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Chapter Text

Draco raced across the manor grounds, with his hands stretched towards the snitch. Just a few more centimeters, and he’ll catch it. The bloody little bugger seemed to tease him, grazing his fingers with its wings and zooming away before he could close his hands around it. 

He looked at his left from the corner of his eyes, where Dorian was flying neck-to-neck, maybe even a little faster than him. Draco pushed himself forward to go faster, but knew it was the exact moment he’d messed up. The snitch took a ninety degree turn downwards, which he could not do unless he wanted to die. He felt, more than saw, Dorian’s smirk as he twisted his broom and shot straight down, catching the snitch and rolling on the grass gracefully. He tossed the snitch air again and again as Draco neared him, his entire body thrumming with triumph.

“You said you were the star seeker?” He then tossed the snitch at him.

Draco frowned and caught it. “Alright Dorian, both of us knew you’d win. But who’s on the team at the end of the day?”

It was a low blow, but his friend was used to this. He just huffed and turned around towards the manor. 

“Just one more year, and I’ll be on the national team. I don’t need to be on a school team for that.” The word was dripped in derision, but also longing. 

Draco felt a little bad for him. No matter how much he tried to deny it, Dorian really wanted to visit Hogwarts. But he could never, considering who his father was. When their side will win, the first thing Draco planned to do was take his friend to the school. No magic in the world compared to the magnificence of the castle. 

Once inside, they cleaned themselves and prepared for dinner. His mother greeted them, smiling softly and ushering them towards the dinner table where the houselves were setting it up. His father was sitting at the head of the table, reading the Daily Prophet for the second time of the day. 

“Lord Malfoy.” Dorian said politely before taking his seat. His father simply nodded, the silver mask showing nothing what was going behind. 

Draco did not understand his need for putting it on within the house whenever Dorian came over, since he already knew what his father looked like. He had asked the Lord about it once, and all he’d gotten was a sharp look in reply. 

During dinner, his parents inquired about their day, how his summer studies and Dorian’s training was going on. 

“Lord Rookwood is excellent at Ancient Runes, though his knowledge in arithmency seems to be lacking severely. Father was disappointed that he lied about it and said that he’ll look into the matter.” His tone and Draco’s parents' faces suggested that the confrontation was about to be particularly painful for Lord Rookwood. 

“And what about your formal training, Mr. Riddle? I heard my Lord was planning to start having you involved in the more… serious issues soon.” His father said,glancing at Draco once. 

Dorian and him were of the same age. Once he starts actively participating in his father’s other interests, they knew that he would soon have to follow.

Dorian stayed quiet for a while before he spoke. “I have attended a few meetings with him and have accompanied him during his…. outings. He thought I should wait a few more months before– properly getting involved in it.” He did not notice the relief on the three faces around him and he stared at his plate. 

The dinner continued, somewhat sombre compared to how it started. Soon after, Draco followed his friend to the fireplace in the hallway, finally away from his parents. 

“Sorry about that. He just… likes to check up on what our Lord’s doing.” He smiled apologetically at him. 

Dorian shook his head slightly. “It’s fine, father does the same. It’s much worse than yours, honestly.”

Draco laughed. “Another match soon, alright?”

The other boy simply shook his head. “I can never promise that.”

Before the clock chimed at 9, Dorian vanished amongst the green flames, his bright white mask being the last one that disappeared. 

Once the green light faded and the smoke dissipated, Dorian removed the mask from his face before even opening his eyes. His father hated when he did this, always telling him to first at least get out of the fireplace and close it properly before, but he was not there for a few days and Dorian hated the mask. 

It was not bad, honestly speaking. More comfortable compared to what Draco or anyone else wears, from what he heard. But still, he got very few moments like these and cherished them.

He first went to his father’s office, where as expected, there was a list of books and assignments Dorian had to finish before he came back. The list always became longer than the last one, making it more difficult for him to keep up. He’d never actually failed to complete his work, had never dared to– not wanting to risk his father’s anger. He’d grown up hearing the tales of the infamous Dark Lord’s wrath, so no. 

He went over the list, and cringed when he came across Atticus Avery’s name. The other names weren’t that great either. Rookwood again, Bellatrix Lestrange, Crouch, Nott, and Malfoy. 

Dorian had trained under all of them ever since his father had returned two years ago. They weren’t overly bad, just unpleasant to be around. 

He sighed and took the parchment with him to the library, finding the books and then taking them to his own room. 

Vaas, his snake, was sleeping on his bed when he came back. Dorian flicked his tail when he was passing by, waking it up. 

‘Back?’

“Yes. What did you eat today, Vaas?”

‘Rabbit.’

“Good.” He smiled at it, gaining a tilted head in response and started going through the first book. It was going to be a long week. 

“Bellatrix has been complaining that you’ve been struggling with the cruciatus again.” His father said, without looking up from the muggle that was screaming in pain at his feet. 

Dorian kept his face blank and answered truthfully. “It was the subjects she keeps bringing. That boy was much younger than me.” 

Lord Voldemort pinned him with a sharp gaze. “The muggle will never care how young you are when they demonize you for being a wizard. That morality you have pride in, it will cost you your life, Dorian.” He let go of the spell he held the muggle under and pushed him towards him with a flick of his wand. “Continue.” 

The younger boy took out his wand from his robes and looked down at the muggle. Without thinking much, he casted the cruciatus curse. It faltered for a moment after the muggle started to scream, but strengthened immediately after that. After a long time when blood had started pouring out of the orifice’s on the muggle’s face and he had lost his mind, Dorian finished it off with the killing curse. 

When he looked back up, his father had a strange smug look on his face, which dissolved into an indifferent acknowledgement quickly. “Good, do not forget what I said. You can now leave.” 

Dorian nodded and left the room. Once back in his own bedroom, he changed his clothes quickly and collapsed on his bed before he could throw up in the bathroom. 

Vaas wrapped itself around his shoulder and flicked his tongue at his face. ‘Blood?’ 

“I removed it.”

He conjured several mice before the snake could go on its disappointed hissings and closed his eyes. He could not afford to be this affected by all these things any longer. 

Dorian accioed the photobook his guardians had given to him when he was younger. They’d never opened it, at least that’s what they said. It was a tremendously rare thing, only a few like these remained in the British wizarding world. 

He opened it and flipped through its pages, looking at the pictures of his father when he looked like a man. They were from his years at Hogwarts; though there was nothing serpentine about the young boy in the pictures, just sharpness and calm intelligence behind his eyes. He then reached the pictures of his father just when he’d started gaining traction in their cause, a sixteen year old Tom Riddle in the centre of the picture with his Knights beside him, a little behind and reverently looking at him. He was of the same age as him, but he’d achieved so much more with little to nothing in his hands. Just pure magic, power, and determination. Dorian should’ve done better, being the son of the Dark Lord. But he had not, because he was weak. 

As Dorian looked at the pictures, he thought about their similarities. Similar hair, similar face, and similar power. It frustrated him, how close he was to being the perfect son, yet never quite achieving it. It was hard, but he had to do it. 

Once he overcame his short-comings, Dorian knew he’d be unstoppable. He just had to do it. 

The green-eyed snake bumped his head on his shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts. ‘Sleep, human.’ 

Dorian smiled at it and put the book on his night stand. ‘Yes, sir.’

Vaas tilted its head again in confusion before making itself comfortable over him to sleep. 

"We have similar eyes, Vaas. Which of your strengths should I aim for?”

Chapter Text

Nobody ever truly liked Number 12, Grimmauld Place – at least those who were alive. The house was dear to its dead owners, who were all long gone, leaving behind only one heir who hated it with all his being. Sirius knocked off an old vase from the top of the dresser, finding satisfaction when the porcelain broke into multiple shards, further crushed by Remus’ shoes when he stepped inside their room. 

“It will repair itself and be back there tomorrow morning.” He said, magicking the pieces out of the doorway. 

“Oh, I look forward to that everyday.” He grinned. “So how was the meeting? Did James and Snape try to kill each other again?”

Remus just sighed and pointed at the door. A second later, James stomped in, with Lily snickering quietly behind him. Then, after a long moment, Snape passed by, giving them all a dirty look before disappearing. 

“Why is he on this floor? It’s family-only!” Sirius exclaimed, trying to get up from the bed, but groaning in pain and falling back immediately. 

“He had asked for a book on advanced warding from Albus. He said he saw one in your library, which I think he’s going to look for.” Lily answered.

“Shouldn’t they ask me?” Sirius cursed his injured leg. He’d run after the man to make sure he doesn’t do anything shady in the house. “One of you should be with him.”

“Albus asked me, and I said it’s fine as long as he writes an essay on what he learned from it. Four parchments long.” James said, making Remus snort. “Should’ve seen his face. And who wants to spend more time with him anyways. I asked Kreacher, he’s doing that. Trailing behind or whatever.”

“Can we talk about what happened in the meeting, rather than whatever Severus is upto?” Lily said, knowing the two of them would go on and on about the Potion’s Master if left unchecked. 

“Yes, please.” Remus said and turned towards Sirius. “There’s something very troubling we’ve heard.”

“What is it?” And just like that, every face turned serious in the room.

“It’s not official yet, of course. The weapon, Severus and Albus always talked about, that Voldemort has. Well, it’s not a dark object or some ritual. It’s his son. He has a child.” Lily started.

“What?” Sirius asked, horrified.

“We don’t know much about the boy yet, just that he’s of age and is planning to step into the war by his father’s side.”

“Snape was called yesterday to teach him potions. Highly advanced ones, he said. The boy is ‘decent’ according to him in the subject, but resembles his father a lot in every other aspect.” Remus added.

“He’s of age, meaning– was he in Hogwarts?” Sirius asked, fearing the children’s fate.

“Thankfully no. There’s no official record of him. Severus said not many even know about the kid. Oh Merlin, he has a kid. Why does he even need a son? He's immortal.” Remus covered his face with his hands.

“Who also had sex with him?” James added, looking nauseous. Lily threw a stinging hex at him for bringing that thought in her mind. Nobody missed the saddened look on their faces. The monster who murdered their child now suddenly had a child of his own. 

“What does the kid look like? Snake-ish or human-like?” Sirius asked, trying to distract his two friends. 

“His face was covered the entire time.” 

“Of course it was. What else?”

“Snape said he was…. aloof and kind of detached?” Remus said.

“That’s it?” All of them nodded their heads.

Sirius was frustrated with the lack of information. “So all we know about Voldemort’s son is that he is ‘decent’ at Potions, is an ‘aloof’ teenager, does not have any official records, and we know nothing about him. Great meeting! That could be like any other schoolboy! Should we start shooting hexes at every teen who looks funny?”

“Siri, you’re in shock.” Remus pushed him back a little so he was leaning on the headboard. 

“Of course I am. A trained killer who might cost us this entire war!”

“He’s a child.”

“Voldemort’s child. He could very well be– unnatural. You guys don’t know what lengths some old dark families go to, to have a child, and what they end up making.”

“I’ve heard tales.” James murmured. He had tried some himself after their little Harry was… There was a reason he avoided the Black library at any cost. 

“And that’s still normal people! This is Voldemort we’re talking about. This boy– he has to be born out of so many dark, dark rituals.”

A huge, dark cauldron was bubbling with a murky green potion in the middle of the graveyard. Behind it were the gravestones of the Riddles, where a small bundle of some quivering mass was kept. A young man with a purple turban stood by the cauldron, stirring the potion diligently. An old couple stood on the other side, faces full of excitement and reverence. Finally, after all these years of waiting and searching! 

On the third side of the cauldron stood a young boy, his face covered with a dark cowl, looking at the ritual from beneath it. His heart was beating loudly in his chest, yet he stood straight, keeping his breathing even.

“Your father hates any hint of weakness.” Lady Avery had told him. Right now, she and her husband were chanting in Latin to bring him back from the dead.

Dorian repeated a few phrases with them, remembering everything the Avery’s had taught him in the past year. Quirell, frail and at the brink of death from hosting his father’s soul in his body, plunged a knife right in his heart and leaned into the cauldron. 

“Dorain, help us.” His guardian said. 

With her directions and trembling hands, he lifted his slump man into the air and dropped him into the cauldron slowly. The green turned blood red, boiling violently. Dorian stepped back again, letting his guardians continue the ritual. Bones were taken from his muggle grandfather’s grave, and then the bundle of something was dropped into the cauldron. The potion turned yellow. One last thing now. 

Blood of the firstborn son. 

Dorian stepped ahead once again, took the ceremony from Lord Avery’s hand and slashed his right hand over the potion. His blood gushed out of the wound and dropped into the cauldron, turning it blinding white. He was then asked to step back, and missed the last line of the ritual that Lady Avery murmured. 

They waited, and the potion bubbled. It boiled and boiled, rising slowly. It overflowed and dropped on the ground. For a moment, Dorian feared that the ritual had failed, but then something happened. Black smoke came out of the cauldron, so dense they could not see clearly. Then, after a moment, a light outline of a humanoid figure could be seen. The first hint of colour were the red eyes. Then, the pale white skin. 

Lord Voldemort had returned. 

Lady and Lord Avery immediately dropped down to their knees, bowing their heads in front of their Lord. Dorian did the same. 

“Robe me.” said the high, cold voice from behind the steam. 

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw his guardians slowly look up, obeying and greeting the Dark Lord with reverence and yearning. The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, looking at them with such coldness, one would drop dead from fear itself. He looked whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was as flat as a snake with slits for nostrils. Dorian almost could not believe this person was a human once. 

“Atticus and Luciana Avery, show me your marks.” Obediently, they showed him their marks, which he used to call the other Death Eaters, at least those who were still loyal to him. 

Before they came, for a long moment, Dorian felt the Dark Lord’s gaze on him, heavy and stifling. He did not dare move an inch, though his father said nothing apart from, “Hide yourself”. 

When the followers – a pitiful number – came, Lord Voldemort expressed his dissatisfaction about the same and talked about the events that occurred since his defeat on the fateful night of 31st October, 1981. 

A child had managed to throw off his father’s killing curse back at him, but had died from magical exhaustion in the process. The Dark Lord had survived as a wraith for several years, until he came across Quirell in a forest of Albania.The man had then gone to Hogwarts as a professor for a year in the search of the Philosopher’s stone, which was fruitless. Then, he had run out of Hogwarts after almost being caught by Albus Dumbledore, he had sought shelter in the shady bars of Knockturn Alley, when Lord Avery had come across him. He caught onto the reaction of his dark mark when close to the man, who had managed to convince his Lord of his loyalty. Then he and his wife worked tirelessly for a few years to make a strong enough body for their Lord to take. 

Their efforts had paid off tonight. 

Dorian was not involved much in the entire process and was just told to learn to be the perfect heir by the time his father returned. He had worked dutifully, listened to everything the Averys had taught him and studied carefully each and every book they pushed his way. 

According to them, he was ready. Only his father’s judgement of him remained. 

After the rest of the followers left, Lord Voldemort called him out. 

Dorian removed the cloaking spell from over him, stood beside the Averys and bowed down with bated breath.

“Look up, boy.” 

When he looked directly in the face of his father, for a moment he saw intense hatred and rage. Panicking, he tried to calm himself but failed miserably. Beside him, his old guardians tensed. 

“What is that they call you?” His voice was colder than when he was talking to his followers.

“Dorian Marvolo Riddle, sir.”

His icy stare turned towards Lord Avery and in an instant, he raised his wand and shot the Killing Curse at him. Dorian could not help the scream that escaped him. Lady Avery looked down at the body of her dead husband with wide-eyes, yet yanked his hand down and said, “Control yourself.”

“B-but–”

“Riddle?” 

“It was your name, my Lord. We did not know what else to name him.” She answered, keeping her voice surprisingly levelled.

“And you thought besmirching a magical child with that muggle name was correct?”

“I apologise, my Lord. Just– the boy asked many questions as a child and we found it harder to– we had to tell him about his father. We gave him Atticus’ old picture book from Hogwarts, which had your pictures.The child had to see his father. He saw your name in that and took on it with pride. For him, it was the name of the greatest man to ever grace the wizarding world.”

Lord Voldemort turned his wand at her and shot the same green curse. This time, Dorian did not scream, but looked down at her with horrified and scared eyes. 

“Nagini…” The Dark Lord hissed. 

A great, green snake slithered out of the bushes. She looked at him, and then the two dead bodies with sharp, hungry eyes. 

‘Eat them?’ 

“Yes.” 

Before his eyes, the snake devoured the bodies of his guardians. Dorian would’ve cried if it was not forced into his mind and soul to not do that by his late guardians. 

Nagini then turned towards him and opened her mouth, her sharp fangs glinting in the moonlight.

“No, please!” Dorian exclaimed. 

Both the snake and the Dark Lord froze. “You can speak parseltongue?” He asked, gliding closer to him. 

“Yes, sir.” He whispered, keeping his eyes trained on the Dark Lord instead of the snake that was curling on his legs.

“Look up.” 

When Dorian looked into his father’s eyes, his mind exploded in pain. He could see his memories from his childhood, of the Averys and the secret foyer he was housed in. Of his days of loneliness and intense training to become worthy enough to be called as the son of Lord Voldemort. Of him going through the picture book of his father’s schooldays, wondering if he'd ever be good enough. When the pain subsided and he came back to his senses, the rage and hatred was gone from his father’s eyes, overtaken by a strange look. Maybe it was curiosity, or something else entirely. 

“I see.” His father whispered to himself. 

He then turned around and called back his snake. When Dorian did not dare move, he turned back and said, “Well, follow me, son. You have a long, long way to go before you can aid me. I was mistaken. You’ll be perfect.”

A joy and relief like no other overcame him. He’d waited for these words for so long. Dorian nodded and followed his father out of the graveyard, the thoughts of his murdered guardians put at the back of his mind for later. It would take time, but he would make his father proud.

He was finally with his real family.

Chapter Text

“You called for me, father?” Dorian stood just outside the entrance to the Dark Lord’s office, peering inside from the open door.

His father, who was sitting behind the huge desk, waved at him to step in and close the door behind him.

Once he sat down, he looked up questioningly at him, waiting for him to talk.

“I want to discuss the matter of your first raid tomorrow.”

Dorian blinked in surprise. He had not expected his father to talk to him about the raid beforehand. He was told about this by Barty, who explained to him the details of it and what he was expected to do. Dorian was equally thrilled and nauseated by it. This was his chance to impress his father. All he had to do was torture and kill some dirty muggles.

“Stay with Crouch and Lestrange at all times. Do not stray away from their vision–”

“Father, I can assure you, I am capable– OUCH!” He rubbed his arm hurriedly where his father had hit him with a particularly strong stinging hex.

“How many times do I have to remind you about interrupting me, child?” Only after he nodded, embarrassed and abashed, the Dark Lord continued. “And the most important thing. No matter what happens, do not remove your mask. Do you understand me, Dorian? There are magics beyond what we know that can be used against you. There are numerous runes etched on it to protect you against any form of blood or dark magic. Only you and I can remove this, so they cannot force you. If you’re caught, only you can remove it. And you will not, no matter what. They will torture you, threaten to kill you, destroy things dear to you, or anything worse. You still won’t give up. Did I make myself clear?”

“Yes, father.” He answered, truthfully. He will never dare do anything that might hurt his father’s cause.

“And do you know why I am asking you to risk your life rather than just surrender?”

Staring into the snake-like eyes, Dorian tried to think of a better answer than ‘because you said so’.

“Blood magic.” He said after a while. “They can use my blood to harm you. And if something happens… it will affect our cause tremendously. All our efforts will be for nought.”

“Correct.” A small, lipless smile came over his face for a fraction of a second. “You’re ready.”

Dorian restrained himself from smiling outright, and gave him a curt nod. “Thank you, father. I’ll not fail you.”

“Have fun tomorrow.”

Once he was a good distance away from the manor after returning from the raid, Dorian ran.

His legs gave out a few moments later and he collapsed on the ground, shivering all over and puking his guts out. He heaved and puked again, staring at the mess, pushing himself away and lying face up on the damp, moss-filled ground. He closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to not cry.

It was not fun. It was not easy.

The muggles looked just like them. They acted and felt like them.

‘They are dangerous.’ He kept repeating like a mantra in his mind to justify what he did hours ago.

‘They do not matter.’

So many uncovered faces. So many pictures pasted on numerous walls. There was no dispute or fear amongst them until it was brought to them by their world.

‘They are vermin, dirty, and unworthy.’

The bleeding on his left arm had stopped, where he was hit by a spell from someone in the Order of the Phoenix.

Real battles were much worse than the training he did with Mrs. Lestrange or Barty. There were actual people he was shooting cruciatus and killing curses at. Those people – no, muggles – actually screamed and bled.

Dorian had to make himself stronger. If his father saw him cry over muggles… he shuddered to think of the reaction.

Lord Voldemort was an unstoppable and intimidating force during the raids and fights, gliding through the carnage unflinchingly and shredding his opponents with his deadly curses. Even those who hated him could not disagree with the fact.

Fighting against that singular being was hard enough for the Order, but their position in the war got much worse once his son, the masked boy, started appearing by his side– or sometimes in his place.

Nobody had thought that one’s face and identity would be of this importance during the First Wizarding War.

Things were tense, but they were free. This strange ritual was still years to come.

It had started as a political tactic. Voldemort was defeated, but his loyal followers still within the Ministry were working towards the day he would return. For him, they were setting up a world already in a tense turmoil. Some Death Eaters who got out and were considerably rich had gotten their people within the Ministry, though their power dimmed in comparison to those working for the newspapers. People of the wizarding world were fickle as ever, and held onto the Daily Prophet as a lifeline after the tense situation.

The members of the Order of the Phoenix were first garlanded as heroes and messiahs for their bravery against the Dark Lord, praised frequently for their humility and kindness by the newspaper. But then their smaller shortcomings started appearing in the news column.

'Mad-eye’ Moody caught harassing a halfblood Slytherin teen from a humble family on the streets of Diagon; the kid dragged and abandoned in the shady Knockturn Alley by the warhero!

A picture of Alastor Moody pointing his wand at a green sweater clad kid with the backdrop of the infamous street.

Muggleborn Healer Lily Potter’s experimental potion poisons Head Auror Scrimgeour’s ailing wife in St. Mungos!

Rufus Scrimgeour was pictured with a tense Lily Potter in her healers’ attire in front of the emergency ward in the hospital.

Transfiguration’s Professor McGonagall biased against the pureblooded?

Minerva McGonagall was seen scolding a bunch of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs in a corridor in Hogwarts.

A squib steals a witches’ wand in the middle of Gringotts in broad daylight! Albus Dumbledore rushes to her defence!

Dumbledore was comforting a crying Arabella Figg, who was holding a broken wand in her hands with a young woman in front of her.

Reality was twisted slowly and strategically, pushing for more and more public backlash against the beloved war heroes until they could not walk openly in the streets without people cursing them. For a long time, they rarely stepped out of their houses and wore hoods to hide from people,while fighting cases in the Wizengmont against the lie-spreading papers, where their support lessened day by day.

Then came the most horrific day of their lives.

Pictures of masked men and women were splashed throughout the newspapers and many different magazines, killing and torturing helpless muggles. Warrants with their names were issued, and people stormed into the Ministry demanding their arrest. They had to pull out their children and go into hiding, knowing what would happen if they were arrested.

A few days later, Dumbledore called those who remained of the Order of the Phoenix to meet in Godric’s Hollow– a painful reminder of their lost child for two– with the most distressing news.

Lord Voldemort was back.

The Daily Prophet had to at one point come forth with the news of the Dark Lord’s return, and the Ministry of Magic’s newly appointed Minister Scrimgeour had to take action. While he did not trust those who had sworn their loyalty to the miscreant group of self-righteous people, he could not allow the Death Eaters to run free either. So, he criminalised both the groups, cleansing the Ministry of those he deemed suspicious. Anyone who was caught in the clash between the two – the Order saving the muggles and muggleborns from being killed by the Death Eaters – was immediately put to Azkaban

The public was torn yet meekly bowed to the aurors who knocked on their doors, demanding their memories of any event regarding the criminalised groups to search for them.

The Death Eaters always wore masks in their fights and still roamed around free without it, so the Order had to do the same. That was when the public’s indifference and fear broke.

Once the Order started covering their faces with masks too, more people started appearing for their support and taking active part in their battle against the Death Eaters and the Ministry.

This rebellion spread, until people started wearing masks openly in public as a sign of support for those they deemed right and to waste the Ministry's resources on going through delayering the extremely volatile, delicate, and different charm-work behind every person’s masks they caught, none of which ever turned to be an actual Order member or a Death Eater.

These masked fighters, after a while, were widely recognised by the charm-work on their faces rather than who was behind it, making the whole affair even more significant and serious.

All the while this happened, and things got worse for the muggleborns and troublesome for the wealthy. The question of the Ministry of Magic– which was growing weaker and trying (and failing) to appear more authoritative– was spared in the toil by both the groups, knowing it would be the easiest crowning jewel in their victory against the other.

Alastor yelled victoriously as his opponent fell down on the ground, thrashing against the binds he’d placed on them. He signalled Nymphadora, who was fighting beside him to take the person to the Headquarters in Number Twelve.

On his right, Dumbledore was holding up spectacularly well against the Dark Lord as always, throwing unnecessary jabs at him in between the duel. A bead of sweat was rolling down the old man’s face, but he showed no other sign of exhaustion otherwise.

The ex-auror shot two other silver masked men as his mechanical eye spun around to find his actual target.

It was not hard to find the boy.

Unlike the previous few months when Lestrange and Crouch used to be glued to his sides, in a clear attempt to protect the Dark Lord’s heir during his initial days– the last few raids, he had been fighting on his own.

The only thing that distinguished him from the other maniacs was the plain bone-white mask, with nothing except for the two holes for his eyes and some perforations where his mouth and nose would be. Its strangeness stood out, and everybody on the battlefield knew this was Lord Voldemort’s son.

As they’d expected, he was an exceptionally powerful and cut-throat wizard, slashing his enemies with strong cutting curses, leaving them twitching for days because of the strength behind his cruciatus curse. And he was as vile as his father, killing people with no care for their lives. It was almost unbelievable that the boy had turned just of age. Alastor refused to believe it.

And so, even though Albus had very strongly told him not to hurl any dark curses at the child, his cutting curse hit the Dark Lord’s heir right in his chest.

‘He must’ve some powerful protection on himself.’ Alastor thought as the curse did not do as intended, just pushed the boy off his field.

He was quick to get up and turned towards Alastor with his raised wand.

“You must be Alastor Moody.” The boyish voice made him hesitate.

“You’re a child. Leave this place.” He snarled, raising his own wand.

His words seemed to enrage the boy, and he started wildly throwing curses and dark spells at him. And thus, their duel started.

Alastor was not harsh, but neither was he kind either as he fought against the boy. Whenever his spells hit him and made the boy groan in pain, Alastor reminded himself of what he’d seen the boy do. This was Voldemort’s son he was targeting.

The boy had put up a good fight against him too, but his inexperience did cost him the outcome of their duel.

From a distance, he heard the unmistakable voices of Crouch and Lestrange yelling ‘Dorian!’ and ‘save him!’.

Without wasting a second, Alastor gripped the unmoving boy’s robes and apparated away from the field, finally getting his hands on the infamous teen.