This chapter contains mentions of death, torture, blood, and psychological trauma. Please read with caution.

I listened to 'Berlin' by RY X while writing this chapter, so if you want to feel the pain in my words, put it on repeat.

Let's meet the real Theodore Nott, everyone...<3

_____

Theodore stood with his breath caught in the back of his throat. His mouth had never tasted as bone-dry as it did now. His heart had never paced like this.

Suppose he wasn't looking at her, of course. When he looked at her, his heart was a somersaulting mess within him. Flipping and pirouetting unrestrainedly.

He wasn't sure that was the case now. He wasn't sure if his heart bolted because he was earned another chance to look at her, to have his eyes falling across her and devouring her more than last time he did, or because of what she'd just said.

''Theo?'' Her steps closer to him were stumbling, her hand was slightly put over her mouth, ''What did he mean by that? Why would he say that you're...''

He had stopped in the midst of the porch as she ran after him. His shoulders had sunken. His face ghosted with something heartbreaking.

Something flipped inside her. Her heart dropped.

''Are you?'' Isla asked again. There were tears glinting in her eyes, ''Are you sick, Theo?''

She was shaking. Her lower lip quivered as she stared so blankly at him. It was as if her heart had left her body. It didn't beat anymore. As if her soul had finally faded to unite with the constellations of the skies above them.

It felt like time had stopped, didn't function.

If he would look, he'd see that every hour hand stopped at this exact minute, in bearing with her heart.

Pain. There was so much pain in her eyes — more pain than she'd ever experienced before.

''Isla—'' Theodore said, his tone being low and hesitant. Reaching a hand towards her, he let his fingers brush over the arch her jaw curled in, ''It's not what you think.''

The tears fell from the lids of her eyes relentlessly. She couldn't stop them if she tried, and she fought to keep her sight on him, to see his face fall into something that looked like agony.

This hurt him more.

''Tell me,'' Her voice was so frail, so weak and begging. Her unconscious mind pleaded for him to answer, to grant her mercy and mend her aching heart, ''Please. Tell me.''

The tips of his fingers brushed across the hair slaving over her neck, and his palm cupped her chin. Theo tilted her head up, fixing her face so that he could see her, all of her.

His lips parted, primed to speak. Not one single vocal fled his sore throat. He just looked at her.

The rich lashes framing his rainy eyes battled. Blinking desolately.

He couldn't do more than blink quickly. Didn't want to. He couldn't risk a second where he didn't see her, where he couldn't neaten his stare on her even more than he did a second before.

''Please,'' Even more fragile now, her tone cracked as she placed her hands on his chest, holding herself from falling. Keeping herself from caving on her weak knees, ''No more lies, Theo. No more.''

Theodore stilled. His chest ceased its heaving.

''Please, Theodore.'' Her breaking words had him look away, slightly frowning not to let his own tears slip his reddened eyes, ''I understand if you don't want to tell me. You don't have to. You don't have to tell me anything, but I want to know that you're okay. I need to know if you're okay, Theo.''

His eyes locked at something hidden in the horizon, hopelessly looking at the crowns of trees brushing together by the mellow breeze. He couldn't look at her, not when she cried.

All she did was look at him. Her sight swept over his sharp jaw, seeing how he gritted his teeth, inhaling and exhaling through his nose.

''Theo,'' Her voice became quieter, her tears fell louder, ''Please. Tell me that—''

Isla had to look away too now. Drops wetted her cheeks. Her eyes pinched shut to stop the endless flooding of sorrow that poured. Her chest was so tight. Too tight. She couldn't breathe. Wasn't sure she wanted to.

Her lips trembled, and her forehead hit his chest. Burying all of her in all of him, all of him that was left for her to have and hold. Her shaking breaths blossomed over his loose shirt, and she tangled the fabric between her fingers, gripping it so hard that he nearly stumbled a step forward.

''I can't live without you.'' She whispered. Pausing as a sob cleared her throat before her words were flourishing against his chest again, ''I don't want to live without you, Theo. I can't—''

Theodore's eyes fell shut, and he breathed in a harsh breath. His own tears stung and brunt in the brim of his eyes. He couldn't let them fall. He didn't want to. He didn't want to give in.

''Isla...'' He said, not ready. Not prepared to speak about it. Not prepared to lie, to be honest, to speak, ''Look at me.''

Isla drew a breath through her tears, shakily so, ''Don't leave me.''

Theodore gave her a weak smile, tilting his head to look down at her, gazing at her in a fusion of fire and peace. She frowned. Her skin was pale and lifeless as he took his hands to her arms, and he pried her off of him, making her stand on her own.

His feet felt light as feathers as he turned around, and he reached his hand out for her to take, ''I want to show you something.''

The girl hesitated. She stood frozen as she stared emptily at his fingers that twitched for her to take them.

''I will tell you everything, Isla, but you need to come with me.'' He said, softer. His smile was still reflecting on his lips, ''I won't leave you.''

The tips of her fingers stroked over his palm, and she knitted them with his. Nodding as he pulled her with him.

Theodore led her through the woods as they darkened, miles they managed without a word until they reached a deserted glade. Her cries had been mirroring between the tree boles. The silent sound of tears falling caused his heart to ache the entire way there.

Somewhere he'd failed to be since he met her.

He halted right at the stone-made stairs leading down into a cellar, completely coated by moss and greenery. Overgrown and covered.

His eyes widened at the look of it. That sinister feeling it brought.

Swallowing the fright he carried for that hair-raising place, he inhaled, and he arched his spine, stepping down the worn stairs. He had to brush the handle off from webs of spiders before he could push the door wide.

Dust flew against him, wildly so. The room was thick in it. Crowded and filled to the very brim in tiny particles floating through the air, shining slightly out of the sunset sneaking through behind him.

''Come here.'' He whispered, turning around to look at her.

He almost lost his breath. She was standing with the shy beams of sun lightening up behind her, catching every piece of hair that danced in the wind. He could still feel the cracks of her heart.

She was still crying.

She would always be beautiful.

Theodore didn't close the door behind them once she'd stepped down. He never did. He didn't dare to. He didn't want to.

He walked fully inside with her tightly wrapped around him. His steps felt haunted with each one he took, and his skin shivered, piercing its way down his spine at the scent lingering in the wind.

It smelled like death. It was because this room wasn't anything but death to him. Within the walls of this cellar, he'd seen nothing but it. Heard nothing else than death.

''Where—'' She broke. Her voice was hushed and restricted, ''Where are we?''

Theo looked around, taking in the chaos he'd hoped he wouldn't have to relive again before his eyes fell to watch her. Her arms tangled around his. Her fingers intertwined so tightly with his own that they were turning pale.

''Where my life ended.'' He let out quietly, ''And where my lies began.''

Isla tried so hard to understand. Yet she couldn't grasp a thing.

Everything that clouded her mind was the words his father had spoken, all she could think about was him and every little thing she'd missed out on with him.

The cellar was dark and completely made out of tile. There were shelves covering the walls. Tiny jars with herbs stood on them, covered in dust—tins with clear liquid, flasks with inky solution, books where their spines had been ripped off.

The walls were smudged in something that had dried, it wasn't possible to make out what, but the red shades of it had her shivering. The floor destined the same faith. Things had been spilled chaotically across it.

But that wasn't what he was scared to show her, but the bed, purely made out of metal, was standing in the middle of the room.

He watched as her sight reached it and how her eyes widened at the look of it.

It looked like an old hospital bed, like something that could be read about in horror books and scary nighttime stories. It had ties in every corner that hung to the floor, metal locks on it to keep whoever was laying there secure.

A lamp hovered over the table. The lightbulb was crushed. The hat covering it was stained in the same smudge as the rest of the room.

''Theo...'' Isla held him a litter harder, ''What is this?''

He sighed at the surroundings before tugging her with him to one of the shelves. Unlocking a box with his fingers, he dragged out an envelope filled with sheets. It looked thick, heavy.

It looked new, compared to everything else holding in that cellar.

He reached it towards her, ''My childhood,'' He said. It should've hurt saying that. It didn't hurt anymore, ''This is what my life was before you.''

Her face held something he hadn't seen before, something he couldn't quite figure out. It looked like something broken, blown, detonated, but there was a dash of confusion that stained her blue eyes. Perhaps it was sorrow, pity, an apology.

He didn't know, and somewhere, he didn't think she knew either.

''I have something for you.'' He nodded towards the envelope in his hand, his fingers splayed out over it, ''I want you to read it.''

The unfamiliar look exchanged for a slight scowl, her brows dragged together, her eyes still leaked with pain and tears, ''Theo, I don't—''

''Read it.'' He said again, ''Go back up, sit down next to the tree with the flowers growing around it, and read it.''

Her head shook, her hair spilled messily around them, ''I don't want to read, Theodore. I want to know if you're okay—''

''Read it,'' Repeating it for the third time, he turned to level her.

His damned hands were on her pure body, and he brought her in for the most pained kiss they'd shared yet. Not even the kiss he'd given her the night he left her back at Hogwarts could measure up to this.

''Read it, love.'' His nose ran up and down the length of hers. One of his hands held her jaw. He felt how it shook, how more tears emerged, ''Read it, and you'll find answers for all of your questions.''

She took it. Her fingers spread across his as he slowly let it go, and she pressed it so hard to her chest before his mouth came dipping down, and he robbed her of another kiss.

''I love you,'' He whispered into the mouth he could never grow tired of, against the lips he wished to kiss on his deathbed, ''I love you, Isla. Remember that.''

Her arms came clinging around his neck, and she pulled herself up against him. Pressing her body so hard to his, ''Never leave me, Theo...'' She let their foreheads collide, and her tears stained his skin, ''Promise me you won't leave me.''

She was so anguished for him, so miserably dependent on him as they stood there. Her arms around him, his hands around her, holding each other harder than ever before.

''I promise.'' He said, ''I just need you to read it.''

She nodded with tears still streaming. Neither of them truly understood how a person could cry in the amount she was crying now. How she still had tears to spare the world.

''I...'' She drew a breath, ''I will.''

Theodore let her down, watching as she snuck up the stairs to freedom while he took one last look around in his personal hell.

He was never one for violence, but if there was something in this world he'd raze without as much as an ounce of remorse. It was this place.

Snapping his gaze over to the casket in the corner, he let his fingers brush over it. He didn't flip the lid open. Didn't have to. He knew what was hiding underneath. He knew the knives, the tools, and the wicked reality resting inside it.

He swallowed, hard and then he walked out.

It didn't take long until he found his girl, sitting with her legs dragged up, the skirt of her dress draped over her knees. The sheets of paper were brought out, and her eyes flickered nervously across it. Like she was scared of it, like she wasn't sure she wished to do this.

Isla did it anyway.

She'd always do what he asked of her.

Her spine rested upon the bole of the tree he'd told her to find. She didn't know the meaning of it yet, how much that tree meant to Theodore.

Leaning his shoulder towards a different one, across from hers, he looked put over that beautiful mess of his. She looked like an angel, something unreal and drawn to be outstanding in a world filled with ordinary.

Reaching down in his pocket, he pulled a pack of cigarettes up, and he lit one on fire.

He didn't smoke anymore. He promised her he'd quit. He had, but he needed one for this.

Inhaling the toxins, dragging them down his throat to poison him and short his life with days to come. He watched as she began to read.

His heart was heavy, and his soul stained with the lies she was about to unravel. Perhaps she could love him clear of them.

Perhaps she could love him free.

'Isla.

My pretty girl.

I never wished for this.

I never wished for this day to come. I never wished for this point to be reached, where either you found this letter on your own, or I gave it to you.

If I gave it to you, then I'm most likely standing a few feet away, loving the hell out of you. If I didn't, then something must have happened to me, and you found my secret on your own.

Because there isn't a way I would've given this to you on my own. Maybe my mother talked too much, or you were looking around, finding something I'd missed to hide.

Hide.

I hide many things, Isla, but you knew that already. You know that I am keeping secrets and making things seem fine when they couldn't be further from it.

So this is me, finally telling you the truth.

The truth of where I've been disappearing to, the truth of conversations I've kept behind locked doors. The truth of your questions I've left unanswered, lingering like a bird that lost its flock, waiting for its safety to return.

I waited for my safety to return. I waited for my flock to come back for me. They never did, and I was left without them.

Lost and seeking something to mend what they took from me.

It seemed hopeless, all in vain.

Until you marched through the doors with my name on a scrunched piece of paper.

That was my first lie.

My first lie was that I didn't want you. My first mistake was to try and scare you off, but somewhere in that deep connection, I think we both felt, I was drawn to you instead.

The more I tried to set a mile-long distance between us, the less I wanted it to last.

This is hard, Isla.

I think you notice the stains covering most of these sheets, and the worst part is that I promised myself that I wouldn't cry.

I wouldn't give them more tears than they'd already taken. I wouldn't give them more of my voice, my honor, my feelings, myself.

So as you sit there, on the ground I cherish it a lot. I will tell you a story about a boy.

Once, there was a boy.

A happy boy, who played with his friends, helped his mother cook and assisted his father with the dishes.

A boy whose life was normal, happy. A boy who wanted to live.

A boy who had plans, dreams, and wishes. A boy who put his tooth's underneath his pillow and stayed awake all night hoping that he'd meet the tooth fairy.

A boy who wrote wishlists for Christmas and snuck down to open his gifts before the morning came crawling.

A boy who learned how to ride a bike by falling over at least a dozen times before managing it.

A boy who stopped near every dog he saw on the streets, begging his parents for a puppy.

A boy who never considered life as something evil. A boy who would live to see the burning flames of hell.

I was four years old when my father returned from the hospital. He was sick.

He had something they called a blood curse, something evil flooding through his veins.

I never understood it.

I was four and a half when I followed him to the hospital for the first time, and when I got to see what they were doing to him. Why he couldn't help me ride my bike anymore. Why we didn't see any dogs on our walks, because he was too tired to go out with me. Why my lost tooth's still laid underneath my pillow when I realized I had fallen asleep. Why there weren't any presents to open underneath the Christmas tree.

I still understood nothing.

The days weren't as happy anymore. The days didn't light up by the sun. It was like the world knew that it was fading away from me, slowly, unnoticeably almost.

I was five when he took me down to that cellar for the first time. When he told me what he did down there. When he told me that he tried to cure himself.

You may wonder why a person would do that. Why someone would scar themselves to heal. I never understood it. I couldn't understand why he would work against nature, when it wanted him to unite with it.

I read in a book once that the world sets its time, that the universe has a ticking clock for each and every one of us, that when we have fulfilled what we were born to accomplish, we were meant to go. The time was up, and we would fade, vanish.

For some, they believed that we are meant to rebirth to become something new, something beautiful. For others, we are meant to stay gone, to be mourned and remembered.

I don't know what I believe in. Do you?

My mother used to cry a lot when I talked to her about this, when I tried to understand why my father dealt with this like he did.

She used to hug me and tell me that if I was meant to give her a flower from the garden, which one would I pick?

I told her that, of course, I'd pick the most beautiful one for her.

She cried a bit more when I said that. Hugged me a little tighter. And then she took me outside, and she made me pick the prettiest flower I could find. I tried. It fought me. It held on to the soil, and it didn't want to leave until it finally gave in and let go.

She said to look at my father that way. To look at him as one of the most beautiful souls that were meant to be taken and to see him fight it. To stay on the ground, he so dearly wanted to belong with, until he was ready to let go.

Is that why he turned into the ugliest ones while he fought it? He tried so hard to stay that it made him rotten inside?

I never got an answer to that.

I still haven't.

I was five when he took me down there a second time, and he said we would play a game. So he settled me upon that table, he tied me down, and he tickled me with something sharp.

He said to lay still, but it tickled. I couldn't. That was the first time he placed a cruel hand upon me. It hurt. I remember that I cried when he did. He said he was sorry, but I think it was a distraction from what he was truly meant to do.

Because that tickling feeling began to sting, and then I watched him tickle himself until his face twisted in pain and a tube was placed between us.

Something red flooded through it.

I didn't know what it was.

I still didn't understand.

I didn't understand for weeks until I started to feel tired. Until I heard my mother cry when she spoke about me. Until I started feeling everything my father said he felt.

I was six when he took me to the doctor, but he wasn't the one lying down on the table. He laid me down on it. My mother cried in the corner when the doctor asked how this had happened. How a child of my age could've gotten so sick in the short amount of time that had gone by since he last saw me healthy.

My mother didn't answer. My father said he didn't know. He lied. He always said that I couldn't lie, but he did.

I was six when they moved my toys down to the cellar, and they said I had to stay there now. My mother didn't cry as much anymore. I don't think she dared to.

I was six when he started to heal me. I didn't understand.

I was six when he poisoned me. Still didn't understand.

I was six when he cut me open the first time, when he looked around inside me to see how my blood had changed my body. I was awake. I was awake until I couldn't breathe anymore, and he hit me. I fell asleep.

I still didn't understand.

I was six when he starved me, when he fed me things through tubes. When he let me eat chemicals and poison. It hurt. I couldn't understand why it hurt so much.

I was six when he hugged me again, when he let me down from that bed and when he fed me my first meal in weeks. It was after he'd carved me open and pumped my veins full of herbs.

He forced my mother to do the same thing to him. I watched.

I felt better. I wasn't tired all the time.

I was happy again.

I could play with my friends. I went on walks to see the dogs, and they promised me a puppy. I got presents even if it wasn't Christmas, and my life had dreams and plans and wishes again.

They let me back into my own room, and I didn't have to sleep alone in that cellar anymore. It was cold, wet, and empty down there. It was scary, and I remember spending all those nights crying.

For a year, I cried.

It wasn't until my father came back from the hospital with that look on his face, the same look he had when he came home the first time, and I was forced back into the cellar something made sense to me.

He tickled me again.

I got tired.

I started to understand now.

I was seven when I started to fight back, and to my surprise, my mother got me a puppy. He was golden, fluffy, and small.

I named him Isaac.

He was my best friend down there. With him, I could sleep through the nights, because I knew he would bark if something scary came our way and I had to wake up.

I taught him all kinds of things, how to sit down, how to roll around, how to give me his paw and how to run off to pee and then come back when I called for him.

He grew. He became larger, and we both didn't fit on my metal bed anymore. He let me sleep with him as my pillow.

He got to eat my food, and we shared the ice cream my mother sometimes gave me.

I loved Isaac, and Isaac loved me.

I was seven when my mother woke me up in the middle of the night, and she took Isaac and me out for a walk. I was happy. I never got to go out on walks anymore. I was seven when she told us to stop for a moment and look at the stars. I liked the stars, they were pretty. I hadn't seen them in so long.

She told me to count them, and I did. I got to ten before Isaac started to cry.

I was seven when she stabbed Isaac in his stomach. I was seven when she picked me up, and she held me when I tried to save him. I was seven when she said it was my fault, when she said that this is what will happen to my father if I don't start to listen to them and do as they say.

I didn't understand because all I did was drink some extra water from the tap. I couldn't drink water, she said.

I was seven when I watched Isaac die.

He died alone. I didn't get to hold him.

I was seven when I was thrown back into my cell.

I cried a lot because of Isaac, because I missed him.

I didn't know what to do, and I wanted to do something for him. He was my best friend. He saved me. I wanted to be good to him. I wanted to do good.

One night when my mother and father left me behind, I took the four jars with dried flowers and the spoon Isaac, and I used to eat ice cream with. I dug a hole underneath the door that locked me in. It took me the entire night, but I got out, and I ran to where she had left him.

I placed every single flower on his cold fur. I cried when I said I was sorry. I cried when I said goodbye.

I left Isaac there, covered in different shades of flowers, and with the spoon, he always loved to lick clean.

I was eight when my father hugged me again, when they let me out of the cellar and back into my room. It didn't feel like my room anymore, and every night when I heard that my mother had stopped crying and that my father started snoring, I jumped out of my window, and I ran to Isaac.

There was a field of flowers where I put him to rest. His body had been picked by nature and turned into something beautiful.

It was winter. There shouldn't have been any flowers when there was snow. Yet, exactly where he died before he sank into the soil, there was a field of them.

It was like in those books I read. I think the world was happy that we loved each other, and it gave me a beautiful place to be with him.

I sat by those flowers, all night, every night, and I talked to them as if he was still there. I wasn't tired anymore. I was healthy again, and then I ran back inside as morning came crawling.

I was eight when my father did it all, all over again.

I understood now.

I understood when I spent my fourth year locked in that cellar that he was using me. I understood that he gave me his blood, that he made me as tired and sick as him, and that he healed me in different ways.

I understood that he hated me a little more every time he couldn't heal himself. I understood why my mother hurt me when I didn't listen. I understood that they were disappointed in me. I understood that I had failed them.

He did it again, and again, and again.

He healed me again, and again, and again.

He couldn't heal himself. He was still dying.

During the last one and a half years, I was let out of the cellar once, and it was for Christmas when my grandparents decided to visit. My mother came down a few hours earlier, and she put a cream on my face, something that made my bruises and my cuts and my scars go away.

I looked in the mirror a lot that day. I had forgotten what I looked like before I got sick, before he poisoned me.

I tried to run away. My father caught me on the driveway, and he locked me up again. He told my grandparents that I was hit by a car and that I was dead.

They told my friends I had died.

They held a funeral.

I cried.

I ate a little too much that Christmas, and my mother didn't bring me food for a week because of it. My stomach hurt. I remember that I tried to eat soil and dirt, but I threw it up. That's when they chained me back to my bed, and she fed me pieces of glass to teach me a lesson. I didn't walk for a year and a half, and it took me months to recover from the wounds in my throat and stomach.

I was nine when they let me stand up, and my father hugged me again.

I was nine when they let me back into the house, but they had put locks and bars on all windows and doors. They said that no one could see me. They said I was dead, so if anyone saw me, they would take me away from them.

There was only one key that could open all windows and doors, and my father kept it around his neck at all times.

I started to get tired again.

I was nine when I didn't swallow the pills he gave me. The pills that made me sleep, and I stocked them underneath a floorboard in my room. I was nine when I had gathered so many that I knew I could make my plan work. I was nine when I crushed them with a bottle of soap in the shower.

I was nine when I poured the dust of the pills into their wine when they were getting dinner ready.

I was nine when they fell asleep during dinner. I was nine when I tilted all the candles they had lighted on the table, and I took the key off his chain. I was nine when I unlocked the front door and stepped out. I was nine when I stopped to think if I should lock it behind me because every other door and every other window was locked.

I was nine when I locked it.

I was nine when I burnt my parents alive.

I was nine when I became free.

I ran to Isaac, and I laid down next to his flowers. A tree had started to grow, and I closed my eyes. I fell asleep. I fell asleep when I knew they couldn't hurt me anymore.

I was so tired, Isla. I was so, so tired, and I slept. I slept to the view of smoke thickening in the forest. I slept to the sound of sparks.

I slept until a man lifted me up, and he ran with me in his arms. He shouted for his friends to call an ambulance. Then I slept some more.

I didn't wake up until I was lying underneath a harsh lamp. I was in my doctor's office, and my aunt was crying in the corner.

They said that I was sick. That my father had cursed my blood so badly that I couldn't be saved. I could live. I would live, but I would always be sick.

I couldn't be healed anymore.

The rest is mostly a blur.

I was forced into meeting after meeting at the Ministry. I was forced to tell my story, show them the cellar, show them my body, and let them search my blood.

The Ministry said they knew.

The Ministry said they had heard rumors about me when I was five years old, but they couldn't do much. My father was an influential, rich man. He was keeping them quiet.

They let me burn, Isla. I was four when my father started to hurt me, and I was nine when I managed to escape. They knew.

They said I wouldn't face the consequences for what I did to them. That it was an act of self-defense.

That's why they let me go during Fred's trial. That's why I lost it when I once again saw the Ministry take advantage of innocent people. That's why I couldn't tell you.

They obliviated my friends and their families, and they assigned my aunt and uncle to be cursed into my parents for everyone's safety. They have to poison themselves every two months to keep their looks tamed.

That is my truth.

That is my lie.

There you have it.

There you have me.

There you have what happened to me.

There you have what happened to them.

There you have what greed for life does to a person. There you have the lengths a desperate father is willing to go to, someone so high on life that his own son was sacrificed to it.

There you have what a mourning mother will do not to lose her source of income, her place in society, her honor, and her dignity.

Only for them both to lose it all.

Only for me to lose them.

Does it make me horrible to say that I miss them? Does it make me weak for crying at their memory?

Does it make me cruel, evil that I didn't bury them? That I don't have a grave to visit?

Does it make me heartless?

I think of karma as a beautiful thing, Isla.

I tried to heal my father by poisoning myself. I tried to please my mother by giving her my life.

I gave them everything.

I lost everything.

And then I was given you.

That's how I see you, Isla.

I see you as my redemption. I see you as someone who was made for me, someone who was given to me for everything I went through.

You told me your secret, and there you have mine.

Don't hate me.

Please don't hate me for this.

Being betrayed does something to a person, either one of two things. Those who revenge it, and those who turn it into strength.

I didn't turn into something. I didn't choose between the two options.

I chose myself.

I chose to mend the life they forced down on me, and I chose to be better. I chose to return every frown with a smile. I chose to repay every evil act with a good one. I chose to answer every foul word with something kind.

I chose to become what they failed to raise me as.

I guess you want to ask me more questions now. I guess you've already asked me if I'm sick.

I never know how to answer that question.

I've been asked it probably a thousand times during my years on this earth, and I never seem to get it right. I never want to get it right.

Sometimes, I lie. Other times, I don't.

How do you break someone's heart so easily by simply speaking the words yes? You tell the truth, and you admit to what you've been hiding.

I didn't want you to know. I tried to lie so many times. I tried to save you from it. I wanted to keep you out of the misery this brings.

I never meant to lie. I didn't want to lie.

Do you remember when I hurt you? All those months ago? When I pretended to be upset that you lied to me about being with him? When I walked away from you for weeks and left you to mend for yourself?

Do you remember that, my pretty girl?

I do. I remember that day, that time, those minutes.

I remember how cruel I was to you, how indescribably ruthless I acted towards you.

How I tore your heart in two and left it on the ground to bleed out. I tried to stamp on it. I couldn't. I didn't want to. I couldn't break you more than I already had.

I really tried to, Isla. I tried to save you from this.

I couldn't put you through the same pain I caused everyone else while being honest.

My mother always used to say that sometimes, lying to your loved ones is mercy. The mercy of not dragging them down to hell with your truth.

White lies, white clouds, white light.

Then my mother became my hell, and I was always honest with her.

Perhaps she was right about something, after all.

I have a new mother now, the mother I should've had all along. I love her, Isla. I love my aunt for becoming my mother. I love my uncle for becoming my father. I love them for taking me in, for playing along in the madness my real parents set for them.

They must love me a lot.

Do you remember when I told you that my mother didn't want you? I told you that my family would disown me for feeling for you.

She loves that I feel for you.

She loves that it's you I'm feeling for.

You're beautiful, she says.

She says that you're beautiful. Not only by the way you look but how your heart beats and functions.

That you're capable of loving me through the gates of my darkness, through the shields I have holding high around me. She says you love me through it, that you love me despite what I've put you through.

I think she's right. I know she is. She's right about everything else.

I don't know how a person can be wrong about you.

She said you'd hate me for keeping this from you.

Every time I left school for nights at the hospital, being analyzed and measured for my blood, she sat by my side, and she whispered that it could've been you sitting there if I wasn't stubborn, if I just would've told you.

I cried that night after she fell asleep in the armchair next to my bed, when she'd been dealing with doctors all day, and when she was tired. I cried. I cried because I hurt you, Isla.

Then I tried to write you. You didn't answer. I waited. I couldn't wait any longer. It felt like you let me go, and the second I got out from the hospital late at night, I came right back for you. I wanted to tell you. I wanted to be honest. I wanted us to have a chance.

You didn't wait.

You didn't wait for me.

I didn't ask you to.

I tried to tell you again in the Astronomy tower the next day, but I saw his lips on your neck and tears in your eyes. You told me you liked being with him. I knew what that meant. I used to like being with him too.

I missed you. I missed you when I got to hold you close again. I missed you even if you were standing inches away from me. I missed you so much, Isla.

Then I walked away.

I tried to walk away. I tried to be cold. I'm not cold. I tried to be mean. I couldn't. I tried with all I had to let him have you, and for you to be happy. Then he hurt you. Then I saw you in tears, and I tried to dry them instead.

I remember the exact moment I fell in love with you. I fell in love with you on our first night together. When I didn't know you were a virgin. You gave me something beautiful without telling me about it. I could've handled it better. I could've done better. I could've made you feel safer.

I fell harder for you that day we spent underneath the waterfall. I fell as hard as I threw you down into the water.

I crashed when I realized you lied to me.

I left because I lied to you.

It's strange, isn't it? How we both at the same time tried to be close by protecting each other from our lies, only for it to be the reason we didn't want to be together.

Sometimes, I wonder what would've happened if I told you the truth, sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I spoke about what happened to me. The curse pouring through my veins. The parents I burnt alive. The dog I lost.

Isaac would have loved you as his mother. I'm sorry that you never got the chance to meet him. I'm more sorry that he didn't get to meet you.

Even if my mind travels there, every once in a while, what would've happened, I take it all back a second later. I could never let you carry the weight of my past. I could never put it on you. I would rather have died than for you to feel what I felt.

I feel safe now, Isla. I feel safe with you. I found my pack, my flock, my family.

I found you, and I never have to linger alone anymore.

Something that doesn't show when you look our name up is the wicked truth hidden behind it. When you read about The Nott Family, you read about loyalty. You read about assets and properties.

You see money, honor, and grace.

Not the shame that stained it.

Tear a picture of something happy apart. Take a plate and crush it against the floor. Fill a bucket of paint, and throw it over a wall. Rip a shirt to pieces. Burn wood in a fire, and study the ashes and dust that comes from it.

Shattered. Cracked. Torn.

There you have what they did to me.

Take a picture and rip it apart, then make the edges fit together. Try and fix that plate you threw. Scrape the paint off the walls, and fill the bucket back up. Sew that shirt together with needle and thread, now make it feel like before. Undo the flames you set on fire.

It's not fixable, right?

Still shattered, cracked, and torn, but with a little more understanding why.

There you have what I tried to do with myself.

See that ripped picture like something new. Gather the pieces of that plate you crushed, and make something else out of it. Watch that shattered paint as a masterpiece. Feel that shirt as a new piece of clothing, something unique that no one else has. Look at that fire and make something beautiful rise out of it.

There you have what you managed.

You took something, something you never knew, and you pieced it back together.

You pieced me back together, Isla, without even knowing.

You looked at that picture as if it was never ripped to begin with. You picked the pieces of that plate up, and you turned it into something new. You watched that chaotic mess on the wall as a masterpiece, not knowing that it was the rage of someone evil that caused it. You wore that shirt so gracefully, no matter how rough it was threaded together. You used that fire for warmth.

There you have you.

You carried my shame, my pain, and the weight of my heavy soul without even realizing it.

You made it easier to breathe. You made me want to breathe, to keep breathing.

Now, when you read about the Nott Family. All I want them to read about is you.

Isn't it beautiful, Isla? How my low was your rise, and how now, my high lives be your downfall. How you break as I am being pieced together.

I was indeed meant to die. I wanted to die. I tried to die.

Thank you for making me want to live.

Thank you for saving me.

Thank you for loving me. You have no idea how much I need it.

The pieces of me, the weight of my heart, and my heavy soul are yours for the taking, no matter what you choose to do with it. My cursed blood pours, and my healing heart beats for you.

You are the prettiest flower in my world, and I will never pick you up. I want to see you bloom and blossom. I want to watch as you flourish and grow.

You are the definition of love, and your love is beautiful. Thank you for letting me feel it, for letting me feel you, for feeling me.

I love you, my pretty girl.

— Theodore. '

Isla held on to the pieces of paper he'd given her, and new stains of tears filled the old ones. Coursing the same paths, cruising in the same lanes.

Her tears mixed with his, her soul felt the ache of his, her heart beat in bearing with his.

Life looked so different to them as they remained inches apart. They looked at it differently now.

Hers was crumbling apart. Her entire being felt as if it was ripped from underneath her. The ground she believed she stood moored on faded into something so hurtful. Something pained and ruined.

While his brightened.

The heavy clouds that hovered above him no matter where he was, filled with anguish and dishonesty, cleared. Something so hard around his heart loosened. Freed him of the cruel hold it had kept him in since he laid his doomed eyes on her.

That was Theodore Nott's reason for being the kindest soul of them all. For giving heaven to the humans he met because he'd lived through nothing but hell, and no one knew.

He gave to others what no one gave to him, and he turned his pain into love.

Theodore Nott fought. He fought like no other but was still doomed like the rest.

He never asked for anything in return. He never wished for anyone to notice. He just wanted to do good, to be good.

Isla looked down onto the soil she was sitting on. Taking note of all the flowers being spread underneath her, she noticed the tree she was leaning against before she looked up at him. Her eyes crowded in tears, ''Isaac?''

Theodore smiled, and he nodded. There was something beautiful in the way she said his name. He had always dreamed of telling her about Isaac. He was the most important thing to him until Draco came along, and then her.

Her fingers brushed over the flowers, and she closed her eyes with a sob. It took her moments to stand up, to place her hands on that tree, and to lean her forehead against it, ''Thank you, Isaac.'' Isla whispered, ''Thank you for keeping him safe for me. Thank you for giving him a reason to live.''

Theodore couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe as he looked at what she was doing. Never in a million years did he expect her to do that. His heart ached and missed a beat at the same time.

Isla let a frail smile climb her lips before she leaned back, and she stared up over the golden leaves.

Golden.

The leaves flourished in the same shade he portrayed Isaac as.

She cried even more now because, in some ways, the world gave him Isaac back through that tree.

The leaves never fell from it, and they never shifted in any other color than golden. Just as golden as Isaac lived to be.

Beautiful. It all was so painfully beautiful to her as she spoke, ''I got him now, Isaac. I'll keep him safe...'' Her voice was so pained and quiet, ''He's safe with me.''

''Oh my fucking God—'' Theodore managed to breathe, and he stormed towards her. He didn't spare another breath until he'd crashed his body to hers, tangled his arms around her.

''I love you,'' She turned around with a sob, and she whispered against him. Her arms wrapped around his waist so tightly, ''And you are safe with me, Theo.''

He pushed his lips to hers, kissing her slowly.

They both trembled. They both ached. They both shattered and broke in each other's arms.

''I'm sorry—'' His forehead fell to hers, their heavy breaths twisted and twined, ''I'm so fucking sorry.''

''You have—'' She had never held him this tight. She had never pinned her whole self to him this way, ''You have nothing to be sorry about. This isn't your fault.''

''I didn't—'' He held her shaking jaw, feeling it shudder against his palm, ''I didn't tell you the truth. I love you, and I didn't tell you anything. I love you, and I lied—''

''I love you.'' She said again, breaking, ''I don't care if you didn't tell me, Theo. I don't care that you kept this to yourself. If you need to do that, that's up to you... I just love you. I love you, Theo. I love you so much—''

Another kiss was pushed to her lips, and she caved in his arms. She caved and held on for dear life at the same time. Her breaths were shallow, numb. His were empty.

''I know,'' He breathed as he pulled away. His words tickled her parted lips, ''I know you love me. You've proven that more than anyone I know. No one loves me like you do.''

''No one,'' She shook her head, her arms moved to cling around his neck, and he bent down to let her hold him, ''I love you. I love you. I love you.''

Her words were hitting his skin like warm breezes of wind. Her words filled his heart to the absolute fullest. Her words made him complete, whole, and everything between the rims of that.

Her words saved him, over and over.

''I love you.'' She didn't stop whispering that, as if she apologized by using those three words, those eight letters, as if she meant to heal his breaking heart with them, ''I love you, and I will keep you safe. You're safe with me, Theo. I promise. You're mine. You're mine. You're mine.''

He smiled as he leaned back. There was still pain in his eyes, ''You saved me,'' He said, ''I never told you, and I never wrote it, but you saved me, Isla. You and your mess. You made me want to stay here. You made me want to live.''

Sobbing out, she shook her head. Even the thought of ever being without him flamed inside her.

''You saved me, Isla, and my heart beats for you. It's not my own anymore. You took it, and you saved it.'' Never had he spoken so honestly as he did now, ''I am yours. My heart is yours, no matter what you do with it.''

He kissed her again. His mouth to hers. His heart entirely and wholly belonged to her. She was keeping it so safe for him. She was caring for it better than he did.

They stood like that, for moments in silence filled with her tears, her tiny words against his mouth.

Isla didn't know what to ask, how to ask the questions she wanted answers to. She didn't know how to phrase her words when he was looking at her.

Theodore frowned slightly at her silence before he dipped down. His hand coated her waist, and he lifted her to his own. Kneeling over the fields of flowers, he placed her in his lap and leaned back against the tree. Isaacs tree.

''Ask me anything.'' He said quietly as he looked at her, and he took her hand in his, placing it on his chest, ''No question is off-limit. I want you to know everything.''

Isla arched forward, feeling his beating heart against her palm, ''Are you in pain?''

He tilted his head, trying to catch her eyes as she hid behind the strands of her hair falling between them, ''Sometimes.''

The lids of her eyes fell shut for a second, hurt ached through her before she tipped her chin upwards, finding his gaze, ''Where?''

''Here,'' His hand once again settled over hers, and he pressed their fingers against his heart, ''The worst pain is here.''

Tears prickled. They never stopped, ''Are you always in pain?''

''Not always.'' He gave a faint smile, holding her hand against his chest a little harder, ''Do you know why I sleep on top of you all the time?''

She shook her head.

''Because it hurts less when I feel your warmth against me. When I feel your chest against mine.''

She cried out. Her face twisted.

Theodore took her hand to his lips, pressing a hard kiss onto her knuckles, ''You take my pain away.''

There was so much honesty in his words. Too much for her to understand.

Swallowing thickly, she drew a heavy breath, ''Is that why you could take that curse back in Azkaban? Because you know the pain of it?''

''It was.''

Her insides flipped. Her heart felt like it crashed into the pit of her stomach. She felt that magic herself. She couldn't take the pain of it, and her body gave in. He didn't even blink when it hit him.

She couldn't understand the pain he was constantly going through.

''Isla,'' He saw how she was dying inside, ''I learned how to live with the pain. I never tried taking it away. I learned how to function with it. It barely bothers me anymore.''

She tilted forward, even more, both of her hands grasped at his jaws, ''I can't even— You have done so much for me while you were in so much pain, Theo. I can't—''

''I might seem like a decent person, like a boy your mother adores and your sister wants to play with, and I am, Isla. I am. But I want you to know that there aren't any lengths I wouldn't go to for you. There isn't a place I wouldn't visit, a life I wouldn't take, or something I wouldn't raze.'' He paused. His jaw was shaking in her hand, ''I'd do it all for you. Living the life I have, somehow turned me sane, but you...''

He brushed his thumb across her parted lips, deepening his gaze into hers. He pinned something inside her. He nailed a piece of himself within her. His soul in hers.

He smiled, ''For you, I'd go absolutely crazy.''

Isla sobbed out, tears gushed, ''It's not fair. It's not fair, Theo. It's not fair that you're hurting. It's not—''

''Love,'' He was hushed and calm as he spoke, ''Nothing in life is fair. Fred being taken from you isn't fair. Draco losing his parents isn't fair. Nothing is fair, but we make amends for it. We take that unfairness, and we turn it into strength...''

She cried even more now.

''You living your life with the memory of him, Draco becoming someone stronger, we try to do good, and we try to do better. That's what's fair. I am not mourning the life I could've had. I'm not dying with my pain. I'm living through it.''

He could feel how her body was shaking, how she was grieving his life for him.

''I got you. I get to love you. That is everything to me, Isla. It's all of it. I have you, and that is more than enough for me.'' His words lingered in the air, seeking to ease her hurting heart, ''Don't be sorry for me. Don't pity me. I'm not miserable, I am happy, and I am alive.''

Her forehead fell to his, and her hands were shaking as she gripped his shoulders, ''I wish you would've told me...'' Her voice faded with the warm breeze around them, ''I wish I would've known, and I wish I could've helped you.''

''My pretty girl...'' Theodore mumbled, so close to her, propping himself up to have her even nearer, ''I wouldn't have changed how we did this for the world. You would've picked me months ago if I did, and then you wouldn't have had the chance to love him too.''

She leaned back, looking up at him with a crease forming between her arched brows.

''I don't want to ask anything of you, but I have to. I need you to do two things for me.'' His eyes traveled across her, taking her in.

''Anything,'' She nodded, and she wiped her falling tears, ''Anything, Theo.''

Theodore reached his hand up, tucking a loose wave behind her ear, ''Don't tell him.''

Isla's breath hitched.

''Don't tell him about this. I don't want him... He's been through enough. He doesn't deserve this.'' His words were honest, ''I don't want him to know.''

She nodded slowly, ''And the other thing?''

''Don't think about this when you make your choice.'' His hand fell to her lap, taking her fingers in his grip, and he squeezed it. Almost as if he hurt when he spoke, ''I can't live with myself if this becomes a reason for you to choose me. That's partly why I didn't tell you that I am sick, because I am, Isla. I am sick, but I'll still be sick if you choose me. I'll still be sick if you don't choose me. That doesn't change anything. It shouldn't change anything.''

''You can't—'' Her tears were back, ''You can't ask that of me, Theo. You can't expect me to just forget—''

''I can't let you choose me because I am sick.'' He cut her off, and he dropped her hand, ''I won't accept it. This doesn't change anything. I am still the same person that kissed you goodbye yesterday. I am still the same person you kissed in the shower the night before that. I am still me, no matter what curse runs through my veins. For me, it doesn't change who I am, and I am begging you to not let it change the way you see me.''

''Theo...''

''No. I am not my disease. People deal with these things differently, and I accept that. My father works away because this hurts him, and my mother is overprotective. I let them deal with what I am, however they like, and I'll respect you too, but I can't let you take this into consideration when you make your choice.''

Her lashes strived her tears, and she looked so despairingly at the boy holding her.

His curls were as messy as ever. His blue eyes had a depth of a sea so deep that they caused her to drown in them. His face was so perfectly made, his jaws were sharp, his cheekbones lined.

He was so beautiful as he sat there, so broken.

''If that's what you want,'' Her sight fell to her lap, and her hair followed the movement, slaving thickly at her sides, ''If that's what you want me to do, I'll do as you wish. I won't look at you differently.''

''I love you for that—''

''But—'' She looked back up at him, ''I need you to be honest with me, Theo. About everything from now on. I want to come with you when you go to the hospital. I want to be there for you. I want to learn about this, and I want to help you.''

Oh, how Theodore Nott loved that girl.

He couldn't find a fiber in his body that didn't adore her.

''I want to be a part of this, Theo. I want to be a part of all of this, in all of you. I don't want—'' She broke again, thinking about what she read, thinking about what he'd told her. Her voice was pleading him, ''I don't want you to leave me.''

''Then ask me,'' His mouth hardly parted, ''Ask me what you've been wanting to ask me since my father told you.''

''Are you...'' She swallowed something hurtful, something that she never believed she'd be asking him, ''Are you going to leave me? Are you going to... Are you—''

''Am I going to die?''

Her tears were rushing again, and a weak nod was all she managed.

''I will, one day, hopefully.'' He smiled, lifting his stare to the flowers around them, ''When I'm old and with less curly hair.''

Her cries broke in a pained peel of laughter, but it vanished as quickly as it came, and loss was back on her face.

''I will leave after our grandchildren are born, and we've seen them grow.'' He had a broken smile curling on his lips, ''I will die when I'm old, wiser, and even more in love with you.''

Her smile was almost as shattered as he was. The tip of her nose stroked over the length of his, ''Our grandchildren...'' She said. It didn't hurt imagining it. It mended some of the pain she felt coursing through her. It made her smile, ''I can't wait to meet them, and our children.''

''Ours. Yours, Malfoy's, and mine.'' He said with a scrape of hope.

She smiled a little more now, ''I love the sound of that...''

''I love you,'' Theodore flipped her over, causing her spine to crash against the field of flowers, and her hair to leak aimlessly over the grass. She looked up at him with the same shred of hope he held, ''I am so fucking in love with you.''

Her tears rolled, and she exhaled the squeal she'd made when he pushed her over, ''I am so in love with you too.''

His lips struck every inch of her face, leaving warm pecks across her skin. She managed to laugh, to melt to the ground he praised her on. And then he dragged her up against him, angling her to have her in between his legs, with her back pressed to him.

Theodore was back against that tree, and he felt the back of her head falling to his chest.

She took his hands in hers, gently stroking his fingers. Kissing his knuckles in silence. She was just there, with him, against him.

''Tell me about Isaac,'' Isla broke the hour of quiet, her spine felt heavy on him as her fingers fiddled with the rings on his, ''I want to know everything about him.''

Theodore lifted his face to the skies, and he looked over the golden leaves, dancing in the wind. He would never get used to her speaking Isaac's name. It was heaven to him. ''You would've been the best mother to him.''

''I would've loved being his mother,'' She let the side of her face fall to his chest, and she pressed another kiss onto his knuckles as he pressed one against the top of her head, ''Now, tell me. I want to hear it all.''

He did.

As they laid there, he did.

Theo told her everything, every detail, every piece, all of it.

They broke, and they pieced each other back together under the golden leaves of a past so haunted, in the flowers of something so cruel. Yet, he'd never felt love similar to this.

He loved her. He loved her so much that he couldn't stop looking at her as she smiled at the memories he spoke about. He couldn't let her move even an inch away from him.

Isla Clarke indeed saved Theodore Nott's life without even knowing, and he would spend the rest of his own loving her through it.

______

There you have Theodore Nott, my loves. The boy I have been keeping from you since the start. I am sorry for doing so, but I didn't want to let him tell his story until I felt like he was ready to do so.<3