The Nott Manor

The door opened with a slight creak as Jaq unlocked it, pushing hard against it. It had always been a hard door to open - and, as such, had been an effective barrier between his cousins, and himself, and the rest of the outside world. The stone floor was just the same as that day, but his father had obviously changed the carpet. The rich green spread across the floor like a slightly foreboding path way into the lantern lit corridors. He looked at that wall and it took everything not to wince as the image flickered, replacing it with the one of that night: his cousin pinned against the wall as his uncle carved the words into her skin.

They'd both been branded in their own ways: their differences had been printed into their arms. Jaq looked down at his left arm, admiring the dark mark in the candle light, all the while thinking of another arm with 'Blood traitor' torn into it. That had marked it - they could no longer pretend that they were the same.

As he walked down the carpet, feeling as though he was parting a sea of ghostly memories, all watching the same ghostly scene. "Father?" He called as his turned right down a corridor. Jaq knew that the death of his father's brother and sister in about five months had shocked the man, weakened him. Jaq hated how weak he was - it was why he was so determined to take over his father's spot on the Dark Lord's council. Then he could take his weak father out of the spotlight and prove to them all that the Nott family was just as strong, if not stronger than ever. He couldn't let his younger cousin, Theodore Nott, take it - because Jacques knew the other boy was weak.

"Father!" Jaq asked, getting steadily more and more irritated. He found the man in a leather chair by the fire, staring at a picture. Jacques already knew who it was of. He growled, racing over and snatching the picture from the old man's hands.

"Jacques," his father's voice was stern, cold. "Stop acting like a child."

"No, you agreed that we would be rid of them," Jaq said, his fingers starting to tear at the picture of his aunt - the blood traitor's mother. "That we'd be rid of them once and for all. Filthy blood traitors." He tossed the torn up pieces of a face so similar to one he knew all too well.

There was silence as the fire crackled, and Jaq watched the picture shreds blacken and burn away. His father watched him, face unreadable, before speaking in the same quiet, stern, cold voice, "But, my son, are you rid of them?"

Even after the training with Bellatrix, the exhausted Jaq continued to push himself through a separate training he had for himself. Magic, non-magic. He would learn any way of fighting. His lungs gasped desperately for breath as the target finally thudded to the floor. Training of speed, strength, he could do those things easily.
But training his mind did not come easily, it never had. And these days, whenever he tried to empty it completely, he'd still hear her voice louder than ever. And all his other thoughts would return.

His father used to watch him train. He'd stand at the doorway and watch his son. At first he had asked, "What are you training for, boy?"
And Jaq would always reply, "To be a death eater that this family can be proud of."
And a sort of half smile would drift across the man's face.

Jaq glanced towards the doorway, it was empty, like it had always been these last five months. He doubted his father even cared anymore. The fury and resentment welled up inside him and his tired arms seemed to regain strength and he delivered another nasty curse at the target.

He stood at the entrance to his father's study, not daring to step inside, just staring at the back of the man in his father's armchair. His hand rested on the door frame, his mouth a thin line, the light from the room illuminated his face which was otherwise swallowed up by the darkness. The corridor was so cold. This man who walked in his father's house, who slept in his father's room, who sat in his father's chair - Jaq hated him.

A hand came up to rest on his shoulder and Jaq turned to see the tired face of his mother. Jaq swallowed and his face started to turn to look at the man in his father's place again, but she shook her head and took his hand - leading him down the corridor. "Mother," he said, his voice sounding strange. "Mother."

She stopped and faced him, taking his face in her hands, "Jaq, my little boy, look at you now - all grown up."
"Why," he started, his hands going up to touch hers, "Why is he--"
"Shhh," she whispered. "Don't you worry about anything. Be strong, Jaq, be strong and serve the Dark Lord faithfully. Make me proud, make your father proud."
Jaq swallowed again, feeling the back of his eyes burn. He looked down at the ground, head bent, "Yes mother, always."
"That's my boy," she reached up and kissed his forehead.

Jaq moved through the empty corridors of the manor, his head pounding. He knew he was being followed. Steps that mirrored his own. His father never left the study, even to eat. His mother almost never left her room. He almost never even stepped foot in here anymore. Small sobs echoed down the hall, the sounds fluttering about and bumping against the walls like moths, flying steadily towards him - intent on covering him until there was none of him left to see.

"You could bring them back, Jaq. You could bring all of them back.

He walked onwards, still refusing to look around. Besides, he knew if he looked around, she'd be gone. He didn't want to be alone in the empty halls - even if she tried to convince him that he was never alone.

"You could bring your uncle back, your aunt - I know you could."
"I can't. They're dead."
"But you're bringing me back. With every day, with every thought of me, with every death for me, I grow stronger."
"But only to me. The others... they can't see you."
"We'll always be together. Soon, I'll have a body. Together, Jaq, we could bring them all back. Let me help you."
"How?" He turned. A smile spread across her face.

"Make me stronger."