TRIGGER WARNING: Child Abuse
For years, Harry and Nate had lived under the belief that their names were either "boy" or "freak"—or both. Their aunt, uncle, and cousin had never cared enough to distinguish between them. It wasn't until they were enrolled in kindergarten that they learned their real names: Harry and Nathan Potter.
Being identical twins, their names were often swapped without much thought. That only changed when Harry was forced to wear glasses—though even then, it hardly helped. His scar might have been an easy way to tell him apart, but the Dursleys didn't care—and neither did their teachers or classmates.
Life with the Dursleys was anything but easy. Every problem, every mishap—whether it was truly their fault or not—was blamed on them. Worse still, whenever something strange happened, their uncle would furiously brand it as "freakishness."
Like the time Harry inexplicably found himself on the roof of his school, or when their teacher's hair turned bright blue. The twins never understood how or why these things happened—but understanding didn't matter. Punishment was immediate and merciless.
Beatings. Yelling. Weeks locked inside their cupboard, often without food. The cramped space had a makeshift bathroom, but proper baths were a luxury. When they did get the chance, it was usually during their gardening chores, hosing themselves off like discarded filth.
School was their only escape, their only guarantee of food and temporary freedom.
However, Nathan faced the most problem between the two siblings. He is thinner and weaker than Harry, he was always outmatched—whether by Dudley, school bullies, or simply the weight of his own frailty. Harry tried to protect him, but he couldn't always be there.
And lately, Nathan had grown sicker. His condition had worsened enough that Harry had to take on more of his chores, picking up the slack where his brother couldn't. At first, resentment crept in—Harry resented the extra burden, the exhaustion, the unfairness of it all. But looking at Nathan—pale, struggling, barely holding on—he couldn't be angry.
What made things worse was Dudley and Uncle Vernon, who seemed to take delight in tormenting the sickly boy. When Nathan's illness peaked, Aunt Petunia never took him to the hospital, no matter how desperately Harry begged her to.
"He'll be better tomorrow," she would say dismissively.
And, strangely enough, she was always right. No matter how awful Nathan felt one day, the next, he would somehow recover, as if his body refused to surrender.
But the twins faced another, far greater problem. No matter how much they sought help, no one would believe them.
They had no visible injuries, no cuts or bruises—nothing for adults to see. Their suffering was easily dismissed as lies, and when word reached their aunt and uncle, punishment was swift and brutal.
Branded as troublemakers, they became easy to ignore. Their pleas for help were met with indifference, condescension, and punishment.
So, Harry and Nathan stopped asking.
They had learned the hard way—no one would help them.
That, at least, was something they could be certain of.
Over time, Harry watched in growing horror as Nathan's condition deteriorated. His bruises stopped healing, his already thin frame withered further, and soon, he was so weak he could barely lift himself from bed.
This time, Harry begged Aunt Petunia, pleaded with every ounce of desperation, but she only hesitated for a moment before brushing it off. Concern flickered in her eyes, but denial won.
What Harry didn't know—what Petunia did—was that taking Nathan to the hospital would mean questions. Doctors would see the bruises, the scars, the malnourishment, and all of it would point directly at the Dursleys. It would shatter their carefully crafted image of a perfect family.
But Harry didn't know that.
All he knew was that Nathan was barely eating, barely moving, always asleep, slipping further and further away from him. Terror clawed at Harry's chest—he couldn't lose his brother. He wouldn't.
In desperation, he began rushing through chores, leaving them half-finished just to steal time to gather medicine, to care for Nathan. But there were always consequences. One evening, when the food he had been cooking burned slightly, Aunt Petunia didn't bother with words—she simply slammed a frying pan into his head.
But today was different.
Today, the Dursleys had a guest—a potential investor. Which meant Harry and Nathan were to stay out of sight, or pay the price.
It was an unspoken reprieve, a rare moment of peace in their suffocating existence.
From their small space, they heard Uncle Vernon's voice booming from the entrance.
"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Black! It is an honor to have you in our home. This is my wife, Petunia, and our son, Dudley."
A smooth, unfamiliar voice answered.
"Charmed."
Harry barely registered the exchange. He could see the figures at the door, but he didn't bother to take a closer look.
Nathan let out a weak, pained groan, followed by a ragged cough.
"Shhh! Nathan," Harry whispered, his voice urgent as he tried to soothe his brother, who trembled beneath his touch. Today was another bad day, and the cupboard felt stiflingly hot—Nathan's fever was burning through him.
Then came the voice.
"I know you're in there. What are you doing?"
Harry's blood ran cold. Someone had found them.
Panic surged in his chest, and he scrambled to respond. "Please don't tell Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon! We've been good. We've been quiet. We promise."
There was a pause.
"Huh? What?" the man asked, confused.
And then—a whisper.
Not out loud, but in Harry's own mind.
Ask for his help.
Harry stiffened. What?
Ask for his help, or it will be too late.
His heart pounded. No adult had ever helped them before—why would this one be different?
If you don't ask now, it will be too late for your brother.
Harry turned, his breath hitching. Nathan looked worse than ever—thin, frail, barely conscious. Aunt Petunia refused to do anything.
And if she wouldn't help, if no one did...
They'd bury him in the backyard. Just like Dudley's pets that kept dying.
The thought nearly knocked the air from his lungs. A dizzying lightness swirled in his head, and before fear could paralyze him, he grabbed onto the bars of his cupboard, looking up at the stranger.
The man was tall, dressed in formal, expensive-looking attire—the kind Harry saw Uncle Vernon wear for work, but richer, more refined. Black hair, steel-gray eyes, and a cane gripped in his hand.
Harry swallowed hard. Then, desperation took over.
"Please, sir. If you can, please help us."
The man hesitated, his expression shifting. Conflicted. Calculating.
"Are you Dursley's boy?"
Harry shook his head, determined. "No. I'm his nephew."
The man studied him. "What's your name?"
"Harry. Harry Potter."
Something in the stranger's expression froze.
"Don't you have a brother?"
Harry blinked, startled. How did he know?
"You mean Nathan? He's here. He's not well. He needs a hospital."
The stranger's gray eyes darkened—and then, in a voice rich with fury, he thundered:
"VERNON DURSLEY, YOU SON OF A B*TCH!"
********
Marius sighed as he pulled his black Rolls-Royce into the parking lot. He still couldn't believe he'd let Ophelia orchestrate this entire affair—what was supposed to be a business dinner for Sirius had somehow transformed into a date.
How Ophelia managed to book a restaurant without even knowing if the two would agree to it in the first place was beyond him.
"If you didn't want to meet them, you should have said so," Ophelia muttered, crossing her arms. She had misread his sigh, assuming it was reluctance to engage with Muggles, rather than mild exasperation at her scheming.
"Morgan said this person has talent. Considering his company, Grunnings, it's worth a look," Marius replied.
Morgan—a Squib from the Burke family—had managed to survive his own family's purge, a brutal attempt to erase him from existence. The Burkes had preferred to see their son dead rather than risk a Muggle-born child someday carrying their surname, negating their status as a pureblood family—a fate that had already befallen the Potters and Smiths.
Unlike Marius, Morgan had changed his last name—an effort to sever himself from his bloodline entirely. But Marius?
He still bore his family name with pride, despite everything. He was still a Black, even if his relatives refused to acknowledge him. And unlike the Burkes, the Black family had little reason to fear him tainting their name among Muggles.
After all, he only had a daughter, and she had taken her husband's name, as had his granddaughter. He had once had a son, Polaris Black, but the boy hadn't survived past the age of nine—a loss that had marked a devastating chapter in their lives. Now, he had a great-grandson—Justin.
Marius rarely saw his great-grandson—his parents were far too busy, and aside from special occasions, their time together was limited. Sirius had met him as well, noting how rare it was for a child his age to still have living great-grandparents. But Marius and Ophelia, despite being Squibs, had inherited the extraordinary longevity of wizards.
They had even survived the Second World War—Marius himself had been drafted.
As they stepped out of the Rolls-Royce, Ophelia's curiosity sharpened.
"What was the name of this person? Was their last name Grunnings?"
Marius shook his head, flipping open his notebook. "No, that's the company. The man we're meeting is one of their VPs. I think his name was... Dursley. Yeah, Vernon Dursley."
He paused.
That name.
Why did it feel familiar?
Moments later, their host greeted them at the door—a large, beefy man with a mustache, his voice thick with practiced courtesy.
"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Black! It is an honor to have you in our home. This is my wife, Petunia, and our son, Dudley."
Petunia—a thin, horse-faced woman—stood beside her equally large, sluggish-looking son, who gave a stiff bow.
Marius forced a polite smile, but something felt off.
These people were too polished. Their words too rehearsed.
Dudley, in particular, looked bored out of his mind—likely bribed into behaving for the evening.
"Charmed," Marius said dryly.
Then—a sound.
A groan, followed by hushed whispers.
The room fell silent.
Marius noted how Petunia and Vernon stiffened, their gazes snapping toward the staircase, annoyance flickering across their faces.
Was a child hiding somewhere?
Families sometimes hid their unruly children during important gatherings—he had seen it before. But children were curious, and this one must have broken the rules.
Marius pretended not to hear.
Ophelia, ever poised, followed his lead.
The evening carried on, drifting into the living room, where Vernon proceeded to drone on about his business, attempting to make a case for investment.
And to be fair, it was a promising venture—drilling wasn't exactly a common service for the average household.
But Merlin, was this boring.
When the conversation hit its predictable lull, Marius took the opportunity to excuse himself.
"Oh, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Dursley. Where is your parlor? I'd like to freshen up a bit."
"Ah, yes. It's at the end of the hallway by the stairs," Vernon Dursley exclaimed, gesturing vaguely in the direction. The man was clearly impressed by Mr. Black—though Marius found it amusing how men like him often forgot that, regardless of stature, even someone of his rank was still human and had basic needs.
Leaving Ophelia behind to converse with Petunia, Marius observed the two women discussing celebrity gossip—or was it the latest TV drama? Over the years, Ophelia had grown accustomed to Muggle entertainment. She and Marius both agreed that compared to the wizarding world, Muggle society offered far more accessible entertainment—music, films, literature. The magical world, in contrast, had fewer luxuries, and anything remotely enjoyable was often reserved for the wealthy and nobility.
As Marius neared the stairs, he caught faint muttering, hushed voices just barely audible.
A frown creased his face.
"I know you're in there. What are you doing?" he asked.
Silence.
Then, a whisper. "Please don't tell Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. We've been good and quiet. We promise."
Marius stiffened.
What? "We"?" There was more than one child?
That's when he noticed it.
The cupboard door was sealed—not from the inside, but from the outside. Locks. Bars on the window.
A chill ran down Marius' spine.
It looked less like a room and more like a cage—a place where one would keep an animal, not a child.
Then, movement.
A small figure appeared at the bars, staring up at him with pleading, desperate eyes. So tiny, barely five years old if Marius had to guess—thin, sickly, unruly black hair, and striking green eyes behind a pair of broken, taped-up glasses.
A stark contrast to the well-fed child lounging in the living room.
Marius' stomach tightened.
"Are you Dursley's boy?" he asked.
The child shook his head. "No, I'm his nephew."
Marius narrowed his eyes. "What's your name?"
"Harry. Harry Potter."
Everything froze.
Marius felt his eyes widen, his pulse spike. No. No, it couldn't be.
"Don't you have a brother?" His mind raced back—Sirius had mentioned two boys.
Harry and Nathan Potter.
Harry nodded, his voice urgent. "You mean Nathan? He's here. He's not well. He needs a hospital."
A wave of hot, furious rage surged through Marius' veins.
His grip tightened.
His expression darkened.
And then—
"VERNON DURSLEY, YOU SON OF A B*TCH!"
The thunderous roar shattered the air, sending the room into a sudden, frozen silence.
"Well, I say! I will not be disrespected in my own house!" Vernon Dursley bellowed, storming toward Marius, Petunia and Ophelia trailing behind him.
Then—he noticed.
Harry. Peeking through the cupboard door.
Marius. Staring at him with fury.
"Explain!" Marius snarled, jabbing a finger toward the cupboard.
Petunia gasped, scrambling for excuses. "No, you don't understand! They are very dangerous, very disturbed. We have to keep them there!"
Marius' expression twisted.
"You think that justifies locking them—children—in a bloody cupboard?!" His voice shook with rage. "What kind of parents are you?! Do they even have their own room?!"
He knew the answer before they spoke.
Their silence said everything.
Marius felt something snap inside him. The sensibilities he prided himself on? Gone. Thrown straight out the window.
"Why, you filthy Muggles!" Ophelia hissed, voice venomous. "Are you even human?"
Petunia flinched.
Muggles.
She recognized that word.
"Y-you're those people?!" She stumbled over the words, unable to say it outright.
Marius' eyes narrowed. "You're Lily Evans' sister, aren't you?"
Petunia froze, staring at him in shock.
He didn't wait for confirmation—her reaction was answer enough.
"Get them out," he demanded.
Vernon opened his mouth to protest, but Marius cut him off.
"Or," he said darkly, "I tell the Prime Minister about all of this during my lunch with him tomorrow."
Silence.
The threat worked.
Grumbling, Vernon unlocked the door. But Harry and Nathan didn't move.
Marius softened his voice, turning back to them. "Harry? Nathan? I promise, no one is going to hurt you. Not while I'm here."
He shot the Dursleys a warning glare, daring them to object.
"You will be coming to live with my family." His tone was firm, resolute. "I have someone—someone very important—who has been looking for you for ages."
A small, hesitant voice trembled through the silence.
"There is?"
Slowly, Harry stepped out, his tiny frame tense, fearful. Marius examined him closely.
He looked terrible—thin, sickly, wearing clothes that barely fit. And yet—Marius saw traces of Dorea in his features.
"Please help Nathan," Harry whispered.
Marius stepped inside the cupboard—and nearly gagged.
The air was thick with stench, suffocating in its filth.
And Nathan—Merlin help him—looked worse than Harry.
He was emaciated, gaunt, barely recognizable as a child. He looked like the starving victims Marius had seen in war-torn countries—fragile, fading, dying.
Rage. White-hot, blistering rage.
He wanted to kill them. Right then and there.
But Nathan needed help.
Fast.
Marius grabbed the frail boy, wrapped him in a blanket, and stepped out. Ophelia already had Harry in her arms.
"We are leaving," Marius spat, marching toward the door.
"Good riddance then!" Vernon barked behind them.
Marius stopped. Slowly turned back.
"You better keep your mouths shut," he warned, voice low, "or I'll call the authorities for child abuse."
The Dursleys sneered.
Marius' eyes flashed.
"Or, better yet, I'll turn you into toads."
Petunia's eyes rolled back.
She collapsed, sending Vernon and Dudley into a frenzied panic.
Marius didn't bother hiding his smirk.
As they climbed into the Rolls-Royce, he passed Nathan to Ophelia, who sat in the back with Harry, concern etched into her features.
"The hospital, then?" she asked.
Marius started the engine.
"No. He needs more than that. A Muggle hospital won't help. We need Esme."
Ophelia nodded gravely.
Harry sat quietly, bewildered. He couldn't process anything—couldn't understand what was happening.
But he took the chance.
And yet—one thought refused to leave his mind.
Why weren't they going to a hospital?
And more importantly—what is a Muggle?
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