August 29, 1901

    ANATOLE WAS AN UNHAPPY BOY. He had been unhappy from the moment he was born, according to his mother, who stated that when he had finally stopped crying, some three days after they returned from the hospital, he had donned a constant frown for weeks upon weeks, and they had been almost certain that his face had been stuck in that way and would be the same for the rest of his life.

In a way, they were right. There was seldom a time when anyone in his family had seen him smile. Of course, there were the friends of his father's from the Ministry, and the friends of his mother's from her parties, who claimed that they had seen his son smile all the time, always greeting them at the door, always so polite, but while his parents agreed with them, no one else in the family did.

"He's far too young to be as sad as you say," one of his mother's friends said, all of them gathered in the parlor for his going away party; he was turning eleven, after all, and it was tradition to celebrate when another child in the family was going off to continue the family tradition.

Jean Moncrieff, the oldest sibling, about to enter his seventh year at Hogwarts and therefore deemed mature enough to join in the conversations with the adults, shook his head, trying not to scowl at the woman sitting before him wearing clothes so ghastly and clashing that he could scarcely be in the same room with her, let alone speak to her directly.

"Look at him," was all he said, turning around in his seat to find his brother staring down at the cake that was made for him with an expression so melancholy one would think he was at a funeral mourning the loss of his mother, not a celebration thrown in his honor.

However, the moment he felt eyes on him, he looked up, forcing a smile on his face as he inclined his head towards the table, and while all the women cooed about how polite he was, Jean couldn't help but stare at his younger brother who was back to staring down at his cake, still trying to maintain the tight smile he bore.

    It was a smile that everyone knew well. It was the smile he had practiced in front of the mirror for weeks after his first party when their father chastised him, telling him that he needed to grow up and start smiling and addressing people like the rest of the family. He had been seven at the time.

    But he was eleven now and had perfected the smile so well that it had convinced every adult in the room, his parents included. But his brothers could never be fooled, not Jean, who had been the one to see him crying in his room after his father had chastised him. Not Francis, who had been the one to report to Jean that he was practicing a smile in his bedroom mirror. Not his two younger cousins, Gaspard and Olivier, practically his own brothers, who always run up to him and tried to smoothen out the tight lines of his fake smiles and the harsh lines of his constant frowns.

    "You seem to be enjoying the party."

    He looked up to find one of his father's friends smiling down at him, a glass of something Anatole himself wasn't allowed to drink in his hands. For some reason, he couldn't seem to conjure up his smile when looking at this man, instead looking up at him with his usual sadness, a pit settling in his stomach as he stared up at him, knowing fully well he would mention to his father about how sad his son looked when he spoke to him.

    Then he would get a lecture about being grateful for all the work that his mother put into the party, about how he should stop being so sad when there was no reason for him to. He was young, he didn't understand what it meant to truly be sad. He could feel himself growing tired at the thought alone.

    But the man didn't leave. Instead, he sat down next to him and pointed towards his plate. "If you won't eat it, I'll be happy to."

    Anatole breathed a laugh and handed it towards the man, trying to discern how he knew him, but he was eleven and didn't have the best memory when it came to the countless people who had given his smile to over the four years he had been attending his family's parties with an ability to remember them; he should have been introduced when he was able to walk around by himself, but he was much too sad of a younger child to be shown to the people without whispers being spread about.

    But he hadn't smiled at this man. This man was interesting, with his dark skin and calloused hands, he didn't seem like the stuffy men that his father worked with, but he knew he had to be stuffy or else his father wouldn't have befriended him. He was eleven, not stupid.

    "Are you afraid to leave home?" the man asked, and when Anatole only stared at him, he elaborated, "This is your first year at Hogwarts, aren't you afraid of being without your parents?"

    "My brothers will be there," he reasoned, because he didn't want to tell the truth. The truth that, no, he wasn't afraid. He was excited, even. More excited than anything, he wanted to get away so badly.

    But he couldn't tell him that, lest he go tell his father. So he simply left it at that and stared at the cake that was in the man's hands, suddenly wanting it back, wishing he had eaten it when he had the chance. But, of course, he never appreciated anything until it was too late, or so his father said.

    The man caught his gaze and hummed, pulling out his wand and pointing it towards the display of cutlery his mother set out for guests to appropriate as they so pleased. Anatole watched in wonder as a fork sprung forth from the display and darted towards them, the man catching it in his hand and handing it towards the young boy with a flourish and a smile.

    Anatole took it from him in wonder, staring between the fork and the wand, unable to help himself as he breathed, "I want to do that."

    The man laughed, a nice, rich laugh, his head tilted back, catching the attention of a few guests who smiled at the sight, Anatole looking up in wonder at the older man who turned his attention back towards him. "Well, if you keep in school, you will be able to."

    Anatole tilted his head at the sound of the man's accent, realizing why he could recognize it. "You're French. Like my father."

    "Yes," the man said, nodding, seemingly pleased at having wrangled the boy into a conversation, "Just like your father, but unlike him, I went to Beauxbatons, like your mother did. She wanted to send your brothers there, but your father was persistent."

    "Are you his friend or hers?" he asked, reaching out to take a piece of the cake, carefully placing it in his mouth, not wanting to let the chocolate stain his lips, skin, or teeth.

    "Can't I be both?" he asked, in a way that implied he already knew, but at the age of eleven, Anatole had yet to fully understand the complexities of adults, so he answered as if it was a true question, not a game.

    "My parents don't share friends," he said, looking out towards the party, "Their friends can be friends, but my mother doesn't like my father's Ministry friends, they're too stuffy, and my father doesn't like my mother's Ministry friends, they're too snooty."

    "Well, you tell me, am I more stuffy or snooty?" he asked, hiding his laughter behind a bite of chocolate that stained the corner of his lips and teeth.

    Anatole paused at that. He looked up towards the man, trying to understand him. He didn't seem much like his father's friends, dressing more extravagantly in such a way that couldn't be attributed to his mother's friends either, as his sense was much more subdued, yet still striking. He seemed more lively than that of his father's friends, save for when they had more than their fair share to drink, but didn't seem to be searching for his glory days of previous years like his mother's friends.

    Finally, he decided, "Are you even one of their friends at all?"

    The man laughed, throwing his head back, the sound filling the room, and suddenly all eyes were on them as everyone wondered what the quiet boy could have possibly said to garner such a jovial response. Anatole looked towards his brothers who were looking at the man with confusion, clearly not recognizing him.

    "I am friends with them both," he said, watching the boy take another piece of cake for himself, "But I met them on separate occasions. They were both very surprised. So what does that make me, if I'm neither stuffy nor snooty?"

    Anatole didn't respond to that. He just continued to eat his cake as he thought, trying to find some word to describe the man. Whomever he was, he didn't seem to mind Anatole's silence, continuing to eat the cake himself, striking up conversation with those that approached him, trying to talk to Anatole themselves, but the blond only did the bare minimum, his thoughts now occupied.

    "Anatole."

    He looked up, finding Francis standing in front of him. Going into his fourth year, he often insisted that he was much too old now to have to be associated with his younger brother, so it was a surprise to find him openly approaching Anatole, and it was a wonder whether he was happy about it or not.

    "Yes,"     he said softly, only to falter when he saw his brother giving him another slice of cake, "Is that for me?"

    "It's your party," Francis said shortly, not even looking at him as he pushed it into his hands, but he did pause to ruffle his hair, "Who's the man you're talking to?"

    The two glanced towards the man who was wrapped up in conversation with a couple, him seated while they still standing, and the brothers looked back to each other, Anatole shrugging silently and Francis sighing at the lack of answers he was receiving.

    "Are you okay?" he asked, and Anatole was confused as to why his brother was still talking to him; Francis didnt' like him much, and he had made it clear on multiple occasions, but, for some reason, he was clinging onto Anatole like he was the most important person in his life.

    Leaning to the side, he caught sight of his mother talking with a girl about his brother's age, and it all made sense. Looking up at him, he felt his lips tug into a smile. Or, more accurately, a cruel smirk, at least from the point of view of his brother who was silently begging for him to say no.

    "I'm fine," he said lightly, looking towards the man from before who had finished his conversation and was now watching them with an amused expression, "You should go back to mum before she gets upset. That girl seems nice."

    Francis glared down at him. "When we're at school, there won't be anyone to make sure that you're okay."

    "Jean will," Anatole said easily, and this was one of the times when Francis could say that his brother was happy, was when he was torturing his brothers.

    Jean, however, older and more understanding, would disagree. Anatole wasn't necessarily happy, he was just not unhappy. Their definition of happy couldn't apply to the boy, he was never happy, he just wasn't always sad. Francis never listened, nor did their parents, but it was the truth.

    With a huff, Francis left, leaving Anatole to watch him go with a small smile, more genuine than the ones he gave others, but not necessarily real. Amused, but not happy.

    He turned his attention back towards the man who was laughing as he watched the interaction. "That was very cruel of you."

    Anatole shrugged, now eating the cake his brother had given him. "Mum has been complaining that no one in the family has gotten a girlfriend yet. She did this to Jean when he was going into fourth year, and she only stopped when he told her that he has a girlfriend at school, but she doesn't want to visit over the summer."

    "And he's lying?" the man asked, and Anatole nodded, laughing to himself.

    "Mum likes our lies better than when we're telling the truth, but she doesn't like it when we lie," he explained, and no one else ever understood, but the man nodded like it made all the sense in the world.

    "That's because it's easier to believe that things are better than they actually are. But it's dangerous too," he said, and his demeanor had changed. He wasn't the same happy man he had met, now he truly seemed like an adult. An adult who knew more than anyone else in the room.

    "You're not like my parents' friends," Anatole said lightly, staring at him with wonder, "You're better than them."

    The man smiled, reaching out to pat his shoulder before standing. "That's because I'm your friend. Not theirs."

    Then he left. He left without so much as a goodbye to Anatole, only a handshake to his father and a half hug to his mother. He left the house without much fuss, the only indication being that he left the door open and a small, green rock where he had been sitting.

    "Darling, do you know who that man was? The one you were talking to," his mother asked, when everyone had left and the house was being cleaned up on its own, the mops and sponges dancing about, nearly hitting Anatole in their flurry.

    "No, mum, he said he was one of your friends," Anatole replied, hiding the rock he had found, "And dad's."

    "Yes, well," she said, looking rather flustered, "He had told me that he was a friend of your father's. But your father has just told me that he insisted he was a friend of mine."

    "Oh," Anatole said, still holding onto the rock that now sat in his pocket, "That's strange."

    "Did he do or say anything to you?" she asked, looking around the house as if the man was going to appear out from the shadows.

    Anatole shook his head. While he was only eleven, he knew better than to tell the truth if it meant that his mother was going to be upset. So, with a hand still in his pocket, he left it at that, rushing up to his room and setting the rock on his dresser, reminding himself to take it with him once he left.

    After all, it was a present from a friend. He'd never had one of those before.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

( 11. 21. 18 )

Can we talk about how I'm so thoroughly invested in this story to have published the first chapter a day after I published the introduction, who am I? But I'm just gonna call how proud I am of posting the first Theseus fic because I'm petty and a child.

But in all honesty, I've just been super excited about this fic, I mean, Anatole has been an OC of mine before he even had his own love interest, and I just adore him so much, as I do Theseus, so I couldn't help myself, this is the only fic I've been able to work on this week, as awful as it is to say.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!