Welcome to this little thing. I wrote these 2 chapters as a oneshot just to get the ideas out of my head and into… somewhere. That somewhere is here. Enjoy. :)

The dining room, though grand, was dimly lit and grim. The warm glow that should have come from the crackling fireplace was somehow subdued by the harsh room and its occupants, their dark robes absorbing its light.

That was what Rosalie Malfoy knew of, anyways. She had been hurried up the stairs and out of sight as soon as the first hooded guests had apparated. She had been told by her mother in no uncertain terms were they to be interrupted, but that must have been at least an hour ago - though she wasn't quite sure: time was still a rather new concept for the five year old. Bored and restless, Rosalie set out to do what little sisters did best, and set off to find her brother.

Knocking exactly five times, she rocked on her feet until she heard an answer.

"Who is it?" The voice of her brother replied, a hint of annoyance already laced into his polite tone.

"Me," Rosalie answered. Without waiting for an invite she opened the door and walked in, settling on the corner of his bed.

"What do you want, Rosie?" He sighed irritatedly, a hand holding his forehead as he hunched over his desk. Spread out in front of him were quills, parchment, what looked to be a three foot long essay in progress and a precarious stack of books on his right. "I'm a little busy."

Rosalie had a hard time understanding why he still had work over the Christmas holiday. "Do you have to do that now?" She huffed, jumping off the bed to peer over his shoulder. His notes were condensed and Rosalie could not pronounce most of the words.

"If I want to pass my OWLs, yes," he replied.

"I can help!"

"No, Rosie, it'd be better if you jus-"

"Ple-ase…" she let the word draw out for as long as it needed, watching her brother's grip tighten around his quill.

"Alright, fine!" He sighed in exasperation. He nodded towards the pile of books as he continued his essay. "I need a book. Magical Drafts and Potions."

Pointing her finger over the spines of the books as she did so, Rosalie went down the stack until she found it, a few from the bottom. Grabbing both sides, she pulled the book.

"Wait, no, Rosie- you'll-" but her brother's spluttered warning came too late. With a single sway, the books first collided with the desk. A Brief Introduction to Magical Theory hit an ink bottle, sending deep blue shards across the boy's work. The books then fell to the floor with a crash, the thick ink dripping from the table onto their leather bound covers.

Rosalie backed away slightly, watching her brother's nostrils flare in silent rage. "Uh, I-I'm sorry… I didn't mean t-"

"I swear, you're more stupid than a BLOODY FLOBBERWORM!" He fumed, kicking a book for effect.

"It was an accident, Draco, I swear!" Rosalie felt terrible, truly, she did. But there was something quite funny about her brother's reaction that she couldn't help the smile creeping onto her face, try though she did to hide it. But that just fuelled his anger.

"YOU'VE DONE IT THIS TIME," he yelled, rising from his chair. With a yelp of both genuine fear and glee at the thought of a chase, Rosalie darted from the room, Draco not far behind. Not stopping to look back, the young witch raced down the marble stairs, rushing through the left corridor. Screeching to a halt at the first door she found, she heaved the handle open, squeezing through the gap before slamming it shut behind her and barricading it with her back.

She was so out of breath and her heart was racing so fast that it took her a few seconds to take in her surroundings. It was a cold room. Gloomy, too. Except for the fireplace on the opposite side to where the girl stood. Between them was a long table, each chair taken by a witch or wizard in dark robes. And every one of them was staring at her.

All but the one at the head of the table, closest to her. The tall back of the chair blocked them from her sight, though his pale, bony hand was resting on the table.

The room was silent but for the crackle of the fire. After what felt like an eternity, someone spoke. The man in the chair. His voice was higher pitched than average, yet clear as glass.

"Who is it, Lucius?"