And now, the young heir enters stage left, burdened by prophecy and parental neglect…

Yes, that seemed about right. Clay thought to himself.

After all, was not every young wizard born to the British Isles marked for attendance at the age of eleven? Those that refused the call were considered fools or arrogant, perhaps both. Despite its hazardous reputation, Hogwarts did retain its proud name of being a prime institution for learning witchcraft and magic. It was still in the name, after all. Then again... what's in a name?

So, him and his brother had decided to make an appearance at this so-called summer camp. It was literally a circus already. Hands in his pockets, the better looking half of the Lamont heirs traversed the line of booths in silence. Quirking his eyebrow anytime a new oddity presented itself to him. Really, it was remarkable how much people dared to lay themselves so bare to strangers. Portraits, pictures, face paints,… All so revealing of what makes a person. He had no need for any of it. His reflection changed so often, he'd fear he would not recognize himself.

Clay planted his polished shoes in front of one of these booths as he studied his reflection in a mirror. Not his reflection, exactly. Rather, the latest version of it.

Deep brown curls that framed his face, rapidly shrank back to their natural copper strands. He tilted his head slightly and decided to lift his cheekbones slightly higher than usual. He liked them better this way. "Better." He muttered, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from his sleeve. This would suit the occasion. He was, after all, presenting himself beside his twin brother. He had to play the part.

And he loved playing this one. Mimicking every little fold and wrinkle of his brother's smile just to make people wonder. Was he really just a twin? Or a true simulacrum? Oh! And how he loved this little line he liked to add when people stared. "Don't worry, the resemblance to my brother is purely intentional." It was a fan-favourite among mother's guests. Though she did always like to point out, after, that it was not by his skill but by lucky genes that he could boast such talent in front of her guests. Clay knew she despised anyone taking her spotlight. He should know better than to try.

Was that a rustle behind him?
He did not turn. Not right away. He liked to let people wonder. He liked them to watch.

English | Irish

And someone was watching. Namely a blond Irish boy who had been winding his way through the various booths, dressed in jeans with grass stains from adventures which were not his own, as well as a slightly baggy shirt that displayed the logo of a muggle band whose music he'd never actually listened to. Both of them were hand-me-downs from one of his older half-blood cousins, but the boy honestly didn't mind all that much. They were comfortable. And the band sounded cool, or at the very least the act of imagining dragons was fun.

Even the wand of willow wood resting at his side wasn't his own. Not really. It belonged to his father, a temporary solution while his grandfather worked on crafting more options for him to try. Maybe next time, one would choose him, and his da could get his wand back.

About the only things on his person right now that he could truly call his own were the wheelchair under him, and the little golden furred rabbit resting on his lap. He considered himself lucky for having that much, it was more than some of his family members had.

The boys wandering side by side hadn't caught his eye at first. Until one of them changed, that is, becoming a mirror image of the other. The transformation was both unexpected and a little uncanny. The way his facial features restructured themselves, like a clay mask that had decided to reshape itself on the potter's wheel before firing.

Despite having grown up in a family deeply entrenched in magical heritage and history, he'd never heard of anyone being able to change form like this. Not without a spell or a potion. It was new, and his head quirked to the side as he tried to puzzle out if he'd really seen the other boy change at all. Could've been a trick of the light, but... no. He knew better than that. Even though they weren't identical, he had a twin of his own. And there were identical twins in other branches of his family. None of them had ever been this close to being a literal copy of one another.

After clearing his throat, trying to get over his nerves, he wheeled his way a bit closer, "Ya know... most o' us are stuck wearin' the faces we were born inta." He said with a hint of dry humor. "Seems as if that's hardly a problem fer yerself, though, aye?"

He glanced over his shoulder, lips curling into a faint smile.

"Everyone wears a mask." Clayton corrected the stranger abruptly. He turned fully now, theatrically brushing a leaf from his shoulder as if he were taking a bow. "Mine just happens to move."

"I could look like you, if I wanted." A obvious bluff on his part. He had learned to change the nuances of his face to match his brother's, yes. But he never actually succeeded in becoming someone else. "But why?" Clay added with an arrogant grin. Clearly proclaiming he had the upper hand in the looks department. His gaze would inspect the boy's messy hairdo and dark... brown? No, green? Well, his eyes. Until his own lowered and lingered first on the clothes... then on the wheelchair. Now, that, would be harder to pull off.

A silence would creep in between them before Clay eventually gasped for air, and picked up the thread of conversation. It was time for a smooth recovery, as they say.

"Everyone’s got something that makes people stare." He cocked his head and looked at the boy with a strange fascination. As if he was trying to figure out the mechanics of a new toy he got to play with. "Yours just happens to be faster than mine."

He decided to extend his hand. "Clayton Lamont. Yes, those Lamont's. Don’t worry, the resemblance to my brother is purely intentional." God, how he loved saying that line.

If the boy was at all familiar with the wizarding pureblood world. He'd know any Lamont worth of note had to be linked to Gloria Lamont. More famously known as the gorgeous and bewitching actress of the magical theatre: Gloria Shine. What would not be so widely known, perhaps, was the existence of her twin sons. Gloria Shine never cared for sharing her spotlight, in any form that might threaten to occur. Not that they were like small footnotes in the script of her life. They were just not... highlighted.

Still, the name had weight. And Clayton clearly was expecting some sort of reaction by uttering it proud and clear. He was not expecting anything from the boy's name he would get in reply.

English | Irish

Oblivious to the fact that the words were simply a bluff, Malcolm paled a bit when Clayton mentioned that he could look like him if he wanted to. That was a possibility that hadn't crossed his mind when he'd seen the other boy changing his features earlier, and the thought of having someone wearing his face left him feeling a little uneasy. He gave a quiet, half-hearted laugh in response as well as a smile that it didn't quite manage to reach his eyes. His hand moved to the bunny in his lap, running his fingers through its fur for comfort. "Maybe ye're right..." He murmured, "Maybe most do be wearin' masks, now and then... as fer the chair, it's not meant ta be fer show... but people do notice, I suppose..."

The forced smile dropped and a small surprised sound escaped his throat as he heard exactly who he was speaking to. He'd heard of the Lamonts, of Gloria Shine in particular. Who hadn't, aside from the muggleborn first years wandering around the camp, he supposed. So the boy was descended from the upper echelons of pureblood society. Their ranks in that hierarchy couldn't be much different. The other boy's family was prestige in its purest form, renowned for the acclaim his mother's talents had earned them. While his own family shared the same blood status as the Lamonts, at least in certain branches such as the one he sprouted from, centuries of trend-bucking, wave-making, and being open to non-purebloods joining their ranks and campaigning for said marginalized groups had earned his family a reputation as blood traitors among many aristocratic families.

"O-oh... It's nice ta meet ya, Clayton." He said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the revelation of who he'd decided to come pester. "Name's Malcolm..." He paused, briefly considering lying about his own surname. It wasn't that he was ashamed of who he was, not really. Not normally, at least. But... did he really want to invite possible ridicule or worse? At the end, he decided to hope that the other boy was a good sort, under all the pomp and circumstance. "Malcolm McGregor... any resemblance ta my own twin is purely by accident." Not that said twin was at summer camp for the sake of comparison, but the quip was low hanging fruit, and at least his joke brought a small, genuine smile to his lips.

@Clayton Lamont

"Well, at least you’ve got a seat wherever you go. I’m forever having to find one." Clay said with an absent mind. Looking around them as if he was actually trying to find a chair. Instead, he'd lean a bit harder on one leg and let his body sag into a comfortable stance.

The boy introduced himself as Malcolm. A McGregor. The name sounded familiar. It had to be one of the more common names where his own family came from (Scotland). Though, Malcolm's accent placed him across the Irish Sea. As one eyebrow arched up, Clay pursed his lips and slowly gathered any details on Irish families he might have heard of. None immediately sprang to mind. Though, he felt like there was a narrow path down memory lane that could get him to the right answer. His imaginary dance through the dense crowd of his mother's guests was where he began his search.

Clay gave Malcolm a look of surprise as he mentioned his twin. What were the chances? And what a clever reversal of his own favourite line! For a second, his cheekbones seemed to almost protrude out of his face, as his smile slid open across his face. "How excellent!" He exclaimed with a big grin. "Where is this twin? Are you meeting them here?"

A family of stuntmen! No, no, those were the McGee's. Clay pondered on through the many faces he was introduced to. A famous card player? No, not it, he recalled a flashy man with a mulberry top-hat whose first name was Gregor with a neat little party-trick he could do with his wand. But still not a McGregor. The young Lamont began to question his scene-partner's heritage. He couldn't have been from the world of theatre, that much was certain. Clay would have at least caught one glimpse of a McGregor at the imagery of one of his mother's parties. As easily as his grin had appeared, as quick it was to falter.

"What business did you say your family was in again?" Clayton asked promptly and with devoted interest. What curious role was Malcolm supposed to play? Wonder and curiosity rumbled within Clay's beating chest as he was dying to figure it out. It was fascinating talking to someone else around his age. Besides his brother, of course.

English | Irish

A chuckle came to Malcolm's lips at Clay's absentminded quip about the wheelchair. For the many difficulties that came with it, he had a point - finding a seat would never be one of them, at the very least.

He watched as Clay tried to figure him out, wondering what exactly he'd done to garner such interest, especially when he was sure the other boy was probably constantly surrounded by people who were fascinating than himself.

However the young Lamont's intrigue seemed to be redirected elsewhere as he grabbed onto the mention of Malcolm's own twin. The smile that came to his face at the question was a bit sad, "'Fraid not. Conall's a squib, so... he had ta stay home." His expression turned thoughtful, his brow furrowing as he ran his fingers over his rabbit's fur again, staying quiet for several seconds as he collected his thoughts, "Hope ye've a good relationship with yer brother, Clayton. Took mine fer granted 'til we learned we were goin' ta be apart. But... but maybe it's good fer us, ya know? Learnin' ta be our own people..." He didn't sound entirely convinced. Optimism and hope about this situation wasn't the easiest thing to hold onto, but he tried his best. He'd promised his family he'd try to be strong about this.

Like a grandfather clock's pendulum, Clayton's curiosity seemed to return to its earlier course in a moment, swinging steadily back towards trying to puzzle Malcolm and his family out as soon as his question about the missing twin had been formed. Malcolm had rarely gotten a chance to interact with anyone outside of his family, so he found himself fascinated as he watched the switching back and forth, wondering what it must be like inside the other boy's head.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he heard the boy's next question, feeling more than a little bashful, "We're just wood farmers. Not the glamorous families ye're used ta dealin' with, I suppose..." He revealed, preparing himself for the disappointment he expected to follow.

@Clayton Lamont

Clayton was glad to see Malcolm laugh at his little jabs. It showed heart. Character. Already, the youngest Lamont felt himself drawn to Malcolm's story. He had the makings of a true underdog about to take the world by stor-

Did he just say squib? Ouch. Down go the reviews.

Clay winced outright at the word. No matter where one's feelings lie on the matter, everyone knew that one was a big no-no in polite wizarding circles. Especially for people with a legacy like the Lamont's. Or the McGregor's for that matter.

As soon as the other boy mentioned wood farmers, the little light up Clay's lighthouse sparked back to life. Of course. The McGregor's did not belong in his mother's halls at all. He had been searching in all the wrong places. Looking at the wrong scripts. Clay recalled what little he knew of the McGregor's as being a big family with a larger presence in Ireland. More common earth than polished marble.

His mother once made a passing remark about them being unfit for the main stage. Mixers with the locals, she’d called them. Clay was taught that families like the McGregor's weren't villains per se… just, somewhat less refined. Like how there was nothing wrong with community theatre, but the Lamont's were meant for something the muggles liked to call 'The Broad Way'.

It took Clayton a bit to pull his face together. If he could have swirled his features into a muddled mask to match his inner tangle, he would have. Luckily, it would be limited to his brow just remaining stuck in the 'furrowed' position. The good ol' 'Oh, you're one of those' look sat there between them and made itself comfortable for a while.

"Well, no." Clay had to admit in a rather uncharacteristic abrupt fashion.

He quickly recovered. "Bloodlines make for fine scripts, sure, but they don't guarantee a good performance." He felt rather good about that line, he should have written it down somewhere. Clay grinned and reached out his hand for the bunny on Malcolm's lap. "I won't judge the stage, Malcolm. I'll judge the show, I promise." God, he was on fire. His entire face lit up with enthusiasm. Why was he not on stage right now? His mother would be proud… if she was ever capable of expressing such emotion off-stage.

"Don't worry so much about the glamour, Mal. It can lack grit." He laid both hands to rest in their respective pockets. "Can I call you Mal?"