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A brief note: This is not A Life of Lies. I had this idea years ago, but never found time to write it, nor ever came up with a suitable Death Eater. After reading A Life of Lies, I liked the idea of Evan Rosier. I asked for permission to use him and I received it. But I never once claimed that Rosier would be insane, nor that he would be anything like the Evan from A Life of Lies. This is not A Life of Lies, bare that in mind.
Also, this is not a threesome fiction. Lucius/Harry is the main pairing, but Harry will possibly have a fling of sorts with Draco.
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Words: 3,153
Chapter 1
August 12th 1985. Little Whinging.
The wind rushed past him, knocking him off course, but he turned his body to the side, flapped his wings, and continued to fly. It was raining heavily: fat, wet drops falling from the sky and pelting against him. The drops were almost as large as him, and the butterfly did its best to swerve and avoid each one. If one hit him, he would fall a few inches, shake himself off and rise up again, beating his wings furiously. His body shivered as a bolt of lightening streaked passed him. The wind howled again, and he was caught in it. He found himself being swept to the side, and if he could have screamed as a butterfly he would have.
He fell, and despite how hard he tried to fly, he couldn’t. Eyes widening, he found himself going straight towards a tree. He flapped his wings, but the wind blew again, at precisely the wrong moment, and he was blown sideways again. He closed his eyes, preparing to change back, perhaps expose himself but at least it would save the butterfly from being crushed against the tree. But something grabbed him.
The hold was gentle. One hand reached out and plucked him nimbly out of the air. The second hand cupped over the first, shielding him from the rain but also preventing the butterfly from flying away.
A pair of green eyes peered down at him between the gap in the child’s fingers. A small smile stretched across the boy’s lips, and he blinked. Raindrops fell off of his eyelashes and his fringe was plastered to his forehead. He was trembling, but he continued to smile at the butterfly.
“My name is Harry,” the child told him. “I’ll take care of you.” Harry sat on the ground, tucked in the alcove between the front door of a house and the front steps. His knees were pressed to his chest and the butterfly remained held safe and warm in Harry’s hands, all night.
The storm had stopped by morning, and when the front door of the house opened, a tall, skinny woman popped her head through the gap and glared. “Wake up, freak!” She hollered and Harry jumped, snapping into wakefulness and standing immediately to his feet. “Take those wet clothes off and get in here. You have fifteen minutes to make breakfast, boy.” She left the door open, and walked away.
Harry uncapped his hands. The butterfly fluttered its wings softly, and the child smiled. “Well, go on then, fly away.” The butterfly did as it was told, and Harry watched it go with longing, before turning and entering the house.
As the door closed behind Harry, a tall man stood beside the tree that had nearly crushed the butterfly and watched silently.
XXX
August 13th 1985.
It was strange, Evan Rosier mused later that night. Most boys Harry’s age would have ripped off the butterfly’s wings, or crushed it, or allowed it to hit the tree. But Harry had saved the creature, sheltered it and set it free. He stood, beside the tree, watched Number 4 with a frown on his face.
There was something about the boy that was familiar to him. The sight of him, the hair, the eyes, the face, they all reminded him of someone he should know, but did not personally. Someone whom he would have never bothered to remember, but was now wishing he had. But there was something else. He couldn’t be sure, not yet, but the child was magical. He could sense the boy’s aura, bright and magical and lashing out around Harry in waves, warding off most of the rain and the chill from the night before. Something about his magic was familiar as well, dark and comforting. It reminded Evan of a time before Harry Potter had destroyed everything.
There would be plenty of time to think on the child’s magic, Evan told himself, shaking those thoughts from his head. His eyes fluttered shut, and that familiar tingling feeling spread across his skin as his body shrunk and changed. Wings sprouted from his back, antenna appeared on his forehead, and fur covered his short, skinny body. Two large, beady eyes peered out from the fur on his face, and the butterfly beat its wings and flew towards the open window of Number 4, Privet Drive.
The house appeared to be empty. Evan saw no body as he flew around, popping in and out of rooms, stopping to rest on furniture and generally investigate his future home. Ever since the defeat of Lord Voldemort Evan, as a Death Eater, had been hunted by the Ministry. Going from Ministry official and Inner Circle supporter of the Dark Lord, to a fugitive forced to hide as his animagus form - the butterfly - was quite a shock to his system. Over the last four years, Evan had barely spent any time in his human form. Quick moments here and there, snatched hours when he was absolutely sure he was alone. Being a butterfly conserved more energy, he needed to eat less, his hiding places were less obvious, and he was generally safer. But, he decided, it was time to put down roots of some sort.
If this child, who was obviously being mistreated, was magical, then he couldn’t be living with his natural parents. Unless it was a Mudblood, but Harry’s magic felt too strong for that. Maybe the child was important? Or an orphan from the war, though if so Evan would have likely suggested his parents were dark supporters. The aura the child had given off the night before was strong and dark, and oh so familiar, but Evan just could not remember where he had felt it before.
He flew past the cupboard under the stairs, and paused. He hovered in mid air, beating his wings slowly to keep himself afloat, and he gazed at the slitted vent on the cupboard door. He could make out a small head of black hair, and he could hear the muffled sobs the child let out.
He had the urge to change, to rip the door open and demand to know why the hell those Muggles thought they would get away with abusing a Wizard. But he knew better than that. He hadn’t been a Slytherin at Hogwarts for nothing. He would be cool, calm and collected, sly and suspicious, cynical and calculated, and he would never, never let his guard down until such a time as the child proved himself just as cunning and cruel as Evan could be. He would bind his time for now, he promised himself as he flew passed the door. He would wait to see how useful the child would be to him. If the child were of use, he would protect the child himself. If the child was not of use, he would make an anonymous call to the Ministry, and he would leave the house and the child behind him.
He made his way into the kitchen. There was a door open to his left, just beside a large refrigerator. He flew down the stairs, and into a large wide-open space. The basement was dusty, and damp, but it would do well enough for a while. Evan changed back, rolling his shoulders and head to work out the kink in his neck. He took a look around, his hand out but his fingers not quite touching anything, but his eyes were wide and watchful, wary. Nothing appeared to be magical, and nothing appeared to be dangerous.
It was widely know that he was on of Lord Voldemort’s top Death Eaters, along with Malfoy and the Lestranges. What many people didn’t know was why. Evan had always found it incredibly useful to be able to sense people’s auras. He was very good at catching people out under invisibility cloaks, or Polyjuice potion, or disillusionment charms. He could tell if they were light or dark orientated, or neutral, or scared, angry, happy, or any variation of those. Their auras would flare up, the feeling their magic gave out would change, and Evan would pick up on it and report directly to his Lord. Not only that, but he was among the scant few Wizards and Witches who could perform wandless magic effortlessly. Anyone could master a non-verbal spell with time and practise, but it took true power and skill to cast a spell wandlessly.
Evan waved his hand, and a light flickered into being above his head. Another wave of his hand set up Muggle repelling wards around the door leading to the basement, and a third wave removed the dust and dirt from the floor and the boxes that were scattered around. There was a mattress propped against the wall, and Evan lowered it to the floor, pressing against it to check the springs. After deeming it suitable, he laid down on it, blanket less, and closed his eyes. He could have transfigured it in to something more fancy and pompous but he decided against it. If this child wasn’t orphaned, he didn’t want to run the risk of other magical family members coming to check on the boy. It wouldn’t do for them to find any evidence of his existence.
He was still awake three hours later when he heard the front door open and slam shut again. A loud banging echoed down to him, and a voice screamed, “Stop crying you freak!” It was suddenly silent then for just a moment, before another door opened and a cry rang out. Evan recognized the noise of skin against skin, and his nails dug into the palms of his hands as he fought with himself. He would not interfere. He could not interfere, despite how much the cries of Harry were tugging at him. It was quite soon after, the Muggle had obviously finished beating the little boy, and Evan allowed himself to relax just a bit.
Tomorrow, in the morning, he would find out more about Harry. And he would decide what to do from thereon.
XXX
August 15th 1985.
When the Muggles left the house the morning before, Evan had flown around, searching for Harry but he hadn’t been there. He had spent the night lying flat on his mattress, squeezing the edges of it harshly as he listened to two Muggles screaming abuse at Harry. Fortunately, Evan didn’t hear them hitting the child this time, so while Harry spent the night crying, he wasn’t busied and beaten.
The male Muggle left the house early this morning, possibly going to work. The woman left shortly after with their Muggle child, talking about shopping and signing him up for primary school in September. Harry had stood silently in the doorway of the kitchen, his hands covered by rubber gloves that dripped water onto his feet. He had paused in his washing of the dishes so he could watch jealously as Dudley was taken out of the house and he was once again left behind.
The butterfly landed on the kitchen windowsill. Harry noticed it as he stopped in front of the sink again. It was small, with a short fluffy body. It’s wings were a deep green, with splashes of brown across them, and Harry thought it was beautiful. A smile spread on Harry’s face.
“Hello again. Are you the same butterfly?” He pulled off his gloves, and very slowly reached out one finger. It was a centimetre away from Evan when a puff of wind blew in through the open window and ruffled Harry’s fringe. Evan caught the barest glimpse of Harry’s lightening bolt scar and anger surged through him. This child, this boy who he had pitied and wanted desperately to protect, was the reason he was forced to hide as an insect! He surged into the air, and out through the open window.
Harry lowered his arm slowly. Tears sprung to his eyes, but he blinked them back. He had enough to cry about in his life; he didn’t need to cry over bugs as well. So what if even a butterfly couldn’t stand to be in his presence?
XXX
August 25th 1985.
It took ten days for Evan to calm down.
At first he felt mildly pleased to know that the cause of Lord Voldemort’s downfall was being punished - by Muggles, but punished nonetheless. It took three days for him to realize that filthy Muggles didn’t have the right to punish any Wizard, not even the Boy-Who-Lived. Two more days made him realize that he was angry with the Muggles and not with Harry anymore. It was the seventh day he had been away that he decided he might have been hasty in leaving the warm, rain free basement he had spent three days hiding in. It was last night that Evan finally stopped denying that fact that what had happened to him, and to Lord Voldemort, was not Harry’s fault. The boy had been a year old; it would have been impossible for him to plan any sort of attack against the Dark Lord.
When Evan woke up this morning he realized that Harry could become of very much use to him, if taught correctly.
The butterfly settled onto the mattress in the basement of Number 4. Evan didn’t bothered to look around before he changed. The Muggles were unable to bypass his wards, and Harry was almost always locked in the cupboard under the stairs. He lay back against the mattress, his eyes closing despite the fact that it was only noon, and he drifted into a light doze.
Outside the house, Harry attempted to garden. The child was five years old, and he had been living with the Dursley family for little under four years. Since he was tall enough to reach the stove, they forced Harry to cook. Since he was able to carry buckets full of water, they forced Harry to clean. And they always made Harry do the gardening, whether it was sunny or raining, since he was old enough to tell the difference between a weed and a flower.
He pushed the small spade into the dirt and wriggled it harshly. The ground loosened, and Harry reached down and tugged up the weed by the roots. He threw it into the bucket beside him. Moments later, the weed flew back at him and hit him in the head.
Beside him, his cousin, Dudley chuckled loudly, reaching into the bucket for another weed.
“Stop it!” Harry whispered as Dudley threw a lump of dirt at his head.
Dudley just laughed again. He paused suddenly, eyes wide as a pure white butterfly landed on the daffodil just beside Harry’s hand. Dudley smirked, and Harry watched him warily, wondering what he was going to do. “Look, a butterfly.” The fatter child said, “Did you make a wish?”
“You don’t wish on butterflies,” Harry whimpered, cringing back as Dudley glared at him.
“You do so.” Another glare. “Did you make one?”
Dudley dived forward suddenly, faster than Harry had ever seen him move, and he snatched the butterfly right off of the daffodil. Harry looked at the butterfly, hoping that Dudley wouldn’t hurt it, but he knew that was a futile wish. So instead, he wished for a friend. “Yes,” he breathed softly.
“It doesn’t count,”1 Dudley said snidely, standing up. He squeezed his hand tightly, and Harry imagined he could hear the butterfly’s body being broken and crushed into pieces. In his imagination, it sounded like the crackling of a fire. When Dudley opened his hand, he leant forward and wiped the sticky mess onto the back of Harry’s shirt. “Freaks don’t get to make wishes.” He went back inside.
Harry watched him go and frowned. He brushed at his back, and cringed as he felt what was left of the insect. One wing fluttered to the ground and Harry stared at it, still pure white, and felt tears rising.
The moment he re-entered the house, his aunt Petunia grabbed a fist full of his hair and dragged him into the kitchen. She pushed him against the fridge, and Harry gave a soft whimper as she glared down at him. “What did you do, boy?” She snarled. “Why can’t I go into the basement?”
Muggles who did not know about magic would have been turned away from anything warded with Muggle-repelling charms, having completely forgotten why they had wanted to enter the place to begin with. However, Muggles who knew of magic, such as Petunia Dursley, found her path blocked without reason, but could still remember that she wanted to go into the basement.
“Get in there, boy,” she hissed as she flung open the door. She shoved between Harry’s shoulders and he stumbled, almost falling down the stairs except he had managed to grab onto the railing with one hand. “Clean the entire place, and then undo whatever freaky thing you did.” She turned and left him there. Slowly, Harry went back into the kitchen. He grabbed the bucket of cleaning products from the cupboard under the sink and carried it down into the basement with him.
There was a man lying on the spare mattress that Harry had heaved down into the basement two months ago. Harry’s breath catch in his throat as he watched the man breathing softly, asleep. He left the bucket on the ground and walked over, quietly so as not to wake him, and he smiled as one hand moved forward to brush back the shoulder length brown hair.
A hand suddenly grabbed at his wrist and Harry froze, his fingers still on Evan’s hair. “Hello,” the child whispered as brown eyes narrowed.
“Hello Harry,” Evan said as he sat up. He was tense, ready to spring into action and defend himself if he had to.
“My wish came true.” Harry breathed. “Dudley was wrong.” The boy let out a soft giggle, his green eyes flashing in pleasure.
“You wished for me?” Evan asked curiously. His free hand came forward to brush Harry’s fringe away from his forehead, baring the scar.
“I wanted a friend, and here you are.” Harry thought about jumping forward and hugging the man but decided not to press his luck. After all, Dudley never hugged any of his invisible friends.
Evan watched him curiously, finally letting go of Harry’s arm, and he folded his own hands in his lap. A slow smirk spread across his face as he though about the possibilities being offered to him. He could be the one to raise and mould the Boy-Who-Lived. If he took care of Harry, no doubt Harry would take care of him in return, and if the Dark Lord never resurfaced he would need Harry to keep him out of Azkaban.
“Yes, Harry,” Evan drawled slowly, still smirking, “I’m your friend. My name is Evan.”
XXX
1 - This is actually a poem, The Butterfly by Louise Gluck.
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Thank you for reading, please leave a review. I’ll try and update more often now, and I will definitely do The Lambs as well, because all of my assignments are over. Deep sigh of relief!
Words: 3,815
Chapter 2
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