Theodore Nott’s life could hardly be called such—it was rather a vegetation, a constant state of depression, loneliness and routine. Routine was important. He would get up at 8am, brush his teeth and take a shower, then he would proceed to drink a cup of coffee—prepared in the Muggle coffee machine he found in one of the kitchens—smoke a cigarette or two, depending on how his night went, drink another coffee and then he would lazily stride to the library. He would read and read and read, everything that could have been found in his family’s library. He would always skip lunch, and it showed, especially during the winter when his complexion faded and skin became so thin—almost transparent. He would only eat dinner—either a bunch of toasts and a bowl of pumpkin soup or roasted chicken with potato wedges and peas. 