Chapter Text
The bells clanged loudly, their discordant sounds echoing through the enclosed space, the mournful gong bringing to mind the mortality of human existence, reminding the soul that time is limited, for most, on this earth. The rain splattered on the windowsill, the sound of the water hitting the stone seeming deafening in the enclosed space.
“Tell us the story.” The little boy looked up at him, the grime on his cheeks in stark contrast with his pale skin. “About the bells.”
A long-lost spark ignited in his chest as he glanced up, excitement roiling through him, as he reached to fix his hat over his fluffy hair– to hear the familiar jingle of his own bells. But the item was long gone. At the realisation of the loss of his makeshift crown, he slumped back against the wall and replied, “Not today, children.”
“Please,” A little girl with messy curls and hazel eyes stared up at him. The colour of her irises was wrong, but the hair…it tugged something inside him. He was an entertainer. Yes, he may be the leader of the Outcasts, but he was also their storyteller, the keeper of their histories.
And once again, he had an audience that wanted to hear his tales, and this story deserved to be heard.
For her. For all of them.
Grasping the tattered purple-and-gold puppet, he slipped it over his fingers laden with emerald, turquoise, and amethyst rings, adhered to him with magic; the cloth felt snug and familiar against his long, thin fingers. He stared at the puppet approximation of himself. Blue gems for eyes, a mop of floppy hair under a jester’s cap, the violet and verdant cloth covering the puppet’s torso. His fixation on the torn stitching must have caused him to lose time– a common occurrence now–because that little girl’s voice shattered his silence again.
“Please, King Theo.”
His eyes snapped up at the honorific, finally taking in the group of children waiting with eager eyes and bated breath.
He lifted the puppet and began his performance.
“The bells in our city, they are magic bells. At one point, the city was filled with Muggles, but eventually they left. Years of tyrannical rule had eliminated most of those born without magic from our beautiful town. However, the bells always kept ringing.”
“On their own?”
The innocent question felt like a basilisk fang had been driven straight to Theo’s heart, and as usual, when he couldn’t speak his words, he had his puppet speak for him.
“They rang on their own!”
Theo scowled at the cloth over his hand, “They did not. The bells are magic, yes, but they must be rung by someone marked by magic themselves”
“A creature?”
The children gasped.
“No, you overblown ball of yarn.”
Giggles erupted.
“Who then?”
“Who what?”
“Who rang the bells?”
Every child leaned forward, staring at the exchange between the Clown King and his puppet.
“A man,” Theo replied simply.
“A man? An ordinary man?”
Lowering the effigy of himself, he gazed across the sea of attentive eyes, before his voice fell to a dramatic whisper, “This isn’t the story of ordinary men. This is the story of great men…and an evil monster.”
Gasps rang across the damp space, as twelve childish eyes watched him transfixed.
“Let King Theo tell you the whole tale…”
***
“Our tale begins on the darkest of nights…”
Splashing sounds rang through the square. The woman wrapped her crimson cloak more firmly around her body as she nestled the bundle in her arms against her bosom, running beside her husband.
“We need to move faster. He is hunting.” Her husband’s hiss resounded through the abandoned alleyway, causing a tiny wail to emit from inside the threadbare blanket she held tightly to her. “Quiet. We can’t be found.”
The streets seemed to be dancing with the shadows of the buildings around her, but they did not appear as normal shadows. Instead, they brought forth in her mind the images of demons crawling out of hell, reminding her of the cursed existence she was saddled with, hiding in plain sight, until she one day could be brought to their burning inferno.
They were close now, close to the river. Close to the place where a muggleborn could use her magic without being traced. Close to the space where they could escape this city, which had once been their home, but now was their prison.
She kept pushing. She could feel the pain in her ribs from the rapid pace, the air coming in short spurts, but then, she heard it. Before she even saw their escape route, she could hear the rushing waters, the river tumultuous due to the rainy spring they had experienced. The scent of it filled her nostrils as she took in the scent that could only be associated with the flowing of a mighty stream.
She glanced at her husband, whose chestnut eyes lit up at the distant sight, and he grabbed her arm. “We can cast now. We are close enough. And I am–” He hesitated.
Smiling sadly, the woman said, “I know.”
Pushing away his uncertainty, the man raised his wand, gripped her arm, and spun on the spot.
“But a trap had been set for the unsuspecting Outcasts.”
The initial tug of the apparition that had led her into the void of space stopped, and the pressure seemed to reverse, forcing the three refugees to remain where they stood.
“Well, what an interesting surprise.”
She whipped around quickly, wand drawn, as a man emerged from the shadows. He lifted his hand, and roughly half a dozen guards followed. Giving a sneer, the intruder adjusted his expensive dragonhide gloves before raising a blonde eyebrow and drawling, “I do not think you will need your wand, Mudblood. You are clearly outnumbered.” The moonlight glinted on the man’s white-blonde strands, neatly pulled back in a simple ribbon, the colour perilously close to the general’s armour he wore over his lush fabrics. The man whipped his wand, adorned with a serpent, effectively removing her and her husband’s from their grips, the sticks clattering to the cobblestone beneath them. “Seize them.”
The guards ran forward, roughly grabbing and assaulting her husband— bruising punches and vicious kicks rendering him helpless— his own crimson hood falling from his head; most of their captors were focused on ensuring his acquisition, ignoring her existence. But not all. She felt the meaty hands of two men grip her arms as she pulled away and witnessed the manacles lock around her love’s wrists. She clung to the infant more firmly as she hopelessly observed them lead him away from her, towards the carriage where they placed all undesirables.
Suddenly, her breath caught in her throat. She could feel the air grow colder, smell the ozone of dark magic, taste the change in the atmosphere before she ever saw him.
Even the General stiffened as he deferred, “Judge Riddle. I have caught the filth you demanded.”
From the deepest darkness, he seemed to come forth, his robes midnight with violet accents, silver snakes embroidered across the fabric, a stiff white collar accentuating the long column of his neck. The woman glared while a contradicting expression of detached authority crossed his beautiful features.
She stared in disgust, realising that real monsters could be beautiful, could have high cheekbones and pink lips and an angular face. Could have midnight blue eyes that seemed to become a striking red when the moonlight caught them, creating a sense of allure instead of deformity. Could be perfect in every way to those looking upon him.
But she knew that the rot that lived beneath his facade ran deeper than any accusation of filth he could impose on people like her.
“Judge Riddle aimed to be rid of all Muggleborns, all those whose birth he considered lower than his own. To eradicate the world of abomination and sin without recognising the decay that lived within.”
“Thank you, Lucius. Your service is always most appreciated.” Judge Riddle diverted his gaze from his guard, and his eyes fell upon her husband as he was loaded into the carriage, shaking his head. “A pity. You did not have to choose this life.”
Her husband’s voice emerged, recklessly angry, despite the split lip and the way that he clutched his ribs. “You are disgusting! If you think I would ever follow––”
The judge barely flicked his wand, and her husband choked as he was silenced, rasping sounds emerging where words were supposed to be, and was shoved unceremoniously into his transport. At the strangled noise, the babe in her arms let out a tiny cry.
Deep blue eyes snapped away from his target to reposition their ire upon her. The judge moved closer, his look of loathing increasing, his jaw clenched, as he stated calmly, “What is in your arms?”
General Lucius Malfoy scoffed, “Probably things stolen from their betters.”
As the man moved closer, her breathing quickened, and desperation consumed her— her own boldness triggered by this man who despised her existence, her need to save the innocent child making her irrational. She distantly heard her husband’s choked voice, breaking the spell cast, despite the fear pulsating through her and making her almost incapable of rational thought.
“Don’t do anything–”
Wrenching her arm from the guard distracted by Riddle’s approach, she grabbed the wand from the dimwitted man behind her, stomping on the foot of the other, before aiming it at the judge and shouting, “Diffindo!”
The slash that emerged along his pristine cheek caused him to gasp slightly, the force whipping his head sideways, giving her the split second in his shock to dash away, the water from the puddles splashing along her golden skirt as she attempted to escape his clutches.
Distantly, she heard the judge snarl, “Stay. I will handle the girl.”
Her escape was frenzied, unlike the careful plans she had been making for months to leave the city. She breathed out to the babe at her breast, “Everything is going to be okay. Mummy loves you.”
Then the curses began. The streams of light shattered the brick walls of the buildings as she ducked and manoeuvred around them. Her serpentine formation was keeping her safe, but she was running out of spaces to hide behind or alleys to sneak into as she approached the centre of the city.
And the judge approached, not running, not rushing, but slithering through the shadows smoothly towards her.
His voice bounced off the stone facades, seeming to come from everywhere at once. “You can run, my dear, but you cannot hide. I will always find those who ruin my precious city.”
As she emerged into the city square, she rushed to the looming oak doors of the brick church, and she felt the baby stir again. She knew there were still good wizards hiding in plain sight, and she had to take a chance.
Her voice rang out as she called, “Sanctuary! Please! Give us sanctuary!”
Footsteps sounded behind her as she turned, wand pointed, only to be met with a flash of green light as Judge Riddle tilted his head and uttered, “Avada Kedavra.”
For one second, she realised what was happening, hoping that one day her child could forgive her failures–before all went dark
The woman crumpled to the ground, the bundle in her arms falling to the stone steps of the chapel with a sickening thud.
The blankets moved, and an anguished cry escaped them as Riddle strode forward, each step measured with determination. He peeled back the blanket, now stained with blood, and instantly recoiled. “A child.”
His face hardened as he roughly grasped the bundle, the infant's arms now flailing out of its wrappings, and the judge’s eyes turned a deep red as he saw a well. Ignoring the light that spilt out of the old church as the door creaked open, he set his course for the watery grave he would introduce the squalling half-blood to.
As he lifted the baby above the well, he peered into the brick cylinder’s blackened depths, knowing the rumours the peasants posited indicated that wells were direct pathways to hell.
“Stop!”
“The archdioceasean had run out at the commotion, checking on the woman who lay at unnaturally awkward angles on the stairs leading to the sanctuary she so desperately craved…”
The judge paused, looking back to where his subordinate tried to clean up blood from the woman’s face, checking desperately for breathing, as her cloak fell from her head, revealing a cascade of hair that matched the liquid streaming down her cheek, as she stared up blankly into the cloudy night sky.
“The girl attacked me. All I did was ensure that she did not escape from her fate.”
The archbishop stood, after brushing a strand of the woman’s red locks back from her stunned face, a look of despair painting his mournful, sallow face, and glared at the judge. His dark eyes fell upon the judge with disgust before he schooled them into apathy, as the rain began in earnest, matting his lank hair more firmly to his scalp.
“You may be able to lie to your general. You may be able to lie to the people who follow you. You may be able to lie to yourself. But you cannot lie to the gods who have witnessed what transpired here, and if you try to kill the infant, there will be no mercy for your soul.”
“And not for the first time in his life, the man felt fear as he stared at one of his longest-serving followers, who had taken the vows of the gods to escape his service but was never truly free of him. The judge’s soul could not be fractured further—and this thought stayed his hand.”
Self-preservation had him haul back the shrieking infant, as he posited to the archdiocesean, “And what would you propose I do, Severus?”
“Raise the child. Keep it safe.” Severus Snape’s voice was low as he responded, each word carefully chosen, as if the fate of the universe hinged on his ability to persuade the man before him.
“Keep it—” Riddle hissed as he glared at the boy in his arms. But as he stared longer, a slow smile crossed his face, a thought formed as the child cried for its mother, for its father, for the sanctuary of the gods. Turning to Severus, he replied, “You keep the babe. Here. In your church.”
“But where–?”
Scoffing, Tom replied, “Anywhere. Nowhere. In the bell tower, if you must. But this child, this abomination, should not be seen. We cannot allow others to think we endorse mating between Mudbloods and purebloods.”
Severus strode forward, as if to take the baby out of his arms, his eyes constantly trailing back to the boy’s mother on the ground. “But he is injured now? How can…”
With a shrug, Riddle intoned, no traceable human emotions imbuing his voice, “That is not my concern. But who knows? The gods work in mysterious ways.”
Tom looked down at the baby, the infant’s face split from the fatal fall its mother had taken on the stone, a lightning-shaped wound splitting his tiny face. Emerald eyes stared up at him, almost as blankly as the way that its mother would forever gaze into the heavens.
“What is the child’s name?”
Severus baulked, “Judge…”
“You seemed to have known his mother. What is the child’s name?”
Severus reluctantly provided the child’s name, his eyes never leaving the emerald coloured irises of the infant before him.
Tom Riddle met the infant's gaze once more as he cooed, his smooth baritone affording no affection, “You may be of use to me one day, Harry.”
“And that is where our true story begins…”