Disclaimer: The Wizarding World of Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling. I only own the characters. The Wizarding World depicted in these stories are my interpretations only.
Unexposed to the crowd, some of the family members are involved in the dark arts; some even blatantly participated in the first and second wizarding war with the dark side. On the surface, they are a family of wealthy entrepreneurs, philanthropists and, of course, ministry workers.
Tale of Two Brothers
My dearest Cymbeline,
Your presence is requested at The House on November 13th for Cyril’s birthday party. I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to skip the event altogether—oh, I even recommend it! I’d tell mum and dad, Corentin and Mysie, if you want.
However, come as you please, darling. But, if you do, please make sure that you’re in a right state of mind. Don’t forget to bring presents!
Love,
Enora
Autumn 2013
What he thought was going to be another family event containing practiced, repetitive conversations, cautious glances, schooled smiles and laughter, had been spiraling into something more dangerous. There was a reason why his older sister almost recommended him not to put aside his current meaningless, humdrum project of a life and return to where he came from, because predictably, the evening would be ruined by none other than his holier-than-thou oldest brother.
Corentin decided that it’s time for his oldest son’s fifth birthday to be the event of the year, at least in their social circle, and that meant boasting around what he’d achieved in life, with the family’s wealth for all that matter.
If you wanted to see the embodiment of pureblood supremacy that wouldn’t evolve, it’s his brother. Corentin walked in their ancestors’ footsteps, believed in whatever they’d believed in, refused to see what’s outside the barriers of view they called principles and basked in the illusion of superiority it promised him. His grey eyes gleamed with disgust and hatred towards anything he deemed unworthy—and it’s almost everything—like the world owed him big time just because he existed. He had been slithering so smoothly under the radar, brewing malicious mischief that wasn’t nearly dangerous enough for the Ministry to sniff about. He was cruelly unnerving, intentionally violent with words as if he’d put a curse under his breath to slice and mark anyone that had the nerve to undermine him, or to even talk back to him.
If you’d had to live with this awful person since you were born, what would you do? It’s not like he’s not going to stop from pushing you off a bloody cliff just for the hell of it. Or try to crack your head open with a swish of his wand—or make you wither in pain and make you wish you were dead, like he’d planted a curse in your body, quite literally. Well, that’s what childhood like, if you were Corentin Verdelet’s younger and only brother.
The blond bigot had roared the loudest when Cymbeline had decided he wanted nothing to do with their money anymore, in regard to their refusing him to choose his own life path just because it wasn’t in line with theirs, while even his own father had merely barked at him. Corentin had tried flicking his wand again—for the hundredth times—just because he liked the sound his wrist made whenever the curse was directed to his little brother. But Corentin’s outburst had finally diminished when Cymbeline said that he would at least try to see through his ‘fucked-up judgment’ and take back the decision he’d thought he’d made perfectly clear.
It had been nine years since, and everything went back to normal. Even though he promised himself he’d skip every one of it, Cymbeline hardly missed family gatherings. And every time, he always told everyone that he’s doing just fine. He’s still on their side—that, meaning he wouldn’t dream of stripping himself off his inheritance to work in some abominable, dead-end job in the muggle world. But of course, he’d only dreamt that they wouldn’t find out the truth.
Until today.
He was chatting animatedly with one of his childhood friends in the gardens, and Cy almost sighed in relief, thinking that he’d survived the evening without having to talk to the host. He barely exchanged words with his parents, who were busy serving the guests with more wine and whatnot, and only managed to hug Enora and engaged in a brief conversation before her son, his youngest nephew Philip, cried bloody murder in the middle of their talk. But of course, what he thought as a bearable evening was doomed by his brother’s towering sight.
Emma, the friend, politely—almost fearfully—excused herself, and therefore left the platinum-blond alone with Corentin in their gardens, hidden from the public eye.
“Well, if it isn’t my favourite brother, almost sneak his way out of the house without having the slightest manner to greet the host that has provided him everything.” The icy, infuriating voice emanated from behind him. Corentin walked past his shoulder, now standing before him.
Cy could feel the long-buried tension and heat gripping his throat, though he managed to let out an indifferent response: “Evening, brother.”
“I’m flattered that you still think of me as your brother, Judikael.”
And of all people, of course this nasty git refused to call him by his middle name, because it would make him just like everybody else. Corentin was allergic to being ordinary.
“Well—” Cy thought for a second, and decided that he would need to play the family card in order to get out of the situation alive. “—family comes first, correct?”
“Correct?” Corentin repeated him, almost mockingly. “Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Just when I thought you’ve made some progress for the last nine fucking years.”
Cy tried so hard not to grit his teeth, lest Corentin see how easy it was for the older man to play him like a lifeless marionette just for a show.
“What?” he snapped instead. “You’re not really going to bicker with me in the event of the year, are you?”
“Ah, that. Of course, it is the event of the year. Is that why you decided to show up right after your sin was exposed for the world to see?”
“What?” Cy almost laughed in disbelief. “Whatever sin are you talking about? I believe I’ve made quite too many to even pick and publish it to the cheapest magazine to which your wife still subscribes.”
“You reek of betrayal,” his brother started. “What do you do? Where do you live?”
“You want to exchange postcards?”
“You’re a fucking lost cause.” Corentin laughed—a venomous, toxic laugh that would drop tons of unwanted weight on both of the other brother’s shoulders, whether he willed it to happen or not. “Stop being a coward and confess.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Suddenly, he felt his head throbbing. His heart was hammering in his ribs, a caution that he should take more into account before thoughtlessly challenging his brother into dangerous exchange of arguments. His guts were telling him something he’d been dreading for years, yet yearning to be freed of. But not like this. Not with Corentin.
“You lying dog. Stop being a coward and confess.” Corentin stepped forward, prompted his brother to take a step backwards impulsively.
“Let me try.” Cymbeline knew what he’d be saying would cause the volcano to erupt, the furious flow of lava to wash over him and burn him alive. He knew very well not to tick his brother off, not today—not ever—because eventually, it would be the death of him.
But he didn’t think the better of it. He was so sure that being a grown-up he was, he could beat the hideous beast in front of him.
“O, Father, forgive me for I have sinned—”
Before the mockery left his mouth, his body was wrenched by a hard blow on his chest, causing a loud crack of his back meeting the grass. Cy couldn’t help but let a whimper escape while his hands were searching for any missing limbs. His body was still intact, of course, but the pain ran through his veins like an all-too familiar curse he’d known his whole life, although it wasn’t. Not yet. Still, it felt like he was the helpless seven-year-old again.
His brother stood above him; a Cedar wand tightly gripped in his palm. Cy knew that if he tried to reach for his, Corentin would make sure he’d regret it, so he rested his hands atop his stinging chest.
“Luckily you’re the second son, and last. This family would become a bloody myth if it were passed down to you.”
“Shut that gaping hole on your face, Corentin.” Cy struggled to get up despite his ragged breathing and temporarily sleeping limbs. “Shut the fuck up.”
Corentin made sure he could only sit on the ground, as the older man pointed the deadly wand on his forehead. Cymbeline knew his brother would do anything to his head, to him, especially after he’d learned his secrets. His secrets: his livelihood and affairs in the blasted muggle world. That wand, in that jagged hand, would definitely be the death of him.
“I could strip you off your inheritance, did you know that? I could do it just easily. You wouldn’t even know.”
“I don’t need your fucking money.”
Fuck his Gryffindor mouth. He should’ve been quiet.
“Oh, you sure think so highly of yourself, don’t you?” Corentin pushed the wand deep enough to create a bruise on his forehead. “Aren’t you a sad, starving prick? I’d gut a rat for your dinner every night, if you’d just ask for it. I wouldn’t want to let you starve, brother.”
The agonizing pain in his chest, in his body, was slowly fading, and Cymbeline found his eyes ablaze with the vilest hatred he’d ever felt in his life. The anger—the humiliation—was burning him like wildfire, and Cy wanted to spring acid on the older man’s face and incinerate him, just to hear him scream for mercy. He could feel the bitter, treacherous words that would come out of his mouth if he dared.
Did he dare?
Would he dare?
He knew he was more than qualified and skilled at Charms and curses and other defences than his older brother—all the man did was lounge in his mansion and scheme fool-proof tactics that would multiply his fortune. Corentin had never fought before in his life, never lived to face a real threat that would scar him for life, never knew what it’s like to be on the brink of death—questioning whether he’d see the first light of sun tomorrow or let the darkness consume him whole. Nothing in Cymbeline’s expertise would be equal to his brother’s, because despite the unexpected full-blown attack just moment before, he was far better. While his brother casted curses, Cy broke them.
Then why was he still paralyzed from the sudden blow?
“You’re weak. You’re a filthy coward. You’re disappointed with how life turned out—not to be quite what you had in mind, is it? You think that if you try hard enough, you will get it. But let me ask you something: have you got what you have yearned for years? What has the nine years given you in return, besides humiliation and feeling of a failure?”
Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
“You think you would survive without us, don’t you?”
“Fuck off.”
“You think the path would clear off easily after you turned your back on us?”
“I didn’t turn my back—”
“CONFESS, YOU FUCKING CUNT!”
“Petrificus Totalus!”
Just before Corentin fell on top of him, Cy crawled under him and watched as his brother’s body crashed onto the ground. His chest tightened with fear and relief rushing altogether. It was a reflex—a bloody productive reflex. He couldn’t take more of Corentin, partly because, of course, he’s fed up. But beyond his hatred and thirst for vengeance—that he could do anything to his brother’s motionless body, that he could blow his head, gut him, tear his limbs off, anything—Cy struggled to find the lie in his brother’s scathing words.
Fuck you, Corentin, you ugly piece of shite. Fuck you.
Cy let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He was pathetically curled up on the ground with a bewildered look, watching as blood seeping from his brother’s seemingly broken nose into the green grass. Even though the face was not seen from his view, he knew Corentin was livid. Cymbeline was a walking corpse. He knew, if someone casted a Finite towards that useless body, he would be dead. But the party totally sucked the life out of this hidden part of the gardens, perfectly isolated from prying eyes. If he didn’t tell anybody about Corentin’s whereabouts, there might be a good chance that the older man would be left to death.
But one could only dream.
“I came here to see my niece and nephews, dickhead.” The youngest Verdelet got to his wobbly feet, unsure of what to do while brushing the dirt off his perfectly-tailored suit. “I care for your children, because I’m a fucking good uncle.”
He whispered a spell to tidy himself up, thinking that he’d talk to Emma first and inform her casually about Corentin leaving the party early for a sudden meeting, before excusing himself to go home. He wanted nobody search for Corentin and thus let him rot here with the sewer rats he’s so eager to gut for the poor and starving little brother. He wanted him dead, but couldn’t bring himself to hold out his wand and finish the business.
“I wanted to be given the chance to fucking learn something I was greatly interested in, but I gave in, didn’t I? Because everybody told me to. So I trained and took the job at the Ministry, and it’s finally settled. It has been, for nine bloody years.” The blond let out an exasperated sigh. “I just wanted to fucking learn, for Merlin’s sake.”
After mustering enough courage—which didn’t take very long, Cy walked up to his brother’s head, kneeling before him. He could do anything to his tormentor. Corentin’s fate actually depended on him, on the swish or flick of his wand if he wished.
But looking at his defeated brother brought him nothing but hollowness.
“Fucking piece of shite. You’re still my brother.” Cy pointed his wand to Corentin’s forehead, dug his thick skull with it. “I didn’t betray anyone. I never have. You just caught me in a desperate time—fuck.”
He rose to his feet, pacing in frustration. He almost kicked Corentin’s head just for the hell of it, but stopped himself.
“Just remember this moment. I had everything in me to deprive of your existence in a matter of seconds—” Cy tapped his wand on his brother’s head once more in a flash, that would surely make him flinch if he wasn’t petrified. “I’ve never turned my back on my family. You lot did.”
And before his brain could process what he was doing, he flicked his wand above Corentin’s body. It might seem like nothing happened, but the prickling blood oozing from the older man’s back stated otherwise. Cy had dug his own claw deep enough for his brother to really remember what he could do, because every time Corentin would look in the mirror, his reminder would always look back at him.
The curse-breaker had placed a cursed scar on the family heir.
“This is far from what you deserve, but I want you to remember it the next time you turn your back on me again.”
None of this mattered anymore. Cymbeline just wanted to get out of there, climb up his bed and sleep for the rest of his life if fate let him.
“Because I promise you, it would be a lot more to pay.” He took one last look at his brother’s petrified body. “So stay the fuck away from me.”
And then, he made his exit.
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