BARTY CROUCH JR. — DECEMBER 25, 1981
It was a silent night.
Snow blanketed the tranquil suburban street.
Reality warped. Space twisted like wrung cloth. A pale, reedlike figure stepped from the distortion. Snow crunched beneath his boots, breaking the hush.
Barty paused. His gaze raked over the street.
Same bricks.
Same hedges.
Same fences.
His stomach churned, lip curling as bile rose.
No identity.
No magic.
No humanity.
Just a row of warrens. Animals wantonly breeding.
Grunting.
Grasping.
Multiplying.
Vermin.
Scurrying beneath our feet. No. Worse than vermin.
Pigs hauled from the muck, trussed in robes, paraded through sacred halls of learning. The Blood-traitors casting pearls before the lipstick-caked swine.
Abhorrent.
They aped spells. Butchered incantations. Defiled traditions sanctified by their betters.
Parasites. Poisoning Mother Magic's gift.
And then they demand. Squeal. Yowl. Snort. Whinge for equality.
As though it were a choice.
As though it were a policy.
As though it were more than simple biology.
Wizardkind had already debased itself to tolerate them.
Still, the Mudbloods snatched.
Always more.
Never satisfied.
Gnawing hunger.
Gnashing teeth.
Insatiable.
Pestilence.
Barty ground his teeth. A snarl clawing from his chest.
His fingers itched.
His wand slipped into his hand of its own accord.
An echo rippled through his mind.
Burn them. Burn them all.
He raised his arm, the incantation on his lips.
Then paused.
No. Not tonight.
Taking slow breaths, he smothered the fury.
He was here for a single purpose.
Barty's gaze bored into Number 4, Privet Drive.
His tongue darted out, wetting his lips.
Breath quickened.
Trousers taut.
Tonight, the boy-who-lived dies.
…
Barty had stood sentinel for some time.
Cloaked beneath a disillusionment charm, he waited.
The sun descended.
Obscenely bright lights flickered on, a garish display of Muggle vulgarity. Blinking syphilitic pustules on the face of the world.
He yearned to raze the homes with Fiendfyre.
Cleanse the rot.
But the one house that mattered would go unscathed.
The old Blood-traitor had laid down wards even he could not rend.
The Mudblood grifter's filthy blood-magic had wormed its way into the foundations.
A mockery of proper spellcraft.
Revolting.
Still, it was unassailable. Her whelp lay beyond his reach while beneath those festering protections.
But the Muggle-lover hadn't spared a thought for the Mudblood's horse-faced sister.
Barty's grin split wide. The truth of the man made plain.
Even the great Albus Dumbledore doesn't truly care for vermin.
Snuff her out, and wards would die with her.
The door opened.
What emerged was grotesque.
A waddling slab of pink flesh.
As wide as it was tall.
He'd be better suited to rooting in a trough than a house of brick and mortar.
Barty's nostrils flared. Filth, through and through.
Repugnant.
The motor growled awake, spewing smoke. A crude, rutting thing.
A perfect reflection of their kind: grinding, defiling, forcing themselves on a land that should never have been sullied by their touch.
The corpulent sack of flesh wobbled back to its profane little sty. Any minute now the mongrel would return, with its bitch and pup in tow.
Barty drew his wand.
The kine ambled to their vehicle. The bony heifer squawked and fussed, jabbing at buckles, strapping her screeching yearling into some horrific device.
Barty was all teeth.
"Depulso Maxima."
An invisible force slammed down onto the car, crushing it like an empty can beneath a boot.
Like swatting a fly.
He vanished the rubbish.
And now, we wait.
…
As Barty awaited the ward's collapse, the off-key keening of a group of muggles down the street filled the silence.
"What child is this, who laid to rest
On Mary's lap is sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,
While shepherds watch are keeping?"
Across the street, Number 4 still stood. A maelstrom of arcane energies converged above the house. An hourglass, ticking down the remaining minutes of the boy's life.
The hair on the back of Barty's neck stood on end. He could feel the buildup of magic in the air.
Charged.
Oppressive.
Ready to break.
"This, this is Christ the King,
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing;
Haste, haste to bring Him laud,
The Babe, the Son of Mary."
With a world-altering pulse, the wards imploded. An invisible shockwave crashed over Barty, forcing him to his knees.
This pressure ground at him, as though he were between mortar and pestle.
Then it was gone.
Barty surged to his feet.
Eyes blazing.
Heart pounding.
He blasted the door from its hinges as he shouted, "Homenum Revelio."
The spell detected a single presence.
Beneath the stairs.
"Why lies He in such mean estate
Where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christians, fear—for sinners here
The silent Word is pleading."
Barty approached, vanishing the padlock from the door.
Creak.
Within was a cardboard box.
Padded with some ratty blankets.
It was the saviour of the Wizarding World.
Sniff.
And he'd soiled his nappy.
Barty's face pinched.
This Half-blood son of a Blood apostate and Mudblood Jezebel.
Lauded as a saviour.
A messiah.
Fury.
"Nails, spear shall pierce Him through,
The cross be borne for me, for you;
Hail, hail the Word made flesh,
The Babe, the Son of Mary."
Barty was quivering, unable to hold his wand steady.
Biting down hard, he tasted iron.
Blood dripped from his chin.
A drop splattered across the sleeping child's forehead.
Green eyes met his fierce glare.
"Happy Christmas, Harry."
Silence stretched between them.
A green flash filled the cupboard under the stairs.
HARRY POTTER — DECEMBER 25, 1993
Green filled his vision.
And a reindeer's snout.
A green-furred reindeer stared down at him.
Stare.
Christmas lights were strewn across her antlers.
The sound of jingling bells filled his ears.
Red and white stripes.
He smelled roasting chestnuts and eggnog. Brown sugar too.
Red irises blinked. Harry rubbed his own bleary eyes. Silence stretched for a moment.
"Happy Christmas, Harry!"
He smiled.
"Happy Christmas, Nymphadora!"
She snorted. Well, more chuffed, really.
Saliva dripped down her muzzle.
A drop splattered against his forehead.
Harry froze. Shivered. Then,
"Mum! Nymphadora is drooling on me again!"
The reindeer face fluttered like a flag in the wind.
His sister morphed into something vaguely human.
The bells quieted. A strumming guitar bled into the soundscape.
A rose tint.
The scent of bubblegum rose to the air, playful and familiar.
"Shhhh! No one likes a grass, Harry."
"No one likes being slobbered on, Nymphadora."
She tilted her head, something indecipherable to Harry in her eyes.
"That's not strictly true in my experience."
What did that mean?
How peculiar.
The sound of the guitar shifted to a violin.
Pink deepened to scarlet.
The bubblegum and chestnuts and eggnog were being swallowed by rose and sandalwood.
A creeping heat.
His sister's mind was wandering. It did that.
"Are you remembering a sexual encounter?"
That snapped her back to here and now, straddling her little brother, face morphed halfway between human and caribou.
"You shouldn't ask that, Harry."
His sister's features shifted chaotically from reindeer to girl and back.
The violin vanished. Guitar and sleigh-bells stepped on one another.
Pink returned. Joined the red and white stripes.
With it, bubblegum. And eggnog. No Chestnuts, though.
Harry was confused.
"Mother says there is nothing shameful in two consenting adults expressing their feelings for each other via physical intimacy."
Nymphadora's eye twitched.
"It is quite normal, Nymphadora, and I am sure that your partner found the experience most satis–"
A giant tongue drooped from the open maw.
Harry paled.
As it approached his face, Harry called out again, "Mum!"
The door opened.
A cello adagio thrummed through the room. Warm, soothing, and constant.
A rich magenta.
Bergamot and molasses.
His deliverance.
Andromeda had arrived.
"Nymphadora, how many times must I tell you not to drool on your brother."
His sister pouted, face shifting back to her favourite.
Heart shaped.
Pert nose.
Full lips.
A wide mouth for smiles.
A dusting of freckles on her upper cheeks.
It was Harry's favourite of her faces, too.
"Don't call me that! People just call me Tonks."
Andromeda arched a brow.
That usually signalled incredulity or disapproval.
Most frequently with Nymphadora.
Perhaps his mother agreed it was a bit selfish of Nymphadora to claim the family name for herself.
"How foolish. You have a beautiful name, why would you hide from it."
Ah, Harry knew the answer to this one.
It really was quite straightforward, if a bit sad.
No matter, she would mature eventually.
"Mum, Nymphadora feels that her name has a strong association with promiscuity, rather than sexual liberation and freedom. She's not yet fully comfortable with her own sexuality, so it is only appropriate to respect her boundaries."
Nymphadora choked on air.
Andromeda sighed.
The cello grew mournful.
The magenta warmed.
The molasses took centre stage.
Invisible arms wrapped around him.
She'd clearly not realized her insensitivity.
"I see. Thank you, Harry. You are, of course, correct. Let us support Dora as she comes to accept herself more fully."
Harry nodded in satisfaction.
He was best pleased to have cleared up yet another miscommunication between mother and daughter.
A job well done.
Smack.
Harry tilted his head.
"Why did you just slap your forehead, Nymphadora?"
…
Smack.
Harry froze, fork impaled with yolk and tomato inches from his mouth.
"Why did you just hit your head on the table, Nymphadora?"
She was leaned over, forehead pressed against the walnut of the kitchen table.
The guitar sounded plinky.
The pink was vibrating, impatient.
The bubblegum felt like pine needles in his teeth.
She whipped back up into a sitting position, raising her arms above her head.
"Presents!"
Ah, yes. Presents!
Harry smiled, then shoved the final bites of egg, tomato, and sausage into his mouth. He nearly choked, unwilling to waste time chewing.
Andromeda reached over to pat his back.
"Harry, slow down. The presents aren't going anywhere. Nym—Dora—kindly don't rush your brother. If you need something to do, the table needs cleared."
Nymphadora's upraised arms flopped to her side as she bonelessly collapsed.
The guitar was replaced by the womp-womp of a muted trombone.
The pink's vibration grew more intense.
The bubblegum grew impatient, tingling like capsaicin in his gums.
Best to hurry.
Laughter filled the room.
Across from Harry, his father was smiling and giving inscrutable look #7 to Andromeda.
A deep saxophone's vibrato echoed in Harry's chest.
A warm sunrise.
Salted dark chocolate.
His smile was big. As always.
"It's Christmas, Andi. Let the kids have fun!"
Nymphadora's head lifted, "Yeah mom, it's Christmas. We wanna open presents! Right, Harry?"
Nod. Nod.
Andromeda sighed. She did that a lot.
"Oh, fine. You're lucky your father is so soft."
Like a jack-in-the-box, Nymphadora shot from her seat.
"Woohoo! Come on, Harry!"
He was dabbing the corner of his mouth when his wrist was seized. With a strong jerk, Harry was pulled from his chair. His scrambling feet prevented an untimely meeting with the floor.
His sister dragged him from the kitchen.
The laughter of tiny bells followed her like a tail.
A kaleidoscope of bright colours radiated.
Fireworks and fizzy soda.
Harry was excited too.
Looking back, he saw Andromeda standing with her arms crossed. Ted walked up beside her and wrapped an arm around the small of her back. She leaned in.
The cello and saxophone played in harmony.
The warm sunrise gained a magenta hue.
Dark chocolate melted into molasses.
…
Fizz. Fizz.
Harry leaned over, observing the carbonated glass of eggnog before him.
It was the perfect gift.
Dad had claimed it could make any beverage fizzy. So far, it had been true.
Water.
Cranberry juice.
And now eggnog.
The glass crackled and popped in excitement.
It was playful and energetic, innocent and eager to please.
A simple, friendly glass.
His eyes crinkled as he grinned.
Nymphadora called from across the room, her top half buried in the refrigerator.
"Harry, I found the split pea soup from two nights ago!"
Harry looked down at his glass.
It continued its cheerful bubbling.
He waved his hand and helped it to be forgotten.
His sister brought the bowl of soup over,
"Got it, now let's get testing! Where'd the cup go?"
It continued fizzling happily, unaware of the cruel fate it had narrowly dodged.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
From the living room, Andromeda's voice called,
"That'll be your friend, Harry. Greet them, will you?"
He stood and made his way to the entrance. His sister was still searching the room, implements of torture in hand.
Magic protect you, little one.
As he approached the door, he already knew who it was.
The twittering song of an ocarina, the next note always a surprise.
Moonbeams lining midnight clouds.
Damp moss and frosted petals.
He opened the door.
"Happy Christmas, Luna!"
The moonbeams brightened,
"Happy Christmas, Harry. Did you know your house has an infestation of snugglegrubs?"
Luna saw the world different.
But he could hear what she wasn't saying.
He nodded.
"Of course. There are a few in the quilts on the sofa, if you'd like to observe them."
"That would be lovely. Thank you, Harry."
ANDROMEDA TONKS
Little Luna Lovegood skipped into the sitting room, mumbling about snugglegrubs and eyeing the quilts with grave intent. She crossed her arms and tapped at her lip with one of her slim fingers. Waifish and odd; still, she and Harry understood one another just fine, it seemed.
Harry trailed in behind her, half-turned towards the kitchen, clearly concerned by something Nymphadora was doing in there. Causing more mischief, no doubt.
How an Auror-in-training could still behave like a hyperactive toddler was baffling. Though, her Teddy looked pleased to see his little girl had survived through adolescence. And truth be told, it was sweet to see Nymphadora felt safe falling back into her childish role with Harry.
It was good for him.
Andromeda sat curled up against Ted on the settee, their feet tangled beneath a quilt of their own. Perhaps there was something to these snugglegrubs, after all.
As the children chose the quilt that was, apparently, most adequately infested with the grubs, Ted whispered in her ear, "What a wonderful life, don't you agree, sweet Andi?"
The corners of her mouth pulled.
He was a wonderful man.
Not just for her and Nymphadora, but for Harry as well. He never hesitated to accept him and treat Harry like his own son. A night's sanctuary had turned into a week, and then a month. Now they were a family.
She leaned into Ted further. Yes, it was a wonderful life. She smirked, then shimmied back, grinding into him more, leaning up to whisper into his ear, "It is. And I know what could make it even more wonderful tonight."
He looked down at her.
Their eyes locked. That same fire. The one that had lit her defiance, claimed her heart, and dared the world to stop them.
All these years later, and still their love—
"That's quite a collection of heartwhimples and blushwights accumulating around your parents, Harry."
Andromeda blinked.
The moment dissipated like morning fog.
Luna was watching on with wide eyes and an innocent smile.
Harry looked up, then explained the situation to his friend.
"Hmm? Oh, they are just keeping the passion in their relationship alive."
Yes. She had explained it like that to him.
Luna's eyebrows lifted, she leaned in close to Harry. Her cheeks were rosy and their faces were mere inches apart. In apparent breathless excitement, she asked,
"Oh, how do you do that? I would love to attract some blushwights of my own to study. Maybe we could do it together?"
Hmm. She did remember Harry asking a similar question. But she couldn't quite remember what she had told him.
Wait… Do it together?
Before she could follow Luna's logic, Harry said,
"It is all about connection and emotion." Luna nodded along. He continued, "And, of course, interco—"
Andromeda bolted upright, her elbow catching Ted in the diaphragm, loudly interjecting,
"That's enough for now, Harry!"
The boy tilted his head in confusion.
Nymphadora chose that moment to poke her head in the room. "Mum, your sister is here."
Lovely.
…
A pair of blurs hurtled past the kitchen window.
Andromeda watched Harry and Draco dart through the garden sky, streaking past one another in their pursuit of a tiny, shrieking dragon. It twisted, dove, and spat sparks. Harry had, in his words, "given it the voice of a snitch," and so it appeared the dragon was just as elusive and playful.
She glanced down at a small scratch on her finger. Apparently, snitches were also a bit like feral cats.
Ted chuckled beside her.
"Sport is a language of its own, it seems."
True. Draco often had trouble understanding Harry. But they both understood Quidditch.
She took a breath.
"Well, best get on with it then."
The two entered the parlour and approached Narcissa and Lucius, who stood to greet them properly now that the children were gone.
Ted and Lucius shook hands and gave one another the standard man nod. It was good to see Lucius disgust reign itself in slowly over the years.
He didn't even wear gloves today.
Narcissa approached her and the two embraced. They hadn't seen quite as much of each other in the past week as they frantically prepared for the holidays.
The four arranged themselves on the settees. Andromeda cleared her throat and started the discussion.
"So, they escaped the Dementors?"