Title: Firebrand Chronicles Book One: Behind Closed Doors

Summary: Potter has the fame, Malfoy has the power, what does that leave for Blaise Zabini? Only to stand in the shadows, watch, and occasionally do the unexpected. Not that the first year at Hogwarts is ever what anyone expects. This is his story. Book One

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter any of its characters or events. They belong to J.K. Rowling

Published: 10/6/08 - Complete

Edited: 10/5/13 – Rewrite, The basic plot remains the same, however I have gone back added quite a bit of content, and rewritten several scenes.

Author's Note: 10/5/13 - It had been several years since I have done any work on this story, and for that I apologize. However, it was never my intention of leaving it alone for so long and I do mean to finish it (write books 2-7 maybe 8) though that may take even more time. When I finally sat down to write part two I realized that I first needed to reread part one, and upon rereading part one I decided there was a great deal of room for improvement. So I have taken all of your wonderful and helpful reviews into consideration, and I hope you all find that version two is just as good, if not better, than the original. The soul of the story is the same and you should be able to find that the first chapter of Part two "After Dark" will be posted within the next hour or so.

Author's Thanks: I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read and review the original version of this story.
thebluechannel - that you so much for the time you took to point out my numerous mistakes and thank you for your encouragement as well.
Ottwa gal, glistening moon, Ameri, Haex, iolah, The Darkest Wizard, laisai, Syody - thank you all for the time you took to read this, pointing out errors, and telling me what you thought.
Lazylynx - Thank you, your questions will always be appreciated, they helped me check that I was communicating everything clearly.


Firebrand Chronicles

Book One: Behind Closed Doors

Chapter I

My name is Blaise Alexander Zabini. I cannot tell you where I live, only that the place is close enough to the Parkinson manor for our two families to be well acquainted. Nor can I tell you much about the neighborhood in which we resided other than the fact that the Parkinsons were the only other wizarding family in the area with a child even relatively close to my own age. What I can tell you is that I spent the majority of my life there.

I was born the fifth of October to the master and mistress of Applegate Park, then Saxton and Vitoria Zabini. The story of my birth is a favorite one of Janice, the one maid who remained in the house after my father's death.

Janice is quite old now, nearly one-hundred-fifteen, and while she insists on continuing with her duties as housekeeper, she spends more time in front of the library fire mending, than anything else. Her blue eyes crease with a smile and her stitching stops as she tells the story.

"Well young master," she starts inviting me to sit beside her. "It was as dark a night as I've ever seen. The rain was poundin' on the windows so hard we thought it'd break through, and the thunder was a crashin' . . . the midwife couldn't get through the storm, and the rest of the family was away, so that left only Cassie and me, the other's not knowin' a thing about babies.

"Just Cassie and me. Dear Cassie, may she find a better life beyond the grave." Janice closes her eyes a minute to remember the dead before she continues.

"It was just us helping your mother, and I'll tell you young Master we thought we'd lost you. You see there was your mother a huffin' and pushin' as hard as anything, and you come and don't make a sound. Scared me as bad as anything.

"Well then Cassie takes you. 'It's a boy Madam.' She says, and then Cassie must have done something to clear out your airways, young Master, because it was then you started to cry, as clear and sharp a wail as any babe I've ever heard.

"Your father walked in and took you from Cassie, and held you up to his face. 'A son, Vitoria, we have a son!' I'm not sure your mother heard him. Her labor had been hard.

"Your father looked you over holding you gently in his arms. 'She'll want a family name.' he said looking at your mother. 'Blaise after her father, and Alexander after mine.' He paused and your mother opened her eyes long enough to nod her approval. 'Blaise Alexander,' he said handing you to me to clean and wrap. 'Firebrand of the Army, He will be great someday.' A good man your father."

Janice always stops here, something happened after I was handed over to her, something she refuses to speak of.

My parent's marriage was more one of convenience then of love. Saxton Zabini was my mother's third husband, but he was rich, what the Muggles might call a Lord of the Land, and he needed a wife who knew the inner circle and etiquette of the society he had to circuit. His relationship with my mother was distant but kind, and with me he was a kind and loving if not perfect father. I don't know what kind of man he was outside the home, I was not allowed into his 'friends' society. At the time it was too dangerous to put his family at risk by introducing them to his colleges, and it was also too dangerous to discuss politics in front of a little boy who liked to repeat everything he heard. I do know that he and Mother differed greatly in their opinions of government and laws. Mother believes in strict obedience, with no alteration of rules for any circumstance. Father believed in being kind to his people, learning about them and their needs and using that information to determine a course of action on a case by case basis.

As little as I know about my father I look even less like him. In fact I look like a male version of my mother. My eyes, like hers, are a dark brown almost black, my father's were a lighter shade, my father's hair was also a much lighter shade of the dark almost black locks Mother and I both possess. Mother and I also share the same facial features. Long straight nose, high cheekbones, too wide a mouth. On Mother the face is beautiful. I have heard her compared to the legendary Helen of Troy by some. I'm not nearly so good looking, but I don't mind. I supposed the only thing I share with my father (aside from a slightly lighter skin tone then Mother's coal black) is the fact that while Mother's face is heart shaped, mine is long and angular. That and I have his height. I'm too tall.

I never had a chance to know my father very well. He did not live long past my second birthday. When asked Mother falls silent and purses her lips, Janice tears up, and Bert the house elf will only say "Master was a very great master." I have dreams occasionally. A tall, longhaired, man wearing a cruel smile storming into our main hall. His eyes flashing as he laughs proclaiming it is time our family faces judgment for our inaction, bright light and blinding pain, Father intervening and the house elf grabbing me on Father's orders. The last words I heard him say were "Bert, protect my son." When I was returned home latter that night Saxton Zabini was dead, Mother's maid Cassie was dead, Charles, our grounds keeper was in St. Mundgo's, and there was that terrible mark glowing above our front lawn.

About a week and a half later the wizarding world was thrown into an uproar when a young toddler by the name of Harry Potter defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The war was over people were safe again, but for my family it was a week and a half too late.

None of this is really very important to the story I was telling, so I'll move on.

As I have already said my parent's marriage was a matter of convenience. This was a fact that I learned very quickly young as I was. The servants and Bert the house elf, all went out of their way to make sure I understood this. After Father's death it was worse. Mother's new husband, a man she married a year later, cared nothing for a child that was not his.

Brian Galtero was a broad shouldered man, with skin the color of milk chocolate, and eyes black and hard as coal. I know he was displeased with me. The fact of the matter was that Saxton Zabini had been highly intelligent in the writing of his will. While Mother inherited a great deal of money (everything currently in the bank account) and a small portion of the Zabini family jewelry, I was given everything else including the house and the elf. Saxon Zabini had made his living as a property owner. His lands had been extensive, and highly profitable. By willing the money to her and the land to me he ensured that while his wife would have sufficient wealth to ensure her own future, mine would secure in the holding of the estates and all profit from it thereafter. My father's father, Grandfather Alexander, was named overseer until I came of age, (Though he chose not to live with us.) and he above all others was well pleased with his son's choice and the insurance that not only would I be taken care of, but that I would continue to grow up in the environment to which I was accustomed regardless of how many times Mother remarried. If Brian had his way Mother would have sold the property and moved to some private residence near Paris.

Brian was not in the habit of speaking to me, not even after he officially became 'head' of our little family. He detested children. I was of very little sentimental value to him. I could however be used for his own gains and this I learned to expect. One particular instance I remember quite well.

I was five, and as young children generally do when they are sent to bed before the usual time, I snuck down stairs to grab a snack from the kitchen. I knew Bert had baked a batch of cookies after dinner, and I also knew that if I asked nicely he would ignore Janice's order about sweets before bed and give me one. Brian was at home that night and I heard his voice as I passed the drawing room door. I paused wondering if it would be safe to go in and wish him good night. I knew he didn't particularly like me, but young as I was I failed to understand why. I had some thought that if I was nice and helpful he might grow to like me and I could have a real father again. Before I could touch the door, however, I heard Mother's voice. She sounded angry and I knew then it would not be safe to go in. I should have left, but Mother's words caught my attention. I could not then have made myself leave if I had tried.

"Please, Brian, he is my son, and he does have a name."

"Pathetic excuse for a name."

They were arguing over me. This shocked me to no end because hard as I tried I could not summon up what I could have done to be discussed in such a manor. My desire to find out why I was in trouble overwhelmed me and I moved closer to the door so I could hear their conversation better.

"I've told you, Brian, he's just what a boy his age can be expected to be!"

"Good! His training begins tomorrow."

"No!" my mother gasped. I of course had no idea what this meant. "Brian, you can't."

"You're the one who's always asking me to spend more time with him, what better way then this. As least I can insure some use comes out of the boy."

"He's only five."

"It's hardly like I'm going to teach him to duel, Vitoria. I've made up my mind."

A hand came down on my shoulder and it was all I could do not to yelp.

"This is not that place for you, young master." Janice was taking my hand and leading me back to bed. "Come, back to sleep you go." The adults continued yelling at each other. They were never told I had been there.

'Training' began the next day. Brian began with wizarding chess, teaching me to think ahead of my current actions, and progressed onwards from there. His dislike of me continued in spite of the time we spent together, and I in turn learned to dislike him. We did however have an understanding and seldom quarreled, much to Mother's relief. I chose to defer rather than let her see me get into trouble. I honestly learned to enjoy the lessons Brian saw me fit to learn. It was easier to learn and enjoy it then attempt to rebel, and there was an added bonus. Brian promised to find someone to teach me swordplay when I was old enough, provided I excelled in everything else. (He claimed it would later help my dueling skills.) That was something I wanted very much to learn since Janice usually put me to bed with stories of heroes and princes who fought dragons to save their homeland. Usually such books were gotten from the Merlanus Wizarding Library such trips also being a highlight of my young life.

Not all the lessons were enjoyable however. Three days after beginning with chess Brian decided that I was old enough for some rudimentary flying. That was the day I learned to fear heights. It was also the day I met the Parkinson family for the first time.

It was a short distance really, but for a five-year-old child who had never before flown higher then twelve inches above the ground on a toy broom, it was far too much. Not that I knew that at the time. It started out innocently enough. I already knew the basic steering thanks to my time on the toy version, and soon I could go as high as five feet on the real thing. The trouble started when I was instructed to go higher. I started to comply but at about eight feet the ground started to look very far away and by ten feet I was feeling dizzy. Instead of pointing this out, however, I decided to be smart. I'd go up an inch or two at a time and when Brian stated that I wasn't doing as I was told I'd snap back that I was, hadn't he seen me move upwards?

About five minutes into this I was ordered back to the ground.

"If you don't know what you're supposed to be doing I supposed I'll have to show you. He mounted the broom in front of me, swinging one of his long legs over my head, and took off rocketing through the air. In truth he was going rather slowly in compliance with the broom flight regulation laws, but it felt much faster than it actually was, and having never been on an adult sized broom before, the experience was entirely new to me.

We were twenty feet off the ground before I quite knew what was happening. I yelped and tried to grab hold to Brian's waist but he tapped my hands away.

"Hold onto the broom not me!" he said in a tone of voice that stated instantly that if I didn't do as I was told I would not enjoy the consequences.

By this time he was headed across the estate away from the house at a speed that I thought was neck breaking, though was only about ten kilometers an hour, and it was all I could do not to be sick as I watched the ground speed by beneath me. He spiraled higher and higher though keeping in the same general direction, straight ahead. Finally I could take it no more and holding on until my knuckles were white with effort, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to cry. Brian hated crying. A minute later I heard some rustling and a grunt of disgust and suddenly I felt the world descending around me. The feeling of falling was even worse than the sight of the ground far below so I peeked my eyes open as the earth rushed up under my feet. Brian landed and I quite literally fell onto the grass at the feet of a tall blond woman holding the hand of an equally blond little girl who had apparently been taking a morning walk down the dirt country road that wound past the northern edge of the Zabini estate.

"Get up, and don't say a word I'm tired of your whining." Brian snapped as I clambered to my feet hurriedly brushing the few tears I hadn't managed to suppress from my cheeks. "If you don't like flying that much you can walk home." And with that he took off leaving me at the mercy of two perfect strangers.

The woman stared down at me over a long nose an uncertain expression on her face, but the little girl simply let go of her mother's hand to take mine. Her nose was slightly upturned at the end, and when she smiled her rosy cheeks smushed upwards and her bright blue eyes suddenly seemed a bit smaller. I have heard some less then favorable opinions that this makes her look like a pug, but I have always thought her full true smile gave her an impish appearance, delightful on the whole. I couldn't help but feel better with her grinning reassuringly at me.

"It's ok, you can cry if you want." She said softly peering up into my face.

I shook my head and sniffed but managed a shaky, "No, I'm fine." She continued to look at me uncertainly but was stopped from saying anything else by her mother.

"Young man, was that your first time on a broom."

I nodded my head and shuffled my shoes in the dirt. "I have a toy one at home, but I've never been that high before."

"I see," came the reply and then a very long pause. A thinking pause I thought, and then, "Do you know your way home from here."

"It's that way," I stated pointing in the direction we had flown from, "I mean I think it is." A sudden idea occurred to me and I exclaimed, "Bert will know. I can call him and he'll know."

"Bert?" the little girl asked.

"He's my house elf and . . ." I stopped suddenly and, remembering Mother's lecture on meeting new people, bowed. "I'm sorry I forgot . . . My name's Blaise, Blaise Zabini, It's a pleasure to meet you." I stated formally.

The woman smiled suddenly and placed a hand over her mouth as if she was trying not to laugh at me, but her daughter managed a shaky curtsey back. "I'm Pansy Parkinson." She said, "And this is Mama."

My first friend outside of Applegate Park. I was ecstatic, the terror of being so high up on a broom for the moment completely forgotten. I had a new course of action taking form in my five year old brain. "Mrs. Parkinson, Pansy," I started hesitantly, "If you want, you can . . . can come home and have lunch with me."

"Oh can we, Mama, please!" Pansy squealed.

But Mrs. Parkinson was shaking her head. "Dear, that's not such a good idea. To arrive without notice . . ."

"Then," I interrupted, "I can go home, and ask Mother, and then send you an owl, and you can come for lunch tomorrow!"

She laughed slightly. "All right call your elf and when an invitation arrives we would be delighted to come."

I grinned and then as Bert had taught me, snapped my fingers and said his name, though the snap was a little clumsy. There was a crack and Bert stood next to me.

"Oh, Master, you are safe and whole," he began, his large eyes tear filled, and continued on in one breath, wringing his long fingered hands in his tea towel toga woven in the storm blue of House Zabini, our white tree with its red apples embroidered on his shoulder. "Bert was so worried when you did not arrive home with Mr. Brian, and he would not say where you were when Ms. Janice asked. Bert did not know what to do."

"Bert," I cut him off." This is Pansy and Mrs. Parkinson."

"Bert is very honored to meet Master's friends." He said bowing so low his pointed nose almost brushed the dirt of the road we were standing on.

"Mama, he really does have a house elf." Pansy whispered.

I smiled, "Bert, can you take me home?"

"Of course, Master, Bert would be delighted to do so! It is not far." and together we set out Bert, no taller than I, leading the way.

Brian, aside from being shouted at, "You will not abandon my son, regardless of whom you may have recognized from a party, under any circumstances," was in very little trouble for what had happened that morning. I was hugged and given a large cookie with lunch and, once I'd ventured to ask, my request to invite my new friends over was instantly granted. That afternoon, with Mother's help, (her writing as I dictated) I drafted an invitation to lunch the following day and sent it off with Mave, Mother's glossy black owl.

Mrs. Parkinson was as good as her word. The Parkinson family, minus Mr. Parkinson who had to work, arrived promptly at twelve for a lunch of sandwiches, garden vegetable soup, and tea to be served in the conservatory. Afterwards, while the grownups gossiped at the table, I took Pansy on a tour over the whole house showing her not only the marble floors of the dining room (which was converted into a ballroom when Mother threw parties) but also the library, drawing room, and bedrooms, ending in Mother's potion lab located behind the kitchen.

We peered over the lip of the largest of Mother's cauldrons situated in the middle of the floor. She had others of various sizes positioned on the stone counter tops that lined the room with jar fill shelves above them, but as this one could have fit both of us inside it with room to spare we found it the most fascinating.

"Do you get to make things?" Pansy asked.

I shook my head, "No, Mother sells them to her friend's shop in Diagon Alley" I explained. "They're too important for me to help. But . . ." I added seeing Pansy's disappointed look, "sometimes she lets me sit on the stool over there and watch, and I get to guess the 'gredients, and sometimes she lets me read the 'structions to her. Only on the easy ones though. I'm not that good at reading yet." A sudden inspiration seized me, and climbing up the aforementioned stool I reached across the counter and pulled down a thin, blue covered volume that contained Mother's simplest recipes.

"She lets me read this one." I said opening the book, "See this says wiggle, and this says weed, and this word is potion. I don't know this one though." I pointed to a long word below it.

Pansy stuck her head next to mine. "An . . . Ant . . .i . . .d . . .d . . ." she tried

"Antidote." Mother's voice floated from the doorway. "I do believe we will have to schedule regular play dates." She spoke over her shoulder to Pansy's mother.

"I would have to agree," came the smiling reply. "Come, Pansy, it's time to go." Pansy followed her mother out of the potions lab and though I was sorry to see them go I knew that if Mother had suggested regular play dates, regular play dates would happen. Sure enough the weekend had hardly passed before I saw them again, and after that we were together nearly every other day with the possible exception of family vacations and the occasion that one of us was sick. We spent our days exploring the grounds or having exploding snap tournaments at either of our houses, always accompanied by either Janice, or Pansy's governess a squat, flame haired witch with grey at her temples, who insisted on being called Miss. Popple.

Between visits with Pansy my days were filled with lessons from Brian, when he had time. Wizard's chess was accompanied by wizarding political theory and various types of brain puzzles. He also insisted I learn wizarding history, though those lessons primarily focused on the great generals of various wizarding conflicts. It was not to last, however.

Brian unfortunately was killed in an accident at his work when I was six. Apparently his office was situated with his window facing a Muggle street and someone operating a car drove through the wall. The authorities claimed the offender had been drinking, but this did nothing to comfort Mother who was distraught for weeks regardless of what her actual feelings for the man had been.

Several months later Mother remarried yet again, this time to a man named Damian Moran, a pale, dark haired man with blue eyes. She had met him multiple times on her trips to Gringotts and apparently fallen in love with him, an idea that was odd to me because according to Charles, the only one of her husbands she had ever truly cared for had been her first.

Damian was a Gringotts accountant. The wizard's bank was actually owned and run by Goblins, but in good faith with human kind they often hired wizards to perform the jobs they disliked. Curse breakers being the ultimate example. Damian confided in Mother one day, and I overheard, that while the goblins loved keeping track of peoples' treasures, there were certain patrons whom they found trying. It was these accounts that Damian was in charge of.

I liked Damian. He made an effort to get to know me, and I did my best to make sure he knew he was welcome in our house. With Bert's help I showed him all over the place, as I had done for Pansy on her first visit, and even told him that if he needed anything he could always ask my house elf. Bert never had any objection to the order that I was able to learn of, and I had very early on told him never to lie to me regardless of the answer I wanted to hear. (An order that has always served me well.) Mother could only smile and nod her encouragement, as she frequently did when Damian had time to spend with me.

Very early in our relationship Damian learned of my interest in learning the sword and on my seventh birthday he found me an instructor. Dr. Gertz, as he liked to be called, was a small balding man with white hair, extremely wrinkled skin, deep maroon and gold brocaded robes, and a long silver chain which was ornamented with a small silver ring encircling a crossed wand and sword. I was presented to him in the drawing room after my party had ended, and after looking me up and down he declared that I might very well grow into the build best befitting a sword master, and if I was half as intelligent as he had been told, and applied myself diligently, he would not at all be surprised if I achieved that favored rank by the time I was fifteen. This news pleased me to no end and I swore vehemently that I would apply myself to the best of my ability. Dr. Gertz nodded and declared that my lessons would begin the following Monday and if there were no objections would take place in our ballroom. Mother had no qualms against removing the dining table that was currently taking up the center of the space. We usually took our meals in the conservatory anyway. Even Grandfather Alexander had nothing negative to say about the plan when I wrote him with the exciting news. His reply owl said only that as I had already made the promise to apply myself I would do well to keep it.

Damian also continued where Brian at left off with the chess games, though Damien played for fun. And where Brian had made it clear I was to stay out of the way, Damian encouraged me to come and talk with him any time he was at home, provided of course that Mother hadn't claimed his attention first. He took over the home office my father had once used, but at my request left Father's portrait hanging on the wall between the bookshelf and the window. I never spent much time in there, but it was a comfort to know my father's portrait was there if I wanted to see it.

When I expressed an interest in his work, Damian encouraged me to watch and learn as he went about his job. It was from him that I learned, with Grandfather Alexander's permission, how the house was run how much money was required to keep it running, the inhabitants living comfortably, and in short how to managed the estates that had been left to me by my father.

While Damian was teaching me how to make a living Janice was teaching me other things. I was taught the proper etiquette for a high society wizard for one thing, how to dance, which utensils to use at dinner, how to properly address my elders, when to bow, and when I should be bowed to. Pansy Parkinson participated in much of Janice's etiquette lessons. We were often scolded for making faces at each other across the table among other things, and although I still maintain that I never once stepped on Pansy's toes, Pansy claims it's my fault learning to dance was so tedious. I participated in her lessons as well. Miss. Popple taught us mathematics, reading, writing and composition, as well as some basic history and geography. Both Janice and Miss. Popple were quickly impressed with my memory and knack for learning, in fact it was often remarked that while there were some things that it did take me some time to pick up, I never made the same mistake twice. The fault for this I lay on Brian. While he was alive the man had been very much a perfectionist, both in himself and in me. Some habits stuck hard. Damian, to my great relief, never seemed to care how I learned, so long as I tried my best.

There were other lessons as well. Contrary to Mother's orders, (at my Grandfather's request) Janice also taught me the basics of how to get along in Muggle society. Janice even had me read several classic Muggle novels, or rather she read them to me when Mother was out. Damian seemed to enjoy them as well. At least he never said a word about this activity to Mother when she was home. Often we would sit in the library in front of the fire with her in her rocking chair reading allowed such Muggle classics as Sense and Sensibility, A Tale of Two Cities, and the works of William Shakespeare which surprisingly enough often seemed to be based upon the magical realm (the famous wizard Prospero for example.) I would work a puzzle on the floor as I listened, the process made difficult as each piece had a bit of moving picture which wouldn't always stay on the same one, and Damian would often bring his ledger into the room and sit at the Library's large desk listening as he worked.

The Parkinson family was never made aware of the Muggle aspects of my education, Pansy's mother would have had her removed from my company had she even suspected. Knowing this I was never quite certain why we were schooled together. Perhaps it was our parents' way of encouraging a marriage. Had that been their intention I'm sorry to say they failed miserably. Pansy and I quickly learned that we were incompatible in every way except as friends.

I owe Damian and Janice more than just my education. They were the ones who taught me how to have fun. Damian had a love of horses and to my excitement and at Grandfather Alexander's blessing he had a stable put in on the grounds. I loved helping him with the project and after begging him almost constantly he bought three horses so that Pansy could ride with us as well. I felt almost bad at the fact that she missed out on Dr. Gertz's sword lessons, but she had made it quite clear that she had no interest, and her mother had made it quite clear that it was not a subject a lady of good breeding ought to learn. Horseback riding was an entirely different matter, and Pansy quickly fell in love with our new white mare and pronounced her name to be 'Snow Flake.' Damian taught us both how to ride, me on a Palomino gilding named Dasher for its speed, and Damian on a buckskin gilding dubbed Red, though there was nothing red about the horse. When I asked him why he'd named a horse with a sandy body, three black feet, and a black main and tail, 'Red', he only laughed and replied he thought the name was funny. Mother seemed to agree, though when she rode it was on Snow Flake.

When Damian was gone on business, Janice would supervise other outdoor activities, though she mostly sat in a chair and knitted while I did whatever it was I had gotten into my brain to do. Generally this involved getting both Pansy and myself into trouble, though most of it earned only a mild scolding often, surprisingly enough, from Dr. Gertz. One drizzly Thursday afternoon I dragged Pansy out into the back garden determined that the two of us could do Charles a huge favor, (as he now helped with the horses as well as the grounds,) and de-gnome it for him.

Things started out well enough as I explained to Pansy, who had never done such a menial task before, how to properly grab, spin, and throw the gnome. At her uncertainty I also explained that I had helped Charles thousands of times and it wasn't really that difficult. Eventually she agreed to try. The attempt ended the moment the gnome she had grabbed twisted trying to bite her. Pansy squealed and let go before any damage could be caused, and the gnome sailed straight into my chest knocking me flat on my back into a mud puddle. Hearing her shriek both Dr. Gertz, who had arrived early, and Charles came running from our garage, which though it housed an old sedan had been built more for appearance then actual use.

Charles, a broad, salt and pepper haired man, quickly picked Pansy up out of harm's way. Dr. Gertz pulled me out of the puddle, all the while lecturing about putting a lady in possible harm and I was supposed to be a gentleman, and next time I decided to de-gnome a garden I had better find someone else to help me. I was sent inside to change and after another lecture, sword lessons commenced with Pansy sitting in the corner of the ballroom, a bowl of ice-cream in her lap, laughing as I was drubbed across the floor by Dr. Gertz,.

Then there was Bert the house elf. Bert, throughout all the changes, stayed by my side fulfilling my father's last order to protect me. He was by no means unwelcome company. Having never been taught otherwise, and not having another little boy my age in the neighborhood I could play with, I very quickly made Bert more my friend then my servant. Brian had disapproved of this behavior, but Damian and Janice encouraged it. Mother, after deciding that Bert was something of a built in babysitter, ignored the friendship altogether. Perhaps because he was such a good friend I always made sure that Bert was included in the family holidays, giving him gifts that were suitable for a house elf, (a new set of pans or a rug to stand on in the kitchen.) I even went so far as to convert a small walk in pantry closet into a small room just for him. Though the last was mainly Damian's idea.

I had always assumed that Bert had his own room, but one day, soon after Damian and Mother's marriage, I learned differently. I found my way to Damien's office and upon his realizing how upset I actually was, he lifted me onto his knee as I confided to him that I had just learned that Bert slept in a basket under the kitchen sink. Damian, amused more than anything, assured me that that little fact could be remedied, and it very soon was. I enlisted Pansy's help with the project, and though she was confused at why the effort was being gone through for the sake of a house elf, the prospect of decorating a whole room was enough to insure her cooperation. Together, under Damian guidance, we found a tiny bed and quilt in her attic, and some left over pictures and rugs in mine. With the removal of the shelves and a fresh coat of paint it was quickly and easily converted, and Bert after some confusion over where the contents of the closet had gone, and the addition of some new cupboards to the kitchen, was extremely pleased.

Damian was also responsible for my love of Quidditch, and incidentally the Irish team the Kenmare Kestrels. The man was almost obsessed with the game, and though he very quickly discovered that I would go no higher than five feet on a broom myself, he was not detoured from teaching me the rules and taking me to several matches.

I fell in love with it almost the very first time I saw a match. The speed at which the game was played, the level of strategy and quick thinking required by the players, and the sheer enjoyment of watching the spectacular feats preformed in midair very quickly appealed to me. I remember sitting in the bleachers, Damien to one side Mother to the other, munching away on cauldron cakes and pumpkin pasties watching green robed players swoop by through a brand new pair of Omnioculars Damian had bought for me. That first match lasted for five hours until the Kestrels Seeker pulled off a spectacular dive spiraling down the opposing team's center goal post only to pull up a foot from the ground with the snitch clutched firmly in his right hand. The victory celebration lasted all night, and though Damian did finally send me to bed after Mother's third warning I got little sleep due to the sounds of the party that was still continuing outside our fabulous three room tent.

It wasn't long before I was tearing through the sports section of the Daily Profit the moment Damian was done with it, spreading out across the table the moment the breakfast dishes were cleared, and clipping articles about the team out to pin up on my bedroom wall. In fact my love of Quidditch was enough to get me to try flying again at several different times. But at each attempt the dizziness that assailed me in high places and a fear of falling brought me right back to what I considered a reasonable distance of five feet above the ground

For the longest time life was good. My little makeshift family laughed and played together. We frequently invited the Parkinson family to join us for various activities (Mother and Mrs. Parkinson having developed a fast and strong friendship.) We rode horses and picnicked in the field. We went to Quidditch games and various social events. For some time I was truly happy, but then, when I was ten, the unthinkable happened.