Disclaimer: I'm too young to be Rowling so there is sadly no way Harry Potter is mine…
Placing: After the war - could be canon…
Just an idea I had, nothing more.
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TRUST
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"Trust is a terrible thing – it can ensure the impossible and destroy humanity with just one word."
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The Summer Between Harry Potter's Fourth and Fifth Year
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"Percy."
Percy stopped dead in his tracks and turned around to face his father – a man he hadn't seen in weeks.
"Father," he said stiffly, before turning around, intending to ignore the man like he had done since their fall-out at the end of the school year.
He didn't even think that his father wouldn't let him go, so the restricting hand on his shoulder came as a surprise.
"We need to talk, son," the older man said, his eyes unusually hard. Percy startled.
"Father," he said, but before he could say anything further, his father shook his head.
"No, Percy," he said. "We'll talk now."
And with that, he dragged Percy into a small office before throwing up some wards that no normal wizard working as a clerk in the Ministry of Magic should know. The moment the wards snapped into place, the father's eyes darkened.
"Explain," he demanded, his voice icy – surprising and out of character for his usually so soft demeanor. Percy, on the other hand, unlike others, knew that voice. He straightened and glared right back.
"The Unspeakables recruited me," he said. "I'm spying. First on Crouch, now on the Minister." And for that, Percy had to keep his distance to his blood-traitor family. Percy grimaced. "I didn't have a choice. I was ordered to estrange myself from you."
"And you listened," the father said, disappointment in his voice.
Percy flinched.
"It's my job, Father," he tried to explain haltingly. "You were the one to tell us to give everything for the job." Those words earned him a sigh and a head-shake from his father.
"But this isn't your job, Percy," he corrected his son and when the boy opened his mouth to object, he interrupted him before could utter another word. "This isn't your job, Percy," he repeated softly, before he continued with his explanation. "This is your cover. You never give everything for your cover. The job comes first – and you don't belong to the Unspeakables. You can't, if you don't want to end up their weapon."
Percy closed his eyes, his face suddenly falling and expressing regret. His father smiled at his son and then reached out to ruffle his hair.
"It's fine," he said. "If you have to estrange yourself from your mother, Ron and Ginny and even me for your cover, then that's alright." Then his eyes hardened. "But estranging yourself from your hands – that's not something you should have ever considered. Your hands – your twins – are part of you. No matter who tells you to keep your distance from them, you will never listen to them! You will never estrange yourself from them on the say-so of others – even if it had been Merlin himself to ask you to do it! The twins, they're your hands! They're part of you! Part of your body! Part of your soul! Without them, you're incomplete. Without them, you all would suffer and you would abandon your job."
Percy's eyes widened at that.
"But the Unspeakables–" he started to say.
"–have no idea who or what you are – and will never have an idea about that, Percy." His father put his hands on Percy's shoulders and leaned closer to look into his son's eyes. "They're children in our eyes, son. You don't always listen to a child's selfish wishes. They would get spoiled if you did. Do you understand?"
Percy looked away and thought about it for a moment. His mind turned over his orders from the Unspeakables, reminded him of his duties and his responsibilities and in the end, he could see where his father had come from. He nodded slowly.
The Unspeakables had started to exist shortly before the Ministry of Magic had come into being. Percy's job, on the other hand, had been around for about a thousand years. The soul and knowledge Percy and his father shared had been around for about a millennium.
The Unspeakables were indeed children in his and his father's eyes
"I see," Percy said. "I understand. I'm sorry, Father."
His father just smiled and ruffled his son's hair.
"It's fine," he said. "You're still training and I'm still there to guide you. But, Percy, son – listen. Listen to your soul. It knows the right way. It had more than a millennium to learn, after all."
"Thank you, Father," Percy said and then closed his eyes. His soul was humming, content with the closeness to the other part of it.
It wouldn't be always like that. Sometimes in the future, his father would give up his destiny. He would hand over his soul to Percy and retire. After that, there would be no guidance anymore; after that, Percy would be on his own.
But until then, Percy still had his father – and his father knew how to guide him quite well.
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Just a week later, two Death Eaters from two different raids in the muggle world appeared crying in front of Voldemort.
"He stopped us," they cried. "And he has turned meaner than ever!"
Voldemort wished that he could object to that observation, but sadly, he had to agree with his followers. On the necks of the Death Eaters, a Red Cross was burning. Voldemort could just watch while his Death Eaters died in front of him – the half-transfiguration of their bodies definitely not helping their injuries.
"Now he's not only killing but also humiliating us," Voldemort said with a grimace. "What did I do to deserve this?!"
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1985
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"Father," one of his small sons asked him with huge eyes. "Why are we the ones elected to make a myth come true?"
The father smiled.
"We're not elected to make a myth come true, child," he corrected. "It's because of us, of what we bear, that the myth started to exist in the first place."
"But why us?" one of the two other children asked him fascinated.
"There was a prophecy," the father answered calmly. "It was foretold by our first mother – the mother of our line. She was the one who saw our future shortly after her son was assassinated and reborn in three bodies. We've been following her prophecy ever since."
"But why us? Why not somebody else?" the oldest of his son asked.
"You three were marked from birth," the father replied. "Like I was, like your uncles were, you have been marked. You bear the soul of the first son. You bear the soul of the assassin."
"But why do we still do it?" the oldest of the three asked confused.
"We do it, because we're needed," the father said gravely. "We're honourable. We will continue because we're needed, and we won't stop until we're not needed any longer. That's our destiny. We simply can't sit by and watch."
Not one of his sons could object to that. They could feel the oath, they could feel the prophecy burning in their shared soul, after all.
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The moment the plea of the innocent would reach Red Death's ears, he always awakened. It was in his blood and soul to thrive when others quaked in fear.
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Sorry, it took some time, but there's the next part of the story.
I hope you liked it.
'Till next time.
Ebenbild