Curfew Violations

-v-

25th Violation

-v-

On Thursday evening, the fifth day of Harry's migration from his parents' household— Lily got a call.

"Hey, Mom. How are you?"

It was pleasantly surprising to hear Harry's voice on the other end of the line for the first time since she'd entrusted him to Tom Riddle's tender mercies.

"Oh honey, I'm just fine. It's good to hear from you. Tom's been telling me how tired you've been, and I was starting to worry. Have you been eating well? Taking all your meds and such?"

Lily cradled the cordless phone between her neck and shoulder as she moved through the house.

She'd just been getting ready to make a quick trip out to the grocers, but being waylaid by the phone ringing, she wound up perched in an arm chair in the living room listening to Harry's encouragingly bright and breathy laughter in her ear.

He sounded happy…healthy, content.

Lily relaxed in the chair and crossed her legs as Harry spoke, "Yes ma'am. No worries. I'm b-being well cared for."

"You certainly sound good. Your father's not here right now, so you'll have to catch him another time if you want to chat." Lily twirled a lock of red hair absently around her forefinger, and glanced at the living room clock.

"No problem. W-what are you up to? Did I catch you in the m-middle of anything?"

Lily sighed and muttered, "Not particularly, dear. Just about to do a bit of shopping—I haven't restocked lately, and the cabinets are looking a mite bare. Also…milk."

Faint amusement colored Harry's next words, and Lily's chest expanded with warmth. "Guess D-dad's been drinking again."

"Every time I look up, the carton's half gone."

"I t-told you to freeze it. Lasts longer and you won't have to keep b-buying." Lily scrunched her nose. "Then it gets that watered down taste. Bleh…"

Harry laughed and Lily relaxed further. It was so good to hear her baby so lively. She congratulated herself on trusting Tom to take care of things. It was a load off her mind, truly.

"I'll tell James you called and send him your love. So you just keep recovering, sweetheart. And greet Tom for me."

"Will do. Maybe don't go c-crazy without me, hm?"

Lily snorted delicately. "You forget—I have hobbies. Now I can get some reading done. Don't you give your host trouble—be good, dear."

Harry mumbled something indistinct under his breath, and Lily raised a brow. "Come again?"

"I said, I'll be a s-saint."

Lily smirked and got up from the chair, collecting her purse and wandering into the kitchen to where the phone hook resided. Gathering her list tacked to the fridge along the way, Lily gave her closing sentiments.

"I have no doubt. Off you get, go rest up some more and don't forget to eat a good meal and take all your meds and supplements. Love you, baby."

"Love you too, Mom. Take c-care…"

Lily hung up the phone with a satisfied smile and proceeded to the store.

-v-

Pulling into the store parking lot, Lily got out of her car.

She was a few feet from the automatic entry doors when an old, hobbled woman with a stack of papers accosted her. "Excuse me, madam—I only need a moment. Have you seen this child? He's a student at Hogwarts, has been missing for weeks now…it's like he dropped off the face of the earth…"

Lily took a sheet and stared down into the unfamiliar features of a slight, rotund boy—rather unfortunately channeling something in the rodent family with his facial features.

He looked young. Not as young as her Harry…but definitely a child.

Addressing the woman, Lily spoke apologetically, "I'm sorry…I have never seen this child before. What was…is…his name?"

"Peter. Peter Pettigrew. My…surrogate grandson."

Lily hummed thoughtfully and stared unblinkingly down at the printed off mugshot—for it could hardly be called anything else comfortably, with the somber expression on the boy's face, and the colorless unflattering attire he sported staring out of the shot— above boldfaced numbers (presumably belonging to the old woman).

"He's a good boy. Never could hurt a fly. Always keeps to himself. Doesn't make trouble. His mother is a louse and unfit to rear, but the courts refused to take him away. They've been living together in the Knockturn District…he always visited me (coughcough) before…at the home. He never didn't show up like this for so long. She hasn't even filed a claim—the wretch..."

Lily winced for the colorful language the old woman employed beneath her breath about the mother of Peter, whom she so disapproved of.

"You're certain he's missing?" Lily cut through the building tirade gently with her query.

The old woman's eyes glinted and shifted as she busily shuffled the sheaf of printouts in her deft, but wrinkled hands. "Positive, madam. We had an arrangement…you see. I taught him certain things…and he told me stories. Good stories…my family forgot you see…I hated them."

Lily frowned slightly as the old woman began muttering under her breath again, snatches of disparaging words about her apparent absent family.

The old woman was quite deceptively diminutive, with a stoop and wispy white hair bound beneath a scarf. She was bundled in an oversized coat against the chill weather, and she seemed rather disturbed by the alleged disappearance of her grandchild.

Lily sympathized.

"I may not know this Peter, but I can have my husband make some inquiries. He's involved with law enforcement you see. It'd be simple for him to get the case beneath the right noses…I'm sure."

Perking right up, the old woman affixed Lily with a grateful—if staid look.

"I would appreciate that immensely. Someone has to look for him. Before he disappears—like I did…"

At Lily's questioning look, the old woman huddled into herself, clutching the papers to her chest and shaking her head skittishly. "Nothing to concern yourself with—it was so long ago." Her voice trailed off in a faraway manner, lost in some old unpleasant reminiscence.

"I'm sure he'll turn up. Have faith…"

"Bathilda. My name is Bathilda. The last living Bagshot…how quaint."

Lily nodded and smiled warmly, folding the picture of Peter down until it fit into her pocket, "It's very nice to meet you, Miss Bathilda. I'm Lily. Lily Potter."

Bathilda looked up at her and affected a cringe of a smile, "Mrs. Potter. A pleasure…all things considered."

With a last promise to alert her husband to the missing child, Lily entered the store. It really had cooled off. She should have worn something more weather appropriate.

Ah well…she wouldn't be long.

And with that encouraging thought, Lily grabbed a basket and set about doing her shopping.

Not for the first time—she was thankful Harry was safe in such good hands. Anything could happen anywhere it seemed.

That poor Peter child…

-v-

xXOXx

-v-

Tom watched—smug and hawk eyed, as Harry closed out the cell line on his mother, whom he hadn't even brought up the topic of what number he was using with, nor any invitations to call him back on said line—before shutting her well away.

Tom tilted his head, causing his ebony bangs to overshadow his sharp gaze whilst he methodically chopped and diced vegetables in the kitchen for their dinner. From his good vantage point, he keenly observed Harry perched easily on the couch.

He'd given the cell to his boy earlier after he'd gotten home and been greeted so effusively at the door. It had been most pleasing to receive so much reception upon entering his once vacant and spartanly appointed, but elegantly masculinized apartment.

It was a vague memory how empty the components of his lifestyle had been without having Harry in his grasp, in his reach, in his space like this…

He did not dwell on what had been. He focused entirely on what now was…and could always be.

As he chopped and washed and prepped the trappings of dinner for two, Tom smiled idly…stealing many glances of his boy during the process and approving of what he saw.

Harry looked at home, relaxed, and utterly content. Like a cat stretched out in the evening sun streaming through the curtains, just waiting to be pet and pampered by the hands of his dedicated master.

It was so simple to imagine a future with Harry…mirroring the ease which suffused their bubble wrapped world.

Tom would be working behind the scenes, manipulating pieces to his advantage as was his wont, supporting their comfortable and luxurious lifestyle in the efficient way only he could manage.

They'd be able to do anything, go anywhere, and experience whatever they wanted to…together.

The world would be spread out before them, ripe for the pickings. Harry could find something he enjoyed and do it alongside Tom, and Tom would do all he could to make sure Harry's chosen field remained lucrative and fulfilling for his boy as he pursued such purposes.

Harry had talent…he could do whatever he wanted. Tom would see to it.

And every night—they'd sleep together and wake up together the next morning. And every evening they'd eat together and talk together and be together without any outside interference or unnecessary drama.

Harry would call his parents, say hi and hang up. Content to know they exist and continue to exist healthy in a place nearby. Tom would, every now and again…accept calls from that Luna-girl, the figurehead of Harry's social life…and allow her to keep his Harry otherwise amused beneath the watchfulness of his eyes and attuned ears.

Harry would be more than satisfied with his lot in life with Tom.

Tom would be more than satisfied with his lot in life with Harry.

They'd be together and contented with each other forever. Any disruptions to their lifestyle would be swiftly headed off and dealt with most expeditiously.

There was literally no reason this couldn't be. There was literally nothing stopping this future from manifesting into being.

Tom was hungry for it. Tom craved this…

"You sure you don't want h-help in there?" Harry's lilting voice filtered through Tom's musings and provoked a smirk to come creeping onto his lips, "You can come watch at the bar, but I require no assistance, darling. Let me do this for us. I enjoy it."

Tom could hear the sullen pout in Harry's voice as he spoke, and he chuckled as the sound of the barstool sliding noisily backwards—accompanied by a huff from his boy, could be heard behind his turned back stood at the stove.

"Y-you're determined to make me a loafer. That's r-rather awful you know…"

Tom tutted and spun around as he set the veggies to simmering in their seasonings and olive oil. "Harry…you need only relax and let me care for you. I do not want to work you in your home with me."

Tom eyed the pleasing flush staining Harry's cheeks as his boy glared attractively up at him, now leaned over the island and hovering in front of Harry's upturned face.

"Maybe I w-want to do things with you. Maybe I want to help."

Tom smiled—a slow and devious smile, leaning in until his breath wafted against Harry's sensitive ear as he huskily purred, "But we do things together all the time…sweetling. Shouldn't you take a break and let your body get the rest it deserves? I would hate for you to be exhausted."

Harry meeped and jumped in his seat as Tom swiftly swiped his long, wet tongue from Harry's ear lobe to the uppermost point—before biting down gently on the delicate, pink skin thereof.

Harry's hand reflexively shot up to clutch his molested ear as Tom pulled away with a predatory grin and mischievous glint in his shining, hazel eyes—stepping unhurriedly away from Harry to attend to dinner again and whistling playfully under his breath as Harry ineffectually flipped him off and cursed colorfully in embarrassment, shifting all the while on the stool beneath the unfortunate burden of inopportune arousal.

Harry bristled and glared heatedly at Tom's broad shouldered, firm backside—swaying back and forth to some private melody, and being further accentuated by the apron he had cinched around his waist.

Yes…Tom mused; he could very well live with the prolonging of this state of affairs.

"Dinner's nearly done, you can get washed up. Set the plates out if you like, that much I'll allow."

Harry grumbled and hopped stiffly off the barstool, pinching Tom's thigh rather viciously as he brushed past the taller teen on his altered path to the sink, and grinning victoriously as Tom flinched and shot him a burning look.

"Idle hands. My apologies, Tom."

Harry sing-songed as he washed up and got the plates set out as Tom had directed.

In another heartbeat, Tom had his apron off and was suddenly pressed up close behind him (after having set their food to warm)—and Harry yelped as long arms locked secure around his slender waist, and Tom began mouthing and alternatively nipping sharply at the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

"Haa…w-what about…nngh…dinner?" Harry panted unsteadily, and tilted his head further to the side. Giving Tom more access as his lips and teeth wandered up the side of his boy's neck.

"It'll keep." Tom rasped hotly against Harry's skin, before setting about wrecking his boy in all the very best ways.

That evening—Tom's kitchen counter got quite the christening.

-v-

Harry shuddered and cried out as Tom slid roughly into him, moaning a guttural…dark thing from deep in his chest as Harry's hands scrabbled at the marbled countertop, searching for purchase unavailable on the smooth, hard surface he was sliding back and forth so wetly upon with every mighty snap and roll of Tom's thrusting hips, building up to a punishing crescendo that had Harry forgetting the right way to breathe.

"AH! Tooooom! NGHAAA!"

"You're mine…Harry…" Tom grunted through harsh panting, never damaging his rhythm as he poured his sentiments thickly, insidiously through Harry's reddened ears. His sinister murmurings being outdone by Harry's wanton screams as Tom rhythmically pounded him.

"Every inch of you…haa haah…every part of your flesh…aah…your mind…body…and soul…HAH…is MINE!"

Half crazed and feverish, Tom leaned in—bending Harry's supple form near double as he captured those gasping lips with his own in a positively filthy, open mouthed kiss—which was more a violent clashing of teeth and tongues than anything truly mechanized.

As he licked into that gaping maw, stealing the remaining precious air from Harry's lungs, Tom thrust harder…tirelessly moaning his own pleasure alongside Harry as he grabbed hold of the bobbing length of flesh pressed so tightly between them, purpling at the mushroomed tip and dribbling precum messily between their slippery bodies.

Harry's chest heaved rapidly for the dual sensation of Tom jerking him off as he stimulated his prostate to the point where Harry wanted to push him away, and simultaneously hold him so tight their flesh fused together in one molten lump, inseparable by any scientific maneuvering.

When they came, they came together—with Harry's climax exploding so aggressively from him that spots mottled and swallowed his vision, and Tom slumped boneless against him splayed upon the countertop…weighing Harry down and pulling out slowly after a few drawn out moments, provoking a wince and wracking shiver from his boy as his essence leaked copiously from Harry's abused, and tenderly throbbing channel.

Harry puffed and gasped, and hooked his limp arms loosely around Tom's neck as Tom laboriously caught his own breath, and hovered above him—leveraging Harry's upper half from the countertop carefully as he stood fully upright between Harry's still widely splayed legs, now both dangling from opposing crooks of his strong arms.

"Haa…hah…ah…we sh-should…clean up…" Harry whispered, red faced and delicate as he felt the cum leaking from his body, feeling utterly exposed and deliciously dirty as Tom breathily sighed a laugh, and tenderly kissed the side of his sweaty forehead and warm cheek.

"That can be arranged. But first…" Harry blinked as Tom pressed him progressively backwards, until he was once more lying flat against the counter with his lower half being supported by Tom in the air.

Opening his mouth in question, Harry suddenly squeaked as Tom ducked down and ravenously licked him from his tailbone to the sensitive underside of his hanging sac and sensitized member.

Moaning a guttural moan in carnal appreciation for the taste of Harry intermingled with his creamy seed—Tom glanced up through disheveled bangs, to catch and hold Harry's lustfully dilated and glazed eyes with his own.

With a last wicked smirk—Tom set about cleansing Harry in the dirtiest of ways…to the litany of his name being chanted on Harry's bruised lips as he so thoroughly ate him out.

Needless to say…dinner was rather late that evening.

-v-

xXOXx

-v-

Peter had been an odd duck.

The first time he'd come to visit, he'd asked her about her photography days. Back when she'd been a pro at dark rooms and fancy lenses and hand crafted filters, instead of selling candid shots to tabloids to make a quick buck enough to keep her belly fed in the sensationalist days.

She used to be good at her job. An old hand at fundamental manipulation and human interest pieces, before she fell out of favor for being an indiscriminate whistle blower.

Everybody was fair game back in her golden years. Meaning—everybody had a bone to pick with her at one time or another.

She still remembered living next door to this high profile family of four, two brothers, a sister, and a mother, living together in solitude due to the mental instability of the youngest girl child.

It had been by chance that she witnessed something she shouldn't have.

It had been a stroke of luck that she'd caught a murder on camera.

If she'd come to light with that, it would've made her career. But like all damaging information and evidence, a lot of people were far keener on covering things up and shutting her down about her knowledge when she'd attempted to take it to press.

She'd had to go on the run. Effectively ending her high profile career and falling into obscurity for her personal safety.

In those days, a woman had few options outside of specialist fields to get ahead in life. And with her photographic savvy keeping her on the most wanted lists of higher ups in society with big things to hide, she'd been made to hang up her lens in favor of crafts less likely to get her killed in her sleep by some misfortune.

Self-preservation won out over her desire to see dirty laundry aired beneath the noses of the critical masses.

It had been her life or her craft.

After living a less than stellar existence of grunt work and less lucrative, but safer modes of subsistence, Bathilda had emigrated across the continent and settled down with a banker—one Bernard Bagshot.

He'd been the old fashioned type, a decade older and a stickler for women working in the house and men taking the reins in all the important sectors.

Bathilda hadn't been so much in love as she was in a new place with no other means to live comfortably on her own. She'd been pretty enough back then to inspire vows and matrimony.

And considering she'd been smart enough to keep her past…indiscretions…to herself, Bernard hadn't caught wind of her true capabilities until they were well and truly ensconced in married life with a small brood of their own.

It didn't take long for their wedded bliss to fall apart after he found out.

Apparently…news traveled.

And being involved as Bernard had been with certain law abiding and dodgy citizens, her name came up as someone to be on lookout for when he was dealing with certain matters after official hours in smoky back rooms and masculine pub joints.

Bathilda hadn't been a common moniker.

She'd always cursed her pride in attaching her work to her actual name, rather than a pseud. But pride hadn't let her not take direct credit for her efforts.

It wasn't until their eldest went away to college in the Midwest and their youngest was set to graduate from high school, that Bernard and she had called it quits. By that time, they'd been well and truly on the rocks…and nothing could have saved them.

His paranoia and shouted accusations after the cops began sniffing around his place of business were enough to disturb the neighborhood on a weekly basis.

After their split, Bernard had gotten into some real trouble with the law and wound up in prison—where he was driven to commit suicide.

Their eldest had joined the Peace Corps and gotten himself killed in some skirmish overseas. And their remaining youngest…was the victim of a drive-by in Kansas.

By the time she'd hit sixty, she was the last living direct Bagshot…with none save Bernard's less than caring branches of family to look after her interests. It didn't take long for her own resulting solitude to drive her up the wall and half out of her mind.

Less than a full decade later she'd been consigned to the home by Bernard's youngest sister and Brother In-law, who wanted the deed to the house he'd left her to finance their own business ventures, and thus needed her well out of the way.

They left her consigned to rot in the nearest home without a backward glance.

It was there that she'd spent that past seven years convalescing and growing progressively frail and detached from reality.

The home wasn't a prison, they had all the conveniences you would expect of a modern appointment…but there was nothing really there to inspire you to live.

It had been Peter who'd given her something to look forward to again.

He said he'd been volunteering for a school assignment in humanities, and he'd wanted to interview her because she seemed the most interesting and cognizant elder person in residence.

He hadn't been off base. And she'd humored him.

Eventually they'd struck up a…friendship of sorts. And Bathilda found Peter to be quite the odd duck.

A boy of thirteen shouldn't have been so eager to spend time at an old folk's home, but apparently he liked having an excuse to not be at his home.

That was when she found out about his living situation. Her sympathies and motherly instincts had been reawakened after long slumber.

Memories of her own long ago home life in less than stellar conditions as a girl, which had driven her need for purpose and set her on her most colorful photographic past, had come unbidden back to mind.

It was from that point on that she'd resolved to give that child something with which to take his mind off his woes, and perhaps facilitate his transition into a functional member of society.

Or at least give him a nice hobby to fixate upon.

And so…in return for his constant narration of life outside the walls of the boring home in which she lived, she taught him about photography and how to be invisible to get the best out of loaded situations.

It had been fun to impart her secrets of subterfuge and sleuthing.

It had been fun to see him take to her teachings like a fish in water.

Over the years they'd known each other, until he started his junior year at Hogwarts, they'd kept in touch and tended to have biweekly sessions—to which Bathilda always looked forward.

The longest he'd ever gone had been a couple missed weeks during the summers, when he'd had to attend remedial lessons.

But beyond that, he'd always been faithful to their friendship.

It was what clued her in that something was wrong. The last she'd heard, he'd been having a stellar time at Hogwarts—as he'd found a subject worth his catalogue within those halls and was more than pleased to discuss it with her.

Apparently he was…quite taken with a guy, who went by the surname Riddle…and he quite enjoyed harmlessly shadowing and admiring his prowess from afar.

Bathilda wasn't unfamiliar with the type.

Peter hadn't been shy about showing her his album, the scattered times she'd inquired about his progress. It was quite extensive and well done, in her professional opinion.

She could see why the Riddle had captured her Peter's attention so. Even on camera, the young man was magnetic…in an unsettling way.

She couldn't put her finger exactly on it—but she knew just by looking, that there was quite a lot hidden beneath the surface. It was enough to give her pause and make her pay attention even more during Peter's tales.

Unerringly…his stories seemed to center around his classmates, and that Riddle character in particular.

He could go on for hours about the accomplishments of that one, and it was quite warming how he had someone to so obviously look up to in his life.

Bathilda only hoped her instincts on this matter weren't quite on point, because although rusty…she'd always had a nose for trouble.

It was how come she'd been so good at her job back in the day. Somehow—she'd always known where to look to sniff out a story. From there, it'd been a matter of catching the right angle in a shot.

She'd done her best to impart her keener insights in a roundabout way to Peter, but he had a tendency to brush off her concerns and deliberately extol the virtues of his chosen subject matter.

So she'd let the matter rest. After all, how much trouble could a young man her Peter's age nowadays really be? The world was a different place from when she was young.

There wasn't sufficient enough cause for maintaining the wariness young people already out in the world once garnered in their teen years, already being considered adult enough to be justice offenders.

Even if he did have that look…she had the rationalized hope that it was merely future potential she was picking up on, rather than anything worrying at present. And thus, such foreshadowing could be overlooked.

It hadn't been until most recently that she'd had her worries and suspicions roused once more.

It had been the last week of October when she'd last seen Peter, and he'd been over the moon. Apparently he'd been taking so many shots that he'd run out of space in his album and had to purchase a new one.

And these shots…were far more candid than even his earlier distant works.

She would call them borderline inappropriate…from a professional standpoint. They were the type of shots that she would've been given endless flack for in her day.

But she understood the appeal—as they were very well taken.

Peter had always been a quick study. She'd praised and cautioned him not to get so close that he couldn't see the noose tightening round his own neck when he worked.

Peter had merely smiled his smile, and told her he had the perfect idea for a portfolio closer.

Bathilda had smiled back and nodded right along, even as long silent bells were dimly chiming in her murky subconscious about warning the boy off his quest.

Not for the first time—she castigated herself for not being more proactive in warning the child. It was obvious that he'd fallen into some kind of pit…and she didn't know that it was one she could pull him out of…but she would try her damndest.

She owed him that much.

He was the last of her chosen family.

The others did not count. She'd never wanted them, nor they her.

At least with Peter…she knew he held affection and respect for her. And with all his oddness, she never got the feeling he was being artificial with her.

It had been his unrestrained honesty and legitimate interest that had gotten her to take such a shine to his company. She would not betray him by giving him up for lost just yet.

It had been over a month since she'd seen him, and now—she was actively searching him out.

The first bit of real progress she'd been able to make had been her encounter with that Lily Potter. Her bones weren't near as strong as they'd once been, and so the chill wind outdoors blew straight through her.

Thus…her canvassing of the area was relegated to places like the grocery store parking lot and general town areas where people frequented, and the home allowed their residences to be chauffeured unchaperoned to and from—the ones still capable of such independent feats.

She could only do so much as one little old lady.

It galled, but couldn't be helped.

She'd reached out to Ms. Pettigrew a week or so prior to her outing, but the woman hadn't even been fully cognizant of her missing son's status—and only brazenly maintained that he'd show up whenever he got hungry again.

Bathilda would have railed on the woman then and there and gotten the police involved, if she'd thought such a ruckus would have helped the situation any.

Apparently, his mother was Peter's only viable relative. And should she be declared incompetent as she was…Peter could wind up in an even less comfortable situation in foster care, being that no one upstanding ever wanted a child so past the majority age threshold.

And Peter…well, he wasn't much to look at—in truth. Bathilda wasn't blind. She merely saw beyond his unfortunate countenance into what recommended him as an actual person.

There was spunk and dedication in the boy. He at least had the courage to chase what he loved, even if he never held it in reality.

He admired what he admired and didn't apologize for it.

Bathilda could respect that. So many people liked things and made excuses for the liking, because they were ashamed.

It was refreshing to not have that particular hang-up to contend with when it came to Peter. She was too old to deal with the wishy-washiness of people who hid from and feared their desires.

Hell…she'd lived her own life running away for far too long in the wake of her history to be able to stomach any such additional drama.

If there was nothing else she knew, it was that life was too short to spend on things you didn't really want to be doing.

Peter…he did what he wanted, what he enjoyed.

And Bathilda was happy to have been able to facilitate and support his interests. Now…if only she could track him down and be sure that he was safe again.

It was all she wanted. And she was too old to not get what she wanted.

No matter how long it took. She would see this matter resolved.

-v-

xXOXx

-v-

She'd never wanted to be a mother.

The one time she'd spread her legs for a man who'd have her, it'd been for the specific purpose of being paid for her services…such as they were.

Money was hard to come by with her education levels, and she'd never been a looker. But a hole was a hole and if you found the right place, all could be bartered.

It had been a whim to keep it—not out of any true attachment to the thing, but because there was a thing called government assistance, and abortions left scars and cost more money than she'd been willing to cough out.

She may not have been pretty, but she didn't want to be cut on.

When the baby came, she'd been largely alone for the process. Her parents weren't better than herself and so passed on their values…or lack thereof…to their only child—Gertrude Pettigrew.

If you get saddled with a lemon, go make lemonade…and spit in it. That'll show the bastards.

So what had she done? She'd grown the thing.

It was easy being on welfare, and the nearby school district accepted charity cases easily enough with their sympathetic learners program.

Diapers and formula were a pain, but eventually it learned to use a pot. And they'd been able to live quite comfortably in government housing for the duration of its formative and adolescent years.

She'd named it Peter. After her uncle who'd passed away before she'd reached high school, and had been more decent to her than her parents for a brief time…even though he was a degenerate.

That was as far as that sentiment stretched.

When Peter got up size enough to be left at home unattended, she'd started bar hopping in the disreputable parts of town to drown her sorrows…and coming home at all hours drunk off her ass to a child barely able to string a proper sentence together wasn't the highlight of her day.

Peter had always been a slow bugger.

She'd thought he may've been one of those autistic things…or at least mentally handicapped.

But no—turns out he was just stupid and anxiety prone, also ugly. She could say it. They were related and she knew where he got his genes.

At the very least, she did make sure he had regular meals. The fridge stayed full on food stamps, and she cooked bulk meals in pots well enough to last them for weeks at a time…whenever she was so inclined to partake in regular meals with the kid.

Every time she looked at him, with his rat like features and unfortunate capabilities…she saw vague impressions of the customer she remembered grunting on top of her still virginized younger self.

If she'd been kind, she'd have gotten rid of him. As matters stood they coexisted well enough.

Especially now when he didn't even come home regularly—she didn't mind his whereabouts, he'd often skived off whenever she was in her funkier moods and done whatever it was that kept him out of trouble.

So long as he did come back eventually, she didn't worry about him.

He was over four feet tall now. He could handle himself.

It was no surprise that with the advent of winter and arrival of the holiday season, she'd been even less inclined to pay attention to her child than normal. It was always around this time of year that she went on her worst benders.

Losing days and often weeks of time from her recollection and waking up to the New Year none the wiser to whatever the hell happened that past month.

It was just the way of things.

Not everybody had what it took to be a parent or productive member of society.

She'd gotten a random call some days ago from a lady asking after Peter, questioning where he was and if she'd reported him missing to the authorities.

In no uncertain terms, as she'd been nursing the mother of all hangovers at the time and feeling far less than charitable about the world and life at large—she'd told the lady to bug off.

Said Peter would come home whenever he got hungry again, and what went on in her house with her kid was none of her goddamn business—thank you very much.

To the litany of undeserved scorn and indignant words, Gertrude had hung up the line and never heard from that lady again.

It'd struck her as vaguely odd then that she hadn't seen Peter in a minute…but he was always skulking about, so she'd probably just missed him coming and going during her own absences and instances of better things to do.

Whoever that lady had been had no right to judge her.

She'd brought the kid this far, had even gotten him meds for that stupid anxiety disorder—which counted as a mental detriment which the government footed the bill for.

Otherwise—she'd have just told him to suck it up and get a paper bag. It wouldn't kill him to be a little more on edge than most, and those pills were more expensive out of pocket than something that small had any right to be.

Nevermind her own drug habits—she only indulged when she got freebies. But alcoholism and negligence were her main vices of choice.

It was so much easier to maintain a drinking habit and ignore a child you never wanted…than to be strung out on anything so strong as to be fundamentally detrimental to her body systems.

The way Gertrude saw it, she could be so much worse.

And again, he was alive and kicking. That was more than could be said for most. Far be it for her to question what a teenager got up to nowadays.

When you lived in the Knockturn district, there were bound to be any number of unsavory things to be caught up in.

At least Peter hadn't yet been to prison, and was allowed to attend Hogwarts…despite his limitations. As it was the only available school around and remained quite a reputable institution, all things considered.

Surely he could make something half decent of himself with those prospects.

Gertrude wouldn't know. She just gave birth to it, and fed and sheltered it.

Her life was basically over at this point, so what did she care what he did with his? She likely wouldn't be around to see or care…getting up in age as she was.

Taking everything in her life into consideration as it had now become, just left her embittered and depressed; so she did her utmost to simply smudge it all out.

And if it took her until late December, a week before Christmas to realize the child she'd never wanted could possibly be legit missing…well…sucks to be her charge.

-v-

In all her years, Gertrude had never actually been arrested.

She'd come close a scant few times for drunk driving and disorderly conduct in public facilities at stupid o'clock…but never had she been legit behind bars.

Now she was sitting at the station, bouncing her leg and staring blankly up at the festively decorated bulletin board on Christmas Eve, dry mouthed and low key panicking as she stared at a tacked up flyer with her son's face on it—staring morosely out at her beneath the words Have you seen this Child.

This was the one time in her life that she had a very real fear of being put away.

This was the one time in her life that Gertrude wished she were a better mother. If only to prevent the advent of the conversation she was being made to have with an officer of the law, who would soon have her in cuffs for what she'd so negligently allowed to go unreported this long.

"Ms. Pettigrew…what you are telling me is…you have no idea where your son could be or has been except school…for the past month and a half?"

"Yessir, officer." Gertrude's gut churned unpleasantly for the policeman's unimpressed look. She did so hate being judged.

"You have allowed a minor in your care to go unreported as missing for over a month and a half because of sheer negligence?"

"He's always been independent, sir. He don't do nothing wrong…just a little stupid is all. He always came back when I 'spected him to…"

The officer pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a largely put upon sigh. Christmas Eve was not the time to be dealing with a case of such bad parenting and a missing child.

Not the time at all.

"This case…your child…came across our desk a short while ago, and we've merely been backed up to the point of not contacting you until now—Ms. Pettigrew. I do hope you understand the urgency and unlikelihood of us making actual progress on this matter any time soon. Due to your ineptitude as a parent and failure to promptly report his status…any evidence we may have been able to gather at the beginning is well and truly lost to us. Surely you understand the magnitude of your involvement…or lack thereof."

"Yessir, officer."

The officer grit his teeth and began typing at his desktop computer and asking her routine questions about her son, the majority of which were common knowledge for anyone looking at his birth certificate.

The more personal the questions got, the less she was able to tell him…and the more irate and short with her he became.

"Do you know of any friends we might interview on your boy's behalf in order to learn more about his circumstances? Anyone at all…"

Gertrude averted her eyes from the officer's hard stare, and she mumbled beneath her breath, "There was a lady…who called the house. 'Bout a week or two ago…I dunno…she seemed to know him…well…"

"What was her name?" The officer tapped his finger against the keyboard impatiently.

Gertrude winced. "I never got it. But the number…should be on record. I'm sure."

The officer picked up the phone beside him and dialed a series of numbers, giving Gertrude the permanent stink eye all the while.

"Patrick. I need a warrant for all phone records on Ms. Gertrude Pettigrew. Stat."

Gertrude balked. "What d'you mean all? It's just one number!"

"I need to be sure you're not providing a falsehood about the person who called. Standard procedure, ma'am…nothing more."

"I'm telling you I only spoke with her once! I don't even know who she is."

The officer frowned, "You are in no position to hinder this investigation. As it stands, should your child not turn up within the next three months of our investigation, you will be charged with criminal neglect and jailed, heftily fined, or both for your misconduct. This is not a matter up for debate."

Gertrude felt indignant, sour tears fill her dull eyes and her throat closed up unexpectedly as she hung her head.

It was just her luck. The thing she so needlessly kept and apparently lost…would be the reason her life was inexorably ruined.

Not like it was anything special in the first place. But at least she had been living it…well enough.

Dammit all…

Happy freaking Christmas Eve.

-v-

End Violation.

-v-

A/N: Geh…Happy Holidays peeps!

I'm not even sure how to feel about this –Violation-…I could've made it longer, but I wanted you all to have something enough to get you going before Christmas Day. When hopefully you'll all be safely ensconced in your respective homes with whatever loved ones you're able to see during this turbulent time.

Ahhh…2020 is finally about to leave us all alone. T-T #TrueBlessings

In any case, I hope my fudging around with the timeline didn't feel too jarring. I know it wasn't explicitly stated, but we're kinda keeping pace with the actual seasons right now…even though this fic takes place way before the current climate.

I do try to be a little #Festive.

For a dead guy, Peter sure gets around…huh?

I look forward to hearing back from each and every one of you wonderful readers, and do hope you all enjoyed this –Violation- to the fullest.

Feel free to spitball plot devices in the comments, as #DaMuses be getting ravenous for #NewYearDrama.

I'm also kicking around a #SpecialFluffy holiday segment for all our favorite lead charas…but I could use a bit of legit inspiration for cuddly seasonal scenes. I appreciate the holidays but have never really celebrated anything but New Years with the FAM.

So if you wanna see some Mistletoe and Caroling and such—you're gonna have to prod me with a #Big-Stick.

Otherwise…we may just do another time-skipish thing to New Year's Eve…which is Tom's b-day. ^-^ I don't wanna waste Christmas…but I also don't wanna just rip off the Hallmark channel and make you guys puke candy canes.

Until Next Time,

Have a safe one and stay frosty! Cheers ~

P.S.: Because I'm playing catch-up and still being half-lazy...just a tad...I'm leaving the original ANs in tact as I put these Violations out in order to make sure we don't lose out on any possible extra informative tidbits for the fic.

This Violation was originally updated on AO3 at the coinciding time period during 2020...but it's only just now making it here.

Once again-I must stress the importance of feedback.

I know...I know. Cheap shot, but I do so adore commentary and hearing back from my readers (to make sure you all exist).

It motivates me like nothing else-even when all I legit have to do is edit and post, rather than write a whole new thing from start to finish.

This is me being #HellaNeedy. So yeah.

Sue me. 😅 Or Love me and tell me about it. That works too. Much better. 💓😃💓

Obligatory Disclaimer: I should stop. But I know #DaRules. So no. No. NO. Begone SATAN! #ThrowsSalt

~ Ravenslith-FledglingMoon ~ 🌺🐍🌕