Shifting of the Plate

Chapter Warning(s): Implied child abuse, Biggotry/Racism, Name Calling and brief Mentions of Torture.

Chapter Ten –Presentation

There were grey and white speckled marble floors and Greek columns that climbed all the way up to the high ceiling and seemed to set off the wide, elegant staircase that lead the way up to a second level of the room. Those on that level could peer down at the ground floor, though Harry wasn't sure why they would want to when there was a much more enchanting sight above them. The entire ceiling appeared to be crystal, almost a giant chandelier itself casting blue and white light in skewed diamond patterns around the room like the sky through a kaleidoscope. There were instruments set up in the corner, a full orchestra's worth of instruments playing themselves to what Harry thought was Mozart but might just as easily have been Vivaldi. He'd never been as good as Rabastan at pinpointing those classic melodies, but whatever it was, it was exuberant and lovely, the sound resounding off of the walls.

The room they arrived in was by far the most beautiful place Harry had ever laid eyes on.

They appeared in a corner of the room beneath an archway that Harry supposed was meant for arriving guests, because the invitation portkey had burst into flames and withered out in Rabastan's fingers once the boy had released it.

"Come," Rabastan stated, putting a hand on the small of his back and leading him out of the archway so that they would not be bombarded by yet another arriving guest.

Harry's legs were still weak from the trip. He had quickly decided that portkeys were not his preferred mode of transportation, because he'd nearly toppled over and made a fool of himself—and definitely would have if Rabastan had not gripped his arm.

Walking out into the room, Harry took a closer look at his surroundings and found almost abruptly that the beauty that the home presented was an empty one. The instruments were lively from the magic that played them, but without true players there was no personality to the music. The dancing that occurred on the lower level was well choreographed waltzing –the very same kind Rabastan had taught him in preparation of this, though Harry hoped to Merlin that he wouldn't have to use—but there was nothing…warm about this place, he noted.

The hollowness of the room, however, did not take away from its charm, in Harry's opinion. There was honesty in the coldness that he found refreshing and though his spine did not falter for a moment from his Pureblood posture, he felt…relaxed, here. Almost.

There were not going to be any surprise horrors here. No, this was Lord Voldemort's party, and therefore those that were attending were most certainly the nastiest sort in the entire wizarding world.

Which meant that horrors were inevitable. That predictability was nearly comforting.

No one here was going to pretend to be a good person and then surprise him with cruelty. Their cruelty was practically written in stone.

"Father," He said lowly, casting his eyes once more from one end of the room to the other. His scar had begun to ache lightly, a feeling that he could only attribute to a localized headache. There was no other explanation he could think of, though it was only in the last few weeks it had ever acted as anything other than a piece of marred flesh. He continued, "Where exactly are we? To whom does this ballroom belong?"

"This," Rabastan muttered, with both distain and envy in his voice, "Is Malfoy Manor. They have made some alterations, of course, to accommodate the number of people that are attending."

"Of course," Harry agreed, a set of words that he found himself reciting more often than not. They meant little to him, now that he said them so much. Of course, Father. You're right, Father. I love you, Father. They were platitudes at this point and he droned them as would a faithless priest to an equally faithless congregation.

Already, Harry could catch the sneers of people who had noticed Rabastan's arrival. They looked over him with a moment of curiosity and then dismissal, because they didn't care enough about the squib to even wonder.

That would change soon enough.

Not that Harry cared much about his father's reputation in the deep recesses of who he really was, but who he pretended to be—who he had to be—cared. Because this him, the one standing in this room, was Rabastan's son in body and mind. His soul, though, that was his, and though it was locked away somewhere secret and dark, it was still there and waiting. Waiting for what, Harry did not know.

Snapping away from his thoughts when Rabastan's hand fell away, he began to scan the room with purpose this time, and saw faces that he had studied in preparation for this moment.

Several members off the Goyle family, their most prominent features being their heavy guts and bulbous noses that seemed to take up more of their face than any nose ought to. The daughter of the Parkinson family, loveliest when she smiled, though she did not do so often, the biology of the family tree had seemed to grant each member of the family with an overly upturned nose, as if saving them the trouble of lifting their chins. Pansy, he remembered, pitter pattered across the dance floor with one handsome boy or another, perhaps not the loveliest of her group of friends, but certainly the most top heavy and likely to allow her partner to cop a feel.

Astoria and Daphne Greengrass, two of the girls that followed the charismatic Parkinson around, stood like slender, elegant statues in the corner. They were beautiful, but untouchable, like porcelain dolls. Contradicting her superior posture, the younger of the two had a gaze that was flickering around from one boy to the next, hopeful for someone to ask her to dance.

The wife and son of the Crabbefamily passed by, the Father no doubt rallying with the rest of the Inner Circle, and though the woman was nearly pretty despite her deep set eyes and hard brow, the scowl on her face diminished whatever beauty was left to look for. Her son was taller than her already by nearly a foot and a half, his own thick, straight nose and over pronounced forehead –not to mention Eguana-esque mouth— gave Harry the distinct impression of Frankenstein's Monster.

Each member of the Avery family that was not a member of Voldemort's finest was huddled with the others, each one tall, with lanky limbs and pronounced, pointed chins. Alecto and Amycus Carrow, each as short and oddly proportioned as the next; Antonin Dolohov, with a face like a white horse without the majesty; Yaxley and his wife, who must have been related in some way, because Harry had never seen two people with faces containing such an equal amount of hate—

And there, white blond in the crowd finally caught Harry's eye. He had been looking for the host of the party, though his son, Draco Malfoy, would have to do for now. The most prestigious members of Voldemort's were hidden from him, most likely on the top level of the ballroom that was hidden from sight due to its height.

No doubt, that sacred place needed an invitation, lest he be sneered at and tossed back to his station, but Harry intended to gain one after a significant amount of schmoozing.

Without another moment of hesitation, Harry stepped forward, chin high and gate as elegant as the Malfoy he was headed toward. He was surrounded by a group of what must have been lackeys, all Hogwarts-Aged wizards and witches hanging over his every word as he told a story that, from what Harry could tell by the smirk on his lips even as he spoke, painted him in a very flattering light.

He left Rabastan behind to stew in his corner and hope that his brother would greet him, though after over a decade, Harry highly doubted he would. Severus Snape, who he had yet to spot, seemed to be the only person that kept in moderate communication with his Father. From what the pretend Lestrange could gather, it was pity communication, and he was loathe to think that Snape would be so kind as to take himself from the company of the Dark Lord just to greet a squib.

Harry grew closer to the blond, enough to see that it was indeed the only child of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, just in time for the group of acquaintances to burst into laughter at whatever punch line Draco had delivered. Just as the Malfoy opened his mouth to continue, his eyes raised to meet that of the stranger approaching them.

A nearly invisible, pale eyebrow lifted in question as Harry stopped a few feet short of stepping on the young man's toes.

"Draco Malfoy, I presume," Harry greeted smoothly, his mask as faultless as his mannerisms, both in gestures and speech. He made no extraneous movements and met the blue grey eyes that Malfoys were known for straight on, his voice somehow embodying both recognition of Draco's superior rank and a confidence that implied Harry knew he belonged there with him. "I meant to find your parents, but no doubt they are enjoying the luxurious favoritism of our Lord, and rightly so. In any case, I do wish to extend my gratitude to the host of the party and hope you will relay it to them in turn."

He paused, drinking in the surprised but controlled expression on the young Pureblood's face, then continued.

"Your home is magnificent; though I'm sure you're well aware." Harry did not let his eyes stray from Draco though Pansy Parkinson had come to join them after dancing with who, even from the corner of his eye, the green-eyed boy could tell was Theodore Nott. "I consider it a privilege to have been allowed attendance and, even more so, to make your acquaintance."

There was a subtle bemusement in those eyes, but in front of his friends, Malfoy did not allow it to show in his voice when he replied:

"Your formality is appreciated." He looked him over briefly, as though trying to conjure up where he knew the boy from, though of course, no memory would be recalled. "You did, however, forget to introduce yourself. My friends and I are very curious about who you are. You are of the age to attend Hogwarts no doubt, and yet none of us know you. Even if you attend Durmstrang, unless you are new to Voldemort's ranks, we should have seen you before."

"Draco, why are you interrogating the poor fellow?" Pansy interrupted, seeming somewhat endeared to him already. She was a short girl, even shorter than Harry, and the light in her eyes when she looked at him told him that she was fascinated by his politeness and that, should he be so inclined, he could take her for a spin on the dance floor.

"Honestly, Draco," Nott agreed, as any boy was likely to agree with a girl that had just had her chest pressed against theirs. "He's being quite polite. Let him breathe."

"No, Miss Parkinson, Mr. Nott, he is quite right. It was rude of me to not introduce myself right away," Harry continued, giving a small smile that he hoped was just as cunning as it was sheepish. He wanted Draco to be aware that, while not truly abashed, he was willing to look it, for the sake of keeping appearances, "It would be baffling to anyone—"

"I'm not baffled, merely curious," Draco corrected, already sounding bored with the conversation by the way he elongated his words and lowered the tone to them. The drawling was merely a cover for his embarrassment, though, and so Harry continued as though he had never been interrupted at all. After all, Draco was now trying to frustrate him in response to the frustration Harry had cast upon him.

"—to see a boy your age not attending Hogwarts. Though, the reasoning is simple enough, I assure you. My father was not interested in me attending a school full of Mudbloods and Muggle Lovers, so he homeschooled me himself."

The look of collective understanding on most of the adolescents' faces, in any other setting, would have been accompanied by nodding and chorus of 'Ooooh'. This was, however, a collection of Purebloods, and such nonsense was not tolerated.

"Our mother almost did the same," Astoria piped up, the delicate girl seeming happy to have something to contribute to the conversation.

"If my Father weren't so busy," added Pansy, just as pleased to be relatable. "He would have as well. Honestly, what are we learning at Hogwarts? The only useful subject is Potions and that's only because Professor Snape is brilliant."

"My father teaches me the Dark Arts at home anyway," Nott threw in amiably.

"Well, of course, my father does too—" Pansy began to amend, rolling her eyes as though that had been implied.

"Yet," Draco interrupted, as Harry saw he was prone to doing without consequence, "We still do not know your name, nor who your father is."

"Apologies," Harry said, once more with a cheerfulness that hinted that he was not apologetic at all. "My name is Rigel Lestrange."

At once faces contorted, just for a breath, in shock as though wondering if Bellatrix had given birth to a son that Rodophus had hidden away—

"My father is Rabastan Lestrange."

Just as quickly, the faces moved in the other direction, from shock to disgust. Pansy seemed immediately sickened and sorrowful, as though guilty that she had ever entertained the notion of dancing with a squib. Nott looked annoyed, and Astoria looked as though she had rather suddenly wet herself and was both embarrassed and repulsed. Similar looks were reflected in the other students, save for the expression on Draco Malfoy's face, which was one of smug realization and belittlement.

"I see," smirked the blond wizard before him, giving a glance back to his friends as thought to suggest that he had known all along. "That makes more sense, then."

Harry suspected that they likely assumed that, as the son of a squib who had not attended Hogwarts, he was a Squib also.

And Harry was comfortable with them believing that, for now.

A boy whose name Harry did not know (meaning that he was either half-blood or muggleborn, and given the present company, he highly doubted the latter) sniggered from the back of the crowd, "I thought I smelled something nasty coming from him. The stench of Muggle, it seems."

Pansy just shifted, looking uncomfortable in his presence and lifted her chin, before saying, "Too right you are. I don't want to be here anymore. Dance with me, will you, Larz?"

And he did, grasping her shapely waist and sweeping her onto the dance floor. Despite the rather dramatic height difference between them, the waltz was as lovely as ever. Harry watched them out of the corner of his eye for a brief moment, before straightening his glasses and regarding Draco Malfoy once more.

Flatly, Harry stated, "Your aversion to my heritage is quite understandable, but also rather…conspicuous, isn't it?"

Malfoy's eyes narrowed at him, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, really," Harry replied, with a feigned nonchalance in his voice, "Just that I expected more subtle jibes from such prestigious Pureblood magic folk, rather than such plebian expressions of distaste."

"Plebian?" Daphne Greengrass snarled for the first time. Harry noticed that she was a few steps farther back that he remembered her, as though she thought that being near him might very well render her just as magicless as she believed him to be. "You're the plebian one. One without magic born from a father without magic? You might as well be a Muggle!"

Astoria frowned, looking him over and shaking her head, "A Muggle in wizards clothing."

"At the Dark Lord's celebration no less," Draco grimaced as though the words themselves were each a different and unappealing Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Bean. "It's positively deceitful."

"Honestly," Nott growled, joining in yet again with a voice that had lowered an octave.

He was attempting to be sinister, Harry thought blandly, taking in each of the faces of the servants to the Dark Lord, each one dark and attractive in their own way. Harry supposed that he looked quite similar to them, with a star for a name –Rigel— and expensive robes, with his chin lifted and spoiled rotten like he had been for the last few years—

And yet he was not like them, not really.

The last four years he had lived with an education that any Pureblood would have, but his experience before, and even during, had dulled him to the things that these children thought important. Children, he called them, though most were months, if not years, older than him.

Chronological order meant very little when it came to maturity, to the age of one's soul.

So, from Harry's ethical and emotional perch, he could not help but laugh inwardly at the adolescents he saw before him. Malfoy and his proud sneer, happy to have been given the upper hand in front of his peers, so that he had that power to dangle above Harry's head like a carrot.

It was unfortunate for the blond that Harry was not a rabbit. Not an innocent, nubile victim. He had not been for a longer than he cared to think about.

"Nothing to say, Lestrange? Not going to defend yourself?" Draco inquired, moving a slender, elegant hand to seemingly put his hand in his pocket. However, after a moment, Harry saw that it was not an expression of leisure so much as a tactic to reveal his wand. Sturdy, black and polished, it was a fine specimen of a wand and well suited for its pristine and sleek owner. It was as though he was saying; 'Not going to defend yourself? As if you could.'

A few of his friends followed suit, showing off as if to back Draco up and frighten him with their magic sticks that they thought would be foreign and unsettling for Harry.

"Not particularly," Harry said, his voice soft in a show of submission but the young Malfoy before him was able to sense by the hardness in his eyes that he was not the least bit afraid of him, or his little friends.

It angered the Slytherin, and just as Harry begun to turn around to leave them, he found himself face to face with the broad chest of a boy he knew was Gregory Goyle. He'd seen him with his mother not half an hour before and yet there he was, blinking dumbly at the scene he had walked into. Harry cleared his throat and politely spoke a simple "Excuse me", but Draco must have gestured in some way not to let him escape, because Harry found himself put back into place by a large hand gripping the nape of his robes.

Draco was, Harry had realized, a bit of a bully. It wasn't for some affinity for sadism so much as a preference for power, because Harry knew well that to be a Pureblood meant to be of a sort of…elite.

And as anyone part of a special club, he wanted to flaunt his badge. Not only flaunt it, but make those that did not possess one feel as less than, in order to impress his friends with the height of his pedestal.

Harry could not say that he liked Draco Malfoy, but he certainly was serving his purposes.

"Gregory, meet Rigel Lestrange," Draco introduced with a formality that was mocking in and of itself, even without the amused smirk on his face. "Son of Rabastan Lestrange."

"Oh," Gregory grunted, not even looking at Harry as he secured him there. "Who?"

Draco sighed, "Rodulphus' squib brother."

"Uh…oh. Is 'e a squib, too, then?"

"We'll say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Draco drawled, proud of his own cleverness as his eyes raked down Harry's form as though reassessing his opponent.

"…What do apples have to do with it?" Goyle asked, finally letting his eyes flicker down to Harry, as though confused. He seemed to be looking in Harry's face for the answer to his question, unsure whether or not he should be disgusted by having touched him. "'E a squib or not?"

"Yes," Draco replied, an edge to his voice that expressed distaste for having his subtlety ruined. "He's a squib."

"Oh," the large boy said again, speaking as thought his tongue was slightly too big for his mouth, "Gross."

"The sentiment is mutual," Harry intoned with an air of laziness that was common for Purebloods. Most of the old families were very wealthy, and as such were unimpressed with most of the things money could buy and pretended to be immune to the aspects of life that it couldn't.

It didn't seem that Goyle quite knew that he'd been insulted, because his frown deepened not in anger but puzzlement.

Draco was not so obtuse, however, and his eyes flashed angrily. "How dare you insult a pureblood wizard? Who…what do you think you are?"

His wand was out in a moment and pointed right between Harry's eyes, so close that should Harry have rocked forward even slightly the tip of the firm black wand would have nudged the bridge of his glasses.

"I don't know why they don't drown vermin like him the moment they realize it's a squib," Nott whispered fiercely and there was a murmur of agreement.

"Someone like him," Daphne Greengrass spoke up, her voice much colder than her sister's. While Astoria seemed to embody the essence of a delicate flower, Daphne instead seemed to be just as fragile but as hard and cold as a statue made of ice. "Should have been executed at birth. Knowing what his father is, he was bound to be one as well."

"True," added Theodore, his nose wrinkling in Harry's direction.

The depth of human cruelty, even of the petty adolescent kind, was nothing new to Harry. He remained unfazed at the wand's tip, and no doubt his lack of reaction only spurred the blond to try harder to frighten him.

"Do you know what we do to scum like you?" Draco sneered, and despite the quick, ferocious delivery of the words there was no spittle to be had. He was faultlessly proper even when attempting to be intimidating.

"My father says they liked to Crucio your father when he showed up at these events," Pansy sniffed, rejoining the group from the dance floor, crossing her soft arms over her chest and somehow managing to glare in his direction without meeting his eyes. The boy she had called Larz had also joined the group once again, but looked more interested in the discussion than the begrudging Pansy.

Nott gave a harsh, humorless laugh, "I'm sure we could arrange something for you in your father's place."

"Sounds like loads of fun," Harry commented, allowing his voice to waver slightly. He had never been on the receiving end of the Cruciatus Curse, so the thought was truly threatening, but he also did not intend to be. Of course, his plan could go wrong, and he could end up being tortured until he was a drooling mess of supposed squib meat on the floor for Voldemort and his followers to jeer at as they stepped over him, as though he was nothing more than a nasty, old piece of chewing gum that had gotten stuck "However, I should probably get back—"

Goyle's hard form assured that Harry was not going anywhere unless Draco deemed it so.

Rabastan had not mentioned that they had tortured him at these parties, but it certainly explained his addled mentality. Sessions of the Cruciatus paired with over a decade without the company of another human being had made him lonely, and therefore susceptible to cling obsessively to the only person who he felt was there for him.

A miracle, a gift…something wonderful that he deserved after a life of hardship.

Then again, Harry pondered morosely, perhaps he was giving his adoptive father too much credit. Harry, too, had suffered a life of hardship.

"Oh, it will be fun," Draco said, stepping forward and lowering his wand to brush Harry's chin and then continue further until it was aimed at his throat. "For us, anyway. Even a masochist couldn't enjoy the Cruciatus curse for long."

Harry narrowed his eyes at him, "Are you implying that you'll do it yourself? Even if your parents can cast Unforgivables, you are underage. You're as much of a Squib as I am, during the summer."

"How dare you!" Draco's voice raised both in volume and pitch and a few of the older boys drew their wands as if to dare him to say the same about them. It was true, seventeen-year-olds in the group were not subject to that rule.

"Comparing a wizard to you! You are but an insect in comparison." A boy Harry knew as Flint spat, his skeletal face giving him the appearance of a Holocaust survivor –a sign that he had become drenched in Dark Arts much too fast.

Harry felt pity for him, though he did not want to.

He knew well the strain the Dark Arts could weigh on a person. His father had taught him many spells, but he practiced them only for half an hour a day at the very most. Too much too fast could cause detrimental damage to both a person's magic and psyche.

Marcus Flint was a textbook example of the destruction Dark Magic could do to a virgin magical core.

Though he was fresh out of Hogwarts, a time where he should have been at his prime, his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes gave him the appearance of a young man several years older. His paleness was very unlike the glow of Draco Malfoy that reminded Harry of moonlight, and instead was tinted slightly blue, an unhealthy pallor that should only be the characteristic of a corpse.

Harry's fingers twitched, wanting to draw Mary's wand –he could never truly think of it as his own—but that would ruin the act that he was trying to so hard to keep up.

A lowly but proud squib, simply begging to be put in his place.

"I meant no disrespect," Harry said softly, his words tip toeing around the ears of the group, though he knew it was quite plain that his statement could not be benign.

"Don't you mess with me," Flint stepped forward, narrowing his eyes into slits until the bloodshot whites were no longer visible. "Don't you mess with me, I could literally turn you inside out, and everyone in here would laugh as your guts spill onto the floor—"

"Nothing so messy as that," Draco interrupted suddenly, shooting a sharp glance at Flint as thought to tell him to let him handle this. There also seemed to be a tint of green that came over the boy's face at the mention of something so gruesome and vulgar.

"Sticking up for your cousin, Malfoy?" Flint snapped at him, baring his teeth.

"Hardly," Draco lifted his chin, looking over Harry once again as though just realizing that he was technically related to him. "It's just that we don't need Squib blood all over our ballroom floor."

"It's true," Pansy tossed in, letting her gaze fall on him directly for the first time since his name had been revealed., "You'd never get the smell out."

"What smell would you be speaking of, Miss Parkinson?"

The drawling voice was low and smooth, but it did not need to be loud to carry through the group of teenage wizards, silencing them more completely than they had been even when shocked at Harry's status as an assumed squib. This time it was not a quiet born of disgust, but respect for the owner of that voice.

Lucius Malfoy appeared from behind his son, cocking an eyebrow at the several drawn wands all pointed in a certain bespectacled boy's direction. It was quite similar in tone and inflection to Draco's voice, though decidedly deeper.

"The smell of squib intestines spilled all over our floor," Draco answered for her, straightening his back in his father's presence.

"A squib?" Lucius repeated, interest peaked, as one might be mildly interested in a spider crawling upon their kitchen counter, if only long enough to squash it.

Though the gaze that fell upon him was the same color as the younger counterpart before him, there was something much more worthy of fear than that of the juvenile threats of a fourteen-year-old boy.

Something that told Harry that, unlike Draco, Lucius was a bully for the sake of sadism. He knew he was of the elite, didn't have peers to reaffirm it, and the only one he wished to impress was the Dark Lord himself.

"Interesting," Lucius whispered, taking a step closer to him and looking upon him unabashedly. There was no revulsion in his features, only awareness that Harry could be an interesting toy to play with, if only to assert his dominance. "Put down your wands, boys, no need to be ugly."

"Sorry, Father," Draco said almost immediately, pocketing his wand. Flint and the other boys did so less quickly, but their wants were put away just the same. "He doesn't know his place."

"An astonishing amount of his kind do not," Lucius agreed quietly, with a glint to his eyes that proved he thought that his kind belonged nowhere but in the ground. He moved closer to Harry, who lowered his eyes in a submissive gesture that would hopefully suggest that he was a weak enough specimen to be amusing for the Dark Lord, but not so insulting as to anger him.

"I would like to extend my gratitude to the host," Harry suddenly spoke up, surprising most of the young wizards that would not have dared upset the situation in his place. He inclined his head slightly but did not bow completely at the wizard before him, "I was going to have your son pass along my astonishment at the beauty of your home, but because I have been graced by your presence, I am more than happy to deliver the sentiment in person."

There was quiet for a moment as Lucius regarded him with a single raised brow.

"Is that so?" Lucius dragged out the syllables of the sentence, "An interesting specimen you are, Mr. Lestrange. Then again, despite your father's misgivings, no one could call him impolite or imbecilic with an honest tongue."

Harry doubted that Lucius cared too much about keeping his tongue honest. Truthfulness was not a Slytherin trait, after all, unless it happened to suit said Slytherin at the time.

"I will return the compliment to him," Harry replied, inclining his head once more and taking a step again as if to retreat, "I'm sure he will be pleased to hear it from someone as revered by the Dark Lord as yourself…"

"Would you like to meet him?"

A shocked expression crossed Harry's face and he paused, secretly satisfied. "I… beg your pardon, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Would you," Lucius repeated lowly, as though speaking to a particularly dim-witted toddler, "Like to meet the Dark Lord?"

Harry took a moment with his answer yet again, schooling his features into that of sheepishness with a hint of eagerness. If living with Rabastan had taught him anything, it was how to lie, how to act…because each day he performed, played the part that he had been assigned. This was no different.

And, to his surprise, he was…having fun.

Part of him was unnerved at being launched into this situation, a room full of judgmental people that considered him dirt beneath their shoes, while another part of him was simply relieved to be among people other than his father. Interactions with Frankie had never been the same since he had begun practicing the two nonfatal Unforgivables on the elf, and it was not as though he could truly confide in the pair of bickering snakes that, while he enjoyed their presence, could barely stop snarling at each other for long enough for Harry to get a proper word in edgewise.

"I would love to, of course," Harry finally responded, his voice quiet, "Though I am sure the Dark Lord has more important things to do than to meet me."

"He certainly does," Lucius agreed, the side of his lip quirking, and for the first time since his arrival Harry allowed himself to peer down at the cane that he held. A silvery head of a cobra was the curve of the cane, though Harry would guess it was white gold rather than silver—as if a Malfoy would carry something of such low quality around with them—and he knew immediately that it was a case for his wand. It was not so much for cleverness, only a child would be fooled by the casing, but it was certainly stylish. "However, I'm sure he can make a brief exception for the son of Rabastan Lestrange."

The tone to his voice implied that he, and the others that resided on the second story, would enjoy torturing the son after the father had been such fun to mock.

How Rabastan maintained such loyalty to a man that had allowed such horrendous acts of violence, the thirteen-year-old could not be sure. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he cursed it. It was not his place to question the Dark Lord…though he may not be a squib, he was certainly no one of importance. It didn't matter which side he was on because he was just Harry Owen on the inside and it was not as if he could…make a difference, no matter the side he was on.

He was a Parselmouth, and a Pureblood, for all practical purposes. His allegiance had been decided for him.

So it was better for him if he just stifled thoughts like that.

"I am also sure that Bellatrix would most enjoy meeting the nephew that she does not know exists," Lucius drawled, and Harry took that to mean that she would be the one most pleased by a chance to throw nasty hexes at him.

"If you are offering me an assembly with the Dark Lord, sir, I graciously accept. It would be …honored," Harry delivered, as a cocktail of emotion bubbled in his stomach. Fear, uncertainty and even a bit of pride because he enjoyed the thought of showing these bigoted fools that he could do magic. When they discovered that he was every bit the wizard that they were, they would not only eat their words, they would choke on them.

"Excellent," purred the man before him calmly, casting a glance around the group of Hogwarts students briefly before lending his cool gaze to Harry once more. "Follow me then, Mr. Lestrange."

He began to part the students by starting in their direction, allowing them to move out of his way as he turned toward the staircase purposefully.

Speaking up for the first time in several minutes, Draco took a step toward them. "Father, I want to come with you as well—"

"No."

Draco quieted, but with a reluctance that seemed to almost be painful.

"No, Draco, you are to stay down here," Lucius continued with an edge to his voice, flicking his gaze in his son's direction, not even daring the boy to argue with him but simply refuting the possibility for dispute. The boy's mouth snapped shut and a slight touch of pink colored his cheeks, but it disappeared when he turned to glare furiously at the raven-haired boy that had begun to follow his father across the room, as though somehow Harry had planned for him to be left behind.

And while Harry had expected the interaction to progress much the way it had, it had been up to Lucius entirely whether or not to allow his son to bear witness to …whatever it was Lucius thought Voldemort would do to him.

Rabastan had never confided in him that they had performed the Cruciatus Curse on him during the dark wizard's last reign more than a decade ago, so he was not sure what else could have been withheld from him. He had to expect the absolute worst from them, and that thought was still more comforting than it ought to have been.

The further Harry ascended, the more tremulous he appeared to become, and he did his best to deny the fact that he was indeed terrified.

He was soon going to be face to face with Lord Voldemort. His scar began to twinge again inexplicably.

Though he did not approve of bigotry or torture, Harry could not help the stroke of admiration that flittered up his spine to lick at his brain when the heads of those on the second level came into view. Rabastan had spoken reverently of the Dark Lord every day for the time Harry had been with him, and though he had formed his own opinions through simple historical fact he could not help but be awed when he stepped onto the surface of the top floor and saw through a dozen or so scattered Death Eaters the tall cloaked figure of the man he knew had to be him.

He felt like the child of a devoutly religious parent laying eyes on the Sistine Chapel for the first time; agnostic though he may be, the sight was no less astonishing.

His forehead decided to act as though a needle had jabbed itself straight into the center of it, and he hid a wince, but after that it faded to a dull ghost of a pinprick.

Voldemort was far across the room, near the large windows that looked out into a garden Harry had caught glimpses of on the first floor, speaking to a man with dark hair framing a pale face with too-prominent cheekbones. Voldemort himself was even whiter still than the man he spoke to, with a smooth bald head and eyes so red Harry could spot them even from where he stood—

Before Harry's gaze could linger too long on the figure, the Dark Lord was obscured from view by Lucius's curtain of blond hair as he lead him through the members of the Inner Circe. Each person he passed gave him a look of curiosity, intrigue or annoyance, though Harry knew it to be one of contempt for anyone that dare intrude upon their favoritism. They had, most likely, not seen who he came in with, and therefore did not yet know that he was one truly deserving of their scorn.

The talking quieted from most directions as Lucius stopped several yards from the Dark Lord, waiting for a full minute with Harry making sure not to appear as awkward as he felt behind him.

He did his best to keep his own gaze to himself, but he could not help but spot his adoptive uncle's expression of knowing horror.

Had Rabastan told Rodolphus that Harry existed—or rather, that Rigel existed? No, no, that horror was new, he was in the process of realizing it when Harry's eyes briefly grazed his. It was probably the eyes that had done it, his fake grey eyes that were the same as Rabastan's, as Rodolphus's and their father before them. He was, this second, realizing that his brother had procreated and the expression on his face was not for pity at Harry's future torture session, but instead indignation that his exiled squib brother had reproduced.

He had, Harry remembered, given Rabastan the Cabin, cast every ward that protected it, and still to this day sent Rabastan sums of money to live generously on. But other than those cold favors, he was not in contact with his brother.

"Lucius," came a voice as smooth as water, and it took a moment for Harry to realize who it must have come from. "Why have you brought me a child?"

There was both amusement and chilling admonishment in that voice, and it felt suddenly like Harry had swallowed a large ball of led. A titter of amusement came from a female witch with charcoal eyes and wild black curls, beautiful in the way a demon was, fascinatingly wild but deadly just the same.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

The name came to him immediately. His aunt, by marriage, and also a distant cousin of sorts.

"Yes, Lucy," She giggled in a way that Harry thought gave giggling a bad name, "Whatever have you brought that boy to our Lord for? If anything, I thought I'd see you sneaking Draco up here."

"Not at all," Lucius said smoothly, but that was the only response he gave Bellatrix, instead speaking directly to his master. "This boy is Rabastan Lestrange's son, My Lord, I thought he could have…entertainment value."

A hiss of surprise and outrage escaped the mouths of several people at the news.

With that, Malfoy Senior stepped aside to allow Voldemort's cold eyes to view him.

At the same moment, Rodolphus spoke gruffly from somewhere behind him, "I expect you've got the same…deformity that my brother does, then, boy?"

But Harry did not answer him.

He instead took a close and more detailed inventory of the figure before him. It was indeed Severus Snape who he had been speaking to before Harry had been introduced, that was easy enough to tell by the hooked nose, strong jaw, sallow skin and greasy hair that usually accompanied the title of Potions Master. Voldemort was a terrifying, towering specimen of a man, with no hair, and those eyes that Harry had found so piercing even from the other side of the room were made even more menacing by the fact that they were like the very snakes Harry knew he could speak to.

And just as that thought crossed his mind, a second pair of slit eyes peered from the floor, yellow this time and less eerie, as they actually belonged on the species that they were intended. A huge snake with scales that were, at first sight, as black as Harry's hair, but when it moved in the glittering sunlight it appeared a deep, very Slytherin green.

"Rigel Lestrange. Your snake is beautiful, My Lord." Harry commented in his most polite tone as his eyes travelled back up to meet those startling crimson ones.

A curl of lip that could have been a sneer or smirk, or a cross between both, Voldemort snarled, "Occlumency!"

For a moment, Harry thought the man might have spoken in Parseltongue, and so he tried not to react to it at all. He had never heard it from a human's mouth before, other than his own, and it surprised him how easy it was to mistake for English, like he had all those years ago in the Lincoln's garden.

"What?" This, Harry knew, was not Parseltongue, because this had been hissed ferociously by Lucius Malfoy.

Harry continued to meet Voldemort's eyes as the man peered at him coolly, taking his time to respond to the host's declaration.

"This boy is no squib. He is an Occlumens, which, as I'm sure you are aware, requires magical mind." Voldemort intoned calmly as he rolled his eyes down the length of Harry's much shorter build appraisingly, "Quite an accomplished Occlumens."

Severus Snape shifted slightly, apparently to turn his front more toward the newly discovered wizard, though no reason for this movement was apparent to Harry.

"You filthy, lying—" Lucius spun on him, perfectly manicured fingers clenching his cane as though he was thinking hard about drawing his wand, but he was cut off.

"I did not."

"Excuse me?" Lucius seemed to be insulted by the contradiction.

"I did not lie," Harry elucidated simply, still not looking anywhere but at Voldemort. His eyes were not challenging, but they did hold a hint of pride. "I simply did not deny it when he assumed that I was just as defective as my father."

He word defective seemed to garner a hum of approval from Rodolphus.

"How dare you?" Lucius spat, growing more mortified and furious by the moment. He had never sounded more petulant and more like his son than he did with those words.

"My apologies, Mr. Malfoy, but I do not happen to be responsible for contradicting your son when he makes incorrect assumptions," Harry said smoothly and he could see rage contorting in Lucius' face. There was a spark of violence in those eyes, but the dark haired boy was aware that Lucius would not act on them because of the impression that he had just made.

Besides, Harry considered, it was Draco who he was really upset with. Draco, who had presumed that Harry was a squib and caused this debacle….Harry, would have to thank the boy.

"You see, My Lord," Harry started to explain, finally lowering his eyes and clasping his hands in front of himself, "My father home schooled me, you see, so Draco and his friends thought that, as I had not attended Hogwarts and my father is…well, what he is…"

"Presumptuousness can be a flaw most fatal," Voldemort agreed slowly, his eyes flickering over to Lucius, who seemed thoroughly abashed. Harry did not envy Draco, who was most likely still having a laugh with his friends at Harry's expense. "Young Draco should have the inclination to jump to conclusions squashed out of him before he makes a mistake more grave than this one."

"He'll be handled, My Lord, I am…most regretful to have presented him as a squib," Lucius bowed his head deeply. "It was…foolish of me."

"Oh, that's nothing new, Lucy, darling."

Another cruel, feminine laugh sounded from Harry's right, and this time he let himself look at the woman head on. Bellatrix Lestrange stood there, looking positively gleeful at Lucius's mistake.

"What is going on? Who is the boy, Master, is he anyone important or interesting? He doesn't look like much."

Once more, the words came out of the blue, and Harry for a moment wasn't aware that Nagini had spoken them. Everyone knew the name of Voldemort's prized pet, cherished beauty that she was curled into a coil on the floor by the dark wizard's feet. She was a harsh looking thing, sleek and elegant but daunting just the same—a born predator.

It was a wonder that Voldemort had as much control of her as he did, and Harry could only attribute it to his ability to speak to her.

Harry did not react to the hissing that he could understand, but listened, well aware of where he wanted this reaction to head. Instead, he focused on Bellatrix, who was jeering amusedly and walking closer to center stage, where Harry and Voldemort stood. Snape was still there, watching with a quiet mouth and dark, calculating eyes, but he had faded behind and seemed to have become part of the room, merely an observer.

Lucius seemed to want to retort, but did not seem sure that it would be well received after his blunder.

"You're right lucky, you are," Bellatrix jeered from her place, putting long fingered hands on her hips so that her hand drew attention to her small waist that was already drawn tightly into a corset, "Lucius, that the Dark Lord is so in your favor lately—"

"Bellatrix," Voldemort interrupted coldly, and the response from the woman was so immediate that Harry looked straight at her now, shocked.

Her hands fell from her sides and her chin tucked, her shoulders even sagging slightly as she peered in tender submission to her Lord. "…Yes, my Lord?"

"Lucius has done me a great favor in the last year," the dark wizard spoke slowly, but the chill to his tone made even Harry's stomach sink. "So I will overlook his mistakes, for the time being. You, however—" She flinched. "Have done nothing as of late to prove yourself to me as he has done, so you may not find yourself as lucky."

"My—my Lord, I waited in Azkaban for you, always proclaiming my—"

"This is not the time!" Voldemort snarled at her, suddenly vicious, and she was not the only one to recoil at this inflection. He pulled himself back up straight and continued much more collectively, "Azkaban was indeed a touching show of your dedication, Bellatrix, but not very useful, rotting away, were you?"

"N…no, my Lord. I'm so sorry, my Lord."

"Master is angry," Nagini hissed quietly from the floor, "May I bite one of them? It's been too long since you've let me bite anyone—even the snakes you buy me to eat never put of a very good fight. Only those little fire breathing ones do. Why can't you get me one of those again?"

"You'll do well to keep quiet about your opinions, especially when they are inspired by jealousy," continued the Dark Lord, and Harry saw from the corner of his eye that Lucius had stood up straight after his humiliation, preening under his leader's praise. "Now, onto the matter at hand…"

Harry looked back to the man, the lean, pale figure having turned toward him once more.

"Small snakes, they are, but feisty—what are they called again?"

Voldemort ignored his snake's rambling, though she swayed beside him eagerly, in a way the others in the room may have taken as threatening. "You are a skilled Occlumens, young Lestrange, though I am curious as to where you might have learned to perfect such a skill."

"My father hired a tutor," Harry replied with relative ease, "Of course, we disposed of the Mudblood immediately after she had finished the task. Her wand belongs to me now."

His stomach twisted into a variety of knots as he spoke, but he did not let on.

"Pyroniasths! Ah yes, those nasty little buggers. They spit and squirm like nothing else. Well, except for humans, most of the time, but Master only lets me bite them on special occasions…" The sulky tone in the snake's voice was both amusing and disconcerting.

"Of course," Voldemort's mouth twitched, his expression approving, "And I suppose, seeing as no one knew of your existence before this, and considering how very secluded your Father has been, and rightly so, that…you have been able to practice your magic undetected?"

"Yes," Harry answered, and added, "My father is very intelligent when it comes to the facts surrounding magic and has taught me well, though I obviously had to teach myself the practical aspects."

Rodolphus shifted, as though he wanted to ask a question himself, but did not dare interrupt his master. Bellatrix was looking at him with more than a hint of annoyance, while Severus Snape watched, still so silent and dark that he seemed to be a shadow, though the open room really had no room for any.

"Master, I know they're difficult to find, but I have been quite good lately, have I not? You're busy now, I know, but when you can, order that blond one to find me some Pyroniasths. It's been dreadfully boring lately, with only conjured rats and snakes to play with. No real life in them."

Those eyes narrowed a fraction at Harry, "And your mother?"

"Did not want to be associated as the witch who had bared the child of a squib, or possibly a Lestrange, and obliviated my Father after leaving me on his doorstep with a note stating simply that I was, indeed, his." Harry said distantly, with a scene in his mind's eye of a similar woman dumping him at the hospital.

On the ground. In the cold. With nothing but a blanket.

Voldemort regarded him for a long moment, looking him over with a calculating gaze of such intensity Harry forgot to breathe for several seconds. A moment later, Voldemort was making a gesture with his long white hands dismissively.

"I see. Wizard thought you may be, you have exhausted your importance," Voldemort nodded at someone that Harry could not see, and a man that obviously was the head of the Avery family stepped up beside Harry dutifully. "Escort him back to the first floor, where he belongs. He is of no use to me."

A skinny, strong hand wrapped around Harry's upper arm tightly, forcing Harry to speak quickly.

He was not just another teenage wizard that the Dark Lord could simply ignore until they had proven themselves with a show of violence and brainless loyalty. At least, that was what he was meant to show the man now, this moment, for the sake of his father's reputation and he found himself for some reason keen to show Voldemort what he could do, just as he had been excited at the prospect of showing them that he was a wizard.

Just as that enthusiasm made a home in his gut, guilt surrounded it. This was not a man that he should have wanted praise from, but like Lucius, like everyone here, Voldemort had managed to ensnare him with the sheer force of his power.

Get a grip, Harry.

Harry also knew, while it might be lovely to shove it in the face of these mindless lackeys, that it would be smartest to keep his ability a secret as long as he could from the other members of the inner circle. But, to earn Voldemort's approval, the man would have to know.

Even as he spoke, a sinking sensation started in Harry's stomach, as he revealed his secret to the man before Avery could pull him more than a few steps back.

"My lord," Harry spoke hastily, though Voldemort seemed too bored to cast him another glance just yet, "I've read that Pyroniasths are quite plentiful in Brazil…they're partial to rain forests."

The world seemed to spin with the quickness with which Voldemort turned on him.

"He's mad!" Bellatrix laughed loudly, at first not noticing the fierceness in those crimson eyes and having taken Harry's words as rambling nonsense.

"Don't waste the Dark Lord's time, idiot boy—" Avery scowled, yanking him back another foot even as Harry looked piercingly into the red eyes attempting to penetrate his mind. It was no use. He was a fortress. His father had made sure of it.

"Release him." Voldemort suddenly snarled, his shock hidden beneath a mask of vehemence. Avery looked up, bewildered at the sudden change of demand. "Now!"

Harry found himself unrestricted a split second later.

"Rigel." It was the first time that the Dark Lord had used his name in the twenty minutes since he had been introduced. Harry's heart raged as he was regarded, sized up a third time by the most powerful wizard he had ever encountered. The first time, he had been analyzed as a potential puppet for torture. The second had been as a wizard child, no more interesting than the team of would-be followers that flocked on the floor below him.

But now, now he was being assessed with something akin to fascination. He was a Parselmouth, after all, and he had let Voldemort know as much with just that simple sentence of what everyone else in the room assumed to be babble.

"You," Voldemort stated with an almost grim tone to his voice, "…will come with me."

In the next instant Voldemort had spun on his heel, appearing to glide across the floor as though he was not touching the marble at all, the snake that was twice as long as the grown wizard was tall slithered at his side as they passed through the group of baffled Death Eaters. A pair of double doors opened with a wave of Voldemort's hand to allow the two to enter.

"Where are we going? Master, why is that boy coming with us? I've never seen him before. Are you going to let me eat him?"

The room Harry entered a moment later was decorated spaciously with expensive, uncomfortable looking furniture, thick rugs separating a seating area from an elegant glass chess table near a sharp, clean fireplace that was strangely the coldest thing in a room full of hard corners, too neat book shelves where each book was the same size and color, and striking pieces of art modern. There were a few elegant but strange statues, two marble and classic looking and three silver abstracts that Harry would not have classified as art.

There were no paintings to spy on them in this room, Harry suddenly realized, as the door shut behind him with a nearly inaudible click.

Voldemort turned around to face him, the intensity in those eyes stronger than ever, so much so that his ruby eyes seemed to glow with the sheer force of his stare.

"You understand Parseltongue," Voldemort spoke in a whisper that had nothing to do with trying to keep quiet. While Harry had heard him raise his voice with Bellatrix, he had a feeling that this soft tone was reserved for gentle attempts at prying the truth out of people, firmly but eloquently, and had a capacity for cruelty equal to or greater than a shout.

"I speak it, as well," Harry replied in that very language, making it quite clear that he had not simply learned it. He knew from a series of books written by Salazar Slytherin himself that his father had made him read almost a year ago, that one could indeed learn to comprehend the language of snakes. But only one that was born to it could actually speak it.

This seemed to both delight and enrage the figure before him and he found Voldemort standing only a foot before him, the difference in their height more pronounced than ever.

"You understand," Voldemort said softly, with absolutely no emotion to his voice, "That I could simply take your ability as a threat and no one but your squib father would question by choice to kill you. Most purebloods are descendants of one kind or another from our snake speaking ancestors, but the ability is latent in all but you and I. Why should I allow you to continue?"

Harry had not considered that. He had thought that, if he had actually managed to tell Voldemort about the trait they shared, that he would at least at the start of receiving his good graces…Well. There had been no accounting for the insanity he saw in those eyes.

He swallowed, "…I am yours, my Lord."

The spots of flesh where Voldemort should have had eyebrows rose. "Are you?"

"I only wish to serve you," Harry rather suddenly knelt, keeping his face upturned but allowing Voldemort's sheer size to dominate him even more. "My father has taught me well my entire life, and through him I have become your loyal servant. Please, do not take my gift as a threat, but as…your gift."

The man seemed to consider this for a long moment.

Harry watched him from behind the lenses of his glasses, his heart pounding furiously.

"I cannot trust you," He said, and the dark wizard straightened his own posture, to raise his own height even more, "Your mind is completely closed to me. You are hiding something, boy, and I am not interested in those that wish to keep any information from me. A loyal servant has no secrets from his Master, Rigel."

Ah. Harry had been expecting that much. Voldemort was paranoid, sure that others were out to trick him because that was what he would have done, if the situation were reversed. Approval of ability and power had been earned, but Harry knew that Voldemort would never begin to trust him if he did not give him a reason. Harry was not trying to trick the man, not really, it was not as if he was a spy. He was simply attempting to cover his true heritage, because…this was what Rabastan wanted.

The feelings that Harry felt for his adoptive father were complex at best, but no matter what, he was compelled to do this. To be this.

In any case, he had planned accordingly for this very moment.

His features blanched, he couldn't control it, because he had…honestly not wanted it to come to this, even though in his gut he had known that it would, if he survived the encounter.

"I will…gladly allow you to see my secret, my Lord. I do not mean to hide anything from you, I…" Harry told him in a sickly way that he was not sure whether or not he was feigning.

He did not finish, and instead raised his eyes to complete a connection with those vivid blood red twins.

He allowed a glimpse, just a small scene of his life with Rabastan that would make it clear what their relationship, what their dark secret was. It should appease Voldemort's curiosity, because it was a…simple explanation, one starkly honest and disgusting enough to be a suitable explanation. After all, the truth was too convoluted and complex for anyone to guess, as there were parts of it that Harry himself did not know. This one secret should be enough to cover for rest.

He hoped.

Harry grimaced as he felt the slimy violation of his mind as Voldemort watched the section of memory that he had allowed him to see. It only took five seconds at the most , but Harry ducked his head to quell the nausea from remembering things that he had done well to tuck away.

"He had you learn Occlumency to hide…" Voldemort, however, did not complete his sentence, and instead looked contemplative for a short period of time..

Harry had no expected sympathy, had not wanted it, which was just as well, as he did not receive it.

"How… boring."

There was something wrong with Voldemort. Something that wasn't all there—and not just the fact he appeared to be majorly mentally unstable. There was something inhuman about him, something that Dark Magic alone could not do to a person. At least his apathy in the face of Harry's …mistreatment at the hands of Rabastan seemed to indicate that it would be more effort than it was worth, to share it with anyone. Unless Harry provoked him somehow, Voldemort would likely keep that scrap of darkness in his pocket for a time when he could use it against harry.

Harry's scar throbbed, hard, when Voldemort suddenly lifted his chin after a long moment of silence. The pad of a long index finger pressed against the underside of his chin, and when Harry met his eyes again, his Occlumency walls were back in place.

"You will attend Hogwarts this year, Rigel," Voldemort told him suddenly, the look on his face turning to one of finality and perhaps even a glint of excitement.

The shock at such a statement seemed to hit him in the face as if the man had slapped him across the face.

What?

He controlled the urge to simply sputter that dumbly. Instead, he licked his dry lips before he spoke, and his tongue still tasted like bile.

"I…" Rabastan would not like that, not at all, but Harry could not help but feel elated at the prospect, both because Rabastan would loathe allowing him into the world (but he would have to, wouldn't he?) and because it was…Hogwarts. "Yes, of course, if that is what …his Lordship desires."

Voldemort's bone structure hinted at a degree of beauty despite his waxy skin, bald head and eerie eyes, but when he grinned, he did so in a way that morphed his face into an expression so deformed that Harry could no longer see a trace of humanity, "You will be of use to me, after all."

Okay, so, first of all-I WENT TO MEGA CON AND TOOK A PICTURE WITH TOM FELTON. HE HAD HIS ARM AROUND ME. GAH. ONLY ALAN RICKMAN COULD HAVE BEEN MORE SQUEE-INDUCING. This message has been brought to you by Fangirls-Not-So-Anonymous. Ahem.

Now, onto the meat. As for why Rabastan hasn't adopted Harry legally or magically, is because –as you can see- he intends to pass Harry off as his real son. I don't think there is the same legal system for adopting children in the Wizarding world and legally adopting Harry would be not only leaving a paper trail but legally admitting he's not his biological son, which would mean Harry being his son would be less impressive. And Blood adoption is fan-created and isn't going to exist in my story.

Also…I love Draco, but at fourteen he is a douche. That hasn't changed. With any luck he'll be developed into a suitable character and friend (hopefully, maybe) for Harry. Because I love to include him, and he served a pretty important purpose in this chapter.

While I do love Slytherins-are-good-stories, I'm going to be realistic about this. Although I hate the 'all Slytherins are bad' stereotype perpetuated for many of the actual Harry Potter novels, I'm also not going to say they can do no wrong either, which is a common fan theme. There also will be no bashing of any sort, each character will have their good characteristics and bad ones.

I hope you enjoyed all of the characters introduced in this chapter! There will be more to come. Actually nervous about the reception of this chapter, because it is so long winded and so much happens. I've reread it over and over but I feel off about it, like I've forgotten something. Reassure me? Or…point it out?

Not getting feedback is like an 'Avada Kedavra' between the shoulder blades. I can't live with it!

-Toes

P.S. I am looking for a beta, someone not only to check for spelling/continuity errors, but to discuss my plot with and bounce ideas off of. Please tell me if you'd be interested in your review or a private message.