Thaddeus Fitzwilliam was born on a drizzly Monday in October as the son of Cornelius Fitzwilliam and Isolde Hatherleigh in a draughty old manor situated on the outskirts of Pickering, North Yorkshire, away from a whole lot of muggles. The moors beyond its window were always grey and cold, the rain always finding its way against the glass and the fireplaces has been smouldering in a particular way for so many generations that now the smell of woodsmoke became inseparable from the place itself. Whether that was the reason behind why the scent clung so stubbornly to Thaddeus was uncertain and at six, questioning that became less important to him.
The Fitzwilliam were old blood. They held the sort of family name that lived for a very long time that they never bothered to advertise it and rather became bored of mentioning their blood status at all times. They kept their history behind closed doors, in the dust covered portraits, locked cabinets and family member names that appeared occasionally in old books in their library. They were quiet about their lineage in a way it suggested they couldn't find why they had to prove anything to anyone.
The Hatherleigh contrastingly brought noise. They arrived with loud voices and warm embraces, overfilling dining tables and an encyclopedic level of knowledge about every family scandal worth knowing. They remembered who married who, who eloped with whom, which great aunt had once hexed a neighbour's garden and which cousin of theirs had been disowned for the reason no one would explain in front of children.
And our Thaddeus inherited most of that side of the family with considerably more enthusiasm. Squalling into a mansion full of secrets, he grew into a young boy collecting secrets he way other children collected chocolate frogs. Compulsively. Joyfully. Giving no thought over what he might actually do with them. He remembered overhead conversations, noticed things adults wouldn't guess children would likely notice and developef an uncanny habit of asking precisely the wrong question at the right time.
There was always something happening in the Fitzwilliam manor and he wanted to know what exactly it was. If a door seemed to be locked, he wanted to know why. If two adults lowered their voices when he entered a room, vd wanted to know what their discussion was and if someone insisted to never repeat a particular story, Thaddeus considered that practically as an invite.
He was, in short, a child raised among secrets.
The same child found discovering others' secret to be far more exciting than playing with any toy.
