#obtprompt

Despite the neat, pristine nature of Daphne's room, and her put together appearance, the witch couldn't help but feel that her life was slowly spiraling out of control. The letters she'd written to the editor of the Daily Prophet had been a casual ploy - and naming Pansy as the writer had been a rather clever stroke in her opinion at the time. It would have accomplished two things at once: first, it would further distance Pansy from the rest of wizarding society and second, it would make her desperate for stronger ties with the influential...much like the elder Greengrass. And then, the werewolves had attacked the Parkinson Property and the hazel eyed woman couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible for the sudden appearance of the extremist French terrorists in their rather elite neighborhood. 

And that was only one aspect of the threads she'd been weaving skilfully that were suddenly becoming gnarled and tangled (and if she were asked, all the blame lay at the hands, or rather, paws of the savage creatures who's powers were so heightened by the hued moon she'd see every night through her bedroom window). Her plans to keep the Solstice a purely proper gathering of the most well bred witches and wizards in England had been tampered when Anthea Greengrass had mentioned to Daphne in passing that a colleague of hers in the Ministry was having trouble planning a raid on a well known shop. The fact that said employee visited later that evening for tea and dropped hints of the backlash the Ministry would have to deal with if the owners of said shop were seen dueling with the governmental workers - which he murmured with a chuckle, was quite likely given their fiery, red tempers - made it clear that Daphne was expected to do something about the matter. And so she'd been forced to sent more invitations, expanding the party to all the youth who'd survived the war. That hadn't stopped her from making a snide remark on her invitation to Granger explaining that finally she'd get to see the aspect of pureblood culture she liked to ignore - the celebrations steeped in centuries of pagan and magical rituals. 

At least she'd had the foresight to make the soiree a masquerade (Blaise didn't want that, a traitorous voice in the back of her mind teased) - she hoped it would reduce the potential for fights; the Greengrasses often invited opposing sides to their parties, but Daphne doubted that they did so in such charged times, particularly when a significant portion of the attendees were once soldiers in war. Even with the masks, however, the golden skinned witch knew she would not be able to benefit from anonymity. As the hostess, she would have to remain visible, and so her mask was one that barely covered her features and instead would draw attention to her irises - amber flecked with jade. Add the gown she'd chosen, a nude colored bodice with a high neckline and an open back encrusted with white jewels, tapering at the waist as it fell into blood red drapes to the floor, and really it would be impossible to be hidden. As Daphne accioed the gown from it's place in her close, thus avoiding seeing the dark green, nearly black number her once friend so preferred (it's not as if he'd be at the party, and nor did she want him there, the witch hastily reminded herself), she couldn't help but sigh in anticipation the comments the color of her gown would garner. With her hair pulled into a glossy side bun, kohl-lined eyes accented with dark bronze shadow, lips colored a deep berry shade and chosen jewelry adorned, the witch deemed herself perfect and made her way downstairs. 

She stepped out to the lawn, hazel gaze traveling over the floating trays champagne and food (to be monitored by her elves), twinkling fairy lights fluttering from blossom to blossom, and the orange colored orb hanging low in the sky, the witch could feel her magic humming beneath her skin. 

The Blood Moon and its ethereal tendrils would not let go of his mind, as they were anchored and chained in both reality and the dream world. Day after day, night after night, the celestial event that would normally instill general apathy and acrimony where wizarding politics was concerned would not let up. This mental turmoil was, of course, contributed by a number of factors: the Ministry and its imposed laws (especially the one concerned finding a stronger remedy than the current version of Wolfsbane), dearest Blaise and his lust for dire predicaments, and the calm, logical debate vis-à-vis the Daily Prophet (of which his sparring partner had revealed herself -- Pansy, of all people). The truths in the real world trickled down in the level of consciousness that controlled his dreams, embellishing and terrifying in the odd hours of his regular -- nonexistent -- sleep schedule. Sometimes he'd wake up in a sweat, his breath heavy, and he'd have to take a trip down to the bubbling potions in copper cauldrons. That was the worst of it. Even so, the Blood Moon and its consequences seemed to be winding down and grinding to a halt. The government was meddling where it not ought to and it displeased the blonde very much so; since Theo Nott was not at all concerned with the politics surrounding it, so he considered himself almost out of the Ministry's grip.

His Slytherin peers were, however, another story. With Daphne once again warm and friendly toward him, the information about the ever-reckless Zabini flowed smoothly and without fail. So, naturally, Theo wanted to garner all the information he could without tipping off his friend. Now that purists were in the minority, it was more important than ever to remain a cohesive group. To have Zabini befall the werewolf taint, well, that wouldn't do. The flame, as he told it, had worked wonderfully. But its supply was limited, and since Blaise was ambitious to a fault, Theo took it upon himself to craft some powerful potions for the future. It was not a heal-all, or a lifesaver, but rather something to be used in a pinch. The blonde entrusted that Blaise would know when to use his liquid luck appropriately; it was a rare opportunity that ought not be wasted.

Daphne's soirée invitation was unexpected, but it intrigued him all the same. He wasn't one for socialite events with strict attire codes, forced to converse with others in order to boast and make connections, but since he and his peers saw each other in a blue moon, Theo would make the effort to go and appear to be happy about it. He wrapped the affirmation of his presence along with the vague reference of a plus one, and sent Penny off to the Greengrass estate.

Fashion was left to the socialites of their circle; Theo might as well spend the Galleons he had lying around on something useful, if only for an evening. There he had bumped into Draco -- which was also unexpected, but pleasant nonetheless -- and knew that their goals were one in the same. Had Daphne done the impossible? Theo would have bet his money on Pansy and her infallible charm to tempt the other blonde out for something as important and social as a party, but no doubt that Daphne spoke just as well as Blaise. Now that Malfoy's presence was confirmed, that was one less thing to worry about -- there would be some respectability as far as guests went, even if the hazel-eyed witch seemed to look favorably among those that were supposed to be sworn enemies -- by name, or association.

The last item on his list was his own form of invitation. He couldn't remember the last correspondence between he and MacDougal, the Ravenclaw he was reintroduced to at the wizarding book shop. She had given him a copy of Frankenstein that he had perused between his superior novels, but he would be lying if he had told her he didn't enjoy it. Theo wasn't sure that she would accept upon sending Penny on her way with the parchment tucked between the pages of Hamlet -- a newer edition found in the window of a Muggle shop he passed on his way to his job at the Ministry -- but it was worth a shot, he supposed. Daphne seemed to have insisted it in her own invitation, but she couldn't fault him since he tried.

 “A miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.” 

She'd read about this, both in fiction and historical tomes that even predated the birth of Hogwarts. A tale as old as magic itself, and it'd had plenty of of years to grow and transform to what it was today in the mouths of muggles and wizards alike. 

The silent chill of the night as it seeped into your bones, the terror that lay in wait around each and every turn, crouching quiet and deadly atop shadowy haunches with blood on its breath. It was like a story straight from the pages of a Shelley or Stoker novel- rife with horror and the shadowy element of a world spinning out of control. The redhead looked out over the streets from her upper floor flat's window and drew the robe more tightly round her torso, using the fabric to shield the tender flesh of her neck while her thoughts lingered on the writings of Bram Stoker, despite the lack of relation to London's current infestation. It was easy for the mind to wander and latch on to ridiculous notions at a time like this. And plus, vampires and werewolves weren't that far off of the same spectrum of both danger and horrific lifestyle choices. But Morag was a clever witch, and she could easily rattle off the differences between the two. It was being alone that did it. The emptiness of the large, roomy space allowed for the mind to settle into the dark spaces, and Morag couldn't quite shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Or hunted.

A rippling shudder ran through the Ravenclaw's wispy form, her near-translucent skin becoming pocked with goose pimples and she hurriedly closed the drapes on the deserted streets in Magical London, loosely tying the fasteners to ensure that they would stay closed throughout the night (even though she didn't need to fret- of course she wouldn't be sleeping with the windows ajar!). She turned away from the window and toward the warmth of her living quarters on the upper floor of her townhome (an early inheritance, her father liked to claim, but everyone knew that the Scottish nobleman lived to spoil his only child), breathing in the clean, starched linen scent of her room and the delicious smell of books far past their prime of life. The doors were locked, as were the windows, she was sure of it, and there were already several charms in place to ward off unwanted visitors- but one could never be too careful when it came to other magical beings. Muggles were easy enough to fend off, the poor darlings became suddenly overcome with a pressing and mysterious appointment they'd previously forgotten about if they wandered too near to knocking upon her door. A hint of a smile ghosted over features, the warmth of it flickering like a candle's flame, and she was surprised to find herself amused by the thought. She padded along wide-planked wood floors that were charmed to be heated, and thus she never required slippers or socks inside, which was how she preferred it- although nothing quite compared to the tickle of fresh spring grass on the sole of one's foot.  

The opposite wall was lined with rich, dark wood bookshelves and she moved toward it- for in times of fear, were not books man's only true comfort? Fingertips dusted along the spines of her books, her only real treasures, and she let out a small, even breath that could have served as a sigh of relief. Her books created an aesthetic of their own, and she spent a great deal of time purchasing them; almost as much as she spent reading them. There were old copies alongside current ones, archaic tomes arranged adjacent to recent releases all in a system that only made sense to the curator. She moved slowly among them, allowing the air that was thick and warm to encase her while she sought the book that had attached itself to her mind like a bit of lichen, clinging to the side of a craggy rock on the seaside in her home up north. Monsters. Humans. A mixture between the two. She paused, tugging the Shelley novel from the shelf and letting it fall open in the palm of her hand. Looking down, red tresses fell slowly over one shoulder, uninhibited by a plait or hair band, and she squinted at the text. Who were they, then, to decide who was fully monster and who was fully man? Did that power truly lie in the hands of those that were already designated as true humans? This was a puzzling thought to her, one that she hadn't yet entertained in her young life, despite the smoke that still billowed from the ashes of the battlefield. 

A line of text caught her eye and her heart nearly stopped in her chest at how perfectly appropriate it was.

I beheld the wretch — the miserable monster whom I had created.

Were they, the people, responsible for this? Or was the blame solely the moon's? Each infraction, each downstroke of the quill was another accusation stacked against the deck that the half-breeds were left to play with. A fingertip tapped upon the page. Les Loups Justes. Were they monsters, or were they merely men? Their lust for blood and for passing on the Bite seemed to point toward the former, and yet they walked amongst the populace like the latter. What were the factors that made up the decision between one or the other, really? Because by all counts, those who lusted after blood alone could be considered monsters, and thus, half-breeds; beasts of the night. Could anyone who had fallen on the wrong side of the last Wizarding War be called such, then? 

A sound- a sharp crack that seemed to appear just outside her window- stirred her from her thoughts and Morag jumped slightly, pivoting on the spot and looking across the room. In one corner, her sleek and ruddy barn owl was peering at her with large black eyes. He'd heard the sound too, she could tell. Cammy would be around, slinking in the shadows and lurking atop the shelves or in the folds of the drapes like he usually preferred- Morag had always shared a sort of awareness with animals, particularly her own. "What did you hear, Shalim?" she asked quietly, and the bird tilted its head at her while she padded forward, the book closing gently in her hands. She reached out to stroke his feathers, ignoring the clacking beak that seemed so keen on nipping at the pads of her fingers. "Hmm?" She deftly avoided the owl and reached for several pieces of parcel string and began tying up the book. "Fancy a fly? I bet you do." Holding out her arm, the owl stepped on, clutching her wrist with its talons and she moved to the window once more. A specifically engineered pane had been installed to allow the young witch to open and close a single part of the window instead of opening the entire thing- winters in London could be harsh. She unlatched the clasp and Shalim darted out, zipping skyward and tasting the night with a series of happy shrieks. A note was scrawled and tucked between the pages of the novel while she waited. He returned in a moment to collect the book, Frankenstein (the fact that it was written by a Squib was irrelevant, she thought) in his talons, beating his wings once before gliding away into the night toward the Nott Estate. 

The sun -- when not obscured by thick, menacing clouds -- often peaked through the bed curtains at its zenith, the bright rays rousing him from another deep slumber. On the days that didn't require the young Nott to pretty up and head into the city for work, he had his house-elves wake him in order to go about estate business as usual. Philomena was his most trusted house-elf -- despite her former loyalties to the Blishwick family -- as she had followed her mistress to the Nott estate and swore her allegiance to the children Penelope mothered. Theo would never know this, would never be able to find out the secret pact that kept a watchful eye on him within the boundaries of the manor ever since he was a tot. She kept her distance when she was told, but she was always ready to act if it was needed of her. So, it was no surprise that her magic had wrenched open the curtains to let him rise of his own accord (except to interfere when and if the covers were pulled over his head again). He nodded, eyes still heavy from sleep, and let his head hit the pillow again once she left his room. What was the incentive for getting up again? To look through stacks of paper with tight writing in straight lines on them? Dull, dull, dull. Brunch was, at least, somewhat of a motivator as he rifled through the boudoir-style dresser in search of a shirt -- navy blue, cotton -- and black slacks. No mirror had to tell him that his hair was askew, his dark circles pronounced, and his lips so pale that blue undertones showed. But none of these imperfections would be seen by company or co-workers, so little time was needed to be spent in his bedroom today.

The smell of buttered biscuits was the first sensation to meet him in the dining room; they were stacked on a plate to the right of his setting. On the left was this morning's edition of the Prophet. Normally the paper would be checked last in his routine, but as he rounded the table's corner, he noticed the glaring headlines on the first page. Lycanthropy. The taint was back in full force for the upcoming Blood Moon, as the paper so eloquently stated. Repulsion and hatred lingered as visceral feelings, as well as trepidation and apprehension. Fenrir Greyback was always spoken about with a sneer, with condescension and derision. Theo was taught to loathe werewolves especially, and especially ones that masqueraded about as true wizards. The new generation of witches and wizards hadn't even the last recollection of the celestial event, since it predated their births. But history often repeated itself, and as he further scanned the articles making up the bulk of the newspaper, the new mandates were bolded for all to follow. If not for the fear-mongering, the curfew would certainly rile the community up. Was free will still infinitely better than imposing a rule to protect the masses? That question was neither here nor there as he caught sight of one mandate in particular: potions-making. Theo was not in the business of using his prowess for the greater good or whilst in the company of others. Since he was a Ministry official and therefore privy to the inner workings, there was no reason for him not to be called for the more pressing matter. If there was any positive spin to it, it was that any potential remedy would quell the fears of the taint in its tracks. Theo knew that he would have to comply with the Ministry to keep in their good graces, if only for the burden his last name placed upon his shoulders.

Naturally, the news soured in his stomach. He nibbled on one of the biscuits, savoring the buttery flavor, but it didn't settle well. The anticipation started to grow, the unpleasant symptoms starting to pervade his collected demeanor. Theo told Philomena to hold the brunch for later, until he felt hungry again. So he hunted down a book in the library, the placement on its shelf all-too familiar, and headed for the back entrance. In the drawers of the nearby table, he fished for the carton that begged for him, begged to slow the quick tempo of his heart and the trembling that took hold. Stepping out into the sunshine had Theo shade his eyes with his book, searching for the garden bench with the vines curling up the legs and arms of it. Today he was going to do some research and quell his anxiety, which seemed like impossible tasks at the moment. He laid down the length, feet propped up, and put the book on his chest. A breathless whisper and the tail end of the cigarette from his latest carton lit up; he breathed in, the tension already leaving by way of the smoke that danced and vanished into the surrounding air. The book that resided on his chest was more rhetoric than science, but sometimes that was the sort of book one needed to extract applications from. If anything, the quicker one could find a remedy, the quicker one could return to normal life. But that was a stretch, when potency was an issue. In all truth, it was more than likely that the celestial event would be over and the threat of lycanthropy would recede back into the depths of useless reform. As long as the taint remained, wizarding society would always be in danger. Theo opened up to the first page with his left hand, the smoldering cigarette between the fingers on his right hand, and began to delve into subject matter pertinent to the current calamity.

The phases of the moon have always been inexplicably linked with the werewolf affliction, marked by the swelling and ebbing of tides and by the harvests that coincide with transformations...

The sound of the pages being turned drowned out a derisive snort.

... a sliver of Datura inoxia has the unique property of flowering at night, giving rise to the theory that the moonflowers are also linked with the moon and its mysterious properties.

For all that Daphne Cassandra Greengrass's name was connected with the Greek Sun God - while Astoria was named for stars - the pureblood witch had always enjoyed late night strolls. Usually she'd be accompanied by a paramour, but even alone, something about the darkness, the inhibition that was forever associated with  night, called to the witch like a sultry temptress. It was more than necessary this particular night, after a stifling dinner with her father and step-mother. Daphne had read the Daily Prophet of course, but hadn't yet decided what exactly she'd do about the entire..situation. Of course Cyril Greengrass, a conservative protective sort of father, had immediately suggested relocating to the other family residence in France. Bright, clever Astoria had quietly murmured that the moon shone everywhere; the risk of werewolves did not simply decrease.

The elder Greengrass, perfect obedient Daphne, had remained quiet. She knew that in the end the Master and Mistress Greengrass would continue their business - perhaps with more hired guards in tow - while commanding their daughters to stay home. After excusing herself early from dinner, Daphne had chosen to get lost in the small expanse of woods on the family land, though she immediately regretted not bringing a warm cloak to ward off the chill. 

Werewolves. She wasn't fond of them; they were mindless, violent creatures after all, but she could put all that aside if she knew which side to back. The brunette knew she could not claim neutrality twice. Did she back the sympathizers, as the Weasley clan would due to their own afflicted member, or did she support the government - those who she actually agreed with, for once.

Why not both?

The thought fluttered in like the light breeze that kissed her cheeks, tinging them a light rose. Her bare feet (Anthea Greengrass would be horrified to see her step-daughters so casual) made no sound against the soft earth and Daphne felt absolutely clear-sighted. She paused at an old laurel tree, standing still in the underbrush. Another step, and the witch would be crossing the estate wards. She could provide quiet support to Ronald and perhaps even Percy. Anything more vocal would be suspicious. And anonymously write letters should the need arise. No doubt angry lycanthrope supporters would send vehement opinions of their own to the papers. Someone would need to argue against them coolly, rationally. 

         "Goodbye, Theodore,” his father said, reaching out to place a gentle hand on eleven year-old Theo Nott’s face. It felt strange, foreign, and just plain wrong. He didn’t resist, didn’t flinch, chalking it up to the first time father and son would be apart for months at a time. After all, he had convinced his father to arrive earlier than most so he could claim an empty compartment lest he sit with undesirable company for an entire train ride.

         "Bye, father," he reciprocated, turning to board the train and losing the warmth on his face. Theo clutched the book in his hands against his chest, hugging it tightly until he reached his empty compartment. His shoulders relaxed as he shut the door and laid the length of the seat facing the window, finding a certain calmness settle over him.

         He watched out of the compartment window for a while, seeing wizards young and old scuttle about the platform. Tiring of that eventually, he then gave his entire attention to the book he clung to — except for shooting venomous glances every now and then to those undesirables that dared to ask to sit with him as the train filled up.

         Now where were his friends?

                                                     -x-

         At Hogsmeade station, carriages for the older students were a curiosity. He stood off to the side, glancing sideways at the next carriage going up to Hogwarts. The half-breed gamekeeper was blathering on about something unimportant, likely the Harry Potter, and therefore didn’t interest him until they were required to travel by boat.

         Theo’s breathing hitched as he witnessed the next carriage pull up. Thestrals.

         Being young made the denial easier, but at the same time, the void that his mother’s death left was never filled, leaving him hollow and cynical. He processed it, acknowledged it, and pushed it deep down. But the sight of Thestrals had dredged up the unpleasant memories, threatening to break his collected demeanor.

         "Coming, Nott?"

         Malfoy was beckoning him as the students flocked to the boats, spurred on by the gamekeeper. Theo took one last look, one last deep breath, and kept his head down as he joined his childhood friends for the trip up to the castle.

                                                     -x-

         Besides the excitement exuding from his peers, bad blood was already being created. Most everyone in the vicinity had seen Malfoy try his hand at converting the Boy-Who-Lived -- and failed miserably. Potter was already at the side of a blood traitor, a lost cause in Theo’s eyes. With the Sorting Ceremony ahead, the bad blood would finally have substance and set the stage for the next seven years to come.

         Professor McGonagall called them into the Great Hall, the busy place overwhelmed with older students sitting at their respective tables and the teaching staff looking on at the front. The Hat was taking the students in alphabetical order, meaning he was waiting in the middle of the pack. Thankfully, he was before Potter and Weasley.

         Crabbe, Goyle, Greengrass, and Malfoy had all been Sorted into Slytherin, which made an easy decision even easier. Parkinson and Zabini would likely join them as well when their names were called.

         "Nott, Theodore!"

         A slow, careful walk to the stool allowed him to collect his thoughts for the Hat to read, to steer the thing toward the only House he considered. It was placed over his head, his eyes sliding over to the table consisting of the green and silver emblems and friends recently Sorted there.

         “I’ve Sorted many a Nott outside of Slytherin,” the hat began, probing his thoughts. “You aren’t like your father before you. So, you would do better with Ravenclaw, with personal achievement and ambition driving you. It’s your choice, however… I declare you…”

         "SLYTHERIN!"