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At Least Once

Chapter Text

Luna stared up at her necklace, which hung from the doorway leading to the Great Hall. A fleeting feeling of anger rushed through her head (she was a war hero she was a survivor she was amazing according to Harry so then why was she Loony Luna again today), but it was gone as fast as it came, and Luna kept staring at her necklace.

"Y'know, the longer you stare at it doesn't mean it'll come down sooner," someone behind her said.

"I know. I tried calling the wackspurts to retrieve it, but they're on a lunch break." She turned around. The boy behind her had two eyes, which she found boring, and one hand, which she found interesting. Not that she'd say so, of course; Daddy reminded her not to pry into other people's business. After all, she didn't want people asking her why she was still so thin.

"You could levitate it down."

"Yes." She looked from the boy to the necklace. "But it does look nice up there. I want to leave it hanging, but it was my mother's necklace, and she wouldn't have wanted me to leave it to gather dust and eventually be thrown into the doom room."

"Doom room?" he asked, walking forward to stand beside her. They were blocking the way to the Hall, she noticed, but it didn't matter, as everyone was already inside.

"The doom room," she said, nodding. From inside the Hall, people stared at them. Luna smiled to the pointers, because they were eating (barely able to eat enough her wrists were too too thin the wackspurts didn't help her when she wanted needed lacked food) while she was calling wackspurts to help her.

Luna shivered as someone opened the door behind her and entered from outside, the cold winter air making her wish for fire. The air must've woken the boy from his daydream—he'd been staring at the necklace, too, Luna thought with approval. It was enchanting.

"This is idiocy," the boy proclaimed. Lifting his wand, he said, "Wingardium leviosa!" And the necklace floated down. He held it out to her. "Here. I guess it's yours?" Suddenly, he sounded unsure, and Luna thought about asking how old he was, even though whatever age he would've given her, it was still too young to be missing a hand.

She wondered which hand was his wand hand. She wondered if he too, couldn't eat, and wanted to distract himself from going into the Great Hall. She wondered if his missing hand used to be freckled, too.

"It's yours," she decided, and finally entered the Great Hall. She heard him yelling something behind her, but she didn't turn around.

Her necklace didn't help her any longer (be strong sweetheart be brave be lovely be kind), but then, she didn't need it to remind herself her mother would always love her.

Maybe it would help the boy.

Chapter Text

Uncle Percy was everyone's least favorite uncle for a reason, Victoire thought miserably, knocking on the Den's front door. He was boring to talk to, hard to get along with, and gave the worst gifts ever. She couldn't believe Dad when he said Uncle Percy had actually mellowed out over the years.

She heard some voices behind the door (always in a soft, relaxed tone—how could Molly and Lucy stand it here?) and the door opened to reveal Uncle Percy and his branch of the Weasley family: Uncle Percy, Aunt Audrey, Molly, Lucy, and their weird muggle neighbor, Tom.

"Victoire! Look at you, beautiful as ever!" Aunt Audrey complimented, bringing Victoire into the house and into a hug. "We haven't seen you all summer!"

Victoire smiled painfully, trying in vain to keep Aunt Audrey's newest necklace from digging into her skin. When they were younger, she and Teddy had played the 'avoid Aunt Audrey's hugs or her clunky necklace will eat you' game, but today the red blotch on her neck, courtesy of the necklace, didn't seem as humorous.

"Hi Aunt, Uncle..." She looked around, but it seemed Molly, Lucy and Tom had vanished somewhere. "How are you?"

"Good, good," Uncle Percy replied. "Come on in. You'll be staying in the blue guest room. I trust you know where it is?"

"Yeah," she agreed, nodding awkwardly and pulling her bags in behind her. She trudged up the stairs to her room for the next week (why oh why hadn't she agreed to go on vacation with Mum, Dad, Dom and Lou?), set her bags down, and flopped on the bed. Of course, she had known Mum would send her to Uncle Percy's for the week (Mum's newest attempt at patching up Dad and Uncle Percy's relationship, doomed to fail), but it didn't really sink in for her until now.

Uncle Percy's house was like a shrine: too clean, too quiet, and with lingering smells of smoke from Aunt Audrey's current obsession of the week, alternative magics.

On the bright side, she had three hours to go until she left the Den for the rest of the day. On the shadowy side, she had only three hours left until her date. She headed downstairs to the kitchen to take her mind off her nerves.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, she noticed Uncle Percy was in the kitchen, making tea. Victoire coughed. Uncle Percy jumped.

"Victoire! I was just going to come get you," he announced, handing her a cup of tea and a sugar bowl, and sitting down next to her. She thanked him and they drank in silence for a while. Victoire let him keep the head start on the conversation Mum had likely put him up to.

Then Uncle Percy made an odd half coughing, half strangled noise and sat up straighter than Victoire would have thought possible. He looked a little lost, as though his thoughts were scattered, probably because he hadn't counted on giving this speech so early. But overall, he looked determined and resolute. Victoire prepared for the inevitable.

"Now, I heard you have a date tonight," Uncle Percy began. When Victoire only raised an eyebrow (she was listening to him out of politeness, but there was no way she'd participate in this uncomfortable conversation), Uncle Percy continued, becoming more collected until he no longer looked worried, "and as a concerned member of the Weasley family, I feel it is my duty to warn you about the dangers of young dating, in the manner of an adult to a, well, younger adult. Now, teenage dating can lead to unwelcome situations such as..."

By minute two, Victoire's eyes had glazed over.

By minute three, she considered using either deafening charm on herself or a silencing charm on Uncle Percy.

By minute four, she was wondering if Uncle Percy had ever dated. He and Aunt Audrey must have gone from friends or acquaintances straight to marriage if this speech was how he really thought of dating.

By minute five, Uncle Percy must have noticed Victoire's attention had been banished elsewhere because he stopped talking and returned to drinking his now cold tea.

Victoire gulped down the rest of her drink, practically threw it in the sink, and speed-walked to the kitchen's exit.


She paused, cringing, and turned around.

Uncle Percy looked as awkward and uncomfortable as she felt. "I just... I know we're not very close because of the, ah, altercations between your father and me, but just... stay safe and have fun, okay? The floo's open twenty four hours and your Aunt Audrey and I are always here for you. Really, we're both off the next two weeks, so we're constantly here for you."

"Thanks, Uncle Percy," she muttered, leaving the kitchen.

On her way up to the blue guest room, she decided that maybe Uncle Percy could be promoted to her second to least favorite uncle. After all, Uncle Charlie had been absent last Christmas, and his dragon-scented birthday cards left a lot to be desired.

Chapter Text

"Parkinson! Parkinson, we have a problem!" Auror Potter yelled to his Unspeakable adviser, Pansy Parkinson. "It's spreading!"

"Crap," she muttered. "What the hell was that, Borgin?"

The man tittered quietly. "That was my newest creation! The slash virus!" And he disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"We can contain it," Unspeakable Parkinson decided. The virus had gone through the Vanishing Cabinet, and... "It should be frozen in the Room of Requirement, anyway. The other cabinet's gone, but the pathways are still there, so it should theoretically be vanished."

"Theoretically?" Auror Potter cried. "What does that even—"

"It means we can contain it in Hogwarts."

"But the children, think of the children—"

"Let's just hope it's curable," she said, thinking of her own children. "Seal off Hogwarts castle!"


Some hundreds of kilometers away, Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy were returning from Hogsmeade, holding hands and smiling at each other like any other teenage couple in love.

Suddenly, Rose clutched her stomach. "Merlin, ow!"

"Are you okay?" Scorpius grabbed her bags before they fell to the ground.

"No," she said, feeling very dizzy. "I think something's wrong with me..."

Scorpius couldn't deny that he also felt a little odd. His stomach hurt a bit as well, but not to the extent that Rose's did. "We must have ate something that—" he paused as he turned to Rose again. Something felt different about her. She looked the same, but...less pretty than she looked a moment ago. "Rose?"

"Scorpius?" she asked, also staring at him. "Let's break up." 

"That sounds great," he said. Honestly, he felt relieved that she had brought it up first. "Why were we even dating?"

"Oh, Scorpius, I have no idea!"

They laughed and headed back to the castle, smiling and joking around like any other teenage friends might.


"Oh, Merlin," Harry said as they arrived at Hogwarts, and saw not a single heterosexual couple. "We're too late."

This was going to result in so, so much paperwork once they managed to get it reversed.


(Later, Draco pleaded to his son as he sent a sonnet to his beloved Teddy Lupin, "But what about children? What about furthering the generations of magical children?"

"Oh, father," Scorpius drawled, "haven't you ever heard of mpreg?")

Chapter Text

Every year, Neville spends New Year's Eve with his parents. He pushes their beds together, close enough that their bodies almost touch, then links their fingers together. He thinks they would have wanted to spend New Year's Eve together, but he doesn't know for sure. Maybe he's just pushing his own opinions onto them. He doesn't know them at all, not really, but he loves them all the same. Maybe one day, he thinks, we'll all spend New Year's Eve together and conscious. But today, he sits next to their beds, stares at their linked hands, and imagines a perfect New Year's Eve.


Pansy didn't know what to expect when Neville asked her to spend New Year's Eve with him and his parents. Of course, she knew the uncomfortable truth about Neville's parents, but… To see them there, drugged and unresponsive, was practically unbearable.

"Neville," she whispered, reluctant to break the silence of the room. "It's 12:01. Let's go to Draco's party, shall we?"

She helped him up, kissed his cheek, and led him out of the room. She didn't intend to let him come back more often than once per month. It was too depressing, and Neville didn't need to fall into depression over his barely alive parents.


"Damn it, Astoria, they should be here by now," Draco grumbled, crossing his arms. "What're they doing that has them missing my party? Pansy promised she'd be on time."

Astoria stifled a laugh. "You're acting like a baby. Pansy's with Longbottom, right? Maybe they got lost in a closet somewhere."

"Eww," he groaned, glaring at his girlfriend. "I refuse to believe they're dating. Pansy's just going through some kind of belated Gryffindor phase. It'll pass."

Astoria raised an eyebrow. "They've been dating for a year, Draco. I think they're serious."

"We've been dating for a year," Draco said, caressing her cheek. "You think we're serious?"

Astoria smiled. "We're serious. In fact, we're so serious that we should seriously celebrate the start of the century alone…" Astoria pulled an unresisting Draco upstairs.


Lucius sighed, watching his son be pulled upstairs by his girlfriend. "Love," he said, turning to his wife, "when is Draco going to marry? If they're having sexual relations and get along well enough, they should marry already. Have you talked to Draco about the Malfoy engagement process?"

Narcissa curled closer into him on the loveseat. "You should be doing that, Lucius. What's been keeping you away from home so often? I've barely seen you the last week."

Lucius coughed, looking away. "Nothing, love."

"Have you been cheating on me?" Narcissa asked, smiling.

"Never," he promised. "I never have and never will. I love you too much for that. It's just a new… business agreement."


"Molly, I think George is doing something illegal," Arthur announced while helping Molly with the dishes. They had just finished their family dinner and he and Molly were finally alone.

Molly frowned. "What do you mean?"

"He's somehow arranged a business agreement with Lucius Malfoy. I don't know what they're doing, but with Malfoy involved, it can't be good. I only know because Rosgood at the Auror office alerted me of their deal."

Molly sighed. "I'll talk to him. He's been out of sorts for a long while, but he can't just break the law."

"But before that…" Arthur kissed her. "Happy New Year's, Mollywobbles."


"George! George Weasley!" Blaise called, coming to a sudden stop.

George felt for his wand in his pocket. "What are you doing here? Who are you? Why are you in my parents' backyard?"

"You smoke?" Blaise asked. "Uh, wait, never mind. I have some documents for you from Mr. Malfoy. And I'm Blaise Zabini. I was in your younger brother's year."

George nodded, accepting the documents, shrinking them, and sliding them in his pocket. "Anything else you wanted?" he asked when Blaise didn't leave.

"Er, yeah," Blaise muttered, then gathered his courage and pecked George on the lips. "That." He Apparated away.


"Oi, George! Was that Zabini? Kissing you? Bloody hell!" Ron yelled from behind one of the Weasley's large bushes.

Hermione groaned. "Ron, you're an idiot. A nosy idiot. You shouldn't have seen that at all, so what happened is none of your business. George is a big boy. He can kiss or be kissed by whomever he wants."

"But Zabini's a Slytherin! I have to go warn George about what a slimy bastard he is!"

"Ron." Hermione slid her hands over his hips. "You're a little busy," she whispered, kissing him.

"Mmmm, I'm a little busy," Ron happily agreed, kissing back.


"Ginny have you seen—" Mrs. Weasley paused, belatedly noticing her daughter caught up in kissing her fiancé on the couch. "Have you seen George?"

"No, Mum," Ginny answered.

"No, Mrs. Weasley," Harry agreed. "Maybe he's outside?"

Ginny let out a loud sigh when her mother left. "Awkward," she muttered, distancing herself from Harry. The mood was definitely ruined. "Want to go for a broom ride?" she offered instead.

Harry nodded. "Cool. Last one to the broom shed gets the Comet!"

Harry ended up riding the Comet while Ginny got his Firebolt, but he didn't mind. Especially not when the Comet broke mid-ride and he was forced to ride with Ginny.


"I can't believe you're doing paperwork on New Year's," Oliver said, entering Percy's old bedroom. "It's what, one in the morning? The only thing lamer would be falling asleep."

"Actually, I planned on going to bed now," Percy argued. "Getting enough sleep is vital to my career. I already conceded to staying up until twelve, any longer is useless. What's the difference between going to bed at 12:30 and whenever you go to bed on New Year's?"

"You're going to miss out on the champagne."

"I dislike champagne."

"You're going to miss out on the Quidditch game."

"I dislike Quidditch."

"You're going to miss out on my love confession to you."

"I dislike—what?"

Then Oliver kissed him and Percy forgot all about going to sleep.


"My parents will love you," Charlie assured his girlfriend.

Lavender scowled at him. "We're four hours late to the party and technically uninvited, since you turned down their invitation."

"I told them I might not be able to come, depending on how the international floo network is working. That's not the same thing as gate-crashing a party."

Charlie tried to pull her into the house, but Lavender wouldn't move. "Is that your brother, Percy, I think? With the international Quidditch star Oliver Wood? Merlin that's hot."

This time, she dragged him inside. "Come on! I want a closer view!"

Charlie laughed and followed after her.


"Katie?" Seamus called, looking for her in the crowded Weasley house. "Hey, have you seen Katie Bell?" he asked Lavender, who had a strangely excited expression on her face.

"No, sorry," she said, pulling some guy upstairs.

Seamus sighed. He'd come to Ron's party with Katie, but it looked like she'd left without him. He'd looked outside, inside, upstairs, downstairs, in the kitchen, in the living room, in the dining room—

He picked up a small piece of paper.

Seamus! Sorry I left, Ginny's supposed to give this to you. Anyway, my sister needs me for some kind of emergency. Owl me, we should go on a real date sometime! Katie

Seamus grinned and called Ron's owl over. He had a date to arrange.

Chapter Text

The first time he saw Human Rat in his beautiful mistress' bed, he forgave and forgot the incident. After all, everyone makes mistakes, even his lovely Hermy. After Human Rat and Hermy had a human clawing match, Human Rat stormed out and Crookshanks snuggled up to his Hermy again.

Hermione picked him up and settled him in her lap. "Oh Crookshanks, don't worry, you'll always be my first love. Ron's in second place, okay? Far, far, in second place if he keeps talking to Lavender like that," she murmured into Crookshanks' fur.


Crookshanks had known from the day Hermy saved him from those pesky humans that she loved him. And why wouldn't she? Crookshanks was the perfect cat, if he said so himself. He was intelligent, fabulous, long-lived, and cute. He was also a very forgiving cat, but only to a point.

"Ow! Hermione your cat's clawed me again!" the Human Rat yelled.

Crookshaks hissed at him once more and snuggled into his spot on Hermy's bed. Foolish girl, didn't she know that humans weren't supposed to associate with rats?


The Human Rat was persistent, though. He kept coming over and getting clawed until Crookshanks couldn't remember which belongings in the house were Hermy's originally, and until it was unusual for the Human Rat not to have claw marks on his arms.

The Human Rat talked to Crookshanks only once.

"Hey, er, Crookshanks."

Crookshanks hissed, showing the idiot human his very sharp teeth.

"Hermione says we need to talk. So," he finally began picking up steam, "I don't really know what I'm doing, but... Hermione's parents aren't getting along well with Hermione and Dad'll kill me if I don't do this, so... Crookshanks Granger, I formally ask for the hand of Hermione Granger. In marriage. I'm in love with Hermione. And you don't really like me, that's okay, but I'm going to marry her, so leave me alone."

Crookshanks looked him over, flopping his large, bushy tail to the side, and bobbed his head. Then he pounced. A few minutes later, Ron went to St. Mungo's with a bad case of cat attack. When he got back, Crookshanks purred and rubbed against his legs, welcoming him into his house.

If the Human Rat was going to marry Crookshanks' mistress, then at least Crookshanks knew the perfect way to induce nightmares in sleeping, spot-stealing Human Rats.

Chapter Text

If she wanted to, Lavender might tell you she's the most amazing child in the world. She doesn't, of course—Mummy says it's bragging—but she could. She tells herself that when she can't sleep, or feels dumb, or wants to talk to Mummy and can't.

Tonight, she puts on her favorite nightrobe, light pink with silver thread, one that Mummy gave her two years ago, and heads for the kitchen. She passes Daddy's office, where a name plate reads Reid Brown. The door's locked, but she can hear him inside, so she knows she has to be very quiet. Daddy probably won't hear her (he's never caught her so far) but she knows that if he does catch her, she'll be in more trouble than Silver got into for failing Divination. (Lavender's already decided to pass Divination when she gets to Hogwarts, so that for once she can finally stick her tongue out at Silver and say she's smarter than him.)

She grabs the cookie jar from the kitchen counter, which she can just barely reach, then slowly opens the door just past the kitchen. It doesn't creak (she put soap on the hinges yesterday, but she'll have to do it again later) and she carefully tiptoes up the stairs, staying to the part where each stair meets the wall. There are ten steps, and she counts every one of them as she walks up. She skips the sixth one just because she's six years old.

There's another door at the very top, and Lavender doesn't need to try to be quiet anymore, so she opens it quickly and hops inside. The attic is full of forgotten treasures (and some not forgotten, just forsaken), but there's dust everywhere, so she has to be careful to not let her robes touch the floor or the furniture.

At the very back of the attic, behind a big cabinet, there's a chair that she dragged to the attic a few weeks ago. Daddy hasn't noticed yet; Daddy doesn't notice much anymore. She made a straw doll with Mrs. Atkins, and Daddy couldn't tell the difference last night at dinner. She tries not to feel sad, because Mummy says it's normal and Daddy's still adjusting, but she cried in her room after that, just a little. Silver would call her a crybaby.

Lavender plops down on the chair and waves at Mum. "What's better than the most amazing?" she asks. She's been wondering all day, and she can't ask Daddy or Silver.

Mummy smiles down at her, and Lavender thinks that her mother is so beautiful, she must have been even better than the most amazing child in the world when she was younger, as young as Lavender was now. Lavender tells her that, of course.

"Nothing, of course." Mummy's eyes are a little watery, or maybe it's a trick of the light, a reflection of the last rays of sunlight hitting the waxy paint. It's getting dark, and Lavender can barely see Mummy with the waning light from the small window.

"How was your day, sweetheart?" Mummy asks.

Lavender talks for ages, it feels like, about her day. How she likes Mrs. Atkins—but not as much as she likes Mummy, of course—and how she and Mrs. Atkins made dolls, and how Daddy works too much, and how Scarlett is still in France. She doesn't tell Mummy that Scarlett says she won't some back, because Mummy will be sad. Instead, she tells her how it's been raining too much this summer and how she wants a bow like Margaret's. Mummy listens while she talks, but soon Lavender can't think of what else she can tell Mummy. She goes off topic and tells Mummy she has a beautiful name. It's written in cursive on the plate, Amber Brown, with funny numbers after it that Lavender doesn't want to make sense of. By the end, she's finished eating all the cookies in the jar.

Soon, Mummy tells her to go to bed, and Lavender gets up reluctantly.

"It's not night yet," Lavender argues, and Mummy gives her the look, the one that tells her she knows Lavender's lying and she'll be angry if Lavender doesn't stop. Lavender's missed the look.

"You have your nightclothes on, and it's dark," Mummy says. "Get to bed, sweetheart."

Lavender pouts, but she says her goodbyes and goodnights. She can always come see Mummy again tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Bill and Fleur's summer cottage stood alone on a cliff overlooking the sea, its walls embedded with shells and whitewashed. It was a lonely and beautiful place, their summer cottage. Fleur was glad they didn't live by the seaside permanently, even though she loved the smell and sound of the sea. Too many memories of the second war rested inside the cottage, like a dark cloud that never vanished, like a Dark Mark in the air. Even as Fleur sat on the edge of the cliff, bathing in the sounds of the constant ebb and flow of the sea, she saw the dead and the scarred when she closed her eyes. Beautiful as it was, Fleur would sell the cottage in a heartbeat.

"I would zell zis cottage in a 'eartbeat, Bill, if your mozzer were not so pigheaded!" she said to her husband, hearing his footsteps on the rocks.

Bill sat down next to her left, wrapping an arm around Fleur's shoulders. Fleur settled into Bill, and realized she hadn't noticed the cold before she had Bill's warm side to compare it to. "Fleur, Mum's a bit...sentimental about this house. It belonged to her sister, who died in the war, and she would take us kids here when we were children." Then quieter and with a bit of sarcasm, he muttered, "Besides, we can't sell off a wedding gift."

"Zis wedding gift was worth less zan ze cost of repairs for eet," Fleur grumbled, but smiled at Bill to show she wasn't truly angry. "You came 'ere as a child?"

Bill shrugged and started sifting through the sand near his hand, a gesture Fleur noted as nervousness. "Not exactly," Bill began, his voice a little scratchy, and Fleur rubbed his throat with her free hand. "I was eleven when a kid named Harry Potter vanquished You-Know-Who. My childhood was filled with a lot of hiding from Death Eaters, since they knew Mum and Dad were in the Order. It was a time of fear, especially for a child. I didn't even go to Diagon Alley until I was eleven; it wasn't safe."

"Zis cottage?" Fleur asked.

"I only visited it after the war, after Mum's sister died. They didn't get along—Aunt Maple was neutral in the war, staunchly so. Wouldn't get near Order members if it killed her. Even the children of Order members."

Fleur nodded, taking his hand in hers in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. She couldn't emphasize with her husband; Fleur couldn't remember the first war, and even if she did, she wouldn't have bad memories. The war never reached France. And when the war started again, she joined by choice, not by circumstance.

"Zis place makes us, what eez ze word, melancholy? Let's go 'ome, Bill." Fleur slipped out of Bills embrace and stood up. She made a show of trying to pull Bill up by his hand, though she couldn't bring him up without the aid of a featherlight charm or Bill's help, and pecked him on the lips when he gave in.

Hand in hand, they walked back to Shell Cottage for their belongings.

"I should think our child won't visit zis place," Fleur decided, nose a little higher in the air, lips twitching in amusement, waiting for Bill to catch on.

"Probably n—child?" he exclaimed, smiling widely and staring down at her stomach. "You're serious?"

Fleur laughed, tugging him into the cottage for the last time. She hadn't planned to tell Bill the news at this dreary place, but the time was as good as any time. "Let's celebrate at 'ome, Bill. Perhaps your mozzer will be zo happy about grandchildren, she won't notice us selling ze cottage!"

Chapter Text

It was three in the morning and Percy Weasley planned to stay awake forever. Who needed sleep? Lazy people, that's who. He had downed four vials of Pepper Up potion, eight Sleep Not doses, two Sleep-Be-Gone tablets, and one Tiredness Repellent capsule in order to get his work done on time, and it was working well for him. He saw no reason to ever go back to sleep; between paperwork and organizing and new spell legalization and law revision and orphanage donations, he had too much to do to ever fall asleep.

On the other hand, he felt so tired and his bed was so inviting... Although, a sneaky part of his mind piped in, if he got one look at Fleur Delacour—Weasley, Fleur Weasley, and not your Weasley, the other voice argued—he'd be reenergized immediately.

Percy stopped writing. "No," he sternly told himself, then looked upstairs to check if anyone heard him. They would probably think he was going mad, talking to himself. Percy rather thought he'd gone mad a long time ago, when he'd fallen in love with Fleur. He hadn't been able to help himself, really. He'd gone to the school on business for Barty Crouch and left with a missing heart. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, even if the only thing she said to him was, "Do you want somezing?" without looking up from her DADA book. Percy had just stood dumbly in front of her, squeaked out a, "No!" and ran away. Fitting, that she hadn't spared him a first glance, let alone a second one, and fallen for his brother instead.

Percy cast a diagnostic spell over his head. He must be incredibly tired to allow himself to think about Fleur.

"Mental functions have slowed two-point-three percent since you have last cast this spell," a monotone male voice reported. Percy wondered why the voice was male. Was magic male, then? Was the spell creator sexist?

Percy stood up, knocking over his chair in the process. It made a lot of noise. Percy couldn't remember why he wasn't supposed to make a lot of noise, but that didn't concern him very much. All he needed was a strong cup of tea and some of those sugar candies and he would be good to go. He'd be able to forget about Fleur once and for all. He only thought about her when he couldn't control his thoughts, anyway. He might even be able to finish editing Shaklebolt's speech by five o'clock.

"Percy, dear? Are you still awake?"

Percy turned towards the staircase with an inward groan. Of course, that's why he wasn't supposed to make any noise. "Sorry, Mum. Did I wake you?"

"No, no. I just couldn't sleep." She motioned to the counter. "Do you want some tea?"

"Sure Mum." He fiddled awkwardly with his papers while her back was turned. It felt uncomfortable to sit here, not thinking about Fred at all, while his mother's eyes were obviously puffy and red. She'd been crying over him, and Percy, like the horrible brother he was, had completely forgotten. He felt like an utter git.

She handed him a cup of tea and sat down next to him. "Two sugars, just how you like it." An uncomfortable pause. "You do still like it that way?"

"Of course," not, "Mum. Haven't changed a bit. See, I'm still the overachieving, stuck up, family-loving prat I always was. Just took a while for me to remember the last part."

She smiled, her eyes watery again. Percy looked away. He didn't know how to comfort her. Sticking his head in the mud worked for him (as everyone had reminded him) but his Mum needed to brood and cry some more. Shamefully, Percy hoped she wouldn't do it on his shoulder.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Molly asked, sniffing and looking hopefully at Percy. Percy wished he could tell her a happy dating story to cheer her up, but he'd be lying. He'd be lying...

"Yes, Mum," he said. For once in his life, Percy would lie. His mother didn't need to hear about his one-sided love affair with Fleur Weasley. "Her name's Audrey and she works in the legal department with Hermione and Leanne. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I asked her out one day a few days ago and she said yes..."

And as he told his mother the story, he decided it was a nice story. A nice, sweet story he could one day tell his children.

The next day, Percy asked out Audrey. She said yes, and Percy realized that even though he couldn't get over Fleur, Fleur wasn't the only woman in the world. He didn't know how to quit loving her, but maybe a little more time was all he needed. Audrey was nice and pretty and actually interested in him. He could still fall in love with Audrey, and one day, his heart would be only hers. She'd just have to wait a little longer.

Chapter Text

Late in bed one evening, Molly turned to Arthur and said, "Arthur, I think our boys are up to something."

Arthur hummed and turned the page in his automobile manual. It wasn't exactly the one he needed for his Ford Angelina, but he thought it might do. He needed to tweak the engine just a little bit—

A jab to his side helped him remember his priorities.

Arthur pried his eyes away from the manual and looked at his wife in apology. "Which ones?"

"The twins. Arthur, this is important."

"Yes, Mollywobbles, tell me about it."

And so she did. The next day, Arthur knocked on the twins' door two hours after dinner and walked inside without a care for the lock. "Spot check!" he announced cheerfully. The boys, who were sitting on the floor between their two beds, glared at him. Arthur noticed they were covered in ink and surrounded by papers. He sat down onto one of the beds and glanced at the quills surrounding the two. "Well?"

His children shared a look, then nodded, then smiled at him. "It's a voice to paper quill!" one said, and the other said, "We modeled it on broomsticks." They went on about their new device, and Arthur nodded proudly even though a similar thing had already been invented. He also tried to feel angry, because they had no doubt used his or Molly's wand, but it was no use.

The way they stared at him, like they made perfect sense when Arthur wouldn't have even realized such a simple charm could go that far, filled Arthur's heart with joy. He hadn't realized it, but he'd passed on a bit of his inventor's mind to his children. Only they weren't interested in muggle devices—pity, that, but it couldn't be helped—but prank devices. He knew the twins would drive him and Molly up walls and into gardens with their little quill, but he also knew that hopeful, pleading look in their faces. He once looked at his own father in the same way, but his ideas had been turned away. He started inventing, tinkering, again after his marriage, but it wasn't the same. His decision, an equipoise between logic and feelings, might change his children's future.

He could do as his father did, crush their little hopes and ideas, better them as upstanding members of society. They might even use their ideas for more wholesome things.

Or perhaps he was thinking too highly of himself. Besides, the choice had already been made in his heart. Arthur sat down on the floor with them and asked, "How does it work?" They talked late into the night.

Four years later, with a clutter of prank items that made it impossible to tidy the twins' room, and with an extra toilet seat, courtesy of some Hogwarts bathroom, Arthur didn't regret his decision one bit.

Chapter Text

Molly had just finished washing the dishes after lunch when she noticed George lying on the ground in the middle of the garden, one leg over the other, hands behind his head. He was slacking off on his chores once again. This time, he wasn't weeding the garden like he should be. With an annoyed huff, Molly exited the kitchen and walked outside into the garden.

"Avoiding work, are we?" she asked, hitting him on the head with a towel. The surprised look on his face almost made her laugh, but seeing him on the ground just made her annoyed again.

"But Mum!" he yelled, covering his face. "It's summer! Can't I take a break?"

Molly put her hands on her hips in the renowned Weasley matriarch pose. "Would you like to talk about your horrible OWL scores instead?"

The younger redhead scowled, but nodded reluctantly. Molly sat on the ground after accio'ing herself a mat. "What do you expect to do after Hogwarts with two OWLs to your name? Do you think any employer would hire you? Honestly, you'll end up jobless and living on your father's money."

He flipped over on his stomach. "But Fred and I want to start a joke shop! Come on, Mum, didn't you have dreams when you were younger?"

Molly smiled and thought of herself at fifteen or sixteen years old. "I wanted to marry your father." Fred and George didn't even have marriage prospects, let alone future careers. Where had she and Arthur gone wrong in their parenting? Had it been something they'd done? But Fred and George had been raised as Bill, Charlie, and Percy had, and those three had stable careers.

"But other than that?"

"I suppose I wanted to be a singer. But that was very long ago. A pipe dream, you could call it." She had grown up with Celestia Warbeck on the wizarding radio, and even now, she could imagine her voice and band of instruments behind it, the loud music filling her head. Molly had wanted to be the number one singing sensation at one point in her life, to be even better than Celestia Warbeck.

She sighed and shook her head. She was happy with her life, much happier than she would have been had she become a singer. Why couldn't the twins understand that there was no chance their joke shop would prosper? Sometimes, when she thought about her two layabout children, she grew paralyzed thinking of their chances in the world outside the Burrow. They were so young and stupid and amazing (like all her children), and she wanted to see them lead happy, successful lives. Except, it seemed that Fred and George just couldn't be happy and successful at the same time.

She shook her head. "Up and with your chores, George."

After a token protest, George complied, but Molly stayed outside and thought about children and joke shops and happiness. What did she know? Perhaps Fred and George might still achieve both happiness and success.

Chapter Text

"This story begins deep in the underpaid, overworked bowels of the Ministry, where you will find a department like none other: the Auror Department, where the bravest witches and wizards of our time work to ensure peace and prosperity in the wizarding world. Inside these people's hardened souls and excessive paranoia and obsession with having multiple wands—"

James Potter was unable swallow his snort. "Multiple wands, you say?" He winked exaggeratedly at his cousin.

"Off with your head," Roxanne Weasley muttered. She shuffled her parchment to find the next page. "—and their thick, uncomfortable work robes, you will find hearts of gold. Or gold-plated armor." She trailed off into thought. "You never know what you'll find. Either way, they are the individuals so devoted to law and order, they practically have no lives." This time, it was Louis Weasley who laughed, but Roxanne continued, "Wait, rewind. In this department, you will find courageous, lonely individuals seeking true love and, of course—"

"Woman!" James interrupted, finally unable to reign himself in any longer. "Are you writing a novel or a dating ad?"

"Both. A novel for me, a gay dating advertisement for you. How do you like it?" Roxanne retorted, throwing her novel-writing guide at James's head.

James lit her book on fire in answer, grinning smugly from across the room. He and Louis shared an old, crabby, magically over-expanded to the point of fading out of existence desk, on the left side of the room, while Roxanne occupied a smaller but marginally newer desk on the opposite side.

"I have more copies, dolt. Louis, what did you think?"

Louis scratched his head and stared pensively at the ceiling. The tiles looked like they were about to collapse in on them, and he made a mental note to bring the life-threatening issue up in the next Auror Department meeting. "Did I hear background bathroom humor in there? You know, bowels of the Ministry? Does our Ministry have bowels? Are you comparing us to crap? Metaphorically speaking, what would a bowel movement involve?" He reached out for his coffee mug, wincing as he took it. The pain in his hand caused him to go off-balance and he narrowly missed hitting James with his elbow. "Sorry, man."

James gave him a thumb up sign while Roxanne slumped back in her rolling chair. It hit the wall behind her with a thud. "I hate you both," she said, conjuring the sixth copy of her novel-writing guide. "Seriously. Can't you give me some constructive criticism?"

Louis stretched out an arm. "Fine, give it here."

Just as Roxanne was about to send the stack of loose parchment across the room, the announcement board (which looked oddly similar to a muggle bulletin board, but the pureblood Auror who created the system vehemently denied such a thing) shouted, "Auror Weasley to Head Auror's office!"

Auror Louis Weasley scratched his head and shared an amused and annoyed glance with Auror Roxanne Weasley, and said, "Message to Head Auror: Which Auror Weasley?"

There was a long pause until the message board replied, "Apologies. Auror Louis Weasley, please."

"Must be for animagus uses," James ventured, covertly blowing a few scraps of burnt paper onto the other side of the room and into Roxanne's hair. Louis left with a shrug and an unvoiced reply. There was no way he was being called down because of his animagus form; his fingers were still too bruised for him to be able to properly walk in it, and he was out of commission for at least another two weeks. Maybe longer, if the Healers found irregularities in his newly regrown hand bones during his next appointment.

"Off you go, honey!" Roxanne called after him. Louis threw her a rude gesture.

The Head Auror's office was across the hall and a few paces to the left of their office. The Weasley Team's (as their Auror squad was called) office was actually a small, refurbished break room for the Head Auror back in the day, when Head Aurors led less active lives compared to the current Head Auror. The Weasley Team was strictly forbidden to complain about their room's size.

Louis barely had time to wonder why he had been called in—aside from the fingers, which the Head Auror knew full well about, he hadn't done anything noteworthy in the past few weeks—and soon he was already at the door. He knocked thrice and received a "Come in!"

The Head Auror's room was the size of the Weasley Team's room plus another half a room, and meant for only one person. It was grand, like all such rooms were, although the French Ministry's Head Auror's room was much grander, as Louis had found out when he still worked for the Department of Wizarding Games.

After being gestured, Louis sat down on a plush office chair and waited for the Head Auror to speak.

The Head Auror handed a thick case file to Louis and folded his hands together. "Auror Weasley," he began with a nod, and Louis could practically see him reminding himself once again to use Louis's full name on the announcement boards. "Your team is back on the Petrichorus Thief case." He paused while they both pretended Louis was completely impartial to the decision. When Louis visibly collected himself, the Head Auror continued, "You're the only team that's gotten close to him, and I want results. I also want you to be careful, do you hear me? He's a dangerous criminal, no matter how generally nonviolent he is. I'm telling you that as a boss, an uncle, and a father."

Louis flexed each of his fingers, reminding himself that they were there and they were whole. But this was no time for his woes. "Yes sir."

Uncle Harry—because he was looking at Louis with such an unmistakably caring expression, that he couldn't be mistaken for the Head Auror. Louis's expression told Uncle Harry all he needed to know: that he better than he was two months ago, if not completely healed. After over thirty years as an Auror, Uncle Harry had gained better than average skills at reading people.

"Anything else I can do for you?" Louis asked. There had to be another reason why he alone had been called to the Head's office, and it wasn't to judge Louis's mental state. Uncle Harry had done that last week at dinner, probably while deciding whether to put the Weasley Team back on the Petrichorus Thief case.

Uncle Harry handed Louis a sealed envelope. "I'd also like you to stop by Ridgeback Road, building twelve, apartment 3B. Drop it off in person, if you can."

Louis mentally counted off a list of people who lived there, right down to Teddy Lupin, who hadn't shown up for the last three Saturday dinners. "Teddy Lupin?"

"Yes," Uncle Harry said. Louis suddenly noticed Uncle Harry looked more stressed than usual and older than he had ever seen him. "He stopped sending replies to my letters about a week ago, though the letters never came back. I though he was just busy with his new job. Then the goblins contacted me this morning to say he was fired. He hasn't shown up for work the past week. I don't have the time to see him; I leave for France tonight, and I can't spare the time if he's taking some sort of impromptu vacation."

"Yes sir," Louis said, and the moment of familiarity broke.

"Dismissed, Auror Weasley," the Head Auror said.

Louis nodded and left the office. He was bothered by Teddy's disappearance. Teddy's wasn't always the most reliable of people, but he'd never gone missing for this long. Teddy had also acted oddly the past few months, forgetting meetings and not showing up for family gatherings, but Louis had assumed he'd gotten a new girlfriend or something similar.

He made sure to hide his worry. Uncle Harry obviously didn't want to worry James. Roxanne and James would see through the facade (Aurors weren't selected through luck and nepotism), but he put one up all the same.

"I'll kiss that pout off your cute lips," Roxanne purred, sliding up next to Louis and putting her arms around his shoulders.

"Gah!" he cried, shuddering and jumping away. "The power of magic compels you to leave me alone!"

"The power of pureblood-ism compels me to snog you," she answered with a saucy wink. Roxanne laughed at his disturbed expression and waved him into their office.

"James!" Louis cried. "She's doing it again!" He flopped down into his chair and started making a barrier of paperwork between Roxanne's and his side of the room, using only the Wingardium Leviosa spell as a way of precision practice.

James didn't bother replying, too involved in his book. Judging by the ever-present mess of papers on his side of the desk, he was too busy procrastinating to do any paperwork. Louis also noticed a new stack of paperwork on his own side of the desk that hadn't been there twenty minutes ago. "James Potter," Louis growled, "Why—"

"What's the case?" Roxanne yelled over the barrier of papers. Louis flicked the door closed and swept the papers away with an easy swish. "Show off," Roxanne grumbled. She jumped off her chair and went over to the boys' side of the room, wandlessly pulling her chair along. Louis rolled his eyes at the double standard.

"We're back on the D307:PT, guys," Louis said, shoving the extra paperwork off his desk and spreading out the case file.

Just the case's title forced the group to become serious. "What do we know?" Roxanne asked.

James lined the photos on the announcement board the way they had been two months ago, with a few additions. Louis shoved down the pervading feel of déjà vu and stayed at his desk. His coffee (James's coffee, if he were completely honest) was bitter, but he needed the shock to his system. Roxanne put the papers up with the newest evidence in the center. Louis noticed she didn't put up the photos of the last robbery and settled for a short glare at her coddling.

"So," she said, with another glance at Louis. "The Petrichorus Thief. Back again, aren't you, sweetheart?" She poked the masked face in the photo. "After a two month break, we thought you were gone for good."

"There's been a break-in at the Parkinsons, the elder family home. Twelve thousand galleons worth of crap was stolen—not really that important what—but it's definitely him. He used the Petrichorus Charm on exit, filling up the first floor of the house. The stench is probably killer right now. It only smells nice in small amounts."

"Why does he do it?" Roxanne muttered, her face millimeters away from the shadowy picture. "There has to be a reason."

"Attention, arrogance, idiocy. Take your pick," James replied.

Louis settled into his thinking pose with his legs crossed on his chair, elbows on his desk, and head on his knuckles. "What's different?"

"Nothing." Roxanne examined the papers again. "Absolutely nothing. Same MO, same quick in and out, same vague black-covered shape on the security viewing charms."

Louis came over to the announcement board. "The shape of him is definitely the same. Same guy, most likely not a copycat. That charm's a pain to learn. There hasn't been enough time for anyone to practice it in the time he's been absent." Same height. If Louis were in his spider form right now, he'd be completely certain of it. "Have the younger Parkinsons been interviewed?"

"Yes." Roxanne handed him the interview papers. Louis scanned them; there was nothing to hint that it was an inside job. Not that there had been any evidence of that sort in any of the Petrichorus Thief's six previous jobs.

James whistled over at Louis's right side. "Look here. Solid gold quill set stolen. The Parkinsons are probably having a family weeping session right about now."

And if the Weasley Team had done their job properly two months ago, the Parkinsons would still be using their needlessly extravagant quills. But there was no use in crying over a spilled cauldron, so Louis examined the photos more closely. An elegant doorway with a missing statue, a dining room with missing silverware, a safe missing a few thousand galleons worth of Gringotts coins—all done in under one hour while the gentlewizard and lady of the house were upstairs sleeping. Louis felt a twinge of professional jealousy.

"Well, we're off to see the wizards," Roxanne decided, pulling on her professional Auror's robes over her daywear.

Louis and James stared at her blankly.

"Why do I bother?" she asked, throwing her hands up in the air. "You're like the Three Stooges, you two and Teddy."

"We should have never let Uncle Harry introduce her to muggle culture of all things."

"Then she wouldn't be writing a book," Louis agreed. "Or saying weird things."

Chapter Text

He's a cat and he's lounging and drinking flutes champagne
He's a rat and he'll betray at every game
He's a mat for Miss Malfoy, while gayer
He's a drat of a poker player
He's got his hands on Dotty
He's rich and he's snotty
He's much too naughty
And he's just—
Not fat.

Chapter Text

Peter wasn't supposed to take Muggle Studies. He didn't tell anyone that, of course, because then he would have had to tell them about why he's still taking it if he didn't choose it. He doesn't want to do that. It's a dumb reason, really.

McGonagall made an error on his schedule—she signed him up for Muggle Studies instead of Care of Magical Creatures. Peter's grandmother almost stormed Hogwarts to demand a schedule change, so Peter had told her that he'd take care of it himself to save face. He didn't. He was so scared of telling McGonagall; she was scary and strict and she'd look at him under her nose and ask him why didn't you speak up sooner? It's been two months, Mr. Pettigrew.

And he likes Muggle Studies. He didn't at first. Didn't expect to, either. He didn't know the first thing about muggles, other than that they all smelled and couldn't use magic. Professor Ortor had disproved Peter's first notion by handing out a packet titled Common Pureblood Falsehoods About Muggles, and the second by introducing him to muggle technology, which was like magic except not, as far as Peter could understand.

Professor Ortor was a quiet man, thin, old, looked like a breeze might blow him to the ground, and he had an easygoing way about him. He made Peter feel both dumb for believing the falsehoods and proud of realizing his mistake. He gave praise equally and often, too.

The class had only five students: Peter, Marlene, Helena, and two other boys (from Slytherin, so he refused to learn their names in principle). The other boys kept to themselves and didn't talk much. To be honest, neither did Peter. He couldn't talk to girls or Slytherins, so he sat in a corner desk and learned to use bizarre muggle devices. The ballpoint pen, for one. It was a bit lonely, but Peter didn't mind, because it was also quiet, and nice, and charming (with big open windows and a no magic policy), and he liked the peace he got in Muggle Studies. Stupid, because he enjoyed hanging out with his friends—but that wasn't peaceful. It was better than Charms and Potions, having friends, that is, but Peter didn't have any peace with them. But here, in the little classroom with muggle oddities, Peter found the peace and quiet he needed to stay sane at Hogwarts.

And although he would never admit it aloud, he liked not having to really try or struggle in a class for once. He liked the lack of pressure. Professor Ortor only tested them orally about once a month, and didn't even have a final exam. More importantly, he didn't give homework. With a class like this, Peter even found a few things he liked about muggles, though he'd never tell his grandmother that.

Muggle Studies wasn't interesting. It wasn't fascinating like Charms or dangerous like Potions, and Peter quite honestly didn't care about a race of people he'd never met before and probably never would. Besides, even if they didn't smell, there must be something else wrong with them, otherwise his grandmother wouldn't hate them so much.

So anyone asked him, he'd say Potions was his favorite subject.

But if he were to admit the truth, it was really Muggle Studies.

Chapter Text

On a beautiful spring morning sometime long ago, Xenophilius Lovegood had only one person on his mind: Irene Macmillan, soon to be (with a little luck) Irene Lovegood.

"Beautiful Irene!" Xeno called across the Great Hall with outstretched arms, almost falling out of his seat at the Ravenclaw table. The students nearby glared at him; it was seven o'clock on a Saturday morning and coffee was banned from Hogwarts for health-related reasons. Xeno paid them no mind. "Your knight in knople-cleaned armor is free to go to Hogsmeade with you, my lady!"

Irene, in all her feminine beauty and grace, yelled, "Bugger off, Lovegood!"

Xeno puffed his cheeks and attempted a cute pout. He heard it did wonders on the ladies. "Are you sure? We can go to Madam—"

He was cut off by something hard slamming down on his head. "Ouch," he muttered, turning to his best mate. "What was that for?"

Patrick put the book away, piled up sausage and eggs on his plate, then casually said, "That's not how you win a girl over."

"Like you've had more luck than I," Xeno muttered, staring at his unknowing, uninterested one true love.

Patrick grinned and proudly took a note out of his pocket. "I have, actually. Cynthia's agreed to go out with me."

"What did you do?"

"I wrote her a love letter..."

That evening, after finishing his homework and extracurricular research, Xeno sat down at one of the desks in his Ravenclaw dormitory with a blank sheet of parchment in front of him.

"Right," he cried, raising his quill in the air. "I can do this. For true love!"

Three hours later, Xeno was the last student awake in his dormitory and probably all of the Ravenclaw dormitories, and covered from fingertip to elbow in purple ink. Who knew writing love letters was so hard?

Dear Mrs. Lovegood seemed a bit formal, and Irene might mistake it for presumptuousness.

Dear Irene seemed a bit casual.

Dear Irene Macmillan seemed like he barely knew her at all, and only knew her by face.

Dear Miss Macmillan only reminded him that she wasn't his wife yet.

Dear My One True Love was a bit fanatic, according to Patrick. Xeno thought it described his affections perfectly, but perhaps Patrick was right.

Choosing her first name, he then tried,

Dear Irene,

I love you so much…

But Irene had scorned him when he said the same thing in person, so he decided not to reiterate it in a letter.

I love you like the knople loves the nargle…

Except Irene wouldn't understand, yet.

You're the most beautiful girl I've ever met.

But that sounded like he loved her only for her beauty.

"Oh, love," Xeno said with a sigh. "Why must you elude me so?"

He worked on his letter deep into the night, until his candle finally gave out and he fell asleep in the early morning.

He was awoken by Patrick's yell of, "Oi, loverboy!" and regular morning shuffling of the boys.

"What?" Xeno asked, yawning and stretching. He slipped the letter into his robes and checked the time. "Oh no, I'm late!"

"Hey, aren't you going to—" Patrick's voice faded as Xeno ran excitedly to the Great Hall.

On the way, he was greeted with a beautiful sight: Irene, stunning as always, was walking to the Great Hall without her friends. Xeno decided it was his lucky day. "Irene!" he called, rushing up to her and taking the letter out. "I have this for you."

"Oh, not again…" She looked up from her book and looked him over. "Are you okay? You looked more frazzled than usual." She took the letter from his outstretched hand.

"No, I just worked on this all night. It's perfect."

She sighed and opened it, quickly reading over it. Then, she looked up from the letter and glared. Xeno knew it from careful study as a very weak glare. "Your hands are covered in ink, along with your robes, your hair, and this letter. I can barely make out the words," she huffed. "You look more pitiful than usual, Lovegood."

There went his chance, Xeno thought. Would he ever get the girl of his dreams?

"But I might as well go out with you—"


"Once. Because you made all this effort and, well... I'm not promising more dates, or forever, of Merlin forbid, marriage."

"Yes!" Xeno cried.

"Are you listening to me?"

"You'll fall to the power of true love," he said with an assured nod, kissed her hand, and ran into the Great Hall to tell Patrick he was his willing slave for life.

Chapter Text

With magic, anything is possible. Victoire can have doll-like curls one day, waves the next, straight the following. Victoire can lose her hair one day, and have shin-length hair the next. So she does.

She cuts her hair when Dominique is old enough to realize what fun pulling hair is. It's short and she hates it and Fred makes fun of her.

She adds waves in her hair when she visits Shell Cottage in the summer, and she won't let the salt leave her hair for weeks after she leaves.

Her hair is shoulder-length after she overhears Teddy saying he doesn't like girls with long her.

She cuts it in a short bob cut when she hears stories of Alice Longbottom, most amazing female Auror in history.

She makes it long, butt-length when her mother tells her she's too pretty to be an Auror, and Teddy off-handedly agrees.

She dies it red when she visits her grandmother's house sometimes, because Molly always compliments it. She wonders if Molly knows she's a natural blonde. Molly hasn't been right in a long while.

Red hair looks good on her, so she keeps it her seventh year at Hogwarts. Teddy doesn't say anything. She realizes she likes him when he's quiet, and wonders what that says about her. She dates him anyway.

She dies her hair blue after Hogwarts, to show the world her appearance won't be restricted by Hogwarts' silly rules anymore, and reverts to blonde the very next day. She wonders when she grew up, when she realized rebelling is boring, when she got back together with Teddy again.

Her hair is shorter when Teddy proposes, and she grows it long the natural way the months before their wedding. They want a spring wedding.

She wakes up in the spring and realizes she hasn't changed her hair in months. When did she stop? She adds highlights—blue, like the waters at Shell Cottage—and breaks off her engagement. When did she fall out of love?

She dies it red when she goes home, and ignores her sister's hopeful look. Dominique can have him, if she wants.

Victoire's pretty with red hair, she realizes. But she's pretty with everything, and Molly isn't there to compliment her anymore.

She sits in front of the mirror and makes herself ugly. First, the pretty blue highlights go. She makes herself a brunette. She looks like Roxanne. She turns it blonde, white-blonde, and makes it short, shorter than it's ever been. She looks like Louis. She dies it brown again, and hates the way she looks. It's perfect.

Teddy visits her just once, and sees her new hair. "You love your hair. Why do you love it and not me?"

She cries on Louis's shoulder that night.

"I'm incapable of love," she tells him, like it's a truth, like it's a lie.

"Then why are you crying?" he asks, and she cries even more. She doesn't know. She doesn't know anything, it seems.

She lengthens her hair for a week, ten centimeters a day, after she finds out Teddy is dating Dominique. Then she comes to Louis's flat, kicks out his boyfriend for the night—he's blond and she wonders if Louis looks for mirrors, too—and sleeps in Louis's bed, like they did when they were little. Louis's arm is strong and comforting when it rests around her waist.

She wakes up with blonde hair. It's the first time it's ever changed without her permission. She looks like Louis's twin. She keeps it. She keeps Louis, too, creating another bedroom in his flat. It's lopsided, and the bed keeps shifting like it knows it's on uneven flooring, but Victoire doesn't care.

She fills out her Auror application at the Ministry, and sees a wall of pictures. Are they there to dissuade the weak, this row of dead Aurors? On a whim, she finds Alice Longbottom.

She doesn't look like her, Victoire silently admits. Her childhood fancy has evaporated by now. But that's okay, because one day, Victoire will be on that wall, and Alice Longbottom will be the second best Auror to ever live.

Chapter Text

After the final battle, there was time for anything and everything, it felt. The wizarding world was finally free of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Neville had the whole world at his fingertips. He even had fangirls—and what a grand thought that was. Girls being interested in him was still a novelty, and the looks in their eyes made him blush. He even had to go to the Black Lake to escape them. But sometimes, he wondered if they would be interested in him without his hero status. He doubted it.

"I'm a hero now," Neville mumbled, kicking a rock into the Black Lake. "It's a good thing. Gran is so happy. Her son, the hero. Her grandson, the hero. She's actually proud of me now."

"You were always a hero," Luna replied, her eyes far away. Neville wished he weren't pleased; people said that when they didn't want to tell the truth, or to pad his low self-esteem. Luna said it like a fact, like it was the simple truth, like she completely and utterly believed it.

She sat next to him, so close that Neville could hold her hand if he wanted to. He really wanted to.

"You were," Luna repeated.

Neville blushed and closed his eyes, savoring the moment. Luna thought he was worthy, even a hero. She could lean over and kiss him if she wanted to. He wanted her to. They would kiss and he would tell her how much he loved her, how much he'd missed her and worried about her during his hellish seventh year. He would tell her how beautiful she was. Luna would blush and smile at him, the smile she sometimes gave to the sky on a clear day. The smile that said all was good in the world. They would date and do those things couple did: hold hands, have romantic picnics, visit Madam Paddifoot's Tea Shop. They would share their first kiss in the midst of the beautiful Venomous Vernacutors in Herbology Greenhouse Five and spend hours searching for nargles in the Forbidden Forest. Neville would brave the forest, face his fears, just for Luna. He would do anything for her. Then he would propose at his grandmother's house after they finished Hogwarts, and they would marry in the summer, when Luna said nargels were the most active. They would name their children after their parents and grandparents: Frank, after Neville's father, and Lorcan, after Luna's grandfather. They would grow old together for the next century and never part. It was a beautiful dream.

"I'm not enough of a hero for you, though," he said quietly, breaking out of his fantasy of a life with Luna. She didn't want him—not the hero he was now, nor the boy he had been when they first met.

"I don't need a hero. I'm sorry Neville," she said. Her voice was light, airy. She didn't sound sorry at all. It was Loony's voice, that tone she used in situations too uncomfortable for her to be herself. He hated himself for putting her in this situation. She hadn't been this uncomfortable with him in a long while, maybe since the first few weeks of their friendship. He hated her for putting him in this situation—for being so lovely, so wonderful, that he had no choice but to fall in love with her.

Draco Malfoy sat down on the other side of the lake with a book and they stared at him, unable to look at each other. Neville wondered if she would have a wonderful life—his wonderful life—with Draco or Justin or Harry. He wondered what he was missing. Was there something crucial that he missed, something no one would tell him, something off-putting about him that everyone noticed but no one voiced?

He wished she weren't honest, but that was like wishing the professors would cancel final exams. Luna never lied. He wished she did. He would have taken anything. Of course, she probably knew that, too.

Chapter Text

Oh Merlin, you think, and you almost yell, "Come back!" to Harry, but you know he can't and won't. He needs to save your sister and you need to stay with Lockhart and dig a tunnel through the rocks for Harry and (a living, please let her be living, you're twelve and she's eleven, neither of you are allowed to die) Ginny. You start on the smaller rocks, digging your fingers into the wall until you feel the stings of sharp rock cuts, and you tell yourself you can't stop. You have to be brave. Brave, like Harry, like Dumbledore, like Rael, the Chudley Cannons' Keeper. Your hands aren't shaking and they aren't bleeding and you aren't going to run away. (You can't, anyway, and you won't lower yourself to screaming for help.) (You're afraid no one will hear you.) Then you turn around to recruit Lockhart in your digging (he must be able to do something, even with that head of his) and see he's on the ground, motionless, blood in his hair.

You're still not panicking. You're as strong as Harry.

"Lockhart!" you yell, grabbing his left side and pushing him up against the wall. "Wake up!"

He doesn't wake up. You pull at his floppy not-golden-anymore hair (Hermione, what would you think of him now? what would you think of me?) until you feel the wound. The bloodied rock next to Lockhart must have caused it, but that doesn't tell you what to do. You've never wanted your mother next to you more, but you're a big boy, you tell yourself, and you can do this. After all, you're still not panicking. You're calm.

You strip off your robes and your shirt, then wrap your shirt around Lockhart's head. It should help stop the blood, and your Mum would understand why you ruined one of your few shirts. Lockhart's stirring now, so you shake him again and he finally opens his eyes. He looks around wildly.

"Why aren't you working?" you ask, just a bit too loudly, and he jolts. You want to apologize and let him rest, but you can't, because you're so terrified he won't wake up again and you'll have to sit here waiting for Harry and Ginny with a corpse.

"What—" he begins, but you cut him off by pulling him up as gently as you can. He's not a small man, but you're tall for your age, and you help him stay on his feet until he can support himself. "I'm not sure—"

"You're a tunnel digger, and you're behind on your work. If you don't dig, bad things will happen," you say. He looks like he wants to argue, but then he goes to the wall of rocks and starts pulling out a big one. You sigh with relief; you hate lying, but you need him to work, for his sake and yours. You need to see him alive and have hope that if an idiot like Lockhart can live, then so can Ginny.

When Harry comes back, you and Lockhart are still digging, even though the hole is a sizable gap, because you both need something to do to keep yourselves from falling over, and you let loose a strangled laugh of relief when you see her stupid face. It's the best moment of your life, and you and Lockhart share a grin (Lockhart doesn't exactly understand, but that's fine, it's all fine). The world feels bright again, even in this damp, dark, dungeon-like place. And to be honest, you're proud of yourself. Harry might have saved your sister—and oh Merlin, you're so happy you could hug them both—but you also saved a person, too. And maybe he didn't need to be saved, didn't want to be saved, didn't deserve to be saved, but you're bloody proud of it.

Chapter Text

Albus had always thought Gellert had a face meant for pouting. As a child, he'd pout whenever he didn't get his way-which, to be honest, was quite often. Gellert had a knack for asking his parents for things they couldn't give him: a real broomstick at age three, a castle when he was seven, permanent red hair when he was nine. Albus loved it. He loved the way his top lip would pinch in at the same time as Gellert's bottom lip turned down, and the vertical crease under his nose would become so very noticeable. When he'd become a teenager, he'd wanted to lick that crease, and perhaps lick other places as well.

His serious face was half-pout. His angry face was half-pout, too. Gellert went from a pouty little kid to a sullen teenager to an angry adult.

Albus just loved him all the more.

Chapter Text

Two men stood outside the Burrow. They were dressed in black, with their hands on their wands, and with grim, resigned expressions.

"Ready?" one asked the other.

"Only if you are," he replied.

Slowly, the first man pulled his wand arm out of his robes pocket and stuck it out into the air between the two men. The second man, who stood to the first's right, reluctantly dropped his wand back into his pocket, and grasped the first man's hand. He held the man's hand for a long moment, rubbing his thumb against the first man's knuckles, then let go. Their hands dropped once again and Harry Potter knocked on the Burrow's door.


"Harry! Lovely to see you!" Mrs. Weasley announced, opening the door and pulling Harry into a long hug. "We don't see you at all these days." After a long moment, she turned to Harry's companion. "Hello Mr. Wood."

"Please." Oliver coughed. "Call me Oliver. Everyone does." Even though the last time they had met, when he introduced himself as the manager for the team Harry flew on, Mr. Wood had been entirely appropriate.

"Yes, I suppose they do," Mrs. Weasley agreed, giving him a certain look that Oliver hadn't gotten from a mother figure since the age of three. He was over six foot tall, but he could almost feel the baby talk coming back. "Well, come in, both of you."

She led them to an offshoot corner of the kitchen, a place Percy might have called a dining room, where Mr. Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and Ginny Weasley already sat. Harry tried not to feel slighted when he noticed Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had already started eating, even though he and Oliver were only five minutes late. They had spent too long packing up Quidditch equipment at the Diagon Alley official Quidditch pitch, mostly because Harry was dawdling and Oliver was reluctant to go. He didn't want Harry's feelings to be hurt once again. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had taken their new relationship badly enough the first time.

Luna and Ginny's plates were empty, but with the way they were trading glances from opposite corners of the table, Harry felt that their plates were empty for a reason other than compassion.

"Now, Oliver, why don't you sit down in that empty space next to Luna?" Mrs. Weasley said, pushing Oliver towards the other side of the table. "Harry, you can—" Harry sat down in the empty chair that was set just a little too closely to Ginny's, "—oh good, you've already sat down."

Ginny turned to him, blushing and angry. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize they were going to be like this. I thought— When they finally invited us to dinner, that maybe they'd—"

Harry patted her shoulder. "It's okay," he said, even though they both knew it wasn't. "How are you? The Harpies?"

Ginny smiled widely, but even then it was strained. "We're playing better than ever; you'll have to watch your back, Mr. Puddlemere United. We might just win regionals while you and Oliver are distracted," she teased, throwing Oliver a wink.


"Luna," Oliver said with resignation, nodding at Harry's friend.

"Oliver. There's a nargle pooping on your head, did you know?"

Mrs. Weasley smiled encouragingly in his and Luna's interaction.

Oliver inwardly groaned and resigned himself to an evening of putting up with Loony Lovegood. The things he did for his boyfriend...


Soon, dinner was almost over, and Harry prepared himself for the attack. He noticed Ginny steeling herself too, and squeezed her hand in encouragement. Mrs. Weasley, who sat to Ginny's right, crowed in delight.

"There you two, don't you remember what a wonderful couple you were?"

Mr. Weasley nodded in agreement. "Harry, Ginny, I understand you've had relationship problems—"

"My relationship with Oliver is going swell, sir—"

"—but I beg you to remember the feelings you still have for one another. Ever since you dropped out of the Auror program and started playing Quidditch, and since you followed him in, Ginny, you two have been acting unlike yourselves."

"Mum, I'm dating Luna. Harry's dating Oliver. We broke up ages ago."

"Please believe me, I have no feelings towards for your daughter."

"It's all the fault of Quidditch! Ever since you've started playing that game, you've gone— You've gone—" Molly paused, unable to say the word.

"Gay?" Ginny supplied.

"Not to mention, your relationship with Oliver, Harry, is unethical. He's your boss for Merlin's sake."

"I can't believe you!" Ginny cried. "Why can't you just accept our feelings?"

"Ginny," Mrs. Weasley said consolingly, "your feelings are wrong. You're confused because of all this Quidditch business."

Ginny looked down, trying to fight off her tears. "If that's the way you feel, I'm leaving."

"Where are you going to go?" Molly asked.

"Ginny, just stay so we can work this out," Arthur pleaded.

"I'm going to stay with Luna for a while."

"You can't—"

"Yes, I can. Let's go, Luna." The two left the Burrow while the Weasley parents turned to Harry and Oliver.

"I think we should go," Harry murmured, pulling Oliver with him. "Thank you for dinner."

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley watched them go, wishing they knew when their children had become strangers.

Chapter Text

There were three matryoshka dolls in eleven year old Justin Finch-Flechley's room. Two parent dolls, which looked oddly similar in gender, and one child doll. Sometimes, when he was bored, Justin would open the many layers of the mother doll, and put the child doll inside. Then he would mix up the parts of the mother and father dolls and keep them like that until his mother scolded him. Then he would carefully line the painted pictures up, in a fashion his mother would be proud of if she noticed, and set them back up. The mother doll to the right, the father doll to the left, and the child doll in the center.

The dolls' place was in the top shelf of Justin's bookshelf, in front of a photograph of Justin and his parents. Their positions reflected the Finch-Flechley's family's ones. Justin was very young in the photo, young enough that he didn't remember it being taken, but old enough to remember the way his father's vest tickled his skin.

None of that currently mattered at the moment, of course, because Justin's attention wasn't on the photo or the dolls. Instead it was on the ventilation shaft in the corner of his room. His desk was right next to it, and if he sat in the adult-sized chair upside down and with his feet over the back of the chair, he was in the perfect position to listen to the voices coming through the vent.

He always heard everything in the house, though he couldn't say how or why. The air just brought the voices to him, even when the air conditioning wasn't turned on. Mother didn't know, and Justin wasn't about to tell her. His friends told him that men needed to have some secrets from their mothers, even though Justin was pretty sure his mother was all-knowing. But she would be mad and punish him if she knew, so he never let her know.

It was his and the dolls' little secret.

The voices downstairs were very loud, and if Justin concentrated, he could hear them through the door as well. He couldn't open it, as he was locked inside, but he could press his ear against the crack at the bottom and hear them. The wind would bring the voices to him. He was used to using the vents, though, not that he ever heard anything important until today.

Today was when the bad woman came.

She wore a big black cloak, and smiled at him when he answered the door so that she would fool him into thinking she was nice. Then she began to talk to his mother, and his mother's voice reached the tone she never used except when she was very, very angry. She brought Justin up to his room and told him to stay there and be quiet.

Justin didn't mind being quiet. He didn't even mind staying in his room. He just didn't like the locked door, so he went to the vent and began to listen to spite his mother.

He wished he hadn't. The bad woman told Mother she was a witch, and proved it to her. Mother screamed. Not the surprise birthday party sort of scream, but a real one, one that made Justin try to run downstairs despite the locked door. He didn't get very far.

Mrs. McGonagall, the bad lady in black, told Mother about a school called Hogwarts that Justin would be going to. "It's a good school, the best in Britain," she told Mother.

Mother told her that Justin's school was much better, and that he had a future that she wouldn't let Hogwarts take away. He was going to study Economics and be normal. He wasn't going to go to wand-waving classes at some heathen academy. She was angrier than Justin had ever heard her.

Then Mrs. McGonagall said that Justin didn't have a choice, and his mother became even angrier. She yelled things that Justin had only heard his Uncle say, but Mrs. McGonagall was stern.

Justin made the voices go away and sat on his bed, his arms around his legs and his head resting on his knees. Mrs. McGonagall said he was magical. Justin could believe that. Justin could also believe that he would be much happier going to a normal school instead of Hogwarts, if only because that would make his mother happier.

He took a book from the bookshelf and put in on his lap when he heard footsteps on the stairs and pretended to be diligently reading. The door opened to reveal Mrs. Finch-Flechley, a tall, brunette woman of about forty years of age. She still looked beautiful, but she and the younger woman in the portrait could not compare.

"Come on, Justin," she said, taking his hand and pulling him along. "Tell the witch that you have no interest in that school of hers."

When they got downstairs, Justin repeated his mother's phrase almost word for word, but Mrs. McGonagall would have nothing of it.

"He needs to learn how to properly use his magic. I apologize, but he has to go to Hogwarts." She turned to Justin. "I know you've done magic. Little things that could be explained away. You need to learn to use it properly, otherwise you could expose our world as your magical core grows with age."

"So you'll draft him at age eleven, send him off to your world?" his mother asked angrily.

"Only for seven years," the woman replied. "Just until he learns to control his magic."

"How many students like him come back to this life? To go to college, or get proper careers?"

It looked like Mrs. McGonagall didn't want to answer that question. "Some do," she said at last.

"Some," Mother said. "You take children from their homes, their lives, their futures, and for what? To teach them to make wardrobes into miniature elephants?"

"We teach them life skills as well," Mrs. McGonagall argued.

"For your life. For the life you're stealing him into." Justin's mother was on the verge of tears. He squeezed her hand to tell her he was still there, but it didn't seem to give her any assurance. "The life you're drafting him for, is it even safe? Can you tell me he will be safe?"

"Yes," Mrs. McGonagall said. "The last war ended—"

"There has been a war? When were you going to tell me that?"

"He will be safe. The war ended and Hogwarts is one of the safest places in Britain. I'm sorry, Mrs. Finch-Flechley, but your son will be going to Hogwarts. We have to keep our community secret. It will only be for seven years. He can do whatever he wishes after his schooling."

She left soon after, handing his mother a letter and instructions to reach a place called Diagon Alley. His mother sat down at the dining room table, the letter in her shaking hands, and called Uncle John. Justin went up to his room and started packing.

Chapter Text

"You haven't changed at all since the war," Granger said just a few minutes earlier, barely looking at him. Not out of shyness, but out of indifference and spite. He hates that—hates that she can ignore him like he's still a schoolboy, like the war hasn't changed him as much as it changed her.

Draco had answered cuttingly and walked away, but later he can't help think, what if he hasn't? What if he hasn't changed at all, hasn't grown stronger from experience? What if he's still the same young kid, who'll make the same bad decisions?

He wants to get along with Granger for once. They've apprenticed under the same senior lawyer and even though they're going to go into different fields (criminal law for him and magical creature law for her) later on, they're stuck with each other eight hours a day.

But more than proving Granger wrong, he wants to prove to himself that he's changed. He thinks he has, but what if he's been deluding himself all along? He's good at self-delusion, at pretending everything's fine when it's really not.

It takes him a minute to realize what he could do and three hours to work up his courage to do it. The first time he used an Unforgivable haunts his nightmares sometimes, and he's never been able to make reparations for it. But eventually, he Apparates to Hogsmeade, right outside the joke shop. He almost Disapparates once he sees the sign for the Three Broomsticks, but he forces himself to go inside.

When he finally enters, it's three o'clock in the afternoon and the pub's almost empty. He'd thought the lack of people might help his courage, but apparently that isn't to be. He's nervous. Less than he'd been the last time he was here, but nervous all the same. This time, the nervousness is overwhelmed by guilt and he slowly walks to the counter. Once again he reminds himself that he's doing the right thing.

He should've done this ages ago. That doesn't make it any easier.

"One moment!" Madam Rosmerta sings. She's turned away, wiping a glass. Draco doesn't speak until she puts it down, lest she drops and breaks it. He doesn't want to do even more damage to her. Finally, she turns around and sees him. Her expression changes abruptly; gone is the kind smile and flirty attitude.

"I'm not here for a drink," Draco says. "I—"

"Then you should get out." Her tone is cold, not welcoming like the one to all the other Hogwarts graduates. Of course, none of the others used an Unforgivable Curse on her. Draco's still grateful that the Wizengamot declared his acts during the war as under duress.

"I want to apologize," he says.

"Accepted. Now get out."

Draco wants to leave so much. Instead, he takes a deep breath and clenches his fists. "I was wrong. I was so wrong to harm you. It was despicable and cruel of me." Breathe, he tells himself. "I've made many mistakes over my short life—as you have no Dark Mark, we can assume I've been more of an idiot that you—" maybe it's his imagination, but maybe her shoulders really do ease "but I made them. I've made so many of them, and now I'm trying to make amends. I can't do much for you—you're popular, successful, attractive—you wouldn't want me or my money here anyway, but I... I'm sorry. I really am."

She turns around, finally. There's still no smile, but maybe the beginning of one in the tiniest curl of her lips.

"A butterbeer," she says, handing him one. "You'll pay for it. And you'll come here whenever you're in Hogsmeade. I won't give customers to the Hog's Head just because they were stupid teenagers. I'd be out of customers if that were the case." She winks at him, and looks almost surprised at her good humor. But it's been a few years now, and they can both let go of the past.

"I'll get a butterbeer for your girlfriend, too," Madam Rosmerta tells him a moment later.

When Draco turns around and sees Granger sitting down beside him, an approving half-smile on her lips, he doesn't bother correcting Madam Rosmerta. For the first time in his life, he thinks he wouldn't mind dating Granger if she ever gives him a sign. He wouldn't mind at all, because she makes him want to be a better person.

Chapter Text

Tom is eleven when he first enters the wizarding world, and he is eleven when he realizes he hates it. He hates the air, hates the words, hates the customs and schools and people. It doesn't take him long to start hating the entire world, not just the muggle world. He has a lot of practice, after all. He hates so many things, places, people—and he hates no-one and nothing more than he hates his parents. By definition, he hates himself as well.

But the wizarding world, with all its silly hatreds, provides him an untraceable outlet to rid his life of hatred. How remarkable, that they give such powerful items to children. Tom is a child when it suits him, and he will play the part until he can show the world just how much he hates it.

This world needs something new, a cleansing force. Tom plans to be the cleaning charm for the world, and the world will be his playground in time. But for now, he sits and learns and plots.

Chapter Text

Of all the things Ron Weasley stringently told people he wasn't afraid of, his girlfriend's cat didn't make the list. Mostly because he wasn't, of course, afraid of Crookshanks. That would be ridiculous. He was an Auror trainee. At most, he was scared of politicians (that odd species of human that liked word games and paperwork, good Merlin) and dark wizards, not cats about a seventh of his size and even less of his weight.

He and Hermione were settled on Hermione's couch, watching a middle-aged man run around chasing aliens—whatever those were—on a Muggle vellytision. Ron thought Muggles had strange ideas of fun, but he put up with the tradition since Hermione lamented about missing Doctor Who while at Hogwarts. Ron didn't see the appeal. Ron also felt he was going to have nightmares of being chased by big human-like clothes models, directed by a talking Crookshanks.

Crookshanks, who sat right there, staring straight at him like he was a grilled mouse on a fork, as he and Hermione watched were attempting to cuddle in peace.

Hermione curled closer into Ron's side, completely unaware of the tension in the room.

"I think your cat wants to eat me," Ron told her.

She patted his arm in a routine attempt at comfort. "Of course he doesn't want to eat you. He loves you."

Ron glanced back at Crookshanks, whose teeth were now visible. Was that a crimson color flashing in his eyes? He could — no, he couldn't. Hermione would never let him take her cat in to check for possession. Not under the reason of 'your cat freaks me out'.

Which it didn't, of course. It just unnerved him that slightest bit.

"Hermione, how long do half-Kneazles live?" Ron asked instead, uneasily watching Crookshanks prowl closer. Crookshanks' tail kept weaving in the air, reminding him of a snake ready to bite. The purple ribbon tied around its tail only made the cat's façade of innocence creepier.

"Mmmm, about fifty years. Hopefully sixty," she said, holding out her hand for Crookshanks to rub himself against. Crookshanks complied, purring deeply and settling on the carpet under her hand. At Hermione's nudge, Ron did the same, awkwardly patting the cat's head. She smiled at him. "My two favorite men." She kissed his cheek, and Ron thought he might just put up with the cat if it made Hermione happy.

When Hermione's head turned back to the screen, Crookshanks languidly rolled his head over to Ron's hand, sniffed it, and bit his sharp teeth into Ron's skin.

Stifling his swears, Ron stopped the bleeding before Hermione saw, since her attention completely on the Autos, and shared a glare with Crookshanks.

"I think he wants to go for a walk," he said. Hermione hummed in vague agreement. Ron double-checked that her attention was completely on the screen before levitating Crookshanks out the nearest window and dropping him on the soft grass below. With somewhat vindictive grin, he settled back on the couch, wrapping his arms around her and feeling content with the world.

Chapter Text

He'd like to tell you he's not gay
Not a pouf
A dandy
Or a queen

He doesn't lift shirts
He doesn't bite pillows
And his arsehole has one purpose
The one it was made for, thank you


He'd like to tell you he likes women
The pretty birds they are

He likes their hair
Their hands
The way they kiss and laugh


He loves women
He doesn't hate men

Men are cigarettes and Dark magic
Men are Durmstrang boys and Quidditch guys
Men fight and brood and drink
They aren't meant to be coddled
Or hugged, kissed softly
By other men


And he knows women aren't glass
But there's something fragile, beautiful
In each of them
Something sweet
Something pure
Something that makes him yearn


Men don't make him yearn
Because he's not gay

Boys don't make him yearn
Because he likes beauty
But not innocence

Not wide eyes
Or shy smiles
Or quick glances
From a boy with red hair


He sees Hermione in Hugo
Her brown eyes and quick wit
He's attracted to her through him
Or so he tells himself


But the boy has no excuse
To lean into him
To touch Viktor's wrist
To smile sweetly
To hope


Viktor's not gay
And he doesn't want

Pure idiocy

From a child
Who's just barely an adult


Who kisses him
Burning with embarrassment
The both of them


Viktor is not gay
British men don't count.

Chapter Text

Daphne Greengrass did not own a mansion, a sad fact Draco Malfoy was only too aware of. The poor (both meanings of the word) dear, lacking a mansion like the one Lucius and Narcissa had given Draco for his 21st birthday, was forced to spend her days in a flat (two bedroom, of all things!) in Diagon Alley.

And for Draco Malfoy, May 2nd passed quickly each year, for a very simple reason: he spent the entire day drunk.

"And Crabbe was my best friend in my whole world," Draco said, taking another gulp of firewhiskey. "He was shu-per and nice and big—"

"Woa, too much info, Draco. I don't want to know about your bedmates."

"Shut up, Greengrass. I was talking about his body." His face furrowed, trying to remember why that statement was off, too. "His whole body," he corrected with a nod. "Not his dick. But maybe it was. Donno. Don't care. Crabbe's dead."

Daphne patted Draco's arm. "He's been dead for four years."

"He died today."

"Technically. So since you say you're not gay, I think what you really need is a girlfriend. A nice one."

"...Crabbe never had a girlfriend," Draco replied, his voice aiming for steady and falling short.

"Ho boy," Daphne said, and they flopped onto the floor together. "I'll regret this sometime, but what do you say about dating my sister?"

She regretted it approximately ten hours later, when Draco asked, "So what about the hot sister you have? I just think that if I had a date, I could get through the day of Crabbe's death better. I know he'd want it for me."

It was so easy to feel sorry for him when he was drunk out of his mind, but he was a jackass when he was sober. "He'd want you to go on a date instead of weeping over his grave?" she asked, feeling doubtful but nevertheless manipulated. At least she could catch his manipulations, she consoled herself, unlike the many women Draco had charmed over the years. He had learned from the best—Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black—and her lessons rarely failed him. Would she be the exception to his rule?

She sighed. Daphne Greengrass had made some difficult decisions in her life: transferring to Beauxbatons, forgiving her mother, accepting a Transfigurations apprenticeship over a Healing one, and allowing Draco Malfoy to date her sister. She said no for a few hours, while Draco continued to ask, looking at her with sweet and guileless gray eyes.

Eventually, she gave set them up for a date. How was she supposed to know they'd actually click?

Chapter Text

(aberrant) adj. abnormal

Socially-conscious busybodies that they were, Vernon and Petunia Dursley frequently listened to the news. It wouldn't do to seem unaware of what was going on in the world, Petunia would tut, smirking at the neighbors who barely knew what a Prime Minister even did. When news of genocide and terrorism reached British suburbia, they covered ickle Dudleykins' ears while Harry listened freely. There was a special place in hell for those people, Uncle Vernon would say. Along with wizards, of course, and those sodomite freaks.

Knowing that there were child soldiers in the world, and child smuggling rings, and homeless children, made Harry somewhat grateful the Dursleys took him in instead of giving him to the milkman. Then they would tell him to clean the bathroom again and Harry wondered if homelessness was really all that bad. He rarely acknowledged the small part of his mind that told him there was something wrong with the way the Dursleys were raising him. That the programs on the telly showed caring aunts and uncles looking after their nieces and nephews, not forcing them to cook and clean like servants.

They didn't lock their nephews in cupboards, either, that small part of him said. Harry refused to consider it. The Dursleys had to have a reason for treating him badly. There was a reason for everything, even if Harry couldn't find it yet. He would know when he was an adult. For now, he had to repent for being freakish and abnormal.

Then Hagrid turned his world upside down, telling him that he was a wizard, that the things he did—changing his teacher's hair color, appearing on the school roof—was perfectly normal. That Harry wasn't going to hell with the terrorists, a nightmare that plagued his sleep constantly after seeing violence on the news. A little part of Harry broke that night, one that might have been his naivety for all he knew. If the Dursleys were wrong for hating him, then there must be evil in the world. Not just crazy people and ruthless killers, but the everyday evil that no one noticed, not even the people being abused. Maybe not even the abusers.

"I'm a normal wizard?" Harry asked, needing to know that he was normal in at least one way. That he would fit in at Hogwarts, that for once he would be treated like a normal boy. That he wouldn't be forgotten or bullied.

"Eh, to tell ye the truth, 'Arry, not exactly," Hagrid replied. He went on to tell Harry about Voldemort and the evil that still plagued the Wizarding world, the rampant racism and class issues. The only thing that Harry realized was that he would never be normal, not while he was the Boy-Who-Lived. But he would aim for a little bit of normalcy anyway, because if the Dursleys' treatment of him was wrong, then he needed to prove he could be normal, that he wasn't completely hopeless and weird.

Chapter Text

(brackish) adj. distasteful

Hogwarts sometimes reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia's Victorian era dramas, where students at boarding schools were brought up to be exactly the same. They walked (eins, zwei, drei! eins, zwei, drei!) in rhythm like robots, faceless and uniform. Hogwarts was a wonderful place, his home away from hell, but Harry didn't think that people noticed he was a real person, not a robot or a hero. People were surprised when he was nervous, because why would he be nervous about anything after defeating You-Know-Who? Flitwick was disappointed that he wasn't better at Charms like his mother, and McGonagall had clearly hoped he might have some of James' talent at Transfiguration. Quirrell could barely talk to him, but praised him (only him, always only him) for his accomplishments during lessons.

Sometimes, Harry wished he were more like James Potter: brave, smart, kind. According to his teachers, his father was always confident. He would have been able to deal with the attention of being the Boy Who Lived. Harry didn't see himself as anyone special. He didn't deserve to be put on a pedestal for something he didn't remember doing.

Other times, he wished he were a real Muggle-born, no matter the stigma about them, so that no one would know his name. People had all these ideas about him, misconceptions and preconceptions, Snape with the worst (he hated yer father, 'Arry) and Neville with the best (Gran told me bedtime stories, his face bright red). They pulled him in different directions, piled rocks on him and made him walk, and the stress that he shouldn't feel, that he was too young to feel, made him weak. Hogwarts was beautiful and majestic, and a million times better than Stonewall High. Harry just wished Hogwarts would love him the way he loved it.

And then he discovered Quidditch.

He would thank Malfoy if he were a little less of an arse for showing him how amazing flying was. There were no rules, no safety nets, no one to look at him with hidden disappointment.

There was just wind in his hair (between your ears, Hermione told him with a smile) and freedom and blue skies overhead. He could almost touch the clouds. His heart pumped and his mind cleared. There was nothing in the world that could beat flying.

And then there was McGonagall and fear of expulsion and preferential treatment, but he didn't care because it allowed him to fly more. To fly on a team of people who loved flying as much as he did, who wouldn't expect him to be amazing because of who his parents were or his defeat of Voldemort.

His first love might have been Hogwarts, but it was Quidditch that stole it and kept him sane. And with Quidditch came Gryffindor Captain Oliver Wood, self-admitted fanatic and amazing captain.

Chapter Text

"Messers Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs offer their compliments to Professor Snape and..."

"Go on," Snape ordered.

Harry gulped as the words changed in script: and request that he not use his sensual voice when I can't jump his bones.

Kill me now, he thought.

"...and request that he keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business," Harry said instead because there were some things one could not just say to their Potions professor.

Later, when he found out who exactly Messers. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs were, he was even more determined to never ever find out which of them had dated Snape in school.

Chapter Text

(badinage) n. light, playful talk.

Harry had never had a proper friend, and when Ron Weasley (not that he knew his name at the time, of course) entered his cabin and asked to sit down, Harry almost froze with anxiety. This was his chance to make a friend, a real one, away from everyone who knew Dudley. Dudley wasn't here, breathing down Harry's shoulder and scaring away all his potential friends. So Harry tried to be friendly and nice, and to his surprise, it worked.

He made his first friend. Hagrid was a friend, too, but he didn't count. He was an adult and already liked him because of Harry's awesome parents, but Ron liked him because he liked Harry, not James and Lily. Not even because he was the Boy-Who-Lived, though Harry had a few worries about that in the beginning. Ron talked to him without looking down on him or making fun of him, and Harry realized there was little he wouldn't do to stay friends with Ron. He liked this odd thing called friendship.

He liked talking to Ron in the common room, sprawled out on the Gryffindor red couches and complaining absently about homework. He liked playing chess with him, even if he always lost. He liked the way Ron got angry on his behalf. No one had ever done that for him before. He was a thief and a troublemaker at home. No one cared about a junior delinquent.

He liked waking up in the mornings and having someone to say hello to, and going to bed and saying goodnight. He liked half-asleep conversations during breakfast that revolved around the perfect way to butter toast. Ron buttered it on both sides and got his fingers sticky and made them both laugh. With Ron came his bustling family who accepted Harry with such unconditional easiness that he couldn't help wishing he had grown up with the Weasleys instead of the Dursleys.

Then Hermione the know-it-all became Hermione the other-best-friend and Harry surrounded himself with another person who cared about him. Hermione was brilliant – not just book smart, but kind and helpful and always there for him and Ron whenever they needed her. She was a girl, but she wasn't gossipy like Lavender or snobbish like Fay, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if his mother had been anything like Hermione.

Here at Hogwarts, with Ron and Hermione on both sides, encouraging teachers in the background, and his parents' pasts all around him, he could almost forget about the Dursleys. He could forget that he ever needed to go back. He could imagine his future in this beautiful castle, forever happy and warm, and never, ever lonely.

Chapter Text

"I hate life," James moaned as he pressed his cheek against the cold bathroom floor tiles. "We are never, ever eating there again."

Sirius would've laughed, but the food poisoning made it hard to feel anything other than a vague sense of queasiness. He still raised an eyebrow at James, who'd given up trying to stay upright twenty minutes into their restroom stay.

"I don't know about you, but I feel fine," he said to James.

"Liar," James muttered. "Crap, I wish we could go to Madam Pomfrey. But then she'll ask and give me that look and I won't be able to lie about sneaking out of the castle."

Sirius huffed. "You're secretly a Hufflepuff, aren't you?"

"And you're a Slytherin deep inside," James retorted, then scrunched up his face. "Oh, Merlin, I feel sick."

Sirius gently grasped him by the shoulders and helped him to the toilet once again. It was his job every time he and James went out for a night of fun, as James' stomach was a cruel, deceptive thing. He'd lost count of the many times James had had food poisoning over the years, though most of the time they'd been able to go to the hospital wing for help.

Slowly, James recovered, and leaned against the bathroom wall.

Sirius was glad that he didn't look like death had sunk its claws in him. In an hour or so, James would even regain all his color and look as handsome as ever.

"So glad Lily can't see me now," James muttered.

Sirius gave him his patented glare.

James scowled. "Look, I know you have something against her and all, and are sick of me talking about her all the time, but she's my girlfriend. I can't just not remember her when I'm with you."

James looked so stupidly determined that Sirius reached over, pinched his cheek, and said, "Awww, poor Jamie can't live without his twu wuv."

That brought James back into the arms of the porcelain god, while Sirius leaned back and wondered if James had ever even considered that there were other fish in the Black Lake. Very good looking girls, good looking guys, hell—anyone other than Lily Evans.

It wasn't that Sirius was in love with his mate's girl.

And no matter at what Remus always hinted at, trying to get Sirius to talk, it wasn't that Sirius was in love with James, either. (Or at least that was what he was determined to believe. Because being in love with James would be terrible, and Sirius wasn't interested in a future full of moping around.

But. Lily took up so much of James' time that Sirius thought about trying to steal James away almost daily. Thought about trying to seduce him, trying to prove to him that really, he was so much better than Lily Evans.

"I think I'm better now," James said, breaking through Sirius' futile thoughts. (Since really, Sirius would always go with what James wished. Even if that was Lily.)

But as he helped James into bed, Sirius couldn't help but wonder.

Chapter Text

"Healer Vaisey," you say, tapping your wand against your hand, just waiting for him to anger you enough for you to send a curse at him. "You really are displeasing me."

Vaisey clenches his hands and says nothing.

"As well as displeasing my master," you continue, but all the Healer does is shake his head. You run your wand over your Dark Mark, and you're sure he can feel it on his own. "Our master. You don't want to do that, do you?"

"Please, give me a moment to—"

"To run away? That would be a shame."

He closes his eyes, rests his hands on his desk. The desk of the head healer at St. Mungo's. The desk of a dead man if he doesn't act fast.

"The patients are innocent in this war," he whispered. "They don't deserve – not this. They don't deserve to die like this."

"Dear man," you reply, feeling much too amused. "You don't really think I care, do you?"

You don't tell him that you're here for only one patient. It will be good for him, to wonder what you did in his hospital while he stayed in his office, too scared to alert either side. He won't ever find out that there aren't more Death Eaters outside the hospital, and in his house, waiting for him to leave before you allow it.

You smile at him before you leave the room, and he closes his eyes to it all, pretends not to see. You can almost envision the picture in his imagination: yourself, cackling madly as you make your way through the children's ward, indiscriminately shooting killing curses; your fellow Death Eaters, tearing down the walls; the Dark Lord already in his house, torturing his family insane. It's a pleasant image, but that's not what you're here for.

This late at night, only the most essential staff is here, and none are in the long-term ward. That ward is mainly monitored by spells. If you were the type of person to care, you might almost find it depressing. Blank eyes greet you from all directions, as well as a few addled greetings. None recognize your Death Eater robes, and the person you're here to see isn't even awake. It's a shame.

You sit in her visitor's chair, where her surviving family must have sat for hours at a time.

You're not her family. Nor are you her friend, her colleague, her wife. You're much more important than that.

Crossing your legs doesn't make the chair more comfortable, neither does trying to shift your position.

"A terrible place you have here, Alice," you say.

She doesn't respond.

Fitting, you suppose.

If the time were a decade ago, you'd have climbed in her rickety bed already, begun to kiss her until whatever is left of her wakes up. But Azkaban changed you, and not for the better. Better for Alice, maybe.

For now, Alice sleeps, forty years old and still beautiful.

You should have killed her when you had the chance. It's a beginner mistake, one you never thought you'd make. You spared her life but not her mind that day, just because your lord was dead and you couldn't imagine life without one of them in your life.

If you'd killed her, you wouldn't be here, letting the past rear its ugly head.

"Do you remember what I told you? That I'd kill you if you married him?"

Of course not. Alice doesn't remember anything, these days. She doesn't remember the mistakes of her youth, the way she married a man just to please her parents. She doesn't feel the need to chase after a woman who would destroy her, utterly and carefully, until the only word she could say was "Bella."

Leaning down, you whisper a slow-acting, unstoppable curse into Alice's mouth, taking in the taste of her lips against your own once more. It is the only kiss Alice should have had, the only lips that should've graced hers, the only fingers in her cunt, the only lover in her bed. Instead, Alice turned her heel and ran into the arms of a man who could never make her happy.

But even though you will kill her, will watch her die as your lord takes over the world, you know it is you who lost.

Alice left. Alice won.

You're not the type to forgive her for that.

Chapter Text

(complement) n. something that fills up or completes.

Few people could find a way to describe Oliver Wood without including Quidditch in that description. Oliver Wood was Quidditch. He lived, breathed, inhaled Quidditch. He'd watched every game recorded and read essays on those that hadn't been. He dreamed of Quidditch maneuvers and wrote down his dreams afterwards, trying to remember every detail.

Harry could never understand that kind of devotion, not in his four years under Oliver's captainship. He loved the game, loved the air, loved his broomstick – but it wasn't the love of his life. There had been a moment in fourth year, when he found out Quidditch was canceled for the year (They canceled Quidditch? Harry knew he was channeling a bit of Oliver, but he couldn't help it. How was he supposed to practice Quidditch if he couldn't officially play? How was Oliver supposed to come see one of his matches?), but he was happy enough without it.

But when he couldn't appreciate Quidditch, he appreciated Oliver. Oliver didn't base his expectations on Harry's fame or his heritage; he fully expected Harry to be amazing on his own merits. (Harry was very fine with that in theory, but not after four hour, back-breaking training sessions.) Even though Oliver had been a young captain when Harry first got on his team, and had a lot to prove because of it, he'd been a brilliant coach. He gave the best advice, both for Quidditch and for life, and Harry couldn't help falling in love with him a bit.

When Hogwarts just got to be too much – when Draco Malfoy wouldn't stop being an arse or Harry was so swamped with homework that he could barely breathe under the strain – Oliver was there with an pat on the back and a, "Come on, stay a bit. We'll do some one on one."

Not many people understood it like Harry did, but Oliver wasn't just the game. He was so much more.

Chapter Text

You're on the tall side for a first year, your dad tells you. "Just like me," he says. Well, duh. You've got a couple inches on Rose already, and she's two years older than you. You're at a height with Albus (though you guys aren't friends. You're too young, he's too old (according to him); it's all very stupid), and you're half a foot from the wonder twins, Lucy and Molls.

"You're going to be the tallest boy in your year!" he says proudly, but you don't feel very proud of that. You may be a friendly giant, but that doesn't mean people will like you much.

Really, that's what you're terrified of – that no one will like you. Because you're friends with your cousins, but they're family. They're obligated to like you. You're scared that everyone else will just see your stupid hair and your inability to stop talking when you get nervous and think, yeah, no.

Someone will say, "Merlin, you're boring," in the worst, most hateful tone of voice, like that shopkeeper who didn't approve of his father.

("You may be famous for the things you did during the war, but you're just a Weasley," she'd told Dad. She was a stranger – someone none of you knew, someone you never met again – but for some reason she cared about your lives.

Dad hadn't replied. He'd just turned Rose and you around and left, telling you that some people just never grew out of their stupidity stage.

Rose replied with, "Like Hugo's never going to grow out of his asking stupid questions stage?"

Rose is kind of mean, sometimes, and you pushed her that time, almost causing her to fall.

Dad wasn't happy with either of you, but he took you to George's and bought you both a sweet anyway.
If Rose is mean, and you are stupid, and Mum is smart, then Dad's the kindest person in the world. That's the order of your world.)

Or maybe you will make a friend, but that friend is going to see Rose, and instantly like her more than you.

What if, what if, what if.

"Ready to go?" Dad asks.

"No," you say. "Can't I stay home for a year?"

Dad shakes his head, smiling a little. "When I was your age, I couldn't wait to go to Hogwarts."

"No one's going to like me. I'm not as cool as Rose."

"Don't be so modest; though I guess modesty isn't quite your problem. You're a great kid. Smart as your mum, bullheaded as me – you're going to have so much fun this year."

"Like you did?"

"Yes. Your mum, Uncle Harry, and I had the best first year."

"And it wasn't bad? Not even a bit?"

"The bad bits were always, always overshadowed by the good. You'll see."

Dad pats you on the back. The train whistles.

"I'll write," you say, reluctantly pulling back.

"Your mum and I will, too."

Slowly, you turn and face your first adventure.

Chapter Text

"Oh, play the violins," Roxanne said at Lucy's pouty expression, putting a dangly earring on one ear, a shorter one on the other. She twirled around, sliding on her stool until she was turned toward Lucy. "Which one looks better?"

Lucy, who was lying on Roxanne's bed, her head hanging off the end, mimed playing a violin. "Neither. They both look awful."

Roxanne rolled her eyes and turned toward the mirror again. "The blue, then."

Lucy's reflection nodded. Roxanne caught herself staring into Lucy's blue eyes once again, and forced herself to concentrate on her makeup.

"It's going to be an awful date," Lucy said angrily. "Absolutely terrible. You'll be better off not even going."

"You know I have to go," Roxanne replied. Her hand slipped as she tried to put on mascara. As she thought about her date, the one with a very nice boy from down the street. A date with someone she didn't love, didn't care for, didn't even like.

Lucy pushed herself off the bed. "Here, I'll do it." She plucked the mascara wand from Roxanne's hand. "I've always been better than you at this."

Roxanne allowed her, staring blankly as her cousin expertly colored her lashes. The boy she would soon see had no idea how to do this. He wouldn't know what her smiles meant, wouldn't know what kinds of restaurants she liked, wouldn't see how much it hurt to even look at him.

She closed her eyes, knowing Lucy would lean down and kiss her. Lucy did.

It's not incest of I can't see it, mother. If I can't see her hair around me, her lips against mine, her eyes centimeters away.

But that wasn't an excuse her mother would accept. This, this thing that had always felt so right to Roxanne and Lucy, was not something their parents would ever accept. And maybe Roxanne was being cowardly, pushing Lucy away, but her mother's appalled expression had been worse. Her words about their depravity had been more cutting than Lucy's angry ones after their breakup.

Roxanne pulled away and rested her head on Lucy's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"I know," Lucy replied. Her hands were steady as she finished the rest of Roxanne's makeup, and her voice didn't shake as she bid Roxanne goodbye.

Roxanne closed her eyes to the sound of glass breaking as she closed her bedroom door behind her.

There was nothing she could do.

Chapter Text

Cho has never been a reckless person. It makes her a bad – well, not quite bad, but definitely not outstanding – Quidditch player at Hogwarts. It makes her girlfriends shake their heads and call her neurotic, just because she liked having a plan for everything. It makes her a good, if nervous, Healer. She likes lists, and fact-checking, and reading Mediwizard Weekly for all their tips and tricks and knowledge, for just in case she had a patient with a rare disease.

She's not happy when she's assigned an apprentice, even though she's spent the better part of a decade avoiding that particular duty of a Master Healer. She doesn't like teaching, doesn't like waiting for someone to make a mistake. But her apprentice blasts through St. Mungo's like a hippogriff in a wand shop, except as those wands go flying, they fall into the hands of their rightful owners. There is an aura of chaos around Dominique Weasley, something that doesn't belong in St. Mungo's – but at the same time, something that is a perfect contrast to Cho's own nature.

Cho has never been a reckless person. But for Dominique, she thinks she can try. Try to see beauty in chaos, see pleasure in letting go, find perfection in the endless stream of things going wrong.

As she accepts Dominique's hand, just waiting for her to accept, she finds that she's utterly eager to try.

Chapter Text

"Ron, come over here for a second," Harry said as he stared at the Marauder's map.

His best mate came over, still holding the Divination homework he'd been busy doing. "Yeah?"

"I was looking at the Marauder's Map, and look!" Harry pointed to one spot with his left pointer finger and at another with his right. "There are two Mad-Eye-Moodys!"

Ron gaped at the map. "Are you sure it's not some kind of mistake?"

Harry shook his head. "No, the map's always been right." He grimaced. "You know what this means, right?"

They stared at each other in horror and shuddered.

"Moody kept his torn off leg!"

Chapter Text

She tried to be better, after what happened at Hogwarts.

Hogwarts was a wonderful place, somewhere good and forgiving and so unlike the real world. After her love potion had fallen into the wrong hands and caused a boy to almost die, no one had reprimanded her. It was likely that no one had known to do so. The only people involved, and knew the story beyond the sparse details the rumor mill came up with, were Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, and Professor Slughorn. Ron Weasley had just wanted to forget everything, and hadn't looked at her since that day. He hadn't told his parents, who no doubt would've thrown around words of consent and bewitched and illegal. Harry Potter didn't know wizarding law. He was probably used to people trying to drug him, either way. And Slughorn, as a Slytherin, was much more relaxed about pesky little issues like a reversible, harmless love potion.

She had gotten off scot free, though in her nightmares, she was locked in prison for her crime.

(Had Ron Weasley been a moneyed pureblood, one with standing and powerful parents, she'd be in Azkaban. Had he been a Slytherin, she'd be dead. She couldn't make herself forget it all.)

It had all just been a stupid whim. She hadn't been poor, or helpless, or in terrible need of a boyfriend. She couldn't even say she'd been in love with Harry Potter. She found him handsome, famous, and rich, but her feelings didn't stretch past attraction. It had just been a spur of the moment decision, a bit of boredom, a thought of what if. She could've been locked up for a decade had Ron Weasley been harmed.

She was just a stupid girl, and she'd realized it, too. She'd put away her potions kit, made herself stop trying to come up with improvements to already existing love potions, and concentrated on not stepping out of line.

She dated a pretty blonde-haired witch, one so different from herself that it was hard to imagine their relationship working at all. Astoria Greengrass was sweet, and lovely, and too nice for her own good. She made Romilda forget the dark parts of her heart for a while, and that was worth more than Romilda could ever put in words.

Despite knowing it would end badly, knowing she couldn't love someone as purely as Astoria needed to be loved, Romilda fell in love. She loved Astoria like a treasure beyond compare, like a lovely sunset. She tried to protect her, to never let her know just how rotten people could be. She didn't let herself think about how easy it would be to slip something into her drink, to test a few potions she'd found in old dark books.

(At the same time, she dated a boy one year her junior, just because she could. Just because there were some things she couldn't do to Astoria, some things she couldn't do to someone she loved. It was the best of both worlds, really.)

She and Astoria only broke up around graduation. They were going to different places, meeting different people, studying different things. It was logical that they'd split up. It was even a mutual break-up, according to Astoria.

(To Romilda, it was something quite different, but she didn't voice it aloud.)

They entered the real world with buckets of hopes and dreams. Post-war Britain was a happy place, despite the scars the war caused. Astoria, able to lean on her parents' influence and money, flourished at a French magical college.

Romilda found it much harder to survive. Her parents had been supporters of the dark, and had fought on the wrong side of the Final Battle. Both had died, leaving their money to their oldest son, who didn't care much about his youngest sister. Romlida was the youngest of seven, and their parents' money only stretched so far. Work was hard to find, and the only job available for Romilda, an apothecary's assistant, only paid enough to get by.

She yearned for the comfort of Hogwarts, for place to be happy, for an account at Gringotts that held more than just dust.

So instead of keeping her vow of becoming a better person, Romilda made sure she'd never get caught. She created her own array of love potions, became adept at brewing the polyjuice potion, and marveled at the many glamours available to her. She came to Paris armed with a full arsenal of mixtures, and slipped Astoria a drop of a love potion of her own design, just enough to be noticed. Just enough for Astoria to pay attention to her, to think this pretty stranger was someone she needed to get to know.

And months later, when Astoria made her decision a second time, Romilda did things differently.

"Forgive me," Astoria said. "I just… This feels wrong. Like there's something missing."

And Romilda smiled, coated her lips with a balm of her own making, and asked for one last kiss.

Chapter Text

He never touched her when Luna was home.

It was the only rule, the only hesitation, the only thing that kept her from thinking: This time, it will work out.

But Luna, sweet, wonderful Luna, was gone too often for Ginny to fret. Too often to notice anything wrong in her marriage, too long to notice the glances exchanged between her husband and best friend.

She couldn't talk to Luna anymore these days. Luna, who took her in and gave her a home when Harry told her to leave. Luna, who didn't judge like Hermione did when Harry told everyone why their marriage broke apart. Luna, who held her as she cried over Harry and Dean and every man she fell in love with. Luna, who was practically an angel. Luna, who had the perfect life.

And the perfect husband. She'd thought him silly and strange before she came to live the Nargle Nest (Rolf's nickname for their home, much to Luna's dislike), too different from anyone else she knew. Too much like Luna, not enough like Ginny. But she'd come to know his kindness and sweetness, soaking in it until it was both too much and never enough. And even though Ginny knew she was just a replacement, just platinum to Luna's gold, just there to pass the time until Luna came back from one of her business trips, her heart wouldn't listen.

So she met Rolf's eyes and he smiled his big, wide smile, and Ginny kissed him because otherwise she might just fall apart.

Chapter Text

"You know, he's not really all that bad," Ginny said as she awkwardly sat down next to Padma, taking care not to crease her dress robes. She had been about to hunt down Neville and force him onto the dance floor just one time, so she could have one good memory of the Yule Ball, but seeing her brother's date sitting unhappily by the wall made her turn. It wasn't her fault Ron was a jealous prat and an idiot to boot, but she still felt guilty to see that he ditched his date. "I think he's just…" Ginny shrugged, unable to find redeeming words.

The crowd parted a little, uncovering the view of a sulking Ron in the far corner of the Great Hall.

Padma smiled sadly. "I know. I knew it when I agreed to go with him, but I thought he might change his mind. What's so wrong with dancing? It's hardly emasculating if even Viktor Krum does it. I guess it's because I look nothing like Hermione."

Padma did look nothing like Hermione, Ginny could agree. But she was lovely in her own right. Ginny wasn't so caught up in Harry that she didn't notice Padma's quiet beauty. And if Ron wouldn't dance with her, Ginny would in his place.

Ginny stood and held out her hand to Padma, who looked at it with hesitance.

"Come on," Ginny prodded. "There's a good song playing."

And if Ginny got more enjoyment dancing with Padma than proper for a girl helping out a friend, only Padma would have to know.

Chapter Text

"What about Theodore Nott?" one of the Patil twins asked, giggling and nodding at a boy sitting against a nearby bookshelf. His face was shadowed as he intently read his book, and Daphne knew he probably couldn't hear the conversation nearby. She wished she were far enough that the group of girls nearby wasn't audible to her, but alas the only free table had been near a trio of chatty Gryffindors. This was why she needed to master the muffling charm, she told herself, and tried to concentrate on her Charms textbook. What was that theory of sound, again?

Lavender Brown's loud voice pierced the quiet again. "Maybe a six?"

"Out of ten, really? But he's so… I don't know. But I guess when the standard of male blond beauty is Draco Malfoy, it's hard to measure up," Patil said with a dreamy sigh. "Can't stand the bastard, of course, but my, isn't he perfect?"

"Looks-wise, at least," Brown replied. "But his personality is a whole different story."

Daphne couldn't help but privately agree. Despite the consensus that Draco Malfoy was the most influential and attractive boy in fourth year, Daphne had never been able to find the patience to deal with him. He was a brat, no way around it.

Theo, on the other hand… She held in a slight smile as she thought about her childhood friend. While Theo was similar to Draco at least in the coloring of their hair, their personalities were completely different, in the best possible way. Not to mention, despite what a couple of misguided Gryffindors thought, he was very attractive, at least to her.

Shaking her head at her inability to focus, Daphne decided that studying was a lost cause.

Maybe catching up with an old friend would keep her interest better. And maybe, just maybe, if the Yule Ball were to get brought up…

Theo was the only person she wouldn't mind going with. It was practically her Slytherin duty to give him a nudge.

Chapter Text

When Parvati came into the room, she wasn't surprised to see Padma and Su sitting close together. They must be practicing the sticking charm, she thought, and said hello to her dear sister.

"You're such a bookworm," Parvati said, sliding up to her twin sister. "And hey, Su! What's up?"

Padma sighed deeply, and Parvati tried to hide her glee. Her younger self had lived to put that aggravated trying-not-to-frown expression on Padma's face.

"I've missed you," Parvati added, just to watch Padma twitch. Really, as goody-two-shoes as her sister always tried to be, she was just so easily pissed off.

"You saw me yesterday. When we hung out after dinner."

"Did you need something?" Su broke in, her voice as soft and kind as usual. "And Pad, stop being mean to your sister."

"Nah. I just…" Crap, she did have a reason for tracking down her sister. Now, what was it? "Y'know, in the area."

Padma stared blankly. "We're in an abandoned classroom. The door was closed." Looking a bit worried, she added, "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah. I'll just continue on my way to the Great Hall. Don't forget it's dinnertime soon!"

I'm such an idiot, Parvati thought as she left the room. She couldn't believe she'd spent so long tracking her sister down, only to forget what she needed to tell her! Then, thankfully before she was too far away, she remembered that Padma had left her Charms book in the library the other day. Parvati quickly shuffled over to the room.

The door was slightly open, and Parvati decide she might as well be considerate. It wouldn't do to mess up her twin's spell, after all. The looked in, but the only charms the two girls were practicing were lip-locking ones.

She hadn't realized there was something going on between them. But then, Padma was always pretty secretive.

Get it, girl, Parvati thought, grinning widely. And then she left, thinking about all the new ways she could tease her sister now.

Chapter Text

For a very long time, Ginny convinced herself that she was jealous of Cho's fashion sense. It made sense in a way that nothing else did, because she could never think of a reason why her boyfriend's ex-girlfriend continued to catch her attention. Even when her boyfriend became her ex, and Cho continued to appear on the outskirts of Ginny's life, Ginny's attention never wavered. Her attention only increased when an injury forced her out of professional Quidditch and into the Daily Prophet sports section, only a couple columns and rooms away from Cho's fashion section.

Cho wore the most interesting clothes – pleated robes with the most amazing lines, multicolored robes that would've made Ginny look like a parrot but Cho like a queen, two-piece robes with polka dots the color of her eyes. It should've made her look like Dumbledore, but instead it made her look even prettier than she had been in school. Ginny had never been able to understand fashion, whether because it was her nature or she had grown up too poor to learn, but she knew enough to know Cho was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.

It didn't help that Cho frequently stopped by her office and bring her out of her admiring thoughts.

"Are you sighing over the heartbreaking lack of readership your column has?" Cho teased, coming into Ginny's office. She sat down in a chair across from Ginny's desk, her light blue robes pooling like water onto the seat. Ginny couldn't help but shiver at how they complimented her form. There was so much to be said for magical cloth of the twenty-first century, she thought once again.

"I'm sighing over how heartbroken you'll be to find out that we got almost a thousand letters last week after the Cannon's winning match," Ginny said, smirking. "We beat out every other column, including the letters over a member of the Wizengamot's resignation."

"I'm sure they were so distracted by the sacrilege that is the Cannons winning that they utterly forgot to review our amazing skin care column," Cho said, smiling.

Ginny shook her head, both at the fact that she could have such an easy relationship with someone she had a messy history with, and the fact their sections' rivalry made her this happy.

"We don't need the Cannons to know how great our reporting is," Ginny replied with an amazingly snooty tone, if she said so herself. Knowing Draco Malfoy did wonders for her ability to mock people, though it hadn't rubbed off on Malfoy's new boyfriend quite as much.

"I'm sure," Cho replied, going for sarcastic but ending up amused. "I'm here on a different matter, though. There's a new restaurant that's opened up a few blocks away. I'd hoped you might join me for dinner there."

"Of course," Ginny said.

"As a date?"

The words made Ginny pause as they sunk into her mind. As a date. She hadn't dated in a long time, not since Harry had left her for a his childhood rival, saying it's not you it's me like that would make things better. Ginny bit her lip and glanced at Cho, then looked away. She thought Cho was lovely, but did that mean she was really attracted to another woman? There was only one way to find out, she supposed. She'd let her last break-up rule her love life for much too long.

"I'd like that," she replied, smiling.

Later, she would meet with Harry to talk about just how adept they both were at denial.

Even later, after a brilliant date, she would draw Cho in for another sweet kiss, and think that there was no other place she'd rather be.

Chapter Text

Sybill Trelawney knows there is a war outside her stone tower, led by a monster who kills innocents as play. A great and terrible war, one worse than the one she lived through as a teenager. She can feel it coming, can see purple and red streaks of light from the Carrows' curses, can hear screams and yells and sobs. She's shut herself away, but the world will never let her be.

She doesn't want to fight like Minerva asks her to. Minerva, who scorns her craft but wants her to divine the present and the future. With determination but without hope, Minerva asks Sybill to find Voldemort in her crystal ball, to spy on his movements and meetings. She wants Sybill to contribute to the war effort, but doesn't believe she can, barely even wants her to. Sybill knows.

Minerva is angry, scornful, lonely, so Sybill doesn't tell her that one can't just wave a wand and see just anyone in the glass. One can only see their most precious people, the ones one loves most of all in the world, through the glass ball. Minerva doesn't care, doesn't know, and Sybill doesn't tell her.

Sybill pretends not to miss Albus, who was the only one who gladly put up with her eccentricities and her drinking and her sadness. She never had to change for him; he never asked. He never disliked her and her craft, and he never unknowingly asked for miracles. He asked for nothing but her time. Minerva expects her to fail, so Sybill takes out her favorite crystal ball and tells her she sees nothing.

Minerva scoffs and threatens to fire her, and Sybill just watches a beautiful blonde woman curl around her husband in her sleep. Sybill is weak in spirit and belief, because she would let the war go on if Narcissa is on the other side.

Chapter Text

"What's the worst thing you're every done?" Astoria asked as they walked along the sandy beach, their robes rolled up and shoes behind them. It was the end of their first date, and Draco had thought that maybe, just maybe, he could get through one evening without the past coming up. His past, in particular.

But Astoria's eyes didn't shy away from him, and her hesitance from earlier had vanished. And he'd seen that look of curiosity often enough on Daphne's face that he knew he couldn't just let the question go unanswered.

Draco could tell her. He could so easily ruin her crush on him, that spark of feeling he saw in her eyes, the one that could someday evolve into love. He half wanted to, just because he wasn't sure he wanted to be looked at in that way. He was so used to things not turning out well for him—always second best, in Quidditch and school and friendship—that he didn't want to try and fail in another thing. Because Astoria was a girl he could, should, try harder with, actually date, maybe even marry, if he liked her well enough in the future. Not to mention Daphne would murder him if he hurt her sister.

He could say, "I've AK'ed some Muggles, tortured some Death Eaters, got a buddy killed, tortured a girl, bullied underclassmen, especially Hufflepuffs, Imperio'd a bartender, almost got a schoolgirl killed made plans to kill the Headmaster and was disappointed I failed..."

She would look green and pretend it was fine, that it was all in his past. And then say she was busy when he asked about second date. He wasn't sure he wanted a second date—but he knew he was drifting from woman to woman, and maybe he'd be happier if he had a steady girlfriend.

Astoria was two years younger than Draco. She hadn't been there during his terrifying second year, when monsters lurked in the corners of Draco's imagination, when fear spread through the entire Slytherin house, a common thought of, "What if I'm next? What if it's not just Mud-bloods this time?" She had been too young to care about the Triwizard Tournament except for a bit of sneering at the number two champion. She had transferred to Beauxbatons with Daphne when Voldemort came back, and knew little of the war from her safe haven. Daphne, at least, personally knew the people in their year who'd died or were scarred, but Astoria had transferred as a second year, and didn't keep in touch with the fickle friendships she'd made at Hogwarts. She didn't dream of Crabbe's screams, nor did a pale, snake-like face attack her parents in her nightmares.

She was a blank slate, and that shouldn't have appealed to Draco as much as it did.

And who was he kidding? She was gorgeous. Draco could admit he wanted her, and wanted her to stay.

So he grinned and said, "I tried to Crucio Potter," and she gasped and pretended she didn't know, that it hadn't been a juicy piece of gossip a few years ago. "How about you?"

Astoria rattled on about breaking the hearts of a few Durmstrang boys (Draco didn't mention that he thought feelings were trained out of those guys), all truthful and guileless, and he thought that maybe he needed that. Needed someone who stared at him with hearts in her eyes and knew nothing of the horrors of the war.

Chapter Text


Harry can't quite remember when Draco's faults became objects of beauty to him. When had every weakness of his turned from a fault to something unique? When he last looked at Draco and saw a pointy git instead of a handsome man? When had his cheekbones and chin softened to Harry's eyes?

It had probably happened sometime between the first and five-hundredth time Harry had kissed him, but he wasn't sure.


By age sixteen, Harry loved a lot of people: Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Professor McGonagall, Hagrid. Maybe not all to the same extent, or showed his love to all of them, but he'd amassed a number of ties to people since leaving his lonely cupboard. And yet, for all that he was familiar with the emotion, he was still gobsmacked to realize he didn't hate Malfoy anymore.


Dudley had a dragon once, a green one that erupted into a loud roar when one pressed the button on its belly. Harry had wanted it with all the wanting of an orphan. His own toys were broken and ripped, but Dudley's dragon was a mid-summer present from Vernon and Petunia. He dreamed of flying the dragon, and playing in the garden with it, and maybe—though he'd never, ever tell his relatives, he dreamed of flying on it. Many years later, he had his own Slytherin dragon, and he never wanted so badly for anything again.

"You're a Gryffindor. You're supposed to have epic romances of legend—"

"Isn't that what this is?"

"—with other idiot Gryffindors that can actually appreciate those epic romances. I want security and warm love."

"And you'll have it," Harry said, never meaning anything more than he did this.

Chapter Text

There are two house elves to help Marlene through the floo when she stumbles in.

She enters the Malfoy manor much like she last exited it, five months ago: dirtied, tired, and disgraced. But this time, she's not tired after a couple sex-filled days, dirtied with her lover's juices, or sent out in disgrace after a heated argument. The house elves show her to the pink guest suite before they bring her to Narcissa; Marlene doesn't have it in her to be ashamed. Her robes were last washed a month ago, maybe two, she can't remember; her body, a week. There's nothing she'd like more than to collapse onto the kingly bed in the center of the room, but she forces her body to move toward the attached bathroom instead. She can imagine Cissy's sniff of disgust at her dirty state. And right now, she cannot bear Cissy's disgust. Not now. Not when her future depends on her.

She drops her clothes, watches as they vanish before they hit the ground, and steps into the shower. The hot water turns on. It's the best thing she's felt in a month, heaven compared to cleaning charms. Her last shower had been at Sirius' apartment before everything had gone to hell.

Sirius had intercepted her letter to Cissy, one giving the details of a planned Order raid on her workplace. It turned out that the higher-ups in the Order were looking for a traitor, and the secret raid had turned out to be a ploy to see if she'd place her cause over her heart. Sirius had kicked her out over her choice just like her parents had only the year before. It seems all she can do is make the wrong choices.

She steps out of the shower and pulls on the robe that hadn't been there on the counter when she'd stepped in. It crosses her mind that she can go without it. Both she and Narcissa know why she's here. A robe wouldn't help her appeal to Cissy's baser natures. Still, she puts it on, and ties a loose knot instead of her usual one.

When she steps out of the bathroom, she finds the elves have laid out a table for them in front of the bed. A heavy meal lies on it. But Marlene's eyes are on the woman sitting at the table: Narcissa Malfoy. She had been Narcissa Black when they'd met. She'd been Cissy when they'd been two fumbling teenagers in dark closets and closed curtain beds. But it was Narcissa Malfoy before her, the woman who chose tradition over love. The woman who chose Lucius Malfoy over Marlene.

"Please sit," Narcissa says, pointing at the chair across from her.

Marlene does as she is bid. "I'm sorry for coming here unannounced, and in the state I was in."

"It's alright. I didn't see your state. I hope you don't mind the meal. I know mushrooms aren't your favorites." Narcissa's voice is better and worse than Marlene remembered it. She can get lost in it; she already has.

"I'm grateful anyway."

Narcissa nods, taking a bite from her own dish. Marlene arrived late after dinner, so the only thing on Narcissa's plate is a green salad, paired with water. Marlene sips on her red wine and eats Narcissa's food and wishes she could leave.

"Your favorite," Marlene says instead, talking about the wine, her heart in her throat.

Narcissa grimaces and takes a sip from her glass of water. "I can't have any now, of course."

"Of course."

Narcissa has been married five months. Of course.

"You left because you didn't agree with my decision to stay with Lucius. Why are you here now?" Narcissa asks once their empty dishes are apparated away by house elves.

Marlene shrugs. Her robe falls off her shoulder with the movement. "I made a stupid choice. Got kicked out of the Order. I can't go back to my parents. So I wanted to know if you'd take me back."

"You waited a long time to come to me," Narcissa replies.

"I wanted to find my own way first," Marlene answers. It's too honest an answer. Too painful.

"Did you?"

Do you want me to talk about all my failure? Marlene wonders. Because of all people, she knows best how cruel Narcissa can be. "I found my way to you. If you'll let me stay."

Narcissa puts down her glass and stands. With an easy motion, her robes slide off her thin shoulders and onto the floor. In moments, she is lying regally on the bed, legs spread out, her long blonde hair spread out on the sheets. Marlene's blood rushes from her head.

"Convince me and I will," Narcissa says.

Marlene does.

Chapter Text

"I can't keep doing this," Lily said, pulling away from Cho's kiss. It had been a wonderful date; the muggle restaurant's food was superb.

"You only told me you loved me last month," Cho replied, her tone a tad cold.

"I still love you," Lily said. "But I can't keep dating you and keeping it a secret from my parents. I want the whole world to know how much I care for you."

"Your parents' approval isn't the most important thing in the world."

Lily couldn't help but sigh. "It is in mine. And I don't think I can be with someone who won't let me be honest with them." She'd never been so happy with someone, but the person who made her deliriously happy also made her cry so often. It was time for a change, despite the fact that she knew both Cho and herself loved each other.

Lily turned and started walking away, hoping against hope that Cho would call her back. She smiled, wide and brilliant, when she felt a familiar hand touch her shoulder.

Chapter Text

There's a small sparrow that visits Luna's open window each morning. It comes and sings and eats from Luna's hand if she's able to sit completely still. This time, her hand shakes when she lifts it up, moving without her permission. A few months ago, Luna had control of every part of her. A few months ago, before she was kept captive in the dungeons below the Malfoy manor.

The door opens and someone enters.

"Longbottom is downstairs, asking for you," the only other person in the room says. Before the war, Cho Chang would have never deigned to talk to her.

For a moment, all Luna can think of is the terrible days and nights and hours spent in the dungeons.

But Neville is her friend. And Neville would understand either way.

She sighs, sits up, and leaves to visit her prince. And maybe one day, her life will snap back into focus, become a fairytale again.

Chapter Text

It was nearing towards the end of the school year when Harry Potter, first year Ravenclaw, came up with a solution for one of his problems. He had many problems, of course, the Dursleys and Voldemort being the major ones, but the problem that was his first priority for the summer was his lack of proper nutrition at the Dursleys. (His priorities would have to be restructured if the Dark Lord Voldemort attacks his relatives' house over the summer in revenge for Harry burning his vessel. But if that occurred, Harry's thoughts probably wouldn't be lingering on the nutritional value of an old apple for dinner, anyway.)

"Do you know where food is made at Hogwarts?" he asked a pair of his house's prefects. "I mean, it can't just appear, right?"

"'Course not, mate. It's made in the kitchens by the house elves."

"By who? Actually, never mind." He didn't want the entire known history of these house elves. "Where do I find the kitchens?"

The students shared a look, then motioned for him to come closer. The taller girl leaned down (Harry cursed his lack of height) and spoke, "We're not supposed to tell anyone this, but I think you probably have a good, intellectual cause, little eaglet. It's behind a painting of a fruit bowl on the ground floor. Just tickle the pear and you'll get in."

Harry nodded and left them to gossip about why anyone would go to the kitchens when the great hall had a booth permanently set up with foods during non-mealtimes. Harry didn't go back to answer their questions.

He walked a little faster than usual to the kitchens, avoiding both the Potter-gawkers and the prowling teachers, ready to jump at kids when curfew began in half an hour. Snape in particular got a predatory look on his face when he saw Harry speed walking through the halls.

Harry got the painting with no obstacles, tickled the pair, and quietly slid in. Inside, he found what looked like about one hundred odd little creatures (were these the house elves?) busily cooking. "Excuse me?" he called out into the air to no one in particular.

"Yes? What's can weez do for you?" an elderly house elf asked.

"I was wondering, hypothetically, if I asked for enough food for an entire summer, would you be able to provide it for me without alerting anyone?"

"Why would weez alert anyone?"

"Ah, no reason. So you could do it?"

"Yes Mr. Student. Yous foods be ready in one week. Us will make its."

"Awesome, thanks!" he quickly left and ran up to the Ravenclaw Hallway to get there before curfew. Now, all he needed to do was find a way to keep the food fresh and a place to store it.

The next day in potions, Harry asked a question to Professor Snape. "Sir? How long are stasis charms able to last?"

"You should know that already. Ten points from Ravenclaw."

"But I looked, and all the books gave different times, and one book even said they lasted forever!"

Snape looked like he wasn't sure if he wanted to wring his neck or feel somewhat happy that a student actually wanted to know something about the curriculum.

"They can last as long as the caster wishes them to, but most stasis charms last for a maximum of one week."

"But can you make them last longer?"

"No. Now stop asking questions and start doing your work."

Harry pondered his newest problem, then went to a trusty source of information.

"Can you do a summer-long stasis charm on all this?" he asked the mass of house-elves when they presented him with his food. They even fit it into his expanding trunk.

"Of course, little wizard," the head house elf said smartly.

Harry grinned. One problem down, only a couple more to go! He was sure he could deal with the whole Voldemort thing by the end of next year, at the very least.

Chapter Text

Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Give Lord Voldemort a Headache, sat cross-legged on his bed, back against the wall, staring at his digital alarm clock. He had exactly five minutes until his sixteenth birthday, so he began his birthday ritual.

Harry systematically took off his ratty, holed socks and his oversized pants and sat down on the bed. He threw off his sweatshirt and lay on the sheets completely naked, waiting for midnight. According to Ron, a wizard's sixteenth birthday was extremely special. On this day, they would get a spike in their magic and their magical cores would completely settle, allowing them to safely begin trying different, specialized areas of magic, like wandless and mind magics.

Although he was excited, Harry was also very worried. What if this was the day he'd receive the 'Power the Dark Lord knows not'? He didn't want to be even more different than everyone else.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry almost missed the last countdown until July 31. Four, three, two, .... one!

At first, Harry felt nothing. He could be one of the few, low-level wizards to get no power boost or creature inheritance, he supposed, feeling somewhat put out. With everyone telling him mastering the Patronus spell and animagus transformations so early in life, he'd assumed he was a high powered wizard. But then, Peter Pettigrew had mastered the animagus transformation even before Harry. He'd been the first of the marauders to do so, Sirius had regretfully told Harry.

Then, Harry screamed in pain. Out of nowhere had come a wave of pain, starting in his toes and ending in the very tips of his hair. Harry had tried not to yell out, but he could barely hold them in. Instead, he whimpered loudly and hoped his aunt and uncle wouldn't hear him. He'd never felt such a harsh, biting pain before, not even while under the cruciatus curse in fourth year. What was wrong with him? It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Abruptly, the pain stopped, and Harry finally felt he could breathe.

He knew what he was. He'd received his inheritance. He could see the Power the Dark Lord Knew Not, right there, right inside him.

He was…

A house elf. The most powerful house elf of them all.

The house elf who lived!

Chapter Text

It had been three weeks, four days, six hours, and four minutes since Dominque had sent Roxanne a paper crane, and Roxanne had been waiting gloomily every day since then to get one from her favorite cousin. It wasn't that she was upset about not getting a crane thrown at her – she hadn't liked them all that much, and neither had her professors when they turned around too soon and saw one bobbing around her head. The points that they'd lost from Gryffindor each time! But Roxanne missed them because at least that way, she knew Dominique was thinking about her. That she cared enough to bother her. That she was still interested in being friends.

Now, Roxanne just sat unhappily in History of Magic and wished she could get back Dominique's attention. Her cousin had been so distant these past few weeks! And there had been nothing Roxanne could do, because she didn't even know the reason why. Dominique hadn't gotten a new boyfriend (openly, at least; but maybe she was dating someone in secret?). Roxanne would've been fine with that. She would've been crushed in the part inside her that wanted to keep Dom to herself, always and forever, but she would have been fine.

It was just so unfair. She knew she could never have Dom for herself, to date her and kiss her and hold her hand, but she'd always thought they'd at least be friends. What was she supposed to do now?

Just as she was about to give up and fall asleep completely (instead of just resting her face on her hand and dozing a bit) to Professor Binns' comfortingly monotone voice, she felt something hit the back of her head in a very familiar way. She reached behind, her heart in her throat, and her hand clamped around an enchanted paper crane.

She glanced behind her, to the back of the room where latecomers like Dominique always sat, and saw Dominique's grin and wave.

Quickly, she opened the paper. Dominique's handwriting appeared on the page.

Going to sleep during class? Shame on you!

Roxanne looked back and glared. Then she sent the crane off with the message, You've been practically ignoring me for three weeks and that's what you choose to begin with?

The crane came back with, Sorry. I should've apologized. I am sorry for ignoring you. I didn't mean to. I was just figuring some things out.

I thought you quit wanting to be friends with me, Roxanne wrote back, feeling silly.

Never! You're my best friend.

What were you figuring out?

Just personal things. I realized I was in love with someone, and had been for a while.

Roxanne's heart dropped. Who? she wrote. Was it Dominique's last boyfriend? Was it her bitter (and attractive) rival in Potions?

I don't know if I should say. You'll be angry.

I won't. I'll just be sad, she thought.


Promise. Roxanne spent a few long, agonizing minutes waiting for Dominique's response.

I think I love you, Dominique's elegant handwriting said. There were some things crossed out on the paper, some smudges Roxanne couldn't decipher. Roxanne looked back and saw Dominique's nervous expression and smiled.

I think I love you too, she sent, and watched the crane fly into Dominique.

And then, for the first time in her life, Roxanne left right in the middle of class. She grinned, wide and happy, when she heard someone who could only be Dominique follow her out.

Chapter Text

He knew what he'd done as soon as the door closed. There was no mistaking it, no excuse, no possibility of it being an accident. There were only Ginny Weasley's hands running through his hair, her mouth on his, her body pressed against him.

"Want to," she began, then stopped, as if imagining all they could still do.

Draco imagined all they could do, and shuddered at the images. The Weaslette's red hair was wrapped around him like iron in each image, her lipstick across his skin like blood.

His mind cleared, and he realized, "Fuck, Weasley…"

"Did you forget something?" she asked unconcernedly.

Draco stared at her. He wanted to say, "I didn't mean this."

He wanted to say, "I flirted with you to make Potter angry."

He wanted to say, "I shouldn't have closed the door to my office."

It was so damn dirty, bringing a woman here, just for this. A Weasley woman, a blood-traitor, a professional Quidditch player for Merlin's sake. His mother would have been appalled to see her son consorting with a woman like the Weaslette.

An married woman.

"Never mind," he told her and watched her leave. She smiled at him on her way out.

Draco closed his eyes, let his head hit the wooden door behind him.

Weeks ago, when all this started, he hadn't meant anything by it. He'd had a little too much to drink at a ministry function, so he'd went out to the balcony and collapsed on a couch, hoping to clear his head. Drinking away the boredom and the gloominess the break-up with Astoria had left him in, his head hadn't been straight. So when he heard the door open, he dipped his head back over the side of the couch and told the entering woman the first thing that came into his mind.

"You're beautiful," he'd told the woman in red. And she was: lovely red hair, red robes, red lipstick. She looked like the sun.

"Why thank you, Malfoy," she'd replied, and he'd recognized her voice. But it had been years since the war, and he was an Auror, so he couldn't bring himself to care that he'd complimented a blood traitor.

Instead, he'd raised his glass to her, and that had been it. One short conversation later, Draco was having sex with his boss' wife.

He just hadn't planned on falling in love. But Ginny wasn't the Potter-Weasley he'd fallen in love with, and this catch 22 wasn't keen to let him go.

Chapter Text

"Right," Penelope said, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, then opening them again. They rested on a lavender case that was infinitely bigger on the inside. It rested next to the armchair she was standing beside. "Suitcase. Check." Her umbrella leaned against it. "Umbrella. Check." The portkey that would lead her to the International Medi-Magic Convention's hotel lobby lay on the coffee table, resting a tad too close to a pair of bare feet. "Check."

Penelope nudged the portkey away from Cho, who was resting, loose-limbed, half on the couch and half on the table. Various essays were laid about her, all with too many red marks and long critiques in the margins. "You're going to get back problems," she told her girlfriend absent-mindedly, too caught up in getting ready to leave to really care.

"As a mediwitch, you would know," Cho replied around the quill in her mouth. It was stuck just in the corner of her full, pink lips, and Penelope was flooded with an urge to replace the quill with her own lips. Cho smiled knowingly and flicked the quill with her tongue.

"No. No, no, no," Penelope told her with a glare. (She had a feeling she wasn't quite pulling off the glare—Cho had gotten her to try a new, more fashionable pair of glasses, and Penelope was quite put out by how much they emphasized her looks instead of making her look sterner.) "I know how this goes. I lean down to kiss you, we forget ourselves, your students' papers get wrinkled, and I accidentally touch the portkey and we get transported into a crowded room mid-kiss."

"We probably gave those stuffy old codgers at the Post-Hogwarts Educational Convention fantasy material for decades—well, years, really—to come," Cho said glibly, breaking out in an absolutely adorable leer. (Penelope was obviously biased.) "I was the most popular woman in the room that weekend."

"You're the most popular person in this room all the time," Penelope couldn't help saying with a fond smile. "You and your big ego, that is." She ducked to escape the quill flying at her. "Now…" She looked around. "Oh, Merlin, where's the guidebook? I'm sure it was right here somewhere…"

Not good. Not, not good. She couldn't have lost it again, could she? Just as she was about to search the house for it, Cho leaned over and pushed aside a couple of her papers. "This it?"

"You know it is," Penelope said, picking up the book and placing it with the rest of her belongings. And, just because she could, she leaned over and pecked Cho on the lips before her girlfriend could return to her usual spot.

"That's it?" Cho asked. "I feel like a nun."

"Well, you did throw a quill at me…"

A moment later, they exchanged a terribly un-nun-like kiss, because Penelope was still easily defeated by Cho's puppy-dog eyes, even after a couple years of dating.

"Take care of things here for me," she told Cho. "Remember the plants. And Tubby. And my brother."

"Yes, m'am," Cho murmured cheekily, and let Penelope pull herself away.

And with a wave, Penelope was gone for the weekend.

Chapter Text

"Excuse me, can I have a jar of newt's eyes?"

Perenelle nodded and started scooping them out of her bucket. "Sure thing, kiddo. That's twelve galleons. Making wizard's film?"

The kid gaped. "How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess," Perenelle said with a smile. Had she been so cute when she was little? She doubted it. "Here you go! Good luck with her pictures."

"Thanks, m'am." The camera around his neck swung sideways as he took the newt's eyes from her. "I'm hoping to find really famous people to shoot. And since I'm going to Hogwarts in two years, I'll get to shoot the Harry Potter, can you believe it? I need so much practice 'till then!"

She laughed and waved him off. A moment later, her husband's arms wrapped around her.

"That was interesting."

"Mmmm," she agreed. "No one would look for the famous Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel in a potions supply store, would they? I think this is our best idea yet. I hate reporters."

Chapter Text

The first time Harry left Lily's arms, she passed him onto James, who looked down at his son with the most love-stricken expression Remus had ever seen (and he'd seen a lot of them on James throughout the years). James then passed him to Sirius, his best man, his closest friend (though they usually tried not to play favorites in their group. Sirius' hands shook a little, then steadied, and he smiled when Harry made a quiet sound in his sleep. He then passed him to Remus, maybe because he loved him best, or maybe because Peter looked like he was about to hyperventilate.

"The first Marauder baby," Remus murmured, hugging baby Harry closer to make sure he wouldn't fall. "He's going to be a heartbreaker."

"And not the last," James said with a grin, utterly deserving of Lily's subsequent hex.

"It's their turn," she said, pointing at the rest of the gatherer group. "I expect all of you to have at least one playmate for Harry."

Sirius grinned. "Remus and I'll just get right on that."

Despite glaring at his lover, Remus couldn't think of a better thing than another child joining their little group, one as perfect as the little child in his arms. And yet, there was a war outside their peaceful hospital room, and despite this happy moment, he feared that there might just never be another Marauder baby.

Chapter Text

They didn't talk about it much, but there was a huge difference in the way the second generation of the extended Weasley family was treated. Both as a whole: the first war generation treated them like miracles, like the fact that they could grow up in a time of peace and never have to see war was something to be cherished, like they were breakable; the second war generation kept too much about the war away from them, like hiding the atrocities they went through would prevent their kids from ever going through the same. And as individuals: Roxanne would never, ever admit it, but for the first decade and a half of her life, she'd been consumed with jealousy about how the world worshipped the Potter siblings. No one paid much attention to the other Weasley kids, and if they did, their attention was directed toward Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione's kids, the spawn of the other parts of the Golden Trio. And Roxanne liked her cousins just fine, she really did (most of the time at least), but sometimes she wanted to shake and shake and shake the world apart because James was a prat and Albus was a brat, and wouldn't they just look at Roxanne for a change? And Lily, little Lily who'd grown up in front of Roxanne's eyes…

Lily was the reason Roxanne couldn't sleep at night, couldn't function whenever Roxanne glimpsed her flowing red hair, couldn't get a boyfriend for the life of her because what was the point of dating someone you're not attracted to? Roxanne's waking moments were consumed with guilt and avoidance techniques that stopped working when she slept; her sleeping hours were full of coy smiles and the way Lily's mouth had bitten into a pork pie last week and red and green and the possibility of love.

And when Lily noticed Roxanne's stare one day, when she said, "You know, you can always just make a move," when she flipped her hair and grinned and left, Roxanne hated her just a little bit more. Because it figured that Lily would be able to deal with this attraction so much better than Roxanne.

But that hate was outshadowed by just how hard Roxanne had fallen in love with her.

Chapter Text

"Excuse me, have you seen my father?"

Molly turned toward the speaker, a young blond boy about the same age as Ron. His facial features looked familiar—she probably knew one of his parents—but the child himself didn't jog her memory. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I haven't."

The boy huffed and kicked the wall next to his foot. "Ow. Stupid father."

Molly considered telling him to respect his elders, but decided it wasn't any of her business. "Are you lost?" she asked instead. The boy had been wandering around Madam Malkin's shop for the entire ten minutes she had been there, waiting for Arthur and Charlie.

His cheeks puffed adorably and Molly felt the urge to coo.

"No. He went to Gringotts for business and I have to amuse myself here. But I already got new robes and it's been a really, really long time and I want to go home!" By the end, he was red faced in anger and his hands had closed in fists.

Molly noticed Arthur and Charlie waving to her from down the street, near Florean's. She rummaged through her bag and took out a somewhat squashed bag of biscuits. "Here," she said, handing it to him.

The boy took the bag and immediately started eating them.

Molly huffed (a thank-you would have been nice!) and considered staying a little longer, just to make sure the boy got home safely, but the child went back inside Madam Malkin's shop wait. He should be fine there, she decided, and hurried off to her husband and son, forgetting about her encounter with the young Draco Malfoy entirely.

Chapter Text

It hurts, that Hermione can't get along with the girls in her dorm. There's nothing to physically stop her from reaching out, from asking "What did you think of that assignment?" or complimenting Lavender's new eye shadow. She can tell Fay that she is a brilliant flyer, that she has no idea how Parvati manages to keep up with her favorite muggle TV show so well. And she tries, in the very beginning. But she's not good at making friends with other girls, and once Harry and Ron welcome her into their friendship, she lets her efforts fade. After all, she has two friends now, two people to talk to and laugh with and spend her time around. She doesn't need her roommates.

So when she finds herself spending more and more time with Ginny, she thinks the happiness in her chest is because she's finally found a female friend. One she can talk to about things Harry and Ron aren't interested in, like the way boys are so unimaginably stupid, and the way Hermione's hair won't stop frizzing. Ginny finds the perfect product to make it stop, and once Hermione tries it, she exits the bathroom with elation. She wants to hug Ginny, and she does, thanking her repeatedly. And she wants to kiss her, because Ginny is flushed and beautiful and so terribly easy to be around.

She doesn't, because Ginny has told her about her feelings for Harry. But in her imagination, she does.

Chapter Text

"Pansy?" Draco said as he finished the last of his forms.

"Yes, dear?" she replied, looking up from her nail file. In the time that Draco finished his paperwork, she had already polished, dried, and filed her nails. Really, Draco was a bit of a slowpoke. They filled out and signed similar forms for the divorce, but Draco had to go through each and every one of them very carefully. These pedantries of Draco's were attractive in the bedroom, but not in the rest their relationship. It was a good thing they realized only a year into their marriage that things weren't working out, before children complicated the picture.

"Let's never get remarried. I couldn't handle all this—" he waved his hand at the large stacks of paperwork "—again."

"We didn't really have to do all this, but you insisted on separating every part of our lives. We could have just co-owned the villa and the Manor and Snuggles," she replied as she stood up and stretched her back. "I don't think I'll ever be able to write again."

"Next time I marry, I'm just going to have to kill her if things don't work out. I swear Pansy, I never want to go through this torture again."

Pansy smirked. "Don't worry Draco, I'll help you with your future wife just like you'll help me with the next rich fool who marries me."

"Ouch, my dear."

"Don't pout. You know I love you."

"And I you. I just wish things had worked out."

"You'll find the one. I heard Astoria Greengrass holds an interest in being the next Mrs. Malfoy. She even told me off yesterday at Madame Malkins. Dreadful woman. But blonde and pretty and shallow."

"Everything you aren't, my dear," Draco said smoothly, and dodged a hex from Pansy in return. "Any man would be privileged to have you and you know it."


"Yes. Now . . . what are your thoughts on divorce sex?"

"It has to be done at most three hours after signing the paperwork, otherwise it counts as regular sex between single people."

"We better get started, love."

Chapter Text

"Be good," Daphne said sternly as she patted down Draco's robes, looking for stray flecks of dust. There weren't any, as the robes were fairly new, but she wouldn't have found them if there were any as the robes were a dark gray color. They made Draco's eyes look more blue, the robes salesperson had told him.

"Yes, Daphne," Draco replied. Then, in a high-pitched imitation of her voice, he continued, "If you screw up your date with my baby sister I will have you hung up by your underwear from the gaudy statue of Potter in the middle of the ministry. On a Monday during rush hour."

Daphne smacked his arm. "Now, do you remember what she likes?"

"Me, apparently," Draco drawled, earning a scowl from his friend. "Relax, it's just a date. She asked me to dinner after I told her I wasn't busy this week. It wasn't like I could just tell her no."

He didn't want to, if he were honest. Daphne's sister was beautiful, and he would have asked her out himself if she weren't off limits.

"I guess there's nothing I can do," Daphne said with a sigh. She gave him a bouquet of flowers and pushed him to the fireplace.

"You say that like I'm some sort of barbarian."

"You're too honest for her, and she's too smitten with you to brush things off," Daphne replied.

She watched sadly as Draco disappeared into green flames. Her sister really was too good for him, but there wasn't anything Daphne could do.

Chapter Text

They're Auror partners, Draco and Ginny, and they have been coworkers and partners and friends for much too long for Ginny to delude herself that Draco doesn't know. That he doesn't know the way she can't look away from his wife sometimes, that her relationship with Harry didn't fail just for nothing, that she pretended to be the perfect daughter for so long that when she cracked, her entire life fell apart. He got an inkling of the wrongness in her life when Ginny first showed up in his flat to work on a case, and didn't leave for a week. Harry hadn't called, hadn't written, hadn't done anything except moved out of their shared house. Thank Merlin they hadn't been married yet, or else it would've been so much worse.

"We just couldn't get along," she'd told Astoria, Draco's then-girlfriend, a bottle of firewhiskey in her hands, her lipstick smudged onto the glass rim. Draco had bailed on her an hour in, the coward, after it became all too clear that Ginny wasn't there to talk about the Goyle case.

Astoria had shot a glare at his back and said, "He isn't good with feelings," her voice slightly raised by the end, causing Draco's shoulders to hitch before he disappeared out the door. Once outside, he yelled out something about going to the pub, his heavy footsteps disappearing soon.

Ginny had wondered if any relationship around her (other than her parents', of course) would ever be good.

"I should probably go," she said, not moving from Draco's too-comfortable couch. As prickly as he was, it seemed like he'd decided to do right by his guests and give them a great place to sit. It was better by far when compared to the Malfoy manor, where Lucius and Narcissa, bugger them, still lived.

"Stay," Astoria replied. "I promise to listen."

"Well, Harry is an arse, you should know," Ginny began. It was the most biased diatribe she'd ever voiced, and Astoria listened and nodded and let her talk.

"You want to tell me the truth now?" Astoria asked.

"I want to get drunk."

Astoria levitated another glass of firewhiskey into Ginny's open hand and Ginny drowned the words she wanted to say in its sharp burn. He's got a dick and I got tired of pretending to like it, she could've said. He's a martyr and I'm human. And it just won't ever work out like it did in my childish dreams.

But she didn't, because she hadn't ever breathed a word about it all to anyone. Not Harry, not Hermione, not Luna. She wasn't about to start now.

Instead, she handed the bottle to Astoria, who'd been a stranger a couple hours ago but was now possibly, maybe, one day a friend. When they were both too drunk to care, Ginny laid her head on Astoria's shoulder and embraced the pleasure of Astoria's fingers running through her hair.

"I think I know now," Astoria said, but she didn't elaborate, and Ginny wouldn't speak.

She didn't speak of it when Astoria officially moved in with Draco, when the two of them married and couldn't decide whose side of the wedding Ginny would stand on, when she stood as Astoria's maid of honor as her sister Daphne glared, when Astoria came back from the honeymoon and said she wished the rose-tinted phase had lasted longer, when Draco started staying longer at the office, when Draco started coming over to Ginny's comfortable couch on the nights that Astoria wasn't there, when Astoria's glances became filled with something more and Draco's with something less.

And when she sat at her desk one morning and thought about her two amazing friends, she didn't let herself think about the way her heart broke whenever she wished them luck or tried to fix their marriage.

A couple minutes later, Draco entered the office, his eyes brighter than they had been in years. He placed a sheet of paper on Ginny's desk and dropped his suitcase on his own.

"We filed our divorce papers yesterday," Draco said as Ginny confirmed it with her own eyes, lingering on Astoria's elegant signature. Ginny's heart caught in her throat. Her future had seemed to be going along a straight path, unchanging, unrequited love--because Ginny was so good at unrequited love, so good that she knew she didn't try hard enough to escape its trap--for on and on and stupidly on. And now. And now. And now there was a possibility that Ginny almost couldn't bear to think of.

"Why?" she whispered.

"We just can't get along," Draco said. He rubbed his hand along the wrinkle on his forehead. "I should hate you, really."

He went over to the door and walked out as another person walked in, another blonde and beautiful person, one Ginny had loved for much too long.

"Congratulations?" Ginny said, the word a question and a plea.

"Thank you," Astoria said. She walked closer until her robes almost touched the desk where Ginny sat. "But it's only something I'll be able to celebrate if the woman I fell in love with loves me back."

Ginny leaned in and kissed her, saying, "Yes, yes, yes," against her lips. For the first time, she let herself think of what was possible.


Chapter Text

When Hermione walked into the first floor girls' bathroom and saw Cho Chang standing at a sink, looking like she was on the verge of crying, she almost walked right out. Despite how rude it would've been—Cho's teary and red-rimmed eyes had met Hermione's instantly—she almost did because she really didn't like Cho.

It wasn't a strong dislike or hate or anything like that, just a nagging feeling that Cho should get out of her life. Sometimes, Hermione told herself that it was because Cho was so much prettier than her, but usually she knew it was because she didn't like another girl being in her boys' lives. It was such a silly jealousy, since even as infatuated with Cho as Harry was, he still always made time for her, but it was persistent and strong.

But Hermione was a prefect, a Gryffindor, and someone who tried to be a good person, so she sucked it up and asked, "Are you okay?"

Cho nodded frantically.

"Do you need anything?" Hermione asked.

Cho shook her head.

"Right," Hermione murmured. Well, it wasn't like they were friends or anything. If Cho didn't want to talk about it, Hermione wouldn't force herself to try.

She was just about to leave when Cho choked out, "Harry didn't say anything?" Cho sounded terrible.

"I haven't seen him since the meeting," Hermione said, shuffling closer to the sinks.

Cho sighed. "I hoped… Merlin, I'm so stupid. I kissed him, and I thought I wanted to, but all I could think about was Cedric. "Harry must think I'm a horrible kisser now," she said, running her hand through her hair. "I was half-crying during it." Despite her bleak tone, Cho looked a lot better than she had when Hermione first came in. More composed, less frantic.

"I'm sure he doesn't think that," Hermione said awkwardly. She didn't really want to think about Harry like that; it was just wrong. She didn't want to think about anyone in that sense, mostly because she was still in denial about how cute Ron was—and how ridiculously pretty Cho was.

"I barely even put any effort in. It was probably like kissing a dead fish," Cho added.

"Er." Hermione glanced up at the ceiling. Lovely pipework, it was. When she glanced back down, Cho was looking at her with amusement.

"You're not even jealous. I guess all those rumors about you and him and Krum were wrong."

"Absolutely," Hermione replied. "I've never kissed nor want to kiss Harry."

Cho smirked, a gleam coming into her now tearless eyes, and leaned down and pressed her lips against Hermione's. They were warm, as was the hand Hermione took in hers, and she closed her eyes and turned her head to press closer. Moments later, Cho stepped back.

"Now you have. By virtue of a third party." Cho winked and headed out, calling, "See you around!"

She left Hermione blushing, confused, and strangely—or not so strangely—happy.

Chapter Text

"This," Elga Martin announced, holding up a strange metal device, "Is a whisk. Can anyone tell me what it does?"

Andromeda sighed. Did anyone care what it did? She'd only taken the class to better understand her crush and his Muggle family, and of all the class (phrased to her parents about how it is easier to subjugate a people when you understand their culture), her intentions for signing up for Muggle studies were probably the purest. She knew without a doubt (though she'd never bet on it, being a proper Slytherin) that everyone else had taken it as an easy OWL and NEWT. Even Lily, Andromeda's surprising (and mostly secret) friend, had confessed that she'd needed at least one class that she didn't have to worry about getting high marks in.


Andromeda looked toward Lily, who usually took pity on the professor at this point, but Lily was doodling in the corner of a notebook with one hand and idly taking notes with the other. She must still be annoyed at getting only an A on that last assignment, Andromeda realized.

Sighing, she raised her hand.

"Yes, Miss Black?" Professor Martin asked, sounding relieved.

"It's a torture device. I think it may be inserted--"

"No, that's really not it," the professor quickly cut in. "Good try."

Andromeda shrugged. She knew that if Bellatrix had one of those things, it would be used for torture, meant for it or no. Despite the school's light arts policy, Bellatrix had a lot of unwanted lovesick schoolboys that she practiced on. Andromeda wasn't as creative, and couldn't think of a use for the strange object.

"Anyone?" The professor even looked at Lily, who was pointedly staring at her notes, and sighed. "Alright. That's your assignment for the night. Find out what it's used for and write up a half page paper on it. Off you go." And with that, the Martin gathered her papers and left the room before any of her students could get up, muttering under her breath about how she really wasn't paid enough for this.

Andromeda turned to Lily. "So. Lovely Lily, my fair friend. What would I do with a whisk?"

"Use it as a sex toy torture device, apparently," Lily replied, eyebrow raised.

"I wouldn't need a toy," Andromeda replied.

Lily rolled her eyes. Lily, Andromeda thought with a sigh, was terribly straight. What good did being straight ever give anyone? There was so much the world offered, sex wise, that Andromeda hadn't considered sticking to one gender even for a moment. Until she settled down one day, of course. (Lily, on the other hand, came to Hogwarts settled down. From what she'd said, she'd met James Potter on the train and it was infatuated irritation at first sight.)

"Dinner?" Andromeda asked. She really didn't feel like dealing with the rest of her house quite so soon.

"I'll meet you in the kitchens in twenty," Lily replied.

"I'll bring the whisk."

Chapter Text

"Lovegood? You want to date Lovegood?" Draco said as he sat down across from Blaise. He'd been in a great mood today - his stocks were doing well, he was wearing his favorite suit, and he'd finally received an important package - right up until Pansy had told him what Blaise planned to do. She'd said it in such an offhand way, like it didn't matter.

"Yeah, what of it?" Blaise asked, sipping his imported firewhiskey and raising one perfectly plucked eyebrow. Draco couldn't think of one similarity Blaise and Luna shared. They'd make a terrible match.

Draco snorted. "Better hope her insanity isn't contagious." It was more difficult than he'd thought, to speak of her that way. Maybe that meant he'd actually changed since the war.

Blaise looked away, and Draco paused.

"Or hereditary," he said, after coming to a realization. "My Merlin. You're serious about her." He's never seen that intent expression on Blaise's face, that happiness in his eyes. Was he actually in love with Lovegood? That would never, ever do. She would drive him insane, and he would stifle her. They'd bring out the worst in each other. (And he wasn't just saying that out of something so silly as jealousy.) Even if he'd changed since the war, he was still an underhanded bastard, so he added, "I doubt your mother will approve, anyway."

"I don't care," Blaise said. "I've put off marriage for too long. Practically everyone I know is either married or a relative. And... I've worked with Luna. I liked her."

The toddler inside Draco, the one who'd destroyed half the manor in a tantrum ages ago, wanted to wring Blaise's neck and never have to worry about any of this again. The rest of him, years older and slightly more sensible, had a different plan. It was haphazard and depended too much on factors other than himself, but it was the only thing he could think of. He disapparated from Blaise's restaurant booth, barely noticing the chair he'd knocked down in his haste, and appeared on a flower-covered hill.

He was an hour early, but it wasn't like Luna would mind. Not after this very hill united them after the war; he'd splinched himself here, and Luna had helped him find his scattered parts, and healed his wounds. He'd told her she was an angel, and he still believed that to this day. Her heart was as big as the ocean when his was only a pond - big enough to include himself, his parents, and her - and her forgiveness of her time in his dungeons helped as much as it hurt. And afterwards, they'd kept on meeting, just the two of them for an hour a day. It was his hope that in that time, she'd come to love him as much as he'd fallen head over heels for her.

"A flitterbug said you needed to see me," a familiar voice said.

Draco spun around and there she was. He was selfish and she was lovely and he couldn't think of a match worse than theirs. He still said, "I'm here to ask you to not date Blaise."


"Because..." He stared into her unwavering, unblinking eyes, which acted like Veritaserum against his weak will. "I'd like to marry you one day, and I need more time to convince you to love me."

Luna didn't say a word.

He kept talking, listing reasons, trying to reason with something that couldn't be reasoned with: love. He finished with, "Besides, Luna Malfoy sounds better that Luna Zabini." She wasn't vain, but she did like sounds and rhythms, and maybe theirs could be the best song of all.

"Really? I think it sounds terrible." Luna's voice wasn't cold, nor was it angry. She sounded as sweet and kind and airy as she usually did. Somehow, that just made it worse.

Draco swallowed. She was not his prisoner, not held captive in his dungeon any longer. She was her own person, as beautiful and awful as it was, he couldn't make her change her mind. Maybe she'd gotten sick of him, maybe she'd never truly forgive him for the war, maybe she wasn't attracted to him, maybe he wasn't worth her love. It had been much easier to love her when he hadn't known rejection from her. He started to turn around, but his pace was broken with her words.

"I wouldn't mind Luna Lovegood Malfoy though," Luna said, her lips curling into a soft smile as Draco beamed.

Chapter Text

"Don't leave," Sirius wants to say. "Please. Don't leave." The words claw at his throat, trying to reach their way out despite the knowledge that this is something he can never tell his best friend. James values freedom most of all; he doesn't need his best friend to tell him what to do. James is independent and confident and a good man, and Sirius is just a footnote in the book of James' mind.

Lily Evans covers the entirety of that book, her name on every page, the I in her name dotted with a heart by James.

"Wish me luck," James says, tugging on his bowtie until it's perfectly aligned. There's a bouquet of Lily's favorite flowers in his hands and a parchment with a speech detailing his love in his pocket. Sirius had read it last night, intending to make fun of it, but then feeling overcome with an urge to burn it. It's perfect and eloquent and full of genuine feeling. Sirius can imagine Lily falling head over heels just from the introduction alone. "Sirius?"

Sirius gathers his attention. He only needs it for a few more moments. "Try not to trip. Or stutter. Or talk about her boobs."

James laughs, wrapping his arms around Sirius in a spontaneous hug. "I couldn't have done this without you."

He leaves, off to Lily, and Sirius' heart has never hurt more.

Chapter Text

"—and that'll be eighteen inches on the effects of gillyweed when digested by humans. Dismissed."  

Harry, for what felt like the first time, grinned widely during Potions. "I love life," he announced.

"Are you mental? Eighteen inches?"

Harry leaned in and whispered, just in case Snape would hear and realize his mistake. "Remember the second task last year?"

"Yeah...the lake. What does that have to do with anything?" Ron threw his last piece of parchment into his bag and they hurried off to lunch.

Hermione sided to them as they continued to the Great Hall. "What are you talking about?"

"What does last year's tournament have to do with our essay?" Ron asked, running his hand through his hair. "Nothing! All you did in the second task was...." He smacked his head. "Grow gills! With gillyweed! I knew I'd heard of it before. You're set, mate! No research at all! Where can I get some of that stuff?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Didn't you see the huge lock that's appeared on Snape's personal storeroom? Add in some spells plus Snape's usual paranoia, and you probably wouldn't be able to get within a foot of the door, let alone actually open it."

Harry glanced at Hermione. "I bet I can get my essay done before you can."

She raised her eyebrow and considered it. Harry had the experience, but Hermione knew he couldn't write an essay with his experience alone, and she was the better researcher. "We'll just see," she said, and vowed to get to the library as fast as she could.

"I'm the only sane person in this group," Ron said with a groan. "You're both excited about doing homework."

His words went unheard, as both Harry and Hermione had already run off. Ron shrugged, and headed off to the Great Hall. His friends didn't know what they were missing—today was shepherd's pie day.


(Needless to say, Snape wasn't happy to be forced to assign his least favorite student an O.)

Chapter Text

"I'm forgetting something, aren't I?" Hermione asked as she pulled out her chair and sat across from Rita. It had been days since Rita had arranged their meeting at a fancy restaurant, and Hermione had been trying to think of what they were celebrating for the entire time.

Rita just smiled in that way that meant yes. It didn't happen, Hermione forgetting something. She was good with dates and events; a pity that the only class that needed them had been History of Magic, and she could've passed it blindfolded. Now, eighteen years since she'd last sat in a classroom, dates and events were very much her life. As the head of Hogwarts board of governors, she was going to bring British education into the the twenty first century, one terrible statistic of how they compared to the rest of the world at a time.

Giving in to Rita's challenge, Hermione thought back. Rita had invited her to the Candid Crow, and it was much too fancy for anything less than a big event or anniversary. Nothing had changed in their lives recently, so it had to be an anniversary. But of what, was the question Hermione couldn't seem to solve.

"Take your time," Rita said, still smiling impishly. She took a sip of her wine.

The whiff of food that reached her nose was almost enough to distract Hermione, but she'd always liked a challenge. That was why she was here, after all, sitting across from Rita Skeeter instead of another.

The anniversary of their marriage was in May; Hermione had taken her dancing, and they'd gotten fabulously drunk. Rita had even left her quills behind. The anniversary of their first date was on the same day; Hermione had been the one to suggest it, saying she liked the practicality of it. Rita had just called her a romantic, and Hermione hadn't been able to disagree. They'd first met... well, that had been after the second task... Hadn't it been?

Oh, Hermione thought, and laughed. "We're celebrating blackmail. Rita, really?"

"Twenty years to the day," Rita replied. "Such a terrible thing." She shook her head in a faux reprimand.

"I'm a monster, yes," Hermione said with a smile. It had been six years since the mandatory registration of animagi law had been repealed, so not even Rita could still hold a grudge, much as she enjoyed them.

"It's good that I'm very fond of you--and blackmail," Rita said, and Hermione couldn't help but lean in for a kiss.

Chapter Text

They're 11 years old, and he doesn't ask her out.

(Of course, why would he? He barely knows she exists; she's just that girl who floated in the boat next to his, sitting tightly between her two best friends and her future rival. But she sees him, George Weasley, though of course she doesn't know his name yet, and he's grinning widely and throwing a frog in someone's hair and Katie is so utterly charmed.)

They're 13 years old, and he doesn't ask her out.

(By this point, George knows who she is; she's the second best chaser on their team, and she's got a competitive streak a mile wide. She isn't going to back down, not even for a boy who makes her want to blush and giggle and just be the girly girl her mother wishes she was. Well, maybe just half the time. The other half, she's splashing ice cold water on his head for sleeping in instead of going to Quidditch practice, hiding her essay with her hand and glaring when he tries to sneak a peek, and sneaking her own peak when one day he accidentally comes down to the Great Hall half naked.)

They're 16 years old, and he doesn't ask her out.

("Do you have a date for the Yule Ball?" she asks, sitting on the stone floors with her head against the wall. She's drawing circles in the air with her wand, but they're not coming out quite as evenly as she'd like them to. Well, of course they're not; she's much too nervous for that. She glances at George, who's leaning against the wall across from her. The Hogwarts hallways are narrow enough that if she stretches just a little, their feet would touch. It's a nice thought.

George huffs. "No. I'm going stag."

She raises an eyebrow, and can't help saying, "Couldn't get a date?" despite the plan. She's not supposed to make fun of him, as much fun as it is; she's supposed to ask him out. But it's so easy, and she's a bit annoyed at him for getting them kicked out of class.

"Of course not. I have far greater skills than that," George replies. He looks so properly indignant. "In fact, I'll prove it to you."

Katie swallows. "Oh, will you?" And she's half trying to get George to just ask her, half trying to remember how to say the words to ask him herself. She's stuck, but in milliseconds her chance is over.

George scrambles up, grabbing his things. "You'll see how awesome my skills are," he says with a grin.

Katie just stares after him, trying not to hope and failing. But in less than an hour, Alicia comes back giggling and talking about how she finally has a date.)

They're 19 years old, and he doesn't ask her out.

(Her mother is dead, dying half way through the war to the wand of a sympathizer who'd been their neighbor and friend.

His brother is dead.)

They're 21 years old, and he doesn't ask her out.

(Instead, he says, "I need a favor." He's got his charming grin stretched across his face, and Katie doesn't trust it for a second.

"I deserve a huge reward for this," she groans, glaring at George, hours later as she finally closes the doors of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Trust George to ask her to mind the shop for a half hour, then disappear for a whole two. He left her to suffer screaming children, anxious parents, and a multitude of questions she couldn't answer. Really, the things she does for her friends.

But by now, he's right beside her. "Your wish is my command, your awesomeness," George replies.

"Well," she says. And what the hell. "I wouldn't mind a date.")

They're 23 years old, and he doesn't ask her out, but only because she got around to doing it first.

Chapter Text

Transfiguration was a branch of magic like none other, as many witches and wizards who devoted their lives to it find out. It was a fluid thing, a magic of change and motion, and it forced one to adapt to its constant fluctuations. Perhaps Charms masters—with their hexes and jinxes and wand-waving—thought their craft similar, but nothing trumped the ability to change matter so completely that no one could know what it had started out as. Until it turned back into its original form.

One day, a cat was a cat, the next, it was one's own Head Girl, Albus Dumbledore thought with chagrin.

"Miss McGonagall," he said sternly. His blue-eyed gaze was hard, lacking its usual mirth, as he observed the most unlikely troublemaker at Hogwarts. "I have heard some unsettling rumors that I would like to clear up. As it's your first offence, I assure you I will be lenient if I receive the full truth."

He would have liked to believe that Miss McGonagall was innocent of Animagus practice, as it was illegal unless under a competent teacher and she was a law-abiding child, but it was no use. The rumors were true, that Albus could tell simply by looking at her. The young girl in front of him seemed to fold into herself under his gaze. She carried a posture of shame, with her head bent and her back arched just a little, catlike in its shape. She seemed to want to curl into a ball. Or run away, as her pale fingers were clenched in her seat as though in an effort to keep herself there.

"I—" she began. She glanced up and seemed to lose her nerve. "I—" She couldn't bring herself to continue. There was no dishonest bone in her body that could aid her in telling a false tale. She was just too honest. She was seventeen years old – a child in mind but not in the eyes of the law, and she knew full well that her possible ministry career would be ruined by a black mark on her legal record. She was also smart enough to know that an adult must be treated as an adult.

Albus sighed, stroking his beard. It would do no good to punish her now, not two months before graduation.

"Please, calm yourself, Miss McGonagall," he said, moderating his tone. "You aren't in trouble for illegally becoming an Animagus."

"I'm not?" she asked, unfurling immediately in shock. "Thank you, Professor Dumbledore! I was so worried."

Albus shook his head. "You are, however, in trouble for practicing the transformation without the guidance of a Transfiguration master. What would you have done it you lost yourself to the mind of your inner animal? Its instincts, or its fear of crowded places. What if you were stuck in your form forever? I refuse to believe that such a brilliant student such as yourself would be so reckless with her future."

"I only wanted to prove I could do it," she whispered.

"To whom? You are an adult, and I believe it is time to start acting like one, beginning with the most simple rule that adults must abide by: Do no harm to yourself or to others."

"Yes, sir."

"I've assigned you detention with Professor Slughorn, three days a week, until the week before your NEWTs. You will see him after dinner today to discuss them."

"Yes, sir."

"And, you will attend once-weekly sessions for Animagus control with me."

She instantly looked up. "Professor, can you...?"

"That will be a question for Saturday at four, Miss McGonagall."

"Yes, sir," she said, but she looked happier now that she had one-on-one lessons with her favorite professor.

She would become a great witch one day, Albus thought as he let her leave his office, if only she would be more cautious. But who was he to expect cautiousness of a teenager? It was like expecting a river to cease flooding without magic. He could change the nature of teenagers no more than he could convince Headmaster Dippet to hire a centaur as a Divination teacher.

Chapter Text

The Daily Prophet flew in at exactly six in the morning, as Molly finished her first cup of morning tea. She took a few coins from a jar near the table and slid them into the owl's pouch, then took a newspaper from its bag. She yawned as the owl flew out the open window and into the cloudy skies, covering her mouth with the roll of newspaper. It came at the same time every day, and Molly had never in the thirty years she and Arthur had been married applied to get her mail at a later time. She'd been a late riser before having children, but afterwards, every hour counted. Now, even her youngest was off at Hogwarts, but Molly couldn't get back into the habit of sleeping late, despite the lack of work to be done. Arthur had left for work an hour ago, and she had the house to herself.

The front page had dreadful and dreadfully boring news, but the next had a review of a month-old Diagon Alley shop: Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. And even though Molly didn't quite approve, she had to smile at the two grinning young men in the accompanying photograph. Oh, her boys.

It was only later that she wondered, which was which? Was George the one holding the "Voldemort Stinks" sign, or was that Fred, and George was the one pointing at the storefront Molly loved Fred and George equally, treated them equally, but when it came down to it, she couldn't tell the difference between the twins.

It bothered Molly that she couldn't tell her twins apart. They were her babies, her troublemakers, the two sons she'd always expected to either strike rich or live in her attic for the rest of their lives, but she'd never been able to tell the difference between them. Oh sure, she'd know when one of them would blame a prank on the other, or lie about his name; that look of mischief and laughter was hard to ignore.

She couldn't tell them which twin was older, because they'd always looked identical: same freckles, same features, same magic. (When they were kids, the twins had fought about it. But eventually, they decided to tell people they'd slid out together, no matter how often a furiously blushing Molly would correct them and say that was biologically impossible.)

But when she sat with one of them, and they talked and laughed and shared, she'd honestly try to remember who he was. Sometimes, she'd get it right, and he wouldn't correct her. Most of the time, she'd get his name wrong and she felt like crying because he'd never correct her. She listened to their conversations every morning for them to refer to the other by name, and she'd note who wore what, but she'd be the first to say there was no mother's instinct for this, no simple way for her to tell magical identical twins apart. She grieved, and, she thought they too might grieve with her.

Chapter Text

Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw, Harry thought.

"I hate students like you," the Hat replied tiredly. "You're not suited for Ravenclaw. What's wrong with Slytherin or Gryffindor? Even Hufflepuff would suit."

Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw.

"You don't even like books! You're not particularly intelligent."

Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw.

"You could be great in Slytherin, make the friendships of a lifetime in Hufflepuff, and have adventures in Gryffindor. It's not too late."

Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw.

"Oh fine, you daft child, good luck with the riddles, because I'm placing you in— RAVENCLAW!"

Chapter Text

"Care and Divination, I think," Harry said as he looked down at the sign-up sheet McGonagall just passed out.

Hermione saw red. She grabbed the electives sheet out of Harry's hand just before he was going to write down his choices. "No, Harry," she said smartly, checking off Ancient Runes instead of Care of Magical Creatures. "I forbid you to take Care of Magical Creatures!"

Harry spluttered, "What? Who are you, Dobby? You can't just—"

"You've been in three accidents already this year, and you've almost died, Harry! Not expulsion, but actual death! If you die, how am I ever supposed to see you again? There are so many big animals Hagrid must be dying to show you, with fangs and poison and teeth. Why can't you choose something safe for once?"

Blinking, Harry saw Hermione as he'd never seen her before. She was truly worried about his safety... and it wasn't like he needed to take Care. Hagrid would understand. ("Yer just like yer father, 'arry.") "Okay, Hermione. Whatever you say. Just don't aim Bludgers at me, okay?"

"So what am I, chopped liver?" Ron asked jokingly. "You don't care about my wellbeing at all?"

"Harry's the trouble magnet," Hermione replied primly, ignoring Harry's cry of "Hey!". "You'll do just fine. Or you could come join us, too."

"I might as well," Ron said with a put upon sigh. "But I get to say 'I told you so' when we all die of boredom within the first week."

Chapter Text

Every child on Privet Drive, Surrey Place, England knew three essential things: the earth revolves around the sun (courtesy of Mrs. D, retired physics teacher and still avid educator), ice cream tastes best after a long afternoon of play, and everyone has a soul mate out there in the very big world. Of course, the precocious few of the lot knew a few more things (the average weather for each part of summer, as Bobby will no doubt be happy to tell you), and the less precocious but no less adorable hold the same belief. Facts for children follow little logic: the sun sets because it does, grandmum prays because she should, and the Dursley family is the most abnormal of the block, presumably because of Harry Potter.

Because they were children, they also knew (usually absorbed from the world around them, though some parents did try to explain something unexplainable) that something magical would happen on their seventh birthday. Something utterly amazing: they would receive a vision, like a video inside their heads, of best moment of their soul mate's life. They didn't spend too much time thinking about it, because really, even if soul mates were supposedly devoid of cooties, romance was still pretty gross.

One child on the block knew little of the other families' standards of normal, growing up alone and sheltered, but he did know some things the other children of privet drive knew nothing of: sometimes, if you wished hard enough, things happened. It wasn't magic, of course. Magic wasn't real, first of all, and second of all, if it were, he would be happily living anywhere other than his cupboard.

But as his seventh birthday grew near, Harry stayed up and thought about his soul mate. He wasn't quite sure what a soul mate was—his aunt and uncle were less than accepting of "unfounded voodoo," as they called it—but Harry was sure that his soul mate was going to be the one person who'd truly understand him. Unlike the Dursleys or the other children, he wouldn't believe Dudley's lies. He wondered what his soul mate's best moment would be. For some lucky people, it was the day their soul mate met them. For others, it was their soul mate's wedding, or graduation, or another happy thing.

When the clock struck twelve, Harry's body fell onto his bed while his mind dove into the future. Eventually everything stopped spinning, and Harry found himself in a bathroom, standing next to someone he guessed was his older self. He was a teenager with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, and Harry was confused until he saw the other person in the room. He was the older Harry's age, blonde, dressed in the same baggy black dress as the older Harry, and had a wooden stick pointed straight at him. And then he spoke a strange word, and both Harry's made the same expression of pain.

It hurt. It hurt even when the vision stopped and he came to himself. Harry huddled into himself, phantom pain still running through his body, and decided he really didn't like his soul mate.

The only time Harry ever spoke about the blonde boy was to Hagrid, and when Hagrid replied with, "That's yer soul mate! But you shouldn't be talking about this with me, you know. You get to know the worst part of your soul mate for a reason, so that when you two meet, there's no secrets."

Harry nodded, and wasn't comforted when Hagrid talked about the worst day of his own soul mate's life, which was when her dog died right in front of her. At least Hagrid's soul mate wasn't a blonde boy who'd curse him terribly one day.

Sometimes, Harry really would've rather been a muggle.

Chapter Text

Her lord was dead. There was nothing she could've done, nothing she could've said, nothing to make it all better. This wasn't the first time she was scared for him. It wasn't the first time he'd gone missing. But if Dumbledore said that he was dead, there was no hope. None at all. Because if he were still alive, the Dark Lord would try to kill him for slander.

"There's still something we can do," Rodolphus said.

Bellatrix licked her lips in thought.

"Yes, there is." He had assigned the mission to them only days before that horrid child killed him. It would please him, to know that she was carrying out his will. But of all the things she would do for her master, this was the only thing that her heart screamed against. But her heart belonged to a dead man now, no matter the history she had with the lady of Longbottom manor.

And later, when the Aurors were delayed, she murmured, "I can fix this," against Alice's bloodied lips, tasting copper and fear. She couldn't bring her lord back to life again, but she could avenge him. Because Bellatrix had chosen him above all others. Even her.

She stood to face the Aurors when they came, letting Alice fall to the ground as she looked toward the future. Bellatrix stayed her wand and let Alice fall to the ground. It was fine. She could always come back.

Chapter Text

It was a completely morning day at a completely normal household on a completely normal street. Although it was just a tad unusual, Mrs. Petunia Dursley (and oh, three years as Mrs. Dursley instead of Miss Evans, but she still smiled sometimes at her good fortune) woke up at sharply five in the morning each day. The other housewives, as they'd told her at their weekly teas, rose at eight, and Petunia had smiled and agreed. Since then, she'd been quite careful to never show her face outside before eight, but she hadn't quite been able to break her habit of rising early.

Her husband slept on, and she left him to his sleep. The poor dear would only get an hour more before the alarm forced him awake and Petunia wouldn't wake him, even though she would've liked some quiet company this morning.

She was strangely unnerved this morning. Petunia didn't have magic, and she'd cut all the strangeness out of her life with her estrangement with Lily and her parents' untimely deaths, but she did get feelings. Nonsense feelings, to be sure, but ones that lined up too closely with strange events. Usually, when she got these feelings, she would simply retire early and fall asleep, ignoring whatever was happening outside. Later, Vernon would read her the news, and they would quietly not talk about it.

The mail hadn't wouldn't have come yet, but Petunia peeked out of the mail slot in order to make sure Mrs. Dolton from number twenty-three hadn't been by with her dog. The woman was a neighborhood menace, never cleaning up after her yapping thing, and this time, Petunia really would cause a scene if she found excrement on the lawn once again. Why, she would pick it up with a newspaper, knock on Mrs. Dolton's door, and hand it to her! All the while lecturing her on...

Petunia's thoughts trailed off, and she quite forgot her train of thought. Actually, for a moment, she even forgot Mrs. Dolton, and Mrs. Dolton's little dog, and Mrs. Dolton's very attractive husband (not that Petunia would ever think such things, of course). Because right there, on her front porch, clearly visible through the mail slot, was a child. The mail slot clanged shut as Petunia opened the door just enough to stick one long, thin arm through the gap and pull the basket through. Once the door was closed again, she took a long look through her peephole. It seemed as no one had yet woken and noticed this child on her doorstep. Good, she decided, trying not to think of the scandal it would cause if even one neighbor saw the child. Why, she could almost hear the things Mrs. Florris would say: It was the child of Mr. Dursley's mistress! It was the child of one of their cousins, born out of wedlock and to a vagabond! It was Petunia's child, forgotten outside for the night!

Petunia shuddered. Once she regained her wits, she stared down at the sleeping infant. It looked healthy, maybe one year old, and was sleeping soundly. Noticing something tucked into the child's side, Petunia carefully lifted it out, trying not to touch the child. Who knew where it had been? Perhaps she shouldn't have even taken it inside, but she knew the talk would have been worse had a neighbor been the first to see it.

The object was an envelope, and Petunia carefully opened it to revel the letter inside. It was addressed to her. Usually, Petunia enjoyed receiving letters, but this had not come the usual way. The normal way. And neither had this baby, this child that the letter claimed was her darling sister's. Albus Dumbledore was a name Petunia had seen and heard many times, but he'd never written to her. He'd written to her parents to tell them of Lily's end of year marks and the occasional detention, but she, a muggle, hadn't mattered to him the slightest. Numbly, Petunia realized he didn't even attempt to console her on the death of her sister. The letter simply stated that Lily and her no-good husband were dead, and that Petunia was to care for this Harry as though he were here own.

It took Petunia exactly one minute to decide what to do. Her husband and son were asleep; they would not need to ever know.

She took four minutes to think about whether she was doing the right thing. She tried to scrounge up a barest hint of love for her sister, love that could be transferred to this child on her floor. She tried to consider that maybe, Dudley might like a playmate. She tried to imagine how her son would grow up alongside a child who could create flowers from weeds and spontaneously combust birthday cakes and do wonders Dudley would never be able to do. She didn't have to think very long.

Petunia plucked the child from the basket and looked inside to make sure that there were no distinguishing marks before she placed him back inside. The blanket was a simple white one, and the boy's clothes bore no wizarding strangeness. The letter she placed into the dresser, making a mental note to burn it soon. Then she observed the world outside from the windows, not seeing a single soul awake. It was a quiet morning. The child was quiet, too, still sleeping in its basket. For a moment, Petunia almost thought he looked sweet. Then, citing the hesitation as a moment of madness, she picked the basket up, stepped outside, and walked the few meters to number five Privet Drive. The Greens liked children, after all, and would know what to do with an unwanted baby.

Her heart only began to beat as normal in the minutes after she returned home and began to make breakfast. She had two people to feed, to care for, to love, and not even Albus Dumbledore could make her take on a third.

Chapter Text

When Severus woke up, there was an owl perching on his windowsill, knocking its beak against the glass. He had never been one to receive many owls, not from his family or his fair-weather friends, and so owls had never brought good news. Only OWL and NEWT results (never good enough, not for his father who didn't care, not for his mother who thought that the last of her line should do better), taunts and pranks from the Marauders, and missives from the Dark Lord and other Death Eaters. But his parents were both dead, and the countertop from which his mother had written the occasional letter was now gathering dust.

Severus had been a Hogwarts graduate for a year now, and had not seen a single Marauder since James had tripped him up on his way onto the train for their very last trip home. For James it had been home, and for Severus it was an old house and the memory of his parents haunting its rooms. Even so, it was better than he would've ever dared to hope, to finally graduate. It also meant he hadn't seen Lily in all that time, and when he let his thoughts loose, all he could think of was her. Her, his mother, his life, his regrets.

Pushing away his idle thoughts, Severus focused on the only thing the letter could hold: words from the Dark Lord. His master was not one for waiting. He rose from the bed and opened the window, allowing the owl to glide inside and dig its claws into the wooden end of Severus' secondhand bed. The letter it dropped onto the floor, revenge for waking up so late, and Severus scowled as he picked it up and tore it open.

Inside was a simple sheet of paper with one line of text.

I'm more unhappy than I ever thought I could be, read a too-familiar handwriting.

The last time he'd seen Lily write was their seventh year NEWT Potions class, her back to him and her eyes never meeting his own when they searched her out. For the last two years of school, she never spoke a single word to him, not even breaking the silence when Professor McGonagall mistakenly assigned them as partners for a group project. Lily had simply ignored him for the class period and handed him the completed project the next time she saw him, a note on the top to add any corrections he saw fit. A note addressed to him in her lovely, looping handwriting, something he never thought he'd see again.

But Severus couldn't allow himself this, not when they'd chosen their sides. Lily was engaged to be married in a month, and Severus had a Death Eater meeting later that day. He couldn't let his master know of his weakness. He shoed off the owl with a wave of the parchment, and placed the message—it couldn't be called a letter, not at such a short length—into the trash.

Even as he did so, he knew he'd return after his meeting and dig it out again, too weak to resist the call of Lily's words. Love made some people strong, but it only made him weak.


Two days later, another owl came. Severus considered not opening the letter, but the idea brought an almost physical pain to his chest.

I promised myself that I wouldn't lie this year, the next letter said, That I'd try to be honest. That I'd be the woman I am instead of the one I wish to be.

Severus' patience broke.

Are you still going to marry him? he sent back, hating himself for entertaining Lily once again, for entertaining the love he couldn't quash. He summoned his own owl from the yard, placed a letter in its beak, and watched it fly, calling himself a fool with every flap of the owl's wings.

Yes, came her answer the next day.

Your honesty doesn't seem to extend very far.

I love him. Isn't that why people marry one another?

They usually don't owl other men, if they're so in love.

I love him. I'm just not happy.

He wanted to say, I'm not happy either. Nothing and no one had ever made him happy like Lily had. He didn't know if it was love, or obsession, or a deep weakness that wouldn't leave him. Severus wasn't in the habit of honesty, so for a week he said nothing. Lily didn't respond again, waiting for his words, and Severus thought that this was such a fragile state. He didn't know what she wanted. He didn't know what he wanted. It was too damn late; Lily's wedding was next week.

Do you love me? he wrote instead, and sent it off before he could burn it. When they'd gone to school together, when Lily had actually talked to him, he'd thought... He'd thought there was something there, something in their eyes, something left unsaid for too long.

No letter came, and Severus wondered if she aimed to spare his feelings. She'd never tried to, before, and he was filled with thoughts of what if.

Severus' own feelings turned into enough of a mess that even the Dark Lord caught on, cursing him for not thinking of the cause. He'd hissed about the measure of Severus' worth, wand pointed at his head, and Severus wondered if this was it. When he returned to his home, drained and shaking and almost dead, he fell asleep with Lily's letters resting just centimeters away.

The next morning, he sent her his mother's ring, no letter attached.

The day after, she appeared on his porch step, the ring on her finger, no letter needed.

"I can't make you happy," Severus told her, helplessly embracing her, letting his chin rest on her head, the red hair he'd dreamed of for months soft under his hands.

"I think you can," Lily replied.

It was only later that they talked of compromise and love and words you just can't say, but through it all, Severus hoped.


The wedding was the happiest day of Severus' life. There was no qualifier, no runner up, no single moment that could compare.

The following day, the Dark Lord called for him, and Severus sat on the edge of their marital bed and couldn't move. He was an Occlumens of some skill, but hiding the fact that he married a muggleborn wouldn't be easy, not with the mark leaving his mind as open as Swiss cheese.

Lily sat next to him and held his hand. "You made your choice," she told him, and Severus leaned over to kiss her.

"We'll do the Fidelius Charm immediately," he replied.

It wouldn't work perfectly, he knew that much. It would mean pain each and every time the Dark Lord remembered him. It would mean capture as soon as he stepped out of the protection of their house. He would be a prisoner, though at least a willing one. It would be worth it.


Harry Elon Snape came into the world under Poppy Pomfrey's careful care, in a house filled with Hogwarts staff, various well-wishers, and not a single Marauder in sight. And while the Dark Lord attacked the Longbottom family, killed the parents, tortured the grandmother to insanity, and died, marking the child as the boy who lived, the Snapes slept on. They slept the sleep of the living, the ones who would live to see not just another day, but many more.

Chapter Text

"I just don't know what to do with the boy!" a disgruntled voice cried, and the plump, stocky owner of the voice-Cornelius Fudge-waddled into the room. He dropped himself onto the dark purple chair behind the desk of the minister of magic and scowled.

Lucius had once wanted that desk for himself. He'd wanted the power and the glory, wanted the Malfoy name to be in the minds of everyone as the most powerful surname in the country. But now that he wasn't a brash twenty-something-and had known Fudge for almost two decades, he understood that the real power wasn't in the one sitting in the minister's chair. The power lied in the one across from it, during the times when the minister met with his most trusted adviser. Lucius could enact all the change he wanted (within reason, unfortunately, because as dark-leaning as Fudge was, the Wizengamot was still headed by Dumbledore and his meddlesome fools) from the comfort of this chair. Which meant that he didn't glare at Fudge for bringing his personal feelings into the office. He simply said, "Oh?"

"You probably don't want to hear about this," Fudge said apologetically. Before Lucius could reply, he added, "But I am most vexed. Most vexed! First it was the dementors on the train who almost killed him. Then they got loose and attacked him on the Quidditch pitch! The Quidditch pitch of all things! It's supposed to be safe."

"Just like we're supposed to have control of the dementors," Lucius murmured.

"Exactly!" Fudge's face began to turn a very displeasing shade of red. "How was I to know that they have some sort of grudge against him? And all of this is after he ran away from home this summer."

Lucius carefully lifted an eyebrow. This he hadn't heard about. And he'd been very carefully to put himself in a position where he heard everything. "Really?" he asked, his voice not betraying the curiosity he felt-and the small thread of anxiety, because Fudge was supposed to trust him completely. Many of his political plans simply would not work if Fudge didn't trust him.

Fudge grunted and looked a little ashamed. "My apologies, Lucius. The boy... he blew up his aunt this summer, like a children's balloon. We're just glad she didn't pop before the Obliviators came to undo it and erase her memories. She wasn't immediate family, of course."

"Of course."

"He fled the scene like any other no-gooder, and ended up in the Leaky. I had a small talk with him, and decided his poor relatives probably needed some time-not that I thought he'd stay there if I dropped him off. So I allowed him to spend the rest of the summer there. Tom, however, was insistent that I didn't, ah, tell you. He had some fears, you see, and Dumbledore backed him up..."

Lucius let a dark look cross his face. For a man like Fudge, it would only look like he was deeply grieved. "I'm still punished by some for my actions under the Imperius," he said, sadly.

Fudge was quick to assure him that he'd put Tom straight in moments, but Tom still wanted his word. And his word was oh so important.

"And he was never reprimanded for it? Nor punished?" Lucius eventually asked.

"No," Fudge replied. "It was- It all happened so quickly. I should've..."

"No, it would've looked bad, coming from you," Lucius said, thoughtful.

Fudge smiled. "I'm glad you agree. I don't know what I'd do without you, to guide me in this dragon's den."

"Politics are a very surly beast," Lucius replied, and Fudge looked tickled at the metaphor. It was all his feeble brains could handle, Lucius thought. Even with so many years of hard work, it was a precarious thing to make sure Fudge stayed in office, and didn't blunder too often. It was Lucius' good luck that Fudge enjoyed taking help from him (Fudge had been a Hufflepuff, and assumed that the word worked smoothly because of cooperation and hard work; this did not extend to muggles or muggleborns) and was only adamant about a few things. "But I see Potter is still a bother."

"A very bothersome one," Fudge said, sighing. "I just don't know what to do about him! The public loves him, and I know it will be my head if he gets himself killed on one of his foolish stunts."

"And more security doesn't seem to be doing any good..." Lucius said, thinking a thousand thoughts as he spoke. There was an advantage here that could be pressed, if only he knew what exactly to take advantage of.

"They only seem to get him into more trouble," Fudge replied mournfully. Then, he took out a pastry from the first drawer from his desk, and attempted to eat his troubles away.

Before Fudge's mood could lighten, Lucius reminded him that, "Dumbledore isn't keeping him safe either."

Fudge choked down his pastry. "No. I don't know what that man is thinking. First hiring that Quirrel, about whom I got so many letters asking me to intervene and force someone competent to teach, then Lockhart, who people loved and then somehow blamed me for letting him get addled, then Lupin, who I swear there's something off about."

It's the fact that he turns into a vicious blood-lusting monster once a month, Lucius thought but didn't say. He might still need that little fact in the future, to maneuver Fudge into a position where he couldn't trust anyone at that damn school. Because an idea was coming to Lucius, and he was going to grasp it. It was strikingly Gryffindorish, for him to propose something without planning, but Lucius didn't know when Fudge would be in such a perfect mood again.

"There is something you can do," he said, and smiled inwardly at the way Fudge turned his way, his beady eyes lit up with hope. "My father-" a man who Fudge had admired greatly "-had the idea of introducing a mentorship program at Hogwarts, to teach students about the outside world."

Fudge nodded slowly, a confused expression on his face.

"Your problem is discipline, is it not? The boy is too unrestrained, too wild."

"That's exactly it."

"So why not have someone teach him the ways of the world? Someone who could protect him from his own idiocy, because Dumbledore sure doesn't seem to be doing it." Lucius' breath caught as Fudge gave the idea great thought.

"I could-" Fudge began, but soon he shook his head. "No, I haven't the time."

"Perhaps Amelia?"

"She's too damn busy, with Black on the loose." Fudge thought about the matter, and soon enough his eyes rested on Lucius. "Would you...?"

"Well," Lucius said.

"You're the only one I could trust for such a grave matter," Fudge pleaded, leaning in to attempt to be even more convincing. "If I could count on you, I wouldn't ever have to worry about the boy again."

"You can always count on me," Lucius said, and smiled.

Fudge matched it. "I'll draft the papers tonight, and find people to take on the rest of his yearmates. We wouldn't want to make it too obvious, would we."

"Of course not," Lucius said, and excused himself. He had a plan to make, and a boy-who-lived's influence to ponder.

Chapter Text

As students tumbled out of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom after their fourth class under Professor Umbridge, Harry stayed behind, motioning to his friends to go on ahead without him. Hermione looked like she might stay, her lips pressing into a line that said, "Don't do anything stupid, Harry," but Ron tugged her along. Besides, Harry wasn't going to do anything stupid. Probably. Though he was going to attempt to flex his latent Slytherin qualities, mostly submerged by his Gryffindor ones. (And good riddance, he'd once thought, but then he saw how little his approach was working, and decided to try a different route.)

He walked back toward Umbridge's desk. Harry let out one deep breath, straightened his back, and said, "I wanted to thank you for your hard work at the castle."

Umbridge's jaw didn't drop, but her face slackened out of utter surprise. "Excuse me?"

Harry shrugged, hoping the gesture looked natural. He wasn't an especially good liar, more so when he hated a professor as much as he hated Umbridge. (And none of his teachers, not even secretive Dumbledore or death-foretelling Trelawney, had ever measured up to Umbridge.) "I know we haven't really seen eye to eye. I'm obstinate, you're devoted to bettering the school. I see that now. So, thanks. I think whatever professors replace Hagrid and Trelawney are going to be really great for the school."

Umbridge gathered her wits, and said, in a still very befuddled tone, "Thank you. I don't suppose this means you're reconsidering your lies about You-Know-Who being back?"

Trying not to think of curses and dark creatures and Umbridge's very smug face, Harry said, "I can offer to be under Veritaserum. Or a truth spell. But I'd doubt you'd believe either of those."

"They can be fooled, and one can be truthful in believing his delusions."

"So what would it take? For you to believe me? Because professor, I'm scared. I can't protect anyone. I can't even protect myself. There's death eaters walking the streets--" sorry, Sirius, Harry thought "--and a dark bastard having the world to himself because the world won't believe he's right there. I need all the help I can get. And I'm asking for yours."

A long pause stretched out between them as Umbridge considered Harry's offer. Finally, she said, "I don't need to hear your lies. Leave, Potter."

Harry turned back. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard Umbridge speak.

"But if I did believe... I would say that I need much more proof than you can offer. Not of whether he's back, but of whether you can actually win against him."

"I'll find it," Harry replied, and closed the door behind himself.

Chapter Text

Harry rubbed his eyes, blinked, then rubbed his eyes again. There was something very, very wrong with Malfoy's group of Slytherins. Oh, they looked as smug as they usually did, lurking in the dungeons as the Gryffindors and Slytherins waited for their OWL level potions class to begin. Snape was running late (probably to make them squirm and delay their studying, because he had no soul and delighted in their pain). His Slytherins, who were also too fond of ruining Harry's life, were the closest to the doorway.

Crabbe and Goyle stood guard from invisible enemies around the group, glaring at no one in particular. Blaise was buried in a book and ignoring the world. Pansy was talking about something Harry couldn't hear, her expression as sour as usual. And at the center of the group was a blond young man with Draco Malfoy's pointy features, except he looked like he was six years old at most. Harry was exceedingly confused. He was also exceedingly surprised at what a cute kid Malfoy had been.

"That's a mudblood?" Malfoy loudly exclaimed, looking over at Hermione in shock.

Harry sighed. It seemed that even this weirdly young version of Malfoy was wildly racist. Except, Malfoy remained cute even as he said a curse word that had caused Hermione multiple tearful days when they were younger. "I won't have you casting aspirations on my friends, even if you are a tiny version of Malfoy," Harry said, crossing his arms and expecting Malfoy to ask whether he'd swallowed a dictionary by accident, like he usually did when Harry said a word longer than three syllables.

Instead, Malfoy glared and said, "I cast spells, not aspirations!"

Harry didn't even make an attempted not to coo. "Oh god. Malfoy why are you so bloody adorable?" It was the big blue eyes, the floppy blond hair, the way his robes were just a little too big for him.

"I'm not adorable," Malfoy said. It was useless.

"What's up with him, anyway?" Harry asked Pansy, who looked like she was about to step in and protect Malfoy's virtue from the big bad amused Gryffindors.

"It's none of your business," she told him. She took Malfoy's hand.

Harry was surprised when he let her, not squirming away like he usually did when Pansy got amorous.

"It's the parva aetate, isn't it?" Hermione asked, staring at Malfoy in curiosity.

"Par-what?" Ron asked.

"It's a way extreme stress sometimes manifests in old pureblood lines. Some sort of virus, or old curse, that causes them to appear younger, to an age when they weren't as troubled. That way, they won't wreck themselves with stress. They return to their usual selves in a couple days."

"You're correct, for once," Pansy said. "Come on, Draco. Let's leave these plebes."

"Kay," Malfoy said.

Harry let out another coo, ignoring the strange looks he got from his friends. He wasn't going to last these couple of days, he really wasn't.

Chapter Text

They're stumbling into their flat, just sober enough to want to do something other than fall into a coma but just drunk enough to do stupid shit, when James asks, "Ever had sex as a girl?" He said it with that grin, the same one Teddy fell in love with, the wild Gryffindor grin that told everyone to watch out.

Then he thought back to the question, and flatly said, "No." Teddy was a guy, thanks, even if he did have the Metamorphmagus ability. The only times he'd turned into a girl was when he'd wanted to mess around with his grandmother ("Would you like me to buy you a nice dress?" she'd asked, all sweet and nice, and Teddy had turned back into a boy in a split second, not even drawing out the transformation in his usual creepy way.), Uncle Harry ("I can't handle another girl! Please, Lily--who's gotten her fifty-sixth detention of the year, and it's only November--is quite enough."), or kids at school ("Er, mate, you look hot but I really don't want you to look hot please stop.).

But then he thinks about it, and wonders, because even if he's always felt strange as a girl, it might still be interesting.

They haven't been together for long, but James has known Teddy all his life, and he reads Teddy's expression easily. "Want to?" he asks, and mouths a hickey into Teddy's neck. "Just a suggestion. You don't have to."

I want to, Teddy thinks but doesn't say, because he's a man down to his bones (the bones he can change so easily) and he's comfortable with changing his face for fun, but this is more. This isn't for fun, for a joke, like the way he'd turn into Lily and make the most ridiculous faces. It's not a joke, and so he doesn't treat it like one: he begins with his face, adding a softer touch to his jaw, shortening his features. James has to lean down more and more as Teddy's height drops five centimeters, but through it all they're both still hard. Teddy changes his arms, his hands, his legs, his feet. And then he stops, because this is dangerous. And then he goes on, because he wants to know.

He never feels his magic when he changes himself, never feels a rush of warmth or tingles. But now, as he draws upon his mediwizard's knowledge, his nerves cause a rush of goosebumps on his skin. His cock, pressed against James' leg, shortens slowly, pulling up inside him. In, and in, and in, as Teddy concentrates on how a real girl should look. How one should feel.

It's a good kind of strange, and gets even better when James whispers, "You're fucking beautiful, always," against his lips.

They don't make it into the bedroom.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Teddy wakes up as a woman, and can't change back. James has already gone to work, so Teddy has all the privacy he needs when he makes himself a cup of tea and very quietly panics. He sits at the kitchen table for hours. At first, he can't even think. Can't contemplate it. Can't feel anything. When the numbness goes away, he destroys half the living room practicing blasting spells on his spell-dummy and everything else in the room.

Then he's on the carpet, lying on his back, and he can't remember how he fell down, but that doesn't matter because—

Fuck, there's only one reason why he wouldn't be able to change back. Only one reason why he can change his hair, his nails, his hands, but not the more important bits. Because they're needed for something else, some accident of fate. The charm he casts on himself spells it out even more clearly, casting a soft green glow around his stomach. Green, the color of life and growing things.

He's having a baby.

The matter that he's stuck in a female body seems inconsequential in comparison.

He can go to St. Mungo's. No one would have to know, especially Uncle Harry and James. He can be anyone, any young girl there to get an abortion. No one would have to know. And it's such a tempting thought, and he'd do it if not for the fact that he thinks his mother made this same choice twenty-three years ago. She'd been young and fighting a war. He knows that she would've at least considered an abortion, because it wasn't a time to be having children. She must've at least thought about it, like he's thinking about it now. There was no way she didn't consider it even for a moment. And yet, she had him.

He wouldn't have preferred she'd had an abortion. He loved his life, loved living and breathing and damn it, he loved James. If he weren't here, who would love James like he did? Who would be Uncle Harry's first son? Granma's little boy?

This life, as hard and sometimes depressing as it was, is his. He's never wanted to end it.

And he doesn't want to make the choice to end his child's life, because it will love life the same way he does. He'll raise the brat to understand that.

Maybe he doesn't love the child yet. He doesn't care for it. He'd rather he didn't have it. It was all true. But it was also true that one day, he is going to love it like he loves life and James and like his parents loved him. For now, that is enough.

But this child isn't what he'd wanted out of life, and there's one person he goes to when it gets truly bad.

"Uncle Harry?" Teddy asks through the fireplace. He could barely get the words out, can't hear what Harry replies, can't do anything except say, "I fucked up. Really badly."

When Harry arrives, he just about falls into his arms, sobbing. Harry probably notices the extra bits on his chest, but he doesn't say anything about them, just comforting Teddy through the shock. Still, it's enough.

Chapter Text

When Voldemort had first inhabited Quirrell's body, he'd had a great many expectations. For the first time in a decade, he now had a human form. He could impact the outside world far more easily than as a snake, do actual magic, and finally communicate with beings that didn't slither and had actual legs on which to walk. And, of course, beings that actually had a mind. Ones who could think in complex sentences instead of just about where the closest mouse or warm rock was.

The last decade had been a very, very tiring one.

To his extreme dissatisfaction, this new era did not seem to be much brighter.

He'd known Quirrell wouldn't be the perfect host. He'd known his faults very intimately once he'd inhabited him: he was physically weak, magically nearly incompetent, and intellectually lacking. And he was spineless, which Voldemort usually liked, but it was grating to hear Quirrell's mental whimpers day in and day out. He couldn't even curse Quirrell without feeling the pain himself, which Voldemort thought gave Quirrell too much leeway. It made him even angrier, made Quirrell even more hopeless, and the chain went on.

In his haste to obtain a body, he hadn't considered Quirrell's job (other than believing it to be a boon, an easy way to creep into Hogwarts without Dumbledore's notice). If his younger self, who'd been taken with the idea of becoming a professor, had known about the horrors of children, teenagers, and bureaucracy, he would've bid goodbye to the castle upon his graduation and never returned.

Voldemort had to deal with: children who couldn't sit still through a lesson without causing trouble (and a school policy that wouldn't allow him to crucio them), teenagers who felt each other up under desks and in every dratted corner of the school, Trelawney's horrifying attempts to hit on him, trying to be inconspicuous when the damn Potter brat's curse scar-driven headaches pointed toward him like a beacon, Dumbledore's friendly old man routine (Voldemort hated lemon drops with a passion as hot as fiendfyre), fourteen classes' papers to grade, and, the worst of them all, parent-teacher conferences.

As someone who was pretending to be an esteemed professional, Voldemort couldn't turn down the right of parents to ask after their children—and come in to ask and talk in person when they decided letters weren't enough.

Which was why, instead of lurking in his dark chambers and plotting the death of one Albus Dumbledore, Voldemort's Saturday evening on a fine September night consisted of sitting across from Molly Weasley and nodding at the appropriate places.

"He really is a good boy," she was saying, clutching her hands together and staring uncomfortably intently into his eyes.

Voldemort had checked twice, but she had no legilimency or occlumency skills. She was just very earnest. It was horrifying.

He nodded and hummed when she stopped talking, which caused her to begin extolling her youngest son's virtues once again. It was pitiful, the lengths parents went to to convince him that their children really didn't deserve bad marks, they were just growing boys and girls, they just needed extra help or an extra push. Ronald Weasley wasn't the worst of the lot (that honor lied with Crabbe and Goyle's welps, who probably hadn't been able to figure out how to breathe without an hour long lecture on it), but he was more irritating and loud and lazy than the other idiots.

"He just has some—issues, after growing up with five older brothers. The others have been prefects, head boys, just plain popular, and poor Ron has always been in their shadow. That's why he's been acting up. He just needs to find his own way."

Voldemort sighed. "Of course, Mrs. Weasley. And he can find his own way by being able to make up the past two assignments. But this is the last time." It wasn't. Quirrell had been soft, which meant Voldemort had to give parents and students alike chance after chance. Otherwise, he'd be stuck on the other end of Dumbledore's disappointed frown.

As Molly began to thank him for the second time this month, Voldemort had a very interesting thought. He hated being inside Quirrell. He hated teaching, hated children, hated everything about this. And when he hated something, he—now that he was older and powerful—could always get rid of it.

He didn't truly need to stay at Hogwarts. Oh, he wanted the Philosopher's Stone, but there were other ways of finding immortality. He could always simply seek out the Flamels and indulge in a spot of torture. He didn't have to continue with his plan of drinking unicorn blood if he simply hid himself for a time, allowing his magic and sanity to regenerate.

All he needed, he thought as he stared at the woman before him, was a safe, unpredictable place to hide.

And there was nowhere better than the mind of a witch who had been in the Order (and thus knew many secrets he'd like to have) but hadn't been on the front lines (and wasn't powerful enough to keep him out). Her family could be dealt with an easy imperius curse, or just a potion to suggest that there was nothing wrong with the way their mother was behaving.

Voldemort smiled. Quirrelll opened his mouth and a cloud of gray smoke flew out from inside him. Molly threw a shield charm, but it didn't protect against the incorporeal, and Voldemort settled inside her quite easily. Her mind was easy enough to bind to a small part of her brain, and her body was larger than Quirrelll's, and thus far more comfortable.

"My lord?" asked Quirrelll, who'd just come back into wakefulness.

"I will owl you your orders," Voldemort told him. "For now, do not give yourself away."

"Yes, my lord," he said, bowing his head. "Would you like me to walk you out?"

And so they crossed the building without a second glance from student or teacher alike, and reached the end of the wards. Voldemort's hazy memory of the first war brought up the hovel that was the Burrow, and Molly's memories reinforced the image. He spun with a pop much quieter than the real Molly's could ever be and appeared in the small downstairs kitchen.

On the table was a bowl of chocolate chip cookies. Voldemort sampled one, and idly ate the rest. This was going to be a very good vacation.

Chapter Text

There is something wrong with Ginny's expression when on one sunny day, two years after the end of the war, she gives Harry a cup of tea. It isn't her smile, which is as sweet as ever; it isn't her eyes, which hold her love for him (and a dash of annoyance at him for staying up late to go over old cases once again); it isn't her hands, which don't shake. But there's still something different about her. Something brittle, anxious.

Harry wants to ask what's wrong, but it's late and he hasn't slept more than five hours in the past week. He's finally a full-fledged Auror, just like he's always wanted, but he hadn't realized just how much work it would be. When he's out in the field, saving innocents and breaking through crime and corruption, he feels alive. He feels whole and needed. He feels himself. But right now, all he feels is stress and tiredness.

He takes the cup with a smile and a, "thank you, love," and earns Ginny's smile in return. It's been too long since he's seen it; they've been busy lately. So busy that Harry's been trying to find ways to tell her that maybe, they should take a break.

It's not work that's prompted the issue, but that's how he justifies it to himself. It he's honest (but he can't be honest about this, not when there's Molly and Arthur and Ron and Hermione to think of, not when they've been dating for so long and have talked about the future), Harry hasn't felt the full bloom of love towards her since Hogwarts. He fell in love with her as a boy; he came back to her as a man who'd been through war, and he just wasn't the same. Neither were his feelings.

He came back a coward, too, because a stronger man would've told her instead of keeping silent.

But maybe Ginny's noticed his weakness, because she's been acting different in the past month. Both too close and distant, both overbearing and absent. If Harry were less busy or less conflicted, he would've asked. But he hasn't.

"I love you," Ginny says, just as Harry begins to sip from the cup.

The liquid pours down his throat as her words slip inside his ears. He finishes the cup through pure impulse and sets it down. When his eyes fall on Ginny again, her red hair and brown eyes are hypnotizing. Her freckles blind the world from his life. There is no paperwork or case that could compare.

"I love you, too," Harry says, and for the first time, he means it. He takes her to bed, when there's still love on his tongue and his mind, and it is beautiful.

The world makes sense in a way it never has. It is all so simple that Harry could cry. The world is Ginny, and that's all he needs. As he leaves for work the next morning, the feeling abates. He must concentrate on work now, not his girlfriend's beauty.

He's about to turn back home when there's a knock on his office door, and his boss soon steps inside with a cart of paperwork and an apologetic grin.

"You'll have your own rookies one day," he tells him.

Harry just groans.

He wants to see Ginny (so much more than he's ever wanted to see her in the past few months), but responsibility calls and he can't ignore it. He tells himself that he's doing it for their future, his and Ginny's, and regains his strength.

Four hours later, Harry feels a curious feeling overcome him, as though something has changed inside him. Dimly, he's aware that it's the same time that Ginny gave him the tea, those twenty-four hours ago.

His mind connects the pieces while his body can't move.

He's seen this before, of course. He's an Auror.

And yet, all he feels is tired. The drive that the love potion gave him has left him; he feels no urge to get home quickly to Ginny. He doesn't feel like going anywhere else, either; he doesn't want to turn up on Ron and Hermione's doorstep and say--what? His girlfriend gave him a love potion? The same girlfriend he's supposed to be in love with already? It's easier to just focus on the paperwork.

When he returns home, out of pure habit than true wish to be back, there's a cold cup of tea on the table. Next to it is a note of love and apology that she couldn't stay up to greet him.

Picking up the teacup is easier than dealing with the fact that this future isn't all that he's wanted it to be. It's easier than facing the fact that he doesn't love the woman he's with. It's easier than acknowledging the fact that maybe, he won't ever be able to truly love a woman, not in the way a straight man would.

In the end, gulping down the teacup is as easy as falling in love.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter was known to most of the Wizarding world as the Savior, the Boy Who Lived, The Conqueror, and many other capitalized titles. The people he was known as such to, however, were greatly addled in their wits. Because Harry Potter's most important title was the Captain.

"Oi, Captain Potter coming through!" Harry yelled.

"You suck!" a red and green-clad man yelled.

"And your colors clash!" Harry yelled back.

"Oliver," Harry announced as he threw himself in the manager's box, "One of your players verbally assaulted me! I demand recompense! Twenty points in our next game should do nicely."

"You know where you can stick those twenty points, Potter?"

"In the League Cup we're going to win this year, Wood."

Oliver's resulting smirk shot a pang of arousal through Harry, though his next words, "With two players injured already?" quenched it.

"Chang and Creevey will be set for the next game, no problem! It's you—with what's-his-name, Michaels—that'll have the problem. Heard you're playing a game of who can pay better with the Hollyhead Harpies for her contract."

Oliver stiffened. "They can keep her if she demands a Galleon above five thousand. We have Flint, who'll wallop your Seeker anyday."

"Oh we'll see about—"

"Boys!" rang out Harry's assistant's sharp voice. Ginny Weasley, heavily pregnant and in a fine temper, waddled in. "My kids are better behaved than you!"

"Your twins are negative three months old," Harry grumbled. "You can't compare us to them."

"I can and I will. Now sit down, the both of you. Oliver, good to see you again."

"Mrs. Thomas, a pleasure," he replied. "A bigger pleasure than—"

"Shut it now," she ordered.

Oliver feigned zipping his lips.

"Now," Ginny began, heavily glaring at them. "I'm going to leave and get something to drink. You two are going to remember that there's something more important that Quidditch, like friendship, good sportsmanship, and keeping your voices down so I can hear the game over your arguing." She left the room.

Harry and Oliver waited until the door shut behind her before they simultaneously said, "There's nothing more important than The Game."

Chortling, Harry conceded, "Maybe we're being a bit stupid. It's not even our teams that are playing.

"Five hour truce?" Oliver offered.

"Make it ten hours, since I doubt anyone's going to find the Snitch once it starts pouring rain."

Oliver grimaced. "They should be ashamed to be in the professional league."

Harry opened his mouth to say, "As should Puddlemere," but closed it. A truce was a truce. Besides, from Oliver's expression he knew exactly what Harry was going to say.

Besides, Harry thought, noticing Oliver's questioning expression, there were better things to be doing with their tongues than arguing.

After the game, of course.

Chapter Text

There's a question on her lips, held back only by her resisting tongue. It won't let her say it (but that's a lie; she can't blame a thoughtless part when it's just her brain doing the work). Hermione doesn't often lie to herself. It's silly, she's always thought, to sabotage yourself in such a way. There have been so many people in her life who've tried to undermine her that she's never wanted to add herself to that list.

And yet, and yet.

Hermione is twenty years old when she makes a friend outside of Hogwarts, outside of her usual social circle of Gryffindors and their occasional other-House partners. She's always thought that maybe, she's just incapable of making friends, but after one lunch with a brilliant Unspeakable turns into five (when "Would you care to discuss this over lunch?" turns into "I'm glad we did this. Want to go again?"), when Sue joins her an a trip to London ("Oh, my," she breathes, warm breath escaping into the cold winter day, and turns to Hermione and smiles.)

Words that Hermione won't say lie still on her tongue, so still they might as well be dead. For she will never say them.

It's only when Sue says, "I feel more than friendship for you," that they finally live.

Chapter Text

Harry arrives in the entrance hall of the Lestrange manor ten years after the end of the war, ages after that fateful night when Voldemort won. When Hermione used the last of her strength to banish him as far as she could take him and still keep him on this earth. His hair is long, she thinks, and then she makes herself stop thinking, because as different as he looks, he speaks with the same voice she heard for seven years.

"Not a word," Hermione growls. She has survived five years under her lord's reign; Harry will not be the cause of her death. She won't allow it.

She grasps her mind--called brilliant by so many, and one of the few things that gave her forgiveness after the Order fell--and pulls it shut, stifling both it and the spell.

It is ugly; it does the job. Her mark will not harm her for a short time.

"What are you doing here?" she asks. Her wand is out, but pointing at the floor.

Harry swallows. (He must be nearing thirty years old, just like me, she thinks, but he's still the boy she used to know.) "I'm here to get you out." He takes a step closer. His hands are free of a wand. "I know how to disable the Dark Mark. I am so, so sorry it took so long. But-- Ron's at the camp, and--"

"Don't speak," she says, and he doesn't. She is angry, it's true, but Harry cannot trust her mind. Not yet. She rolls up the sleeve of her robe. Harry flinches just barely at the sight of the mark. "Just do it."

First, he takes her hand in his. It's a man's hand, though when he left her he was still a boy. They were both so young. He brings it up, clasps her mark, and pulls.

Hermione grinds her teeth, because she can't scream with her children just upstairs. She's in so much pain, so much more pain than Voldemort has ever caused her. When Harry lets go, there's an apology in the air and a dissolving stream of black smoke. Her arm is bare. She uses it to hug him close, a cacophony of emotions running through her.

"I've missed you. So much," she whispers against his shoulder. "Oh, Harry."

"Hermione," he says, and holds her close.

When she leans back, there's tears in her eyes. "But you know I can't leave with you."

"I saw your children," Harry replies. His jaw is set in a very hard line. "You can bring them with you. You just have to hurry."

How long has he been watching? Hermione wonders. She hasn't noticed anything at all. He's gotten better; she's gotten worse. She's gotten worse in everything, she thinks as she steps back, leaving Harry's embrace.

"I'll be just a moment," she says. Neither of them know whether it's a lie. There's some fun in that, she thinks, and realizes she sounds too much like her wife. She doesn't sound like the girl she used to be or the boy she used to love. It causes her grief (many things do), but you can't stay young and innocent forever.

When, minutes later, she tells Harry he should leave alone, he doesn't look surprised.

Chapter Text

Almost everyone has already left the tent's common area and fallen into warm cots when Arthur looks around and sees that Harry's still there, sitting by the fireplace. Arthur's a bit surprised to see him there; Harry isn't quite shy, but he prefers the company of his friends to that of his elders (with good reason, Arthur thinks with a smile as he remembers the argument he and Charlie had over the merits of Heathcote Barbary's new beau). But with his friends tucked into sleep, Harry's quiet and thoughtful.

Arthur would've simply left him alone (he's raised enough boys to know that sometimes, it's just best to let them brood), if not for the way Harry's expression isn't neutral or full of good old stubborn teenage angst. He looks anxious, on his way to becoming withdrawn, and Arthur's never been able to let one of his kids feel like they don't have their parents at their backs. Harry's not his child--he's James', who would've been as amazing of a father as he had been a friend, had fate left him alone long enough to learn--but he's as good as, so Arthur sits down next to Harry.

"Can't sleep?" he says companionably. He wonders how Harry hasn't gotten sick of the fire's heat; he's been sitting here for ages, while Arthur's only been there for seconds before the heat has begun to feel stifling.

The words take a moment to breach through Harry's thoughts, but when they do, Harry shoots him a small smile. "The game was really exciting. Are all professional matches like that?"

"The World Cup always is. The rest of the time, well, it's much less of a celebration." He's about to tell Harry about the '76 cup--now that was a doozy of a match--but Harry's expression has clouded once again. For just a millisecond, Arthur wishes Harry were more like Ginny (who's young enough to still easily tell her parents about her problems) or Ron (who'd yell through his problems in anger). Harry's so much quieter; if Arthur had to compare him to one of his children, it would be to Percy, even if their personalities aren't similar outside of their approach to problems. But the longer Arthur sits there, the more it looks like Harry will finally say something.

"Are... are all veelas like that?" Harry asks eventually. "I've never seen one in person."

It could've been simple curiosity if not for the fact that Harry was trying hard to make the question seem so simple. Arthur thought back to before the game began (it was somewhat hard, with the amount of firewhiskey he'd drank in celebration dulling his memory of anything less exciting than the actual game). "Yes. They are sentient, of course, but more... otherworldly. Like werewolves, in a way. Although werewolves do not charm you in the same way veela do." But now that he thought about it, only Ron had been affected by the team of veela; Harry had kept his wits about him. "Men only avoid their charm if they're already in love."

Harry's eyes went wide. "Oh."

Arthur smiled. Harry was so young. Although love at Harry's age usually doesn't last, it doesn't make Harry's emotions any less true. Arthur's glad that somehow, in between fighting for his life and boring classes, Harry has managed to find some love to carry him through the days. "Yes. Back in the old days, some would use it to test their lovers' and husbands' devotion."

"I guess I don't have that problem," Harry says, biting his lip. He glances away, saying, "It's not Ginny, sir." He looks so guilty about it that Arthur feels guilt as well, for allowing Harry to get the impression that he needs to reciprocate Ginny's crush.

"It doesn't need to be. You're an honorary Weasley whether you're in love with one of my children or not," Arthur says, patting Harry's shoulder. "And you know... If you're staying with us, you can always use our floo to call her. And if her parents agree, she can visit the Burrow. There's still time before the school year for a nice end of summer party."

There is a hesitant sort of happiness on Harry's face when he says, "Thank you, Mr. Weasley."