Chapter Text
Regulus Black is seven years old when he realises that he is not a girl.
His parents are out at some formal pureblood event and his brother is driving the governess mad with his lack of understanding towards Latin. “It’s a dead language!” He had cried, “Nobody speaks it so why must I learn it?”
Regulus could hear his dramatics even now, two floors up. Somehow, he was standing in his brother's room. Gazing upon dress robes upon dress robes. Boys dress robes. Not an inch of frilly lace or tight silk in sight. Regulus stood up on his tiptoes, tiny hands grasping at the expensive cloth, desperate to pull it down.
After a few jumps, and more tugs, he finally had the item of clothing in his hands. He quickly stripped down and pulled Sirius’ clothes on. He looked in the mirror and liked what he saw.
He was well used to the feeling of disgust that accompanied his reflection. It was almost impossible to put it into words without simplifying it. The itchiness and tightness of his skin, the burning of the curves that made him so undeniably female even at the age of only seven. The curdling in the pit of his stomach that made him want to throw up and the tight, feminine dress robes that felt like acid against his skin. It was almost feeling so deeply rooted in his bones that trying to explain it would make him sound insane, a feeling which you could only know through experience. Now, looking at his brother’s clothes, loose on his thin frame and hiding the curves that came with it, he didn’t look so effeminate. But his hair ruined his image for it was far too long. Down to his waist at this point.
Scissors. He thought.
He crept out to the bathroom across the hall, desperate not to get caught by Kreacher or the governess. Once he was in the bathroom and the door was shut, he clambered onto the marble counter and began rifling through the cabinet above until he found what he was looking for.
Taking the silver scissors in hand and sitting on the counter in front of the mirror, he began to cut. Long locks of black hair pooled around him as he cut shorter and shorter until his hair was the same length as Sirius.’ The same length as a boy’s hair.
Something twinged at his heart. He never liked looking in the mirror for all he saw back was a body that he did not feel was his. It was like a costume made of other people’s bones and skin that he was sewn into. There was no real way out but he came close many a night, carving into the soft flesh with his nails as if to tear it from bones that weren’t his. But now…Now he liked looking. Instead of a girl, there was a boy looking back. A boy. He liked himself as a boy. He felt real, like a person for once in his life.
The door flew open, and his brother stood in the entrance. “Cassie get out, I need a wee” he says, but then gasps. “Cassie?! What have you done? Oh, mother is going to be so angry.”
Sirius came to a stop to where Regulus was sitting. “Do you like it?” He asks nervously, waiting anxiously for Sirius’ approval.
“I-yes, I like it, it suits you. But mother will not. She will be angry. Girls should not have short hair and- wait a minute, are you wearing my clothes?” Sirius asks incredulously taking in Regulus’ full appearance, who was still sitting on the counter.
“Maybe” he replies, his voice barely a whisper.
Sirius just shook his head. “Come on,” he says, lifting Regulus down, “we’ll get you back into your own clothes and I’ll figure out an excuse for the hair.”
“But I don’t like my clothes, I much prefer yours”
Sirius tuts. “Sure, but it does not matter what you like or want. You are a Black. You must wear acceptable girl's clothes and have acceptable girls' hair.”
Regulus frowns. “You sound like mother” he pouts.
Sirius looks aghast. “No.” He snaps, “No, do not compare me to that old bat ever again, me and her are nothing alike.”
“Sorry” Regulus replies, a lump in his throat, and then, “It’s not nice for you to call her that, she may be strict but she’s still our mother.”
“Whatever Cassie, now get dressed before she and father get back.”
Regulus did just that and was fixing his shoes as the sound of two apparition cracks travelled up the stairs. Within a minute, Regulus was being dragged by his brother to meet their parents.
“Maman!” Sirius shouts, “Maman look! Look what I did to Cassie’s hair!”
Regulus steps out from behind Sirius and watches as his mother’s face goes stark white, pale from shock. He winces as her mouth twists into a grimace, as she takes in his appearance. He feels her stare like needles pricking all over his body. All of a sudden his skin felt itchy and hot. Uncomfortable. He wanted to take it off. He wanted the dress gone and Sirius’ clothes again.
Walburga’s face settles into a glare of rage. “Sirius Orion Black, how dare you defile my daughter like this! And how dare you go around shouting like a commoner! Into your father’s study, now!”
“Oui Maman.” Sirius sighs but does not fail to wink at Regulus as he passes.
“Cassiopeia, come.” Walburga snaps.
Regulus dutifully steps forward, and, in an instant, his long black hair was returned.
“Much better,” he hears his mother say before she is gone into the study and a silencing spell is cast.
Regulus could cry. He did not want his hair. He did not want his clothes. Or his name, or his body. He did not want to be a girl. Why was he born a girl? And why can’t he feel like one like a normal person? Do normal people get these feelings? He wishes he was born a boy. He wants to be a boy. A little brother, a son, a boyfriend, a husband. Not Cassiopeia. Not Cassie. Not a daughter or sister or future wife. He saw it in the mirror, twenty minutes ago, he was meant to be a boy. It felt right.
‘I will tell my parents,’ he thinks. ‘I will tell them. I will tell them that I want to be a boy, like Sirius. They are powerful, surely, they can do something to help. Surely, they will understand, they are my parents. They love me.’
That evening at dinner is when Regulus springs his new realisation to his parents.
“Maman. Papa.” he starts, a shake to his voice, “I have something to tell you.”
His mother sighs. “What is it Cassiopeia?” She asks impatiently.
“I-I do not want to be a girl. I want to be a boy. I am a boy.” Regulus stutters out.
Sirius who was pushing his food around on his plate, snaps his gaze to Regulus, fearfully. He was sporting a black eye from his punishment and Regulus felt nothing but guilt.
“Cassiopeia-” his father starts. “No.” his mother cuts in. “You are a girl and that is final, enough of these weird idealisations. Nobody is like that. Nobody. Not another word about this, now eat your dinner.”
“But mother,” Regulus whines, “Why can’t I-” he cuts himself off as Walburga fixes him with a glare.
That night Regulus is alone in his room, crying at his mother’s harsh words, when the door opens and Sirius creeps in.
The bed dips and Regulus is engulfed in his brother’s arms and Sirius begins to sing.
“Au clair de la Lune
Mon ami Pierrot
Prête-moi ta plume
Pour écrire un mot
Ma chandelle est morte
Je n'ai plus de feu
Ouvre-moi ta porte
Pour l'amour de Dieu”
By the end of the second verse Regulus had drifted off to sleep.
3 years later…
“Sirius, please don’t go.” Regulus begs, hanging off his brother's arm in his room.
“Cassie, I’ll be fine, it’s only for a year and then you’ll be at Hogwarts too.”
“But what if you forget about me, what if you replace me with your new friends?”
“Cassie.” Sirius says, tilting Regulus’ chin up, “In no world would I ever replace or forget you. I will write every day and I will tell you all about my friends and then when you come next year, we can all hang out together. Do not worry and do what mother says and it will fly by. I will be home for Christmas, remember?”
“I don’t want to be here alone.” Regulus pouts, feeling the back of his eyes burn with unshed tears. He doesn’t let them fall, having long learnt his lesson not to show emotion in this void of a house.
Sirius is about to reply when a crack of apparition fills the room.
“Mistress Black has ordered Kreacher to take young Master Black to the train station sir.” The house elf says, bowing his head.
Sirius shrugs Regulus off and bids him goodbye with a kiss on his head.
“I’ll write every day.” he promises and then he is gone. He has gone and Regulus is cold with the realisation that they will not see each other for another three months.
The next day Regulus wakes to his cousin’s shriek.
Bellatrix’s rage carries through the halls. “A Gryffindor!?” She was screaming, “Disgrace on our family name. He must be disowned immediately!”
“Bellatrix, darling, breathe, and quit shouting about.” a male voice followed.
That was Rodolphus Lestrange. Bellatrix’s sleazy fiancé.
Regulus drags himself out of bed and into suitable attire to be presentable to his family and walks down the stairs. Back straight, hands by his sides, chin up, haughty gaze. The perfect Black daughter.
“Cassiopeia, a word please.” Walburga orders as Regulus enters the room. She turns quickly on her heel and into the study where Orion was already sitting. Regulus follows.
His mother faces him and lets out a sharp breath. Turning her gaze to her husband she raises and eyebrow, waiting. Orion sighs and begins to speak.
“Your brother has been placed in Gryffindor and has tarnished our family name. Nevertheless, he is still the heir and as you do not have a male sibling, we cannot disown him. We need a backup in case the time comes where he puts shame to our lineage again. You will be the backup.”
“I’m not sure I follow, father.” Regulus states clearly, eyes darting between his parents.
“We will let you, live this ridiculous idea of being a boy, on one condition.” Walburga elaborates sharply.
Regulus’ breath catches, “what condition?” he asks, willing to agree to anything.
“You do as we say, follow the rules, act as a suitable heir and when the time comes a follower of The Dark Lord.” Orion finishes.
“Yes, yes, I agree. I- merci Maman, merci Papa. Je ne pourrais pas être plus reconnaissant.” Regulus says breathlessly.
Walburga sighs, “to prove that you will keep your word, you must make an unbreakable vow. Orion, if you will.”
Regulus hesitates. What if he messes up? Accidentally breaks the vow? He will die. But would not it be worth living your life with the risk of dying rather than just surviving and delaying the inevitable?
He takes his mother's hand in his own and his father hovers his wand over them.
“Walburga Irma Black, do you swear to let Cassiopeia Alruba Black change her identity to male?”
“I swear.”
A rope of magic connects them. It tingles slightly, like the feeling you get when you sit on your legs for too long, all staticky and fuzzy.
“And do you swear to refer to her as your son and only your son, forgoing her current, soon to be past name?”
“I swear.”
Another rope.
“And if Sirius may fail, do you swear to announce Cassiopeia as your heir?”
“I swear.”
A third rope.
“Cassiopeia Alruba Black, do you swear to live up to the expectations of a Black son and heir?”
“I swear.” Regulus’ voice trembles.
The first rope ties around his wrist.
“And do you swear to accept the position of heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, should your brother fail?”
“I swear.”
The second rope ties around his wrist.
“And do you swear, that in time, you will serve the Dark Lord as one of his soldiers?”
“I swear.”
The third rope ties.
The strings of magic grow hotter, but Regulus does not wince. Just stands there and stays, frozen in time, as the reality sinks in.
The strings fade and all that is left is the acrid smell and metallic taste of Black magic.
“You shall be called Regulus. Regulus Arcturus Black. Mon fils.” Walburga states and with that his hair is cropped again and make up removed.
The following day Kreacher goes out, under Walburga’s orders to get boy’s dress ropes for Regulus.
The day after that, Cassiopeia Black is announced dead in the prophet. Some disease took her life, and she is said to be mourned by a twin brother she never had, as well as a brother at Hogwarts.
Walburga reasoned that it was easier to create false memories of three children rather than swapping out the gender of one. And nobody ever questions the house of Black.
Regulus wonders what Sirius’ reaction the headline was. He still had not written, but Regulus figured he was just settling in.
That Christmas, Sirius came home and was ordered to the study, where he was beaten for two hours. His parents left him there, having to leave to another meeting. When they were gone, Regulus crept in, with bandages and potions he had snuck from Walburga’s bathroom.
He patched Sirius to the best of his 10-year-old ability, which, was surprisingly good, and sat back on his heels, waiting for his brother to regain consciousness.
Once Sirius woke, Regulus leaned over to hug him. Sirius was surprised since he had never seen Regulus as Regulus before. Only ‘Cassiopeia.’ So, Regulus explained. He left out the oath, not wanting to worry Sirius about the consequences if he made a mistake but filled him in on everything else.
“Regulus” Sirius had said, trying out the name. “Reg-u-lus. I like it. It suits you, honestly, I was simply confused about the prophet because I did not realise, I had a third sibling but now it all makes sense.”
Regulus had laughed at his brother's bluntness. They talked for another while until their parents came back for dinner. Neither of them mentioned the letters. And Regulus learned about the three boys that Sirius had befriended.
James Potter who Sirius had already claimed to be his best friend. After Regulus of course.
Peter Pettigrew who was meek and shy and, much to Sirius’ annoyance, had beaten him in chess every time.
And Remus Lupin, the tall kid, with scars and books, and Sirius made it his personal mission to annoy him every day, so that he would talk. It did not matter if it were to only tell him to shut up, Sirius counted it as a win.
Christmas went and the new year came. And then it was summer, which passed, leading to September. The year Regulus starts Hogwarts. The year his life changes.
He was dragged through the train by Sirius, to a compartment where three other boys sat.
James had smiled and stuck out his hand. Regulus ignored him.
Peter bid him hello, voice timid. Regulus glared at him.
Remus gave him a nod. Regulus raised an eyebrow at him, before leaving the carriage, wanting nothing to do with his imbecile of a brother and his idiot friends.
Having heard the stories of his brother and their antics, he longed to be a part of it, but soon realised he didn’t fit. They were a group of four, already solidified in their friendship, there was no room for a spare. He swallowed back the bitter taste that came with the realisation, hearing his brother’s laugh down the aisle of the train.
Regulus sat in an empty carriage on the first of September 1971. Before two people joined him, a boy and a girl, twins, the same age as him. The shared the same dark skin and blonde hair with blue eyes, although the girl’s eyes were much more piercing. He knew them. His second cousins. Evan and Pandora Rosier. Although being part of his extended family, Regulus did not find that he was annoyed at their presence.
Another boy joined them. Barty Crouch Jr was his name. The four of them had stayed in the compartment together. Barty and Evan doing the most talking while Pandora drew and Regulus observed.
They were all placed in Slytherin that evening. Barty, Evan, and Regulus, sharing a dorm and Pandora in the girl's dorms. And although Regulus preferred to keep to himself, behind a mask he had so carefully constructed at home, he found that he liked these people. Give it a few months and he might consider them as friends. Something he never had the privilege of owning before.
Pandora Rosier was seven years old when she first had a vision.
She does not know what it means when she is lost in a trance, images flashing upon her mind's eye, reality fading to black and noise going quiet. She does not know what is means when she sees hands, grasping and clawing. There’s water. And a basin. And most importantly a star. Drowning.
Pandora Rosier does not know what it means when she is brought back to her room. But she knows that she will never forget the scene.
She does not forget any big vision for that matter.
She does not forget when a train brings unity and friendship. Or when a girl cuts her hair short, like a boy. Or when a brother finds a new brother, replacing his petit étoile. Or when a wolf, dog, stag, and rat find a little black cat in a forest. Or when her brother finds a journal. Or when a riddle is destroyed, by a king and his friends.
She draws the scenes sometimes. The images behind her eyes coming to life as statues on a page, hoping that they will make sense then, but they never do.
She never tells anyone about these visions. They come to her when she is alone. In her room. Lost in her conscious mind, filling her head to replace the emptiness in her heart. And then the visions take over, pulling her from reality more than daydreaming ever could.
Sometimes she would dream. Rarely. She would dream every night. But she only ever dreamt a vision twice before.
The third time it happens, she is ten years old. She dreams of a princess. Hanging of a precipice, tied to the edge with magic. On the cliff is a crown. A boy’s crown. She watches as the princess climbs onto the cliff, escaping the pain that lies at the bottom of the chasm. She watches as the girl takes the crown and puts it on. A prince now bares the crown, that if taken off, will kill the wearer. The princess discarded to the cold shadows only to be revealed to hurt un petit prince.
The morning after, the daughter of the House of Black is pronounced dead. A magical disease with no cure. Pandora looks at the prophet and knows that it lies. That her second cousin is still alive. But not the cousin she grew up with.
They go to the memorial, the Blacks state clearly that they do not want a funeral, which, okay, is a little strange, but nobody questions the Blacks. The memorial consists of a blessing to the family, an altar dedicated to the deceased child, a speech from each family member- except the older boy, he does not attend the service- and finally, a feast.
Mistress Black proposes a toast, raising a glass of clear liquid – water and everyone else’s glass fill with a honey-coloured liquid. They all drink at the same time, the sweet liquid burns as a sour aftertaste leaves Pandora’s head a little funny.
Noticing a boy, she only saw briefly during the speeches, she turns to her brother.
“That boy there,” she nods towards the stranger, “who is he? I have never seen him before.”
Evan fixes her with a funny look. “What do you mean? That is our cousin, Regulus, he was a twin to Cassiopeia. We practically grew up together.”
Pandora takes another sip of her drink, and she remembers. Memories of Regulus flood her mind but there is something off about them. They are not…right.
“Right, yeah, sorry. I think there’s a bit of alcohol in this, I’m not thinking clearly.” she whispers shaking her head. Evan shoots her another weird look but shrugs and turns back to the food on his plate.
The memories are at the forefront of her mind and the more she thinks about them the more stilted they become. And she cannot remember any more than that.
She does not know why, but she knows that these memories are fake.
She does not touch her drink after that.
Pandora lies awake one night, thinking of the bizarre memories. Of Regulus.
Regulus.
Regulus.
Regulus.
The heart of the lion.
Constellation of Leo.
Little King.
Little-
Un petit prince.
Her dream.
Regulus.
The princess.
Regulus.
The crown.
The cliff.
The shadows.
Drowning.
Drowning?
Regulus.
She tries to fight it, she really does, but sleep eventually takes over. Making her lose all thoughts on how her dream and the memories are connected. She never does think them again. At least, not for seven more years.
A year later she is standing on the platform. The Hogwarts Express huffs out smoke from the engines in front of them. Children and adults surround them. Hugging and crying goodbyes. Friends reconnect and siblings argue. Adults reprimand and babies laugh. It is pure chaos.
Pandora hates it.
Hates the noise, the people, the drab colours. Her breathing becomes stuttered and a hand on her shoulder brings her back to her body. Her father is speaking to them and only Evan is listening, even with a hand grounding his sister. They bid goodbye and part ways with their father, stepping onto the train for the first time.
None of the compartments are empty but they do eventually find one with only one boy, their, age inside. He turns as they enter. Regulus.
“Hey Reg, nice to see you outside of a stuffy family function, how are you doing?” Evan supplies.
“Fine.” Regulus says curtly, “And my name is Regulus, not Reg, so don’t call me that.”
“Alright then. Pandabear? You feel better?”
Pandora nods and settles down by the window, across from Regulus.
Evan continues to chatter away to her, only stopping when the door opens, and another boy enters. Barty Crouch Jr, he had said. She notices Regulus stiffen when he sits next to her. The compartment was noticeably more crowded with four people, but thankfully nobody else enters.
They all get sorted into Slytherin that evening, and Pandora meets her new dorm mates. Lucretia Fawley and Cerci Greengrass. They are friendly but do not have the same connection as Regulus or Barty. Pandora refers to them as friends rather than best friends.
Evan Rosier is seven years old when his father hurts him for the first time.
It was after dinner; Pandora was in the library and Evan was running through the manor for some reason unbeknownst to himself. He had knocked a portrait off the wall and the lady in the painting gave an outraged shriek as her frame broke.
His father was dragging him into his office immediately, where he was pushed against the wall, his back to the room. He heard the crack of a belt before it struck his back. Painfully. 10 strikes in total. One for each portrait lining the hall he was running through.
A little while later, Evan was slumped on the ground of the office. His father was gone. Breathing ragged from the damage to his ribs. His back was split open from the leather, harsh red strikes against tan skin, surrounded by white swelling. His mouth tastes metallic and his eyes have gone blurry.
Slowly, he drags himself to a sitting position, before standing up carefully to avoid doing more damage to the shredded skin.
He trudges up the stairs and into his room. The minute he hits the mattress he falls asleep, back still aching.
The next morning is excruciating. Evan gets out of bed and is reminded of the night before due to the sharp pains shooting through his spine. He bandages himself up the best he can and goes downstairs to eat.
His father is already at the table when he enters. Evan freezes, flashes of last night coming back to him. He is expecting a telling off, a taunting, more hits.
Evan’s father ignores him. Not even a glance at his son who is thoroughly confused at the lack of discipline.
Nevertheless, Evan sits and begins to eat. Glancing up at his father every so often, but his father doesnt even acknowledge his presence.
Time and time again Evan is dragged to the office and hit with the belt. The number of times varies depending on the severity of the offence. Three times when he knocked a vase. Five times when he fails his french tests. Four times for stealing his father’s expensive cologne. Nine times for making a scene at a formal event. Six times for tearing a page in a book. The list goes on.
Eventually Evan expects the punishments. He gradually becomes numb to the pain and can withstand several strikes before his knees begin to buckle.
Three years later Evan is at his cousin's memorial. Pandora is acting weird towards Regulus, who Evan doesnt understand. His mind is pretty fuzzy, he can remember Regulus but didnt think he existed before the memorial.
When the feast is over and people are mingling, Evan spots Regulus in a corner, alone. He had similar features to his sister, slightly feminine angles to his face. Evan feels as if he has known the boy for all his life judging how his face is so familiar but also has the feeling, he has never seen him before. Its disconcerting really.
Evan moves to go over to Regulus, when he is accosted by his cousin. Bellatrix.
“Ah, the baby boy, itty bitty Rosie.”
Evan has to restrain himself from acting on impulse and punching her in the face. Maybe if he knocked all her teeth out, she wouldnt be able to talk. Now that was a nice thought. Evan had a feeling many people would agree with him.
“Bellatrix, a pleasure as always.” he says forced instead, and takes her hand, kissing the back of it as a form of courtesy.
“It is just so awful to hear about poor Cassie.” She pouts not looking one bit sincerely upset.
Evan who was imagining how she would look with a bruised and swollen face, jolts back to reality, facing her unforunately unharmed face and before he can stop himself, he bites out a bitter,
“As if you gave a shit about her.”
Bellatrix recoils in shock before she starts to cackle. “Itty Rosie, has some edges after all.”
Rodolphus smirks at Evan who is trying to slice his cousin in half with his gaze.
A cold voice halts Evan in his attempts to mind murder Bellatrix. He can feel the furious gaze burning into his back.
“I do apologise for my son, Bella. He misses Cassie terribly and is merely grieving her loss. It is nothing personal. Evan, come. We are going now.”
Evan follows his father, knowing what will happen once they arrive home, and Pandora is sent to her room. He does not know how many strikes he will get. How many more scars across his back. How many wounds he will have to desperately try and heal in the morning.
The answer turns out to be 12. The most he has ever had. When he wakes, he is stuck to the bed with sweat and blood, and when he looks past the blood in the mirror, he can see the yellow-white colour of spinal tissue. Fuck.
He calls the house elf, who heals him and promises to not say a word about it to anyone, and vows to himself that he will stay out of trouble for fear that his father may send him to Durmstrang instead of Hogwarts with Pandora.
A year passes and Evan is boarding the train with his sister for the first time, quickly trying to get her away from the crowds that are freaking her out. He finds a carriage with one boy in it. Regulus. They stay there and soon another boy joins. Barty Crouch Jr. In other words, Evans new best friend to be.
Evan gets sorted into Slytherin, with Pandora, Regulus and Barty, the latter two who he ends up sharing a dorm room with.
Barty Crouch Jr is seven years old when his father gets a promotion at the ministry.
He is sitting at the table, eating dinner with his family. An owl flies in, a letter tied to its leg. The ministry logo printed into the wax seal. His father took the letter and shooed the creature away, which Barty thought was unfair. He had always liked owls, with their wide clever eyes and cute little beaks. He snuck the owl a scrap of meat before it flew away.
Bartemius Crouch Sr was eyeing the letter as if it was going to blow up. Barty’s mother, Elaine, put a hand on his arm. “Dear, maybe you should open that later, it might interrupt our dinner as a family.”
“It’s from the ministry, Elaine, it has to be important.” Barty’s father snaps back before tearing open the envelope.
They sat in silence while Bartemius Sr read his letter. After a while he got up and made for the door, before pausing and turning around to face his son and wife. “I have been offered a promotion at work, I must attend a meeting now to accept it. I will be back late.” He announced before exiting the dining room and leaving through the front door.
“A shame really, I would have liked to finish dinner as a family before he had to go.” Elaine muttered under her breath and sighed. “Come on Barty, eat your peas like a good boy.”
Little did Barty know that they would no longer be a family from then on.
Bartemius Crouch Sr was away at work most of the time, and as the years passed, Barty saw less and less of his father. His father, who, would skip dinner for a meeting, who would come in the door, say hello, and then march to his study to fill out paperwork and such. His father who would neglect his family for work and in turn neglect his wife when she fell ill.
Elaine Crouch passed away on Decmber 27th, 1970, leaving an unavailable husband and father to care for her 10 year old son. As Barty predicted, his father was late to his mother’s funeral. He arrived when the ceremony was almost finished, just before they lowered her casket into the ground.
When his father spotted him, he snapped. “Stop crying boy, you will ruin my image more than you already have.”
That’s always what Barty ever was to his father. A disappointment. A tarnish to his father’s perfect work life, perfect role model, perfect image. All lies, covered up by stories of the Dark Lord, campaigns for muggle-born rights. Nobody saw how Bartemius Crouch Sr. shouted at his son. Didn’t care for him. Ignored him. Called him a nuisance when he asked for essential needs.
Nobody saw how Barty would cry himself to sleep because his dad didn’t love him. But they all saw when Barty got himself in to trouble. He made sure of that. Because if the people saw it then his dad had to as well. If society couldn’t ignore it, then his father couldn’t as well. And that is what Barty said to himself before he pulled a stunt. Each one bigger and bolder than the one before.
Like the time he mixed his father’s notes up before he gave a presentation. The time when he stole a broomstick, just because. When he went out of his way to publicly prove he supported queers. That had been funny alright. Gathered a lot of attention.
Shocked murmurs followed him for weeks and his father was going ballistic.
“I don’t want my followers to think I have a fag for a son, stop this nonsense boy, you’re ruining my image!” His father had raged.
Barty just laughed, though it struck a nerve deep down. Not like the grating annoyance his father usually hit; this was sharper. His father’s words like acid, stung and a tight feeling came across his chest. But he kept laughing, pushing away the hurt he was feeling but didn’t understand and kept on laughing.
And yes, Barty’s greatest ‘stunt’. The sorting ceremony. He would defy his father’s wishes and refuse to be sorted into Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. He would not be sorted into Hufflepuff either, he would rather die.
That left one house left, Slytherin. It was perfect. It was frowned upon by many good people. Overflowing with Death Eaters and Dark Followers. It would be funny to see Bartemius Crouch Sr, who fights for the muggle borns and half bloods, have a son that gets sorted in to Slytherin. A house that discriminates them.
Barty never really saw the bad things about wizards with muggle parents, but well, if it makes his father mad, he will do it.
So Slytherin it is, and hey, maybe he will make friends with some of the dark lord's pets, his loyalist followers and some future death eaters.
He’s boarding the train and looking for a compartment. There’s one at the back with pretty cool looking people in it. One of them he recognises, Regulus, second son of the House of Black. Perfect. So, he enters and introduces himself. An air of false self confidence that will take charge of the social activities.
The other two kids, twins, Evan and Pandora, are cool too. Part of the Rosier family. He doesn’t hear much from Pandora or Regulus, but his and Evan’s chatter fill up the space.
That night he is indeed sorted into Slytherin, with his new friends from the train. He should be the forefront of his father’s problems by tomorrow.
Dorcas Meadowes is seven years old when she first finds a girl pretty.
She is at Diagon Alley, with her mother, getting ice cream after a long day of shopping. The girl working behind the counter at Florean Fortescues was maybe 14? A few years older than Dorcas was. But all Dorcas could remember was her face, heart shaped and pixie like, with a button nose and pouty lips. Her eyes, almond shaped, the colour of ferns, twinkled with some unknown mischief.
Dorcas decided then that if she was a boy, she would marry the girl on the spot. Alas Dorcas was also a girl so that was not doable. After that incident she never saw the girl again, but did see many others.
Pretty girls now stood out to her like beacons. She would see them on the street, in her school, in the playground. Everywhere.
The first time she kissed a girl was when she was 11, the summer of 1970. The summer before she started Hogwarts. It wasn’t a proper kiss, close mouthed, short and awkward, but it had changed Dorcas’ life forever.
Maribel was her name. A muggle from a few towns over. She was pretty, brown curls, tan skins, dark eyes lined with thick lashes and pink lips. They had been talking and hanging out for a few weeks. They went down to the record shop once or twice. She was Dorcas’ best friend.
Dorcas loved the muggle shop, it had records and video tapes. Magazines and posters. Maribel was staring at a picture of Marilyn Monroe and when Dorcas asked is she was alright, the other girl looked at her and shook her head.
“Is it wrong to want to love a girl the same way a boy would love a girl?” She had asked.
“As in like, fall in love with a girl?” Dorcas had questioned.
Maribel nodded.
“I think I would like to kiss a girl, like her,” she gestured to the poster, “she’s pretty.”
Dorcas hummed in response.
Maribel looked at her from the side, “You’re pretty too, Dorcas.” She had said, so simply.
Dorcas felt her cheeks heat up and just stared at her friend, eyes wide.
Maribel leaned in closer, “would you kiss a girl?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Dorcas nodded and scanned the area. They were in the back corner of the shop, hidden from view of the cashier and as it was a Tuesday, there was barely any people. None that could see them anyways.
She looked back to Maribel, who simply raised an eyebrow. Dorcas nodded again in lieu of an answer to Maribel’s unspoken question. The other girl took her hand and pulled her in closer. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she had said quietly into Dorcas’ ear.
“No, I want to” Dorcas answered and then her lips were against Maribel’s. It only lasted a few seconds but Dorcas knew from then on that she would only ever kiss girls.
The day after, September 1st, Dorcas had to go to school. Away from her mum, her home. Away from Maribel. They bid goodbye with a hug and Dorcas felt the other girl kiss the crown of her head.
Dorcas never saw Maribel again. She had moved back to Spain that October. She was nothing but a memory after that.