Blind Man's Bluff
TanninTele
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.
Prologue
A boy dripping in guilt
commits his first crime.
But if he stares into the mirror
he'll see his father one last time.
Dursley Drive
The water was scalding hot, the grayish soap bubbles making it seem polluted.
Fearful, young Harold Potter writhed in his Aunt's arms, his naked body pushing against the woman behind him. "Get in," Petunia hissed, sweeping up his legs and dunking him into the bath. Head going under, Harry's ears went deaf as the claustrophobic pressure surrounded him. He came back to the surface with a gasp, coughing up water.
A rough hand scrubbed a rag across his front, removing the grime and sweat covering his skin. "Auntie," Harry rasped. "It hurts. Please stop."
Harry was unaccustomed to this sort of aggression from his mother's sister. Most days, Petunia could barely touch his skin, as if revolted by the welts and discolored bruises marring that small body. Whenever the stench was too much to bear, Petunia just stuck him under the cold hose, gave him a bar of old soap and set a timer for five minutes.
"This isn't my fault," she said unsympathetically, bringing the rag to his back. "You shouldn't have angered Vernon so." Dried blood flaked off the long wounds on his back. Harry began to breath heavily in and out of his nostrils, grasping at the sides of the bath. Without warning, Petunia once more ducked his head underwater. She lathered his hair painfully, Harry's neck pulsing with stretched muscles and blue-tinted veins.
Petunia finished cleaning behind his ears and dropped the rag onto his lap. She snapped, "Clean yourself," and swiftly stood. She clicked out of the bathroom, the damp hem of her petticoat sticking to the back of her thighs. The boy mechanically patted between his legs, the heated water stinging the tender skin of his privates. Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, mixing with the streaks of water falling like dew drops down his cheekbones.
Harry lifted his head as Petunia reentered, a black comb in hand and a set of clothing draped over her shoulder. A feeling of dread lingered in the bottom of his stomach - or perhaps that was the hollow pain that came from missing both lunch and breakfast.
"Out," she commanded, leaning down to grab a folded towel. All too eager to comply, Harry scrambled out of the copper bowl.
Petunia swiftly and efficiently towel-dried his hair, the strands sticking up haphazardly above his scalp. Harry was steered toward the sink where a short stool waited for him. He hopped atop it and allowed her to drag a comb through his tangles, the blades scraping against his scalp in a decidedly unpleasant manner. "What - " Harry gritted his teeth. "What's this for, Auntie?"
It was very brave of him to ask this when Petunia was in such a foul mood. But it was also a clever tactic of the thirteen year old; it was when his aunt was ruffled and distracted that Petunia's twisted mouth spilled the most lurid secrets. "We're finally getting rid of you, freak. Vernon has found a man that will take you far, far away," glee tinged her voice. A deep wave of cold swept over Harry, goosebumps swarming to his skin.
"You're to be sold off - and good riddance, that! It's a godsend, but the only way anyone will want you is if you clean up a bit." Petunia tsked at the belt marks Uncle Vernon had left on his back. "I do wish Vernon hadn't punished you so hard. No one ever wants damaged goods."
Harry's breath caught with fear. He hardly noticed as Petunia fitted him into one of Dudley's frocks and a pair of trousers, the faded material scratchy and warm. "There you go, lad," she rolled up the sleeves of the coat, revealing his skeletal wrists. "A little green to match your eyes."
Harry blinked at the peculiar softness to her voice.
Before his mind could catch up to the motion, she quickly wrapped a stock around his neck, choking him tightly.
The trolley rattling beneath his bum, Harry sat stiffly next to his Uncle.
The large man was dressed in a tight-fitting waistcoat, his mustache trimmed into a bushy curl. Vernon was humming idly to himself, eyes lit up with inner excitement. Harry's thoughts were running rampant as yet another day went past, the shimmering sun disappearing into the horizon outside the carriage window. "Nearly there," grinned the driver, his sharp front teeth bared. He snapped the whip at the two horses pulling them along, their behinds tensing. Harry flinched at the sound. A heavy hand lowered onto his shoulder, squeezing tightly. Too tightly.
"Ready, boy?"
Perhaps Harry would be ready if he had any idea where they were going. Harry lowered his head, allowing his fringe to fall into his eyes. "Yes, Uncle."
The trolley rumbled, the horses clomping their shoes in irritation. They were in the city, the trees sparse. Farther down the road, Harry caught sight of an imposing edifice, tall and imposing against the grey skies. They rolled through the front gates, Vernon's smile widening. A band of colored children were being shuffled inside, their wrists clasped together by clinking chains, their clothing in rags.
His eyes widened in realization.
Harry reached toward the door handle as though he could make a break for it - but sweaty, sausage-like fingers grabbed him by the chin. His head was aimed toward a young girl being carried over a man's shoulder, her screams muffled by an old rag shoved into her mouth. The man threw her roughly to the ground. A bandage on her stomach split open, her light blue dress staining with red.
"Don't let that be you," Vernon hissed into his ear, letting go just as the trolley halted. Without another word, Vernon clutched his arm and pulled Harry toward the hoard. Leers followed them the entire way and Harry fought the urge to cover his face with his coat collar. When they reached the doors, a man with a cigar stuffed between his dry lips spoke to Vernon in a low, gruff tone. Harry was distracted by a small girl in ripped stockings. She was allowing herself to be handed off to a slimy-looking man, her father greedily fondling a bag-full of coins.
"You'll be going to be sold off with the other foundlings," Vernon nudged him toward the cigar-man. "Don't argue with Burke, freak; you won't like the consequences." His Uncle handed the man a scroll of papers and tipped his hat in farewell.
Harry stared up balefully at his new companion. The man's sharp grey eyes seemed to judge Harry on his worth, finding him completely and utterly lacking. Harry's gaze flickered to the iron blade at the man's hip, the point glinting dangerously.
"Follow me," the man snapped, jerking his head toward the crowded hall. Inside the building, the air was warm and humid. There was a soft cacophony of voices, prices being called out and negotiations being made. A number of girls were shoved onto a wooden platform, sickly, sweaty complexions illuminated by the sunlight streaming in through a large window.
"Take your top off!" Someone jeered. A red-haired girl shakily untied her smock, revealing her breasts, scarred by pink teeth-marks, the nipples red and swollen. She determinedly kept her chin up.
Both horrified and disgusted by this auction, Harry closed his eyes tightly, allowing himself to be led by the wrist.
"Borgin!" Burke shouted.
A stooped man jerked away, his hand slipping out from beneath a young girl's skirt. She darted fearful eyes at Harry, begging for help. Borgin was a man with grey, oily hair and a wart on his chin that seemed quite worrying. "Burke," he grunted. Clearly, the man was none-to-happy to be interrupted. "This the Dursley kid?"
"Yes," Burke pushed Harry forward with a shark-toothed grin. "Rather itty-bitty, isn't he?"
Borgin appraised him briefly. "Not made for grunt work, then. Catamite?"
Burke lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Just place him with the young'uns. His contractor will determine his worth as they please."
The word contractor bounced around the thirteen-year-old's head with a terrifying ferocity. Shock racing through him, Harry allowed himself to be led into another room. He was told to strip to his underthings and considered disobeying. Burke placed a warning hand on the dagger at his hip, and Harry complied without a word. Soon, Burke disappeared, and two women took his place. The first was grey-haired and hunched, wearing all white like a nurse.
"What is your name, dear?" she asked tiredly, unrolling a scroll and jotting down a few notes.
Harry was quiet. The blue-eyed woman sighed. She used the vane of her quill to lift his chin. "Don't make me call Burke back, dear," she said, not unkindly. "If fortune has it, you'll be out of here and in a nice, warm manor by nightfall. Just play along for now, hmm? My name is Madam Pomfrey, and this is Madam Malkin." The other woman, slightly pudgy and dressed in all purple, said naught a word, removing a tape measure from around her neck.
"H - Harry Potter," he rasped.
Madam Pomfrey smiled encouragingly. "So you're not mute. That's very good. Are you literate?"
Harry nodded and was told to sign the bottom of her parchment. He trembled faintly as Pomfrey's companion prodded at his ribs. She tsked beneath her breath, and gestured toward Pomfrey. The nurse took one look at his scarred back and furrowed her brow. "What are these from?"
"M - my uncle."
The two women exchanged a glance. "What's your pain tolerance?"
Harry blinked at them. "Pardon?"
"What do you do when you're being punished?"
"Thrashed? I don't know," Harry said truthfully. "I suppose I build a cupboard in my head, where it's dark and quiet. I don't feel anything. Not pain. Or hunger. Or anger."
Pomfrey wrote a note on the papers and gestured for Malkin to continue. Malkin began to measure his waistline. Harry was bewildered - it wasn't as though he was buying clothing. Pomfrey noticed his confusion. "It's for your contractor. Most of Borgin's buyers are from Noble Houses. Their servants must be presentable, and are often gifted with fine uniforms. It's not such a bad life, dear."
"B - Borgin said I may be a c . . . catamite? I don't know what that means."
Malkin stiffened, her spine cracking. She was half-way stooped, measuring the bare roundness of his thighs. "They will not," Malkin spoke for the first time, her voice low and soft. "You are too young for such a burden."
The nurse sent her a strange look. "Borgin and Burke will do as they please," she said softly.
"What?" Harry looked between the two of them, worry marring his sweet countenance.
Malkin stood fully, shaking her head. "Never you mind. It is not something to concern little children," she patted his hand absentmindedly and wound up her tape measure. "I will be speaking to Borgin about this. What our husbands have done now - " she shook her head.
Husbands? Harry shot betrayed eyes at Pomfrey.
The woman grimaced, placing her hands on his shoulders. He sat down heavily. The woman checked his teeth and pinched at his skin, tsking. "Slightly malnourished." She removed a syringe from her apron pocket. "Vaccinations," she searched for a vein in his arm. "If it wasn't for Malkin and I, young'uns like you would never receive the care they need before being sent off into 'the great unknown.'"
As Pomfrey pressed the needle beneath his skin, she continued. "You think me as revolting as my husband. Our marriage was not one of love, dear," she sighed, dabbing the slight splotches of blood away. "When I was a young girl, I desired to be a nurse, to heal and to help the poor and the weary. Malkin wished to be a tailor, to drape even the common folk in silk and pearls, to bring beauty to this cruel world," her words were soft and sedative.
"We were married off too soon and neither of us have achieved our dreams. We have accepted this of the world, but you are young yet. Do not let follies of men disable you. Let their words slide off your skin, and take their blows with your head held high," she lifted her own chin, urging him to mimic the action. As he did, the fringe fell from his face, revealing blazing green eyes.
Pomfrey nodded approvingly, tying her scroll in swift movements. "I have not known you long, but I recognize the strength in you," she stroked his cheek. "Survive, my dear. And perhaps one day, you'll learn how to live."
Head down, Harry memorized every scuff, every splinter in the wooden platform of the auction block. He stood there, blocking out the jeers and bids of the noblemen, deliberately controlling his breathing. Beside him was a girl with long, scraggly blonde hair. She was pale, pretty, and had fierce brown eyes that bespoke of an inner strength. Still, her fear was universal. She murmured senselessly to herself, wringing the hem of her ragged blue dress. They met eyes for the briefest moment, green against brown, and there was a brief kinship between them.
It was quickly shattered at she was sold, screaming out to him.
Burke grabbed her from behind and dragged her off the block, tossing her into the arms of some tawny-haired man. She sobbed into his shoulder, and he tentatively brushed a hand through her hair.
Harry flinched as his vision was blocked. "Your turn now, lad," Borgin hissed, grabbing his hand. It was lifted into the air, wrist limp. The numbers came flying out fast and furious, all the while Borgin listing off his attributes. "Literate, strong teeth, virginal - " Harry winced at the last one. "Going once, going twice. Sold to Remus Lupin of the Malfoy Family, nice'ta do business with you again, sir."
Harry was pushed off the platform and a nervous-looking girl took his place. Burke led him away from the crowd to a roped-off section. He plucked Harry's scroll from a grimacing Madame Pomfrey, thumbing through the papers.
"Is everything in order?" came a soft, polite voice. Harry jerked, looking behind him. His contractor had parted from the crowd and crept silently to Harry's side. It was the yellow-haired man from before. The girl he had bought was still in chains, her head bowed and jaw set.
Burke nodded, narrowing his eyes at the girl. "Better watch that one. She's a biter." He lifted a hand to rub at his ear, which Harry noticed was torn at the lobe.
Lupin bit back a smirk. A velvet satchel of coins dangled from his hand. "I would like to do this quickly, Burke. My Lord has requested I return by six, and the children will need time to adjust," he smiled tiredly at Harry. Harry lowered his eyes quickly, flushing pink. He knew better than to meet the eyes of his 'betters'. Uncle Vernon had been the type to lash him for the smallest misdemeanor - Harry hoped his new guardian wasn't the same.
Remus, the man, signed the contract, nodding at the stipulations. Burke took out a ring of keys and removed their chains. The girl clenched her fists, as though resisting swiping her nails at his sneering face. "Come along now," the man said. "Do you have any possessions?" The girl and Harry shook their heads. The man arched a sandy brow, clearly looking for a verbal response.
"No, sir," Harry said.
"They burned everything when my parents died." The girl spat, voice hollow. "I'm probably contagious, you know? You best throw me out before the consumption gets you." The man merely smiled, indulgent, and started toward a back door. Remus took them to a line of carriages, smacking a hand against the sleek black door. "Ernie, wake up, we're in a hurry." There was a sharp yelp, and a scrawny, speckled jolted up. He sheepishly squeezed outside, stammering his apologies. "Save it for later, Ern," Remus said, gently pushing Harry forward.
The carriage was sturdy and gleaming, far better in quality than Vernon's, and Harry wondered just how rich his new contractor was. With a crack of a whip, Ernie let out a "Yah!", and the horse surged forward.
The girl glared out the window, hands clenched in her ratty dress. "Are you well, Nymphadora?" Remus asked her. "Did they treat you decently, there?"
"Don't call me Nymphadora," she bit out. "And they didn't try to get under my skirt, if that's what you mean. I tore a chunk out of Burke's ear when he tried."
Remus smiled weakly. "Good."
Harry shifted uncomfortably in place. Attentive to the boy's grimace of pain, Remus pulled out a pair of reading glasses, widening his already piercing hazel eyes. "Old scars," he read from Harry's scroll, murmuring thoughtfully. "And fresh markings. I have salve to help alleviate the irritation," he said, oddly insightful. "I'm certain they are stinging a bit in that woolen tailcoat, hmm?"
Harry gave a jerking nod. "Y- yes, sir. Thank you."
Remus sighed. "I haven't done anything to deserve your thanks, and I doubt I will. It is my obligation as your new 'guardian' to care for your basic needs. However," he leaned forward suddenly, his words hushed. "I assure you, the Malfoy household is much kinder than whatever hellhole you came from. Would you like to speak about it?"
Harry was quiet for a moment, before sighing. "I was a whipping boy," he rubbed his arms. "For my cousin. My uncle couldn't afford servants, so I did everything. Cooking, cleaning, mending, gardening . . . while my cousin was treated like a k - king," he whispered. "In the eyes of my relatives, Dudley could do no wrong. When he acted out or broke something, I was blamed. I was punished and Dudley would just watch in glee. He never learned any lesson, he just got away with things, and got some entertainment out of it too."
Nymphadora had been watching him. Her hard features seemed to soften in sympathy.
"Your family was cruel, child," Remus told him. "But I have worked for Lord Malfoy for several long years. He may be a harsh man, and his wife - Lady Narcissa née Black a dragon lady, but you'd do well to be grateful."
Brown eyes narrowed. "Did you say 'Black'?" she murmured.
"I did," he sent her an odd look. He mistook the disgust in her voice for ungratefulness. "You could just as easily have been sold off to a sex trafficker or a merciless task-maker," Remus warned. "I recommend you make the best out of what you've been given."
Green eyes misted over, forcibly remaining downcast.
"It's not like we have much of a choice either way, do we?" Nymphadora spoke for the both of them.
"No," Remus readily admitted, removing from his pocket a flask of liquor. He took a long swig, his pale, drawn features slackening. "You do not. But the illusion helps."
Meanwhile
Riddle House
Thick trees blew about him, the sun barely visible through the tall branches.
Sticks and leaves crunched under his shoes as seventeen-year old Thomas Riddle followed the moss-covered stones. Blue blossoms could be seen every few yards, swaying above the forest floor. Sinking his hands into his large coat pockets, Tom looked roguish, like a wolf-raised child, back hunched as if prepared to launch himself at the nearest unsuspecting prey.
Frank Bryce couldn't have been aware of this danger as he spotted the human-like shadow flickering behind his finely-sheared poplars.
Hobbling around on his dead leg, Frank watered the flower beds, staring down in pride as his prize lilies. Frank knew every square foot of this lot, from the sun-soaked petunias to the small vegetable farm by the back kitchen entrance. Riddle Manor was an astonishingly large plot, the green grounds spanning several acres and fenced by a deciduous treeline. Weeds were not the only things Frank had to contend with, either.
He didn't particularly enjoy working for Lord Riddle, as the man was incurably hypercritical and never had a single compliment to offer. After several decades, however, Frank had become used to the master's aloof and dismissive manner. Working for Lord Riddle had reaped an unhealthy amount of frustration and exhaustion, but the pay was lucrative, the benefits worthy and the garden utterly glorious. Frank kept the yard immaculately trimmed and the flowers blossomed with color three out of four seasons.
Since the incident regarding a pathetic townswoman assaulting Lord Riddle, Riddle maintained a strict policy of throwing out any interlopers. Frank knew that not a single man or woman with a semblance of tact would dare trespass on Riddle's property. Social codes such as these had been unanimously and tacitly agreed upon, not even requiring the intervention of Lord Riddle or his lawyers.
It was infuriating, then, to see an interloper drifting idly through the treeline.
Tucking his lip between his front teeth, Frank let out a sharp whistle. The shrill noise cut over the chatter of locust and Tom stilled immediately. His eyes narrowed onto the towering manor blocking the sun.
Seeing the lone, slim figure in the distance, Frank came to the conclusion it was some pranking teenager. The man clambered to his feet, and wiped the dirt from his pants. "Out! Your sort isn't allowed here!"
Tom lifted his chin and slowly approached the groundskeeper. "Pardon for the interruption," he gave a slow smile. "Do you work in the gardens?"
"That I do," the man allowed. "But we don't take no solicitors."
The handsome seventeen-year old shook his head. "I'm no solicitor. I've business here. Leave these grounds before you become a nuisance."
"Who are you?" Frank said defiantly. "You're trespassin' on private property, an' I don't take well to threats."
Tom stared the man up and down. "A military man, yes? Then you know the advantages of self preservation. Utilize it. This is my last warning."
"L - let me tell you," the man growled. "My wife knows I'm out here, and if I don't come back —"
"You have no wife," Tom spoke very quietly. The man's wrinkled, calloused hands were bereft of a ring. "Nobody cares about you. The Riddles certainly wouldn't notice if you died peacefully in your sleep, or if your mangled body was left in a rose bush. Do not lie to me."
"Is that right?" Frank tore out his hand shovel and brandished it wildly. "You're just some belligerent little boy!"
Tom stepped into the sunlight. "Surely you recognize me by now? Even a little?"
Frank's brow furrowed. He paled quite suddenly. "You - you look like - Lord Thomas Riddle, but that's - "
"Lord Riddle; I quite like the sound of that," the man purred. "Though it does get confusing when the last four Riddle heirs were named Thomas, hmm? One distinguishing difference between myself and my predecessors is that I wasn't raised with a silver spoon in my mouth. I will be the Riddle to outlast them all."
"Well, I don't care who you are, but you aren't going to be threatening me!"
"They're not merely threats, old man," Tom said lowly. "Say goodbye to your roses."
Frank opened his mouth in indigence but didn't have time to speak. Without another word, Tom stepped forward, wrapped his arm around Bryce's neck, and wrenched. Frank Bryce crumpled.
He was dead before he hit the grassy floor. Tom bent down and untied the man's shoelaces, moving the hand shovel from his hand beside his head.
By all means, it appeared that Frank had been the victim of a horrid fall.
The hunt was almost over.
One down, two to go.
To be continued . . .