Bruises and Swing Sets
-September 30 1991-
“I think we have a problem,” Moody said as he entered the house. Sirius looked up from the book he was showing Harry, his eyebrows furrowing at the enraged look on his face. “We need to have a meeting.”
“What’s going on?” Sirius asked, his hand automatically reaching out to tug Harry closer to him. Harry didn’t seem to mind, merely cuddling back into his chest and continued to read the book.
“‘Dunno,” he said, limping his way into the kitchen. “Dumbledore called. Said somethin’s wrong.”
Sirius wanted to ask more, but he knew now wasn’t the time. He sighed and stood up, Harry hitched on his waist, and walked into the kitchen. The floo flared on and off as Order members stepped into the kitchen. He waited until everyone had arrived before he took a seat, Harry sitting pliantly in his lap as he continued to read, unbothered by the change of scenery.
“What’s happening?” Remus asked, his eyes narrowed as he watched Dumbledore pace. Dumbledore sighed and took a seat at the head of the table, his blue eyes filled with regret.
“He’s searching for him.” was all he said.
Everyone tensed, and Sirius tightened his grip on his godson protectively. No one needed any clarification about what Dumbledore was talking about. It was clear from his defeated posture that the Dark Lord was searching for Harry.
“What are we going to do?” Molly asked, wringing her hands nervously.
“He’s not going to find him here!” Moody said, his glass eye searching the faces of the Order members. “But we should remain vigilant nonetheless.”
“I’m not giving him up,” Sirius said firmly. He saw Remus nod in agreement in his peripheral. “I don’t care what he does. Harry is staying with us.”
“My boy…” Dumbledore said softly. “I will do what is necessary to keep Harry safe.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Why does it sound like you’re going to tell me something else?” he demanded. Dumbledore sighed.
“We do not know what he has planned,” Dumbledore said softly. “We need to remain cautious, as Alastor said. If we are not careful…”
Sirius grit his teeth. “I’m not losing him again.” Sirius snapped. “I just got him back… I’m not… I can’t---”
“I understand, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said softly, holding his hands up in a placating manner. “I will do everything I can to keep Harry safe and in your possession.”
“He’s not a possession.” Sirius snarled. “But he can’t go back to him. I won’t let it happen. Do you hear me?”
Dumbledore’s eyes softened at the desperate look in Sirius’s eyes. “I understand, my boy,” he said softly. “We’re going to keep him safe.”
Sirius didn’t say anything else, choosing instead, to bury his face in Harry’s curls. He felt a little pathetic, but the thought of losing Harry, after he just got him back, was too much for him. He fought against the stinging in his eyes, and when he felt in control of himself once more, he looked up.
Everyone else had given Sirius the privacy he needed to compose himself, and when he looked up only Molly was looking at him, giving him a sympathetic look. Sirius relaxed slightly and nodded at her. She smiled before she turned her attention back to Dumbledore.
“So, what’s the plan?” Remus asked, leaning forward.
“We don’t know what he intends to do,” Dumbledore said with a slight frown. “For now we must be very cautious. We must avoid suspicion. It is imperative that he does not know that we have Harry.”
Dumbledore looked at Harry then, and Sirius shivered at the calculating look in his eyes. Whatever Dumbledore was thinking about right now, Sirius did not like it. It set him on edge. Sirius shifted his weight, moving Harry from one knee to the other, and in doing so, shifting Dumbledore’s focus back to the Order.
“Kinglsey, Alastor, I need you to keep an eye out in the New Ministry,” Dumbledore continued, as though his slip had never occurred. “Look out for whispers.”
Kinglsey nodded, the auror having already predicted that. “We’ll alert you if anything changes.”
“I’m afraid that’s all we can do for now,” Dumbledore said sadly. “Thank you all for coming so swiftly.”
With the obvious dismissal, the Order began to pack up and leave. Sirius sat in place, though, eyeing Dumbledore strangely. Dumbledore picked up on the stare and turned to face him.
“Is something wrong, my boy?”
Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “You tell me.” he said. Dumbledore frowned.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, my boy.” Dumbledore said softly.
“Why are you so concerned with Harry’s safety?” Sirius asked. “Why do you care so much?”
“Why, because you do!” Dumbledore said, in his usual grandfatherly fashion. “He obviously means quite a big deal to you. I only want to help you.”
“I don’t buy it.” Sirius said, shaking his head slightly. “What’s the real reason?”
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, and Sirius knew he’d caught him. “I have a theory…” Dumbledore said softly. He then shook his head. “It’s truly nothing, my dear boy. Please, ignore the ramblings of an old man.”
Sirius wanted to press more, but Dumbledore quickly bid goodbye and left. Sirius just stared at the empty fireplace where he’d vanished speculatively. Remus came up behind him and placed his hands on his shoulders.
“What was that about?” he asked, leaned over to press a kiss to Sirius’s cheek. Sirius’s eyebrows were furrowed as he started.
“I haven’t the faintest.” Sirius said, turning around to face his lover. “But I think Dumbledore is hiding something.”
In his lap, Harry entertained himself by braiding flowers into Sirius’s dark locks.
Voldemort stalked through his castle, ignoring the way people avoided him. As he walked, his magic flared around him, sending anyone close to him into a fearful fit. Voldemort had just left a meeting with his Inner Circle, and was trying desperately to reign in his rage.
He stalked up the stairs to his personal wing, and stopped at the sight of the wooden door. His magic flared uncontrollably for a second before Voldemort calmed down.
He approached the door hesitantly, and Voldemort cursed himself when he realized his hands were trembling. He slowly pushed the door open, and a weird tightness erupted in his chest at the sight before him.
It was just as beautiful as it always was, but it was missing the most perfect part.
Little One wasn’t in the garden, so how dare the garden continue to thrive?
Voldemort trailed through the garden, his robes passing over the grass and flowers easily. He trailed his long fingers against the bushes as he made his way to the center of the room. The room was magically endless, yet it was impossible to get lost in it. At the very center of the room lay the grand oak tree.
Little One’s bed hung like a swing from the tree’s branches, and intertwined in the vines of the swing, were flowers and orbs of light. The bed itself was soft and pillowy, and Voldemort sat down on the bed, sinking into its cushion.
The room was made specifically for his precious, all of it made to make him feel safe and cared for. Voldemort had swore that his dearest would never feel the fear and pain he’d felt before ever again.
Back then it was so easy to love the boy. Voldemort had known from the second he first saw him, that the child was special. That he was perfect. Voldemort had no idea to what extent back then, but he had known that he would do anything to save the child…
-December 20 1983-
Voldemort cursed as he landed with a loud thud. How dare…! Voldemort was going to take great pleasure in destroying the idiot in charge of creating his portkey. Voldemort knew that he should’ve made it himself, after all, you can never trust anyone with something so important, but he’d gotten caught up with work and there was no time.
After the New Ministry ball that Voldemort had attended to show good faith to the people he was now ruling, Voldemort was looking forward to going home and relaxing with a good book, curled up by the fire. Instead of that, though, he was now awkwardly sprawled out in some random neighborhood, who-knows-where!
Voldemort growled and stood up, brushing the dust and snow off of his robes with dignity. He huffed and straightened out his apparel before he located his wand. Now he needed to get back to his Castle and crucio the living daylights out of that idiot in charge of his travel. He was going to have fun with it, too. Maybe he’d even give him to Bella for fun, as he knew she was getting bored, and a bored Bellatrix was never something one should have---
“‘Scuse me, sir?”
Voldemort was pulled out of his tortuous thoughts by a child-like voice. Voldemort did not bother to contain his sneer as he looked down. How dare a muggle address the Great Lord Voldemort---
Green.
For the second time that night, Voldemort’s dark thoughts were interrupted. Previous thoughts of murdering the muggle that dared interrupt him were thrown out the metaphorical window at the sight of green. It was so vivid, and it reminded Voldemort fondly of his most favorite spell.
That green came from the eyes of a muggle toddler. Voldemort didn’t think that muggles could have such an eye color. As Voldemort blinked, the stunning emeralds shifted out of the tunnel vision, and Voldemort was taking in the rest of the child.
And he did not like what he saw.
The child was shivering, and Voldemort could see the bright redness of his extremities. The child couldn’t be older than five, yet he shivered in the cold at night. His black hair was tousled and damp with snow, and his broken glasses slid down his face, no doubt aggravating the giant bruise on his cheek.
The child was thin, horribly so, and he wore nothing but an oversized T-shirt and denim pants that were scuffed and tearing at the knees. It was not suitable for the cold December night nor the piling snow.
It was quite obvious child abuse, and it disgusted Voldemort more than anything. He had, once a very long time ago, suffered like the child before him, and it filled him with righteous anger. Voldemort had thought that he’d never have to see an abused child again once he stepped into the Wizarding World, what with how cherished children were there. Yet here he was, standing face to face with a child obviously abused.
“Did you pop up out’ta nowhere, mister?” the child asked, his speech garbled with both the babyish tongue and the cold.
It took Voldemort a second to gain his bearings and address the child back. “What did you say?” he asked, staring pointedly at the black and blue bruise painted across the child’s cheek.
“Heard a loud pop,” the child said, waving his hand to exaggerate the word, and Voldemort saw the way he winced, a look of pain flashing on the child’s face as he moved his left arm. “And then you were just there.”
Distantly, Voldemort realized that the child must have seen him arrive with the portkey. However, for the most part, Voldemort was surprised at how verbal the child was, as well as the intelligence he portrayed. The toddler couldn’t be older than five, yet he spoke as though he were eight or nine. (And Voldemort had a feeling that the child spoke that way out of necessity, and it made him all the angrier.)
“It was magic.” Voldemort said in a rare tone. He didn’t know what compelled him to be truthful to the child, but he felt like he couldn’t lie to the green-eyed babe.
The child’s eyes widened with wonder before they narrowed, and Voldemort watched with confusion as the child looked around the neighborhood suspiciously. “You can’t say that,” the child whispered. “You’ll get ‘unished.”
Voldemort’s eyebrow raised. “Punished? For magic?”
“Bad word!” the child cried in horrified shock. “‘S’a bad word! You’ll get ‘unished!”
Voldemort wanted to press more, but he didn’t want to scare the child away. For whatever reason, Voldemort felt some kind of connection to the beaten tot, and Voldemort wanted to know more about him. “Why are you out here?” he asked. “It’s mighty cold. Where are your parents?”
“Dead, sir,” the child said. “Aunt Petunia kicked me out. Said I was dirtying the house.”
Voldemort controlled the flash of rage that shot through him. He chose, instead, to focus on the other part of the child’s answer. “Your parents are dead?” he asked. The child nodded, and Voldemort watched as the broken glasses slid further down his nose.
“Aunt Petunia says my dad killed my mum in a car crash,” the child parrots. “He’s a good for nothin’ drunk and I had a whore offa mum.”
Voldemort clenched his hands at the crude words that were repeated out of the child’s mouth. How dare someone tell a child that! “What’s your name, child?” Voldemort asked.
“Harry,” Harry said, pushing his glasses back up on his face. “Harry Potter.”
Voldemort felt himself blanche. Harry Potter? That was the name of a noble Wizarding bloodline! Was this child… was this child a wizard? Suddenly, Voldemort felt like it was impossible to breathe, his rage was choking him.
“Harry, have you ever… Has strange things ever happened around you?” Voldemort found himself asking, leaning down to get a better look at the child’s reaction. “Like pots falling down, toys floating, that sort of thing?”
If possible, Harry’s face turned an even paler shade of white, and the child rocked back on his heels, his emerald eyes darting around as if gauging the best possible escape route. “I didn’t mean to…” he said softly,
Voldemort had no words to describe the way he felt when Harry said that. He wanted to rage and destroy the muggles that dared to harm a wizarding child, but the way the child trembled as if he were about to be hit, pulled on heartstrings Voldemort didn’t know he had.
“Oh child...” he said softly. Voldemort couldn’t describe it. It was like… some connection had been formed between him and the child at that moment. Suddenly, Voldemort wanted nothing more than to protect him. Perhaps it was because it reminded him so much of himself, and how he wished that he could have made a better life for himself when he was a child. Or perhaps it was because of the way Harry looked at him. Maybe it was those eyes… Whatever the reason was, however, Voldemort knew that he was going to do what he could to save the child before him.
“”M sorry.” Harry said softly, toeing the snow-covered ground with his broken sneakers that were being held together with nothing more than grey tape.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Voldemort said in a soft voice. “Where have you been staying?”
Harry gingerly pointed behind him to a muggle swing set. “I stay there when I’m not ‘llowed in the house.”
Voldemort stood up and walked towards the swing set. “Do you play on it?”
Harry shrugged, and Voldemort fought back an enraged expression at the child’s hushed hiss of pain. “Sometimes. Mostly I just sit.”
An image of Harry sitting on the ground in the freezing cold, waiting to be allowed inside the warm house, sprang into Voldemort’s mind. It made his chest feel weirdly tight, and Voldemort passed it off as indigestion. “When are you allowed back in?”
“Morning.”
Voldemort did not like the idea at all. He especially did not like the idea of leaving a child outside in the dark on his own. There were kidnappers! Weren’t they concerned at all? Judging from the bruise on his face, it wasn’t likely.
Voldemort knew he could always ask the child where he lived and set his relative straight, but Voldemort wasn’t fond of the idea, either. He didn’t want to just fix the problem and leave it. What if the muggles didn’t listen? No, it was better if Voldemort handled this himself. And by handle, Voldemort meant take the child in himself.
It was strange. Voldemort had never considered having a child---he always thought them to be loud, messy, brash little creatures---but looking at Harry, Voldemort could not think of a more suitable heir.
Yes, Voldemort would take in Harry. He would save him from the nasty muggles who dared abuse him, and raise him to be a proper prince.
But not yet. He needed more time to prepare. He needed to make the castle suitable to house a child, and he needed to inform his Inner Circle. Who would be the godparents…? Ah well, there was time. Voldemort could figure out all of the pleasantries later. For now, though, Voldemort would get to know his child.
“Harry,” he said softly, directing the toddler’s attention to him. “Do you like living with your Aunt?”
Harry’s bright emerald eyes glazed over. “I like my Aunt and Uncle. They feed me three times a day, and play with me, and give me lots of love. I like living with them and want to stay with them forever.”
Voldemort fought back a cringe at the scripted response. How many times had the child been questioned about his home-life? “Right, I’m sure,” Voldemort said placatingly, not wanting to upset the child. “But let’s say, hypothetically---”
“What’s that mean, sir?”
“For pretend,” Voldemort answered. “Let’s say, for pretend, you could live somewhere else. Would you want to?”
Harry eyed him suspiciously. “For pretend?” he asked.
“For pretend.” Voldemort nodded. Harry smiled, his bright green eyes lighting up at the possibility.
“Yes,” he said, a smile decorating his face and making Voldemort feel strangely fuzzy inside. “I would love that.”
“What if you could have a Papa?” Voldemort asked again, drawn in by the child’s reaction. The child’s eyes widened even further with longing and hope.
“I want a Papa.” Harry whispered lowly, as though he were admitting his guilt to a heinous crime.
“I think, Harry, I can help you,” Voldemort said softly. Harry’s eyes were wide now, and he was staring at Voldemort with hope and slight suspicion.
“Help?” he asked.
“What if… What if I was your Papa?”
Voldemort sighed, his crimson eyes gazing up to the ceiling. He could just barely make out puffy white clouds in the blue sky through the gaps of the tree leaves. Little One had been so happy back then, yet he’d been too late.
Voldemort grit his teeth, refusing to allow himself to think about that time. That horrible moment when he was too late.
Voldemort chose, instead, to continue to look at the sky.
“Don’t worry, precious,” he whispered to nobody. “I have a plan. You’ll be home soon.”
Beside him, the silence was disturbed by a soft breeze, and the leaves rustled above him peacefully.