BOOM! I'm back D

Zephyr

Dumbledore carefully, and meticulously, stared at nothing. His eyes held that glazed look one associated with a student, bored mindless in one of Binn's exhilarating lectures on the many, and seemingly endless, Goblin civil wars in god knows what time, at god knows what place. Only, while these eyes were glazed, the organ beating behind it was not, and as it was, this particular organ was deep in thought, rather than the brainless wanderings of a normal adolescent mind.

Dumbledore admitted, that he made a dear, and rather terrible, mistake. Although, somehow, that sentence seemed too weak. His eyes un-glazed, and they were filled with a brief, heart-striking grief. He knew he should've listened to Minerva, but as always…ever sure of himself…he thought about his late wife…about Grindlewald…about the war…

He sighed. In that one sigh, one could see the true effect of time on him. His wrinkles seemed deeper than ever, his eyes sadder, his posture slightly sloping…He had left Harry at the Dursleys, in the full surety that they would at least see to it that he was sheltered, clothed, fed…time to enforce the blood protection inherent in Petunia Dursleys blood…

But it was not to be…at the age of 5, little Harry had been dumped on the cold and unforgiving streets around London…home to murderers, criminals, the lot…he felt an uncomplicated, deep rage at that. How could anyone just leave a defenceless child out on the streets? They didn't have the defence of saying that it was forced on them, since by rite of law and family, Harry would be passed onto the closest relative, that being Petunia Dursely.

The Dursleys had been taken to court…but it had been done. The information for where they had left Harry had been easily pulled out of them. The Order had raced to find the boy, but by the time they got to the location it was already too late. The boy was nowhere. Fearing the worse, they went into mild panic, the intensity of the search had picked up, but still no sign. The only consolation anyone had for the Boy-Who-Lived was that there was evidence that he was still alive. His folders at the Ministry had not reported a deceased signature by his aura, and the gadgets on Dumbledore's desk concluded that.

Of course, they could've used an Owl to track Harry. That had been tried. And failed. Someone was cloaking the boy, making sure he wasn't to be found. There was no other explanation.

Dumbledore sighed, looking out the window. There was still a search, even now, after 5 years, but it was mild now…he only hoped, dearly, that the boy was all right and being looked after, maybe by whoever might've picked him up when he had been abandoned. He would love to meet that person, if that was the case, and thank them dearly.

For now, he had other matters to attend to.

The inside of the shack like building was modest. It had various stalls where slaves were lined up and their awaiting owners busily signed out the papers and forms to confirm the ownership. It was rectangular and made of brightly furnished wood, the lighting quite bright. You could say it was cheap and cheerful.

Voldemort just glared.

Dietrich laughed, while Quirrel smiled tiredly.

"If you would kindly follow, my good sirs?" Dietrich said, preferably ignoring the intensity of the glare the most powerful Dark Lord of the century was directing at the back of his neck.

The Leader of the Eastern Europe Slave Trade directed them to one of the more secluded corners of the building. The corner had a door on one wall, while the other wall housed numerous files and documents, a large table, a jug of coffee and many quills. Gotz was quietly sitting there, arranging the papers and muttering to himself.

"Gotz, the slave please?" Gotz jumped out of his work and quickly withdrew a ring of keys, opened the door opposite and went in. A couple of minutes later he came out, holding a chain and leading the boy out.

Dietrich coughed quietly and the boy looked up.

Innocent green orbs met vivid red. They locked. They both flinched, but remained in their stupor.

Dietrich quietly smirked, pleased at something or other, and coughed again, effectively breaking them out of the lock both set of eyes were in. He retrieved the papers and cleared a space on the table.

"I have two confirmation papers. One for you Quirrel, then one for you handing over the ownership to your master," Dietrich nodded to Voldemort, who scowled.

"Oh! Of course!" Quirrel exclaimed pleasantly. He retrieved one of the quills Gotz had been previously fiddling with, and read through the requirements on the contract, smirking lightly. He signed. Then turned to the other contract, and without hesitation signed it as well. He then handed the quill to his master, who scrawled his signature with a very spidery script.

Dietrich's quiet smile burst into a full-blown smirk. He then made a copy of both contracts and handed them to their respective owners.

"Shall I receive your money through check, Mr. Quirrel?" Quirrel nodded. Gotz handed him a check, in which Quirrel signed out his Vault number and the sum to be paid. He then scrawled out his signature and the date of the payment.

"Excellent! A pleasure doing business with you gentlemen!" Dietrich said smoothly, opening a briefcase and carefully laying the contract papers in. Voldemort watched wearily, aware that something was being done without his knowledge. He returned his attention to the boy, who was currently looking at the floor, an emotionless mask plastered onto his face. Voldemort continued to watch him, aware that the only emotion he was feeling was numb shock. He definitely had not been expecting this turn of events. Hadn't the Old Man been taking care of his precious Golden Boy, he thought viciously?

Gotz stood and politely coughed, drawing all attention to him.

"Some fundamental rights of a Slave"-

"Slaves have rights?" Quirrel asked incredulously. Gotz spared him a brief scowl. Quirrel shirked back and blushed, giving him the motion to carry on.

"Yes, they still have rights," Gotz continued, sparing Quirrel another scowl, "these rights include; forbidden use of the Avada Kedavra curse and all other methods of killing. There is a set amount of time you may torture your slave, and some tools may be forbidden, more detailed information of that is on the contract. A cane or other form of whipping is excluded from that right. The Imperious curse and other forms of mind control are also strictly forbidden. A slave cannot be fed for no longer than 5 days. They cannot drink water for more than 3 days, though this may be extended, as they grow older. A slave may not be sold on directly; the owner must contact the Slave Trader first before negotiations like that begins. A slave also has a right to a name. This name may not be changed throughout the duration of the time the slave is owned by the one owner." Gotz paused, catching his breath back. "Any questions?"

Quirrel shook his head, mildly amazed.

'Excellent!' Dietrich cut through the silence, a pleasant smirk upon his face. He beamed at Voldemort, who returned the beam with a dull glare and unceremoniously handed the chain to the Dark Lord's pale, spidery hand. The said Dark lord looked down at the chain, along the chinks, to the pale neck it was clasped around, travelling up the pert little lips and nose, to the vivid green eyes.

'Indeed,' Voldemort murmured. Dietrich and Quirrel were quietly talking with each other while Gotz had already packed up the desk with all its papers and paraphernalia.

'Which leaves the question, what will you name your new slave?' Dietrich asked, once the desk had been cleared.

All eyes in the room turned on Voldemort, who refused to shift in embarrassment from the focused attention. The Dark lord had always liked to be the centre of attention, but that was either when people were wetting themselves with fear from him, or with adoring reverence and kissing the hem of his robes, or both. Expectant eyes always unnerved him. He turned his eyes back onto the tiny boy before him, who was staring obediently at the ground, having heard no allowance to look or speak from his new master.

The silence stretched onwards.

'…Zephyr. I shall name him Zephyr.' Voldemort blinked at the first name his mind had thrown at him under the pressure of expectation.

Dietrich thought for a moment and smiled. 'Fitting…and now gentlemen, I shall take my leave.' He half-bowed to Voldemort, and gave a nod to Quirrel, before leaving the tent, Gotz in tow.

Argghhhhh! I'm so so so so so sorry for the long wait! T.T Kill me now! I'm terrible! cries and dies It's just..it's just...

Muse: Stop making excuses and get back to writing! smashes Ariah on the head with metal guitar

Ariah: ...

Anyway! I love you all! I really do!

Onto notes on the chapter. I am not a Dumbles hater. Therefore Dumbles will be a good guy in meh story U.U Sorry to disappoint those who hate Dumbles ; I just love him so much, but I love Quirrel more...pets Quirrel

Anyway, Zephyr is the name of the Greek God of the East wind, described as being gentle...:) Fitting xD

REVIEW! You make my Musie happy D