Looking at his case file – stolen, of course – I’m amazed we didn’t hear anything about him at school.
Name: Theodore Nott
Age: 23
Gender: Male
Wand: Rosewood, 12 inches, Dragon Heartstring
Ailment: Unstable Temper
History:
1) Received the Cruciatus Curse at the age of 10; caster believed to be subject’s father, Christopher Nott.
2) Tortured a pet owl at the age of 13.
3) Fatally injured a wizard at the age of 19; claimed to have done it in self-defence; claim verified.
4) Suffers from temporary memory lapses.
Healer-in-Charge: Healer Smith, Healer Clearwater
Period of Treatment: 4th August, 1993 to 18th July, 1994
I wouldn’t have learnt about this had I not attended Professor Little’s lecture on Alternative Treatments for Mental Deterioration. As soon as we had finished discussing Muggle psychotherapy (as a lesser form of treatment), I overheard Tracey Davis whispering to her friend.
“You remember Nott from school? He was in our year. I heard his father tortured his wife because she suggested they take him to a Muggle Healer.”
“What? I didn’t know that.”
“Oh yeah.”
I am usually not one who likes to eavesdrop, but they were walking in front of me, and it was hard not to pay attention to what they were saying.
“That’s mad, Tracey. I didn’t even know he was mental.”
“No one did. He was a loner at school. I’m laughing at the memory of girls falling for him because he was such a brooder.”
“Were you one of them then?”
“Haha! Don’t be a twit. I was too busy drooling over Sub-Zero Zabini.”
“What was wrong with Nott?”
“Apparently, he used to kill pets during the summers. There were also rumours that he had temper fits, but we never saw that.”
“Wow. He hid it well.”
“He was a Slytherin, my dear.”
I’ll admit I found his case fascinating from a Healer’s point of view. Yet, the thought of someone having a clandestine affair with a person like that is one that I cannot digest.
THEO
I have a visitor.
As visitors go, she doesn’t do much. In fact, she hasn’t said anything at all. She’s just been sitting on a stool next to my bed, her black hair draped over her front. Curious, I reach over and part the curtain to see what she looks like.
There isn’t a face there.
I try to scream, but the sound never escapes my throat.
“Theo?”
A familiar voice. A feeling of safety. Parvati is shaking me awake. Still, I check the room for faceless visitors; there are none.
“Are you all right?” She looks concerned.
“Nightmare.”
“I’m here, darling.”
Burying myself into her arms, I beg to her. “Don’t ever leave me.”
THE HEALER
A Niffler Burrowed a Hole in My Head
Deborah Merlin is one of the pioneers of modern magical theorists, specialising in memory charms and recovery. She teaches at a German university these days. She wrote A Niffler four years ago, a story about with a witch who casts a Memory Charm on herself in an attempt to forget her dead son. The book focuses on the repercussions of that act – that folly, rather – and how the woman eventually goes insane, unable to determine what happened in those missing gaps of her life.
A Niffler is ostensibly a caveat to witches and wizards not to take Memory Charms lightly. It was mandatory for us to read it as part of our CALM (Course in Accessing Latent Memory) degree. It was and is to this day, one of my favourite books. Someday, I hope to build up on Merlin’s work and write a tale of my own.
Perhaps, I’m living in it already.
THEO
A fissure in my clarity. Growing narrower.
I am having more random flashes between dreams, nightmares and waking moments. There is a room, splashed blood red. A woman’s laughter. A man’s scream. Shadows on the wall of a wand slashing through the air over and over again. Blinding white light. Naked limbs. A faint smell of roses.
Often, I become aware that I’ve been staring at space, unmoving. Finding that damn book next to my pillow in the morning didn’t help either.
“I was reading it last night,” she tells me as she summons a kettle full of steaming tea from the kitchen.
“How is it?”
“Boring, actually. Not the kind of thriller I was hoping it to be.”
“Who recommended it to you?”
“My sister.”
“Who?”
“My twin, Padma.”
I search my brain for confirmation. Nil. “Okay.”
She waits for me to elaborate as she pours tea into two empty mugs. I determinedly ignore her. Finally, she sighs and asks me, “You don’t remember, do you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault. Besides, I bet you didn’t even know her.”
“I hope so.” We leave it at that, but as I chew my toast, something else bothers me. “But there’s no logic in what I can recall and what I can’t!”
“Hmmm?”
“See, some of the information that is missing seems vital, like … like this room I keep seeing. Others are so trivial. If your twin and I didn’t know each other at school, why should her memory be wiped out from my brain?”
Frowning, she suggests, “Maybe you didn’t like her. A lot of people didn’t.”
“Why?”
“She was a smartass at school, not that most of the others in her house weren’t.” She pauses. “Do you remember the other Ravenclaws in our year?”
I concentrate for a while. “There was … Michael Corner.”
“Cute one. Everybody remembers him.”
“Anthony Goldstein.”
“Yep.”
“Terry – Terry …”
“Boot.”
“Him. And Kevin something. And another bloke whose name I can’t place. ”
“You don’t remember any of the girls?” she asks me with a snort.
“Susan Bones. Hannah -” An incredulous look. “I’m getting them mixed up with the Hufflepuffs, aren’t I?”
With a roll of her eyes, she reels off, “Su Li, Mandy Brocklehurst, Lisa Turpin, Morag MacDougal and my twin.”
Slowly, their faces appear in my mind. “Yeah. Yeah … I can sort of see them now. You know,” I say excitedly as something clicks in my mind, “I did think that you were a Ravenclaw the day we first met. I guess I just forgot you were twins.”
“Like there were a hundred pairs of twins in Hogwarts, Theo,” she says as she shakes her head.
“Hey, give me a break!” I reply tetchily. “You’re not the one with an impaired memory.”
She gets up, walks over to my side and kisses the top of my head. “Right. Sorry.”
“When’ll you be coming back?” I ask in an unintentionally whiny voice.
“Not later than eight.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too.”
A quick kiss, and then she’s gone.
THE HEALER
Something the Hogwarts’ curriculum doesn’t include: righteous murder.
The act of taking someone’s life is considered such a heinous crime that the Killing Curse was made illegal. Yet not all killers are sent to Azkaban for life. You see, there’s a process called a trial, carried out at the Ministry with the Wizengamot in attendance. For a specific period of time, this trial will run, giving the accused a chance to explain his actions. He can either claim he didn’t do it or plead guilty, citing his reasons as to why he committed the murder. Was it done in self-defence? Or had he simply lost his sanity?
The Ministry considers self-defence and insanity as conditions whereby the accused isn’t banished to Azkaban. The only difference is that an accused with the former excuse walks free of all charges, while one who has presented the latter ends up at St. Mungo’s for treatment. Better than Azkaban. Temporary, too, considering the fact that murder convicts get life sentence.
THEO
It’s ten. She isn’t home yet.
I hate the fact that I can’t go looking for her when she’s away. I don’t even know where to look. It’s one of the unwritten clauses of our relationship. No questions from my side about where she disappears to when she’s not with me. Frustrating, but I take care not to ask. I don’t want to lose her.
Unable to stand the waiting, I go to my bedroom and lie down. Perhaps, I could sleep it off. She can wake me up when she's back, and I’ll rip her clothes off and pull her into the bed.
A hot shower later, I am on the bed, still straining to hear that crack of Apparition. Seconds inch by. Nothing. I can feel something stirring within me. Cursing loudly, I roll over and dig my hands under her pillows. A hard surface. I pull it out, although I’m dreading the thought of seeing it again.
Yes, it’s the book.
The worst thing about facing this book is that it makes me feel like a coward. I don’t care what Parvati thinks; it has some unknown yet heavy significance in my life. So why can’t I open it and see for myself what it’s about?
“Fuck it.”
I ignore the goosebumps on my skin and flick the cover.
By
Deborah Merlin
This book belongs to Parvati Patil.
That wasn’t so bad. Taking a deep breath, I open the first page of the story.
For Beth Chambers, nothing could be more nauseating than the smell of wool. It never failed to trigger in her the sensation that she was forgetting something. Fearing that she might have become forgetful with age, she invested in a Sneakoscope, and even made long notes about her daily routine. Wool seemed to make all her efforts futile: she often had headaches from the stress of trying to remember.
Beth was, of course, aware that there was a dark hole in her brain where wool gathered. She only didn’t want to have to think about it. Whatever memory the hole had sucked in appeared irretrievable.
What Beth didn’t know was that –
“You’re reading it.”
She’s back.
I snap the book shut. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
“I took the Floo.” Shaking ash off her hair, she remarks, “You’re sweating again.”
As I wipe my brow, I notice that my heart has been going fast. “Where have you been?”
She ignores my question and, with a wave of her wand, vanishes her clothes. “I’m going to go wash up. See you in a bit.”
I jump out of bed and follow her. “You’re three hours late, Parvati,” I snap at her. “Would it cost you a hundred Galleons to at least tell me where you went?”
A deep sigh. “Just let me shower first, okay?”
“No! I want to know right now!”
I instantly know I’ve crossed a line. There’s a quick flash of anger in her eyes. Glaring at me, she steps under the shower tap, which magically sprinkles her with water.
“I …” I begin, and then stop.
“You.”
“I hate not knowing what you get up to.”
“What I get up to?”
“Parvati.” I go to her. The water is cool as it is whenever she’s using it. It is soothing, and I can feel my irritation washing away. “I can’t tell if you’re safe or not. I get worried. At least, let me know where you’re going. Please?”
She places her hand on my cheek. Now, there’s only infinite sadness on her face. “Kiss me.”
I kiss her.
THE HEALER
Love.
If only it was as easy to rationalise as memory gaps.
I haven’t been in love yet. I’ve had my fair share of crushes and flings, but to be hopelessly in love? To gain the myopic ability of looking past somebody’s imperfections and return to their arms again and again? That is one concept I refuse to buy. When I watch others succumb to it, I can only wonder.
More disturbing than its persistence is its power to destroy. Love often tends to ravage, to create ruptures, to make things a hundred times worse. It warps a person’s sense of self-preservation. When love goes on a rampage, it leaves more casualties behind than hatred could hope to.
THEO
Parvati doesn’t use perfumes. So, why does her blouse smell of Eau de Cologne?
Cologne that isn’t mine, anyway.
The scent is driving me crazy. A mixture of citrus and thyme. It stings my nose and flies straight up to my head.
I crush the satin blouse in my hands and throw it away, unable to stand it any longer. But long after I’ve left home, I can still catch whiffs of the stench. Strangely enough, I’m convinced I’ve already smelt it a long time ago.
THE HEALER
Vengeance.
Now, that is perfectly logical. Somebody hurts you, and you hurt them right back.
Measure for measure. A balanced equation.
Unlike the labours of love, the results of which one finds it hard to calculate, those that go towards the pursuit of revenge are seldom wasted. You can expect to reap at least the feeling of satisfaction at having brought some justice. As destructive as it is, it is gives you the opportunity to exorcise the anger within you.
THEO
How can she make love to me every night and then spend her days with another man?
The cologne has spread to her skirts, cloaks, bags, even shoes. It hangs in my flat, a miasma of betrayal and ridicule. I think and think of who it could belong to and keep drawing a blank.
“Where were you in the afternoon?” I ask her.
To my surprise, she caves in. “The library.”
“And yesterday?”
“Same place.”
“What about the other days?”
“All day, every day, Theo. I go to the effing library.”
“So why are you telling me now?” I flare up. “What’s so bloody sinister about being in a library that it has to be kept a secret?”
“I don’t have to report everything to you,” she replies in a scathing voice.
“Who have you been fucking?”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t have to bloody lie to me! I know you’ve been with someone. I can smell it.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And you’re a sodding liar.” I point my wand at the closet; the doors fly open, making the clothes tumble out. I pick up a skirt and shove it under her nose. “Whose cologne is that?”
Her face closes. “What is your point?”
“You don’t use perfumes, and that is definitely not the smell of my cologne. So whose is it?”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” She snatches the skirt from my hands and stamps on it. “I – can’t – fucking – believe – this!”
“Are you or are you not going to tell me?”
“I’ll tell you all right!” she yells at me. “I go to the library every day because I’m preparing to apply for a job! It’s not my effing fault if my tutor wears his cologne too strong.”
“Who gives tuitions at a library?” I ask her suspiciously.
“A bleeding librarian.”
We stare at each other for a while as I try to catch falsehood in her eyes, and she dares me to contradict her. “Why wouldn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because it really isn’t any of your damn business.”
She leaves me with a resounding crack. Pulling on my cloak, I move towards the kitchen. Then, I take the Floo to the only wizarding library in London.
It takes me over thirty minutes to search the entire place. She’s not here.
THE HEALER
What is your biggest fear?
After having spent the last two years preparing for the kind of game where I won’t be allowed two shots at the target, mine is the failure of the best laid plans.
THEO
“I’m sorry about what happened in the morning.”
Sudden smile.
“I’m sorry, too,” she whispers into my ear.
“I guess I just want to be included in your life.”
A kiss on the tip of my nose. “Theo, I… I have a lot of baggage right now, okay? I just want everything to settle down before I can let you in.”
“How long d’you reckon that would take?”
“Not too long,” she says tiredly.
“Why don’t you get some rest?” I ask her, genuinely concerned in spite of the fury festering quietly inside me.
“I think I will. I’m seriously knackered.”
I lie awake. As I watch her sleeping peacefully, the odour of the cologne weaves in and out of my consciousness. On a whim, I reach her under pillow, searching for the book. To my dismay, it’s gone.
It’s hard to work out what time I could have fallen asleep, but when I do wake up, she’s left. Call it luck or fate, she’s forgotten to take her handbag. I take out a handbook from my study desk, one I haven’t bothered to open for many months. Chapman’s Learn It Yourself - A Guidebook Guaranteed to Help You Perform the Most Vital Spells and Charms. What I’m looking for is under J: Anti-Apparition Jinx.
Anti-Apparition Jinxes are classed under Level C in Chapman’s. That means it requires the caster to be very skilled. I may not be very adept, but at this moment, my head is crystal clear and there is a strange humming in my ears. For reasons that aren’t completely discernible, I have complete faith that I can do it.
I point my wand in the general direction of the room, wave it in a semi-circle, anti-clockwise and say, very firmly, “Repello Ingressi!”
There is a tug at the wand-tip, followed by a glimmer in the air. I’ve done it. Then, I purposefully stride towards the kitchen and yell, “Colloportus!” The fireplace shuts down.
The only way Parvati can get in now is through the door. I secure that with another Locking Charm and return to the handbag. Casually, I pick out the contents and set them on the center table. Handkerchief. Purse. Cosmetics. Hairbrush. A mirror. Two self-refilling quills. A cleaning spray for her wand. Finally, an address book.
She has only one entry: 79 A, St. George’s Road, Battersea.
The address book slips from my hands as I fall onto the sofa. 79 A, St. George’s Road, Battersea. The familiarity rushes with a powerful force, bringing tears to my eyes. A terraced white house in the middle of a narrow street overcrowded with Muggle cars.
Gripping my wand, I undo the Anti-Apparition ward and twist on the spot.
THE HEALER
The last question that remains: do I have the strength to kill?