The light danced softly across the ivory keys and long, strong, pale fingers followed the moonlight in its dance.

The soft melody filled the old, empty room, bringing life to the empty darkness. The figure at the piano swayed slightly with the movements across the keyboard, leaning into the powerful chords, leaning back and smiling dreamily when the notes sounded like fairy whispers in the air.

"You shouldn't be in here at this time of night, you know. It's dangerous."

The pianist jumped up from the bench, startled, blushing deeply, head bowed. "I know, but it's so peaceful . . ."

"You shouldn't let your title go to your head," the figure leaning in the doorway murmured, shaking his head in irritation.

"Oh! No, it's not that!"

"Or let your instincts dominate your behaviour."

"I don't . . ."

"You know the rules," the scolder straightened and began to quote. "‘All in Stonebridge Academy are equals and shall adhere to the same rules regardless of . . .'"

"‘Race, religion, species, or family.' I know, I know. I just couldn't help myself . . . I have that concert next week."

"I know, but you'd be lucky if your family kept you from being thrown out on your ear for breaking curfew."

"I know . . ."

"Come on, Viscount, I'll escort you back to your dorm."

The Viscount nodded, blushing in embarrassment at needing to be walked back to his quarters like an errant child. He ran long, graceful fingers through dark, inky black hair, and lifted his jacket from where it was folded on the bench, tugging it on over broad back and shoulders.

"I still can't believe Lord Amaris-Rane lets you walk around looking like that. He's such a conservative. It must be a blow to his image having his heir look like you."

The Viscount flushed. "Do shut up, Williams, please do. I don't need to hear a lecture from you, too.

Williams shrugged and yawned, tightening his dressing gown. "Have it your way, Viscount. Just don't be surprised when the Whites come to take you away."

A shiver travelled along the Viscount's spine and he shook his head to rid it of the uncomfortable image, long hair shivering as well along his back, like waves of midnight personified. "You bring nightmares to the waking, Williams."

"Someone needs to try and talk sense into you."

"Be that as it may, you certainly aren't the one to try. You're hardly intimidating, despite your talk of the Whites."

"I'm just trying to be helpful, viscount. You know my father - "

"Is a Whites spy ready to sell out his coworkers, friends, and family at the slightest hint of unnatural behaviours and appetites."

Williams' jaw dropped.

The Viscount's pale, beautifully aristocratic visage was marred by a faint smirk as he stared down at the shorter boy, arms crossed over his chest. "Good night, Williams. I'll see you in Chemistry." Silently, he turned, and opened the door to the dorm, slipping inside and shutting it softly in the other boy's face.

Nervously, he ran his fingers through his hair and shivered softly. Mentally, he cursed the stupid, pompous little pig that was Williams.

As he began to creep past the rows of beds, he wondered why he had so eagerly requested the bed nearest the window. A stupid, stupid decision in hindsight. He tripped over someone's shoes and caught a hold of a bedpost to keep his long body from crashing to the ground.

"Whazzat?" a groggy voice from the head of the bed muttered, and a pair of sleep-fogged golden eyes tried to focus on the Viscount from over a mountain of blankets.

"Just me . . . I was getting a drink of water."

"Get back in bed or I'll . . . I'll . . . I'll ‘port you to the . . . the . . . ‘ead . . . ‘aster . . ."

The Viscount remained frozen, clinging to the bedpost, until he could hear the soft, easy snore of the bed's occupant, and continued on his way to the end of the room, flopping down on his bed, listening to the comfortable squeak of the springs. He lay on his back as he kicked his shiny, black, tight, and rather pointy shoes off, then tugged the long white silk socks off between his fingers, slowly and lazily. He waggled a long, ghostly white foot in the air, watching the moonlight dance across his toes.

A yawn cracked across his face and he quickly undid his belt, dropping it on top of his shoes and socks, followed by the tight, viciously ironed black pants, noting with a sigh that they were already three inches above his ankle. He had only gone for adjustments a month ago, and now he'd have to go back, and see that horribly creepy lady to get his pants let out yet again. Not to mention her equally horrible daughter, with the huge breasts and transparent shirt and neon pink lip gloss, who always tried to loudly flirt with him while she took his measurements. The last time she had accidentally brushed against . . . well, It, while taking his thigh measurements. Shaking his head, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, he tossed his jacket off onto the pile of garments and began undoing the mother-of-pearl buttons on his white silk shirt. He sighed as he undid the cuffs. Four inches of bare, white skin between the edge of the cuff and the end of his wrist. Even more time with the seamstress. He sighed, letting it fall to the ground, and squirmed gracefully out of his underwear, kicking it to the floor with the rest before drawing his unbeloved, school issued nightshirt from beneath his pillow. He pulled it over his head and stifled a groan. He had to stop eating. The sleeves, which he had been sure dangled over his finger tips when he first got the nightshirt, were now inching closer and closer to his elbow, exposing white skin and sharp, jutting bone. At least he wouldn't have to get fitted for a new nightshirt. This one was still functionable, although it wasn't particularly nice having the starchy flannel cuffs digging into the skin of his arms. But he could live with it.

Sighing softly, he pulled the blankets up to his chin and lay back, curling up to face the window, watching the moon in the sky until sleep claimed him.

"But he's only eight, dear! He's too young to be sent away to boarding school!"

"He'll be fine. It'll teach him discipline. Respect. Be good for him. Cure him of these silly notions."

"The Whites aren't going to come for him, you know! Just because he looks like he's . . ."

"Looks are enough! I'm not letting the Whites' suspicion fall on my heir! And that's final!"

"Does it have to be that awful old Stonebridge, though? An all-boys school is such an archaic concept . . ."

"He'll be fine! I went there as a boy! A good school, good school. Teach him to uphold proper family traditions!"

"He's so young . . . and small. All those musty old buildings won't be good for his health!"

"He's a boy! Proper boys thrive in that sort of environment!"

"Name?"

"Viscount London Bentley Leander Sheridon Amaris-Rane of Nyx and Stoneway, sir."

"Big name."

"Sir."

"How old are you?"

"Eight, sir."

"And his Grace has arranged for you to attend Stonebridge Academy."

"Sir."

"In the middle of term."

"Sir."

"I suggested it might be better to wait for you to finish grammar school at this stage . . ."

"Yes, sir."

"But . . . Nevermind. You've had private tutors until now?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'll find Stonebridge operates differently, Amaris-Rane."

"Yes, sir."

"You aren't at home anymore."

"No, sir."

"We have a curfew. Your classes have already been chosen for you and you'll be staying in a dorm with boys like yourself."

"Yes, sir."

"You aren't to antagonize other students from different dorms."

"No, sir."

"And we will not allow students running around in the natural. It will result in immediate expulsion."

"Yes, sir."

"I think a boy of your good breeding will get along fine at Stonebridge, Amaris-Rane."

"Yes, sir."

"So, how long have you been attending Stonebridge, Viscount?"

"Since I was eight."

"Raise your left arm. Thanks, m'lord."

"How old are you now, Viscount London?"

"Thirteen."

"Ooooooh. You've started your growth spurt eaaarly."

"His Grace isn't a very big man, m'lord, I'm sure you won't have to worry about something like this happening again. You can lower your arm now, m'lord."

"That's a relief, ma'am."

"It must have been so embarrassing having it rip while you were giving that speech, Viscount . . ."

"A bit."

"Look, all the buttons flew right off, and it's torn right apart here . . ."

"Catherine! Behave yourself!"

"Yes, Mama."

"Can you take that shirt off now, m'lord? Thank you kindly. The jacket too. Thank you, m'lord. Catherine, be a dear and get out something that should fit m'lord better."

"Yes, Mama."

"It's most kind of your mother to take care of this for me at such short notice."

"Oh, it's no trouble. Not if it's for you, Viscount London."

"Um . . ."

"Oh! This shirt should be about your size! Here! I'll even help you get it on. I'm sure you're used to having a servant or something do it for you . . ."

"No, I'm not. You don't need to . . ."

"Oh my, you have such tight muscles, Viscount. How do you keep in such good shape?"

"Sporting activity is mandatory for all students, miss."

"Of course! No wonder you have such a beautiful body . . ."

"Miss!"

"And such broad shoulders . . . I'll get those buttons for you, Viscount, don't worry!"

"Miss . . ."

"Are you sure you're only thirteen? I don't know any thirteen year old's with a body like yours, Viscount."

"I'm quite sure, miss."

"You're so tall too! You must be at least six feet, even!"

"Five foot ten and three quarters, miss."

"Wow! You sure do measure thoroughly!"

"Yes . . ."

"There! That's the last button! I don't see how you could get so big and so strong and so handsome living in such a dingy old place like Stonebridge, though."

"I guess it just agrees with me, miss."

Viscount London Bentley Leander Sheridon Amaris-Rane of Nyx and Stoneway woke slowly and easily from his dreams, stretching into the sunlight as though it were the embrace of a lover. The golden, early morning light caresses his pale skin, lighting it to the point of glowing, and causes little glittery lights to reflect from his masses of black hair. He smile dreamily up at the sun, and stretched again, languid and thoroughly feline, blinking sleepy midnight blue eyes in the soft light.

A wild, cheery whistle sounded from the other side of the room. "Nice legs, AR!"

The Viscount choked and fell from his perch on his knees to his side on the bed, landing in a sprawl of hair and legs.

"Your ass is even more impressive! You going to put on a strip show for us, your lordship?!"

With as much dignity as he could muster, the Viscount rose and fixed the boy on the other side of the room with a glare of icy coldness.

The offender just shot the Viscount an impish grin from a black face and ran his fingers through short, spiky hair, beginning to swagger over to the window. "Got a kiss for me, doll?"

"Shut up, Peters!" A huge hand grabbed the impish heckler by his shoulder and held him in place. "Do you want to get the Whites in here and have them take the entire dorm away!?"

"Come on, Denver, look at him! If he weren't so damn tall and didn't have those bloody rugby shoulders, you'd think he was a girl, with those legs and thighs and face and hair and - "

"Shut up!" Denver snarled, cuffing Peters across the face. "You're going to get us all brainwashed at this rate!"

Peters hissed softly and rubbed at his cheek. "If he weren't such a high and mighty prick and actually showered with the rest of us, I bet he'd have breasts."

"Just shut up already, Peters! Amaris-Rane, don't take forever getting to the showers!" Snarling softly, Denver dragged Peters out by his ear, and was followed by their shocked dorm mates.

Sighing, the Viscount shook his head in irritation at the stupidity and brashness of Peters. They'd be lucky if the Whites weren't called in to interrogate everyone in their year. Of course it was a joke, and everyone knew it was a joke, but it was a pretty damn dangerous joke as far as jokes went. People like Peters were why schools like Stonebridge shouldn't allow students in on scholarships.

He gathered yesterday's clothing from the ground, with the exception of his shoes, and threw them into the basket by the door with everyone elses'. Leaving his bed rumpled and the windows wide open, he walked gracefully to the private bathroom and shower attached to the dorm room. Every dorm had one, on the off chance that some overcrowded section had to send students to other dorms, sometimes in different buildings. According to teachers, students who belonged in different dorms who were forced to share should were not to be sharing shower facilities under any circumstances. They believed it would lead to Unfortunate Events. The Viscount was fortunate enough, in some's mind, to be in a dorm of the same type of students. Most were like that, and therefore the private bathroom was either ignored, or the richest students would monopolize it for their own purposes.

The Viscount always used the private shower.

He walked into the bathroom, as close to a sanctuary as he had at Stonebridge, and relieved his bladder with a sigh, staring at the ceiling. Getting out a clean towel, he hung it on the wall and pulled off his nightshirt, thinking rude things about Peters as he climbed into the shower and turned the water on.

He lay against the wall as the steaming hot water caressed his body and soaked his hair. With a drowsiness brought on by heat, he slowly lathered shampoo smelling of jasmine into his mass of hair, then rinsed it, watching the suds being sucked into the drain. He smiled sleepily and lathered his body with similar soap, slippery and soothing, thoroughly familiar after the rude awakening from strange waking dreams.

He blinked when he realized all the soap had been cleaned from his body several minutes earlier and the water was growing cold. Quickly, he turned it off and stepped out of the shower, drying himself swiftly. Then he pulled his nightshirt back on. The dorm was empty, but it didn't make him any less uncomfortable about walking through the room without any clothing on. He wiped condensation off the mirror with his sleeve and got out his brush, preparing to remove the tangles from his too-long hair.

"Oh, shit."

The Viscount stared at himself in the mirror and knew what had prompted Peters outburst when he got out of bed.

The nightshirt, of thin, cheap, white, serviceable flannel, had cuffs that were indeed shrinking closer and closer to his elbows on what seemed a daily basis. The fabric clung tightly to his shoulders and back, each muscle and line visible as the flannel followed it like a second skin. But what had obviously prompted Peters wolf-whistle was embarrassingly . . . obvious. The nightshirt's certainly were never long. They usually ended a bit below the knee. The Viscount's bare feet attached to shapely ankles, which were connected to long, even more shapely hairless white legs, then the knees, and then up to the thighs . . . All painfully visible when the nightshirt barely covered his ass. If he were a woman, of a very low reputation, people like Peters would indeed be whistling, if he went around wearing something that was, effectively, a microscopic mini-skirt.

Blushing hotly, the Viscount quickly ran the brush with long, vicious strokes through his hair, and left the bathroom to get dressed as quickly as possible. He almost dove into normally embarrassingly brief briefs, grateful for their scant protection, and hurriedly pulled on a clean pair of well ironed black pants with sharp pleats in them. They pinched horribly and were too short, but he didn't care. He was able to breath and feel safe again once they were on and he no longer had to feel like he was wearing something from a street whore's wardrobe. At a more sedate, sane pace, he pulled on silk stockings, and shook out a clean shirt, pulling it on and wincing as it pinched at his arms and shoulders and neck. He ignored it and did the buttons up, feeling ready to burst when he did the one at his neck up. Biting his lip, he pulled out a grey tie and did it up, neat and swift, before firmly tucking the ends of his silk shirt into the top of his pants, although there was certainly no room for both shirt tails and his own body in the too-tight garments. It didn't matter. Rules were rules at Stonebridge Academy, and he grimly found his belt and buckled it. He pulled out a clean jacket and tucked it on. It was tight, too, but not nearly as painful as the shirt or the pants. He shut the window while trying to tie his locks back with a properly sober black ribbon.

Trying not to rush, he went back into the bathroom to examine himself in the mirror.

He looked an ass in clothing that didn't fit properly and he knew it. The tight jacket made his shoulders look broader than usual and the short pants made his legs appear longer. He looked like a grown man who'd had his clothing unexpectedly shrink in the wash. Sighing, he removed a silver pin shaped like a small, rearing cat, from the depths of his breast pocket, and attached it to his tie.

Shaking his head, long hair trying to pull out of the ribbon, he left the dorm woefully, slipping his shoes on while he was on his way out.