“Babies are commonly associated with crying, napping, food, milk, mothers, fathers, and other family members. Well, that's what they're usually paired with. But this child? The one with a fresh curse scar still dripping blood? No, not this little one. His great tragedy and victory are linked tightly. One that gave him a name in the wizarding world: The Boy Who Lived.
Harry Potter was born on July 31st, 1980. The son of Lily Evans and James Potter, as known to the wizarding public.”
– – – –
—The voice cuts off as its owner grins at the person who just elbowed them in the ribs.
“Sweet Merlin. Who are you pretending to be this time? A narrator on a nature documentary? Boring Old Binns?” The other groans, amusement clear as day in their eyes and a smirk slithering its way onto their mouth.
“Oh, definitely, sweetheart. How do you even know about documentaries? Thought it was ‘too muggle’ for you—" They’re stopped by a hand covering their mouth, its owner looking quite unimpressed. Their tongue exits their mouth and automatically goes to lick the palm in front of their lips. A shriek is yelped right into their right ear, and the hand rips itself away from them.
"Disgusting—when did you last wash out your mouth? Dear Salazar, am I going to get Dragon Pox or some other disease from you?” The owner of the hand whines, near-aggressively wiping their hand on the blanket covering their laps.
“Shut it, I’m trying to tell you a story! And I know about it because of sneaking over to the muggle world with you dopes.”
The third person in the room looks up with a raised eyebrow from their place on the carpet in front of the low fire, the flames crackling every few seconds. “Stop stalling and get on with it then.”
“Yeah. Continue on, Professor C; tell me your bloody tale.”
“Ugh, sod off and let me go on! And stop calling me by nicknames: you know what mine is, darling.” They tease, causing the others ears to go red and hide their expression against their shoulder while they continue.
There is a faux vomiting sound made from the person on the floor. A middle finger is flipped in their direction.
– – – –
“His fate intertwines with that of an evil being, having committed such foul actions that he's no longer thought of as a human. His main goal was to achieve immortality, rid the wizarding world of Muggle (non-magical) heritage, and conquer both worlds, Muggle and Wizarding, to achieve pure-blood dominance. (In most cases this was just inbreeding on steroids.)
Voldemort—"Careful, he might just come out from under the couch to bite our toes!” “Quit interrupting me!"—having caused such dreadful and dark years of terror and loss—eight years, ten months, and three weeks if anyone wants to be annoyingly specific—has terrified people so badly that wizards, witches, and other magical beings cannot utter his name. No, seriously; they couldn't say his name.
Meanwhile, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was just as bad; the man never said Harry Potter, and he refused to mention his name either, instead referring to him as "the boy" or "my foe." But let's be real: Voldemort probably just couldn't do something silly, like being able to pronounce "Potter" or "Harry" without rolling his r's at an exaggerated level. It's like his pride wouldn't allow him to say it any other way. He needed to be dramatic in every way, apparently, but just didn't think the young boy was deserving of it.”
– – – –
Laughter bounces around the room, light and filled with rapture. “Haha—he did! I bet—ha—bet you that he made faces in the mirror while saying his r's—" The listener leads off, clearly imagining the sight in their mind, and dissolves into another fit of laughter.
The storyteller and the listener sitting on the carpet rolled their eyes fondly at the sound, small chuckles emitting from their throats.
– – – –
“The daunting curse called "The Taboo" was placed on his name, and this spell made it so that when a specific phrase, in this case, his name, Voldemort, was spoken, the person who cast the spell immediately knew the location of the speaker; sometimes it even damaged any protection shields or wards on the speaker. Which caused people to be found and how the wicked lord sought out his new followers. Quite a simple but effective curse. So, tops to him in that area, I guess. Let's minus points for the “slightly insane” part of him though, along with his willingness to kill babies.
The Death Eaters—Voldemort's followers—were pure blood. Houses such as Malfoy, Nott, Lestranges, Carrow, Rookwood, Dolohov, Greyback, Snyde, Lee, Crabbe, Goyle, and many others were part of the Dark Lord's inner circle. All Death Eaters were marked with the "Dark Mark." In the form of a snake and skull tattoo on the left forearm, Voldemort used the Dark Mark to summon his followers to him at his will, and vice versa.”
– – – –
“Not going to lie, but he and the rest of the Death Eaters sound like those emo groups.” They say, picking at the nail polish chipped in their nails.
The storyteller pauses, only for a second, before asking. “What type of emo groups did you know?”
“... Never mind. They were muggles anyway; you wouldn’t be interested in ‘em.”
“Not until you made it sound like they were a cult that sacrifices children once a month!” Is screeched out.
“How did you—?”
The storyteller's face takes on an expression of aghast. Concern is visible on their face. “I hit the nail on the head?”
“Let’s keep going with the story! Shall we?” The listener dodges and evades easily.
The listener on the floor inched away from the couch as discreetly as they could, only stopping once they were entirely out of reach. They mutter to themself while leaning back on their palms. “Muggles sound more like barbarians every time anything comes out of your mouth. Are you sure any of your facts are real?”
The only answer given is a shrug of the other listener's shoulders. “I mean, a bunch of them burnt and killed a lot of women, men, children, and pets in bonfires or set their homes on fire while they were stuck inside because they thought they were ‘witches’ in the past, so…”
“Any wonder the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy exists. Muggles are mental.” The storyteller whisper-shouted to themself.
“Pot meet kettle.” The other two say blandly.
– – – –
“Voldemort really knew how to brand himself, didn't he? The Dark Mark is like the ultimate fan club symbol for death and destruction, plus it probably looked trendy. Well, to slightly deranged magical folk at least. I mean, it did look pretty cool with the skull and snake and all that… Anyway! Let's keep going.
During any of Voldemort's attacks, someone would blast magic into the sky, and a moving version of the Dark Mark would appear. The snake would be strangling the skull, and it would remain there for hours after the attack ended. It's like Voldemort had his version of the Bat-signal, but instead of a bat, it was a skull and a snake. And instead of justice, it summoned a bunch of death-loving nutjobs and symbolised death. Such a lovely group of people. I wonder if they liked tea parties. They probably wouldn’t be very welcoming; one of their cups could be poisoned for all they know.”
– – – –
“You know about Batman too!?” The listener gasped dramatically, their hand coming up to cover their mouth in mock shock.
“I have eyes! He’s bloody popular in the muggle world; almost all muggle children either read the comics or have the toys! Plus, some of the muggleborns in my house would make ridiculous references to Batman; I felt out of the loop and wanted to know more.” They scowl at the person curled up on the soft, burgundy couch beside them. “And that’s the part you focus on? Not the tea parties?”
That question gets an unimpressed look aimed at the storyteller.
“Alright, alright, stupid question when you’ve been there. My bad.”
That gets a snort from the person on the ground. “I never even bothered touching those cups; could’ve cursed our hand off or something along those lines. Can’t believe some idiots actually drank out of those.”
“Shut up, R̶e̶g̶g̶i̶e̶, it was onetime and it smelt good—” The other listener whines into their hands, the tips of their ears red from embarrassment.
– – – –
“At the end of the war, convicted Death Eaters used blackmail, bribery, and claims to have been under the influence of the Imperius Curse to wriggle their way out of being sentenced to life in Azkaban, the prison of Wizarding Britain, which was heavily guarded by Dementors.
Dementors were creatures that drained people of all happiness and left them with their worst memories, practically sucking the person's soul out with a straw. Long-term exposure usually leads to insanity and even death in some cases. The victim would be left as an empty shell of themselves. In short, it wasn't a very pretty way to go.”
– – – –
“Miserable creatures, those. Sounded, looked, and felt unnatural,dead, and cold…” They mutter, tugging the blanket further over themself, the faintest of shivers running up and down their arms. Ghostly screams echoed loudly inside their skull, horrific and terrified.
“Well, you’re out now. No need to think about them.” Is murmured into their ear as a hand slips under the blanket to hold one of theirs. R̶e̶g̶u̶l̶u̶s̶'s̶ hand comes up and gently pats their knee from their spot on the carpet as well.
The storyteller ignores how their skin isn’t warm like their own.
– – – –
“The fear of being found and hunted down by the Death Eaters made people avoid speaking his name, referring to him instead as "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named" or "You-Know-Who." This not only added to the power and mystique surrounding his name and persona, but it also multiplied the size of his ego by seven every time they were said.
But as the saying goes, "With darkness comes light." The wizarding world in Britain was split between those who practised “Dark” magic and those who used “Light” magic. Voldemort used dark magic to rain terror upon anyone in his way, causing this form of magic to be seen in a negative light after the First Wizarding War, while a group rose on the side of light: The Order of the Phoenix.
Founded by Albus Dumbledore, the Order of the Phoenix was a secret society of witches and wizards dedicated to fighting against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, risking their lives to protect the wizarding world from his tyranny.
It's almost like Voldemort was the ultimate influencer and the Order was a rival company, except instead of selling detox tea and waist trainers, he sold murder and mayhem.
And let's be real, being in the Order of the Phoenix probably looked great on a resume but terrible on a life insurance application. Does the magical world even have life insurance companies? They do have hotels and banks… Whatever.”
– – – –
“Detox tea and waist trainers?” The person on the floor stares blankly up at the storyteller on the couch.
“I don’t like either of them! They were what first came to mind…”
“I thought that old fart died?” The listener on the couch wonders out loud.
“Sadly, not in the war: too stubborn to kick the bucket. And, wait. Do we have insurance companies? What about fortune cookie writers? Dog food tasters?”
“It’s too late in the evening for a crisis. Have it in the morning. Also, gross.”
– – – –
“Harry Potter's parents and their friends were part of this group, as was his godfather, Sirius Black III. The Longbottoms, Benjy Fenwick, Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Marlene McKinnon, and Caradoc Dearborn were also members. Though they either died, disappeared, or were tortured to insanity by Death Eaters. They had quite unfortunate luck, no?
Then a prophecy was made. This is where things started to get interesting, as the prophecy predicted the Dark Lord would be defeated by a boy, "whose powers the Dark Lord knows not, blah blah blah yadda yappa doo,"* who was born at the end of July to parents who had defied the Dark Lord three times.
It's like the wizarding world's version of "Chosen One" meets an intense game of Guess Who, and Voldy was quite the master of Guess Who. There's a useless fact for you. Or maybe he cheated. Yeah, no, he probably cheated. Somehow.”
– – – –
“100% He definitely cheated. I bet he cheated in Monopoly as a child.”
“No doubt. He has a look about him. He so stole money from the bank and knocked pieces off the board for the chaos and giggles.”
“What’s monopoly?”
“A game where relationships are burnt and only the strongest survive.”
“What the fuck. Children can play that? I’m amazed that my maman didn’t make us play it.”
“Yup.”
The storyteller glares playfully at the person beside them before correcting them and answering the person on the floor. “It’s a muggle game about capitalism. Don’t listen to him.”
“Ah,” the person on the floor nods solemnly, “nevermind then. My maman would’ve burst into flames at the thought of touching that.”
– – – –
“In Voldemort's eyes, two families lined up for this: the Potters and the Longbottoms.
The Longbottoms took refuge in their manor with their own son, Neville, but a group of Death Eaters stormed their home soon after. Bellatrix Lestrange and Rodolphus Lestrange, her husband, Rabastan Lestrange, Rodolphus’ younger brother, broke down the Longbottoms magical wards and they tortured the loving couple with one of the Unforgivable curses; the end result was the mother and father being hospitalised and their attackers, Bellatrix, Rabastan and Rodolphus being imprisoned. Baby Neville Longbottom wasn’t injured in any form and was sent to be raised by his father’s mother, Augusta Longbottom.
Pressured into hiding, the Potters cast the Fidelius Charm on their home in Godric's Hollow and entrusted Sirius Black to be their Secret Keeper, but oddly enough, the family changed the secret keeper to someone else merely days before All Hallows Eve, who then ratted their location out to the nationwide murdering maniac.
Days before All Hallows Eve, someone requested to borrow James Potter's Invisibility cloak. The only backup plan should the Dark Lord find them. Over this decision, in the late hours of Halloween night, screams were muted by Silencing Wards: two loving, brave parents died protecting their son. Then, with a bright, blinding flash of vibrant green, the reign of Lord Voldemort was no more.”
– – – –
“That’s how it ended? Just, boom; war's over, the bad guy is dead. Kaput. Bleh.”
“Yeah, people certainly didn’t wait to celebrate. I heard some families went on the bender for weeks. Obviously, they had the money to do as such; everyone else tumbled into work on the Monday with a horrible hangover. At least, that's what I heard. Never found out where ‘The Boy Who Lived’ ended up in the end. Some thought he was killed; others thought Dumbledore had him hidden away somewhere…” They trailed off, a sick feeling in their stomach. “He should start Hogwarts in 1990 or 1991, I think. If he does make it to that age. Bet he’ll look like his dads. Maybe have his mother’s wit.”
The person on the floor flickers, not unlike a candle's flame, while they fiddle with a necklace in their hands. “I can’t wait to see my little boy…”
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked lowly in the air. The lights around the room flashed before dimming entirely, and the room was blanketed in darkness. Any feeling of comfort disappears along with the lights.
The person on the floor is gone.
(Who was there? Was there anyone there in the first place?)
“It’s depressing really. That I’m making you two up in my head to fight off the loneliness. This room is just so quiet and empty. I haven’t even got any books. Haven’t seen my wand in ages. I’ve been here since the end of the war; it’s been so long, not counting the year… in that place. I’ve no idea what year it is now. Father hasn’t come back to ‘speak’ with me in a few days. Winky is distraught more than half the time… I swear she smelt like firewhiskey when she dropped off dinner. The curse my father keeps casting on me makes my head hurt, darlings. I can’t think straight, my body refuses to listen to me. I can barely remember your faces… Let alone our other friends.” The storyteller whispers, a burning sensation building behind their eyes. “I should go to sleep. That’ll fix the headache, probably.”
Pulling the blanket up to their chin, they tilt to the side and rest their head down on a cushion, the image of the listener beside them vanishing in a whiff of smoke like the dying fire in the fireplace in front of them. Their eyes close, but the burning behind their eyes turns to tears that trickle down his nose and cheek and pool onto his hair and the cushion below him.
“I don’t want to go mad,” Barty says in a low murmur, his voice cracking while he curls his arms around himself under the blanket. “I don’t want to. Please find me before I go mad. Please don’t be dead too. Please tell me that everyone else was wrong or lying.”
He closes his eyes, and memories from the past blow through his ears, like a breeze drifting through trees in the summer. Days spent cuddled up together on the grass under the warm sun and clear sky. Tucked into a corner of the library in school. His mind drifts off.
Laughter, touches, voices—faces—words—
Screams—a spell flies through the air in the direction Evan was just in—NO!—The ground shakes, and people curse loudly— Please, let him see Evan! Where is he?— Someone grabs his arms and apparites them to somewhere else—nonononono, what about the others? They were there—Go back!
“Rosier and Black haven’t appeared at the rendezvous point; it’s been hours; we can’t stand here any longer." — Dammit, dammit— Stop, no, Barty needs to wait— Stop touching him, stop moving him—He needs to wait for Evan and Regulus! NO—
The man in the centre of the room cries out names between the spiked metal bars trapping him. “Evan! Evan Rosier!” Papers rustle in the room; “Rosier is dead"—"Barty Crouch! Junior!” Hands grabbing him, dragging him down to face his father—his chest hurts, Evan can’t be dead—Barty saw him—he—"Hello, Father."
Cold licking at his skin all around him—
Barty’s eyes shoot open as a sob strangles his throat, his blood rushing loudly in his ears like a wild river. He’s reaching for his neck and is sitting upright without noticing.
“Evan, Regulus…” He sobs the names, his voice sounding far away.
A door opens, and the light from the hallway stings Barty’s eyes.
“Imperio.”
The world loses its tiny, dull bit of colour. A tear trickles down Barty’s cheek and the door shuts, leaving him to be swallowed by shadows.
Through the darkness is a thud, but Barty is too far gone to notice.
“Barty—here—us–open—now.”
The door opens, casting light into the room, but Barty’s eyelids feel like lead.
“Damn it—come on, Bart—"
A hand brushes through his hair, the touch gentle and caring.
Barty drifts into a world of screams and wailing.
*We all know how it goes at this point, so I'm not going to say the whole speech from the future-seeing, partially crazy lady (No offense to Professor Trelawney, she's a pretty neat character in her own mental way and magical area). You can survive with the outlines of it, and if you’re new: Hi! This will come up again further on in this story/series so there’s no need to fret or spiral into a black hole of Google searching panic. :)