This is the story of a young wizard who fell in love with the wrong witch. Not because she didn't love him, she did. Before they got there though, many things were keeping them apart. Family, friends, pride, blood prejudice, common sense. But the he...
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Darkness.
Even the bravest of men had been afraid of it at least once in their lifetime. Ever since they were kids they were told to beware of the black empty void, for there could be monsters lurking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Said monsters could take different shapes and forms. When they were young, they often dreamt of a creature that would come in the middle of the night and steal them away from their beds, kidnapping them and taking them away from their loved ones. As they grew up, they got over that fear, blaming their childish imagination for creating such scenarios. Little did they know, those monsters turned out to be real, and they had a name.
They called themselves Death Eaters.
That was the name given to the most ardent followers of Lord Voldemort, otherwise known as You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The group consisted of wizards and witches who were radical pure-blood supremacists who practised the Dark Arts with reckless abandon, malevolence and without regard to or fear of wizarding law. All because they wanted to purify the race by killing muggles, muggle-borns, and blood traitors.
They were the ones sweeping witches and wizards off their homes, separating them from their families and friends, keeping them as prisoners if lucky, and sending them to meet their maker if not. That is how Charles Nott found himself locked in a cellar, away from his loved ones, the family he had made for himself.
Had he chosen a different path, perhaps, he wouldn't be in this situation at all. Had he not questioned his family's belief that they were superior to those who enjoyed the company of non-magical people or were related to them, he wouldn't be there. The Notts were the elite of the wizarding world, something akin to royalty, he could have had everything. From money, to fame, to power and everything in between. Still, had he walked the path his parents had laid before him, he wouldn't have been able to have what his heart truly desired.
And so he chose differently.
Because it was the right thing to do. Absolutely no one deserved to die for something that was beyond their control, like who their parents were, or who they were related to. No one was at fault for the blood that ran through their veins.
Because he couldn't bring himself to uphold the family's prejudiced views. Not when she demonstrated time and time again she was just as capable as any pureblood to perform complex spells and master the art of potions.
Because she was so much more than "the filthy scum" the elitist society thought her to be. Not only was she a singularly gifted witch, she was also an uncommonly kind woman who had a way of seeing the beauty in others. Who could blame him for loving her? Who could blame him for following his heart, even if it meant turning his back on his family as well?
He chose differently because he was in love. He was a pureblood wizard, she was a muggle-born witch, and their union was forbidden by their standards.
The movement of the shadows brought him out of his musings, making him focus on the dimly lit room. The whole place was lined in low stone arches going from the ground to the ceiling only a few inches above his head. It was not, as Charles first expected, a dungeon, but a sort of basement, enabling access to the foundational supports of the manor. The fixtures on the wall, rusted wings, made him confident that the place had been used for that purpose in the past.
