Blood stains his small hands, and the boy sniffles and groans as his blue eyes absorb the large scrape on his knee. Pure blood like his, his father often says, must never be spilled, and though Rodolphus Lestrange’s four year old mind can’t grasp this statement properly just yet, he glares down at the oozing blood.

Next to him, a dark-eyed girl’s vivacious stare is locked on his knee. Curiously, she jabs at his injury with her index finger, and the boy yelps.

Giggling, she leans forward and looks at him mockingly. “Should I call mummy, baby Roddy?”

“It’s Rodolphus!”