FLASHBACK 1981

"This is absurd," Deidre hissed from the bed, watching her husband throw a thick black cloak around himself. "You're going to kill a child!"

"I'm not justifying myself to you again," he snapped harshly in return, causing her to flinch. She glared at his retreating figure as he stepped into the bathroom for a moment, closing the door partially behind him. With a scoff, she crossed her legs angrily and folded her arms, staring at the column of light that seeped from the half-closed door.

The tension in the room was evident, and it had been sitting there between the two of them for some time now. Two years has passed since the Prophecy was delivered to her husband. Two sets of birthdays, two Christmases, and various other holidays splashed in between. In that time, Voldemort had become obsessed with the discovery of who his potential murderer would be. It seemed like a foolish mission, as there had to have been countless boys born in the month of July, 1980, and there was no way for sure that he would be able to find the right one. He always argued that if he got it wrong the first time, he could simply try again later; the man had no qualms with mercilessly butchering an infant, despite the fact that he had two at home who worshiped the ground he walked on. Deidre, on the other hand, found this notion a little more difficult to simply sweep aside and ignore. As their children continued on, blissfully ignorant to their father's growing stress about finding this one boy, Deidre grew more frustrated with him.

It was a ridiculous mission. The Seer, whoever the soul might have been, had to have made a mistake, because the very notion of a baby killing one of the most powerful wizards of the modern day was completely illogical. No one in his ranks (which were stronger and more powerful than ever) had enough magic in their system to duel him and be successful, so how could a child without any magical training attempt to end his life? Very few people knew about this Prophecy, but it seemed like Deidre was the only one who wasn't taking it completely serious. Severus Snape, the bearer of the wretched thing, was around more often now. He was a snarky little man, odd and rather unattractive, but according to her husband, he had a brilliant mind. A little twisted, sure, but it was still genius. He was currently working as a Potions Master at Hogwarts, there to keep a watchful eye on Dumbledore.

Ah, Dumbledore. A man her husband loathed more than anyone on this planet – minus this unnamed child – and the constant foil in many of his schemes. It had only recently been discovered that the older wizard had formed a secret society of his own, one to counteract everything that her husband and his Death Eaters did. They named themselves 'The Order of the Phoenix', and while Voldemort had made short work of many of the members and their families, they seemed as strong as ever, indicating that there were potentially more supporters out there that they were unaware of. This too sent her husband into a furious fit of rage.

There was a lot on his plate, granted. There was the whole 'rule-the-world' scheme that had been the original plan (she assumed), along with an unhealthy obsession with immortality. She hadn't really noticed it until the past year, but many of his more personal projects revolved around a similar theme, and whenever she inquired as to their nature, he would shut her out, sometimes cruelly. Next there was managing all the idiots that worked beneath him. They weren't all idiots, naturally, but there was a fair deal of them. Lately it seemed as though the 'dark side' was no longer just attractive to bored pure elitists; no, the scum of Knockturn now called themselves followers of the Dark Lord. Sure, he could delegate, but being the perfectionist he was, he couldn't let the power slip too far from his hands. Then there was that boy from the Prophecy. He had a man break into Mungo's in August of last year to steal the birth records, which was successful, and the slow process of elimination began. It wasn't the only thing on his mind, so the process was slow, but over the past year, it had been steady, and was narrowed down to the Potters. They were a young couple who had refused to join the ranks when propositioned, and were allegedly a part of Dumbledore's little club. Having defied him, and having a son born in July, they were perfect. Once he was set on the Potters, his mind became even more single-tracked.

This, of course, left little time for his own children. Armand was six now, and he was a very thoughtful little boy. He could produce signs of magic that were controlled by his emotions, which he tried to keep inward the best he could, but she always knew something was wrong when a glass shattered, or a window slammed shut. His father was still oblivious to the boy's successes, and would usually dwell on his failures, particularly if they ended up making him look bad. Regan too was falling out of his favour, despite her valiant efforts not to. She was three now, constantly chattering, and tried her hardest to appear as smart as Armand had been at that age. She was a pain in the arse sometimes, but Deidre loved both her children relentlessly, and it pained her to see the look on their faces when their father breezed past them and down to his study without a hint of acknowledgement.

Their marriage was also beginning to fracture. It had started maybe half a year ago. The conversations were short and to the point. The sex was less, and usually only when he instigated it. She felt like she was more of a companion to bounce ideas off of than a wife, and his once charming affection toward her dwindled to the point of nonexistent, and it ate at her insides. Sure, she gave him the space he needed with everything that he had going for him, but sometimes it felt hopeless. What was the point of being married if her husband forgot that she was his wife?

These were the times that she was jealous of Narcissa. No matter how stressed, haggard, or busy Lucius appeared, he still came home with gifts in hand, a rather sly grin, and a promise of good conversation once he was settled. The two had shared the combined stress of being first time parents, though they were coping with it wonderfully. Narcissa had given birth to a healthy baby boy a month ago, and he had been named Draco. Regan thought he was absolutely delicious, and pouted every time she was denied the right to hold him. Narcissa thought it would be fine, but Deidre knew her daughter had a habit of dropping things of all kinds, and didn't trust her with a delicate baby. Lucius was a bit of an anxious father, worried over the simplest of things as if they were life-threatening disasters. Narcissa, on the other hand, was taking everything in stride.

How was it that they could do it, and she and her husband were spectacular failures?

She shook her head, the few strands that were loose from her bun shaking a touch more free. He was actually going to do this. Some little oaf, Pettigrew or something, had informed Voldemort of the Potters whereabouts, and tonight he had planned to slaughter their son.

"You could simply... wait, and see what happens as the boy grows up," Deidre tried one last time when he emerged from their bathroom, the light extinguishing behind him. "Maybe it's all hogwash, and that Snape fellow heard wrong-"

"Again, I'm not having this talk with you for the hundredth time," he barked, grasping his wand off the dresser and slipping it inside his cloak. "So shut up and leave me be!"

"You may be accustomed to everyone else licking your boots, but you won't get it from me!" she snarled, sliding off the side of the bed and stalking over to him, "You've made some stupid decisions in the past, but this is by far the most idiotic-"

Before she could get her rant in full motion, one of the few that she ever dared to unleash upon her husband, he silenced her with a solid backhand to the face. The redhead stumbled back and grasped at the wall for support, stunned. He had never struck her before. There had been threats, yes, and although he was known for ruthlessly punishing his inferiors, Deidre had never felt the wrath of his wand or his hand. Until now, that is. The entire right side of her face throbbed, though the pain slowly subsided into a sharp sting. She steadied herself slowly, using the wall that she clutched at for assistance. He stood before her, hands clenched. Perhaps it was time for a different tactic.

"So you'll willingly leave me then?" she whispered as her voice shook, "If this Prophecy comes true, then this boy will somehow kill you... and you eagerly walk away to death?"

"Hardly," he remarked, his tone clipped, "and you know that. You'll gain no sympathy from me with some tears and a soft voice, Deidre."

Hurt gnawed at her as he turned away from her, marching toward the door with one purpose on his mind. She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself, "I love you! Does that mean so little to you that you'd continue with this farce?"

"I'll be home before dawn," he muttered in response, earning him a shocked expression from the woman he had finally broken. Angry, upset, defeated, Deidre picked up a hard backed book from a nearby table and flung it at the door, hitting the wall beside him noisily.

"Get out then! Go! Go and see that this is completely ludicrous, and you are slowly losing your grip on everything!" she shrieked, her voice cracking furiously as he slammed the door behind him.