Verus

Late-Summer 1990, Wiltshire, England.

The marbled tiles, which lined the manor floors, sparkled under the afternoon’s setting sun. Its light shone through the thinly veiled drapes in the parlour and hit the crystal chandelier at a precise angle, spilling an array of designs further out across the room. The sight would have almost been entrancing, if not for his ever-racing mind.

It had only been a few short weeks since they’d first arrived, but still, things were moving far too slowly for his liking. Everything needed to be set in motion, and soon, but ‘patience’ was a term he’d heard too much of lately. So much so, that he had come to despise the word and the many phrases it had to offer, even when it slipped from that of his Lord’s lips.

“Rabastan.” Called out a monotone voice.

Rabastan Lestrange turned on his heel, away from the parlour’s patio doors, to acknowledge the fair haired man that strolled effortlessly into the room, his robes billowing.

“Lucius! I think I only just missed you this morning. Did you have an early start at the ministry, or were you simply hoping to avoid me?” Rabastan said by way of greeting, he grinned and walked over to perch against the back of one of the many patterned sofas Lucius Malfoy’s wife, Narcissa, was so overly fond of- this one was a family heirloom of sorts, but everything with the Black’s was a sodding endowment, even the cupboards in which they held their skeletons.

Lucius scowled- he’d always been such a petty thing- before he finally sniffed in contempt and continued on as though Rabastan hadn’t spoken at all. “The Dark Lord has been calling for you- something about a visitor.”

Rabastan blinked, but that was the only thing that gave away his sudden confusion, before he pushed himself back into a standing position and closed the distance between himself and his former classmate.

“A visitor?”

The blond hummed through pursed lips and Rabastan watched as the man swiped away a speck of imaginary dirt that lined his regal looking robes.

“It would seem as though we now have a rat within our midsts. One, I presumed was long since dead.”

Rabastan narrowed his eyes, his mind reeling, then nodded once at Lucius before he headed out of the room, hands clasped tightly behind his back to keep himself from hurrying through the manor halls like a petulant child.

A rat, Lucius had called them. But there was only one rat Rabastan knew of, and if it truly was whom he believed it to be, then the rodent better have called on every and any deity this side of the hemisphere because when Rabastan caught sight of the little turncoat-

He swept into the largest room the manor had to offer, bar the library which took up the entirety of the third floor, and stilled in his step just as an almighty rage welled in his chest. He couldn’t quite control the deranged smile that inched its way across his lips at the very sight that had been presented to him.

Before he even knew what was happening, Rabastan had slipped his wand from its holster and levelled it at the creature who cowered before his almighty master. A whisper coated his tongue, sweet but thick, and bypassed his lips.

“Crucio.”

—

1990, Upper Flagley, Yorkshire, England.

“Beautiful boy. My beautiful boy.” The seemingly deranged man hummed quietly under his breath, he was alone but he could still hear the ghostly reminder of her voice in his left ear, hear her small intake of breath.

She was everywhere in this house. House, not home. Her memory lingered like her rosy perfume, even after the house had been gutted for all it was worth.

Beautiful boy. That was what she had called him.

His mother.

He was her beautiful boy.

He was good.

He was quiet.

Never seen.

Never heard.

Quiet.

Quiet, quiet… quiet. He needed to be quiet!

His lips tightened on their own accord at the very thought, and fell into a harsh thin line. The thoughtless action was almost painful, but he had succumbed to the numbness a very long time ago.

His brow pinched. Beautiful boy. Beautiful… Oh, where had the ditzy elf gotten to this time? She was never gone for too long, only whenever he needed something.

He huffed, the tip of his tongue skimmed the front of his teeth.

Thump.

He jumped then, at the unexpected noise, and blinked rapidly. Something had sounded downstairs.

Down.

Down.

Down.

He found it rather odd and waited for another sign of movement. For a long while, none came.

But then, yes, there it was! Another. Louder this time. Significant.

He moved to call out, but stopped short. Quiet! Quiet, he had to be quiet.

He licked at his lower lip.

‘Sit still!’

Immediately, he flinched backwards at the volatile words, unsure if he had heard them spoken aloud, or if it was all just inside his head.

No, the room was still empty.

‘Insulant boy!’

No, no. No, that was wrong. Beautiful- beautiful boy. It was beautiful boy. Hers.

Hers.

Another bump sounded, followed by a loud, shrilling scrape.

He forced his eyes tightly closed. He might have been hidden, but he always knew where to look.

Swallowing thickly, he shuffled slightly on his makeshift bed. The dishevelled cot that had been set up in the far corner of the attic, just for him.

Even there he had to wear the cloak.

It itched.

He twitched at the very thought, tongue darting out. Then, simultaneously, his hand flew up to scratch at the scathing itch that suddenly enflamed his jaw.

Itch. Itch. Itch.

Merlin! So itchy. He twitched again and hissed.

Suddenly, everything came to an abrupt halt and he took a deep breath.

But it was a noticeable creak that had his eyes flying open, his sharp inhale bounced between his two tonsils then dropped straight down his throat, hollowing his chest.

The handle on the door to the attic was turning… turning, turning, turned.

He licked at his lip and watched, in strolled his father.

He eyed his namesake cautiously and fought tooth and nail not to move, he wasn’t allowed to leave the cot. Not without Winky near. Couldn’t leave without Winky.

His heart calmed at the thought of the familiar house elf, perhaps she’d be willing to give him another treat tonight. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

So many maybes! They all danced around so aimlessly inside of his head.

Creak. Again!

His eyes snapped up towards the open entryway, tongue wetting his lower lip. Only, he didn’t just find his father stood there.

There was another man. Stranger. Friend. Strange.

Lestrange.

“Barty?” The former Slytherin called out, calmly, into the barren room.

Quiet, he tilted his head in response. Was that his name?

“Barty?” Again.

The man- Lestrange! Oh, yes, yes. But what one?- stepped further into the room, the tip of his wand pressed dangerously against the nape of his father’s neck.

Barty wet his lips once more, eyes wide as he took in the surprising scene.

“Call for him.” Lestrange ordered, his voice sharp, familiar, as he prodded his wand further into his father’s jugular. Uncaring for the choking cough that spluttered from the old man.

Barty watched, fascinated, as his father’s ashen mouth moved, “Bartemius, come.”

Without a second thought for his actions, Barty stood and listlessly followed the instruction. The soles of his bare feet pressed against the splintered attic floor and stopped about an arms width away from the duo.

“What did you do with him?” Lestrange sneered in disgust, his eyes danced all around the room, from wall to wall, having heard the shuffling but unable to see beyond the cloak’s veil.

Barty’s father, Bartemius Senior, answered in a deadened drawl, “He’s hidden. Silenced.”

Quiet, quiet, quiet.

Barty watched the scene closely, his gaze tracked the tic of Lestrange’s jaw.

“Potion?”

Bartemius Senior shook his head at the question, his movements stilted.

Lestrange’s dark slitted eyes examined his father for the briefest of moments before his free hand snapped outwards and wrenched the thin fabric away from Barty’s malnourished form.

The other man froze at the sight of him and Barty’s tongue darted outwards in retort, harsh enough for his front teeth to slice its tip.

“Barty?”

Barty didn’t reply, simply stared at the two, dazed. An expression mirrored by his father.

Lestrange swallowed thickly before he wrestled his emotions back beyond the surface of his skin.

“Cancel it.” He demanded, “The imperious- cancel it now!”

Barty’s father didn’t so much as blink at the order, “Finite.”

There was an unabiding silence which settled for a long moment before things quickly fell apart.

The cloud had been lifted, the calm there and then gone.

Barty inhaled deeply. Hot, stuffy air filled his lungs, and then, in one fluid movement, he crippled to his knees, screaming out in horrific agony.

—

January 1991, The Forbidden Forest, Scottish Highlands.

“It’s so goddamn cold.” Barty complained for the umpteenth time since they had apparated into a forlorn clearing and walked just over a mile towards the outskirts of a small wizarding village.

If you squinted hard enough you could almost make out the heady smoke of the Hog’s Head’s chimney through the thick, northern fog. As well as the dramatic castle that sat far off in the distance.

Rabastan rolled his eyes at the younger man’s antics.

Although he had grown somewhat fond of the Ravenclaw in the passing of weeks Crouch had spent recuperating in the west wing of the Malfoy manor, he still had to grit his teeth together to keep from spouting the acid that coated his tongue.

“Shut up, Crouch, or I'll give you something to truly whine about.” Rabastan said instead, arms crossed primly over his chest as his sharp eyes surveyed their surroundings. They wouldn’t have to wait much longer.

Barty ticked once, twice, before an amused little smile pulled at his features. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

In an act of maturity, Rabastan dutifully ignored the other man and was thankful that he had when he spotted the pint-sized student they had cursed to do their bidding wander out over the lengthy stone bridge.

Crouch was still snickering somewhere just behind him, even in the face of their assignment, and so Rabastan cut him off with a sharp flick of his wrist. The former Slytherin immediately moved to meet the child, a short-lived ‘Revelio’ informed him that no one else had followed the student and, thankfully, were none the wiser of their necessary arrangement.

The student, a third year boy who belonged to the house of Hufflepuff and the tainted bloodline of the, once sacred, Fawley’s, dragged his feet through the damp, overgrown grass of the Forbidden Forest and came to a halt around a foot away. His eyes were still glazed, a milky white colour which encased the boy’s familial blue, and met Rabastan’s own with no emotion at all.

“Do you have what I seek, boy?”

The Hufflepuff dipped his head once, chin sunk so far it met the hollow of his collarbones.

Rabastan couldn’t hide the allayed quirk of his mouth when the child cautiously pulled a carefully constructed diadem from the pocket of his outer-robes. The mere sight of it was enticing. The argent hardware, buffed to perfection, shimmered even in the shallow depths of the forest, and its sapphire solitaire complimented the glistening jewels that surrounded it beautifully. The so called ‘lost’ diadem’s significant eagle head was positioned proudly, front and centre, and etched upon the silver surface was an insightful quote: “Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure.”

Ravenclaws, Rabastan scoffed inwardly, amused by the notion behind the inscription, they truly were all the same.

Speaking of, Rabastan felt a now silent Barty sidle up beside him, his keen gaze focused solely on the treasure held. The Slytherin offhanded it to him with apparent care and withheld a short snort upon observing the way the anorak’s hands shook with the knowledge of what he had grasped between his fingertips. He turned back to face the bewitched boy.

“This deed will be honoured, but until then you will forget all of which you have learnt here today.” Rabastan said, his voice a deadly calm. He then waved the child away. “Go now. Speak with no one on your way.”

—

1991, Little Hangleton, England.

A sudden lurch pulled at Lucius’ lower stomach as his body was pressed very hard from every which direction, but he landed with the grace of which only a Malfoy could mander and patted down his sleeves. He turned when another body apparated at his side and the two of them simultaneously lifted their gaze towards the shabby little shack which perched before them.

It hadn’t been difficult to locate, even though it resided, untouched, in the ailing woods just outside of . The squalor ridden shack was apparently the ancestral home of the Gaunt’s, a once prominent noble family, who’s line had descended from both the great Salazar Slytherin, and Cadmus Peverell, who was known to have possessed one of the three supposed Hallows.

The House’s only remaining heir was now Morfin, son to Marvolo Gaunt, who had since been sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban after he had slaughtered an entire family of wealthy muggles in the nearby village. Lucius rolled his eyes at the mere reminder.

It was a bit of an odd place to have settled down. The trees which grew nearby blocked out all sunlight and spiralled aimlessly overhead, its exterior was covered in ivy and moss, nettles grew up every side, so many tiles had fallen from the roof that the rafters were actually now visible in some places, and the windows were minuscule, as well as blackened with grime.

Eyesore was the only term in which Lucius could use to describe what little remained of its structure.

“Are you quite certain that this is the place?” Lucius questioned as he grimaced at the cakey mud that clung to the soles of his dragon-hide boots.

“Don’t take me for a fool, Lucius.” Rabastan retorted with a sneer of his own then strode purposely across the sludgy soil without so much as a care for his attire, Lucuis’ eyes narrowed. “Our Lord gave the location. He promised it would be found here.”

Lucius didn’t make an effort to reply, simply twirled the heavy handle of his wand within his hand and disappeared.

Rabastan scowled as he fought every fibre in his being not to jump at the sudden reappearance of the blond, who cracked back into existence on the shack’s stoop.

“Have you always been such an utter priss, Malfoy?” Rabastan snarled whilst he continued to march his way up the worn wooden steps, dragging the mud with him. When he stopped by Lucius, he wore a cruel smirk. “Tell me, do you also ask your wife to give it to you good when she fucks you?”

Lucius worked his jaw at the mere cheek of the man and his enfeeble insinuation, then met Rabastan’s mirthful gaze with obvious distain. Before he could work up any sort of witty retort, Lestrange suddenly had a hand held up between them, they both went deathly still.

Lucius listened out intently for any other signs of life then allowed his eyes to follow Rabastan’s line of vision, immediately he swallowed down the lump of bile that rose at the sight of the rotten carcass that had been nailed to the front door of the shack. A snake, how poetic.

“Great Gods!” Lucius gasped, a hearty grimace in place.

Rabastan merely hummed, his lip curled in disgust as he surveyed the rest of the dilapidated home. “There was a mention of many great precautions when the Lord set me this task.” He brought up, ignoring Lucius’ somewhat green face as he extended his wand outwards to diagnose the wards. “I think it’s best we find ourselves a puppet. Best not to risk it.”

Lucius carved a fair brow at the other man. “And where do you suppose we find one of those?”

With a smug smile, Rabastan’s dark eyes found Lucius’ own. “Plenty of mangy muggles to spare down in the village, dear Lucius!” He then scoffed dramatically, amused by whatever filth spun around in that sick head of his. “Really, we’d ought to get you looked at, old chum! Are you truly so incapable of thinking for yourself?”

Rabastan’s concerned facade slipped when he paused to snort, “Ah, I guess I almost forgot- a lack of intelligence is needed when applying for a position within the ministry, is it not? But I suppose with the many strings they’ve got pinned to you I reckon we could get away with simply using you here instead. What do you say, ma petite marionnette, fancy it?”

Lucius, rightfully, lunged for him.

—

July 1991, Hogwarts Castle, Scottish Highlands.

A rapid chorus of knocks echoed within the large circular chamber, a loud sound which overwhelmed the rest of the office’s usual little noises and caught the attention of the current headmaster of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“Come in.” Beckoned Albus Dumbledore from where he was sat behind a hefty wooden desk. Twinkling blue eyes watched on as the door to his office opened and then narrowed upon seeing the distressed nature of his usually stoic Deputy head. “Minerva, whatever is the matter?”

Minerva McGonagall’s mouth was set in a grim line as she hurried over, she had a single white envelope trapped tightly between her fingertips and was doing her best to remain calm. Stiffly, she held out the unopened letter towards the headmaster. “This would be it, Albus.”

With a frown, Dumbledore plucked it from her grasp and adjusted his crescent shaped spectacles on the bridge of his nose so that he could turn it over and peer at the front. He blinked, once, twice, then flicked a rather confused glance towards his Deputy. “I’m not quite sure I understand the urgent matter here, Minerva. This is the boy’s letter, no? Why has it not been sent out amongst the rest?”

Minerva huffed, unhappily. “Because, if you would take a closer look at the envelope, you would surely realise that there is no address for the letter to be sent to.”

Albus frowned, eyeing the parchment once more. “I see.”

The woman wrung her wrinkled hands together, “It seems that this isn’t even our greatest problem.”

“How so?”

Minerva, her thoughts in disarray, pressed her lips tightly together before she finally spoke, “I decided to send the letter out anyway, even without the address. I figured the magic would simply know- that it somehow had had something to do with it. But, Albus, the owl used brought it back almost immediately. It flew the length of the castle then- well, then it just returned to the tower.”

Albus merely hummed to himself, perplexed, before he tried to gift the envelope back. “Attempt to send it again, try another owl.”

The stern Scott woman refused, “I already have, Albus! I came here, to see you, after the third try. I used a new owl every time, but each trial ended with the very same result.”

The headmaster remained silent for a long moment before he pushed out of his chair and made his way towards the extravagant fireplace, emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest.

With a sprinkle of floo powder, which sat atop the dismally decorated mantle, Albus tossed the letter into the flames. “Harry Potter, number four Privet Drive, Surrey!”

The glowing green flames doubled in size, blazing and so full of life, they licked at the edges of the parchment and then engulfed the envelope entirely.

It was just as the headmaster turned away to wipe away the remnants of sooty powder that stained his hands, a prideful smile on his face, that the fireplace spat the envelope right back out. It landed, face up and still intact, on the primeval patterned rug.

Both of the professors stared down at the anomaly, startled and rather bemused. In all the time either one had worked within the school, nothing like this had ever before occurred.

With a drawn-out hum, Albus swiftly spun around on the heel of his garish boot and headed straight towards the expanding shelves that lined the very back wall of the room.

“What are you looking for?” Minerva questioned as she watched the bearded wizard, who paid her no mind, search amongst an array of items. “Surely we could just pay the boy a visit? We have the address of his kin- it might even work out better this way, he’ll be fully prepared for what he will be expected to face upon entering our world, Albus.”

She sighed when Albus gave no reply and stepped forward to better aid him. Though she needn’t have bothered, nor wasted her breath, because a moment later had the older man splaying a thick, peeling black dragon-hide book across the expanse of his desk.

Minerva widened her eyes in shock. “Is that the Book of Admittance? What on Earth is it doing in here- and for heavens sake, Albus! Why are you touching it? That book hasn’t been tampered with since before the founders completed this castle’s build!”

The woman immediately rushed forward, unsure on how else to act.

“Albus, I really feel as though-”

The wizard merely waved her off, “Do not fret, Minerva. It shall be returned to its tower once I am finished here. Now, if you- ah…”

The skin between Minerva’s brows pinched as Albus’ face clouded, she peered over the man’s shoulder to better observe what had caused his dismay. “What is it?”

Albus slammed the ancient old book shut before he raised a hand to rub at his temple, “It seems that there is no admittance of a Harry Potter joining the ranks of our first years.”

Minerva blanched, a steadfast debate already warring inside of her head. “This has got to be some kind of mistake! The child has a destiny, a prophecy to fulfil!”

Albus turned to her with a soured look, one she had never before witnessed on his face. “I’m afraid the book does not lie, Minerva.”

The witch stared blatantly at the man, baffled. “Well, what do we do then?”

—

September 1991, Kingscross Station, London.

The clock on the far side of the arrivals gate ticked again. It made rather an obnoxious noise that set Sirius’ back teeth on edge, the kind of feeling that could only be described like chewing on hardened ice-cream. Tick, tick, tick.

It was quite obvious that time was moving, albeit painfully slow, but the longer hand on the clock’s face had only just reached the fiftieth minute, and still, there was no sign of his godson.

“He should have arrived by now.” Sirius informed the scarred man stood beside him, who was failing horrendously to look as calm as he might’ve wanted everyone to believe. Sirius’ foot tapped away so rhythmically that the sound hardly registered at all, he didn’t falter in it until Remus finally knocked the knob of his knee against his upper thigh.

“Stop that.” Remus said, his sharp eyes trailing the length of the large station. “He’ll be here soon, he has to be.”

But it had already been a decade. Ten years since the night of the attack, since the day they had lost Lily and Ja-

Sirius shook his head, wanting to will the thought away. Dumbledore might’ve shipped Harry off the minute he’d laid eyes on him, but Sirius wasn’t about to let his godson start his first year at Hogwarts without a proper send off. It wasn’t what his parents would have wanted, what he wanted.

There had already been too many listless nights, too many anxious days- worrying over and over about the boy, if he was in good hands, if he was being cared for, if he knew that he had a family, a real family, waiting for him here.

Sirius’ jaw clenched at the spiral of musings his mind fed him. If his suspicions were correct then he was certain that Dumbledore had sent Harry off into the arms of Lily’s darling sister and the monstrous being she called her husband after her death.

It was the very last place Lily would have wanted Harry growing up, and Sirius was in definite agreement, especially after having met the disgusting duo on the Potter’s wedding day. There was something simply so vile about Petunia Dursley, her upturned nose was always pinched as though she was constantly smelling something foul, and her scathing scowl was enough to scare even the charmingest of small talkers away. He only hoped that he’d been wrong all this time.

“There’s only five minutes before the platform seals off.” Sirius stated as his eyes darted back and forth over an expanse of muggles and wizards alike, his bottom lip captured between his teeth.

A gentle hand found his shoulder then and Sirius glanced up to meet Remus’ familiar amber gaze. He sighed defeatedly and then proceeded to slump against his taller companion’s side. They were close, much too close for being in the public’s general view, and he only noticed this just as a group of snobbish looking muggles passed them by, their upper lips curled in disdain as they gawked, but Sirius couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when he was slowly but surely losing the last leg of hope he had to stand on.

A trill sounded.

Sirius’ stomach sank to his feet the second the clock’s chime hit his ears, misery pooled in his gut and grief gnawed at the base of his throat, but no one else seemed to be perturbed by the expected hour.

“Eleven.” Sirius croaked out, but even with the utter agony that was filling his chest, attempting to drown him from the inside-out, there was this protective rage brewing, bubbling even, and it was ready to spill. It was a feeling that he found mirrored on Remus’ face.

Something was undoubtedly wrong.