Butterfly 11 - LM/HP
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Just a filler chapter, to tie up a few loose ends about the last chapter and the Dursleys’ lives. Just to say, read the A/N at the bottom.
Also, I’m going away for two weeks, so there won’t be any updates during that time, sorry. But I’ll bring a notebook with me and make some chapter outlines, etc, and hopefully by the time I come back I can get started on New Divide, and Black Complication. And Butterfly too, of course!
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Words: 3,067
Chapter 11
July 28th 1990. Malfoy Manor.
Draco’s tutor was a bad-tempered man, with thick brown hair and a constant flush to his cheeks. Mr. Jenus Harper seemed to be of the mindset that he was in charge, and anything less than full attention and participation could be punished by smacking Draco across the hand with his wand. Of course the first time he had tried that, Draco had complained to his father. Lucius agreed that Draco should take his studies seriously, but a quite threatening conversation later deterred Harper from using corporal punishment on the Malfoy heir in future.
Just because Harper didn’t hit Draco any more, didn’t mean he allowed the boy to slack off either.
A book sailed through the air. The blond child barely ducked it, his arms flying up to protect his face even as he lowered his head to tuck against his chest. Harry watched with wide eyes.
“That was wrong! Wrong. The correct pronunciation is Pro-tay-go. Say it again! What if that had been a spell? What if it had killed you because you are foolish and unable to do as you are instructed? Again, Malfoy.” He pointed his wand forward, and the book flew back at him. He threw the book at Draco’s head again.
The blond raised his father’s wand and screamed, “Protego”, as the book sailed towards his face again. A faint shimmer of light appeared in front of Draco, but the spell wasn’t strong enough and the shield didn’t hold. Draco gave a muffled grunt as the book struck his cheek. He clutched at his face with trembling hands and snarled towards his tutor. “I thought we were meant to be learning first year spells?”
“Poor, poor boy,” Harper soothed. With a wave of his wand, the red mark on Draco’s cheek vanished. “No ambition whatsoever, have you?” His head snapped around suddenly, eyes narrowing on Harry’s form. Harry, who had already managed to produce a suitably strong shield, was sitting at Draco’s desk writing an essay on the inner hierarchy of Pureblood families. “How far have you gotten, Alfred?” Another wave of his wand summoned the parchment over to him. Harry had been halfway through a sentence, but the tutor just hummed and ignored the long black smudge that ran down the length of the page from the aborted word.
He began reading to himself, mumbling every now and then. “Yes, well, it’s all very good, but I don’t believe you truly understand a word of it. It all looks like it was copied straight out of a text book.” He rolled up the parchment and levelled his wand at Harry’s face. “For every wrong answer, I’m going to hex you. But don’t worry so much, Mr. Alfred, you’re very good with the shielding charm. Now, who is the Head of the Family?”
Harry swallowed, eyes wide and focused on the wand pointed at his nose. He’d been to a handful of Draco’s lessons before, but mostly Evan and Lucius tutored him themselves when they had free time. But since there was just over a year left before Harry would be leaving for Hogwarts, Lucius had managed to convince Evan that it would be for the best if Harry had some experience of a real tutor. Apparently, they were all as psychotic as Mr. Harper!
“The Head of the Family is the eldest son living. For example, Draco’s grandfather died in 1984 of Dragonpox. With his death, Lucius became the Head of the Malfoy line. Had Lucius had an older brother, his brother would have become Head, not Lucius.”
Janus narrowed his eyes. “The Heir?”
“The eldest son of the Head of the Family. In the case of my scenario, Draco would be the Heir to the Malfoy Family.”
“If, say,” here, Harper gave a pause and his eyes flicked over to the door nervously, as if he were afraid Lucius was eavesdropping, “Draco was an Orphan, who would be the Head of the Family?”
“His godfather, until Draco came into his magical maturity at 17. At 17, Professor Snape, as Draco’s godfather, would still be entitled to manage the Malfoy funds but Draco would take over the day-to-day running of the household. At the age of 21, Draco would bare the full responsibility of the Malfoy finances, and Professor Snape would have no more legal obligation to involve himself with the Malfoy line.”
“And if Draco’s godfather was deceased?”
“His godmother would fulfil the same role. I don’t actually know who his godmother is, but a godparent is carefully chosen at birth. Usually they are close friends of the family, or sometimes the parents of a potential spouse for the child. If the parent dies, the godparent will usually blood adopt the child as their own. This gives the child more security, allowing it a permanent place within the godparent’s family, and it also gives the godparents legal rights over the child after the age of 21. Though it doesn’t affect the running of the child’s familial line or vaults.”
“Not a bad answer, Alfred. Maybe you do know more than I give you credit for.” Harper rubbed his chin lightly, “I dare say, we’ll make a Ravenclaw of you yet, boy. Next question, who is your godfather? All of your analogies are about Malfoy’s family.”
Harry honestly didn’t know if he had godparents. When he was out in public with Evan, (and not Vernon), and someone was foolish enough to speak to them, Evan always introduced himself as Harry’s godfather. Harry wasn’t shy about telling people his parents were dead: he rather enjoyed the way their faces paled at the revelation. It would teach them not to pry into other peoples’ business, hopefully. Harry had Evan, and he had Lucius, and Draco, who else did he really need?
He let out a small cry of pain. A stinging hex had hit him firmly on the jaw. “Let’s try again, who is your godfather? With every wrong answer I hex you.” Mr. Harper warned lightly, twirling his wand between his fingers.
Harry didn’t know the answer, but he still allowed his lips to pull up into a smirk. When the wand aimed at him again, he was ready. “Protego,” he shouted. A shield sprang up around him, reflected in the hex back at Janus, who clapped wildly after he reflected the spell again.
“Bravo.” The man praised, completely forgetting about his pop-quiz. “That was an impressive display Mr. Alfred. You were very fast, very clear pronunciation, good wand work. I dare say I’m… pleased with you. Now get out of here. Both of you. Our lessons are over for the day. Malfoy!” He shouted suddenly, stopping the boys in the threshold of the room. “Pay attention to him. You might learn something.”
The boys left. Draco had a rather unpleasant scowl on his face, and his nose was upturned in indignation. “I do not like him, not one bit!”
“Nor do I,” Harry muttered grumpily. Harper hadn’t even bothered to heal the mark on his jaw. That stinging hex had hurt.
“Yes, well, he likes you a fair bit more than he likes me. It isn’t fair. He’s my tutor. He should like me more!” Draco whinged, crossing his arms over his chest, and glaring petulantly back in the direction they had come.
“That’s probably why, you know, Draco. He gets paid to teach you, and ‘motivate’ you and be mean. He’s just being mean to me for fun, in his free time. But because he is getting money to be mean to you, he’s meaner more often.”
“Your vocabulary is atrocious, Potter.” The blond sneered, ignoring as Harry scowled.
XXX
November 23rd 1990. Little Whinging.
Vernon Dursley smirked to himself as he watched his beloved wife rush around their kitchen. Harry sat at the dining table beside him, reading one of his schoolbooks, and taking notes. Evan rolled his eyes at the child’s studious behaviour. It was nothing to discourage, after all. But there were times when the boy really should just relax and enjoy his time outside of learning. And this was one of those times. Evan dearly enjoyed every opportunity afforded to him to torment the remaining Dursleys.
Harry had refused to allow Evan to actually torture them. The boy had claimed it made them no better than Vernon had been, that it could actually make them worse than Vernon because they should know better. And it wasn’t Harry’s argument that stilled Evan’s wand, but rather the pleading look on his face and the way those green eyes watered.
“Petunia, dear, hurry on.” Vernon snapped. “Harry’s going to be late for school if you keep on as you are. Honestly woman, anyone would think there was something the matter with you, the way your hobbling around the place like an invalid. Are you unhappy, Pet? Would you rather be someplace else?” Evan didn’t wait for an answer. He scowled at his plate as she scrapped some scrambled eggs onto it off of the pan. They were burnt on the bottom, but Evan could probably eat around it if he wanted to.
He didn’t want to. He wanted to cause a fuss, just like Vernon and Petunia had done every morning they found fault with Harry’s cooking. Harry’s eggs had never been burnt, not since he passed the age of six and could actually see over the stove. Harry’s eggs had been delicious, and they didn’t have bits of shell in them. Evan picked out a piece of the shell and flicked it in Dudley’s direction with a sneer. How dare they find fault with Harry, when their efforts were so much worse?
“What is this?”
“E-eggs, dear?” Petunia stuttered. She put the pan down and started wringing her hands together nervously.
“They’re burnt.” He said, his voice low and cold.
“I know. But they aren’t that badly burnt and Dudley needed me for something. I was only gone for a moment, and anyway the boy was here the entire time and didn’t turn them off or-” A hand suddenly flew towards her. The impact of it against her jaw stopped her mid-sentence, and she crumpled to the floor as pain flooded through her. She clutched her face, shoulders heaving as she began to sob, hunched over on herself.
Petunia hadn’t seemed to learn in the past two years, that the Vernon she knew and loved was never coming back. The woman was obtuse and stubborn but she made life interesting for Evan. There were months at a time when she cowed before him and treated Harry kindly out of fear of her ‘husband’. And then there were moments like this one, where she suddenly reverted back to her old self. Forgetting about the last years of her life and imagining that when she insulted Harry, Vernon would agree with her. It was easy for Evan to remind her of course. He wasn’t a nice man. Harry was against torturing them, and against hurting Dudley because he was the same age as Harry and technically it hadn’t even been the boy’s fault his parents brainwashed him. But Evan had no scruples against striking out at a woman who knowingly tormented and abused her sister’s child. A Wizard child.
Evan’s child.
Dudley sat stiffly in his chair, hands shaking in his lap. He refused to face his mother. He kept his face lowered to hide the tears that were forming, because he understood that his dad was different, and this version of his father wouldn’t hesitate to belittle him for crying.
Evan sought pleasure in whatever he could while at the Dursleys’ house.
“Now, get off of the floor, Pet, and make some more eggs. Hurry now. You wouldn’t want my boys to be late to school, would you? And don’t you have work in an hour?”
When Vernon had been fired from his job at Grunnings, it had had the cataclysmic affect of Vernon attempting to rape Harry, and of Evan strangling Vernon as Harry watched. Since it was actually Evan’s phone call to Director Mason that had led to Vernon’s sacking, Evan didn’t see why it was necessary to come crawling back looking for a job he didn’t want. He had money. And Harry had money. Evan’s name was on Harry’s adoption certificate, so he was legally Harry’s Muggle guardian now. He was obligated to pay for anything Harry needed, and he was happy to. But why should he pay for Petunia or Dudley, when both of them had been content for years to let Harry go without?
If they wanted to eat, let her buy the food.
If Dudley wanted new clothes, Petunia was welcome to earn the money for a shopping trip. She had never worked before Vernon’s death, but Rosier thought it was about time she got a job.
He had found her the most humiliating one he could possibly think of. She was waitressing in a small café in the centre of Little Whinging. All day, while at work, she was subject to her neighbours’ stares and she could overhear them whispering about her and see them pointing at her and laughing. And every evening she came home, flushed and red eyed with half-moon marks on her palms from her desperate attempts to calm herself down.
Evan took great amusement in coming to the café and making her serve him. And in returning food that he wasn’t satisfied with and ordering again. The whispers always increased in fervour when he brought ‘the freak’ with him.
“Well? I’m waiting for my eggs! You and Dudley can have the burnt ones.” Dudley didn’t dare to complain. The way Evan was drumming his fingers on the table made Dudley swallow convulsively and shrink away from the same hand that had just struck his mother. Petunia scrambled to her feet and rushed to the fridge. She grabbed three eggs and set to work silently. Harry looked up, his forehead creasing as he watched his aunt’s hands shake as she cooked.
Evan’s hand closed around one of Harry’s hands. Evan’s knuckles were red, and Harry knew why. He hadn’t been looking, but he had heard the crunching sound as the knuckles met with Petunia’s jaw. The woman would be finding it painful to talk for a few days, at least. Harry pitied her. But he hated her more than he could ever imagine loving her, so he pushed away the stirrings of guilt within him. He hadn’t hit her. And it wasn’t like she didn’t deserve it anyway. Harry, himself, had received much worse for much smaller transgressions.
He pulled his hands out from under Evan’s and laid it on top. He squeezed the hand within his own tightly, holding on for a moment before letting go and losing himself in his book. When his eggs were served, Harry wasn’t hungry enough to eat them.
XXX
July 18th 1991. Little Whinging.1
Harry was asleep when the post came. He had never much liked the post, because nothing ever came for him. The only thing he had ever received through the front door of Number 4 was a birthday card, which soon ended up in the fire thanks to Vernon. Evan though he was living with Evan now, Harry still received no post. If someone wanted to contact him, they sent an owl. There were no Muggles that Harry wished to speak with anyway.
The children from school sometimes came to talk to Dudley, or mailed him birthday invitations. But Harry had made it clear that he wouldn’t accept the invitations even if he received them. Evan had to let Dudley go. It would be suspicious to do otherwise. Just because the man had suddenly had a change of heart regarding his nephew didn’t mean he was likely to lose all affection for his only son and forbid him to socialize. It would have been more fun to lock Dudley in the cupboard under the stairs and refuse to let him have friends, but it wasn’t practical. And Dudley didn’t fit in the cupboard anyway.
After Vernon’s death, Evan made it clear to Dudley that no one was to terrorize Harry in school anymore. And though some of the children had tried to be Harry’s friends when Dudley’s Gang had back off, Harry wasn’t interested. Those children had helped make his childhood hell. They were weak and spineless and refused to stand up for him or themselves against a handful of other children. It was sickening to even think about wanting to be friends with people like that. The very idea of allowing fickle, traitorous children into his life made him cringe. He had Draco. He didn’t need any of those filthy Muggles!
Harry could hear the postman shoving the letters through his door. Dudley was probably still in bed, but he could hear Petunia moving around downstairs. She would get the letters, Harry knew. Beside him, Evan stretched his arms above his head with a yawn. He really didn’t like sharing a bed with Petunia, and he refused to go back to sleeping in the basement now that he had his run of the house. Harry was small enough still that sharing a bed wasn’t difficult at all. It was actually rather comfortable to curl up next to Evan, or hug the man to him after a nightmare, or revel in the familiar warmth beside him.
It would be hell though, at Hogwarts, trying to get used to sleeping alone again after more than two years.
A scream rang through the house. Dudley was awake instantly, and Harry giggled as he heard the boy roll out of the bed with a thump. Evan didn’t move an inch. His arm came down to rest around Harry’s shoulders and he grinned. “It came early,” Evan commented softly, when the Muggle finally stopped screaming.
“What came early?” Harry questioned, sitting up in the bed. Something had come in the post for him?
“Your Hogwarts letter, Caen.” The Death Eater smiled widely to himself. He watched Harry tare from the room in his pyjamas, and he continued to lie on the bed, arms folded beneath his head as Harry excited mutterings drifted back up the stairs to him. Harry would be off to Hogwarts soon.
Soon. It wouldn’t be much longer. But soon, the Dark Lord would return.
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1 - Harry received numerous letters for days and days after his first arrived in the post. When Hagrid came to him with a letter that was the night of Harry’s 11th birthday. But since he had been receiving letters before then, I’m going with the assumption that Hogwarts sends out the letters a few weeks before the child is old enough to attend.
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Lucius isn’t a paedophile.
Harry is a Horcrux. He is a very Dark piece of magic, and Dumbledore’s theory seems to be that Dark magic is addictive. That is what happened to Grindelwald, and to Voldemort. They used Dark magic and then had to keep using, like heroin. They more they used, the more they wanted. Lucius and Evan are Dark Wizards, they may not be as Dark as Voldemort, but they still crave Dark magic over Light magic.
Evan, at first, was attracted to Harry because of the Horcrux. The feel of it, the aura Harry had, called Evan and intrigued him. The same thing is happening with Lucius. He finds Harry as a person fascinating, and in time will grow to love Harry for himself. But at the moment, his attraction is down to the Horcrux. He isn’t lusting after a child: he wants the magic Harry possesses. As such, when Harry grows up, Lucius’ attraction towards him will grow stronger. If he were a paedophile, Lucius would have lost interest by the time Harry reached puberty.
Only two people have said anything, (BOOMrobotdog I don’t really count you… so only one person has said anything), but I thought I’d clear it up anyway.
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Thanks for reading.
Words: 4,102
Chapter 12
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