2024 - 2025

He was the youngest of six sons, a tagged-on ending to a perfect eldest brother and two sets of perfect, perfect twins. His parents' marriage was arranged—Da's family was one of the last non-Pureblood families to give up the ancient, outdated tradition—and they had been married at the end of their fifth year.

(Mum was pregnant for the first time before sixth year even began, taking a month off from school to have Tobyn, the eldest, the heir, the pinnacle of absolution that Tolkien would never quite match up to, even if he wanted to.)

Tolkien was—and always had been and probably always would be—the black sheep of his family, born nearly four years after Ezekiel and Emmanuel, an unexpected (and rather unwanted) addition to the Smith, a fact which his parents had never been shy about sharing and which his brothers loved to exploit whenever they could.

For much of his childhood, Tolkien found himself drawn to Aunt Sally's home, finding solace in the noisy mess that was Aunt Sally and her three sons, who were in such stark contrast to the clean, perfect, silence of his own home. He liked Aunt Sally's, who was always ready to greet him with a hug and a plate of biscuits, a willing ear to any of his complaints about his older brothers, his parents, girlfriends. Whatever it was he wanted to talk about, his aunt would listen as enthusiastically as if he were one of her natural born sons.

(Sometimes, Tolkien dreamt that he actually was one of Aunt Sally's sons, the possible twin of her youngest son, Andrew. But that didn't make any sense, because Aunt Sally loved her boys, loved her Slytherin husband, loved her family far too much to ever give up any of them to the coldness of her older brother, Zacharias.)

Tolkien coasted through school, doing just enough work to pass each year, earning the OWLs he'd need to get a steady job somewhere, and then...fell off of the edge somewhere, unsure what to do with himself the last day of his sixth year and Mum and Da kicked him out of the house, insisting that he was finally old enough to take care of himself, never mind that none of his other brothers left before finishing their final year at Hogwarts. Fletcher, the older of the eldest set of twins, had in fact lived in his parents' house until he was almost twenty and Mum and Da never said a word against him, glad to let him hang around for as long as he liked.

With nowhere to go, he'd once again run back to Aunt Sally's, spending the last days of his final summers sharing a room with Andrew and cursing his parents' existence. What had he ever done to deserve this cruelty? It wasn't bloody fucking fair, was it, being kicked out when all his older brothers were more than welcome to stay as long as they like, to be fretted over and told how much they were loved and cared for.

"Don't listen to a word they say, Tolkien. If they don't understand how much you mean, then my brother is a bigger fool than I ever thought," Aunt Sally said, patting his hair in a manner that was supposed to be comforting but only made the seventeen year old feel like he was being treated like a child.

He pushed her away, scowling.

"Sometimes I hate them more than anything. Mum, Da, my brothers. Sometimes I wish I could just slit their throats and be done with it all. They hate me anyway—trying to kill them wouldn't lessen their opinion of me in the slightest. I'd still be their shitty little boy who could never do anything right if he tried."

"Oh, Tolkie," Aunt Sally sighed, giving him a look of pity. She was forty-four, with wavy brown hair and kind blue eyes, but there was exhaustion written on her face as well. Exhaustion from years of arguing with her siblings, years of holding back all the anger she so badly wanted to direct at her twin brother for being such a terrible person to his youngest son.

To keep him from turning his wand on their family, Aunt Sally introduced Tolkien to Mia Itterman and Emily Maccabee, who subsequently introduced Tolkien to every drug, drink, and potion that was known to man.

It was weird to see Maccabee, who was only three years older than Tolkien, but was a mum as well, drinking and dancing like she didn't care about anything at all, least of all her infant daughter or deceased boyfriend. She was too busy enjoying life to care about anyone else and she taught Tolkien how to stop caring as well.

(She also took his virginity over the winter holidays, laughing when he confessed that his previous relationships had never gone beyond necking.)

Tolkien graduated near the bottom of his class—but not the bottom, which is what really mattered—and, though he knew they would not be there, he could not help but look around for his parents, the little boy desperate for love falling into despair when it became obvious that they did not care enough to even see him graduate.

"It's okay, Tolkien," Aunt Sally said, giving him a hug. "Terence and I love you more than enough to make up for my shitty brother. He's always been a big asshole and this only proves it." She smiled up at her youngest nephew, but the anger threatened to bubble up once more.

He nodded, shoulders hunched, his breath catching as he struggled with the injustice of it all. It wasn't fair—but then again, as the eighteen year old now knew, most things weren't fair when you were the youngest of six sons and your parents hated you.

At home (Aunt Sally's home, that was; Tolkien no longer had a place to call his own) he flung himself onto the bed and cried bitter tears that could never have been shed in front of his aunt and cousins. He cried like a little kid would, hot, dripping tears that soaked his pillow and he just kept crying until there were simply no more tears left inside of him.

Then he laid still, face pressed into the pillow until Andrew came in and asked if perhaps Tolkien wanted to set off dungbombs in the toilets or perhaps play a game of "Hunt the Gnome" since it as such a nice day outside.

"Lela is coming over for dinner later," he said, referring to their youngest cousin, who was going to be a sixth year in September and regularly snuck out to say hello to her aunt. "Mum invited her to spend the night."

"Okay," Tolkien replied listlessly, not looking up from his bed so that his voice was muffled by the pillow. "Thanks for telling me, Drew."

"Are you just going to mope up here forever?"

"Yes."

"Asshole." The door shut half a minute later, the sounds of his cousin fading away, leaving Tolkien by himself, as was usual. He was used to being alone by now, with no one who cared about him or what he did with his life.

Later, when he grew hungry and thirsty, Tolkien gave in and went downstairs to eat dinner with the rest of the family. Uncle Terence smiled and directed him towards the empty spot that had been left for Tolkien, between Andrew and Lela.

(So maybe there was someone who cared about him.)

14 March 2026

Cake. They'd made a cake for him, the scowling nineteen year old that smelled of weed and frustration and cherry-scented soap. Tolkien could not remember the last time that someone had made him cake for his birthday—Mum had given that particular tradition up before he was even of Hogwarts age.

There was a knock on the door roughly an hour into the celebrations that made everyone instinctively freeze; Aunt Sally and Uncle Terence shared a look of panic that Tolkien could not understand, but then the moment passed and Uncle Terence got up to open the door.

"Let me," Aunt Sally said, motioning for him to sit down. "We don't even know who it is. It might be just a muggle salesman or something."

She bustled over to the front door, drawing her wand out from her pocket and holding it up in anticipation. The action made Tolkien wonder why his aunt and uncle were being so on edge over something that was probably not any more serious than a friend stopping to say hello.

(It did not occur to him that all of his aunt and uncle's friends Flooed or owled ahead of time whenever they wanted to visit.)

Aunt Sally opened the door, apparently deciding that whoever was on the other side of it would not be able to successfully kill or disarm her fast enough.

It was Da, scowling, wet, and looking just as pompous as the day he'd Tolkien out of the house nearly two years ago.

"Georgina," Da said, nodding curtly at Aunt Sally.

"Zacharias," she replied, just as cold.

They stared at each other while Tolkien stared down at his knees, wondering how he'd gotten into this situation. Da was the only one who ever called Aunt Sally by her real name, as though he were trying to remind his twin of her more "prestigious" upbringing that she'd thrown out the window in favour of being who she wanted to be.

"I've been told you took over the custody of one of my sons," Da finally blurted after the two siblings had stared at each other for a long while, both attempting to intimidate the other. Theirs had never been the healthiest of relationships, that much was obvious.

"It's true that I've allowed Tolkien into my home ever since he was unceremoniously cast out of his own through the selfishness of his parents." Aunt Sally narrowed her eyes at Da. "Why did you come here? Twenty-six years I've lived in this house and you've never bothered to visit before. And don't try to feed me some crap about you suddenly getting sentimental about the boy or myself. We both know neither of those statements would be true."

"I could never pretend to do such a thing, Georgina. Unlike you, I recognise a mongrel when I see one. In truth, I should have killed that boy the moment that Amanda told me he had been conceived but I hoped, foolishly, that he would turn out like his brothers. How wrong I have been proven. A druggie, bottom of his class, with no future and no money to his name."

"Not that you left him any Galleons to rub together." Aunt Sally gritted her teeth, speaking slowly like one would talk to a very young child that had done something naughty but could not understand why they were being punished. "I'll ask you one more time, brother dear, and then I'll be Flooing the Aurors over. Why did you come here? What is your purpose at my home tonight?"

"I came, in all honesty, to tell you of our eldest brother's passing. Nicholas was attacked by mongrels much like the one you've taken in, robbing him of his money and his nice clothing, yelling that he was a Pureblood of the worst kind." He glared past Aunt Sally to where Tolkien sat, cake covering his face and a jester's hat sitting lopsided on his head. The party no longer felt very festive any more. "Despite the extensively talented Healers and potions that we were able to afford, he did not survive. I suspect at least one of the attackers was a werewolf."

"And I suppose that this is your way of telling us that me and mine aren't welcome at the funeral, is that it?"

Da shook his head. "On the contrary, I am here to invite you to sit in the spot of honour as Nicholas' only sister. I invite you to tell fanciful stories about our childhood and to reminiscence about how great a man our brother was. I only ask that you not bring him with you." He nodded in Tolkien's direction. "It would only ruin the ceremony to have the boy there."

"Then I will have to decline your invitation, brother dear, for as much as I would wish to be there to see Nicholas laid to rest, this is not a condition I will adhere to. To deny his nephew—your son—a spot with the family is to deny me."

She received only a small nod in return; Da had expected this much as an answer. Somehow, that was what stung most of all, that he had known Aunt Sally's answer but came to ask for it all the same, so that he could look down at them smugly in his fulfilled expectations.

"Good-bye then, Georgina." He looked over to the five males gathered around the kitchen table and raised his hand in a small wave. "Terence."

"Zacharias," was the emotionless response and then Da was gone with a slight twist of his body and the crack of Apparition, leaving Aunt Sally to slam the door shut behind him, looking absolutely furious about everything.

"What a prick!" she snapped, stomping back over to the table where Tolkien and his cousins avoided making eye contact with each other; all sense of frivolity and fun had been sucked from the party. "What an absolute fucking cock! How am I even related to him that's what I want to know!"

And then she burst into tears, making Tolkien feel like absolute shite for bringing all of these problems onto his aunt.

Despite her protests, he found a flat above one of the many cafes located in Diagon Alley and moved out only a month later, determined not to let his father get to him.

6 June 2028

Lily Potter was fucking gorgeous, with long legs, red hair like fire, and intense brown eyes that were always filled with such passion and fury. She was the one who asked Tolkien out, leaning over to kiss him on the mouth as he was attempting to explain to her the difference between stalactites and stalagmites.

"What was that about?" he asked, cheeks going red. More than half a dozen girls had passed since his first night with Emily and here was, still blushing at any pretty little thing that caught his fancy. How embarrassing.

"I like you, Tolkien Smith. You're cute and smart and you know how to have a good time." She was certainly quite sure of herself, that much was obvious.

"You're smart, too, and funny," Tolkien replied, feeling oddly light-headed though he wasn't sure if that could be entirely contributed to Lily's actions. There had been a lot of good things passed around throughout the course of the night and Tolkien wasn't the sort to say no to a good score.

"Am I funny and smart enough to perhaps take out dancing next Saturday, do you think?" she asked with a glint in her eye.

(Tolkien thought that Lily would have made a pretty good Slytherin, in another life, another world, another possibility.)

'Good enough to shag and innit tha' the same thing?" He'd been trying out an accent recently, just one more way of trying to put a degree of separation between him and his family. Though, it was true that the drugs in his system weren't helping to make him any more coherent.

The room was beginning to spin and Tolkien felt like he might throw up all over the pretty girl in front of him.

Lily frowned at Tolkien, the passion in her eyes fading to annoyance. "I shouldn't think they were even close to being the same idea, Tolkien Smith. Perhaps we could do one and then the other, or perhaps neither at all?"

There was a dangerous hint in her voice that Tolkien missed almost entirely, too busy leaning in, wanting to kiss her because he was so intoxicated by her perfume—and the whisper of alcohol on her breath.

"We can do both," he said, chuckling deeply at nothing, and then he kissed her and (for some reason) Lily kissed him back and when they were done kissing, the two headed upstairs to shag (but not dance—at least not in the way Lily wanted) and after that, they fell asleep until someone woke them up hours later (was it really hours?) to kick them out of the room they'd fallen into, which Tolkien was eighty-five percent certain was a bedroom.

(It was the cupboard under the stairs.)

The next night, they went out to a party together and slept together and they were together, which should certainly show Da, who thought the Potters were 'high class, and should show Emily, who wasn't answering Tolkien's owls, and should show anyone who'd ever laughed at Tolkien at any point in his life.

He was dating Lily Potter. He was shagging Lily Potter.

(They never did go dancing. Real dancing, that was. They danced plenty enough times in the bed, kissing and touching and laughing.)

29 October 2028

He was a son, a brother, a nephew, a cousin, an uncle—and now, apparently, he was going to be a father.

Neither of them had known until Lily took a muggle pregnancy test and went to a shop in Diagon Alley that specialised in pregnancy, and now she was already so far along. What if Lily's partying behaviour had already damaged the unborn baby inside of her?

And he didn't even know how to be a dad. He didn't know how to love some tiny little person and make sure they didn't end up screwed in the head. What if he dropped it or hit it or forgot to tell the baby that he loved it enough times so that it felt wanted?

"I'm breaking up with you," Lily said shortly, dry-eyed and dispassionate. She felt nothing, no sadness, no regret, absolutely nothing at all to indicate their relationship meant anything to her at all or ever had.

"Breaking up?" echoed Tolkien, his head spinning. No, he was the one that usually did the breaking up. It was only ever Emily that had turned away from him first. "But you're pregnant and I'm the father and who—who—"

"I'm giving the baby up after I have it," she explained. "I'm not sure to whom I'll being giving it up to but I have until almost April to figure things out and I'm going to ask my family to see if perhaps one of them wants to take over the child-rearing."

"You're giving our child up?" Fucking hell, why did his voice have to squeak so badly? He sounded like such a whiny idiot.

Lily shook her head, practically growling with frustration. "It's not our child, don't you get that? In a few month's time, it won't even be my child. But you don't get a say about this, you don't get to tell me what to do with my life just because you've suddenly become sentimental about the fact that you knocked me up and ruined my life."

"I could raise it! I could, and keep our child close so that you could visit whenever you wanted—"

"Tolkien, be serious!" There was laughter in her voice. Laughter directed at him. Tolkien hated being laughed at.

"I am being—"

"You take more drugs in a day than I ever have. You drink, like, all the time. Think about Emily—oh don't deny that you're still hung up on her, we all know you are—but just think about how different she is now, with a kid. That'd be you for the rest of your life, some docile, stay-at-home-all-night, never going out, never drinking old man. I mean, for fuck's sake, you don't even have a job, Tolkien!"

I could get one," he muttered, which only made Lily laugh that much more.

"Doing what, exactly? What skills do you have, Tolkien, that doesn't pertain to selling illegal substances or moping around all day? Face it, you're a loser and you're always going to be one. You shouldn't be trusted near a child, you'd only ever fuck them up like your dad did to you."

It was at that point that he left, unable to take any more of Lily's vicious (but painfully true) statements. She was being cruel, laughing at him, mocking him for things that were, in some cases, not under his control, but Tolkien could not deny anything that Lily had said.

He would never be a dad. He would never be good enough for that. The only thing that Tolkien could do was make things worse. He was a mongrel, just like Da said.

January 2029

The month of hell. Snatched by faceless—creatures. Those things weren't men. They certainly didn't look like anything he'd ever seen before. They flew, actually flew, over land and over an ocean, wings (but were they actually wings?) flapping while Tolkien passed out and woke back up far too many times for him to properly keep track.

When the trio finally stopped flying, the unidentifiable creatures shoved him forward, hitting Tolkien on the back until he fell to the ground, knees hitting the hard dirt and making him gasp from the shock of pain.

"Look up at me, Mr Smith," crooned a voice above him; he looked up to see a tall thing standing before him. It was neither man nor beast, but a bit of both and a bit of nothing at all. "I am the Darkest One, the Eternal One. I have no beginning and no end. I cannot die, nor be defeated. There is nothing that has ever lived nor ever live that could eve begin to understand my powers."

(Tolkien thought the Eternal One sounded rather conceited. And that the Faceless One was probably an infinitely better name.)

"Guards! Escort Mr Smith here to the edge of infinity. I'd like to have this simple mortal send a message back for me to those who would wish to oppose me, and what better way than to have this pathetic waste do it for me? After all, what other good would he serve?"

The creatures from earlier grabbed Tolkien by the arms and dragged him away; they wandered for what felt like days before finally reaching a pool of water that seemed to stretch on eternally. Tolkien looked up at the guards in confusion, wanting to ask what in the hell it was he was looking at, but they merely grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him into the pool.

Thus began the destruction of Tolkien's sanity.

10 February 2029

"I think he might be crazy." That was Lily Potter, still pretty, still pregnant, scowling at him, her brown eyes showing none of the affection with which she'd held him when they were dating.

"He's not crazy!" Roxanne Weasley insisted, waving her hands. Roxanne Weasley liked to talk a lot, especially with her hands. She never seemed to stop moving, Tolkien thought, watching her jump up from her seat and begin pacing around the room in thought.

The brunette girl spoke up, the one Tolkien didn't know, but who seemed to agree with everything that Roxy had said so far. "Are you sure we can trust him, though?"

"He was a Slytherin," pointed out Matilda Longbottom, pursing her lips. This comment made the nameless girl scowl.

"We've had this conversation before, Longbottom."

"So? Am I not allowed to have an opinion outside of what little Roxy tells me, Bartley? Or are we all supposed to ask 'how high' when she tells us to jump?"

Bartley scowled, turning to look away.

"I don't think the matter at hand here is whether or not Tolkien is crazy, though for whether or not he's to be trusted, I can assuredly vouch for his character. After all, I understand his current situation better than anyone else in this room, besides Tolkien himself, and I promise that he wants to take down the Faceless Ones just as much as we do." Albus Potter gave Tolkien an assuring look, his eyes saying I'm on your side.

(Tolkien liked Albus Potter. He was nice and friendly and smart and never laughed or made fun of Tolkien.)

"Fine, whatever," said Lily Potter, not pleased with how things were unfolding. On the other side of the room, Matilda Longbottom also nodded as consent.

" Very well then, Tolkien? Are you going to join us?" Albus Potter held out his hand and grinned at Tolkien, every bit sincere and caring and honest that Tolkien had always associated with the older male.

The others in the room all turned to look at him, their eyes on Tolkien, each wondering what he would do. Would he accept Albus Potter's hand? Would he join their group? Even Tolkien himself was not sure what was the right idea—wasn't sure he was the right person to be joining this group, who were full of such smart, self-assured people. They weren't not pathetic mongrels or wastes of space or crazy. But then Tolkien thought of his Aunt Sally, who always believed in him, no matter what anyone else said. She would never give up on him, never abandon him. Albus was a bit like Aunt Sally, seeing the best in Tolkien.

It made him feel needed. It made him feel wanted.

Tolkien took Albus' hand and shook.