Section: Part 1, Bastards' Beginnings

A/N: Dedicated to Wendi/HM, who somehow wormed her way into my head and made this branch from one cute scene, to lining up timelines, to falling in love with drunk boys...all without even poking me more than once. She's good, isn't she?

Bastards' Beginnings

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His hands had started shaking and he really couldn't see straight an hour ago, so when he threw his arms wide open and almost smashed his dripping glass into the person who'd come up right behind him he hadn't felt that generous in apologizing. The man before him was nicely dressed from polished shoes to polished head and damned annoying perfect suit in-between.

"You got a problem? What? You gonna tell my dad with bastard heir can't even get drunk without causing himself to be an embarrassment? Huh? Huh? Are you?"

"No," the man replied, unimpressed, raising a finger to motion to the bar tender.

Harry sneered as if the bar tender, who was trained to know them all well, knowing this mans drink and the man not even giving him a reaction. His fury funneled suddenly from the huge cloud into one single solid person next to him. He hated his suit, his shoes, his attitude, his look, his way of standing and breathing. Everything, That sudden utter loathing filled his voice; "And you would be?"

"Bastard heir number two," the man stated, with a faint amount of amusement to his voice as he picked up his drink from the counter. Service here was always spectacular. The kind of tabs they ran up, it'd have to be. He settled with his side against the bar and looked at Harry. "So tell me, if we find bastard heir number three, then do we get to have a contest to see who really does win the empire they truly detest?"

Harry stared at the man taken aback by his cool calm exterior the whole time, and even more by the things he said. He felt at a loss as how to react, like a deer in the head lights, except that after a few seconds the very edges of his lips twitched in response to the oh, so, stupidly phrased joke of truth.

The man titled his tumbler and took a sip. Then he looked back over at Harry again and asked charitably, in a neutral tone that begged with his expression to almost become conspiratorial. "So what'd you do this time?"

"Nothing important even," Harry replied, resigned, and resettling himself in his bar stool. He wasn't surprised another shot had magically appeared while he wasn't looking. It wasn't like he'd refuse after two hours of this. His fingers landed spread almost like a pale spider-like dome over it, as he stared at the reflection of light on the bar. "I told him I wanted to return to New York City's Empire Stare University. It's where I've been going. It's where all my friends are. And he thinks-"

"No, let me," the man said raising a hand. He stiffened up his back and put on an imposing expression of formality. He put a hand modestly in the center of his chest. "You should be learning to run the company. After all, I won't live forever, you know, and I'll need you to be able to take over and run things...expertly."

Harry laughed, loudly, and swallowed his shot. "Yeah, that sounds about right. He'll come around eventually, I'm sure. We'll compromise on something. Me running some new challenge aka rat race set up by him, and I'll get to keep my classes."

"Sounds better than mine. I'm being sent off to manage some plant in the middle of nowhere," he replied after finishing the tumbler and shaking his head at the bar tenders inquisitive look. His eyes glanced down to his watch and he let out a sigh. "Fourteen hours and twenty three minutes, and then the only things near me will be cows and corn, and *my* fathers new rat race."

"Damn. That's...terrible."

"Yeah."