Chapter Text
Vincent Crabbe was burned alive. He was killed by his own ignorance. A death all too fitting for someone like him. And even before the fiendfyre engulfed him completely, he already knew this wasn’t something one recovers from. And in his final moments, as he saw brooms flying overhead and knew his only friends were safe - knew he didn’t drag the two down to hell with him - he smiled. For what else could he do?
But alas, it’s never that simple. Because what Vincent thought was his last breath was somehow followed by another.
His eyes shot open. the ceiling above him wasn’t the one belonging to the room of requirement. And the air wasn’t filled with smoke. Vincent sat up slowly, looking around the room he was in. Well, he thinks, this is definitely not an infirmary. And for a moment, he considers the thought he might be dead. But the afterlife looking exactly like his childhood bedroom seems a little far-fetched.
Vincent is half sitting half laying down in what is definitely his childhood bed. The windows to the Juliet balcony show a direct view of the rising sun, which in turn casts a golden glow over the room in whole. He tugs off the fluffy green comforter he had cried into almost every summer of his life, and slowly turns himself so his feet are touching the soft, white, fur rug that lay under his bed. He sits still for a moment; letting the adrenaline coursing through his veins wear off.
If only that wasn’t followed by a loud pop.
He startles, quickly swivelling to face the house elf that’s now appeared at the end of his bed. The house elf in question looks up at him, if only to stare. It’s as if the creature can’t fathom its master being anything but loud.
After a moment of shared silence, the small elf begins to speak. “I is here to tell young master Vincent that breakfast is to be ready shortly.”
Young master. The last time Vincent had been address as young master - if you don’t count the awkward small talk made in festive galas - was before his hogwarts days. Strange.
“Thank you Mimzy.” He says before thinking, only to immediately regret it when the house elf’s blue eyes soon fill with tears.
“Young master has never thanked Mimzy before. Mimzy is not deserving!” The small elf wails. Why one would cry over praise is simply beyond Vincent.
“Don’t- don’t cry, Mimzy. That’s a stupid thing to cry about.” Vincent slowly stands up from the bed and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It was a very strange feeling to go from burning alive to being fine. Maybe this is hell, He thought, if only for a moment; for what else could this be?
The house elf lets out a small whimper, before whipping her oversized eyes. “Sorry Young master.” But before Vincent could say anything else, she’d disappear with an all too familiar pop.
A strange thing it is, to be a ghost scared of your own kind. Vincent was now left alone in the emptiness of his sunlit room, and he hadn’t a clue what to do. The possibility of this whole thing being a hellish nightmare was becoming increasingly more likely as the seconds passed. If not, then how on Merlin’s beard was he standing in the middle of - as he had gradually noticed - a slightly sized up version of his childhood bedroom. Better yet, what logical answer is there to standing face to face with your long dead house elf?
And now, Vincent truly didn’t know what to do. Half of him almost instinctively wants to freshen up for breakfast, and the other, smaller half of him screams that it’s a trap. But after staring at the floor for approximately five minutes, he decides I’m already dead. What’s the worst that could happen?
* * *
Vincent Crabbe had been staring at his reflection in the powdering room mirror for the past ten minutes, not sure whether to scream or cry.
“-but then she found out about the affair from her late sister — may she rest in peace — and the notes she wrote in the margins of her notebook! So of course-“ Vincent continued to stare at the mirror, as it continued to talk about gods know what. The mirror in question had been talking for every single one of the minutes Vincent had spent staring at his reflection, and if expecting it to miraculously change.
Instead of his face, the one he knew, the face staring back at him was almost entirely foreign. He supposed there was a time he once wore that face as his own, but it hadn’t been for years.
The steps that led Vincent to where he is now were as follows: find suitable attire, change into said attire, realize thine hair is longer than it should be, go to the powdering room in search of a mirror because your room is severely lacking, come face-to-face with the younger version of yourself, stare at said reflection for ten minutes.
And now, Vincent is slowly coming to the realisation that he might just be the female lead in one of Nott’s mildly insufferable romance novels, because all signs point to rebirth. Now, a second chance at life is, by no stretch of imagination, not an unfathomable concept. But, In all of wizarding history, very few cases of reincarnation were claimed. And, truth be told, Vincent would rather be dead — which he very well may still be — than reincarnated back to life. For If he has a second chance, then extremely dark magic and a promise to a god are probably involved.
He did — sort of — have a rough timeframe for when he was right now. Right before he left for Hogwarts, his father had convinced him to shave his head, and it had been like that ever since, for he had not the patience to let it grow back out.
“BOY!” The mirror practically shouts at Vincent’s dishevelled form, and he finally looks up, “Oh, finally! I’ve called your name five times.”
He looks down, feeling slightly embarrassed. He didn’t realise just how lost in thought he was. “Sorry,” he mumbles to the mirror.
“You better be. Sun’s already up.” Well, shit. If the sun is up, then he’s really late for breakfast. And he’s never late for breakfast. Someone is going to notice.
Vincent runs a hand through his currently unshaven hair in an attempt to flatten it. “Thank you,” he says, before rushing through the door and down the hallway.
* * *
Vincent Crabbe stood at the entrance of the dining room, watching. His parents were all ready sat, seemingly waiting for him. His father, nose deep in what was presumably the daily prophet; and his mother, scribbling a letter of some kind. Vincent had only just arrived, but had no intention of moving.
You see, Vincent wasn’t sure if he should run over to these people he never thought he’d see again, or if he should be furious and blame them for his death. Both of his opponents are probably not very good ideas. So, he’s going to stand at the entrance until someone notices him or he thinks of a better plan.
Expect now his mother has spotted him.
“Good morning, Vincent,” she says, in her familiar cheerfully voice. The boy in question slowly starts to walks toward her. A part of him thought this was some sort of trap. That he had to be careful.
“Good morning, mother ,” he replied. Standing a good few feet away from the table. “Good morning, father.” His father grunts in response. It’s strange seeing them so young, he thinks to himself, and all of a sudden he feels older than when he died.
“I was thinking of sending a letter to grate aunt magnolia, in Athens.” His mother said, in that familiar, warm voice. And he almost cracks. Almost runs to her and buried himself in her warmth. Almost.
Instead, he does the next best thing. Listen to her voice. “She’s still alive?”
“Vincent! Don’t say that! We went to her wedding two summers back, and you got trapped in the wine cellar, remember?” She said, repressing a laugh. And he did remember. Sort of. He remembered her funeral better.
“Yes. Of course,” he mumbled, before finally taking a seat at the end of the table. “Umm.. what is today’s date?”
“The twenty seventh. Four moons until hogwarts.” His mother replied, smiling as she scribbled something on the parchment letter Vincent now knows is addressed to grate aunt Meg.
“But what’s the full date. Year and all.”
His mother gave him a strange look. “The twenty sixth of August, 1990. Are you feeling alright?”
“I’m fine.” He said at the exact same time the food appeared on the table in a puff of magic smoke. His mother said something else, but he couldn’t hear over the smell of… well, the smell of something. Vincent wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but it smelled like how he smelled burning alive. He covered his mouth with shaking hands to hold back the screams trying to escape. It didn’t help much with the shaking. And sure, objectively, Vincent knew his parents wouldn’t serve human flesh for breakfast, but that knowledge truly didn’t help with this fear.
Vincent stood up from his chair on shaking legs, turned toward the door-less exit of the dining room, and ran. He knew running wasn’t a smart decision, — especially if he didn’t want his parents suspecting something — but staying in that room with whatever that was, couldn’t be an option. And so, he ran. He ran past portraits yelling his name, and past doors he barely recognized. It felt like he was back in the room of requirement, running from death herself. He could almost feel the fiendfyre eating him from the inside out. Devouring his very essence. Running away seemed like the only option. He was so distraught, he barely noticed the furniture he’d knocked over. Barely noticed the glass now imbedded in his palm. But it didn’t matter. Not when that thing was still changing him. Not when he still had a chance at escape. A chance at life. He wants to crawl out of his very flesh. To leave it behind. Run. faster. It’s coming for you, he heard his mother say, just like in the room of requirement. Expect nether time his mother was there. But it didn’t matter.
Vincent only stopped running once he fell the sun on his light skin. He found himself collapsed on the hill just barely on the outskirts of the Crabbe estate, as a panting, sobbing mess. He could feel the fiendfyre biting at the edge of his vision. Breathe, he told himself. But it seemed like every other person in his life had lied when they said ‘trying to slow down your breath helps calm your nervous system’ because he still felt like he might lose consciousness at any moment. He still felt like the world might leave him again. Only now, he was increasingly aware of what once was a glass vase and was now imbedded in his right palm.
“Vincent!?” He heard from somewhere faraway. Someone was looking for him. He was genuinely surprised, tho whether or not it was from the aspect of being sought after, or even hearing them from this far away, he was sure.
“Vincent!” Is that my mother? Vincent wondered, staring at the figure rapidly approaching, but it was no use. He just couldn’t see through the river of tears clouding his vision. He hoped to high hell whoever it was wasn’t his father. he truly couldn’t handle another ‘boy’s don’t cry’ speech. Not after that demon had found a way to haunt him in his new life.
No, that’s definitely my mother. He noted, as she was now approximately twelve feet away and rapidly approaching. Vincent watches her from where he lays on the hill.
“Oh, baby…” she says, crouching down a foot away from him, as if not to spook him. Slowly, she inches towards him with her hands outstretched. And that’s all it takes for him to launch himself towards her and the warmth she always seems to bring. She quickly caches him in her arms. She’s always been good at improvising. And they stay like that for a long while. Him sobbing into her chest, and her cradling his shaking form.
“My baby.”