sat upright rocking itself back and forth, Theo looked to his father. "Erm, now?"

"No, I was thinking in the summer. Yes, now!"

"Alright," Theo looked at the elf again, almost as though he were sending it an apologetic look. Then, before Nott could clip him over the ear for not obeying fast enough, he raised his wand. "Crucio."

The elf continued rocking back and forth as the curse hit it, giving only a small grunt before it toppled backwards. Its body trembled slightly as Theo kept his wand trained on it, but no pleas for mercy could be heard.

"Try harder! Like you mean it, you have to mean it!" Nott shouted, raking a hand through his dark hair.

How was it so hard for him to understand? Did he want to fail?

Theo's hand began to shake as he swallowed thickly. The determinedness in his eyes was clouded over by uncertainty – the same look of uncertainty he had shown a few nights before. Stomping his foot against the floor, Nott shook his head in exasperation.

"Do you want to get killed boy? Do you want me to not have an heir anymore, to let the Nott line disappear into oblivion? Because that's what is going to happen if you don't put some back into it! Lift your arm, concentrate on hurting the beast!" Nott began to pace back and forth again, his irritation growing as he tried to shout some sense into his son. "Come on! Do you think you can survive out there without these simple skills? Do you think the others will pause one second when they see that you have been marked? Do you think the Dark Lord cares about heirs? No, he doesn't, and the enemy will aim to kill you when they see the Dark Mark upon your skin. Go on, do it like you mean it!"

Kicking the low coffee table, Nott swore.

Dammit, this just wasn't working. His son would be marked in less than three days, and yet he didn't have the experience needed to survive the enemy – or his future fellow Death Eaters. Theo's heart just wasn't in it. The boy was too soft, too like his mother. If only she was here, she would know how to keep him safe.

"Come on boy!"

Theo was now bent over and clutching his knees, panting heavily. Before him, the house elf twitched a little, but bore no tell-tale signs of having just been pushed to Hell and back. Theo raised his arm again, still panting, and pointed it to the elf.

"Cru- cru- crucio!" Theo spluttered, mustering the energy to go again.

Nott shook his head in disgust. No wonder the boy couldn't perform the spell well – his arm was shaking with each new cast. Weakling. Even a Squib with a broken arm could-

Sighing heavily once more, Nott realised what he must do. His son had absolutely no hope of surviving once marked and it seemed the only way to protect him now would be through some creative punishment. Nott cleared his mind of all thoughts of his developing plan, sure the Dark Lord had the ability to read minds, and beckoned his son to him.

"Pathetic, absolutely pathetic. I don't even think you want to be here, do you?"

"I'm trying, father," Theo panted.

"No, I don't think you are. Maybe some punishment will make you realise how important this is."

Before his son could protest, Nott pointed his wand to Theo's wand arm. As he murmured a curse, he closed his eyes and braced himself to either help save his son or lose him forever.

"Ah, young Theodore, how gracious of you to finally join us."

Nott looked up as his son entered the room, accompanied by Mulciber. The latter bowed to the Dark Lord before moving backwards, ushering Theo to show their lord his respect with a prod of his wand.

"Thank you, Mulciber, but I think our guest has a little more brains than you give him credit for," the Dark Lord addressed the Death Eater, who promptly bowed again and moved into the circle of his companions.

Theo quickly followed the man's actions and stooped low in a bow, not looking into the cold, red eyes of Voldemort. In a voice that made Nott swell with pride – on the inside, of course – Theo said, "Thank you my Lord. I apologise for the delay."

The Dark Lord tsked as he turned his eyes back upon the newcomer, appraising him. To Nott's relief, he did not lift his wand to the boy to punish him for his tardiness.

His relief was short lived, however, as he soon became the subject of Voldemort's gaze.

"Nott, I see your son has come ready to be inducted to our masses."

"Yes, my Lord, he is honoured to have been summoned."

"I can also see that you have not become soft in your discipline of him, as so many others have." Voldemort looked around the room at the gathered Death Eaters, focusing his cold gaze on the Malfoys for a few seconds, causing them to shift uncomfortably.

Nott didn't answer, holding his breath as he waited for Voldemort to speak again. The Dark Lord stood from his throne, the great snake slithering at his feet, and glided forward until he reached Theo. The boy stood perfectly still, not so much as recoiling, even as Voldemort reached for his left arm.

"Your father broke your arm, correct?"

Theo nodded once, then, realising that the Dark Lord was still gazing at him intently, cleared his throat. "Yes, my Lord."

"And he did not heal it straight away?"

Theo looked to his father quickly, before turning back to Voldemort. Nott could not meet his son's accusatory, if albeit, worried, eyes. Instead, he watched as his lord held tighter onto Theo's arm, eliciting a small wince from the boy.

"No, my Lord. He wanted the message to sink in."

"I see," Voldemort looked back to Nott, his thin lips raised up in a smirk. "You most definitely have not become soft at all, Nott." Within a second, the smirk disappeared. "However, I am displeased that you did not think to heal it as soon as possible. Now, I shall have to wait weeks upon weeks for the boy's arm to function properly, and I thus cannot use him for the task I had in mind."

Nott gulped as the Dark Lord jerked Theo's arm away from him in disgust. Voldemort made his way back up to his seat and sat down, stroking his serpent thoughtfully as she coiled around the chair's carved arms.

"It is a pity, a great pity. Theodore will simply have to do a more… meaningless task for me. Boy," the Dark Lord waited for Theo to look up, "you will return to Hogwarts in the coming year and keep watch on proceedings there. Report any findings of rebellion to Severus, especially by those Potter is known to be close with. Do not leave anything out."

"Yes my Lord, I will serve you well, my Lord."

"I should think so. Now, as for your punishment for being late, and for your father's foolishness, I think something that will cause you shame is necessary… You will not be marked as one of us tonight. That honour will be denied to you until you can prove to me how capable you are with this task I have given you. Should you prove valuable to me, I will summon you and mark you as my own. Should you fail, well… just ask your peer."

Raucous laughter echoed around the room as the Death Eaters mocked both the Notts' and Malfoys' misfortune. Nott could feel his cheeks redden as they jittered about his son not being good enough.

"Enough. Theodore, for the time being, you are dismissed. As for the rest of you, let us get to more pressing business."

At once, the laughter stopped and the group fell silent, moving the circle outwards. The Dark Lord flicked his wand and a long, polished wooden table appeared. As everyone hastily fought for a place to sit closest to the head where Voldemort placed himself, Nott slowly stood. He watched as Mulciber lead his son out past a large, steel door – Theo not turning back to look at him. His stomach swelled once more with a strange feeling – was it hope? – as he realised that, against all odds, he had managed to protect his son. For now.