A/N: One shot about Abe Mazur, involving an oc named Grigori Orlov. This is unedited and un proofed, so please excuse/forgive any errors.

It had been this way for as long as he could remember. The other small dhampir boys and girls looked forward to the twice daily recreational recess times, happy for the chance to be out of the classrooms and away from their books, excited to run and play with their friends, savoring thirty minutes of freedom before having to return to their studies. But he didn't—in fact, he dreaded it so much that just the thought of them made his stomach clench with anxiety.

Because every day, like clockwork, as soon as he settled himself away from the others, beneath one of the many large, towering trees that were scattered across the sprawling grounds of Saint Basils, it began. One by one the other young boys would gather in a cluster nearby, whispering amongst themselves in voices pitched just loud enough to reach his keen ears. Taunts about the shabby, threadbare clothing he wore, or mocking comments concerning the fact that he was an orphan abandoned here—a ward of the academy with nowhere else to go.

There were others like him—many in fact, who had lost their families in the same way he had. Strigoi attacks were far too common in the small, outlying Siberian communes, and any surviving children without relatives to claim them were promptly delivered to the academy to begin their training, no matter what their age might be. So the fact that the other orphaned children joined in, taking part in the constant harassment towards him was puzzling, to say the least. It was just another thing that made his waking hours a living hell and kept him awake long into the night when his mind replayed the day's events, making sleep impossible.

He couldn't understand why the others hated him so—he'd tried to make friends time and time again, but his attempts were always harshly rebuffed. And as if the dhampirs attitudes weren't bad enough, lately the Moroi students had begun joining in. Every day it seemed the confrontations were becoming more physical; first it was someone shoving him from behind as he exited the classroom, or his books were knocked askew by someone running down the hall, until it had escalated to the point where he was being challenged every time he entered the schoolyard. The fact he refused to fight, walking away so he wouldn't get in trouble only made the teasing a hundred times worse. At only six and a half years old, he dreaded getting up in the morning, his mind in a constant state of turmoil over interacting with his schoolmates.

But today… today they'd gone too far and he'd reached his breaking point.

Xavier Badica—one of the snobbiest of the Royal students—had called his deceased mother a blood whore, something that was far, far from true. His mother had been an acclaimed guardian—one who had fallen in love with her Royal charge. Not wanting to subject the woman he loved to the scorn the Moroi world would show her, his father had chosen to abandon his title, settling in the village where his new bride had been raised, and there they'd been blissfully happy. They hadn't had much money, but he and his two older brothers and his small, younger sister had been raised in a loving home, something that he thought was infinitely more important than anything else in the world.

"Take it back," he said, his voice holding a note of warning that the other boy ignored.

"Can't handle the truth Orlov?" Xavier gave him a taunting smile, reaching out and shoving him backwards a few steps.

"My mother was a guardian! She died trying to protect my father—"

"You mean the man you thought was your father," the Moroi cut him off, smiling so broadly his small fangs showed. "How can you be sure? She probably spread her legs for so many men she couldn't keep track. If she'd been a guardian, your family will still be alive. You have no one, and it's all your blood whore mothers fault."

A sound of pure rage escaped the young dhampir as he launched himself at the other boy, but he didn't make it far because a strong hand clasped down on his shoulder, stilling his forward movement. He struck out at the adult, not caring—for once—that hitting a teacher would land him in a great deal of trouble. All he could focus on were those hateful words, echoing over and over in his head. Words that were made even more hateful by the images that they called from the recesses of his memory—his mother desperately fighting off four Strigoi on her own, trying to protect her family, only to have her throat ripped out in a spray of crimson blood when one got under her guard.

"Shhhh. Calm down Grisha. It's alright son. You know it's not true." The deep, soothing voice halted his frenzied movements, and he stared at the adult—not a teacher, but a strangely dressed Moroi man that he'd never seen before. He studied him with bleary, tear filled eyes, taking in his expensive looking suite and bright orange tie and the glint of gold at his ears and the many rings on his fingers, as well as his dark, dark eyes, wondering who he was, and how exactly he knew the name his parents had called him.

"You're wrong, you know," the man said, looking around the gathering of students. "He has someone to take care of him. Me." He slid his arm around Grigori's thin shoulders, pulling him close to his side before continuing. "You—the mouthy one—you're Radu Badica's boy, aren't you? Tell me, kid, do you know who I am?"

The young Moroi had a look of what could only be described as pure fear on his face as he nodded. "Zmey… I mean, Mr. Mazur, sir."

His words made Grigori look up at the man with wide, confused eyes. He'd heard about the Moroi—his father had often spoke of him, and many nights he and his siblings had sat in front of the fire, listening to their father tell them stories about Zmey's daughter and her husband, tales of the many battles they'd bravely fought and won, slaughtering so many Strigoi that the numbers were incalculable. Since coming to the academy he'd heard even more stories, ones that labeled the man a mobster—someone you did not cross if you valued your life.

"Very good. You see young Badica, a long time ago, Grigori's father was… a business associate of mine. One that I happened to considered a very good friend as well. I admired the man greatly, and I don't appreciate the things I overheard you saying about his lovely wife." Zmey's voice was low and soft, but his tone was dangerous, making Grigori tense a little beside him.

"I… I'm sorry sir," Xavier stammered out, looking as if her were about to piss himself in fear.

"It's not me you should be apologizing to kid." Zmey gave the boy a pointed look, moving Grigori in front of him and clasping his hands on his shoulders. You might say I consider young Grigori… family. I suppose you could consider me his godfather. I'll be looking after him from now on."

Xavier looked like he was having trouble breathing, and the other students were slowly edging back, their eyes never leaving the sharply dressed man. "I'm sorry Grigori. I didn't mean it." He looked up at the man, and when he spoke his voice was shaky. "It won't happen again sir. May I be excused, please?"

Zmey studied the boy for a moment, his dark eyes narrowed. "Your father owes me a great deal of money, kid. He's gonna hear about this. You just increased his debt by ten percent. Now get the hell out of here before you do something to piss me off even more."

Grigori watched his classmate scurry away so fast that he stumbled, almost losing his footing and falling in his haste. "Wow. Everybody says you're scary. I guess they're right."

Zmey chuckled, steering the boy to a nearby bench and shoving him down on it before crouching in front of him. "I'm sorry about your family, Grisha. I've been out of the country or I would have been here sooner. I meant what I said—your father was a good man, and I respected him. There aren't many out there who would give up what he did in order to be with your mother."

Grigori picked at the frayed fabric of his jeans, widening the already gaping hole at the knee. "I don't normally fight, sir. I avoid it. But what he said about mama…" He trailed off, swiping at his eyes, not wanting to cry and look like a baby.

"Do you wanna know why they pick on you kid? I've been watching you in your classes all day, and I'm a pretty observant guy." Zmey rose, settling himself on the bench beside him. "You have a natural air about you. You carry yourself like a Royal Moroi—something that the other dhampirs don't like. You're your fathers son, through and through. And you're smart. That makes for a powerful combination. Trust me, brains count."

Grigori looked over at him, considering his words. He knew he was intelligent—his father had often commented on it—but he didn't think he acted that different from any other student. "I don't understand—"

"You're arrogant, without meaning to be." Zmey cut him off, chuckling. "I'm the same way, always have been. It's not a bad thing, son. It makes people sit up and take notice of the things you say. You'll find that out when you get older." His dark eyes traveled over Grigori, and his face took on a serious expression. "I'm gonna look after you now. You're father would want that, and it's the least I can do for him." He stood up, straightening out his suit coat before reaching down and pulling the small boy to his feet. "Come on, let's go see the headmistress. First thing we gotta do is get you some decent clothes. After that, we'll see about arranging for you to come stay with me for a few weeks, so we can get to know each other."

For the first time since his family had been slaughtered, a shy, hesitant smile broke out across Grigori's normally solemn face. "Thank you Mr. Mazur, I'd like that a lot."

"Call me Abe, kid. Mr. Mazur makes me feel like an old man."

Nodding, Grigori followed after him, and after hesitating for a moment he reached out and slid his small hand into the man's, looking up at him with an expression of devotion. He'd call the man Abe, because he'd asked him to, but it seemed disrespectful, to say the least. Because in his mind, Zmey wasn't the notorious business man his father had fondly described, or the dangerous mobster his schoolmates gossiped about—he was a guardian angel, swooping in to save him from the misery his life had become.

And Grigori would never, ever forget that.