Ruthless

Prologue: Good Intentions

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

It should have been a spell to give good luck. It was dreadfully simple, really, and James considered himself to be more than decent with Charms. He had graduated with an O from Hogwarts in his seventh year. He knew he wasn't a Master like Lily; Transfiguration was his own strength.

But he had to do something. This was his son; this baby was his to protect, to love, to nurture. The protection shouldn't be left to Lily alone.

James knew what she had planned was far grander; more flashy and bold, leaving nothing to chance, though she had given him few details. He was a Gryffindor, though, and knew every boy and man also needed an element of luck.

It wasn't any where near the strength of a Felix Felicis potion, of course; it was merely a dash, a sprinkling, of fortunate coincidence in the important times of life.

"Fortunatus Electiones."

James cast the spell, and smiled as the baby stirred and sighed. With a kiss to its soft cheek, he left the room, a content cast to his honest face.

-O-O-

Of course, there was more to creating a spell than merely speaking the latin properly. If James would have spent more time, perhaps read some of his own wife's notes, he would have known that the movement of the wand is just as important; as is the the will of the castor.

New spells are a tricky business.

James had wanted his son to have good luck and fortune; instead, he had cast upon him a charm to make good choices. The choices that were the most fortunate for him; the choices that, with luck, would give the child more success.

But there is a fine line between a charm and a curse, and it sometimes lies in whether the afflicted would have chosen the enchantment at all.

Perhaps it would have all turned out right, if not for one more minor mistake.

Magic's definition of a good choice is not always similar to that a Gryffindor father would choose.

-O-O-

The toddler stared into the monsters red eyes, and made the choice not to cry.

His mother lay on the floor, still in a way she never was when they played. He didn't have a word for what that stillness was, but it made him afraid.

When he was afraid, he would cry, because he had learned that crying meant comfort, tender touches and soothing words and loving kisses. But the monster was staring at him now, and the monster had done something to his mother, the one who normally brought comfort.

So he did not cry, but watched the monster as it approached, green eyes wide and solemn.

"This? This will defeat me?" The monster mused in a oddly normal voice, and the boy considered if he should cry on the chance that his dad would come. But his dad had been rough lately, with loud words and shouts and swift gestures, frenzies, and the boy was afraid of that too.

He did not cry.

The red-eyed monster smiled at the boy, and lifted the stick in his hand, the same stick the boy had often seen in his parents hands. The magic thing, the thing that made things happen, good things and bad.