Chapter Text
Thursday, August 5, 1971
The Yharnam Residence had awakened long before the sun. Through the mansion’s sprawling corridors, house-elves hurried in silence, preparing the breakfast that would be served punctually to the family. The distant clinking of porcelain and silver echoed discreetly through the ground floor, mingling with the low crackle of magical fireplaces lit against the unusual chill of that summer morning. That year, even the warmest months seemed burdened by a damp, freezing climate, as if the sun had simply decided to abandon England too early.
Eleanor Yharnam walked the third-floor corridors with elegant strides, the rhythmic clicking of her heels echoing down the hallway in an annoying tek-tek-tek. She was a beautiful woman, with impeccable posture and a perpetually arrogant expression. Her long brown hair rested carefully aligned over her shoulders, and her hooked nose always seemed tilted toward other people's business, as if any detail out of place were of her particular interest. Her dark eyes fell upon a house-elf carrying freshly washed sheets; immediately, the creature lowered its head, shrinking under the witch's cold gaze.
The Yharnams prided themselves on many things—be it their gold, their surname, or their influence within the Ministry—but above all, they prided themselves on perfection. Or, at least, the appearance of it. Even if, behind the black walls of the mansion, there existed a family far too dysfunctional to admit their own flaws.
Therefore, their only son's tardiness to breakfast, for the second time that week, was simply unacceptable.
With irritation simmering in her thoughts, Eleanor stopped before Archibald's bedroom door and turned the knob without even bothering to knock first. The door didn’t budge. It was locked, and that was a novelty to the matriarch of the house.
For a brief instant, something akin to displeasure crossed her lackadaisical expression. Her fingers tightened around the doorknob with slightly more force than necessary as she suppressed the urge to simply cast an Alohomora and put an end to that childish inconvenience. Instead, she raised her gloved hand and knocked three times against the dark wood of the door.
Knock-knock-knock.
The first thing Avery heard that morning were three sharp knocks, and his mother's voice pierced the thick surface of the door with her usual coldness.
"Archibald, it is past time to get up."
The boy remained motionless for a few seconds, his grey eyes fixed on the canopy above his bed. Avery Archibald Yharnam. Merely hearing that name pronounced was enough to feel an uncomfortable weight settling onto his shoulders. It was his grandfather's name, heavy with prestige and expectations that never truly felt like his own. There was something unsettling about inheriting it, as if, along with the name, came the obligation to live up to the expectations of a man he had never even met, but whose shadow still loomed over the family.
"Your father would not like you to miss another family breakfast. Hurry up."
Eleanor’s footsteps echoed down the hallway for a few more seconds, rhythmic and restrained, until they faded away completely. Archie let out a long, disheartened sigh before slowly pushing himself up, leaning on his elbows. He hated mornings. He hated being ripped from sleep before he was ready. If he could, he would bury his face in the soft pillow and spend the rest of the day there, far from obligations and, most of all, far from family breakfast.
The heavy, dark blue curtains blocked out the dawn brightness, allowing only a few pale shafts of light to pierce the fabric and bathe the room in cool, soft hues. Still, nothing in that pleasant atmosphere brought him any comfort. There was something dull and suffocating about the repetition of every morning: waking up in the same room, dressing in silence, and finally heading down to breakfast only to face his father's stern gaze.
The boy walked over to the large, gold-framed mirror in the corner of the room. At eleven years old, Archie displayed the typically lanky build of someone on the verge of a growth spurt, which made his silk pyjamas hang a bit loosely from his shoulders. He ran his fingers through his messy blonde hair—a completely futile attempt to tame it; the stubborn strands insisted on sticking out in every direction, refusing to adopt the perfect appearance his mother so fiercely demanded. Beneath his expressive eyebrows, his grey eyes—exactly like his grandfather's, as his father always said—stared back at his own reflection with a hint of premature weariness, standing out against the pale skin that betrayed the long hours locked away in classrooms and rehearsals.
Averting his eyes from the mirror, he finally stripped out of his pyjamas and put on the formal attire required for breakfast. As he finished doing up his shirt buttons with still-sleepy fingers, his thoughts were already drifting far away, specifically to the Nimbus 1000 he had received from his father at the beginning of the summer. He still hadn't completely adjusted to the broom's impressive speed; sometimes, a single careless movement was enough to make it shoot through the sky like an arrow.
He loved the feeling of flying above the clouds. Up there, far from the mansion and its suffocating corridors, everything seemed quieter, lighter. For a few moments, he could pretend he was far from his father's unyielding gaze, protected by the cold wind and the open sky, before his mother inevitably dragged him back to another boring violin lesson, where a floating, impatient sheet of music corrected his every mistake with irritating snaps.
Sometimes, Archie got the impression that he was the busiest eleven-year-old in all of England. He let out one last tired yawn from his chest and turned the key, unlocking the door to face the rest of the house.
The third-floor corridor remained silent, save for the distant sound of hurried footsteps and the occasional crackle of fireplaces scattered throughout the mansion. Archie passed two house-elves carrying silver trays; both immediately bowed their heads as he approached, murmuring nervous greetings that the boy didn't even bother to acknowledge.
He walked down the long central staircase while adjusting the sleeves of his dress shirt, observing the enormous portraits of the Yharnam family lined up along the walls. Witches and wizards with rigid expressions followed his descent with vacant stares, as if even the dead were judging his posture.
The smell of freshly brewed tea and warm bread grew stronger as he neared the dining room. When he stepped through the double doors of the room, he found his parents exactly as he expected.
Eleanor sat stoically at the side head of the table, her hands delicately resting on her teacup. Beside her, Caius Yharnam was reading the Daily Prophet without even looking up right away. The cold lighting from the tall windows made the man's expression look even more severe.
On the front page of the newspaper, bold headlines and moving photos of destroyed fireplaces and deserted alleys chronicled yet another "unexplained disappearance" in the village of Upper Flagley. Two Muggle-born families had vanished in the dead of night, leaving behind nothing but empty houses and the marks of blasting curses on the walls. The Ministry insisted on blaming a wave of vandalism or illegal migration, but it was a flimsy excuse; the Ministry simply did not know what to do about the rising Dark Lord.
Caius clicked his tongue sharply, turning the newspaper page with an irritated sigh.
"Eugenia Jenkins’s incompetence is becoming an insult to our intelligence" he commented, his baritone voice echoing effortlessly through the hall. "Calling the actions of the Dark Lord's supporters 'vandalism' is a sick joke. Those whom the Prophet insists on labeling as criminals are merely cleaning up the filth that the Ministry has allowed to accumulate for years. Wizarding society needs to be restored, and if the Minister doesn't have the stomach for it, others will."
Eleanor merely nodded slightly, maintaining her rigid posture, while Archie swallowed hard, feeling his stomach churn before he had even touched the food.
Archie straightened his posture almost automatically before pulling out his chair.
"Good morning, Father. Good morning, Mother." The greeting came out quiet, polite, and rehearsed. Like practically everything else inside that house.
Eleanor merely smiled over her cup, a gesture acknowledging her son's arrival. Caius, however, took a few seconds before finally folding the Daily Prophet and setting it down on the mahogany table.
When the man raised his face, the cold light from the window highlighted his angular features. Caius Yharnam was an imposing man, with black hair slicked back, where the first strands of white were beginning to appear at his temples, matching his short, trimmed beard. His eyes were a shade of hazel—a mixture of green and brown—that seemed to appraise his son with disappointment.
It was an almost ironic contrast. Visually, Archie had inherited practically nothing from his parents. While Eleanor and Caius exhibited dark tones, the boy carried his paternal grandfather's grey eyes and his grandmother's messy blonde hair—a resemblance that seemed to bother his father more than he cared to admit.
"You are late, Archibald" Caius’s voice resonated softly, yet heavy with that authority that made the boy's stomach contract. "A man who cannot govern his own time will hardly govern the responsibilities of our surname."
Archie kept his posture upright, even though his fingers tightened discreetly over his lap.
"I am sorry, Father. It won't happen again" he murmured, careful not to sound too fast or too hesitant.
Uncomfortable under that gaze, Archie shifted his attention to the cutlery lined up in front of him, moving them slightly in a futile attempt to occupy his hands while waiting to find out if his father would continue the reprimand or simply go back to the newspaper as if nothing had happened.
"Your grandfather Archibald read three magical treatises before breakfast at your age. I expect you are taking advantage of your mornings in the same manner" Caius remarked, his smooth voice cutting through the silence of the room. "He not only attended Hogwarts and became Head Boy, but he also joined the Ministry right after graduating, reaching the position of Minister for Magic. Just like him, you will go to Hogwarts this year, and I expect to hear of great deeds from you."
"What? But, Father... What about Professor Grace? I prefer to keep learning from her. I don't want to go to Hogwarts and…"
"Archibald, darling, your father only wants what is best for you" Eleanor interrupted, her voice far too sweet to be genuine. "Going to Hogwarts is an excellent option for your education. Besides, that Professor Grace is a half-blood. She lied to us. She is a blood traitor."
Archie shrank back into his chair, feeling small before his parents. Professor Grace was a half-blood? Since when? She was brilliant with magic and, above all, at explaining the lessons. Aren't half-bloods supposed to be inferior to pure-bloods? But his father's magic was much more impressive… Perhaps he was weak for letting himself be captivated by the simple magic of a half-blood. He would miss her anyway. Grace was fun and caring. Why couldn't his mother be like her? Sweet and gentle. Archie couldn't remember the last time Eleanor had embraced him with tenderness, whereas Grace always welcomed him and ruffled his messy hair.
"But…"
"No more excuses, boy" Caius cut him off, his voice losing its mildness and cracking like a whip across the dining room. "You will go to Hogwarts, and that is final. The impure half-blood has already been dismissed; keep your laments and appeals to yourself."
Archie could already feel a lump forming in his throat as his eyes grew blurry. He lowered his head, ashamed to show himself so weak in front of his father, and began to fidget and play with his own hands, trying to distract himself and swallow back his tears at all costs.
"Since the matter is settled, finish your breakfast" Eleanor intervened, breaking the silence with her habitual coldness. "Your violin sheet music is already waiting in the music room. And I expect you to practice with greater diligence today."
Breakfast plunged into a silence that was far too loud. Archie took only a few bites of his food before asking for permission to excuse himself from the table.
As he walked up the stairs toward the music room, his eyes inevitably met the huge oil portrait on the wall of the landing. The former Minister for Magic, Archibald Yharnam, stared back at him with the exact same grey eyes as his own. Archie remembered the stories his father used to tell him about the old patriarch; his grandfather had taken control of the Ministry in 1948, during a chaotic post-war period, ruling with an iron fist until 1959. It had been over ten years of an enviable legacy, frequently praised in the newspapers of the time as the "era of reconstruction and order."
Archie averted his gaze from the painting, feeling a weight on his shoulders and a bitter taste in his mouth as he resumed climbing the stairs toward the music room.