He found the world beautiful, when he was finally permitted to step into it. His family were pureblood, after a fashion. Descended of the Gaunts who claimed descent of Slytherin, who in turn, it was said, claimed descent of still older lines, back into time immemorial.
He had been raised in a house kept clean by house elves, been served meals from tables already set with plates and food, had new clothes neatly placed away in his rooms, cleaned up from whatever he left on the floor.
From what he ascertained at school this was not far off from what some rich muggles lived like, though they had human servants, not elves.
But oh, when he got his letter, and he was allowed to be fully inducted into the wonders of the magical world. His family hadn’t worried much – they’d heard him hissing to snakes – but he had been, little Dirk Treason, he’d wondered if he’d had magic enough. It had been an odd choice of his family’s, to keep much of magic from him, until it was known, for certain, that he had magic enough for Hogwarts.
Diagon was bright and colourful to him, Knockturn dark and mysterious, each new alley and neighbourhood he learned of fantastic. He thought – he believed, even – that the magical world was perfect and whole and entirely untouchable, unchangeable.
Then he went to school, and one by one, his illusions shattered.
MissWriteress 