Chapter 1
Bartemius Crouch Junior shuddered as he counted the people collected, pouring a bit more magic into his Patronus.
He wished they could burn the place to the ground, but his Lord had been very specific in his orders. No one was to know they were there. No one was to suspect anything. Still, he had to remind himself to keep walking as they had passed his old cell, the last place his mother ever saw.
“Did we get everyone?” Macnair questioned, sliding up beside him.
Barty hummed, narrowing his eyes. All the cells on this level had been emptied of supporters of the Dark. Needless to say, all the cells were empty. He wondered, idly, if any of the newly retrieved would end up dead within the month. “Start apparating them out,” Barty ordered Macnair, not bothering to move. Macnair nodded, striding forward and barking orders to the baby Death Eaters that had volunteered to come with them. Barty didn’t bother to learn their names, but one of the witches had shown promise. He’d have to mention her to his Lord.
“That's the last of them,” Macnair reported, as the final crack split the air. They’d need to work on that if they wanted any stealth missions.
“Return to base. Assist Lady Malfoy however she sees fit.” Macnair pulled a face at that but nodded. The bastard always had a problem taking orders from women, or anyone he thought he was better than. It’s why Macnair had never been induced into the Lords Elite. “Dismissed.”
Left alone, Barty hesitated.
He couldn’t help but feel like they were missing something.
He licked his lips in annoyance, grip tightening on his wand. Surely a quick look couldn’t hurt? The wards around the prison wouldn’t reactivate for another twenty minutes yet.
With a frustrated curse Barty pushed off the wall and turned back down the dark and dank hall. His patronus landed on his shoulder, filling him with warmth that helped to ease the tension coursing through him. “You’re being paranoid,” he muttered to himself as he climbed to the top of the northern tower. It had been abandoned by guards in 1968 due to lack of prisoners and damages that the ministry never got around to fixing. It was the only floor his team hadn’t searched upon arrival. “Because nobody goes up here,” he sighed, licking his upper lip nervously.
He relaxed slightly when he realised he was just being paranoid. “See, nobody’s here.” He shook his head, gripping his magic and ready to disapparate when he heard it.
He wasn't alone.
“Hello?” He creeped forward, wand raised. It would be just his luck that an Auror had snuck away for a quick drink or something and was now prepared to ambush him.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Tom Marvolo Riddle frowned as he felt Barty apparate directly to his office.
It was very rare that one of his Elite defied him and more often than not it was Bellatrix, deciding her way was more fun or had a higher chance of impressing him. Honestly, he’d be more impressed if she actually listened to him, he mused.
Barty could wait a few moments, he decided, entering the makeshift infirmary and striding toward the women barking orders. “Narcissa?””
“My lordship,” she nodded, her steel eyes tracking the controlled chaos around them. “It’s not as bad as I feared. The damage to their magic is minimal compared to the others and we already have a treatment plan in place. Mx Pyrites seems to have taken the worst of it, and has been placed on watch till further notice.”
She turned to him then. “Recovery will take a month at most, we were lucky this time. I would like to request that Healer Everleigh personally oversee their care, while myself focus on our other avenues.”
“You will check her work every week and any potions are to be brewed by Severus.”
“Of course,” she bowed.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What else.”
Narcissa frowned, looking over the 12 bed bound wixen. “It was not just mental injuries this time. Their physical wounds were untreated and heiress Lee was lucky to keep her arm. It looked like someone had tried to flay off her mark.”
He frowned slightly, following her line of sight. Lee had her arm wrapped tightly, no doubt soaked in potions, as she lay unconscious. He felt his anger begin to stir at the sight and turned on his heel, Narcissa following. “Have Healer Everleigh write weekly reports. Any complications are to be brought to my attention at once.”
“Of course, my lord.”
With one last glance he exited the room and headed towards his office. He’d deal with Barty and then he needed to call in Severus for a report. The Order of the Phoenix had been irritatingly restless the past few weeks in response to his own silence. They were starting to stir up trouble with some of the lesser families with suspected connections to himself, hoping to find something nefarious. As if he was half witted as those simpletons.
He had barely stepped through the doors to his study when he froze, eyes narrowing.
Something was wrong.
He noticed the second he stepped into the office, fire crackling softly in the dark room. Barty had pulled the curtains over bathing the room in a soft orange glow that danced across the dozens of texts lining the shelves. Barty himself was already kneeling on the soft white rug that hid a few bloodstains underneath (there were some things even magic couldn’t help, apparently boiling blood stained). But instead of facing the door, he was facing the desk speaking softly enough that Tom couldn’t make out the words.
“My Lord,” Barty muttered softly, not turning away from whatever held his gaze. Curious despite himself, he moved closer. He could always punish Barty later, he decided.
Or not at all, he blinked, finally glimpsing what Barty had brought to him.
The figure was curled up tightly in the corner of the office as if trying to make themselves smaller. Their bones were protruding just enough to make them look weak, skin pale and messy hair falling limp, with two black ears laying flat on their head.
Most likely a Kitsune or a Neko.
He was beside Barty in two strides, falling to his knees soundlessly. He vaguely registered Barty glancing at him in surprise but he refused to look away from the fellow creature hiding in his office, looking terrified. A motion towards Barty had the younger man bowing his head and retreating from the office, hopefully on his way to Narcissa.
The click of the door had the little one's ears twitching slightly, his body curling impossibly tighter. He frowned, allowing his own magic to fill the small room. Hopefully, something so obviously Dark would help the little thing to relax. Slowly, so painfully slowly, he inched forwards. His red eyes tracking every twitch for any more signs of distress. When he was close enough that he could probably reach out and touch the little one, the small thing flinched backwards, causing him to freeze.
“You’re alright,” he whispered. “You’re safe now. I won’t allow anyone to harm you anymore, cariño.”
A muffled sob reached his ears and something in him ached to soothe the little one. He rocked back slightly in hesitation, unsure of how touch would be received after being locked away with no contact. Especially with a creature that, under normal circumstances, craved the touch of those they trusted.
Carefully telegraphing his movements, the Dark Lord reached out towards the wounded creature and slipped his hand around the nape of his neck. The grim clinging to the little one's skin smeared across his hand and he fought the urge to grimace at the oily texture of the dark hair. Instead, he slowly applied pressure until the little one gave in and allowed himself to be guided into the Dark Lords awaiting arms.
He rocked them back and forth slowly, murmuring some soothing nonsense to try and calm them. His hand slowly slid from the nape of the neck into the tangled bird's nest of hair, getting tangled in the neglected knots as he gently massaged the scalp. He was careful not to touch the delicate looking ears, twitching with every breath. He had a feeling that wouldn’t be well received.
Eventually the little thing went lax in his grip and he carefully manoeuvred them both over to the divan, careful not to jostle any potential injuries. He’d have to do a full scan of the little one's injuries, including past ones. Anything that was not treated properly could have been aggravated when the inheritance had hit, which was hopefully before the thing had been tossed into Azkaban. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was why the young man had been tossed aside. Wizarding Britain, as it now stood, held no love for those with creature's blood. Something he knew all too well.
He hissed as the sharp claws suddenly scraped against his chest, drawing blood as the little thing clinged onto him, refusing to let him slip away. He sighs in annoyance but sways closer as his magic gently curls around the small figure, willing them to sleep. A tension he hadn’t been aware of seems to seep out of the little one, allowing their hands to loosen enough for him to slip out of the death grip.
A second later his wand slips into his hand, thrumming pleasantly. A whispered name has a house-elf quietly popping into existence and he’s talking before it has a chance to start rambling nonsense at him. “Fetch me a medical kit and one of Narcissa’s blood potions that she keeps on hand. She’ll know what you mean. After, you are to prepare a set of guest chambers near the library.”
“Yes, Master Dark Lordy, sir. Irian be doing that now sir!”
A second later the medical kit materialises beside him and he strides over to his desk, retrieving a piece of parchment and a quill that he quickly charms. Placing them next to him, the quill remained poised to write.
The Sanatores adunt auxilium also known as Healers help has been left off to the side of the kit and he grabs that first, retrieving the scalp like blade from the kit. A quick knick to the little one's pointer finger has enough blood for a drop to be added into the potion, turning it a deep purple before he pours almost all of it down the little one's throat, using a quick spell to help him swallow it.
He growls softly as almost his entire body gains a purple hue, signifying the areas of injury. He grabs the quill once more and doses it with the remaining potion, allowing it to start listing the injuries as he vanishes the tattered robes that seem to hang off the too small body.
A glance at the parchment has him sighing slightly as he notes that none of the injuries are too severe and he gets to healing those he can, shoving potion after potion down the poor things throat. Eventually, when the purple hue of the potion has faded, he turns the little one over to heal the scapes along his back.
His breath catches as he realises that the little one isn’t a Neko nor is he a Kitsune.
His little one is a Fae.
It’s no wonder his little one was in Azkaban.
Neko’s and Kitsunes are both grey creatures, leaning towards dark. Most light wixen are content to leave them alone unless provoked.
But Fae?
Fae are as Dark as they come. They are also one of the rarest creature inheritances found in the world, once hunted to near extinction after the pureblooded Fae had fled their world. Most believed that all that remained of the once powerful creatures was the house-elves, their bastard cousins sworn to serve wixen households.
Very few people knew that there was one half-Fae left in Britain.
Two of them, it would now appear.