Shifting of the Plate
Chapter Warnings: Racist Language and Undertones.
Chapter Seven –Fallacy
Telling his life story to Rabastan was surprisingly easy to do, though he supposed that the hot meal and delicious juice had helped loosen his tongue.
The food had been cooked by a creature known as a house elf, an obedient little thing that went by Frankie, with a deep voice and ears that drooped down passed his shoulders. The meal consisted of probably the most delicious food Harry had ever eaten, even if one looked passed the fact that he was famished.
By the time he had finished, he'd been almost falling asleep in his plate. His stomach full and his tongue wet, he had finally succumbed to exhaustion that he had been unable to sate previously. Satisfied with his tale, the man had taken his hand and led him up the stairs and to a room that he was told would now be his.
If he'd thought that his room at the Lincolns had been spectacular, this room outdid it ten-fold. It had its own bathroom, a huge canopied bed and a little section of couches and chairs with an unlit fireplace before it. The room was in soothing dark blues and greys that reminded him instantly of Rabastan's eyes, but he didn't have much time to dwell on the luxurious accommodations. Toasty and comfortable, he crawled into the bed fully dressed before curling up without even bothering to burrow under the covers and was asleep within seconds.
The next few days were a blur of dreams and half-forgotten conversations with the man that insisted he call him 'father'. He was given medicine by the pint, in vials of all different shapes and sizes and in an odd variety of color.
Potions, Rabastan had called them, magic medicine. One to heal his bones, one to reset those that had healed incorrectly, another few to heal bruises and lashing abrasions and another for nutrition that the man claimed he was lacking. Lastly, he'd been given a sleeping potion to help him through the more uncomfortable parts of the process, until two days after arriving on the man's doorstep, he woke up in the softest bed he had ever slept in feeling physically better than he ever had in his life.
Groaning, Harry sat up and rubbed at his eyes, taking a moment to wake up before blindly patting his hand around the bed to find where his glasses had fallen off.
"Here."
The voice startled him, jumping a bit and looking toward the origin of it. The blur of a hand coming towards his face had him recoiling, but a moment later the chill of metal sliding over his ears made him realize that it was just his glasses being placed on his nose for him.
He blinked slowly, adjusting to the crisper world, "Th….thank you, sir."
"Father," Rabastan corrected in a deep monotone, "It is no problem…though your glasses are ghastly. We will have to get you new ones soon."
"Really?" Harry asked before he could stop himself, swallowing thickly and peering up at the man. Rabastan looked to be about the same age as Harry's parents should be, but the only companion he seemed to have was Frankie the house elf and his two-headed snake. He had no wife, but…Harry supposed that a father was certainly better than no parent at all.
"Yes. I won't have my son looking like some sort of ruffian," Rabastan replied, brushing a long fingered hand over the smooth curve of Harry's cheek. "I will never hit you. I will never allow another person to harm you, Darling, do you understand me? Especially not Muggles."
He spat the word out as though it left a bad taste in his mouth.
Harry nodded and gave the man before him a smile, watching the glint in Rabastan's eyes turn dark. It left Harry with a nervous feeling squirming in his tummy, that spark in his eye, but a moment later it was gone.
"You and your gifts, Harry, will return my name to its former glory…just being the Father of such a talented wizard, speaking a language that only the Dark Lord could…" There was that same eagerness in the man's voice again. Harry couldn't help but adore the fact that he inspired such enthusiasm in someone.
"Who is the Dark Lord?" Harry inquired, leaning against the finely carved wooden headboard.
Another flicker of surprise ghosted over the man's face, before a frown pursed onto his lips, setting there for a long moment.
"He was a great leader of Purebloods, and he was…defeated about eight years ago." Shaking his head of rugged curls, Rabastan stood up from where he had perched himself on the bed, "It is best if I leave you with that for now. Worry not, young Darling, I will teach you everything there is to know about the Wizarding world and the important people in it. For now, though, Frankie has drawn you a bath. Wash up and change into the clothes I have set on your bed."
"Clothes?" Harry repeated, eyes darting to the neatly folded pile on the edge of the bed, "Wh…where did those come from?"
"I had Frankie measure you while you slept," explained the grey-eyed man, "I have an acquaintance that is quite the accomplished tailor, and he was able to make several more…suitable clothes for you, along with robes and cloaks. They arrived this morning."
"Arrived…" Harry muttered, feeling rather silly for asking, but—"They were delivered? Out here? In the middle of the woods?"
"Of course," Rabastan murmured patiently, "In the wizarding world we use owls in order to communicate with one another. However, my house has many wards set up by my brother…owls can only find me if they've been to my cabin before."
Cabin seemed like an extremely inadequate word for the man's home, now that Harry had seen how huge it was on the inside. Harry closed his eyes slowly, and just as slowly reopened them, taking it all in.
"Oh."
"Quite," smirked the adult, gesturing toward the room that Harry supposed was the bathroom. He was sure he remembered stumbling there over the past couple days once or twice, but the memories were foggy. "No more questions, Harry, not tonight. I'm sure you are extremely curious about the wizarding world…and if you like, I can begin instructing you tomorrow."
"Y—yes, that sounds brilliant," Harry nodded as he slid out of the bed and straightened his dirty, wrinkled t-shirt against his chest before approaching the bathroom door. He paused in the frame and looked over his shoulder. "We can't start sooner than tomorrow? I…have so many questions to ask you."
"As pleased as I am that you're eager to learn," Rabastan drawled quietly, the corner of his lip quirking up in amusement, "I do not want to overload you with information all at once. You also need to eat first, and rest without the aid of a sleeping potion…I can teach you many things, and that which I cannot teach you, I will find someone that can."
Harry's brow puckered in the center, "What is there that you can't teach me, sir?"
"Father," revised the tall male as he adjusted the front of his robes and lifted his chin a bit higher, "I can teach you more magical theory and history and politics than almost anyone else, Darling, however…I am a…something that most call a Squib. It means that…I cannot perform magic myself. Because of this disability, there are certain things that I will not be able to teach you."
Harry took that in slowly, eyes wide as he looked at the man. Hadn't the other mentioned that his entire family consisted of only wizards? That Lestrange was a pureblood name? How was that even possible?
Despite his hunger for information, he knew enough to know that asking such intrusive questions would only hurt Rabastan's feelings. He knew what it was, to be different than everyone around him. He could only imagine it would be just as horrible to grow up magic-less in a family of wizards as it was to grow up a freak in a world of only Muggles.
"Oh, okay," the messy haired child leaned against the doorframe in between the bathroom and the bedroom, straightening his glasses bashfully.
"You…are a very precocious child, Harry," Rabastan muttered after a moment, clicking his tongue against his teeth.
Harry didn't understand what that word meant, but it didn't sound like an insult.
"What sorts of things are you gonna hire people for?" Harry questioned once more, though he knew that the other's patience was probably growing thin with his stalling. He supposed, after months of being locked in a dark, cold room by a man that answered every question with a broken bone or two, now that the threat of pain was no longer there, he was exploding with inquiries.
"I will use tutors sparingly…Most spells and curses I can merely instruct you on how to go about them and tell you what they're supposed to do. However, I want you to learn something as soon as possible that only one with magic can pass along," he spoke thoughtfully, as though he was still in the process of considering it. "It will probably take you a long while to perfect it, at your age…a talent called Occlumency."
"Octo-mens-y?" Harry repeated, stumbling over the pronunciation, "What is it?"
"For another time, Harry, it's time for your bath now. No more questions about your lessons tonight," the man chastised, nodding once more to the room behind him. "And do wash behind your ears. Quite filthy, honestly. Off you go."
Harry regarded him for a moment, noting that the joke was awkward and only slightly humorous, as well as more than a little bit forced. Rabastan was not a funny man by any means; the only wrinkles on his face were frown lines on his forehead, not a smile-wrinkle in sight. He ducked his head to hide the grin that stretched onto his lips once again, still amazed that somehow arriving on the man's doorstep had actually made him happier. Rabastan treated him like a miracle, like a gift, and even Talia hadn't looked at him with such adoring eyes when he'd first stepped into her house.
"…Yes, erm…Father."
"If you believe you're ready, Harry, I see no reason to not test you," the man sighed as he walked across the room and over to the leather chair adjacent to where Harry was perched.
February had passed so quickly that there were details that the young boy couldn't quite remember about it. He had been instructed by his adoptive father on several things that he said Purebloods grew up knowing, such as etiquette and conversational techniques in order to keep the talk flowing. After about a week, the man had assigned him his first book to read, deciding that they would be concentrating on the important wizarding families and notable wizards before anything else. The library was the largest room in the house, and it had soon become Harry's favorite. Though he had never been the most studious person, there was little else to do in the home of a wizard. There was chess, books, sleep or food and Harry was only just learning how each piece moved.
The library was done in tones of green, which for some reason made him more comfortable than the blues that most of the other rooms were drenched in. The floor was stone and the windows were rare but where they were present they were stained glass, moving stained glass. Harry had learned quickly that pictures, paintings, chess pieces and especially the stained glass windows did not like to simply sit in their places.
In fact, the few times he had played chess with his new guardian, he'd come to find that the white Knight was a bit of a rogue. He liked to move himself when Harry was not paying attention, which both amused and frustrated him.
The stained glass windows could not talk, not like the paintings; they couldn't even leave their frames, like photographs. They seemed to be the most limited art that Harry had seem so far, trapped in their homes with no way out. Though his room had more comfortable accommodations, such as a soft bed, a fire place, and even a window that actually opened, Harry had grown more at home in the corner of the library among the tomes and colorful shifting windows.
"Are you sure you're prepared?" Rabastan drawled as his long, willowy form easily slid into a seated position, glancing at the book that Harry had only just finished.
"Yes, Father," Harry responded eagerly, pulling his legs into his chair and crossing them. The man across from him raised an eyebrow and Harry immediately remembered the brief discussion they'd had about posture. He pulled his legs down so that his toes were dangling several inches from the floor.
"Alright, well, I'll be going over several things from the last book as well," the adult explained, leaning forward to collect the book and set it in his lap, raising his eyes to Harry's.
Harry was determined to make up this time for the last time that he'd finished a book. Being a Squib, he valued education above all else and though he had not said anything about Harry's abysmal studying skills, he had not been pleased. Harry wanted to please him, wanted to make the word Father slide more easily off his tongue. Rabastan claimed to have read every book in the entire library, which was thousands upon thousands of books. He honestly didn't doubt it, because Rabastan had taken it upon himself to learn everything that there was to know about magic, even if he could not preform it.
"Let us begin," Rabastan claimed, setting his hands in his lap gently, long spidery fingers overlapping each other.
"Alright," Harry nodded, and then amended quickly, "Yes, Father."
"Very well," He tapped his fingers over the spine of the book and said in a slow monotone, "The most recent Lestrange family members. Name them."
That one was easy.
"Your mother and father, Regor and Spica Lestrange. You and your brother, Rodolphus," Harry answered rather confidently, though he watched the thin figure of his 'father' carefully.
"And?" the grey-eyed man prompted.
"And…?" Who was he missing? Oh—! "And Bellatrix Lestrange, erm, by marriage."
"What have I told you about such filler sounds?" The squib tsk'ed with distaste, "Er, Erm, Uh, Ah…You should speak much more fluidly than that in order to appear fully put together and proper. Take an extra moment to consider your words if you must, rather than sound like you're inarticulate."
"Yes, Father." Harry appeased him, smiling sheepishly.
Rabastan gave him a small quirk of the lips to reassure him, before inquiring, "Shall we continue?"
"Yes, Father."
"Wonderful," Rabastan responded curtly, "Now, why do I ask you only the recent members of the family, my Darling?"
"Because," Harry began slowly, because this one was an explanation and he didn't want to stumble over his words again, "Your grandfather cheated on your grandmother with a Mudblood and eventually ran away with her. Your grandmother did not want anyone to know her shame, and so she cursed him to be—infertile?"
"You've pronounced that correctly," Rabastan praised, "Go on."
"She was a powerful witch, and so after raising your father, she put a …a warding sort of curse on the name of every Lestrange born before Regor. The curse makes it so that no one can remember their names, not even your father, so that no one can slander the family. "
"Then?"
"Then? Oh…well, she…killed herself, after that."
The tomes that Harry had been instructed to read so far had not exactly been published books. They were family trees, bias history books that described Pureblood Lines that were given to every member of the family and updated by whoever saw fit to write in them.
Only magic users could burn words into the pages with their wand, and because all the books were connected to one another, though Rabastan could not write in it himself, he could see the entries that his other family members had scribed.
"Very good," the man before him murmured, another quirk of the lips telling him that he had done well, "I believe that's enough about the Lestranges, Harry. Our past is a diluted one as best. But I know with you as my son, our future will be…tremendous."
Harry felt his ears go hot at the compliment.
"Now, onto the Blacks," Rabastan continued abruptly, straightening his tailored green robes. Harry had noted the change of his appearance since he'd arrived. The man had been rugged, unshaven and almost sickly when the child had fallen into his life, but now he groomed himself, bathed daily and was eating quite a bit more than Harry had seen him consume in the beginning. "List as many members as you can."
Swallowing softly, Harry tilted his head in affirmation and complied.
"Bellatrix is originally a Black. She has…two sisters, Andromeda and Narcissa," Harry paused, remembering briefly a nugget of information from the Black's collective history. "Andromeda married someone Unpure, and Narcissa married… Lucian Malfoy or something, right?"
"Lucius," corrected the older of the two, " 'Or something' is also a phrase you should weed out of your vocabulary, Darling, if at all possible. That sentence could have worked just fine without it."
"Oh," Harry blinked slowly, straightening his glasses. "Of course, I'm sorry, Father."
"Not at all, Darling," Rabastan smiled genuinely for the first time in at least a few weeks. Harry's stomach swelled with pride that he had been able to provoke the expression of his somewhat hardened parental figure once more. "Continue. Who else can you name in the black family?"
After Harry's last failed 'exam', so to speak, he had reread the book on the Blacks and Lestranges in order to prevent making a mockery of himself the next time.
"Well…Andromeda had a daughter, but her name was long and weird. I know their father was named Cygnus, and their mother was…Druella Rosier!" The last name came out slightly higher pitched and excited that he'd remembered it. He settled again, rubbing his hands over his knees, "Cygus had a brother and a sister, Alphard and …Walburga! Alphard rebelled and died before he could have children, and Walburga…she married Orion."
"Oh-ryan," modified the Lestrange.
"Oh-ryan?" Harry's nose wrinkled, annoyed with the spelling of the word, and with himself for mispronouncing it. "But it's spelled Or-e-on!"
"Yes, but that's not how it's pronounced," Rabastan's eyes twinkled with amusement, "Just remember it from now on, Harry. Go on. Do you remember the offspring of Orion and Walburga?"
Harry was still slightly irked that the word had tricked him, but he did his best to push it aside.
"Regulus and…Sirius? Am I saying that right?" Harry tested, and sighed with relief when the other nodded. "Oh, and I forgot. Narcissa has a son around my age, doesn't she? D….Dra…"
"Draco."
"Yes, that's it!" Harry snapped his fingers together and smiled to himself, before squinting his eyes and biting his lip in thought for a long moment. "That's all I remember."
"Those are really all that are important for the moment. Eventually when you know all of their names by heart, I'll start telling you more about them, such as their political leanings and occupations," Rabastan started to preach, though Harry couldn't think why he would need to know about boring things like that. "For now, though, please tell me what you've read about Tom Marvolo Riddle."
The book that Rabastan held in his lap was really more of a journal. It was only a few dozen pages long and scribbled in almost-neat but slightly shaky writing. His adoptive father had told him that he had written it himself, but he had not yet told him why.
"He's, erm…sorry," Harry winced, biting down on his tongue and going pink in the cheeks, "He was a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry almost fifty years ago. He was born on December thirty-first, 1926. His mother was Merope Gaunt and his father was a Muggle, Tom Riddle. Merope was thought to have coerced or blackmailed, or possible used a love potion on the man, because he left her while she was pregnant."
Harry paused, then looked down at his lap, "Though I suppose he could have just found out she was a witch. That's all the reason most muggles need…"
Rabastan was silent for a long moment.
Finally, he managed to mutter, "Harry, you're a wonderful boy. You're so unique and powerful. I don't want you to ever feel like those worthless muggles made you feel, do you understand?"
Harry raised his green eyes to meet the man's coyly, fidgeted with his glasses before assenting, "Yes, Father."
There was another stretch of quiet, before he just continued with what he knew about the elusive 'Tom Riddle'.
"He attended Hogwarts and was in Slytherin House," He remember that there were four, but at the moment the only other one that came to mind was Gryffindor. "He was a Prefect and Head Boy, which are honors. He was also top of his class, and went on to work at a shop called…Burken and Borges?"
"Borgin and Burkes." Was the soft response. "Go on."'
Harry went on to describe the hair color, skin color and eye color, as well as aspects of his personality. He was said to be polite, but falsely so, using flattery and disingenuous kindness to manipulate those around him. In his fifth year at school he had received an award for 'Services to the School' for a reason that had not been stated, and had earned the respect of almost everyone by the end of his school years. He had been raised in a Muggle Orphanage after his mother had died giving birth to him, and had apparently taken after his mother in looks, if the photo of Merope attached to one of the pages was anything to go by.
"Very good," The man approved, "But what of his life after his job at Borgin and Burke's?"
"Oh," the dark-haired boy paused, rolling the question over in his mind. After a long moment of thought, he decided on, "I dunno."
"You don't know?" Rabastan articulated his words in a fashion that said he disapproved with the slang, without really having to say it.
"I don't know," the child repeated, taking the amendment to heart.
"Why don't you?"
"Well, because no one does."
"Is that a fact?" Rabastan inquired wryly.
"Yes. He quit Borgin and Burkes and just…disappeared. He said he was going to travel the world, or som- but …but no one ever saw him again after that," Harry elucidated, and was quite happy with himself for it.
"Excellent," his 'father' commended him once more, and warmth almost immediately bubbled up into his stomach.
"But, Father, I have a question," the boy started up rather suddenly, as it had fluttered across his mind several times as he had read and reread the notes about the remarkable boy. Remarkable, but even so, he had disappeared—how, exactly, would it help him to learn about his life? "Why is it I'm learning about Tom Marvolo Riddle?"
With a long, slow motion, the figure before him leaned forward to deposit the small book on the coffee table that separated the two of them. Then, after a drawn out moment without answering, Rabastan sat up straight once more and brushed a curl behind his ear. Then he pinched his chin between his index finger and thumb thoughtfully.
"You see, Harry," He began, "I left several facts out of that collection…as I told you. It was written by me. It is …all the information that most of the world does not already know about him."
Harry didn't understand. Almost everything about Tom Riddle, though exceptional, was also…mundane. His grades, his childhood, his achievements…why would those aspects be secrets?
"Not many know what you know about him. What they do know is that he is monumentally powerful and drenched in Dark Magic…" He met the youth's eyes firmly, "As well as being a Parselmouth."
Harry couldn't hide the widening of his eyes as he declared, "But you said that I was the only Parselmouth since—"
"The Dark Lord." Rabastan confirmed, bringing a hand up to rub at his temple. He peered at Harry coolly from his seat, crossing one long leg over the other elegantly, "Tom Riddle disappeared and returned with a different name. He was a halfblood, but he is our Lord, and you will tell know one of his heritage. His power and ideals are true, which is all that matters to me. You will learn about him next, his life after Tom Riddle, his accomplishments and his…defeat. He is now known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to most, but his loyal followers refer to him as the Dark Lord."
He took another break to level Harry with his stare seriously, "As I do, so shall you."
Harry swallowed as his stomach dipped lower within him for a reason he couldn't explain.
"Yes, Father, of…of course."
Rabastan's mouth stretched slowly, into a not-quite smile, before standing up abruptly and starting over to the book shelf in order to retrieve his next assignment.
Two months rolled by, packed with learning more about the family dynamics of Purebloods and information that Harry was told he would be questioned about continually to make sure it all stuck. He was still working on etiquette, posture and what he liked to call 'How To Be A Snob' rules within the confines of his mind. However, despite the fact that he was still in the process of learning, after a couple habit forming months, he had practically cut all 'filler' words from his vocabulary. At first he'd have to take long pauses before speaking to figure out what exactly he wanted to say before he said it, but as time passed the words flowed more and more easily off his tongue.
When he was excited or shocked he still tended to stammer, which Rabastan said was 'precious' but would not be 'suitable' for the young man he would soon be growing into.
They had only just began to learn about basic spells a few days before when Rabastan had announced at dinner that he had finally found a teacher that would instruct him on Occlumency. Harry hadn't the first clue even now as to what it was, because his mind had already been jam packed with material on the Pureblood families and the few spells that he had begun to practice. Talt and Fere often joined him in the library when he was studying, and more often than not snatched food off of his plate at the dinner table when they thought that Rabastan wasn't looking.
A week later, one of the fireplaces in the entrance hall burst to life as Harry was in the middle of eating breakfast. He heard the sound of sharp heels against the marble floor as someone stumbled, and though Rabastan had explained that Fireplaces were used as communication and transportation in the wizarding world, he had never seen it in action.
He dropped the piece of bacon that he had only halfway eaten, sprinting passed the unmoving figure of the man working on his own breakfast. He skidded to a stop with a fantastic grin on his face at the sight of a young woman brushing ashes off of her skirt and topcoat as the green flames behind her faded into nothing.
She was a brunette, her hair pulled back into a taut ponytail, a wholesome looking woman, if a bit on the stern side. Her blue eyes, the color of an unpolluted sea, peered around the room she had found herself in, adjusting her hand on the handle of her trunk as her gaze landed on Harry.
"Hello," Harry smiled at her, taking a step forward, "I'm Harry…Harry Lestrange. Pleasure to meet you."
"…Hello," She responded, her eyes darting skeptically toward his shoulders. Harry knew that was where Talt and Fere was curled happily.
"Don't worry, they won't bite you. I won't let them," Harry assured her pleasantly, "You never told me your name, you know—"
"Don't feel too bad, Harry, Darling," came Rabastan's voice from behind him, making the young boy twist his head to the side to look over his shoulder at the tall figure. "Mudbloods don't have any concept of manners. I wouldn't expect too much of her on that end."
Harry blinked, looking back at the woman, who's knuckles had gone white in her grip on the trunk.
She was a Mudblood?
But she seemed so normal. He'd never heard Rabastan say the word before, but the tone in the volumes that he'd read had implied that the word meant that people born from Muggles were vile and filthy. She seemed nice enough, and well groomed.
The young woman seemed to bristle slightly, but controlled herself and turned her attention back to Harry, "I'm Mary Cattermole, Mr. Lestrange. I'll be teaching you Occlumency over the next six months."
Harry took in the words, nostalgic at the name 'Mary', his beautiful little foster sister that was a year behind him now—then he realized what she had called him and sputtered indignantly, "Mr. Lestrange? I—I'm just Harry, really—"
"Harry," Rabastan cut him off curtly, "Collect yourself in front of our guest, please."
"Sorry, Father," Harry felt his ears go hot and hoped they didn't get as bright red as he thought they might have, "I…just mean that I'm younger than you, Ma'am, and—"
"No, no, Darling. The Mudblood will be calling you Mr. Lestrange, and she will be calling me Master Lestrange, as per our contract, isn't that right?" queried the tall figure not far to Harry's left.
"That is… correct, Master LeStrange," The woman shifted and lifted her chin slightly, before taking control of the conversation with a light tone to her voice, though her lips grew small with annoyance. "I have a book that I would like to give Harry to read three chapters of before the night is out, if that is alright with you?"
"Certainly," drawled the Pureblood in return.
"Wait," Harry said quickly, raking his fingers through his hair as he was somewhat frazzled, "I…Father, you said it's something that will be hard for me to learn, especially since I'm a kid, right? If…if she's only going to be here for six months, then what if I can't-?"
Mary opened her mouth to respond, but Rabastan was cutting her off before she could manage a sound.
"Don't worry, Darling, not many could learn it so quickly," He brought his hand to Harry's face in a tender fashion as he spoke, shifting through the dark, disheveled tresses. His digits brushed over the boy's left ear and moved to massage his earlobe slowly. "Occlumency is incredibly difficult, even for adults, but at the end of six months you'll know everything there is to know about it and have enough of a base for it that you'll be able to do the rest on your own. It takes practice…which you can do without her help."
The woman seemed startled and disturbed for a moment, before looking away firmly.
"Yes….okay," Harry nodded as the hand curled around the nape of his neck in a way that had him shivering. His brilliant eyes shown up at the man that had taken him in as he spoke once more, "I'll do my best, Father."
"Of course you will, Dearest Harry," Rabastan stooped to press his chapped lips against his forehead, before releasing him entirely. His voice turned venomous as he set his eyes back on the female in the room, "Our house elf will show you to your room. Frankie!"
Harry was always startled by the pop that echoed through the air and the way that the house elf suddenly appeared. He was rather sure he would never get used to it. And to think, Rabastan had even mentioned once that Wizards could transport themselves in that way as well—it was difficult to conceive such a thing.
Such was magic, the child supposed.
"Frankie will be showing Mrs. Cattermole this way to the guest room," The elf said in a soft, subservient tone that had always made Harry feel as though he'd said something hurtful. The floppy pointed ears wobbled as he went to take the bag from her.
His Occlumency instructor frowned, but allowed him to take her luggage, before beginning to follow the elf beneath the grand staircases and to the hallway hidden behind it.
"Don't you worry, Harry, I gave her a downstairs bedroom. We will, unfortunately, be sharing a house with her for quite some time but that doesn't mean we have to breathe her air for very long," Rabastan spoke loud enough for the retreating woman to hear and gave a dry chuckle, to which Harry could only smile weakly in return. "Come, you should finish your breakfast, Darling. Your lessons with the Mudblood won't start until tomorrow."
Harry started back toward the dining room, watching the woman's back curiously until she vanished from his view.
Terribly sorry about the wait. I have two jobs now and a bunch of obligations, but this story is not abandoned. The amount of reviews I got was astounding, and I thank each and every one of you.
It will be explained in more detail later why Rabastan hired a Muggleborn, and just where Mary fits in and why she took the job. By the way, Mary Cattermole is not an OC, to any of you that read her name and thought she was. She is the Muggleborn who was on trial in the seventh book, the one whose husband Ron was Polyjuiced as. She's obviously younger here, but she's still married, which is why she doesn't have a random maiden name because JKR gave no such thing—a newlywed, actually.
She won't be around long, so I took some liberties with her character since JKR doesn't give too many details.
Most of you didn't figure out that Rabastan is a Squib in my story—I hinted a bit in the last chapter and it was my Story Warnings in the first chapter. This chapter spells it out for you. This is why he is not in Azkaban. As a Squib, he did not attend Hogwarts and he certainly wasn't accepted into Voldemort's ranks.
Feedback is what I smell in the Amortentia potion! So—in the name of love, review! (I just keep getting more corny, don't I? ;D )
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