Fic: Vincent

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Vincent
Part X
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If you know, in your heart of hearts, that a good thing can be forgotten in less time than it takes to crack open a fresh bottle of Odgen’s – then surely you must know that it’s almost a wasted endeavour to be bothered.

Or at least, until said bottle is resting half-empty and warmed by one slackened, sweaty fist.

Dean Thomas leaned heavily on the pitted pine surface and continued dragging the ruined paintbrush through the slop of firewhisky on the table. Half the bottle had spilled over his glass during his last feeble effort to pour a stout shot.

The ice had long since melted, and to the mess of amber drink on the table, he dribbled the water in spots to see if it would separate. Or course, it never did, but Dean hardly noticed.

“How long’ve you been sitting here, son?”

Dean burped and looked askance at the barmaid. With effort, he squeezed one eye shut to peer at her blearily.

“Not nearly long enough if the bottle in’t empty,” he slurred, returning his attention to his drink and sticking his nose into it half-heartedly without lifting the glass from the table.

One dry slurp later, and just before he could stick his tongue to the bottom of the glass to lap at the dregs, she was gone.

“It just happens that fast,” he hummed, dropping his chin to the table and letting the paintbrush roll from his fingers to the filthy pub floor below.

---

Vincent
Part IX
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Millicent was not a girl who particularly gave a damn about what anyone thought about her. It was a more than likely scenario then, as she pressed her broad features close to the dormitory looking glass in the effort to better inspect her dilated pores for the one, ripe spot that deigned to be squashed, that Pansy would choose to walk in at that particular moment.

“God, Millie!” she cringed, staggering back against the doorframe dramatically. “Do you really need to do that now?”

“When else should I be doing this?” Millicent returned through pinched lips, as she prodded at her forehead gingerly.

In response, Pansy merely slouched and kicked off one dangerously spiked, black, high- heeled shoe.

“There should be a rule against it,” she snapped, launching the other shoe beneath a nearby bed and beginning to undo the fastenings on her matching robes with her perfectly manicured fingernails. “It’s bad etiquette.”

Millicent snorted, pressing both index fingers to either side of the pustule perched at the crown of the blemish.

“He wouldn’t have cared if I farted in the middle of that stuffy, old, starch-collared prat’s speech.”

“Bulstrode, even for you that’s a trifle gauche. He was a priest!”

“Crabbe’s family are atheists,” returned Millicent dryly as she began applying slight pressure to either side of the shiny white and red mound.

Pansy, looking appalled, stripped off her robes and strode, lace brassiere sagging under her swollen breasts, into the girl’s lavatory.

“Where were you through that lot, Pans?” Millicent called over her shoulder. The pimple throbbed fiercely beneath her thick fingers.

“Oh, you know,” Pansy replied airily as she stuck her head around the doorframe. “Draco and I went off for a quickie in one of those… what do you call them?”

“Confessional booths,” Millicent answered flatly, as the blemish burst – splattering greenish white muck, tinged with a watery red, against the mirror’s cold surface.

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Vincent
Part VIII
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“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.” The priest paused, “Amen.”

The sentiment echoed amongst the spectators, clustered close together in small groups as they huddled beneath their umbrellas in the steadily increasing splatter of rain.

Goyle looked onwards, feeling marginally uncomfortable as the rivulets slipped from his sodden hair, rolling down his forehead and into his eyes.

He blinked until his vision cleared again. The water dribbled down his heavy jowls and onto the lapels of his dress-robes; numbly, he refocused his stare on the gaping hole in the ground. Around its perimeter, the pall-wizards held the coffin aloft with several levitation spells.

“Are you coming?” Malfoy snapped.

Goyle blinked again and cast a sidelong glance at the boy. In the sickly grey overcast, Draco appeared even more sour-looking than usual. Combined with his sodden robes and his near-anaemic complexion, he looked like a pasty white spectre in the throng of friends and family who’d gathered for the funeral.

Goyle looked back to the grave as the pall-wizards began directing the coffin into the earth.

“No.”

“Suit yourself,” Malfoy sneered. “You’ll catch your death even if you resemble an over-stuffed gorilla in those robes.”

Goyle merely shook his head as if to shake off some of the dribbling water.

“We’ll be sure to spread you out right next to him if that’s the case!” Malfoy called over his shoulder as the crowd dispersed.

As the last stragglers cleared off, Gregory sighed – finally wiping his eyes.

His umbrella remained folded by his side, loosely grasped in five trembling fingers.

It was the best protection offered, he thought, looking to the sky and sniffing heavily. No one knew the better when it rained like this.

---

Vincent
Part VII
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Not for the first time, Theodore Nott hung back against the furthest wall – away from the sniffling crowds, away from the priest’s pulpit, away from the gathered family and housemates who occupied no less than the first eighteen pews in the small, damp church.

“Small,” for a wizarding funeral usually endeavoured to be upwards of at least five hundred of the deceased’s closest friends and blood relatives. Ironic, really, that this was supposedly an intimate gathering.

To his right, Blaise appeared engrossed with the goings on near the nave of the sanctuary. His wool suit was pressed and neat beneath his outer robes, and he held his hands clasped loosely before him.

If it weren’t for the slightly glazed look in his friend’s eyes, he’d probably pass as maintaining at least some semblance of focus during the proceedings.

As it were, however, Ted knew him better than that. He managed to rein in a snort of laughter before he could disrupt those seated within earshot.

“Zabi –”

“Shh!” Blaise hissed through the corner of his mouth, not tearing his eyes from the shiny, grey coffin and its white satin lining.

Ted bit into his knuckle to repress a snicker.

“Blaise, you prat –”

He hummed in response.

“Stop whatever filthy sequence of thoughts you’re currently indulging in and listen to me for a second!” Ted whispered.

“Did you know,” Blaise murmured through the corner of his mouth, “that even the untimely death of a Slytherin and alleged supporter of You-Know-Who is still enough to drag out the righteous and noble to pay their respects?”

The last word sounded as if he’d caught a whiff of something particularly foul-smelling, and accordingly, Zabini’s lip curled as he cast a glance to his companion before returning his gaze towards the front of the church.

In the fifth pew, seated four-deep from the edge, was one very distinctive head peeking over the shoulders of those in the surrounding vicinity.

“Gryffindor,” Ted muttered. “Which one?”

“Thomas,” Blaise replied, his eyes narrowing. “The ‘artist.’”

Ted paused and took a moment to survey the crowd. Nearer the back on the East side sat several scraggily looking red heads, flanked by the bushy-haired Head Girl and the whelp that Draco frequently referred to as “Saint Potter.”

Dean sat alone at the opposite end amidst Crabbe’s closest family and the other Slytherins who had congregated.

“Strange,” Ted conceded.

“Indeed,” Blaise sneered. “Well, I don’t care to find out why he’s sucking it up now. Fancy a fag?” Blaise sniffed, producing a pack of clove cigarettes from an inner pocket.

Ted merely shook his head, eyeing the back of Thomas’ head warily.

“Suit yourself.” Zabini shrugged, and backed out the front door with a snide bow and a tip of his imaginary hat. Before the heavy oak doors closed, Ted caught a glimpse of rolling grey as the sky outside began to darken in preparation for a heavy rain.

He hummed to himself and leaned against the wall to watch the rest of the proceedings. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long before the priest wrapped up his humble gesticulations, and the attendants began their slow march past the casket and outside to the neighbouring cemetery.

Ted hung back respectfully and waited for the last few mourners to pay their respects. It took a moment for him to recognize the bent figure of the stray Gryffindor as he approached Vincent’s coffin. He carried a flat, rectangular parcel wrapped in heavy brown paper and bound with simple twine. He clutched it against his chest for a moment before laying it down alongside the body.

“What have you got there, Thomas?” Ted murmured from a few paces away. He’d hardly been aware of his own muffled footfalls in the cavernous space as he approached the Gryffindor.

Thomas, however, barely paid him a glance as he turned and swept down the aisle. In his fingers, Ted noticed, he spun what appeared to be the last remains of a broken paintbrush.

“Stupid mudbloods,” Ted muttered, placing his hands on the coffin and looking in at his dead friend.

Crabbe’s stiff, fat hands had been arranged to clasp Dean’s package at its edges. The twine and paper were tossed to the side, exposing a crude painting in mottled daubs of grey, blue and yellow. It looked as if a three year old had had his first experience finger-painting, but – Ted paused and cocked his head to the side – if you looked at it just so and blurred your eyes only slightly, it appeared as if…

Ted’s eyes widened, and shaking, he stumbled backwards to fall heavily into the first vacant pew.

---

Vincent
Part VI
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The kitchen at the Burrow was oddly quiet, Harry noted, as he lurched down the stairwell sleepily and bumped his shoulders against the wall while he descended the rickety steps.

Ron had rolled out of bed before he woke, and by the looks of it, Ginny and Hermione had already gone down to breakfast as well. Bone-tired, Harry rubbed his eyes and staggered forwards onto the landing.

Several pots and cooking utensils were already hard at work on the stove; they were mixing and bubbling accordingly with the aid of Mrs. Weasley’s magic. It smelled wonderful, certainly, but as he turned the corner, the sight that met him was not one he expected in the slightest.

The entire family was gathered around the table, Ron looking bewildered as he swung his head round to greet Harry with a forced smile. Hermione’s gaze was trained on the empty plate before her, staring hard.

“Harry, dear,” Molly Weasley said weakly, motioning for him to have a seat as she fussed about to prepare him a plate. “I do hope at least you’re hungry.”

Beside him, Ron looked longingly at the stove top before his features wilted and he shifted uneasily.

Across the table, Ginny continued to worry her lip.

“What’s wrong?” he asked those gathered. His voice sounded far too loud in the hanging silence.

The only response he was granted was a smothered sniff and the rustle of paper as Ginny pushed The Daily Prophet towards him, nudging his cutlery to the sides. By the looks of it, the paper had passed through several pairs of hands that morning.

Furrowing his brow, he began to read in a muttered undertone.

“The body of Vincent Crabbe, son of alleged Death Eaters Agatha and Orson Crabbe, was found yesterday evening in a Muggle suburb on the outskirts of Romford, West Ham. The apparent victim of an…”

Harry’s voice died in his throat as he continued reading.

…undisclosed curse, it is proposed that Crabbe met with foul play due to certain unsavoury alliances the would-have-been Hogwarts graduate formed over the course of the last year…

“It’s true then?” Harry asked, looking to the faces of those around them.

This statement was answered by a loud sniff, and when Harry turned in surprise, he saw with detached fascination that Molly Weasley had abandoned her post at the head of the table. Fat, glistening tears obscured her otherwise pleasant features.

As she hastened from the room, Harry merely dragged his plate closer and began eating his breakfast quietly.

---

Vincent
Part V
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“How can you lose a body?”

“Mister Fudge –”

“Don’t you dare ‘Mister Fudge’ me! I was Minister for Magic for no less than nine terms! I demand an answer this instant!”

“But sir –”

“No buts! None of this wishy-washy hemming and hawing. The boy’s parents have been on the floo for the last two hours demanding that they see the last remains of that cadaver and you mean to tell me that it’s missing!”

“Not in so many words sir. Please if you’d only listen –”

“Then what is the problem, Weasley?”

“There seems to have been some discrepancy in St. Mungo’s morgue, sir. Apparently the coroner’s report has been misplaced.”

“And what of it? Tell the Healers to re-conduct the autopsy, run the standard spells a second time, and ship the corpse off to enchantments to get it ready for burial.”

“The report was affixed to the foot of the former Mr. Crabbe’s gurney, sir.”

A deep breath.

“Weasley?”

“Yes sir?”

“You may not be aware of the Crabbe’s standing and their affiliations with certain… influential members of the board.”

“Sir?”

“Percy, let me put it plainly. Re-elections are in two months time.”

A strained pause.

“I’ll take care of it, sir.”

“Good lad… Oh, and it’s best that we… not mention this particular unfortunate ‘incident’ to anyone. I’d hate to lose the next candidate for Undersecretary because of… bad press.”

Stiffly, “I understand sir.”

“Fine. Fine, good man. Be in the office by three, would you? I’d have the meeting with the representatives from the Department of Recreation and Sports pushed up to three o’clock, if you could inform them.”

“If they inquire as to why, sir?”

Heavily, “It appears I’ll be needing that holiday in Ibiza much sooner than anticipated, Weasley.”

---

Vincent
Part IV
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In his profession, Alastor Moody was no stranger to death.

Nearly thirty six years in the field delivered enough bloated bodies left to rot along roadside ditches. He’d seen enough sightless eyes covered with the thin, white sheen of cataracts, and enough of the same lingering, heavy scent of decay that wormed into one’s nostrils when the Aurors finally arrived on the crime scene.

Mercifully, this evening, the heady stench was staunched somewhat by the crisp night air. That, however, did nothing for the flares of arthritic pain that shot up his knees each time the senior Auror took another hobbled step.

“Sir! Sir! We’ve found it!”

Moody did his best to repress a groan at the nervous prompting of the junior Auror; not the most tactful of his team, Dawlish, but he was reliable under most circumstances, nonetheless.

Approaching the large, filthy, green bin at the end of the alleyway, Moody could just make out the tips of two scuffed, black boot-covered toes pointing skywards. Already, too many flies were swarming around the area as Moody brushed past the members of the search party.

“We have identity confirmation, sir,” Dawlish continued in a nervous warble. “It’s the Crabbe boy.”

“Cause of death?” Moody returned gruffly as he stooped to inspect the stiff corpse.

Behind him, Dawlish stammered.

“Well?” Moody barked after a three-second pause that even to his aching joints, was entirely too long.

Knees searing, he crouched and extracted his wand.

“N-no discernable signs of struggle, sir, nor is there any indication of trauma prior to –”

“That’s not what I want to know, boy,” Moody growled, running a series of silent tests. It was three hippogryffs short a mere pittance that each spell cast returned negative.

“Visual damage? Unusual markings?” he pressed, bending closer to examine the slackened jaw, the surprised expression of the eyes, the robes that had fallen neatly around the body – now as stiff as the concrete on which it lay and just as cold.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, sir.”

Alastor snorted, his magical eye roving constantly until, finally, it came to rest on the curled fist dropped neatly at its side with the palm facing the hip, and the thumb bent at a strange angle.

Rigormortis was rapidly setting in. With a light tap of his wand, the palm sprang open, and Moody all but growled at Dawlish who was peering cautiously over his shoulder.

“Perhaps you ought to have your eyes checked, Dawlish,” Moody growled. “I’ve only got the one, and it seems to be working better than both of yours.”

A long, glistening streak was smeared down the inside of the boy’s palm. In the chilled, overhanging gloom barely slivered by moonlight, the smudge glittered eerily.

Without preamble, Moody reached out, prying the stiff fingers apart with a quick jab of his wand, and ran a thumb down the mark.

His finger came away wet and cold, as he turned the gnarled digit this way and that to better inspect the colouring. It was a deep scarlet that appeared almost black despite the glare of several lit wands that spotlighted the corpse.

From his left, Dawlish murmured, “Blood?”

Still peering at the streak, Alastor’s magical eye swivelled to regard his junior. In the least, Dawlish had enough decency to shift uncomfortably before the gleaming blue eye slid back to the front.

“Too watery for that,” he replied gruffly, pressing his thumb and index finger together and spread the gunk over the pads. Moody did not hesitate to lean heavily on his cane and bring his fingers to his nose. With a grimace, barely discernable on his already mangled features, he sniffed loudly.

When finally, he barked, “Dawlish, get Shaklebolt over here.”

Dawlish hesitated, “Sir?”

His bones creaking painfully and the cartilage in his knees popping as he stood to his stooped height, Moody regarded the Junior Auror resolutely for a moment.

“It’s paint.”

---

Vincent
Part III

---

Vincent Crabbe lumbered up the stairs, the satchel against his hip a warm comfort. Around him, muggles bustled to and fro. They headed upwards into the pelt of rain or down into London’s underground where it was dry.

He didn’t like it, really, he thought, scrunching his face against the cold splatter. It did more to dirty the streets than to clean them.

The rain washed out the colour, leaving in its wake a bleak grey. It left the streets dull, the sky hazed, and everything else sodden and barren.

Yet, there was something oddly homely about it, anyway – as if the absence of colour could do no conceivable harm.

Compulsively, he checked the bag again. The solid comfort of the canvas was feather light and surprisingly small compared to his robust form. Absently, he worried the leather strap with his thick fingers.

A thought formed slowly as he trudged onwards; if the bag were to soak though, would it wash off the colours? Would they run, collecting at the bottom and in the seams?

Vincent furrowed his brow, pausing by a street lamp while the persistent onslaught continued to fall around him. With a frown, he looked at the satchel again, scrubbing at the wet running down his forehead, and decided sluggishly that that was a particularly stupid thought.

He continued onwards slowly, considering, while the rest of the city was chased indoors, or hurried by beneath the marginal cover of their umbrellas.

Still, he thought, stopping again and looking at the bag, it would be better just to check - if only to be sure.

With his brow furrowed in concentration, he ambled around a corner into an alleyway of moderate size. The dilapidated overhanging fire stairs dripped in splatters to the street below; these drops spattered to his shoulders and down his collar.

In the flickering light of a nearby neon proclaiming “Girls” and “Peep” and “XXX” alternately, he noticed a small dry patch on the ground – a semi-circle of pale grey concrete beneath rickety tin eaves. Towards this he moved, bow-legged, and hunched, until he stood behind a dumpster and pressed as close to the wall as he could.

Blinking the water out of his eyes, he bowed over the bag and pulled out his wand.

“Lumos,” he muttered, and a flare of bright yellow illuminated the shining, black street below.

Crabbe blinked again, tugging patiently at the straps as his gaze travelled forwards to the shadow now cast by the pair of legs standing not a few feet away.

“Hullo,” he murmured blandly, blinking away a start. It wouldn’t do to confess his surprise. “Were you following me? I didn’t see you before.”

Silence returned to him, but that was not uncommon.

Crabbe shrugged and returned his attention to his satchel. “I was thinking,” he continued, “that maybe the rain would ruin the colours. So I stopped to check if they’d stayed put.”

Gingerly, hunched over the canvas to protect it from any errant splatters, he pulled it free by a few inches and peeked into the bag.

“Oh,” he grunted, pulling a paintbrush from the bottom of his bag; bristles first. “You forgot this yesterday. I – I forgot to clean it. After I used it – but if you hold it out long enough in this weather it’ll wash right off.”

Slowly, the brush was pulled from his grasp as Crabbe turned to look at the painting. “D-d’you think that maybe this needs something?” he asked hesitantly, not tearing his eyes from his work. “Maybe a little green.”

Crabbe heard footsteps approaching, and hesitantly, he turned the canvas so that it was visible.

An intake of breath, barely audible over the hum of passing cars in the street beyond the alley, caused Crabbe to look up.

For a moment, he paused, his eyes widening in delighted surprise as his vision flared in the brightest, vivid viridian green he’d ever seen. The last thought Crabbe had, before everything dimmed to a muted black, was, “Yes, that green.”

---

Vincent
Part II
---

Dean Thomas stood at his easel, tapping his paint brush absently against his chin, entirely unmindful of the blue daubs freckling his face.

Light poured through the dusty windows and into the Room of Requirement in an orange haze. Outside, the Hogwarts grounds were cast in the shadows from the forest – backlit by the flare of the setting sun.

It would be a clear night.

Dean waited.

Behind him, the door opened slowly, though he didn’t bother turning to greet the person entering. Truthfully, he didn’t care much for the company, and Crabbe was generally appreciative of their shared silence.

Dean was finding it increasingly difficult to share pleasantries with the Slytherin.

“Has it happened?” Crabbe muttered as he shuffled to the empty easel to Dean’s right.

Dean sighed. Crabbe really was thicker than mud.

“Another hour, maybe,” he replied absently. “It’s still light out.”

Crabbe didn’t reply. Instead, he pulled from his book bag a half-finished canvas. With the pads of his sausage-like fingers, he carefully manoeuvred the painting so that he held it right-side up, and set it against the wooden stand.

“Can you believe it’s nearly over?” Dean mused, forcing an ounce of cheer into the drab conversation. “It’s hard to believe in a few days we won’t see this place again.”

Crabbe grunted in response, though not maliciously. Dean had learned months ago that Crabbe was capable of agreeing or disagreeing in one simplified, monosyllabic sound. Dean figured it was the easiest way to put up with the likes of Malfoy; a grunt was subjective – depending on who was being grunted at, that is.

With meticulous care, Crabbe began extracting his paints. He lined them up, one at a time, on the ledge by the window. They were at a perfect distance for his large, clumsy arms; each pot positioned carefully so that he wouldn’t knock them over, but still within reach.

When he was finished, he turned his flat face towards Dean and rumbled, “What will you do after?”

Dean studied him for a moment. Crabbe was a podgy, pasty seventeen year old with large jowls, bad acne, and a sloping forehead. His tie was perpetually loosened to accommodate a thick neck that spilled over his collar. He was hideous, but he wasn’t clever enough not to be sincere.

Dean turned away, unable to answer.

“That’s ok,” Crabbe said simply, turning to the window and his painting. “I don’t know either.”

Dean studied him out of the corner of his eye. “What about your family? Aren’t you expected to – I don’t know – fulfill your obligations, or…?”

Crabbe blinked into the sunset, a small smile pressing his cheeks out so that he looked fatter and more contented than ever.

“I’ve always done what they told me to do,” he replied. “One day, I thought they’d stop. But they never did.”

The large boy smiled even more broadly, blinking away the glare as the sun dipped behind the trees.

“So one day,” he continued, “I’ll tell myself to stop instead.”

Dean focused on the darkening sky outside, ignoring the uneasy lurch in his gut.

“Sometimes it’s not that simple,” he said, clearing his throat to mask a guilty hitch in his tone.

Crabbe didn’t notice.

“Vincent,” he said.

Dean fell silent, watching as the first pinpricks of light flared to life over the forest.

Crabbe shifted, transferring his weight from one foot to the other, “You always forget,” he said with a frown.

“I know, Crabbe,” Dean replied quietly, swallowing hard as he pulled a paintbrush from a small jar set next to Crabbe’s paint pots, and handed it to him, bristles first.

Outside, the sky had steeped the trees with the last flare of purple, and far above the trees, where the darkness had spread easily like a thick smear of black ink, the stars glinted; flaring to life by the millions.

---

Vincent
Part I
---

The atrium of the manor house was a monstrous affair, dismal and dank, the walls cracked in places and the rats scurried over the threadbare rugs.

It was a perfect place for a throne room.

As such, it was on the center plinth that the Dark Lord sat and regarded his minions with barely concealed disdain.

“Bring him to me,” he hissed, the folds of his hood obscuring his taut white skin and slitted eyes from view.

At the far end of the hall, the pitted mahogany doors groaned as they opened, admitting a black-swathed woman; trailing behind her was the bound and limp form of a boy, his robes torn in places and his dark skin smeared with grime.

“Mr. Thomas,” the Dark Lord hissed. “I cannot say this meeting is a pleasure, but if I were so bold to suggest it – Bella would have finished you off before you even deigned to darken my doorstep.”

Dean Thomas raised his head just enough to spit out a blood-covered tooth.

It skidded, rattling hollowly, and stopped just short of Voldemort’s robe hem.

“Insolent brat!” Bella hissed, raising her wand. “Cruc–”

“Enough, Bella. The boy has endured our methods long enough today. He must leave with the knowledge of what we are prepared to inflict upon him. But more importantly, he must be able to leave.”

“Yes, my lord,” Bella answered bitterly, sneering as she shook her hand from Dean’s collar. He dropped to the floor weakly, his hands and face smacking against the stone.

At least, Voldemort noted coldly, he was still breathing. He would live long enough to suit their purposes.

“Revive him,” he commanded, and Bellatrix begrudgingly complied.

“Boy, you have been brought here today to fulfill a longstanding debt.”

Dean looked up, wincing at the small pool of blood had collected and smeared from where his face lay. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You will not speak unless you are asked to do so!” Bellatrix snarled. “Silencio!”

Dean glared at her, his jaw working painfully though no sound came from his throat.

“Thank you, Bella.” Voldemort dismissed her, and sneering, she stalked off to a far corner of the dimly lit room.

“He is not unlike his father,” he added dryly. “Just as stubborn and probably just as foolish.”

Dean wanted desperately to laugh. Harry had always said Voldemort was a madman, and the fact that he claimed to have dealings with his parents proved it. They were both muggles, for Circe’s sake! They didn’t even get The Daily Prophet, much less know anything more than they absolutely had to about the war.

“You dare to doubt me, Dean?” Voldemort hissed. “I can see it for myself.” The Dark Lord drew closer to him, lifting his chin with one bare, grey toe. Dean winced. The Cruciatus Curse was worse than having to linger closely to Voldemort’s bare feet.

“It’s all in your head.” He smiled thinly, leaning forwards. His robes smelled of loam and mould, and Dean fought not to flinch.

“Your father, Mr. Thomas, was a stupid man who died beneath my wand because he would not comply with my will.” Voldemort leaned closer still, pressing his thumb against Dean’s temple.

A series of images flashed before eyes; they swelled, billowing and black, consuming his vision.

A man, his arm slung around his mother’s shoulders, cradled a baby to his chest.

Dean shuddered, trying to draw away and failing as the scene shifted.

The same man, shaking his mother off his sleeve as he stepped out the door of the small apartment in which they lived while a two-year year-old Dean clung to his mother’s legs, wailing pitifully.

Dean’s stomach lurched, and he reached for the hand pressed against his head. Voldemort’s flesh was cold to the touch, and immediately, Dean tore his hands away in favour of pressing his hands to head.

The same man, Dean’s biological father, lies dead in an alley while all around him, dark figures apparated away, leaving trails of grey smoke in their wake.

Voldemort released him, and with a wave of his wand, Dean crumpled to the floor, choking silently.

“He was a full-blooded wizard, Dean. His crime against us was far more than a crime against the family he tried to protect.”

The Dark Lord surveyed him patiently, and murmured, “Finite Incantatem.”

The silencing charm restraining Dean lifted, and he sobbed, “What do you want from me?”

When the Dark Lord did not reply, Dean slapped his hand against the ground and attempted to bury his face into his tattered robes.

“Nearly two decades later, Dean, son of Reginald Thomas, you will accomplish the task set to your father so many years ago.”

Dean choked, his lungs searing as he took in a breath to staunch his tears, and he looked up to face Lord Voldemort. “And if I don’t?”

“That,” the Dark Lord murmured, “would be very unwise indeed. Your present family, Dean – strangers to the blood… Muggles, are they not?”

Dean stopped blubbering instantly.

“Muggles, Dean, are inferior to Wizards in the most crucial of ways,” the Dark Lord continued lightly. “They are absurdly easy to kill.”

A silence unfolded between them. At the corners of the room, the shrouded forms lingering there waited silently. Only Bellatrix, unmasked and unhooded, paced impatiently.

Dean’s voice caught in his throat. His family; his brothers and sisters to whom he was not directly related, but nonetheless – had he known anything else? His family.

He faltered, glaring angrily as he dragged himself to his knees.

“What would you have me do?” he ground out tiredly, balling his hands into fists on his knees.

Voldemort appraised him silently for a moment, tapping his wand against his temple.

Slowly, he smiled. It was an expression that drew his thin skin even closer against his teeth and blackened gums.

“You will complete the task set to your father so many years ago,” Voldemort replied softly. “You will dispose of dissidents within my court.

“Bella!” he called over his shoulder. “Give him the list.”

Bellatrix Lestrange sauntered over, sneering at Dean as she withdrew a tightly wound scroll from within her robes. She tossed it at his knees without any ceremony.

Dean didn’t look up as his picked the cylinder up from the ground, and his fingers only shook marginally as he lifted the wax seal with a dirty finger nail.

He unrolled the parchment, his vision obscured partially by a gathering sheer of wetness at the corners of his eyes. The writing, a clipped black scrawl, blurred out of focus for a moment.

But when the tears slid over his cheeks and his vision cleared, Dean saw that there was only one name on the parchment.

Vincent Crabbe.

-fin-