A Changed Lestrange (1-2) (under editing)

1: Mr A. Lestrange

Ashton Lord Lestrange was an enigma. He was well and truly an enigma. He believed himself to be the polar opposite of what he truly was. From what he was told, his mother and father had died when he was young and, ever since, he had been placed in a tragic orphanage. He lived the first eleven, average years of his life in this orphanage, and didn't enjoy more than a minute of it.

Often, he was isolated by the supposedly 'normal' children for being too different and not willing to change himself. A boy with dark black hair, dark circles around his eyes and pale skin and a face that looked as though he had never slept a wink in his life before. Most other children looked down on him as if he was barely human. It was disturbing.

But even Ashton himself had this feeling he was different — and not in a usual sense, but literally and figuratively different. He was abnormal, and he knew it. He could do things that he knew other children in the orphanage didn't even dare to dream about. He could make things move with his mind. He could mend broken plates with a simple wave of his hand. He could make things disappear just by looking at them. He could make bad things happen to those who annoyed him. He could hurt them if he wanted to.

Ashton frequently found himself in a lifeless patch of grass that he could barely call a garden — sitting on a bench that he could hardly call a bench — rather, it was a sliced wooden seat that was rough around the edges and causing him to almost slide off it every two minutes.

The orphanage owner, Mr Williams, was a cold, curt and generally insulting person to be around. A foul mood and short temper followed him endlessly, and Ashton was often the one to be on the receiving end of such blows.

So, it was just his luck that Mr Williams came marching out into the lifeless field, the remains of his once blond hair, now turned grey, swinging about as he walked towards Ashton, a scowl on his face.

"Lestrange," sneered Mr Williams, standing in front of Ashton, who had been staring around at the dead dandelions for over five minutes previously.

Ashton gave an irritable "hmm" to show that he was, at the very least, aware of Mr Williams's presence.

"So careless, aren't you, Lestrange? So willing to run away from life's problems. One day, you are aware —"

"Yes, yes," snapped Ashton. "I have an attitude, I couldn't care less about my future, I should be making more of an effort, have you got any new material to give me, then?"

Mr Williams looked like, on another, less patient day, he would have let the boy have it, but took a deep breath and continued speaking.

"I did not come out here solely to listen to your immature tirades, Lestrange. Rather, a man is waiting in my office to see you."

"A man?" asked Ashton, furrowing his brow in confusion, standing up off the sliding bench. "What man? Who?"

"Albus Dumbledore," said Mr Williams, with such pride you'd swear the name was meant to be recognisable. "He requests your presence and your presence alone. I did not ask for any further information."

"Right," said Ashton. "So, to sum things up, a random man comes in, asks for me, and you just let him in? With no further questions? Who let you run an orphanage?"

Mr Williams did not reply, instead turning his back swiftly and walking out of the garden and through the back door, the dining room, and through the hallway, past the wooden stairs and into his office.

"Hurry up, Lestrange," snapped Mr Williams, noticing the slack and slow movement of the boy, clicking his fingers twice as if Ashton was a dog in a pound.

The two of them reached the office door, and Mr Williams eased the door knob open, and the door creaked and edged forwards, revealing a man with a long, white beard and equally long and white hair, which fell downwards behind him and rested three-quarters of the way down his back. He was dressed in a dreadfully grey suit, and a peculiar scarf around his neck. It was as if it was his first time ever wearing a suit.