Changes
“Harry darling please, try and eat at least something. This does you no good.” Euphemia begged the little boy, he was a sickly thin. No fat, no muscle.
Euphemia looked on the verge of tears as she turned to her husband Fleamont, he could do nothing though, just the same as her.
The house was empty save the three of them. James was gone.
They feared their son might frighten the younger boy, he had a tendency to be a bit too forthcoming.
Euphemia went to put away the food she had made for the small boy, he hadn’t eaten in days and despite their best efforts he would still not eat. It seemed his magic was the only thing keeping him afloat.
The boy was the son of Charlus and Dorea. The odd couple had hated going out and about. They were hardly known, even by their own families. The fact they had kept the birth of a child secret was no shock to the couple, as private as they were.
The boy himself was a shock though, an enigma, a wonder.
He was a potter, that much was obvious. Looking shockingly like Fleamont in a way.
His eyes were special, a whirlpool of greens of all hues. Neither knew what line he got those fantastic eyes from.
His magic was electric, for a boy that young it was shocking. Practically visible, so warm it made sweat drip, so thick you could taste it in the air.
Though that wasn’t shocking, given what he was.
He had been found by the aurors at the scene of the crime. Dorea and Charlus had laid dead for days, perhaps even a week.
Who killed them, they weren’t sure.
A rising dark lord is what the papers had said, they were willing to sensationalize anything for recognition though.
He, Harry, had been found sitting in the blood. Perhaps in some kind of state of shock. He was unmoving, nonverbal, practically dead himself.
He was young, two years their own son's junior. Just about five.
All he had been able to tell the officers was his name, Harry Potter, in a little voice.
A fitting name, Fleamont had thought upon hearing it, named after his very father Henry. He had never thought Charlus to be so sentimental about their family namesakes.
Harry had been injured, it seemed from beatings, a tragic thing. Though his mother was a black and they were quite keen on corporal punishment. Dorea never seemed to be the type, however, skin does not lie.
A curse scar on the forehead was abnormal, but after testing the aurors found it to be non threatening to him, so they cared not to disturb it further.
He was magically fatigued, probably from his body relying on his magic for sustenance.
But the most curious bit about him was his nature. It was what convinced Fleamont and Euphemia to take him in.
He was of verimli magic.
An ancient magic that runs through families, but hadn’t been witnessed since Roman times.
It made the possessor small, sometimes frail, but soft and pretty, similar to a Veela. The key difference was their innate life giving energy.
They were capable of strong magical feats, having children, and in some stories raising dead.
The aurors sensed it first, they sent him to the ministry, the ministry officials sent him to the unspeakables. Of course Fleamont would not let a child of his blood be a test monkey, so they took him in.
And here they were with a silent small boy who refused to eat or speak.
“This might go on much longer, we should bring in a physician, he must eat. If it is by force then that’s what it will be.” Fleamont said to Euphemia in a hushed voice.
Euphemia’s lip quivered as she looked at the boy. He was sulked in his chair. Little feet kicked the table leg lightly, small hands fiddled with the cloth of the table. His big eyes focused in and out as he stared outside through the window.
“Alright,” she said softly, “we ought to invite James back home then. We ought to tell him what happened, that he has a new brother.”
“Yes,” Fleamont looked at the little boy, “we ought to.”
—
“James please,” the little boy whined trying to snatch the broom from his older brother.
“No Harebear,” he said in that authoritative tone he used when he attempted to impersonate his father. “Baby’s can’t play on brooms, you’ll get hurt. Just sit on the grass and watch me. I'll do a trick for you.”
James pried the broom away from Harry’s small hands, sending Harry falling back into the dewy grass on his bum.
With a humph he crossed his arms as James soared.
They were six and eight respectively, though James treated Harry as if he was a baby. In Harry’s view it was entirely unfair.
Harry seethed on the grass palming dirt, refusing to look up at James who was hollering in the sky. He knew James wanted him to watch, which was even more reason for him to adamantly look away.
The sound of James swishing through the air and giggling happily made Harry’s eyes prickle with tears. Why could he not be so free?
Quickly it made him feel ill, and he felt his body stand and run inside before his mind could comprehend.
He ran into the bathroom and attempted to wipe away the tears that were rushing to the surface.
The sliding door flew open and then slammed shut as James pounded into the house after Harry. He ran to the bathroom and took in Harry who was quietly crying in front of the mirror as he desperately attempted to stop his leaky eyes.
“Harry,” James said softly. Harry did not even glance.
“Harry!” He said, more frustrated, grabbing Harry’s hands to stop him from wiping the tears anymore. Harry’s face was raw and red, streaks of wet tracked down his cheeks onto his neck, his breath was quick and ragged.
“I-I’m sorry,” James looked down, cringing. Sorry was the hardest word for him to say.
He released Harry’s hands, they made no move to wipe anymore tears instead letting them flow.
“I upset you. It’s just- you can’t do what I can do. You are only little, and fragile, and mom and dad say people will try and take advantage of you. And they say I need to protect you, that’s all.”
Harry sniffled a moment, then nodded lamely.
“Ok, so now stop crying.” James said sternly, again imitating his own father.
Harry nodded again.
James grabbed him, perhaps too harshly, and pulled him into a big hug.
Eventually they left each other's arms at the sound of dinner. Euphemia had made lasagna for everyone, and a simple pastina soup for Harry, picky as he is.
As they sat Fleamont lowered his paper inspecting the two of them.
After giving a onceover he asked “did you boys scrap? You don’t look well.” His eyebrow was raised, eyes on James.
“No of course not,” James said with some bite, sitting a little taller. “Harry wanted to ride the broom. I thought it was a bad idea, he was just a bit upset.”
“That all?” Fleamont asked.
“That’s all,” James confirmed.
“Harry I’ve told you before you won’t do well with a broom sweet thing. If you want some entertainment you ought to come with me to the ladies gathering. They do just adore you.” Euphemia said, squishing his cheeks.
“All you do is sit around and gossip, I want to have fun.” Harry pouted, tearing his bread.
Euphemia playfully gasped at Harry’s statement, “a ghossip? Me? Never.”
Fleamont chuckled “oh please, he might be a bit womanly but he’s still a boy. Sitting around with ladys won’t do him good just as much as a broom wouldn’t.”
“Ya either way I like when he’s with me!” James said, wrapping a protective arm around his little brother.
Harry smiled leaning into his brother's loving touch. They might argue but in the end he always had Harry’s best internet at heart, they all did.
Soon enough dinner had ended.
“All right Potters, clean up!” Euphemia said as he began floating the dishes into stacks. Harry started with gathering the forks when Fleamont stopped him, “Dr.Zabini will be here very soon, why don’t you run upstairs to the study to wait for him. Don’t worry about the cleaning.”
Harry nodded and walked to his adoptive fathers study.
The room was nice, full of leather furniture and scholarly books. It smelled like Fleamont, musky but clean, like pinesap, and old books.
Harry settled on the couch, on the desk was Newton's cradle, a muggle device Fleamont adored. He found it entrapping.
Harry set it up and watched it go, the clicking of the balls hitting each other shooting him.
It was meditative, in a way.
Just as the momentum fizzled out Dr. Zabini entered the room. “How are you today sweetheart?” The mind healer asked kindly.
“I’m well,” Harry said. “I think,” he then quickly added.
Ever since he came to this house he wasn’t sure of much. Everyone around him seemed very sure they understood him. Dr. Zabini especially.
They knew Harry better than he knew himself. They were sure he was the son of Dorea and Charlus Potter. They were sure the two were quite hurtful to Harry sometimes. They were sure it was 1968.
That assuredness made Harry feel at ease. Even if he didn’t know himself, they knew him.
“I think you are doing well too,” Dr. Zabini said with a smile.
Harry grinned back.