Chapter Text
Horologium Hephaestus Henry Black.
A rotund and ridiculous name for the timid and small boy, the youngest of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Horologium, or Harry as he preferred, did not like his name, or, truthfully, his family. His name had no mythos associated with it, a forgettable constellation, truly, lacking any character or symbolism besides a clock or pendulum. He scoured the library looking for anything remotely interesting about his name, and besides being named after a relative and a constellation, his name held no meaning. Making him the unliked and unmemorable member of his ancient and noble family.
One of the only members of his family he liked was his grandfather's brother, Hephaestus Lycoris Black, one of the few members of his family to show him any mind or kindness. Harry remembered the day he received his nickname. He was sitting in the Black Family Library at his family’s estate, it was Samhain, and he was playing with a few blocks and toys on the carpet by the fire. He was hiding from his brothers, Sirius and Regulus, the troublemakers who terrorized him relentlessly. Great Uncle Hephaestus came into the library and sat on one of the ancient, gaudy armchairs amongst the shelves. To Harry's horror, the man lit a muggle cigarette, and when he noticed Harry, he winked at him.
“The muggles have such simple pleasures,” he whispered in the nearly silent room. “The occasional indulgence is harmless, I assure you,” he winked, and Harry grinned back, scooting closer to the man. Great-Uncle Hephaestus was a tall, lanky man who towered over most members of his family, especially young Harry. He wore old-fashioned glasses, the kind that curled around your ears, gold-rimmed, and small wire frames. His mustache covered most of his face, sprinkled with grey and white hairs, and his suit was a mundane brown with a green carnation in the lapel. Harry didn't realize the significance of the flower at the time, but many years later, when sneaking muggle books and literature, he came across an author, Wilde, as he was known, and told not a soul of his Great Uncle's secret.
“Come here, Harry,” His Great-Uncle said.
Horologium was confused at first, then pointed at himself, eyes wide in question.
“Yes, you, Harry, come here,” the older man said through a smile.
Little Harry scooted even closer, coming to stand next to the man's chair. He held his hands in front of him, playing shyly with his fingers. He was just five years old and still had not said a word. Healers, Mind Healers, and wizards alike tried to treat him for his affliction, first thinking him mute, which led his parents, Orion and Walburga Black, to think their last son a squib. The boy was not mute, nor was he a squib, but no amount of testing, diagnostic spells, begging, threatening, or convincing could persuade him to speak.
“Horologium, a strong name for a strong boy,” He started, considering the boy standing before him. Vanishing his cigarette and the ash that had fallen, Hephaestus Sr. leaned forward, straightening the boy's tie and suit jacket. The itchy fabric had started to chafe Harry’s neck, and he admittedly pulled the tie loose despite his Mother’s warnings for the elves to spank him.
“Strength comes from more than just muscle and will, Harry,” Hephaestus said, smiling at the boy. “Your brothers do not know their own strength, and that makes them weak. You, however, I have a feeling, will be the strongest member of our family, bringing much pride to our name.”
Harry began to shake his head, negating the man's assertions, but his great-uncle took him by the shoulders and pushed on.
“Intellect, wits, and disposition, Harry, your virtues shall guide you to honor,” he said.
In a moment of bravery, Harry decided to confide in the man. He knew how to talk, but he also knew that in his family, silence was valued more than any opinion he may have had as a child. Children were not seen nor heard, especially the youngest and the runt of the litter, as his mother would say. Bracing himself, Harry gripped the man's arm and began to whisper back to him.
“ Bbbbbbbuuutttt I’mmmm, ” he began, but was interrupted by his great-uncle's gasp.
Harry’s head shot up to look at the man and was greeted by a wide-eyed stare of shock and bewilderment. Fearing he had done or said something wrong, Harry began shaking his head and pulling away, but Great Uncle Hephaestus stopped him, turning his head up from his tunnel vision of the hardwood floors.
“Harry, look at me,” the boy reluctantly did, and met a blinding smile on a contemplative face. “You did nothing wrong, lad, nothing wrong at all, in fact, I believe this proves you are the only one worthy of our name.”
Harry’s memory of the rest of that day was foggy at best, but he recalled it today of all days, contemplating his name on the balcony of some pureblood’s manor or mansion; he truly didn't care. His family dragged him to yet another pureblood party, this time a “work associate” affair, one of his father's. Harry did not pay attention to whose house or party it was; he was more concerned with finding a quiet place to hide out for the festivities. No one ever spoke to him, and since he never attended Hogwarts, he had no friends. He easily, with the help of Kreacher, was sequestered off away and out of sight from the others, a usual occurrence at such events.
So he simply sat on the balcony inhaling the smell of the hydrangeas and fresh-cut grass below. He sat tucked away, partially hidden behind vines and fruits that grew as a sort of canopy overhead. He didn't know how long he had sat in silence, smelling the fresh fruits and flowers around him, unconcerned with time, really. He never paid close attention to the length of such events, and knowing the “work associates” of his father were there, with their families and their children, he knew he was stuck at the party, alone, on a balcony for at least another few hours.
A scuffling sound by the doors caught his attention, and he listened carefully to what appeared to be three men, one struggling, the other two speaking in hushed tones. The click of the door of the balcony, once shut, sealed off any sounds coming from the soiree and ballroom, the distant laughing and music cut off with a privacy spell.
“Avery, I have warned you countlessly, yet you still defy me,” One man said, the careful lilt of his voice shocking as it broke the quiet atmosphere with his harsh tone. Harry listened on, intrigued by the drama apparently unfolding on the other side of the vines.
“Please, my lord, I-,” Avery, he supposed, said, his voice cracking in fear.
“Enough of your whining!” the man said, his voice now holding an amused candor, carrying a false sense of safety and cheerfulness. “Dolovhov?” he continued.
“Yes, my lord?” a gruff voice said, clashing with the stranger's honey-sweet tone.
“Please remind Avery of his loyalties and duties. I am sure you, of all people, can drive the lesson home,” Harry could tell the man said it with a smile, but the chill in the air raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“Yes, my lord,” Dolohov said, and the telltale pop of apparition left Harry alone on the balcony, this time with the stranger referred to as “my lord”. Unsure of how to escape the balcony, Harry sat, considering his options. He could apologize for eavesdropping, however unintentional it may be, climb over the side of the balcony, dangle, and fall to the ground, making his escape across the lawn, or hold his breath until the man left, and he could resume sitting alone in silence, enjoying the night.
Option three seemed most likely, but the chill in the air made Harry shudder, his cane sliding off the bench and clattering loudly to the floor. Harry froze in place, holding his breath as he desperately tried to disappear into the vines at his back.
“Who’s there?” an angry voice demanded. Loud footsteps rounded the corner of the vines, and Harry’s cover was broken, his space invaded by the stranger whose voice promised destruction and severe punishment, judging by what he overheard. Harry remained frozen, hoping the man would leave after no reply. He was not so lucky.
“Answer me, boy, it is incredibly rude to listen to private matters,” The man's fierce growl at the end of his sentence quickened Harry’s pulse. His hands began to sweat as he nervously felt around for his cane. The damn thing must have rolled away from him somewhere under the bench. Ignoring the man, Harry searched, his nerves becoming increasingly frazzled as he searched, hands shaking for his cane, all thoughts of answering the stranger out the window.
A firm hand shocked him from his search as he was hoisted off the ground, his back hitting the stone wall with a thud. Without thinking, Harry’s hands went up to shield his face, and shaky apologies fell from his mouth. His experience with purebloods and his parents' associates rarely went well, but his previous interactions were with their children, not scary grown men who could lift him by his cloak, legs dangling in the air.
“ I’m sorry !” he said, one hand shielding his face from impact, the other gripping the man's coat tightly in a white-knuckle grip. If the man was anything like his brothers or his crazy cousin Bella, he would be hexing him, or worse, punching him in no time, but no, the man froze. His hands went slack, and Harry slumped to the ground, falling in a heap of fabric and limbs. His knees knocked the ground harshly, and he gasped in pain, his hand immediately coming to soothe the stinging.
A hand on his shoulder startled his place on the floor, the touch light but firm.
“ You speak? ” The man asked, astonished.
“ Y-yes, of course, I do, ” Harry began, his voice rusty from disuse; he couldn't remember the last time he had spoken. “ I’m sorry I did not announce myself, it's most unbecoming.” Maybe if he tried apologizing again, the man would leave him alone, forgetting about the whole thing, and Harry could summon Kreacher to take him home. If the elf would listen to him, he thought humorously.
“ How is that possible? I am the only known speaker in the British Isles. ” The man did not sound enthused.
“ I believe language is natural to wizards, yes? ” Harry said. He couldn't help sassing the man a little. What was he going on about? Of course, people could talk; language was natural. All children learned to read and write and talk, hence the very conversation they were currently having. He just could never understand why no one seemed to comprehend him until this very moment.
Brushing off his robes, Harry made to stand and was startled once again at a hand grasping his own. Feeling around, Harry's hands trailed above his head and in front of him to feel the coat, lapels, and then face of the person speaking to him. The man, to his credit, waited patiently for Harry’s assessment, a smile quirking his lips. Harry’s hands ended their inspection at a head of thick curls, passing a smooth painted nose, an angular jaw, thick eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and thin lips.
“ You are blind, ” the man intoned, a hint of amusement peeking into his words.
“ I suppose so, although my family prefers without sight, to appease their highly regarded pureblood manners of course, ” Harry said, brushing off his robes once more, nervous and fidgety. He knew it was rude to touch strangers, the warning from his father ringing through his ears, but he could not help himself, and the man clearly had no problem manhandling him. Who said he could not manhandle him back?
“ Of course, ” the man laughed in reply. “ How rude of me to assume. ”
It was Harry's turn to laugh. The adrenaline and tension had dissipated, his shoulders relaxing. He swayed on his feet.
The man rushed to grab hold of him once again, lowering him to the bench, a hand on his elbow, the back of his other feeling his cheek softly.
“ Are you alright? ” he asked, genuine concern coloring his tone.
“ I’m fine, ” Harry said, gripping the hand on his cheek.
“ You feel cold, ” the man said.
“ It is cold outside, ” Harry pointed out. Once again, the man could only smile at the strange boy.
Summoning a glass of water, the stranger held the cup to his lips, urging him to drink. Normally, Harry would be extremely cautious of strange men offering him mystery drinks, but his nerves and the stress of the day had caught up with him. He drank from the glass, not tasting any potions or poisons, and sipped from it timidly. Summoning some more bravery, Harry cleared his throat to speak again.
“ Are you enjoying the party? ” he asked. What a stupid question, he thought, immediately regretting it. While kicking himself for the uninspired question, he felt the strange sensation of a warming charm settling over his body. “ Thanks, ” he said shyly, noticing the man still had a hold of his hand.
“ I’m not a fan of parties, ” he said honestly. “ I find most people unremarkable. ”
The stranger's fingers startled him once more, the slightly calloused digits running down the length of his face, over the bridge of his nose. Harry supposed it was only fair for the stranger to inspect him as well, and simply let it happen, holding still until the man spoke again.
“ You are by far the most interesting thing I have encountered at such a party, ” again, his voice spoke with unabashed honesty. Harry could not help the flush to his cheeks and the heat that rushed to his face. “ Do you always behave in such a way? ”
“ Are you referring to my general lack of manners? ” Harry deadpanned. His mother relentlessly reminded him of his hooligan tendencies and character flaws when it came to polite society and basic manners. Harry knew he lacked some manners, but truly, he hardly interacted with anyone but Kreacher. Kreacher was no well-mannered yuppie.
“ You have been quite well-mannered so far, ” the man said, his hands settling back from Harry’s face. The man was tempted to trace the boy's scars again, but refrained. “ Surely better than everyone in there, ” Taking his hands again, the man gestured towards the ballroom with Harry’s hand, causing Harry to smile again, cheeks flushing.
A pop interrupted their intimate mood on the balcony. Kreacher’s arrival, unprompted and loud, caused Harry to jump in his seat. The elf took one look at Harry sitting with a stranger and popped away again, only to return seconds later.
“Master Hooligan, Missus demands your return to the house,” Kreacher said. The elf eyed the stranger who held the hands of his charge with suspicion, but instead of commenting, just grumbled under his breath and motioned for Harry to stand up.
“ Master Hooligan? ” the stranger chuckled, looking between Harry and the elf.
“ A lovely nickname from my loving family, ” Harry said sheepishly. With the stranger's help, Harry stood from the bench and was led to Kreacher’s outstretched hand.
“ May I ask Master Hooligan's given name? ” the stranger said, eyes alight with amusement and gentle teasing. The elf grumbled once more, grimacing at the two and where their hands met in disgust.
“ Oh, ” Harry paused, unsure of how to proceed. His mother and father would absolutely lose it if they found out he had spoken to anyone at the party, let alone given out his name. Harry was a carefully hidden secret of the Blacks. It was not common knowledge that the Blacks had a third son, let alone an almost squib, blind, and seemingly mute son. Harry knew he was a stain on the Black family name, but the butterflies in his stomach and the blush on his cheeks were daring him to rebel, just this once.
“ You may call me Harry, ” He said, smiling slightly at the man. Kreacher wasted no time apparating Harry back home to 12 Grimmauld Place, ushering Harry into a warm bath and then warm pajamas. He didn't even get to say goodbye to the stranger.
As Harry lay awake in bed that night, his mind was full of the stranger, his firm yet gentle voice, capable of scaring people, threatening for sure, but soft with him. Alluring even, Harry thought. He knew he most likely would never speak to the man again, and once Kreacher told his parents he was alone on a balcony with a stranger, he would not be allowed back to any parties or events. He hoped the man would remember him, even though their encounter was brief; he hoped he had left a lasting impression. Rolling onto his side, Harry closed his eyes, remembering the feeling of the man's face on his fingertips, the sound of his deep and genuine laugh, and the feeling of his warm hands in his own.
A Parselmouth, the man thought to himself.
Chuckling lightly, he could not believe he had at last encountered another speaker. A human living and breathing speaker. Tom Marvolo Riddle, or Lord Voldemort to his supporters, sat on the balcony at Malfoy Manor, contemplating the boy who captured his attention. The festivities and lively music from the ballroom went ignored as he replayed the conversation in his mind.
The boy’s cane, most likely for navigation, lay across his lap. It was an unassuming thing, a simple, dull brown cane, obviously well-used, judging by the slight grooves in the wood left by his hand. He didn't know why, but the dark lord was befuddled by the boy, unassuming and plain in nature, plain for all but the vivid green of his eyes, cloudy and glazed over like water in a swamp, and the lightning-like scars zig-zagging across his face.
“My lord,” the door to the balcony opened, and Dolohov, his ever-loyal servant, came to bow in front of him. “It has been taken care of, my lord.”
“Good,” The Dark Lord said, lost in thought. To his utter surprise, a pop of apparition startled them both. The telltale crack of house elf magic whipped through the air with a crack, and the ornery elf had come back.
Kreacher stood, half hunched and angry, hands on his hips, head swiveling back and forth, scanning the balcony. Spotting what he came for, the elf strode over to the Dark Lord, fearlessly snatching the cane from his grasp.
With a harumph and a sneer, the elf snapped his fingers and disappeared.
The two men sat in the echoing silence for what felt like hours, until finally, the Dark Lord cleared his throat, smiling, eyes dancing with amusement.
"Antonin,"
“Yes, my lord?”
“I have another task for you, a rather pressing matter.”