Part the First—
“She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in the aspect of her eyes…”
—Lord Byron
There were colors. Everywhere. Lucius was stunned. He was unsure why he was out in Muggle London. It was beautiful, however. There were sparks on fingertips, just out of sight of Muggles. Everyone in robes and wizarding coats, congregating, talking happily, excitedly. The Potters… The Boy-Who-Lived… The same whisperings again and again.
It was infectious.
Lucius had dressed for the occasion. He may be upset inside, but he must keep up appearances. He may have been a follower of the Dark Lord, but to everyone else he was the scion of one of the Ancient Houses, married to the daughter of one of the most Noble Houses in the Land.
Narcissa, yes. Beautiful, sophisticated Narcissa. She was the mother of their young son, Draco. Lucius was terribly fond of her. It was more than he could ever have hoped for. He was lucky to have secured her, he knew. As a Malfoy, he had to secure someone with fair coloring and impeccable breeding. Who knew that he would find a viable candidate in the Noble and Ancient House of Black? Yes, she was from a minor offshoot, related to the heir of the House through his mother, but her blood was impeccable.
And her body was warm beside him in bed. She was an understanding lover and a welcome companion. She was a devoted mother to their son. In truth, he would be surprised if Draco didn’t turn out a little spoiled. However, Lucius couldn’t fault her. He himself had a cold mother and he would not wish that on his son. He had only known indifference and the constant lesson of how to be a pureblood. Yes, he would teach Draco his duty and his heritage, but he would be loved—by both his parents.
An explosion lit up the sky over his head and he smiled to himself. “Severus,” he said to his companion. “What do you make of all these revelries?”
Severus was silent. He had a habit of brooding. Something, though, was wrong. Lucius could tell—and it wasn’t the death of their lord.
Lucius turned toward a witch who had grabbed his hands and was making to dance with him. It was infectious, and Lucius laughed, performing an old pureblood folkdance with this unnamed witch to some beat that only the two of them could hear. His shortly cropped hair, in the Roman style, swished near his ears, and he laughed.
The witch’s eyes sparkled and he twirled her in the dance.
She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t young. However, it didn’t matter.
Lucius Malfoy must be seen to be celebrating. So celebrate he did.
The informal dance gained more participants, and soon Lucius was switching partners. This time he was stepping with a middle-aged witch with blond hair that he recognized from the Ministry for Magic. He bowed over her hand, and she smiled at him, before they switched partners again.
Severus just watched, silently, from the sidelines.
Still, Lucius danced, the secret joy of being free filling his soul, his hand becoming moist from touching so many fingers, of the old, of the young, of the beautiful, of the plain. The swirl of robes in different colors blinded his eyes and he noticed the Muggles from the area watching them in astonishment.
Let them watch!
They were filth under his dragonhide boots! They didn’t realize what a lucky escape they had this night. The Dark Lord was gone and they were safe—for now. Lucius had money in his pockets and he wasn’t afraid to spend it. He would be quiet at first, but then he would sponsor legislation that favored purebloods and disenfranchised Mudbloods and Muggles. That was the safer plan, he knew, and he would follow it. The cause would not be forgotten—the tactics would just change.
His partner changed and his breath caught. She wasn’t beautiful. That was too common a word for her. No, she was handsome, striking, classical, with high cheekbones and black eyes. Her brown hair fell down her back in waves and swished in time to the music. She was tall, coming up to his eyes, and her own gaze sparkled.
“Sir,” she greeted, playfully.
“Mademoiselle,” he answered back, taking in her stylish dress robe of mauve and gold. It hugged her curves beautifully, the cloak showing some modesty and hinting at pleasure to come. She was simply enchanting!
Lucius glanced back at her face and noticed how young she was. He stepped around her, holding her hand, and murmured, “Forgive me if I’m incorrect, but shouldn’t you be at Hogwarts?”
She laughed openly. “You sound like my fiancé!” she declared. “I couldn’t miss the celebrations, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Tonight is history, after all.”
“Exactly,” she chimed. “I would never forgive myself if I missed this,” she answered. It was time to switch partners, but they both held fast to each other. “I saw you begin the dance,” she murmured in his ear. “Do you dance often, sir?”
“At balls,” he answered. “My wife is rather fond of them.”
“Perhaps I should not monopolize you, then. She may be looking for you.” Her black eyes were so expressive as she looked up at him. He could see such earnestness, such concern.
“She won’t mind,” he assured this startling witch. “She’s at home, anyway.” He left off the bit about Draco. He wasn’t sure why, to be entirely honest. However, those eyes entranced him, that face enthralled him, and he wanted to hold this strange ethereal witch in his arms.
On impulse, he drew her from the dance, and twirled her into his arms. She laughed happily as he caught her into his embrace. His arm encircled her waist, his other hand clasping her hand, and she placed her hand on his shoulder.
“My, you’re full of surprises,” she whispered into his ear, laughing. “What would your wife and my fiancé say?”
“I don’t think they would begrudge us for celebrating,” Lucius answered, half-truthfully. “And it’s so rare to find a truly compatible dance partner.”
She threw her head back and laughed. Her black eyes searched out his gaze. “No names,” she demanded. “Let’s just be strangers passing in the night.”
“Very well, Mademoiselle,” he answered, dipping her. He briefly noticed that Severus was watching them for some unknown reason. Perhaps he was bored with the other revelries. “If we see each other again, I suppose we shall pretend we’ve never seen each other before in our lives.”
“It is as it should be,” she answered. “Forgive me for sounding like a silly schoolgirl, but this is all like a fairytale.”
“With Muggle spectators.”
She laughed that wonderful, deep laugh. “Yes. They’re rather horrid, aren’t they? Or should I be more kind and thoughtful? I must admit that I was brought up in the Old Ways, Sir Knight. From your clothing, I suppose the same is true for you, so I am quite safe from censure.”
“Quite safe,” Lucius agreed. “I’m from an old family, Mademoiselle. Your dislike for Muggles is shared. I must admit, however, it’s rather fun to flaunt our magic in front of them, even if it is just this once.”
He felt her within his arms and breathed in her scent, vanilla and rainwater. What an alluring combination. Her fiancé was a very lucky wizard.
“When’s the wedding?” he questioned suddenly, curious.
She looked at him oddly. “When I’m twenty-one. Father demands it. He’s rather overprotective. I know, I know,” she added. “It’s rather old for a pureblood maiden. I should have one or two children by then, but my fiancé is fortunately willing to humor my father.”
Lucius considered. “It’s understandable,” he concluded. “I don’t have a daughter myself, but if I did, I would want a man who would value her as more than a broodmare. I would also want proof that the wizard in question actually loved her.”
“But if you had a son?” she inquired, as they moved slowly on the spot around each other, their left hands raised and touching palm-to-palm above their heads. “Would you want him to have to wait? My fiancé is already older than I am and has to wait.”
“I can’t speak from experience,” Lucius admitted, holding this wondrous witch closer. “I married my wife directly out of Hogwarts. I believe, though, I would have waited.” There had not been such a good match with the appropriate coloring within five years of Narcissa’s age, and he was genuinely fond of her.
“Hmm,” she answered, her head against his shoulder. They now just waltzed there, away from the others, content in the other’s presence. Sparks flew around them, owls swooping overhead, and Lucius breathed in that scent that he knew he would never forget.
Fog. He was in a fog. Everything was dulled. He breathed deeply and then there was a voice in his head. “Take her hand and lead her down the alley.”
The voice was familiar but Lucius didn’t think about it. Instead, he pulled away from the witch and took her hand in his.
Screaming. The fog lifted and Lucius saw the witch up against a wall, a wand lying on the ground, blood staining her legs. His own trousers were undone and he looked around him.
“By the gods, what happened?” he asked, lacing himself up. However, he knew what happened—it was clear. He approached the witch but she flinched away. Carefully he picked up the discarded wand and noticed that it had been snapped in two. His breath hitched.
He reached forward and, as gently as he could manage, he took her arm. “Come,” he murmured. “We must get you cleaned up.”
“Get away from me!” she shrieked, but there was an oddness to the sound, as if they were inside a Silencing Charm.
By the gods, what had he done?
“Sh,” he tried. “It was the Imperius Curse,” he soothed. “It’s me. I’m back.”
She just shrank back, but Lucius stepped carefully forward as if approaching a wounded animal.
“We have to get you out of here,” he murmured. “Come. You’ll be safe.” He had to get her away from spectators, before anyone saw and her reputation was completely ruined.
There was a rustling and before she could move further away from him, he grabbed her and Apparated them away.
The cottage was rarely used but always kept in good order. Lucius knew none of his family ever came here so the witch would be safe. “Minxie!” he called and a small house elf appeared. “Ah, good. This is your new Mistress. You are not to tell anyone—not Master Abraxas or Mistress Narcissa—that she is here. I need you to clean her up.”
The witch’s eyes were dead and she was holding herself as if she was about to fall apart. Lucius supposed she was about to.
“Go with Minxie,” he murmured, placing his hand on her back.
She flinched away, which caused Lucius to cringe.
He looked at her objectively. Her cloak was dirty and her robes were ripped so that her legs were clearly showing. He could see the dried blood down her left leg and it made him sick. Her hair was mussed and there was a smudge of dirt on her face.
She looked like she had been attacked.
And she had been. By him.
After a moment, she followed the house elf after looking at him warily, an unasked question in her black eyes.
Lucius sat down and put his head in his hands. How had this happened? Well, he knew how it happened. It was painfully obvious. She had been raped. By him. He had been raped by whoever had cast the Imperius Curse. But who? There were so many people in the crowd and that voice—that voice—
He growled in frustration. He couldn’t place it.
This was all so—
Yes, if he admitted it to himself, he had wanted to bed the anonymous witch. He had sworn an oath to Narcissa, but it didn’t seem to matter when he was holding this witch in his arms. However, he would never jeopardize her honor or dishonor her unknown fiancé. He wouldn’t want another wizard doing such a thing to him, after all.
This was all just—
He couldn’t breathe.
What he needed was a drink. Yes, a drink. Definitely a drink. He stood and made his way to the decanter of Oban 14.
He wasn’t proud of it. Lucius was drunk. He stalked into the bathroom where he found the witch in the bathtub, completely clean and delectable. She flinched when she saw him and sank further into the bubbles in the tub, and hid herself from his gaze. He raised his wand and whispered, “Obliviate!”
She looked startled and then looked around her. “I—what?”
“Come back to bed,” he murmured, holding out his hand. He had Minxie repairing her robes and he’d already mussed up the bed, to make it already look used. The original plan had been to keep her here, safe, where her dishonor wouldn’t be known, but now this—this—seemed more appealing. Make her a conspirator and send her on her way. He wouldn’t have to live with the constant shame of it and he would hopefully have a sweet if drunken memory of this night.
“Back to bed?” she asked in confusion.
He looked down at her with as much earnestness as he could muster.
She glanced down at herself in the bath and then back at him. “The last thing I remember is dancing with you on that street?” Her voice was no longer tentative and frightened, but strong and with a questioning lilt to it. Lucius found that he much preferred it. This was the witch he had danced with under the stars.
“Perhaps you had a bit too much to drink,” he murmured, leaning down so that their lips brushed. She remained unmoving, but she allowed it. “I brought you here and we made love, and then you said you wanted a bath. Minxie is repairing your robes. I’m afraid I was a little violent with them.”
“You’re married,” she argued. “I’m engaged—Evan—“
“They need never know,” he whispered, leaning in for another kiss, which she hesitantly returned. “Remember, no names.”
“No, no names,” she agreed. “You’ll be gentle?”
“Of course, and then you’ll be back to Hogwarts without anyone ever knowing. I know you’ve felt the pull between us,” Lucius coaxed. He had to have her and actually remember it. If he made her complicit then she would keep the secret. It was the only way of salvaging their lives and not completely ruining hers.
“Come into the bath,” she demanded boldly, her eyes meeting his.
He grinned. Lucius had won.
There hadn’t been time for a wedding. Lucrece was only in her sixth year and she was pregnant. Then Evan was hunted down and killed by Aurors and she didn’t know what to do. She went to her father (what else could she do?) and confessed to him that she and Evan had consummated their relationship before he had died.
Troy Hektoris Prince had been angry at first. He had flung several vases at the fireplace but eventually he had calmed down and planned for Lucrece’s confinement. “Demmed girl,” he would often mutter to no one in particular, but his wife Dionysia and Lucrece heard him all the same.
He’d spread a lot of money around. There was a fake marriage license between Lucrece and Evan Rosier, no one seemed to care that Lucrece was technically underage, and Lucrece spent the second half of her sixth year in bed, alone, at Wolf Hall.
Part of the agreement was that Lucrece would go abroad after the birth. The child would be brought up by her parents, Troy and Dyonisia. It was a devil’s agreement, but it was to be her penance.
Lucrece remembered that night in that cottage with the wizard with no name, and wondered if he regretted it, if he had a child of his own by his wife, or if under different circumstances she would have been giving birth to his heir.
There was nothing to be done about it, though.
She would have a happy life as a wealthy widow in Italy. Her child would be loved and looked after and he or she wouldn’t be a reminder of what she had lost—the admiration of a wizard under the sparks of shooting stars and a fiancé who never knew of her betrayal. To be honest, Lucrece wasn’t even certain if she could love the child. Perhaps she was too selfish.
She didn’t know.
The baby was a little boy. She named him Octavian for her brother who had died when he was at Hogwarts and Nür for the color of his father’s hair, which was like liquid light.
Lucrece watched dispassionately when Octavian was three months old and her parents magically adopted her child. She didn’t bother to kiss her baby—well, brother now—goodbye when she left for the continent.
Rosier was never to have a son in this world. Perhaps it was for the best. He was a known Death Eater, after all. Whoever Octavian’s sire was, he would never know. How could he?
She didn’t know if he ever thought of their time together. She probably wasn’t the only one. How could she be? He had that getaway—that house elf. However, that didn’t bear thinking about.
“Goodbye,” she whispered to no one, before going through the International Floo. She didn’t know it then, but she’d never see her firstborn son again.
“Octavian Nür,” Troy Prince said as he came into his grandson’s quarters. “Are ye ready to go yet? Your demmed mother and I have been waiting.”
With golden blond hair that fell to his shoulders, Octavian looked up, his features slightly pointed with eyes as black as obsidian. He made a face. “I don’t want to go to Hogwarts.”
“We’ve had this discussion,” Troy sighed, sitting on the bed. He was careful not to upset the three card spread Octavian had out on the coverlet. “I know you don’t like your cousin on principle, but he must be kind to you. He demmed well better be! I am the head of his family and have the power to disinherit him. You will one day be the head of his family. There is nothing he can do to you, don’t you see?”
Octavian sighed. “He’s a half-blood.” He turned his tarot cards in his hands. “I know I shouldn’t have anything against them, but—“
“That’s how we raised you,” Troy put in. “We didn’t perhaps stress this enough with your sister Lucrece.”
Nodding, Octavian looked down to his hands. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever meet her.”
“No,” Troy agreed. “She took your brother Octavian Romulus’s death very hard. She was only twelve when it happened, but once she graduated Hogwarts, she just wanted to get away from the memories of him. It’s why we had you, Octavian Nür, our wonderful heir. We couldn’t bear to be without children.”
Octavian looked up. “I wish you hadn’t named me Octavian,” he answered truthfully. “I feel like I’m reusing the name.”
“No,” Troy disagreed. “It’s a demmed strong name. You do credit to your brother’s memory. We are nothing, Octavian Nür, without our traditions and our memories. I don’t think you’ll find a single pureblood family that doesn’t name their children after ancestors or relatives.” He paused. “Now, come. Let’s give your mother this chance to spoil you.”
Dionysia Prince was a stately witch who was clearly past childbearing years, with the same golden blonde hair as Octavian and chestnut eyes. She rather resembled her daughter Lucrece in bearing, and the notion always brought pain to her whenever she thought of her wayward daughter and how Lucrece would never see her son grow up into a confident wizard.
“Now,” she said when she saw her grandson. “Cat or owl? I don’t think we’ve decided yet.”
They headed toward the floo.
Octavian looked up at her with wide eyes. “Hogwarts has post owls, doesn’t it? I think I’d like a cat if that’s the case.”
“You’re like me then,” Troy said as he took a pinch of floo powder. “Cornelius was the name of my cat when I was at Hogwarts. I loved that demmed cat.”
In the end, Troy and Dionysia insisted on picking out the cat for Octavian as his birthday was at the beginning of August. They left him at Florean Fortescue’s as it was “safe” due to the number of patrons (“I don’t think Sirius Black will be here,” Dionysia mused).
Octavian was waiting in line when he accidentally bumped into another boy.
“Sorry!” he said quickly, and the other boy turned, revealing an oval face and bright green eyes behind horn rimmed glasses.
“That’s all right,” the boy said. “It’s awfully crowded.”
“Yes,” Octavian agreed with a smile. “It seems like everyone is here for their school supplies.”
The boy hummed. “You might be right.”
Octavian noticed that the boy was surrounded by ginger-haired wizards and there was this bushy haired girl. He looked at them critically, trying to recognize them, but he didn’t. This boy was also a complete stranger. Perhaps they weren’t purebloods then.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said a little self-consciously. “I’m Harry.” He stuck out his hand a bit awkwardly. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around Hogwarts.”
“No,” Octavian agreed, taking the hand although he wasn’t entirely certain this Harry was his social equal. “It’s my first year. I’ve been going around the alley with my parents getting my robes and things. I think we’re getting my wand last. Apparently Ollivander is quite the character.” Octavian was babbling, he knew it, but those green eyes were so intense. They seemed familiar somehow, and although he couldn’t quite place it, it was as though a lullaby were playing somewhere far off.
“Well, if you end up in Gryffindor,” Harry said, “look me up.”
Octavian smiled at him. “I don’t think that’s likely. My sister and father were in Slytherin and Mother was in Ravenclaw. I don’t know what house my brother was in, come to think of it.” He thought to himself. No one had ever mentioned it to him. His parents didn’t like to talk about Octavian Romulus if they could help it. They talked about him even less than they talked about Lucrece.
“You never know,” Harry said congenially. “You might surprise everyone.”
The two just looked at each other for several long moments. Octavian knew the face. He knew he did. Not to sound silly, but it was as if he had seen this boy once upon a dream—a very important dream that he couldn’t quite remember.
“Do you maybe have a brother or sister at Hogwarts?” Harry asked carefully. “You remind me of someone for some reason.”
“No,” Octavian laughed. “My sister Lucrece is sixteen years older than I am…”
“Harry,” the bushy haired girl said, “it’s your turn.”
“Oh,” Harry startled. “Chocolate with sprinkles,” he ordered and then stepped aside for Octavian.
Octavian looked over at him carefully. It was a very Muggle choice. “Veela sherbert,” he ordered, “with fairy dust.”
The witch behind the counter looked at him with large eyes. “Yes, Mr. Prince. Of course, Mr. Prince.” She was clearly quite flustered. Octavian had to hold in a sigh. The Prince eyes were so distinctive.
Harry was laughing slightly and drew him to the side. “She’s acting like you’re me!”
“Is your father one of the four lords?” Octavian asked incredulously.
Harry looked at him oddly. “Er—no. I’m—well, I thought you knew.”
“Knew what?” Apart from the fact that he knew what it was like to be held by this boy in the night, in a way he had never been held before, firefly light playing on their skin. What else was there to know?
Taking his hand, Harry swiped away his fringe and Octavian saw the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. It looked freshly cut, oddly enough.
“Oh no,” he murmured. “I don’t know what Father will say if he knew I’ve befriended a celebrity.” Octavian thought about it for a moment. No, he really didn’t know what Troy Prince’s reaction would be. “I suppose I just won’t tell him. I’ll just mention your father was a pureblood and it will be all right.”
The bushy haired girl overheard them. “What is that supposed to mean? Who cares if his father was a pureblood?”
Harry was accepting their ice creams and they were sitting down at a table, which was unfortunately right next to the bushy-haired girl’s. “I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it, Hermione,” Harry was saying. “I just think he has strict parents.”
“Horrible parents, you mean,” she responded.
“Take that back,” Octavian whispered dangerously. “My parents are wonderful.”
“They can’t be that wonderful if they won’t let you talk to Harry unless his father is a pureblood.”
“I take it neither of your parents is a pureblood then,” Octavian shot back. An intense dislike for this girl, a memory of chocolate and French lisps, came to mind, and it fueled his anger. “Forgive my family for having standards.”
“Standards? It’s pureblooded bigotry!”
“Is it not Muggleborn bigotry that you would call my family horrible for our beliefs? There are two sides to every galleon,” he pointed out. Somehow she had never recognized him before, had treated him like dirt, although this didn’t make sense to Octavian, considering he had only just met her!
The girl opened her mouth again, but Harry immediately inserted himself into the argument. “Let’s just agree to disagree,” he tried. “Hermione, stop taking what he’s saying out of context. I’m sorry, I never did get your name.”
“Octavian Nür Prince, son of Troy, Lord Prince.”
“I didn’t know there were wizarding lords,” Harry mused. “Who are the other three?”
“Lucius, Lord Malfoy,” Harry made a face, “Sirius, Lord Black,” at this Harry’s face paled, “and Silvanus, Lord Bones.”
Harry looked at Hermione. “Like Susan Bones?”
“I think that’s a distant cousin,” Octavian mused. “I haven’t really made a study of it. My interests lie elsewhere.” Primarily, in divination. He started eating his ice cream, which had begun to melt. He hummed in contentment.
“Octavian Nür,” his father’s voice sounded from behind him, and Octavian jumped, clearly surprised.
Dionysia laughed. “I’m sorry we startled you, darling. Are you enjoying your ice cream?”
He nodded, looking over at Harry, who was seated across from him. “I’ll be done in a moment.”
“Take your time,” Troy stated, coming around the barrier and drawing up two chairs. “Introduce me to your friend.”
Octavian looked worriedly between Harry and his grandparents.
“Don’t worry,” Troy promised with a bit of surly laugh. “We won’t bite.”
“Father, Mother, this is Harry Potter,” Octavian offered. His grandparents looked nonplussed. They merely took him in and nodded.
“A pity that it is so late in summer,” Dionysia was saying, “otherwise we would have you over to tea, Mr. Potter.—Now, Octavian, here is your birthday present.” She was holding a basket and she opened the lid to show a small black kitten.
“He’s adorable!” Octavian exclaimed. “He?”
“She,” Troy corrected. “Her name is Prospera after the wizard in Shakespeare. Witch, I should say. Let’s be politically correct now.” He shared a look with Dionysia and they both laughed. Political correctness was for Muggleborns and for certain half-bloods. Purebloods never bothered with such nonsense.
Octavian picked up the kitten and was holding her gently. “She’s perfect,” he mused. “How did you know I wanted a black cat?”
“How does any parent know?” Troy asked no one in particular. “The demmed point is that you’re happy. Happy belated birthday, Octavian Nür.”
“Was it your birthday?” Harry asked, taking his eyes from the kitten. “Mine was a month ago.”
“I think everyone knows when your birthday was, Harry,” Octavian chided. “Mine was August the fourth, just a few days after.” He looked at his new—friend, should he call him? He seemed like so much more, even though they’d just met. Again, that lullaby was playing. “I don’t think I like your name.”
Harry, of course, looked startled.
“Harry James isn’t much better. Tell me, have you ever considered the French? Henri Jacques? My parents took me on holiday earlier this summer and I find that the language is very beautiful. The language suits, I think.” Yes, that was right, mon Henri Jacques. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but Octavian knew he couldn’t say them.
“Now, Octavian,” Dionysia chided, “you can’t go renaming the savior of the wizarding world.”
“Of course I can,” Octavian disagreed. “You don’t mind, do you, Henri Jacques?”
Harry, though, looked confused. “I’ve always been ‘just Harry’ before.”
“Yes, but I’m certain it gets tiresome. ‘Harry Potter this’ and ‘Harry Potter that.’ Don’t you want to escape from it all, Henri Jacques?—especially given this latest travesty with Sirius, Lord Black.”
“Octavian, I think we’ve bothered Mr. Potter enough for one day,” Dionysia said, her husband silently watching on. “Come now. Finish your ice cream and let’s go and get your wand.”
Her son looked over at her with expressive black eyes, showing that he clearly did not want the conversation to end. “Would you like to come?” he invited. “That is, if you’re done with your own school shopping.”
A ginger-haired man had come over, and was looking deferentially at Octavian’s parents. “Lord Prince, Lady Prince, I’m afraid I must steal Harry away. It’s not safe in the alley, you see, and we’re all done with our ice cream.”
Octavian was saddened by this. It felt like a blow to the chest. “Well if you must go, you must go,” he said, releasing Harry from answering his invitation. “I’ll see you on the Hogwarts Express, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Harry said, standing. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
Octavian beamed at him. “Happy birthday,” he said by means of a farewell, and then Harry was bustled off with the rest of the ginger-haired crew and the bushy haired Hermione.
Troy Prince was looking at him searchingly. “That was not wise, Octavian Nür.”
“Why not?” he answered petulantly. “You’re always encouraging me to expand my horizons.”
“Expand your horizons, yes, but never to play second fiddle. You will ultimately play second fiddle to Harry Potter to the rabble who don’t know any better. I will not have that for my son and heir.” His face was stern, and Octavian looked at him critically.
“I liked him,” he said by way of an explanation. “You know how rare it is for me to actually like someone. Usually I just do my duty and associate with people of the correct family.”
“You’ll meet more people your age at Hogwarts,” Dionysia placated. “More appropriate people.”
“Perhaps,” Octavian agreed, turning back to Prospera. “What do you think, my little darling?”
They soon moved to Ollivander’s, which was dark and dusty. The light came in through the windows, showing the dust particles hovering in the air. Octavian fought the urge to sneeze.
He held Prospera close to his chest and looked about at the shelves upon shelves of small boxes. The wizard who ran the shop seemed to be nowhere in sight.
The three Princes waited. Then there came a voice from somewhere in the corner.
“Ah, yes. The son of Lucius Malfoy and Lucrece Prince.”
Octavian was confused. He’d never met Lord Malfoy and Lucrece was his sister. He looked at his parents, well, he thought they were his parents, in consternation, but they looked just as startled as he did.
“Dionysia, get him out of here!” Troy demanded loudly, and before Octavian could blink, he was ushered out of the shop by his mother. The light from the sun was such a contrast that he had to let his eyes adjust, but when they did, he looked at his mother in confusion. He still held Prospera in his arms.
“What did he mean? Lucrece is my sister!”
“Hush, child, the old man made a mistake,” she tried to soothe, but Octavian was far too unsettled.
“Lucrece is my sister, isn’t she? And what was that about Lord Malfoy? I don’t understand.”
Dionysia lifted a hand and ran it through his golden hair. “Your father is discussing this with Ollivander now. I’m sure we’ll know soon enough.”
Troy Prince didn’t exit the shop for a full half an hour. Octavian ended up sitting on his trunk, which had all his other supplies in it, and played with Prospera, trying to distract himself from what the wizard had said. He knew his parents were old, that his mother was practically past childbearing years when she’d had him, but it was not unheard of for special potions to allow conception even when a witch was well past eighty. They were expensive, of course, but he always assumed that after the death of Octavian Romulus, his parents would do anything to not allow the title to fall into the hands of the half-blood pretender, Severus Snape. That was how he was conceived, and he was deeply loved. He knew this. Octavian was treasured probably more than most pureblood children because he was a second chance for his parents. Octavian Romulus had tragically died and Lucrece had left because of it. She was now married to an Italian duke with children of her own. Lucrece wrote to him occasionally of her life and her children and seemed happy enough. She just didn’t want any contact with the Princes. The memories, it seemed, were just too painful.
When Troy did eventually appear it was with a grim expression on his face. “Nothing to be done,” he said hastily. “There’s a little shop in Dublin that will do quite well. We’ll drop the trunk and the kitten at home and then Apparate there.”
“But what did he mean?” Octavian asked, standing, but with a stern look from Troy, he soon grew silent.
The small magical street in Dublin was teaming with life, and Troy led Octavian to a neat and clean little shop at the end of the alley. Dionysia had elected to stay behind, saying she had had quite enough drama for one day, and she would hear all about it when they returned to England.
The wandmaker was young, probably in his early thirties, and bowed them into his shop graciously. “Hogwarts?” he asked, taking a few boxes from the shelves. “You must be excited. I was when I was your age and first going.” He had an Irish brogue to his voice, which was quite pleasing and made Octavian smile.
“Yes. I’m sorry it’s so late,” it was August 31st after all, “but Father had business.”
“Of course, of course. What brings you to Dublin? I would think you would go to Ollivander’s, given that you’re English.”
“That man is an imposter,” Troy said succinctly.
The wandmaker looked surprised, but only nodded. “Now, they say the wand chooses the wizard, and of course that’s true, but more than one wand can choose the wizard. I’ve picked out a few with different wood types, all the same core, dragon string, just so we know where to get started.”
Octavian tried the woods. Not a single wand responded to him.
“Strange,” the wandmaker responded. “We’ll just have to try something a little different. Obviously dragon heartstring isn’t your core. May I be so bold as to ask the core of your parents’ wands?”
“Phoenix and Unicorn hair,” Troy answered.
The wandmaker looked at Octavian. “We’ll try Unicorn hair.” He set about his little shop and took down several more boxes, but these were all near the back. “Now, these are rare woods, a little more expensive, I have to warn you, but you may have better luck with them.” In the end, the Japanese Maple was the only wood to respond to Octavian. The response, however, was weak.
“I have one more wand with this wood. Unicorn hair, of course. It was taken from a weeping unicorn. It was weeping for a young witch whose lover had passed away. It may be just the thing.” The wandmaker took the box down reverently. “Here, give it a try.”
Octavian felt the connection instantly. He smiled and gave the wand a wave and sparks of pure irredescent white shot from the end of the wand.
Troy clapped appreciatively and the wandmaker smiled. “I think, young man, it is safe to say that your soul calls to another. Like the unicorn that wept for the lover, so you too will have a lover that, if you were to lose him or her, your soul would likewise weep. I never thought I would sell that wand, but I am glad it has found a worthy home.”
The wand was indeed expensive but Troy was more than happy to pay.
When they were about to leave, the young man asked, “May I have your name? For my ledger. I will of course respect your privacy and never give out the information and it’s written in code so that only I can read it.”
Troy looked at him sharply and then glanced at Octavian, who nodded.
“Octavian Nür Prince, heir to Lord Prince,” Troy stated, and the wizard squeaked.
“Thank you for your custom, Lord Prince, Mr. Prince,” he said, bowing them out of the shop.
The wand felt like an extension of his hand, and with a smile, Octavian let his grandfather Apparate them home.
With the wand on his bed stand and Prospera curled up on his pillow, Octavian sat cross-legged on his bed. His parents had sent him to bed nearly thirty minutes ago, but he couldn’t sleep. He had brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas, tied back his golden hair, but still he was restless.
He took out his tarot cards and thought of Harry Potter—and the wand. He felt the two were intrinsically linked.
The three card spread was his favorite. Carefully, he shuffled his cards and placed them into three piles. He let his hand hover over each of them before choosing the last.
One card.
Two cards.
Three. The lovers. Their future.
Octavian smiled. It appeared that their future was bright after all.
Excentryke's Musings 