AN: Haha, let's see where this goes! I know that younger-Magnus, esp. in a multichaptered fic, isn't exactly mainstream writing for TMI. After all--there won't be any of the other characters! Egads!

Oh, well. I'm going to try it anyway. :P It's a bit of a mighty random thing to embark on. Multichaps are big things, esp. given my tendencies toward sprawling narratives, and that this is really my second day of immersing myself in TMI fanfiction. But, hey, I'll give it a shot. Why not? I considered making the first section its own drabble, but...nah.

Disclaimer: I don't own, yadayada.

Set in Magnus Bane's childhood. Yes, I know that Bane is his last name. There is a reason for his other-surname here, I promise. There are going to be lots and lots of OC's, given the nature of this fic, but trust me, they're going to be legitimate charries, or at least, I'm going to try and make them legitimate charries. Please read and review; I thrive on reviews!

Magnus opened his eyes to a bright world.

The memory, like all of his memories, would stay with him forever; the sight of his father's grave approval, his mother's sweat-stained relief, both transforming instantly into shock as he blinked at them. It would take him years to understand their revulsion, but he knew it was there, even as a newborn infant, a strange, slimy creature who did not scream, did not wail. Silently, he watched his father's eyes dim, watched the already-distant face fracture into disgust; he heard the stifled cry that rose from his mother's throat. To his father's credit, he had not dropped him; nor had he broken his neck, though in later years, Magnus would wonder why he hadn't bothered.

His early memories, the ones formed days and weeks and months later, were of hushed voices and cool hands, voices that talked to each other but not too him, but his memories of the first night were the clearest. Disgust, pain, horror, stamped onto the face of mother and father alike, each adult wearing their shock differently. Magnus could see it all—could see that bright glow of each twisted line and wrinkle in his father's face, could see the reflections in each bead of sweat on his mother's neck.

He had been born at night, in the dark, and by all rights he should not have been able to see, but Magnus had opened eyes with slit pupils that took in everything, that dilated far wider and longer than those of his parents, and he saw.

He heard, too, then and later—heard the pregnant pauses whenever someone glanced at him, the silent anger that boiled in the air of their house, the soft patter of tears shed into bed sheets, and—outside of the house—the quiet whisper of the word rape, a word that lashed out at the air and stained it black.

Magnus Alesius would later replay his first few seconds of life, over and over again, against the closed backs of his eyelids, reminding himself that his parents had intended to love him.

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"Magnus," his father said. "Come here."

Magnus leaned the rake against the fence—he had been cleaning the pen—and obeyed. "Yes, Father?"

"We have a visitor coming." Gable nodded toward the horizon. Magnus glanced over; sure enough, there was a man slowly making his way over the crest of the hill. Gable motioned to the half-open bale at his feet; Ranger, the stallion, was contentedly chewing through his share. "Finish mucking the grass, distribute the hay, and then come inside."

"Yes, Father."

Magnus let his eyes linger as Gable let himself out through the gate and limped up the hill to the house. His father. Father. Sometimes it was hard to call him that, in his mind—he never slipped in reality, but still. The word didn't fit, much though he would have liked it to. He knew, dimly, that children were supposed to resemble their parents. He had inherited his mother's fine-boned build, the build of a girl, not that of his broad-shouldered father; he had his mother's stringy, dark hair, her fine, thin hands. The maple color of his skin, the cat-slit pupils of his eyes—those were his own, and he would have traded them away in an instant. Of his father, he had nothing, except for his raising.

Mulling things over, thinking--it never led anywhere good, and so he shut his mind off. He gripped the twine that encircled the hay bale and lugged it to the other side of the horse pen, trying not to spill more than was absolutely necessary. Canter's ears were pricked by the time he had navigated the pits and dips of the pen; she ripped a chunk out of the bale with her teeth before he could empty it, regarding him thoughtfully while she ate. Magnus let the rest of the hay drop to the ground and shook his head.

"Stupid horse," he whispered to the mare. "Don't you know that there are more important things to life than food?"

Canter's eyes were broad, black, set in the sides of her head—unremarkable, dull, they stared at him, just as comprehending as the empty twine he held in his hand. He scowled and laid a hand on her face; her skin shivered. He told himself that she did that instinctively—he could have been a fly.

"Look at this," he said. He pressed his thumb against the bottom bone of her eye socket. "Look at you. You with your wide eyes. How do you deal with all of that light?"

Canter jerked her head away from him and snorted, stamping her hoof. Magnus grimaced, cat's eyes flashing. "Fine," he said. "I know that I'm not…not right. You don't have to pull away, too."

Canter stared at him reproachfully. Magnus returned the gesture, added a wrinkling of the nose, and went back to get the rake.

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The adults were gathered in the kitchen. Gable and Father Clarence were seated, talking over their tea; Sandra Alesius was busy at the fireplace. "I thank you for letting me come," Clarence was saying. "I know that times have been…difficult, for your family."

"Times have not been difficult for many years," Gable said. His gravelly voice was softened by the tea. "I ought to be thanking you, Father. I realize that we have been remiss in his education…"

"I would never underestimate the burdens of raising a child," Clarence chided gently. "We will see what we can do for him. How many years has it been?"

"Ten," Gable said grimly. "It will be eleven in…" he hesitated, then finished, "in October. But he does not act his age."

Clarence nodded. "I will look into the matter," he said, "but we ought to be able to find something—"

The door to the house opened with a creak. "Magnus," Gable interrupted, turning. Magnus stood hunched in the doorway, his eyes glittering under a fringe of stringy dark bangs. He swallowed and closed the door behind him.

"Hello, Father. And...Father Clarence." He seized on the name without quite meaning to, plucking it out of the air. It felt as if it belonged to the smiling priest. He hoped that it was the correct one.

Gable raised an eyebrow. "Magnus," he said again. It was a warning, but Magnus just stared at him in bemusement. Gable's fingers tightened around the handle of his mug, and Magnus blinked.

"Oh," he said, quickly, and immediately bent his spine into a rigid bow. "My apologies, Father." He didn't know exactly which man he was addressing.

"None are necessary," Clarence assured—not Magnus—but Gable. He returned his attention to Magnus. "Come here, boy."

Magnus approached cautiously. He knew Father Clarence, sort of—he had seen him from afar, with his plain priest's robes and brittle white hair. Clarence gripped him by the chin and smiled, but Magnus could feel the cool indifference with which the priest's nails dug into his skin. He felt his lips curling. What was he, a cat? He pushed the snarl away, replaced it with his usual mask. It did nothing to distill the resentful anxiety building from having his chin captured, his neck exposed.

He's a priest. He's not dangerous.

"Look at me," Clarence said. Magnus looked—he couldn't help it—and he could feel his pupils expanding, adjusting to the dim light of the kitchen. Clarence's gray eyes examined Magnus's green-gold ones, measuring, determining. "I don't know if I would go as far as to condemn him," Clarence said, again addressing Gable. Magnus heard the rustle of his mother's skirts as she approached from behind him; the tension flowing from her pores had the same ripe scent as ever. As usual, she did not speak. "But it is a poor marking, that is true." The fingers released their grip on Magnus's chin. Clarence nodded to Gable. "We can talk it over later, if you would like."

Gable had eyes only for the priest; he did not look at his son. "Thank you, Father."

"As I said—it is my duty." Father Clarence rose, his robes hanging from his thin frame like sackcloth. He fixed Magnus with a critical stare. "Behave yourself, boy."

Magnus didn't know where that had come from, but he took the safest way out. "Yes, sir," he said. He tried to put sincerity into it, but he just—couldn't. It didn't work.

Clarence touched Sandra's shoulder as he left, nodded again at Gable, and stepped out the door. The quiet snap of its closing marked a resurgence of tension in the household. "To your room, boy," Gable said.

Magnus tried not to run away, but—well, he walked quickly, leaving the adults to themselves. Once in his room, he closed the door, leaned against the wall, and stared at the empty air. Sparks tingled at his throat.

Something bad's on its way, his mind informed him darkly. Magnus pushed the thought down.

Everything is going to be fine.

Somehow, the first voice was much more persuasive.