I did not write this story. I found it on fanfiction.net and really enjoyed it and wanted to share it with people. It was written by Saffire Blade.
I also don't own Harry Potter.
Under the cover of a cloudy night sky, a slumbering English village shined like a beacon amongst the darkness. The village people were simple folk, isolated from the rest of the world with a very simple way of life. The farmers worked all day; providing food, wool and leather for the citizens, who made clothes and other goods to be sold in the market. The children in tow were taught at a young age to take over their parent's place and provide future children of their own. It was a simple system that worked for them, which is why they did not take too kindly to anyone that endangered their peaceful way of life.
On the outskirts of this village, a thick forest stretched for miles, hiding all manners of beasts and evil spirits within. No man dared to venture into those woods and as long as the village remained blind to the contents of the forest, the happier they were. On this particular night however, not all was well and the village's peaceful existence was about to come to an end.
A woman screamed.
Her cries could be heard echoing throughout the twisted forest and back to the tiny village. It mattered not though as no one would come to her aid. Her cries came from the very heart of the forest, the home to devil worshippers. A wicked family that turned away from the holy light to embrace the ways of black magic and sin.
In an open clearing stood a lone tree towering above all others. The oak was long since dead and it spiralled out of the ground, roots and branches encasing a slanted, wooden cottage, admitting a single ray of candle light from the upper window. Inside a frail, aged woman lay sprawled upon a bed. Her grey hair was in disarray, perspiration coated her skin as she frantically took deep and quick breaths. Another scream escaped her cracked lips and she squeezed a small hand holding her own.
The hand belonged to a small boy, no older than eleven. He resembled his mother in every way. From his overly large nose, to his oily long black hair that clung to his sallow skin, nearly as deathly white as her own. The only thing he lacked were her forest green eyes. He squeezed her hand reassuringly as he dabbed her forehead with a wet cloth.
The door swung open and an older boy, practically an adult at seventeen years of age, ran into the room, carrying a bowl of warm water and towels hung over his arms.
"Where is she?" The younger boy snapped, flinching under his mother's hold.
"Not coming." The older grunted as he set down the supplies. The oldest in no way resembled the two by the bed. He may possess his mother's same black hair and tall frame, but that was where the similarities end. He had a handsome face, healthy skin and perfectly tamed hair, his father's son through and through.
"I sent an owl but I wouldn't get my hopes us." The elder explained, rolling up his sleeves.
"If one of us flies, we could-" The younger was interrupted by another scream, louder than any previous.
"Tom, Severus...It's time." She gasped, clutching her swollen stomach.
"Support her back." Tom ordered, running to his mother's side, helping her sit up.
Severus dropped the cloth and put pressure on her back, so she was hunched over. He whispered into her ear. "It's going to be alright mother."
The oldest moved to the end of the bed and though his black eyes were stoic, his hands were shaking.
"Ok, now push."
The process was long and painful. Normally a mother would have no trouble delivering her third child, but the frail woman was older than most wives. She gave birth to her firstborn, Tom at a respectable age. Her first born was tall with a lithe stature, well groomed black hair and piercing dark eyes. A handsome face and charming smile that could soon the hearts of maidens. Tom had a mischievous side though and extraordinary control over his underage magic. The only thing Tom excelled in other than magic was the magic of words.
