Wow! So I'm officially finished this fic. :) Thirty chapters is my total, so I hope you've enjoyed it so far, because you're more than half way through. Anyways, on with the story, and so you all know, I hate this chapter; it tugs at my heart strings and has a little higher rating for magical domestic violence.

Also by the end of this chapter, you should have a general idea of why Beth's father is freakishly weird. Mind you, a full explaination won't come until later on, but subtle hints are dropped in his speech and actions, so pay attention!

Chapter 18

I slept horribly that night, and kept seeing myself in a mirror where my face was changing from a monster to a girl. It continued until he threw his fist into the ceiling and yelled at me to shut up. I didn't sleep the rest of the night.

At breakfast the next day I was helpless to say anything about the sleepover. He had silenced me when I walked into the room, and I sat down and ate breakfast.

"Feeling better this morning?"

I nodded my head. I could never read what he meant by what he said. His face was always calm, and he always acted happy. Always.

"What did you dream about last night Beth? I know it kept me awake so it must have been exciting."

"I can't remember," I whispered.

"Are you lying Beth?" He smiled like he had just opened a birthday present.

"No, I really can't." Of course I was lying. It's one of those things that are much too painful to talk about. Why was he so concerned?

I poked at the runny eggs on my plate and placed down my fork, examining the grain on the pine table.

"I don't believe you Bethany," he said. "Legilimens!" My nightmare was flashing before my eyes, and my face changed like a butterfly to a caterpillar—pretty to ugly over and over again. It stopped.

"Is that it Bethany?" I nodded my head. "Well no need to worry, Daddy is going to make you perfect today. I'm going to fix you all up, and then we can start to train again alright? But first you have to send a letter to your little friends. I'll tell you what to write."

I nodded again. He picked up the book off the table he was reading, and the title flashed before me. Your Mind and The Dark Arts—A Tom Riddle Biography.

§

I sat in a chair in the basement. He had tied my arms to the handles, and my legs to the legs of the chair. If I was to struggle, I wouldn't affect his medical skills. The tiny basement windows let in little light because of the immense amount of smog outside. I wondered vaguely if he'd let me go and fly around for a bit.

"Let's see…" he walked around in front of me. "This might hurt a little bit Bethany, but you want to be perfect for your 'ole Dad don't you?" I felt my head move up and down. "Good."

He once again performed a non-verbal spell—he seemed to favor those—so I didn't prepare myself for it.

Suddenly, a wall of heat was upon me. I found it hard to breath but for a good minute that was it. And then it happened; the heat became so intense I thought my skin was burning and melting off my bones. It was scalding, like sticking your face in a pit of boiling water, but worse because I knew that someone was doing it on purpose.

"STOP!" I screamed. "STOP! NO!" I screamed and screamed, my eyes shut. I couldn't see, and I felt blinded. "Please!" My screams went down to whimpers as the pain increased. It wouldn't stop. I tried to focus on something, like flying, or singing, or listening to music, or something, but nothing could make it end. I cried hoping that maybe my tears would cool it down, but that only increased the intensity of the heat.

I urged my body to pass out, but I stayed fully conscious the whole time, screaming until I was hoarse. I pulled on the ropes that strapped me down, and felt them digging into my skin. I thought my face might fall off, or worse, I might die. And then I realized that might not be so bad compared to this.

"KILL ME!" I screamed.

§

It hurt to lift my head. I was still strapped to the chair. A mirror had been placed across from me about four feet away. I analyzed it. My face had gotten worse, not better. It seemed that burning had truly taken place because most of my face was a bright red, as if layers of skin had been peeled off. Blood stained my shirt, and I let my head drop once again.

§

"Who did this to you?" asked my Father. I raised my head to see him replacing the mirror. "It's a spectacular piece of magic. They've put some type of enchantment on it, and I can't figure out what caused it to stay through my treatment. I must meet this person."

I sobbed. He was so brilliant, and eccentric, but he was also pure evil; to parts of his very soul. The sad thing was, I still loved him… I needed him. "Is that all you care about? I'm permanently deformed, and you want to meet the—the person who did this? And what, make small talk?"

My face burned on one cheek, as though he had slapped me, but he was still standing across the room.

"Is that all you think about? Yourself? Your mother never thought about herself! She gave up her life for you. You disgusting deformed little slut!" He walked up to me and pushed the chair I was tied to over on it's side. My head hit the concrete floor and I prayed I hadn't cracked my skull.

And then, like that he was hovering over me, and I was in my bed.

"I'm sorry Bethany, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking. Forgive me."

I smiled. "It's okay Daddy. I know you didn't mean it." He leaned over me and gave me a kiss on the top of my head.

"I've put some cream on the burns, they should be gone tomorrow morning, but I've put a spell on the bed to keep you from touching it. You can take tomorrow off alright? We'll skip the schooling. Let's go out and play a little quidditch. How about that?" He anxiously awaited my answer. This was his way of thinking esoteric, or rather, out of the box. For him, this was being rebellious.

"Good night, Perfect," he said. I smiled at his nickname for me and closed my eyes. I would be his perfect little girl. I had too.

I woke up early the next morning, the pounding in my head unbearable. My face hadn't healed. It was still bright red, and remained that way for the rest of the week. He gave me a potion for it when I went down for breakfast. Then we went out and passed the quaffle around. This was the Dad I loved. The one that played with me in the yard, and held my hand when I hurt, and kissed my "boo-boo's" better.

We went on and repeated this routine three times. Three days of misery, and three days of healing and bliss. It was the three marvelous days that I learned the most. Through those discomfited days, I had fractured my skull, discovered scars I never knew I had, and made my face the worst purple color. On our superior days, I learned how to toss the quaffle across the field, perform a superb feint, and eat three full meals.

After a particularly bad spell my Father came into apologize.

"I'm sorry Bethany. I should've guessed you couldn't handle it. I'm sorry." I didn't say anything. "I want you to go to that birthday sleepover thing." His compound attitude confused me, but I jumped on the opportunity to get out of the house. "I'll send your response." He turned to abscond.

"Thank you Daddy, and don't worry, I'm sure it'll be fine in the morning." The broken arm wasn't what I was worried about; it was the bruises shaped like a hand. I frowned, but didn't say anything when they were still there the next morning.

I packed enough clothes for two days, and some clean wrappings for my ribs. I took it with me to the kitchen table.

"I'm ready Daddy. Can I fly?"

He smiled at me kindly, my mirror image eyes piercing gaze examining me. "Alright. But you have to eat some breakfast. I made eggs." He put some onto my plate and we ate in silence. He didn't mention anything of the night before, but skipped the topic altogether, telling me to owl him when I got there, and giving me money to buy Harry a gift even though he said not to.

He seemed so gentle, my Father. He tried his best, and I accepted him for that. He tried. When they came, he only gave me up for my own protection, I decided. I mean, if I was with the death eaters of my own will, and they had won, I would've been better off wouldn't I? And then, if the good side won, which they did, and then I could claim to evading capture and fighting for the light. It was a brilliant plan in the scheme of things. He hadn't wanted to save his own butt I was sure! He couldn't have left me behind anyways. I would've died by myself. And he came looking for me! How great could a guy be?

I pondered these things on my flight there. My nimbus 2000 was a little rusty, but I made my way there in good time, riding it an only twenty-minute flight.

My Father was a good man. He was only trying to do his best. I was sure I was bound to expedite under his care and love, and even his hurtful training. And I had killed his wife after all, if I didn't receive a little pain, how would I repent my sins? How could I possibly make up for murder, even if I was only two days old when it happened?