Preface
We'll Play in ShadowsPosted originally on the Archive of Our Own at /works/16477700.
Rating:
Mature
Archive Warning:
Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category:
F/F, F/M, M/M
Fandom:
Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship:
Harry Potter/Bill Weasley, James Potter/Lily Potter, Charlus Potter/Dorea Potter, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle Voldemort
Character:
Harry Potter, Bill Weasley, James Potter, Lily Potter, Charlus Potter, Dorea Potter, Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Andromeda Tonks, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Iolanthe Peverell, Josmey (OC), Albus Dumbledore
Additional Tags:
Wrong-Boy-Who-Lived, Child Abuse, Prophecies, Dark Grey Harry Potter, Epic, W.I.P
Stats:
Published: 2018-10-31 Updated: 2018-12-29 Chapters: 2/? Words: 25706
We'll Play in Shadows
by SelectiveSilence
Summary
"I must say Harry," Voldemort admitted softly, rounding the tombstone, pale fingers trailing over the headstone of his father's grave. "I did not expect it to be you."
Harry shrugged, the piercings lining his ear catching the moonlight and drawing Voldemort's warbright gaze as a teasing smile stretched his face. "What can I say? People rarely expect much of me. Oh, before I forget — here."
Hands moving on instinct, Voldemort snatched the object tossed at him, eye twitching as droplets splashed upon his face. Lowering his hands, he glared at the impetuous boy, then looked down. Emotion abandoned him, jaw clenching, knuckles whitening as he took in his...his...
"This is..." he began, trailing off numbly as soul-deep horror clawed its way to his (arguably non-existent) heart.
"Your Diary?" Harry offered, brushing the mildew off the top of a headstone and taking a seat. "Yes."
" Why is it wet?!"
"Ah. Er...heh," rubbing the branching lightening-silver scars across his neck, Harry coughed. "Funny story that. Turns out, Veriteserum doesn't evaporate. It just...kind of... absorbs."
Notes
In celebration of NaNoWriMo, I am posting the first chapter of a new fic.
For everybody reading Stranger Things Did Happen, you guys (warning for apparently politically incorrect word usage) are awesome! My finals started yesterday. That's right, yesterday. I have another three to go before I am freeeeee.
Anyway, as an author (*input wise philosophical voice-over*) it is our responsibility, to maintain integrity, to redesign the cliché (*voice-over says this in a clearly fake and poorly practiced exaggerated French accent*) and, well...(*cut the voice-over*) I couldn't resist.
Also, when the plot bunnies storm your house, hogtie you to the squashy chair, threaten to smash your iPad and stab you with a pen... you bloody well listen...
So, here. Enjoy.
Chapter 1
Chapter One
"...we've made our friends — and our enemies — so now is the time to use that, to be what we want to be and let nobody stand in our way! We have worked hard to stand here today, to make our own futures! Today —" a pause, a breath, and then the Head Boy roared "TODAY WE CELEBRATE!"
Flashing his signature crooked grin, arm outspread as the gathered Graduating Body burst into thunderous applause, tossing a wink out to Sirius, James Potter waited for the noise to die down. "No more responsibility, I say! Nay! We will be responsible only for that which we choose ourselves! And so, ladies and gentlefolk, it is my greatest honour to thank this class for one of the grandest Hogwart's experiences this ancient castle will ever see!"
There was scattered laughter, subdued chuckling coming from some of the gathered parents — all Light families, James mentally noted, the Darkie's too stuck up to bother showing their appreciation — that grew as he raised his arm, miming holding a glass only for, with a flick of his wand, a champagne glass to appear. Pivoting slightly so as to include the professors, his grin widened mischievously. "Of course, our thanks go to Minnie — pardon me, Professor McGonagall, and Headmaster Albus Dumbledore..."
Sitting along the platform, back straight, ankles crossed, Lily Evan's missed the rest of the speech, James' words drowned out by the mess of noise as the crowd once again applauded, bright lights flashing from the hired photographers, her heartbeat throbbing in her ears.
She couldn't believe it. This was her graduation day, the day she had worked towards for so long, the threshold of her acceptance into the wizardry community and...and...she was going to be sick.
Swallowing back the bile, Lily blinked, seeing nothing but a sickening swirl of colours, wide smiles, dark robes. It was too much. James too loud. Pressure too heavy.
Never before had the looming chasm of the rest of her life seemed so daunting, so isolated. Unbidden, her eyes sought out Severus, hoping to find the support that she had always been able to find there. When she found him, however, there was nothing in the darkened orbs but pain when the sallow boy glanced at her. Nothing, then.
Oh, god...she regretted it all.
In a daze, she was aware of her hands moving, clapping politely as McGonagall concluded her speech, aware of rising from her seat, lining up, diplomas handed out in crushed velvet crimson ribbon and fresh parchment, smiling. Always smiling. Reality slowly drew back in as she found herself standing alone in a corner. The people around were embracing, students graced with hugs by family members, greeting those who had turned up. There was a glass in her hand, and she could only stare at it for a moment in a muted sort of manner, emotion out of her reach, until it clicked; it was an alcoholic beverage — champagne, wasn't it? Imported from France? Hadn't the Slytherin's been talking about it? Could — she couldn't drink it. Numb fingers almost dropped the glass — no doubt crystal, it had been donated by Purebloods, after all — when that thought raced through her mind.
Drawing in a deep breath and carefully setting down the glass, Lily made her way through the crowd. She was grateful for her height as she caught sight of James standing with his Aunt and Uncle, Sirius hovering by his elbow, Remus never too far away.
James looked up as she approached, a wide beaming smile on his face and...she kind of wanted to hit it off. But that would be rude. So she wouldn't...right now.
His hand reached out to draw her closer, and the effect was instantaneous. No sooner had he slipped his arm around her waste and pulled her closer than his Aunt and Uncle were zeroing in on her, leaving her to desperately squash the urge to gulp and cower away. It was the first of the Potter family she had ever met — James' parents having passed away a little over a year before.
Unaware of her anxiety, James simply beamed, looking at his guardians. "Aunt, Uncle, this here is Lily Evans," he began excitedly. "Lil's, this is m'Aunt Dorea and Uncle Charlus. Charlus was dad's little brother."
Casting a hesitant look at James, Lily fixed a shy smile on her face, extending a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Her hand was instantly caught up by Charlus, but Lily didn't miss the slight wrinkle of Dorea's nose, leaving her wondering what had displeased her as her hand was vigorously pumped. "You'll be James' girl then, won't you? Heh, boy always did have a good eye. Say, how's he been treating you?" Charlus asked, voice deep but kind.
Blinking rapidly while James' spluttered, Lily floundered. "Err, well. Very well...wonderfully, actually, and, ah, yes."
It was Dorea, surprisingly, that whacked a manicured hand on her husband's arm, shooting him a scolding look, but, if Lily saw right, there was a great deal more fondness than anger in the woman's grey eyes.
Flushed despite the teasing she had put up with in Gryffindor Common, Lily took the opportunity presented, slipping her hand into James. "I apologise for the interruption, but I actually came to steal James away for a bit, if you don't mind?"
It was in short order that Charlus waved them off and Lily was dragging a perplexed Gryffindor behind her. Everybody, and she meant everybody, was ignored in her pursuit of a private room, which she found in the form of a corridor running off from the Great Hall's Antechamber. Rough-hewn dark stone looming over their heads, sconces burning lowly in this rarely frequented part of the castle, the solid thud of the door she slammed open, her nerves worked into a right state, reverberated with a haunting weight.
She knew, in the next few minutes, whatever happened...none of it would be like how she planned.
She tugged James into the room, heaving the door shut behind them even as her wand flew, silencing and privacy charms layering up like snow in the Cairngorms. Without looking at her...what was he? Boyfriend? Friends with benefits? Guy... buddy?
Well, whatever. Without looking at James, Lily paced to the other side of the room, dust swirling up in the wake of her robes and grey light filtering through the grime-coated windows. The stage set was bleak, uncomfortable, perhaps even a little foreboding, and she could not help but think bitterly that it fitted the news she had discovered this morning perfectly.
Arms crossed, a few moments passed in frigid silence as Lily arranged her thoughts. James, for once, was silent; that masculine survival instinct kicking in and somehow knowing that whatever Lily wanted to say, it had to be tremendously important.
Finally, Lily stopped in her pacing, head raising as she pierced James with a discerning stare, licking her lips.
"I'm pregnant."
Her expression didn't change even as the Head Boy's world came crashing down.
"Pa-pardon?" He rasped, eye's wide behind his glasses.
"Pregnant, James. I'm pregnant!" Lily whispered furiously, scared that she would start screaming if she let it out.
"Shit," James muttered, running a hand anxiously through his hair, tugging at the strands. " Shit."
This was...bloody nightmare and fuck...how did it, just... " How ?"
Lily sneered at the strangled question. "How do you think, Potter? I let you," her hands fluttered, trying to find an appropriate word, " do me, and the charms didn't work!"
"What charms?"
"What do you mean, what charms?"
"What charms did you use?"
Lily froze, then very slowly fixed him with a deadly look, auburn eyebrow's drawn together and freckles absent against her flushed cheeks. "You told me," she began, quietly, with a threatening edge, "that you had applied the contraception charms. I specifically asked you, and you told me you had done them."
Well, double shit. Still... "Even so, why didn't you use any?"
"I didn't know any! I'm not the one that slept my way through Hogwarts!"
"Oi, that's not fai—"
"SHUT UP JAMES!" Lily screamed, James flinching back. Digging the heel of her palms into her eyes, Lily swore viciously, the word's smothered by her hands. "Just...just shut up. I don't care how it happened. It happened. It did. Now... now we have to figure out what we are going to do about it."
This...this pulled James up short. He had thought it was a forgone conclusion.
"What do you mean, do about it?" He asked warily. Yes, he may advocate the rights of muggleborns, and support Dumbledore's campaign in the war but, still...stories had filtered through the Families about some muggle practices...
Grass-green eyes hard and cold, Lily pursued her lips, arms tightening. "I don't want it."
James winced. Yeah, that's what he'd been afraid of.
Leaning back against the door, mimicking Lily's position of crossed arms, he eyed the distance between them. Gearing up for what he knew was going to be a poorly received conversation, James internally wandered why this had to happen with a muggleborn, instead of one of the half-bloods, who would have understood the importance of children. Lily didn't get that, she didn't get how desperately small Britain's population was.
He loved her, truly; but sometimes...sometimes it was exhausting having to explain their culture over and over again.
"You can't get rid of it," he finally said, firmly, chin jutted out stubbornly.
Her eyes spat fire, mouth opening to retort, but he held up a hand, cutting her off.
"Hear me out, Lils. This isn't like the muggle world, where you sign papers in the hospitals to prove the baby's existence. Us Potter's...there's family magic at work, alright? The Potter Ancestral Home literally has a room documenting the Family tree; no birth, even if it's a bastard, is left out. If it has Potter blood, it's recorded. If you get rid of it now..." mutely, James trailed off, shaking his head. "Uncle Charlus has access to the manor and he would know. He would know, okay?"
Lily huffed. "You're overreacting, James. The process is really quite simple —"
"Lily! I'm not over exaggerating! It doesn't matter if it's found out a year from now or ten! If they find out you aborted, you — you would never be able to show your face in public! The purebloods would demand you return to the Muggle world! That — that offer you were telling me about, to the Department of Mysteries? Forget about it. Godric, it might even mean a stint in Azkaban for all I know!"
As he spoke, Lily grew paler. What sort of barbaric, backwater society was this...?
"It's my body," she eventually hissed, angry.
"And that's my heir!" James yelled back.
"I thought you didn't care about your titles!"
" Just became I don't care about them doesn't mean they're going to go away!"
"Then what do you want me to do James! I don't want it! You can't get rid of it! Do you have any idea what my parents are going to say, huh? I'm — I'm infected, and it's your fault! So you tell me, what are we going to do?"
"...Marry me."
"What?"
"Marry me. We are going to go out there now, you are going to smile and at least pretend that you are happy about this, and then we are going to tell my Aunt and Uncle about our engagement. Tomorrow, I am going to get the ring's out of my Vault, so it's official. I'll look after you, Lil's, and everything will be fine."
"...fine," Lily parroted, blankly.
Fine.
W E ' L L
And that set the tone for the first few years of their child's life.
Harry James Potter was born in July, exactly one minute from midnight on the 31, 1975. The private room of St Mungos witnessed a bespectacled young man with brown hair and rumpled clothing cradling the small, bundled form of his newborn son as his equally young wife, flushed and sweaty, throat chafed raw from her screams, flopped back on the pillows, having not the energy to turn away.
No words were exchanged, apart from a weary sharing of smiles, before the newly named Potter Lord patted his wife's hand and carried the bundle out of the room and into the hall beyond, eager to introduce his Heir to his family.
A man, of middling age, down brown hair shot through with bolts of silver yet with a face unlined, despite the firmness of his chin, looked on with soft eyes, a strong arm wrapped around his wife — a dark haired beauty with sharp features and eye's that sparkled with the greying violet that was inherent in the Black family — as she gently traced a finger down the baby's cheeks; cooing when the baby opened it's eye's for the first time; startled, yet delighted gasps as the vivid green stood stark against chubby cheeks and the faintest wisps of dark hair.
Proud looks would be exchanged between the young man and his best friends, one Sirius Black — smile roguish and dark curls of wild hair pulled back at the base of his neck — and one Remus Lupin — complexion pallid and honey-brown eyes tired — before announcing that the estranged Black had been chosen for Godfather and sorry Moony, but I've known him longer.
In a few days, the new mother would be released, with the implicit instructions that she take it easy for a few days, you've just given birth, dearie, your magic will take a few days to settle, so no spells for you, and the young couple would return to Potter Manor, never hearing the medi-witches behind them, the worried mutters of: "Tch, still so young. Barely out of Hogwarts, so much potential."
Three months would pass before Wizardry Britain would see the Potter couple. Behind closed doors, those three months would pass in aggravation, the two new parents barely able to stand sleeping in the same room as blame is laid, each fault shrieked at the other, the sound of a baby crying going unheeded as mother and father lock themselves in separate parts of the manor.
In the elf-way, a house-elf will shift anxiously, wringing her hands as she listens to the hungry crying of the infant, mentally counting back the hours till his last feed, and feeling her own belly cringe at the imagined ache. Warring over the need to attend the child or follow her Mistress' orders, the elf will think back to the Potter's arrival in the drawing room of the Welsh Manor, the sheer disgust on Lady Potter's face when Lord Potter suggested purchasing a nanny-elf, and the way she had screamed, " I will not have some servile creature raising this child !"
Bare moments would pass as a decision is made, the dense silence that follows the cacophony of anger ringing out through the nursery, before the house-elf shuddered and, sharply pleated skirt and a little maroon blouse shifting together, would pop into the nursery, creeping closer to the free-standing cradle, pushing up on tip-toes to peer over the edge at the Little Master. Urged forward not only by her duty to the family, but the maternal curiosity that comes from having lost her own elfling, Josmey brushes gnarled fingers over plump cheeks, wiping away the tears, a smile brought to her face as wide, unnaturally green eyes swivel around, focusing in her long ears, her large yellow orbs, knowing that she will have to iron her ears for her disobedience. Infantile giggling and grabby hands will follow, as the child reaches for the first company it's seen in a while, the first company that isn't yelling, or issuing meanly.
"You'se bes beautiful baby," will be stated seriously, before Josmey manoeuvres the baby into her arms and carefully lifts the boy from the fabric drapery, cradling him to her chest, bouncing him softly as she paces to the window, giving him a view of the afternoon light cast over the manor grounds during autumn, leaves stained orange and gold in the bitter wind.
OOOO
Three days is all it will take for the action to become a habit that last's years, even when the boy, Harry, becomes too big to be carried, toddling clumsily after her as she backs away, holding him by outstretched arms lest he fall, encouraging him to come closer. The afternoon light changes, transitioning from autumn, to winter, to spring, to summer, and back to autumn with quiet laughter, faltering steps and unintelligible babbling.
By the end of the week, after Josmey first picked up the Little Master, she would not be surprised when Master and Mistress cease venturing to the Nursery, preferring instead to remember the child once in the morning and once in the evening. Later, Josmey would wander if Master assumed Mistress was caring for his heir, and if perhaps that mistaken thought heralded the distance that would grow between father and son, a fatal disconnection between Lord and Heir.
Regardless, neither James nor Lily noticed the increasing dependence their child had on his house-elf, his entire existence almost slipping their mind as James continued with the Auror Program and Lily took up the position that had been offered to her, becoming an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries, both having stuck around long enough to confirm the child had a functioning core and no longer. Harry's introduction to the team of house-elves will be a secret affair, one conducted once Master and Mistress have departed the household, the four month old beaming, showing his gums as he's passed from Monsey, the elderly cook, to Solmey, the young gardener and her bonded, Vordey, who also looks after the gardens, before being handed off to the three house-keepers, Fimkey, Himkey and Pipmey. Days spent solely in the company of the house-elves becomes the standard.
Only once does Josmey wonder about the raising of the Potter heir. January is half over, the manor still recovering from the elaborate Christmas party and rambunctious welcoming of the new year. Little Harry had been carted out, shown off like a display while Josmey watched anxiously from a hidden corner, heart clenching as Little Master burst into tears, drool and snot over his blotched face. A tiny seedling of hate appeared in her chest as she saw the frowns and harsh words, the rough hands of Master and Mistress as they tried to quieten the child, neither considering the effect of all the loud noises, deafening music and exuberant handling on the baby when all the little thing had known since its birth was quiet days and soft touches. The small house-elf did not hold it against the child, either, when Master James quickly departed the ballroom, storming down to the kitchens, yelling at her about a failure of duty then thrusting the squalling bundle harshly into her arms. In Josmey's mind, Little Master more than made up for it when he gradually silences, sniffling softly as he reached pudgy little hands out to her ears and, at only barely five months, babbled out his first word. Never had the butchered variation of her name, a squeaky "osimy!" sounded so lovely.
Harry James Potter, it quickly becomes evident, is more aware of his surroundings than either his parents or the elves had anticipated. The babbled "osimy" is only the beginning: after his first word, he falls silent for a handful of days, making no noise despite the constant moving of his mouth. James and Lily pay no mind to this behaviour, having never noticed the change, but Josmey is concerned, keeping a constant eye on the infant. The babbling returns, a bit clearer, perhaps sharper than before, more intelligible; a phenomenon enthusiastically embraced by Mistress as she sweeps the child up, wincing a bit as sticky fingers — how were they always sticky? — tangle in her long hair; doing her best to ignore the hair pulling, the recently turned nineteen year old encouraging her son to say "mama". The enthusiasm soon fades, when vibrant green eye's stare up at her, the boy making unintelligible sounds and giggling.
And so it is that Lily returns to her paperwork, not even bothering to check the clock, knowing that James' is off at the pub with Sirius and Remus... again...and Josmey is left to bathe the Little Master and settle him.
When, laid back on the blankets, Harry catches her fingers, smile's disarmingly at her, a cooing noise in the back of his throat, and calls her ' mama'...Josmey doesn't correct him.
P L A Y
Months pass. At two, Harry discovers that some things should not be spoken, depending on the situation. He's sitting on Josmey's lap in the kitchen's, avidly watching her nimble fingers eye a needle and repair some of the more worn down pieces for the elves uniforms. He's transfixed, barely blinking, and, as has become natural for him, excitedly points things out to his "mama".
There is not even time for a breath before the door to the kitchen is thrown open, Lily Potter standing at the base of the steps, scowl fixed upon her face and red hair hanging around her figure in disarray. Josmey can not pinpoint a specific time, but Mistress has never liked the house-elves, and is content to believe Little Master's surliness when in the company of his parents is an issue of Josmey's raising of him.
"What did he say?" Lily demands suspiciously, angrily eyeing the position in which she found her son, happy in the lap of a creature.
"He's...he's be's wanting his mama, Mistress," Josmey excuses quickly, swallowing back the sour taste of referring to the human woman as such.
Lily eye's the house-elf for a moment, before making a dismissive noise and sweeping her little boy onto her hip.
She's oblivious to the confused look Harry directs at Josmey over her shoulder, and she never will know that later that evening, once his parents have grown bored of him and Josmey is teaching him his letters, that the house-elf sits him down and explains, as best she can, that he can only call her 'mama' when they are alone, and that the red-haired lady should be called 'mum'.
I N
At three, Josmey introduced Harry to the Library. And yes, it deserved its capitalisation.
Explaining in hushed tones that the Potter Library was Very Old and Priceless, Josmey led Harry through the manor's halls.
As part of his bedtime-settling, when he has bored of magical fountains and hopping pots, Josmey recounts the history of his home. "The Dûwood Estate has beens in this family's for generations," she says, smoothing down the blankets as she perches beside his pillow. "Augustus Potter tooks a favour to the Second French Empires, see? That's whys it's be's lookings like it's does with its square windows and cream limystones walls, and the inset pillars. But your grand-papa Fleaumont was obsessed with a Shaky-spear, he was, so he's be's taking out some of the insides and replacing it's with cream plasterings and exposed beamings of dark wood running up the walls and vaultings across ceilings and be's callings it's Modern Tudor."
Needless to say, Harry had taken great enjoyment in these stories, and now he trotted along obediently behind her, diligently noting all the entries and exits of the hidden elf tunnels, and waving jauntily at some of the portraits. He was startled when Josmey pulled him to an abrupt stop, letting him look around in curiosity. There was no memory of having been here before. The exposed wood was dark, with a side table set off the side and bare of trinkets. It would have been unwelcoming had Harry not find the bareness oddly soothing, allowing his mind to calm at the sight of neatness.
"What're we doing here, mama?" Harry asked quietly, very carefully making sure nobody else was around.
Beaming, Josmey rocked back on her heels, and painted at a black stretch of wall. "I's be showing youse the Library."
"Lib-Libry?" Harry questioned, little features screwing up in irritation at the poor pronouncement, twisting his tongue in his mouth.
"The Places of Booksies!"
Eye's lighting up, Harry swivelled around. "Books?"
Sunburst pride flared in Josmey's chest, pride at her little-lings covertness of Knowledge.
" Where!" He questioned excitedly, childish glee in his voice even as he gazed at nothing but a blank stretch of wall... with a hint of bashfulness as Josmey graced him with a silently berating look.
"Youse be's using youse magic, of course."
That...pulled him up short. Playing through his mind was his mother's reaction to his last accident; when he'd he'd tried to be sneaky like Daddy and Uncle Sirius told him about in their stories and snuck into her closet. He'd been playing with the tall shoes and pretty dresses when he tripped. Boxes and racks had fallen down, making him scream out, afraid and...and he hadn't meant for the fire to start, and he'd apologised for hurting mother's things, but she had been a special kind of angry, and her nails had cut through the skin of his shoulder from where she'd yanked him out of the closet. Daddy also hadn't been happy, but Harry was inclined to think it had to do with finding his son tripping around in a glittering dress and strappy high-heels...even if Harry didn't know what was wrong with it.
He...he had tried hiding his accidents ever since but more and more had happened. It had been like when Daddy came back from work and said he was stressed before sitting down and drinking the Adults Only drink; the more he tried to stop the accidents, the more they happened.
Looking at Josmey, Harry anxiously wrung his hands. "I'm not bad," he insisted.
Brow's furrowed, Josmey looked at him incredulously. "Of course youse not be bad."
"But-but you want me to use," Hadry hesitated, eyes darting around just in case, " magic!"
Perplexed, Josmey shook her head in disappointed disbelief. A soft stinging charm was flicked at her charge, making him yelp in a mix of annoyance and familiarity, rubbing at his thigh. "Magic's nots be bad," she told him, "magic's be's powerful and special! Master and Mistress be's bad for sayings it's anything else, and youse be silly for believing thems!"
"Okay! Okay, it's just...are you sure?"
"Has I's ever lies to you?" Josmey demanded, a slip of her anger at Master and Mistress bleeding through despite her efforts to remain calm.
Harry lowered his eyes in shame. "No," he muttered quietly. Mama was right, he was silly for believing his mother. "Sorry, mama," he offered. "What do I do?"
Pulling the little boy into a hug, all boney limbs, flopping ears and wild hair, Josmey directed Harry around so that he was facing the as-of-yet invisible door. "All youse be doing is wishes very hard to see the door. I's wants youse to think of the thick mist in the mornings, and then youse be's imagining it clearing, see."
Delicate features screwing up, Harry concentrated Very Hard, picturing his morning outings with Solmey and Vordey — tucked up in a thick blanket in the wheelbarrow when it was especially cold, being wheeled beneath the archways of aged vines, that, when in bloom, blossomed with Damask and Gallica roses, little Sweet Briar's twining in between openings.
When he felt that he could not concentrate Very Hard any longer, he cracked open and eye, and huffed in disappointment. The wall was still just a wall.
"It didn't work." He mumbled, dejection thick in his tone.
"Youse got's to wish for it's very hard."
Harry mulled this over. So... he had to Concentrate and Wish Very Hard at the Same Time?
"What...what does the door look like?"
Josmey fought back a satisfied smile; if Little Master was going to be a powerful wizard, he needed to learn to think for himself and Question Everything. "It's be's looking likes any other door. It's be's very tall, with darks wood and vines beings carved around the sides, like's the one's Fimkey always picks youse the pink flowers froms, and there's a window up the top, mades from orange glass, like's the windows in the owlery, buts smaller."
Harry's mouth dropped open in a small 'o'; it must be a Very Special door. Once again closing his eyes, he pictured the door with it's dark wood and orange glass. He Concentrated and, once he felt ready, he Wished Very Hard to see the door. There was a moment of anticipation, where he kept Wishing and then...and then tingling was racing along his arms and fingertips, carrying a dizzying feeling of extra happiness that made him smile and snap his eyes open, laughing as a door, just like Josmey described, slowly melted into existence against the stone.
"Very goods!" Josmey cheered, once again enveloping him a hug. "Youse can be's having treat when we's done."
Harry grinned, already salivating at the thought of 'tre'cle tart'.
Rolling her large eyes at the near-invisible line of drool, Josmey wasted no time in dragging the boy into the revered Library, whereupon Harry learned why it was said with a capitalisation.
Giant, stained-glass windows took up the entirety of the eastern wall, bathing the room in stripes of gold and blue and green, the light cut up by the bookcases set in a seemingly haphazard manner across the expanse of mahogany floor while sturdy looking shelves towered all the way up the remaining walls, packed to the brim with dusty tomes and fresh novels.
Harry was silent as Josmey winded their way through the bookcases, coming upon desks and squashy armchairs as they went, and transfixed by the directions she was tossing out. Family history was in the middle, apparently; acting as a divide between the Light Magic and Dark Magic, but he was quickly confused when she went on to point out the 'subcategories' of Old Light Magic and Old Dark Magic and Grey Magic and Non-Grey Magic. All he knew was that, as they passed by those sections, he felt itchy, and like his fingertips were burning, and like chocolate was melting on his tongue all at once. It was disconcerting, and made him afraid because he didn't known anything that could do that and... he wondered what would happen if he stayed too long.
Of course, Josmey quickly noticed where his attentions had strayed, and she was quick to firmly tug him along, warning him to, "stay's away's from that section unless youse be's with company or youse be's taller than I's." A considering look was directed his way before he had a chance to point out he almost was taller than her, and she amended, "till youse be's much much taller than I's."
He pressed his lips together to hold back the smile, but could do nothing to prevent the bashful stain across his cheeks.
After that, Josmey showed him the aisles that held all the books on subjects taught at Hogwarts, and plenty more that were not, before, after much walking, she finally drew upon their destination.
"What are these about, mama?" Harry inquired curiously, leaning in closer to further see the horribly thick books interspersed by remarkably thin spines.
"These be's youse culture." At Harry's confused look, Josmey added, "these be's about all that makes youse youse."
"What makes me me?!" Harry exclaimed, equal parts impressed and frightened that somebody had written about him.
"No's, no's, not youse youse; I's be's meaning wizard youse. These be's about what makes youse a respectable wizard."
"Why do I wanna be re-res-respictuble?"
"Because re-spec-table" she stressed, sounding it out slowly, "wizards be's importants, and powerful, and nobody's be's forgetting them or ignorings them."
Harry swallowed around the hope. These could make his parents pay attention to him? He eyed them in amazement. "Really?"
"Reallies," Josmey promised earnestly.
Harry nodded his head sharply. He was determined. He would learn them all. "Where do I start?"
With a blinding smile, Josmey pulled out several books; they were relatively small compared to some of the larger monsters along the shelf, and had pictures inside to help children understand the manners and customs discussed within. Handing half the pile to Harry — because building strength was important — Josmey set off in search of a suitable work space. There was one, near the stained glass so there was plenty of light, and two neat little chairs.
As they neared, Harry determined to not miss a single thing, he noticed for the first time that here and there, dotted around in purposefully cleared pockets against the wall, hung more portraits of his ancestors. There was one hanging near by the table Josmey had chosen: a beautiful woman reclining along an elegant chaise, dark curls spilling across the floor as startling purple eyes observed the approaching pair, abruptly sitting up in interest, legs swinging off the chaise to plant firmly on the floor, the tips of silver buckled boots poking out from beneath thick layers of ash-coloured skirts, laced up with teal ribbon.
She was the most beautiful Lady Harry had ever seen; like...like a dark angel.
A wide smile spread cross her face. "What a lovely child," she mused delightedly, her voice a low, carefully articulated, register.
Blushing a bright red — it had been a very long time since a human complimented him. Uncle Pa'foot was always busy and Uncle Moony had had to go away for a while — Harry scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor shyly.
The Pretty Lady tutted. "None of that now, Childe, stand up straight, shoulders back —" She admonished. Harry didn't know what it was, but there was something that made him listen, hastily straightening and pushing his shoulder's back, "— there's a good boy. Now," an elegant hand curled beneath her chin, "may I know the name of my flatterer?"
Mouth twitching in a hesitant smile, Harry glanced at Josmey before puffing out his chest a little. "My name is Harry James Potter and this is my mama, Josmey."
The woman, pursued her lips, amused, a sharp eyebrow arching. "Mama, hm? My my, time's certainly have changed," she purred, amusement growing as Josmey nervously twitched, smoothing down her skirt. "My name, young Mister Potter, is Iolanthe Peverell."
S H A D O W S
Nothing, however, was more important than what Harry learned when he was four.
Since being introduced to the the Library, Harry had spent his every spare hour curled up in one of the squashy chairs, steadily making his way through the books on Pureblood decorum and tradition, or listening to Josmey read him fairytales, or talking to Lady Peverell's portrait, soaking up the stories she called 'anecdotes' or questioning her about the things described in the books that Josmey didn't understand.
For a month, Harry crept around the manor, cautious to never head directly to the Library when his parents were around because he had used magic to get in, when the door had clearly been hidden, and he didn't want to get into trouble. But, when that month passed and neither his mother nor his father said a word, he relaxed. Granted, he had endeavoured to hide whenever his mother swept in, leaving behind or picking up books from the section's he wasn't allowed near yet, but still...they hadn't noticed, so he...he might have gotten a bit annoyed and decided to see how far he could go before they did notice.
This decision led to his taking to wondering through Dûwood's halls, book held open in front of his face.
His birthday was approaching, and he was very excited. Apart from Christmas, it was the one day of the year his parents gave all their attention to him, so he was always on his best behaviour to make sure he didn't upset his mother or his Daddy and make the day end early, but this year, Uncle Pa'foot and Uncle Moony were coming back to celebrate the day with him despite the fact that they had been Very Busy.
Harry didn't quite understand why they couldn't come see him more often, but that was okay. He was just happy they weren't going to miss it because turning four was an Important Thing: after this, his parents could introduce him to other children and he could make friends! Actual friends! Not any of those paper ones that Josmey said weren't actually real 'cause he couldn't talk back to them.
He thought his Daddy was just as excited as him, having made more of an effort to talk to him after dinner, which Harry had recently been allowed to start attending now that he could hold the knife and fork without spilling food everywhere (he still dropped some, sometimes, but he suspected that was just because the fork was always so big), and his Daddy had mentioned it had been a long time since he'd broken out the Marauders...whatever that meant. Admittedly, Harry might have missed part of the conversation as he'd been exploring the elf-way's again and listened from behind the tapestry in the living room while Daddy drank the 'al'col' and spoke to Uncle Pa'foot in the mirror. Regardless, it sounded like fun, so Harry had been excited.
And would have remained so...if he had not learned what Maraudering was all about.
As previously mentioned, Harry had taken to wandering the halls, vision obscured by what ever new book piqued his interest.
Paying very little attention to where he was going, Harry did not notice the portraits along the corridor frantically waving their hands, silently making abortive movements, and his fledgling control of his magic did not sense the thin layer of charmwork along the floor and up the wall.
A foot down on the carpet, an activation of the first charm.
The series of events that followed could only be recalled in blurry edges afterwards, but what Harry did remember was screaming as, with a deafening bang, the wall seemingly blew apart, sharp chunks of stone flying out, only to transform into what felt like buckets of confetti pouring down on him as he dropped his book, tripping, terrified. Throbbing pain ripped up his ankle as he fell before he was suddenly hoisted up into the air by his ankle — the same ankle he'd hurt, feeling like boiling oil running down his leg and making him shriek, spluttering and coughing around the confetti that streamed into his mouth and up his nose. He didn't know what was going on and his ankle really really hurt, and his robes were falling down around his head so he couldn't see and he couldn't breath and there was something wrong with his foot and please, please.
He was unaware of the laughter filling the corridor, unable to hear over his terrified choking, or of the flurry of spells that hit him. All he knew was that the confetti suddenly disappeared and he was desperately gulping in air, blinking away tears as he tried to focus on his surroundings. Josmey had always told him that in a panic, his surroundings could help, and he was trying, but...it was so hard; she never said it would be this hard.
Like a tunnel abruptly expanding, everything came back into focus, leaving him dizzy and confused. The wall that had blown up was...fine, and there was...there was laughing...his...his Daddy was...laughing?
"Oh, Godric," James panted out, bent over and smacking his knee in mirth. "You should have - hah! - should have seen your face! Hah!" He wiped a tear from his face, chuckling. " Priceless." With a flick of his Daddy's wand, Harry was sent spinning around.
And...at that moment, Harry didn't care that he was confused, and he didn't care about looking like a baby in front of Daddy; whatever his Daddy had done with his wand hand twisted his foot even more and he screamed. He screamed, frantically thrashing against the invisible hold on him, scratching against his own skin, unsure of what he was doing, just knowing that he needed to get away. He was shrieking and crying, begging the man to let him down, please, please, stop, let me down, daddy stop please !"
He didn't know how long passed before he collided with the ground, shoulder twisting below him at an odd angle, forcing an agonised gasp out of his mouth as he did his best to curl into a ball. He couldn't breathe; his chest hurt and...and he didn't know the word for it, but his heart was racing racing racing and he couldn't breath and, and... why? What did he do wrong? Why had Da-Daddy done this to him?
Tearful green eyes squinted up at the approaching blur, his head ringing horribly as he instinctively tried to move away, shrieking as his ankle jostled and shoulder jerked.
The blur paused. He wandered if his daddy would say sorry, maybe...
"Jeez Harry, what're you doing? It was it a joke. Come on, stop crying, it was funny," James jeered in that mocking way Harry had seen him doing with mother. Harry could easily picture the eye-roll, the mean curve of the mouth as he spoke.
Choking back a sob, Harry swallowed. "I-it wa-wasn't f-fu-ah!- funny! itwasn't FUNNY!" He rasped harshly, breaking off in a wail as the pain peaked.
There was a snort, a rustling of fabric as the former Gryffindor crouched down "It's not my fault you can't take a joke. Merlin, you're worse than a girl. You always laughed when I told you those stories about the Marauders when we were in school and what? Now the jokes on you, you don't like it? Tough, Harry. It was hilarious and you need to grow up," James snapped, pushing away
This time, Harry couldn't hold back the sob, the broken noise wet against his throat.
An exaggerated groan followed. "Are you going to get up, Harry, or are you just going to lie there, huh?"
H-he didn't want to be here anymore and — ignoring his father, he turned his face into the carpet, stinging tears spilling over his cheeks — he wanted his mama.
Vaguely, Harry could make out the sounds of James walking away, the low mutter of how "he didn't raise a pansy," a distant echo in his ears.
He was...he was so tired, and his head hurt. He just...wanted to sleep...for a while.
A horrified cry, coming from so very far away, shook him, pushing off the tight grip of sleep enough for him to crack open an eye and then... then he was floating.
Two days would pass before he awakens, Josmey, eye's red and swollen, by his bedside, his hand clasped in a death-grip as she tells him about how the portraits managed to get a message to the kitchen's, and how she was so scared she was too late. Later, he would discover that he had a fractured ankle, slight tearing to the surrounding tendons, a dislocated shoulder and mild cranial bruising. It was only thanks to Monsey's decade's old knowledge on medical examination (gained when one Potter became a Healer) that they even knew what was wrong; taking the combined effort of each elf on staff to seize temporary control over his core to direct his magic towards healing him.
It was the last time he ever called his father Daddy.
It was the last time Harry ever desired to be anything like him.
Instead, shaken and exhausted, angry and betrayed, Harry decided that when he grew up, he would be nothing like his father.
Cooped up in bed, distractedly accepting the teacup Josmey pressed into his hands as he stared out the window, Harry set his mind to determining what he needed to do.
James Potter smiled a lot, widening his eyes.
James Potter hated Slytherin's.
James Potter liked muggleborns.
James Potter was ignorant.
Harry Potter would not be ignorant. He would be intelligent and learn everything.
Harry Potter would embrace pureblood culture.
He would like Slytherin's.
And, most importantly, he would never again give them the satisfaction of seeing his expressions.
He would be better.
...it was just a pity he couldn't change his name.
When the thirty-first arrived, and Harry arrived downstairs, seeing Uncle Padfoot and Uncle Mooney waiting downstairs, he didn't run like he wanted to, didn't laugh loudly and jump up into their arms. No. Instead, he fixed a polite smile on his face and quietly greeted them. When he took a seat — as far away from James as possible, squeezing into the left over space between Moony and the armrest of the armchair because Moony felt safe — he sat rigidly, shoulders stiff with his tender ankle hidden behind the other. Having had so few chances to enjoy presents, Harry had never been one for tearing the wrapping, but even so, each gift was unwrapped carefully, briefly inspected and then set aside before politely thanking the respective givers. He would look at them properly once he was safely away in his room but right now...right now, he was not safe.
The concerned looks exchanged between Sirius and Remus above his head went unnoticed, empty conversation made between the adults. Harry knew that once he left, everybody would be more comfortable, so he stayed only so long as the books Iolanthe recommended stipulated he was required to remain, before mumbling about feeling unwell, gathering his presents, hugging both his Uncles and heading up to his room. Out of curiosity, he veered off-course, creeping through the elf-ways. They were warded against scent, so there was no possibility of Moony smelling him as he listened to the playful joking and joyful laughter.
Yeah... figured they'd like him better when he was out of the way.
Hurrying back to his room and setting his gifts onto the chair that only Josmey used, Harry crawled onto his bed, wrapping his arms around his pillow and angling his head to stare out the window.
Sniffing, he tried to remember a time he had seen his mother look genuinely happy to see him, the way Josmey did after his lessons with Iolanthe.
A knock on his door startled him. Hastily wiping his eyes to make sure there were no tears, Harry warily called out for entry.
He was surprised to see Uncle Moony at the door but, remembering his decision, he hurriedly tried to fix on a blank expression. He had a feeling he hadn't got it right, but he was sure once he spoke to Iolanthe, she'd agree to help him get better.
Slipping inside, Remus gently shut the door behind him and took a moment to eye his honorary godson — noting the distant look in those young eyes — before he sighed. "You alright, cub?"
Harry didn't look away. He'd heard, once, that liars looked away when they lied, and besides, he wasn't gonna lie, just...play with the truth. "I'll be fine, Uncle Moony."
Remus crossed his arms, subtly inhaling. "You left the room pretty fast back there. If I didn't know better, I'd think you weren't happy with your present."
Harry blinked, having never thought that his behaviour would imply such. "No!" He nearly yelled, scrambling up and grabbing the slightly battered copy of ' Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them', a quick flick through proving that it was a privately annotated copy of his Uncle's. "No, I love it, Moony, promise," he rushed to say, "I just, I wasn't feeling well. 'Mum' would be upset if I got everybody sick."
"...ah."
Harry's eye twitched, a move he quickly hid as he replaced the book. He didn't like the silence. It made him feel guilty and he didn't like it.
"Would you like to...um," he cast around for something to say, "sit down?"
Remus inspected the room. Books were piled up around the room, the small chair at the desk buried beneath sheets of parchment while the desk played house to what appeared to be an enlarged terrarium; the only armchair hidden beneath Harry's presents and various articles of clothing. Realising the problem, Harry scooted over, patting the freed space on the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath Remus' weight, threatening to topple Harry over into the larger form. Pulling his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, Harry waited.
"Your room is a mess," Remus said lightly, wondering when the little boy who never passed up an opportunity for a hug became so distant.
Resting his cheek against his knees, Harry flushed. "I was gonna clean it up," he mumbled.
"Not going to call the house-elf then?"
"Mm. Josmey told me I'm a big boy now, so I'm responsuble for my messes."
Remus cast him a considering look. "That's very mature of you."
Unbidden, Harry smiled wryly. "She's been saying that since I could walk."
"Ah." Leaning back on his palms, Remus allowed the silence to stretch. "Is there a reason for all the shirts?"
"It's not all shirts," Harry defended obstinately.
"Still..."
"...I wanted to look nice."
The answer surprised Remus. "Aren't you a little young to be thinking about that?"
The look Harry directed at the werewolf questioned the man's very sanity. "I'm four now," he said pointedly. At the blank look, he rolled his eyes — really, Josmey was a bad influence — and elaborated: "I'm allowed now. I can make friends."
Remus mentally berated himself for not having immediately clued on to this. "Oh, of course. Do you want to talk about it?"
"Mm, no. Not really."
"You sure? I won't judge, you can tell me anything."
Harry blinked owlishly. "What's 'judge' mean?"
"Er...I, well, I won't think any differently of you, I'll think of you the same way I do now."
"...what do you think of me now, Uncle Moony?" Harry asked, large eyes innocently captivating.
Remus cleared his throat, rubbing his palms on his worn jeans. "I think... I think your lonely, cub." He looked around at all the books. Although he was all for early education, there were too many, in his opinion, for such a young boy.
"Do..." Harry began uncertainly, unsure of the words. "What if...what if they don't like me? What if I can't make friends?"
Sighing, Remus forwent decorum and tugged his good-as godson into his side, snorting at he startled yelp. Propping his chin on the small head of wild hair, Remus considered the question.
"Would it bother you if they didn't like you?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, if you could have all the friends in the world, but they weren't very good friends or you could have one very, very good friend. Which would you rather have?"
Harry thought about it. "I want the one Very Very Good friend," he decided, face half-squished in Uncle Moony's worn-down brown-leather jacket. Trying to be discrete, he inhaled deeply, relaxing a little at the familiar scent of warm leather and forest dirt after rain.
"Then there you have it. It might not happen straight away, cub, but I can promise you that somewhere out there, your best friend it waiting for you. Take me, for example: I'm a werewolf. I thought I would never have any friends but then, when I was eleven, I made one of the best friends I will ever have, and he opened the way to other friends."
Wiping his nose, Harry looked up from beneath his lashes, childish curiosity shining. "Who was your Best Friend?"
"Why, it was your Uncle Sirius. We met on the train. It was friendship at second sight," Remus declared dramatically with an exaggerated sigh.
Giggling, Harry squirmed around into a more comfortable position. "Why was it 'second' sight?"
"Became he was being right fancy when I first met him and he mistook me for a coat-rack the first time."
A comfortable silence seeped around the pair, little fingers picking at a stray strand on Remus' sleeve. Finally: "Thank you, Uncle Moony."
"No problem, cub."
"I wish I could talk to you more often."
"I know..." Remus said, sighing gustily. "But you know we can't—"
"Because your on a Super Secret Mission, right?"
"Precisely. And because of that, I can't be talking to anybody."
"Anybody at all?!"
"Absolutely nobody."
"You must miss a lot then," Harry said sadly.
"Yes," Remus concluded. "You've certainly grown since last I saw you, and your hair is longer."
Harry smiled. "Josmey keeps a Height Board in the kitchens. If you're really nice and give her a tea-cosy, she'll show it to you."
"Will she now?"
"Uh huh. But...but it can't be any old tea-cosy. It has to be Extra Pretty, and she likes to put bells on them so she can know when people are sneaking tea."
"Sneaking tea?" Remus repeated, incredulously amused.
"Mm, that's what I said."
"So it was." Harry was right, Remus thought. I am missing out on a lot. Looking again at the room, he zeroed in on the desk, parchments scattered around and full to the brim. "How are your letters coming along?"
Harry beamed, obviously proud of himself. "I can write all the alphabet by myself, even the big letters and the little letters, and sometimes Josmey gives me old letters from the Archive for me to try and copy. She say's it's all about finding my 'style' — I don't know what that is, but she always gives me a tiny tre'cle tart if I do it really well."
"Tell you what then: how about, every week, you write me a letter and then put it somewhere safe. That way, when I have to go away for a long time again, I can read about what's been happening when I get back and you can practice your writing."
"Ooh, I like that idea. Can I tell Josmey about it? She has the best hiding places!"
W E ' L L
For a time, Harry did not learn any new, profound life lessons, and simply devoted himself to developing that which he had already begun to realise. Unfortunately, once he had informed Iolanthe and Josmey of his resolution, they had both been quick to point out that if he didn't know the foundation of all the subjects he wanted to learn, he would never understand properly, and he might hurt himself. Harry had sullenly agreed, knowing they were right but anxious to begin reading the books that were in the section's he Wasn't Allowed just yet. Josmey, knowing her ward too well, had seen the looks, and brought out The Wooden Spoon as further discouragement.
And thus began his trial of patience. Everyday, there was a new book to read, a new chapter to understand, new questions to answer. The rapid pace helped calm his mind, and distract him, for which he was grateful, and when he grew tired of doing the same thing day in and day out, Josmey carted him down to the kitchen's to help bake, or Vordey wheeled him away outside to help out in the green-houses and vegetable beds, bundling him up into a faded pair of elf-overalls to pat bulbs into the earth or re-home the weir-slugs, but the weather was turning bad so he was only allowed out on the sunnier days.
When he was alone, the elf-staff all busy with their duties, he did, quietly, wonder if his parents had forgotten about having him meet their friends, and wondered if they were ashamed of him. That was the only reason he could come up with, because they were always leaving the manor and leaving him behind, but...one Sunday, two months after his birthday, his wish came true.
Josmey had woken up early, pulling his fatigued figure around on the bed until he had enough energy to stand on his own, and dressing him in brown trousers and a stripy-blue button down, before bundling him up in his thick winter-coat, complete with beanie and mittens. Glancing out the window, Harry hadn't the heart to tell her that the sun was shining and there were no rain-clouds in sight, and instead grinned as she continued her mothering.
Then he was tugged along all the way to drawing room, where his mother and father were already waiting. As discretely as possible, Harry stood Far Away from the man; ever since the first time James had shown him about being a Marauder, he had taken to springing what he called 'pranks' on him. Because of that, Harry wanted to have a clear space to protect himself.
The smile on Lily's face was emotionless, merely a formality of muscle formation. Harry didn't bother to smile back, his face blank.
He was steered towards the fire-place with no explanation, stumbling over the grate as Lily threw down two pinches of a leaf-green powder and called out, "Combron Gardens".
Gasping when green fire enveloped them, Harry could do nothing as the air was forcefully shoved out of his lungs and the world spun. Snatches of fireplaces and livings rooms flashed passed in a dizzying swirl. Then...he slammed to a stop, his body lurching forward from the speed. Soot in his eyes, Harry blindly stumbled forward, moving with the momentum. His foot caught on something, sending him flying in a frantic tumble of limbs and fabric, only to collide with something hard and solid.
It was the ground he soon realised, spitting out grass. Blissfully flat, unmoving ground. He plastered himself against it, rapidly blinking in an attempt to clear his vision as his eyes watered.
Distantly, he could hear the deeper register of adults talking. Groaning, Harry pushed himself up, pausing periodically to let the world settle. When he felt it was safe to stand, he did so, wiping his eyes and smudging the soot to look around curiously.
Before him, a large archway of golden, twisting vines towered over his head, blooming flowers in navy blue spelling out 'Combron Gardens London' in elegant swirls. Idly Harry wonders how far away London is from Cardiff. Further on, he sees families picnicking on immaculately trimmed spaces of emerald grass, spreading out blankets beneath trees of sunburnt oranges and red's, scarves wrapped snugly about their necks against the sharp breeze.
All about, little creatures dart around, marking this park as a clearly magical place. He isn't sure, but he thought it might the the gentler breed of pixie darting out of the fields of poppies and blue-bells, while fairy lights dropped down from the far-away figure of the Mother Willow Tree.
Transfixed, Harry startled badly when his name was abruptly called and a hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"...so sorry about him," Lily was saying, sounding oddly pleasant, "He's easily distracted, you see."
Harry frowned, peering up at the adults that he had just realised had likely been awaiting their arrival. There was a man, not quite as tall as James, but broader in the shoulders, with a head of peppered ginger hair and kind hazel eyes. Harry promptly decided he must be a Nice Man, because he had lot's of lines around his eyes, the kind somebody gets when they're smiling. Against his better judgement, Harry beams up at him, before turning his attention to the woman beside him; round with voluptuous curves, two babies perched on her hip flapped pudgy little has about wildly.
"Ooh, we know how that is. Not to worry, dear, he'll soon grow out of it..." she was saying, the apples of her cheeks a bright, jolly red that shone more than the cornflower-blue of her eyes. Her hair was more orange than Lily's deep red, but where Lily had cut her's into a severe bob, the lady's was long and pulled up into an elaborate twist atop her head.
"Yes, well. Here's hoping. Do you know if Andromeda is here yet? Sirius said she's never late."
It was the man who answered, moustache rolling. "She arrived a few minutes ago and thought it best to go set up, so she's got the kids spreading out blankets."
"Right. Best not to keep her waiting, then," Lily muttered, almost sounding like she wasn't eager to see that other woman; an expression Harry was becoming intimately familiar with. "Oh, how forgetful of me. Arthur, Molly, this is my son, Harry. Harry, these are our friends, Molly and Arthur Weasley. They have a son your age for you to pay with. Say hello," she prompted.
Harry was becoming Very Confused with his mother's behaviour. "Hello, Mis'er and Missus Weasley," Harry repeated, smiling widely and waving, just like his lessons had taught him. And then he pointed at the two babies. "Are they really the same as me?"
The adult Weasley's appeared confused for a moment, before they both began laughing — or, in Arthur's case chuckling. "Aw, what a dear child," Molly cooed, nudging Arthur, whom stepped forward and ruffled Harry's hair.
It was sheer will that prevented Harry from flinching backwards. The last time somebody other than Josmey had touched his hair, James had placed an illusion charm that made it feel like spiders were crawling on his head...it had taken three hours of Very Hard Wishing to break the charm.
Mentally shaking his head, Harry refocused on the couple, just in time to hear Molly say, "No, these two are a bit young. Our eldest boy is waiting for us. Shall we set off?"
Evidently, this question required no verbal answer as the adults set off. Shaking free from Lily's grip on his shoulder, Harry gravitated closer to Arthur. He was curious about the babies, because he'd ever seen something like him that small before, but he didn't want get in the way, so: Mr Weasley was the safer option. Also, it helped that the man was walking alone; Harry didn't know where James was, but he wasn't going to question it.
Wracking his brains for what Iolanthe had said was the best way to begin a conversation, Harry thought back to his first meeting with the sophisticated portrait, and remembered what she had called him: flatterer.
...oh, right. Say nice things. Got it.
Trotting up beside Mr Weasley and tugging on his sleeve, Harry said very seriously, "I like your mustarsh."
Harry figured he could count it as a success when Arthur smiled down at him, twisting his wrist so Harry could hold his hand. "Do you now? What is you like about it?"
"It's very big, so it makes you look dig-dig—" huffing, Harry quickly sounded the word out in his head. "Dignified. It makes you look dignified!"
With a certain fondness, Arthur considered the little boy beside him — when Molly had organised a play date with the Potters, he had been imagining a little clone of the pair; not this dark haired, fair-skinned child with the disarming eyes that seemed to have inherited more of the Welsh countryside that Potter Manor called home, than anything of his parents. As was tradition, none but family had seen the Potter Heir since his birth; a practice that had spanned centuries, and dated back to the times when potions weren't enough and low Child Mortality rates were the standard, so, in an effort to secure Lines, parents refused to allow their children to interact with others until after their fourth birthday. Typically, however, most children had siblings to interact with. Arthur could not begin to imagine how lonely the boy must have been. Although...perhaps it explained the rather subdued nature about the boy, despite his bright smiles.
"That is what I was going for," he solemnly confided, eliciting a giggle from the child as he curled the tip. "Say, that's a rather long word."
Beaming, Harry nodded rapidly. Finally! Somebody had noticed! "I like to read!"
"Fancy that, so do I!"
Before he knew it, their small quartet was coming upon a slightly larger group. Swallowing around the sudden onslaught of nervousness, Harry eyed the three children running about. There was boy that was taller than the rest, with red hair that was slightly longer than the boy Harry assumed was his little brother, and a girl with vibrant pink hair, tinted white on the ends, the tight curls cut short and brushing her chin. Shying behind Mr Weasley's legs, Harry dutifully followed along towards the standing adults. The new man was unassuming, his hair a neatly brushed mouse-brown, but it was the woman that Harry's eyes constantly strayed to and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She had the same greying-violet eyes of Uncle Padfoot and Grand-Aunty Dorea, a narrow chin, sharp cheekbones, and chocolate-coloured curls spiralling in tight ringlets down to her waist.
The adults exchanged pleasant greetings, Molly calling for the playing children to come introduce themselves. Fiddling anxiously with the fur-lining of his coat, Harry was torn between moving over to the children that had pulled up short upon seeing him, and were now eyeing him like he was dessert, or moving further behind Mr Weasley's legs.
The choice was taken away from, perhaps fortuitously, when Mr Weasley steered him forward and, ruffling his hair again, introduced him to Andromeda Tonks.
Gulping, Harry stared up at her wide-eyed and stuttered out, "Hello ma'am," because there was no way this woman was not related to Sirius, so if she was, she was a Black and the texts on Lineage's said the Blacks were Scary.
He stood still beneath her penetrating gaze, barley resisting the urge to cross his fingers and hope she approved of him. There must have been something that she liked, because her mouth twitched in the slightest of smiles, and she inclined her head. "Greetings, Heir Potter. I trust you are well?"
Harry slumped a little in relief, and smiled. "I-I am, thank you. And - and you, ma'am?"
"I am content," she murmured, mouth curling into a soft smile. "I see you are being taught well." Her eyes sought out Lily, whom had been hovering nearby, an ear on their exchange. "Tell me, Lillian, whom have you chosen as a tutor?"
"Ah, well. James and I haven't found a tutor, yet — at least, not one we can trust, but we have discussed it."
Andromeda arched a brow. "Then who has been teaching the boy? It cannot have been yourself nor your husband as both of your respective occupations require the both of you to be absent for the majority of the day."
It was a question, in the form of a statement, that both accused the Potter's of irresponsibility and borderline deceit, and Harry was Amazed! However, that amazement quickly turned to consternation when Lily hemmed and hawed, and the two woman focused on Harry.
Shifting in place, Harry coughed. "I-uh...the Library is very big," he settled on, looking appropriately earnest. "May I go see the others now?"
Andromeda hummed. Watching the way Lily tensed, features pinching, the matriarch doubted that Heir Potter's answer satisfied his mother. Waving her hand dismissively, Andromeda turned away and resumed conversation with her husband.
Hurrying away with no direction in mind, Harry supposed he should have expected to be swamped by the children. As it was, he managed a tight smile as the girl with pink hair glimpsed him, only for her to trip and collide with his form.
Thudding to the ground in a messy tangle of limbs, a sharp elbow digging into his belly, was...eye opening. Either this girl was exceptionally clumsy or this day was cursed. Resolved to simply lie there while his poor body was battered by the wriggling of the bony girl as she attempted to right herself, Harry blinked when a hand blotted out his view of the sky.
Was it...was it offering to pull him up?
Maybe...maybe it was.
Accepting the hand, Harry was hauled to his feet. Once he was steady, Harry quickly released the hand. Nothing against the other, but for having experienced very little (human) physical contact, Harry was nearing his limit for the day. Inspecting his coat, Harry was dismayed to find large splotches of grass-stains and flecks of mud clinging to the fur, along with the soot his mother had not bothered to clear off when she did herself.
Frowning, Harry Wished Very Hard for the coat to be clean, as well as himself. Josmey had gone to great lengths to teach him to Wish with his eye's open, so he pensively watched the dirt vanish before humming in satisfaction.
Looking up revealed three children gawping at him wide-eyed. Eye twitching slightly, Harry gave them a confused look. "What?" He asked defensively.
"How did you do that?" The boy, the taller one, demanded excitedly.
He had amazingly blue eyes, Harry noted, like the Egyptian-blue Arbella's that grew in Solmey's feature garden. "I Wished for it."
"Awesome," the boy breathed, then he thrust out a hand. "M'names Bill. Well," he amended, "It's William, but everybody calls me Bill. And this here is my brother Charlie."
"I'm Harry," Harry responded, eyeing the pair curiously. "What's it like, having a brother?"
Scrunching his brows, Bill shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. "I dunno. 'Spose it's just louder."
"And messier!" The girl piped in, eagerly extending a hand to shake. "I'm Dora. Short for Nymphadora but only mummy calls me that — daddy say's she's being 'specially cruel," she chirped, before her expression darkened and she shot a suspicious look at the adults. "I don't like it."
"Do you have siblings?" Harry wondered.
"Nope! I'm all by myself. What about you?"
"Same."
"Hey hey," Charlie chimed, pushing forward. "Do you want to find the bo'tuckles with us? Unca's Faba and Gidy said they breathes fire!"
Eyes darting between the expectant faces, Harry gave in and agreed, trailing after the quartet as Charlie crawled though the flower beds in pursuit of the bowtruckles, hunting their supposed trail like a Bloodhound.
At one point, when Bill was devising the best way to entice the located colony down from their branches, Harry turned to Dora. "Why is your hair pink?"
Fingering it self-consciously, Dora shrugged. "I like pink."
"So you Wished for it to turn pink?"
"Something like that. Mummy says it's a Black thing."
Humming thoughtfully, Harry nodded. Aunty Dorea was a Black and they were related. Maybe he could do it too.
P L A Y
The first time Harry meets Albus Dumbledore, and begins to learn to question authority figures, it is the middle of November, 1979. The snow came early that year, a fine layer already coating the grounds and making the footpaths slippery.
Although it is early, the sun is already slipping behind the horizon and the fire's around the used parts of the manor are already burning. That's Harry's favourite part of winter: there's a small fireplace in his bedroom; when it's cold and dark outside, and he's been good and done his work, Josmey let's him have hot-chocolate and he gets to curl up in front of the hearth, beneath the blanket Josmey made for his second birthday, and listen to stories.
On this particular day, he and Josmey are working on what she calls 'Magical Familiarity'. Iolanthe had insisted that recognising magic was Very Important to being a powerful wizard, so Monsey had imbued her magic into a sock and it was Harry's task to find it while Josmey timed him from the kitchens.
After some minutes, Harry had narrowed the location down to the drawing room and concluded that the elves were being very sneaky, leaving the item in such a magically dense area. Huffing at thought have searching the entire room from top to bottom, including the scarlet-and-gold tapestries which held sleeping lion's that roared when disturbed, Harry decided that the best way to go about this was to Close Up his magic. ' Decorum for the Dimwit' — a horrible book that made mean comments and bit his fingers when he answered wrong, but actually held really helpful information — had covered as much, going so far as to enchant the line to scream out at the reader. So, taking a deep breath, Harry Concentrated and imagined his magic to be one of Pipmey's spools of thread, gently reeling it back in without any tangles.
It was hard work, and he was panting by the end of it, but it aid off. Instead of the blunt assault against his senses of echoing magical signatures, the room was blissfully still. Pleased with himself, Harry set off to upturn the room by hand.
And so it was that Harry had just managed to prop up the end of the sofa with one of the fancy door stoppers — it was thick and heavy and utterly perfect — and peer beneath, when the fire-place flared green and...an old man stepped out.
Later, in his room, Harry would wonder about the way the candles flickered, or how the wind outside began screaming, but, at that moment, Harry was much too absorbed with staring in fascinated horror at the old man's robes, and trying to decide how long it would take before the man's slippers tripped over his beard.
Slowly straightening up, Harry saw the brief flicker of surprise as the old man noticed him.
"Hello," Harry ventured, knowing from Uncle Padfoot that the fireplace was ' safer than the front door', apparently, so the man was probably safe.
Periwinkle blue eyes twinkled at him over half-moon spectacles, the light from the fireplace throwing a grotesque emulation of the man's shadow before him. "You must be Lily and James' son," the man mused. "I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. It is a pleasure to meet you, dear boy."
Lifting a dubious eyebrow, Harry considered this Albus. Unease licked along his nerves as he briefly made eye-contact, something unseeable impressing the need to look away upon him. "Um - yes, very nice. Sir." Licking his lips, Harry looked out the window, noting how dark it had become. "I-I have to go. Bye."
He had almost made it to the door, a bemused Albus left in his wake, when Lily and James entered, pausing upon the sight of their son and Leader in the same room.
"Harry?!" Lily exclaimed, moving forward to herd Harry out. "What are you doing in here?"
"I was looking for a sock," Harry blurted, becoming increasingly unsettled the longer he lingered. There was something prodding at him and he Didn't Like It.
"What on earth for?!"
The four year old shot her an inscrutable look. "To wear it."
As she floundered, Harry slipped out the door and did not hesitate in running up the staircase, the resounding bang of the heavy doors closing behind him. When he was sure he wasn't being followed, Harry climbed through the trick picture frame and bolted down to the kitchens. Josmey was waiting for him, and fetched him a glass of water as he collapsed on a seat, panting.
"Wells?" She demanded, setting down the glass.
Reaching into his pocket, Harry held up the frayed sock. "Found it."
OOOO
Keeping an eye on her retreating son, Lily flicked her wand to seal the doors, the inbuilt wards activating centuries old silencing charms, before she spun around and hurried over to where James was settling Dumbledore.
"What is it, Professor? Has something happened?" She inquired worriedly, hands all aflutter in her panic.
Neither Potter had ever seen the Headmaster's face as aged as it was, the lines thick and deep against the stark grey of his hair. "Oh Godric," James swore, "don't tell me there's been a death, Albus."
The elderly wizard raised a hand. "Peace, my dears," he uttered, exhaustion apparent in his tone. "It is nothing as perilous as that."
"Then what it is it? There's not to be another Order meeting until Tuesday."
A heavy sigh filled the tense hesitation, war-weary thoughts absenting from contemplating the strange behaviour of the Potter child, and then he began, pinning James with a solemn look. "There has been a prophecy."
"...A...prophecy?" James repeated slowly, uncertainly. "Albus...?"
"I am telling you two this in the strictest of confidences, you must understand. Fleaumont was a dear friend and confidant for near on four decades, and never once did he betray the trust I placed in him. I know this is unfair to ask, but I am in need of such a confidant once more, and you have always proved loyal, James."
Preening ever so slightly, James nodded, the firelight catching on the frame of his spectacles.
"Thank you," Albus intoned. And then he took a deep breath, laced his fingers together, and addressed the issue at hand. "The Prophecy I witnessed was no mere fortune telling at a Fête. The seer had all the right magics at hand — believe me, I would not be here if I had not examined the evidence for myself. I would like to show the two of you the words, but... but one can never be too careful in times of war. Would the two of you be willing to speak a Vow of Silence on the matter?"
"Yes, of course, Albus," Lily replied, sharing a look with James, before the two of them pulled out their wands and made magically binding vows.
"Again, you have my thanks. As for the Prophecy... it predicts the arrival of the one destined to defeat the Dark Lord."
The glass in James' hand shattered, drops of amber liquid running down his hand.
Albus hummed mournfully, eye's tired and understanding. "Indeed."
Swallowing, Lily's fingers sought out her wand. "Is that true, Professor?" She whispered.
"I do not know... all we can do is hope."
"What did it say, then? Perhaps we can narrow down who it is."
Outside, the wind howled; the promise of storms hovering on the horizon and blanking out the stars.
Albus sighed. " The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies... I fear that if we are to take this Prophecy at it's word then... then the Child it destined is not yet here."
"The 'seventh month' must be July."
"I believe so, yes. September is a possibility, but... well, for all his ceremony, Tom never could absent his muggle heritage."
"What of this 'power'? Any idea what that could be?" James wondered. "I mean, the entire thing is pretty damn vague. I don't know about you, Lils, but to me, it sound's more like this kid has the potential to defeat You-Know-Who, not that he'll actually do it."
"And that is why I desired to share this," Albus said approvingly. "Admittedly, I have only conjecture as to the power — Tom always was fallible to love, having experienced so little throughout his life, but that is neither here nor there. It was my hope that we could locate the child and... ensure the boy grew in a loving and nurturing environment. We cannot risk Tom discovering a child with the power to vanquish him, fore, if the child was born to a family of the Dark, then it will surely be raised as a weapon against us."
Allowing his gaze to wander out the window, seeing nothing but an eternity of night stretched out in all directions, Albus clasped his hands together tightly. "We cannot risk it."
OOOO
That night, as the moon hung in the sky, concealed by smoky clouds, two fertility potions were consumed and moans, faintly discernible above the creaking of the bed, rang out in the Master Bedroom.
OOOO
Two month's later, when the January sun is beginning to warm the land once more, fighting through the layers of snow, and all the guests have cleared from Lily's birthday party, leaving only Remus and Sirius sprawled out on the sofa's, Lily excitedly declares that she is pregnant. She and James are holding hands, with her free hand settled over her flat stomach, her wedding ring catching the light.
There is silence and then loud escalations as the two friends overcome their surprise, jumping up to congratulate James and carefully hug Lily, not wanting to hurt the baby.
Behind the sofa, where Harry has curled up with a book, Harry stares blankly at the page.
' I - I'm going to be a - a brother?' Harry thought, mystified.
But then he wonders why they didn't tell him first, and wonders more on when they actually will tell him, considering he wasn't supposed to be in the room in the first place.
And then... and then Harry wonders if his mother had been so happy when she learned she was going to have him, if her smile's were so wide and genuine.
Somehow... no, something tells him that that was not so.
He leaves the room quietly, unnoticed by all apart from a pair of golden eyes, and takes the elf-ways up to his room.
Later, perched on the window seat with the a blanket pulled up to his chin — like Josmey insisted, so as not to 'catch the nasty coldsies' — and watching the snow thaw, he realises that in all the plan's he made to make his parents love him — being quiet; never acting act; learning about manners and culture — he never thought he would have to share.
I N
Popping a lemon drop into his mouth, Albus eyes the pair benignly.
"I hear congratulations are in order," he said warmly, eye's twinkling.
Grinning widely, James wrapped an arm around Lily's waist, gently settling his hand on the slight swelling. "Thank you, Albus. It means a lot to us."
"When is the baby due?"
"Late July, we believe," Lily supplied, carefully keeping her casual smile in place.
Albus blinked, the meaning not lost on him. "How curious," he said, a new note of interest in his voice. Then he cleared his throat. "And how fortunate. Yes... indeed, fortunate. Why, imagine if the Chosen One was born to the Light."
"Oh," Lily breathed worriedly, glancing at James. "We hadn't thought of that."
Brows furrowing in concern, James looked at Dumbledore. "Is there anything we should do? Just in case?"
"My boy, all I can suggest is that you tell no-one. If Voldemort were to discover this, I fear that, Prophecy child or not, the two of you would be at the top of his list."
"Well...we've only told Remus and Sirius. They wouldn't tell anybody."
Stroking his beard, Albus nodded. "Good, good. Let's keep it that way. What of your other friend, young Pettigrew?"
James shifted. To one that knows, the action stank of guilt. "We, uh. We haven't been in contact much. Lately. Last I spoke to him, we parted ways in a poor state."
"And when was this, m'boy?"
"Oh, about three years ago now."
He could still remember the look on Peter's face — the raw expression of betrayal carved onto his skin. He didn't know why Peter couldn't understand — after all, they had been friends for years. Peter knew how important the Auror Academy was to him — but Peter had never forgiven him for blaming the explosion in the southern barracks on him. So Peter got kicked out of the Academy. Big deal. Everybody knew Peter didn't have what it took to be an Auror. Really... James had done him a favour.
Peering over his half-moon spectacles, Albus hummed noncommittally.
"What about you, Professor? Have you had any luck finding leads on the Prophecy child?"
"One, actually. Alice Longbottom is also expecting a child. Augusta confided in me but two weeks ago."
Crouched down in the elf-way behind the Lion tapestry, listening carefully, Harry frowned, perplexed. What on earth was a Voldemort? It sounded like a cheese.
And Chosen One? Chosen for what?
OOOO
"Mama," Harry began, slowly easing the peeler down on the potato. "What's a Voldiemort?"
The clang of the pot falling to the floor reverberated achingly around the kitchen. Wincing, Harry looked up, confused. Josmey was standing frozen by the table, staring blankly into space.
Brows scrunching, Harry set down the peeler. Seeing the growing puddle of salted water, he Concentrated and Wished it away, so nobody would slip in it. Again.
"Mama?" He asked warily.
Jolting, Josmey shook herself like he had when he'd gone into the forest and wild doxy had dropped down into his shirt.
"Mama," he said again, "are you okay?"
Josmey sent a tight smile his way. "I's be's fine, baby."
Pouting a little at the name, nose scrunching adorably, Harry frowned at her. "You dropped the pot. You never drop the pot."
Josmey looked at the pot as though she had never seen such a strange contraption before, before snapping her fingers. Lifting off of the flagstones, the pot floated over to the sink, whereupon it was promptly scrubbed clean, rinsed, then refilled with water. Hopping up onto the stool across the work-bench, Josmey folded her long fingers, and sighed.
"Voldiemorts is a Dark Lordsy," she stated, mouth set in a straight line.
Harry blinked. "Is that like father? He's also a Lord."
"No, no. The Dark Lordsy is a - a—" Josmey cast around for an appropriate way to describe what exactly a Dark Lord was. Her shoulder's slumped when she came up empty. "I cant's be's explains its. Youse be's too young."
Squawking indignantly, a swift move of Josmey's and firm glare made Harry pause in his outcry.
"That's nots be's anything on youse, baby. It's has to do with Wizardsies politics. Missus Lady's Peverell coulds tells you, but it's alls very messy. All I's cans be's saying is he's be's a Very Bad man."
"Oh." Harry deflated. He hated not understanding things, and there just seemed to be something knew he didn't understand every other day, and... and that just raised more questions: why was he a bad man, did he want to be bad?
"That's alright, mama." Grabbing the peeler, Harry returned to the potato, which had browned in uneven patches in its neglect.
Eyeing her little-ling for a moment longer, Josmey stood and re-salted the water before setting the pot onto the work-bench, the aged wood warped and roughened in patches, and began peeling the waiting pile of potatoes with deft fingers.
"Have youse talked to youse friend, youse weasel?"
Harry quirked a smile. "He's not my Weasley, mama."
Josmey lifted an eyebrow, ears twitching secretively. "That's not be's an answer, baby."
"...He wrote me a letter."
"And?"
"And he drew pictures at the bottom."
Grumbling, Josmey flicked a potato skin at the boy and prayed to the Gavar to give her strength. "Youse are being contrary." Catching the flicker in his green eyes, she jabbed a finger at him, "And youse will be's learning what that's is!"
Wiping the potato peel off his face, wrinkling his nose at the slimy feeling, Harry huffed, fond despite his reluctance to give in. Flushing, Harry prodded the deformed potato in his hand, certain that half of it wasn't meant to come off in the butchering he had managed.
"I don't know what to say," he mumbled, unable to meet Josmey's eye. "It's...mm, it's not like Uncle Moony. I don't know Bill. What if...what if I say something stupid, and he stops talking to me, or... or doesn't like me anymore?"
Eyeing her little-ling sadly, Josmey abandoned her work, hurried around the table and glomped the boy from behind, enjoying the startled squeak of his surprise. Propping her pointy chin on his bony shoulder and nuzzling her long nose into his wild hair, Josmey reassured him the best she knew how.
"It's be's likes all things," she said. "Youse be's learning...and youse be's workings from the grounds up."
OOOO
In the drawing room upstairs, Lily shrugged on her best going-out coat. Double breasted with a slight flare, the tan colour brought out the vibrancy of her hair as she eased the fiery strands out from beneath the collar.
"Are you ready, James?" She called out, slipping into heels.
James skidded around the corner. "Couldn't find my scarf," he huffed, brandishing the fabric clenched in his fist. Grabbing his own coat, he followed Lily over to the fireplace. "Are you sure about this?"
"Yes of course. I've got her gift in my pocket, and a good explanation for why I haven't spoken to her for a while."
"Lil's..." he began, trailing off uncertainly. "She's your friend."
She turned her green eyes onto him, adjusting her bracelets as her mouth pursed in a displeased line. "The same way Peter was your friend?"
James flinched, one hand going to rub the back of his neck. "That was low," he mumbled.
She continued to look at him. "I apologise," she said brusquely, sounding anything but. And then she sighed. "We've spoken about this Jamie. If there is even the slightest possibility that the Prophecy child is a Longbottom, then we need to make sure we are in a position to help nurture it. You and I both know we are the only ones who could possibly ready a child to defeat a Dark Lord — with your Auror work and my Unspeakable connections, You-Know-Who wouldn't stand a chance, but if Augusta was telling Dumbledore week's ago about Alice's pregnancy, then there's a higher chance of their child being the One."
"I still don't feel right about this."
Mentally shoving down her irritation, Lily smiled charmingly, stepping closer to run her hands up her husband's arms. "I'm not asking for much, Jamie, love. All I want you to do is talk to Frank; get to know him. You don't have to do any more than that."
James hesitated, uncertain and unable to shake the wrongness of what he were doing.
But...then he thought about the Prophecy, and the possible candidates, and his decision was made.
"Alright."
S H A D O W S
March quickly turns to April, then May and as it does, Harry watches, from a distance, his mother's belly expanding.
The distance was safe, and, despite his curiosity, he never shortened it, having learned to keep great spaces between himself and his mother when, on one particularly irregular evening, Lily had insisted he join them in the living room, and he, caught up in the fantasy of childish freedom, had trotted up to her, intent on asking if he could feel the baby.
His fall did not touch lily, but, evidently he was still too close as a panicked screams ripped through the hair, shrill and screeching as hands fumbled frantically. Hurried apologies, rushed and slurred, and innocent fell from Harry, lost in the yelling before the little boy found himself over his father's knee, Lily's sharp nails twisting his ear as his trousers were pulled down and blows rained down on the bare flesh of his bum. Searing through the skin in a cruel mockery of humiliation and pain.
He knew, in an abstract way, that he was crying; his face flushed as he sobbed out sorry's for his crime — though he knew not what he had done. When the adults had deemed him appropriately punished, he supposed, he was harshly dragged to the door and thrown out into the hall, where Lily shouted out for Josmey.
Through his tears, Harry heard Lily snarl for him to be taken up to his room — and make sure the door is locked, you here me! — where'd he'd not be given any food for two days — until he understands exactly what he did! — whereby, once she was done, Josmey was to punish herself for her bestial raising of the brat — iron them until they are flat, or so help me!
Some might think that a child barely a month out from their fifth birthday was too young to hate, but... over those two days, where Josmey dried his tears and applied a salve to the inflamed flesh of his bum; where she waited until he was asleep to leave, returning to awake green eyes that silently took in every detail of the bandages wrapped around her hands, and the burned and blistering flesh on her finger-tips; where the being that had raised him had been Ordered to refuse any healing aid's, including the same salve that Harry desperately tried to apply; where those same hands rubbed his back as he curled in on himself, his stomach clenching violently as two full days of meals were missed — as he consumed nothing but water — and kneeled over the toilet, coughing out acidic bile over his tears...
Hate for those people was too good an emotion.
OOOO
Things did not get better. Upon the cessation of his punishment, his door was unlocked. He refused to leave.
When James stormed up to his room, demanding to know what the hell he thought he was doing, disobeying his parents in such a manner, Harry had nothing to say to him, giving the man nothing more than a venomous glare that spat enough fire to last him a good while. When James sneered at this, glaring around the room as if it were at fault, and happened upon the piles of parchment, and the books scattered around, Harry grew wary, but refused to give. When his arm was yanked in a bruising grip — fracturing the fragile radius bone beneath his grip — and he was ordered to get rid of the books and parchments — no son of his was going to be a bloody fairy ! — before James told him that he was going to go down there and apologise for his abhorrent behaviour... he still said nothing.
When he returned to his room to find it devoid of all of his books, all of his work, everything, even Beedle's fairytales, he refused to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him cry. Instead, he sat in the window and refused to move. He went without supper again that night, but Vordey, through an elaborate working of a loophole, managed to sneak him a piece of bread and a glass of milk. Josmey, for the time being, had been Forbidden from seeing him. To entertain himself during the long night — his instincts soundly refusing to let him sleep just in case those people tried anything — he imagined taking all of James' Quidditch magazines, tearing them up, and shoving them down his throats until the man's pale hazy eyes were glassy and unseeing, just like the ' Healer's Healing Guide' described when a patient was too late to save. When Josmey slipped into his room four days later, welts red and swollen upon her legs, despite her best attempts to cover them, Harry paused in his frantic rush then very carefully enfolded her in his arms, burrowing his head into the joint of her shoulder and neck and resolved himself to finding a way to free Josmey, so that she couldn't be hurt anymore.
When she quietly informed him that she had managed to sneak his important things into the elf-way in the attic, he gave a genuine smile for what felt like a very long time, but ignored it in favour of spooning soup into her mouth.
And when James dragged him outside, handed him a too-large broomstick and told him to ride... Harry flew it into the forest. Admittedly, that had been an accident. As was smashing into a tree — which was not conveniently placed, despite Josmey's amused suspicions — and splintering it behind repair.
What was not an accident, however, was Harry standing there, staring in puzzled fascination as he watched the charms embedded in the wood fade away, before deciding he was best off returning to the manor and taking the back way. James searched for exactly fifteen minutes, while Harry watched him from the window and nibbled on the edible berries he'd picked up. Four hours later — and really, Harry wasn't even surprised at this point — James finally reappeared outside and used a Point-Me spell.
As punishment for his deception, he was corralled into the corner of the sitting room, hit with an itching charm, and forced to stand there for the remainder of the day.
As his fingers curled spasmodically into the hem of his shirt, teeth grinding together in a desperate attempt to ignore the itching, recalcitrant tears in his eyes, Harry wondered why these two horrible excuses of parents could ever want another child.
And if Harry placed the slightest of blames upon his future sibling, he had nobody to talk to since every house-elf had been Forbidden from speaking to him, and the Library had been Locked.
Stood an unwilling sentry in the corner of an empty room, having slipped into the deepest parts of his mind, even as his conscious mind assessed the irritation belaying his body and muscles twitched in a terrible pantomime of trauma, there was no one to witness the child's magic lash out in thick slashes and there was no one to witness the taste of violence shading his core.
W E ' L L
The past months had taught him a Very Important Lesson: the enemy viewed weakness as encouragement. In order to not be weak, one must know everything there is to know about the enemy.
...granted, during his bored explorations of the manor, he had found such words inscribed behind an empty portrait that had been abandoned in a corner for the attic. He'd not understood it at the time, and there had been talk of tables — of all things — but he had taken it to heart, and determined to learn everything about the people that created him.
As such, in his enduring loneliness, Harry had taken to loitering in the elf-ways. Whatever magic James had used to Forbid the house-elves all contact with him had also extended to preventing him from entering the elf-ways. For hours he had sat in his room, pressed up against the bare wall that he knew led to the secret corridor, Wishing to be let in. It wasn't enough. But, instead of growing weary and giving up, Harry stood, simmering in silent rage, much like Josmey's favourite kettle: the boiling point was always anybody's guess, but once it did, there was no telling where the pressurised spray of boiling steam would be directed. He paced to the opposite side of the room and glared at the wall, imagining the thick web of magic that would be covering it, how it would tangle. And then...then he stomped back to the wall and shoved it, Demanding to be let in because he was the Heir and he Wanted it, damn it!
His surprise at falling through the wall — he could not help but recall it as moving through a puddle of shadows, caressing his skin but leaving no imprint — was so overwhelming, he collapsed against the stone wall, marking his back as he laughed around his hyperventilation.
And thus began his shrouded journeys through the tunnels. He did not see a single house-elf on his travels, and sometimes he wondered if they had been dismissed from Dûwood all together, and his days often proved fruitless. The old man, that Albus, made several visits, but little of it ever made any sense, although... over time, Harry began to recognise repeated names. The Bad Man Voldemort was one such name, as was a Longbottom.
Possibly the worst part of this time was Harry's return to the Library. Crawling out from beneath a low-hanging shelf, scrambling up, sprinting to Iolanthe's portrait, where, once he arrived, he could do nothing but stare at her, ignoring the tears that ran silently down his cheeks until he broke... The silencing charms covering Iolanthe's portrait were like brands against his skin, burning and searing even as tried to smile, tried to speak. Iolanthe could only look on sadly as he collapsed against a bookcase, sliding down to the floor; as he hugged his legs tightly to his chest and sobbed, never once looking away from his friend and mentor.
Being able to see her, see how far away she was, one of the few people that rule cared about him, broke his heart, the blatant cruelty driving shattered shards into his heart.
He cried himself out, that afternoon on the Library floor, sobbed his throat raw and scratchy, his cheeks stained red, little crescent grooves imprinted in the flesh from where his hand had clamped over his mouth, desperately trying to keep the noise in.
There was no clear memory on how he made it back to his room but... it took him five days to return to the Library.
When he did, Iolanthe flinched when she saw the deadened look in his eyes; the malachite green as hard and inhuman as the precious stone they took after, and, for the first time in her existence, she cursed this half-life as a portrait — forever imprisoned within the frame, she was unable to do anything but watch on as the little boy she had grown to care for, fell further and further.
The only option left to her was do her best to guide him so that when he eventually hit the ground, he didn't break too far.
It took three days for Harry to break the silencing charm, drawing shapes in runes and blood — the silver knife glistening wetly, the slice across his palm bleeding freely, eye's glowing as magic rushed through his small body and his core shuddered.
When he did, when her voice was freed, Iolanthe told him how much she loved him, sliding down into the corner of her frame and pressing her hand against the film separating them, her ash-coloured skirts pooling around her, repeating it even as Harry's lower lip trembled, and his hands clenched, but he never cried.
She... she knew there was no coming back from this, so... so, despite how much the magic animating her cried out in phantom pain, she taught him. She taught him how to smile, and laugh and play...
All without feeling it.
P L A Y
The night of the baby's birth was one that would forever linger in Harry's memory. Not because it was particularly important, in the familial sense, or because he was excited for a sibling, or even because, years later, he would look back at this point and think, ' that was the beginning of the end'.
In his mind, the end had begun long ago.
Rather, the night lingered for the strangeness surrounding it.
The morning of the much anticipated birth of the next Potter child broke in with little fanfare, and would have remained such if only Lily had not received a floo-call and staggered into the kitchen ten minutes later, belly popping as she declared, "Alice has had the baby," in a stricken tone.
What had followed had confused Harry. The two adults had simply sat in silence for a few stunned minutes, and then it was like somebody had prodded them with a shock-hex; chairs were scraped back in a hurry, Lily immediately set off in the direction of the Master Room — from which she returned, huffing, with a thick wad of papers — while James began throwing open cupboards, rummaging around one full of small, darkened vials.
Looking back in it now, curled up on a steel chair in a sterile corridor, surrounded by the unnatural smell of the disinfectant spells used in the hospital, and waiting for the St Mungo's staff to come back, Harry supposed they might have been trying to speed up the pregnancy. Propping his cheek on his knee, Harry sighed for the umpteenth time, realising that this was one of the few times he regretted absenting the manor.
Of course, considering that it was the Paramedi-team that was responsible for safely seeing the expecting-mother and her family to the hospital — for moral support apparently — Harry had little choice in the matter.
Which brought him to the Strange Happening that had led to frantic rush to the hospital. The bizarre behaviour had lasted for hours, ranging from everything from Lily sniffing copious amounts of a foreign liquid to standing on her head, pressed up against the wall.
Thinking bout it, Harry wondered how productive that had been, since the baby was trying to go out, and thus down, but, well...who knew what was going thought their minds.
After that, expressions tight in disappointment, the couple had moved to their bedroom. Harry had followed but the minute he had seen what they were doing, he had run far away, finding his way to the bathroom where he immediately scrubbed his eyes clean. He never wanted to know what they had been doing in that room; if the noises Lily was making it were anything to judge by, she wasn't liking it either.
Shuddering, Harry scrunched his nose up. Ew.
Holding back a yawn as the large white doors slammed open, Harry looked up in anticipation, waiting for one of the Healers to tell him it was over. The witch hurrying past him wasn't one he recognised, and she was coming from the opposite direction, so he guessed she wouldn't have anything to do with his mother or sibling but still... watching her disappear out another set of doors, Harry wondered if he should tell somebody about the weird ritual his father had chanted while his mother kneeled inside the drawings and drew squiggly runes on her swollen belly. He was pretty sure it was related: no sooner had the James finished chanting had Lily doubled over, crying out. Even perched above the beams as he was, Harry had been able to see the convulsions rippling across the skin as James quickly set to vanishing the evidence of what they had done before sending off a glowing white ghost of a creature.
It was just... did he really care enough?
Probably not, actually. In all honesty, he was kind of... meh. About this whole situation.
His most acute emotion at this current point in time was exhaustion. He'd been in this chair for hours, according to the clock on the wall — the one whose face kept poking it's tongue out in a cruel mockery of his boredom — and it was nearly midnight.
He wanted sleep, and he wanted Josmey and...he just wanted to not be alone anymore.
Looking up with tired green eyes as the doors once again opened, Harry didn't have the energy to perk up when he spied Uncle Padfoot and Uncle Moony coming through the door, the tail-end of their conversation with a harried-looking Medi-witch drifting over to him. "... only just been informed by the front desk!" Sirius was saying, "Been in labour for hours, I was told! Where is my godson?! Where has he been for all these hours?!"
Glancing at Remus anxiously, perhaps in some ill-thought out hope of support, the medi-witch shakily pointed. "He-he's there, sir," she squeaked. And then, without waiting, she took off.
As Sirius glared after her retreating form, Remus looked for his cub, immediately seeing the boy curled up on the chair. Returning the small smile sent his way, Remus wasted no time in striding to the child and picking him up, breathing in the familiar, calming, scent of 'cubpackcub'.
Wrapping himself like a limpet around Uncle Moony, Harry nuzzled into the worn jacket, slivers of green peeking through his lashes as Sirius approached, still grumbling about rubbish organisation, and ruffled his hair.
"How've you been, pup?" He asked, fingers twitching to where Harry had once discovered a hidden box of smoking sticks.
"M'tired," Harry mumbled, his body unwillingly relaxing into the safe heat enveloping him. "They won't tell me what's happening."
Sirius, seeing the slight pout, snorted, pulling out his wand to transfigured the chairs into something more comfortable. Harry whined softly as he was jostled, Remus shifting into a workable position as he sat, with Sirius flopping down beside them.
"You are a bit young, squirt," Sirius teased.
Mustering enough energy to properly open his eyes, Harry glared mutinously. "I am so not too young!"
"Sure you aren't. Do you even know how babies are made?"
"Sirius," Remus said with sigh, admonishing but already resigned.
"Of course I do," Harry snapped, his nerves frazzled. He Did Not Like being made fun of. "The man gives the woman a gift that he always hides under his clothes and then the woman has to put it between her legs but it hurts, so that's why there aren't more babies running around."
Sirius chocked. As did Remus. Baring his teeth in silent triumph, Harry burrowed back into Remus' jacket.
Over the head of messy hair, Remus glared at Sirius. 'Really?' He mouthed, while his eyes seemed to say, 'you really thought that was a good idea?'
Shrugging helplessly, Sirius crossed his arms and slumped in the chair.
"How have you been otherwise, cub?" Remus asked, breathing shallowly against the chemical scent of the hallway.
Harry hesitated. On the one hand, he wanted, desperately, to tell Moony and Padfoot all about what had been happening, all about how he hadn't really felt anything for three months — not since the house-elves had been ordered away from him, and he'd ripped through the silencing charms around Iolanthe — about how his arm was still bruised — sickly looking purples and greens blooming across his skin violently — and ached occasionally, but... but telling them would make them worry and make them concerned and they'd rat him out to James and Lily, because that's just what adults do.
And... and, a small part of himself, the part he diligently pushed down, worried. If he told, would Moony think he was Bad too? Or would he call him a tattle-tale? Or a fairy, for complaining? He didn't know why fairies were such a bad thing — the garden had a colony and they were such lovely little things, even if their teeth were a bit sharp — but Harry decided it wasn't worth it. So, he held his tongue.
"Cub?" Remus prompted.
Although Moony clearly wanted some type of answer.
"It's my birthday today," Harry settled on, mumbling it into the fabric.
Both Remus and Sirius looked at the little boy in shock, before looking, wide-eyed, at each other.
Motioning with his head, Remus tightened his grip on his cub as Sirius pulled up a tempus, leaving them both gaping at the date.
"It's the last dual of July," Harry continued, oblivious to the scrambling of the adults. "Today is the last day of July."
"Well, then," Remus began, sounding strained. "Happy Birthday."
"Congratulations on making five, pup," Sirius cheered, ignoring the evil-eye of a passing medi-wizard. "Did'ya get anything cool?"
"... mum and dad forgot."
Black brows scrunching together, Sirius glanced at Remus before edging closer to his godson.
"Harry, I'm sure they didn't forget—"
"They were busy with the baby," Harry snapped, clenching his fingers in the back of the jacket. And then he wilted. "I don't wanna talk about this anymore."
"Okay," Sirius conceded. It didn't sound like James or Lily to forget about their son's birthday, but... he supposed that the labour would have needed to be prioritised.
"When we're done here, we'll go buy a cake, alright? We'll get your favourite: chocolate with mint frosting. How does that sound?" Remus said, leaning his chin on the head on his shoulder.
"I'd like that. Thank you Uncle Moony. You too, Uncle Padfoot."
"Sure thing, pup."
The door's opened before another line of conversation could begin, a medi-witch standing in the opening, her hair in a tight bun and her sharp eyes assessing the trio.
"Which of you is Sirius Black?" She asked brusquely.
Sirius stood rapidly, almost falling over himself in his rush. "I am!" He yelped.
Her mouth pursued into a judgemental line, likely taking in Sirius' muggle clothes, the ripped-up trousers, the band t-shirt under a faded biker's jacket, all dusted leather and oil-stained stood in stark contrast to her ivory over-coat. "You have been requested by the Potter's. Follow me."
Sirius lurched after her. "Wait," he called. "What about Harry?"
The medi-witch looked back, doing a poor job of concealing her disgust as she eyed the pair. "The boy can stay with his father. Only family is allowed in."
Sirius frowned at her. "Now wait just a minute," he growled, stepping forward. "I don't care for you, so don't think what you think matters. That there is my godson and my best friend. You do not have the right to look at either of them the way you just did. Furthermore, Harry's father is currently with his wife, you might know them: Lord and Lady Potter ring a bell? Yeah? That's their kid, so I'll ask again, what about Harry?"
Harry watched on with wide eyes as the medi-witch paled, eyes flickering around as she desperately tried not to meet the hateful glare directed her way. He'd never seen anybody speak up for him like that; not even Josmey... although he was pretty sure she would have if she could.
"Lord and Lady Potter requested only you, sir," the medi-witch said, clearly trying to hold onto her calm.
Sneering, Sirius turned around, intending to take his godson anyway. Remus adjusted his hold on Harry to pass him over, but Harry shook his head frantically, clinging to Remus.
"What's wrong, pup? Don't you want to see you're new brother or sister?"
"They only asked for you, Uncle Padfoot," Harry told him quietly. "I'll just get in the way."
Not wanting to delay too long, Sirius hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Yea. You go. Me and Moony can see them later."
"... Alright," Sirius sighed, scraping a hand through his unbound hair. Clapping Remus on the shoulder, he followed the medi-witch out.
Once they were gone, Harry shifted, leaning away so he could look at Remus. "Why did she look at you like that?" He questioned, intent on getting an answer.
"I don't think —" Remus began uncertainly, golden eyes flicking away.
Sensing a diversion, Harry rolled his eyes. "Moony. Please."
Remus groaned. Brushing the dark hair out of those green eyes, Remus shook his head. "It's because I'm a werewolf, cub."
Harry frowned. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"I'm a creature."
"...So?"
"They don't think of me as a proper wizard."
"Oh," Harry said, realisation evident in the angry set of his mouth. "So...so because you get sick on the full moon, and have lots of hair, people don't like you?"
"Pretty much," Remus sighed, wondering how long it would be before his godson realised how dangerous a werewolf could be.
"Well," Harry ground out, insulted on behalf of his favourite Uncle, "maybe they should try being werewolves and see how they like being treated like that."
Letting his head fall back with a dull thump, Remus repressed a smile. "It doesn't work like that, cub."
Sensing a lost cause, Harry didn't say anything more, simply huffing in displeasure and snuggling back down.
OOOO
Rushing into the room, Sirius pulled up short at the sight of his old friend cradling a bundle wrapped in white, while Lily reclined again the pillows, fiery hair spread out in a hallow about her shoulders as the team of Healers doddered around.
"Well?" He demanded, forgetting his irritation.
James looked up at him, grinning widely. "It's a boy!"
"Seriously? Another one? Congratulations! Can I see him?"
"Of course," James told him, beckoning him over. Dodging around the medical equipment, Sirius approached and looked down into the face of the newest Potter.
"Sirius," James began, exchanging proud looks with Lily. "May I present to you Alexander Sirius Potter."
Sirius paused in his analysis of chubby cheeks and flushed skin, looking up sharply.
"You... you named him after me?" He asked in amazement.
"Well, we spoke about it — that is, Lily and I — and we decided we want you to be his godfather."
Brows creasing, Sirius stood up straighter. "I'm already Harry's godfather. What about Remus?"
James waved him off. "Don't worry about that. Remus is already as good as Harry's godfather anyway. Besides, you know with all his Order work...it just wouldn't be far to ask him to watch out for another child. We'll sign the papers to make it official. What do you say?"
Looking between his friend and the baby, peeking beneath the little cap to find a sprinkling of ruddy hairs, Sirius smiled. "How could I possible say no?"
OOOO
Caught up in the afterglow of new life, nobody would notice the Healer filling out the paperwork check his timepiece, never once thinking to double check with a tempus, and so never realising that the heirloom ran five minutes slow.
Thus, Alex Sirius Potter was born as the seventh month dies, at 11:57, rather than the true five minutes later, at 12:02; the heralding of the eighth season.
2
Chapter Notes
So... this is later than I intended it to be. Still, keeping with the spirit in which it was intentioned: Merry Christmas Everybody! (though, frankly, I'm just impressed I got this up before the year ran out.)
As you may see, this delightful, brand spanking new update, is a Christmas Special Chapter. It's not in chronological order. There is a massive time-skip ahead. Questions will be raised... yeah.
All in all, it's a tease, made to celebrate my first year officially working in this fandom.
Just quickly: thank you to all of you that have read this, commented on this, bookmarked, subscribed and kudoed. It means so much to see how well received this story was — seriously, I'm over the moon.
I am near completion with the next actual chapter. All that awaits is another two scenes and then editing. It won't be long now.
Enjoy :D
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Glancing at the time, Harry grinned, bouncing on his toes, and peeled off the oven mitts. Bill would be home soon, and everything was ready. The cauliflower soup was creamy, the mushroom ravioli made perfectly and the boysenberry tart — Bill's favourite — was exactly right, a tad too bitter to suit conventional taste, but it was the way he preferred it and Harry had never been one to overindulge in sweet things.
Yes, it was unfortunate that Bill had had to work on Christmas Eve, but Harry was hoping the night more than made up for it. This past year, particularly the last few months, had been frightful in trying to find time to just be together — in his quest to reconnect as a couple, Harry had turned down Remus' invitation to dinner tonight, and breakfast tomorrow, and lunch (Harry had felt terrible doing it, but, blushing furiously and making a mess of his wording, Harry had explained his intention's and the man had been completely understanding, if a bit uncomfortable) and had to instead propose meeting the day after.
Though he wasn't of much mind to be worrying about outside factor's right now. Hurrying from the kitchen, after checking once again that yes, the food was cooked and no, it wasn't possible for it to fall off the counter or something equally drastic, Harry shed his clothes upon entering the bathroom and hopped into the shower, taking his time washing. The sharp rang of his lime-scented soap clung heavily to the steam as he towelled off; made all the more prominent as it awaited the dampening of his daily occupation (the purview of ancient artefacts and parchments) and temporarily diluted the fresh-ice smell that came with his particular brand of magic.
Exiting the bathroom, he left the towel to dry on the rack as he crossed to the wardrobe, shifting through his side until he found what he wanted: a ridiculously tight pair of muggle-styled leather pants, open from thigh to ankle along the outer sides and held together by a delicate network of chains. The garment was rightfully absurd but Harry had caught the look in Bill's eye — the man might as well have been drooling for all his subtlety and... pulling them on and twisting in front of the mirror, Harry couldn't help but preen at how deftly they outlined his every angle. And by every angle, he meant every angle. They left nothing to the imagination.
Moving round the room and lighting candles in his wake, Harry made sure that everything was presentable, checking the time once more. It would only be minutes now, before Bill walked through the door, kicking off his shoes. Excitement built within him just imagining his reactions, the way he'd look around curiously when Harry was nowhere to be found, only to finally make his way to their bedroom, perhaps unbuttoning his shirt as they went.
Crawling onto the bed, Harry started getting into position. His legs he drew up to his chest, tying practiced knots around his ankles with a soft silk sash before conjuring a large, plump, velvet red bow to his chest, just over his heart. The ribbon wrapped around his torso in extravagant loops, twining down his arms and carefully binding his wrists together. Biting his lip, irrationally shy at what he was doing, Harry dropped his wand to the side, shifted a bit to get more comfortable, and settled in to wait, counting down the minutes.
And he waited. He couldn't believe how excited he was — the seconds felt like they were stretching out into minutes and hours, stretching out the reality of passing time. Adrenaline was tingling through his fingers, enough so that he barely registered the awkward ache in his back, or the way his eyes drooped. He just... waited.
Bang!
Flinching terribly, already twisting for his wand, Harry woke violently, confused before memory kicked in and he realised why he was having so much difficulty lifting his wand and rubbing his eyes. He squinted at the ribbon around his wrists, following the strands to his chest and the bow. Idly, he explained away the sudden sound as the neighbour's slamming their door, but... a large part of him was hung up in the fact that he was still done up. Had he... oh, Merlin. He fell asleep.
Moving around hurt. He must have been there for quite some time then, for his muscles to have seized and throb in such a way, and... he wasn't all that surprised when a tempus revealed it to be midnight. Five hours. At the latest, Bill should have been home three and a half hours ago. Neither of them had ever been so late — not unless there was an emergency. Why wasn't Bill home?
The thought kept turning over in his head, incessant and repeating, as he banished the ribbon and the sash and the bloody trousers, and continued when he clambered off the bed, wincing in pain, disappointment flooding through him while he pulled on his pyjamas and padded through to the living room. Arms wrapped around himself, Harry discovered that the hearth had died down since last he tended it, though the fat boughs of the Christmas tree squashed in the corner still glowed brightly with his conjured fairy-lights and colourful glass ornaments.
Never before had Harry felt so small in his own home, his safe place. For all the year's spent there, Dûwood had fallen short, and had only briefly been considered his home, so for that feeling to rush through him, now of all times, was startling, and shook him deeply. Walking quietly to the kitchen, Harry was unable to help casting frequent, confused glances at the door — wondering why Bill wasn't home yet, why he hadn't received some sort of notice, wondering why he had turned down dinner with Remus when the night was going to be such an utter, dismal waste.
Staring at the plates of food, cold and congealed and uneaten brought no answer, and no respite from his turbulent emotions. He packed away all the food in a daze, moving on automatic, and storing it all in the icebox. His appetite had vanished, but Josmey would have his head if he wasted any.
When he climbed into an empty bed, he sighed, doing his best to not glare too accusingly at the other pillow before turning his back on it and shutting off the lights. It was fine.
oOoOo
It was not fine.
Tapping his fingers against the kitchen table, Harry gritted his jaw, teeth grinding together, and pointedly did not look at the clock.
Bill still wasn't home.
Irritation was clawing its way up his spine now, settling between his shoulder-blades while the acrid taste of fury flooded his mouth. It was seven fucking thirty. He had woken to a still empty bed, the sheets untouched and cold. He had woken to worry and frantic pacing, tugging on his hair as he puzzled over what could have gone wrong, what could be keeping him, puzzling over why he hadn't heard anything. It was Gringott's procedure: if something goes wrong, the next of kin is contacted. Harry was down as Bill's next of kin, just as Bill was down on his. Harry hadn't been contacted.
Bill had been gone all night. Last night was Christmas Eve. Harry had given up spending time with his only family to spend time with Bill.
Bill didn't come home.
That worry had quickly taken an irredeemable nose dive into anger, then a sharp turn left into the minefield of glacial rage. It hadn't left the dead-zone yet.
And, as if to prove his point, the wood turned to ash beneath his fingers. Snarling, Harry yanked his hands away from the table, fisting them into thin air as fury wrecked his nerves and his magic.
Another minute ticked by and his eyes stung. He felt like a fool, sitting around and waiting for his boyfriend like he had nothing better to do. Pathetic.
Setting his elbows on the table, Harry buried his face in his hands and shut his eyes. One deep breath. Then another.
Sending a patronus was useless — Bill was working in the Bowel's; the goblin's wards wouldn't let it through. An owl would take too long. He could go there in person, but he didn't want to look too needy — maybe he could make up a reason, surely there was something for him to do there—
The lock on the front door clicked open.
His head snapped up, eyes wide as an indescribable surge of emotion rushed through him, leaving him feeling sick.
There was a familiar shuffle of movement, sounds Harry had come to associate with jackets hung on the rack, and shoes toed off, and bags dropped, and then Bill appeared in the corridor archway, rubbing his face, exhaustion evident in the slouch of his shoulder's and the scuff of his feet against the floor. Harry could only look at him silently, eyes perhaps a bit too wide, unable to find any words to use.
Bill shuffled into the living room, and still Harry watched him, speechless, only to narrow his eyes when Bill actually started and looked at him in surprise.
"Harry!" He exclaimed. "You're awake."
Leaning back in the chair, Harry crossed his arms. "You're home," he replied evenly, not entirely sure what he was feeling right now.
Seemingly waking up a bit, Bill headed for the sink, pulling out a clean glass and filling it with tap water. "Oh man," he huffed, shoulders slumping further. "You don't know the half of it. One of the dragons got lose— " Harry shot upright in alarm, "— some twat thought it'd be funny to hex the chains or something, I don't know. Anyway," Bill paused, drinking deeply. "Anyway, the blasted thing got lose and tore through a couple department's - triggered the shut down procedures. 'm'sure you can imagine just how pleased the goblin's were about that."
Harry blinked slowly, mind shifting through ' dragon and ' got lose and ' shut down'. "Are you okay? You aren't hurt or anything, are you?"
"No, I'm fine," Bill said, shaking his head. "Got a couple of scratches, but it could've been worse.
Harry swallowed. Having seen dragons up close on the reserve, that was certain. "I was so worried when you didn't come home last night," he breathed, silently berating himself for his behaviour. He should've been more understanding, and not just immediately begun assuming the worst.
"Yeah. I'm so sorry I couldn't get away - you had plans though, right? You didn't have to cancel anything, did you?"
"No, I didn't - it's fine. Nothing that can't be done some other time."
Biting his lip, Harry watched Bill putter around the kitchen after the red-head shot him a... distracted smile. An - an itch was crawling up the side of his neck, soft and subtle but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong - that something wasn't right... he didn't like it, and he... he didn't know. Something was off.
"What did you do during the shut down?"
"Damage control, mostly," laughed Bill, slathering a piece of bread with butter. "Merlin, the place was a mess - never seen anything like it. Thought the goblin's were about to keel over any minute, screaming about chaos, or something."
Smiling weakly, Harry ignored whateveritwas and stood from the table, gathering up the mess left over from his own breakfast of tea and toast (he hadn't been able to stomach anything heavier). "I'm glad you're alright." Perhaps there was still time to enjoy the day before they had to leave for Molly's. "There's leftovers in the icebox - I can heat them up if you like."
"Thanks love, but no. I just really want to sleep right now." As if to emphasise his point, Bill yawned. "Should probably shower first," he added.
Looking up beneath his lashes, knowing how heady that made him, Harry grinned. "Sure you just wanna sleep? It's been ages since we've done more than share a bed—"
"Harry," Bill interrupted and Harry froze, feeling flash-fire hurt rip through him. Bill sounded... he sounded irritated. At him. "I've had a long day. I just really want to sleep right now."
"Oh." Swallowing down the acrid taste, Harry, just kind of... "Um, okay. Do... what you like, I guess. Do you - need anything?"
"Nah, I'm right love."
Setting aside the glass and the dirty plate, Bill washed his hands.
He pecked Harry on the cheek, quickly, impersonally, as he passed, and... and Harry couldn't breath. He was aware of Bill moving around behind him, heading for the bedroom, most likely, of the man saying that he shouldn't be long, but...
But everything else was focused on two things. One, since walking through that door, Bill hadn't looked him in the eye. Not once. Not at all.
And two... he smelled... he smelled like her.
Screwing his eyes shut as ice seeped over him, Harry ground his knuckles into his temples, hoping to just be able to think for a moment around the ringing in his ears, to think around the sickening, vice-like excoriation of his heart.
He didn't want to think about it, he decided. He wouldn't. Not today. It was just paranoia. Yes, that was it. He was overly paranoid, and suspecting hurt at every corner and nobody liked that in a boyfriend — no, not at all. He was better than this anyway, it wasn't like him to jump to... jump to such outlandish conclusions. Bill wouldn't do that to him. Never.
Still.
Looking around the flat, where the Christmas tree twinkled merrily and snow fell outside the window and silence and emptiness once again dominated, Harry realised he couldn't stay here right now.
If he did, he might just break something.
Summoning a pen, Harry grabbed a piece of paper, and held the tip against the sheet, only to notice that his hand was shaking. Flexing his fingers, Harry harshly scrawled out: " Something's come up. Had to go. Make my excuses to your mum - sorry about dinner."
He didn't give anymore thought to - to that, and rushed for the door, barely of mind to grab his coat and scarf before he was slamming the door behind him — loudly — and rushing down into the street.
He couldn't bare to see Remus at the moment — the man would immediately know something was wrong, if not by Harry's outright admittance, then his sense of smell, and Harry didn't think he had it in him to explain. Not today, not right now, not... not...
It didn't matter. Not with family. Not with people that would look at him with those soul-twisting looks of sympathy and godforsaken pity. He didn't need pity. He needed silence and to pretend that nothing was wrong.
Tripping over his feet — oh, he forgot shoes — Harry finally pushed his arm through the coat, and apparated.
oOoOo
He snapped into existence on a snow covered lane without missing a step, coat flaring out behind him as he stalked up to the age-worn manor sat atop the hill. He let the cold cold cold blank his mind, to distract from the hot flush of shame that wanted to claw across his neck, let the frozen winter-side air whip across his face and convinced himself it was the cause behind the stinging in his eyes. He wasn't particularly successful — self delusion never had been a strong point of his — but there was little he could do, unless he was up for a confronting validation.
... He was cold at the best of times but he wasn't masochistic. He'd rather avoid self-inflicted pain, thank you.
He tore through the more tetchy of the wards without a second thought, barely even slowing his pace. They were good, exquisite even, he would give the man that, but in his current mood... well, he wasn't exactly going for finesse now, was he?
He might fight fix them later though. If he felt like it. Maybe as a gift.
Magic crackled around him as the towering, rusty gates swung open upon his approach and he momentarily shut his eyes. Bleed out, particularly around him, never resulted in anything less than volatile. With the next step, he apparated. And again. And again. Over and over again until he was panting, gasping for air, only to inhale frost and ice and burn his lungs, maybe even his blood, drowning in winter until he was revelling in it, even as he pushed open the heavy door of polished, carved wood and bronze metalwork, entering a dark, narrow hallway that stretched out, seemingly endlessly.
Bracing a hand on the wall, Harry wandered and wandered until he came across the room he wanted, slipping inside before he could think twice, or thrice, or consider that the man might have company — an outlandish thought, certainly, but once that occurred, fleetingly to him, nonetheless.
"I want a truce," was the first thing he said, even before inspecting his surroundings. A tactical error, most certainly, but necessary at the moment. "For forty-eight hours," he clarified, breathing in deeply, one hand braced against the door behind him, fingers digging into the grains of wood. This was terribly unprofessional of him, but he just needed everything to stop. Just for a minute.
His vision was... tilting, though; colours fading out and popping back in randomly, too bright and too dark and too much. It made his head spin.
He blinked, praying that it would end, yet unwilling to concede. Pressing the palm of his hand to his temple did little, giving only a momentary respite.
Merlin dammit.
A noise gained his attention, breaking through the vomitous haze.
Lifting his head, he locked eyes with the man who had been, up until that point, reclining on the rather comfortable looking armchair, a glass of red wine dangled between his unfairly long fingers, watching the fire. Now, warbright eyes narrowed on his (probably dreadfully slumped) figure in — well, if the man was just that, a man, Harry would say it was concern, but he wasn't, just a man that is, so it was probably disgruntlement at an unanswered question.
Hell if he knew the question, though.
"Pardon?" he rasped, wincing as the sound magnified tenfold.
"Are you well?"
Was he? Swallowing back bile, Harry tried speaking. The most he managed was an unintelligible sound, like a grunt. At least, he was pretty sure it was grunt. The room swung on it's axis, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
There was a dull clunk, lie a wine-glass being set aside, and then: "Come here."
Come here? Yeah, okay. He could do that. Maybe. Probably.
Opening his eyes only a sliver, Harry stumbled across the room — his feet refused to move properly and the goddamn room was still moving.
He fell to his knees before the armchair without care, mind tripping over itself as he automatically sought out a hand, even as he bared his neck, revealing the lightning-flash scarring curling up behind his ear and the underside of his jaw, down to his collarbone.
Relief lanced through him when a hand gripped his searching one before another hand curved around his neck, almost completely covering the scar and all he wanted to do was scream. It hurt — hurt so terribly, as though his blood, his body, was mere seconds from disintegrating from the intensity of the inferno tearing through it and all he could do was grit his teeth, tendons standing out stark as his body bowed in a cruel pantomime of silent agony and a pained whine ripped from him.
And then - and then the pain abated, vanishing abruptly, and relief hit him so suddenly, a cool balm of calm calm calm washing over him. Sagging, he released the breath trapped within him before turning his face to the side, allowing Voldemort's knee to take the weight of his head; carefully making sure the hand on his neck was not disturbed.
No matter how often this happened, it was still a peculiar sensation; feeling a foreign magic reach out and so naturally soothed his fractured core. Don't mistake him — he was forever grateful that he no longer suffered the fits of his childhood whenever he got overly emotional, but... but the knowledge that he was magically compromised was one he doubted he would ever be fully comfortable with.
Although, the thumb rubbing circles on his jaw, and the hand carding through his hair was incredibly nice.
The bastard. Using his desire for physical contact against him. So predictable.
"Any better?" queried Voldemort. Tiredly, Harry nodded, making an assenting noise. Voldemort hummed noncommittally, but did not cease his movements, allowing his nails to scrape across Harry's scalp, sending pleasurable shiver's down his spine. "These fits are increasing. I was under the impression you were taking potions."
"I am," Harry mumbled, disgruntled. "I... forgot this morning, that's all."
Voldemort tutted — the audacity — and rolled his eyes. "Ridiculous child," he hissed, but said nothing more on the matter for many minutes; absorbing the bleeding waves of wild magic without complaint. It wasn't easy, Harry knew — he'd tried doing it once, himself; fresh and inexperienced, the pain had almost sent him to his knees. So, he was appreciative enough to squeeze Voldemort's hand in thanks (though not enough to say the words out loud. It was the principal of the matter).
"That should do it," Voldemort said then, patting Harry on the head once before withdrawing his hands. "Try standing now."
Harry did no such thing. Standing? Psh. The man was lucky he wasn't splayed out unconscious on his rug. That would surely have drawn some irritating questions, should any have happened across the room.
Instead, Harry rearrange his limbs until he could lean back on his elbows, unashamedly getting comfy on the rug (it was a very nice rug, very soft, lots of threads) and suppressed a groan as the echo of a migraine pinched behind his eyes.
"So," he began, crossing his ankles and letting his head loll back. "Truce. I want one. How 'bout it?"
Voldemort sighed and reached for the wineglass. "I was under the impression people spent this day with their family and, ah, paramours."
Harry shrugged, unwilling to talk about what he was doing here, and scowling now that he had been reminded. "What about you, then?"
Voldemort, a funny little smile playing on his lips, said, "I have neither," and sipped his wine.
"Of course." Rolling his eyes, Harry huffed. "Don't know why I bother."
"Nor do I, but I do so find it attractive."
The comment washed over Harry; he'd lost count of the passes the Dark Lord made.
Back to the matter at hand, though: he really was getting rather agitated without an agreement. He'd rather a truce was made — for prosperities sake — before the man started in on the machinations and power-plays.
"Well?" he demanded, when an answer seemed a long way in coming, and sucked in a pained breath. Calm. Needed to remain calm.
Voldemort simply tapped a finger against the glass. "You tore through my wards," he noted, as though he were commenting on the weather.
"I'll fix them," Harry snapped, then flushed as a delighted smirk curled the man's lips.
The infuriating man took unholy glee in watching him lose his temper. Unbidden, a fond smile twitched the corners of his mouth and he laughed — slow and halting and quiet — and laughed, hitching gasps of humour that were more broken than whole. He didn't notice when his hand rose to his clavicle, rubbing achingly over that one spot, wasn't aware of startled (if not concerned) warbright eyes tracking his every move. Edged in hysteria. That was his laughter.
Still, it was easier now to strangle the fostered sound in his throat, choking on bitter mirth with a hand clamped over his mouth, than it might have been if he were on his own. Or with Remus. Here, he had reputations to keep, and couldn't afford the dent such a break in composure would leave.
Wiping his eyes and pulling himself together, Harry let his head fall against his shoulder. "We'll never speak of this," he warned, and shot the Dark Lord a dark look for good measure.
Voldemort hummed, equivocating, and continued sipping his wine. Harry really couldn't ask for better.
"And I have never asked for anything," he continued.
"That is true," Voldemort allowed, and it was. That was the way it worked between them. They hinted, and manipulated, tricked and diverted, but neither ever outright asked the other for anything. That way, Harry liked to think, when either of them did, it was all that more profound.
Harry waited, with baited breath, as the man clearly thought his proposal over. Then, in a gesture perversely human, the man sighed and rolled his eyes and looked incredibly put upon. "Very well," he said, setting the wine glass aside, reaching for the bottle beside it. "I suppose it is no great hardship accepting this truce of yours. Tradition stands: for forty-eight hours I shall not kidnap you, harm you and wilfully and/or forcefully manipulate into oath making, so long as you do in kind and give me the satisfaction of answering one question."
"And what question would that be?"
"How in the name of Salazar did you find me?"
Smothering a smile, Harry lifted a hand off the floor, dragging it through the air as silver danced across his fingertips. "I accept the demands of your satisfaction - may the truce stand."
There was nothing so dramatic or flashy as blinking light, or even the faint sound of bells. Rather, the binding agreement slotted into his core, a tightly wound bundle of peaceful promise that was already dissolving, and would be gone by the time the agreement closed.
The prospect of forty-eight, uninterrupted hours was enough to make him smile — properly and genuine — and sling an arm over his eyes.
Now, how best to explain without giving away the game?
Peeking under his arm, Harry discovered that Voldemort had not taken his eyes off him, and the green of his own sharpened. "I apparated," Harry told him, and watched eagerly the man's reaction.
It was not disappointing. For a moment, Voldemort simply stared, lips pursed as though contemplating how sincere an answer that was. And then his eye twitched. "You... apparated?" ha questioned, sounding both indescribably doubtful and mildly... dumbfounded.
Harry watched, with great amusement, as the revered Dark Lord scowled and rubbed circles with his thumb in his temple.
"You have been inside this manor several times, I'll admit," the man said, gaze sharper than that of an eagles and seeking Harry's tells. "None of which have been of your own volition."
"You do have a very strange fixation with kidnapping me," Harry agreed, recalling that first time with a great deal of fondness.
Voldemort shot him a look. "Considering your glaring," he paused as though challenging Harry to interrupt, "lack of volition, and the fact that each of your numerous escapes were conducted without leaving the confines of the building, you should not be able recall this residence at all."
Harry thought about this, and then he shrugged. "I am a wardmaster," he said slowly, as though it explained everything. "And there are ways around everything - the fidelius, for example; I didn't know, nor was I informed, of the address whenever you spirited me away here. In my mind, it's just a place, with a handful of rooms, and dreary carpeting." Voldemort twitched and Harry counted it a win. He spread his hands. "Ergo—"
"There was no address to corrupt in memory," Voldemort sneered, looking throughly disgusted. Harry suspected it was at himself. "Yes, yes. You can quite your gloating, you insufferable child."
Ducking his head to hide his smile, Harry got to his feet. Since he was guaranteed safe passage here, he could make himself comfortable — maybe even explore a bit. Merlin only knew every other time he visited Riddle Hall he was barely allowed the time for leisurely enjoyment.
Now though... shrugging out of his coat and laying it across the back of a chair, Harry cast a cleaning and repairing charm on his socks (something he really ought to have done sooner, considering the way they had ripped open on the gravel, then trudged through snow) and headed to the door.
Voldemort merely sighed at him, and filled up a second glass. "Need I wonder where you are off to?"
"Not really, no," Harry replied, pausing just before slipping out the door. "But I'm guessing you have a library somewhere in this godforsaken place."
When he returned, Voldemort hadn't moved, having resumed his staring at the fire, a second glass of wine awaited him, and he had the sofa all to himself.
Despite its rather shoddy start, this was honestly not the worst Christmas he'd ever had.
"I got you a present," he said, by way of greeting as he plucked up the offered glass and bee-lined for the sofa, and basked in the Dark Lord's brief flicker of bewilderment.
The expression did not last long, with the man hurriedly composing himself. "Did you now?"
"I did," Harry said, nodding. Sprawling out on the sofa, Harry pulled a small box from his coat nod turned it over in his hands. Casually, he flicked his eyes up to Voldemort's, watching avidly his reactions. "But," he sighed, sounding forlorn. "I haven't decided if I want to give it to you yet."
If not for his close observation, he might not have seen the... the disappointment cloud warbright red before it was replaced by anger then a forced wall of nothing.
Rather alarmed, and most certainly not expecting that reaction, Harry ceased all attempts at teasing. It was too familiar for him to do so — too alike to the bitterness that would creep inside him when affection and focus was dangled in front of him as a child.
"Catch," he warned, and then he tossed the gift towards the Dark Lord.
With reflexes any Seeker would have been jealous of, the man caught the gift one-handed, halting it's trajectory beside his head. Lowering his hand, Voldemort shot Harry a curious look, before inspecting the small package.
Side-eyeing him, Harry cracked open the book he'd liberated in an effort to give the illusion of privacy.
Long finger's touched the ribbon, before carefully pulling it away, then starting on the paper. Crinkling followed, then a pause as Voldemort simply stared at the polished wood of the case. Then, gently, almost warily, he opened the lid and from within — lying on a bed of crushed velvet — lifted a wristwatch of the like he'd never seen before. The leather band was, in itself, simple, as was the buckling, though he suspected he spied tiny etching on the gold, but... it was the face that drew his attention.
Symbols in a language he didn't recognise encircled the face, out of reach of the several cogs and gears that whirled delicately on their orbit.
Holding it up to his eye, Voldemort could see a fine grain of golden sand weaving unencumbered between the mechanisms — never touching; an infinite weave of gold and magic.
He frowned, and caught Harry's eye, hoping for an explanation.
"It's Olde Persian," Harry told him. "The numerals, that is."
"It's... beautiful," Voldemort admitted, looking regretfully pained to do so. "Where did you get it?"
"I... had I made, actually. Though - if you want to get technical, I did commission it while I was in Persia, so..."
Voldemort looked up sharply. "You were in the Dynasties?"
"Yeah? For a few months, actually, two years ago now. It was, um — site work." Harry cleared his throat at the end, vaguely uncomfortable beneath the piercing gaze of the Dark Lord. "You know how it is."
Voldemort looked at him for several moments longer, blank faced and eyes burning with curiosity. "No," he eventually said, just as Harry was about to cast for petrification. "I don't. I never made it to the Middle East during my travels." He looked again at the watch. "This is not normal sand."
"Do you expect me to give away all my secrets?"
"I would hope you at the least willing." Strapping the timepiece of his wrist, Voldemort tilted it to admire properly. "As part of my gift."
"Fine." Harry rolled his eyes. "What do you know of Alamut?"
Harry waited. Voldemort's eye twitched and the corner of his mouth pinched.
"From your silence, I'm going to assume nothing?" Voldemort's displeasure thickened into thin-lipped scowling. "Right — long story short, Alamut is the focal point of temporal magic. Every country, excluding Britain, although," Harry shot the man a significant look, "that calamitous error was untrue before we all but embargoed ourselves."
Voldemort rolled his eyes and waved for him to continue.
"As I was saying, all major countries have embassies just outside the city walls - it's a holy city, nobody is allowed political placement's within it. There is - there is nothing like it. The magic of the place," Harry laughed, shaking his head in amazement. "The city is thousands upon thousands of years old, and it's as pristine as it was the day it was built. Anyway, I was there on a dig - a collapsed tunnel had been discovered, and my specific skills were required, so when it came time to payment, I got that. That sand. The sand of Alamut."
"You got sand?"
Harry sighed, raising his eyes to the heavens. "So unappreciative," he chided. "It's not just sand. It's the sand of Alamut - it's the sand of time."
Warbright eyes widened incrementally, and shot down to stare at the innocuous wristwatch.
"Yeah."
"This is..."
"Yep."
"By Salazar's name."
Preening, Harry brought the wine-glass to his lips. "If you smash it," he began, taking a sip. "If you smash it, you will return to a point five minutes in the past." And then he looked away. "Consider it my precaution for this war."
"Harry—"
"Don't," Harry rushed. "Not a word."
Eyeing him, Voldemort nodded. "Very well." His foot tapped a symmetric beat against the rug and Harry noticed he wore no shoes. "I have no gift for you."
Snorting, Harry choked on the mouthful of wine he was swallowing. "I never expected one," he laughed, wincing around the burn in his nose.
"Good then. Just so we're clear."
Still quietly giggling to himself, Harry rose from the sofa and wondered over to where Voldemort sat, with the bottle by his elbow.
Distracted, it was a shock when, quick as a viper, Voldemort's hand shot out and snatched his wrist. Suitably scandalised, Harry really didn't even have the time to put up a resistance before he was tugged forward and found himself sitting in the Dark Lord's lap — the same Dark Lord that had kidnapped him repeatedly and harassed him unrepentantly.
And then there were lips on his and he was freezing with something more than surprise.
The kiss was soft and gentle, closed mouth and sweet, and nothing like what he had imagined kissing a Dark Lord would be. Alone, and particularly bored, Harry had assumed it would be forceful and demanding and overbearing not - not this. Nothing like this.
When Voldemort pulled away, after seconds of contact, it took the man swiping a thumb under Harry's eye to realise he was crying. He made no move to wipe them away, just... just too confused.
"You - you," he stammered to a stop, not knowing what to say. You shouldn't have done that, maybe. I shouldn't have don't that, probably. But Voldemort beat him to the punch, so to speak.
"I am not going to ask," he told him, warbright eyes trained on his, "why you are here, with me, on Christmas, instead of with your family. But. I am... not adverse to your company, so, in the nature of festivity: Merry Christmas Harry."
Harry made an incomprehensible noise, then... slowly extricated himself. He filled his glass with a shaking hand, as well as Voldemort's, then retreated to the safety of the sofa.
All the while, one thought was most prominent in his mind: that was the kiss that should have been shared with his boyfriend, in his bed, this morning.
The merry crackle of the fire filled the silence, the following stillness and... it wasn't awkward. Not really. Even uncomfortable was a stretch. The... tension between them was... natural. Normal. Bizarre.
Tugging pillows towards himself, and curling his legs up beneath him, Harry drank the wine like he could derive greater meaning from it. He was of half a mind to snag up the romance novel he'd filched from the library but he kept tripping over that kiss and what he had done and—
"So," Voldemort said, relaxing back in the armchair. "Tell me about Alamut."
"What d'you want to know?"
A sharp smirk over the rim of crystal glass, a pause, and then, "Everything."
Chapter End Notes
I unashamedly admit that 'Alamut' and all references therein, have been taken from the 2010 film, Prince of Persia: the Sands of Time. Just so you know.
Afterword
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