The Shadowy Figure
-November 25, 1991-
“Greyback, I do believe you heard what I said,” Voldemort said, teeth clenched at the sight of the giant werewolf holding his son by the back of his shirt with his claws. “I am not inclined to repeat myself.”
Greyback grins, his fangs glinting against the peeking moonlight. “Oh! You mean you want me to drop this little kid?” Greyback asked, a shit-eating grin stretched across his face as he held Little One up higher. Voldemort grit his teeth.
“Set. Him. Down.” Voldemort said, his voice bordering on a hiss. “Now.”
Greyback tilts his head, putting his free hand on his chin and twisting his other arm so that he was holding Little One under his arm, his hand resting on his hips. Voldemort’s jaw audibly clicked at the sight. “I don’t know, I think I like having the strange kid in my arms,” Greyback says, his eyes dancing with the taunt. “Maybe I’ll keep him.”
In response, Voldemort pointed his wand at the werewolf. “Just because you are the Alpha King, does not mean you do not bow to me.” Voldemort snapped. “I am still your Lord and you will respect my words and do as I say.”
Greyback maneuvered Little One in his arms once again, this time holding the toddler to his chest as the werewolf dipped into an exaggerated bow. “Oh, of course! Forgive me, My Lord! Allow me to set the cub on his feet before I bend over backwards for you.”
Greyback snickered, but Voldemort remained unamused. Voldemort hated that he couldn’t do anything about the blatant disrespect that creature dares show him, but he needed to maintain a good partnership with the werewolves. The last thing Voldemort felt like dealing with was a war with the werewolves. Due to Voldemort’s reign, the laws on werewolf regulations shifted. They allowed the creatures to form their own government under the rule of Greyback. Because of this, Voldemort was required to hold diplomatic meetings with the werewolf once every decade or so to maintain their alliance and work on updating laws together.
The last time Voldemort had seen Greyback was just after the war had been won and the werewolf king was starting to govern. Voldemort supposed it was time for a meeting with the werewolf, but Voldemort didn’t realize that Greyback would break into his castle in the middle of the night, or he would’ve set out some traps.
Greyback sighed when he realized how irritated Voldemort was getting. “All right, fine,” Greyback huffed. “Take the little cretin.”
Greyback bent down to set Little One on his feet, who in turn stumbled over them in his haste to get away. Voldemort allowed Little One to cower into the hem of his robes, a hand reaching down to pat his head. Voldemort stubbornly kept his crimson gaze on Greyback, even as he bent down to lift Little One into his arms. With Little One safe in his arms, Voldemort allowed himself to address the werewolf king.
“What are you doing in my castle, Greyback?” Voldemort demanded. It was too late at night, and Voldemort was too high strung from his dream… thing, to deal with any of the werewolf’s bullshit.
(Voldemort was so done, he allowed himself to slip into such crass tongue!)
Greyback smirked. “Why, to see you, My Lord! Why else?”
“Greyback. It is nearly one AM. You’d better have a good reason for breaking into my house and holding my son hostage.” Voldemort snarled, his patience snapping.
Greyback held his hands up in mock surrender. “There are some things we need to go over,” Greyback said simply. “Didn’t know you had a pup, though. When did that happen? You should take him to a doctor or somethin’, by the way, he smells like death. Think he’s sick.”
Voldemort grit his teeth. “Go to the meeting hall and wait there,” Voldemort ordered. “I will be there shortly.”
“As you command, My Lord.” Greyback said, a shit-eating grin stretched across his scarred face. Voldemort ignored the sass in favor of imagining the werewolf writhing on the floor in agony.
As the werewolf sauntered off towards Voldemort’s meeting hall, Voldemort cradled his son’s trembling body close and walked towards his bedroom. Voldemort carded his fingers through Little One’s tangled hair in a soothing gesture, trying to calm him down.
“What were you doing out there, dearest?” Voldemort asked softly. “Did you hear something?”
“Shadow, Papa.” Little One said, his voice almost silent. Voldemort frowned, his eyebrows cinching together in confusion. Voldemort wanted to question the toddler further, but it was late, and Voldemort just wanted to go back to sleep, so he decided to save it for tomorrow morning.
“Okay darling,” Voldemort said gently. He pushed open the door to Little One’s bedroom and carefully set the toddler down on the bed. Little One curled up under the warm blankets, and Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the sight of Larry sleeping peacefully in the sheets. “Go back to sleep dearest, Papa needs to deal with something, okay?”
Little One nodded, but Voldemort could see the wariness in his son’s emerald eyes. “Safe Papa?” Little One asked, looking at Voldemort with concern.
“Yes darling, I’ll be safe,” Voldemort said with a smile. “Now, go back to sleep. I’ll send Nagini in to stay with you in a little while.”
Satisfied that Voldemort was in no immediate danger, Little One sank into the comfort of his bed. “Night night, Papa.” Little One said drowsily.
Voldemort smiled fondly, brushing a stray curl out of his precious’ face. “Night night, sweetheart.”
With Little One sleeping safely in his bed, Voldemort stood and made his way to the meeting hall where the irritating werewolf king waited. Voldemort entered the meeting hall with his head high, making sure that he maintained a cool, indifferent mask, despite his annoyance at the late hour.
“Why are you here, Greyback?” Voldemort demanded, making his way to the throne. Greyback only smiles at him, the skin around his mouth pulling his scars taught.
“When did you get a pup, My Lord?” Greyback asks, tilting his head.
“You didn’t come here to talk about my son,” Voldemort says, dismissing the question. “Why did you really come? I don’t have time for this.”
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Greyback said, ignoring Voldemort’s demand and in turn, angering the Dark Lord further. “I wanna talk about the pup! Who did you bump uglies with, eh?”
Voldemort sniffed at the crass language. “Watch yourself, mutt.”
“He’s kind of cute, you know,” Greyback continued, a satisfied smirk resting on his lips, taunting him. “A little weird, but in an adorable way.”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay far away from him, Greyback.” Voldemort said, his tone giving away just how angered he truly was.
Greyback’s smirk grew. “Good thing I don’t know what’s good for me, then.”
Voldemort’s patience snapped at the taunt, and Voldemort snarled as he reached for his wand, desperate to put the mutt in his place when a familiar coolness swept the room. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and Voldemort could feel his goose flesh prickle.
“Temper, temper.” Voldemort can feel the whisper on his ear, and Voldemort refuses to dignify the shiver he feels with a response. The being’s presence is suffocating and so close.
Voldemort whirls around, expecting to see the hazy figure from his dream standing behind him, only to see nothing. The empty space seems to taunt him, and Voldemort hisses in anger before he turns around to deal with Greyback. Said werewolf who is currently staring at him quizzically, a strange mixture of confusion and amusement resting on his face.
Voldemort instantly decides that he can’t deal with Greyback this late at night. “Get out of my castle Greyback, before I make a new rug with your hide.” Voldemort snarls.
Greyback, as annoying as ever, just throws back his head and laughs. “As you wish, My Lord.” he said with a grin. “I’ll leave you to your crazy.”
Voldemort throws a nonverbal stinging hex at the werewolf’s behind as he struts away. Voldemort grits his teeth as the door to his meeting hall clicks shut, the booming laugh of Greyback still echoing against the stone walls.
The second Voldemort is sure that the irritating werewolf is gone, Voldemort spins back around to face the general direction of the voice he’d heard moments earlier. Though he can’t see anything, Voldemort can feel the presence of the faceless thing from earlier. Voldemort knows that it’s here.
“Show yourself.” Voldemort demands. Absentmindedly, Voldemort wonders if the being ever gets tired of the demand. Perhaps if it would just show itself like a normal person instead of masking it’s presence like a creep, Voldemort wouldn’t have to demand such things. “Come on, I know you’re there. Show yourself.”
Nothing happens, and for a moment, Voldemort wonders if he really is going crazy. He knows that horcruxes aren’t exactly the best method of immortality, and he also knows that if he had made more than one, he wouldn’t be in his best state of mind. However, Voldemort stopped after his first one, deciding that the ‘Seven Horcrux’ plan he made when he was in sixth year wasn’t the best idea.
But then the shadows bubble, just like they did in his dream, and Voldemort watches as they twist and writhe together to form a humanoid figure. Just like in his dream, the figure wears a three-piece muggle suit, however this time, instead of flowing black hair and glowing green eyes, the figure has cropped brown hair, and a short beard to match, and while the eyes seemed to glow green still, there seemed to be almost a bluish hue to it.
The figure smiled at him and sat down on his throne, stretching out his limbs over the arm rests and holding his chin with his hand.
“Hello, my dear.”
Fenrir muffled his snickers in the palm of his hand as he walked away from the Dark Lord’s meeting hall. It really had been too long since Fenrir had seen the man, so much had changed in the past eleven years! He’d meant to visit sooner, but being the Alpha King of the werewolves was a lot more work than he’d originally anticipated.
And apparently, while Fenrir was busy starting a new government for werewolves, the Dark Lord was getting busy! Of all the things Fenrir expected from his visit, a child was not one of them. Fenrir never thought the Dark Lord Voldemort would be the paternal type, but clearly he was wrong.
“Angry Papa bear,” Fenrir chuckled to himself. “So scary.”
As Fenrir walked through the familiar halls of the Dark Lord’s ridiculously grand castle (“Somebody is clearly compensating for something.”), his mind wanded. The child of the Dark Lord was small---still a toddler---so he must have been born recently. Though, Fenrir would have thought that the Dark Lord would announce the birth of his heir.
Still, there was something… not quite right about that child.
Fenrir couldn’t put his finger on it, but he could’ve sworn the child was sick. The toddler reeked of the sickly-sweet scent of death---he was practically bathed in it! That, and the overwhelming feeling of Dark Magic that completely covered the child.
Perhaps the toddler really was sick. It would explain why the Dark Lord was protective of him, and it would explain why no one knows of his existence. A sick heir was a vulnerable heir, and while the Dark Lord was a very dangerous and powerful man, he made quite a few enemies. Enemies who, should they discover the sickly heir, wouldn’t hesitate to attack.
Just as Fenrir was about to exit the castle, a breeze blew in through the open door, and Fenrir caught a whiff of the sickly-sweet scent of Voldemort’s pup. Fenrir paused in the threshold of the door for a second, his eyes glancing out towards the woods before Fenrir grinned and stepped back, closing the door.
Fenrir always was a curious wolf.
Fenrir breathed in deeply, searching for the scent. He followed his nose through the castle, up two flights of stairs, and down a dark hallway that Fenrir was not supposed to be in. The scent led him to a closed door made of wood, vines and flowers twined through the wood.
How curious. Fenrir had never seen a door like that before. Taking in another deep breath, Fenrir grasped the handle (a small hole in the vines and flowers) and pushed the door open. Fenrir was greeted with a beautiful fairy garden.
Fenrir looked around with wide eyes, taking in the sights. His bare feet sunk into the warm grass, and wild flowers and bushes swayed gently to a breeze that came from nowhere, brushing against his exposed shins. Fenrir could hear the trickling of a waterfall, and hundreds of tiny fireflies danced through the tall grass, bathing the garden in gentle yellow light. The air was crisp and clean, and everything smelled of flowers and nature.
Everything except, of course, the sickly-sweet scent of the child.
Fenrir eyes were drawn to the large oak tree standing in the center of the room, a bed swing hanging from the branches. Tiny balls of light and flowers were braided into the vines that held the bed swing aloft, and sitting in the bed, swathed in blankets, sat the very child Fenrir was searching for.
Without threats of a cruciatus, Fenrir took the time to study the Dark Lord’s child. Now that he could get a good look at him, Fenrir noticed that the child didn’t really look anything like the Dark Lord. Save for the dark hair, the child held no similarities. The child’s wide eyes were practically glowing emerald as they stared at Fenrir’s figure. Held tight to the child’s chest, was a tiny yellow fluff ball. Upon closer inspection, the fluff ball was discovered to be a duckling.
Despite the cuteness of the sight---a tiny child wrapped in blankets, only their head sticking out of the covers, holding a tiny duckling to their chest---Fenrir couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. There was something about the Dark Lord’s child that wasn’t normal.
The sharp, citrusy scent of fear filled the air, disrupting the peaceful scene before him. Fenrir realized at that moment that he’d been staring for too long, and the child didn’t know who he was, so he didn’t know that Fenrir had no intention of hurting him. Fenrir could see the child trembling from where he stood, and he felt oddly bad about scaring him.
Fenrir stepped forward, the grass tickling the soles of his feet as he walked towards the bedswing where the terrified child resided.
“Hey… it’s okay… I’m not here to hurt you…” Fenrir cooed softly, using the tone he used whenever he spoke to the pups of his pack. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’m a friend of your---”
Fenrir cut himself off abruptly, freezing in place a few feet away from the shaking child. His amber eyes widened in disbelief as he stared at the stitches marring the toddler’s neck, a gruesome additive to an otherwise happy picture.
Finally, all the pieces connect.
The reason why the child smells like death and dark magic, the reason why no one knows about him, the reason why Fenrir couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness with the child. It all made sense now. The child sitting in blankets and cuddling a duckling is an Inferius!
The Dark Lord’s son was an inferius.
What the f---
The inferius was well made, clearly---not surprising given who created it. There were no signs of an Inferius anywhere on the child, no rotting skin or putrid smell. Had Fenrir not noticed the stitches, he wouldn’t have known that the toddler in front of him wasn’t alive.
The knowledge that the Dark Lord’s son was an inferius changed everything. No wonder the Dark Lord was so protective of the thing! Fenrir supposed that if someone killed his pup, he’d be protective of him too! The real question now was, who killed the Dark Lord’s son?
Fenrir couldn’t help the wariness that spread through him as he stared at the Inferius. Fenrir knew that appearances could be deceiving, and despite being an adorable toddler, the Inferius could be the most dangerous thing in the room right now. Fenrir knew that he was the one who invaded the creature’s territory, and by law, the Inferius was well within his rights to attack.
Inferius were nasty pieces of work, Fenrir knew this from the war, and he had no desire to be torn apart by their claws. Fenrir kept his eyes trained on the Inferius, watching for any sudden movements, as he slowly began to backtrack.
By now, the child had stopped shaking, and the scent of fear had all but dissipated from the room. Instead of cowering into his duck, the inferius was now staring at Fenrir curiously, his head tilted slightly in confusion, unconsciously displaying the stitches that ran up the side of his neck.
Just as Fenrir was about to turn around and flee, the Inferius moved. Fenrir tensed, preparing himself for an attack as the blankets rustled. A tiny, pale hand stretched out from the cocoon of blankets, and Fenrir stared at it in shock.
In the Inferius’ hands, the reason why Fenrir was staring, was a single stalk of yellow flowers. Fenrir recognized the flower as Goldenrod, a flower given to people as a sign of encouragement. The child’s emerald eyes were wide with a child-like innocence as he held out the flower to Fenrir.
A warm feeling bubbled in his chest as Fenrir slowly bent down to take the flower. The second Fenrir’s fingers closed around the stem, a blinding smile erupted on the toddler’s face, and Fenrir could’ve sworn that the room got a little brighter.
“Thank you…” Fenrir said softly, holding the flower delicately, like it was a precious jewel. Fenrir could see that the child was still wary of him, yet despite this, he still offered him a token of friendship.
The child nodded slightly before burying his face in the duckling’s feathers. Fenrir couldn’t take his eyes off the adorable scene before him. In his hands, the Goldenrod wiggled against the light breeze, and Fenrir clutched it tightly, not willing to let the flower fly away.
No one had ever given Fenrir a flower before.
