AN: First off: you can read this without reading the first book, should be easy enough to follow, but I have a few things I like to mention like what I consider really canon and what I don't, and the book/chapter title explanations. It's all in the beginning of the first book. That's all I'd recommend you read. Normally I try to update every other Monday. Unfortunately some jackass stole my laptop. I still have all my chapters that I already wrote because I'm paranoid and keep all my stuff on Google Docs, my USB, and two laptops. However I still don't have a laptop that is readily available to me. I'm using a friend's laptop right now. I had the opportunity to post this so I took it but I don't know when I'll get another chance to add more chapters. The shit that is my life should be less shitty by late February and hopefully it'll only take a week or two after that for me to get back into the swing of things, but neither of those are guaranteed time frames. For all I know it could be May before I even get the chance to post again. This may or may not reassure some of you but I am honestly 100% positive that I am going to finish this story so long as I have internet and access to the HP books and a freaking computer of some sort. I have been working on this story for over a year and I'm way too invested and attached to the twists and turns to give up on writing them now. I would never have posted this story to begin with if I didn't know that I was going to finish it because nothing drives me crazier than a really good story with no ending. It's the thing I hate the most about fanfiction because a lot of them don't ever get finished. Rest assured that I would never do that to anyone.

On another note, if you're from the last story, thank you for still reading even though I haven't updated since, like, early November as far as I can recall. And before anyone can call bullshit on the contents of this chapter the family in this story is based on an actual foster family that I lived with for four months. The overall theme song for this story is Better Days by Goo Goo Dolls. Also to new readers I make sure all chapters are 4k - 6k words long, except for the prologues because they're a lot harder to write. Most of the story isn't about Quentin at all and you won't find out who he is until the third/fourth book (I don't really have plans for that, it'll just happen when it happens but I know you'll find out in either 3 or 4) but I know who he is and that makes his POV harder to write.

One last thing, if you don't like this chapter please read the next one too because I mainly use prologues to provide foreshadowing and background information. So the rest of the chapters are a bit different.

I do not own Harry Potter or the song listed below.

Chapter 1: Dismay in Empty Eyes

Date: Sat. - Sun., 12-13 August, 19?

Theme Song: Exodus by Evanescence

"Larry."

Quentin looked up at the sound of his alias. "Yes, Ms. Imogen?"

"Jeremy says you stole his flip-flops."

"I didn't! I – I swear!"

"He's lying, Mom," Jeremy assured Imogen, his eyes gleaming nastily. "I swear, I spotted my flip-flops in Larry's backpack."

Tutting, Imogen walked over to Larry's backpack and unzipped each pocket, one by one. When she reached the one in the front, she scowled and retrieved something. It was – no, no, NO, I didn't put that there! – it was Jeremy's flip-flops.

"Larry Sidney Powell," Imogen snapped, pointing at him accusingly with the flip-flops. "How many times have I told you to stop stealing Jeremy's things?"

"I didn't do it!" Quentin pleaded desperately. "Please, please, Miss Imogen, believe me – Jeremy put them there! I don't even like flip-flops!"

"I don't know what your problem is with my son," Imogen went on, ignoring every word Quentin spoke. "What has he ever done to you?"

"He's been bullying me all the time, every day – and I didn't do it anyway!" It was a foolish thing to say. Quentin already knew from experience that Imogen would never believe the stray dog she had taken in over her own flesh and blood.

"You ungrateful little...!" Imogen took a deep breath, evidently restraining herself from saying or doing something that wouldn't end well. "Go to your room - now."

"But Mom," Jeremy protested, and Quentin wondered, briefly, how Imogen managed to miss the evil smirk that was barely being suppressed on her son's face, "Larry still hasn't done the dishes."

"Yes I - " Quentin instinctively glanced in the kitchen and bit his tongue, forcing the words down his throat. The dishes he had done half-an-hour before Imogen had come home from work had mysteriously found their way back into the sink. Gee, wonder how that happened.

"Larry." Imogen fixed Quentin with a very severe look. "Honestly, can't you get your lazy ass up and do your chores for once in your life?"

"Sorry, Ms. Imogen," Quentin said miserably.

"Go do the dishes, and then go to your room."

"Yes, Ms. Imogen."

"And apologize to my son!"

"Sorry, Jeremy."

Quentin walked into the kitchen, shoulders hunched, feet dragging, and Imogen went to her home office. Quentin stopped at the kitchen, and as he poured a bit of dish soap on the sponge, Jeremy tapped him on the shoulder. "Sorry about that. My favorite episode of Flintstones is on tonight, though." Jeremy grinned wickedly. "Just had to get you out of the way, since it's during your two-hour chunk of TV time."

"Could've asked," Quentin muttered. "It's not like I don't know that you'll always find a way to get what you want anyway. I might as well give you my TV time when you ask for it."

Jeremy snickered. "Yeah, but this way is more fun." He started walking away, but frowned, walked back, and whispered, "I bet your mom was a dumb bitch too."

"Don't talk that way about my mother!" Quentin shouted, whirling around and raising whatever was in his hand to smack Jeremy with it - which wouldn't have done much good, anyway, since it was just a sponge.

It didn't matter. Imogen stormed out of her office and smacked Quentin in the back of the head. "Don't shout at my son," she hissed. She turned to Jeremy. "What were you saying about his mother, honey?"

Jeremy was cowering by the fridge, looking scared out of his mind (looking being the key word here). "I'm sorry, Mom," he whimpered. "I just told him that his mom wouldn't want him being mean to his foster family - I didn't think he'd blow up on me like that."

Imogen turned, furious. "Larry. No allowance. For another month." She shook her head. "I just don't know how to make you behave…."

Quentin nodded, turned back to the dishes, and stared blankly at them for a few seconds. They had been planning to go to a bookstore that week. He hadn't gotten a new book in many, many months. Mainly due to Jeremy and his antics.

After the kitchen had cleared, Keith, the other foster kid, slipped inside, a worried look on his face. "I can buy you one, if you like," he whispered hesitantly. "I've probably got enough allowance for two books."

Quentin shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. Ms. Imogen would find out, and she wouldn't be very happy with you. It's not worth the trouble, for you and me both."

Keith nodded and headed to the family room, where Jeremy was watching TV. Quentin began washing the dishes.

He had been in this foster home since that fateful day six years ago, the day his mother had left him at an orphanage after his father tried to kill him. She had left him Stupefied in an alley, and he had wandered out and asked some random stranger who he was. The situation had escalated from there until he'd wound up in Imogen's foster home, having told people that he did remember his name, Larry Sidney Powell.

It was not a good place to be, suffice to say. For one, he lived amongst Muggles, nothing but them, and he could never breathe a word of the magic he had grown up with. That in and of itself was pure torture to Quentin, who had been raised to be proud of his heritage and utterly disdainful of the mundane folk that roamed the Earth.

But he got by. He did. He could live this way, even if it felt almost physically painful at times to disregard everything he had known beyond a shadow of a doubt. But then there was the fact that not only his entire view of the world had shifted, or at least had to seem as though it had shifted for the sake of those around him, but also, his entire life was gone. His mother, his - his - that man, his pet snake Minga (he wondered what had become of her. Perhaps his mother was taking care of her now, in his memory), and all his friends, like Silvana.

But he got by with that, too. For he was a Pinnix, and he had always been taught that a Pinnix was nothing if not resilient and resourceful. And so he was exactly that, and he befriended the children at the local school, and made do with his teachers (for Imogen was certainly no parental figure to him). But then the bullying started - for what kind of eleven-year-old boy didn't know the symbols for less than and greater than, and what kind of eleven-year-old boy didn't know how to make purple, and what kind of eleven-year-old boy didn't even know who the president was? He must be such an idiot. And it wasn't as though he got a hell of a lot of help at home if he didn't understand one of the topics he was currently studying at school. The only person willing to help him was Keith, whose existence Quentin thanked every deity he knew of for every day.

So he was bullied at school, he would probably never see anyone he'd known in his childhood ever again, and he lived in a world of people he had grown up to loathe and look down on, and that was bad enough as it was, but clearly the universe had other ideas, because it had decided to place him in the home of Imogen and Jeremy Wright, who lived to make his life as miserable as they could possibly make it. Jeremy was the real mastermind - drawing insulting pictures of his mother and sneaking them in, splashing water all over the bathroom sink after Quentin brushed his teeth and washed his face, spreading crumbs over the table after Quentin had cleaned it, and many other things. Sometimes Jeremy didn't even have to put that much effort in - he could just say that Quentin hadn't brushed his teeth, and most of the time, Imogen probably wouldn't even check to see if his toothbrush was wet before condemning him.

And yet, Quentin could not even fully hate Jeremy, because Imogen paid Quentin very little attention, but she did not pay Jeremy much more - in fact, the times when she did pay him more were generally when he was off reporting to her on Quentin's misdeeds. She spent so much of her time working to support the three children in her household that she left for Jeremy only as much as Silas had ever left for Quentin (although the time Silas left for him was mostly spent smacking him around for cheek and improperness). At least Quentin had always had his mother, though.

But Jeremy having a somewhat better reason for bullying him than 'feeling like it' did not make the bullying much if at all more bearable, and it certainly didn't excuse all the other ways Quentin's life was going to hell.

Quentin finished up the dishes, then went upstairs to his room, lie down on his bed, and thought for a few moments. Then he reread one of his books, and went to sleep when Jeremy and Keith came in to go to sleep, and for the thirteenth time in his life, he emptied his backpack, snatched the flashlight from atop the dresser, and slipped downstairs to the first floor and out through a window.

It was so easy that sometimes he wondered if Imogen knew and just let it happen, if maybe she disliked him so greatly that she would make no effort to stop him from running away. It had never mattered before; the past twelve times, Quentin had chickened out and been back in his bed by morning with none the wiser. Not this time, he promised himself. I'm seventeen. A life on the streets can't be too hard. And if I'm caught - well, it's not like life can get any worse anyway.

The first time he had run, he had walked maybe a few miles down the street when he realized he had no idea what he was doing, because it had mainly been a fleeting thought in the heat of the moment that somehow turned into something bigger. So he had gone home, and began preparing to run away. He slipped a butcher's knife from the sink once - he got in a lot of trouble for 'losing' it, but it had to be done; he would need something to defend himself with. He slowly, subtly gathered all the items he might need to make it far enough from Verityview, New Jersey that no one would recognize him. Finally, he'd slipped away when no one was paying attention to go bury everything in the woods behind the house, and he'd marked the spot with (of course) a very large X. But that wouldn't be enough, he knew, so he took the knife and cut through the bark of the surrounding trees to make them as distinctive as possible, and he did done this to every tree on the way back too. That night, he had run away, and then chickened out - but in case he ever changed his mind, he left the items in that same hiding spot, and had done so every time since as well.

So Quentin went into the forest, following the path, and dug up the items before stuffing them in his empty backpack. Then he started moving.

It was around two in the morning when he took a turn down an alley and stopped to think things through. He might die if he kept walking. He might. He probably would. There was a very slim chance of him surviving on the streets, in fact. He was very much not used to handling hardship - at least, not the kind that could kill a person, such as hunger or the cold. He was horribly ill-adapted to finding his own food and warmth.

...He could go back to Imogen.

It was a despicable thought, one that always occurred to him at this stage of the process, but it was true. He could go back to that awful place, where he would be well-fed and miserable.

Was he willing to risk his life to escape Jeremy and Imogen?

No.

Letting out a defeated sigh, Quentin turned around - and his eyes fixed on a horrible sight.

Silas's eyes narrowed suspiciously for a few moments. Then - "YOU! Avada - Avada - " He bit his tongue, grimacing as Quentin watched in horrified bewilderment, frozen. Silas scowled at him. "Finally," he hissed. "How you eluded me so far, I do not know."

"Eluded you?" Quentin blurted out, because he had never been much good at holding his tongue. "I - I haven't - I've just been right here all along! Wait - how did you know I was alive?" His eyes flew wide open. "Mother! Did she - did she - ?"

"She died," Silas stated bluntly. "I killed her for her insolence. But… I made a mistake. Now the Pinnix family has no heir, and can produce no heir." He pulled something out of his robes and thrust it at Quentin. It was a wand. "Take this. I traveled far and wide to find it - if a Squib holds it, they will gain magic - although they will only be able to produce magic from this wand. It will not make you a wizard, exactly; you will not be the heir, because Squibs cannot be the heirs to magical bloodlines, so you can never access the Pinnix Gringotts bank account, and you will only produce magical children (the first-born will become the new heir after I die) if you reproduce with a witch."

Quentin stared at him for a few moments. "You… you killed her," he whispered hoarsely, tears forming in his eyes. "You killed her - you killed my mother - "

"She was disobedient," Silas pointed out dismissively. "She had it coming."

Quentin punched him. "I don't want anything from you," he snarled, shaking. "Get out of my life and crawl back into the hole where you came from."

"Don't be an idiot, Quentin," Silas bit out, holding his bleeding nose with one hand. Irritable, he took his own wand and waved it over the nose, muttering, "Episkey." The nose fixed itself, and Silas wiped the blood off of his lip before catching Quentin's hand in his own and forcing the wand into it.

"No," Quentin repeated forcefully, immediately dropping the wand and kicking it as far as he could. "I want nothing to do with you."

"You ungrateful little…!" Silas grabbed his shoulder, but Quentin whirled around, lunged for his neck and slammed him against a wall, twice, as hard as he could.

"Leave. Me. Alone," Quentin growled. He released the man and took off down the street before his father could recover and follow.

He managed to make it home by four, by some miracle. He buried his things and he slipped into bed, his heart heavy.

He supposed he had really already known that his mother was dead - the whole situation had been bound to draw suspicion from Silas, and there was no way Silas would let a witness live. His parents had married purely for political reasons - his mother had been a beautiful, elegant, sophisticated lady, not to mention she had been filthy rich, and Silas was very much a classic Pureblood aristocrat, so technically they were a very good match. But they had never worked well together at all - their opinions differed on every subject. While Silas had typical Pureblood ideals, his mother's had always been very offbeat. Not to mention their personalities had never meshed either.

So in other words, there would have been no real emotional attachment or sentimentality stopping Silas from disposing of the one person who had foiled his plans, and Quentin was sure that somewhere, deep down, he had already realized that and expected his mother to be dead. But that didn't mean it didn't hurt to find out he was right.

Quentin went about his business as usual the next day, albeit more agitated than usual. It was a perfectly normal day otherwise for everyone else.

Right up until it happened.

Jeremy had slipped some clean dishes back in the sink again, so now Quentin had to wash them again, lest he feel Imogen's wrath. Smirking, Jeremy leaned against the fridge right next to the sink and watched him triumphantly. "What did I do to you now, Jeremy?" Quentin asked wearily. "What was the reason today?"

Jeremy cackled. "Didn't have one. I was just bored."

"You're always bored," Quentin growled. His patience had been dwindling quickly throughout the day, and was running out. "Don't you have any entertainment apart from bothering me?"

"But you're the most fun," Jeremy mocked. "It's just so easy. So, which of your parents did you get that from?"

"Bugger off, Jeremy," Quentin bit out. "I'm not in the mood."

"I bet your mom was easy, too - which is why you're such a bastard."

Jeremy should never have said that. Nor should he have chosen a knife as one of the dishes to put back in the sink. Because Quentin had overlooked something; by touching the wand his father had given him, however briefly, he had gained magic, and though he could only intentionally use magic with the wand, that didn't eliminate accidental magic. Quentin watched in horror as the knife flew at Jeremy, as Jeremy ducked, as the knife sailed right over Jeremy's head and wedged itself into someone else's chest.

He barely registered Jeremy's scream as the knife removed itself from Keith and dove into Jeremy instead.

"...Keith," Quentin whispered hoarsely. The teen in question looked at him in shock and horror as he fell backwards. "Keith!" Quentin lunged forward and fell to his knees, snatching the dish rag and pressing it to Keith's wound. "It's alright, it's alright, you'll be fine," he babbled, panicked. Blood seeped out of the wound, soaking the dish rag until it was a dull shade of red. He put two fingers to Keith's pulse and felt it slowing quickly, and Quentin's heart pounded faster and faster. "Don't," he begged desperately. "Please, don't - don't die, you can't, you can't…."

It was no use. The light was fading from Keith's eyes - and Quentin realized absently that Jeremy had screamed and someone must have heard and would surely be rushing towards the scene and immediately calling the police to have them haul Quentin to prison for murder. Unless… Unless he walked away, took his bag of emergency-running-away supplies and ran, and left Keith to die. Except that Keith would die anyway. So either Keith died and Quentin went to jail, or Keith died and Quentin got away.

Perhaps, had he not been a Pinnix, had he not been raised to be selfish and make these choices, he would have remained there, refusing to leave Keith's side due to sentimentality. But Quentin shoved his pain down to the deepest, darkest areas of his mind and rose from the kitchen floor before exiting through the back door and dashing through the woods. He made his way to the X and frowned. Atop the X was a wand and a note. Quentin picked the note up. It read, For when you change your mind. - Silas

In a fit of rage and misery, he tore the note to shreds and picked up the wand. For a moment, he held it tightly in both fists, preparing to snap it. But… I'm going to be on the road. All alone. With just a butcher's knife for protection. A wand might not be much better, but - I remember at least a few spells. Sighing, he pocketed the wand instead, retrieved the other things, and started walking.