The Dark Knight

By Grudge Writer

Blurb: Many generations into the future—the hidden magical society is a cesspool of power play, deceit, chauvinism, and political involvement. Ruled by a plutocratic society, purebloods are courtiers, stuck-up suck-up members of the distinguished court of King Winsley Shacklebolt of Ministral descent. Dark magic is a taboo practice, and Hogwarts is…quite the same. When a new dark (and fucked-up) persona threatens the magical world, the rebirth of the Chosen One from the House of Black is the only solution. However, this is not his story. No, this is the story of his brother. The brother who chose to remain in the shadows, in the dark. The brother neglected, and unprecedented by fate. But will play one of the most important roles in what the magical world will see as the greatest upheavals of all time.

Disclaimer: I'm merely tweaking things a bit, still, She owns it.

Rating: Sometimes T, most of the time M, bits and pieces of R

Cliches in Play: Dark Harry. Harry Glamoured (hot Harry made to look ugly). Harry-the-neglected-poor-brother-of-the-Chosen-One .

Warnings: Severely graphic. Macabre. Violence (language, etc.). SLASH (man sex, you ignorantiams). Smut (explicit yum-yum, all consensual unless stated otherwise). Slow-pace and Long. Sinister Villain/s (whom I just love).

Author's Note: This LONG chapter has a lot of fluff (excess info, not the romantic fluff). This is an introduction to the setting and most of the characters. Please bear with me. Interested BETA, I need you. And oh yeah, if you haven't got anything nice, constructive or interesting to say, might as well just close the tab, yeah?

Let the games begin.

Chapter One

'this what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object'

Joker

Auror Halpsintock jolted awake, the sudden consciousness bombarding him with a myriad of sensations—pain, thirst, vertigo. His wrists were hoisted above his head, manacles binding them together with its long rusty chain connected to an overhead pipe. As he squirmed, his aching shoulder muscles protested vehemently, the chain clinking against the metal hydraulics that arched in the ceiling. He assessed the situation—He was on a stool, naked from the waist up. His hands were bound, but his bare feet were left free. Blood was pouring from his face, perhaps from a gash, he wasn't sure. He tried to recall past events. He was on his way to deliver a message to a man named Albert Johanson, half-blood, of Number 6, 2nd Avenue Muggle London. Passing by an alley, a presence loomed over him catching him unaware, and then everything faded to black. He must've been hit from behind. Surely his attacker wasn't a wizard, or a witch for that matter. He detected no other magical signature other than his and Johanson within a ten kilometre radius. Moreover, his wand had a built-in magical resonance surveyor, a new wand technology used by Aurors for ambush operations.

Thinking about it, his features darkened. Fuck. His wand was gone. Its entire holster was plucked off from the back of his pants.

Concealing the trepidation that he felt, he surveyed the area. The air was dank and extremely humid, making it hard to breathe. But it was also severely cold. His warm breath was crystallizing, forming small wisps. It was dark, save for the faint illumination provided by the faulty light bulb overhead. Within the lit space he noticed that the floor was tiled—a dirty white, that had cracks and mildew. A few meters away he noticed the grim silhouettes of hanging matter that looked significantly like raw meat. The smell of blood proved his hypothesis. Beneath the grotesque display of beef was a puddle of water and blood, with a trail leaking from it, towards him. A trail that eerily resembled a readable letter. No, letters actually. Cursive letters—a word—which he barely recognized due to the darkness.

Hi.

A voice shatters the silence.

"If my momma could see me now," A dreamy sigh, cracking of knucles, "You know, I've always told her that fairies were real. Mermaids were real. Magic was real. But no, she would not have any of those preposterous non-senses, see?."

Halpsintock narrows his eyes, hoping to get a better view of his assailant and kidnapper. Apparently, he was muggle. A muggle who knew that he was a wizard. Swallowing his sense of foreboding, he demanded, the chill air making his voice raspy. "Show yourself!"

The silky voice paused, before erupting in a series of cackles. "She speaks! O, speak again bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o'er my head."

There was an audible screeching of metal, another chair maybe, and the figure became more apparent as he came closer—but not close enough for Hapsintock to see his face.

The man was tall Halpsintock deemed. Even with his lanky figure and slumped posture, he was a few inches above six feet. He walked indolently, a repulsively lazy gait not quite pureblood in essence. And his voice, it was high pitched, but very crisp and fluid. It was also almost breathy, nasal.

"Oh dear sir, I'm flattered with your scrutinizing stare." The man was circling him, and it took much resolve on Halpsintock's part to avoid getting the situation better of him and barking out in annoyance. He was known to be one of the most level-headed aurors of the lot. Albeit, this was one of the few situations that irked him, and nothing was happening yet.

"State your name and your purpose for doing this." He calmly stated. The cold was seeping through his bones, and he knew he was shivering. But he wasn't going to show it.

"I don't like names," the man answers in a pondering tone, "I find it ridiculous to name people. You don't hear me asking you what your name is, despite me being your gracious host see? I mean, human beings easily forget names. Because their hippocampus and subiculum's not well-developed you see? But for the meantime I shall indulge in your useless conquest. My name is Francis, Francis Halpsintock. I'm a magician, see? This is my wand, see?"

Upon seeing the familiar patina of his wand, Halpsintock nearly came undone. The chains binding him rattled loudly, as he made futile attempts to tackle him. Moreover, he knows him. He knows his name—it was impossible to escape without killing him now, or at least obliviating him. Magical Laws be damned.

"Magicians are a temperamental lot I see, and impatient. I haven't answered your latter question yet. And here I was expecting you to reciprocate the same courtesy." Halpsintock glares in fury at the mockery underlining the playful tone. "Bad boy."

A crunch was heard, and it seemed almost deafening to Halpsintock's ears. He watched, his eyes widening and lips parting, as his wand was snapped twice, thrice, breaking it ruthlessly as if in a frenzy, the splinters of wood falling from his grasp lifelessly to the floor. He could hear it, the concealed magic within it fading. A nightmarish decrescendo ringing in his ears, as the soft buzz trailed off, to a quiet dissonance.

"YOU FUCKER! YOU FUCKER!" Halpsintock shouted, "YOU FUCKING CLUNGE!"

In his rage, Halpsintock barely heard the soft rustle of cloth before finding himself under the man's clutches. He now stood in front of him, a hairs breath away. Halpsintock felt his body tremble upon seeing the man's face a few inches from his own. He looked, like him. The man had his face. Was it magic? A complicated ruse? Halpsintock rubbed his own face to a shoulder, feeling the absence of smooth skin. In its stead, was something rough, a complex system of interwoven muscles.

A strong hand held his skinned jaw in an iron grip, long fingers pressing his cheeks painfully. "Now, now, language young man," From the pocket of his white lab coat, the man rummaged for what appeared to be a small knife with a clear shiny blade. He caressed Halpsintock's face with the scalpel, pressing it against his cheeks, but not enough to draw blood. He lowered the blade to his mouth, inserting it and scathing his tongue. It tasted like copper—the blood. He trailed the scalpel to the right, pressing it to the corner of his mouth. "Maybe we should extend your mouth a bit, so that it can cater to your wide vocabulary? See?"

Ignoring the blade in his mouth, Halpsintock forces himself to speak. "Why are you doing this—what do you want?"

The man's eyes, a light hazel contrary to his own blue, twinkled as if amused. "This seems almost like de ja vu," He replied while walking away. Halpsintock found himself sighing in relief, his heart still incapable of relaxing. "Your fairy friends asked the very same thing—"

A toggle of the switch, and then there was light.

Halpsintock couldn't move. Everything inside him stilled, a frightening calm before the storm. He was inside a butcher's fridge. The meat he recognized earlier was indeed meat. Human meat. There, hanging lifelessly with a giant metal hook piercing their necks were three mutilated individuals. Their faces perfectly preserving the last expression they had before their deaths—a scream, a wail, a cry. They were naked, in the very extremity of the word. Naked of their own skin, of their own bones. He wanted to hurl, the bile pooling in his tongue, the acid making his eyes water.

Alvea Tongsly. Shara Bathinghill. Cameron Spendswick. He recalled seeing their faces on the Daily Prophet. Their disappearance didn't spark much public attention since they were merely plebeians, but ample effort was exerted by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to find them.

"I welcome you Francis, to my humble laboratory." The man who had his face says, whilst bowing. "It's rather mundane for someone of your disposition, but I assure you this place holds an esteemed amount of knowledge, see? Ah, speaking of, I wanted to show you something."

The walls of the room were a clear white. There were cabinets on the sides housing a number of what he considered were vials of some sort, for potions maybe, and a number of white boxes. There were trolleys, and on top of them, metal trays that held strange metal devices. A number of them were similar to the blade that was pressed against his mouth. Halpsintock couldn't help but curse his lack of knowledge in the Muggle Department. What were those things? Things that had piercing chains and needles with, what he remembered they were called, motors that run from a different form of energy than magic.

The man goes to one of the white boxes, and opens it, revealing a dreadful number of those vials. He removes one large jar, containing, to Halpsintock's further repulse, a human brain—in all its convoluted glory. He places the jar on one of the trays, and removed the brain meticulously using his latex gloved hand. "I'm a doctor you see, so I have a natural tendency to be…curious about certain things. I'm a skeptic, see, I wanted to answer a certain question that plagued me for quite awhile." Placing the brain on what appeared to be a clear glass plate, he approached Halpsintock, a satisfied grin on his face. "What is the difference between you and I?"

"Now, see here is a brain. A brain another one of your fairy friends generously provided me for my research. A beautiful brain indeed, see?" With an exaggerated display of showmanship, he presses the plate closer to Halpsintock, the proximity enough for him to feel the coolness dissipating from the organ.

"Now, now, look closely. Over here, my dear fairy, is what most people call as the frontal lobe. Based on my past experiments, apparently whenever you fairies use your magic, a small part of it, so small like a dot, becomes so active, the electrical impulses detected by my nifty device practically went beyond what is normal. Severely high frequency gamma rhythms and abnormal fluctuations of the neurotransmitters. Ah, perhaps you don't understand me. Maybe an example should help." Using his blade, he cut up a small portion of the brain, then placed the rest unto some nearby table. Showing it to Halpsintock, he took the small chunk between his fingers and pressed it, drops of liquid cascading down his hand in the promise.

It was faint, but Halpsintock felt it. A feeble magical signature that eventually disappeared, similar to what happened to his wand.

"Felt that, see? Your magic is here. The only difference between me and you is the strange capacity of your synaptic vessels to induce an abnormal amount of brain activity. See here," He brings out a clipboard with a thick rim of papers tucked beneath the metal clip, "On average, upon usage of magic your brain functions to about 46%, very dangerous for humans. But normal for fairies, see?"

"Now Francis this is very important so listen closely, this here," He taps his clipboard, "Has a lot of information about how to stimulate that area of the brain, which I just decided to call Halpsintock's area, only appropriate see? There are also ways to render it utterly useless, like shutting it down. That would mean bye bye to your magic, see? There are also ways to make it stronger, stretching that 46% to 70%, 80%, 90%. Just imagine Mr. Francis, how powerful your magic will be! Now this is where I need your help. I need to test my methods on you, see if my theory is correct and all."

Halpsintock didn't understand the entirety of his explanation, but he did manage to arrive at the conclusion that he will be used as an experimental subject of some sort. That didn't make matters easier. Without his wand, he couldn't even kill himself. He was inevitably at the mercy of this psychotic muggle who had been sputtering non-stop about jargons.

The man having finished his explanation was now fumbling over the strange devices he got from a drawer. "These are electrodes that I'm going to attach to your head. And this, is my very own invention see? This allows me to pump electricity to Halpsintock's area, and this, is an electroencephalogram and will detect whether the activity is similar to how magic does to your brains."

Halpsintock trashed upon the man's touch to his head. With every ounce of his strength, he lifted his feet and dealt a severe double blow to his stomach that threw him off a few feet.

He didn't expect the man to react by an eerie chuckle. "Splendid. The coordination of your gluteus medius, tensor faciae latae, rectus femoris, pectineus, sartorious, gracilis, adductor longus, tibialis, vastus, semimembranosus, gastrocnemius, soleus and extensor halucis brevis is splendid. Splendid, see?"

"I do not blame you, most patients tend to be squeamish with their first doctor's appointment. Perhaps this will help you out." He held a small cylindrical item, enclosed inside it was a clear liquid. There was a needle at the end, and as he pressed the other end gently, a small spurt darted from it.

Taking a firm hold of Halpsintock's hand, he skilfully plunged the needle to his arm. It took only a few seconds before all of a sudden, Halpsintock became overwhelmed by drowsiness.

"We have magic too you see, us muggles," The man whispers at his ear, "In a few seconds, I will magically make you fall asleep. Bippity, boppity, boo."

And all was black.

The distinguished court of King Winsley Shacklebolt II, of Ministral Descent, holder of Magical Level A, is in chaos. Everyone are in the middle of heated conversations, droning on and on about the crisis at hand. Duke Shamsley Apricot, the court Upholder of Order, slams the gavel, causing a widespread surge of his magic, silencing the boisterous lot. "Order! His Highness will speak."

"The legitimacy of the prophecy will not be questioned. Better play a fool rather than be caught unaware. I want the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to immediately double the number of Auror trainees. The Department of Education should also improve the Dueling curriculum. I want all students to at least reach O level before graduation. Those who fail to establish such will undergo extra training. I expect pureblood students to graduate with a level C or higher. Pureblood adults still undergoing C level training should be at least High-C within the span of five years. Those within B, High-B and A levels, are expected to aid the lower levels. Those who fail to reach High-C will be relinquished of their titles, and their properties shall be taken by the Department of Finance for usage. You will not be acknowledged as a Pureblood in my court, and henceforth be deemed as a plebeian."

King Winsley spoke sternly, eyeing every pureblood within sight. There were those who seemed unaffected by his demands, probably due to their already B-level statures. However, a number of them, Earl Benzou for example, were twiddling their robes in anxiety. Some even had the nerve to glare, or cross their arms in defiance and disrespect. It was ironic how the lesser purebloods were much more pompous than the higher-ups, always attempting to gallivant their way into his graces by means of throwing lavish parties that only cause headaches for the monarch. Utterly convinced that their wealth would be enough to make themselves omnipotent, their magic remained repulsively weak.

In contrary, those belonging to his inner circle were the full blooded and powerful wizard and aristocrats whose legacy predates even before the Third Great War. Duke Lucius Albrom Malfoy of the House of Malfoy of the Liege of Slytherin, Grade A Potions Master, Level High-B. Duke Sybil Zabini of the House of Zabini, Liege of Slytherin, Level B. Duke Bernard Weasley, House of Weasley, CEO of Weasley industries, Liege of Gryffindor, Level B. Count Calchas Longbottom of the House of Longbottom, CEO of Longbottom Estates, Liege of Hufflepuff, Level B. Duke James Sebastian Potter of the most revered House of Black, Liege of Gryffindor, Legacy of the Chosens, Level High-B. Oracle Luna Lovegood IV, Liege of Seers, Level B. Mr. Padilson Stukely, CEO Stukely Residences, Stukely Magical Insurance Corp., Stukely Tech, Liege of Ravenclaw, Level B. Marquess Pradmont Patil-Smith of the House of Patil-Smith, Liege of Gryffindor, Liege of Hufflepuff, Level B. Earl Geronimo Delacour of the French Nobility, House of Delacour, Level B.

"Lord Potter." King Winsley calls, earning him a low bow from the Duke himself, before establishing a kneeling position.

"Yes your highness?"

"The prophesy calls for the rebirth of the Chosen One between the seventh and eighth month. I believe your wife, Lady Lillith Black, is expecting?"

Duke James raises his head, pride obscuring his brown orbs. "Indeed your highness. Chadwick Algerio Potter will be born on the thirty-first of the seventh, and according to our family healer, possesses a remarkably strong magical core."

"Congratulations, Potter," Lucius Malfoy drawled, "You do have the ability to pass on those magical genes of yours."

"Indeed," Lady Cheska Zabini pipes, hiding her moving lips with an elegant silk fan, "We were beginning to think that you suffer from some disorder or sorts. With your first son being, well…"

James sighs resentfully, "Harry—Handelson Rieux Potter, my eldest, is not a squib I assure you. His, magical core simply doesn't seem to…manifest as of the moment."

"That is a pity Lord Potter," Bernard Weasley agrees, taking a gulp from his goblet of nicely aged wine, "My sons, Frederich and George would've loved to duel with him in the future. But as I've heard from them, little Potter also seems to be a recluse."

"Yes, Handelson doesn't find the prospects of association much too appealing. I do believe it's because of his weak constitution." James replies, a tinge of pink in his cheeks. It was practically unheard of, the son of an aristocrat refusing to mingle with those of the pureblood society.

"He is still four years isn't he?" The sweet voice of the Oracle Lovegood making the men shiver, "Still young, Lord Potter. Still young."

Pradmont Patil-Smith hollered grabbing everyone's attention. "Why, four is practically the zenith of youth Lady Lovegood! I was three when my father started training me. At two years old I could already control my magic! Two!"

"My son, Draconius, is already capable of a decent Expelliarmus. Moreover, he is showing tremendous potential in Potions. Undoubtedly he will live to surpass me, and those Masters before me." Lucius announced haughtily.

"Ah, the young Malfoy, he is a dashing young lad. Impeccable manners, gorgeous looks. Still four years old but I could already feel the sizzle of his magic." Marchioness Hermana Patil-Smith agreed, giving Albrom a seductive smile. "If only our dear Colin could have just a bit of the Malfoy gene…"

Pradmont noticing the exchange cast Lucius a weak glare, "But Colin is showing exceptional potential. Why, just yesterday he was able to cast a good Confundus Charm!" The obvious lie made most of the inner members roll their eyes. They were practically used to Pradmont's habit.

"Good for you Pradmont!" Calchas Longbottom, the only who fails to see through Pradmont's lies, gives the Marquess a respectful nod. "My heir could make that Handelson of yours a run for his Galleons Lord Potter! Neville, that atrocious son of mine, is a wimp! I was expecting a lot from him, naming him by the Great Longbottom of the Second Great War. To think he can't even hold a wand properly. He's afraid of his own magic!"

King Winsley chuckled silently, recalling the young Neville's recent fourth birthday. The boy practically peed himself when he shook his hand. Moreover, he always stuttered as he spoke.

"But ze true crème of ze youth would be the Crown Heir himself, non?" Geronimo Delacour says with his thick French accent.

His statement was greeted by nods of most of the courtiers. Even the lesser purebloods who weren't allowed to voice their opinions on the matter, were shaking their head.

King Winsley smiles. He was mightily proud of his son. Graham Demetrius Shacklebolt, the same age as Draconius, yet having an insurmountable amount of charisma and power. The young lad held himself with such grace that puts all the lesser purebloods of his court to absolute shame. He was handsome, intelligent, and witty, capable of understanding complicated political issues that arose while having their luncheon and even voicing out his feasible opinions about them. His magic also had that incredible pull—a trait for Kings. Most of the heirs and heiresses had been attracted by Graham's allure. Even the haughty Malfoy follows him like a lamb.

Taking a deep breath, Winsley's countenance transformed to that of extreme seriousness. Noticing the sudden change, the inner members ceased their banter and gave their Overlord their undivided attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this War that the prophecy states is not ours. This is the War of our children. It is their lives which will be at stake. It is their blood that will stain the pavements, and pollute the air. All of you, my entire court that have served me with such commitment and devotion, we will not rest this War on the shoulders of the Chosen One alone. As fathers, as mothers, see to it that you prepare your children. The pains that they will suffer in the future will be upon your discretion. With this, I adjourn this meeting."

A young boy, with a mop of short black hair, ivory skin and vivid verdant orbs, was sitting on a velvet chaise, his back facing the fireplace. On his lap was a thick book that had yellowed pages and smelt of sandalwood and vanilla. His eyes were filled with childish enthusiasm, as he read line after line on Biography of Harry Potter. His heart was beating strongly against his chest, and his lips were parted in amazement. To think that he descended from such a powerful wizard! Putting the book down, he closes his eyes, a smile still on his lips. He did what he always did after reading an action-packed chapter of the book. He imagined that it was him. He imagined that he was that ridiculously awesome wizard that had the ability to vanquish evil, which had the strength to defy the most notorious Dark Lord, Voldemort. To think that just in his First year at Hogwarts he was able to save a female from a vicious troll! And she wasn't even a pureblood. But he expected nothing less from the equitable Great Harry Potter!

Taking his wand out, Handelson Potter, Harry as his father calls him, started to exaggeratedly flick his wand. He began to yell a bunch of spells that he knew of, the end of his wand only making small sparks of magic.

Grabbing a coat rack, he threw a black cloth over it before facing it with a glare.

"You prissy troll! I can sever your head with just a flick of my wand!" He snapped his arm wildly, "HAYAAAH!"

The tip of his wand had a faint glow, but diminished a few seconds after. "Expel! Llamus! Die you overgrown toad! Stoopefy!"

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Harry smirks. "You are a tough opponent Mr. Troll, but, we Blacks are not known for our mercy!"

"WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!" He screamed, his squeaky voice hoarse. The makeshift troll stayed in place, standing mockingly in front of him.

"That's what you're gonna use to attack a troll?" An annoying drawl came from the door, "A bloody floating spell? What are you going to do, make it float to its demise?"

"Ah, hi Elizabeth." Harry bows shyly, hiding his wand behind his back.

The young girl looked like a porcelain doll. Wearing a beautiful maroon frock that brought out the gold of her hair and the blue of her eyes, she was absolutely adorable. She stood near the entrance, her arms folded across her chest, a brow arched.

"You are really pathetic Harry," Elizabeth Patil-Smith scoffs, "You bring shame to Aunt and Uncle Potter. No, you bring shame to the entire Potter race!"

Harry bites his lower lip and looks away. "Is there something that you need?"

Elizabeth screeches in annoyance. "Gods Potter! Man up will you, you bloody ponce—"

"Now, now, Elizabeth dear, a lady does not say such crude words." Marchioness Hermana enters the study with a feline grace that made Harry cower back in shyness.

Elizabeth blushes, "Oh, pardon me mother. I was merely…influenced by the situation." She casts Harry a venomous stare, "I can't wait for the Chosen One to be born. He'll probably be way more interesting than you." With that finality, she grabs her mother's gloved hand, and trots out of the room, her button nose raised.

Instead of feeling morose, Harry grinned widely. He was going to be an older brother! Moreover, his younger brother was the Chosen One. It made him feel absolutely euphoric to know that soon his brother will blanket the covers of millions of biographies, telling his story about his tremendous feat of courage, bravery and power to vanquish evil!

With one last growl Harry pointed threateningly at the 'troll'. "Watch out you! My brother will avenge me!"

Harry was walking through the crowded streets of Hogsmeade licking at a giant piece of lollipop that he bought from Honeyduke's. It supposedly tasted like centaur feet, but he found it quite flavourful.

His mother was waiting for him at Madam Puddifoot's, who was having a Ladies out with the other wives of the inner circle such as the Marchioness, Lady Cheska, Lady Obsidia Malfoy, Lady Mavilly Weasley, Mrs. Stephanie Stukely, and the others, with the exception of Oracle Lovegood who refused to succumb to luxurious pleasures such as tea. She tended to live as a hermit, proving an austere existence. Although many believe she's one step away from seeming Kissed by a dementor.

All of a sudden, he was grabbed from a corner, a hand covering his mouth. He trashed in the man's grasp, making failed attempts to squirm out of his hold.

"Petrificus totalus!"

Suddenly he couldn't move—not a single muscle. His eyes widened in horror as two ruffians clumsily hoisted him inside a dirty sack, before apparating themselves to god-knows-where.

Lady Lilith Potter craned her neck over the crowd. Handelson was taking too long buying that trash food of his. It's been nearly forty minutes, and not a lock of hair could be seen.

"Oh Cheska, where could he be?" she muttered panicking. Usually parents could easily detect their children's magical signature so they'll always know where they are. But Handelson's was far too weak, nearly non-existent, to be noticed. At first they wanted to place tracing charms on him for protective measures, but figured it would be useless. Crime rates were remarkably low. Moreover, they were at Hogsmeade, the pinnacle of the pureblood aristocracy. Everyone knew everyone here. No one would dare harm the young Heir, of the House of Black no less.

"Now darling relax, panic does not suit pregnant mothers. Little Chadwick is stirring as we speak." Lady Cheska assured, placing a dainty hand on Lilith's. "He must've been far too taken with the confections and all."

"What a particularly common-folk trait that is," Lady Obsidia says serenely, "Your son could do a lesson or two on pureblood etiquette Lily. He's old enough to be imbued with the necessary discipline. Take my son for example, why, Draconius never purchase such childish whims. He knows full well they are unhealthy, and without any practical utility."

Lady Mavilly appeared to be insulted at this, "For your information Obsidia, my sons are extremely well-bred! Albeit they do succumb to such pointless indulgence at times, they're nothing like those street children!"

Lily forewent Mavilly's implication of her son being a street rat, in order to continue glancing around. Yes she knew Handelson actions bordered to that of the commoners, but he has always been a responsible young man. He had compassion for things, and he fulfilled his promises. Her son was shy, that much she knew. Even in her presence or her husband's, the boy held himself with introversion. He avoided their touch, and avoided confrontations at all costs.

She frowned slightly, rubbing her bloated stomach. Hopefully, Chadwick would be able to break pass his brother's defences. She wanted the two to be inseparable, to have a beautiful brotherly bond; a bond that for some reason, she and James failed to forge with their eldest son. Sometimes she couldn't help but question her worth as a mother. It has been two years. Two years since sweet Harry had ever embraced her and said I Love You.

"Harry, please be safe." She whispered.

Duke James Potter detested the plebeians with a passion. Filthy half-bloods they were, and still had the gall to cross the nobles, using underhanded methods no less.

In his fury, he cast an exploding hex at the wall, making it crumble to smithereens. He glared at the piece of parchment, his hand clenching on his wand

Duke James Sebastian Potter

We ave' yer child.

Boy's safe and is unharmed—yet.

Bring a undre'd grand o' galleons, to the address stated

below morrow' at six in the morn'.

Have your son back then.

Those moronic lot. James Potter called forth his servants, Quibbley and Alfred, past aurors turned followers.

"Quibbley, Alfred, as you can see this piece of illiterate parchment is a pathetic attempt at kidnapping. Track down this message, and make sure to rid of those fools. Bring Harry back, before Lily becomes even more overwrought. This is not good for the baby."

Alfred was angry, but managed to hide it. Not just at his Young Master's assailants, but with the House Lord as well. There was no despair in his tone, no concern whatsoever for the well-being of Harry, but only for the Lady and her child.

"And make sure those clunges are dealt with accordingly, the Black way."

Quibbley and Alfred bow in unison, "Of course, my Lord."

Harry managed to return that very night. True to his kidnappers' words, there was not a hair out of place. His mother practically threw herself over him, her tears staining his dirtied suit. He was about to return her hug when his father eased her out of his grasp, saying things like it was bad for the baby if she were to lean so much due to the disparity in height.

Harry didn't mind though. In his heart, he was beaming with happiness. His father came to the rescue, well actually it was Quibbley and Alfred, but it was by his summons. He was also happy to see a live battle. Alfred was amazing! He basically kicked-ass.

"Handelson," His father said before leaving to his study, "No more of this meandering through Hogsmeade without the supervision of Alfred, you understand? Or until you learn to properly wield your magic."

Harry bowed low, mimicking what Alfred does. "Yes, my Lord."

James all but shook at the disgusting display. His son was turning out to be less and less of a pureblood. It was beginning to get in his nerves.

That night while at the parlour, he and Lily had a brief discussion about Harry that led to quite a feverish dialogue.

"How could you even suggest such a thing James! Send our son away?! Are you downright mad?!"

James tried to make his tone level, looking at Lily with a most serious expression. "Lily, this isn't a spontaneous decision on my part. I have been ruminating about this matter for a while, and recent events indicate that this option is much more prudent than I supposed."

Placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, he forced her to sit down. "Let us face reality Lily. Harry is—will be a burden in the future. More and more will make these petty attempts in gaining leverage, and one day they might just succeed. Harry doesn't act like a wizard, nor does he become that of a pureblood. Just look at him Lily. Tell me honestly, how do you expect him to survive in our society with him being…him?"

"But James, he's just four years old! He may not be prodigious like those Malfoys, but he is coping well. He's just a child, he'll grow up eventually. He's not a nuance as you figure him out to be. And as parents, isn't it our responsibility to make sure he is kept safe? No one would dare go against you James, you know that!"

James placed a comforting hand on belly, rubbing circles around the engorged skin, trying to soothe his wife. "Chadwick is the Chosen One, Lily. Do not forget what constraints leaves us with rearing such magnitude of responsibility. There will be people who will try to take him from us, using any underhanded means possible. We can defend ourselves, but Harry cannot. We can look out for him, but, do you really believe that we would be able to monitor him Lily? Every second of every day till he shows even minute signs of strength? What if Harry gets kidnapped again, this time they want Chadwick as ransom? Would you be able to choose between your sons Lily?"

"Harry's been ridiculed aplenty, I'm sure you know how the other purebloods and their children view him? Just think what would possibly happen upon Chadwick's birth. Harry will always be viewed as the inferior, constantly under the shadow of his brother. He will grow up sad, perhaps even rebellious or petulant. Do you want that to happen?"

Lily was sniffling at this point, tears trickling down her rosy cheeks. Of course she thought about those things. It was every mother's fear—to find their child ostracized and isolated. To see him sitting alone during the balls and gatherings fiddling with his robes, unsure of what to do, afraid to even raise his vision to see eye to eye. She also thought of the consequences of Harry's social disposition when Chadwick gets born. The purebloods will ogle at the Chosen One, the Boy of Miracles, they'll flock at him, flatter him and try to get into his graces. It would crush her to see her eldest son ignored, to see him look over his shoulder and see the life he must've been dying to possess. Worse, he might get jealous of his own brother. Lily knew the dreadful outcomes of family feuds. She would not have that with hers. She will not witness her sons turning against each other.

"I know, I know," She whispered, crying at her own cowardice and at her son's expense, "But a child mustn't grow up so far from his parents...He needs us…"

Wiping of her tears, James felt his chest constrict. He hated seeing his wife be so emotional, so unbecoming of her he thought sadly. Lilith Porters was one of the most Junoesque and sophisticated witches of her time. Daughter of an Earl, she grew up the embodiment of a Liege of Ravenclaw—keen, proud, and overbearingly beautiful in her prime. He loved her that much he knew. Tears were simply his least favourite aspect of hers, or anyone for that matter.

"It has happened before Lily. My great grandfather, Johann Potter, had been the brother of the Chosen One of their epoch. Do you know what became of him? Senile, at the age of thirty. He'd been hounded by the power hungry magicians of his day. The Ministry, the predecessor of our Court, tried to use him so that they would be able to manipulate the stubborn Flatwick. They used him Lily, and the way they did it was bloody cruel—his own fiancé, his own 'friends', his own stepmother. Died a lonesome death, decided to become a hermit rather than be some puppet."

"Now, I'll be sending Harry to a quaint place Lily. A specialized school for squibs and other problematic cases, he'll be with people who can empathize with him." James took out a piece of scroll showing the elegant exterior of Morgan's Institution, a three-storey gothic-styled mansion with a beautifully tended lot filled with daisies and chrysanthemums. The image slowly changes, showcasing its equally elegant interior. Students were made to bunk with two others in a large room furnished with queen-sized beds, mahogany wardrobes, escritoires, ottomans, a couch and bookshelves. Each room had its bathroom, and there was also an outdoor pool. There was a small hall where the student populace—only 12 enrolees as of present—dine together. They served adequate meals three times a day, and an afternoon snack of pastries and tea. There was a music room, a small reading nook with a library, a stable for muggle horses, a small vegetable garden and classrooms. Their main curricula didn't focus on honing one's magic, actually there was only one subject that breached that area, History of Magic. Instead, the academe resolved in maximizing the children's pureblood behaviour. There were lessons on etiquette, rhetoric, argumentation, personality development, and language. They had a small faculty, mainly composed of squibs or half-bloods, proficient in their respective field, and headed by a man named Governor Fitzpatrick.

"The institution's situated in the outskirts of muggle London as well. Harry would be completely safe there. Security's tight, Fitzpatrick assures me. It's relatively new, but their students are showing greater potential. I believe Harry would be more than capable of being a fine pureblood under their tutelage."

Lily tried to suppress the urge to wince at the words "institution" and "muggle". Then there was that issue on safety. Being a trained witch, she knew that there was never such a thing as absolute security. She was dubious like any mother, but found the place endearing in its purpose. Squibs had always been looked down upon. It was a nice and innovative idea to make arrangements suitable for their needs.

"I concede," She states with half her resolve. She would never want to part with her son. But for his betterment, she was willing to make this sacrifice. "But, I will personal see this Fitzpatrick and get a tour of the school. I will not tolerate inadequate education James."

Bloody Ravenclaw. James thought, smiling with concealed mirth. Taking her hand, he plants a gentle kiss in her open palm. "I promise Lily, you will not regret this decision. We will not regret this. You can visit whenever you please. And when Fitzpatrick tells me that Harry's cultivated enough to proudly bear the Potter name, we will have him back. I will make sure Chadwick's well-versed in magic by then. Both of them will be strong enough to debut in society, I assure you."

Smiling for the first time, Lily cups James' right cheek. She loved the way her husband always knew how to sway her, by her pride and her dream. Snaking her arms around her beloved, she kisses him gently on his lips, savouring the heat that complimented with his typically cool exterior.

Harry didn't like it one bit.

No matter how much they toss in flowery words, tempting adjectives and persuasive promises, the main thing was—he was being sent away.

It was uncomfortable, to see his parents, especially his father, to sound so overly concerned and contemplative of his future. It was a huge ego boost that much was true, but he still didn't find the prospects of leaving and distancing himself from them at all jolly.

When his shoulders sagged halfway through his mother's speech, his father had placed a hand on his shoulder, something he rarely did, kneeled, something he had never done, and looked him in the eye. "Son, we want the best for you, you know that. You're a big boy. You are a Potter. This will be your training Harry. This will make you strong, and a strong man is what a Potter is, and what your brother Chadwick will need. It will be the two of you carrying the Potter name. It will be the two of you facing the world together in the future. Make me proud."

As his father spoke, he recalled reading about Harry Potter, his idol, and thought of his unborn younger sibling. He gazed at his mother's stomach, nodding slightly at what his father had said. "Yes Father."

Hearing the word Father made James widen his eyes, if only a bit. Another pat on his shoulder, and his father was standing up, towering over him again. "You leave in two days."

The night before his temporary leave, as he liked to phrase it, Harry had managed to pack his entire luggage with the aid of Alfred. His loyal and favourite butler had all but wailed in front of him, coming undone upon latching the last lock of his suitcase. "Young master, it—it pa-pains me to-to see you leave," Alfred sniffled, holding a silk handkerchief over his runny nose, "Why I—I thought th-that we would be able to s-spend a f-f-few mo-more years to-to-gether…"

Harry placed his small stubby fingers on Alfred's cheeks and pinched them softly. "Alfred, this is not a separation. This is just a lengthy vacation. I will come back, and when I do, you'll be proud of the man I would have become."

"Young master, I have always been proud of you sire."

"Well, you'll be even prouder then. I am the Heir, and I will see to it that I mend my ways. For father, mother, and Chad."

Alfred smiles, his nose still red like a strawberry. "Spoken like a true Lord."

"Oh stop with this sappy business, it's rather sickening."

Harry cast Draconius Malfoy, his poncy git of a cousin, a withering smile. "Hullo Draconius."

"Do not address me so familiarly, squib," He mutters haughtily, flicking his platinum blonde fringe with a dainty finger, "It's rather deprecating."

Harry continued to smile. In his head he wondered if he'd ever reach up to Draco's level of feline grace. Perhaps that was asking for too much.

"I hope you enjoy your petty sanatorium, Potter. Try to make friends with your fellow wastrels, will you? I do pity you lot, but at least you'll all be together. One big family of pariahs."

Alfred, holding himself back, gave the Malfoy Heir a stern look. "Young master Malfoy, it is not appropriate to say such things, to your cousin no less."

"It's Lord Malfoy to you servant." Draco said whilst sneering at Alfred, perhaps thinking about tattling about him to his Father.

"Is there a reason why you so grace us with your presence Malfoy?" Harry intervened, moving forward. His heart was pounding in his chest. He had never used such a sarcastic tone before.

It would seem Malfoy didn't notice the sarcasm, or maybe he found it to be too true for denial. "Your father wants you down, Potter. It's your farewell party after all, try to show the least bit amount of courtesy and show up will you. You're always free to stand in one corner and sulk, like you always do." With that, the small Malfoy exited with a flick of his golden hair.

"The impudence of that boy. Very much like his father, I am not surprised." Alfred said freely, making Harry chuckle at his tactlessness. "He is partly true, young master, we better be on our way now."

Allowing himself to be ushered out of his room, down the aisle, and into the massive foyer of the Potter chateau, Harry felt somewhat giddy, at the same time anxious. He'd never been fond of parties, hence he was relatively happy that this would be his last in a very long time.

When his father saw him, he all but whimpered by the way he was dragged around and made to greet and exchange pleasantries with the members of the Court. King Winsley himself was there, and with his flamboyant robe of unicorn hide, he could barely control himself from shaking. The King was as intimidating as always, and he both admired and feared him because of it. "Lord Potter tells me you are leaving for France, young Handelson. To hone your pureblood skills, was it?" There was the playful twinkle in the man's eyes, and it made Harry fear him less.

Harry looked at his father in the corner of his eye before nodding at the King's friendly greeting. His father didn't want the lesser members of the Court and other aristocrats to know about him transferring into Morgan's. Only the King and those of the Inner Court knew of the disgraceful truth. They approved of the idea, going so far as encourage and applaud of James' intellect; although Harry knew most wanted him gone for less than pleasant reasons.

"A man who hones oneself, well deserves respect."

Harry looked at the boy who practically flattered him with awe. Graham Shacklebolt had always been nice to him. But it didn't make him feel any more comfortable knowing that such an attractive and powerful King-to-be would pay him much attention.

Graham, or Shack as what the other kids preferred to call him, steps forward, his lips curved in a rewarding smile, "In Merlin's name, I wish you luck in your conquest."

Harry felt his cheeks heat up tremendously so. The smile was ironically too sinful to be plastered on by such an angelic-looking lad. Upon having such thoughts, Harry's blush darkened, realizing how he sounded like some pouf.

"Uh, yeah thanks." Was his incredibly witty reply, to which Shack merely bowed and left to mingle with the other children who were clustered beside the dinner buffet. Draconius Malfoy was downright scowling at him, as were the others. Elizabeth immediately clung to Shack's arm pulling him towards their table.

After the lavish supper, the dance, and the insanely embarrassing speech of his father—to which he was made to stand beneath a spotlight, and miserably applauded to, Harry lay on his bed, watching grimly at the stars that twinkled outside his window.

A selfish part of him wanted to go to his parents' chambers and sleep with them, something they had always done when he was younger, but the pureblood in him—whatever's left of it, urged him to man up and stay.

A few hours later, he was silently making his way to his parents' room, a candelabrum in tow. The flame was small, but it provided ample illumination for him to traverse the extensive path towards their chambers which was located to the opposite end of his own. Many of their ancestors were cursing at him from their frames, one of which actually glared at him with a passion.

He smiled upon seeing that their light was still on, and approached quietly. The door, recognizing him, creaked open softly and he gently pushed the massive bronze mass and squeezed right through. The sight before him made him involuntarily scoot over to the dark, hiding under the shadow veil of their wardrobe.

His father was smiling. A full-blown smile that reeked of tenderness and excitement. His mother appeared to mimic the expression, her nimble fingers intertwined with his, caressing her bare stomach in gentle strokes. It was a scene perfect for a family portrait—without him there, they appeared almost ideal. He saw his father lean down and kissed the bulge in a completely undignified manner. Finding it unwise to stay a minute longer, he left the content couple and drifted like a ghost back to his quarters.

It's been how many months since Harry wept so wholeheartedly, with tears, and snot, and coughs, and body tremors. He pitied himself in this state. One of the things that he'd learnt since young was that men do not allow themselves a moment of vulnerability. He managed to strive against the cajoles, the constant insults, the isolation, thinking they were but obstacles in achieving strength. Strength that come from habit. Habit of apathy, habit of smiling despite the hurt, habit of denying the hunger for intimacy. He was a pureblood wasn't he? But why did things come out wrong…why did it feel as though he's been biting off an empty plate. Wrapping his short arms around his rolled up duvet, he allowed the tears to stain the crimson cloth, and drifted off to slumber—thinking that it was his father he held in his arms.

End

Author's Note:

The title as well as the opening quote is inspired by the Dark Knight Batman series, surprise, surprise. And Butler Alfred is, well, inspired by Alfred. The doctor is my very own psychotic antagonist—whom I molded after a number of frightening personages ranging from Dr. Hannibal Lecter to Dr. Heiter.

Also, I've been browsing through a number of fics and somehow I find that the name Hadrian is the preferred alternative to Harry—is there a particular reason why this is so? I am sorry for breaking it if it is an established sort. I just really like the name Handelson, inspired by one of my favourite classical musicians of all time—Handel.

Finally, for those who find the age of four as indeed too young for displays of mature vocalization and witty banter, then please just succumb to the fictitiousness of this fic, yeah? I am writing about magical beings, I do believe smart pompous toddlers pale in comparison.

I hope I managed to incorporate real bitterness in the tone at the end. I wrote this with much sadness after all. I realize only now, how much I miss my mother. And the glass of milk she gave me every night. Maybe you do too as well.

Thank you for reading.