• his mother is strong, she's one of the strongest women he has ever known and he loves her dearly. (Maybe even more than his father). His greatest crime was that he never showed it. He always ran to his father first. ( for some inexplicable reason)
• He watched her gleefully as his mother told him with a sparkle in her eye and a vivacious smile, throwing her head back with a peal of that charismatic laughter - he had always thought his mother was the most beautiful woman in the whole world - and she told him (not a word to his father of course, you understand) of days long gone by when she was young and still pretty ("Momma," he said shyly with an almost bashful smile around/about him, 'you're still pretty. you're always pretty to me," with a child's innocence and startled, pausing in her story she laughed nervously and reached out with one hand to ruffle up his hair affectionately. It had been a while since anyone had been so glaringly, charmingly honest with her and it had moved her. Dabbing away at her eyes, she took a deep breath before picking up from where she left off) and she had snuck out of the house with her friends to muggle bars, by Golly, and they'd have fun. They went to dance all night in their pretty dress-robes, and although some people had given them strange looks - dress robes were understandably, rarely if ever seen by the muggles - and this one muggle man had stared at her, mesmerised as if she were fae or veela even. he had told her that he thought her dress was wonderful and that she looked spectacular, but he thought she was particularly beautiful. they'd hit it off right away. Paris, still caught up in the story and the moods, the vibe of the times, awestruck by his mother's nerve and daring, said' Golly' and his eye were wide with appreciation as he looked up at his mother in a slightly different light than before. "Momma?" "Yes?" For a moment, she looked tense, cagey, worried at what her little boy might say to her or think of her. "Did you love him?" He only looked curious, eager to hear more....and she relaxed. "Oh, you!" she batted him with one hand playfully, made happy that somehow he had managed to pick up on what was important in this story. "You know?" she said thoughtfully, "I think I did. At least for a while". He beamed up at her, then as something dawned upon him, looked crestfallen. "But..." "Yes?" "B-but b-b-but....what about d-daddy?" "Oh, honey". She reached down and lifted him up onto her lap, pulling him in towards her for a cuddle. "Oh sweetie no, it's not what you think at all...don't you know that I love you and your father more than anything else in the whole world?" she scolded him gently. "I..." he stopped sniffling and considered. "Yes. I guess". "Good". She hugged him tight, smoothed over the back of his rumpled pajamas as she whispered into his ear 'because you remember now, that's all that matters".

And, soon enough, he was asleep and Clarissa....was left to look down bemused at the little boy curled up in her arms - her little boy = and wonder that God had seen fit/deemed her worthy of such a wonderful gift.

• A sharp blow was dealt to his left cheek, the force of it bowling him over and leaving him in a sprawled heap at his father's feet. His teeth had cut his lower lip, quite badly and he could feel the coppery taste of blood on his tongue as his lip began to swell and feel too thick for his mouth. He tried, of course, to move his lips anyway. "F-father" - a dry, raspy croak. "I....ii-i-i-i'm so....s-sorry..."

His father rasied his hand, poised to hit gain his thin face bulging in an abnormal manner bright red like a cherry tomato with his eyes popping out in anger paris almost thought he hadn't heard him if it hadn't been for "You're sorry ohh don't you worry myson"- always, like it was one words like it was a whole new being or posession really, another object he owned but wouldn't behave- "mysun oh i'll take care of you, you'll be sorry not now but you'll BE sorry, i" A hand came out of nowhere just as his father's fist was about to come crashing down and stopped in its tracks holding it tightly and just for one weak second, demetri couldn't help but wonder if this was the hand of god, quite literally, come to save him. then a wand came into view, sharp point jutting into the hollow of his father's throat there he could see his adam's apple bobbing furiously out like a target, his jugular vein he could swear he could see it throbbing "You bastard!" Clarrisa's cold voice cut in the air and it like having a refreshingly ice cold bucketful of water thrown on him. It shook him up and brought him back to reality, to full ....sokdmsadasd. looking up blearily through sticky eyelids - there must be a cut on his forehead somewhere - he watched as clarissa threatens, cajoles, shoved and led the way out for mr. martinov...out of his own damn home. don't you hurt my boy, my son..... later she was cleaning his cuts with spells herself silently and she should have gotten there sooner and then in a sudden outburst 'that BASTARD won't harm you ever again. Promise'. "Mama, it's okay, don't look so scared really they're not as bad as they look, they're not that deep". then she had burst in with that. "Promise?" "Pinky promise, I swear it baby, I swear it". He hooked his littler finger round hers, and they shook on it. and then he said "Momma please don't use that bad word about Daddy again". Stupidly, in her surprise before she could catch herself, she asked "Why?" In her head silently adding 'Why the fuck not'. Then he looked at her solemnly and there she could see in his eyes briefly a wisdom beyond his years, reflection of a sadness that was so adult it made her shiver to look at him. "Because he's still my Daddy, and I love him," he told her, "no matter what'. then, after a few moments hesitation and searching her face, '...and so do you". Then his face crumpled, delayed shock setting in and then they were both howling together their pain through swear and blood and tears.

• he woke up in the night with a wetness in his pants, although not in the bed, and he could feel his thing. He was frightened by it, it was all rock hard and stiff, straight like a soldier but it wasn't supposed to be like that, what if.....ohmerlinohmerlin what if it dropped off? was he sick? and why was he so wet? he thought at first he must have wet the bed again, like he was still a little boy and a deep sense of shame filled him, but then again he reminded himself that the bed wasn't actually wet. Besides, pee-pee stank anyway. This smelled too but it was....different. He couldn't say how. And what was it oh merlin he wassoscared why couldn't his thing stay down ? Gasping, he flung his bedsheets off and ran to his parents room, bare feet smacking against the linoleum floor in places not covered by the extravagant furry white rug. "Papa! "Momma!" Bouncing on their bed till they woke up i don't know what this is i dont know what this is a moment a look of shared incomprehension with his wife before he felt something small and hard bounce against his leg and alarmed, looked down to see what it was - only to clock it.

Oh, no. He couldn't even leave this one to Clarissa, could he? Pleading, he turned a look to her for help but she had seen what the cause of the fuss was and snorting, turned over and with a few giggles settled back into sleep. "This one's all yours," a muffled voice by his told him in no uncertain terms. "I'm glad that you take pleasure in my humiliation," he grumbled, and sighing looked down at the boy who had a questioning look on his face, now still, waiting for some answers. With a sign, he took him and aside and began to tell him about the nature of 'wet dreams' (and he couldn't help but feel a sense of surely misguided pride, his son was finally becoming a man).

• his father wasn't like that. No.

He knew (some) other people's fathers were, like this. all of the time, but they were cracked and twisted from the inside out. No, not his father. That's why he loved him. For the kisses, for the lessons, for the hugs, for the hobbies he had introduced him to, like flying and fencing and reading (though his mother had been the one to first show him how to use a camera), for teaching him how to be a ma, for teaching him it was his responsibility to look after his little sister.

This stranger behind his father's eyes, though.

He didn't know him at all. That wasn't the same man he loved as his daddy. This was the stranger who was a....follower. A pawn of the Dark Lord's, although he may see himself as something less petty and more honourable, such as a soldier.

This madman, this bastard, this cruel sadist, - this man was not his father.

But his father was in there somewhere, maybe he was sleeping, maybe his soul was tired of living for a while and had wanted to take a little break (if such an evil thing and his daddy's soul could even coexist in such a place as his daddy) and this evil thing had taken residence in its absence.

But he'd come back. He always came back.

Demetri had to keep believing in that, for he had nothing else for him to hold onto and that was why he always waited for him in his heart of hearts, for him to come back home.