High above the crashing waves of the English Channel, dressed in ivy was a manor house like no other. The lights were always dim, the staff in-service often the only ones seen coming and going by the town folk. They knew not the master of the grand stone walls and iron gates. There were many whispers, fables of histories fabricated by wet-nurses and children of the family that owned the estate. Some claimed they were royalty, others were sure that the manor had been abandoned for centuries. They all had one thing in common: the family name, Lestrange.
The Lestrange family were far from princes and princesses they speculated, but they were consumed in the world of magic. One of the sacred twenty-eight, the Lestrange name was well known across the wizarding world. Many generations of witches and wizards had called the manor house home, but with the passing of each generation, they became further removed from the beauty of France and acquired various properties across the United Kingdom. The ancestral home, however, was far from forgotten. With Britain in turmoil as the Dark Lord fought for pure-blood supremacy, The Lestrange family offered some of his most loyal followers.
Tonight, however, they had sought refuge in the safety of the manor house, a single light glowing out the windows of the master bedroom. The rest of the house was dark, cloaked men and women rushing through the halls with arms full of towels. Between them, ignored as he lay across the sprawling emerald carpet, a small child no older than the age of three. Dark curls hung down his forehead and into crystal hues. His head leaning from one side to the other as he watched the chaos with great curiosity. There were faces familiar and others unknown, all there to aid in a task he couldn't quite understand. There were screams, but they were different from those the boy had heard before. It was a woman, in pain. Unlike before, there were no flashes of color and no cries for mercy. Just her screams, and her screams alone.
Curious wobbles carried the toddler down the shadowed hallway, the light kissing the child's face through a single crack in the door. His vision was blocked by the legs of many, forcing him into a stumble that earned a whine from impatient lips. Steadying, he did his best to peer around the towering figures. Candles were lit on each side of the four-poster bed, and rain tattooed down on the window pane. At the bed center, a woman was splayed, her back arched as she endured pain only a mother could understand. With each wail, the flames burned brighter and the glass of the window rattled until it shattered in its place. For a moment there was panic, but with the flick of a slender black wand, the fragments glistened like diamonds as they reformed and prevented the rain from drenching the carpet further.
Pushing in further, the child found the comfort of a woman's skirt, grasping it tight between his fingers. The woman was far from startled, looking around down at the child with a polite smile. She let him stay down by her side, hugging her knees as she arched over the bed. He strained to see over the mattress's edge at what was just out of reach to him but as he pushed up onto his toes the room went dark and all was silent.
The witches and wizards gathered around the bed, the toddler scooped up into the arms of his caregiver so he too could take in the sight. It was a baby, their head a mess of dark curls. For a moment there was panic, the baby so quiet and still, but when a tiny squawk left their lips, relief took over the room.
"It's a girl," came a whisper, pride taking the features of both mother and father. Confusion took the child as the mother refused to hold her child, leaving the father heartbroken.
"You must take her-"
A hushed argument took the room, the safety of the child in question. They were known death eaters, loyal to Voldemort. The Order would come for them, the Aurors would come for them, and there was no telling what would happen to the child if they were to face an ill fate. With little protesting, it was clear where the child must go. There was no safer place than away from her mother's side. One day, they would meet again, but until then she would be cared for by another.
Wrapping the babe in a soft blanket, the caregiver the young boy had clung to so fondly clutched the newborn to her chest and pulled the hood of her robe over her head, casting a shadow over her features. Swatting the boy from her side, she said her goodbyes moving out into the hallway.
It was in the darkness of the corridors that she was stopped, the newborn's father taking her by the elbow, "-wait," he begged her, "her name, please," naming her was his only request.